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

"I Take My Chances" written and performed by Mary Chapin Carpenter on her Come On, Come On album (Columbia, 1992).

Now some people say that you shouldn't tempt fate
And for them I would not disagree
But I never learned nothing from playing it safe
I say fate should not tempt me

I take my chances…

—Mary Chapin Carpenter, "I Take My Chances"

Chapter 48—Tempting Fate and Taking Chances

"She did what?" Dick exclaimed, sounding, for once, not unlike Bruce when facing down one of Gotham's worst.

Barbara sighed. "Judging by your tone, I think you heard me. She's offering to… help Clara Bressi. From the sound of things, the kid's already striking out on her own. Cass says she's trying to keep her safe, and I believe her. Even so..."

"Even so," Dick snapped, "there is no way that this ends well. Even if she weren't Bressi's grand-niece, even if she weren't connected to the mob, even if she wasn't probably brought up to consider murder as a viable option in certain cases, she is a minor and the police know who I am. If I'm seen with a twelve-year-old partner, then it's a tossup who nails me first: Bressi or Sawyer."

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "How did we get from Cass training Clara to your getting a new Robin?"

"How did we get from Tim palling around with Stephanie to Bruce getting a new Robin to Black Mask torturing her and killing her? It doesn't matter whether I get a new partner or Cass does. Sawyer's right to see us as a team, and me as team leader. In Sawyer's eyes, in Bressi's eyes, if any of us take on a kid partner, it might as well be me—or we might as well be saying I can't control my people."

"Well, you can't," Barbara pointed out.

"Excuse me?"

"You can't control us. We stick with you of our own free will because you almost always know what you're doing. I'm pretty sure you do, now. But at the end of the day, if we choose not to follow you, there's not much you can do to keep us in line. I mean… you can pull a full-Bruce and kick us out of the Caves or tell us we can't wear the costumes. Think back a few years, Dick, and tell me how well that worked on you."

"Whose side are you on?" Dick demanded, his anger yielding partially to bewilderment.

Barbara sighed. "Both. Neither. I don't know. I do know what it's like to want justice and not think it's going to happen through the courts. So do you," she added. "I also know," she let out a noisy sigh, "what happened to Spoiler. So does Cass. I think… she sees a lot of Steph in Clara. At least, from the way Cass described her… she might as well have been talking about Steph. And there are a couple of parallels."

"Cluemaster didn't head up a mob family."

"I know. But on another note, neither did David Cain."

Dick froze.

"If Cain hadn't backed away when Cass made it clear she wanted to be with us, would Bruce have sent her off out of concern that Cain would come after us? Would you?"

Dick shook his head. "It didn't happen that way."

"No… but it could have. Right now, there's a kid out there who lost a parent to mob violence, who's already putting on a homemade costume and trying to track down the person who did it, because she has no reason to believe that the law will handle it. Does any of that sound familiar to you?"

"Do NOT compare any of this to Zucco!" Dick said furiously.

Barbara sighed. "I was actually thinking about how Bruce started out. You're right, though. That's another parallel." When Dick didn't respond, she pressed on. "There's a hell of a lot we don't know about her. We don't know whether her brand of justice involves killing. We don't know if she's got what it takes to join us, or whether she should be joining us. We don't know what kinds of skills she has. We don't even know if she'll hang up that homemade costume the day the men who killed her father face justice. But there's one thing I do know: she's going out there now, with or without our blessing. If we don't help her and anything should happen to her…"

"What? Cass will never forgive me?"

"No," Barbara sighed. "I think she will. But if you order her to back down, she obeys, and Clara suffers, she'll never forgive herself."

Dick sighed. "She won't, will she? All right. Fine. Huntress said something earlier about outsourcing some of my jobs to the Birds. Mind taking Cass on temporary assignment? Have her work with Huntress. And see if Huntress can put herself into a position where she can assess what's going on with Clara. If she thinks there's something there, and if she takes lead on training her, that makes it a bit more palatable. I don't have Sawyer giving me grief. I have something verging on plausible deniability with Bressi…"

"Helena Bertinelli might have a reason to sit at Bressi's table with her surviving family members. It's possible that Bressi's being as open with you as he can be, but still not as open as he would be with the families. Helena being part of that could work in our favor. Especially since they don't know she's got a thing for skin-tight purple leotards with matching capes."

"Now why didn't we think of that sooner?" Dick asked, smiling for the first time. He sobered quickly. "You'll sound her out? On both aspects?"

"First thing tomorrow."

Dick sighed. "I still don't like involving a kid."

"To hear Cass tell it, the kid is involving herself."

Dick's brow furrowed. "Kids today are completely out of control."

"I don't think that's really changed all that much since our day." She smiled. "I had a couple of people trying to rein me in, too. Couple of really pigheaded guys, if I remember right. Stubborn like you wouldn't believe. But, eventually, they came to see reason."

"By which you mean that we came to see things your way."

Barbara shrugged. "Tomayto, tomahto."

Dick chuckled. Then he bent down and pulled her gently in for a kiss.

"So," Enrico Inzerillo concluded his pitch, "I'm offering for you and your… patron to come in with me and forge an alliance against the outsiders looking to tear apart this fair city of ours. We get a few more interests involved, like the Mandragoras, Devlin Davenport, maybe Nicky Moxon's crew. And then, when we've sent Intergang packing, maybe we can even squeeze out Bressi's boys and it all falls to us. I've had my eye on youse for a while, kid. You're smart. Plus you're a real go-getter. You remind me a lot of me when I was your age. I know you're looking for a piece of the action, and I'm happy to deliver. So, whaddaya say?"

Mr. Fixx regarded nervous mobster solemnly for a moment. Enrico Inzerillo didn't look as though he'd had a good night's sleep in days. His fingernails were ragged, and he was unwrapping his third piece of nicotine gum in the last half hour. Fixx smiled genially and Inzerillo responded in kind, not quite able to hide his relief. Fixx waited for the mobster to relax.

Then he laughed in his face.

"You must be so desperate right now," Fixx said, still chuckling, "that I can't even be insulted that you think I'm dumb enough to join up with you. If you're looking for stooges who don't know how badly you've bungled your life, I think you'll have better luck if you try…" he frowned, thinking, "um…" He shrugged apologetically. "Maybe, try Opal City? Cloister, Vermont? Fairfax, Maine?" He shook his head. "No, come to think of it, they probably know your situation out there by now. Hmmm…" He frowned for a moment, pretending to ponder. Then he brightened. "Wait. I've got it. Enrico… I can call you 'Enrico', right?" Without waiting for an answer, he pulled out a pen and started scribbling on a napkin. "Here's what you're going to do. You're going to book yourself an air ticket from Gotham to Ushuaia, Argentina."

"What?" Inzerillo asked faintly.

Fixx smiled. "Hear me out. From Ushuaia, you're going to get on a boat. I think there's a cruise line… yeah, Ocean Expeditions—that's it. You leave with them and they'll take you on a tour of the south Atlantic. You'll sail across the Drake Passage and make a few stops along the way… South Georgia, Gough Island, Tristan da Cunha… and then, after you've been at sea for about three weeks, you'll arrive at St. Helena. Now, on St. Helena, in Jamestown, you go to the Consulate Hotel. Go into the bar area. You'll see a middle-aged man with curly gray hair in a pea-green overcoat, answers to the name of 'Salty'. And I can just about guarantee you that Salty has NO idea whatsoever how badly screwed you are right now. Talk to him about your little business venture." He looked down solemnly at his watch. "But I'd leave for the airport now. Because news travels fast and it's only a matter of time until it reaches even an isolated backwater like St. Helena."

A burst of laughter startled the mobster and he whirled to find that customers at several nearby tables had clearly been eavesdropping. As Inzerillo's face slowly reddened, they began to applaud.

The mobster got up angrily from his seat. "This isn't over!" he blustered. "Nobody talks like that to Enrico Inzerillo! Nobody!" Then he whirled and stomped out of the Iceberg, more laughter ringing in his ears.

Fixx sighed. "And he said he was paying for my drink," he said with mock sorrow to nobody in particular. "Ah, well."

Several patrons immediately offered to cover him.

Barbara sometimes wondered whether, despite being the information broker for the entire 'hero community', she wasn't occasionally being taken for granted. "You know, Harper," she mock-growled, "there's this amazing reference aid that's existed for a few years now called the internet? You must have heard of it."

On her viewscreen, Roy Harper grinned. "If I hadn't, I wouldn't be able to take this course online, would I?" he asked. His smile fell away. "It's not my fault that the addiction center wants all of its counseling staff to be certified now. At least they're paying for the courses."

"And they're expecting you to do your own homework, right?"

"Come on, Computer Geek Barbie, if the college wasn't in California, I'd be in their library, at their reference desk, bugging their staff. But since I'm taking the certification online… shouldn't I be asking for help from the greatest online librarian who ever lived?"

Barbara groaned. "I don't know what's worse," she grumbled. "That you're bugging me instead of using Giggle, or that you just called me 'Computer Geek Barbie' to my face."

"Or that my flattery is working on you?"

Barbara made a face. "More like my hero drive is kicking in, activating my urge to rescue the helpless and downtrodden. What do you need?"

As Roy started to explain, a soft beep drew Barbara's attention to another monitor. She debated whether to open the message now or wait until later. Cobblepot's tips were usually good, but they were sometimes extremely time-sensitive. She supposed it was his way of passing on a tip while safeguarding the interests of his frequent patrons. A few weeks ago, he had messaged her at 8:45PM to let her know of a drug shipment due to arrive at Miller Pier—at 9. If she had let the communication sit for even a few minutes, Tim would have missed the opportunity to intercept it before it could get out on the streets. With a mental sigh, she opened the email.

My Dear Oracle,

I trust that this finds you as well as it leaves me. I thought that you might wish to be aware of some rather unfortunate developments with regard to one Enrico Inzerillo. The man was humiliated at my establishment yesterday evening and it's been my experience that desperate individuals frequently take desperate measures.

While we generally occupy opposite ends of the playing field, I believe that we can come together on one salient point: any desperate measures taken by loose cannons at this juncture—or, perhaps, any juncture—will serve to violently upset the delicate balance that your people and mine are striving to maintain. I trust that you and yours will take the necessary measures to prevent this occurrence.

Your humble servant,

O. Cobblepot, Esq.

There was an attachment with the message: a ninety-second video clip from one of the Iceberg's security feeds. No audio, but the cameras gave her a clear view of the speaker's face and lip-reading was a skill she'd perfected years ago. As she deciphered the words that Inzerillo's table companion was speaking, Barbara groaned. 'Delicate balance' was right. Dick was going to love this.

"Red? Everything okay?" Roy was still on her screen, looking more serious than he had a moment ago. "Bad news?"

She shook her head. "No… more like yesterday's news—which might be worse than I thought it was yesterday."

"Huh?"

"Penguin's covering his well-feathered butt." She filled him in on the details. "Don't suppose you're up for coming in and stopping an idiot from doing something even more stupid?"

Roy shrugged. "Why not? This course is distance ed. I can log in anywhere." His lips twitched. "So… you prioritize Penguin's calls over mine, huh?"

"Well," Barbara feigned nonchalance, "his intel is usually pretty good. And…" She let her voice trail off and started counting down fifteen seconds.

Right on cue, Roy prompted her. "And…?"

She broke into a grin. "And he has yet to call me 'Computer Geek Barbie'."

Batman dropped in on Bressi the next evening. "It appears that we have a mutual problem," he said dryly.

Bressi was in a good mood. "Oh?" He poured himself a glass of red wine. "Care for some?" he asked, half-rising to go to the sideboard for an empty glass.

"No thanks," Dick replied. "Alcohol doesn't exactly mix well with judgment or coordination."

Bressi set down the bottle, but didn't lift the glass. "Hm," he grunted, not at all offended. "Maybe I should hear what's on your mind before I indulge, then."

"Probably smart," Batman said. "I don't need to remind you that when I decided to forge an alliance to help contain the Intergang threat, your name wasn't the first on my list of people to approach." He smiled. "It wasn't the last, either."

"I've heard Inzerillo's been doing some sweating outside of the Broome Street Sauna," Bressi shrugged. "Made a scene in the Iceberg the other night, too."

Batman nodded. "So, you know then. He's getting panicky. And panicky people make the kinds of mistakes that ignite the situation we're trying to keep a lid on."

"You know something?" Bressi asked.

"I know he's trying to forge an alliance now. Penguin turned him down. So did a bunch of other people afterwards. That," his lips twitched, "was kind of what I was concerned about when I approached you: the more people who turn me down, the weaker my idea looks."

"So, if I'd rejected you, you might've gone approaching little cugines like that Fixx kid? I don't think you're that stupid. Snot-nosed little punks like Micky Fixx—who ain't fooling nobody into thinking he's a bigshot, just 'cuz he demands to be called Mister—they keep a lid on their ambitions, don't move too quick," he shrugged, "yeah, give him ten to fifteen years or so, let him pay his dues, make some contacts, and he might get his hands on some power in this city. If he's smart, stays patient, shows some respect, does a few favors for people with long memories, yeah, he could end up running something. Most kids like that, mind you, they don't stay patient for long enough. They want it all to come falling into their laps too much, too soon, and they start taking steps to make it happen. Then, one day, they walk down the wrong street and… they get unlucky. Catch a stray bullet in a gangland shooting, go sleepwalking and take a dive offa Miller Pier, cross against the light… plenty of ways for a person to go if they ain't careful."

Batman frowned. "And you handle that stuff."

Bressi laughed. "Me? I'm careful. I know where to walk and I know when to push and how hard. More important? I know when to walk away. You see, Batman, I'm a realist. Today—you and me? We're a team. Hey, in the Big Deuce, we got pretty chummy with the Russkies. Common enemy, common ground, only makes sense to unite against a force neither of us wants to see here. Once that war's over, we probably go back to trying to kill each other… Oh, right. You don't kill. So, you'll try to kill my business instead of me. Fine. I'm watching you just as close as you're watching me, trying to learn something about you that might give me an edge for my…" he laughed. "Let's call a spade a spade. My sudden but inevitable betrayal. And when it happens," he smiled ruefully, "there's always a slim chance it'll be when you really aren't expecting it. Probably won't work out that way, but a man can dream."

"You sure it's wise to be telling me this?" Batman asked with more than a hint of good humor.

"Hey, if you didn't already suspect I was thinking this way, you're not as smart as I thought and taking you down will be easier than I expect."

Batman winced. "I don't suppose that drink offer's still open?" he deadpanned. Bressi shrugged and started for the sideboard again, but Batman waved him back. "I wasn't serious. I am about Inzerillo, though. He might just be desperate enough to try something completely and utterly imbecilic." A thought struck him then and he weighed it experimentally before continuing. "I'd keep a closer eye on those kids you're looking after."

Bressi sucked in his breath. "You think…"

"I worry. When you want to hurt someone, you strike at what's most important to them. And Inzerillo definitely wants to hurt you. He might come after your business interests. He might just show up pretending to want to parley and pull a gun, figuring to take out as many of you as he can before you start fighting back."

"Or he might go after people who aren't part of this," Bressi said, nodding slowly. "The kids are in public school. During the day, they're vulnerable. It might not be a bad thing if I hired tutors, got them learning at home for the next little while."

Batman smiled. "It's something to consider."

And if Bressi was keeping a closer eye on those kids, then maybe the younger one would stop sneaking off and running the risk of getting into real trouble. So much for the easy part, he reflected. He took another breath. "There's more."

Years ago, Clara Bressi had found out by accident that there was a hidden passage in her great uncle's basement. She'd been visiting, when he'd been called away to a business meeting. He'd apologized for having to leave and suggested that she go into the games room and play some pinball. (Aunt Nadia had been home, but she'd had her mah-jong group over and couldn't spend time with her.) Neither pinball nor Pac-Man had held Clara's interest for long and she'd been walking aimlessly around the room, trailing one hand along the paneled wall, when she'd noticed that one of those panels wasn't flush with the others. When she'd examined it more closely, she'd realized that it was loose. Intrigued, she had pried it off and had seen a dim hallway behind it. Curiosity had gotten the better of her and she'd started down it. The floor was concrete and the walls were cinderblock. Dim fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling had provided enough illumination to see where she was going. At intervals, she'd come upon doors, each one located next to a louvered air vent and a window. At first, she'd been puzzled. There were no windows looking into the hallway from any of the basement rooms she knew of. Then she'd realized what it had to be. The games room boasted a good-sized mirror on one wall. She'd doubled back to confirm it: there was a window right behind where the mirror should have been and through it, she could see the room she'd just left. A one-way mirror next to a vent would mean that someone standing in this hallway could see and hear anything going on in the games room—and she would have bet that the whole basement was set up this way! Further exploration had proven her right.

She'd never mentioned her discovery to anyone, but on later visits, she'd used the passageway often, and learned a few things about her great uncle that she might not have found out otherwise. Both her father and Uncle Tony ("I'm not so great," he'd smiled, when he'd told her that she didn't have to refer to him as her great uncle) had tried to shield her from the knowledge about where their money and influence really came from. She'd known since she was ten.

There had been only two occasions when she'd nearly been discovered. Uncle Tony had a private office down here, although he usually preferred to have his guards inside the room with him in a show of strength, instead of observing from the passageway. The only times she'd heard footsteps coming down the passage, she'd quickly opened one of the other doors and slipped through. Once, she'd found herself in the garage; the other time, the laundry room. Each time, she'd resolved not to use the passage again. Each time, her resolve had only lasted until her next visit. These days, she used the passage not to spy, but mostly to get away when she wanted to be undisturbed.

She hadn't meant to lurk outside Uncle Tony's office. She hadn't known that he was in it. And she certainly hadn't realized that Batman was there, too. Once she knew he was, though, she'd simply had to listen to the conversation. That was how she'd found out that her grounding was about to take a turn for the worse. Until now, she'd at least enjoyed some freedom at school. Now, even if Bruno decided that he could trust her again, she'd still be confined to the estate until further notice. That was bad enough. Then her ears pricked up.

"…Their names are Halloran and Tencer," Batman was saying. "They're definitely in Gotham, but they're moving around. I have an… associate…" Here, Clara was positive that he was trying not to laugh. She could guess why. For a guy who was supposed to be against everything her family stood for, he sure talked like one of them. He had to know it, too. "…who's trying to pinpoint their base of operations. I'll keep you in the loop."

"Check the Scituate," her uncle rumbled, "and the Hill. You're not the only guy with ears in this town. And we both know that sooner or later, everyone tries the Iceberg. Just let me know when you've located them and we'll take it from there."

Batman didn't reply.

Clara slumped to the floor, her back to the passage wall. She had a pretty good idea that Batman wasn't going to tell her uncle anything. He was going to let the police handle it, and the killers would either get out on bail and disappear, or they'd get some slick lawyer and be out on the streets again in no time. Her head snapped up angrily. There was no way that she was going to sit back and let that happen!

As she made her way back down the passageway, she was already formulating a plan for getting off of the estate grounds.

Cicero Tencer was a powerfully-built man, given to wearing lycra-blend shirts that showed off his biceps, and an expression halfway between a smile and a smirk that almost dared people to start up with him. His pat-down was thorough and professional. "He's clean," he remarked to his partner.

Joe Halloran relaxed. While he was certainly no slouch in the fitness department either, he found the weight of the pistol in his belt, casually concealed beneath his suit jacket, to be reassuring. Unlike Tencer's, his smile was genial. "All right, Inzerillo," he said. "Talk."

Enrico Inzerillo cleared his throat. "I want to cut a deal with Intergang."

The two other men exchanged a knowing glance. Tencer's smirk deepened. "What are you offering us?" he asked, chuckling slightly.

Inzerillo wiped his hands on his suit. "I handle pharmaceutical imports," he proclaimed. "Mostly product from Colombia. The shippers know me and mine. They're used to dealing with me. And there are certain peculiarities to the Gotham market that you might not be familiar with, coming from Metropolis and all. I can train your people, show them the ropes, make some introductions… In return, I keep my monopoly and Intergang gets forty percent of my gross. Also, I work with the other families, the ones who haven't gotten suckered in by Bressi's boys, to spin your entry into the Gotham markets as a win-win for all concerned."

Halloran's eyebrows shot up. "I can pass that information along to my superiors," he mused. "They'll consider your proposal and direct us on our next move. However, if you could demonstrate your commitment to smoothing Intergang's way in a fashion that's a bit more…" he paused, trying to find the right word, "…concrete?"

Inzerillo blanched. "Wh-what d'you mean?"

Tencer sighed. "Not that kind of concrete," he said disgustedly. "Sheesh, are you guys still doing the whole 'cement shoes' business in this day and age? We mean 'concrete', as in 'not abstract'. As in, you talk a good game, but how well do you walk it?"

"Oh!" Inzerillo almost laughed in relief. "What did you guys have in mind?"

Halloran smiled. "We'd like you to remove someone who's likely to become quite the thorn in our sides. If you'll just walk over here," he motioned toward a large corkboard against the far wall, with a map of the city and surrounding suburbs tacked dead center. "This…" he jabbed at a red circle just outside the northern city limits, "is the Gotham City Police Academy…"

"It's almost May," Selina lamented on Bruce's viewscreen. "I really thought we'd be back in Gotham by now."

Bruce shook his head. "I had hopes for the same," he admitted. "But the situation has escalated."

"I know," Selina sighed. "On the plus side, I've landed something part-time with the Great Cats Preservation Fund. Mostly, I'm answering questions over the phone, sending out brochures—it's all inbound."

Bruce's eyebrows shot up, but all he replied was, "I know that's one cause about which you're passionate."

Selina tilted her head to one side. "You know," she said, "most people don't think it's criminal to end a sentence with a preposition anymore. Or is that one still on the books in Gotham?"

Bruce's lips twitched. "My grammar lessons were more… old-school. It's good that you're staying busy," Bruce allowed himself a guarded smile, "so long as it makes you happy."

Her face fell. "It doesn't. It keeps me from climbing the walls. There's a difference. I'm not looking to settle in here. At the same time, I can't just hang around, mooching off of Wally and Linda." She held up a warning hand. "And don't offer to send them money; that's not my point. I need to be out there doing stuff. I'm not needed here; the two Flashes have the whole Central-Keystone area sewn up and I can't keep pace with them. I love our daughter, but I need some time away from her and Jai and Iris don't mind babysitting. They've really been good with her. The fund needs me—their customer service department has a high turnover and I'm one of the few people working there who can answer something like 95 per cent of caller inquiries without having to put them on hold and look the stuff up. So, I pay the kids to babysit and pick up some of the groceries. I'm out of the house for twenty hours a week. And," she smiled, "when the time comes that it's safe to go back to Gotham, I'll be able to pull up stakes in no time."

Bruce smiled back. "Soon." It sounded uncharacteristically like a plea.

"Soon," Selina echoed.

Clara had never been in the northern part of the city before. She'd been driven through it—until recently, she'd been living in Irving Grove, a suburb north of the city limits. Living with Uncle Tony meant living in south Gotham, not far from Cathedral Square. She was getting used to it—it was one of the better neighborhoods in the city proper—but once she left Uncle Tony's house, the area still didn't feel like home. The house was starting to—she'd been visiting it for as far back as she could remember. Sometimes, it was easier to pretend that she was only there for a few days, while her parents were on vacation.

Now, as she walked down a narrow street in a light drizzle, she smelled the sickly-sweet odor of rotting fruit, the earthy smell of wet cardboard boxes awaiting recycling pick-up on the sidewalk, the reek of cigarette smoke—and smoke from a different type of cigarette, one which her uncle had told her in no uncertain terms to steer clear of—to say nothing of old fish, cheap perfume, and diesel fumes, belched by a passing bus. She blinked and looked up to see several women, some in tight pants, others in short skirts. Their tops were tight and low-cut and they sported boas of fur or feathers. A couple of them were smoking. All of them wore too much makeup.

"What're you staring at, kid?" one demanded of her.

"Nothing!" she shot back, looking down quickly and hastening her pace. Raucous laughter rang out and she felt her face grow hot. She knew about women like this, of course. She'd heard the whispers, the dirty jokes, the nasty comments directed against girls in her class—girls who'd started developing early or girls who were too friendly, or girls who were too quiet. Basically, girls who didn't want to be around the people making those comments. She'd never joined in, but she'd never defended anyone either. She risked glancing back over her shoulder at the cluster of women. They weren't paying any more attention to her. From a distance, they might have been high school girls hanging out and sneaking smokes.

She kept walking.

After she'd walked what felt like about a hundred blocks west, she realized that the rundown housing had disappeared, replaced by one-story buildings that reminded her a bit of warehouses—or the trailers she'd heard about that had been converted into classrooms at some of the more overcrowded public schools. Signage on the front lawns or over the entranceways proclaimed the names of stores and brand-names, many of them familiar to her, but these buildings didn't strike her as retail stores. As she was crossing the street, she looked to her left and smiled, recognizing the domed roof of Knights Stadium. She was in the Scituate, then. She looked around, thinking. How in the world was she supposed to find the two men from Intergang?

She frowned. It was one thing to find a runaway youth trying to get accepted by one of the local street gangs by pretending to be part of Intergang, get the drop on him, and get him to talk. It was another to take on hardened killers. She took a deep breath. Bruno had been right. This wasn't a game and she was in over her head. She looked up at the dark sky. By now, someone would have noticed that she was gone. And after Batman's warning, Uncle Tony would probably have the whole Family—Family with a capital 'F' out searching for her, when they ought to be searching for Intergang. She had to go back. She closed her eyes. She couldn't go back, not like this. She had to do something to make this evening something other than a total loss.

Inspiration struck her. She knew she wasn't ready to take on Intergang by herself, but if she could find out where the killers were hiding out and tell her uncle, then he'd take care of the killers. Maybe even tonight! And she was already getting an idea of how she might find those losers…

The beefy man in the muscle tee and denims looked her up and down as she approached the bar. "No point even trying to show me ID, little girl. There's no way you're legal."

Clara hoped the bartender couldn't tell how bad she was sweating. And maybe she was only imagining that her knees were knocking together hard enough to muffle her chattering teeth. She'd been rehearsing her line in her head for the last ten blocks. Think confident. Think cool. Think savvy. "I know," she said. Fast. She was speaking too quickly. Her nervousness was showing. "I got a message for two guys I think might be here. I-I can wait outside."

"Got names?" the bartender demanded. "Or descriptions?"

Clara swallowed. "All I know's they're from Metropolis and they were talking with…" she lowered her voice to a whisper, "with Micky Fixx." Actually, she wasn't sure about that last part, but it occurred to her that if Intergang was smart, they wouldn't try to cut a deal with the Families—not after what they'd pulled in Metropolis. And if they were smart, then they wouldn't be teaming up with the likes of Joker or Riddler, either. So, that left 'little cugines, like that Fixx kid'. People who knew how things worked in the city, but didn't have what it took to make a bid for power on their own. And if they weren't smart… then she probably didn't have to worry anyway.

The bartender snorted loudly. "And you think they're here," he said.

"Uh," Clara forced herself to meet his eyes. "I thought they could be."

The bartender's expression hardened. "Look, kid, I don't know what you're playing at, but the only time we ever check ID is when we suspect someone's underage. Without checking ID, we've got no way of telling who's local and who's visiting. For all I know, everyone here tonight is visiting from Metropolis, but I'm not going to ask. And neither are you. As for that name you mentioned? I won't insult you by pretending that I've never heard it. Maybe he's been here; maybe he hasn't. I don't know. Wouldn't tell you if I did. But I do know that anyone involved with him? Won't be doing business in here. This isn't a place where people come to gawk at the clientele. You want that? Try the Iceberg—after you've grown up some. Now, scram."

Look tough, she told herself. Look like someone they won't want to start anything with. Look… Who the hell did she think she was kidding? She turned and all but ran out of the bar. As the door closed, she heard laughter and tried to tell herself it had nothing to do with her.

Out on the pavement, her shoulders slumped. This was the fifth dive she'd been inside. With some of the others, she hadn't even made it through the front door without getting turned away by a bouncer. She reached into her pocket, fingered her subway token, and let out a long sigh. This was pointless. She might as well head back.

She was on the platform, waiting for the southbound train, and idly looking at the subway map, when her gaze locked on one of the station names. The Iceberg Lounge was in the Diamond district. The Diamond district was two subway stops north of her destination. She considered. She was still considering several minutes later, when the train arrived. She wasn't sure that she was going to make one final attempt to find the gunmen tonight, until she found herself getting off the train two stops too soon.

The uniformed doorman moved to block her path as she started up the canopied walkway to the Iceberg Lounge's entrance. Clara's feet were hurting. Her light jacket, which had been fine earlier, wasn't giving her enough warmth on this spring evening. And Uncle Tony was probably going to kill her when she went back. "Please," she said quickly, horrified to feel tears welling up in her eyes, "please, I gotta talk to a guy I think is in there."

"Nobody under eighteen allowed on the premises," the doorman replied in a monotone.

"Could you take a message in for me?" she persisted.

The doorman didn't answer. He just stared down at her. Under his steely fishy eyes, Clara felt every one of the fourteen inches difference between his height and hers. She felt very young, very inexperienced, and very foolish. She took a step backwards. "Please. It's important. I gotta talk to Micky—I mean, Mister Fixx. It's about…" What was it about? Had he been talking to Intergang? Was he going to be? Would he give her the time of day? "N-never mind," she whispered, turning on her heel. She didn't have a plan. She'd just wasted about three or four hours, looking for a guy, with no clue what to do if she found him. She was an idiot and Uncle Tony was going be furious, and the longer she stayed out, the worse it was going to be when she finally came home.

She looked up to see that she was facing a short line that had formed behind her while she'd been talking. Terrific. She lowered her eyes again and started walking past them, willing herself not to run.

A hand reached out and caught at her arm. "Hey, kid," a voice said, "hold it."

She looked up into the dark brown eyes of a young man in a business suit. "Let go of me," she snapped, trying to pull her arm back.

He smiled. "Forgive me, miss," he said politely, walking alongside her, "but I couldn't help overhearing that you seem to be in some sort of distress. And, if you don't mind my saying so, it's a bit late to be out by yourself. Maybe I could give you a lift to wherever it is you're going?"

Clara wasn't sure if he was following her lead, or trying to steer her. Her eyes narrowed. She was cold, she was tired, and she was nearly at the end of her rope, but that didn't mean that she was dumb enough to get into a stranger's car. "I'm fine, Mister," she said. "Thanks." She tried again to pull free.

The man sighed. "I really didn't want to do it this way," he said, pulling back his open jacket just far enough for her to see the pistol he had holstered at his waist. "It would have been better if you'd just gotten into the car, Clara. Now," his voice hardened, "if you don't come quietly, I'm going to have no choice but to contact the man I've got at your prozio's home and tell him to put a bullet in your brother's head."

Clara froze.

The man smiled. "We've been watching your prozio for a little while now, trying to figure out the best way to move against him. I wasn't expecting one of you kids to go out for a stroll unescorted, but I'm sure you can appreciate that you, young lady, represent an unexpected bit of leverage that we never expected would fall into our laps. Now smile. Walk natural, and keep your mouth shut until we're in the car."

Clara closed her eyes, nodded, and tried to force herself to smile. She felt detached, as though it was someone else being taken by the arm and led along the sidewalk to a waiting black sedan with tinted windows. As though it was someone else getting into the back when a uniformed chauffeur held the door for her. As though it was someone else hearing the power locks engage, trapping her in the back seat with the gunman.

"Put your seatbelt on, Clara. I'd hate for anything to have to happen to you."

She complied numbly.

"Let's go home, Angelo," he instructed the chauffeur.

The man in the front seat nodded. "Right away, Mr. Mandragora."

As the car pulled away from the curb, Clara turned her face to the window and tried her best not to cry.