Gotham

by Jason Starr

  Call it love at first scent.

  “Hey, Fish, baby.”

  Harvey kissed her—man, those lips felt good—and then he hugged her and didn’t want to let go. What made it so great—he knew she felt exactly the same way about him.

  Butch brought the drinks over.

  “You shouldn’t be drinking on the job,” Amanda said, sounding pissed off. He had a feeling it wasn’t about the bourbon, either.

  “What’re you gonna do,” Harvey said, “report me?”

  “Maybe I should.”

  “You do that, you’re a squealer.”

  “Now, now,” Fish said. “Look at you two, fighting like an unhappy couple.”

  “We ain’t a couple,” Harvey said, “just partners.”

  “Can’t you just agree to disagree?” Fish smiled slyly. “That’s my motto. You know how much I hate conflict.”

  “It’s the people who say they hate conflict who always seem to wind up in the center of it,” Amanda said, and the smile disappeared. Fish glared at Amanda the way she glared at her enemies, like a tiger preparing to strike.

  Uh-oh, Harvey thought. This is going south way too fast.

  “Really?” Fish said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were talking about me.”

  “I’m not trying to be ambiguous,” Amanda said. “I am talking about you.”

  Fish tilted her head slightly and squinted. Harvey had seen that look before.

  “Hey, come on now,” Harvey said. “No need to let the tempers flare, ladies.” There was something about Fish that did that to other women.

  Fish ignored him, and said, “It seems like somebody has already overstayed her welcome, and she just got here.”

  “Don’t worry,” Harvey said before Amanda could say anything. “We won’t be long. We just need your help on something… a little favor.”

  “Oh really?” Fish didn’t just laugh—she guffawed for a few seconds—and then turned serious again, looking straight at Amanda. “What makes you think I’d do a favor for you? I mean, I’m just keeping it real, but you haven’t been around long enough to earn favors from me. You’ve only been a detective now for, what, two and half weeks? Yeah, you were a parole officer for six years, and did two tours in the army, but as far as I’m concerned you’re a total novice.”

  “How do you…?” Amanda asked, and she gaped.

  “Honey, I know everything that goes on in this town. Why do you think they call me Fish?” With her index fingers she touched one of her own cheeks, right below her eyes, and added, “Cause like a fish I can see in every direction. I can see in front… to the side… even behiiiind me.” Then, without looking back, she suddenly shouted, “No cameras!”

  Harvey jumped and glanced beyond her. Sure enough, a man in front of the stage had taken out a camera. He was in the process of photographing the blues singer. He almost dropped it, putting it down so fast.

  “Wow, that was pretty impressive,” Harvey said.

  “Butch, escort that gentleman out,” Fish barked at her right-hand man.

  “Yes, Fish,” Butch said, sounding more like a servant than an employee. Harvey knew Fish was probably paying Butch well and all, but the guy took orders like a well-trained dog.

  As Butch approached the tables near the stage, the camera guy cowered.

  “No… p-please.” Too late. Butch grabbed the guy’s camera, crushed it with his bare hand.

  “Holy Jeez,” Harvey said.

  Then, with little effort, Butch lifted the guy up over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried him toward the entrance.

  “Please!” the guy begged. “P-p-put me down. I’m sorry, Fish—I-I mean, Ms. Mooney. I’ll never do it again. I swear.”

  “Hey,” Amanda said, “let him go.”

  Harvey gritted his teeth. She was getting involved where she had no business. Cop or no cop, it was the biggest mistake you could make in Gotham. Not if—as they said in Ireland—you wanted to live long enough to comb gray hair.

  “Leave it alone,” he said.

  Butch tossed the screaming guy out to the street, then he returned to the bar to finish his drink.

  “As you were saying?” Fish cooed.

  Amanda gave Harvey a look, as if to say, Go ahead, you take it.

  “There was a robbery last night at Wayne Manor,” Harvey said.

  “Yes, I know that,” Fish said.

  “And a guy named Byron Stone was killed.”

  “I know that too. Byron was a useful pawn… at times. But pawns, of course, are always expendable.”

  “Do you know who else is in his crew?” Amanda asked.

  “What did I say about favors?” Fish reached over and began caressing Amanda’s hand. “You have to earn them.”

  Off guard, Amanda let her do it for a few seconds. Then she yanked her hand away. Harvey had to smile. Amanda was so high on her horse, it was interesting to watch her get taken down a rung or two.

  “I wouldn’t do a favor for her,” Fish said, turning to Harvey. “But for you.” She leaned in close and kissed his cheek. Man, she smelled good. A bunch of sexy memories flooded back, all at once. He loved it when that happened.

  “Roberto Colon,” Fish said. “Old cell mate of Byron’s from Blackgate. I heard last week they were planning to work together.”

  “Where can we find him?”

  “He’s a regular at Angel’s, near South Station.”

  Harvey knew Angel’s—a criminal hangout controlled by Don Maroni, but it was hard to make a bust there because it was a “protected location.” The owner, Bobby Angel, made regular payments to the GCPD to ensure that they stayed out of his business.

  “Thanks, baby,” Harvey said.

  As he and Amanda got up, Fish grabbed Amanda’s right wrist—hard, like a clamp—and pulled her in close. She whispered something into Amanda’s ear, so that Harvey couldn’t hear. Then she let go.

  “Any time, Harvey,” Fish said.

  Amanda was livid, her face red, but she didn’t say anything.

  * * *

  Outside they were heading back to the car when a guy approached them. He was youngish, kind of deranged looking, with wild blue eyes and messy black, spiked hair.

  “Hello, kind detectives,” the man said.

  Harvey and Amanda didn’t stop, and the man kept walking briskly alongside them.

  “Who the hell are you?” Harvey asked.

  “I’m a great, great friend of Fish Mooney’s,” the man said. “One day, with any luck—and, let’s face it, the right connections—I’ll be a powerful figure in my own right.”

  “Good for you,” Harvey said, thinking, Is everybody in this city whacked? Am I one of the last of the sane people? It was a scary thought—even for him.

  “I assume you came here for a favor,” the man continued. “Why else would detectives come to see Fish Mooney? I mean, let’s face it, you didn’t come to see a mediocre blues singer.” He laughed, cracking himself up, then said, “But I want you to know, that if you ever need a favor, I can be an extremely useful source of information myself.”

  The guy held out a business card and, just to make him go away, Harvey took one. At that the guy stopped walking, and they quickly left him behind. Harvey had more important things on his mind, but he waited until he and Amanda were back in the car, heading toward the South Village.

  “What the hell happened back there?” he demanded.

  “She grabbed my arm,” Amanda said. “Who the hell does that woman think she is?”

  “That woman is Fish Mooney, that’s who she is,” he said. “She’s connected to Don Falcone.”

  “I don’t care who she’s connected to,” Amanda protested. “I should’ve cuffed her, taken her in for assault.”

  “Yeah, you don’t want to know what would happen if you tried,” Harvey said. Then he added, “Besides, you started it, trying to analyze her, telling her she’s looking for conflict, for chrissake.”

  “The woman’s
a known criminal.”

  “So’s half of freakin’ Gotham,” he replied. “If you want to be a detective in this town, sometimes you gotta do things you’re not so proud of. You get into a thing with Fish, Butch or another one of her goons will pay you—or worse, somebody in your family—a visit.”

  “I’m a police officer,” Amanda said, but she seemed to be running low on steam. “I refuse to be intimidated.”

  “You won’t be a cop for long, with that attitude,” Harvey said. “You’ll be fired, or you’ll be a dead cop.” He let that sink in, then asked, “So what did she say to you anyway? I mean before she left.”

  “It had to do with you actually,” Amanda said.

  “Me?” Harvey was intrigued. “What did she say? Good things, I hope.”

  “She said, ‘Stay away from him. He’s mine.’”

  Harvey laughed. “My kinda woman.” Part of him wasn’t sure what to make of it, though.

  “I don’t know what you see in that thug,” Amanda said.

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t.”

  At a red light, Harvey looked at the business card.

  Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot

  CONSULTANT

  “Looney Tunes,” he muttered, and he ripped the card into little pieces. When the light turned green, he tossed the pieces out the window like confetti, and sped away.

  FIVE

  Thomas drove to downtown Gotham City and parked in an indoor parking lot on the corner of Smythe and Wexler. As he was leaving the lot, Rick Allen, the parking attendant, waved to him.

  “Hey, Mr. Wayne, how’s it going?”

  “I’m doing well, Rick, thanks,” Thomas said. “How are Deborah and the kids?”

  “Deb’s great, and the kid are doing well, thanks for asking. Annie’s starting high school next year.”

  “They grow up fast,” Thomas said. “Every time I look at Bruce, he looks more and more like a man.”

  “You gotta live in the moment,” Rick said. “Enjoy the time while you’ve got it, ’cause nobody knows how much time they got.”

  “So true,” Thomas said, and he continued on. “Have a great day.”

  “You too, Mr. Wayne.”

  Thomas always enjoyed moments like that. Although he was the wealthiest man in town, he didn’t feel the need to live an isolated life. He didn’t think he was better than anyone else, or that his life had any greater meaning. He often reminded himself that the only difference between him and the less fortunate was that he’d had some good luck. But just because he’d been dealt a good hand, that didn’t mean he’d come out the winner in the end. Any poker player would say the same thing—and Thomas took nothing for granted. He tipped well all the time, especially around the holidays, but that wasn’t why most people liked him. They liked him because he was real, because he was genuinely interested in their lives. Thomas had no political ambitions, but if he had wanted to run for mayor of Gotham, he would have won in a landslide.

  As long as the past stayed buried, he mused.

  He entered the tenement-style building and headed up the steep stairs to the second floor. There were few offices on the floor—a real estate agency, an insurance company, and at the end of the hall, an office with golden letters emblazoned on the frosted glass door.

  FRANK COLLINS

  PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

  Thomas knocked and a voice grunted, “Come in.”

  Frank’s office couldn’t have looked more like the stomping grounds of a stereotypical PI. The messy desk, the old filing cabinets, the dirty windows—and of course Frank himself had a potbelly pushing against a stained button-down shirt with rolled-up sleeves. A cigar smoldered in the ashtray that sat in front of him.

  He was at his desk, on the phone, and motioned for his visitor to sit down across from him. Thomas had to move piles of papers and folders from atop the rickety chair, and then he sat.

  While Thomas could have afforded any private investigator in the world, he’d kept Frank on a retainer for nearly ten years to handle his personal assignments. In hiring someone, Thomas only cared about two things—the person’s work ethic, and their ability to get a job done. Frank was a former GCPD detective who had struck out on his own, and knew Gotham inside out. He was the best PI in Gotham, and he was discreet.

  Thomas didn’t want the press finding out about his personal affairs, and he didn’t want board members to know the details either. Frequently the board itself—especially over the past few years—had been the subject of the investigations. Guys like Frank had “private” in their business titles for a reason, or at least the good ones did.

  “Look I know, I… that… Yes, of course…” He had the old-fashioned phone pressed to his ear. “No, that would be a mistake… I… Look, I… I don’t suggest doing that. Look, I know you’re upset right… I know, but if you do that, you’re gonna wind up in Blackgate in an eight-by-ten cell for the rest of your life, and I don’t think you want that, do you? I understand… I understand, but is murder really worth it?”

  Frank gave Thomas a look as if saying, Can you believe this crap?

  “I’m sorry? No, no, I’m sorry, but I don’t give out referrals, especially not for that. Look, I have someone else in my office, and I have to go now… Yes, I know… Yes, and I’ll send you a bill for the balance of your fees, including expenses… All right, okay. Goodbye.”

  Putting the phone back in its cradle, he gave a deep sigh, then reached out.

  “Hey, Tommy, how’s it goin’?” Frank might’ve been the only person in Gotham who’d ever called Thomas “Tommy.”

  “Good to see you,” Thomas said, taking the hand.

  Picking up the cigar, Frank took a long drag, blew the smoke across the desk toward Thomas, and responded.

  “Can you believe these people? I catch her husband red-handed, cheating on her with four—that’s right, four different women—and she can take him to the cleaners, wind up with the house, the cars, the boat, the kids, you name it. But that’s not enough with her. She wants me to find her a hit man to kill the cheating son of a bitch.”

  “Sounds like you should refer her to a therapist,” Thomas said.

  “Or a loony bin,” Frank said. “And, lately, I get calls like this all the time. I do what I can, try to talk them down off of the roof, but if somebody wants to do something stupid, there’s a limit to what I can do to stop them, you know? I mean, what am I gonna do, turn them into the cops? Go to the GCPD, ‘Hey, I got a client, tells me she wants to whack her hubby?’ What’re they gonna do, arrest the broad for what she might do? How many people around the city are plotting to kill somebody, or hurt somebody, right this second? A lot, that’s how many. It’s like what they say—you can’t stop crazy.”

  “There certainly is a moral crisis in Gotham these days,” Thomas said.

  “Crisis?” Frank said. “It’s a freakin’ epidemic.” He took another puff on his cigar, then said, “But, hey, who am I to complain? It keeps me in business. If the crime rate in Gotham went down to zero, I’d have to go back to my old job.”

  “As a GCPD detective?”

  “No my old, old job,” Frank said. “I used to be a house painter, back in the day.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Thomas said.

  “It’s not exactly experience I put on top of my resume,” Frank said. “But, speaking of painting, I heard there was a break-in at your place last night. They took a Picasso that’s worth a pretty penny.”

  “News travels fast,” Thomas said.

  “Hey, I got my finger on the pulse,” Frank said. “That’s what you pay me for, right?”

  “I pay you because I know you’re the best at what you do,” Thomas said.

  “Exactly,” Frank said. “I’ll get on the case right away. If that painting’s in Gotham, I’ll find it. If it isn’t, I’ll find out where it went.”

  “That’s perfect, but I think it may be more complicated than a simple theft,” Thomas said. “I think it might be related to Hugo Str
ange.”

  With a slight whoosh of air, Frank sat back, the cigar clenched between his teeth. He didn’t speak, though, and Thomas knew why.

  Though it had ended ten years earlier, Thomas’s association with Strange had been, by far, the most regrettable mistake of his life. He lived in constant fear that Strange would someday resume his medical experiments. Although Thomas had funded them with good intentions, hoping Strange’s genetic research would cure disease, prolong life, and provide the next step in the evolution of mankind, it turned out that Strange was a deranged madman whose procedures had caused deformities such as missing limbs, grotesque malformations, and uncontrollable psychotic behavior.

  Thomas managed to stop Strange’s experiments by defunding the operation, but this didn’t end the horrific human suffering that Pinewood Farms had caused. For years, Thomas had supported many of its victims—giving them housing, money, and medical care. He did it for redemption, and because he knew it was the right thing to do, but Pinewood remained a great burden and, without doubt, was the greatest regret of his life. He’d never been able to fully forgive himself for the damage he’d done.

  Over the years, he watched the victims he’d been helping die off, one by one. Many met their demises by natural causes, or by suicide, and some just disappeared. Thomas suspected that Strange and his associates were responsible for some, if not all, of the disappearances, and it added to his frustration that there was nothing he could do to stop Strange, or bring him to justice.

  Because Thomas had founded Pinewood Farms with Strange, and had provided all of the financing, he couldn’t go public without incriminating himself and damaging, perhaps irrevocably, the reputation of Wayne Enterprises.

  “So lemme get this straight,” Frank said finally, and then he took another drag on his cigar. After exhaling, he continued. “You think Hugo Strange broke into your house and stole a Picasso?”

  “Whoever did it might not have been after the Picasso,” Thomas said. “I think it was just a cover. I think Strange was behind it, and that he was after something else.”