Chapter 70

“Hello? Could you put me through to the Godfather, please?”

“Good afternoon, Godfather. I’d like to discuss a business deal with you…”

In the office of Arkham Psychiatric Hospital, Schiller put down the phone, tugged at the cord, blew dust off the receiver, poured himself a drink, picked up the old telephone, spun the dial, and said: “Hello? Brand? You made it to Hawaii? … No, no need to worry, enjoy your vacation, I’ve got this under control.”

A moment later, Bruce walked in and placed a stack of files on Schiller’s desk. Schiller said: “Off duty? Want a drink?”

“Thanks, I don’t drink.”

“You look a bit worn out.”

“I haven’t slept in nearly fifty hours.”

“Of course, your new giant Bat-signal has been lit constantly lately—everyone in Gotham knows there’s a Batman now.”

“But…” Bruce sighed, hesitated, then said: “Alright, give me one, thanks.”

“What’s got Batman turning to alcohol?”

Bruce said: “I think I shouldn’t have done this. Bats don’t turn on lights—and they shouldn’t.”

Before Schiller could ask, Bruce continued: “I installed six Bat-beacons across Gotham. In the past few days, they lit up twenty-five times—nineteen of them were pranks.”

“So I added security measures. Then I got twelve emergency calls—all gang wars, demanding I back them up.”

“I banned gangs from using them, so they started sabotaging them. Of course, I designed a security protocol—it worked well. But then poor people and beggars pressed the buttons, and the next day, they were killed by gangs.”

Bruce covered his face, took a deep breath, swallowed a sip of whiskey, and forced the liquor down: “Those who can’t be saved aren’t allowed to be saved at all. If this is Gotham, then fine—I was too naive.”

“I knew it… no bat would ever turn on a light.” Bruce finally said.

“I suggest you take a few days off. When you face a problem, sacrifice rest to solve it, then face a new problem and do the same—it’s a vicious cycle. You need to stop. It serves no purpose.”

Bruce said wearily: “Alright, I’ll go sleep. I’ll be back tomorrow—copy medical records, answer phones, do rounds, whatever.”

The next day, Bruce arrived on time, as promised. Schiller was already in the office, sipping a steaming cup of coffee. Bruce brewed himself an Americano and picked up a paper to read.

A moment later, a nurse knocked and entered: “Doctor, patient Andre on the second floor, room five, won’t stop yelling—he keeps demanding higher morphine doses, or he’ll file a complaint.”

Schiller didn’t look up, said calmly: “Give him triple the market price. If he complains again, charge him five times.”

Bruce nearly choked on his coffee.

“On the third floor, Bird wants painkillers—he was up all night.”

“Tell him the pharmacist fell off the railing yesterday—head first. No stock left.”

“The one in room six…” Schiller flipped through the files: “…Hall or Gorr? He’s got connections. Have him send someone in—we take seven, he takes three.”

After the nurse left, before Bruce could speak, the phone rang again. Schiller picked it up while still reading the file.

“Hello? Whiskey supply cut off? … Yes, the last bottle’s here. Who said they had a bar? Let me check… Fourth floor, room one. Have him run a line from the bar. Tell him not to bring diluted crap—or I’ll give him a permanent treatment recommendation.”

Schiller hung up, picked up the receiver again, and spoke into the phone:

“Tell them—killers aren’t allowed in. Entry requires a main gate pass—ten thousand dollars each. Hospital entrance: fifty thousand. Above the third floor, add thirty thousand for wear and tear. Buy the full package and get a free security patrol map…”

“Hello? The neuro-monitor on the fifth floor, room two, was broken yesterday? Whose guy is that? Old Band from the East District? Donate a new machine, have him take his man away, and come by later for a recovery recommendation.”

After hanging up, Bruce said: “Professor…”

Before he could finish, the phone rang again. Schiller answered: “Hello? … No deal? Tell him the twin brothers down south are offering five hundred thousand—and it’s not a buyout. If he refuses, he won’t get a single cent from my alcohol business here.”

“Hello? No, Arkham’s security is now under the Falcone family’s control. If he wants to force his way in, let him come. The Godfather sends his regards.”

Schiller hung up. Bruce seized the moment: “Isn’t there something wrong with—”

“Hello? How many tomorrow? … No, no good. That little vulture’s got no juice—nothing like his father. Send him to prison. I don’t take trash… He took over his father’s empire? Fine, reserve room seven on the second floor for him… What? Medical certificate? That’s extra.”

“…Push the other three to next month. Have the judge find an excuse—diarrhea, something. Fifth floor is full… And a cop? Corrupt? Got caught? … We take psychotics, not the intellectually disabled. If he wants in, go back to his old employer.”

“Who else? No, he’s out. Already arrested? Then have the police return the evidence. Find that guy Brock—he’ll understand.”

When Schiller finished, he looked up. Bruce was staring at him—his gaze complex: a mix of shock at “how could you?” and quiet contempt for “of course you would.”

“Don’t look at me. The hospital’s running fine, isn’t it?”

“But…”

Bruce opened his mouth to confront Schiller—but suddenly had no idea where to begin.

“I made a deal with Falcone. He has his Black Gloves provoke profitable gangs, then his police chief arrests them. I issue them psychiatric diagnoses to get them admitted. After that? It depends on whether their bosses or enemies pay more.”

Bruce stared at Schiller. Schiller spread his hands: “What? Surprised? Or do you really think I’m some good guy like Harvey? What gave you that illusion?”