This is an edited chapter with a change in setting. Instead of 1898 New York City, this is 1890 San Francisco. PM me if you've read the original (Part I, Book I, Chapter II, part 2) and only want a summary of the changes I've made so that you don't have to reread.

As per usual, despite it being a Sunday, Richard Grayson found himself awake long before the sun rose above San Francisco's skyline. Unlike most mornings, wherein our good sergeant would breakfast at an establishment only a stone's throw away from his office, perhaps enjoying a few cups of coffee while reading the morning paper, Richard Grayson was already preparing himself for the long trek to the docks across from Steuart Street. If he was lucky, he remarked to himself as he changed out of his sleep attire and into a less-conspicuous workingman's vestments, he'd be able to catch the trolley for most of the long journey from Pacific Heights to the east side docks. An uncharacteristic bout of nerves overtook him as he wondered who these two men he needed to meet were. Perhaps they were no better than Mr. Gordon himself.

A quick splash of water to his face quickly righted him – why would The Raven request he meet with unsavoury characters if she wanted to help his investigation? - and soon, Richard was out the door of his house and on his way to the docks. He had found no time to break his fast and the offer of a hot cup of coffee from his housekeeper was quickly shot down.

The morning commute itself was far from dreary despite the hardened expressions on many of the workingmen who were seated haphazardly within the streetcar. Richard tried his hardest not to feel too out of place for it had been quite some time since he had last had to go undercover amongst the hoi polloi. He'd feel more confident if he was wearing his normal three-piece suit and not these ill-fitting vestments. If only his former employer were there to observe him…

After a little more than half an hour, Richard found himself disembarking at the end of Market Street with a short walk to the Pier 4. It could hardly be called a long and tedious journey but throughout the trolley ride, Richard had found himself wishing he had brought a small book or a newspaper with him, especially since one of the women in the streetcar had been making eyes at him and he hadn't known how to respond. He'd just cleared his throat uncomfortably and looked down towards his shoes, wishing for the ride to be over.

Luckily, before long, Richard found himself at Pier 4. There was no sight of the two men with whom he was supposed to meet and Richard remembered that The Raven's note gave no actual address for Mr. Gordon's shipping offices – perhaps an oversight on her part. To his good fortune, however, Richard found a small sign on the pier that read "Pier closed on Sundays. Company offices can be found at No. - Steuart Street. Open from noon to late Sundays."

"Perfect," Richard said to himself as he headed over to Mr. Gordon's office. Despite the office being closed at this hour, Richard knew it would award him some privacy with the two men he was supposed to meet.

Just as he expected, there were two figures standing nonchalantly outside Mr. Gordon's (currently closed) shipping offices. Richard walked up to them, trying to ignore the tight knot of apprehension in his stomach. Hopefully, his facial expression was calm and collected. He was a seasoned police officer, after all.

Whatever Richard had expected the two men he was to meet to look like, these men were certainly not it. In fact, one of the men, young and of short stature with unruly hair, could only have been described as looking a bit green.

"Chlorosis," the young man said, as if he had guessed what Richard was thinking. "I have chlorosis." He lit a match against the brick wall behind him, touching it to the tip of the hand-rolled cigarette in his mouth.

"Do you think you could help me, by any chance?" Richard asked the young man, who seemed to care more about taking a drag from his cigarette than to reply promptly.

This young man was very promptly elbowed by his companion: a taller and older man. Clearly of African descent, Richard remarked to himself. What an odd pair.

The taller man muttered something to the other, who promptly threw away his cigarette and adjusted his hat.

The young man nearly tripped over himself as he ran up to Richard. "I'll do my best, sir," he said. "To help you, that is."

Richard kept a straight face at this but on the inside, he had to ask himself why this dock-worker was calling him, who appeared to be just the average everyman, "sir". He looked at the young man in front of him.

"All right,", Richard said, "Mister…"

"Garfield Logan, sir."

"Right," Richard said. "Anyways, Mr. Logan, I was told to meet with you and your associate today. You see, I'm looking for someone. A Mr. Ian Gordon. I am well aware his office is closed until after today but I have a meeting here at these offices at ten o'clock sharp. Perhaps you and your companion know something about that?"

Garfield, at hearing the way Richard talked down to him, lost some of his excitement. His voice grew stiff and coldly polite as he gestured to the other man who had been waiting with him, saying, "My 'companion,' sir, has a name."

The other man came up to the other two and Richard hesitantly shook his hand.

"Victor Stone," he said, eyeing Richard with what seemed to be a healthy amount of suspicion. "And I suppose you're the one we were told to meet?"

Richard nodded.

So, this must be G.L. and V.S. Curious.

Richard cleared his throat before saying, "I'm looking for information about a Mr. Ian Gordon. Do you happen to know anything about him?

"It depends who's asking," Victor said, eyeing Richard with a healthy amount of suspicion.

Thinking on his feet, Richard supplied the first name he could think of. "James Lynam Molloy," he said. In retrospect, the name of a British songwriter might not have been the best choice but he sincerely hoped the two men in front of him knew nothing about transatlantic parlor music.

"Right," Victor said, and Richard could've sworn he saw the other man smile briefly before returning to his aforementioned skepticism. "And my real name is George Leybourne. I know my way around an English music hall, too, you know. Now, who are you really?"

Richard cursed to himself at having been so transparent.

"I can't say," he said, lamely. "But, please, I do need to know more about this Mr. Gordon. It's imperative that you tell me all you know about him!"

Garfield let out a burst of laughter at this as he interrupted the serious discourse Victor and Richard were clearly in the midst of.

"Ah, get a hold of yourself, Vic," he said, before turning towards Richard who felt quite keenly that this situation would not be going according to plan. "And you, sir, with your talk of 'imperative's and 'whereabouts.' You ain't no workingman. More likely you're some copper on his beat."

Richard didn't bother with trying to avoid this interrogation as he was quickly growing impatient. He looked skeptically at Garfield.

"How did you know?" he said.

Beaming widely, as he clearly took pride in this particular sentiment, Garfield said, "You think I ain't never run in with the cops before? Don't flatter yourself."

While Richard was about to shut Garfield up, Victor was the one to do so.

"Garfield!" he said, clapping his hand over the other man's face. "What do you think you're doing? Trying to get us caught? You saw Gordon's goons around here."

Victor released his hold on Garfield before he turned towards Richard, saying, "Perhaps, sir, we should continue this conversation somewhere more private. There's a coffee saloon not far from here on East Street; decent food, busy. If that's all right with you, Officer…?"

"Sergeant Grayson," Richard said. "It's a bit early for luncheon, Mr. Stone, but I do believe that that is the best course of action for now."

As Victor collected his hat and coat and Garfield righted himself once more – after a cursory wipe of his face with a grimy handkerchief – the three men began the short walk to the suggested coffee saloon.

oOo

The establishment itself proved to be absolutely unremarkable in Richard's eyes. Working men in ill-fitted clothes completely filled the place, smoking cheap cigars and drinking the ubiquitous pitch-black beverage. Richard enjoyed coffee, he would admit to himself. He drank a cup every morning with his breakfast. But, that was fine coffee bought from a French grocer's. This saloon's coffee, from the looks of it, seemed more like coal tar.

Whatever patronizing thoughts of his that were about to continue, Richard soon had his internal dialogue interrupted when Victor and Garfield brought three mugs of hot coffee over to the small table he was sitting at.

Richard thanked them, hoping his polite smile was not as acerbic as he felt it was.

"So," Richard said, setting the mug down and resolving himself to not even try a sip, "How did two young men such as yourselves come to find work at Mr. Gordon's docks? You make the odd pair and Mr. Logan's chlorosis – a disease more commonly found in virginal girls – should render him ill-suited for physical labor."

Garfield snorted in laughter before saying, "Clearly, Sergeant, I ain't neither of those things. But, I've been told if I could afford to eat better, my chlorosis'd be gone."

"And what about you, Mr. Stone?" Richard said. "How did you come to find work with Mr. Gordon's company?"

"A little bird told us to work there," Victor said, his meaning implicitly understood by Richard. "'Bout two months ago as neither of us were employed."

Here, Garfield interjected by saying, "Hey, Vic! I had a job; over at that hash house on Minna."

Victor amended his previous statement. "What I meant was, we were both offered the job at those docks. It's a better job than most; pays well."

He gestured to his two legs, slightly pulling up one side of his trousers. Richard was surprised to see two prosthetic legs – surprisingly not crudely made for one of Mr. Stone's economic background. Surely a man with injuries such as that should not have been working at the docks?

As if to answer Richard's unspoken question, Victor lowered his trouser leg and said, "I had enough schooling and some connections from my time in the Army to persuade the boss to let me work in his office. And Garfield here was charismatic enough to get himself a job as a messenger boy of sorts. He's too scrawny to work by the docks, anyhow."

"Hey!"

"But apparently," Victor continued, "this company's owner, your Mr. Gordon, is up to no good. You're lucky you came when you did; otherwise, there'd have been some heads busted. Even though the offices are closed, some of Gordon's goons were hanging about earlier."

"Mr. Stone, you know The Raven?" Richard asked, still quite behind on his processing of this new information. Truth be told, he had stopped listening carefully just before Garfield had added his two cents to the conversation. But, he did note that Mr. Gordon seemed to hold quite a position of influence around these docks.

Victor nodded. "And we haven't been able to find anything about Mr. Gordon and his particular vice-ridden business, if you understand my meaning. He keeps a tight ship and not even Garfield's oversized ears" - this earned Victor a slap in the arm from said listener - "have been able to catch any whispered information from between the other workers. I haven't yet been able to go creeping around his paperwork yet in the office. We've tried coming here all hours of the night but we also can't lose the jobs that we have. So far, nothing."

"But if you were to find out anything," Richard said, "to whom would you report?"

Here Garfield gave his two cents. "To Ra- to the Raven, sir. And we're bound to find out something. I'm sure of it!"

How odd, Richard noted. Garfield clearly knows more than he is letting on about the Raven.

Groaning softly to himself, Richard said, "Mr. Logan, if we're to be partners in this enterprise, I can't have you calling me 'sir.' My name is Sergeant Grayson, if you'll remember."

As a response, Garfield stared blankly at him. Clearly, Richard would need to rephrase his words.

"We're to be working together, Mr. Logan, as it is the Raven's work to send the three of us to investigate this case," Richard said. "From now on, you and Mr. Stone will report both to me and the Raven, but to me first. Is that clear?"

The other two men nodded in agreement.

"As neither of you have found anything worthwhile, I suppose I'll return to my regular work now," Richard said, not noticing his companions bristle slightly at his poor choice in words. It seemed as if Officer Grayson had put himself on an unnaturally high pedestal once again. "I may be found at this address in Pacific Heights: the house at the corner of Vallejo and Webster Streets, if you must know. Please, do keep me updated."

Both Victor and Garfield gave him snide looks although Richard could tell that they did their utmost to hide them.

"Will do, sir," Garfield said, his tone no longer as reverent as before. "Will do."

oOo

On his way home from the docks - and this time, he had called a hansom cab - Richard found himself unhappy. Normally, he felt so in control of the situation whenever he was sent to investigate something. Meeting the two dock workers had been a surprise; the Raven had clearly chosen him two capable compatriots. Perhaps Richard shouldn't have been quite so short-tempered with them… He'd be lucky if they did decide to contact him soon with any developments pertaining to the case.

Richard Grayson sighed and sat back in his seat, gazing out the window at the gloom of San Francisco's November skies.

oOo

The very next day, Richard arrived at Old City Hall with a leather folio full of notes he'd stayed up all night working on.

"Good morning, Miss Brush!" he said cheerfully as he finally arrived at his desk, setting his folio on top it and nodding at his secretary.

"Morning, Sergeant," Ann Brush said, as she stood up from her post and walked over to Richard and his folio. "Were you up late again?"

Richard nodded as he handed her the folio.

"There's not much of substance in it," he said, "but I was able to ascertain that Ms. Feuerstein was originally sold to a Chinatown bordello run by a Mr. Charles Sion in 1888, where she was employed for the next twenty months. I figured that I should pay this Mr. Sion a visit sometime this week. I do have more time to do so ever since the captain let me have this assignment."

"You can say that again, Sergeant," Ann said, "I was worried whenever he would ask me where you were, as you weren't doing your job. It's good to know you're able to devote more time to this."

"Definitely," Richard said. "But, Miss Brush, do you think you would be able to help me revisit the penal and civil codes? I know that those are more typically the domain of those in the law business but I figured that we cannot be too careful when it comes to finding justice for Ms. Feuerstein."

Ann gave Richard a small smile as she handed him back his folio.

"You seem to care an awful lot for this case; perhaps it is the girl?" she said.

Richard nodded, grimacing. "Such a personal investment on my part makes me more liable in this field of work; even more, if the captain were to hear about this, I might lose the case. However, for this particular case, just this once, I'm willing to do so."

"Good," Ann said. "As for the two codes, I'll have an annotated series of notes ready for you on your desk by Wednesday at the latest."

"Perfect," Richard said, before he left Ms. Brush to continue on his own work. While being out in public and working with people towards his cases was infinitely more exciting, Richard was always loath to the mountains of paperwork and legal technicalities that took up the majority of his time.

oOo

It was this next Thursday when Richard, armed with a folio of both his and Ms. Brush's notes, arrived in front of a nondescript wooden building just off of Kearny Street – startlingly close to his office. As was seemingly now the usual, Richard was dressed in a similarly nondescript suit, most likely found at some second-hand shop south of Market.

So, this was Mr. Charles Sion's two-bit brothel. A sign on the windowpane proclaimed that "Only White ladies for company and pleasure found here. Yellow or Negro callers or women not welcome." Richard eyed the sign warily as he entered the brothel, shuddering once he was able to see the foyer in full.

In a way to May-Eileen's second-class boarding house, the women in Mr. Sion's establishment flitted from client to client, dressed in gauzy negligee. But, unlike May-Eileen's bordello, this particular establishment showed great signs of wear and neglect. Dirt caked the wallpaper and the gas lights flickered so that it would seem they would soon sputter out. There was no joy amongst either the girls or their patrons and there was no accompanying music to offset the heavy silence that blanketed the room. Even at May-Eileen's, there had been the requisite blindfolded pianist in the parlor.

One of the prostitutes approached Richard. The poor girl had only been about to proposition him when he instead denied her an hour's wages and asked about her boss instead.

"Sorry, miss," Richard said, as he eyed the girl in front of him with a similar wariness as before, "but do you know where I could find Mr. Sion?"

The girl regarded Richard with suspicion.

"Why?" she said, still a bit annoyed at having lost a potential customer. There was no doubt that she'd seen cops before to come and try to shut down the place.

Richard quickly said, "We have a personal arrangement between the two of us. Business arrangement, that is."

The girl nodded, seeming to accept this flimsy explanation.

"He's in there," she said, gesturing with her chin to a closed door just off of the main room. "It's his office. Just knock and then go in."

Thanking her, Richard went over to Mr. Sion's office and knocked, before letting himself in. There, sitting in a threadbare armchair was the man whom Richard presumed to be Mr. Sion. He was a tall man, completely bald, with what seemed to be syphilitic sores and scars all over his face. When he offered his hand to Richard, our police officer was quite reticent to shake it.

"What can I do for you, Mister…?" Charles Sion said. He gestured to a wooden chair next to him, in which Richard took his seat.

Richard, thinking quickly on his feet, said, "Fallon. Henry Fallon. I heard that you are the man to talk to concerning a little matter of mine, Mr. Sion."

Mr. Sion leaned forward in his seat, resting his chin on his hand. "That depends, Mr. Fallon, on what your little matter is, you see. I ain't in the habit of transacting no business with just any man."

"Well, Mr. Sion," Richard said, keeping his composure quite masterfully, "regarding your – how do you say? – acquisition of talent for this business, I was wondering how it happens. You see, I'm sort of interested in starting up an establishment of my own – I already own a building not too far from here that I'm planning on using - and I was looking for advice. One of the girls I know couldn't have recommended yours more highly, so I thought to myself, 'Charles Sion is the man to see.' And, here I am."

You will see, reader, that Mr. Sion, like the rest of Mankind, liked to have his self-confidence reassured by compliments from those around him.

Charles Sion preened slightly as he listened to Richard's sales pitch. After a pregnant pause, in which he must have been considering this offer of mentorship, he responded.

"You seem to be a clever man, Mr. Fallon," he said. "I see in you a businessman much as myself when I was a younger man."

What followed was a recounting on Mr. Sion's part of his own – frankly, unremarkable – childhood and adolescence. Eventually, Charles Sion's ramblings changed into the conversation that Richard had wanted to have in the first place; how he, Mr. Sion, found himself in his current area of employment.

"You see," Mr. Sion said, "the most important part of running a business such as this ain't in the services we offer themselves. It's the girls and you got to get them for cheap."

"For cheap, you say?" Richard said. "Would you recommend any particular places where I can find these girls? I've heard of a few but I'm looking for quality, you understand me?"

Nodding, Mr. Sion took a piece of foolscap out of a drawer in the side table to his left. He scribbled down a few words with a worn-down pencil and handed the sheet to Richard.

"Here," Mr. Sion said. "There's a man, Mr. Gordon; 's got an office over on Steuart. Great man, great girls, and all for a very affordable price, if you understand what I'm saying. He'll help you make your business worth your while, if you know what I mean. He'll help you get your establishment in operation."

Richard pondered this for a minute, eventually thanking Mr. Sion and saying, "Will do, Mr. Sion. Will do. But, is there any guarantee that Mr. Gordon will help any old Tom, Dick, or Harry such as myself? Or would he be requiring a sort of recommendation?"

Mr. Sion leaned over and patted Richard's hand reassuringly, saying, "Don't you worry, my boy. Just tell Gordon once you meet him that it was me that sent you. He knows me well."

"Will that work?" Richard said. "That's all I need to do?"

Mr. Sion nodded heartily, saying, "For sure. The two of us've worked together many years."

"Swell," Richard said. This was perfect and he tried not to let Mr. Sion see his jubilation at how things had turn out. "I can't thank you enough, Mr. Sion, for how you've helped me today."

Smiling, Mr. Sion said, "My pleasure, Henry, my pleasure. Please, let me know of any business developments."

Richard gave Mr. Sion a smile of his own, though this one was far smaller and secretive than the other man's, as he wished Mr. Sion farewell and left the bordello.

Indeed, Mr. Sion had proved to be more help than he, perhaps, could have imagined.

oOo

Time seemed to move very quickly at Old City Hall for Richard Grayson after his visit with Mr. Sion. One year faded into the next and it wasn't long before Richard had been able to finally meet Mr. Gordon in person and bring him to the police station for questioning. Mr. Sion wasn't long afterwards and the two of them quickly confessed guilt to having brought a minor into the country for the purposes of prostitution. Such a crime was only punishable by a five-year sentence to prison and Richard was loath to let the two men be let off so easily. It felt cheap and a disservice to Stella, in Richard's eyes, but he knew that there wasn't anything more that he could do. While a rigid upholding of the law ensured an even meting out of justice, sometimes it still didn't seem entirely fair.

Richard would never admit it, but the holiday season was quite lonely for him. He had no family nor any close confidants at work to share Christmas and the New Year with; he had only been in San Francisco for a little less than a year, after all. And it wasn't as if Stella had ever celebrated Christmas; to invite her over also wouldn't have been the most proper of choices for a bachelor such as Richard.

At least Richard had had the company of his housekeeper, Mrs. O'Brien, throughout the winter; and, while the early days of the year 1891 continued on, Richard contented himself to waiting for the upcoming trial. He had sent a letter to Stella, telling her to alert The Raven in some capacity as to the case's developments. A week after his letter to Stella, he received yet another note from The Raven on his desk. It hadn't said much other than that The Ravenhad been in contact with Garfield Logan and Victor Stone, and now they, along with Stella and The Raven, were altogether up to date. Now, all the five of them had to do was wait until the trial was over and Mr. Gordon and Mr. Sion were sentenced to prison.

oOo

It was nearly March when Richard could finally say that it was all over. Both Mr. Gordon and Mr. Sion had begun their five-year prison sentences and Stella had gotten back on her feet, having found a job working as a stenographer of some sort. Stella had held up surprisingly well as a witness during the trial and Richard admitted to her afterwards that he was proud of her.

Upon reading the news of Mr. Gordon and Mr. Sion's fates in the Examiner, the Call, the Chronicle, and the Daily Herald, Richard knew that it was time for the five people who had helped the case discreetly finally meet (himself included). So, he sent a quick telegram to Stella's place of residence, the Westmoreland hotel, announcing that the five of them were due to meet at that location in about a week's time. The afternoon of Sunday, the first of March, seemed as if it would suit everyone's schedules. Now, all Richard would have to do was wait. Perhaps, then, he'd finally learn The Raven's true identity.