Author's Note: Christmas Eve begins in the evening. This has been published before seven p.m. Greenwich Mean Time so I have kept my promise to deliver this third part before Christmas Eve is upon me. With Comfort 3, the middle portion of this text can be construed as a little dry, but that is the nature of true detective work and investigation. I do not rush endings. They form the most important part of a story. Without a good ending, all that comes before it is rendered immaterial. Although there is a final part of this story to come, this particular ending has caused me a great deal of discomfort. No matter…
Comfort 3
The cave is home to nothing. It holds all manner of machine and trophy, pays homage to the spirit of my crusade and mission, but it is not a home. Even the bats only nest here when no other suitable grounds are available. The cave is and always has been a place of work. Operations and patrols are planned and coordinated in these dark recesses, cases both current and cold are reasoned out within its hollow confines and armaments are collected for battle. The cave is not a place for emotion or sentiment or relaxation.
Or so it was meant to be.
When it was first outfitted for its current use, I never intended to adorn it with mementos from personal triumphs. I told myself it would be wrong to revel in my own achievements. Such egotistical behaviour would diminish my effectiveness, make me relax unjustly. This belief was proven to be mistaken. If anything, the advantage of seeing my achievements reflected in items all around me has improved my efficiency. I feel a sense of obligation and duty to my past glories, a pressure to perform that only drives me further forward when I see these objects.
But it was only with the boy's arrival and subsequent induction into my world that the cave became more. All Dick's basic training occurred in this empty space. From hand-to-hand combat to firearms training to weapon recognition and all the way through to criminology studies, the cave has witnessed every emotion and feeling the boy had to offer. It has suffered his anger and frustration. It has rejoiced in his pleasure and enthusiasm. It has mourned his every failure and basked in his every triumph. And through the boy's training the cave's emptiness has been filled with memories and experiences, emotions and attachments. It has become my sanctuary from the world outside. Yes, the cave is still home to nothing…but only when we are absent.
I carry the boy down the steps leading to the cave. Because of the steep descent, it is necessary to carry him with one arm and to the side of my body. I must be able to see the drop and oncoming steps or risk falling.
"When are you going to put an elevator in here?" Dick inquires once we are nearing the base of the stairs. "I'm just thinking of quick access to the cave. Hey, you know what would be a fun and more time-effective mode of travel to the cave? Fireman's poles! Think about it; how cool would it be to just slide down a pole into the cave?"
"I will consider your proposals." I reply whilst setting him down on the now level ground. The boy's maturity seems to fluctuate from time to time. His childish inclinations may at first appear to be nothing but fantasy. However, it is now increasingly the case these ideas have merit. Poles for access to the cave are not a bad suggestion, nor is the installation of an elevator system for when injuries make traditional access impossible. Regardless of his mood, Dick is smart and very imaginative. I greatly enjoy his company.
"So where do you want to start looking, Boss?" The boy asks once he is seated in my chair. I elect to stand.
"We need to begin by examining all the gang affiliations our arrests last night were associated with." I hear Dick let out a deflated sigh.
"We must've bagged close to thirty goons last night and, I don't know about you, but I wasn't taking down any of their names for later reference. All gangsters look alike to me."
"So what do we do in a situation like this? What is our usual move if we do not have the intelligence?"
Without looking, I know the boy has just rolled his eyes and nodded in understanding. "We get it from somewhere else, like the GCPD booking database." I pat him on the shoulder.
"Start hacking."
Dick is highly adept at computer hacking. He has devoted many hours to developing the range and competence of the skill so that our access to information of any kind is virtually limitless. It is therefore no surprise that he is able to bypass the GCPD firewall and logon features in less than a few minutes. The record is fifty-two seconds and it is mine. He still has much to learn.
"We got our names. Twenty-seven guys were processed last night by GCPD at eleven-forty P.M." The boy informs me as he toggles the screen to display the list in full. There are many names I recognize from past dealings.
"Run a cross-reference with the known-gang affiliate's database. I want numbers for each gang."
"No problemo, big guy." Dick begins to cross-reference the wrong database before realizing his mistake. "Sorry about that. Guess my head is still a little messed-up." I squeeze his shoulder.
"It's fine. Take your time."
With the correct scan running, it only takes the boy five minutes to locate and organize the data. He then presents his findings to me. "We have hits on two gangs. Nineteen of the guys last night are part of the Night Stalkers. The other eight are part of Sam Morris' crew, call themselves the Capos."
I am more than familiar with the Night Stalkers. The gang operates out of the Narrows and has members in every district and neighborhood in Gotham. In many ways, they're the backbone of crime in the city. Whenever the Joker or the Riddler needs henchman or couriers or transportation, they always go to the Night Stalkers. The gang will do any job, no matter how big or messy. By renting their services out to other criminals, they sustain both their revenue streams and notoriety. Their main weaknesses are a lack of hierarchy - there is no leader, only a series of district bosses - and lack of formal training. Their main strengths are recruitment - they pay a decent salary to all their members - and their history; rumour has it the Night Stalkers were the first organised criminal gang in Gotham upon its creation, some two-hundred and fifty years ago. Both Dick and I have had extensive dealings with their fraternity in the past.
I am less familiar with the Capos. Police surveillance has presented the gang as a cheaper version of the Italian Mafia. I am aware their group's organisation is based around the Mafia in terms of hierarchy, structure and business. I am also aware they lack the funding and reputation required to really grab the city's attention. Beyond these very basic facts, I have no further knowledge. Dick and I have never dealt with any of them, as of yet.
"Run a background check on Sam Morris. I think the key to this investigation lies with him."
"Heard the name before, Boss-man?"
"No. That's why I believe determining his motives will shed light on current events."
"Okey-dokey then."
Dick soon produces an arrest record. Interestingly it is of a British origin. Sam Morris' real name is Sam Bancroft, a former financial advisor to corporate businesses based in London. He was arrested for and convicted of major fraud as well as being dismissed of identity theft and illegal trading of stolen goods charges at the same trial. According to his criminal record, he only served five years of a twenty-year prison sentence due to a clerical error. The error resulted in a mistrial and all charges brought against Bancroft were dismissed. Shortly after his release, Bancroft immigrated to the United States. His American arrest records start in Los Angeles and then New York in what can only be described as a dramatic change of circumstance. In Los Angeles he was picked up for soliciting an under-age teenage girl; in New York he was sensationally busted for possession of mass amounts of cocaine with intent to sell by the FBI. His current freedom in the latter case was due to a deal whereby he would give up his suppliers and all his associates in exchange for immunity. He was then placed in the Witness Protection Program only to disappear a few weeks after beginning his new life. It appears the FBI simply assumed his location had been compromised and angry criminals exacted their revenge.
Sam 'Morris' is first mentioned in Gotham back in 2006. He was arrested after serving as part of the Night Stalker gang responsible for the slaying of three GCPD police officers during the riots. Because no evidence could be brought of his direct involvement in the killings, he got a suspended sentence. Could this incident be a motivating factor in trying to bring down the Night Stalker gang? Is this possibly some form of revenge?
"What are you thinking, big guy? I had to hack both the FBI and Interpol to get some of this info; you think we got another criminal mastermind on our hands?"
"It is possible Mr. Morris is attempting to corner the mercenary market by eliminating their biggest competitors."
"But if they've modelled their business plan on the mafia, why would they become hired guns? That's not how the mafia operates."
"They need money first. Once they have enough money, then they can operate how they wish to."
"Why doesn't Morris just do what he used to and defraud guys of their money…or better yet make ties with the REAL mafia and get their funding?"
"The British Government is still trying to extradite him for a re-trial. If he tries to defraud anyone here and they catch wind of it, he will be extradited. As for going to the real mafia for capital, would you trust a man convicted of major fraud with your hard-earned money?"
"So, the guy's basically screwed any which way but this?"
"Precisely."
"Impressive theory, Boss. Any real proof?"
"No. But he IS involved in any possible scenario regardless. The sheer number of Night Stalker gang members arrested last night points to two possibilities; either it was the Night Stalkers making the deal and they needed the security, or it was the Capos selling the guns and they played their rivals into bringing more personnel."
Dick throws his hands up. "I don't like any of this. It doesn't matter about the angle; this will start a gang war regardless. People are going to die. You can see that, right?" He sounds defeated by the rudimentary logic he has applied to this scenario. I squeeze his shoulder.
"It will not come to that."
"Bruce, the Night Stalkers are pissed; they will have revenge. You know how they operate when it's betrayal; they execute on sight."
"Remember what you said? This is strictly in-house trading. The bust is small, regardless of arrests. Night Stalkers have area bosses and a fragile city-wide network. The area boss for the Docks is Michael Mentis and he will want to handle this quietly. No involvement from other bosses will happen at this time. His first instinct is to negotiate with Morris, try to settle grievances without disruption to business. They will call a meeting to discuss the issues. It will happen soon. If we can find out where, we can take both Morris and Mentis out of the picture."
The boy seems to ease slightly. He nods in agreement. "Okay. So, Mentis is going to want to hold the meeting on his own turf in the Docks area. Probably one of their own buildings for added security. It has to be small, tight, and easily defendable from all angles. Think Morris would be stupid enough to agree to such a meeting place?"
"Only if he knew the outcome before stepping foot in the meeting. Possibility of a mole in Mentis' crew?"
Dick shrugs his shoulders. "All of the guys that work for Mentis have been part of the Night Stalkers for years; there's nobody new to suspect."
"Who was working for the Night Stalkers when Morris was running with them who is still part of that gang?" The boy presses a few keys.
"Uh, two guys; Alex Faia and David Colb."
"And who got arrested last night?"
"Faia. Colb wasn't involved."
"It's Faia. Faia is the mole in Mentis' crew. He's Jim's anonymous tipster." Dick glances up at me and frowns.
"Wouldn't it make more sense for Colb to be the mole? I mean, he wasn't there when it all went down." The boy is still young. Often it is the simplest solution that proves correct, but here, the right answer lies based not on probability and circumstance, but intelligence. Dick will learn these things in time.
"Faia looks more credible for being arrested than Colb. Pull up their sheets."
When I contrast their arrest records, I am convinced of Faia as the informant. Colb's arrests are repetitive and consistent. He makes no attempts to change his methods of operation to avoid detection. He has only ever been associated with assault and extortion charges in the past six years. He has never turned witness for the D.A, never betrayed any information whatsoever to the authorities. He is, in short, too stubborn and loyal to execute such a scheme. Faia is his exact opposite. In the last decade, he has engaged in activities as diverse as money-laundering, gun-smuggling, racketeering, extortion, assault and narcotics. He changes tact with every new arrest and each time he turns his hand to something new, the charges against him prove more and more difficult to stick; he has been acquitted at his last four arraignments.
"Let's look in—"
"Ahem. Master Bruce?"
I turn around and find Alfred stood near the stairs. The old man looks less than pleased with me.
"Is it time for dinner already, Alfred?" I ask. Alfred's response to adopt a thin smile and shake his head is not a good sign. When he speaks, I am proven correct.
"No, Sir. Dinner was served more than two hours ago. It is now almost ten o'clock at night."
The old man's displeasure is not directed at our missing a meal, but rather my inability to notice. He would prefer the boy eat, that he be in bed, as he instructed. I find it remarkable Dick and I have spent more than four hours developing this case; normally the boy grows bored with any computer-based work after a few hours, much preferring to work out in the gymnasium or attend to his social life than stare at mug shots. It must be his injuries.
"I thought I told you to ensure he stayed in bed for at least a couple of days to properly convalesce." Alfred's tone is curt and laced with spite. It seems he will not be losing this argument today either. I open my mouth to defend my actions.
"I need a fresh pair of—"
"You could have consulted me, Sir. I am not as decrepit as you appear to believe me to be when it comes to such matters. You needn't have dragged Master Dick into this. I shudder to think what such prolonged focus is doing to his concussion." Interrupting me indicates the old man is not interested in my opinion on the subject. "He also should not be in a seated position for long periods of time either, given the current condition of his ribs." Alfred adds when I opt to say nothing in reply to his interruption. I wait silently to see whether or not the old man wishes to inflict further scorn on my actions. He wants me to say something. I am then struck by something brilliant. I turn to the boy who is watching the two of us from his chair.
"Dick?" The boy knows I want him to speak for me. His reaction of smiling at me and winking is clear he is in my corner. He looks at Alfred.
"I can't just stay in bed, Alfie. I can't lie there in my PJs and pretend like I'm happy. I need to do something. Bruce wanted my help with something, something really important. When I'm sick, you won't let me help you with anything. I can't do any cooking, cleaning, weeding, washing or any of that other stuff. I just have to stay in bed or stay on the couch and watch cartoons or play video games. Alfie, cartoons are fine if you're seven, but I'm nearly fifteen; I hate cartoons. Video games suck. I can do like a million times more things in real life than I can in a video game. Its kinda pointless playing as someone I'm better than."
Dick is not the most eloquent of speakers, but he gets his point across in the clearest possible way. Alfred does not look pleased with his answer.
"I do not tell you to stay in bed and rest because I wish to inconvenience you; I do it because it is what you need in order to recover as swiftly as possible. Your frequent disobedience of simple instructions endangers not only your body but also those trying to help you. You are both quick to label me a 'spoilsport', but I am only acting in your best interests. Please go back to bed, Master Dick." The old man's tone began as hostile and irritated, and then slowly lost its venom as he progressed through his speech. By his final sentence, his voice was calm, but pleading. Alfred may have once been a magnificent actor, but his emotions just now were genuine. I forget sometimes that this old man loves the boy as much as I do. Perhaps I have been slightly abusive of Dick, given his current condition.
"Bruce?" I look from the underlying worry of Alfred's face back to the boy. He has again outstretched his arms. "Can I get a ride?" I pick him up without a second thought. Dick shakes his head at me. "You can beat up dozens of heavily-armed thugs without breaking a sweat, but you can't beat Alfie in a debate?" He asks once he has a secure grip round my neck, "Have you ever won an argument with him?" I offer the boy a small smile.
"I'm Batman, aren't I?" I say glancing at the old man who is also sporting a smile.
"Yes, Sir. I have to admit that the identity is not as ridiculous as I once believed it to be."
"He wasn't crazy about you being Robin either. But you are. I win the important ones…some of the time."
We are now back in the boy's room. I am about to step out in order to give him privacy to change in his pajamas. As my foot crosses the threshold of the doorframe, there is a sharp whistle from behind me.
"Whoa, big guy! Where do you think you're going?" Dick inquires with a smile. He gestures to his sweater. "I just helped you with your homework for four hours; you least you could do to thank me is help me get this thing off." He is about to wave his arm, but soon thinks better of it, instead beckoning me to him with just a finger.
"Raise your arms." I say. The boy is undoubtedly stiff from his prolonged stay in the chair and struggles to lift his arms fully up. He does not give up however, and eventually manages the feat. I proceed to relieve him of his sweater, hanging it back up in his wardrobe.
"If you want to go on patrol, you might as well just go." Dick tells me when I am about to exit the room for the second time. "We got a ton of background work done and I know you need to start investigating stuff. It's really okay if you leave." The boy adds whilst unbuttoning his shirt. He looks directly at me. "I'll be fine without you." I turn my entire body to face him. I gesture at his feet.
"Can you get your shoes off?"
Dick rolls his eyes. "Well, no, but if you call Alfie…"
"Can Alfred put you back in bed or ferry you to the bathroom?"
"Probably not, but…"
"I think I should stay." For some unknown reason, Dick seems to under the misapprehension that he has taken up enough of my time. He is trying to give me enough leeway to leave him here, alone and struggling with the simplest of tasks. It is a position I regret to admit I have left him in many times before. I will not do so this time. The boy looks at me in incredulity.
"But, you'll just be bored like this morning."
"You think I was disinterested this morning?"
"Come on, you're Batman? As if you wouldn't get bored helping me with stuff like homework and carrying me around the house."
"I enjoy spending time with you, no matter what we happen to be doing."
"What about Faia and everything else?"
"They can wait. It is more important for you to be happy at this moment than it is to track down an infamous criminal for a lead." What I have just said sounds unnatural. Indeed it is in my very nature to hunt. But today's events have made it clear that the boy needs me. Staying with him instead of going on patrol may be counter-productive according to logic and reasoning. I would benefit more from finding Faia than helping Dick get dressed. But my conversation with Alfred has helped me realize that such thoughts and analysis are not always those of Bruce Wayne. At present I am not Batman and Dick is not Robin. I am Bruce Wayne and Dick is the closest thing I will ever have to a son. I should bear such facts in mind on the next occasion of the boy sustaining injuries; it may help me make the choice with far less difficulty and coaxing than currently. In the end, I want to stay with him. So I do.
I help the boy get his pajamas on and put him in bed. Alfred appears a short time later with the final round of medication for the day. Dick swallows them and the old man leaves. He informs us should we require anything further, all we have to do is call for him. With Alfred's departure, we are once again alone together. This marks the longest period we have spent continuously in each other's company during our entire relationship. I cannot believe I avoided it for so long.
"You wanna talk about the case some more?" The boy inquires when I have joined him on the bed.
"No. I would like to hear a story." Dick is about to grab his copy of Alice in Wonderland only for me to shake my head at the prospect. I gesture at the boy. He is first puzzled before putting a hand on his chest.
"What, you want me to tell you a story?"
"Yes, about life in the circus."
The boy offers a shrug of his shoulders. "I'm not all that great a storyteller, Bruce."
"I do not mind."
I know the rudiments of Dick's past, the main events so to speak. I know when and where he was born, who his parents were, the countries he travelled around during his time in the circus, but nothing of the finer details. I do not know how he got his first kiss from a girl. I do not know in what manner he experienced his first steps; were they, as I have always envisioned, on a tightrope? How did he feel when he travelled on a boat for the first time? Did he cry during his first performance with his parents? Was he ever scared of going up so high? These are little things; details I have told the boy time and time again are not pertinent to an investigation. He has therefore been trained not to give them much thought. But he will still remember them all because the little details of his life help remind him how he came to be who he is now. Small moments define him in ways the big moments can never accomplish. It is the same with myself.
For the next two hours, the boy fills me in on the special moments in his earlier life. I learn he had his first kiss with a Russian gymnast's daughter in Moscow when he was seven. Her name was Nadia and she had very soft lips. He did not take his first steps on a tightrope but on Smathers Beach in Florida when the circus was touring the United States. Apparently his mom was forever talking about the moment. He first travelled on a boat when going to Europe from America. He thinks he was three or four. He first performed with his parents when he was five and was far too excited by everything around him to be upset. He cannot remember ever being scared of being so high off the ground, regardless of the height.
His way of telling his stories follows no clear pattern. He jumps from age six to twelve, to four and back to six with no real links between them. He tells some stories with spontaneity, others with the kind of practice that comes from repeating them over and over again, but is never left speechless. His vocabulary is as colorful and varied as the stories he is telling. He has led a remarkable life, far removed from my own childhood and any I have ever heard of. It only serves to make me appreciate him even more.
Today has helped strengthen our relationship in a manner I never before considered achievable. The way the boy has opened up to me is almost as remarkable as the way in which I have allowed someone else to dictate how I spend my time. Today was fun. It is a word I seldom use in both conversation and thought, but its inclusion is appropriate here; there is no other word that so accurately describes my enjoyment of the past twenty hours as fun. Even as time forces me to leave his company so he can sleep, I feel closer to him than I ever have before. When I wish him goodnight and close his door, I realize how deeply I cherish his presence. My parents would be proud.