Filthy Rich

Chapter 5

Today I saw that Dick had his hair over his forehead and he never does—always combs it out of his eyes. He leaned over to pick up a book he’d dropped and I saw his forehead. It was fresh and looks like it was still bleeding and had maybe a dozen stitches in it, right in his left eyebrow so you wouldn’t see them too well unless you looked—the thread blended in with his dark hair. I asked him what happened and he sort of tried to bluff but then finally said he walked into a door.

“You don’t look clumsy to me, how’d something like that happen?”

“I got up in the middle of the night, ‘still half asleep and forgot that the door wasn’t opened. It’s okay.”

Walked into a door my ass but he wouldn’t talk and just went into the house. The kid looked upset, too, like he was afraid, scared and was worried someone would call bullshit on his lame story.

That was just the problem I could see—I’m almost afraid to ask what might be under his shirt or something.

Wayne is a strong man, big and I know he works out. A kid like Dick, even a kid like Dick wouldn’t stand a chance against him if he were pissed. He’s got to go over two hundred pounds and Dick, he’s strong, too but he’s still fifteen years old, hasn’t filled in yet. It’s not even close, the kid would be like a fish on a line—he could fight but he was still hooked.

Jesus—that’s the other thing; everyone thinks Bruce is this pleasant, sort of dim nice guy. No one knows that he—what he’s doing to Dick and how long it’s been going on. Damn pervert.

I know I don’t have any evidence, especially if Dick won’t say anything but—crap—I can’t just walk away.

And that’s another thing. Yesterday Trav came home from school and said that Dick had talked to him during that study hall they both have during school. He said that Dick wants me to leave him alone. Evidently Dick has noticed that I’m watching him and he doesn’t like it, makes him uneasy or something, doesn’t like knowing that someone has him under scrutiny.

Hell—Trav looked upset about that, about the idea that I might be worried about the kid and that it could (though probably wouldn’t) make me lose my job.

“Dad—shit, c’mon, I like Dick, lay off him, will you? He’s been really nice to me and he’s a good guy. If he’s okay with living up there then that should be good enough for you, okay?”

“Trav, you don’t understand…”

“Just leave him alone, will you? You don’t even know for sure that anything is going on that shouldn’t be—I mean, do you really think that someone as smart as dick would just take it? He wouldn’t, he’d leave or call his friends or something. He has plenty of things he could do if there was a problem. Cripes, aren’t they friends with like the police commissioner? Lighten up on the poor guy.”

“You don’t understand; I have to do what I think’s right.”

“Yeah, good for you but if Dick says anything to Bruce then your ass will be in a sling and then we’ll both be screwed so lay off.”

“He had stitches and his excuse is ridiculous.”

“So what? It’s none of your damn business—just back off. I mean it, leave him alone. He’s smart and he’s a lot tougher than you think he is so let him deal with whatever he’s dealing with on his own before you get fired.”

* * *
 

A week or so later Tom saw a chance to maybe settle this mess. Dick was out just taking a walk through the miles of paths on the estate, something he did now and then. The unstated but understood rules were that the staff was supposed to make themselves scarce when a member of ‘the family’ was around but this time—what the hell. He followed to see where the kid was headed then took a shortcut and intercepted him on the shore of the small lake.

“Dick?” If the boy was startled he hid it well and simply nodded an acknowledgement. “I was wondering, do you have a minute?”

Hesitation. “What did you want to talk about?” Tom liked that, no beating around the bush, no pretending like he didn’t know what was going on.

“Is everything all right?”

Dick just looked at him with this appraising attitude, like he was wondering what Tom’s agenda was in this. He had this sudden hard look about him this sort of ‘whatever it is you think you know, whatever you think you’re going to find out isn’t happening and it’s none of your damn business so fuck off’. Then the old man, Alfred’s manners snapped back into place, his expression softened; it was watching a switch click on, surprising Tom, the kid was good. “Everything’s fine, why do you ask?”

“I was worried about those stitches, is that healed now?”

“Oh, yeah. They were removed a couple of days ago, it’s fine, no problem. Thanks for asking.” He shifted his weight, ready to walk away.

“Does that happen often, you needing stitches?”

He stopped and turned back, that hard look back on his face, even his voice changed, demanded respect and full attention. “Excuse me?”

Jesus, the kid’s eyes were really an amazing color, Tom hadn’t ever seen eyes that blue but maybe they were contacts or something. “Getting hurt, does that happen a lot?”

Hands on his hips, he faced Tom dead on from about six feet away. “What are you asking?”

Fine, say it, just frigging say it and let the chips fall where they may. “I was wondering what really happened, who did that to you. I know it’s not any of my business but this isn’t the first time you’ve had these injuries—I was getting worried that maybe someone was, you know, maybe someone was responsible.”

“Someone like Bruce or maybe Alfred?” He didn’t seem surprised and probably knew exactly what Tom thought. “No. No one is beating me or raping me or doing anything else to me that they shouldn’t. I do gymnastics—you know that. I get hurt sometimes; you want to see my hands?” He held them out, palms up. They were a mass of calluses, scars and healing skin splits. “Gymnastics, it’s dangerous at the level I work, sometimes I get hurt. Any other questions?”

“That’s the answer?” As good as an answer as he was going to get from the kid, that was apparent. One last try, “If anything does happen, if someone ever, I’m close by—you know what I’m saying. Call me. Any time, day or night. Call me, okay?”

Dick nodded. “Gymnastics, but thanks for asking.” He was done with the conversation, nodded, “Excuse me.”

Tom watched the boy disappear around the path and into the woods.

 

* * *
 

“That’s what he said, Reverend Jack, that he hurts himself doing gymnastics.”

“Maybe he does, didn’t you say he’s pretty good? That’s not an easy sport, takes a lot out of you. He could be telling the truth.” Tom was like a dog with a bone about this and wasn’t buying the boy’s explanation.

“All the time? It’s that bastard Wayne, I’m sure of it but I can’t get any proof.”

“But the boy—Dick?—he’s adopted, right? So they have visits from the agency or whatever. How could they be hiding abuse for years?”

“Because Wayne has more money than he knows what to do with, that’s why. A million or two is pocket change to him, don’t you get it?”

“Well, yes, but clearly the boy has ample chances to escape or talk to someone who would help. If the school had the slightest suspicion they’re forced, by law, to report to the authorities. Nothing has ever been proven regarding anything of that sort going on.”

“Reverend…”

“Tom, seriously, I know. Everyone has heard the rumors but because they’re so high profile they’ve been investigated and nothing has ever come of any of them.”

The whole thing frustrated Tom; even his minister wasn’t going to help. “Where’s there’s smoke there’s fire, that’s all I’m saying.”

Later Reverend Jack considered. The allegations from Tom were serious if true, of course, but it seemed unlikely. For starters what he’d told Tom was true, an adopted child is under the extended care of the state until they’re no longer minors. On top of that, even if Wayne was bribing the powers that be, someone would talk—there was just too much money to be made from this kind of exposé. And on top of that, Wayne was a known player with every starlet and model who crossed his path. He may be a lot of things, but he certainly seemed to be straight.

But he also knew that Tom wasn’t a stupid man and was genuinely worried about the Grayson child. Maybe he could make a couple of phone calls to the Child Welfare Agency and see if there had been any kind of complaint filed or if any action had ever been taken on behalf of the boy.

It was little enough to do and couldn’t hurt.

 

* * *
 

Maybe Reverend Jack was right. Maybe Dick was telling the truth, maybe his injuries were just from his gymnastics and skiing and the rest of it. It also made sense, if you just looked at the surface, that Wayne was really as he presented himself, a dumb but basically decent man who liked to date beautiful women, take them to his bed for a week or a month and then move on to the next. Tom could even, almost, believe that he’d taken Dick in, adopted him—made him his ward or whatever—because he felt sorry for the kid and could relate after his own parent’s murders.

It made sense, it all added up and no one had any reason to doubt it. Sure there were the rumors about why a grown man, a single grown man would take in a young boy but rumors were rumors and no one really knew what was going on up there.

Tom turned the TV on and opened a beer.

He still had some questions but, whatever. He’d keep his eyes opened and if he really saw something then he’d do something but until then, well...

He’d done everything he could for months, tried to help the boy, reached out to him, done everything he could think of and still come up empty.

He drained half the bottle.

The kicker had been last night when Traver had stormed out after another argument; they’d been having them more often the last few months and Tom wished he could figure out a way to get through to the kid. Trav’s parting shot? He’d been half out the kitchen door when he threw it back at his father; “Just once it would be nice if you gave half as much thought to me as you do to friggin’ Dick Grayson.” The screen door slamming on the last word.

He’d let things take their course and keep his mouth shut unless something happened to make him change his mind.

 

* * *
 

It was close to midnight, summer. It was a hot night, one of those nights when even a sheet was too much and you couldn’t get comfortable, couldn’t sleep unless you either had A/C or a fan going and you prayed for a stray breeze without luck of one finding you. Midnight and it was still almost ninety degrees and humid, like you were in a steamy jungle and could feel the sweat dripping while you tried to find a cool part of the bed.

A whispered voice into a small microphone. “Robin, watch the back exit, I think they’re going to try to escape there.”

“On it.”

They were on the roof of the Gotham Museum of Art with a burglary in progress down in the Seventeenth Century European Paintings galleries and the word was that the Rembrandts were targeted. Much to well known to resell on any kind of open market, they were destined for a private collector and would be lost for decades, if not longer, if the thieves weren’t stopped.

“They’re loading paintings into that van, on my way”

“No, wait till I get there—Robin!”

Batman got to the edge of the building just in time to see Robin jump, swing down, land a few feet from the getaway vehicle beside the dumpsters. He took down three of the men while the fourth started the engine and pulled away. It took seconds, Batman launched his own jumpline and felt his feet on the asphalt just as Robin shot off another batarang/line to tangle in the rear wheels and slice through the tires.

Somehow the throw was slightly off, the line ended up tangled in the wheel or axle and instead of slicing through the heavy rubber the batarang ended up cutting its own line, it’s momentum causing it to kick back, flying wild.

Batman shot his own line to disable the van, the shredded tire pulling it to a screeching out of control stop, resting crashed against the side of the building, the driver stunned and quickly under control.

“GPD—back up needed at Gotham Art Museum, suspects down and ready for transport. Batman out.”

“10-4”

“Robin?”

“Over here.”

Batman turned, the night lenses in his cowl making it easy to see in the darkness, though tonight it was sweat soaked and more confining than usual. Jesus—

Robin was weakly and painfully pulling himself back up to his feet, his shoulder and right arm hanging limply while he used his other hand to pull the stray Batarang free.

TBC
 

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