Chapter 76: Chapter Seventy-Three: Gotham 1987 (Part One)

A chilly morning breeze rustled the branches outside the window, and orange dawn light filtered through layers of heavy curtains, illuminating the dim room.

The bedroom door was knocked on; Siegel rolled over, and the Ma Lei servant said, “Sir, a man named Gordon called you ten minutes ago. I told him you’d return his call after getting up.”

Siegel spoke slowly, his voice hoarse: “...Understood.”

He sat up on the bed, shaking off the lingering drowsiness, then walked to the window and pushed aside one curtain with one hand. He saw a milkman on a bicycle ringing his bell at the gate; soon someone stepped out and took the milk jars from him.

This was an estate in the West District of Gotham, Siegel’s new home in Gotham.

Although the university faculty apartment was decent, he really ought to buy his own house.

This was an old district of Gotham City, unlike the wealthy southern suburbs—it was established by a group of British nobles when European immigrants first arrived in America, so most of it consisted of traditional English estates. Later, due to urban planning bias and the southern region’s superior geography, the wealthy moved from the west to the south.

The remaining old estates here mostly carried classical English charm, but since the descendants of those nobles rarely stayed, most stood empty. Siegel bought one at a good price—the best-maintained and most stylistically appealing of them all.

He didn’t buy in the southern wealthy district not because he couldn’t afford it, but because of a practical reason—the western estate was closer to his workplace, Gotham University.

To commute from the southern suburbs, he’d have to drive across half of Gotham City.

Worse still, he’d have to pass through the city center during rush hour.

So no matter how luxurious the southern villas were, they were never in Siegel’s consideration—he wasn’t Bruce Wayne, who could just hop in a helicopter when traffic jammed. He didn’t want to waste most of his day on the road.

Choosing this old western estate had another advantage: fewer people, relatively quiet, no constant traffic early in the morning. On his days off, Siegel could sleep soundly.

Most importantly, it was far from Wayne Manor and far from the hill where Bruce would one day build the Batcave. If Batman ever got into trouble with the Joker, the chaos wouldn’t reach him.

After a while, the servant entered, opened and tied back the curtains, then said, “Breakfast is ready, sir.”

Siegel nodded, took the eyeglass case the servant offered, put on his glasses, and glanced at his watch: “When did Gordon call?”

“About twenty-five minutes ago.”

Siegel looked out the window again, then went downstairs for breakfast.

Down the wooden staircase, through a dim corridor, the dining room lay at the westernmost end of the estate. Entering the corridor led to a semi-circular dining room with tall arched windows; on either side hung emerald-green silk curtains, and silver cutlery on the peachwood table shimmered with mysterious luster in the dim morning light.

Morning light streamed through the arched windows, casting square and circular shadows onto the table, forming a play of light and shadow. Siegel picked up the ironed newspaper from his right.

The newspaper’s ink had smudged slightly; the top line read: “January 25, 1987, overcast, rain expected in the afternoon, Gotham Daily.”

Siegel ate breakfast while scanning the paper for the information he needed. In this era, newspaper fonts were often tiny and ink easily blurred; he had to use a magnifying glass.

After a while, the servant entered: “Mr. Gordon is here.”

Siegel set down his magnifying glass and looked up. Gordon wore a brown trench coat and a beret; he still carried the chill of the outdoors. Seeing Siegel reading the paper, he said, “Have you seen today’s news? The Don is furious—he’s banned all Metropolitan ships from docking at the eastern piers.”

“I’m just reading that part,” Siegel said, adjusting his glasses. “I stayed up all night writing my paper and missed your call this morning.”

Gordon took off his trench coat and said, “I didn’t have anything urgent. You know, my work’s been slow lately. I just called to congratulate you on your new home. Oh, by the way, my gift’s still in the car…”

“No rush. Have you eaten? Why not sit down and have some breakfast?”

Gordon handed his coat to the servant and said, “I went to the station first this morning—I already ate. The materials you asked for, I brought them.”

He placed a black briefcase on the table, rummaged through it, and pulled out a file to hand to Siegel.

Siegel said, “Thanks. Even if you’ve eaten, have a cup of hot milk.”

Gordon didn’t refuse. He sat beside the table and said, “When you first said you were taking over Lord Bernard’s estate, I was puzzled—there aren’t many people left who like these old-fashioned manors.”

“Nowadays, Gotham’s wealthy still prefer modern villas, preferably with a big garage to park their luxury cars.”

Gordon glanced around. The decor was quintessentially English: silk curtains, knitted carpets, wooden furniture, and a stone fireplace where flames crackled merrily—even from a distance, warmth radiated.

The old manor’s dining room wasn’t large, the corridor narrow; even the walls bore antique metal candle sconces. The entire building felt like a step back into the Victorian era.

Gordon returned his gaze and said, “But now it looks like it suits you perfectly.”

“I’m not particularly fond of English manors—it’s just that if I bought in the south, I’d be too far from work. Gotham’s traffic is terrible; I’d miss all my morning classes.”

Gordon sipped his milk and said, “Who isn’t? Every time I go to the police station, I get stuck at that damn roundabout. You should know—I aced the driving course at the police academy!”

“This damn place, everyone’s a lunatic. They never think that flooring the gas pedal in a roundabout with a hundred cars might get them killed by their own airbags!” Gordon said, indignant.

“I can tell you got stuck for a while,” Siegel said, smiling.

“On my way here, I saw at least ten drivers who could win an F1 championship,” Gordon muttered.

“It’s our new chief’s fault. The police force is understaffed, and we can’t pull all the traffic cops away. Lately, several new recruits have been assigned to my unit—they don’t know anything, just grab their guns and charge forward.”

Gordon shook his head. “They’d be better off directing traffic!”

“The police have it easy now, thanks to this chief. Just bear with it.”

Gordon set down his cup and rubbed his hands, excited: “But I’m about to buy an apartment next to the police station.”

“You’ve saved enough?”

“Almost. Can you believe it? Last week I made eighty thousand dollars. Even if next week’s income drops, just a little more saving and I can buy it outright.”

“How’d you make so much? Last week’s cases shouldn’t have been that many—maybe fifty thousand at most?” Siegel asked, still eating.

Gordon raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you’re not from here. In Gotham, everyone pays protection money—even cops. I’m the head of the field unit; all my subordinates give me fifteen percent of their income.”

“So you’re taking it? Like a mob boss?” Siegel joked.

“You don’t understand. If you don’t take it, they get scared—because in Gotham, taking their money means you’re willing to keep them in the game. If you refuse, they worry their business will vanish tomorrow.”

“I heard you’re getting married to your fiancée? Is she in Gotham now? When’s the wedding?”

Gordon coughed. “She’s handling her transfer paperwork. The Metropolitan company’s handover is a nightmare—it’ll take at least a week. But that’s fine. I’ll have time to buy the apartment I like, and surprise her.”

Siegel shook his newspaper and read as he spoke: “Have you decided on a wedding gift? I’m flush with cash.”

“Really? Richer than Wayne?”

Siegel rolled his eyes. “If I were richer than him, you wouldn’t be seeing me here.”

“Honestly, if I hadn’t made so much, I wouldn’t have rushed into engagement. I’d probably be on vacation in Hawaii right now.”

“I thought you never took time off.”

“Come on, I’d go insane. I need good health and a good mood to survive this damn city.”

Siegel took a cigar from the box on the table, snipped it with scissors, and handed it to Gordon. Gordon took it. Siegel accepted a match from the servant, lit it, and lit Gordon’s cigar.

Then he took one for himself, lit it, and exhaled smoke: “The Don’s in a foul mood. Some reckless fools are trying to stir up trouble on his turf.”

Gordon stretched his cigar-hand, leaned back in his chair, and sighed contentedly: “Why are you looking up Gotham’s transient population records? Did something happen in Metropolitan? I heard the people who angered the Don came from there.”

“What if I told you this trouble followed me here? Would you be surprised?”

“Of course not,” Gordon said without hesitation.

“The first time I met you, I had a feeling—you’re the kind who attracts big trouble.”

“Why?”

“Call it a detective’s instinct.”

“Interesting. Elaborate.”

“I’ve seen many criminals—they’re different…” Gordon sat up, braced his wrists on the table. “...Completely different. The clumsy thieves and the real heavy criminals are worlds apart.”

“I’ve never heard a serial killer shout insults at a judge. They carry a quality unlike ordinary people…”

“When you face Batman, I always feel you’re looking in a mirror.”

“You think I’m like him? You’re serious?”

“In some ways, completely different. In others, eerily the same.”

Siegel looked at Gordon. “Keep that sharpness. You’ll become Gotham’s savior.”

Gordon tapped ash onto the silver platter. “This time, the Don’s in trouble. The intruders seem to have connections—they killed two bartenders from the Falcone family. If the Don doesn’t catch them soon, losing face in Gotham will be worse than anything else.”

“The gangs won’t dare provoke the Don in the short term, right?” Siegel set down the paper and leaned back.

“Hard to say. Don’t underestimate them. Don’t forget Maroni’s still alive—he made a fortune in the East District clashes. He might be planning to challenge the Don.”

“He’s asking for death.” Smoke curled with his words. Siegel extended his hand, flicked the cigar with his fingertip. Fine ash drifted slowly.

“Not necessarily. The Don somehow bypassed him and had old Chief Victor killed. I heard he wanted to get involved in Arkham Asylum too, but the Don kicked him out. Maroni won’t swallow that insult.”

“The East District is unstable. Maroni is desperate to crush the forces he’s absorbed. He needs a victory to establish authority, to fully consolidate his new recruits.”

“He dares use the Don to build his reputation? Falcone will teach him a lesson.” Siegel leaned back, loosened his sweater collar, looking relaxed.

Gordon coughed twice, squinted through the smoke rising from his cigar, and stared at the reflection on the silver platter. “Maroni’s a formidable man. And the Don is old.”

“You favor him?”

“No. I actually hope the old Don wins. As long as Falcone remains, Gotham won’t fall apart. But once he’s gone, who knows?”

Soon, Gordon left—he had work to do. It was his peak season; with another month’s effort, he could even afford a villa.

After Gordon left, Siegel leaned back and finished the entire cigar. Smoke curled around his fingers. He hadn’t felt this relaxed in a long time.

In this city full of danger, without certainty of safety, he didn’t even have time for a single cigarette break.

Before this, Siegel had never thought of buying a house or needing a home—he wasn’t a Gothamite. He came from the world’s most orderly, safest nation.

As the cigar burned, smoke denser than cigarette smoke drifted into unpredictable abstract shapes, sparking endless associations. In that hallucinogenic, sweet scent, Siegel began to recall.

He couldn’t remember clearly—after leaving his homeland, when he first encountered a shooting in Chicago, whether his first emotion had been shock or excitement.

He only remembered: as the plane plummeted, amid weightlessness and oxygen deprivation, his life’s memories blurred into fog. As they wished, when those memories vanished with death, countless secrets were buried forever.

If there truly was a god in this world, Siegel thought, then this great being who granted him a second life truly understood him.

Gotham was the world’s sewer of evil. Good people weren’t flushed into sewers.

Siegel watched the tip of his cigar. The flame faded; the smoke thinned, the shapes dissolving.

He knew—when he regained consciousness and learned from the original’s memories that this was Gotham City, the excitement that flooded his mind at once would shatter all his dreams of a quiet life.

Or rather, the enjoyment of dull, mundane routine had always been nothing but self-deception by a master of self-hypnosis—until he saw Batman appear.

As the smoke drifted, Siegel recalled the moment he first used his faint mind-reading ability to touch Batman’s inner thoughts.

Just as Gordon said—he felt like he was looking in a mirror.

So he gave Batman the answer he most wanted to hear, then, almost impatiently, drew a full stop on the dull, despairing monotony of his life.

And now, he had finally become a citizen of Gotham—in Gotham, 1987, on the first day of his second life.