A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!

"A Lot Like Me" written and recorded by Mary Chapin Carpenter on her Hometown Girl album (Columbia, 1987).

There are several canon versions of Tony Zucco's fate. For this story, I've combined two of them. Dick initially believes that Tony Zucco died of a heart attack after being spooked by a very young, very angry Robin (Dark Victory). Some time later, he discovers that Zucco was revived in the hospital, stood trial and was sentenced to life in prison. He was released on parole nearly a decade later, but gunned down at the prison gates (Batman: Year Three).

There's a wealth of danger when you're talking to strangers, and I meet them all the time
But my heart knew better than my head when I looked into those eyes

—Mary Chapin Carpenter, "A Lot Like Me"

Chapter 47—Talking to Strangers

"You seem inordinately preoccupied," Jeremiah remarked, his dry voice slicing into her thoughts.

Cass blinked, startled. "Huh?"

Rather than rephrase his initial statement, he repeated it.

"Oh," she tried to smile. "Yes."

Jeremiah frowned. "You understood what I said?" he asked.

"Yes," Cass nodded. "Thinking."

"Cass," Jeremiah's voice was concerned. "Is there any way in which I can help?" When she blinked, he smiled thinly. "You are aware that I am a psychiatrist. If there's some issue you'd like to discuss, I'm perfectly willing to listen to anything on your mind."

Cass shook her head. "No. Sorry." There were some things she couldn't discuss. Although… "Not me. Someone else."

"A friend of yours?"

She shook her head again. "Not… exactly. She… wants to do something…" she hesitated, "…dangerous. Told her not to."

"But…?"

Cass sighed. "She won't listen. I don't think." She closed her eyes. "If I help… looks like I think she's right. If not… if she gets hurt..."

Jeremiah frowned. "I'm presuming that you're acting as a friend, rather than as a counselor and thus, not bound by any sort of confidentiality agreement. That gives you an option I'm seldom able to take advantage of myself. Is there another individual whom this person respects and would listen to? Perhaps you could enlist their help."

She thought for a moment. The man (Cass guessed he was a bodyguard) whom Clara had called 'Bruno'. He knew what was going on. Maybe his dressing down had been enough to make Clara rethink her objectives, but… Cass had seen an all-too-familiar stubborn gleam in the girl's eyes two nights ago. Cass suspected that Clara might listen for a time, but sooner or later, she would strike out again, and probably sooner. She considered further. She could talk to Bressi, but she didn't know enough about the mob boss to gauge how he'd react. Or whether she'd be risking Bruno's life by letting Bressi know that Clara had nearly gotten killed on his watch. Or whether Bressi might decide that if his great-niece wanted to fight that badly, maybe she should be trained—to kill. She shook her head. "No."

Jeremiah closed his eyes. Then he removed his glasses and pulled a case out of his breast pocket and extracted a polishing cloth. "You have got a problem," he admitted.

"Yes."

"Does this person know that she can talk to you if she needs someone to listen?"

"No."

His thin smile was back. "Perhaps it would help if she did. Sometimes, all we need is someone to listen to what we have to say."

Cass smiled back.

"Of course," Jeremiah said, replacing his glasses and picking up a printout of one of the worksheets that she'd emailed him yesterday, "at other times, we need a bit more. I have been going over your algebra exercises and I believe that you currently need a bit more practice with factoring polynomials…"

Barbara didn't say anything when Dick came home from work and—after coming up to her office to kiss her hello—made a beeline for the corner of the room that he'd set up as a mini-gym with rings, uneven bars, a balance beam, a vaulting horse, and a number of exercise mats. Not while he began a routine on the bars that appeared so easy as to be nearly effortless. As a former gymnast herself, Barbara knew better. It was a routine that she'd seen before—except that the Olympic athlete who'd attempted it had taken a flip too quickly, been thrown off his game, and fouled up his dismount. Dick nailed it.

It wasn't until he moved to the balance beam that she gave up all pretense of attending to her monitors. "Sheesh," she said, when Dick jumped up off the beam, performed a split in mid-air, and bent his head toward his left foot in a ring before touching back down to the beam, "I'm not sure whether to be impressed or annoyed that you pulled that one off. The beam isn't even a men's event."

"No," Dick admitted as he executed four perfect flips to the end of the beam, rolled to a somersault dismount and surged up to stick the landing. "But maybe it ought to be. Or maybe I just like a challenge."

"Or maybe you've got a problem you're trying to work through."

Dick sighed and grabbed his towel from the wall hook. "Am I really that obvious?"

"Did you just come in straight from work and start in on a routine that would get you automatic placement on the US gymnastics team and citizenship offers from at least a dozen other countries if you'd only compete for them, without even mentioning how your day went? Yeah, you're that obvious."

"Work was okay," Dick said with a tired smile. "I'm still sitting on that time bomb you handed me. The gunmen."

"Ah," Barbara nodded.

"If I tell Bressi… I honestly think he means to keep his word about not killing them. That doesn't mean some of his own people won't get a little enthusiastic. If they do, yes, I'll bring them in. Then Bressi hooks them up with a slick defense team and, odds are, they walk. If I don't tell him… if I go after them myself, I probably lose this alliance. Oh, the families unite, all right—to take down both me and Intergang. Plus, Tony probably loses face, leaving him wide open for some sort of coup and," he closed his eyes and shook his head, "whoever replaces him will probably be a lot worse. Besides," he admitted, "I like Tony. Well, I respect him anyway. I know where he's coming from; I know what he wants; and he knows how far he can push before I'm going to push back. Maybe we don't see eye to eye and maybe we'll never be friends, but when our backs are to the wall, we can each be reasonably sure one of us won't knife the other in the side."

"You know Penguin and I share intel every now and again," Barbara reminded him. "Politics isn't the only game in town to make strange bedfellows. So…"

"So, I can only sit on this for so long before Tony either finds out about the gunmen through his sources or he finds out I've been holding out on him."

"What are you going to do?"

He gestured toward the vaulting horse. "Work on some Yurchenkos. Then…" he gave her a reluctant smile, "…then I think I'm going to tell Bressi. I just need to work out exactly what I'm going to tell him."

"Good luck with that."

Dick sighed. "Thanks. Actually, I could use all the luck I can get—and not just with that."

"I know," Barbara smiled back. "But I don't want you to start getting greedy."

His smile broadened to a grin. Then he turned on his heel and took a running leap for the vaulting horse.

Clara Bressi waited until Bruno was totally engrossed in the morning paper before she sucked the last bit of chocolate milk up through her straw with a loud slurp and was rewarded by his deepening glower. "Oops," she said, trying to sound innocent.

Bruno sighed. "Finish up. Rico's bringing the car around in about five minutes."

She took another spoonful of cereal. "Does it have to be the limo, Bruno?" she asked. "All the other kids are going to stare. Don't we have a normal car, like maybe one that isn't black with tinted windows and needing three parking spots? Or maybe I could bike it," she suggested hopefully. "I need the exercise."

"From what I saw the other night," Bruno shot back, "exercise is one thing you've been getting plenty of. Your prozio wants you to go to school in style, so that's how you go."

Clara exhaled noisily. "I'm not making friends," she warned. "The other kids all think I'm stuck up."

"Yeah? Well, if they're judging you by the kind of car you don't even drive, then maybe those aren't the kids you should have for friends anyway."

"It's the whole school, Bruno!"

The enforcer shook his head and set down the paper. "No, it ain't. It's five or six popular kids who probably get driven to school in cars that are every bit as fancy and thought they were on top until you came along. And now, the only way they can pump themselves up is by trying to keep you down. And you want to go out and deal with serious stuff? Carina, if you can't deal with the petty things on your own, why should I think you can handle yourself any better with what you've been trying to pull at night?"

"So, what? You want me to use MMA on 'em? Bash 'em in the head and leave 'em bolted to lampposts?"

Bruno sighed. "You're smart enough to know I don't mean that, carina. There are other ways to deal with stuff like that."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"I think you're probably smart enough to figure that bit out, too."

Clara made a sour face. "In other words, you don't know."

"Hey, carina, I never said I was as smart as you." He looked up to see another man standing in the kitchen doorway pointing at his wristwatch. Bruno nodded at him and turned back to Clara. "Go on. Get outta here."

The girl nodded and pushed sullenly away from the table. Head down, she picked up her school bag and trudged toward the doorway.

"Hey, carina?" She didn't turn. "Clara?"

Clara sighed and glanced back over her shoulder at him. "Yeah?"

Bruno smiled. "Study hard so you don't forget anything. That goes for what you get taught outside the classroom, too. If you get me."

She met his eyes then, hope and an unasked question on her face.

"The better you know your old stuff, the less time you need to waste on review before tackling the new stuff, yeah?"

Clara nodded. "See you later, Bruno."

Even though she tried not to smile, Bruno noticed that she nearly skipped out of the kitchen this time. He shook his head ruefully and took a sip of black coffee.

Hush leaned back in his padded desk chair and regarded the men seated before him. "So," he said, "first you attempt to kill me—or at least my stunt double—and now you come making overtures of friendship. Are you sure you haven't got it a bit backwards? Usually the double-cross comes after the alliance."

The elder of the two men coughed and covered his mouth with nicotine-stained fingers. The younger smiled. "That wasn't a double-cross; it was a test. We don't make offers to idiots. Anyone who showed up to that meeting and didn't have a survival instinct kick in before it was too late? Nobody we want in our organization. Well, Mister, not only did you pass the test, but so did your cannon fodder. We can definitely use you."

Hush smiled. "Interesting," he said. "However, I'm not entirely certain that I'd like to be used. Particularly not in the current climate. You've angered some rather dangerous people."

"We can handle them," the older man replied.

"Oh, no doubt," Hush nodded. "For now. When you're fighting for your place in this city. But it is not enough to win a war; it is more important to organize the peace. When the dust settles, where will you be?"

The younger man leaned forward, a fervent gleam in his eye. "In charge," he said simply. "With certain capable and trusted individuals working under us. We'd like you to be one of them."

Hush was silent for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. "How long might I have to consider your proposition?"

"We can call on you, say, day after tomorrow?" The older one spoke this time.

"Very good," Hush replied. "Mr. King, if you'll see these gentlemen out?"

The two men blinked as another figure rose from the shadows in the corner of the room. It was evident they hadn't spotted him until now. They said nothing as he moved to escort them from the room.

When he returned, Hush was fiddling with the bandages wrapping his hands. "Well," Hush said, "that went as expected. What do you think?"

King removed his hat and massaged his face for several seconds. When he took his hands away, King had vanished and False Face stood in his place. "I'll need more intel before I can take over," he admitted. "Imitating the voice and appearance won't be difficult, but if you mean for me to replace one of them for anything that needs to stand up under scrutiny, I'll have to know more about him."

"Understandable," Hush nodded. "I've been putting out feelers through my usual channels. Cobblepot is being his usual cooperative self—provided I pay for his service." He opened his desk drawer and extracted two folders. "I presume you'd prefer to become Halloran? The gentleman in his late forties?"

False Face nodded back. "He's already my height. I'll need to lose a few pounds, but I've done that before when necessary."

"Then here," Hush slid the topmost folder across the desk. "Familiarize yourself with the contents; let me know if there are any details you'd particularly like to flesh out so that I can steer the conversation at the next meeting appropriately."

"When do you intend for me to make the switch?"

Hush's smile grew wider. "Oh, I'd say shortly after I leak news of Halloran's whereabouts to one of the Families. Once he's permanently out of the way, there are steps that can be taken to keep that information from making it back to Metropolis for a time. And meanwhile…"

A malicious answering grin was False Face's only reply.

Clara Bressi waited until study hall two days later before she made her way to the combined gym and auditorium. She looked quickly up and down the corridor to ensure that nobody was coming before she carefully pulled the door open and slipped inside, keeping her hand on the wood to hold it open. As she'd hoped, it was empty. She pulled her arm back slowly, so that the door wouldn't make much noise as it shut behind her.

The lights were off, but the sun coming in from the small Corsica glass windows, set high near the ceiling, gave her enough light to see across the hall to the stage at the far end and the two curtained doorways that led to the backstage area and dressing rooms. Once she passed through the closest of these, she found herself in a small area with white plaster walls and a terrazzo floor. She ignored the stairs to her left, that would take her backstage and focused on the emergency fire door directly ahead. Now came the tricky part.

"I know you can't believe everything you read," she muttered, as she reached into her jacket pocket for the pages that she'd printed out earlier, folded in half, and then folded in half again, "but here's hoping this works."

She pulled a pair of wire cutters out of her pencil case and looked at the printout for instructions. It didn't take long for her to see that she had a problem. "How do you cut wires when there are no wires to cut?" she muttered under her breath. She let out a noisy sigh. Then she slapped her forehead. "I am such an idiot!" she exclaimed. If she wanted to get out of the building unnoticed, she had another option. She shoved the printout back into her pocket together with the wire cutter. She pulled on the thin gloves she'd been carrying in her other pocket against chilly spring mornings, even though she hadn't needed to wear them in nearly a month. And then, she placed both hands on the rounded lever bar of the emergency door and pushed.

The fire alarm sounded immediately, but she didn't pause. Instead, she darted out of the building and into the parking lot. She crouched down between the parked cars and waited. From her position, she could see the younger classes emerge through another door. The littler kids were taking advantage of the unexpected break to start running around outside, much to the consternation of their teachers who were trying to keep order and take attendance.

She waited until she was sure that nobody was paying attention before she turned around and, still hunched over, started running as best she could.

There was a small parkette a block away and she collapsed on a bench to catch her breath.

When the leather-gloved hand came down on her shoulder, she opened her mouth to scream, but the second hand clamped down over her mouth, stifling her cry.

This time, Hush kept them waiting a full fifteen minutes before he allowed them entrance to his office. It was all psychological. He wanted them to believe that they needed him far more than he needed them. He also didn't want them thinking for one moment that he was prepared to shrug off the Metropolis Massacre as some sort of job interview. No, it wasn't a question of whether they thought that he was fit to ally with them. Hush wanted to know whether they were fit to ally with him! And he had just the test, too…

When the two Intergang representatives entered, he ignored them, concealing his face behind the large computer monitor on his desk. He let them think that he was engrossed in some sort of report, even as he rotated the 'L'-shaped piece until it was on its side and moved it into position, eliminating another row. When he finally lost the Tetris game, he debated whether to start a new one, but—noting that his guests had been waiting patiently, not even clearing their throats in protest—decided he'd kept them waiting long enough. "Good day, gentlemen."

Halloran smiled and returned the greeting. "Have you thought about our proposal?"

"I've given it its due consideration," Hush nodded. "On paper, it's attractive. However, I am concerned about one thing: nowhere in your proposal did I note a plan for dealing with, how shall I put this? Um… caped interference?"

The shorter man, Tencer, shrugged. "Superman's in Metropolis. We've managed there. We'll manage here."

"How?" Hush demanded.

Halloran coughed. "Our higher-ups haven't seen fit to take us into their confidence, but one would think that if our organization can survive in a city with an alien who can fly, repel bullets, bend steel with his bare hands—"

"Yes, yes, I'm aware of his powers," Hush cut him off. "I'm also aware that he tends to hold back when dealing with non-meta threats. Our local contingent has no such scruples. They stop short of killing, but…" He held up his hands meaningfully. He'd left the bandages off today and the two long scars—legacies of the batarangs that had impaled them and ended his surgical career some three years earlier—were plainly visible. "I'd hardly consider them pushovers."

"Perhaps not for you," Halloran allowed. "We don't anticipate any problems."

Hush maintained his poker face, even as he seethed inwardly. "I'd like more assurances."

"Such as…?"

Behind his bandages, Hush smiled. "I'm sure you're aware that the original Batman is currently enrolled at the Police Academy. I'd like you to arrange for him to suffer some kind of accident. Something lingering; it doesn't have to be fatal, though I won't be upset if it turns out to be. Doing that will likely erode the alliance that the current Batman has made with a significant chunk of the Gotham underworld, as he'll be too preoccupied with his predecessor's fate to spare the Bressi coalition much thought."

"Yeah, but that's gonna bring him down on our necks," Tencer snapped.

"Well, yes," Hush admitted. "But then, you did say that you could deal with him, correct?" His voice hardened. "You want to convince me that you can make a serious bid for power in this city? You prove to me that when you say you can take out the Bats, it's more than just talk. And until it is more than just talk, gentlemen," his blue eyes turned steely, "I don't think there's anything else to discuss. After all," he added dryly, "a likely impossibility is always preferable to an unconvincing possibility." He looked from one to the other. "Now get the hell out of my office until you have something I want to hear."

He'd started another Tetris game before the door closed behind them.

Clara bit down on the glove and was rewarded by a stifled gasp. When she'd been a little bit younger, she'd once surprised a sleeping feral cat, thinking to take it home with her and adopt it. The cat had awakened instantly, fighting mad, hissing and spitting, and—in less than three seconds—it had been free and she'd had a bite between her thumb and forefinger and several long bleeding scratches on her arm. She remembered that now and tried to channel that sheer ferocity to get loose from her unknown assailant. Unfortunately, she was no cat and her attacker wasn't some stupid fourth-grader.

"Clara," a vaguely-familiar voice said, "stop."

Like hell. She twisted and struggled in her attacker's grip, sure that if she could do it just right, she'd be free. At the same time, she bit down harder on the glove.

"Clara," the voice sounded strained. "Not enemy. Won't hurt. I take hand away, you won't yell? Listen?"

Now she knew where she'd heard the voice before. It was the strange clipped English, uttered in a voice without a trace of a foreign accent that reminded her. She nodded tersely and relaxed her teeth's grip on the glove. The hand was withdrawn. "Batgirl?" she whispered.

"Yes." She tapped the back of the bench next to Clara. "Okay I sit?" she asked.

"Uh… sure."

The hand on her shoulder released her. A moment later, Batgirl joined her on the bench. "Didn't mean to scare," she said. "Saw you leave school. Figured you… didn't want others seeing. Afraid you might run."

Clara shrugged. "I wasn't scared," she lied. "What do you want?"

"What you want," Batgirl said. "Justice."

"Yeah, sure," Clara snorted. "Let me guess: it's gonna take time and I gotta be patient. Sheesh, you grownups are all alike."

"Not really."

Was that amusement in the masked woman's voice? "What's so funny?" she demanded.

"Not laughing," Batgirl clarified. "Not… at you. Don't… I mean, I don't hear people say I'm… like your family. Not… much."

Clara sighed. "You can say the M-word, you know."

"M-word?"

"Mob. Sheesh. It's like everyone knows but they're afraid if they say it, a bunch of guys with tommy-guns and trench coats will come bursting onto the scene, grab 'em, stick their feet in cement blocks and throw 'em in the harbor. I'm like, hello! It's not like that today." She sniffed. "Probably never was. Sorry. Old rant. What did you want to talk to me about?"

Batgirl hesitated. "What we do. Dangerous."

"Yeah, yeah." She'd heard this before a million times.

"Takes time. Practice. Pain."

"I know."

"Also… code."

"My family has one," she said. Then in an undertone, "at least, the grownups do. Nobody's ever spelled out for me what it is—besides 'don't be a snitch'."

"Mine is… no killing. Justice for everyone. Even if I think… they don't deserve. Let court decide."

Clara sniffed. "Yeah, how's that working out for you? Look, I get it. You're a Bat, so you're one of the good guys. I'm a Bressi, so I'm not. You think your way's better than ours? Let me tell you something: once it gets to the courts, it's not up to justice, it's up to who's got the slickest attorney—and my family? We've got the best. So we go through your justice system and get off and then we go out and dispense some real justice. Or, at least, the guys do. Or they say they're trying to. Your way? You find the creeps who killed my dad. Intergang lawyers 'em up and they either walk or they get sentenced to time served or they get a fine… or maybe, someone thinks they can actually get them facing something harder, but then the witnesses disappear. Or they chicken out. And then those guys get free and they get to do the same shi—" she hesitated. "The same… garbage again to some other guy. Our way? We stop 'em once and they never get to do it again. You really think your way's better?"

Batgirl took a deep breath. "Wasn't always… Bat." she said. "Wasn't always good guy." She tilted her head, questioning. "Good… girl? Woman?"

"Whatever."

"I do think my way is better," she said slowly. "Tried other first."

Clara blinked. "No way."

"Yes."

"Who? How? When?"

Cass sighed. "Don't know. Death strike. Long ago. I was younger. Than you. I think… maybe… eight." She sighed. "I know what you say makes sense." A lighter note came into her tone for a moment. "Maybe more sense than my… speech. Sorry. I… know how I… sound."

"It's not that bad," Clara said generously.

"Thanks. Practicing. I know," she repeated, "what you say makes sense. But sometimes… things can make sense and still be… wrong. Killing changes you. Not for good. It's not…" she hesitated. "Even if they deserve. You kill, it… punishes you too. Clara. Please. Don't. We will find them. Promise. May take time, but we will find."

"You came all the way here to tell me that?"

"Yes."

"Wow."

"Sorry I scared you."

"It's okay." Then she realized she'd just admitted to being scared when she'd denied it earlier. "Or it would be if I'd been scared," she added hastily. "Anything else?"

For a moment, she thought that Batgirl had more to say. Then, the masked woman shook her head. "Not now. But maybe… talk again? Better time?"

Clara blinked. "You want to talk to me. Again."

"Problem?"

She shook her head. "Uh… no. No, sure. I've got lunch at 12:30 every day. I can come here."

"Next week?"

She was serious. "Sure."

Batgirl rose to her feet and Clara followed suit. "Clara… why did you leave… school?"

Clara sighed. "I wanted to see if I could get away. I got away. But I guess I knew I'd have to go back and face the music sooner or later. Like before my prozio's driver comes to pick me up at three. May as well face it now."

She squared her shoulders and trotted off in the direction of the school.

Batgirl watched her go and shook her head slowly. Her gut feeling was that Clara needed a friend far more than she did a trainer right now. And it was too soon to tell if she would be willing to take on a new code in place of her family's. And Batgirl had no idea how to mentor anyone. But she knew scared and angry and lonely when she saw it. And since she had seen it, she was determined to do something about it. She only hoped that 'something' would be the right thing.

Maybe she needed to talk to somebody about this. Bruce would tell her to drop the idea. Dick probably would, too. From what she'd heard, Bruce had never gone looking for his Robins. They'd found him. Well, she'd found Clara, but she had no idea what Bruce had seen in the young men he'd taken in that had made him think they were right for the job.

What had made him choose her? She thought back. He'd known that she was Cain's protégé almost immediately. Barbara had probably told him that she was his daughter, too. Clearly being born into a family of killers wasn't necessarily an obstacle. Not when she'd made it clear from the beginning that she was against killing. Bruce had never disbelieved her values. How did Clara feel about killing? When they'd first grappled together, Cass had patted the younger girl down in the process. She'd carried no overt weapon—though she knew from Bruce's report that the girl carried certain items that could be used as weapons, such as cologne. Of course, Clara was still a child. It was possible that she would have carried a gun if she could have gotten her hands on one. Insufficient data. That was a term she'd heard Bruce use before. She had insufficient data to reach a conclusion.

She thought about Dick. He was an excellent teacher, but he'd had too many of his trainees—the ones he'd tried to teach long term; not the ones who'd come to him for help with a specific technique or maneuver—turn out to be trouble. Either they'd been criminals or they'd been reckless—and sometimes, both. It wasn't Dick's fault. Anyone could see that. Except Dick. He'd probably try to talk her out of training Clara, if only because he didn't want to see her get hurt if Clara disappointed her. And, of course, it would put him in an awkward position, so long as he was working with Bressi.

And Tim? Between Dodge and Stephanie, she didn't even want to try.

Barbara, then. Cass smiled. Barbara had approved of her even before Bruce had. She'd known about Cain. And she wasn't as tied to Bressi. If Barbara tried to convince her not to take Clara on as a student, then it would be with a clearer head and far less baggage than any of the others might have in this matter. And then, Barbara would tell Dick and she'd be right back where she started.

Cass groaned inwardly. There was no way to avoid it: no matter who she spoke to, somebody was going to try to talk her out of this. Maybe it was time to admit that they probably had good reasons for it.

Maybe it was time to rethink.

Batman and Huntress didn't work together often. It had little to do with their previous relationship; Dick had dated several teammates in the past and, even when the romance had failed, the working partnerships remained. (In Barbara's case, of course, the working partnership had eventually led to a rekindling of the romance.) No, the fact was that Dick's life currently revolved around Gotham and Helena's… didn't. She still worked here; Barbara had found her a part-time teaching position at the Gotham Academy, drilling the advanced gymnastics team. As a member of the Birds of Prey, however, she spent far more time away from the city than inside it. More than once, she'd only managed to keep up her teaching responsibilities with the help of the JLA transporter—a service that Black Canary, as current head of the League, was only too happy to provide.

Tonight was an exception, though. Huntress was back in town and, in Catwoman's absence, happy to do her part in keeping the local crime down. Particularly when it involved stopping the Mandragoras. Dick understood that. If Tony Zucco had lived and been out there tonight, then Batman would have been especially sure to single the mobster out for personal attention.

"Well?" he asked, as Huntress touched down lightly on the rooftop beside him.

Huntress sighed. "You want something I can prove, or you want my gut instinct?"

"I'll take what I can get."

From what he could see of her face under the mask, she was glowering. "Inzerillo's had it in for Panessa for over a decade. Ricky Mandragora—Roberto's youngest kid—could have been up on arson charges at least a dozen times, but his father knows the right palms to grease if you want embarrassing family problems to slide away. I'm not kidding about the embarrassing part. Ricky's got… issues. He's no Garfield Lynns, mind you; he doesn't use fire for artistic expression. But ever since he was about fourteen or so, it's been understood: you burn him, he burns you; usually with a gasoline soaked rag and a match. Roberto can usually keep him under control, but I'm thinking Inzerillo's trying to put his hobby to good—and I use the term loosely—use."

"But you don't have proof."

"Proof of arson? Yes. But you don't need me for that; the CSI report already confirms it. And five of Panessa's buildings going up in smoke in three days? There's no way that's accidental. But proof of Ricky? Don't I wish."

Dick sighed. "Meanwhile, I have other problems. According to Penguin, the gunmen responsible for the Metropolis Massacre are here. And under the agreement I've made with Bressi…"

Huntress smiled. "You know, your significant other does head up a team too—a team I'm actually affiliated with. And since, from what I hear, you're currently climbing the corporate ladder, might I make a business suggestion to you?" She paused for a beat. "Try outsourcing some of your operations. Quietly, of course. I can just about guarantee you that those guys will be looking at a whole world of hurt—but more along the lines of your style, rather than Bressi's."

Behind his cowl, Batman blinked. Then a broad smile spread his lips. "You realize that I can't know anything about the gunmen's whereabouts until those whereabouts turn out to be a holding cell. If Bressi even suspects I'm keeping this from him…"

"You won't be. Hell, right now, you can even say that you know they're in Gotham and you're trying to work out where. Tell Bressi you've got a source that's keeping a careful eye out for those guys and that this source will advise you when something turns up. Because she will. She'll just give her other team a one-hour head start, is all." She blinked. "Could you please not grin when you're wearing that cowl?" she demanded. "It looks positively creepy."

Batman's smile grew even wider.

He was still smiling when he slipped into Oracle's office later that night, right up until the moment that Barbara wheeled away from her console, her lips pressed firmly together and her knuckles white around the arms of her chair.

He steeled himself before he asked, "Is something wrong?"

Barbara took a deep breath. "You could say that," she said. "I got some intel earlier. Based on what I've learned tonight, your alliance with Bressi might be getting set to implode any time, now."