From Gotham to Las Vegas

Las Vegas, December 2012

Cigarette smoke filled the air of the casino, trailing from the cigarette butts clutched between singed fingers and between the lips of gamblers.  Dealers shuffled worn cards, bar tenders served round after round of shots, managers spun the roulette wheel time and time again, drunks took just one more shot.

Prostitutes cheered on their ahem, clients, while they surreptitiously hustled for new ones.  Veteran gamblers poured in by the truckload, new ones took a few gulps of liquid courage before entering what would soon become a familiar scene.

Las Vegas was an addiction, after all.  An addiction to the power, the luck, the adrenaline, the booze, the cigarettes, the girls.

Addictive.

Strippers crowded around one table in particular, their heavily made up faces turned towards the gamblers in the center.  Strands of dyed blonde hair, flat ironed into flat sheets of platinum blonde, fell down their bare backs and brushed against the cheeks of their neighbors.  They pressed closer, cigarette in one hand, drink in the other, alternating between the two.

“Come on, darling,” one man sighed in annoyance, tossing down his cards and turning to his companion.  “Let’s get out of here.”

He left, arm wrapped around her small waist possessively.  Now there were only four people left at the table and the hand was heating up.  Tempers ran high and alcohol soaked minds struggled to stay focused.  Hookers flooded the scene, knowing that when a man lost, they’d be the consolation prize.

Then there were three.

People came and went, laughing and crying in turns.  Red faced alcoholics sobbed hysterically as they were dragged from the casino, fresh faced newbies were seduced into being shown the ropes by experienced hookers.  Dollar bills were tucked into black lace bras and tiny G-strings.

Then two.

The night wore on, fading into early morning.  Still, the hand showed no signs of slowing down.  Poker chips were shoved around the table, from one man to the other, eye contact never being broken.  Strippers whispered in their ears, bringing them drinks, pining for their affection.  If one won big, the reasoned, they’d be more generous.

Finally, a winner was declared.  That was life; winners and losers.  And, as we all know, people in Las Vegas aren’t usually the good sportsmanship type.  Naturally, the loser left in a huff and a flock of women came to congratulate the winner.

The next morning, both winner and loser were found dead by motel room service.

Las Vegas, Present Day

Dick, Jason and Damian exited the private jet Bruce got them and dragged their luggage off the the jet.  They waved their thanks to the pilot and lugged their trunks far enough away from the landing strip for the jet to take off again.

"Not again," Dick said in frustration, checking his watch and sighing.

"What?"  Jason threw his brother an annoyed look.  He hadn't gotten any sleep on the flight since Damian had been harassing him the whole time.

"The rental isn't here on time," Dick replied angrily.  "Why does this have to happen every time?"

"Someone's in a bad mood," Jason commented, raising an eyebrow at his brother in confusion.  "To be fair, the car was on time in Saint Louis."

A car rolled into the landing strip.

"That's my baby," Jason hooted, rushing to the car to put his luggage in the trunk.  Dick and Damian just stood there in shock, looking at the 1967 Chevrolet Impala.  Dick squinted at the driver's name tag.

"Excuse me, Sam," Dick said to the Sam, the driver.

"May I help you, sir?" asked Sam.

"Yes, I believe you delivered the wrong vehicle," Dick answered.

Sam pulled out a slip of paper, "1967 Chevrolet Impala for Jason Peter Todd," he read.

Dick wheeled on the second oldest brother, expression accusatory.  "Jason, did you order this garbage?"

"First of all, it's not garbage.  It's a work of art.  And two, yeah, Bruce told us to get a car that wouldn't raise suspicion," Jason replied defensively.  "Thank you," Jason added, tipping Sam a twenty.

"Grayson, you'll have to beat me down to get me in that car," Damian snapped caustically. 

"I'm driving," Jason declared, ignoring his brothers' reluctance and entering the car's driver seat with a huge grin on his face.

It took a minute for both Dick and Damian to realize that there was no getting out of the car situation.

"According to the Las Vegas P.D., there have been six murders like the one we are investigating," Dick told the room at large.

"Are there any connections to the deaths?" Jason asked, fiddling with the pen in his hands.

"Two; they were all gamblers and they went to the same casino."

"Hmm," Jason hummed under his breath, taking the pen apart as he thought.  "When are we going to check out the leads?"

"Probably later tonight," Dick replied.

"Okay."  Jason slid out the cartilage and the cap as he spoke.

Damian entered the room, a suspicious look on his face.   "Todd, did I just hear you and Grayson conversing that you were going to leave me here?"

"Well, we're going to go to a casino undercover," Jason stated.

"So?"

"So, we're trying to avoid attracting attention.  Said attention being a kid in a casino," Jason retorted.

"Fine, but stay in com-link contact," Damian huffed.

"Deal," Dick said, humoring him.  They shook hands on it upon Damian's insistence.

"Jason, what are you doing to your pen," Damian asked in bewilderment.

Jason looked down to find the the pen halfway through being put back together again.  "Sometimes I take things apart and back together again when I'm stressed or thinking," he answered awkwardly.  "Usually it's a gun, but...I don't have one right now."

"Mmm.  Is that what you were doing in the backyard?  Taking apart the lawn mower," Dick asked, eyebrow raised.

"Yes, actually."

"If I can't come with you to the casino, why am I here?" Damian demanded.

"Would you have let us come without you," Jason asked in lieu of an answer.

Damian wrinkled his nose but didn't reply.  Instead he asked Dick, "So...what do I do from this damn hotel room?"

"Whatever you want," Jason responded.  "There's pay per view, room service all night.  The nice thing about running with Bruce is that he always has the biggest budget."

"True," Dick conceded.  "When I worked as a cop, there was less room service and special treatment and more taking bullets out with a poker and giving myself stitches."

"Don't be a a baby," Jason cuffed him lightly on the shoulder.  "Everyone can give themselves stitches.  Hell, I've done it dozens of times."

They turned to look at Damian.  "I've never been in a position where I've had to," Damian defended.  "I'm sure if I had, I would have been more than capable of doing so."

"Whatever helps you get through the night," Jason shrugged, smirk lighting up his face.  "But  remember, Littlewing.  Drink your milk at seven thirty, do all your homework, don't stay up too late watching television and be in bed by eight."

He laughed as Damian took a swipe at him.