I say hero? What I mean is, buffoon. I mean, ask yourself, what kind of man dresses up in a funny suit and a mask? Yeah, you got it—a buffoon ! But now, hey—take a look. Gotham’s got itself a new hero, and this one’s the genuine article. No cape and pointy ears on this guy. He wears a suit and tie, and he’s plenty smart in the book sense of smart, but he can handle himself on his feet, too. A creep named Rossi learned that the hard way when he pulled a gun made of some sort of Silly Putty and got his clock cleaned by a sweet right cross. And who threw that kayoer? The man I’ve been talking about, Gotham City’s real knight in shining armor, District Attorney Harry Dent. Fly away, batty boy, Dent’s gonna get the job done.”
The following night, the talking head apologized for calling Harvey “Harry,” but the apology wasn’t really necessary. Everyone who saw the show and could possibly care knew who he meant, and a lot of people agreed with him.
Alfred Pennyworth did not agree, but his boss did.
“I think the only buffoon involved here is the one making the noise,” Alfred said.
“I think there’s a lot in what he says,” Bruce said.
Alfred waited for Bruce to elaborate, and when that didn’t happen, excused himself to attend to household chores.
Harvey Dent didn’t agree with the talking heads either. He didn’t express his reservations publicly and, in fact, cooperated with the media’s veneration of him. He didn’t accept invitations to fly to New York, Chicago, Atlanta, or Los Angeles to be interviewed face-to-face, but he did allow a few camera crews into his office and apartment, and twice traveled to local studios for remote interviews being conducted by people hundreds of miles away.
Driving away from one of those, he confided to Rachel, who was at the wheel, “They’re wrong about Batman . . . at least, I think they are.”
“Want to tell my why?” Rachel asked.
“From my new vantage point, my new job, I can see the limitations of what I do. Rachel, the corruption in this town is so deep, so pervasive . . . it’s in the air we breathe. And I can’t beat it. There are places I can’t go, things I can’t do. I’m like a surgeon who’s only allowed to cut skin deep. I’ll never get to the cause of the problem.”
“You believe in the law . . .”
“Yes! Yes, I do. But I’ve come to see that it has limitations. First, we need to rid ourselves of the corruption, because as long as we’re corrupt, the law can’t function. When the evil’s gone . . . then the law takes over, restores order, creates the climate in which civilization can flourish. But not until the evil’s gone.”
“I’ve never heard you use the word ‘evil’ before.”
“Dammit, that’s what it is. I’m sick of euphemisms. Evil I said, and evil I meant, and we have to cleanse ourselves of it.”
“How does Batman come into this?”
“As a partner, I hope. I said there’s a limit to what I can do, operating on my side of the law. The same is true for him. We have to work together, Batman and I.”
“You want him to be your shadow?”
“Exactly. A good way to put it—my shadow. He goes where I can’t, he does what I shouldn’t. Using what he gives me, I go into court and do what he can’t. Together, we clean up Gotham.”
“Suppose you do? What happens to Batman when you’re finished?”
“Good question. I wish I had a good answer. I’d like to believe he’ll survive, maybe just go away and never be seen or heard from again. But we all take our chances.”
Rachel was silent for the rest of the drive.
The neighborhood around the Thomasina Arms had once been what the newspaper columnists of the day called “swanky.” But that was years ago. Now, it had deteriorated to a welter of shabby rooming houses, cheap bars—a region of darkness, not least because every one of the streetlamps had been shattered, either by bullets or rocks. The Thomasina Arms—the “Tommy,” as
The following night, the talking head apologized for calling Harvey “Harry,” but the apology wasn’t really necessary. Everyone who saw the show and could possibly care knew who he meant, and a lot of people agreed with him.
Alfred Pennyworth did not agree, but his boss did.
“I think the only buffoon involved here is the one making the noise,” Alfred said.
“I think there’s a lot in what he says,” Bruce said.
Alfred waited for Bruce to elaborate, and when that didn’t happen, excused himself to attend to household chores.
Harvey Dent didn’t agree with the talking heads either. He didn’t express his reservations publicly and, in fact, cooperated with the media’s veneration of him. He didn’t accept invitations to fly to New York, Chicago, Atlanta, or Los Angeles to be interviewed face-to-face, but he did allow a few camera crews into his office and apartment, and twice traveled to local studios for remote interviews being conducted by people hundreds of miles away.
Driving away from one of those, he confided to Rachel, who was at the wheel, “They’re wrong about Batman . . . at least, I think they are.”
“Want to tell my why?” Rachel asked.
“From my new vantage point, my new job, I can see the limitations of what I do. Rachel, the corruption in this town is so deep, so pervasive . . . it’s in the air we breathe. And I can’t beat it. There are places I can’t go, things I can’t do. I’m like a surgeon who’s only allowed to cut skin deep. I’ll never get to the cause of the problem.”
“You believe in the law . . .”
“Yes! Yes, I do. But I’ve come to see that it has limitations. First, we need to rid ourselves of the corruption, because as long as we’re corrupt, the law can’t function. When the evil’s gone . . . then the law takes over, restores order, creates the climate in which civilization can flourish. But not until the evil’s gone.”
“I’ve never heard you use the word ‘evil’ before.”
“Dammit, that’s what it is. I’m sick of euphemisms. Evil I said, and evil I meant, and we have to cleanse ourselves of it.”
“How does Batman come into this?”
“As a partner, I hope. I said there’s a limit to what I can do, operating on my side of the law. The same is true for him. We have to work together, Batman and I.”
“You want him to be your shadow?”
“Exactly. A good way to put it—my shadow. He goes where I can’t, he does what I shouldn’t. Using what he gives me, I go into court and do what he can’t. Together, we clean up Gotham.”
“Suppose you do? What happens to Batman when you’re finished?”
“Good question. I wish I had a good answer. I’d like to believe he’ll survive, maybe just go away and never be seen or heard from again. But we all take our chances.”
Rachel was silent for the rest of the drive.
The neighborhood around the Thomasina Arms had once been what the newspaper columnists of the day called “swanky.” But that was years ago. Now, it had deteriorated to a welter of shabby rooming houses, cheap bars—a region of darkness, not least because every one of the streetlamps had been shattered, either by bullets or rocks. The Thomasina Arms—the “Tommy,” as
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