Title: Man on the Bench-part six
Author: Simon
Characters: Dick Grayson and Manor crew, plus OC
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Bruce has further talks with grandpa; Dick makes a decision—maybe.
Warnings: none
Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.
Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.
Feedback: Hell, yes.
The Man on the Bench
Part SixThe rest of Peter's weekend visit went fine with no problems at all. He was a nice kid with reasonable manners and no trouble. He and Dick got along well and seemed to grow closer as the couple of days passed. They were almost the same age and likely might have been friends even if they didn't have the newly discovered family tie to bring them together.
Alfred was happy to see Dick having such a good time with this new friend—the poor boy had so few people he could talk with, especially ones who were his age because of the special requirements and restrictions of his life. There were the Titans, of course, but they seemed more like co-workers than friends a good part of the time and the other young people seemed unable to forget the young master was their leader, even if they were merely splashing about in one of the pools or having a snowball fight on one of the lawns.
This young man, this cousin, had none of that baggage to sort through and though there were areas of the household that couldn't be discussed, there was still much they could connect about: School, family, parental problems and all the usual things young people liked to discuss among themselves.
Watching them out on the quads while waiting for Peter's mother to fetch him home made Alfred smile.
Sunday night, while Dick was in his room finishing up his homework, Bruce was going through some of his old files. With any luck, they would give him the missing part of the puzzle he needed to determine why Dick's grandfather was playing the game he was.
Barbara had provided the connection, pulling up some link in her vast array of files and programs combined with her photographic memory. She was the one who set him on the right path to find out who Lloyd was and how he earned his living. In fact, it occurred to Bruce that she might actually be of more use to them if she concentrated on that end of things instead of staying with her Batgirl activities, not that he was about to suggest it to her, thanks.
Finally, in the fifteenth newspaper account involving the trial, that had finally sent Anthony Zucco to prison for life, was the picture he was looking for.
The reproduction was old, black and white and grainy, but the man standing supportively next to his client, Zucco's lawyer was unmistakably Philip Lloyd
Philip Lloyd, Dick's loving grandfather, was the man who'd tried to get the Grayson's murderer off. Philip Lloyd had put every ounce of his legal ability into freeing the man who had orchestrated the deaths of his daughter and son-in-law and only by dumb luck hadn't killed his grandson, as well.
And now the son of a bitch was nosing around, trying to shake down Wayne Corp and Bruce? He insisted that he wanted to gain custody of Dick; move him back in with his 'blood' family out of concern about the boy's upbringing? Right, sure he did.
How could this have gotten past him? How could he not have known who the man was? How could he have missed this for almost two weeks?
Bruce looked at the picture more closely, ran it through the computer, cleaned up the image. The man looked completely different, for one thing—the newspaper clipping was four years old and Philip seemed to have aged at least twenty years or more in that time.
He put side-by-side images of Lloyd on the screen, the old photo next to a recent one.
His hair, which in the newspaper picture appeared to be black was now white. In the old picture he was heavy-set—at least fifty pounds overweight, jowly, soft and out of shape looking and appearing to be maybe forty-five or fifty years old. The man Bruce knew as Dick's grandfather was trim, fit and a vigorous looking sixty-five or so.
There was more, the closer he looked.
Lloyd'd had a nose job and work done to his eyes. His jaw line was different, more defined and he looked like he'd had implants in his cheeks and chin. His hairline was different. The cosmetic work was extensive but was done by an expert. It was undetectable to the naked eye. It was also possible that he was now wearing colored contacts.
Most people would never have thought they were the same man, but Bruce saw it.
If Philip walked into a restaurant or party, the odds were that no one who'd known him five or ten years ago would have any idea he was the same man. Now that Bruce knew what he was looking for it was almost obvious and he wondered if Lloyd's wife had also undergone a change—she almost would have had to, come to think of it. Otherwise what would be the point of him reinventing himself? Bruce became curious and, after a search, found an old picture of the two of them at some charity dinner.
The caption read "Philip and Carolyn Lloyd" but to anyone who knew them now, they were strangers. Yes, the wife had also undergone a complete sea change.
But why?
Was he still working for the mob? Six months after the trial ended, after the last appeal was exhausted, Philip Lloyd had quietly left his job at Jolson and Locke in Gotham to found his own firm in New York City. From all reports, the old company was now legit. So was Lloyd and Penn now the mob law firm or, by some chance, had Philip decided to go clean and start with a new name to make a complete break?
But why blackmail Bruce? Just for money? To gain some kind of control of Wayne Corp?
Was that why he'd contacted Bruce through Dick? Was that the real reason he'd made such a big play for the boy's emotions and loyalty—so that he'd have some kind of leverage over Dick's guardian? Was the next step to somehow lodge or insinuate some kind of threat against Dick if Bruce didn't play along or decided to cause trouble?
The first thing Bruce had to find out was whether the threat was against him personally or against the company—or against Dick.
All right, time to do some more work.
Monday afternoon the call Bruce was expecting came in.
"Mr. Wayne? Philip Lloyd is on line seven. Would you like to take the call?"
"Yes, please, put him through if you would, Catherine."
"Wayne? Have you thought about what we were discussing the other day?"
"You mean your request for me to fire my legal department and hire your firm in its place? Yes, I've thought about it and I think I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you."
"…I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Wayne."
"I'm sure you can understand my reasoning, Mr. Lloyd. After all, loyalty is important in the work place and I couldn't, in all good conscience, let go people who've been working for me all these years."
"Of course I understand, but let me make another suggestion if I may. How would you feel about my little firm taking care of just the financial end of things; the taxes and all of that? We're specialists, you know—we could save you a bundle of money if you'd let us."
"That's a generous offer, but I have tax people on my payroll as well, thanks."
"Of course you do, but it may be to your advantage for you to bring some of my people aboard as well."
"And why is that?"
"It's just that with more people working on a project, there's less chance of something going wrong. That's all, Mr. Wayne."
"Are you suggesting my company may have problems with taxes in the future, Mr. Lloyd? Why on earth would you think that?" This was a veiled threat, the bastard.
"Good lord, no—I'm sure you have the best working for you, Mr. Wayne, I'm sure you do. But if I may, one thing I've heard about you has me a little confused—if you don't mind my asking, is it true that you do your own personal taxes? A man like you—well, I'd have thought that you'd have an army of accountants to take care of that sort of thing."
In fact, Bruce always did his own taxes and had since he was a senior in high school. For years, Alfred had drilled it into him: If the time came when he was too busy to keep track of where his money was going, then one day he'd wake up and wonder where it had gone.
Over time it had become a habit, despite the fact that he had an army of accountants and lawyers to tend to things. It was his money and he wanted to see for himself how it was being taken care of. Over the years he had learned better than to take things for granted
"Thank you for your offers and your concern, Mr. Lloyd, but I think we're fine with things the way they are for now. I'll keep you in mind, though if I decide to make a change. Now, I'm sure you're as busy as I am…"
"One last question, if you don't mind."
Games. Bruce hated playing games. "One last question, Mr. Lloyd."
"As his grandfather, may I ask what provisions you've made for Dick's welfare and financial security should anything happen to you?"
"…Excuse me?" He wanted to know what was in his will? Like hell. "Dick has been provided for, Mr. Lloyd. Now if you'll excuse me, I've work to do."
"Of course. Oh, and you do know that Carolyn and I were hoping to take Dick with us back up to Butternut again this weekend, if that's all right with you. You don't have any objections, do you?"
This was the first Bruce had heard of it.
"When did you ask Dick?"
"I wanted to make sure you didn't mind first. Pat told me that she was going to call later this evening to clear it. After all, he is family and the boys had such a good time last time we couldn't see any reason not to include him whenever we go up—assuming it's all right with you, that is. I'm sure you wouldn't want to keep him away from his own cousins, now—would you, Bruce?"
"Dick has mid terms to study for this weekend. Maybe another time."
"…Well, if he has to work. I'll let Pat know. Maybe he could make it the week after this one, after the tests are over."
"Yes, maybe."
The call ended, the connection was cut. Bruce was furious. The son of a bitch; veiled threats, trying to insinuate himself in between Dick and himself, dangling ski trips and a constant stream of fun and games in front of the boy—making him think that spending time with—hell, just say it—with his real family was more fun, better than living at the Manor.
Not to mention the fact that the old bastard was trying to get his hands on Bruce's personal finances.
It was getting time to do something about this. Enough was enough.
"But that's stupid, Bruce. The school moved midterms back a week because of the snow days. There's no reason why I can't go with the Simpson's up to Butternut."
"You know how important those tests are." The two of them were in Bruce's study after dinner, Bruce trying to maintain his calm behind his desk and Dick standing, angrily, over by the fireplace.
"And you know I'm on the honor roll. It's not like I'm about to tank."
"And you haven't been paying as much attention to your training lately. You almost slipped last night coming around that corner."
"Bruce—Christ! There was an oil slick there, of course I almost slipped; the point is that I didn't."
"And you can drop that attitude, old chum, if you have any thoughts of going anywhere at all this weekend."
"Why, because you're jealous of me spending time with my real family? You've been in a rotten mood ever since they contacted me."
Bruce gave him a Bat worthy glare. "I'm not going to have this conversation with you. Get upstairs and make sure your homework's done or you can stay home tonight as well."
"What? You're going to ground me? And once again you won't talk about anything that involves people. Fine—shut down as usual, go back down to your cave, Bruce. That way you won't have to ever to talk to anyone face to face—you'll be in bat heaven."
How Dick could escalate from calm to hysterics in the space of seconds was beyond Bruce and always made him either want to leave the room or give the boy a hug—not that he'd ever do such a thing, of course. Much as he knew Dick could be emotional, Bruce was simply never comfortable with that side of the boy and marked it down to his show business background and hoped it was something he'd outgrow. Soon.
"Ever since this whole thing with your family started you've been preoccupied and unfocused. It's dangerous and you could get hurt and you know that as well as I do. I'm concerned about you and…" Whatever he was about to say was left hanging.
"You're concerned about me? You're concerned about 'Robin', not me. You're just afraid that I'll maybe decide that I'd rather be normal and live in a regular house instead of this museum and go to a normal school instead of that stupid place you insist I go now—you know, all that stuff I've never done before. You're just worried that maybe I'd rather live with my real family instead of here."
In fact that was exactly what Bruce was afraid of but he couldn't, wouldn't tell Dick the real reasons—that his grandfather was somehow implicated in the crime family that ordered his parent's deaths.
"Dick, please. Listen to me…"
The anger seemed to go out of Dick like air from a balloon; as fast as his temper could flare, it would disappear as fast. "Bruce, I'm sorry. I really am sorry for what I said but it may be true. Maybe I do want to live like a normal person: I've been thinking about it for a while now, months, in fact." He paused as if marshalling his thoughts. "I'm grateful for everything you and Alfred have done for me, you know how grateful I am, but lately—even before I knew my grandfather and the rest of them were around, I've been thinking about maybe wanting to just be, you know, just be a regular kid."
"But Dick…"
"I've never done that, been normal, I mean. I grew up in a traveling show, my parents were killed, I came here and then I became Robin. It's all been weird stuff, y'know? I've never done 'normal'."
Bruce leaned back in his chair, watching Dick struggle with this. "Are you saying that you want to move in with your cousins?"
Dick gave a half confused, half helpless shrug. He didn't know, he wasn't sure what he wanted but he knew he didn't want to hurt the two men who'd taken him in and given him a home when he needed one desperately. He certainly didn't want to cut his ties with Bruce or Alfred or any of the others and he'd pretty much have to if he left. It would be next to impossible for him to lead the Titans or work with Barbara or hang around the League. He had to consider all of that. No more flying, no more Robin.
On the other hand, he'd be living with his real family and his cousins would be more like brothers.
"...I don't know, maybe…"
"All right, look. You have a week off after midterms, don't you?" Dick nodded. "Why don't you see if your cousins are off then as well and even if they're not, maybe you could spend the week with them, see how it goes. After that, I guess we'll see where we are. Does that sound reasonable?"
Dick nodded. "It sounds like a good idea if they're okay with it." He started for the door. "Are you angry?"
"I want what's best, you know that. One way or another, we'll see what seems right."
He nodded again. "I'll finish my homework."
An hour or so later Alfred came in with some fresh coffee for Bruce. "You can't tell him the truth and you can't refuse him permission to see his family, no matter what his grandfather did."
"I know that, but he has to make his own decision." Alfred raised an eyebrow. "If it comes to it, I may have to tell him, no matter what the repercussions are—he'll have to know."
"Yes, Master Bruce, he will. What about the grandfather? Is he a problem?"
"I think I can contain him."
TBC
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