Gotham

by Jason Starr

  “Must’ve been something he wanted pretty badly,” Frank said. “I mean, to send three guys in, three armed guys… That’s quite a risk to take.”

  “I keep my old records to Pinewood, hidden in my office,” Thomas said, being careful not to mention which office he meant. “I think Strange might want them back.”

  “First question, then,” Frank said, “why would he want them back?”

  “I’m not sure,” Thomas said, “but if he’s thinking about resuming experiments, picking up where he left off ten years ago, he might want to make sure I have no information that could incriminate him.”

  “But Strange is a smart guy,” Frank said. “A genius maybe. Why would he think if he found and destroyed some records in your office, then that would be it? That he’d be free and clear? I mean, wouldn’t he assume you have them backed up?”

  “He knows better,” Thomas said. “It would have been too dangerous all these years, keeping multiple sets, running the greater risk that my involvement in Pinewood would be exposed. I have my records and he has his. It’s like we’ve been stuck in a cold war, using nuclear weapons to deter each other. Only in this case it’s not nuclear weapons, it’s the information that might put either one of us in jail.”

  “So,” Frank said, “I’m assuming he didn’t find what he was looking for.”

  “No,” Thomas said with certainty. “No, he did not. As I said, I have them hidden. In a very a secure place.”

  “Well, then, it sounds like you dodged a bullet last night.” Frank peered at Thomas, as if trying to read his mind.

  “Literally and figuratively,” Thomas said, recalling the projectile that had whizzed by his head.

  “Okay, I’ll look into all of it,” Frank said. “I’ll ask around, check in with my contacts, see what he’s been up to. I haven’t heard anything new lately, but it can’t hurt to check again. I’ll start with the painting.”

  At the mention of the Picasso, something clicked into place for Thomas.

  “Maybe the Picasso was his target after all,” Thomas said. Noting Frank’s puzzled look, he continued. “If it’s true that Strange is looking to restart Pinewood, he might need funding—and it’s not as if he can apply for a federal grant. Maybe he stole the Picasso to raise funds to finance the operation.”

  “Seems like a stretch,” Frank said. “I mean, why your painting? If it’s just about money, why not rob an art gallery? Or a museum?”

  “Think of the irony,” Thomas said. “Maybe it was personal, to get my attention and send me a message. As if he was basically saying, ‘You can cut me off, but one way or another, I’ll have my revenge—and you’ll be responsible for the new Pinewood.’ Strange is a brilliant yet deeply insecure man, so it makes sense that he’s been getting antsy. He’s been out of the limelight, and would want to do something splashy to make himself the center of attention again.

  “The burglars obviously figured out a way into Wayne Manor, and that has Hugo written all over it. Maybe he got help from the guard at the gate, or maybe he hacked into the security system. Either way, now that we’ve been warned, he won’t try it again.” Thomas paused, then added, “Look, maybe my hunch is wrong about all of this. Maybe the robbery had nothing to do with Strange, but I think it’s something we have to rule out as a possibility. My life, my family, and my future depend on it.”

  “I agree,” Frank said. “Well, lemme see if I can find out what Strange has been up to—” His phone rang. He held up his index finger and mouthed, One sec, then said into the phone, “Hey, how’s it going? Okay, what’s the line now? Yeah, okay, gimme another G on Williams… That’s right… and gimme another five hundred on a third-round knockout… Right, okay… Yes, very good… Okay.”

  Ending the call, he looked back to Thomas. “You think I made a mistake? Third round? Maybe I should’ve gone with four or five? Nah, third has a good ring to it, and you always gotta go with your instincts, right?”

  “Or against them, depending on your superstition,” Thomas said. “So you like Williams, do you?”

  “Yeah,” Frank said. “Sanchez talks a big game, but Williams is prepared. That’s what always wins out in the end—preparation. I just hope it ends in the third round. Or maybe you’re right, and I should go against my instincts for a change. I mean I’ve always gone with my gut, and where has that gotten me?” He looked at his belly as if it had betrayed him. “Maybe I should change the bet to the fourth round. Or, better yet, the fifth. Yeah, the fifth.”

  Frank called his bookie, and changed his bet to a fifth-round knockout.

  “Bruce wants to learn how to box,” Thomas said after the PI hung up. Frank had never met Bruce or Martha, but Thomas had often talked about them.

  “Fighting is a good skill to have in this town,” Frank said. “I don’t think I’d be alive right now if I didn’t know how to fight.”

  “I agree with you,” Thomas said, and he smiled, “but Martha wants him to continue with tennis.”

  “Tennis?” Frank said. “In Gotham? What’s he gonna do if he gets mugged? Beat the guy up with a racket?”

  “Exactly my point,” Thomas said, and they both laughed. He liked Frank—he was one of the good guys.

  “So about the painting…” Frank said.

  “First and foremost we have to find out if Strange was involved in the robbery,” Thomas said. “We’d love to recover the painting obviously, but if Strange goes away for orchestrating an armed robbery, well, that would solve a big problem for me—I wouldn’t have to worry about him starting experiments again, if he was locked up.

  “It’s also imperative that if Strange is involved, we find out about it before the GCPD. Obviously if they were to dig up anything about Pinewood Farms, it would be a disaster for me, and for Wayne Enterprises. That would send a ripple effect throughout all of Gotham.”

  “Yeah,” Frank said. “I heard Harvey Bullock’s working on this case with his new partner. An Asian broad.”

  “Wow,” Thomas said. “You really do stay informed, don’t you?”

  “I have a new contact feeding me info, guy named Cobblepot,” Frank said. “I swear, the guy’s like a sponge—he sops up everything. Ambitious kid, too—he’s gonna go places. Anyway, Harvey visited Fish Mooney earlier today, so he’s probably bearing down on some suspects. The good news is, he’s starting from the bottom up and it’ll take him some time to get to the top. But you have a legitimate concern. If Strange is involved, you can’t have Harvey Bullock stumbling across your involvement in Pinewood.”

  “Then we have to get there first,” Thomas said.

  “One thing you should definitely do,” Frank said, “is make sure that girl you’ve been taking care of, Karen Jennings, hasn’t heard from Strange lately. If it’s true what you’re suspecting, and Strange really is back doing experiments, then your records aren’t the only loose end. Jennings is a loose end, too.”

  As far as Thomas knew, Karen Jennings was the only remaining survivor of Pinewood. Over the years, he’d been giving her money, paying her medical expenses, and he’d even moved her to a secluded cabin upstate, just to ensure that she remained safe. They had become close over the years, and Thomas considered her to be a good friend.

  “If Karen had heard from Strange,” Thomas said, “she’d tell me. Besides, she never knew Strange by name during her time at Pinewood. For her protection I still haven’t mentioned his name to her.”

  “I know you like this girl,” Frank said, “and I’m guessing she likes you, too. She also sounds like the type of person who puts other people ahead of herself. What I mean is if she thought it could put you in any danger, most likely she’d keep her mouth shut.”

  It was true—Karen was one of the most selfless persons Thomas had ever met. In her place, he didn’t know if he could ever be so forgiving of his sins.

  “Very well,” Thomas said. “I’ll get in touch with her, just to make sure.”

  “Aside from you,” Frank said, “Karen’s the
only person Strange knows might incriminate him, right? You haven’t told anybody else, have you?”

  “Aside for you, not a soul,” Thomas said.

  “Good,” Frank said, “let’s keep it that way.”

  Thomas stood. Frank came around from behind the desk and they shook hands.

  “Don’t worry,” the PI said, “we’ll get to the bottom of all of this.”

  “If anyone can do it, you can.”

  “Just out of curiosity,” Frank said, cocking his head, “how much is that Picasso worth? I mean, gimme a ballpark.”

  “Hard to say,” Thomas said. “Similar paintings have gone for twenty million or more.”

  “Whoa, Nelly,” Frank said, and he whistled. “So let’s say whoever stole it tried to resell it. What would they get? Half that?”

  “Actually on the black market paintings can go for as little as twenty-five percent, or less, of their market value. It’s understandable, as a buyer would be taking a big risk—especially in the case of a Picasso, because it’s so recognizable. You can’t just take Le Picador into a major auction house and sell it after a high-profile robbery.”

  “Very true,” Frank agreed. “Then where do you think it would be sold?”

  “Russia has a notorious black market for art,” Thomas said. “North Africa as well.”

  “I’ll put out word at the airport and the docks. That painting will never get out of Gotham, if I have any say in it.”

  “Amen to that,” Thomas said.

  Frank walked him out of the office and into the hallway.

  “Thank you,” Thomas said, as he shook Frank’s hand again. They both had strong grips.

  “Any time, Tommy,” Frank said. “I’ll be in touch sooner rather than later, I’m sure.”

  * * *

  Later, driving back toward Wayne Manor, Thomas replayed snippets of the conversation in his mind, in particular what he’d suggested about Karen Jennings. Thomas hadn’t spoken to Karen in about a week or so. Everything had seemed fine then, but over the years, things had seemed fine with other victims of Pinewood—and then a couple days later, boom, they vanished, never to be seen again.

  Karen was the last one, his last chance to salvage any redemption for what he’d done. If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. So he tapped his smartphone and called her number. All he got was her voicemail.

  Five minutes later, he tried again.

  Voicemail.

  His anxiety building, he called her a couple more times, with the same maddening result. This wasn’t like her. She had no place to go, and normally she picked right up when she saw his number.

  To hell with it, he concluded, and he headed for the highway that would take him upstate. The drive would take about an hour and twenty minutes—an hour if he really hit the gas. Seeing her in person would provide him with some peace of mind, and he could inform her about the possible new threat.

  As he pulled onto the access road, he made another call, leaving another message.

  “Alfred, listen,” Thomas said into this cell. “I have some business to attend to this afternoon, and I may not be able to make it to dinner tonight. Can you let Martha know? You know how she gets… And can you please take Bruce to his tennis lesson this afternoon, then pick him up as well? I really appreciate it, you’re the best.”

  He felt lucky to have Alfred to rely on, but felt bad because Karen didn’t have anyone, other than Thomas. She led a lonely existence, hiding from her enemies, living like a prisoner. But a prisoner has bars as protection—Karen had no such safety.

  He tried her again.

  Voicemail.

  Veering onto the Gotham Turnpike, he gunned it.

  SIX

  Angel’s was a regular hangout for gangbangers, pimps, hookers, arms dealers, drug dealers, and just about every other kind of degenerate lowlife you could imagine. Instead of “Bar and Club,” the sign in front should’ve been “Halfway House,” and there should’ve been bars on the windows. Everybody in the place was either wanted or had some kind of record, and not the kind that spun on turntables.

  Harvey and Amanda had double-parked in front. Before they got out of the car, and even with the windows shut, Harvey could already hear the throbbing death metal beat coming from inside.

  “You may want to wait out here,” he said. “I mean this isn’t exactly the wine and cheese crowd.”

  Amanda didn’t answer or even look at him. She got out of the car.

  “Okey dokey,” Harvey said.

  They entered and the music went from loud as hell to deafening. Although it was the middle of the afternoon, the place was dark—and not just because Harvey and Amanda’s eyes hadn’t adjusted to the light. Seedy, sweaty men were three or four deep at the bar, shouting over each other for drinks. Harvey recognized at least a few former busts. As word got around that they were there, like a game of telephone on speed, a few guys ducked out the back or side exits.

  “Where’s Bobby?” Harvey shouted at the thin, grizzled bartender who was covered in prison ink.

  The guy didn’t answer, just gestured toward the back with his chin as he poured scotch into two glasses at once. The drinks looked good.

  Later, he thought, and he glanced at his partner.

  As they headed toward the back, the crowd parted, creating an aisle for them. But it didn’t feel like they were walking through a bar. It felt like they were in a prison, passing by the angry, raucous cellmates in maximum security. Amanda—Harvey realized—was the only woman in the whole place, and the men were acting like they hadn’t seen a real live female in years. Some of them were actually salivating, with their tongues hanging out of their mouths.

  He hoped Amanda was smart enough to stay professional this time, and not let any of these jerkoffs get under her skin. Then a guy stepped in their path. He was the size of a bear, had to be way over three hundred pounds, with a thick black beard and—going by the dense hair on his arms, hands, and neck—his whole body was probably covered with it as well.

  “She with you?” he said to Harvey. His voice was deep and hoarse, like he smoked three packs a day. He smelled like a smoldering ashtray. Harvey and Amanda had to stop. The guy was so big there was literally no way to get by.

  “She’s my partner,” Harvey said, “so, yeah, she’s with—”

  “I’ll handle this,” Amanda said, stepping in front of him to stand face-to-face with the hulky goon. Or, actually, her face to his stomach.

  “No, I’m not with anybody,” Amanda said, looking up at the guy. “What’s it to you?”

  Uh-oh, here we go. Now they had an audience—guys in the bar were huddling around—whistling and catcalling. Harvey didn’t like the look of it—they were outnumbered and outgunned. He shook his head.

  “You couldn’t let it go, could you?” he whispered to himself.

  “That case, looks like we got somethin’ in common then,” the guy said to Amanda. “I ain’t with nobody neither. How about you let me buy you a drink?”

  “Well, that’s an offer that’s going to be hard to turn down,” Amanda said. “I mean, it’s one thing to find a guy who’s as charming as you are, but to find one who’s as handsome, too? God, I feel like I hit the jackpot today.”

  What the hell? Harvey knew she was stubborn, but this wasn’t playing with fire—it was playing with a freaking inferno.

  The guy grinned. A few teeth were missing. The rest were yellowed and crooked. Obviously the sarcasm had gone way, way over his head.

  “What can I get you?” he asked.

  “How about a big, tall glass of no way in hell?”

  The crowd jeered. Finally the big guy was catching on, and looking pissed off.

  “What did you just say?”

  “You heard me, loud and clear.”

  “Hey, we’re not looking to give anybody a hard time, big guy,” Harvey said, knowing he was wasting his breath. “We’re just here to see Bobby.”

  “I don’t think so,”
the guy said. “The girl said I could buy her a drink, and I’m gonna buy her a drink.”

  The crowd began to chant.

  “Drink, drink, drink, drink…”

  Great, now it was an ego thing, so there was no way in hell the guy would back down.

  “Girl?” Amanda said. “I’m not a girl.”

  “That’s right,” the guy said. “You’re my girl.” He tried to put his hairy arm around her waist. Harvey had a hand on the handle of his gun, ready to come to Amanda’s rescue. Jeez, talk about a headache he didn’t need to have…

  As the goon reached out to grab her, however, Amanda did some kind of karate move. She grabbed the guy’s wrist, twisted it around, and he crumpled to his knees with a grunt of agony. Everybody in the bar froze, stunned and silent—including Harvey. He left his gun right where it still was, in his holster.

  The beat of the music continued.

  “P-p-please,” the guy begged. “L-l-lemme go.” He could hardly be heard over the beat.

  “I should probably break it,” Amanda said loudly. “Just so you can’t try to grab the next girl you come across.” She twisted his arm a little further. He groaned louder.

  “Please.”

  “I can feel it breaking,” she said. “Just a little more, and it’ll snap like a wishbone. What do you say? Ready to make a wish?”

  Then Harvey heard a familiar voice.

  “You wanna see me?”

  He looked up and saw that Bobby Angel had come out of his office. He was short, bald, with thick glasses that made one eye look about twice as big as the other. Rarely had anyone been so beautiful as he was at that moment.

  “Yeah, Bobby, actually, we do,” Harvey said.

  “My office,” Bobby said.

  Amanda held the big guy for another second or two, then let go. He remained on the floor, writhing. Harvey shot her a look that said, What the hell? Amanda ignored him. They followed Bobby to the back of the bar, to his cramped, windowless office.

  No wonder the guy’s so pasty, Harvey mused, living in here like a rat.

  After Bobby shut the door, he turned toward them, barely-contained fury on his face.