Previously on Dark Knight of the Crescent City
The West Bank air was thick with the scent of damp earth and diesel. Jimmy Nicks didn’t have a mansion anymore. No fleet of SUVs. No circle of lieutenants to laugh at his jokes. He was holed up in a rusted-out shrimp packing plant near the Harvey Canal, surrounded by the ghosts of a broken empire and a single suitcase full of dirty hundreds.
Jimmy sat on a plastic crate, a cigarette dangling from his lip, staring at the door. He knew the State Police were looking for him. He knew Leonard had flipped. He didn’t expect the shadows to move first.
The lights in the warehouse shattered.
“I know you’re there!” Jimmy grabbed a snub-nosed revolver from the crate. “Come on! Show me the freak!”
A grappling hook hissed through the rafters, and before Jimmy could level his weapon, a matte-black boot slammed into his chest, sending him sprawling into a pile of empty nets. Batman stood over him, the silhouette of the cowl framed by the moonlight leaking through the corrugated roof.
“It’s over, Jimmy.” No gadgets, no theatrics. Just the finality of a judge delivering a sentence.
Jimmy scrambled back, coughing, his bravado finally crumbling. “You think you won? You think putting me away fixes this? There’s always another Nicks! Always another Bonito!”
“Then I’ll be here for them, too.” Batman reached down, grabbed Jimmy by the collar, and hoisted him until they were eye-to-eye. “You aren’t a king, Jimmy. You’re just a man who forgot that this city belongs to the people, not the predators.”
He didn’t strike him. He dropped him at the feet of the arriving State Police units, who swarmed the building a moment later. As the zip-ties clicked shut on Jimmy’s wrists, the shadow on the rafters was already gone.
Two days later, the afternoon sun was warm on Mid-City, a far cry from the storm that had washed the blood from the French Quarter. Katie’s was packed with the usual lunchtime crowd, local workers, families, and the low hum of gossip that fueled New Orleans.
Bruce Wayne sat at a small table near the window, dressed in a casual linen shirt. Across from him sat Michelle Walsh. She looked different without the weight of the Leonard investigation on her shoulders. Her eyes were tired, but they were clear.
“I heard the news about Nicks.” Bruce slid a basket of fries toward the center of the table. “Life without parole. It’s a start.”
Michelle took a slow sip of her iced tea. “The Feds are moving in on the rest of the precinct. Half of Leonard’s tactical unit is in custody. It’s going to take years to clean the rot out, Bruce. Years.”
“But the city is breathing again.”
Michelle looked at him, her gaze lingering a beat too long, as if she were trying to see past the billionaire’s smile. “You were right, you know. At lunch that day. Things went sideways. They went all the way to the bottom of the river.”
“You held the line, Michelle. New Orleans owes you.”
“I had help.” Her voice dropped an octave. “Help from someone who doesn’t like the spotlight. I still don’t agree with his methods, but I can’t argue with the results.”
“Sometimes the city needs a monster to fight the demons. It always needs people like you to keep the light on.”
Michelle smiled, a real one. “Whatever happens next, the old rules are dead. We’re building something new now.”
The sun began to dip, giving way to the electric neon glow of the Super Krewe of Leo. The air vibrated in your teeth long before you saw the first float.
Bruce and Michelle walked out of Katie’s together, heading toward the intersection of Telemachus and Canal. The street was a sea of people, thousands of locals and tourists packed onto the neutral ground, their arms raised toward the sky.
As they reached the corner, the lead float of Leo rounded the turn. A massive, shimmering mountain of gold and purple light, taller than the surrounding buildings. The marching bands were playing a deafening, triumphant anthem, the drums echoing off the storefronts.
“Look at them.” Michelle gestured to the crowd. Kids were sitting on their fathers’ shoulders. Strangers were sharing drinks and laughing. The fear of the last two weeks had evaporated, replaced by the indomitable spirit of the Crescent City.
High above the street, on the roof of a mid-rise building overlooking Canal, a single dark figure watched the parade. He wasn’t part of the celebration, but he was the reason it could happen.
Down on the sidewalk, Bruce Wayne looked up at the roof for a fleeting second before a shower of beads flew through the air. He caught a strand of jet-black beads and handed them to a little boy standing nearby.
“Happy Mardi Gras,” Bruce said.
The boy grinned, draped the beads over his neck, and turned back to the lights. The Super Krewe rolled on, a river of fire and music cutting through the heart of the city.
The war was over. The legend had been born.
