Dreams played on a reel:
Christmastime in Gotham. Snow flurries. He stood in the cold. Blood spatter on his glasses. A pump shotgun in his hands. Red, numbing hands on cold gunmetal. Ambition coalesced with absolute justice, opportunity sprung forth. Bold dreams required bold action. Eight people dead. Heinous crimes required swift resolution. Shotgun justice. Shotgun Jim took matters into his own hands.
He's in a courtyard, tied to a pole. Cigarette in his mouth sans blindfold. Rupert Thorne marches in with firing squad in tow. Four men in black and red uniforms goose-stepped with rifles. County Sheriff Scott Andrews, County Administrator Hubert Perkins, Gotham DA Carl Hull, Inspector Arnold Flass. Thorne smiled wiiide. He saw too sharp teeth. He gave the order. The executioners unslung their rifles. The executioners aimed. Four rifles opened fire.
6:23 AM
Jim jerked awake. Nightmare. He felt cold sweat on his forehead. This was the price of bucking the Thirst. Night terrors and old debts accrued haunted his dream. He squinted through the dark of the bedroom. Almost six thirty. Stirring at his side. Sarah rolled away from him. He got out of bed and found his glasses. He started to dress in the dark.
He sensed Sarah waking up. She said, "Leaving?"
"I need to get back home before Barbara wakes up. If she finds me gone, that'll lead to a conversation I don't want to have. Plus, my security detail officer reports for duty at seven. I'm more worried about him finding out than Barbara."
A flash of light in the dark. Sarah lit a cigarette. A red ember danced. He could feel her eyes through the dark. They watched him. They asked the same thing he was asking himself.
What did we do? And what are we going to do? Fifteen years since their last coupling. It still was not enough time to kill the heat. He could feel it simmering even now, hours post copulation.
He fumbled and found his tie. he said, "You and Bullock are still going to appear before the public safety subcommittee today, right?"
"That's the plan."
"Well, I'll see you later today."
He groped through the dark, found her and her lips. Careful. A mostly chaste kiss. Something more threatened to reignite it. He walked towards the door, came up short and looked back in the dark.
"Was it... the same as it was all those years ago?"
"God yes... and that's what I'm afraid of. Last time we destroyed your marriage and derailed my career. This time the stakes are so much higher. Our careers and our city are put in the middle of this."
Jim rested his forehead against the door. What he wanted to say: I would gladly sacrifice my office, this city, and everything short of my daughter to be with you. You are my salvation. You are the one who can save me from Shotgun Jim.
What he said: "I know."
Still dark when he stepped out into the morning. Warm and sticky and humid. A hot day coming up. He already felt sweat beading. His car was stashed two blocks away. His idea of being covert and careful. He walked down the sidewalk. A car started up down the block. Jim felt his stomach go cold. He turned, saw a black SUV racing down the street. He tried to snag a plate number. The car had no lights on so no tag lights showing a plate. The car hauled ass down the street and faded in the distance.
******
MCU Squadroom
Gotham Central
7:15 AM
Renee Montoya stifled a yawn. Paperwork upon paperwork. Chasing paper trails and paper pushing across paper filled tables. She volunteered to work graveyard shift. The rest of the MCU had families and other commitments. She needed busy work to keep her mind at bay. She was between places at the moment. Six months after moving in and she and Daria were on the skids.
No big surprise there. Their thing started ticking the moment they hooked up. Daria was a holster sniffer, one of the few lesbian ones. She prowled for female cop hookups and collected them. She did not love Renee, she loved Renee's badge. She was foolish for believing she could make it work.
More paperwork. Four stiffs found in a trailer officially closed the diamond heist. Marcus Mueller and three former Marines with combat experience build in Afghanistan hoard military-grade weapons and build an IED. They ripoff an armored car and steal millions of dollars in diamonds. Hours later the four heist men get snuffed out by person or persons unknown. Sawyer bartered with the GCSD to take on the murder.
Renee picked up folders stamped with the GCPD seal. Personnel files. One of the guards, the armored car driver, was former GCPD. Daniel Gallagher. Twelve years as a harness bull out in the Northeastern District. Bennett Beach territory. Russians and Eastern Europeans packed in tight.
Gallagher's yearly CO reports: C's and D's all around. A hump by anybody's standards. Cited numerous times for abandoning his post, showing up drunk for duty, shaking down hookers for blowjobs, trying to run a half-ass protection racket through the Beach. He flushed out of the department two years ago after Jim took over as commish and started tossing out dead wood. Thoughts prickled in Renee's scalp. Who in the hell would hire a hump like this to safeguard cash and jewels?
She found the armored car company's file on Gallagher. The prickles went to buzzed. The Daniel Gallagher
theyhad on file was a completely different person. Still a dozen years as a harness bull around Bennett Beach, but numerous decorations for line of duty valor. Stellar arrest record, high felony count. No mention of all the sad shakedowns and write-ups.
A forged copy. It had to be. Someone submitted a fabricated personnel file for the armored car people so Gallagher could be hired. She felt her buzz buzzing higher. The wall clock said nearly seven thirty. The rest of the squad wouldn't report until nine. She picked up the phone and dialed Fraud.
"Fraud Investigation. Miller here."
"Miller? Montoya, Major Crimes. I need to snag a list you guys may have on any and all document forgers operating in the city."
She heard Miller sigh. Nightshift almost over. He was watching the clock. New grief he didn't need.
"Can it wait for the day shift, Montoya?"
"No, it can't."
"Alright, alright. I'll see what we have in our records. Gimme your email address and I'll send you a copy."
She gave him her email. She shook her knee up and down in excitement.
"You're a gentleman and a scholar."
******
Bennett Beach
9:30 AM
The Beach was all Penguin territory. Russian expats and gangsters mingled with the old Jews of the neighborhood. Yiddish and Cyrillic script cohabitated on walls and storefronts. Kosher meat hung from store windows. Dig those Hassidic Jews and those wild beards and hats. ZZ Top meets Run DMC. Feature those Russian bears in six thousand dollar suits. Slavic ****es walked the streets. Beautiful and wearing cheap clothing, but dead eyes underneath all that makeup. Sinister pimps nearby, drinking strong coffee and smoking Polish cigarettes. Operating with impunity in the early morning.
Vin drove the unmarked. Flass rode shotgun. Corrigan and Burke in the back. Burke, all bruised up from last night. Withdrawn and quiet, wearing shades to hide his bruises. Flass gave Vin directions. He parked outside a squat building underneath the subway. The sign in English, Yiddish, Cyrillic: Nikola's
Tea Room.
Flass said, "Jim and Tommy, please stay with the car. Our friend gets a bit antsy in front of law enforcement. The fewer that brace him, the better."
Vin followed Flass in. A dining area made up to look bourgeoisie chic. Lots of red velvet, red lampshades, and soft oranges. Two rough Ruskies by a bar approached them. Flass showed his badge. Vin followed suit. The two Ruskies exchanged words, one of them beckoned. They followed into the back room.
A plush office with an illuminated fish tank. The Chechen sat in a big chair, his feet on a cherrywood desk. Black suit with no tie, goatee and looking as Slavic as the pierogi chow at Abramowicz's Deli down the street. Vin heard the rumors around town: the Chechen was former Russian intelligence turned Russian Mafiya. No, he was a KGB Kommando who had a kill kount in Afghanistan that approached triple digits. No, he fought the Russians in Chechnya. No, Ruskies raped his mother and he slaughtered an entire battalion in the name of revenge. Putin had a six-figure bounty on his head.
The Chechen flashed a mouth of yellow teeth. "Flass. Long time no see. How is tricks, my brother?"
Flass winked. "Tricky. How goes the day to day management of a criminal fiefdom?"
"Trickier. I am middle management. The people below me, they have excuses. The people above me, they want more. Always more."
The Chechen said something in Russian. The door opened. A big Russian came in with a bottle of vodka, three shot glasses. The Chechen banged a shot. Flass banged a shot. Vin slammed a shot. The booze hit his system quick. It warmed his chest. It jacked him up further.
The Chechen poured another shot. "So, to what exactly did I do to bring you back into my life, Flass?"
"Diamonds, my Chechen brother. Diamonds."
"You are getting married?!"
The Chechen hopped up from the desk. He did a Cossack dance beside the desk, squats and flailing arms. Flass laughed and did another shot. He poured one for Vin. They clicked glasses and went bottoms up. The Chechen sat back down, red-faced and sweating.
Flass said. "No, my friend. Wild hearts like mine cannot be tamed. I value my independence. Specifically, I am interested in illegal diamond selling. Bennett Beach is filled with Russian and Jews plugged into international smuggling. It is the perfect staging area to move hot rocks."
The Chechen shrugged. "I do plenty of crime, my brother. I push the drugs, I do the gambling, I loanshark. Diamonds? I do not touch."
Vin finally spoke up. "You know someone that does, don't you?"
The Chechen looked stunned. Flass looked ready to laugh. The Chechen rubbed his goatee. A vein in his forehead went thump thump thump.
"Flass, my brother, who is this сука who thinks he can talk to me?"
"He is my protegee, and a man who could one day take over my part in our arrangement. What he says, he says with my say so. His actions, past, present, and future, are all done so with my fully sanctioned approval. He has a wicked temper, my brother, and it is best if you do not draw his ire."
Flass touched his necktie. The message meant GO.
Vin stood. He cracked his knuckles. The Chechen giggled. Offputting. A girl's laugh on a tough man. The laugh pissed Vin off. He went across the desk. The Chechen swung. A big fist caught Vin flush. He went sideways. The Chechen pounced on him. A commotion from somewhere else. Flass talking loudly. Shouts and smashes.
The Chechen's hands on his throat. Vin pulled him in and headbutted him across the face. A howl from the gangster. Vin shoved him up against the desk. He did a one-two combo to the ribs. The Chechen growled in pain. Vin grabbed him by the neck and shoved his head into the fish tank. Water splashed, the Chechen flailed. Vin pulled him up, spitting up water.
"Alexi Abramhoff! He's the one who ****s with diamonds here on the Beach!"
Vin looked across the office. Flass stood over the two unconscious Ruskies with a blackjack. His hair askew, blood on his shirt and a wide smile.
"Thank you for your cooperation, my Chechen brother."
Vin dunked his head back in the water and kicked him in the ass.
