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. He eased into the armchair across from them. Hands on his knees. Not clenched. 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 one of the reasons why his guys back him."
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.
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."
Dent checked his watch. Eleven. He was already running late and it would take him at least an hour to get to the country club to meet Tiff.
"Syd," Dent called. "I won't be able to make it to Nellie's."
"It was your 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. He didn't like it, but still had one more day.