Injustice of Living
Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen: A Call

"A black van."

"...Black, older model."

"Did you get the plates?"

"Don't think so… maybe in the pictures."

"Six gunmen?"

"Six. Three with uzis, the rest had handguns."

"They were probably automatic rifles, not Uzis."

"Whatever," I groaned. "Six dudes jumped out of the van, killed the Russians with way too many bullets, got back in and drove away. I told you everything I've seen."

I had been wearing a facade since I got back to my apartment. Jason met me there, drilling me on what had happened at the docks. The whole event had left me completely drained, mentally, emotionally, and physically. I half-believed Jason saw through my lax bravado, but was ignoring the distress I was hiding. Just sitting up was agonizing… I just wanted to curl up in my bed and pretend like tonight had never happened.

"Can I please go to bed now?" I whined, barely keeping my voice from cracking.

He ignored my plea. "The Russians met them there," Jason pondered aloud, brow furrowing. He flipped through the pocket planner I had fished out of Sokolov's pocket, running a finger over this week's dates. "They didn't know they were walking into a slaughter. What was supposed to happen? Who were they planning to meet?"

I shrugged, fiddling with the zipper of my jacket. "Dunno… Meetings are normally at the nightclub. People came to see Sokolov, not the other way around."

He leaned back in his chair, hands running through his already disheveled hair. "Maybe that's what they originally planned, but something came up…? How long had he been there before he left?"

"A few hours… No later than usual."

He was staring at me in a way that made me think he wasn't really seeing me. So much was going on in his head, I was may as well have been a wall he was talking to. "What if he wasn't the target? Who else was he with?"

"Um… A bucha nobodies, really. Muscle men, you know?"

"Why target Sokolov? He's part of the main family, but there's definitely bigger fish in that pond."

I shrugged, "Why were we targeting him?"

His eyes snapped to mine with an unreadable expression. I could feel my facade begin to crumble, eyes growing wide and lips dropping to a frown. Why was he looking at me like that?

Just as quickly has that expression had appeared, his face changed back to thoughtful. His gaze dropped to the kitchen floor, elbows falling to the table with folded hands. "We need to know them inside and out. I need to know their habits, where they go, what they do, who they're with… Know thy enemy."

"So we were just investigating…?" For some reason, I felt relieved.

"Pretty much, yeah," he said with a tinge of bitterness in his voice. "All for shit, now."

I rubbed my eyes in a vain attempt to will away the fatigue, "So what's next?"

He sighed, "We still have to figure out why they took out Sokolov. The Russian's are going to retaliate, no doubt about it. We need to see their attack before it happens. Something big is about to go down. There could be a massive power shift coming up."

"But from who?"

He looked at me again in a way that made me feel uncomfortable. I reminded myself that we were working right now. We were partners. We were helping make Gotham a better place. He wasn't treating me like a friend right now, he was treating me like an equal, a professional. I should act like it.

With deadweight legs, I stood from the kitchen table to dig out two mismatched mugs from my cabinet. Since Jason's arrival, my pantry has remained well-stocked. My takeout orders are way less frequent and my morning ritual of bodega coffee has since ceased altogether. I'm pretty sure I had managed to convince myself that my own coffee maker was broken until Jason started firing it up. He would buy a high-end organic, fair-trade, dark roast with mocha that I found absolutely delicious (though I knew damn well it was way out of my caffeine budget). Just opening the bag of grounds helped me revive myself.

"So," I yawned, leaning against my countertop. "We don't think it was the Italians, right?"

"Maybe," he murmured, staring me down from over his shoulder. "They could have used the van to throw off Sokolov and use the element of surprise."

I nodded, "Yeah, I would call it a surprise…" I couldn't help but shiver as the memory flashed again. "They all just stood there as the van rolled up."

"However," he countered, "If it was the Italians, they definitely would have left a calling card or something. That attack was a message. Hits like that don't just go down for no reason."

I forced myself to relax, stepping away from my feelings and exhaustion to look at things objectively. Like Jason would. "Alright… So what about the supplier angle? Think they had something to do with this?"

I notice him lean back in his seat a little more, getting a bit lost in his thoughts. "The crew's pretty small… But they have roots everywhere. It's a conglomerate, an attack like this wouldn't make sense unless they're next move is to take out the Russians entirely…" he shook his head. "No, no… that wouldn't make sense. The attack was too personal, too dirty. It had to have come from inside Gotham."

I handed him the steaming mug of fresh brew, which he took with mild excitement, holding the rim under his nose before taking a short sip.

"Okay," I began again, taking my seat and mimicking his posture. "Who does that leave us with? Who has it out for the Russians?"

"Ugh," he groaned, "That hardly narrows it down! Any of these psychopaths could have ordered a hit."

"Goddamn," I mumbled, taking a sip. "It might not have been a group at all. Might have been a solo act, yeah? How many of 'em got something against the mob?"

"Penguin's in Arkham. When he's not on the streets, he has no power. He doesn't have the resources to work from the inside."

"Two-Face?"

"No, he plays nice with the Russians. It's the Italians he doesn't like."

"Riddler?"

"Not his style at all. Riddler's all about branding, a firing squad doesn't mesh with his aesthetic. If he did it, the entire city would know."

I sat up in my seat, musing my hair a bit to help straighten out my thoughts. "So we're looking for someone with ties to organized crime, probably has a hand in the increased drug trade, and knows how to contact higher ups like Sokolov…." Without even thinking, I grabbed the pocket planner. "The phone encryption will take a few hours... do you think he would have written down a phone number? Email address or something?" The memory of breaking into Jason's laptop was still fresh in my mind.

Jason snorted, "Who the hell does that anymore?"

I messily flipped through the pages, skimming the foreign characters. There were a few English words here and there, mostly names and addresses. I could see the addresses in my mind, mentally picturing the Russian's territory border. "Yooo!" I cheered, finally coming across a useful section. "You know who writes down phone numbers?"

I slid the book across the table, a clearly marked "CONTACTS" page open for display.

"Shady criminals who only use burners."

The page started with a long list of names and various contact info like phone numbers, addresses, and general locations and times. Russians were listed first, most likely other mob members or maybe connections to the Motherland. However, the list faded into more recognizable names.

"Sal Maroni, Rupert Thorne… Bane?" Jason glanced up at me in a way that made my chest swell with pride. "Goddamn."

There was no time to steep my pride, "What are those symbols in the margins there?"

He looked down, running a finger over small asterix and dots scribbled next to only some of the names. "Some sort of code… Maybe it labels their alliances or something."

"That one's weird," I pointed to the bottom of the second page. "See how it's outlined? And there's quotation marks around the name… You don't happen to read Russian, do you?"

To my surprise, he shrugged nonchalantly, "Better than I can speak it."

'Of course he fucking does,' I rolled my eyes. Boy Wonder, duh.

I deadpanned, "So what does it say?"

"Hm… This is the word for 'black.' And I think this one means 'disguise?'"

I could feel the blood drain from my face, "Shit, you don't think that's Batman, do you?"

Jason rolled his eyes, "No, dumbass. Batman in not in Sokolov's address book."

"As far as you know," I mumbled through a long sip, meeting his eyes with a sheepish grin. I cleared my throat, "It's a more recent entry. Maybe a few weeks old? Think they have anything to do with today?"

He answered me by flipping back to today's date in the book, slowly flipping back a few pages. "Here it is," he mumbled, "Same name, almost two weeks to the date… Definitely worth looking into."

The planner slid back across the table. It lay open next to my coffee mug in a way that would make it seem as though I was writing in it myself, planning my day while having a morning brew. Sokolov's blockish writing covered the small lines in a mix of English and Russian, detailing the everyday life of a Gotham gangster. Next to the "Black Disguise" word were two timestamps. The first being eleven-thirty, but that was crossed out. The following was two thirty. "Not long before you had me start tailing him…"

He leaned back in his chair, looking somewhat more relaxed. "It's gonna take some time, but I'll start breaking into their phones. Get more info. Figure out the where, when, and why… We're gonna have to keep our distance for a while."

"Why? Russian's will probably all get together tomorrow. Maybe a meeting of the heads."

"Which is exactly why we need to remain as discreet as possible. If anything gets traced back to us, you're dead."

"I'm dead? Just me?" I asked over the rim of my mug.

"Well, yeah. As far as anyone in this city knows, I'm already dead."

Rain pelted my window, blurring the outside world and shielding me from it's view.

"Breaking news this morning coming from Gotham's South side…"

It was a quiet morning, and Gotham was lulled into a restless peace. Just rain and the television, everything else didn't exist. I was hidden away, cocooned in a thick throw blanket that smelled like Jason's cologne (or maybe his body wash? Deodorant? Whatever it was, it smelled great). My mind was wandering every which way, stretching out thin like plastic wrap. So long as I stayed here, in my apartment, on my couch, with my blanket… It wouldn't snap. I needed a day like this. Even Jason agreed that a day in was the best route to take. Both of us had to regroup and decompress. He had been glued to his computer and phone, I stuck with the TV. Either way, we were quiet.

"...The brutal scene was discovered by warehouse workers at four-thirty this morning. So far only three bodies have been identified, one being a known gangster with mafia connections. A statement from the GCPD says they have no evidence to the motive of the slayings, but believe it to be related to the recent spike of drug sales here in Gotham. We'll go now to our corresponder on the scene-"

I shut the TV off, shoving the remote into the battered cushions of my couch. The story of the Dockside Massacre was all over Gotham TV, swarming over the city like the storm clouds above. I flopped down, curling up on my side, keeping the blanket snug around my form. For the first time in a long time, I was content just staying where I was. I didn't have work, I knew exactly where Jason was, the rain made my usual training impossible, and all my obligations were taken care of. Just for once, I could enjoy some peace and quiet.

Brrrrrring!

The sound of my land line sounded almost foreign to me. Nobody called my apartment anymore, not in the great age of cellphones and no-call lists. Hardly anyone even had the number, save for my landlord, Wayne Inc. human resources, and…

"Oh, shit…" I grumbled, burying my face in the blanket.

I knew I was forgetting something… He's always been the persistent type, hasn't he? Kid tracked down friggin' Batman before he hit junior high, did I really think I could avoid him?

Brrrrrring! ...Brrrrrrrring! ...Brrrrrrrrring!

I rolled over, facing the cushions.

Brrrrring! ...Brrrrrring!

"You gonna answer that?" Jason shouted through the bathroom door.

Huh, I didn't hear him get out of the shower.

Brrrrrring!

Maybe it wasn't even Tim on the line. Maybe a call-center got their hands on the number and wanted to sell me a timeshare or some bullshit like that.

Brrrring!

One more ring, just one left…

I didn't move a muscle.

"Jeeze, alright," Jason huffed, slamming open the bathroom door.

Quicker than I ever thought imaginable, I propelled myself off and over the back of the couch, blanket flying out behind me like a billowing cape. "I got it!" I proclaimed, cutting him off just before he picked up the receiver. I ignored the fact he was only wearing a pair of gym shorts and a towel over his shoulders, and shooed him back towards the bathroom. I noticed he had not yet re-wrapped his leg, but the healing was coming along nicely. His skin was still raw and pink, but it seemed like the scabbing was gone. There wasn't even a limp in his step anymore.

"Hello?" I finally huffed, winded from my impressive vault.

"Hello?" The voice on the other line echoed back. "Hey, Maddy! It's Tim."

"Hey-" I glanced back to the bathroom, seeing the door was opened a crack, "Man. Hey man, what's up?"

There was a short pause. "Uh. Well, I've been trying to reach you all week. You never returned the voicemails I left on your cell."

"Oh, yeah. Shoot, I actually lost my cell the other day…"

"Oh," he didn't sound all that convinced. "Okay… I, um, I guess I just wanted to touch base with you… I'm back in Gotham now."

"Really? That's cool."

I resisted the urge to bang my head against the wall. This had to be the most awkward conversation we ever had… At least since our first one.

"So… Do you wanna meet up for coffee or something? It's been a minute since we hung out."

The bathroom door swung open again, and Jason walked out with messy hair and a questioning stare to me as he made a beeline to the kitchen. I shrugged back with a sheepish smile, feeling sweat gather along the back of my neck.

"Coffee?" Jason mouthed, holding up an empty mug.

"Yes, coffee!" I responded a little too quickly and a little too cheerfully.

"Great! There's a new café downtown, the owners are french, I think. It'll be my treat!"

Well fuck.

I turned towards the wall, resting my forehead next to the receiver and pinched the bridge of my nose. Sometimes I surprised myself with my own goddamn stupidity.

"Yeah…" I sighed, reluctantly accepting my fate. "I'm pretty busy this week. Is tomorrow good?"

"Sure!" he sounded so happy. "Do you wanna meet there?"

"Sounds like a plan," I cleared my throat, "Early works best for me, do you mind a late breakfast or something like that?"

He laughed, "Since when do you ever want to do anything early?"

I pouted despite myself, "I have stuff to do!"

"Alright, alright," he was still laughing, "Late breakfast it is."

"Awesome," I sighed as a warm cup of coffee brushed against my shoulder. I took it from Jason with a greatful smile, "I'll see you then."

"See you then, Madds."

I hung up without saying another word. Cautiously turning towards Jason who was leaning over the half-wall, watching me with what I knew wasn't innocent curiosity.

"Who was that?"