Tonnage

Cop Shop Drama and A Flaming Good Time.

>>

Jim Gordon is a cop. Some people, when you look at them, you can just tell. Maybe not the exact profession. But you can get close, and Jim comes with the stress and worry lines as well as the instincts that make him sort out what is around him looking for danger at all times, which can only come about due to years and years of constantly being in danger of one sort or another.

For all of that, he manages to be friendly as he sits down in the chair on the other side of the interview room table.

Because he'll be damned if he is going to drag some poor kid that was defending himself and others against the local fruit loops into an interrogation room, and based on what every employee of that place said, that's what happened. Even the one who got shot stood up for him, and the security footage backs up everything that was said.

But even still, this has to be on the record and official. Bulletproof. Somehow it has gotten out what happened this afternoon, that it was connected to the guy that turned Croc's face into a gravel pit. He's had other departments and feds on the phone with him for the last two hours. People trying to connect him and his abilities to other cases or trying to drag information about the new high-end meta out of him or his men. Never mind that the kid has never left the city and that they are trying to connect him to things that predate his meta-gene activating. Damn vultures.

He beckons the kid to sit on the steel bench they had brought in for him. Had to unbolt it from the floor of an empty cell, but it should hold him fine. He motions for Tom to move his hands to the center of the table, and then with a practiced flick of a key, he removes the 'meta-proof' cuffs that the officers who brought him in had put on him when they loaded him into the wagon. Whether or not they are proof against Tom's level of 'meta' he isn't sure. The current issue will barely hold Croc, and given what Tom did to the crook...

He takes out a tape recorder. One of the old-style ones that they used to have in schools. A black and gray brick with buttons on one end and a clear cover for the cassette so you can tell how much more tape you have at a glance.

There are two other armed cops in the room, but they somewhat fade into the background as Jim rests his arms on the table and shakes his head, his hands notably empty and lying flat.

“Been a hell of a week for you, hasn't it Mr. Wierzowski ?”

Tom looks up. His face is still streaked a little from the tears of earlier, but he's rubbed most of it off of his face by now. At this point, he just looks tired.

“Yes, sir. Can I please go home now?”

Jim looks sympathetic but shakes his head no.

“We won't keep you too much longer, we've already gotten statements from everybody else and there isn't any question that something needed to be done, Tom. We just need to make sure that all of our I's are dotted and T's are crossed on our paperwork so this can't ever come back to bite you. Are you ready?”

Tom sighs. “Yes, sir.”

Jim shakes his head with a smile. “Call me Jim.”

The giant looks down a bit at the seasoned veteran of one of the nastiest police force postings on the planet and nods. “You can call me Tom if you want to.”

Jim looks pleased by that and continues. “Tom, between the surveillance cameras at the shop and employees having already been questioned we have a pretty good idea what went down. We can make guesses as to why, but I want you to put that out of your head for a while and just tell me about your day if you would. Say, from the point at which you left your house.”

Tom thinks back and begins the tale. Jim's face freezes and a shadow of fury crosses his face for just an instant as he is explaining his visit with Officer Mitchell. Tom takes note of it but continues telling the story. When he is done, Jim stops the recorder.

“Tom, I need to follow up on something really quick, can you stay here for me? I'll leave these two here to make sure that nobody bothers you until I get back.”

Tom nods, confused as to why Jim would need to run off, but guessing that Officer Mitchell did something against protocol when he stopped Tom earlier. He had seemed pretty easy-going about the identification issue, maybe he was supposed to bring Tom in? Tom hopes the poor guy doesn't get into trouble.

>>

Jim is fit to be tied as he makes his way back to his office and pulls out his other cell phone. The one Barbara had given him for special occasions. It's a slim thing. Small. Tiny screen. But it hooks to a secured Bluetooth he sticks in his ear, is encrypted all to hell and back, and will pick up sub-vocal communications.

He's filling out paperwork for a stakeout as well as dialing on the teeny little phone.

“Jim, something come up?” It's Bruce, but he is using his 'I'm a Playboy' voice. Which means he isn't really free to talk. This happens sometimes. They have a protocol for it these days. It basically involves an information dump and then calling his daughter. The bat signal is nice when there is time. Keeps the mythos alive, and there is some nostalgia in using it after all this time. But now isn't the time to stand on ceremony.

“Tom Wierzowski was attacked in Old Gotham by Black Mask thugs two hours ago, and I am getting information now that might indicate that one of my own set him up and got a look at his ID.”

There is a short pause, and then Bruce's voice comes back. It's still 'Playboy Bruce' but it isn't happy anymore.

“Oh, Jim, that's terrible news! I hope you get it sorted out. That said, still ready for our luncheon tomorrow at two? I have ideas on how to make a bit more this year through the policeman's ball, and I'd like to get started on it as soon as possible.”

He's saying it'll take him two hours to get free. Mentioning the 'Policeman's ball' indicates he is already somewhat aware of what is going on through Oracle who, aside from being Jim's daughter, is also known for constantly monitoring the police bands used in the city. Jim nods absently as he continues. It's rare that Batman is caught completely in the dark.

“My worry here is that the identification he's carrying still has the old address on it. His uncle still lives there, as I understand it. I can force a stakeout on the property, but the officers that work Crime Alley for the force are... Not always reliable.”

The tone of Bruce's voice hasn't changed. But there is definitely something extra to it. You'd need to know him pretty well to tell over the phone, but Bruce is beyond irritated right now.

“You're right, twelve-thirty would be better than waiting until two, especially considering it may take a few hours. Hopefully, it all works out, I'll put some of my people on sorting out the VIP list, you just try to keep the whole event from exploding until I get there.”

His voice drops an octave, and the next bit is said with complete sincerity, though still in his 'Playboy' voice.

“Be careful, Jim. There's something going on. I'm not sure what yet, but the power in town is moving some, more than it has in years. Hopefully, that won't affect the ball, but if it starts let me know and I'll see what I can do to keep feathers from being ruffled.”

Feathers? That's... Oh damn it, Black Mask and Penguin are both making moves right now?

“I'd appreciate it, and I'll need to let you go. More calls to make.”

His daughter answers immediately. “No need, I'm already here. I'll take it from here Bruce, feel free to listen in while you get clear of the board. Dad, do you have Tom at the station?”

“Yeah, he's in an interview room being watched over by two of my best right now. Poor kid has been through a hell of a lot in the last month and change. Last couple of years, really.”

“Yes, he has. I've got the address. We'll put somebody on it for the next few days and install some assets to keep an eye on the area. But that's the best I can do unless his uncle is willing to relocate. Crime Alley is practically a war zone sometimes, it'd be suicide to station any of us there on an immobile stakeout for more than a day or three. All the rogues with half a brain have been trying to spot patterns in our activities for years and Crime Alley is a place where they can act almost with impunity a lot of the time. Sorry, Dad.”

Jim's sigh is let out with all the sadness and irritation that a lifetime here can produce. “And anybody that bothers to live and own a multi-million dollar business in Crime Alley, even if it is mostly the land value, isn't likely to run off at the first hint of an issue.” There is a short pause and Oracle can hear fingers being drummed against a wooden desktop. “Sometimes I swear the biggest problem that people from Gotham have is themselves. I need to get back to the kid, and since we aren't charging him he'll be free to go within a couple of hours. I can keep him here that long just getting a new identification sorted out for him. Keep me in the loop, Barbara, and I'll handle things on my end.”

“You know I will Dad. Be careful, and I'll talk again soon.”

>>

His phone rings. But it's way too early for that crap. So he rolls over and ignores it.

It happens again. Can't have been more than five minutes since the last time. He cracks an eye open and glares at the clock. 6:30 PM, or thereabouts. He blindly reaches across the bed, thumbs the phone without looking to answer, and puts it on speaker.

“I'm sleeping. There had better be somebody dead.”

The cheerful voice of Barbara comes out of the handset.

“Good morning, Hood.” Then it drops a bunch of it's 'cheer.' "We have a situation in Crime Alley and I need you to set up additional surveillance around an apartment building there. Black Mask made a play for Tom today while he was getting his new clothes sorted, and we are pretty sure that one of the less-than-honest cops fed the address he's still listed as living at.”

There is a groan from the phone. “And his uncle still lives there, right? Wonderful. Who's watching it now?”

There is a short pause, then: “Signal is keeping an eye on things from the window of a burned-out tenement a few blocks away, but the building has multiple entrances on different sides and my coverage in the Alley is abysmal. Red Robin and Spoiler are supposed to be taking it up in another half hour, but we need that surveillance set up as soon as possible. This is an active and evolving situation. All we know for sure at the moment is that Louis hasn't returned from the yard yet this evening. And since Tom is still enjoying the hospitality of my father for another hour or two there is a fair chance he is waiting to see his nephew before he goes home.”

She pauses for a moment, and then a slight chuckle escapes her. “You'd like this guy, Hood. He literally disarmed a BM thug during the fracas from the elbow down. According to the prints we have, Angelo Provenzano is a bit lighter these days.”

Jason startles, then laughs. “I bet B is a huge fan of that.”

There is another pause. There often is, talking to Barbara after the sun goes down. To say she stays busy in her fortress of secrets would be a bit of an understatement.

“After reading the interviews by the bystanders he calmed some. Mostly because Tom was reacting to what was a hostage situation coupled with an attempted murder right in front of him. But no, he isn't thrilled.”

Jason, the Red Hood, starts getting his clothes on, then armor. “Fill me in while I get ready, Oracle. I'll see if I can't take a couple more of Black Mask's stooges off the street while we're at it. The problem is always finding those roaches, and if we know where they are going to be tonight, I have a welcome mat to roll out for them.”

“B will be involved, Hood.”

“Figured he would be. Got his eyes on another one and won't let it go until the kid's been categorized, declawed, and probably shoved somewhere that isn't here. Don't care what Thompkins says, B has an MO with this kind of thing and he isn't going to let it go.”

“Yes. I know, Hood. Just hurry, I have things to do myself, so I'll send you the files. Be careful.”

>>

And so, it is almost seven thirty by the time that Hood shows up at the building. Skulking about it for a few minutes gets him nothing, and climbing the stairs to the fourth floor gets him little more other than there has been some repair work done on the staircase in the last month. When he opens the door to the apartment in question, his lock picks having made short work of the door as an obstacle, he sees a homey if run-down space. It's late enough in the day that he needs a flashlight to start placing sensors and cameras. He's been at it for a few minutes when a frantic call comes over the radio.

“HOOD! BOMB!”

It's Spoiler's voice. But he hardly needed it. Outside the very window he is currently working on, he can see the damn thing coming right for him. Some kind of rocket-propelled grenade. The local crooks are so incompetent that there is no telling what the payload is, but the standard initial response to all of them is the same.

Find cover. Diving over the couch and putting it and his thicker back plate between him and where the detonation site would be is first. Hitting the button that seals up his helmet and goes to his self-contained air supply for the half-hour of air he has is next. Those two things, which happened almost simultaneously, are the only two of the ten steps he has time for.

>>

The pressure wave shattered every window in the apartment, and the shrapnel that went into the walls along with some kind of incendiary is causing smoke to fill the room when he stands. Electrical fire made worse with the accelerants most likely. A few fires, based on the smoke. More than a few. Then there are two more explosions, lower on the building.

He's been doing this for a while, and he calls it. “This just became a rescue operation. Fire problem in the walls, floor, and ceiling, probably on multiple floors. Call in the dept, but we need to clear the building. Oracle? Whoever is on finding that grenade-packing asshole, I want a piece.”

>>

By the time Tom finally makes his way back to the Yard after being given a lift in the back of the wagon again, he's heard about the fire. And his relief at seeing his uncle come out of the office to give him a hug is the balm he needed for an exceptionally shitty day.

>>

“What do you mean, you got the wrong guy?”

The thug in front of him is practically quivering in fear. Black Mask isn't known for his forgiveness despite the silky smooth nature of his voice.

"I did what you told me. I waited until I saw somebody in there and I fired. But it wasn't the old scrapyard guy. It... It was Hood.”

Black Mask stares at his underling for a few moments. “You accidentally took out my biggest competitor in the area?”

The thug gets paler if anything. “No sir. He survived, and then got the people out, sir. Even when I fired all three to make sure the building went up.”

The man with the black skull for a face, seemingly charred flesh stretched grotesquely across a rictus smile, looks down a bit for a moment.

“You used three of my special new toys, and you didn't manage to kill... Anybody?”

“I destroyed the building! He doesn't have anywhere to live now at least.”

Black Mask looks up, seemingly talking to himself as he stands and begins pacing. “That doesn't make him easier to deal with. If we can't recruit the kid, we need to get rid of his support so he'll leave. Kill them all and burn them down. If he can't be kept in line with hostages or being nailed point blank with a shotgun, then he is too dangerous to our operations to let stay here unless he's working for me. If he won't replace Croc on my payroll then...”

He stops and looks at the man who failed. “I'm not an unreasonable man, Andre. Heard there were Bats on the scene, those annoyances can foul up anything. I suppose it isn't time-critical in the grand scheme of things. That is why I am giving you until the end of July to figure out a way to either get him under our thumb or get him gone.”

“Thank you, Mr. Black Mask. I'll...”

The man sits back behind his desk. “You'll be pleased to perform this duty for me, I know. The alternative is coming to visit me for a few hours on August 1st.”

The overtone of menace as the man idly plays around with a lighter is loud enough to both deafen and silence the poor thug.

>>

Author's note:
Yeah, Okay. We'll back off the kid for a bit now.