Chapter 367
The moment Kingpin's Range Rover departed, Batman slipped out from behind a sedan parked nearby.
While Tony Stark confronted Kingpin at the celebration, Batman had already shed his suit and changed into a valet uniform, installing listening devices and trackers on Kingpin's vehicle.
As for why he emerged from behind a different sedan rather than the Range Rover—Batman hadn't identified the wrong car.
Not many vehicles sat parked outside the celebration venue. After all, most wealthy attendees employed drivers who'd bring cars to the entrance when needed, rather than suffering the indignity of parking lot retrieval themselves.
Tony Stark operated that way. So did Kingpin.
Among this limited selection of vehicles, only the Range Rover could accommodate Kingpin's massive frame. But Batman had still cautiously installed listening devices and trackers on every single car present.
He'd rather do too much than make a mistake.
"Norman Osborn admitted to being the Green Goblin. Time to meet with him and talk," Batman said quietly.
Norman Osborn's ankle monitor integrated listening and positioning devices. Batman had heard every word of their celebration conversation with perfect clarity.
Batman felt no concern about Norman recovering Green Goblin memories—instead, he'd relaxed slightly.
The ankle monitor collected blood samples daily, analyzing gamma radiation levels in Green Goblin's system. That data had let Batman deduce Norman's memory restoration even before Norman's self-admission.
Taking Norman to the morgue under New York's chief medical examiner, then to Osborn Tower's underground third level—one purpose had been triggering memory recovery.
Now that Green Goblin hadn't continued concealing the fact, instead choosing to reveal his identity knowing full well his words would reach Batman through the ankle monitor—that counted as a good outcome regardless.
If Green Goblin had maintained his disguise, pretending his memories hadn't returned, Batman would have needed to deploy a series of contingency plans, potentially infiltrating Norman's home at midnight.
Batman glanced down at his valet uniform, about to find somewhere to change back into his suit and return to the second-floor box, when a humble voice sounded nearby.
"Sir... sir, I won't go inside, I'll just crouch here, is that okay? I just want to smell it... really, just smell."
Batman looked toward the voice. At the celebration entrance, security was driving away a homeless man clutching a clearly scavenged McDonald's bag.
New York had too many homeless people—no fewer than Gotham. Immigration, wealth disparity, sudden catastrophes—similar scenes played out constantly in different locations.
Batman reached into his pocket, extracting several coins and a business card he kept on hand.
The homeless man had all four limbs intact, just terribly emaciated, his black hair matted and tangled.
Batman would give him enough money to buy clean clothes and a full meal.
If the man chose to contact the address and information on the card, Batman would arrange a suitable position at Parker Industries.
"Stop bothering us." The security guard waved his baton impatiently, making the homeless man's body tremble continuously.
"All because of that fire, all because of that fire..." The homeless man clutched his McDonald's bag tight, muttering quietly while refusing to leave.
Batman stopped in his tracks, standing at a distance watching him.
This homeless man's face gave Batman a sense of familiarity, as though he'd seen him somewhere before.
"I won't go inside, sir, really won't." The homeless man hunched over, looking at the fierce security guard. "I just want to ask... the bones you've finished eating, the scraps—could you spare me a little? I don't want plates, won't go inside. You throw it out, I'll catch it right here."
The security guard raised his baton.
"No, no! Wait!" The homeless man's voice rose slightly. He suddenly pointed in a direction. "Where you're standing—after midnight the wind blows in from the east!"
This non-sequitur immediately stopped the guard's descending baton. The guard even asked with curiosity: "What are you trying to say?"
The homeless man wiped his nose. It was October, and after darkness fell bit by bit, the night wind made him shiver with cold.
But before the guard could raise his baton again, he quickly organized his words: "If you get me some food, I'll stand behind that pillar on your right. That spot's a wind dead zone. What time's your shift end? Four AM? You'll be stamping your feet from cold after that. I stand there, I can block seventy percent of the wind for you."
"The supervisor..." The guard hesitated.
"If the supervisor comes to check, I'll cough three seconds early," the homeless man accelerated his speech, knowing he had to highlight his advantages while the guard was interested. "I've been homeless six years. I sleep very light. The slightest noise, I hear it in my dreams."
By this point Batman had changed back into his suit, removed the glasses, and resumed his identity as young entrepreneur Peter Parker, now standing beside both guard and homeless man.
The guard tucked his baton into his belt. The homeless man's pitch had completely won him over.
"Don't lie to me, or I won't mind if you can only beg on your belly from now on." The guard turned and walked into the nearly-concluded celebration.
"Thank you, thank you..." The homeless man expressed gratitude repeatedly while bending his already-hunched body lower.
Before he could straighten up, a shadow fell over him.
Batman stood before the homeless man, looking at his somewhat frightened face. "Fire? Six years ago?"
The homeless man retreated half a step, seeing the other's young face and expensive wool suit. He spoke cautiously: "Sir..."
"Do you want to keep wandering, or change the rest of your life?" Batman asked.
Batman had researched the Whitman family. The most likely candidate for Nathan Garrett's nephew—Dane Whitman—had vanished six years ago in a fire.
Therefore, hearing this homeless man mention six years of wandering, Batman's first instinct was questioning whether this might be the person he sought.
The homeless man looked at Batman. Six years of homelessness had thoroughly numbed him, but he vaguely sensed opportunity falling from the sky. If he didn't seize it now, who knew when the next chance would come.
"I don't want to wander. Not for one more moment," he said.
"Come with me," Batman said.
The homeless man stood rooted, somewhat at a loss.
Stay, and he'd receive whatever scraps the guard brought—enough to fill his still-empty stomach.
Follow this person of unknown identity, and perhaps he'd escape homelessness forever. Or perhaps he'd become a lab rat for human experimentation.
Two months ago, news about Osborn Industries using homeless people for human experiments had reached even him.
But watching Batman walk farther and farther away, the homeless man gritted his teeth and chased after him: "Sir! Kind sir, wait for me!"
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