Gotham

by Jason Starr

He couldn’t protect Bruce forever.

  “I don’t think I’m a permanent insurance policy,” he said, “but I appreciate the sentiment.”

  Martha reached out and—to his surprise—hugged him, clinging to him.

  “Thank you so much, Alfred,” she said, her voice low. “It feels good to know I can count on you.”

  The hug felt a bit too good. Awkward. Alfred wriggled free.

  “Well then, right,” he said, “I should be heading off. I think I left some water boiling on the stove.”

  She nodded, and he rushed away down the hall to the kitchen.

  FOURTEEN

  Alas, no water was boiling, though there was some cleaning up to do. Bruce, always a thoughtful boy, had cleaned the table and placed his dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Alfred still had to scrub the pan and straighten up the countertop.

  As he did, his mind was awhirl.

  While Alfred was technically just the Waynes’ butler, he had taken on other, well, duties over the years, including driving and cooking. When he’d started working for the Waynes, when Bruce was a young lad, the Waynes had employed a chef called Howard. When Howard retired, Alfred volunteered to step in and take over the culinary duties. He’d been a cook for a time with the royal army, and his fellow soldiers loved eating at “Al’s Kitchen,” which had caught on as a nickname for the mess hall.

  As he enjoyed cooking, he didn’t consider it work at all. Over the years, Alfred had perfected his specialties, which included Italian, Spanish, French, and yes, British cuisine. Anyone who thought that “British cuisine” was an oxymoron hadn’t had Alfred Pennyworth prepare them a meal.

  Yet there was far more on his mind than food.

  When the kitchen was all clean, Alfred headed upstairs to his room, figuring he’d read for a bit perhaps, maybe try to catch a football match. West Ham United, the team he’d grown up supporting, was playing Liverpool. They’d probably get their arses handed to them, as the Americans liked to say, but it was always nice to keep up with what was happening across the pond.

  He was relieved he’d made it to his room without running into Martha again. He had never gotten a vibe before that she fancied him in any way, so the tight hug and her strange tone had caught him off guard. He didn’t think she actually meant anything by it—she was just upset, “in a bad place.” Alfred had no romantic interest in her, of course, but he had to make sure things didn’t escalate. He hoped that she and Thomas sorted things out straight away.

  The truth, of course, was that he did suspect that Thomas was up to something. The blood on Thomas’s neck had been odd, to say the least. If he were to put his detective’s hat on—which he had no intention of doing—he would probably conclude that the blood had come from someone else. Had Mr. Wayne been in a tussle at work? Unlikely.

  Which meant he had lied about his whereabouts yesterday. As for Martha’s suspicions that he was off gallivanting with another lady—this seemed doubtful, no matter what the appearances. Thomas just wasn’t the cheating sort. Yet Martha’s instincts were correct—something was amiss.

  It wasn’t Alfred’s place to speculate, but if he were speculating, he might guess that it had to do with the break-in. The intruders seemed to be searching for something other than the Picasso, or they wouldn’t have chopped up the walls the way they had.

  Perhaps it did have something to do with Wayne Enterprises. At times Alfred’s duties took him to Thomas’s office. In recent months, he had overheard Thomas having a number of heated discussions, sometimes with Lucius Fox, or with other personnel. More often than not it seemed to relate to the board of directors. There seemed to be a concern that the board might try to oust Thomas from his position of CEO.

  Despite any concerns he might have, Alfred’s job title was “butler,” not detective, and his duties didn’t include solving mysteries, especially mysteries involving the behavior of his employer. If Thomas requested his help in any matter, he would provide it, without question, and he’d go to any means necessary to protect the entire Wayne family. Thomas had hired him for a reason, because he had a unique set of skills that perhaps no other butler in the world possessed. That said, for the time being he planned to mind his own business and remain neutral, like Switzerland itself.

  * * *

  Lo and behold, miracle of all miracles, West Ham was beating Liverpool—four to nil and the match was well into the second half. Hearing the chants from the punters at the Stadium at Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park, Alfred felt a bit homesick. He knew the feeling would pass, though. While there were many things he missed about London—in particular drinking at the local with his mates, watching football, snooker, and rugby—he never regretted his decision to leave the United Kingdom and come to work for the Waynes.

  In fact, the decision may have saved his life.

  At the time he accepted the position, Alfred had possessed zero experience as a butler, nor had he ever contemplated such a career. He’d had a long, celebrated time in the Royal Marines, had secured a Military Cross, and saved an entire regiment on a mission in Kazakhstan. After a couple of years at Scotland Yard, he’d worked for a stretch at MI3 where, yes, he’d received a license to kill. He worked as an operative on numerous classified missions, where he’d inevitably gained many enemies.

  On two occasions assassins had targeted him, and each time he had narrowly escaped. In an attempt to have a calmer life, he took a position working for a private army in the Middle East, which protected interests of multinational corporations. During an assignment in Libya, he met Thomas Wayne, one of the army’s financiers. Although they came from very different backgrounds, Alfred and Thomas quickly became friends. Over the next few years, they stayed in touch.

  Alfred was thrilled when he learned that Thomas and Martha had brought a baby boy into the world.

  A couple of years later, during a Wayne family vacation to England, Alfred drove to the countryside and met Martha and Bruce for the first time. Although Bruce was nigh two years old, he already had a presence, an aura about him that Alfred found remarkable. Bruce seemed to get on with Alfred as well—smiling and wanting to play with him all the time. Martha and Thomas thought it was unusual, because Bruce usually acted shy and distrusting around strangers.

  Thomas knew Alfred had enemies who were continuing to target him. Later, over pints at the local pub, he offered Alfred the opportunity to get away from it all and come to Gotham to work as his “butler.” While Alfred had no suitable experience, Thomas said that the job “wasn’t rocket science,” and he fancied the idea of having Bruce growing up influenced by Alfred’s skill set.

  The offer intrigued Alfred, but he politely declined. It seemed like too dramatic a change of life for him. In addition, he had a love affair going for many years with a former French espionage agent, a blonde sprightly bird named Gabrielle Brument. Gabrielle had relatives in Paris, and Alfred knew she wouldn’t want to move across to America.

  Then, a few weeks later, Alfred and Gabrielle were dining at a modest Thai restaurant in Finsbury Park when two men entered. As always, Alfred had taken a seat facing the door. With his inherent ability to assess danger, he knew the men hadn’t come to dine. He reached for his gun, but the men had already opened fire. He shot and killed both of them, but a bullet from one of their weapons struck Gabrielle in the head, killing her instantly.

  Alfred emerged physically unscathed, but emotionally devastated. Gabrielle had been the love of his life, and he’d lost her. Worse, her death had been his responsibility, as his past had come back to bite him on the arse.

  He got a taste of revenge, hunting down and killing the Russian man who had ordered the hit—the brother of a man whom Alfred had taken out several years earlier. Even so, he knew the cycle of violence wouldn’t end. His enemies would target him again, and if he didn’t wind up dead, another innocent person could get caught in the crossfire.

  Besides, living in England had become nigh unbearable. It seemed as if every park, every street cor
ner, every tube station sparked a memory of Gabrielle. So Alfred phoned Thomas and asked him if the butler position was still available.

  “When can you start?” Thomas asked.

  Thus Alfred became ensconced in Gotham, learning his way about town as well as a native, and aside from the occasional bout of homesickness related to his old mates and football, he felt like a native most of the time. He enjoyed his work, particularly helping to raise Bruce, who had already turned into such an extraordinary young man. Nevertheless, he thought about Gabrielle every day. He carried a photo of her in his wallet, which used to cause pangs of sorrow whenever he looked at, but now brought pure joy. He had been in love once, he had experienced what it felt like. Some people died young, or never met their soul mate.

  The way he looked at it, he was one of the lucky ones.

  * * *

  Alfred turned off the television, confident that even West Ham couldn’t lose with a four-goal advantage.

  Then he glanced out the window and saw Thomas, wearing a determined expression, leaving through a back entrance of Wayne Manor, heading toward the gardens. He checked back over his shoulder, as if to make sure no one was watching him. Alfred shifted out of view behind the curtains, but could still see Thomas heading into the maze of English-style shrubbery.

  Presuming he was out of view, Thomas took out his mobile and made a call. His expression remained serious, as if he were discussing some grave matter. Alfred recalled the blood on Thomas’s neck, the odd conversation regarding Bruce’s guardianship, and how Thomas had snapped at him during the repair work in his study. If Alfred had his detective’s hat on, he would have considered these clues.

  Instead he just pulled the curtains together, and went about his day.

  FIFTEEN

  At first, Bruno Walsh, the thug Harvey and Amanda had picked up from Roberto Colon’s room at the SRO, wouldn’t talk at all. Harvey didn’t know if it was because Walsh didn’t know anything, or he just wasn’t spilling.

  Well, one way to find out.

  With Amanda watching through the one-way glass, Harvey went to the old stand-by—his favorite pair of brass knuckles. When Walsh, with his jaw broken and a few of his teeth on the floor, still claimed that he and his dead friend were hired guns, and he had no idea where Colon went or anything about the stolen Picasso, Harvey finally believed him.

  He left the interrogation room and instructed a uniformed cop to clean up the mess and book Walsh for attempted manslaughter.

  “You got it, Harv,” the cop said.

  Amanda approached Harvey.

  “Did you have to work him over so hard?” she asked.

  “Look who’s talking,” Harvey said, “my ninja sidekick.”

  “Touché,” Amanda said.

  At seven, it was time to call it a day. The captain had assigned a couple of other detectives to pursue Colon and, assuming there wasn’t a middle-of-the-night bust, Harvey and Amanda would resume the hunt manana.

  Harvey went to his apartment, did two of the three S’s—no need for a bearded man to shave—then hit Old City, his favorite watering hole just around the corner from his apartment building. Old City was a classic art deco Gotham bar, with high tiled ceilings and classy booths to sit in, not these mosh pit style bars they were building nowadays. Once upon a time, when he was at the police academy, he used to moonlight, bartending at Old City.

  Jesus H on a popsicle stick, that was a long time ago.

  Sidling up to his regular seat at the end of the bar, Harvey had Smitty, his favorite bartender, pour him a pint of bitter and a double of Jameson, straight up. He downed the Jameson like a man, taking it straight down his throat, not even moving a muscle to swallow it, and then chased it with the bitter. Finally, after a long-ass day, he’d gotten his hair of the dog.

  The infusion of alcohol livened him up and numbed the pain in his ribs from the beating he’d taken, and the pain in his wrists from the beating he’d doled out. On the bar’s TV, he watched the Williams-Sanchez fight. He was pulling for Sanchez only because Williams was cocky as hell, and Harvey hated cockiness. If you could walk the walk, you didn’t have to talk the talk, and he had more respect for guys like Sanchez who buckled up, shut their traps, and got the job done.

  Other than that, he really didn’t give a damn.

  Sanchez went down in the third. “Goes to show ya,” Harvey said to Smitty, “boxing’s like life—the jerkoffs always seem to come out on top.”

  He took it easy, drinking wise—only had a couple more brewskies—then hit the road. He had energy still, didn’t feel like hitting the hay… well, not alone anyway. So he got on the horn—Well, if you consider a cell phone a horn—and gave a shout to Lacey White, the TV reporter he’d run into at Wayne Manor the other night.

  “Lace, guess who?”

  “I’d recognize that voice anywhere,” Lacey said. “How are you, Mr. Nygma?”

  Harvey’s brain was slow to react. “Wait, who?”

  “Kidding,” Lacey said. “I’d recognize your voice anywhere, Harvey.”

  “Oh. Ha, ha,” Harvey said, remembering that Lacey had met Nygma at the station a couple of times. She really knew how to hurt a guy.

  “So, let me guess,” Lacey said, “it’s around ten on a Saturday night, and you decide to give me a call. That could only mean one thing—”

  “You know me too well,” Harvey said. “So what do you say, baby? Old time’s sake?”

  “I’d love to, Harv, but actually I have someone here right now.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Harvey was disappointed as hell, but tried not to let it show. “I hope he’s a good guy.”

  “She’s great,” Lacey said, “but I only met her about ten minutes ago, when she came to fix my sink. There’s something so sexy about female plumbers.”

  “You can fool me once any day,” Harvey said, “but never twice, my darling.”

  “No, I’m serious,” Lacey whispered. “She’s in the bathroom right now, and I don’t want her to hear me.”

  Wait, was she for real? Since when did Lacey White swing from the other side of the plate?

  “Really?” Harvey asked.

  “Well, I guess you were wrong—I can fool you twice.” She laughed. “Just goes to show you that man will always believe what he wants to believe.”

  “Yeah, what I believe right now,” Harvey said, “is that you want me in your bed.”

  “Give the man a prize,” Lacey said. “How fast can you get here?”

  “As fast as humanly possible,” Harvey said, with his hand up, already hailing a cab. One pulled over to the curb and Harvey climbed in. He showed the cabbie his badge, then told him Lacey’s address and said, “Get there as fast as you can.” He put it back in his pocket. “Forget the lights.”

  * * *

  Seven minutes later he was dashing into Lacey’s building. She did well in the reporting biz. It was a classy high-rise—a guy wearing white gloves held open the door for him. Then Harvey approached the concierge at the desk.

  “Harvey Bullock to see Lacey White.”

  Did the concierge smirk a little before he announced him?

  Harvey heard Lacey’s muffled voice. “Send him right up.” The concierge gestured, and gave Harvey a knowing glance.

  “Have fun tonight.”

  Okay, so Harvey wasn’t exactly Lacey’s only dance partner, but that didn’t matter to him. He liked a woman who didn’t need an instruction manual.

  On the nineteenth floor, he buzzed her apartment, already feeling ravenous. Then the door opened and she lassoed him, tight as hell, so he couldn’t move his arms.

  Freakin’ A—

  She was dressed in a latex cowgirl getup that covered maybe five percent of her curvy body. With her three-inch heels, she towered over him.

  “Yee-ha,” he said.

  She lassoed his chest, then yanked on the rope so hard it probably stopped circulation. Harvey groaned, but he loved it.

  “You won’t
speak until I tell you to speak,” she said. “Do you understand me, Detective?”

  “Yes, Lace—” Harvey said. “Oops, sorry.”

  “What did I just tell you?” she said.

  He braced himself.

  Man, he loved disobeying.

  * * *

  “Is it true you once dated Fish Mooney?”

  They were lying in bed, and Harvey jumped a little.

  “You still like to ask questions even when the camera’s not running, don’t ya?” Harvey asked. He couldn’t decide whether or not to be annoyed.

  “And you like to avoid my questions,” she countered. “I’m not going to have to teach you another lesson, am I?”

  As appealing as it sounded, Harvey wasn’t ready for that. He still hadn’t recovered from the last education.

  “Dated isn’t really the way to describe it,” Harvey said. “Let’s just say I didn’t take her to a movie and an ice cream shop.”

  “I’ve interviewed her a couple of times.” Lacey was twirling Harvey’s chest hair with her index finger. “She’s, well, pretty far out there. What did you see in her?”

  “She knows how to have a good time,” Harvey said, “and knows what she wants. Those are two of my favorite qualities in a lady. Case in point.” But she didn’t take the bait.

  “You didn’t mind that she’s a criminal?”

  “I don’t do background checks before I start something new,” Harvey said. “Takes all the fun out of it.”

  Finally she let it drop, and rolled over to plant a passionate kiss. That gave Harvey a new surge of energy, and he decided it was okay to resume his curriculum. At some point, they fell asleep. Then something woke Harvey up—the sun stinging his eyes.

  His cell was ringing.

  “Yeah,” he said, without checking the display.

  “Harvey, there you are.” It was Captain Essen. “You weren’t answering your home phone.”

  “That’s cause I’m not home,” he said, wincing when he tried to move his right arm.

  “You have to come in right away,” she said.