"Brilliantly done!"
Bob praised him all the way back, grinning from ear to ear.
The moment he entered his office, he cut a cigar and took a satisfying puff.
"That old bastard," he pointed his cigar-holding hand in the air, as if poking an invisible opponent. "Falcone, that old fox, always thinks of that jerk Loeb first when there's a benefit. Ah…"
A steady stream of smoke issued simultaneously from his nostrils and the corner of his mouth, slowly rising in the lead-gray light filtering through the window.
"Jay Jay, you're surprisingly good at giving speeches? You Chinese are all study maniacs; I thought you only knew how to do math."
"Alright… Boss, stop beating around the bush." Jay squirmed in his chair. "What exactly do you want?"
"Emmm…"
A hint of awkwardness actually crossed Bob's face. He avoided Jay's gaze, his fingers unconsciously fiddling with the wrapper of his cigar.
"Falcone gave you fifty thousand… how are you planning to… how are you planning to handle… the operation…"
"Hey! Boss," Jay jumped up. "I distinctly remember you never touch death benefits!"
"Oh, of course not, of course not!" Bob quickly waved his hand. "I've never touched the mandated benefits, but this… this is extra…"
"Don't even think about it. You won't get a dime. Not only will you not get any, but I advise you to donate a few tens of thousands yourself."
"What!" Bob's face flushed instantly. He slapped the table. "What the hell are you talkin' abou—"
His booming second half of the sentence abruptly stopped. He suddenly clamped his mouth shut.
He stood up, walked quickly to the office door, locked it with a click, then pulled down the inward-facing Venetian blinds. He walked back to Jay.
"Kid, talk. What are you planning now? You wouldn't say something that stupid for no reason."
"I need to talk about something else first." Jay smiled, took out his notebook from his pocket, opened it, and handed it to Bob. "I need to get someone out of Blackgate and overturn his conviction."
"Hmm… let me see. Otis Flannegan? What use is this guy?" Bob flipped through the notebook suspiciously. "Is he your friend?"
He quickly scanned a few pages, closed the notebook, and tossed it back onto the desk. "It's not hard to get him out, just send a request to Blackgate under the pretense of assisting an investigation.
Martin is a bit conflicted and hesitant, but he won't intentionally make things difficult for you. But overturning the conviction…"
Bob took a deep drag from his cigar and returned to his large boss chair.
"You'll not only offend your colleagues in the police department but also piss off the Federal Court judges. Are you sure it's worth it?"
"Sounds complicated, right? If you think so, how much more will others think that?"
Jay opened the notebook again and pushed it over, pointing to a few lines. "Otis has… deep connections to the underworld and can get a lot of information. If we succeed, he'll be eternally grateful to us."
"A good informant? That might be worth something."
Bob grumbled, taking the notebook to focus on the section Jay pointed out. "Case handled by: Detective Flack… Judge Anderson… Flack Robinson?"
He looked up, meeting Jay's eyes, then stood up, pushed aside the blinds, and peered out at the open office floor.
Behind a desk labeled "Homicide Squad Two" in the middle of the hall, a detective in his thirties was looking down, reviewing something, occasionally licking his lips.
"If it's that idiot, I'm not surprised your friend was framed to take the fall. That's exactly the kind of thing he'd do."
He lowered the blinds and frowned, contemplating for a while. "Joshua Anderson, a Gotham Court judge, retired three years ago. But this isn't as simple as you think."
"First, you need to find a District Attorney willing to get involved, or even risk their life; second, you have to challenge the inertia of the entire judicial system."
He puffed out smoke, looking like a fierce deity shrouded in clouds, his eyes deeply fixed on Jay through the haze.
"I can choose not to protect that fool Flack, but the rest… I think you'll find it very difficult. And what does this have to do with the donation you mentioned?"
"Of course, it's related. You saw it firsthand today—the Central Precinct casually received half a million. That's worth a year's extra income for the East Precinct.
And the fixed amount Falcone gives Central every year is at least four times what he gives East. What if you add in the performative donations from other elites in the Diamond District?"
Jay's voice was low and slightly husky. "Boss, why can't that money be yours?"
The sentence struck like a bolt of lightning, articulating the aspiration Bob had long held but couldn't voice.
His breathing immediately became heavy. His clenched fists were white-knuckled, and the veins on the back of his hands bulged.
The office was left only with the faint hiss of the cigar burning and the sound of heavy breathing.
After a long while, he lowered his voice noncommittally. "Go on!"
"Loeb's position basically depends on whether the government and officers support him, and whether his political track record looks good."
Jay nodded, continuing. "The family support fund for injured officers—that amount of money generally won't be noticed by the higher-ups."
At this, he saw Bob's face briefly redden, but he pretended not to notice and went on. "We make the fund bigger.
When you personally hand over subsidies and pensions to those injured officers, orphans, and widows, every low-ranking officer in the GCPD will know who they should support."
"On the other hand, we need to show results." Jay opened his hands, then clenched them into fists one by one. "To put it bluntly, if you can only choose between making money and getting things done, I wouldn't stop you."
He spread his hands again. "What if you could do both?"
"I said Otis has many sources of information, and he might even have dirt on many people. If we can get ahold of Loeb's weaknesses…" Jay stood up and leaned slowly over the desk, his voice dropping even lower.
"If… I mean, if one day, your pockets are full of operational capital, you've accumulated undeniable political achievements, you have tens of thousands of Gotham officers standing behind you, and Loeb's scandal just happens to break out…"
He stared intently into Bob's eyes.
In the depths of those eyes, eroded by drink and worldly wisdom, a flame named greed and ambition was raging.
"Loeb's position—if he can sit in it, why can't you? If he can take that money, why can't you?"
As Jay's voice faded, Bob clenched his jaw, brutally stubbed out the half-smoked cigar in the ashtray, and leaned back in his chair.
His chest rose and fell violently, as if exhausted after a life-or-death struggle, or perhaps instantly falling asleep. Only his heavy breathing echoed in the silent room.
The wall clock ticked. Time passed minute by minute. The smoke in the office gradually thinned.
Jay didn't speak, sitting silently in place.
After about twenty more minutes, just when Jay almost thought he had truly fallen asleep, Bob suddenly sat bolt upright, staring at him.
The fat man's eyes were bloodshot and completely red.
"Damn it, you're right! Why shouldn't that money be mine! Let's do it!"
But after the initial excitement and impulse subsided, Bob gradually calmed down.
He didn't reach for a cigar, merely flicked a Marlboro out of the pack and lit it.
"Kid, if we're serious about this, we need a thorough plan, or we'll end up in an unmarked grave."
"No," Jay shook his head. "If the time isn't right, we won't take the final step. Before that, every single thing we do will be an act of justice. No one will be able to fault us."
"Justice?"
Bob held the cigarette in his mouth and turned to look at the lead-gray sky outside the window.
"That word left me almost thirty years ago. In Gotham, I learned something far more important than justice: survival. The just ones rarely live past thirty. Your first step isn't easy. Where are we going to find a suitable District Attorney?"
"I heard… there's an ambitious newcomer named Harvey Dent." Jay asked tentatively. "I heard he's smart. Why don't we leak the information to him and see?"
"Dent? I've heard of him. But I worry about newcomers like that being too clever for their own good, not knowing when to push and when to stop, all for the sake of showing off. They could drag everyone down."
Bob sneered, shaking his head. "I know a few DAs, too, but those old foxes aren't going to challenge the judiciary for 'justice.' Ultimately, a Franklin speaks louder than I do."
He took a hard drag from his cigarette. "Also, the money can be mine. What do you want?"
"Me? I want subsidies, overtime pay, mission stipends, and bonuses, and rank advancement." Jay counted on his fingers. "But more importantly, weapons, equipment, vehicles, especially heavy firepower—all the heavy firepower you can get your hands on."
"Getting what we both need is best, but I don't understand why you need so many weapons?"
Bob asked jokingly, though with a hint of wariness. "You aren't actually planning to attack Gotham City Hall, are you?"
"I have a feeling Gotham is going to get increasingly chaotic and dangerous."
Jay took back his notebook and tucked it into his pocket. "We definitely won't make it with just pistols and batons. It's better to be prepared. We'll need it sooner or later."
"I trust your judgment, kid. But don't think about depressing things right now. Talk about something else."
Bob smoked quickly. He tossed the cigarette butt into a paper cup and poured half a cup of cold coffee into it. "Tomorrow morning, go to the underground parking lot. I have a surprise for you."
"Ah!" Jay jumped up from his chair. "Did the armored transport really get approved?"
"Can't you ever stop opening your presents early?" Bob laughed, picked up his cigarette pack, thought for a moment, then tossed it back onto the desk.
"Also, I requested a new hire from Central, and they gave me one. He reports at noon today. See if he's suitable. Any other requests?"
"I was going to… never mind, not for now."
He had wanted to suggest bringing Edward Nygma over. The future Riddler's brain was no less formidable than Batman's.
But on second thought, even if Bob agreed, Nygma might not want to come, especially since there was no Miss Kringle here.
Besides, the precinct didn't have a forensics position; he'd have to wait until he achieved more before requesting that.
"Mmhmm, don't worry about the District Attorney yet. I'll figure something out. If Otis is truly that important, I'll prepare the paperwork tomorrow morning.
You can bring him out of Blackgate and keep him at the precinct. I can assign him the identity of an undercover informant for auxiliary investigation."
Bob dumped the mess from the desk into the trash can and walked to the coffee machine. "Remember, give him a new name, or obscure his face. Just don't let Flack run into him yet. We absolutely cannot rush the appeal."
"Got it. I also need time to investigate whether he's actually the murderer. After all, the current evidence, even if it can't prove he definitively is—"
"Hey! Snap out of it! Snap out of it, kid."
His words were cut off unceremoniously by Bob. "Don't worry about the evidence. If he's as useful as you say and we can use him, what does it matter if he's the killer? He could have been before, but now he can be whatever we need him to be."
——————
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