Chapter Three
Encrypted Journal Entry -- Barbara Gordon
June 8th
After about a week of searching, we've finally found the elusive maroon SUV (a late-model Toyota 4runner, to be exact). We found it parked behind the Hotel St. Albans in the East 30's.
I ran a check on the plates; the SUV is registered to none other than Darryl Pitts. It would seem that he's back in town.
Now, our task is to see if he and this "Steve" are one and the same.
"I'm lookin' for a guy named Steve," said Huntress to the night clerk at the Hotel St. Albans.
"Got a lotta Steves in this place," said the night clerk. He was a wiry man in his mid-to-late forties with a receding hairline and Coke-bottle glasses perched on the end of his nose.
"He drives a maroon Toyota 4runner."
"I wouldn't know."
"You mean to tell me you don't record your … guests' … license plate numbers?" exclaimed Huntress. "For all you know, they could be runnin' drugs or turnin' tricks in this place!" Huntress paused. "Sure way to get shut down by the cops."
"I ain't paid to ask questions, lady," snarled the clerk.
"That's OK," said Huntress. She reached into the pocket of her jacket, pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, and showed the top half of the bill to the clerk. "I'm looking more for answers."
The clerk glanced nervously around the room. "His name's Steve Pritzger," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Only person around here who drives an SUV. Lives in 5-C."
"Maroon 4runner?"
"Yeah."
Huntress put the fifty-dollar on the ancient beat-up wooden counter that sat between her and the clerk. "Much obliged," she said as she turned and walked down the hallway that led inside the hotel and towards the stairs.
"Hey, lady!" called the clerk after Huntress. Huntress spun around on one heel, facing the clerk once more.
"Yeah?"
"You didn't hear it from me," said the clerk.
Huntress gave a curt nod, turned, and walked back down the hallway.
"Steve's" room was on the fifth floor of the hotel. Huntress stealthily made her way down the darkened hallway. Rent was cheap at the St. Albans … and it showed. A bare overhead light flickered on and off. The hallway reeked with the scent of urine. The ceiling and walls were pockmarked with holes caused by pieces of collapsed plaster.
The St. Albans -- and, for that matter, New Gotham's entire Lower East Side -- was the sort of place where one could disappear, living a life with no questions asked. A Code of Silence -- understood by all whom lived and worked here -- operated in the Lower East Side: a Code of Silence which said that you didn't squeal on your neighbor.
Huntress found Steve's room, picked the lock (as befitted a place as dirt-cheap as The St. Albans, security was flimsy-to-non-existent), and silently made her way inside. The sight of Darryl Pitts lying in bed and snoring away deeply asleep greeted her.
Huntress looked around the room. An ancient TV -- dial, rabbit-ears antenna, and no remote -- stood in a far corner to her left. To Huntress's right, six empty beer bottles lay scattered on the floor next to the bed. Great, she thought. The one night I have Darryl Pitts in my sights, HE'S sleeping off a bender! She reached into the pocket of her coat and produced a note. The note read:
HELLO, DARRYL
WE NEED TO TALK
CENTRAL PARK, NW CORNER, NEAR OLD STONE BRIDGE
FRIDAY, MIDNIGHT
BE THERE!
THE HUNTRESS
She lay the note on the floor at the foot of the bed. He's sure to see it THERE, she thought. As stealthily as she came in, she opened the door and left the room.
"No," said Oracle back at the Clocktower. "Absolutely not."
"This is our chance to bring him down!" Huntress protested. Dinah stood at Huntress's left shoulder.
"The last time you two met, you came this close to getting killed," Oracle replied, emphasizing her point by making a quarter-inch space between her thumb and index finger.
"That was because he surprised me," Huntress retorted, on the defensive now. "It's not gonna happen again."
"We know he packs a 9mm," said Oracle. "We know he's carried a .45 in the past. God only knows what he's got access to." Oracle paused. "MAC-10? Uzi? He could be pumping lead into you before you had a chance to react!" Oracle paused again. "Leave it to the police."
Huntress sighed resignedly. "All right," she said, throwing her hands up in surrender. "You win."
"I mean it," said Oracle. "This is serious." Oracle paused. "They're gonna need a SWAT team to bring him down."
Or a superhero, Huntress thought. "All right," she said. "I'll leave him to the police."
"Good," said Oracle. "Dismissed."
Huntress gave a curt nod, turned on one heel, walked towards the elevator, got in, and left the room.
"Umm, Barbara…" said Dinah hesitantly. "If you're through with me, I'd like to go train."
Oracle nodded. "Go," she said quietly. Dinah turned to leave and walked towards the elevator.
"Dinah…" called Oracle after her. Dinah turned back around to face Oracle.
"When Huntress meets Darryl on Friday, I want you to be there," said Oracle.
"You don't believe her either, huh?" said Dinah.
Oracle shook her head in response to Dinah's question … No. Helena's sickbed words rung in her mind: This time … it's PERSONAL.