Sorry about the delays. Lord Grise's computer is down with a virus, and editing then replying to an email is a pain. Whatever you do, don't buy an Android for stuff like this. On my end I'm taking pills, ointment, and three different eye drops all on different schedules for my eye so sometimes I get confused. But you'd expect that from me...
A rare offer
Lark walked in, looking at her tablet. "Boss, I'm confused. What is a tun when you're talking liquid measurements?"
Penguin looked up from the paperwork he was immersed in. "It depends, my dear, but quite a bit if you're talking about drinkables... why do you ask?"
"Video text message addressed to you, with a list and pictures. It starts with Chateau Margeau, Bordeaux, 1912. One tun."
He put down his pen, standing. "well, this ought to be amusing... I doubt there's that much in existence in the world... and all of it would be in bottles. The limited edition 12-litre bottle of Chateau Margaux 2009 goes for £122,380." He walked over, taking the pad, and looked at it. It was obviously a tun barrel. Marked properly from what he could tell.
"What an interesting ..." His voice trailed off. "Where - does it say this is, my dear?"
"There's more." She took it back, flipped to what is obviously an inventory list. "Milch-Warden, never even heard of that winery, three tuns, one each red, white and rose, all bottled between 1918 and 1930. MacAllen Single Malt. Vatted 1915, two hogsheads. Crown Royal's Extra Rare Heritage Blend Canadian whiskey, bottled 1932, one hogshead, the 25 Year Old Pure Pot Still Whiskey vatted 1913, one hogshead and there's a lot more."
Penguin became pedantic. "Milch-Warden was totally devastated during the Second World War. They never recovered. MacAllen is the most expensive in the world. A five liter bottle sold at auction for a quarter of a million dollars last year. The Canadian Whiskey goes for 10,000 a bottle, and Nun's Island Distillery who made the Pure Pot closed its doors around 1913, and is worth 100,000 a bottle. Oh, and a hogshead is 65 gallons. He can't be serious..." So saying, Oswald picked up his own tablet and opened the message. His face paled. "That is my grandfather's writing." He began scanning the pages. "This can't be real... and the dates, this all dates from before Prohibition..."
He went back to the starting text, which merely asked: Perhaps I can arrange a finder's fee?
Penguin stared at it for a long moment. "Who sent this? and from where? do we have the metadata on this missive?"
"Rocco Langaretti. A thug who works through Intercrime. But he's out on assignment right now. And we have a listing of cigars from Cuba, again with pictures. With valid tax stamps."
Penguin was preoccupied, going through through the listing of just the wines and liquors. "Almost all of these distilleries are defunct! and the quantities are ludicrous! there's decades worth here!" He paused and looked up. "Cubans with valid tax stamps? They must be forged..."
" Maybe, but the most recent is dated 1943."
He decided, handing it back. "I want the details on his present assignment, please." Cobblepott returned to sit at his desk. And Batman wanted to know about a private railcar...
Lark looked at her tablet. "Did your grandfather have maybe, I don't know, a secret stash of booze and smokes?"
He didn't reply immediately. "Send to Mr. Langaretti. Find out what he wants."
Lark looked at the list, then at her boss. "Sir, I don't think he even knows what he has."
The Penguin's voice was introspective. " As for dear old grand papa, I think I know what he spent some of his money on."
"What, getting blitzed on the good stuff and smoking primo cigars?" She looked at the tax stamp again. "Didn't he die in 43?"
"44." He corrected absently, leaning back in his chair. "My grandfather's diaries speak of his belief that the world was ending. I think he created a bolthole somewhere. A very well stocked bolthole. one that obviously connects to the rail system."
"So if he wants too much, you want us to sweat him?"
Penguin gave her an old fashioned look. Of the three women who were his chief employees, Lark was the most bloodthirsty. "No, no. One does not punish the honest or the honorable. He obviously doesn't realize the value of what he has found. The bidding war he could start is inconceivable, provided the goods are real and have not deteriorated. But I'll tell you what he is, Lark."
"An honorable idiot? Boss I know what MacAllen costs today, or at least what we charge for it by the shot. Are you sure you want to work out how much a barrel that size is worth? And what, almost a century old? And what do we offer? Offer him the world? Or his heart's desire? "
"Work up a valuation, assuming this is all real and not decayed. If we cheat him, he'll seek revenge. If we kill him, it discourages the next man. If we," he gave an evil grin, as he places a cigarette in a holder, "treat with him honestly... my reputation improves. "
"So what are you going to do with it? Drink it?"
"Some of it. Some in coin of the realm, some in trade, some in credit... almost any man can stand adversity, my dear. But if you want to test a man... As for what do with it, the options are limitless, my dear, if only one can find men who will appreciate it. But best of all is, any income derived would be completely," He drew on the cigarette, "unassailably," He blew a perfect smoke ring, "legal. The laundering opportunities alone... As for his heart's desire, we need to know what those desires might be first, my sweet. Get in touch, indicate my interest, and let us see how it works out. But get me his employment records, particularly who he is working for now."
"You're right, boss. I would want to taste the MacAllen, but I shudder at a couple of thou for a shot. Do you want me to make an offer?"
"No offer. let us see what he thinks he has." He leaned back. "And Lark?"
"Yes sir?"
"Have a double of the MacAllen. On me."
Truce
The powered wheelchair moved down the sidewalk, the red headed woman sitting in it nodding to those who greeted her. It was only a block and a half from home, but she made the trip at least once or twice a week. When she reached the door of the bookstore, a smiling man reached for the button to open the handicapped door, but she shook her head. "I have my own!" She told him, raising a small remote, and tapped it. Obediently, the door swung open, and she rolled through.
As always, she paused far enough into the store to just smell the air. The bookstore was like Barbara Gordon's second home. She had always loved books, and if you don't know what she was experiencing with her nose, she would pity you. The occasional perfume or cologne, but mainly the smell of ink. She could more easily download all the magazines she wanted, but human contact could not be so easily handled. It wasn't like there was a website for human interaction. If there had been, she would have still gone out into the world on occasion; the month she had spent in depression after leaving the hospital had taught her that it was far too easy to hide from the world.
"May I help you?" The cashier looked at her, then did that little turn away she always hated. Sure she was in a wheelchair, but that didn't mean her mind had gone bye bye when she had ended up in it.
Another cashier walked over, gently pushing the girl aside. "We will have a talk later, Ms. Staples." The woman said, then leaned on the counter. "You're order is ready, Ms Gordon."
"Thank you Sasha." Barbara handed her her 'little list' of books she wanted to add to her library. "Add these to it, and deliver them to my place."
Barbara read voraciously, finishing the average 300 page novel in less than six hours, and always had more she wanted to add. When someone suggested a new series she should buy, she bought one just to find out if it was worth the time. Her tastes ran to fantasy and science fiction authors primarily. When she was younger it had been detective stories, but with her experience in the real world before she had ended in the chair, they had rapidly palled. If she could figure out who the was villain before she'd read less than half, she never bothered with the writer again.
She saw the new Terry Prachett Discworld book, held it up to Sasha, who scanned it, and turned her chair to head over to the small coffee shop that shared the floor space. She smiled at George the barista; fifty something, with a handlebar mustache he was fiercely proud of, he did the best latte in the borough. She waited to order, but George looked at her confused. "Ma'am?" George motioned toward a table. "You're friend has bought your coffee already." Selina Kyle sat at the one table furthest from the other patrons.
Her eyes narrowed. Selina... She rolled over, stopping at the table where one of the coffee mugs they saved for their regulars already sat waiting for her. Seline had one as well, meaning she was here often enough to earn one.
Selina motioned. "I took the liberty of buying you a coffee, Barbara. George knows what you like, and I asked him.
"Is it true you ghostwrote 'Care and feeding of Persians'? in the Times last week? Thank you..."
"Yes. Nice that you remember my style." Selina sipped her coffee. "But you have that perfect memory of yours on your side."
"Your card was exactly what I needed. uhm. You even got the cinnamon shake right." She cocked her head. "And how long have you been trailing me? Or do we really both just love George?"
"George is a treasure, I will grant you. It is not a matter of trailing you,. Occasionally you do something predictable. George is such a sweet person, but you know as well that I do that there is another who has my heart. In fact, I came to ask you to do something for me."
Barbara's eyebrows went up. She was known for Pythia IT Industries, her business that drew down about half a million dollars even in a bad year. "You need research done? Unless it's to extract some third world dictator to face charges I don't see-"
Selina merely gave her a small smile shaking her head. "Nothing so... simple. I need to talk to... Him."
Barbara coughed a bit, getting a napkin to give her a moment to think. "Uh - who? Daddy?"
The smile widened. She leaned forward, whispering. "Batman. As you would know, Batgirl."
Barbara's eyes tightened dangerously. "I am not Batgirl, and couldn't be obviously." She motioned toward her legs. " And you are being cruel. Just because I met him a couple times..."
"You were, once. Let us not lie to each other. I cased Wayne manor about six months before you were shot. And I found this interesting clock with a fake panel behind it. The fact is that I have known all this time, yet never told anyone. Does that not earn me some trust?"
That was after Batman had introduced her to the Batcave. And there had been another costume stored there for her. Bruce was not going to be happy about this... "Then you know about – me." She picked up her cup and drank. Deeply. "There's trust. But if you know, why not just go talk to him? What do you need me for?"
"Yes." Selina sipped her own latte. "I needed to reveal that to you because as I said, I must talk to..." A couple had just taken a nearby table. "I need to talk to your associate." She nodded toward the occupied table. "In a neutral venue. As for speaking directly, if I meet him on the street properly dressed, he would have to try to hold me. If I address him as the public knows him... he would assume I was boasting. Or wanting money."
"Not your style, Selina. You want me to be a go-between?" Right then she wished she had gotten a Justice League screamer, adding it to her 'to do' list.
"This is too important for me to send him a letter. Or to call and tell him over the phone. A friend's life hangs in the balance." Selina pushed the cup idly. "I have information he may not have, and all I ask is for him to listen, and perhaps help her."
Barbara thought quickly. This could be a set up, a fishing expedition. "What's my address?"
Selina gave the street address of both her official office, then without slowing down, the address of her home. "It's called the Clock Tower, if I remember correctly."
Barbara smiled somewhat unhappily as another table nearby was occupied. "Let's continue this at my place."
Selina picked up both mugs, and returned with to go cups. Selina merely followed as Barbara got the door with her remote. A few minutes later, Selina became the fourth to ever see the inside of Oracle's workspace. "Welcome to my home."
Selina went to the kitchen area, transferring the drinks to coffee mugs. She had chosen for herself a mug someone had given Barbara when she was younger; a pile of sleeping kittens. She had always meant to throw it out. Selina looked around the wide open space. "You know, having a cat would make it more homey." Then she turned to face her host. "I had considered breaking in to talk to you. But considering all those who would wish you ill if they knew where to go, I knew you would take it as an attack."
Barbara gave her a feral grin. "It would have been bad. I have a Justice League transporter pad here."
"As does Batman, and Nightwing, and Black Canary, and Huntress." Selina looked at her with a grin. "Shall I go on?"
"And much as I like them on occasion, cats have this need to get on one's keyboard when least wanted. Something about needing to know they are always number one..." She accepted the other mug. Not the one she would have selected now, but one she had made not long after she was crippled; I DON'T NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS CHAIR TO KICK YOUR ASS. "Thank you for your discretion. Just saying, if ever comes the day you feel the need to practice your skills, have at."
"That would be rude. You might help those who consider me an outlaw. But that does not make us enemies, Barbara. as for my skills, a cat is smart enough not to stick it's head in a pit bull's yard. Though having unknown access for a while to the Watchtower..."
"Hardly that. I just happen to have one hell of a security backup system. And if you used the transporter, it would take you directly to a cell up there unless you were accompanied."
"I had already worked that out. Oh I know your system very well. Made from both Wayne Enterprise's best and what you could lift from Lexcorp."
"And some Amazonian tech as well." Barbara was enjoying their fencing match. "Lex got paid for what we used of his."
"Though that was a blind drop cashier's check, if I recall." Selina was enjoying it as well.
"Honesty hath it's rewards... we get the tech updates that way. We can talk freely here, Selina." She sipped her coffee, then made a face rolling to the microwave. "Yours cold too?" Selina set her cup in the unit. "You haven't told me why you want a meeting with Batman."
Selina accepted her cup again. "You have read about what they are calling the Grand Theft Catering? The one that Summer Gleason thinks was a Harley wannabe?"
Barbara sipped. "Yes. I thought it odd enough to be Harley, but what would she want with so much food? Of course, if it was a fan girl, it was likely catering for a rave. I've heard there have been several that they are laughingly calling wakes since the Joker is presumed dead."
"I was there during the robbery." Selina replied flatly. "I was pumping Richard 'Rick the Dick' Poindexter for my own ends. I was there at the Somerset County Renaissance fair when Ivy ordered that red and black leather bustier. I was there when she gave it to Harley for her birthday. And I may not be the great detective, but I put that, and the kidnapping of the Archbishop with the choir, and came up with something Batman might not have considered. Then Joker hit the Salvation Army, and the only thing missing are hymnals."
Barbara stared at her for a long moment. She hadn't heard anything about a choir being kidnapped. But a shadowy government organization codenamed Checkmate had sent some people into town, and they usually meant trouble. She'd have to check her sources... "A choir went missing?"
Selina gave another small smile. "I do have some government sources. And a federal order not to report it just guarantees the word spreads faster thru the grapevine. The Sistine Chapel Choir flew into town, and were to be met by the Archbishop. Now both are missing."
Barbara rolled to her workstation, putting her headphones on, and before Selina's eyes, Oracle went online. "I had not heard the choir had been kidnapped; officially, they are practicing in an undisclosed location. But that, plus over a hundred servings of food..." Her screens started flashing up and down, showing decrepit places around Gotham.
"I do know he's not in his usual haunts, Barbara. I called in my markers last night."
Barbara was totally concentrated. "If they had been kidnapped, the State Dept might put out a gag order on it. But there is someone who would know..." She took off the headset, and hit a button. "Oracle to Watchtower?"
Selina eased towards the door. "I will leave you to it. Will you ask Batman to meet me in a neutral place?"
"No, stay, please. You're not about to be apprehended, we don't do business that way."
The center flat screen cleared, showing the communication console of the Watchtower, J'onn J'onzz looked out of the screen. "Receiving your transmission, Oracle."
"J'onn. Has the Sistine Chapel Choir been kidnapped? It's easier and faster to just ask you rather than hack the State Department."
With J'onn you couldn't use human body language, but his sudden stillness set off alarm bells. "Where did you hear this rumor, Oracle?"
"Selina?" Barbara waved her forward. J'onn saw her, his finger reaching for a button. "She's working with me, J'onn. Code Pineapple."
He leaned back. "Miss Kyle. Or are you there as Catwoman?"
Selina's eyes tightened. "I am here as a friend of Harley Quinn. Right now due to circumstances beyond her control, she is in way over her head."
"I'm not under constraint, J'onn. Selina believes that Joker has the choir, and she wants to get Harley out from under before something really bad happens."
"And what would the Sistine Chapel Choir have to do with this?"
"She brought this to me, and it puts an entirely different spin on the Grand Theft Catering caper that went down yesterday if she is right." Barbara turned, motioning for Selina to talk.
"The things you do for friends... I was present during the robbery. Harley came into Luigi's, ordered food for a hundred, specifically asked for something that would be gentle on children's stomachs, gellato, tiramisu, but also ordered two different Chiantis and some Moscato, loud enough for me to hear. Are there some other group of kids missing?
Barbara broke in. "I need all of the data, and I need it now. The Joker has a rotten track record when it comes to hostages and ransoms. Will you tell me, or do I have to go digging?" She glanced at Selina. "Something tells me time is of the essence."
"If we're going to get Harley out before something happens she can't stop, it is vital." Selina added.
J'onn looked at them. Barbara waved her arm. "She's known about me and Bruce for over a year; never whispered a word to anyone. She could have sold that information for God only knows what."
J'onn reached toward a computer keyboard, and typed in some information. "I trust you, Oracle. And I trust your judgment. But you had best be ready to explain it all to Batman. Data downloading now."
"She came to me asking for a meet with him. I am doing this on my own. I hereby submit her as a friend of the Clocktower." J'onn's gaze snapped up to lock eyes. "She already knows who he is, J'onn."
The Martian Manhunter recovered quickly. "Ongoing? Or is this a temporary truce?"
Barbara considered. There had been the occasional truce between the bad guys and the good guys, though they were rare. But he was asking if they should take her off their 'capture on sight' list. In for a penny... "Ongoing. If she wanted to hurt us, she'd have done it by now. I'll deal with Bruce. I have the download. Do you need me to come up to verify all's well?"
"I have verified. Good hunting. Watchtower clear." The screen blanked.
"Mister Spock with even less emotions." Selina looked at Barbara. "And what's with the carte blanche? I'm not changing my spots, Barbara. I just think the world is more interesting with the both of you in it. My revelation is merely leveling the playing field."
Barbara chuckled. "Crap. This is like being a little bit pregnant, Selina. You've had our backs. How's it feel to know someone has yours?"
"If I could just get him out of that suit, I might try it." Selina gave her a gamine grin. "So you will set it up?"
"I will set it up. As soon as you tell me where 'it' is. As far as getting him out of that suit? It'll be either you - or Talia al'Ghul. The thought of that witch in Bruce's life terrifies me. So I'd much rather it be you."
"Ivy and I will be at the Sleepy Time pet store tonight." At a sharp look from Barbara she added. "She doesn't know, and has no need to know about - " Selina waved around her. "This."
"Then why bring Ivy into it at all?"
Selina sighed. "We don't know where they are, yet. Ivy likes Harley. Really likes Harley, as in, ready to set up housekeeping likes, if you catch my drift. She can supply a plant to get inside, something that might even the odds in keeping her squeeze alive."
"So how are you in this? Besides hating Joker's guts."
For the first time, Selina was actually serious. "Harley is the little sister I never had. I don't like Joker because he abuses her. I'd kill him if I could guarantee she never found out; she'd hate me for it if I did." Then the grin was back. "Besides, she adds a touch of humor to our jobs when the Sirens decide to do something."
Barbara's response was chilling. "So would I, if I could guarantee Bruce never finding out." Her face was stone like. After all, she had been put in that chair by Joker just to hurt her father. She could have been a young child in her yard for all the emotion he had put into that plan. "But what if he doesn't agree? You don't kill, and you only steal from those who can well afford it." Not to mention I think he has the really serious hots for you... "Ivy is a man-hater, and Harley is psychotic. he might not go for a deal that leaves them free, Selina."
"Who is more dangerous? Harley has helped him, saved his life on occasion. Ivy may think of him as an enemy, but she respects him, and was pleased when he helped Harley after that crap she went through when she had a bad day after her release. And got most of the damage charges dropped.
"If he wants to put all of us away, we'll have to go without his help. But can we even remotely have a chance of keeping the Archbishop and the choir alive if we do?"
That could get very, very messy... "So you want to help Batman put the Joker away again, but let Harley go. And Ivy."
"Be honest, Barbara. All of us girls think the same thing. Harley is not half as dangerous without the pasty faced psycho in her life. Let's put him back away."
Barbara finished her coffee, and Selina took the cups to the sink. "It is true Harley is not nearly as violent when she's on her own. And Ivy's been keeping a very low profile. You're saying they're good for each other?"
"Remember high school? It's like watching two teenagers who just have to curl up together every chance they get." Selina bit her lip pensively. "And I think if we get her away from him long enough, I might find out why Arkham seems to have a revolving door for escapes."
"And that is what? For him to let you walk away? Or have you managed to get the charges dropped again?"
Selina grinned. "These days, I steal from those who are themselves criminals. People who cannot complain, but don't deserve their ill gotten gains. Or has he forgotten when I gave you and Robin? Remember Dagget?"
Barbara flashed back. She had first met Catwoman when a priceless jade statue of a cat had been stolen, and Catwoman had been accused of the crime. Instead, Catwoman had asked for a truce that later segued into a partnership offer. Barbara smiled at the memories. Even the bar fight in a dive had been good. "I'm sure he hasn't. Nor all the others. I know the Gugg quietly dropped their complaint."
She turned toward Selina. "How's it feel to step into the light, Selina? Come to the light side, my friend. We have cookies..." She said in a wheedling tone.
"If I could afford your services, there are so many to divest of their loot." Selina leaned forward, her own tone seductive. "Come to the dark side. We have ice cream to go with the cookies." They chuckled together.
Barbara's head cocked. "You know, if you started going for the insurance rewards, I might be able to see my way there. Instead of generating insurance company postings."
Selina laughed. "What, steal it, then return it to the insurance company for the reward? You know, you and I would have made a great team. Still could if you wanted to help in that way as the one who returns the loot."
She shook her head. "No, as in, get stuff back for the insurance companies from the ones who hold them illegally. World War Two loot, other items... the reward is usually ten to twenty percent of the value of the recovery. De Kitchney's Kitten in the Yarn? The reward is half a million dollars. Missing twenty years."
Selina's eyes twinkled. "And you, no doubt, have a good idea of who to take it from."
"Of course I do. Think about it."
Expert Opinion
Penguin looked up as his door opened. Wren peeked in. "Mr. Krapulinc is here, sir."
"Send him in, please." Syzmon Krapulinc, Gotham Times wine and food correspondent, had thirty years worth of experience. A noted wine and cuisine historian, noted auteur... he had consulted on wine and cheese authenticity for Penguin before. A tubby little man, he came across the office as if he expected to be kicked.
Penguin had met him in middle school, and had felt the same pity he did for himself with an off the wall surname and his build. The first name had been the clincher, however. He had paid a large student to keep other boys from bullying him. He had cast his bread upon the water, and a lifetime friendship had resulted. It gave him one thing he needed now, an expert opinion on all facets of the good life.
He came around the desk as if he were a stumping politician, a smile on his face, and grasped the man's hand. "My dear Syzmon! Please, have a seat. Anything to drink? Something to eat perhaps?"
"No thank you, Oswald. I have to go to the new restaurant La Petite tonight." He grimaced. "I have seen their sample wine list. Good enough for the plebes, but..."
"I understand, my dear friend, I have seen it myself." He ushered the man to a chair, and resumed his own. "I asked you to come by for your opinion on something I have been offered for sale." Lark had made copies of the texts and photos, and he slid the list across.
Syzmon took out his glasses, and began looking. He went through all of them, then set them down. "Quite extraordinary. If this list is accurate... My word, if the wines have not degraded, it is worth a fortune."
"That is the rub. The wines could be vinegar now."
"That depends on the conditions. White wines tend to turn to vinegar after only a few years. Reds last much longer, as much as a century. But even a white can stay fresh and pure if no oxidation occurs." He looked at the list and the quantities again.
"This was sent to me anonymously. The barrel is real... but look at the tap arrangement. Have you ever seen anything like that, Syzmon?"
The critic took the photo. "Oh dear. Do you have a magnifying glass?" Penguin was already holding it out. Syzmon looked at the tap and the barrel it was attached to. "That looks like a very early version of a double-chamber exclusion seal tap. The inner chamber is linked to a tank of compressed gas; taverns usually use nitrogen these days. Oxygen is not introduced. And the barrel appears to have been encased in a sheet copper skin. Not unheard of, but very odd." He sighed. "However, nitrogen is chemically active. It would affect the taste, after all this time."
"Not nitrogen. According to this note," Penguin slid across another photo and a text. "The tank attached is dry helium."
"That's insane! Helium would leak out over time, creating a partial vacuum!" Syzmon stared at him, then his face went back to considering, picking up the picture of the valve and barrel. "But... that would explain the copper sheathing. A heavy enough sheathing would not allow... The leakage would be minor through the top of it, and larger gases such as oxygen would not pass. Do you know who originally owned this?"
"My Grandfather, Oscar."
" So just as he enjoyed some of it back in the day, it may well still be fresh for you to drink today."
"Syzmon? you look pale, your blood sugar must be acting up." He touched his intercom. "Wren, a cup of Anar Black, and a honeybun, please..." A moment later she arrived pushing a tea service. "Ah, thank you, Wren. Syzmon, have a mouthful of this..." She poured, set the plate with the honeybun in front of Krapulinc, and left.
The man picked up the cup, his hand shaking. "My word. And the vintages, they are accurate?"
"I would assume so. I will not buy this consignment until I am sure. But the valuation?"
"My dear Oswald, the Krug 1928 standard bottle auctioned last year went for $21,200. That would be the minimum bid for most of these. For a barrel... Assuming just a 65 gallon hogshead, it is a small fortune for every one." He looked at the stack of photos, and Penguin passed them across.
"I am correct that those markings are Chateau Milch-Warden? Lost in World War two?" Penguin asked gently, to reboot the poor man's brain.
"You do know this vintage, the 1915 from there, a simple bottle would be literally priceless today. And you say you have a full tun of it?"
"Syzmon... that is one of three with those markings. A red, a rose, and a white. There are other lost houses as well, and the bottlings..."
"If he had punched him, Syzmon couldn't have been more stunned. "Three tuns? Of just the Milch Warden? Good god man, this person is sitting on a fortune! Only a monarch or oil sheik could afford it!"
Penguin walked around the desk, tapping the photo of the tap again. "The tap, Walter. Is it legitimate? Can you tell if that barrel's contents has been destroyed?"
"I would actually have to examine it in person, Mr. Cobblepot. But assuming the information is correct, I would say it could and should still be drinkable."
"Good." Penguin purred. Thank you for your assistance. Now there is only the matter of payment."
"My friend, I would have gladly done this for nothing! For merely the opportunity to examine and verify such a find!"
" I do not believe in binding the mouth of the kine, my dear friend. When we are there together to assure the quality, you may have a bottle of each as you wish, filled fresh from the barrels of all of them still worth drinking. Your very own wine cellar in a single day. And the byline, of course!"
Exactly the Wrong response
The cavalcade began sedately enough, with half a dozen state troopers walking in looking like they were rapidly approaching the corner of embarrassing and required. Behind them Judge Rumpole came in, with a fistful of papers.
Behind them came the media circus.
The Desk sergeant had started to rise when the Judge came in, now he looked at the folded papers on his desk. "May I ask what this is, your honor?" A few cops that had been walking through slowed, then stopped.
"That is a warrant, issued from my authority, to search this stationhouse from top to bottom. The warrant reads 'paraphernalia related to the unknown vigilante known as Batman'."
The sergeant opened the paper, confused. Serving a warrant on a precinct? But, he could see that was exactly what it was for. His eyes narrowed. "Including personal lockers?"
"And all vehicles on the property. " Rumpole looked pointedly at the sign stating personal bags and vehicles were subject to search.
"What the hell?" Rumpole turned as Montoya stalked in. Behind her was a lithe woman with red hair. "Since when do precincts get served with search warrants?"
Rumpole ignored her. "We will begin with the bullpen, and then proceed back from there. I have additional personnel on the back entrances."
Sgt. Grimes of the state police looked distinctly embarrassed as he held out his hand. "Which desk is yours, ma'am? If you'll escort me there, we'll be out of your hair as soon as we can." He prayed she remembered him, and would let him get out of earshot of the psycho judge. He needed to tell her what Rumpole had been babbling...
Rumpole looked absurdly pleased with himself as he turned to face the reporters.
The woman in her gray suit moved past Montoya, and held out her hand. "Sergeant, if you will?" He handed her the warrant. She read for a moment. "Renee, if you would hand me a dollar, please?"
Montoya took out her wallet, and handed her a five. "Don't have anything smaller, Laurell."
"You'll get change." She looked over the warrant. "Your honor, the warrant covers too much down to-" and she read. "Homes of all police officers who match the physical description of the person known as Batman. Did you want to search their pockets for spare change while you were at it?"
The state troopers looked at each other, and the sergeant winced. Rumpole puffed up. "And we'll get there, never fear!
"Mn. 'Storage lockers of all such officers, homes of family not living under the same roof..." She looked over the warrant at him, then held the bill back out to Montoya. "Keep it, Sugar. I'm working Pro bono Publico on this one."
"The officers of this precinct can stand by and obey, unless you'd like to explain that!" He pointed with righteous indignation at the case board, and the bat emblem neatly arrayed against the name Polanski, Mackerel right before Montoya's name. "And who are you, miss, to be lecturing me on the law?" Rumpole addressed the young woman in the gray suit
"Laurell looked at it. "Does any officer in this room have an answer that doesn't violate their Fifth Amendment rights?"
"Sure." Montoya commented. "That was the guy who was killed out by Arkham Asylum last week. Seems all of Old man Arkham's estate is still considered inside the city limits. If the Batman takes an interest in a case that we know of, it's set there to let other cops know."
Rumpole looked delighted. "So he works out of this precinct, interesting... Sergeant, you escort Detective Montoya to her desk, and collect everything."
The sergeant had thought he'd seen the light at the end of the tunnel when the lawyer spoke up. Now he saw it was a trainload of dynamite on fire. "Everything, your honor?"
"Everything, right down to her spare pens and pads. The Batman loves his gadgets, who knows what she might have to communicate with him with..."
"You touch my box of maxi-pads, and are not a woman in desperate need, you'll see a suit for sexual harassment, even if a Judge ordered you to take them." Montoya snarled.
Meanwhile, as the argument escalated, a thug know as Tony the Dude was on his cell to Boss Moroni... "Boss, you ain't gonna b'lieve what's goin down heah..."
Laurell looked at the desk sergeant. "Sergeant, how many precincts call you on a daily basis?"
"Six, maybe seven."
"Could some of your officers call the desk sergeants and ask how many of them have that Bat logo on their case boards?"
Rumpole paled. "No! No calls! You will not warn the other stations!"
Meanwhile yet another man, this one a cop was on the phone. "Iceberg Lounge, this is Wren speaking."
"Hey, I got a tip for m-Mr. Cobblepott!"
"You asked my name, your honor. Sorry to delay my reply. I am Laurell St Germaine, Public Defender's office." She held up the warrant "You have not only accused pretty much every cop in the city of a crime, you have also verbally made a blanket accusation that all of these officers and this precinct have violated the law, to whit; misprision of a felony, and are in collusion with a known vigilante.
"As their lawyer, I am asking them to assist you, not hinder your little witch hunt here."
The sergeant spoke up. "Likely every station in the City uses that logo, Ms. Your Honor, as the union rep for this station, I got to tell you, this is -"
"Silence! These warrants are valid, and they will be executed with no more delay!
"And now a gag order to the Police Union?" She took out her cell phone. Hitting the speed dial.
"Who are you calling?" Rumpole demanded. Meanwhile, the cameras were soaking everything up.
Laurell gave him a thin smile. "I'm a lawyer, your honor. Unless you are willing to arrest me in the performance of my duty, I suggest you wait patiently."
The state troopers relaxed. It didn't look like they were going to have to go against their brothers and sisters after all.
"Hello, June? This is Laurell St Germaine, Sugar. Could you ask Judge Prescott to give me some of his time? Why? I am holding a search warrant that pretty much give the man who issued it the right to search about a third of Gotham City. No I am not joking."
Rumpole stormed forward. "You lesbian bitch! You are not going to stop me!"
"I'm sure Judge Prescott will though. And that remark is both slander and sexual harassment."
"You have, in front of witnesses, used the endearment 'sugar' to females. That suggests that it is also fact."
Laurell looked at him, then raised her voice. "Will every officer I have at one time or another called 'sugar' please raise your hands?" A dozen cops, all men, some of whom she hadn't even spoken to raised their hands; Solidarity at it's best. "Would you like to retract that statement your honor? After all, even if I were, my sexual slant is not," she grinned, "Germane to this situation." She suddenly tilted her head. "Judge Prescott? Yes, I have a warrant in my hands which I believe is too broad in it's scope. May I fax it to you? Yes, I am asking you to void it until it has been rewritten." She looked around.
The officer beside her had been one of those who raised his hand. "Sugar, could you fax this to Judge Prescott? Federal Appeals Court?"
"Yes ma'am."
"It's on the way." She listened. "The Warrant covers a search of the station down to personal lockers and vehicles on site. I have no problem with that as long as the officers are there to witness it. However it also extends to their storage lockers, homes, and the homes of any family. I would assume if those people have storage lockers, they might construe it to include them as well." She listened for a long moment. "I'll tell him."
She turned back to Rumpole. "The judge says you are allowed to search the building and vehicles; he doesn't see a problem with that. However you must issue a warrant for each specific house, and if they have storage lockers, for those as well." She gave the judge a smile not even Harley could have matched. "Will there be anything else, your honor?"
The Judge snarled, spun on his heel, and stormed out to loud applause and someone shouting, 'You go, Girl!"
An officer came up. "Ma'am? What was with the dollar?"
"An old teacher of mine. He always helped his friends with legal matters, but only if they paid him a dollar so he was on retainer." She shook her head. "The man had a lot of friends."
The man nodded,then held out a bill. Laurell looked at it. "What's that for?"
"Paying my lawyer for a kick ass defense."
Montoya laughed. "Guys, she loves Godiva truffles, and Black Bush Whiskey! So if you want to pay her for her services, buy her that, and I'll deliver it!" They laughed, waving as the bulk of them headed for the entry door and the streets.
"Renee..." She flinched as Laurell leaned close enough to lick her ear. "I do love Godiva chocolates, but I prefer single malt scotch. Isn't it you who likes Black Bush?"
"Finder's fee."
"Oh you are so bad."
"Montoya!" Her head snapped around. Brubaker was waving a phone at her. "The ME about the Mackerel Polanski case."
She walked over, taking the phone. "Montoya." She listened as Harvey Bullock came up the stairs with a bag of assorted snack cakes. "Thanks." She looked at him, leaned over, and snatched a pack of cupcakes off the top. As he protested, she was opening it. "Harley didn't kill the guy on Badluck Road."
"Huh?" He shrugged at his loss, there were Ding Dongs in his future. "What do you mean she didn't kill him? She whacked him with a rifle barrel!"
"Oh she whacked him. But the Sheriff's department forgot one thing. You don't bruise if you're dead. ME said two blows, aiming at the same place." She bit into the cupcake, chewing. "You know, these were better when I was younger. Around five or six."
"So what? She is an escaped mental patient! She hit the guy intending to kill him!"
"Maybe yes. Maybe no. The ME said he might or might not have died from the first hit, but he definitely lived for eight or nine minutes after the first one. The second was done about then from the bruising and inter-cranial bleeding. The deputies arrived at about fifteen minutes after he was hit again, and if he hadn't been hit the second time, he would have been laying there with a fractured skull, severely concussed, but likely still alive."
She passed the second cupcake to Harvey who inhaled it. "Oh yeah. What is all that hoopla with the media and warrants about?"
She grinned. "You're a detective. Detect."
