The Question Cometh

Four

Jack Haly sucked on an unlit cigarillo and watched the birds swirl in the distance. Little black dots in the sky. He could barely see them from here, but he knew birds. He'd picked up birdwatching as a hobby. After Dick. These weren't anything special. Just normal old crows. Although they were special in their own right. Just nothing a birdwatcher would marvel at.

It was what they were doing that Jack found so off-putting. Circling and bunching. A big dark cloud. Up near something tall - a wind turbine? It couldn't be a wind turbine, or he'd see the blades. Stupid, Jack. Maybe just old. He squinted under the brim of his porkpie hat. Maybe a telecom tower. The birds were getting at it good. Maybe something hit the lines. Were there lines? Maybe something else. He'd make a note to tell Montoya when she came by. If he remembered. Nice girl, Montoya.  Good cop. Good bedside manner. He hoped she wasn't caught up with the wrong crowd.

Jack Haly didn't remember to tell Montoya when she came by.

—

The sound of bottles breaking is ambient noise for any Gotham cop.

The movies make people forget how hard it is to break a bottle. Except for when you don't mean to, in real life. But if you try to hit someone with one, odds are you're not gonna break it. Because of the point of impact. The shatterpoint.

I remember being green, in blue, remembering that. I remember watching Harvey Bullock grab a limp head and use it to break a rolling bottle on a bar. I remember thinking about the strength you needed for that. And I remember him turning to me and saying

"Use 'em against 'emselves. You're tiny. So if you don't wanna get eaten or just plain beaten - muthafucka -"

And then I remember him catching the bleeding perp piling into him, him twisting at the waist with the impact, and letting the perp go through the bar's window. I remember him panting and nodding, stepping through the window and rolling a sleeve up over a tired, soft arm.

"See! Like'at."

I made sure to remember it when the Anthrax gangbanger swung a bottle, holding it like a dagger, bottom first, at me.

I ducked the arm and he just put the bottle down hard on the wrought iron gate. So hard his elbow popped. It sounded like he hiccupped and he grabbed his all-wrong arm. I hit him in the nape of the neck, both hands clasped volleyball-style, and his face went forward like a rope at the end of his nose had been pulled, right into the neck of the bottle. His legs jerked and his head snapped back.

"HEY!" Slam barked, across the street. I looked up. He was mad. He was wrestling a guy - like, high school wrestling, crouched at the waist, circling, slapping hands. "Keep it clean, dang it!"

"That eye'll just be milky. I think."

Shorty got up from the stoop where she'd been sitting and checked under his purple eyelid. One of the Anthrax bangers had found a machete and was coming into the street to join the fray. I picked up the bottle and threw it at him. It hit him in the sternum and he pitched over. I went to him.

"Good news or bad news?" Shorty said.

"Bad," Slam grunted. He'd gotten up at some point and had his guy by the collar. He bitch-slapped the guy with his brass knuckles. The perp swung down, head-first, and Slam caught him by the ear before he hit the curb. He looked up at Shorty, still holding his guy by the earlobe. "He breathing?"

"I think we could all use some good news," I said to Shorty, noticing the edge to my voice. I kicked Machete Guy when he tried to get up and stomped his chest a few more times so he'd get the memo. He got the memo. Slam crossed his arms as best he could with the weight of a guy's head in two fingers.