Saturday, December 20th, 2008, 19:30
New Jersey
Gotham City
Diamond District
The restaurant was the kind of place where appetizers cost more than most people spent on groceries in a week. Crystal chandeliers threw rainbow patterns across white tablecloths, and every server moved with the practiced grace of someone who understood that discretion was worth more than tips.
Malik sat three tables away from Vincent Torrino, methodically working through a plate of pasta that tasted like it had been crafted by angels. To anyone watching, he was just another rich kid having dinner with his absent parents' money. The reality was considerably more interesting.
"Remember," Selina's voice whispered through the nearly invisible earpiece, "you're not there to judge. You're there to observe and report. Nothing more."
Vincent Torrino looked exactly like central casting's idea of a corrupt businessman. Expensive suit that couldn't quite hide the soft gut of someone who'd never missed a meal, gold watch that caught the light every time he gestured, and the kind of smile that suggested he'd learned early that money could solve most problems before they became real problems.
He was dining with two other men who had the careful posture of people pretending their conversation was casual. But Malik could see the tension in their shoulders, the way their eyes kept scanning the room, the small briefcase that sat beside Torrino's chair like a well-trained dog.
"He's nervous about something," Malik whispered, lifting his water glass to cover the movement of his lips. "Keeps checking his watch and the briefcase hasn't left his side since he sat down."
"Good. What else?"
Malik studied the trio more carefully, applying the observation skills Selina had been drilling into him for weeks. "The guy on his left is armed. Bulge under his jacket, probably shoulder holster. The other one keeps watching the exits like he's expecting trouble."
"Great. Very good. Now listen."
The restaurant's acoustics were designed to provide privacy, but Malik had learned to read lips well enough to catch fragments of conversation. Something about shipping schedules and payment delays. A mention of the docks that made Torrino's face go hard. And then a name that made Malik's blood run cold: Cobblepot.
The Penguin. The same crime boss whose missing shipment had gotten his parents killed.
"They're talking about Penguin," Malik breathed into his water glass.
"I know. Keep listening."
The conversation continued for another twenty minutes, filled with euphemisms and careful language that danced around the edges of whatever business they were really discussing. But the pattern was clear enough. Torrino was moving something through the docks, something valuable enough to warrant armed guards and midnight meetings. And he was behind schedule in a way that was making powerful people unhappy.
When the three men finally stood to leave, Malik felt his pulse quicken. This was the part Selina had prepared him for, the reason she'd chosen him for this particular job. A twelve-year-old boy could follow someone through Gotham's streets without raising suspicion in a way that an adult never could.
"He's moving," Malik said, dropping money on his table and standing up with the casual motion of someone finishing a solitary dinner.
"Stay back. Don't get close enough for him to notice you under any circumstance. And remember, you're just gathering information, Malik."
Torrino said goodbye to his companions outside the restaurant and walked toward a black sedan parked at the curb. But instead of getting in, he started walking down the street with the purposeful stride of someone who had somewhere specific to be.
Malik followed at a distance, using shop windows and other pedestrians as cover. The Christmas shopping crowds provided perfect camouflage, and Torrino seemed too focused on his destination to pay attention to who might be behind him.
The walk led through increasingly residential neighborhoods, away from the Diamond District's commercial glitter and into the kind of area where people actually lived rather than just worked. Torrino stopped at a brownstone that looked expensive but understated, the kind of place that suggested old money rather than new wealth.
He let himself in with a key, and Malik positioned himself across the street where he could watch the windows without being obvious about it.
"He's inside a brownstone on Meridian Street," Malik reported. "Looks like he lives here."
"Good. Now we wait. Sometimes the most important information comes after people think they're safe."
Malik settled in to watch, using a bus stop bench as his observation post. The waiting was the hardest part of surveillance, Selina had told him. It required patience and the ability to stay alert while looking completely relaxed.
For forty minutes, nothing happened. Lights came on in different rooms as Torrino moved through his house. The man appeared occasionally in windows, sometimes talking on the phone, sometimes just moving from room to room in the way people did when they were home and comfortable.
Then Malik heard the shouting.
It started as raised voices, muffled by walls and distance. But even from across the street, the anger was unmistakable. A man's voice, loud and aggressive. And then a woman's voice, higher and frightened, trying to calm someone down.
"Something's happening," Malik whispered.
"Describe it."
"Argument. Sounds like Torrino and a woman. Getting louder."
The shouting escalated, and Malik saw movement in what looked like a living room window. Two figures, one much larger than the other. The larger figure was gesticulating wildly, and the smaller one kept backing away.
Then the larger figure's arm moved in a sharp, violent arc, and the smaller figure stumbled backward out of view.
Malik's blood turned to ice water. He'd seen enough violence in his short life to recognize what was happening. Vincent Torrino was beating someone, probably his wife. And Malik was sitting across the street doing nothing about it.
"...He's hitting her," Malik said, his voice tight with controlled fury.
"Stay put," Selina's voice was sharp with warning. "You're there to observe, not to intervene."
"B-But he's hurting her."
"Malik, listen to me very carefully. You cannot get involved. Your job is to gather information and get out safely. Nothing else."
Malik's hands clenched into fists as he watched the drama play out in the lit window. The woman appeared again, and this time Malik could see blood on her face. She was pleading with Torrino, her hands raised in a gesture that was part defense, part supplication.
Torrino raised his hand again.
Every instinct Malik possessed screamed at him to move, to do something, to stop what was happening. His father's lock picks were in his pocket. He could be inside that house in minutes. Torrino was soft, untrained, probably never been in a real fight in his life. And Malik had learned things on the streets that could put a man down permanently if applied correctly.
"Malik. Please..." Selina's voice cut through his racing thoughts. "I know what you're thinking. But if you blow your cover now, if you get caught, it doesn't just put you at risk. It puts me at risk. And it puts any future operations at risk."
"So I just watch him beat this woman, Selina?"
"You just watch. And you remember that sometimes the greater good requires accepting smaller tragedies."
The words hit Malik like a physical blow. The greater good. As if there was some cosmic balance sheet that made one woman's suffering acceptable in service of some larger plan he didn't understand.
But Selina had saved him. Had given him a home, food, safety, education. Had shown him kindness when he'd had nothing and no one. If she said this was necessary, if she said walking away was the right choice, then maybe it was.
The woman in the window fell down and didn't get back up.
Malik stood from the bench, his whole body vibrating with suppressed rage and moral conflict. Every step away from that house felt like betrayal, like cowardice, like becoming complicit in whatever was happening behind those walls.
"I'm leaving," he said into the earpiece.
"Good. Come home. We'll talk when you get here."
The walk back to Selina's apartment was the longest twenty minutes of Malik's life. Every block took him further from a woman who might be dying while he followed orders like a good little soldier. Every step was a choice to prioritize his loyalty to Selina over his conscience.
By the time he reached the apartment, his hands were shaking with unspent adrenaline and guilt.
Selina was waiting for him, still dressed in civilian clothes but with the alert posture that suggested she was ready to move quickly if necessary. She took one look at his face and sighed.
"You did the right thing," she said.
"Did I?" Malik's voice came out rougher than he'd intended. "Because it sure as hell doesn't feel like it."
"The right thing isn't always the thing that feels good. Sometimes it's the thing that serves a larger purpose." Selina moved to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water that she pressed into his hands. "Vincent Torrino is a small piece of a much bigger puzzle. If we can gather enough information about his operations, we might be able to bring down an entire network of corrupt officials and criminals."
"And his wife? Does she not matter?"
"His wife is... a tragedy. But she's not our responsibility." Selina's voice was gentle but firm. "We can't save everyone, Malik. If we try, we end up saving no one."
Malik drank the water and tried to process what had happened, what he'd chosen, what it meant about who he was becoming. The woman's face was burned into his memory, the fear and pain and desperate hope that someone, anyone, might help her.
And he had chosen not to be that someone.
Was he evil?
"I need to think," he said finally.
"Of course. But Malik?" Selina caught his arm as he turned toward his room. "What you felt tonight, that impulse to help, that anger at injustice? Don't lose that. It's what makes you human. But learn to channel it toward situations where you can actually make a difference."
Malik nodded and walked to his room, closing the door behind him. He sat on his bed and pulled out the photo of his parents, studying their smiling faces in the dim light from the street outside.
His mother had always said that circus performers had to trust each other completely, that one person's mistake could kill someone else. But she'd also said that some things were more important than the show, that there were lines you didn't cross even for the sake of the performance.
Tonight, Malik had crossed one of those lines. He'd chosen loyalty over conscience, and a woman had paid the price for his choice.