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[b]Gotham Westside
4:52 AM[/b]


Slam sat in a corner booth and nursed a cup of coffee. A hangover was coming on strong. The coffee killed the worst of the hangover but not all of it. Slam wanted the pain. It helped him stay focused on his case. The Nite-Owl Coffee Shop stayed open around the clock. A lush PI in dirty clothes was squaresville compared to its usual late night clientele. Three hookers and a pimp scarfed eggs two booths over. A junkie at the counter was doing the dope fiend lean on his stool. The bell above the door chimed and his contact walked in.

He had black hair and clear blue eyes. Heavyset, somewhere between normal and fat. The extra weight threw off the resemblance a bit, but not by much. Fat aside, he was a dead ringer for Bruce Wayne. To hear him tell it the extra weight came from having to carry around that thing between his legs. He called it Wayne Tower, and according to him it was always open for business. He ran a gigolo service out of the Westside. Old ladies, fat ladies, lonely ladies, the occasional man, and all kinds of freaks flocked to him. Who wouldn't pay a grand an hour to be reamed, steamed, and dry cleaned by the one and only Bruce Vain?

Bruce nodded at the table of hookers before sliding into Slam's booth.

"Sammy, how's tricks?"

"I should ask you."

"Not my department," Bruce grinned. "I don't work the streets like our friends a few booths over. Strictly out call these days, my friend. Thanks to the internet, you're only a few clicks away from a rendezvous with me."

"But you're still keeping your ear to the ground and knowing what's what, right?"

"Of course. For a price."

Bruce was a good informant. He was one of the last ones Slam had left from his cop days. The only problem was the fucker charged Slam for information like he was a john. Slam supposed he was, just in a very different way than the usual clients.

"Heard about a cop named Perkins? He'd be a sergeant. First name is Arthur."

"What's he got to do with you?"

"He's the latest name in red on the Homicide big board. He's on the night train to the big adios. Two shots to the back of his head early this morning. You heard anything about a cop or cops doing some shady shit recently? Extortion, shakedowns, you know the drill."

"Yeah... I've heard... things."

Slam forked over two twenties. Bruce slipped them into his jacket.

Slam asked, "What things?"

"Word is someone is trying to muscle into the westside skin trade. I haven't been braced, but they're shaking down pimps and street walkers and making them pay protection. It'll only be a matter of time before they head my way. They supposedly have a couple of cops doing their muscle work, uniforms and not detectives. One of them is a guy they called Artie."

Slam connected Artie to Arthur. He lit up a cigarette and blew smoke. "That it?"

"There's something else..."

Slam sighed and slid Bruce a twenty. Bruce scoffed.

"Twenty bucks? That's the best you can do?"

Slam scowled. "You know I'm in debt, right? The goddamn Bertinelli Mob has a marker on my head for four grand, and I'm getting grief I don't need from a fucking knockoff Bruce Wayne."

"Extortion," Bruce said. "The girls and guys they're working are told to go to special motels and hotels. The rooms are supposed to be set up with cameras. They blackmail businessmen and anyone else they can afford to squeeze. They also like getting right-wing congressmen and councilmen who are in the closet. Let's see how much those bible thumping fucks they represent will support them when they see the good congressman getting a blowjob from a seventeen year old prostie boy."

Hookers and extortion. Slam flashed back to his last days on the force. A dead call-girl consumed him and the burnout that was slowly building became a raging inferno. He got fired, he punched the Homicide CO, and curled up into a bottle he still called home. 

"These people got a point man?"

"Maybe..."

"I'm outta cash, asshole. Take an IOU, will ya?"

"Sure." Bruce winked. "But only because you look so cute, Sammy. A westside pimp name of Duke is the one talking up most of this. Don't know any last name, just that he goes by Duke and he is tres small-time. Everyone thought he was full of shit until this one pimp named Rollo beat Duke up and then turned up dead."

Slam thanked Bruce and watched him amscray out the diner. Slam took a long drag on his smoke and thought. Hookers, blackmail, pimp intrigue, racketeering, and murder as the icing on this shit cake he was being forced to eat. He exhaled slowly and watched the smoke cloud drift across the diner. Geppe Bertinelli was sure as fuck getting his money's worth from Slam on this case.