The neighborhood kids launched a red ball into a dull, overcast sky. Scraggly arms snagged it mid-air, and the chase began. A mob of small bodies swarmed the catcher, tugging at his arms and shirt—pure chaos. A game without rules, the kind only street kids understand.
Dent rolled down his window and whistled. Sweaty faces turned. The taller boys yanked younger ones by the arm, dragging them into formation, teaching the code of the block.
When he stepped out, they bunched together, eyes flicking to the blue-and-white parked down the street.
"He ain't no Buxton Bro," one muttered.
"Russian?"
"Maroni?"
"Nah, that suit's Downtown slick."
Two women, leaning against porch frames and chatting across the gap, watched him approach.
"What's the A.D.A doing here?" one called.
"Oh shit, that's who he is!" a boy shouted, jogging up beside Dent. "My old man says you're Cobblepot's bitch boy."
"Vontrel, watch your mouth," the woman snapped.
Dent didn't miss a step. "Yeah? He say that from a payphone in Blackgate?"
The group snickered.
"His dad is doing time! Eight to ten for armed robbery!"
"Fuck you," Vontrel growled.
Another kid called out, "My old man's not in jail, and he says the cops are gonna pop ya."
Dent stopped. The kid stood firm. A tough little bastard. Dent leaned in, just slightly.
"Not if I pop them first," he said, smiling.
The boy grinned back—then glanced nervously down the street, like the cops might've heard.
Outside Gordon's house, two uniforms Dent didn't recognize sat in a cruiser. He nodded. They ignored him. Still upset about his comments from earlier—the badge as a gang emblem.
"They'll get over it," Bronson said, smoking beside Gordon's door.
"They've just gotta toe that thin blue line," he added, flicking the butt into the street.
"Well, what do you know so far?" Dent said.
Bronson gestured to the house and pushed the door open.
Inside, Johnson sipped coffee on a sagging floral couch, the kind you'd find in an Illinois thrift store. Matching floral curtains framed the windows. A faint scent of old oak clung to the air. Hunting photos lined the staircase, every glassy-eyed kill frozen in time.
"Jim and Alice are out back," Johnson said. "Tried to send her to the mainland. She wouldn't go."
"Loyal woman," Bronson muttered.
"And angry."
"Can't have one without the other," Bronson said.
They crammed onto the couch—three grown men fighting for elbow room. Bronson leaned close, voice low, filling Dent in. He learned that state rangers found Flass unconscious and took him to an ER in Tricorner.
"He said two black guys tried to carjack" said Bronson when Gordon walked in.
Silence hit like a door slam. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just final. He eased into the armchair across from them. Hands on his knees. Not clenched. Not relaxed. Just braced.
Bronson broke the silence.
"Loeb denies sending Flass to your home. He promises a severe reprimand, those were his words."
No reaction from Gordon.
"You should've come to us, Jim," Johnson said. "Threatening families isn't how things are done anymore. Not since Loeb took over."
Bronson leaned forward. "It's why his guys back him. Break that rule, they panic and run to whoever will protect them."
Dent watched Gordon take it in and envied that stone exterior. When he finally did move, it was to touch a hand over his thick red mustache. His tell.
"You did what you had to," Dent said.
Gordon glanced at him like he didn't believe him.
"Violence is the only thing some men understand," Dent said, locking eyes. "It's why your partner's strategy is effective."
That did it. A quick flinch. Eyes flicked to the carpet. Another brush of the mustache.
"Anything else I should know?" he asked, less question and more like a command.
Bronson answered. "Loeb says he'll back off if this stays quiet. I'll still keep my people posted outside, but I'd take the deal. And Jim—if anything else happens—come to me first."
"I appreciate the concern," Gordon said flatly. "But I'll handle it."
Bronson and Johnson didn't like that. But they took it. Dent respected it.
As they stood to leave, Dent lingered.
"I respect the stoicism, Jim. Just don't mistake it for strategy. You won't survive this city alone. Neither of you will."
Gordon said nothing.
Outside, Dent joined the others on the sidewalk, wondering if the words had hit home.
Bronson climbed into the passenger seat of a car behind the cruiser. "Never met someone so stubborn."
"It's not stubbornness," said Johnson heading for the driver's side "When your back is pinned to a wall, all there's left is to put up a good fight."
"Syd," Dent called. "I can't make it later."
"It was your damn idea," Johnson said, hand on the hood.
"I know. I've got one day left before they decide. Soften them up."
Johnson sighed, staring down the block like he could see the future. "I'll try. No promises."
That was the best he'd get. Dent checked his watch. Eleven.
The drive from Gotham to the Ashbury Country Club was long, gray, and flanked by choppy cold water on his right. A coastline meant to be scenic, but it looked cheap. Like everything else. He followed it straight to the club entrance, rolled in at twelve-thirty, tossed the valet his keys without a word, and headed for the front desk.
"Tiffany Haskell."
"She's on the green, sir. We'll have someone escort you."
An eighteen-year-old kid in khakis and a club polo drove him past mid-swing retirees. Haskell stood on the far green—salmon shorts, white blouse, a scowl already in place.
Tiffany was twenty-nine, with sun-kissed skin and shoulder-length brown hair. Not pretty, not plain. Not sharp, not stupid. She lived in the middle of everything except her body. That was her weapon—A slim waist, tight arms, whisper-thin rumors of implants. Of course, there were other rumors too.
She waved off her caddie. "Hitch a ride back to the club. I've got a new one."
The cart rolled away. She teed up—red nails flashing like hazard lights.
"Some hot young thing keep you tied up?" she said in a bad mock of Uptown's accent.
"I see your enjoying the luxury of successful parents...with connections."
"My parents were public school teachers—that's hardly successful—and Garry was my dad's friend."
"Still better than most in Uptown or Eastside." said Dent.
"Is this why I'm here? So you can lecture me? Like you didn't humiliate me during the election?"
He smirked at how easy it was to get under her skin. "How's Garry? Enjoying retirement after years of doing nothing?"
"Whatever you got better be worth the wait," she said, not hiding her annoyance or frustration.
"That depends on what you know."
Tiff gave a few practice swings. "You wanted this meeting, Harvey."
"And you want out of your current job."
She swung—sharp, aggressive. The ball sliced hard left, landing deep in the rough.
"Game needs practice," he said.
"I heard yours is worse."
"I only play to rub shoulders."
She tossed the driver in the bag. "I also hear you prefer a different kind of green."
"Who doesn't like money?"
"I meant the tables." She climbed into the passenger's seat.
He stepped into the driver's seat, started the golf cart.
"I heard you might like them too much," she said, watching him sidelong.
"Oh? And who told you that?"
She smiled, laid a hand on his knee—casual, like she was steadying herself. But it was placed, not slipped.
"I can offer you Dermott & Chase. That breaks you into real estate. Vester, Poe & Lowell for criminal. Maybe Meyers Weston."
"Your old firm not on the table?"
He parked near the rough and handed her a nine iron. The gambling line was a taste of what she had. If she'd offered something smarter, he might've offered something better.
"You talk to Falcone's guys," he said.
She blinked like she was caught.
"I don't gamble at Cobblepot's joints. Only two outfits run poker worth a damn. And I don't sit at Maroni's tables."
She didn't deny it. Just planted her feet, lined up the shot, and sent the ball flying.
"Tell me what you've got. If it's good, I pay."
"I don't do ifs," she said.
"I don't do blank checks."
"I'm just asking that your old firm be on the table. Why does it matter?"
"The fact that you don't understand why it matters to me is why you're in this desperate situation," he said.
Her face scrunched like he'd said a riddle. She returned to the cart, sliding the club into the bag. He could see her eyes calculating and weighing her options.
"I got a room, if you're interested," she said.
Dent smirked. "I'm not."
She stepped closer. "Not curious?"
He looked her over, weighing the offer. Words like decency and ethics never entered his mind—he didn't deal in those. He played to win and good men finished last. Then a thought, sharp and sudden. His plans never arrived gently. They rode in like bad weather—fast, cutting, undeniable. A new strategy. A new angle