Part Three

Dick tried hard not to just stare at the reporters but managed—just—to pull it off. Organized crime in a circus he was working in again? And things were going so well, too.

"Why should I believe you and why would you come to me instead of just going to the police?"

"You'll believe us when you see the evidence and this is a touring show it moves from jurisdiction to jurisdiction almost every week. Someone on the inside, someone trusted who can move freely anywhere he wants can get a lot more done, see and hear more than anyone else would be able to."

Sure, that was true but "Why are you asking, why not the authorities?"

A pause of perhaps two breaths. "Because we're not sure which authorities to trust and I, for one, don't want to wake up dead one of these days."

"And you think I do?" Dick stopped, considered and figured that this was exactly why he'd signed up for Bludhaven's Force, to clean it up from the inside. "You boys have any credentials you could show me?"

"Sure, here you go." The taller of the men held out his wallet but the lighting wasn't too good and he could have been showing Dick his Costco card. He put it away a little too fast, too.

"Your name?"

"Joseph Frische and this is Steve Windom."

Normal names, nothing unusual or anything about them and about as generic as you could get. That in and of itself was almost enough to raise a red flag for Dick but, though filed in his brain, he let it go for now. And if there really were problems with the show, or some of the people working for it then, yeah—you gotta do what you gotta do. Especially if you're Nightwing. "What kind of crime are you talking about here, how much and how many people for how long?"

"Drugs. The rumor is that some of the members of the cast or crew are working as mules to move drugs around; 'pays a lot better than cleaning up after an elephant, kid."

It made sense if you looked at it from the outside; circuses moved every week or so, the workers were usually kept separate from the regular population of whatever city or town they passed through and had the often undeserved reputation for being low-lifes and scum. In fact most of the people associated with the circus were normal people who were just trying to make a living for themselves and their families; that was a no-brainer. Families worked in circus, generations of family with grandparents and kids and it was like any other community. There were mostly decent people just making a living and, like anywhere, there were always a few losers. On the other hand, these guys might just have been blowing smoke but Dick didn't like assuming, not when his childhood home might be in some kind of danger.

Everything has an underside and performers were no exception.

But it still sucked. Okay, part of him, the Nightwing part was getting a small adrenalin charge thinking about busting a case but Dick Grayson, The Last Flying Grayson had been having a damn good time just reliving his youth—or something like that. No real responsibilities, no stress, no one to report to. Damn, he'd been having fun.

"What kind of evidence do you have? Rumors are crap. Which enforcement agencies are involved and where are you getting this information from?"

"So you'll work with us?"

"I didn't say that, Mr. Frische. I want more to base a decision on than your say-so. Have you talked to the local police or the FBI?"

The two reporters exchanged an amused look; there was nothing quite as endearing that a new, freshly minted, hot off the griddle cop. They were like Eagle Scouts, all trying to be upstanding and by the book. The kid would learn soon enough that life didn't work the way they told you when you were sitting in a classroom. "Who do you think we got all this from, huh? Of course we've talked to the authorities."

This obviously didn't add up and Dick wasn't quite as wet behind the ears as these guys thought but, "Okay, look, you get me some evidence, something concrete to go on and start with and I'll see what I can do."

"You'll have it by morning."

They shook hands as they parted, Dick wanting to know the real story and what there guys were really talking about.

Play time seemed to be at least partly over.

Later that night, after beers and a BS session with the guys, Dick was laying in his bunk thinking about what had happened. There was something going on, that much was obvious but he wasn't sure yet what and wouldn't be ready to move until he knew more. In the meantime, they had three performances tomorrow and a meet and greet between numbers two and three. He needed to get some serious sleep.

The next few days Dick went through his usual circus routine; he woke up around nine or ten, showered, dressed, had something to eat and checked the rigging as he'd been taught to do before every performance. If they had an early show, say an eleven, he'd get changed and warm up for the act. That show over, he waited around for the next show, did his job and went through his day.

Tonight was their last show before striking everything, packing up and moving on to the next stop which would be Atlanta for a week then on to Charlottesville for five days. It was a grind but a pleasant one that was in his blood and one he hadn't realized how much he missed until he was back in the middle of it.

He loved this, he loved everything about it.

And he kept his eyes opened for anything that shouldn't be happening, anything which might raise a red flag of suspicion. He made a point of visiting the areas of the circus a performer usually doesn't have more than a passing knowledge of.

"Hey Dick, you're back again? I though you headliners were too special to wash dirty elephants, man."

"Me? Nah. Besides, is there anything that smells worse than a grubby elephant? Nasty—I'll wash 'em myself if I have to so I don't have to deal with that."

"Lighting? Where'd you ever learn the difference between a par-can and a Fresnel?"

"I used to help when I was a kid; Haley's is a smaller operation, y'know. Everyone pitched in wherever someone needed help, none of this union stuff back then."

"Watch it kid, you'll be taking my job next."

Dick smiled at that, the plug—excuse me, the connector he was wiring onto the stage light almost finished. "No chance of that."

"Filing? You're offering to help with the filing? In the name of God, why?"

"Nothing nefarious, I just have some time and thought that you might need some help—or company."

"You're going for sainthood now? Hey, sure, whatever; start on that pile there and let me know when you need more. And thanks."

He moved freely around the circus community, both when they were playing a city or town and when they were on the train moving from site to site. He saw some minor offenses but nothing obvious or anything which would be worth the attention of anyone beyond the most minor kids of offenses—some underage kids having very small glasses of wine with their meals as part of a cultural habit, twice he saw a couple of roustabouts and lighting crew members smoking some pot after a show and on their own time. Someone had a pet snake they weren't supposed to have.

But he didn't see any real evidence of serious crime. Once in a great while someone's belongings would be missing but that almost always turned out to be something being misplaced. Once in a while tempers would get hot but those were usually smoothed over in a day or two. A few people smoked some weed, some drank too much but all in all, the circus community was a remarkably peaceful one.

And he didn't hear anything from those reporters again, either. He checked, not surprised to learn that while they did have credentials, they didn't have regular jobs and weren't on the staffs of any news organization or even any of the tabloids. They were, at best, freelancers looking for a scandal or something and to make a names for themselves with some gossip or crime.

Screw it.

July was almost over, August was supposed to be his last month with the show and, with any luck, his posting to BPD would be in by the end of the summer.

He felt two ways about that, happy to move on to active work cleaning up the mess that was the Bludhaven Police Department and some serious sadness at leaving his childhood home.

He could come back, everyone made it clear that he was liked, welcome; he was one of the family and management even offered him more money—secretly, of course—if he would extend his run with them but, with some real regret, he shook his head.

He had to start thinking about getting back to his real life.

With three weeks left in his expected run with Barnum and Bailey, he went to his train bunk after a three-pack, three shows in one day. He was tired and felt like he might be coming down with something. He'd had a headache when he'd gotten up that morning and it was still with him and his appetite was nonexistent; unusual for him. Hell, nothing worse than a summer cold, especially when you couldn't pamper it. The show must go on and if you had a cold you blew your nose, drank some OJ, ate some aspirin and did your job.

Opening the privacy curtain he just stared, someone had used a knife, razor, chain saw for all he knew and torn up the mattress, bedding and whatever clothing was lying around. A quick check showed that it was just his stuff which was targeted, the other beds and personal belongings in the car were untouched and another look proved that his wallet wasn't where he'd left it.

His headache ratcheted up about ten notches.

TBC