G flashed a grin at Sam as his partner parked the car.
"What?" Sam asked, caution edging his voice.
"This is gonna be fun."
And it would be - at least compared to their usual assignments. Bruce might be lying unresponsive in a hospital bed, but no one's life was in immediate danger at this moment. No one had been kidnapped, no weapons were missing, and no national security secrets were at risk.
No matter how dangerous Gotham's criminals might be, they were still only small-time compared to the criminals G and Sam usually faced off with.
Even as Sam rolled his eyes, G smiled. Then shifted his expression and posture just enough that Sam would know he was now in character and ready for the operation to begin.
Sam stepped out of the car and came around to the passenger side to open G's door.
"Don't get used to me opening doors for you," Sam muttered. "I'm not Alfred."
A muffled laugh came through G's earwig, and he wasn't certain whether it was Babs or Robin. He'd have to thank Sam for that later, but for now, he strode into Captain Jack's, a waterfront bar that, even so many years after G had left Gotham for what he thought was the last time, was a hangout for a lot of Gotham's more petty criminals. Of course, in Gotham, more petty meant two or fewer murder raps.
G braced himself for the sensual assault of sweat, smoke, and stale grease that he remembered from his prior visits and stepped through the door that Sam opened for him, pausing just inside for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimmer-than-outside interior.
It was barely eight, and this early in the evening Captain Jack's was more than half empty, with only a handful of tables occupied and a pair of men who might be dockworkers - and therefore might not be criminals, but G had learned never to assume - sitting at the bar proper.
Oddly, no one had claimed the power chair - the one furthest back with the clearest view of the room. So G did, and waited for someone to approach him.
The server, an overweight, probably middle-aged, woman who'd seen too many of life's battles, approached first. "What'll it be?"
"Scotch and soda," G answered easily. If this place didn't water its drinks, he'd go back to the circus with his tail between his legs.
She grunted what G took to be an acknowledgment and looked at Sam.
"Soda, thanks," Sam said, for which she gave another grunt and turned back toward the bar.
She'd barely left before the visitor G had been expecting showed up. He was a tall, wiry man with three days' growth of beard and shaggy hair and an air of command.
"That's Big Mike's chair," the man said.
"Is it? I don't see his name anywhere." G made a show of examining the table around him before looking at Sam. "Do you see Big Mike's name?"
Sam craned his neck to look at the back of the chair. "I don't see anything."
The wiry man flushed, but whether from anger or alcohol G couldn't tell. "Everybody knows that's Big Mike's chair."
"Obviously not," G said. "Y'know, my Sunday School teacher always said a little sharing's good for the soul, and Big Mike isn't here, is he?"
Scowling, the wiry man moved away, reaching for something in his pocket. G forced himself not to show any tension. Had Gotham gotten so much worse since he'd left that a man would pull a gun over a minor territory dispute?
The man pulled a cell phone from his pocket, and G allowed himself a smile. Big Mike would be here soon, no doubt.
The drinks might be watered, but the server brought them seconds after the wiry man had moved away. G met Sam's eyes briefly and saw they shared the same thought.
Waiting to see if a fight would break out.
G took the tiniest sip of his drink and confirmed his suspicion. Definitely watered, with just enough Scotch to be tasted, so the customer wouldn't feel completely cheated.
G settled back in the wooden chair to wait.
Even nursing his drink, his Scotch and soda was half-gone before a stocky man maybe G's own height strode into the bar and crossed to his table. Neither of the two men flanking him looked like more than dumb muscle, but G knew better than to assume anything where they were concerned.
"What kinda dumbfuck are you, thinkin' you can come in and take over my chair?" Big Mike demanded, his voice somewhere south of a bellow.
"Just a guy wanting a drink." G kept the man's gaze while he took another sip. He put the glass down and added, "Besides, we've already established that your name isn't on this chair. Didn't your flunky tell you that?"
"Who the hell are you?"
"James Malone," G answered. "You can call me Jamie."
"Malone," Big Mike repeated. "As in Matches Malone?"
"Uncle," G said.
"You here for him?"
"Pull up a chair, and I'll tell you."
G watched Big Mike's hesitation, but finally, curiosity got the better of him and he sat across from G, clearly unhappy at having to take a chair that wasn't his.
G took another slow sip of his drink - now almost entirely water since the ice had melted - before sitting forward and pitching his tone as though he were sharing a secret.
"Uncle's heard rumors," he said. "I'm here to check them out."
Big Mike's nostrils flared, and his eyes shifted left, then right. Interesting. What rumors was Big Mike afraid of?
What Big Mike said was, "What kind of rumors?"
G looked around, again implying that he was sharing something confidential. "That someone shot The Bat."
Big Mike's sigh was almost as audible as his relieved expression was visible.
Sometime, G thought, when he wasn't working a case, it would be profitable to play poker against Big Mike.
"But," G continued, "nobody seems to know who shot The Bat. So Uncle's starting to think it didn't happen, that it's as much an urban legend as The Bat was, at first."
"Oh, it happened," Big Mike said, and then looked as if he wished he hadn't.
G sat back with a shrug. "Maybe it did. Maybe it didn't. That's what I'm here to find out."
"Why?"
"The Bat sent Uncle to Gotham State Penitentiary once or twice."
Big Mike snorted. "The Bat sent a lot of people to Gotham State. Sent more to Blackgate, the way I hear it."
"He's a pain," G agreed. "Thing is, Uncle's prepared to reward whoever shot The Bat."
"Reward?" Big Mike tried not to jump on the word, but it was a wasted effort. "How much?"
"That's between him and the shooter," G said easily. "Even I don't know. But I do know he's talked about a finder's fee for anyone who helps him answer the question. Who. Shot. The Bat?"
"How much of a finder's fee?"
"Ten large."
Naming a number - any number - was a calculated risk, but a necessary one. G had a limited window to operate in, and he had to gain credibility quickly. But the number he named needed to be on target, neither too low to be mocked nor too high to arouse suspicion.
Based on G's initial impressions of Captain Jack's, and his observation of the other patrons who'd dribbled in while he was waiting for Big Mike, ten thousand dollars seemed to fit that range.
Big Mike's reaction when he heard the number confirmed G's conclusion. But Big Mike forced a reasonable tone.
"Show me."
G laughed aloud. "You think I'd carry ten thousand in cash? In Gotham? How stupid do you think I am?"
Big Mike's jaw tensed. "You gotta prove you can deliver. We don't much like liars around here."
Robin's voice came through his earpiece. "Dammit! He's gonna get made."
Sam's quieter voice responded, "Wait for it."
G held Big Mike's gaze for a long moment. Then, unhurried, he reached into the inside pocket of his sport coat and withdrew his cell phone.
Minutes later, he'd called up the account information for the trust fund Pop Haly had set up for him when his parents died. All of the circus performers and staff had put something toward the fund - not much, in most cases, but whatever they could.
G hadn't touched the fund since he gained full control of it at 21. Thanks to compound interest, the account balance was enough to prove to Big Mike that he could pay out ten thousand.
Carefully adjusting the display so neither the name of the bank nor the name on the account could be seen, G turned the phone so Big Mike could read the display.
"I'll transfer the ten thousand once I've got the information," G said. He pulled the phone back, logged out of the account, and cleared the browsing history.
Big Mike seemed stunned by the amount G had shown him. G gave him a moment to recover while he grabbed a cocktail napkin and scribbled the number to one of the many burn phones Bruce apparently kept ready now and slid it toward Big Mike. Then he drained his glass and stood.
A gesture in Sam's direction had the other man pulling out a couple of bills to toss on the table.
"Gotta go," G said. "Uncle said to make sure I get the word out, so I've got other stops to make."
"Wait." Big Mike turned in his seat. "You're telling others?"
"Uh-huh."
"So how will you know to send the money to me, not someone else?"
"Huh. Good point." G made a show of considering the question, though privately impressed that Big Mike had thought to ask it.
"How about this," G said. "I'll give you and each of the other bosses I talk to a different code word. The code word the shooter gives me will tell me who to send the finder's fee to."
"Yeah, that makes sense. What's my code word?"
"Has to be something unusual, something no one would normally say," G mused aloud. "How about -"
He bent down to speak quietly into Big Mike's ear. "Mermaid."
He straightened quickly. "I don't have to tell you not to try to scam me, do I? I'm not just gonna take someone's word for it. I'll want details of how it happened."
"Yeah, yeah. Details." Big Mike rose from his chair, offered his hand. "Gotta say, you're not what I expected from Matches Malone's kid."
"Nephew," G corrected and shook the man's hand.
"Either way. Pleasure doing business with you."
"Likewise," G said, then turned to leave the bar. He didn't have to look back to know that Sam was scanning the room even as he followed.
"What did you do?" Robin demanded through the comm. "How'd you prove to him that you could pay the ten thousand?"
G didn't answer until he and Sam were safely in the car and Sam was directing them away from Captain Jack's, monitoring the rear-view mirror to be sure they weren't followed.
At Sam's nod, G finally answered Robin's question. "I pulled up one of my own accounts, let him see the balance in it."
"That the same rainy-day fund you bought my Challenger with?" Sam asked, amused.
"Close enough," G said and shot his partner a look that precluded any more questions. Sam nodded once, and G had to wonder whether he was being too paranoid, keeping both his lives as separate as he could.
Then he remembered that in his line of work, there was no such thing as being too paranoid.
Babs' voice broke into his thoughts. "That was a risk."
"Not much of one," G countered. "I didn't let him see the bank or account information, and as soon as this is over, I'll close the account and move the money somewhere else."
"Where to now?" Sam asked.
"Benny's, on Forty-Fifth," G told him. "Take the next left."