April 8
Mood: Anxious
Music: "Now" - Def Leppard. What? I have a weakness for the classics! Quit lookin' at me like that!
So, I spent a large part of yesterday sleeping after I finished my journal entry. I figure if I'm going to pretend to be a gang member, I should at least be awake at the time. Kate dropped by in the evening with an earring and a necklace that'll be my communication with Oracle, and we went over the plan a final time. I've spent the day thus far preparing the place for me to be gone a few weeks - turned the heat down, cleaned up a bit, that sort of thing. I can't bring this journal with me, obviously, but I'll be scribbling hasty notes and hopefully I can organize them all into some sort of readable narrative when I'm back home.
Okay, the hour draweth near - time for thy journal to go under yon floorboards. See you in a few, folks!
April 20
Mood: Triumphant
Music: "Freebird" - I'm not going to tell you who does that. Shame on you, if you don't know already!
Bea-utiful! I got exactly what I needed from that. Of course, now there's a whole other kettle of fish to worry about, but we'll get to that in short order. (What the hell is a kettle of fish, anyway?) Welcome back, friends, Romans, and countryfolks - hopefully the short film about my childhood years that they showed between exhibits kept you entertained. Now, back to the main attraction.
So, after my last entry, I lazed around the apartment for a while with a diet coke until the earring crackled to life.
<<"Oracle to Scorpion.">> Don't ask about the nick, okay? Apparently it was Kate's idea. Some old story she heard once. <<"Comms check, please.">>
Her voice in my ear makes me hesitate a bit, but I think I recover admirably. "Pardon me," I warble, picking an old song out of my head, "you left your tears on the jukebox..."
<<"And I'm afraid they got mixed up with mine...read you loud and clear, Scorpion. You can keep singing if you want, though...">>
"I'll pass, thanks."
<<"Well, if you're sure, then there's a package outside your apartment door. Take it to 42nd and Main.">>
"Got it." I'm determined not to dredge up bad memories, but she does it for me.
<<"It's good to hear from you.">>
"Funny - I don't remember hearing you say that a couple years ago."
<<"Listen - about that...">>> she starts to respond.
"Never mind. This isn't the time. Going off comms." I toggle a switch on my necklace, and that's that. I grab the package - a discreet brown bag filled with about three thousand dollars worth of coke. Sheltering the bag under my jacket, secured between my arm and my side, I hustle downtown. I pass the spot in question and tense up a little - I know what's coming, and it's going to hurt. Sure enough, the Batman swoops in from above and throws a solid punch into my stomach, only pulling it a little. I fly backward into a conveniently placed bit of debris that cushions my fall.
He's on me in a second, and Kate is shortly behind him. We dance a choreographed bit as I pretend I'm holding my own, only to be "surprised" when he hammers me again. I turn and take off running down the nearest alley, and before I even have time to wonder whether the plan's going to work, a red door on my right hand side swings open and a greasy hand pulls me inside before slamming the door closed again.
"Stay quiet," a voice hisses. I hear Batman and Kate outside, making a very passable attempt at trying each door before they return to the rooftops to "look" for me. After a few minutes of silence, a single naked bulb lights up above me to reveal that I'm surrounded by a dozen members of the very gang I'd been looking for.
"So," one of them says, looking me up and down, "what'd you do to piss off the bats?"
"They...disapprove of my after-school activities."
"Did you take the other kids' jumpropes?" asks the guy who pulled me inside.
"Yeah," I sneer, "after I sold them some coke. Oddly, they didn't care so much about their jumpropes after that."
There's a shared look around the room. "You were selling blow to schoolkids?"
"Hook 'em while they're young, you got a customer for life."
"Who's your supplier?"
"He's out of the picture - the bats got to him, made him call me to set up a meeting. They were waiting for me."
"Well," says the guy with the greasy hands, "here's the deal. You want to keep selling in this city, you work for us now. Otherwise we call the cops and make sure he finds you."
"Fuck that," I toss back, "how do I know you're not gonna do that anyway?"
"Because you have cojones, girl. We like that. Consider this...a probation period. Are you carrying now?"
"Yeah."
"Let's have it." With an affected reluctance, I pull the bag out from under my arm and hand it to him. He peers inside and his eyes go wide. "This is pure?"
"It is."
"Do you use? We got no use for a dealer who snorts away the product."
"No - I'm smarter than that."
"Good. Very good. Tell you what, follow Randolph and Casey downstairs, they'll find a place for you to crash. Joe, call the doc. If that fight was as bad as it looked, I'd imagine you've cracked a rib or two, yeah?"
"Maybe," I stick my chin out defiantly. "I'll live."
"If you're too sore to work for us, you're no good. You'll see the doc."
"Fine," I roll my eyes, letting my hand stray upward to my necklace and toggling the nearly invisible switch on the back. "What about that blow? That's mine."
"Not if you're working for us, girl - then it'll be share and share alike. Will that be a problem?"
"No," I exhale loudly, giving off my best 'I'm pissed off but can't do anything about it' look. "No problem. So," I look over through my bangs at the guys he called Randolph and Casey, "are you going to keep a girl waiting all night?"
That look works every time.
The first few days are downright dull - selling coke to junkies who are too afraid of the gang to try anything stupid. And, I should point out, the coke I'm selling is from the bag I had with me (I know for sure, because Batman cut off all of the Bloodrain's suppliers and there was enough in that bag to last a month) - it's got a couple of additives to provide the high without the addictiveness or other effects. You didn't think I'd go around selling the real thing, do you? Oracle listens in to all of it, keeping Gotham's finest away from wherever the deal is going down. I spend most of my time with Randolph, who's a little too talkative for his own good. He's a junkie, too - the track marks on his arms aren't exactly well-hidden - and I watch him, time after time, looking wistfully at the product I'm passing over to the customers. He's nearly drooling sometimes.
On the fourth day, I offer him a good-sized hit. He takes it happily, and his loose lips get even moreso. In between deals, I gradually work him over to the topic of the Tribune's article on gang warfare. He snorts.
"Wasn't much of an article without pictures, was it? Too bad that little runt didn't have juice..." he clams up suddenly, his last word becoming a low mumble.
"Didn't have what?" I ask, feigning disinterest.
"A bulletproof vest and a helmet," he finishes quickly. "Anyway, I better get back - you be okay by yourself for a bit?"
"I think I can handle it, yeah."
"Cool. I'll see you, okay?"
"Later." I wait until he's well out of range before I speak again. "You get all that?"
<<"Yeah - I don't know what he was talking about, though. Juice could mean a lot of things.">>
"Did Danny's autopsy report show anything unusual?"
I can hear a keyboard clicking, and she's silent for a minute as she reads. I do another deal while I wait.
<<"Just one thing. It looks like his wrists were broken...well, crushed would be a better word.">>
"And how's that unusual?"
<<"There were partial fingerprints on his bones - like someone crushed them with their bare hands, hard enough to leave the prints there.">>
There's a nearly audible click in my head. Suddenly this is about so much more than finding Danny's killer. "Oracle, listen to me - do you know any way to get hold of Catwoman?"
<<"Yes, but-">>
"Do it. Ask her if she's found any cases of radioactive spinach lately. She'll know what I'm saying - get back to me when you've got something, okay?"
<<"Okay,">> I can hear the confusion in her voice, but she quickly signs off to do what I've asked all the same. Figuring it'll be a while before I hear back, I finish up one last deal and start wandering back to the little flophouse where I've been staying. I'm barely through the front door when I'm stopped by three guys I've never seen before. They're all monstrous - nearly seven feet tall, and more bulk than your average SUV. The one in front looks over a pair of aviator sunglasses at me - the mirror effect is disconcerting.
"Boss wants to see you."
"Can I get a shower first?"
"No." Well, that settles that. I follow their less-than-gentle guidance into the back of a waiting Escalade. We ride in silence the whole way, and it's a very long hour before we pull up in front of a crumbling apartment block in one of the oldest parts of Gotham. I look dubiously at it and back at one of my escorts, but they give me another none-too-gentle nudge and I take the hint, walking slowly into the largest building's lobby. A hand on my shoulder keeps me from opening the door, and one of the hired goons (hired goons? - sorry, Simpsons joke) punches a long code into the…what do you call those things, anyway? Those things you use to buzz apartments and talk to them so they let you in? Dammit, that's going to bug me all day. Anyway, one of those things. And instead of the doors unlocking, the whole lobby shudders and descends into the ground.
<<"Scorpion? I'm losing your GPS. Can you still hear me? If you can't answer, just clear your throat.">>
I do, and pass it off as a dry throat. Wordlessly, one of my companions produces a bottle of Perrier from…well, let's not wonder too much…and hands it to me. Not wanting to seem ungrateful, I swallow a large mouthful and try not to gag - frickin' carbonated water. Blech.
<<"Good. Comms are still working. Listen, I found Catwoman. She had to think for a minute, but she finally figured out what I was asking - which is good, because I still don't have a clue.">> She sounds rather adorably miffed, and I take another swallow of the vile water to cover a grin. <<"She said she's seen a half-dozen in the last two years, but she still hasn't got any of them to flip on their supplier. I hope that helps. I'll keep quiet for now unless you need anything, but keep your comms on.">>
The massive elevator grinds to a halt, and if the length of the trip is any indication then we're at least a couple hundred feet underground. "Out," commands the guy who gave me the Perrier. I step out into a darkened room, and the elevator door closes behind me with a thud. Suddenly, the room is lit up by a bunch of thousand-watt bulbs, and I'm blinded.
"Jessie Montoya," a deep voice says, amplified by a very good speaker system. I'll say one thing for gangsters - they know their stereo equipment. Woofers and tweeters and amps, oh my! Sorry - I'll stop now. Back to the story.
"That's not-"
"Please, don't insult us both by pretending that little charade and cover story you gave the boys up there is going to hold up to scrutiny. You've had your face in the paper, and just because you're not wearing makeup doesn't mean I don't recognise you."
"You have me at a disadvantage, then."
"Yes. I do. Normally, I'd have just had you killed. But I know all about you, and I know why you're here. Killing that photographer was very stupid, and it's brought us some unwanted attention."
My eyes are adjusting to the light, but the whole room is covered in floor-to-ceiling mirrors. They're obviously one-way. "What about the juice?"
"That shit has caused me more problems...every time some street-level moron gets his hands on the stuff, he brings half the city down on him. The guy who killed your photographer, as you probably know, was on the stuff at the time. So I'd like to offer you a deal."
"What kind of deal?"
"I'll help you find the man who shot your photographer. In return, you find out where he got the juice from. Then you take him and disappear. And I never catch you meddling in my business again."
"Or?"
"Or I have my men shoot you in the head and leave you for the bats to find. Your choice - think about it, if you need to."
"Well," I try to reign in my smart mouth, but I can't quite manage it, "could I have a day or so? That's a toughie."
"You can have three seconds."
"Fine. Deal. So, who is he?"
"If I knew that, I wouldn't have said I'd help you find him. I would have said I'll tell you who he is."
"So, how exactly are you going to help me, then?"
"I'm going to give you four names - the only people in my organisation who might have taken juice and had the opportunity to kill your boy. The man you're looking for will be one of them. You'll have to figure out which."
"That's the best you can do? Seriously?"
"Well, I can always rescind the deal and shoot you, if you'd prefer."
"What are the names?"
The first name on my list is Casey - I met him that first night, but we didn't do more than exchange words. He looks about eighteen, but he's probably my age. He's also one of the only guys I've seen in this gang who could get a real job on looks - he dresses nicely, and he doesn't have any visible scars or needle tracks. Which is too bad, in some ways, 'cause it's easier to interrogate a junkie.
Problem number one - how do I get proof that a guy used some sort of superhero serum when even the boss of his gang can't find out? I'm assuming it won't be as easy as sneaking a DNA sample - whatever the juice, or radioactive spinach, or whatever one calls it, does to the body must vanish in time.
Oh, and as a side note, I've realised Catwoman must have told me a little white lie that first night in Gotham - she didn't leave that guy for someone else to find. She must have doubled back after she dropped me at my apartment and interrogated him. But I digress.
Problem number two - I can't blow my cover. Whoever the boss of this gang is, the deal he struck with me is only going to grant me immunity to a point. If one of the lower-level joes gets a notion that I'm a cop or a reporter, I'm likely to end up shot in an alley somewhere. So this is going to require planning.
Problem number three - I only know where to find two of the four people whose names I've been given. Oracle is working at tracking down the remaining two, but that might take some time.
Okay, my hand is cramping up. I'll try and finish this tomorrow - sorry, folks. If you'll turn your attention to the second documentary, being shown on the screen above your heads, the next exhibit will be ready shortly...
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