[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/odNGXKX.png?1[/img][/center]


[b]Gotham Central
2005[/b]


Slam flipped a quarter.

"Call it in the air."

Jim said. "Tails."

Slam snatched it out the air with his big mitts. It came up tails.

"Damn."

Jim laughed. Slam flipped him off. A man in handcuffs sat on the other side of a two-way mirror. Jim went in with a stack of papers. Slam lit up a smoke and prepared to watch the show.

Jim sat down and offered the kid a smoke. He refused. Jim lit up and took a few puffs before speaking. "Says here you never knew your father. Alcoholic mother, it was your grandmother that raised you. You didn't ask to be brought into this world, Pat. You inherited this shitty place and time from your shitty parents. You were given a raw deal the second you started breathing, son. How else were you supposed to respond but with anger?"

Slam smiled. Fucking Father Jim. That's what the dicks in the homicide pen called him. He was a touch self-righteous like a priest for sure, but goddamn could he work a suspect over. Within a few minutes of talking to a man he could take their measure and figure out exactly what motivated them. He could employ just the right amount of hate and affection to get someone to tell their deepest, darkest secrets. He could cut through all the bullshit and presumptions and false fronts a person showed the world and get down to that bedrock underneath. 

Jim said, "We're all trapped by forces that we don't understand, son. You think I want to be in this room, talking to you about beating an old lady to death for her welfare money? No. Fuck no. But here we are. You're not the only one trapped by circumstance, Pat. But you have a chance to break the cycle you are trapped in. Tell me about what you did. Confess and we can get you off drugs and get your life back on a right path, a path that will be of your choosing."

Slam stubbed a cigarette out on the side of the wall. Father Jim. He could sell ice to an Eskimo. In the room, Pat was breaking down in tears while Jim consoled him. The more the kid spoke, the more and more he dug his own grave. Father Jim, the best salesman on the face of the earth: He sells life sentences in prison to a customer base who has no need or want for them.


----



[i]In Collaboration with [@Ruby][/i]

[b]The Nite-Owl Coffee Shop
3:18 AM[/b]

Slam sipped coffee doused with hooch. The caffeine perked him up, the booze leveled him out. Barbara goddamn Gordon, blast from the past right there. Hearing her voice got him spooked, her pitched spooked him even more. Doris walked by his booth. Two hookers and their pimp sat two booths down. The hookers were all legs and halter tops. The hookers had go-go boots on. The hookers had glassy eyes. The hookers vibed smack addicts. The pimp had a purple fur coat. The pimp picked his teeth with a switchblade. The pimp ordered eggs and hashbrowns, no sausage or bacon, he said pork was [i]haram[/i]in his religion. At the counter a lush nodded off and took a nosedive into his plate of eggs. The hookers giggled. The pimp roared. Quarter past three in the morning and the Nite-Owl was doing its usual business.

Slam finished off his coffee and waved Doris down. He ordered another coffee and pulled a flask from his jacket. Two plugs to get him level and goosed. He needed the liquid courage if Barbara was going to be face to face with him. He hadn't seen her in, what? Five or ten years? He'd been Uncle Slam once upon a time. Neither of them had siblings growing up. Jim was the smart older brother Slam never had, and Slam was the kid in need of a mentor Jim never had. They gelled, they clicked, they got simpatico. They got spoooky fucking good when it came to police work. 

And Slam fucked it all up.

Doris plopped coffee in front of him. He poured the rest of his hooch into it and took a big sip. The bell clattered by the door. He was still sucking down coffee when she slid into the booth in front of him.

"Just a coffee, please." 

Barbara Gordon smiled at her dad's old partner, and friend, Slam Bradley as she walked into his view and slid into the both. Palo Alto, California, had been good to her, and good for her. Her skin was tanned, her red hair a little brighter from all the sun she got on such a consistent basis, and the smile came easier to her lips than it would have in living memory. It helped she hadn't been dealing with psychos and murderers on the regular. 

Even her style had changed a little bit. Her jeans were a little tighter, her boots a little more Italian leather and polished in appearance, instead of a teeshirt and old jacket she wore a black silk blouse and a fitted, glossy, leather jacket. Her hair looked recently done, her nails were manicured and black and yellow and glittery gold alternating. Even a little eyeshadow, a touch of blush, and slight eyeliner. She'd had fun on the West Coast, she'd been set free and just allowed to be another college kid with tons of talent in Silicon Valley. 

She even had a black leather clutch that was slid onto the table, hands slipping under her hair and pushing it free of her jacket collar, waiting for the coffee to arrive. When did she thanked Doris, and immediately went in for a sip. Black coffee didn't bother her. It was the healthiest way to take it, and in her former hobby, that meant everything. 

"Thanks for meeting me, Slam. How much do you know about what's going right now?" 

Slam almost spit up his Irish coffee. Pigtails. She'd been wearing pigtails and flowery dresses the last time he'd seen her. She'd been a girl back when he'd partnered with Jim. Now? She was a woman. Slam caught a reflection of his face in the window by the booth. Gray -- too much, far too much -- in his hair and stubble. Where the fuck had the years gone?

"Nothing," he said. "I don't know a thing about what's going on with your dad. The last time we spoke--"

Shouting between them. Accusations. "You're a worthless boozehound, now." Slam decked him. Slam drew blood. Jim's glasses cracked. He fought back because Jim had nailed him cold.

"It... didn't go well. That was a few years back, to say the least."

"The department says he was last seen exiting Estrella Tower;" said Barbara. "The corporate headquarters of Estrella Bertinelli, and home to Helena Bertinelli and her cousin, the reported Don Bertinelli, Guiseppe Bertinelli. Yet every shred of evidence I can find says the last time Jim Gordon was seen was when he went to Gotham General's morgue to see about the Joker's autopsy." 

Barbara knew the entire dinner; that is to say, she knew what every person was focused on and what they were doing. She knew, deep down, there was no real danger. If you want to be ignored, hang out around Slam Bradley, apparently. But that didn't stop her from leaning up to the table and just over it, lowering her voice just a touch. 

"GCPD is lying, Slam, and you can get into doors to talk to people I can't. Ask any old cop friend you can. Maybe go check out Estrella Tower, if you're feeling brave, or head to Gotham General. But the narrative that my dad was last seen walking out of that tower isn't good; it may not be a good lie, but if you're looking to discredit Jim Gordon, trying to create the idea that there's a connection between him and the alpha dog of the resurgent Gotham mafia isn't a bad way to start. Ten thousand up front, that includes operating costs; bribes, any equipment you may need, whatever is left of it is yours. Find out where my dad is, find out who in the department is out to make him look on the take, even better find out why and another ten thousand is all yours. I need this done and done right, and it has to be someone that knows him. Someone that won't believe lies about him......are you that man, Slam?"

Slam lit up a smoke and breathed it in while he took in Barbara's words. The pimp in the booth behind him started doing tricks with his knife. The whores whooped and clapped. Jim Gordon was missing. Nothing wrong with that in itself. He'd just retired, maybe he took a vacation? No. Whatever it was that had Babs spooked was serious. Family knew when something was wrong. The brush-off from the GCPD was SOP for them. They had no love for Jim anymore. None for Slam either. There were millions of stories in the Septic City, and this was but one.

"I'll do it," he said. "I'd do it for free, but if you must pay me just a few thousand to cover some debts. How in the hell do you have twenty grand just lying around?"

"Honestly? Algorithmic function integration, and a few jobs to detect backdoors in cyber security. Sony got tired of getting punked, and Stanford isn't a bad place to find talented coders with a little free time."

It was all true. A few classmates paid her a lot for a few algorithms; they really didn't have to but part of the deal was she not really sharing it with anyone else who asked so their dumb idea for an app could maybe have something of an edge on the third party app market, and maybe get them some summer break cash. Babs honestly never checked back in to see how it turned out, but they were sloppy aglorithms in the first place, so what did she really care? The Sony job was easier than it should've been, even if what she didn't admit is that she used the Batcomputer just a little, to make her life a little easier on that job. Nothing major, really, she had just needed the extra processing power. 

"I know you're not always popular, but that's where the cash comes in. I need you doing this. And as strange as this is going to sound, Slam, if you get into trouble I need you to call me. I need you put me on speed dial, and call me. Always have your phone on you, and always have it powered it on."

[i]The way the Batcomputer can track you, and if need be, Batgirl can save you. [/i]

"Something isn't right here. Layers of something-isn't-right, if my instincts are right, and I inherited my father's instincts for this sort of thing." 

"It's Gotham, kid," Slam blew smoke as he spoke. "It's a rotten town built on a rotten foundation. It's never been right."

Slam stuck the cigarette in his mouth and dug out the phone. It was one of those flip phones that you paid for by the month. It could make calls and texts. He was either too drunk or too hungover to ever hit the buttons just right on texts. The battery on it was half charged. 

"My phone will be on and waiting for you, Barbara. I'm sure when the criminal underworld hear I got a hundred and fifteen pound redhead as my muscle they will quake in fear."

"Keep it charged, Slam. And it's a hundred and twenty; crossfit builds muscle like you wouldn't believe. Good luck."

A quick wink, and the clutch was in her hand, her body slid from the booth. The last thing she did was laugh at the pimp as he shot her a 'dangerous' look, and try to hide her even more dangerous grin.