Comfort 7
It is Thursday evening. If I need proof further convalescence is not required, the eight degenerates lolling on the ground at my feet are more than happy to attest otherwise. I am still bruised and my ribs still feel unusually brittle, but my hand has improved to deliver knock-out strikes with seamless precision. I have protected my midriff well during combat, sustaining no hits to vulnerable areas whatsoever during the night. I have however accomplished my primary goal for the evening. I have found our death-trap's architect. I find him in a warehouse outside of the Financial District engaged in creating another would-be masterpiece. With his security detail no longer a factor in proceedings, it is time for interrogation of the facts.
The architect, one Edward Burrows, expectedly pulls a semi-automatic pistol from inside his jacket. It is already cocked. I allow him to think he has the upper hand for almost three seconds. It takes just under that amount of time for the boy to drop from the ceiling and knock it from his hand. He is also battle-ready. Without the possibility of intimidation or escape, Burrows now attempts bargaining. He offers us names, contacts, addresses for illegal caches of varying extremes. All he wants is to escape prosecution. Robin does not look impressed. Neither do I. Even for a lowlife, his capitulation is fast. I tell him we are not law enforcement. We do not offer deals. If he wishes immunity, he needs to broker a deal with the GCPD. But Burrows is insistent on negotiating with us. Until I suspend him by his throat a foot above the ground and repeat my advice to talk with the police department that is. After this, he understands his position better.
"So, why'd you try to kill us last week?" Robin asks as I maintain my hold on his neck. I gently encourage him by tightening my grip. He only resists for another few seconds.
"Somebody hired me to design and set the trap. That's all. I'm just a middleman here I swear."
"Did this somebody maybe have a name, 'middleman'?" The boy says with obvious disbelief of Burrows' story. I too am dubious he is simply a cog in a bigger operation.
"No. Only ever dealt with them over the phone. Cash was delivered in advance. All unmarked. Whoever's behind the hit on you is pretty slick in covering their tracks." Burrows responds as the pressure is increased further. The force I am exerting is only a few pounds shy of crushing his larynx. I cannot risk another increase if we do not get the information we need at this juncture.
"Well, is your mystery man a regular customer or just a one-off special?" Robin inquires. He is proving to be more adept at interrogation than ever before, already thinking of other lines of inquiry to gather information. It is most promising.
"Never heard from the guy before. Sounded professional. Offered some big money for the trap. I thought he'd stop calling after I botched killing you guys, but he called again two days ago, asked for another trap. Paid me double what he had before."
"How much?" The boy asks.
"A cool mil. It's the biggest payday of my career."
"It was." I correct him. "Although you failed to end our lives, you have successfully murdered at least two dozen people in the past decade that we are aware of. With the evidence gathered, the chances of you dying behind bars in Blackgate are almost certain. A rumour of you co-operating with authorities for leniency would likely result in reprisals in the yard." Burrows eyes widen dramatically at this hypothetical scenario.
"I haven't said anything yet!"
"Not yet. Perhaps you will not say anything. But rumours are often more powerful than unproven truths. Unless you offer us something more substantial, that fiction will become your life." I answer, hoping our message is clear.
"Big guy's got a point Eddie: you're going to jail either way but at least you can choose how life goes in that jail. All you have to do is give us whatever info you're holding back." The boy chimes in to ratchet up the tension. He is also good in a supporting role. Perhaps stage lessons from Alfred are the next logical progression for him. Burrows is not stupid however, even if he is desperate. He will not give up his information without more than vague assurances. Minor intimidation from us will not change that. I release my grip on his throat.
"If you won't submit to us on the identity of your…customer, will you provide information on other criminal elements at the GCPD?" I say to completely change tact. Burrows seems disorientated by the sudden switch.
"Will I definitely get less time if I do?" He asks almost hopefully. I offer him a thin smile to further throw him off balance.
"Perhaps. There is no way to know without actually submitting to the authorities. We are going to take you to the precinct this evening regardless. The rest is entirely up to you."
"Well, maybe I do know something about the guy who paid us. Maybe it'll give you a steer." Burrows says.
"Tell us and we will inform Commissioner Gordon of your willingness to co-operate."
"Guy had a weird accent. Kinda British or Australian, but not. Gotta be unique in this city, right?"
My guess at his meaning is leaning towards either New Zealand or South Africa as likely origins. "Did he use any unusual terms or words when speaking to you?"
"He called you two bagels for some reason. I don't know why. Maybe he's got a thing for them."
Bagels is a derogatory term in South African English. It describes an overly groomed materialistic young man and is an alternate for a similar female called a kugel, from the Yiddish for a plain pudding garnished as a delicacy. It will provide a credible lead for future investigations into this matter. I nod at Burrows.
"Yes, maybe he has. Let's go downtown."
Jim Gordon and his men are not convinced with Burrows co-operation, especially after confirming the evidence we have given them concerning past crimes. They know he is not connected enough to employ mob lawyers if the situation progressed to trial, meaning an easy win for the prosecution. A plea bargain from the District Attorney's office is the best way forward, at least in Burrows' case. The office is contacted. A deal is reached for information in exchange for leniency. It is a satisfactory conclusion at this point. Burrows' security detail all have prior records working for various outfits and gangs as enforcers and muscle. They will receive the usual penalties for violating parole and assault charges. Although Jim would gift me access to his databases as a generous courtesy for this latest arrest, I would prefer to keep the current revelation a private matter for now. We will find this South-African client of Burrows on our own. We head home.
"I could've handled the rest of the interrogation. Why'd you take over so quickly?" Dick asks when we are only a few minutes from the cave. He sounds despondent.
"Because my experience is superior to yours. And, at that stage, I deemed you had learned enough for the time being. It is not a slight against your abilities, Dick. It is merely…"
"That I'm a kid?" Now his tone is sullen.
"I was going to say a matter of practice. Reading people is not as easy a task as it may seem, even when their motives and wants appear obvious. Do not sulk." I tell him firmly. He reacts by folding his arms.
"I'm not sulking. I just think maybe…you should've let me try a little longer. If it's practice I need, then I should've carried on trying to get the information." He says, clearly resisting the urge to pout.
"Another time, I promise."
Alfred is exceptionally thorough in his medical examinations upon our return. He scrutinises, pokes and prods every injury we have for its condition. The old man's analysis of my ribs leads him let out a deflated sigh. My ribs are healing he tells me, far faster than expected. The exercises he asks me to perform on my injured hand also prove to be a sore spot for him. The nerve damage has healed itself sufficiently to allow full usage again. He vocally despairs of my rapid recovery. His examination of the boy is less infuriating for him, since it is only to inspect his bruising. The surface of Dick's back is almost entirely a mottling of yellow and brown, as are the backs of his arms and legs, but his discomfort is now minimal. We are both afforded begrudging bills of clean health.
"Alfie's mad at you for not taking more time off, isn't he?" Dick says when we are in his room thirty minutes later. I nod in agreement.
"It has always been that way." I reply as the boy slips under the covers and settles himself for sleep. "As I said, I am a creature of habit." I add whilst sitting on the side of the mattress. "And look what we have already accomplished in a single evening back on patrol."
"Alfie might argue we only got the guys we wanted because you had almost a week of research behind it. It was pretty meticulous, even for you." The boy says quite pointedly. I again nod my head.
"Perhaps so. Get some rest. I'll see you for breakfast in the morning."
Friday passes quickly. Meetings are attended, lunch is served and then the final minutes of the working week begin to tick down with almost alarming speed. Before there is even time to ponder this phenomenon, I am standing outside on the street as Alfred pulls up in the Bentley. My return home finds Dick in the gymnasium, performing stretches between a pair of balance beams. I watch in silence as he transitions from a wide-armed handstand into the box splits with his heels only just finding purchase. It is a ridiculous skill to do in so casual a manner. I slowly round the side of the left-hand balance beam so that we are facing one another. Even under the current strain, Dick flashes me a happy smile.
"Hi, big guy. Good day at work?"
"Yes, thank you. And your school day?" The boy immediate reply is to roll his eyes and sigh.
"I've had a ton of homework dumped on me for missing the first three days of the week. Alfie says he'll help me with it all tomorrow night. It's literally all the subjects I hate: French, Geography and Physics. Y'know my French teacher described my pronunciation today as 'borderline incomprehensible' even though I get As and Bs in oral practice? Doesn't add up. Maybe it's because I'm your kid and they're all too scared to give me a C in case you get them fired."
"It is far more likely you were simply not in a mood to give your best this afternoon. You never are on a Friday." I offer. He somehow manages to rotate his body one-hundred-and-eighty degrees without abandoning his box split. Now inverted, the boy proceeds to place his hands flat on the floor and lift his legs off the beams before softly bringing them together in a rigid handstand.
"What period was French today, Bruce?" He asks whilst continuing to face away from me.
"If your current schedule still holds, fifth period." I tell him having passed his monthly schedule in the hallway only minutes earlier. I hear the boy audibly smirk before neatly flipping onto his feet.
"All over it." He says before pivoting on his heel to face me again. "Know what my plans are this weekend yet?" I shake my head. He narrows his eyes. "Really?" I nod.
"Please tell me your plans."
"I'm going out with Heather and some friends tomorrow morning. We're either going to the park or the mall, something like that. Then, when I come back I'm going to do all my homework and chill out on Sunday. You?"
"I have to attend a charity function on Saturday evening. It promises to be painful."
"Why, what's it for?"
"It's not the cause that will be painful. Gotham General needed an upgrade to its paediatrics department. I gave them the necessary funds. The issue is that I loathe the structure of the night. They follow set procedures with socialising, the dinner, the speeches and everything thereafter. It seems designed to make it less special and more generic, more mundane." Dick raises his eyebrows as if in surprise. I frown. "What's wrong?"
"You just elaborated…without me wrenching it out of you with pliers." The boy sounds genuinely amazed by this.
"I have elaborated before, Dick."
"Yeah, on cases and investigations. You do it when I screw up on patrol or need remedial training…but you don't really share like this. You know, willingly?" Dick informs me. There are undertones of excitement in his voice. I shrug.
"It seemed a natural thing to do. I do hope you can contain yourself."
"If you hate it that much, take me with you. Guarantee it'll be less painful then. I can charm everybody for you."
"I thought you had plans on Saturday evening, of the homework variety."
"I can skip a midday lie-in for homework on Sunday. It's not a deal-breaker."
"And your hatred of these functions and everything that entails is also not a 'deal-breaker' here? Why the sudden change of heart?" I inquire only to incite more eyebrow-raising and incredulity on Dick's face.
"Seriously? You can't tell why I want to go?" He asks me, again with genuine amazement. I frown. I cannot help but frown. Adolescence is something I cannot quite nail down with this boy. His moods and intentions are often cloudy, even when armed with copious facts. I scan his eyes for any sort of indicators as to his reason. All I am confronted with are the usual markers for love and affection. There is nothing else present to grasp on to. Perhaps…perhaps that is his reason for wanting to accompany me: because he loves me.
"I can only surmise that you wish to attend because…you love me?"
"You're actually close! You almost don't need it spelling out for you to understand!" The boy exclaims in something akin to delight instead of out-and-out mockery. "Bruce, I want to tag along because I love hanging out with you. The last couple of months, with you looking after me when I was laid up in bed and then the last week when we were both out of commission, they've been awesome. Because it's finally just me and you, not me, you and him." Dick gestures behind me. I turn and find only my shadow. I quickly decipher his meaning.
"You mean…Batman?"
"Yeah. I love kicking ass on the streets with the guy, but he's not you. I kept thinking he was, until you looked after me. Then it all came crashing down. You and he aren't the same person. Because you're real and he isn't. He's just what you can do, like Robin is what I can do. So I want in on this shindig to spend time with you outside fighting scumbags and sickbeds. I want to enjoy your company in a scenario where you can run away if you want, but choose not to." He says with a bigger smile. He is likely happy to have articulated such a sentiment without coming unstuck. I gift him a smile in return.
"Very profound. Provided Alfred is in agreement, you may accompany me Saturday evening and complete your homework first thing on Sunday morning."
It is Saturday evening. As expected, Alfred has agreed to letting the boy do his homework tomorrow. I am sure after the last week the old man wishes for some peace at home. To that end, we are now in the midst of another generic charity function at one of the city's more decadent ballrooms. There is a buffet, entertainment and of course innumerable speeches waiting to be espoused to the crowd. Before those, there is a minimum of two hours of small talk. It is here that the boy's gift for filling any silence with noise becomes my biggest asset. Before anyone can ask how my handicap is doing on the golf course or who styled my tuxedo, Dick jumps in and completely holds all their attention. He compliments their clothes or their hair to find a way into a dialogue and then changes gears with hobbies and interests. As soon as they mention any sport or pastime he has even the slightest knowledge of, that becomes his focus for the length of the conversation. Then, when it is time to move on to another group, he breaks off with a well-rehearsed but natural apology. It is exactly the same cerebral approach to these situations that I take. Except he does it better. Far better.
The two hours pass with acceptable speed. The entertainment, female dancers in their mid-twenties, is also bearable. They and their dancing are tasteful enough to only provoke mild ogling from the boy, something I consider quite an achievement. Then the interminable speeches commence without warning. An hour finally chokes its last breath as the sixth speech finishes. I already know there are at least four further speeches. I am flirting with the notion of disappearing on patrol if this affair does not improve, regardless of how my absence would be portrayed in the media. When I look around I find Dick is no longer next to me. Instead he is talking to the emcee at one side of the podium. I stiffen as he manoeuvres from the shadows to the spotlight and then smiles directly at me.
"Hi everyone. I'm Richard Grayson, the only kid here at this party that's supposed to be about the new upgrade to the paediatrics department at Gotham General. And that man right there…" There is a pause while everyone turns to look at me, "Is the reason you're all celebrating right now. Bruce Wayne. Everyone thanks him for his donation in their speeches, which is something he appreciates. He does. And I asked to make my own little speech so I could tell you some things he doesn't appreciate…because he's too polite to say them."
I am beginning to regret bringing him here. Everyone's gaze is torn between me and the boy as he opens his speech.
"Okay, first one: Bruce is the richest man in Gotham, but he's not the city's personal cash-cow. You can't expect him to bail you guys out every time your bureaucrats waste all his money on lining their own pockets." This is not an encouraging start, although the sentiment is accurate of my views on the matter. I try to look nonplussed by this statement. It is proving difficult.
"Second one is that if your function is to celebrate sick kids and doctors, have sick kids and doctors attend instead of…whoever you people are. They'd really like it and you guys can all just…turn up for the next one. There's plenty to go around."
I am quite certain that the only reason the emcee has not yet pulled him off is because he is my guest. Even at its lowest ebb, this evening would not have led to this kind of postulating. Dick's world views are as idealistic and naïve as one would expect from a fourteen-year-old. Unfortunately, these opinions, however right morally, do not translate well to this situation or these individuals.
"Number three, kind of ironically, Bruce hates speeches. Especially long-winded and boring ones that hammer home the same points over and over again…" I have arrived at the side of the podium and clapped a hand on his shoulder before he can continue airing his personal commentary as my own. I move into the spotlight but do not push him out of it. This admonishment will need to be public to redeem my name amongst this particular audience.
"I know you meant well, Dick. But this is not the time nor the place to air these opinions." I say, knowing my words will be picked up by the microphone. "And, whatever your grievances with this event are, it is immature to voice them and claim I am the author simply because you are my son and expect to escape punishment. Do you understand?" My tone is not harsh or curt. But it is sincere. The boy is more than bright enough to see this. He shrugs.
"I do. I just…wanted to make tonight memorable for you. I thought maybe if I stirred things up a bit…" He is comfortable with these very private-sounding thoughts being projected to the room for scrutiny. He is still a child, but never a selfish one. I nod in understanding. He wanted to lift my spirits this evening. With more diplomatic language, he may have succeeded.
"I understand. Believe me, for better or worse, I am definitely going to remember this night for a long time." I tell him with a smile that gathers sporadic laughs from the rest of the room. He rolls his eyes but gives up a smile in return.
"Thanks, big guy."
"I think we've taken up enough time in the spotlight this evening…" I say preparing to manoeuvre away from the podium. The boy halts my progress. He grins at me.
"Maybe I have. But you need to give a speech, now that you've been dragged in front of the public." He says, still wholly aware the microphone is broadcasting all this. To refuse and disappear back into the crowd would not present the right attitude to these proceedings. The boy has trapped me up here. Bravo. As he steps away, I reluctantly face the audience again. I have nothing prepared. They all look expectant. I sigh.
"Dick is wholly correct when he says I hate speeches, especially when having to give them. That much at least is true. But, I'd like to thank you all for attending. Your support of this cause and all the extra funds you have provided to train more nurses and paramedics has been invaluable in reducing hospital-related deaths by almost fifteen percent in the past two years. This year's contributions should prove no less effective at reducing those numbers further. As many of you know, my father worked at Gotham General for years as its chief surgeon despite his wealth. He believed the only way to help people was to surround yourself with them. That way, you could really hear their problems and understand their concerns. My mother was the same. That's why their marriage was so successful and why those same values are instilled in me. I believe in this city. I believe in its people wanting to help themselves to make Gotham better. But it is a mistake to think we can all get there without working together. And that is what this function is all about: working together for a brighter future. For us. For our children. And for those still yet to come. Thank you." Polite applause follows, as do many more scheduled speeches. The night finally ends just before eleven-thirty. We return home shortly after. I drive back in the Porsche.
"Regret taking me?" The boy inquires as we pull up inside the house garage. I kill the engine and shake my head.
"Not for a moment."
"Even after I went rogue on the mike?"
"Even after that. You are nothing if not unpredictable." I say giving him a smile. He grins sheepishly.
"Guess I'll always be drawn to the limelight, huh? Once a performer, always a performer."
"So it would seem. However, in future, please tell me before you decide to conduct your one-man critiques of high society." I advise him as we shut the car doors and enter the already darkened house. I hear him smirk in the blackness.
"Yes, Sir."