Thanks for the reviews!
Fun fact: I based the pub in this chapter on a real pub I like to go to sometimes. It's less seedy in real life. Sort of.
Maroni thought Oswald was buying an overpriced concealed weapon from Grady. She had sent over a message, asking to meet at a pub in a part of the city that even Maroni seemed to shy away from. "You watch yourself down there," he had told him. "Those Irish are nuts. Kill you in broad daylight nuts. Grady's good but she's not that good. Buy from somebody else if you know what's good for ya."
The neighborhood was full of abandoned factories, the broken windows gaping like staring eyes. Piles of trash collected at the gutters. The neighborhood had a dirty, smudged, dull look that was combination of the poverty and the falling snow. Grady stood under a street light bouncing on the balls of her feet to stay warm. Overhead, the pub's half lit broken sign read: Pinhead Susan's.
"You didn't have to wait outside," Oswald said as he emerged from the cab. "It's quite cold, isn't it?"
"It doesn't bother me. I've spent many cold nights outside. You're always so polite," She tugged her hat over her ears and gave him a questioning look.
"Manners can be very persuasive," said Oswald. "Shall we go inside?"
"Of course," Grady led the way inside a crowded pub. "You'll have to excuse the noise. But it's safe here. Owned by a relation of mine. He's either my second cousin three times removed or my third cousin twice removed, I don't remember which."
The small old man in question rushing from the bar to kitchen waved Grady at the upper level. She gave him a nod and Oswald followed her upstairs, leaning heavily on the rail for support.
"Sorry," Grady winced.
"It's nothing," he muttered.
The pub was old and strangely shaped, full of strange nooks and crannies housing tables and mismatched antiques. Grady chose a small booth tucked out of the way in a corner surrounded by tiny shelves of odd ceramic cat statues and peculiar framed newspaper clippings highlighting events that appeared mundane and unimportant. There was a lot of ruckus downstairs, shouts and the sound of breaking glass.
"You called this place safe?" Oswald raised an eyebrow.
"It's fine. Their blood's up is all. It'll happen at least six times before the night is out."
A waiter left two dark lagers. "You hungry?" Grady asked.
"No, thank you," Oswald said, preferring to get this over with.
"Well I hope you like a healthy beer, it's all you'll get around here."
He did not care for dark beers, but drank it to be polite.
"Cheers," said Grady. "What have you got for me?"
Oswald reached in his pocket and dropped a stainless steel compact on the table. "Will this suffice?"
Grady examined the lid carved with a rose and swirling patterns. "That'll do," she turned the compact around and around with her fingertips. "How'd you get it?"
"I broke into her apartment and took it from her purse," Oswald said. He watched Grady's reaction to his methods. Could he shock her, worry her, anger her? Which buttons could be pushed and how?
She did neither of these things and instead nodded and popped open the compact. "You've got guts. No denying that."
She gave him the briefest glance, a disappointing void of her real thoughts on the matter. "Will she be missing this?"
"Possibly. She's beautiful and probably vain."
Grady snorted. "Good. Pretty girls are usually stupid."
Oswald raised his eyebrows. There was an interesting statement. "How do you explain Fish Mooney?"
"I did say usually not always. Well no matter how smart she is, we'll want to return this quickly. Just in case."
She pulled some tools from her jacket pockets which seemed to be bottomless pits. A tiny screwdriver popped the mirror from the casing. Grady held up a small tangle of wires which nested a battery, a flat chip, and other small bits and pieces. "A one way radio, gutted and stripped," she explained.
"Perfect," said Oswald. "My lack of proof is affording Liza a small measure of security."
Grady's nimble fingers froze. "You spoke with her?"
"I frightened her," Oswald said pleasantly. "I simply made my presence known and threatened her with the truth. She wouldn't dare make a move against me with her life at risk. It's not unlike what you've done to me."
"Hey, that's hardly fair sir," Grady smirked. "I proposed an alliance, you blackmailed that girl. Now if it was me, I would have planted this in secret," she tapped the compact with a tube of glue. "Got what I needed, left it at that. But I've asked you to put a little faith in the way I work and I'm willing to do the same for you."
"There is a method to my madness as they say," Oswald said with a crooked grin.
"Alright then Mr. Madness, get this back on her person," Grady slid the compact across the table and Oswald pocketed it. "The receiver's in my workshop. I'll set it recording. If you want to stop by and check it, you have my business card?"
Oswald nodded. The shop in question wasn't far from the very pub they sat in.
"It'll look like a clock shop from the outside. But you know better...I do my real work beyond the curtain behind the counter."
"A clock shop?" he asked curiously.
"You could say it's how I got my start. I inherited it, basically." Grady picked at her nails, avoiding his eyes as she seemed to do whenever the conversation became remotely personal. It was time to press. Just a little.
"I'm sure you know more about me than you've revealed," Oswald said. "I think I ought to know something about you."
"Like what?" she grunted, still avoiding his eyes.
"Who's your father?" He had to start there. Her last name was familiar and she had implied ties to Maroni.
Grady sighed. "Alright...It's not a great story, mine. And I know what you're trying to do." She did look at him now, it was a warning glare both steely and calculating.
Oswald employed his most reasonable tone. "Of course. I couldn't respect you otherwise. And surely you understand."
"I do...so here's the deal. You do something useful, I'll answer a question. For bringing the compact, I'll tell you my father was Tim O'Grady and yes, he headed a crime ring down here in The Burrow. That crime ring is now the one controlled by Pat Hannigan." She stretched her arms behind her head and waited for his response. Her father may not have been the most powerful man in Gotham, but he did have a reputation back in his day.
Oswald sifted through his memory. He had little knowledge of what went on in The Burrow, the neighborhood that Grady called home and even fewer contacts there. But he knew the name Tim O'Grady if not the details surrounding his murder. "Your father. He's..."
"Dead," Grady confirmed.
"At whose hands?"
"The one who did it is a nobody. A thug. Man by the name of George Rice. Indirectly? Falcone is responsible."
Oswald raised an eyebrow.
"You're surprised," she said.
"I don't see the connection."
"There isn't much of one. My Da was an idiot. He made a nuisance of himself to Falcone and the lowest of his underlings was able to do for him. I doubt Falcone even laid eyes on him in person."
She spoke harshly, was almost flippant about her dead father. But Oswald could see her jaw working as she ground her teeth. Slowly the pieces of Ailis O'Grady were coming together to form the broader picture. Oswald leaned forward on his elbows. "You want revenge, Grady?" he said quietly.
She stared back, her eyes three shades darker than usual. "It's not a question of want, is it? I have to."
Oswald smiled and shook a finger at her. "Of course you don't have to. You want it."
She leaned away from him, flopping against the booth. "I've answered a lot more than one question. You'll have to buy me quite a few drinks to get me to say anything more."
"That could be arranged," he laughed.
"Oh no," Grady jammed her hat on her head. "I don't think so. I think you ought to get that compact where it needs to go and come find me once you have. Now you better follow me out. People in here don't always take kindly to strangers."
They weaved their way through the crowded pub. Around a group of men shouting and howling over a soccer match on the TV. Grady tipped her hand at the second or third cousin behind the bar. They almost made it out the door without incident until a red faced man said something to Grady in Gaelic. Oswald could only guess it was offensive as she kicked the leg out of the man's tilting chair to a roar of approval from his friends.
"Irritating but basically harmless," she jerked her head back at the pub as they stepped outside. "You've got a cab coming?"
"Yes, any minute." Oswald popped his umbrella against the mix of slush and rain. "Do you need to share it?"
"I'm just a few blocks off," she pointed vaguely down the dingy street. "I'll be off then, before I'm soaked through."
She wrapped her coat tighter and turned to leave. Oswald watched her take careful steps over the slippery sidewalk.
"Grady," he called, the words coming out before he could stop them. She turned and looked back, raising her hood.
"If you want George Rice, I can give him to you," he said.
She gave a short, almost nervous laugh, her breath escaping from her lips in a wispy cloud. "Ah well, don't go out of your way." She shuffled her feet a bit, still smiling as if embarrassed to receive an offer of something thoughtful and pleasant like flowers. "He'll come to me in the end."
"It wouldn't be difficult," Oswald told her.
"I appreciate it but, you know. Don't make a thing of it," She made to grab her hood and realized it was already up. "Well, have a good night."
Grady stomped off into the grey night, arms tucked in against the cold. Oswald decided she was very unusual but like the machines she had such mastery over, he was beginning to see the different pieces moving her about her strange world. He couldn't say why he had made the offer. Perhaps it was as simple as wanting to see what she was capable of.
