Jon thought it was interesting that Poppy conceived of Render’s private army and the police as merely two different sets of “cops.” That fact alone was probably a guarantee that his grassroots prediction would come true.
8
Amira finally called them, and Halladay went back up with Jon to the lab out of curiosity to see the results from the facial recognition software. She told them that there were only four customers who were found to be in the government database they were using, and one was inconclusive because she was obviously a woman but had come up under a male name. And none had a criminal record for anything worse than traffic citations. Jon put pictures and info for all four on his phone and told Halladay that it was time for them to talk to Gar Render, the Gotham Security boss.
Now that the big man’s curiosity had been slaked, however, he insisted on going home (“For the last time!”).
“You can go talk to Render alone,” Halladay said. “Or wait until I’ve gotten some rest and come back on duty.”
Seeing that his partner was more resolute this time, Jon played his best hand.
“If you go home before we talk to Render,” the younger cop said, “I’ll have to go with you.”
“What?” Halladay said, then added, “You don’t want to let me out of your sight, do you?”
“I told you,” Jon said, “I really need two pairs of eyes and ears on this.”
The clear implication was that if Halladay went with him to meet Render, Jon would let him go home, by himself, in peace. The young cop let him think that for reasons of his own, and the older one agreed. So they started across the park to the Gotham Security Building.
On the way, Jon noticed that the blue-green wash of UV light was more pronounced near the grass and trees in the middle of the square, since the industrial lamps were attached to the sides of the tall light poles there. He also noticed the proliferation and variety of the environmental masks worn by many of the adult pedestrians, and most of the few children he saw, who were probably coming or going with their parents from the playground at the north end of the park. Jon also noticed a street vendor who had set up a small portable table in front of the statue of William H. Seward and was hawking “Dayfall survival equipment” like protective glasses, head-to-toe plastic ponchos, and extra door locks. Halladay swerved a little out of their way to flash his badge at the man, who promptly folded up the table and moved deeper into the park (where he would probably set it up again, if no other competitors were there already).
“It’s funny…. They used to sell all kinds of stuff related to the darkness,” the older cop explained. “Like drugs and light-trackers for your health, and rip-off glasses that are supposed to help you see in the dark, but really don’t. Now they’re pushing sunlight stuff.”
“Supply and demand,” Jon said.
“Sometimes they’ll have guns and knives underneath,” Halladay said, apparently unconcerned whether that one did or not. “Or at least they’ll have business cards telling people where they can get them.”
“I guess some things are always in demand,” Jon observed, then he asked, “Gun control is another big difference between the Mayor and Render, right?”
“Yeah,” Halladay answered. “When people get scared they want to be able to protect themselves, or think they can anyway. That will get him a lot of votes, especially if tomorrow’s a bad day.”
The Gotham Security headquarters at Eleven Madison seemed even more formidable up close, definitely a symbol of both strength and a connection with the New York past, as opposed to the Flatiron, which was only the latter. But despite its fortress-like appearance, Jon was surprised to see that there wasn’t much security at the main entrance, other than some ex-military types in suits stationed near the doors. Perhaps there was some kind of hidden surveillance equipment, or invisible scans running, but no one confronted the two cops about the guns they wore underneath their coats, and they walked freely into the interior of the building. Jon wondered if this was intended to make GS seem more open or secure than the relatively inaccessible police headquarters. But when they got inside he realized that Render probably wanted to show off the amazing lobby of the historic building to those who visited.
The Art Deco interior of the sprawling lobby gleamed gold, from the period lighting on the marble walls and floors and the gilded paint on much of the elaborate metal and stucco trim work. Jon and Halladay proceeded down a spacious hall with a very high ceiling and large portraits of famous men punctuating the walls. These included Chester A. Arthur, John Pierpont Morgan, Cornelius Vanderbilt, Thomas Edison, William Cullen Bryant, and others whose names Jon didn’t recognize, as the big hall opened into an even bigger one with an even higher and more elaborate ceiling. The main cavern of the lobby did have some security turnstiles (stylish in themselves) leading to four alcoves with banks of elevators on one side. Above each alcove and on the adjacent walls there were words like THRIFT, INDUSTRY, and SECURITY carved into the marble in large, prominent letters.
No one was manning the turnstiles, but there was a semicircular marble counter attached to one of the huge marble pillars in the center of the lobby, with two of the suited ex-soldiers standing behind it. Halladay approached them, showed his badge, and said they were here to talk to “Darth Render.”
He’s got no sense of appropriateness whatsoever, Jon thought to himself, but at least he’s consistent.
They were told to wait, and before too long a somewhat short and very thin man, meticulously dressed, approached them from one of the elevator alcoves. Though he looked slightly familiar, Jon knew this man wasn’t Render, because he had seen pictures and video of the GS boss.
“My name is Nelson Gant,” the man said, offering a semi-limp handshake to both of them. “I am Mr. Render’s Administrative Assistant. What can I do for you?”
Jon recognized the name—this was Render’s childhood friend, who had accompanied him throughout his rise to wealth and power. Jon didn’t remember for sure whether it was a literal fact or a metaphor, but he had read somewhere that in high school Render was a state champion wrestler, and Gant was the nonathletic friend who held the towel for him. There had been some of the inevitable tabloid rumors about a romantic relationship between the two men, of course, though the GS boss was married. But Gant himself was not, if Jon remembered correctly.
“You can let us talk to him, Mr. Gaunt,” Halladay said with irritation. “That’s what you can do for us.”
Jon noticed how “gaunt” the man actually was, now that he was close to them. His face had a skull-like quality to it, drawn and angular, and his thin black hair was perfectly cemented in place. “Death’s head” was the term that came to Jon’s mind, and stayed there as they interacted with the man.
“Mr. Render isn’t here right now,” he said, “but I would be willing to share any information that is public and necessary to an investigation.”
Jon was impressed, because the man managed to frame and limit any discussion with just one sentence. Halladay, for his part, was smart enough to know he was being handled, but not smart enough to know exactly how.
“What kind of legalese crap is that?” the big cop said with disgust. “You might as well just tell us what you’re hiding before we pull it out of your ass with pliers.”
Gant smiled, and the effect was even more unsettling than his previous rawboned frown.