by Jason Starr
She remained staring at the book.
“Didn’t Alfred tell you I’d be late?” he asked.
“Yes, he told me,” she said.
More silence as she continued reading, or pretended to read to avoid looking at him. After the day he’d had, the last thing Thomas needed was tension with his wife.
“Please stop playing these games,” Thomas said.
Martha put down the book. “Games?” she said, and her voice was terse. “What games do you think I’m playing?” She still didn’t look at him.
“Even that,” Thomas said, “asking me what games you’re playing. If you’re angry at me, just come out and say it.”
“Fine,” Martha said, “I’m angry at you. Is that better?”
“Much.” It wasn’t. “I apologized for being late. I don’t know what more to say.”
“I called your office. The service said you weren’t there at all today.”
Uh-oh…
Thomas needed to think fast. He didn’t want to lie, but thanks to Pinewood, it seemed as if that was all he did. The pattern felt endless, with no way to escape.
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” he said. “I was in my office all day. Whomever you spoke to must have been unaware of it.”
He waited to see how she would respond.
“I called you on your cell phone, as well,” Martha persisted, “but the calls kept going to voicemail.”
“The end of the quarter is coming up,” he said. “I was in meetings.” Then he decided to take a different approach. “What’s this all about anyway? Why do you sound so accusing?”
“Your behavior’s been… odd, Tom.”
“Odd? What in God’s name are you talking about?” He wished he could take that one back. The in God’s name was too much, sounded entirely like a lie. So he added, “We just had a lovely time in Switzerland, and I know it’s been stressful for both of us, what with the robbery and all, but—”
“I’m not talking about the damn robbery.” Her voice was getting louder. “I’m talking about how you’ve been disappearing for years, taking trips upstate, saying that you ‘just need to clear your head.’”
He noticed that she’d clenched her fists.
“I told you, I was in the office today.” He wished he had said that he’d gone upstate, and done so from the get-go, but was stuck. It was like jumping from an airplane—once you started, there was no turning back. “I do need to clear my head sometimes,” he admitted, “but today wasn’t one of those days.”
Martha looked right at him, for the first time since he’d entered the room.
“Why are you wearing that T-shirt?” she asked.
“T-shirt?” He put his chin to his chest, as if noticing it himself for the first time. Could his acting be any worse? “Oh, the T-shirt, it’s just for office solidarity. Morale has been low for a while now, so we’re trying to do little things to lift people’s spirits.”
“It was chilly today,” Martha said. “It hasn’t been T-shirt weather in weeks. And you weren’t wearing that T-shirt this morning.”
“I changed,” Thomas said.
He’d left his bloodied shirt at the cabin, and hoped Martha didn’t ask to see it.
“Why did you change?”
Change? He needed to change the subject.
“What’s this all about anyway?” he asked. “What’s with the sudden interrogation? I was late from work, alright, but it’s not like I murdered someone.” Another quick response he wished he could take back.
“Fine, then how about you be honest with me,” Martha said, “instead of giving me all of these convoluted explanations? Just tell me the truth.”
“How am I not—”
“Are you having an affair?”
He paused as her words sunk in. He should have seen it coming.
“What?” He did his best to sound incredulous. “Do you honestly believe that I’d ever do that to you? Or to Bruce?” To his own surprise, some of the shock was real.
“I know you so well, Tom,” Martha said. “I can always tell when you’re lying.”
“Well, I’m not lying to you now,” Thomas said. “I am not having an affair.”
Martha glared. “If there is someone else, I’d appreciate it if you came out and told me.”
“There isn’t anyone else,” Thomas said gently. “I swear.” He was sure he sounded believable. It helped that he was telling the truth… for a change.
“Fine,” she said. After a long moment, she added, “I believe you.” She, too, sounded sincere, and he relaxed a bit.
“Look, it’s late,” Thomas said. “I don’t know where this is coming from. We just had a wonderful time in Europe, and I think we’ve been closer than ever lately. So let’s just drop this line of discussion, okay?”
“Maybe I don’t want to drop it,” Martha said.
Damn.
“Okay fine, then go ahead.” His words grew louder. “Go on—keep going. Make more accusations. Tell me I’m cheating on you, ruining our lives, when actually it’s the opposite. Everything I’m doing is to help our lives, and Bruce’s life!”
He was losing control a little, but he couldn’t help it. All the stress of the day had built up, and the tension needed to come out somehow. But not now…
“Please keep your voice down?” Martha said. “Bruce can hear us.”
“That’s another thing,” Thomas said. “Bruce isn’t a child anymore. He’s fourteen years old—he’ll be a man soon. Hearing his parents having an argument won’t be the most traumatic event in his life. You can’t just shelter him from the real world. Not forever.”
“Does this have to do with boxing again?” Martha asked. “Because there’s no way I’m allowing it.”
“Well, I have a say as well,” Thomas said, “and I think it would do him some good.”
“What good?” she countered. “A concussion or two? Lose a few teeth?”
“He’ll learn how to defend himself.”
“We have resources, remember? We can hire bodyguards. He won’t need to defend himself, ever.”
“It’s about inner strength,” Thomas pressed, “not just physical strength.”
“He’s fine,” Martha said. “He’s a nice boy. He should stay that way.”
“You can’t get by on nice in Gotham,” Thomas said.
“No boxing—period,” Martha said. She got out of bed, went into the bathroom, and shut the door.
Thomas stood there on the opposite side of the bed, and remained angry for a couple of minutes. Then the guilt set in. He hated fighting with Martha—they had vowed never to go to sleep angry at each other. And she had every reason to be angry with him. She just didn’t know the reasons.
Thomas undressed, put on a robe, and stood beside the bed. Then he waited a few more minutes, for Martha to come out of the bathroom. Finally she did, and he stopped her before she got back into bed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it.
“It’s okay,” she said, her manner subdued.
“No, it’s not okay,” he said. “I lashed out at you because I had a stressful day, and that’s never the right thing to do. No matter what the stresses are before I come home. And I just want you to know, I’d never do anything to hurt you or Bruce.”
With his arms holding her hips, he kissed her.
“I’m sorry, too,” Martha said. “I get so worried, I build up scenarios in my head, and I couldn’t help it. I’ve been on edge all day, and when you came home so late I guess it sent me over the edge. You’re right, I’m sure you are—it is related to the break-in. I know they were after the painting, and didn’t come here to harm us, but there were armed, violent criminals in our home. They shot at you. It’s hard not to feel like a target, like people are out to get us.”
He pulled her closer, until their faces were about an inch apart.
“I have Frank on the case,” Thomas said. “He’s the best there is. He’ll find out who’s responsibl
e, and this will all be in the past before you know it.”
“I wish we were still in Switzerland,” Martha said. “We were so happy there, and Bruce was so happy there too. And we didn’t have to worry about break-ins and the constant threat of crime in this damned city.”
“I know how upset you are,” Thomas said. “I’m upset as well, but this too shall pass. Besides, Switzerland is always a wonderful getaway, but Gotham’s where our roots are, going back for centuries. Gotham is our home.”
“Things are getting worse and worse,” she protested. “It’s a dying city.”
“That’s why this city needs us, more than ever,” Thomas said. “We have the power to create change. We’re doing great things through Wayne Enterprises, and through the charities we support. But sometimes change takes time.”
“You sound like you’re running for office.”
“Who knows? Maybe I will run for Mayor of Gotham someday.” He smiled at her. “We can do whatever we want. We have choices, possibilities, options.”
“I’m scared,” Martha said. “What if this is just the beginning? What if things in Gotham never get better? What if they get worse and worse? Do you really want Bruce growing up in a world like this?”
“Brighter days are ahead,” Thomas said.
“I wish I could believe you,” Martha said. “I want to believe you, but I’m still afraid. I’m afraid something awful is about to happen.”
Thomas saw a flash of Karen’s claw, jutting through Scotty Wallace’s neck.
About to?
“Everything’s going to be just fine, I promise.” Thomas kissed her again. “Let’s just get some rest.”
ELEVEN
Frank Collins paid top coin to sit ringside. When you had a bet on a fight, he said, why sweat the cost of a ticket? As the old gamblers’ saying went, You just build it into the price. So he put an extra hundred on Williams to win in a fifth-round knockout, figuring those winnings would cover the ticket.
Simple, right?
He was sitting on top of the world. He’d done some checking around, and by this time tomorrow Tommy Wayne should have his painting back, or be damned close. Frank would be out of debt, and together they’d have a drink to celebrate.
Nothing cheap—just the good stuff.
Things looked great for a while. Williams came to fight, you could see it in his eyes. In the first and second rounds, Sanchez landed a jab here and there, but Williams had several powerful flurries. One right hook to the head dazed Sanchez, but not enough to knock him down. All of the judges ruled the first two rounds in Williams’s favor, but Sanchez’s legs looked strong enough to make it another few rounds.
During the break between the second and third, Sanchez’s trainer got in his face and gave him hell. Whatever he said to his fighter had an effect, because when the bell sounded, Sanchez came out swinging. He connected with a hook, a jab, and then an uppercut that knocked out Williams’s mouthpiece and sent him back hard against the ropes.
At that point, Frank feared that Williams was in danger of getting knocked down, as he didn’t even have the energy to move around and protect himself. He might as well have had a hook poked onto his head, because he was as ineffective as a punching bag out there.
Then Sanchez took a gamble and tried to finish his opponent off with a powerful right. Williams saw it coming, though, and shifted his head to the left an instant before the punch would have landed. As Sanchez stumbled a little off balance, Williams seized the opportunity to attack.
A right, a left, another right all connected.
Suddenly Sanchez was looking dazed again. Then, after Williams connected with a powerful right to Sanchez’s head, Sanchez’s legs buckled and he went down.
“Get up!” Frank, on his feet, screamed, “Get up, you bastard! Get the hell up!” He needed Sanchez to get knocked out, but two rounds from now.
As the ref did the countdown, Frank continued to scream, maybe louder than he’d ever screamed before. At “five” Sanchez got up on his elbows.
Okay, this could work out perfect, Frank thought. Sanchez gets back up, lasts through the round, and the next round and then in the fifth, boom, Williams finishes him off. If that happened, Frank would win over one hundred grand—enough to pay off most of his debts, and at least quiet down the bookies who’d been threatening to kill him lately.
Wait. What the hell…
Sanchez collapsed again, and the ref grabbed Williams’s arm, lifting it and declaring him the winner. This wasn’t happening—this couldn’t be happening. Sanchez was getting up. Frank saw it, so vividly. How could he still be lying there? How could the fight be over?
Then it kicked in—what a moron he was. His original bet had been a third-round knockout, but when Tommy Wayne had been in his office, Frank had changed the bet to the fifth round. Did God have something against him, or what? Just when he stopped trusting his instincts, they turned out to be right.
* * *
Frank left the arena as dazed as Sanchez. He felt like he had gotten the crap beaten out of him, too, and in a way he had. Actually he was in worse shape, because at least Sanchez had money. Frank still couldn’t believe he wasn’t back in his seat, ready to celebrate a fifth-round knockout.
His cell chimed—his bookie’s number glowing on the screen. Well, one of his bookies. He had been in debt up to his lungs with the four best bookies in Gotham, even before he’d made the big bet. Now the shit was really gonna hit the fan. Two of the bookies had threatened to kill him if he didn’t make a payment soon, and the others had threatened to break limbs.
It wasn’t a matter of if some goon would come after him, it was a matter of when, and which one. He couldn’t even borrow money on the street, because he’d burned bridges with every loan shark in Gotham.
Frank had always gambled, but it hadn’t become a serious problem until a few years ago, after his third marriage fell apart. Since then he gambled seven days a week—horses, poker, blackjack, sports, you name it. His clients—like Tommy Wayne—had always known that he loved the action, so they didn’t think anything unusual was going on. Besides, Frank was great at compartmentalizing.
His clients liked this because it meant he was great at keeping secrets, but it also meant he was great at hiding his own problems. While working he was always locked in, focused, and great at what he did—solving the difficult cases. But when he was gambling, another side of his personality came out. He was wild, reckless, needed new and bigger rushes and, as with any addiction, he could never get enough.
Lost in his obsessive thoughts, Frank drifted from the bustling streets around the arena toward the seedy area by the docks. He passed street kids, prostitutes, drunks, bums, and drug dealers. He heard gunshots, sirens, crying, fighting, and screams for help. Nobody looked at him or even seemed to notice him—he felt like a ghost. Frank wished he was a ghost, dead already. That would be easier. He had no destination—he wasn’t even thinking about where to head.
He just wanted to move, get away, disappear.
At some point he bought a bottle of whiskey with the last money he had. Well, that wasn’t true—he still had the change in his pocket and maybe he could scrounge up ten bucks.
With the whiskey came darker thoughts. He didn’t have enough for a last meal, so he might as well get it over with tonight. Yep, killing himself seemed like the best way out of this mess. It would be much quicker and less painful than if he let the bookie’s goons whack him. There were a couple of bridges within walking distance—but given that he was afraid of heights and of drowning, that seemed like a rough way to check out.
Looking back on the cases he’d handled as a GCPD detective, and later as a PI, he searched for a better way to go. Preferably something that involved as little pain as possible. Getting drunker, he stumbled in the general direction of his apartment, actually becoming excited about his upcoming demise. Maybe death wasn’t exactly a future, but it was something to look forward to. Not living anymore, not having to
deal with all the crap, it felt very freeing.
Not that he actually wanted to die. If there were two doors—life and death—he’d choose life. He liked living, liked his work, and, okay, he liked gambling. That might be his main reason for wanting to live—to have a chance to win his money back—but that ship had sailed when Sanchez stayed down on the mat. He had no more options.
There were two doors and both doors led to death.
Heading through a defunct train yard, he glanced at the wall of an abandoned building, covered with colorful graffiti, and a different line of thinking began to take hold.
Maybe there is a way out…
A few years ago, the idea of ripping off Tommy Wayne never would have occurred to Frank. After all, he liked Tommy—they were pals, had history, and Wayne’s trust in him meant something… but that was then.
A lot had happened. Something in Frank had changed. His moral center had eroded. He’d lost trust in everybody, even himself. He was out of control—couldn’t get back on the straight and narrow, even if he wanted to.
New Frank only cared about one thing—money.
Tommy Wayne had money.
How many millions was that Picasso worth, he wondered? With that kind of money, Tommy could pay off all his debts, quit the PI business, leave Gotham, move to a little island off the coast of Mexico. He’d be set up for life.
Frank had done some digging. He’d found out that a guy named Roberto Colon had stolen the painting. Word on the street was that the cops had tried to bust Colon at Angel’s, but Colon took off. So now all Frank had to do was find Colon before the cops did, and get his hands on the Picasso. He’d find a ship heading to Europe—nothing fancy, something below the radar—then he’d sell it on the black market.
Lurching, Frank sat down hard on a stack of tires, rats scurrying away. He finished the last of the whiskey and tossed the bottle over his shoulder, hearing it splash. Then he pulled out his cell and made a call.
“Hey, C-cobblepot,” Frank slurred. “It’s Frankie… Frankie Collins.”
“Who?” Cobblepot asked.
There was loud noise in the background—music, people yelling.
