CHAPTER 5

Dick parried the first jab, shoulder-rolled away from the cross, and then did a bob-and-weave on the next two hooks that Andy swung at him. Dick push-stepped back, did another bob-and-weave to evade Andy’s strike, then performed an uppercut on the focus mitts.

From the sideline, Bruce watched carefully. The training had gone on longer than he’d expected it to. Andy, Paul, and Simon had been pushing the kid harder than he’d expected, and, much to Bruce’s surprise, Dick was keeping pace. In fact, he was demonstrating keen adaptability. This was probably due to his time doing acrobatics, having to suddenly change direction and readjust his weight so that he could correct for mistakes in midair. His parents taught him well.

The last hour of training had to do with joint locks, as taken from aikido, an art that Simon was well versed in. They looked at the various kinds of wrist locks, and then went through a sequence Bruce had first studied many years ago that was simply called “lock flow,” a method for repeating the same locks over and over again, flowing from one lock that the opponent had escaped from and putting them into another one. They practiced throwing, then being thrown by these locks, and Dick recovered from each throw with stunning alacrity.

Bruce had already showered and was dressed and ready to go to the Knights game. Dick, however, kept asking for more training, and as long as Bruce was paying for their time, Andy and his people weren’t going anywhere.

When finally it appeared the boy was exhausted, Bruce walked over to him and tossed him a towel to dry off with. “Thanks for coming out, guys,” he said to Andy’s assistants. He bowed to Andy. “Thank you, sensei.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Wayne. Not a problem. You’ve got a little fighter there. One with spark,” said Andy. “He picks it up fast. A real natural.”

“Tell me about it. Same time next week?”

“You bet.”

When they’d all left, Bruce stood over his ward, who was guzzling down a bottle of water. “Did you hear what Andy said? You’re a prodigy.”

“I’ve got some skill, I’m an adept, but that doesn’t make me a prodigy.”

Bruce smiled. He’s more humble than I was at that age. “You ready to go see the game now?”

“How was my footwork?” Dick asked, wiping his brow with his towel. “Was it better than last time?”

“Last time it was pretty good, too.”

“But I’m talking about this time, Bruce. And be honest.”

“How honest?”

“Brutally,” Dick said.

Bruce raised an eyebrow, and sighed. Why not? The kid seems like the type who can take it. He also seems like he knows a lie when he hears one, and like any teenager he’ll resent adults who mislead him or hide the truth. “You’re still double-weighted a lot.”

Dick looked up at him. “Double-weighted?”

“Yes. Double-weighted is good for martial arts like kung fu, shinkendo or wrestling, where you want to plant yourself so that you don’t lose ground,” Bruce said. “But for someone your size, you need more mobility. Single-weighted arts that shift weight from one foot to the other rapidly, like boxing and kali, would be better starting out for someone like you. Of course, you’ll want to learn the double-weighted arts eventually, if you want to be ready for any situation, but right now mobility should be your main focus.”

“What should I do to train that?” he asked, confounded.

Bruce thought for a minute. “Try this. Draw out a chalk line on some concrete, maybe out in the parking garage. Draw several triangles with each side ranging from two to three feet. Focus on putting both your feet on two points of the triangle, and put all your weight in the front foot, then shift it to the rear, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Move our feet along the lines of the triangle, tracing the lines to the point of each triangle, and imagine stepping around your opponents using the triangle. Feel how important it is to shift your weight and follow the triangles.”

Dick nodded. “Andy teach you that?”

“No. I learned that from a different martial arts instructor.”

“Yeah? Who?”

Bruce patted him on the shoulder. “Come on. Those season tickets are going to waste.” Dick looked a little reluctant. Bruce noticed him wince, and he looked down at the ground. “Something wrong?”

Dick shrugged. “It’s just…” He shook his head, mumbling to himself.

“It’s just what, Dick?”

The boy sighed, and looked up at him. “It’s just that…well, I’m staying with you because I might be a witness in Zucco’s trial someday, and…I don’t want him knowing what I look like, but you’re so famous and if we go to the Knights Dome we’ll probably be on camera at some point, and…”

Bruce nodded, understanding. “You’re scared.”

Dick was reluctant to admit it, just as any teenage boy would be. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe I am. So what?”

“Dick, I can tell them not to put us on camera—”

“There’ll be people there with cameras of their own, snapping shots. You can’t stop them all, Bruce.”

He held his hands out, palms up, a gesture of openness. “Dick, what can I do?”

“I dunno. I guess we can’t go.” Then, he looked up, appearing hopeful. “Or would it…would it be possible to get, like, I dunno, a bulletproof vest or something?”

“You want a bulletproof vest?” Bruce chuckled.

Dick stood and started to storm off. “I knew you’d think I’m just some stupid kid—”

“Wait.”

“—askin’ for something because I’m just too stupid to—”

“Wait, now! Hold on, Dick! I didn’t say you were stu—”

“No, but you laughed! A man killed my parents and maybe wants me dead, too, and you laughed because I’m scared!”

“I didn’t laugh because you were scared, Dick. I laughed because…it just took me by surprise, that’s all. I didn’t expect to hear that. It’s…” Bruce sighed. “It’s not something that teenagers typically ask for, is all I’m saying.” Dick nodded, and his eyes were downcast. The boy gazed at the floor dejectedly, then started to walk off. “Listen, Dick, you really don’t feel safe?”

The boy paused, turned, and said, “Bruce, this is Tony Zucco! He killed my parents! I know he did! You may not believe me—”

“I never said I didn’t believe you—”

“—but I know he did it!” Dick finished. “And I know that if he’s willing to do that, and he can run organized crime like the Falcones and the Juarez cartel, then he wouldn’t think twice about offing me!”

Bruce sighed, and held up his hands, a gesture of peace this time. “All right, Dick. All right, I get it. Your situation is slightly different than what I went through. The man who killed my parents wasn’t in any situation to come and get me, and never really had any motive to. But it’s different with you, isn’t it?”

Dick said nothing, and Bruce let the silence that hung between them heal the wound that had been opened.

At that moment, Alfred stepped into the training room, left another towel and bottle of water, then vanished without saying a word. Bruce looked back at Dick. “If…if a bulletproof vest, or an alarm system around your room, or anything else like that will make you feel safer and more secure, then I suppose I can round these things up for you. I wear them from time to time when I go places, one of them should fit you.”

Dick nodded, and then said, “I learned some moves to use with a billy club from Andy and Simon. I think they were showing me some Filipino kali stuff. Could I get, like, a retractable baton? Maybe…maybe a Taser, or some pepper spray?”

My god, the kid’s more afraid that I ever thought. He masked his surprise and said, “Those are reasonable requests. But no guns, or anything like that. I have a thing against guns, in case you didn’t know.”

“No guns,” Dick agreed, and offered his first smile of the day.

* * *

THE AREA OF Gotham City that had once been referred to as the Bowery was now dubbed Safe Havens. It was all part of Project Safe Havens, the initiative driven primarily by Wayne Enterprises to demolish the various abandoned and dilapidated buildings in order to build up better, and more affordable, homes for those that couldn’t usually afford apartments. Fighting homelessness was all part of cleaning up crime in Gotham, as was removing the numerous decrepit buildings where many of them had once hid and conducted their illegal business. Giving us no place to hide, he thought. That’s their big idea now.

While fast progress was definitely being made, there were still numerous buildings under construction and a few lots sitting empty, with the land sectioned off with form boards. There were a few streets that had been completely demolished and were in the process of being repaved. There was semi-regular foot traffic around the Old Bowery now. Safe Havens was well on its way to living up to its namesake.

The car that came pulling up to the new and unused apartment complex was a black sedan with tinted windows. It trundled past the bulldozers and cranes parked in the muddy lots, past the sign reading: Wayne Enterprises – Building Our Future Together. It pulled into an alley between two buildings that would soon be opened for tenants, and there it parked.

The driver stepped out of the front, and walked quickly around the back to open the door for his boss. The short, rotund fellow that stepped out was wearing a black coat and gloves. His breath came out in clouds, drifting off in the gentle wind. It was even colder today than it had been the day before. Close by, there was a dilapidated building waiting to be torn down, part of the old Sionis Steel Mill. Painted on the side in bright red graffiti were the words “THANK GOD FOR MULCOYISY STEWART-PAULSON.” The paint was old, and formed a somber memorial for the Riddler and the game he’d played with Gotham City and its watchful bat.

“Flick the lights,” said the short man.

The driver moved to obey. He stuck his head in through the driver’s side window and flickered the lights on and off in a pattern. A few seconds later, the short man’s cell phone rang. He answered it. “I’m here.”

“I can see that,” said the voice from the other end, in a slightly condescending tone. “Glad you could make it, Anthony.”

“No names over the phone, moron. You know that,” Zucco said.

“Oh, sorry!” the man laughed. “You know how scatterbrained I can be!”

Zucco fumed. He didn’t like doing business with this sort of personality, but desperate times called for desperate people, and few were more desperate than this guy. If the clown was going to survive in this climate that Gordon, the bat, and Breaking Point had created in Gotham, he needed as many friends as he could get. And since the Penguin was away at Blackgate Penitentiary, Zucco didn’t have many powerful friends left. The clown an’ me, we’re a couple of desperate souls. “Where’s the stash?”

“It’s not far. You just have to drive a liiiiiiiittle further.”

“This is not what we discussed!” Zucco barked. “This is not what Fine said we would—”

“The plan’s changed, Anth—er, I mean, BFF. Heh! Fine should’ve told you that! But don’t worry! The more things change, the more they stay the same.” There was barely controlled tittering from the other end. “In any case, the goods have been moved a block south of you. You’ll find them in a building where the plywood and insulation have just been put up. A green smiley face marks the spot. Tootles!”

Zucco said, “Wait! If I have to go around and around like this all day, freezin’ my ass off and playin’ base tag all around the Old Bowery like I’m on some goddam scavenger hunt, then I’m gonna have to go ahead and demand a discount.”

“I’ll handle the jokes around here,” the other man deadpanned, and then hung up.

Zucco looked at his phone and sighed. He looked at Gil, his driver, and said, “You believe the balls on this guy? I should have my head examined for listenin’ to Fine.” He fumed. Sherman Fine, “The Broker,” was one of those indispensible types, the one that never went to jail for anything because, technically, he never did anything illegal, just bought up old, forgotten properties and sold them to others, or provided the introductions between various businessmen. Somehow, he’d started getting business for the clown. “Friggin’ Fine. I oughtta strangle him. Get in!” he commanded Gil.

They hopped in, and drove south just as the maniac had indicated, and there was indeed a building that had just had the plywood put up. It was fresh, with only the morning dew sullying it. Once Gil parked the car again, Zucco stepped out. He instinctively checked for all signs of watchful eyes, perhaps a surveillance van off in the distance, or a helicopter flying a little too close to Safe Havens.

The more aggressive the cops and the feds had gotten in Gotham, the more Anthony Zucco had had to resort to doing things himself. That was fine by him. As a low-level street guy most of his life, he’d resented the powerful bosses who made unreasonable demands of their lieutenants and captains without really knowing what it was like down in the streets. He had sworn that once he gained enough prestige himself, he’d make it a point to still get down in the mud with even his most low-level guys. A man should never be afraid to get his hands dirty. That wisdom from his father, God rest his soul.

However, playing that way in this new political climate was dangerous. It meant exposing himself more and more. But, as it turned out, Zucco’s philosophy had actually helped him while other bosses had folded in the last eight months. The other bosses had been too reliant on new recruits, whereas Zucco was of the belief that if you wanted something done right, then you had to do it yourself. Not many people could be trusted, not the low-level guys and not the upper-level guys.

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Everybody needed friends, though, and it was Boss Zucco’s belief that one should only make friends with the kind of people who needed you more than you needed them. Right now, there was perhaps no more despised human being running free than the “Clown Prince of Crime,” as the Gotham Informer insisted on calling him, and he needed all the help he could get in staying free and on the move. His money was helping the clown with that, Zucco supposed, and he knew that if he got caught aiding and abetting a reviled terrorist, the penalty would be even more severe than if he got caught importing and exporting narcotics.

But that was only if he got caught, and Zucco didn’t believe that was possible. He’d been too careful with recruitment in the beginning, and had solidified his main group of guys months before Breaking Point had started putting their informants in the streets. Zucco had seen the writing on the wall, had known that with the FBI in town, it would only be a matter of time before they pulled what they did in New York City after 9/11, ramping up their undercovers to infiltrate certain groups and their gathering holes, only this time it would be various Italian neighborhoods instead of mosques. He’d closed himself off, went underground, and dealt with the one maniac left standing after the Riddler Riots.

Gil stayed by the car while his boss walked around the building, pulling his collar up over his neck and ears to ward off the cold. He stopped short when he found the smiley face, painted in green and still running, recently painted. How the clown moved in and around the city without being spotted, Zucco didn’t know, that was his business. All that mattered was that he made things materialize as if out of nowhere.

Zucco moved around the building, and followed another sign, this one a simple green arrow pointing to a door. He stepped inside. It was warmer inside, even though no sunlight was getting through. It was quiet. The tools and materials that workers had left overnight were the only other occupants. Today was Sunday, so no workers were likely to come through all day.

An arrow painted on the wall pointed down a hallway. Zucco followed. He came to yet another arrow, this one pointing down a set of stairs, into a basement. It was pitch-black inside and the power wasn’t yet turned on here. But the clown always did business like this, and Zucco had learned to bring a flashlight. He pulled it out of his pocket and went down the stairs, ducking beneath the low ceiling and breathing in the smell of the fresh plaster on the walls.

Zucco stopped short at the base of the stairs. There, at his feet, was a large bundle of cocaine. It was as big as a bale of hay, and wrapped similarly, only in see-through plastic which pretty much did nothing to conceal what it was. The clown’s not a fan of subtlety, he thought. He scanned his flashlight around the basement, and discovered that there was a roomful of this stuff. The basement was brimming with stacks upon stacks of it. Where the Joker got his seemingly endless stash Zucco didn’t know for sure, but he’d long suspected that he’d somehow gotten a hold of whatever had been left behind when the Shukurs practically abandoned Gotham, or perhaps he’d found more secret passageways at the Iceberg Lounge than the police had.

Whatever the case, Boss Zucco was now reaping the rewards of the clown’s clandestine exploits, and all he had to do was wire a bit of money to an offshore bank account for him, a tax haven in the Caymans. And because the clown was so known, so despised, and so hunted, Zucco had gotten away with paying him a great deal less than the going price for this kind of merch. Again, Zucco’s philosophy of keeping desperate friends around had paid off. The clown’s got no other friends, just me. He has to take the price I offer. He smiled at his intelligence.

He stepped back out of the building and waved Gil over. The driver had been waiting patiently by the car, hands in his pockets, touching the pistols he’d use to protect his boss if anyone tried anything. “S’up, boss? We got it?”

“We got it all right,” he confirmed. “I need you to call up Ivan, tell him to get his boys Pete and Brendan. Tell them to bring all of their dump trunks. This is a big load, maybe the biggest one yet. We’ll need to move fast, but only one truck at a time. We don’t wanna attract attention. And get word to Trevalyan and make sure none o’ his cop buddies are gonna patrol this area anytime soon.”

Gil’s phone was already to his ear. “On it.”

Just then, Zucco’s phone twittered again. He answered, knowing who it was. “You held up your end,” he said. “Your money will be transferred tonight.”

“And the other thing?”

Zucco had been dreading this question. “It takes a bit o’ time to get hold o’ that much, er, whatever ya call it.”

“Water dropwort,” the clown provided.

“Yeah, that. I should have it in a week or two. I’ll let you know by messaging at the usual dead drop spots.”

“See that you do. Wouldn’t want your only supply to dry up, now would we, Boss Zucco?” He said that last sardonically, and then hung up. Zucco exchanged a glance with Gil, then shook his head.

“What the hell is water dropwort, Gil? Ever heard of it?”

“No, boss. Why?”

Zucco shrugged. “Never mind. Let’s get back.”

They started for the car, but then Zucco stopped and turned to take one last look at the green smiley face. He looked around at the other buildings, thinking about the clown’s words to him over the phone a few minutes ago. He’s somewhere nearby, watching me. Though he never would’ve admitted it to anyone, that thought made Boss Zucco shiver more than any cold wind.

He hugged his coat to him more tightly, and returned quickly to the car.

* * *

FOOTBALL WASN’T REALLY Dick Grayson’s cup of tea, but Bruce seemed to want to get out and spend a day with him and he didn’t really feel like spoiling the man’s mood, so he kept it to himself.

They entered the stadium through a back way, one reserved for VIPs, and yet still they managed to get ambushed by a pair of photographers whose press passes revealed were from the Gotham Informer. They were paparazzi, of course, and they practically bolted for Bruce Wayne as soon as they saw him stepping out of the limousine. Bruce made sure to take point, smiling and intercepting the photographers so that Dick went unnoticed by them.

“Hey, hey!” Bruce shouted, beaming at them and clapping them on their shoulders. Dick didn’t quite understand it, but Bruce seemed to become a different person when the cameras were on him. “Hey, look at you guys! You’re some very eager beavers! You must’ve gotten up very early in the morning to beat the other photographers!”

The two men just kept taking snapshots, and only one of them spoke, saying, “You know us, Mr. Wayne! We’re committed!”

“You ought to be,” Bruce chuckled as he was led in through a side door by security. Beside him, Dick laughed. “What is it?”

“Nothing. I was just wondering if they got the joke.”

Bruce smiled. “You caught that, huh? They always think I’m their best friend, and I give them what they want.”

They stepped through another door, again led by security that had been prepped by a call from Alfred telling them Bruce Wayne was coming. Dick asked, “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” Bruce asked.

“Pretend to be their friends like that?”

“Oh, that! That’s so that they never get to know the real me, Dick.”

“Why don’t you want people knowing who you really are?”

“Why would I?” Bruce countered, and winked at him.

They passed through a series of security checks, and while Dick was scanned by a wand, he glanced over to see a large, bald man, with muscles twice as big as any he’d ever seen in his life. The guy was wearing a jersey, number 42, and Dick knew who he was at once. Gerald Fanning, he thought. No way. Dick wasn’t even a football buff, but everybody knew Gerald Fanning. He’d scored more touchdowns than anyone else in the league for the last two seasons, and was dating a Swedish supermodel named Heidi with a last name nobody could pronounce.

Then, to Dick’s continued astonishment, Fanning walked by Bruce, clapped him on the back, and shook his hand. “Hey, Brucie Boy, how’s the life?” he laughed.

“Never better, Gerald. Never better. How’s the knee?”

“Doc says my ACL’s good, so I’m playin’ today.”

“Good, look forward to seeing you back in the game,” Bruce said, and turned back to Dick. “You ready to go up?”

“That was Gerald Fanning,” Dick said.

“Yep.”

“You know him?”

“I ought to,” the billionaire laughed. “I own the team.”

“You own the Gotham Knights?” Dick said, following Bruce’s lead up the stairs. “Wait, hold on a minute, how come I didn’t know that?”

“I don’t know. It’s a matter of public record.”

“Jesus, dude, is there anything in Gotham City you don’t own?”

“Yeah, City Hall and the prison system, but give me a break, I only just woke up,” he laughed, and Dick had to laugh, too.

In his last year with Bruce Wayne, Dick had gone from sitting in his room sulkily doing nothing, to walking around the mansion sulkily and exploring it, to finally getting chummy with the butler and the billionaire himself, and it had been a smooth transition that he hadn’t been aware of until he was on the other side. Once you got past the false bravado, Bruce was actually a pretty cool guy to hang around. Except at night. You couldn’t even find him at night. He always seemed to be at some party or other that Alfred couldn’t quite specify, or else out on a date with an actress that Alfred didn’t recall the name of.

Still, there were far worse places for an orphan to be thrown into. Dick supposed he could’ve easily wound up in a home with some crazy religious nuts for parents, the kind of people who made unreasonable demands about dress, behavior, and mandatory family get-togethers. Dick wasn’t much for get-togethers, not since he’d lost his one true family. In a way, he was kind of glad that Bruce was the sort of guy who liked his space. It meant that the billionaire understood the value of alone time, and respected personal boundaries while trusting Dick not to get into trouble.

That’s why Dick felt guilty for having deceived Bruce earlier that morning. In truth, he wasn’t afraid of Tony Zucco at all. What Dick was thinking of doing with all that gear—the bulletproof vest, the Taser, the baton—well, he wasn’t even sure where he was going with that, or what he was thinking, but he knew that if he went through with any plans at all, he’d need some technical assistance.

When they reached the sky box, a security woman said, “Just let us know if you need anything, Mr. Wayne.”

“Thanks, Annie.”

When the woman had left, there was a demure smile on her face, and Dick caught it. He looked up at Bruce and said, “Don’t tell me you dated that chick.”

Bruce’s eyes widened, and he started chuckling. “Wow, you really don’t miss much, do you, kid?”

“Not much.”

“I have to remember that.”

“How was she?”

Bruce looked shocked, then took on a mock stern look, and pointed at him. “None o’ your business, and get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Just asking, man. One dude to another.”

“Yeah, well, one man to a boy, I’m telling you it’s none of your business.” But Bruce couldn’t seem to wipe the smile off his face. “You’re a real pistol, you know that?” Dick smiled. “C’mon, they keep these sky boxes stocked full of food. I like burritos. You like burritos?” Dick nodded. “Excellent. I knew there was something I liked about you, kid. Can’t trust any male who doesn’t eat burritos. You agree?”

Dick shrugged. “I guess.” He walked over to the window, which gave him a sweeping view of the stadium and the crowds that were assembling. “So, who’re the Knights playing today?”

“I dunno. Some team. You want a Coke? No, wait, you don’t drink sodas. Smart kid. Right, so, how’s a Gatorade sound? Or some tea? Got some tea here.”

“Water’s fine.”

“Water it is, then,” said Bruce, and got out a few bottles from the fridge while the burritos were heating up in the microwave.

Dick looked down on the football field. The sky box allowed such a panoramic view that, even though he didn’t care for football at all, he was still intrigued by what he saw. The flags of the Gotham Knights’ emblem were whipping in the morning wind. He saw families assembling, bundled in thick clothing, kids racing up and down the steps to get something from the hot dog man, and of course the various T-shirt vendors who launched shirts via the big air gun that looked like a missile launcher from one of Dick’s video games. “This is amazing,” he said.

Bruce walked over with the burrito for Dick, and handed it to him hot. He blew on it to cool it down, and took a bite. “This your first time coming to one of these games?” Bruce asked.

Dick shook his head. “My dad took me to see games sometimes, usually a baseball game. He tried to get me interested. Well, really, it was my mom who wanted me interested in something, anything besides trapeze work.”

“Why’s that?” Bruce said, taking a sip of his water.

“She thought it was too dangerous. Her and my dad got into it because their parents were into it—that’s how circuses pretty much work. People don’t just go to ordinary school, graduate, get a summer job, and say, ‘Hey, you know what? I’d like to be a tightrope walker!’ Doesn’t happen like that. Well, maybe for some people it does, but not usually.”

“I never got to see you guys perform,” Bruce said. “And I regret that. People say you guys were amazing.”

“It was all my mom’s choreography. She taught my dad all about better timing. She was really good at that stuff.” Suddenly, Dick realized they were talking about his parents for the first time in a long time. It was amazing that in the year they had been together, not much of this had really been discussed.

“You were always homeschooled?”

“Yeah,” Dick said. “Circuses don’t do well if they don’t travel. We have to go where the circus goes, which means we can’t stay anywhere for very long. We’re like military kids, only we move more frequently. So, the only steady education I got was at home.”

“Your mom and dad taught you themselves?”

Dick shrugged. “It’s not quite like that. On a circus, there’s a team effort, a family effort from everybody. There was this guy named Danny Brickman, he was the lion tamer of the circus, and whenever he had free time he’d help me with my studies. Then there was the Juggling Sisters, Claire and Natalia, they were always willing to help me catch up whenever I was falling behind. But I also helped them. I cleaned out the animal cages to pay them back, or cleaned their rooms for them. You know, stuff like that.”

“Sounds like a real family.”

Dick thought back on those times for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. Suddenly, the years peeled back, and he remembered the culture shock he’d first felt when he’d been brought to the big, open grounds of Wayne Manor. It was an expansive compound but with no real performers, no exciting personalities like there had been at Haley’s Circus, just Bruce and Alfred, and a few other rotating servants who Bruce barely knew himself.

In the circus, Dick had gotten along without really wanting anything. As long as one had family and friends, there wasn’t much need for any toys or other activities. Well, a computer was certainly nice and had helped him pass the time and connect to the world, but as for fancy clothes or school dances, he’d never craved them. He’d had everything he needed. However, as the ward of Bruce Wayne, he actually had the ability to have whatever he wanted. A four-wheeler would be no problem, and Bruce would probably get it for him. Bruce had already told him that when he was old enough to drive, he could have any car he wanted.

But I don’t want any of those things, he thought. Even now, standing in a sky box at Knights Dome Sporting Complex meant for powerful VIPs, even having access to just about the best training facilities one could ever imagine, and even knowing that his future was going to be entirely paid for and he’d never have to worry about money again, he still would trade it all to have his parents back. Hell, he’d trade it all back for a day with them.

“Did I say something wrong?” Bruce asked.

Dick looked up. He realized he’d been caught in reverie. “Uh, no. Just…just thinking.”

Bruce nodded. He was smart enough for an adult, Dick supposed, and knew when to drop something a teenager didn’t want to talk about. “When it comes to parents, I guess I had a similar, if less adventurous, upbringing. I went to a private school, but I was certainly trained in the family business, like you were.”

“That must’ve sucked,” Dick said. “Spreadsheets, corporate meetings, people in suits and ties. I bet you were bored outta your mind, eh?”

Bruce made a face. “Actually, it was very exciting. I think it’s fun for a kid to see what their parents do for a living, no matter what it is. It’s good to see that drive and commitment to succeed, you know? You must’ve seen it in your parents’ performances, in the way they trained.” Dick nodded. “It’s a different world than acrobatics, but you still have to think on your feet, constantly improvise. And my dad taught never to forget the poor. He and my mom were very charitable, always donating money.”

Dick considered that, then said, “Ya know, I just realized, I don’t even really know what it is you do.”

Bruce looked at him. “You wanna see what I do?” Dick shrugged. “All right. I’ve got some time today. Maybe later we’ll swing by Wayne Enterprises, show you through the building itself. I gotta warn you though, it’ll probably put you to sleep once you get past all the shiny elevators and large glass offices and statues and whatnot.”

“That sounds cool,” Dick said. And it did. He was suddenly curious how the whole thing worked.

A silence fell over their little world inside the sky box, and there was a palpable tension. Dick couldn’t rightly say what it stemmed from.

Bruce took another bite of his burrito, chewed on it for a minute, and then seemed to decide on something. “You know, speaking of your parents,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. “This maybe isn’t the time to give you this, but you asked me, and, well…” He pulled out a white enveloped, and passed it over to Dick.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“You asked for copies of your parents’ autopsies.” Bruce looked at him seriously. “Dick, I’m trusting that you’re mature enough to read what’s inside. It’s…well, it’s very graphic stuff. They pull no punches in these reports. You’ll read about your parents’ bodies in cold, exact detail. It can be disturbing for some people.”

Dick looked at the envelope in his hand. Suddenly, it seemed heavier. His new knowledge of what was kept inside gave it gravity. He looked up at Bruce and said, “Did you ever read your own parents’ autopsies?”

Bruce hesitated, then finally answered. “Yes,” he admitted. “I was a little older than you, though.” Dick looked at the envelope again. “Hold onto that as long as you like. Don’t open it right away. Just wait. Then, when you feel it’s time, I trust you to make that decision.”

Dick turned the envelope over and over, having totally forgotten about the burrito in his other hand.

Bruce looked out the window, saw the wind picking up, the flags snapping in the wind. “Glad we’re in here. Looks like it’s going to be another cold one.”