Nightwing

One year ago

Melissa ran her hands over the fine silk sheets, clearly impressed with the décor. She’d never stayed at The Ritz before, and she was dazzled. Antonio regarded her.

“Listen doll, the thing you gotta know is, no matter how elegant this all looks, that you wanna act you like been there. Take the towels, you know?” Melissa turned and watched him skeptically. “You’re always tempted to steal the towels, you stay in a place like this, right? Thing is, you don’t know who else has been using those towels, don’t know what kinda germs they left on them.”

“Tony,” Melissa mocked. “I’m sure they wash the towels.”

“Yeah, but who knows how well? You got some maid making five and a half an hour; she’s just tryin’ to get to the end of the workday. She’s not taking time, making sure that towel’s clean. She’s doing the minimum necessary to get by and keep her job.”

“Don’t they have washing machines? Nice place like this..”

“Yeah, but who knows how old they are? Who knows how well they wash things. I’m telling you, doll, you can’t get so wrapped up in the notion of getting something for free that you lose sight of what it is you’re getting.”

Melissa shook her head. “You’re a weird guy, Tony.” Slowly, she stripped off her waitressing outfit, revealing only a lacy bra and panties. “How ‘bout we stop with the talking?”

Antonio stopped, almost in midsentence, and a sick smile crossed his face. He took off his sportcoat and began to amble over to the bed.

Melissa climbed onto the bed and lat provocatively while he approached. Suddenly she heard the tinkling of glass, and turned toward the window. As soon as she turned away from Tony, she heard a thud. Turning back, she saw that Tony had stopped moving. His eyes and mouth were opened wide in shock and horror, but the only sound escaping his lips was a weak “phhhfffttt.” Looking down, Melissa saw blood pooling around his chest. Tony stumbled and fell forward.

Melissa was about to scream when she heard the glass tinkling again. It was the last sound she ever heard, and she never got the chance to utter the scream.

A few days later

Deidre listened to the muted whispers as she stood next to the lowered casket, the mourners assembled as much for the spectacle as to pay tribute to the departed.

“-can’t believe they found him like that-..”

“-must have been some sort of mob hit-..”

“-with a common waitress, obviously some little floozy-..”

“-can only imagine how humiliated Deidre must be-..”

“-never really liked her-..”

She ignored the gossip as she scattered sand over the casket. The priest’s words had long since become a blur. They didn’t matter anyway.

Deidre could barely suppress a smile. Three days earlier, she’d murdered her sorry excuse for a husband, and no one suspected a thing.

She wondered how long she’d have to pretend to grieve. You know, to keep up appearances.

Now

He felt the cool damp wetness seep through the back of his pants, and knew he’d sat in something. It hadn’t rained the night before, so there was no reason for the cold stoop to be wet. Nope, he’d definitely sat in something.

But Chester Jasker was too tired and too drunk to care. Besides, getting up was always a challenge with only one arm.

A tenant of the apartment building whose stoop Chester occupied brushed against him rudely as he climbed the steps to the building. Chester heard the man mutter under his breath. “Friggin’ Christmas, and they can’t get the hell out of my way..”

Chester turned to shoot the man a look, but the simple act of turning his head made him dizzy. Must’ve been a bad batch of hooch, he thought to himself, the world starting to spin. Two o’clock in the afternoon, and he was lit.

It hadn’t always been this way. Once upon a time, he’d been somebody. People had respected him, feared his name.

Well, maybe not. But at least they’d heard of him.

Once upon a time, Chester had been a costumed supercriminal for hire. He’d called himself Slipknot, and he used a variety of specially treated nooses and ropes to make nearly unbreakable bonds. He’d tangled with Firestorm a couple of times, and once he fought Blue Devil. Nothing too impressive, but respectable.

After being captured and jailed, though, Slipknot had been “recruited” by an outfit known as the Suicide Squad. The idea was that cons would go on “suicide” missions in exchange for clemency. In order to ensure the cons’ participation, the government had equipped them with special armbands. They said the armbands would detonate if any of the cons betrayed the mission.

Slipknot didn’t believe them. So when the cons were sent on a particularly heinous mission in the Louisiana swamps, Slipknot decided to make a break for it. He ran. He didn’t get far. The armband detonated. Slipknot’s right arm blew off. Slipknot was right-handed.

He lay in the swamp for at least two days. He never knew why he didn’t bleed to death; it could almost be described as a miracle, except that he would rather have died. Eventually someone must have found him and taken him to a hospital. His wound had gotten infected, and he was deathly ill for over six months. Much of the skin on his entire right torso and neck became discolored due to the infection, taking on a greenish hue. He developed tetanus, and soon got lockjaw. He couldn’t open his mouth for two months. When the armband detonated, he caught shrapnel in his face, and a tiny bit in his right eye. He’d lost sight in the eye, and he’d been left with three inch long scars along the right side of his face.

When he’d finally gotten out of the hospital, he’d had nowhere to go. Medicaid had denied payment for the treatment rendered to him (largely because he refused to give the hospital his real name and had no social security number), so he owed the hospital over $100,000. The few assets he’d possessed were seized under the RICO Statute the last time he’d been arrested, so he had no way to pay the bill. The hospital eventually turned it over to a collection agency, and a judgment was obtained against his “John Doe” alias.

Technically he was still wanted by the law to serve the rest of his sentence. The Squad’s existence had become known during his hospital stay, and the government was anxious to sweep the resulting scandal under the rug, so no one seemed that anxious to hunt him down. His handlers probably assumed he’d died in the swamp. Most day, he wished he had. He tried, once, unsuccessfully. He ended up with another $5000 in medical bills.

“Slipknot” was a thing of the past. It was pretty damn hard to tie a know with one hand, he learned. He couldn’t afford a prosthetic device, and he quickly learned that it was pretty damn hard to do much of anything with one hand.

Except that it only took one hand to hold a can of beer. So he jumped into a bottle, and that’s where he’d been ever since.

“Allright, Goddammit! I’ve had just about enough of this shit!!” Redhorn had never seen Angela Shay so exasperated. “Put down that goddam gun!!”

Chief Redhorn looked at the revolver in his hand, then sheepishly placed it on his desk. He’d pulled it when Shay entered the room, convinced his leggy second-in-command intended to do him harm. About a month prior, there had been an attempt on Redhorn’s life by an unknown assailant. The attack had nearly succeeded, and Redhorn hadn’t been the same since. In fact, he’d pretty much been going to pieces since then.

Shay glared at him. “For crying out loud, it’s the middle of the goddam afternoon. What did you think, I was some deranged killer, walking into your office – IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY – to kill you?”

Redhorn sank into his chair. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Shay was too repulsed by Redhorn to fall back on her preferred style of manipulation – the sexual skullduggery in which they’d engaged in the past. “Look. You have got to pull yourself together. We have got a city to run.

“The reason they shot at you was to make you weak, to take away your power. Well, they didn’t kill you, but they succeeded all the same. You’re sitting here in the dark afraid to take a breath. You’re as ineffectual as you would be if you were dead.”

“I know. I know. I just.. do you ever get tired of all this?”

“All this?”

Redhorn waved his arms around him. “This. This. This cops and robbers stuff. Did you know I left a year or so ago?”

“Left?” Shay regretted using sex to manipulate Redhorn. He obviously believed they shared some sort of intimacy.

“Left. Ran away. I moved out to a fishing community in the middle of nowhere. Didn’t do anything all day long but drink and fish. At the time it bored me, and first chance I got I made my way back to Bludhaven. But I don’t know.. this business of trying to be this kingpin-type person, of trying to run the cops and the mob and have everyone pay tribute, this cosa-nostra stuff.. it’s tiring. I don’t know if I want to do this anymore. I mean, look at my life. I spend my whole life.. my.. WHOLE.. FUCKING.. LIFE… worrying about people trying to kill me. That’s insane. This isn’t a life.

“This isn’t a life.”

Shay tried valiantly to mask her disgust. She lowered her voice, taking pains to appear non-threatening. “Redhorn. I’m sorry.”

She turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind her. Redhorn admired her figure as she left.

“Of course,” he said to himself. “Maybe that was all bullshit.”

Shay walked briskly down to her office and closed her door. Shay’s name had just been placed on the door. The crews had done a poor job, and you could still see traces of the names “Dudley Soames” and “Mac Arnot” on the door. Ignoring the remnants of her predecessors, Shay dialed the special number she’d been given, and waited until she heard Lady Vic’s voice on the other line. “The line’s secure. Go ahead.”

“Redhorn’s worse than we thought. My opinion – this situation is unsalvageable.”

There was a pause on the line. Shay broke the silence. “So.. what happens from here? Who’s making the decisions now that Desmond’s out of the picture?”

“For the moment,” Lady Vic answered. “I’m making the decisions. Let’s meet tomorrow – usual spot – and figure out how to get.. closure on the Redhorn situation.”

“If you move another muscle, I swear to God I’ll call of the engagement, break up with you, kill you, burn down your apartment building, and beat up your neighbors.” Behind Barbara Gordon’s playful demeanor was an icy seriousness.

“I’m really feeling better, Babs. Honestly.” Dick Grayson sat up in the sickbed Babs had fashioned for him in the Clocktower. “I haven’t thrown up in like.. what, a day? My burns are healing.”

“Yes they are.” Babs admonished. “Healing. Not healed, healing. You know what the difference is? If they’re healing – not healed, but healing – and you go exert yourself, you will undo the healing. You will be back to square one, if not behind. You are not well.”

“Come on Babs.” Dick enjoyed being babied, even if he was growing restless.

“Listen to me, Grayson. Kidding aside, ok? In the last few weeks, you have been burned – at least twice. You have been kidnapped, beaten, drugged, and tortured. You need time to heal. Not halfway heal. Heal.”

“Those torture guys just got in a lucky shot.”

“Yeah, right. Dick, those two guys were complete morons. Normally, you would have tap danced right around them. Did you stop to ask yourself how two guys like that got the drop on you? Those guys couldn’t get the drop on Loose Cannon, but they get in a ‘lucky shot’ against the former Boy Wonder? Are you serious?”

Dick knew she was right, and sat back in his sickbed. “Geez, Babs. Loose Cannon? That’s a low blow?”

“Wasn’t he a Titan for awhile or something?”

“Ouch. Our membership standards were higher than that.”

“Yeah, I hear Danny Chase’s initiation was grueling. Speaking of kids, did you hear Impulse is the leader now?”

Dick sat up suddenly, aggravating his shoulder wounds. “Impul?-AGHH!” He sank back into the bed. “Oh man.”

“Shoulder hurting?”

“No. Impulse? Really?”

“Really. Hey, howcum you didn’t go to Changeling’s wedding?”

Dick turned somber. “Wasn’t invited. Not sure why. I think Gar’s mad at me about something.”

Babs rolled her eyes. “This isn’t still about when you caught him trying to build a peephole into Starfire’s locker room, is it?” Dick chuckled. Now it was Babs’ turn to get serious. “By the way, Dick, sooner or later we’ve got to talk guest list. About Starfire..”

Deidre Scarpatti hated family dinners, especially when it wasn’t really her family that was having dinner. Since marrying into the Scarpatti family, she’d grown used to extravagant get-togethers, at least once every two weeks. They’d sit around the ornate table in Romeo Scarpatti’s Victorian home, each of the three sons and their wives, and swap idle pleasantries while dining on some overcooked duck. After the interminable meal finally ended, the wives would excuse themselves while the men talked “business”. Since the Scarpatti’s were one of Bludhaven’s oldest crime families, Deidre had always wished she could listen to the men’s talk rather than the dull women’s.

Antonio’s “unfortunate” death, however, had placed Deidre in a unique situation. Romeo had always liked her, even if Antonio’s brothers, Giovanni and Charles, were cool toward her. In the antiquated mafia world in which they lived, Deidre was still a Scarpatti, and would be unless and until she remarried. Although they weren’t crazy about her, Giovanni and Charles supported this arrangement, because it preserved the Scarpatti’s “marriage” into the Viti family in Chicago, Deidre’s family.

Plus, it would have been bad business for the family to cut her out. After all, their own – Antonio – had been murdered in the midst of an adulterous liaison in a hotel room. Bad form to slight the scorned wife.

So Deidre still scored invites to the tedious dinners. But now there was a new awkwardness when the men and women split up – Deidre was the “man of the house” now that Antonio was gone. In the Scarpatti’s patriarchal worldview, women were not supposed to hold positions of power. But Deidre rightfully spoke for Antonio. What eventually evolved was an ancillary role for Deidre. As a practical matter, she didn’t have a full vote, but she did have influence, when she chose to exercise it. Deidre found it the perfect balance – she could be as involved, or as uninvolved, in Scarpatti affairs as she wished.

Romeo was talking. “- has traditionally been Meekins territory, but I understand the Oaknines have been making inroads.”

Giovanni jumped in. “They’re very expansionist. Remember, the Oaknines only gained legitimacy around here because Blockbuster gave it to them. With him gone, there’s danger of a backlash against outsiders, so the Oaknines are consolidating their power base.”

Deidre spoke up. “Is that really necessary on their part? I thought Redhorn was running the show with Blockbuster dead.”

“Or missing,” Charles corrected her. “Or missing. And no, Redhorn’s legitimacy was eroded when Desmond vanished. His only authority came from Desmond.”

“Surely he won’t go without a fight.” Deidre offered.

Charles chuckled. “Well, ever since he got shot at, let’s just say Redhorn’s been a little.. uh, gun-shy.” The brothers shared a knowing glance with Romeo. Deidre was annoyed that they didn’t think she’d notice.

“What? What?” she demanded.

“Whaddayou mean, what?” asked Giovanni, feigning ignorance. Romeo knew they were caught.

“You know what I mean, what.” Deidre answered sharply. “You guys have a look.”

“Huh?”

“A look. Conspiratorial. Like you know something you’re not sharing. Out with it.”

Romeo’s cheeks flushed. “Deidre,”

Charles interrupted. “Dad! I thought we discussed..”

Romeo silenced him with a wave of the hand. “Deidre. There is..”

His explanation was interrupted by Deidre’s ringing mobile phone. Muttering an apology, she pulled it out of her purse and checked the caller ID. Instantly the color drained from her face. She rose quickly. “Uh, I need to take this.” she said as she hurried into a private room.

The three male Scarpatti’s watched the door closed behind her, waited for the click. “Dad.” Giovanni asked, turning to Romeo. “Were you really gonna tell her?”

Romeo nodded. “Can it really do any harm at this point? Redhorn is.. an irrelevant player. His.. cache is used up. Who cares who was behind the hit on him, right?”

“Attempted hit.” Charles corrected. “I still say Marksman..”

“Accomplished what we wanted accomplished.” answered Romeo. “We wanted Redhorn out of our way. He is out of our way. Marksman succeeded.”

Charles shook his head. “If he’d succeeded,” he said, “Redhorn would be dead.”

Deidre ducked hurriedly into a private room before answering the phone.

“What do you want? I… I paid you three weeks ago. How long do you intend to continue this? You can’t get away with.. No. No. You wouldn’t do.. Listen. No, listen. Look, I’ll pay, but I want some sort of assurance that.. no. No. You have to.. I want an assurance. You will? You will? Allright fine. That same.. that same alleyway? I hate that place; it smells like.. allright, allright. I’ll be there. Tonight? But it’s almost Christ-.. look, I don’t give a rats ass about your kids and… no, no, I’m on my way.”

She was shaking as she hung up the phone. Killing one’s husband was a good thing, for the most part, but it did have its drawbacks. Like blackmail.

Chester Jasker had finally decided to get moving, right about the time he’d started to lose feeling in his legs. He’d only traveled a few blocks, though, before his parched lips demanded alcohol. He had a giant hangover from the morning’s take (that stuff had been rank), and knew the best way to cure his hangover was to drown it.

So he’d staggered past the kids playing on the street, counting down the days until Christmas. He’d pressed his face against the window of Drew’s Bakery, wondering if they served beer. Then he’d wandered out behind Grubb’s, a bar and grille that he knew served beer. They’d never let him in, of course, but maybe if he timed it right..

Success! Happy day, he’d come out just as the bartender was taking the trash to the dumpster in the alley. There was bound to be unused booze in the trash; there always was. People were wasteful. When they had resources to get all the beer they wanted, they took it for granted.

Waiting until the bartender was out of sight, Chester stumbled over to the dumpster and opened it up. Unfortunately, the trash had been picked up earlier that day, so the recently-deposited bag was the only thing in the dumpster. Chester stretched to try and reach it, his feet dangling off the ground.

Straining with his only arm, trying to reach the last few inches, Chester slipped, and tumbled headlong into the dumpster. It slammed shut behind him.

Deidre was still shaking as she walked into the alley, her expensive coat pulled tightly around her shapely figure. Almost idly, she wondered if it would snow soon.

She had been standing in the alley about thirty seconds when the tall menacing figure approached, prompt as always. He wore a hat and trenchcoat, and his features were mostly obscured, but Deidre knew who he was.

“I’m serious this time.” she said. “This has got to stop.”

The grin was visible even in the shadows. “But it’s so much fun.” He extended his hand, and Deidre placed an envelope into it. He didn’t bother to count it, stuffing in into his inside pocket.

“Look. Marksman, or whatever you call yourself. This isn’t right. I hired you to do a job. I paid you.”

“Looks like you’re still paying me.”

“Isn’t blackmail against the hitman code or something? You’re not supposed to blackmail your clients.”

“Heh. But sweetie, why not? It works. You can’t take the chance that I’ll tell Romeo Scarpatti or one of the sons that you had your husband whacked. What do you think they’d do, huh? How long do you think you’d last?”

“They’d kill you too, bastard. You pulled the trigger.”

“That I did. That I did. But you know what? I’m not family. I can disappear, and no one will look all that hard. You? You’re family, babe. They don’t ever – ever – forgive stuff like that.”

He turned, oblivious to her impotent fury, and strode away. “T.T.F.N., babe. I’ll be in touch.”

“How much?!?” Deidre nearly screamed. “How much is my freedom worth?”

Marksman turned, just briefly. “Think about it, babe. How much is this information worth?”

Deidre shook harder as Marksman walked away, leaving her alone and cold in the alley.

Chester had quit trying to open the dumpster from inside with only one hand; it was futile. But what he’d heard – what he’d heard…

“How much?” he whispered to himself.

To Be Continued...

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