Visiting Hours

Part Seven - Conclusion

 

Three Years Ago

Things were falling apart with Dick and work—it was obvious to him that the crooked cops in BPD were on to him, or would be soon and that wasn't a good thing.

On top of everything he'd realized a few months ago that Karen had figured out his undercover MO. Crap, if the mob didn't kill him then Bruce would.

She'd simply followed the clues he'd stupidly mentioned to the Boss, had given him enough info to figure out, he'd used his contacts to get some more info or which Dick himself had left because he was distracted. It wasn't hard to see how the Gadolfalo's made it happen. They put together a few pieces; knew he was working out of Bludhaven, knew his approximate age, knew his general body type and facial bone structure, his innate abilities and his training and came up with him being some kind of cop/law enforcement/ maybe DA or PI in the `Haven.

That had been an awkward conversation, the day she'd confronted him with her suspicions. He'd denied it, of course but crap, she knew. She simply knew. Now he was almost glad since he had someone with an outside perspective and inside knowledge he could talk to and, nuts as it sounded, he trusted her. Well, okay, he knew it only went so far but he needed someone to hash this out with and, screw it—she was about the only one who could really get what he was talking about and who knew everything about the actual situation. They'd started seeing one another, not dating but as almost co-workers with the same basic agenda getting together to exchange information. He wanted to bring down the organized crime network in Bludhaven and eventually the East Coast and she wanted her father's enemies taken out, killed or locked up for a very long time. They both figured they could work out the long-term details when push came to shove.

He was telling Karen Gadolfalo about it over dinner at a favorite Italian place, the kind that's family owned and has plastic ivy on the walls painted with scenes from the old country. "I wanted to work inside the BPD and it sucks—it really sucks. I liked being a cop on the beat, I really liked it and, dammit, I was making a difference."

"What are you talking about?—BPD is the most corrupt force in the country and they've fingered you as a trouble maker. If you go back there you'll be killed, Dick—Jesus! What kind of death wish do you have, anyway?"

"I sure as hell don't want them, to think they can scare me into being quiet; I want to put them away." Of course Amy Rohrbach had said the exact same thing.

"You'll be put away with a bullet in your brain instead of your leg if you don't keep your mouth shut and you know it. God—even my father can't protect you if you're determined to be stupid and stubborn. If you want to play cop, fine, but use your head."

He stared into his Alfredo for a minute while the waiter opened the wine and poured their glasses. "…What if I don't want to be a cop anymore?"

"Excuse me? You just told me how much you love your job…"

"Used to. I've been busting my ass since I was nine and all I've got to show for it is knowing that the bad guys win more often than the good guys do. I'm tired of beating my head against a wall for nothing."

"So what are you saying, a career change?"

"I'm saying that maybe I'd do better working for the winning team."

Karen just looked at him, of all the things he could have said; this was about the last thing she expected. "Doing what?"

"I have skills, inside knowledge. I could be useful."

Karen was a long was from stupid and she knew there was more to this than Nightwing was letting on. He was hiding something; this was some kind of trick.

"You don't believe me"

"No, I don't. Come on, you spent however many years doing everything you could to lock up people like my father and now all of a sudden you decide to play for the other team? Why the hell would I believe you?"

He pulled up his shirt, not ostentatiously, just enough so that she could see the scars—the old bullet wounds, the healed stab marks, the torn and repaired skin, the calluses on his hands. He moved his injured leg out to the aisle between tables. "I've been in PT for months with this and no promise that I'll regain full use. Do you know how much reward money I'm allowed to keep? Nothing. `Any idea how long it's been since I've had a girlfriend, had the time for one? You want me to count off the number of friends I've buried in the last few years? I'm tired of this."

"And going into dad's business is so much safer. Right."

He took a deep breath. "Look, I have skills, contacts, inside knowledge; do you want the use of it or not? If you don't, I can take my marbles somewhere else."

She studied him for a long moment, deciding. "I'll make a call but you'll be on probation."

 

* * *
 

Crutches worked inside the mob for almost six months while his leg finally healed from the bullet wound and he slowly graduated from the crutches to a cane and then finally walked on his own, unaided. It had taken that long with the physical therapist to strengthen the muscles enough to begin to do the gymnastics and acrobatics again and he was feeling good about that.

He was smart, they all knew that and he had some kind of ax to grind with the local cops. He didn't make any secret about that and that gave him enough of an edge that he was useful finding out which times, days and locations would be the safest for `business'. Jimmy Bono watched the new guy, talked to him when he had a reason and gave him larger and larger assignments. They were always done just the way he liked and with a no muss, no fuss air about them.

The guy was good.

An ex-cop came in handy, and that was no lie.

"So, Crutches, y'wanna tell me how you got into this line of work?"

"Y'know, Jimmy, gotta make a living just like anybody."

"Yeah, sure but how come you decided to come on board wid' me? `Lotsa people lookin' for good help, you could go wherever you want; Vegas, Reno, LA, New York, why'd you wanna end up here?"

"I like the area. Nice climate, good working conditions and besides, I've got to get a start, y'know? You were willing to take a chance on me and I want you to know that I appreciate it, I'll make you proud, Jimmy. You'll see."

"I already see, Crutches, besides, you came with a good recommendation— say, your leg feelin' better?"

"Yeah, sure, what do you want me to do?"

"'Shipment comin' in to da' docks tonight around one in the mornin'. I want you to be there as back up, make sure nothing happens that shouldn't."

"Sure, count on me, Jimmy, I won't let you down."

 

* * *
 

If all he'd had to do were make sure the drugs were received without incident there wouldn't have been a problem. If the cops hadn't been tipped off, if Jimmy and the Boss weren't in the middle of an undeclared turf war then most of what went down never would have happened.

But it did happen…

 

* * *
 

Crutches was at the docks by twelve-thirty, meeting a few of the other guys. Everyone was armed; everyone knew what they were supposed to do. Crutches was in charge of the guys but no one seemed to care one way or the other. "Yeah, well, sure he's the new guy but if anything goes wrong it's his ass, right? Not mine. Besides, Jimmy likes him and he seems pretty smart, that's good enough for me."

It was a particularly dark part of the shipyard, an old pier that was almost never used anymore because the damn thing was falling apart. There were no guards, no security lights, no one—other than Jimmy's men who were out of sight—when the sleek inboard came in.

Crutches waited until the boat was against the old wooden wharf, knowing that they wouldn't tie up. The engine cut out, the only sounds gently lapping water and distant traffic from the bridge. Slowly, carefully, he stood up and walked out. The others followed his orders to stay in the shadows, ready for anything, just in case.

"Good evening, gentlemen. I believe you have a delivery for my employer?"

"You got the money?"

"Of course." Crutches held out an envelope stuffed with bills, over three million dollars worth. "Just out of curiosity, who's getting this?"

"Castalucci."

Crutches nodded, of course, the largest drug importer on the East Coast. "Where're the goods?"

"In the back, y'wanna give us a hand?"

"If you don't mind, that's not part of my job."

"It's heavy, man, c'mon."

"I'm sure you fellows can handle it, I've got a bum leg."

There was almost silence while the deliverymen whispered what to do. They had orders, get Bono's head guy on board the boat and make sure he didn't get off under his own power. Period. It wasn't personal. It was payback. It was their orders. Jimmy Bono did something that pissed off the wrong person and this guy, whoever he was, was going to take the fall. But if he wouldn't get in the boat, well, hell. A nod and the four deliverymen drew their guns and started shooting.

Crutches had seen the slight nod, caught the signal and had dived for cover behind a mooring piling while Jimmy's men opened fire with their own weapons. Two men on the boat went down fast, the others still shooting from behind the gunwales. Jimmy's guys knew their stuff and kept up the firepower from behind cover, making sure no one could get to the controls until they holed the speedboat badly enough there was no escape by sea. At that point it became a duck shoot.

"Stop, hold your fire! Stop firing, dammit—Joey, Michael, we need to take these guys back for questioning. "

"Shit, yeah, all right, all right. Joey, stop, man."

A quick check showed thee of the five men from the boat dead and the others badly hurt. Jimmy's men were all right, uninjured and on a controlled high from relief and success. They had the drugs, they had the money and they'd taken out the `Luce's guys, the ones who's been pains in their butts for years now.

It was a good night.

 

* * *
 

Check that; it was a good night until they got back to Jimmy's place.

"Hey, Crutches, whadafuck's goin' on?" They didn't stop the car, didn't get out and pulled a U-turn at the end of the street.

The place was surrounded by at least twenty cop cars, lights flashing. There was a Correctional Department van parked, backed up to the main entrance. TV vans and camera lights had the place looking like Miami Beach at noon. Holy crap.

Jimmy was being led out in cuffs, his head down, trying to avoid the TV crews.

Crutches drove to a diner five miles away from the bust. Parking, he tossed the keys to Joey, "Take `em—I'm gone."

"Where you goin'?"

"Away from here, man—I'm an ex-cop—you think they'd let me live a day in the slammer? Tell Jimmy I appreciate everything he did and I owe him one. Be careful, keep your heads down, okay?"

"Yeah, keep your nose clean, dude—you're okay."

Later that night, sitting down in the Cave with Batman, eating Alfred's sandwiches and drinking his familiar hot chocolate, Dick found out the details of what had happened.

He'd been used, set up. While he and the others were making the pick up at the docks, the rest of Jimmy's men had raided Castalucci's main shop. They'd used surprise, more men and bigger guns to kill the two dozen men who were waiting for the pick up men to walk through the door with the kilo's of cocaine. Anthony Castalucci was among the dead. The drugs never arrived.

But `Luce had enough time know what was happening and make a call to Bludhaven's Police Commissioner and call in a last favor. The raid on Jimmy Bono's was organized within half an hour.

Jimmy promised to tell everything he knew about everyone he knew in exchange for leniency.

Two days later John Gadolfalo was found in his cell, the victim of a heart attack.

Or so it was reported.

Karen Gadolfalo was later located living quietly in Switzerland. She never returned to the United States and was not charged with any crimes.

Nightwing had two more contracts taken out on his head, dead or alive.

7/6/09
 

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