21

Hands on his hips, Python Palmares stared into the impound yard and regarded the wrecked AMX. He and Frankie Bones stood at the chain-link fence, looking over the collection of cars, pickups, and even a giant yellow duck once used by the Penguin. It sat rusting in a far corner.

“They got our college shipment,” he muttered.

“That damn slip Batgirl is getting to be as bothersome as the Big Bat,” Bones said.

Palmares made a sucking sound, running his tongue over newly installed teeth. “You ain’t kidding.”

“Maybe we should move along, Python. No sense moping around here, and some curious cop comes over to ask us why.”

Palmares tapped the keepsake he kept around his neck, the clasped silver heart inlaid with ivory.

“You know what’s in here, right?”

“Sure boss, some of the ashes of your older brother, Gino.”

Palmares held up an index finger. “A true stand-up guy. Hardcore member of the original Red Hood gang, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bones agreed.

“And did he get his due?”

“He did not,” Bones said.

“Damn right he didn’t,” Palmares said softly, his voice breaking slightly. This was what pushed him to claw his way to the top. He owed it to Gino, and his legacy.

Palmares looked past the hulks of vehicles to the gray stone of the building beyond. This was central lockup, where three of his crew were languishing. He wasn’t worried about them talking—they knew he’d see to getting them a mouthpiece. But replacing personnel took time and money, and he was in expansion mode. That meant watching every cent.

He needed to show those slicksters at Intergang he could handle the freight. The Bats were making him look bad. Maybe it’d been kind of stupid to have Frankie Bones drive him over here, but part of him wanted to show the law he wasn’t scared of them. Another part of him had hoped his product might still be hidden in the car, but even from here he could tell the cops had been over it like cockroaches on a biscuit with syrup.

“Okay, let’s blow.”

The two walked back to a black Lincoln. Bones got behind the wheel, and Palmares sat on the tuck-and-roll leather in the back. The car had suicide doors, and its back window was padded with a diamond shape cut out in the center. Bones fired up the gas-gobbling V8, and the two drove away.

Palmares picked up the radio-telephone and asked the mobile operator for a number. After a couple of rings, there was a click on the other end.

“Suzi,” he said, “This is Python. Seems there’s an opening in my organization. Let’s talk about that idea of yours over dinner tonight.” He listened to her enthusiastic response, then said, “Good. The Ocelot, yeah, that’s a better class of joint. Make it 7:30, okay? Right, see you then.”

He hung up the handset.

“You think the broad can handle the weight?” Bones asked from the front seat.

“She’s got what you call ambition, Frankie,” he replied. “Plus, men drool at her rack and think she ain’t got a brain upstairs. But she does. I know she does.”

“You notice it when you got your hands on the rack, you mean,” Bones quipped.

Palmares chuckled. He settled back in his seat and stared out of the side window, watching the sights of Gotham roll by. Bats or no, he was going to make this city his.