Malphegor
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PIG Ch. 18
🕑 Added 2025-11-27 04:59:35 +0000 UTCMarco carried a jar of brodo up to the third floor of Gotham General, whistling softly under his breath. Behind the old CRT monitor at the nurses' station, a middle-aged nurse leaned out.
"Morning, Marco. What'd you make this time? More of Italian rice balls?"
By the second night of his hospitalization, the after-effects of the flashbang had almost completely faded. Gotham's municipal government could still function, barely, and since public healthcare didn't cost him anything out of pocket, he wasn't in a rush to leave. But lying in bed all day was mind-numbingly boring. Starting on the fourth day, he'd found excuses to sneak home and cook something decent for himself.
The nurses often saw him slipping out. With a basically healthy patient like him, they usually turned a blind eye. Sometimes they'd even try whatever he brought back.
"Hey, Eve. It's brodo, bone broth. Want to try some?"
"Ugh..." The middle-aged nurse's face twisted slightly. "Brodo? That actually tastes good?"
"Old family recipe. My nonna always said the best way to heal broken bones is to eat marrow. Gives your body what it needs to rebuild." Marco raised the jar. "I'm heading in."
"Ah, Italian home remedies." She nodded, then added, "I think a girl came to visit Officer Wilson earlier?"
Marco walked a couple steps deeper into the hallway and peeked around the corner. The guard on duty at the door was being pulled aside by a young black woman at the end of the corridor, chatting and grinning like an idiot.
He opened the door, then immediately jumped back out and slammed it shut.
Mamma Mia!
Another woman was straddling Darnell on the hospital bed, and they were...
How is he managing that without tearing open his wounds?! And in a hospital?!
Just as he stood there, a warm, enthusiastic voice came from behind him.
"Good morning, Officer."
He whipped around. A stood there, one hand holding a bouquet of flowers, the other gripping a folded umbrella. This time Cobblepot was alone. Not even a bodyguard trailing behind.
"Uh... morning..."
Marco's brain was still scrambled by what he'd just witnessed. For a moment, he couldn't summon his usual hostility toward Cobblepot. He dumbly nodded. Seeing Cobblepot about to push the door open, he hurriedly stopped him.
"Don't go in. Uh... damn it. Let's go find somewhere else to sit and talk."
Cobblepot gave him a strange look. But he didn't pry. He simply followed Marco downstairs to a café beside the hospital.
"What would you like to drink?"
"I'll just—"
Marco paused mid-sentence, about to ask for something else entirely, then caught himself. He glanced around the café, then back at Cobblepot.
"An Americano."
He ordered and immediately grabbed the sugar jar from the table, dumping spoonfuls into the coffee.
Cobblepot waited a while. When Marco showed no intention of starting the conversation, his eyes flickered. He reached into his coat and took out an envelope.
"Regarding last time... I sincerely apologize. But, well..." He gave a dry laugh. "What's done is done. Regret won't fix it. All I can do is compensate you as best I can. This is a check for thirty thousand dollars. I hope it can make up for the harm you and your partner suffered."
Thud!
Marco's hand jerked. The entire sugar jar fell into his coffee cup. He quickly fished it out and took a sip.
Life really could be sweet sometimes. Just... could a person get diabetes instantly from this much sugar?
Grinding his teeth, he looked up at Cobblepot. The two of them sat silently for a moment. Cobblepot swallowed, then took out a small box and placed it on the table. The movement startled Marco.
Is he trying to propose to me?
Thankfully, Cobblepot opened the box, revealing a brand-new car key. The three-pointed star emblem gleamed brilliantly.
"As compensation for your vehicle. I've prepared a new one for you. Please rest assured, the condition is excellent."
Marco's eyelid twitched. Again, he raised his eyes and stared.
Cobblepot had been through countless negotiations in his life. He considered the compensation more than generous. But encountering someone who just stared back wordlessly, this was rare. They sat there with their coffee for over ten minutes before he finally gave in to his own anxiety and whispered, "Are you satisfied? If not, please tell me. I'll do my best to meet your requirements."
"Mr. Cobblepot." Marco took a deep breath and pushed the envelope and the keys back toward him. "My partner is more seriously injured than I am. Whether we're satisfied, I need to ask him first. Take them for now. I'll discuss it with him and give you an answer tomorrow. How's that?"
"No problem." Cobblepot grinned obsequiously and pulled a business card from his pocket, placing it on the table. "Here's my number. You can call anytime. Also..." He suddenly looked somewhat awkward. "Don Falcone hopes that, when convenient, you might visit his estate as a guest."
"'As a guest,' huh?" Marco gave a smile. "That's probably not how he phrased it originally."
"Ah... well... heh..." Cobblepot spread his hands with a helpless, embarrassed smile. "His wording was indeed more stern. I hope you won't mind."
"Got it. I'll give you an answer tomorrow along with the other matter."
"Very well. Then I won't disturb you further. I'll await your call."
Cobblepot stood, gave a slight bow, and hobbled out on his umbrella. Marco stood as well, and headed for the restroom. Only after he locked the stall door did he finally lose control, silently punching the air, hips twisting, his whole body shuddering like he'd been electrocuted.
Thirty thousand! Holy shit! A Mercedes-Benz S600!
How much is that?! How much money is that?!
I've never seen numbers like that in my entire damn life!
---
The East End Precinct was filled with the usual atmosphere of slacking and loafing around. Officers lounged in their seats, lazily handling, or avoiding, the work in front of them.
A set of heavy, steady footsteps came down the hallway, heading straight for the wooden door at the end. Captain Albert turned his head, catching only a glimpse of a tall figure opening the door. He turned back around, reaching under his desk to pull out two small boxes, tossing them onto the table and tapping lightly.
"This time the bet's on whether Bob gets his face punched in. Ten bucks minimum. Usual rules: I take ten percent."
---
The door to the Chief's office was thrown open, then slammed shut. The man behind the desk jumped so hard his hand shook, scattering the bills he'd been counting all over the floor.
"Hey, Marco, what's with you? Aren't you supposed to be in the hospital?"
Grunting, Bob pushed his chair back and crouched down, panting as he picked up the bills one by one. When he finally sat back down, his whole face was flushed red.
Marco sat across from him, leaning back in the chair silently. Bob shifted uncomfortably under the stare. He looked left and right, then stuck a cigarette in his mouth.
"What's the matter?"
Marco sat up and planted his elbows on the desk.
"Chief. You know Darnell and I almost died this time."
"I know. I heard about it." Bob flicked his lighter twice and a blue flame shot up. He took a drag, exhaling a stream of smoke. "We had things settled, I was just counting out your money." He gestured at the cash on the desk. "Don't worry. The agreed amount. And the paperwork's being processed."
"The agreed amount? The money can wait. I came here from the hospital to ask something." Marco's eyes locked onto Bob. "The moment we were attacked, we called for backup. In the end, it was Gordon who showed up to help." He paused. "Where were your men? Where was your backup?"
"Uh... uh..." Bob scratched his nose, then his forehead, then his scalp, over and over. He opened his mouth several times as if to speak, but shut it again each time. Finally, he sighed, looking like he'd resigned himself.
"Fine. How much more do you want?"
"Wow." Marco couldn't help laughing. Talking to someone this direct was actually refreshing. "My car's totaled."
"Oh... oh... alright, I'll have Equipment and Logistics fix—"
"What's there to fix on that junk pile?" Marco thumped the desk lightly. "Add another twenty-five hundred per person. Also, apply for an armored patrol vehicle for me."
"That comes to ten thousand..." Bob showed a look of pain. "Fine. But the armored car is impossible. We tried applying last time, too expensive! Retrofitting a V-100 costs at least two or three hundred grand. The budget won't pass."
"We don't need an armored combat vehicle. Just one of those Ford or GM armored cash-transit vans. A new one plus a full retrofit is barely over a hundred grand, and it goes through normal procurement channels, right? You don't even have to pay out of pocket."
"But a hundred grand is still expensive." Bob took drag after drag, grinning as he looked at Marco. "Aas soon as you say I don't have to pay for it, I know you're about to give me some good news. Stop hiding it. My heart can't take suspense."
Marco grinned. "You know Cobblepot sold us out, right?"
"I heard. I was planning to bring it up with Falcone." Bob nodded, expression turning serious. "And I mean that, not lip service. The Roman is dangerous, but we can't let him treat this precinct like disposable supplies."
Marco silently gave him a big thumbs-up.
"Well? Why don't you say it all in one breath, don't leave me hanging." Bob stubbed out his cigarette. "No smoking. I need to focus."
"Okay. Simply put, yesterday Cobblepot came to see me and offered a Mercedes S600 as compensation."
"So that's it." Bob leaned back in his leather chair, thinking for a moment before chuckling. "Let me guess. A nearly new car worth a hundred grand. His cost is maybe ten to twenty percent of that. The paperwork has issues. You don't want to leave evidence, so you want me to have him donate it to the police department."
He paused, then lit another cigarette and inhaled.
"Well... to be blunt, donating it to the department or giving it to me doesn't make much difference. You use me to smooth over any consequences and internal investigations." He stared at Marco with a half-smile. "You want me to clean up the mess and give you more money for a new vehicle?"
"Oh, whatever. If it's too much trouble, forget it. It's not like I'll be the one driving it. I'll just tell him I don't want it."
Marco stood up sharply and walked toward the door.
"Hey! Hey! Wait. WAIT!" Bob lunged around the desk and grabbed him. "Goddamn, flipping over the whole table the moment something doesn't go your way!"
He dragged Marco back into the chair, then returned to his own seat.
"Deal! And there are a few things I want to talk to you about."
He stubbed out the new cigarette as well. The action startled Marco.
"Putting out a cigarette like that. You're serious."
"Don't interrupt. I've heard a lot over the past few days."
He raised a finger.
"First, you need to properly thank Gordon. After you left HQ, he was the only one who realized something was wrong and drove out alone. I told him your patrol route and destination, he drove after you."
He sighed.
"I hate that stubborn, stiff-necked, always-opposing bastard. But I admire him too. Not everyone has the balls to charge into gunfire to save someone. I sure don't."
"I understand, Chief. I'll formally thank him. I've already started preparing something."
"Good. But be careful, if that guy thinks you're trying to bribe him, you're dead. Second, don't imitate him."
He tapped Marco on the chest.
"I know you won't, you're smart. But I'll remind you anyway. Gordon's caused plenty of trouble for the Roman. You think he's still alive because he's righteous and brave? No. It's because his father was a famous district prosecutor with longtime ties to Falcone. In Falcone's eyes, what Gordon does now... is like a friend's kid throwing a tantrum. I hear Falcone wants to meet you?"
"Yeah." Marco nodded. "Cobblepot told me yesterday the Roman wants to invite me over. But I'm guessing the original phrasing wasn't 'invite,' more like 'summon.'"
"Be careful. Don't push hard. Protect yourself. My only regret is not recruiting you into the department sooner." Bob reached for his lighter, stopped halfway, restrained himself, and instead pulled out another cigarette to sniff.
"Look at that. Not even half a year, and one opportunity from you has made me at least a hundred grand. I fucking love you."
Marco smirked. "Oh, right. You agreed to let me form a tactical response team. If I pick the people myself, can you handle their identity, employment files, and onboarding?"
"Hmm?"
Bob immediately became alert.
"If they're ordinary civilians or gangsters, that's no problem... you're not planning to fish people out of Blackgate, are you?!"
Marco spread his hands.
"On top of the car, Cobblepot also paid thirty thousand in medical compensation..."
"Deal!!"
