“For a fee,” Grissom guessed.
“Um-hmm.” Kovaks paused, a self-satisfied smirk settling on his face. “But getting rid of a body, even that of a reprobate like the biker, isn’t as easy as you might think, even in Gotham.”
Grissom appreciated initiative. “So for this service, you requested a larger-than-usual payout?”
Kovaks spread his arms wide, like a priest about to give a blessing.
“It was sweet for a while,” he said. “Getting my little quarterly percentage.” He shook his head. “It was amazing, too, how much they made on popcorn and cotton candy alone. But those days are gone.”
“I see the power is still on,” Grissom said. He’d flicked on a light in what had been the main office.
“There was some money left in the operations fund, and I figured I might as well keep up with the light bill as long as possible. It’s only on in a few specific places, because you can do that with a commercial property. I’m betting we can sell the park. People always want to laugh. The right owner comes along, and who knows?” He beamed.
“You think so?” What Grissom figured was to hold onto the land long enough, and sell to a developer who would raze all this clown crap and build an outlet mall or something. Of course, if by then he had a few bodies to unearth, chop up, and burn, it’d be no big thing.
He checked his watch. He had a plane to catch to Miami.
“Oh yes, it could be a hell of a carnival again,” Kovaks said. “Wouldn’t take much to make a real go of it, I’m figuring. I’ve got a few feelers out now, you know, looking for investors.”
“Uh-huh,” Grissom said. He wasn’t convinced, but decided it wasn’t worth wasting the breath to argue. Rising, he took a last look around. “You never know, Kovaks, you never know.”
20
Police Commissioner James Gordon’s office at Gotham Central was as orderly and unadorned as the man himself. There was an old-fashioned wood desk upon which sat a gooseneck lamp, a combination phone and intercom, and a stack of manila file folders of varying thicknesses. In front of the desk were two chairs and behind it a swivel chair that needed a new ball bearing.
The folders represented a wide variety of concerns, all of which he needed to address at some point. There were open cases from the Major Crimes and Homicide units, disciplinary matters, budgetary concerns, and more. Plenty more.
His office door boasted a frosted glass window with his title stenciled on it. Just outside stood a water cooler and a bank of three battered metal file cabinets.
It was daytime, and the Venetian blinds kept the sunlight at bay. Outside the window there was a ledge that, at times, seemed to have more traffic than the office door. Especially at night.
Because it was daytime, however, Gordon preferred not to be holed up in his office if he didn’t have to be. He shut the file concerning an officer-involved shooting. A perp had tried, unsuccessfully, to rob Empire Liquors in Crime Alley. It was a simple administrative matter, and now that it was past tense, he stood to take his customary stroll through headquarters.
“Heading out, Commissioner?” his administrative assistant asked. Helen Flynn wore a crisp, starched white shirt buttoned at the wrist and a dark blue skirt that rose a scintilla above the knees. Her desk was located just outside of his frosted glass door. From that vantage point she could see his comings and goings, and look out over the entire open area where detectives and civil service employees went about their business.
“Eventually,” he said absentmindedly. Something about the shooting incident stuck in the back of his mind, and he considered having his detail take him over to Empire Liquors, to see the scene in person. Photographs only revealed so much. Maybe he wasn’t out on the streets anymore, but he wasn’t going to let his brain go soft. Not like he’d done with his middle. He’d never been built like Batman—not even when he was a cop on the beat—but he used to keep in fairly decent shape, doing push-ups, weights, and shadow boxing.
Where had those days gone?
“I’ll let you know when I leave the building,” Gordon said, pulling on his jacket and promising himself to get back into a health regimen.
“Sounds good,” she said.
Gordon walked through the rows of metal desks, nodding to this or that plainclothes officer or dispatcher. Most were concentrating on their work, but a few nodded back. He spotted Harvey Bullock as he entered the room.
“Harvey, have a minute?”
“Sure, Commissioner.” Bullock paused, and Gordon joined him. Together they strolled in the general direction of the detective’s desk.
“Where do we stand with Python Palmares and his lab?” the Commissioner asked. “Have any of your CIs been forthcoming? This damnable Giggle Sniff epidemic is just getting worse, and we’ve got to get a handle on it.”
Damn the Joker, he thought. Is that madman going to be the bane of Gotham forever?
“I’ve been leaning on a couple of them,” Bullock replied. “Had to get pretty firm with a couple of them.”
“You didn’t work any of them over with a phone book, did you, Harvey?” the Commissioner said dubiously. “That bought us a world of trouble the last time.” The two found themselves standing off to one side in the operations section. Personnel sat at a bank of consoles with screens that made it look like an air traffic control tower. Incidents of lesser and greater degrees of severity were being called in. Each person wore a headset, and a few sat in front of bulky computer monitors.
“No, no,” Bullock said. “Hands off, and strictly by the book. I mean, adhering to the book, not using it like a club.”
Gordon regarded the disheveled detective. The incident had led to a two-weeks’ suspension without pay, and Bullock was lucky it hadn’t been worse. On the plus side, Harvey’s extreme methods had revealed where an eleven-year-old had been buried alive, and enabled them to rescue her before she suffocated.
The detective continued. “Palmares might be using the old Apex cement plant—or what’s left of it—for his operation. I’m told he’s got a couple of the old chemists from Ace Chemicals on his payroll. I’m going to check out the location this afternoon, strictly on the sly.”
Gordon considered this.
“Keep me in the loop.”
“Of course, Commish. I mean, sir.”
“And Harvey, how about a shave,” Gordon added. “I allow a lot of latitude with the detectives, but there are limits.”
“You got it,” Bullock said, scratching at his chin. “Is that all, boss?”
“Yes, Harvey, that’s all for now.”
Bullock gave a slight nod, then turned and left. Absently Gordon adjusted his glasses as he watched the man go. God help him, Gordon reflected. More than once he should have busted Bullock back down to patrol, but the sonofabitch got results. Like Batman his unconventionality helped him keep the madness at bay, and wasn’t that the bigger goal?
Loath to admit it, Gordon needed those like Bullock—the Id he could release when it was needed to maintain the order.
As long as he doesn’t stray too far over the line.
As he moved away from the operations area, Gordon remembered another cop, someone a lot like Bullock, in a way. Gavin Kovaks had been a captain and, like Harvey, he’d employed whatever methods were needed to get the job done. Unlike Harvey, though, Kovaks always dressed sharp—too sharp for a plainclothesman. The latest cut to his suit, maybe a stickpin in his tie, and his shoes always polished to a fresh out-of-the-box shine.
In hindsight, Gordon realized such had screamed “Hey, I’m on the take.” Kovaks had danced too close to the line, but solved a lot of thorny cases. Once he’d crossed the line, there had been no going back.
Ego aside, Gordon knew what the difference was—what kept Bullock more or less in line.
Batman.
Bullock knew that if he truly crossed the line, the masked vigilante would be relentless in bringing him to justice. Sometimes Gordon thought it had led to a competition of sorts. As i
f Harvey felt like he needed to prove himself. Prove that he was better than the Bat.
Eschewing the elevator he started up the two flights of stairs that led to the rooftop. Once again he swore that he would get back to the gym. The roof was where aero squad was located—the patrol blimps that patrolled the skies above the city.
Reaching the top he stopped and took a few deep breaths.
Maybe he’d take up jogging, like his daughter Barbara.
“Aw, who am I kidding,” he muttered as he pushed the crash bar on the door, stepping out onto the roof. Instantly a stiff wind caught his hair and whipped at his jacket. Jogging was boring, but maybe he’d take up yoga, just to stay limber. That might be just the thing.
Kung fu and yoga classes…
Yeah, he chuckled inwardly. That’ll be the day.
21
Hands on his hips, Python Palmares stared into the impound yard and regarded the wrecked AMX. He and Frankie Bones stood at the chain-link fence, looking over the collection of cars, pickups, and even a giant yellow duck once used by the Penguin. It sat rusting in a far corner.
“They got our college shipment,” he muttered.
“That damn slip Batgirl is getting to be as bothersome as the Big Bat,” Bones said.
Palmares made a sucking sound, running his tongue over newly installed teeth. “You ain’t kidding.”
“Maybe we should move along, Python. No sense moping around here, and some curious cop comes over to ask us why.”
Palmares tapped the keepsake he kept around his neck, the clasped silver heart inlaid with ivory.
“You know what’s in here, right?”
“Sure boss, some of the ashes of your older brother, Gino.”
Palmares held up an index finger. “A true stand-up guy. Hardcore member of the original Red Hood gang, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Bones agreed.
“And did he get his due?”
“He did not,” Bones said.
“Damn right he didn’t,” Palmares said softly, his voice breaking slightly. This was what pushed him to claw his way to the top. He owed it to Gino, and his legacy.
Palmares looked past the hulks of vehicles to the gray stone of the building beyond. This was central lockup, where three of his crew were languishing. He wasn’t worried about them talking—they knew he’d see to getting them a mouthpiece. But replacing personnel took time and money, and he was in expansion mode. That meant watching every cent.
He needed to show those slicksters at Intergang he could handle the freight. The Bats were making him look bad. Maybe it’d been kind of stupid to have Frankie Bones drive him over here, but part of him wanted to show the law he wasn’t scared of them. Another part of him had hoped his product might still be hidden in the car, but even from here he could tell the cops had been over it like cockroaches on a biscuit with syrup.
“Okay, let’s blow.”
The two walked back to a black Lincoln. Bones got behind the wheel, and Palmares sat on the tuck-and-roll leather in the back. The car had suicide doors, and its back window was padded with a diamond shape cut out in the center. Bones fired up the gas-gobbling V8, and the two drove away.
Palmares picked up the radio-telephone and asked the mobile operator for a number. After a couple of rings, there was a click on the other end.
“Suzi,” he said, “This is Python. Seems there’s an opening in my organization. Let’s talk about that idea of yours over dinner tonight.” He listened to her enthusiastic response, then said, “Good. The Ocelot, yeah, that’s a better class of joint. Make it 7:30, okay? Right, see you then.”
He hung up the handset.
“You think the broad can handle the weight?” Bones asked from the front seat.
“She’s got what you call ambition, Frankie,” he replied. “Plus, men drool at her rack and think she ain’t got a brain upstairs. But she does. I know she does.”
“You notice it when you got your hands on the rack, you mean,” Bones quipped.
Palmares chuckled. He settled back in his seat and stared out of the side window, watching the sights of Gotham roll by. Bats or no, he was going to make this city his.
22
Susan “Suzi Mustang” Klosmeyer sat in the cramped dressing room of the Lacy Pony, balanced on a rickety chair reading a paperback about the habits of successful people. All she wore was a short robe, bikini bottom, and fishnets. The air in the tiny space was hot and close.
Canned music thumped through the walls, rattling the plastic hydrogen peroxide bottles and makeup tubes on the twin vanities. The traditional bump and grind music, favoring the sax and bombastic drums, had been replaced on the sound system with synthesizer electronics like the soundtrack to a science fiction flick, and beats that seemed to repeat endlessly. Worse was that mess they called rap that occasionally got thrown into the mix, and made her grit her teeth.
The music died down and the catcalls and whoops rose from the assembled mouth breathers. Mustang sighed and set aside her book, using an old tassel as a bookmark. She rose as Diane Jalivarez—who went by Lilly St. Regis—breezed in from the stage. She held a decent amount of wrinkly cash, clutching it to her substantial sweaty breasts. Most of it was of the one-dollar variety, Suzi observed smugly as St. Regis plopped the bills onto one of the tabletops. A few drifted to the floor.
At the other vanity sat a girl who only went by the name Dakota. She sat with her back to the mirror, legs crossed and filing her nails.
“Oh, how I love me my frat boys,” Jalivarez gushed. She dropped to her knees to get the bills off the floor, and made it a production as she counted her take from that position. It was some kind of goofball good luck thing she did after each set. Dakota and Mustang exchanged a look.
Then it was Mustang’s turn as the strip joint’s disc jockey Tricky Ricky announced her. She pulled together her outfit, including leather gloves with sleeves that went up her forearms, and had brass studs along the seams.
“And now the one you’ve been salivating for,” Ricky said theatrically. “The one who can bring life to the dead, and make the blind see when she wiggles those God-given magnificent melons. The one, the only… Suziiii Mustaaang.”
The music cranked up again to an eardrum-pulsing level, drowning out the clapping and hooting. Mustang steeled herself as she stepped through the gap in the sequined curtain. Overhead, twirling light balls splayed reflected bright white all over the stage, the backdrop, and Tricky Ricky at his control board off to the side. Mini spotlights, operating on synchromesh rotors, jittered her form in circles of red, orange, and yellow.
“Oh, baby, I’m in love,” a heavyset man yelled. He wore glasses too small for his round head.
“I’m in lust!” another shouted, gulping down a bottle of overpriced beer. He had on a sweatshirt for Gotham University’s rowing team.
“Come on boys,” Mustang said, launching into her spiel as she began dancing. “Don’t be shy, ’cause I sure won’t be.”
That got them going. She’d taken a cue from the old pros, updating the opera gloves with the leather. Over her bikini bottom she wore a leopard-spotted loin cloth like a pin-up version of a cave girl, and a matching top that barely covered her ample bosom.
Then she started to dance, focusing on the moves. Long ago she’d learned that she could do it on autopilot, but that would show on her face and how she moved her body. The droolers might throw some bills her way, but that would be on autopilot, too. To get them into the moment, make them feel as if they were sharing this time of intimacy, Mustang had to act. Had to make it seem as if the music was flowing through her, and give it all she had.
She had to keep the men drinking, too, since that made the house happy.
“Yeah, baby, that’s what Mama likes,” she said, slipping a leg over one guy’s shoulder and pumping her hips lasciviously. All the men roared save for one. He sat back from the others, big arms folded over his barrel chest, his baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. She saw him back there
in the dimness, and they shared a brief smile. Then she turned around, bent over and jiggled her rear. That got the pipeline flowing, and the bills cascaded onto the stage—not singles but twenties.
When her top came off another roar went up. Mustang threw her arms in the air and put a smile on her face, letting her head loll back as she basked in the adoration.
She knew the audience was putting on an act, too, for they were in the moment, but she didn’t care. If any of them passed her on the street, and she was dressed in normal clothes, they wouldn’t recognize her. It wasn’t as if any of them even knew what her face looked like. To them she was only an object of sexual desire, and there was a comforting degree of anonymity in that. Here Mustang wielded the power.
But it would be Susan Klosmeyer who reaped the benefits.
The music wound down, and the colored spotlights went dark. Her set over, she blew a kiss to the lonely and the lurking. Gathering up her money, she exited to the dressing room, where another dancer had arrived for her shift. Breathing heavily, Mustang grabbed up a towel to blot at her face and upper body. That done, she put her money in the damp towel, and folded the cloth over.
“Aren’t you going to impress us with your stack?” St. Regis said acidly.
“I wouldn’t want to make you jealous,” she replied. She began to change into street clothes. This had been her last set, and she wanted to get out of here.
“Uh-huh. Like you’re all that.”
The Lacy Pony’s owner encouraged the girls to work so-called “after hours” sets, which meant giving lap dances. If a customer was particularly generous in his donation, that dance could include various extras, and the boss only took twenty percent off the top.
St. Regis was all about those extras.
Mustang knew she should ignore the snark, but small-timers like St. Regis had to be reminded there were people not to mess with. Tucking her bundled towel in a backpack, she walked over to where St. Regis sat on the rickety chair, smoking a cigarette.
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