The moment the two men stepped into the East Precinct station, a smattering of applause broke out. Like a few raindrops on dry ground, it quickly faded.
"Nice one, Jay!" a voice came from the corner.
"Good job, Wilson!" another voice echoed, but it sounded more like a formality.
The atmosphere was a little awkward.
Before they could respond, a middle-aged officer approached, carrying a stack of files. "Hey, Jay, Bob wants to see you two as soon as you get back. Also, good work today."
He slapped Jay on the arm. "I put money on you two when Wilson called for backup."
"Thanks, I'll go right away," Jay replied wearily to the greeting.
Most people, in fact, were just staring blankly at their desks, and some were muttering things like, "Wrong bet," then reluctantly handing over cash to Sergeant Elbert.
Jay was used to this and ignored his colleagues, knocking on the wooden door marked Chief's Office at the end of the hallway with his partner.
Pushing the door open, the thick smell of cigar smoke hit them.
A portly white man sat behind the desk, yelling furiously into a phone.
"You called to demand disciplinary action against my men? Go f**k yourself. They risk their lives every day, and what have you done?" He gestured to the chairs opposite, signaling them to sit down while still raging. "Think carefully before you talk to me again, or I'll complain about you directly to Loeb!"
He slammed the phone down aggressively, then grimaced at the two officers. "Look at this. The Medical Examiner from the GCPD HQ is complaining to me, saying you and Wilson covered up for dereliction of duty."
Bob McGinnis stared at him sternly. "Do you know how much pressure this puts on me?"
"Huh?" Jay was stunned. "He's only calling now about something that happened this morning? You're kidding me."
"Oh, he called this morning. I was just re-enacting the scene for you," Bob said composedly, showing no embarrassment at being exposed. "I'm the Chief. You have to give me some respect."
"No problem," the two men jumped up from their chairs, raising their arms 45 degrees in a perfectly standard Nazi salute. "Thank you very much, Chief Sir!"
Bob: "…"
"Alright, I thought you two would be a little more grateful." Bob motioned for them to sit down again. "Yes, that guy is nothing to me, but you two need to watch your backs. The HQ got a rookie two years ago—of course, he's not a rookie anymore—named James Gordon. The guy is too clean; even Flass got arrested once. It's no big deal for you to get a complaint from the ME, but don't let Gordon catch you doing anything wrong."
"James Gordon? We saw him today. He was the one who took over the scene." Jay nodded.
"Yeah, and he said I was a hero," Wilson chimed in quickly, pointing at Jay. "Uh… and he was too."
"F**k the hero talk, you idiot. Remember, heroes never last. You think Gordon's a hero? He always ends up taking the biggest, dirtiest fall under Grogan. He might be demoted to a doorman one of these days." Bob scoffed at Wilson's words. "Look at you two, one a rookie under six months, the other a fool two months in. Why were you paired up, huh?"
He leaned back in his large, genuine leather chair. "Old cops don't like mentoring newbies, and they care even less about others' lives. Remember, the dead are forgotten quickly, Jay. Do you even remember how Garcia, the officer who mentored you, died? But I have to say,"
He paused. "Second thing: Good job, boys. You shot and killed three of the convoy robbers and captured one alive."
A hint of approval showed on his face, then he sighed. "It's a shame those guys from Blackgate Prison couldn't be saved."
"I regret it. If I had been faster, maybe…" Jay also sighed. "But Garcia drank himself to death from a cerebral hemorrhage…"
"Don't worry about the small stuff. Dead men, firefights, compensation—that's the HQ's problem, not ours. You did well enough." Bob waved a dismissive hand. "Long story short, you start one week of administrative leave tomorrow. When you come back, we'll arrange a promotion for you."
"Hey, hey, isn't administrative leave usually two weeks?" Jay and Wilson exchanged a look, glaring at Bob. "Why do I get half the time?"
"Because I f**king have no one left to use! Did you hear about Turner when you came back?"
"Turner? From Homicide? What happened to him?"
"He was killed in an alleyway at noon today. I suspect Falcone's men did it, but there's nothing I can do." Bob lightly pounded the desk a few times. "There's a saying in your home country, Those who understand the times are wise; Those who adapt to the times are heroes. Gotham is not a city where the police call the shots anymore."
Jay nodded, his mind instantly on alert, wary of any trap Bob might be setting with his words.
"I'm a citizen here now. My 'home country' is…"
"Don't worry, kid, I don't mean anything by it. A man shouldn't forget his roots. You know I've always wanted to send the Queen to Ireland to grow potatoes for the rest of her life." Bob spread his hands. "A person can never truly sever their connection to their roots. After all, my ancestors were immigrants too, hundreds of years ago."
"Uh… okay, Chief, but I think we're getting off track, and changing the subject won't work on me." Jay pouted. "The stuff about your ancestors taking Indian scalps for boots shouldn't be repaid with a cut to my administrative leave, right?"
"Yeah, he's right," Wilson dragged his chair forward, even though he hadn't understood a word of their conversation. "Your ancestor probably locked up my great-great-grandfather on a plantation to pick cotton, so I should get a few extra days off."
"Shut your mouth! But we really are short-handed right now, and the shooting incident is clear-cut—the investigation is just a formality. Here…" Bob irritably pulled open a drawer and placed an envelope on the desk. "Five hundred dollars. Go grab a drink. Your official department bonus is separate, but it might be a few days late."
"Huh? What the hell happened to make a cheapskate like you pay out of pocket?" Jay was completely stunned, leaping back a step. "Whatever you are, get off Bob right now!"
"F**K, I told you to show me some respect." Bob raised his arm. "Seriously, I only care about two things. First, keep the precinct running smoothly without major incidents. Second, don't mess with my money-making. You're a good kid, and I have high hopes for you."
"But don't rush into things like this again. Let the HQ guys handle it. I'd never force you to charge into a fight. After all, your life is your own."
"Understood, sir."
Jay wasn't sure how to respond. The East Precinct was different from other stations, with an overall atmosphere of slacking off.
Bob was a tightwad, pocketing well over half of the roughly forty thousand dollars in black money the gangs sent each month.
But other than that, he never touched any funds for compensation, pensions, bonuses, or required equipment.
However, he also never interfered with his subordinates making their own money, maintaining a hands-off attitude toward any corruption on their part.
Arthur Brown, the Chief of the West Precinct, was the complete opposite.
He took only about a fifth of the black money each month, distributing the rest to his officers.
But he involved himself in nearly all of his subordinates' gray-area businesses, even selling off bulletproof vests and standard-issue shotguns on the black market.
Still, Jay was somewhat distrustful of the current situation.
He looked at the white envelope, tentatively reaching out, only to find Bob's fingers firmly pressing down on it.
"Uh… you're sure you won't regret this, right? Maybe I shouldn't take it?"
"Just take it before I have a heart attack!" Bob removed his hand, clutching his chest dramatically. "Get out there and do well."
Jay tucked the money into his inner pocket, and the two saluted and backed out.
Back in the station, Jay pulled out his chair and sat at his desk, tossing the money to Wilson to count himself.
He now had over four thousand dollars in his pocket… not much more than before, but there were many things he desperately needed to buy.
First and foremost, he needed a car. Although they drove a police cruiser on patrol every day, he couldn't use department assets for personal travel during his leave.
But a decent used car would cost at least five to seven thousand.
Ugh!
Jay rubbed his face in frustration.
Being broke was agonizing.
He calmed himself down, pulled out a piece of paper, and started sketching and writing.
This was Gotham. Based on the people he'd dealt with, Nigma should be fine inside the GCPD for the time being.
Killer Croc was another matter; once he started killing, there was no turning back.
He had to find a way to get him out.
He sat and thought for a while, then crumpled the paper on his desk into a ball and turned to Wilson.
"By the way, do you know anyone who sells used cars?"
"You're buying a car?" Wilson scratched his head. "Why don't you try the employee benefit auction? If you see a car you like, you can slip the Equipment Management guys a bribe to reserve it early. Retired cars, confiscated cars, impounded cars, they have everything… Wait, didn't you tell me about that?"
"Fine, I forgot a little." Jay sighed. This was only going to strain his already tight budget. "Honestly, I'm almost regretting giving that kid a hundred this morning."
He stood up and walked toward the second floor under Wilson's gaze.
A little later, Jay came back with his mouth downturned, his face as sour as if he'd swallowed a fly.
"Huh? Looks like you bled a little?"
"Three hundred bucks to push my registration form to the front of the line, and there's an internal auction tomorrow noon at the GCPD parking lot." Jay patted his face to calm down. "But I have to go out of town tomorrow. Can you come and check it out for me? Something cheap, sturdy, and durable. Preferably with a good amount of space."
"No problem," Wilson rubbed his hands excitedly. "If I see something good, I'll just grab—"
"You'll just call me!"
"Oh, alright, alright, got it," Wilson lowered his hands, a little deflated, but quickly cheered up. "Don't worry, man. I'll make sure to find you a good one!"
Jay nodded, slumping back into his chair, his gaze fixed blankly on the stained ceiling tiles.
After a moment of silence, he got up, gathered the things on his desk, and stood up.
"Where are you going?"
"What time is it already?" Jay checked his watch. "It's too late. I have to go home and cook dinner."
"Ah?" Wilson's eyes suddenly lit up.
He divided the money into two piles and handed over half. "Are you making… General Tso's Chicken? I can handle Chinese food, too."
"F**k no," Jay took the money and stuffed it into his pocket. "I'm going home to boil pasta."
"Hiss…" Wilson grimaced. "Even a dog wouldn't eat that stuff."
"Exactly," Jay glared at him fiercely. "As long as it's cheap, if a dog won't eat it, I will!"
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