Filthy Rich
Chapter 7
Things were back to status quo at the big house. There was the usual round of
charity dinners, private parties and the inevitable revolving door of starlets
and models with the occasional socialite passing through the master’s suite.
Tom was used to that, everyone who’d ever read one of the tabloids or People
were used to that. It would almost be a disappointment if something of substance
came out of the man’s mouth or brain.
“It’s beyond me how he keeps going. Seriously, how does he keep from bankrupting
himself the way he lives? I know he’s obscenely rich but Jesus—new cars, new
houses and every damn woman he screws ends up with a diamond necklace or a new
Porsche.”
“Dad, get over it—he’s rich, okay? Deal with it. He pays you pretty well,
doesn’t he? ‘You want him to cut some corners maybe? Besides, he’s pretty decent
if you’d ever take the time to talk to him.”
“Wayne doesn’t talk to the hired help.”
Trav rolled his eyes. “Give him a chance, will you? He’s not that bad.”
“He’s an idiot.”
“A rich idiot who’s s decent guy if you let him be.”
“I don’t think Dick would agree with you. Have you ever had a real conversation
with him? The crap he puts up with and for years now—I still don’t see how he
gets away with it. ‘Bought off the damn cops, but how the hell he keeps
everything out of the papers is still…It’s obscene.”
“God, Dad, give it a rest.”
Tom kept up watching the kid, watching Dick when he thought no one would notice.
He watched him coming and going, watched him when he was taking a walk or when
his friends were over. He tried to watch when he was in the private gym working
out but that ended when Alfred put curtains up on the windows.
A month passed, then another. Aside from the expected social obligations, the
estate was quiet since Dick left to visit some of his parents’ friends in late
July. It was something about him filling in at the circus they used to work for;
he’d be helping out some trapeze troupe that was short performer and tour parts
the US while he was at it. He’d even overheard him telling the master on the
balcony a few weeks ago when they were out there eating lunch with old Bruce’s
date du jour.
“It’s the swing through the South so it’ll be hot but still—the even said they’d
be willing to let me try the quad again. This is going to be incredible!”
“Are you sure you can still turn that every night? It just seems so dangerous,
especially after what you’ve been through the last month and a half.”
“C’mon, Bruce, I’ve been flying since I was three and Mario is great with
timing; it’ll be cake.”
“I’m finding it hard to believe that you’re in shape for this, are you at least
going to use a net?”
A sound of disgust. “Yes, they’re insisting, something about the insurance rates
going up again or something—it’ll be okay, though, I can still have some fun
with it.”
“Don’t have too much fun. I’d like you back in one piece—are you sure
your shoulder is healed?”
“It’s fine, stop worrying. Besides, if it’s a problem I’ll just adjust the
routine; not a problem.”
“My goodness, Dick—I get chills just thinking about doing something like that
and in front of a big crowd like that. Do you have to help put up the tents or
do they make all the elephants do that sort of thing?” Mimsy might be the
dumbest one he’d ever let stay over and who in their right minds named their
daughter Mimsy?
“…Circuses mainly play arenas now, ‘not too much call for tents anymore.”
“Really?”
Jesus, where did old Bruce find them?
Bruce and Dick had argued about his touring with Ringling Brothers over the last
couple of weeks; Bruce insisting that the injury he’d suffered from the batarang
was simply too severe for him to be straining it until the wound was fully
healed and that he needed more time. Dick insisted that the month and more he’d
spent in rehab was more then enough and he was fine, he was a professional, he
knew when his body was at its limit and could change to easier moves if he
reached that point.
It had ended with him leaving for the circus over Bruce’s objections
* * *
The summer passed more slowly after Dick left. Evidently he called in every week
or so but no one thought to pass anything along to Tom and so, as far as he
knew, the kid was doing just fine, In fact he was probably thriving away from
‘things’ at the Manor, poor kid.
On the other hand, Bruce did seem to date more that summer—probably working out
his frustrations. More than once Tom saw things the papers would have paid big
money for but he never called or sent any pictures. He wasn’t out to trip up the
Master for being red-blooded. He just wanted him to lay off the boy.
It wasn’t complicated.
* * *
“Dick—good to see you’re back, the job go all right?”
“It was great, Tom. It was terrific, in fact; I got to tour again and we went
back to a lot of the places we played when I was still with my parents. ‘They
even still have a lot of the same performers so it was like going home—and then
when we got to New York we were in the Garden…”
“The Garden?”
“Madison Square Garden; it’s like my favorite place to fly—incredible and the
audiences were awesome, standing O’s and everything. But, hey, what’s been going
on around here?”
“You know, same old stuff.”
Dick laughed at that, he knew that would involve Bruce entertaining ambassadors,
movie stars, leaders in science and the arts for worthy causes (and putting the
screws on them to get some major money donated for whatever cause was front and
center). He’d, without doubt, played his part by partying with whatever women
were currently getting press attention, either before or after being seen with
him. He’d be kind and gracious to them and leave them feeling like they had some
wonderful stories to tell their friends and grandchildren.
It was always the same and if Dick thought that it was starting to get old he
kept the thought to himself.
“Trav okay?”
“Yeah, sure, he’s good. You’re looking at schools this year, right?”
He nodded. “I guess it’s time. Hey, I gotta go but it’s good to be back, say hi
to Trav for me.”
* * *
Things were fine for about a month. Late September and unseasonably hot in the
Northeast. Tom was taking some tools back to the garage and cut past the main
pool. He heard splashing and glanced over just as Dick was getting out of the
water, coming up the ladder. He was by one of the chaises, picking up a towel
when Tom saw his shoulder.
Jesus.
The scar, a relatively new one, one that hadn’t faded yet, one that was still
vivid and easy to see because it looked like he’d been sliced open with a
butcher knife. The jagged line bisected his shoulder and upper chest, at least
eight inches long and looking like whatever had done the damage had torn his
skin, cutting cleaning and then tearing. He could only assume that it was worse
than it looked.
“What the hell’s that from?”
Startled, Dick instinctively threw the towel over his shoulder and arm.
“’Nothing, old injury.”
“Dick, c’mon. Who did that to you?”
Exasperated. “No one did this to me, okay? I slipped and managed to do it
to myself. Let it go, Tom—seriously, don’t even try.”
“Does Bruce know about this?”
“Of course he does, f’God’sake. He knew almost as soon as it happened and he’s
the one who got me to the hospital.”
“…He was there?”
“Oh for the love of… lay off this bullshit thing you have about him abusing me
since I was nine or whatever the hell it is you’re fixated on.”
“Why didn’t anyone know about that—it’s serious, how come no one knew about it?”
Dick was clearly close to the end of his patience. “Why would I advertise it?
Look, Tom, you’ve been working here a long time and everyone likes you but
you’re not part of this family, you’re an employee here and I think
you’re losing sight of that. This didn’t concern you and it doesn’t concern you
now.” He shook his head and walked off, refusing to stop, refusing to explain
and refusing to discuss anything else.
Tom was still standing there deciding what to do when Bruce, the Master himself,
came around the path, angry as all hell.
“Tom! What did you say to Dick that got him so upset?”
“Nothing, nothing, I swear. I just asked him where he got that big scar on his
shoulder and he practically went for my throat.”
“He seems to think you implied that I had something to do with him being
injured. Did you say anything suggesting that?”
“No, I swear I didn’t, he just jumped the gun and went off on me.”
Wayne went calm, appraising, making a decision. Tom waited for him to say
whatever was about to drop. “All things considered I think it would be better
if, perhaps, you were reassigned to one of the other properties; effective
immediately. In fact you have your pick, let me know where you want to go and be
ready to leave by Monday, I’ll have your belongings shipped.”
* * *
Jesus, what a kick in the ass. I try to help the kid, worry about him, do
everything I can think of to get him out that freak show he’s living in and this
is what I get.
Frigging rich jackass—doesn’t care what happens to me or my son now, does he?
‘Snaps his fingers and ~poof~ I’m gone.
Reverend Jack thinks I should write down things I saw, the stuff that’s
suspicious. There’s a lot I haven’t put down on this list because things
happened before I started making a note of the kid’s injuries. I know no one
cares about Dick but all I wanted was to try to help him, he’s a good kid. He
deserves better than what he’s been handed.
I know he’s an athletic kid and active but the list below, that’s just the tip
of the iceberg. I think that there may have been some serious injuries that were
hidden and lied about, things that covered up.
I don’t know how Wayne sleeps at night.
November 23rd—D in car accident, cut at hairline needing stitches.
December 26th—D twisted knee skiing strained ligament.
January 3rd—D sprained wrist skiing.
February 10th—Bruises on D’s arm. No explanation.
February 18th—Split lip. No explanation.
March 13th—Sprained ankle. D said he tripped on an uneven piece of sidewalk.
March 24th—Too tired to go to school. Stayed home three days.
April 17th—Bruises on D’s neck. No explanation.
May 19th—Stitches in left knee. D said he skidded his bike on gravel.
June 4th—Black eye. D said he walked into a door.
June 9th—Stayed home all week. Pennyworth said he had the flu.
June 15th—Wrist in cast. D said he tried working out too soon after last injury.
June 20th—arm in a sling. D said he hurt it working out.
Late June through Labor Day—D away visiting relatives and then touring with a
circus.
September 25th—Major scar on shoulder/chest. D says it was his own fault.
I’m keeping track. I’m not there at the big house anymore, but I read the papers
and I talk to the others who work there, the maids, the gardeners—I hear things.
I’m writing it all down and I’m getting pictures when I can.
I know Dick isn’t a minor any more and he’s out of the house at college but I
don’t care. If Wayne could get away with this with one kid, who knows how many
others he has waiting in the wings.
It’s too late for Dick, but now I’m doing this for the others.
7/20/09
Return to Filthy Rich