Nellie's was an Uptown hole, no windows, no décor, no questions. Just piss-warm liquor and regulars who wanted to be left the hell alone. There were a few barflies hunched along the bar, sipping drinks. A tired waitress in a black crew-neck worked the booths, slinging drinks and dumping greasy handfuls of cocktail nuts into plastic bowls.
In the back corner, where the light barely reached, Bullock and Johnson sat at a lopsided table that rocked every time one of them shifted in their chair.
"Remember, Harv, what I said stays between us."
"C'mon. You know me—I don't run my mouth."
Johnson stared.
Bullock lifted a hand. "Alright, alright. I do. But not about shit that matters." He took a drink. "What's gonna happen to Flass?"
"Paid leave. Most likely."
Bullock scoffed, grabbed a handful of bar nuts, chewed, and chased it with beer.
"You were quiet the other night with the guys and Dent," said Johnson.
Bullock burped without apology. "Had shit on my mind. Like I said, the ginger linked our cases—shit just got complicated."
Johnson sipped. His stare did the frisking. Bullock squirmed, then emptied his glass.
"Look," Bullock said, signaling the waitress. "I feel for the guy. When I got into it with the boys in the East End for smacking that stripper around, I figured I was done. But Fazio backed me—shipped me to Uptown. If he hadn't, I'd probably have a broken arm and no job."
"And now, through Gordon, you see what could've been," Johnson said.
"Yeah. Poor bastard's down to his last leg, clinging to what's left."
"And that kind of betrayal doesn't leave you. Especially when it's your own," said Johnson.
Bullock didn't respond. Gordon had said something like that. He remembered Johnson took a beating too. Thinking of someone swinging on an old bastard like Syd made Bullock grip the bottle tight.
"I thought it was just Gotham. Fucked-up town full of fucked-up people. But it's bigger than that. Like you said—we all got a blade stuck in us. This shit's everywhere."
The door opened. Rusty and Chen walked in, coats dripping rain. Chen peeled his off and dropped into a seat. Rusty followed.
"Where's pretty boy?" Chen asked.
"He's held up, so it's just us," Johnson said.
"Good," said Rusty, all eyes turned to him. "Got no beef with Harvey, even after what he said—but this is cop shit."
The waitress brought Bullock another beer. Rusty and Chen ordered theirs.
"So what—we giving Gordon the boot?" Chen asked.
"We keep him on, we'll eat shit for it," Rusty said.
"If reputation mattered to any of us, we wouldn't have ended up in Uptown," Johnson muttered.
Rusty leaned back, arms crossed. He didn't like it, but couldn't argue. "Still. Freak targeted some good cops," he finally said.
"He didn't target them. Everyone knows—he only breaks bones when you swing first," Bullock said. "Doesn't matter if you're packing a badge."
"Didn't expect you to defend him," Chen said.
"I'm not. I'm just saying how it is."
Chen grabbed some bar nuts, crunching thoughtfully. His leg bounced. "Funny, ain't it?" he said, mostly to himself. "We rough someone up, we're the assholes. Freak does it—he's a hero."
"Has to do with expectations," Johnson said. "They want us to serve and protect. Establish order from chaos. But him? He promised hell to those who deal in it."
"And that's our ally?" Rusty asked. "A showboating headcase in a mask with nothing to hold him back?"
"He's got some rules," Bullock said.
"Yeah, no killing. No guns," Chen added flatly.
Rusty shook his head, arms uncrossing. He leaned forward.
"I knew guys like that in the service. Drop 'em somewhere with no leash, no law—they'll do their worst, and drag everyone else into their nightmare."
Their beers arrived. Everyone drank. Rusty's words lingered like something foul spilled on the floor. Chen's leg bounced again.
Bullock was used to Nam vets. They wore the war like a badge, part pride, part guilt. Except Gordon. He didn't brag, didn't spin horror stories for street cred. He just kept his mouth shut. Bullock didn't know why that mattered, but it did. The beer in his glass sloshed.
Chen chewed slow, his face pinched, like something wasn't sitting right. His leg bouncing.
"You're shaking the whole fucking table," Bullock said.
Before Chen could answer, Bullock's pager buzzed. Johnson's lit up right after.
"Desk sergeant?" Johnson asked.
"Mine too," Bullock said.
"I'll call in." Johnson stood, headed for the short hallway next the bar.
Rusty leaned in. "You really siding with the freak?"
Bullock took a drink then tapped his knuckle on the table once. Then twice. Like he was counting the lines he couldn't cross.
"If he wore a badge, we'd call him a lunatic. But we'd still back him."
"Sure, but he's not a cop," Rusty said.
"Yeah? Maybe he's not even a man. Maybe he's like they been saying. A shadow."
Chen snorted. "He's a guy. But if he was a chick? Whole precinct'd be onboard. Hell, every precinct!"
"Jesus," Rusty muttered.
"C'mon," Chen grinned. "If he had massive tits and a catsuit, you'd call it taking initiative."
Bullock chuckled.
Rusty cracked a smile. "Yeah sure. But he's not. He's just a psycho in a suit."
Bullock's grin faded. "Maybe. Or maybe he's just done watching the world rot."
Johnson came back, jaw tight.
"You and Gordon found the city worker who discovered Lan Nguyen's hand?"
"No. We found the Polaroids. Guy named Bayli, that's it."
"A water district worker—Alvin Meltcher—just walked into the precinct. Said he's ready to give a statement."
Bullock's brow furrowed, remembering what Gordon had said to him.
"Shit," he muttered. "Gordon said he'd talk to a source about finding something solid to link our cases."
The table went quiet.
"You're saying the freak found him?" Rusty asked.
"And a second witness," Johnson added. "Woman says she saw Annh Le."
Another quiet beat.
"All that in one night?" Chen asked.
Johnson shook his head then leaned in close. "More like the final hours. I spoke to Willis, and he said Gordon lingered in the corner shop for a long minute before stepping back outside. That must've been when they spoke—had to have been sometime after midnight."
Bullock felt the shift. There were glances all around, stares that looked too familiar. The one Perez gave when she hit on something good. Curiosity. Chairs scraped back. Wallets opened. Cash hit the table.
They left fast, drinks still half full.