Perez

Deleon Avenue cut across the Upper Eastside in Midtown, spanning two distinct neighborhoods—Koreatown and Crown Point. Perez cruised through in a gray two-door hatchback Honda Civic, a car that blended in nearly everywhere except Downtown. The storefronts shifted from English and Korean signs to Spanish and English. Her destination was Crown Point, a dense mix of Dominicans, Haitians, Jamaicans, and Chinese families who hadn't settled in Chinatown—a stark contrast to the uniformity of Koreatown just a few blocks away.

She parked near a Creole restaurant, stepped out, and continued down Deleon Avenue on foot. The air was thick with the scent of fried plantains, bay leaves, cayenne pepper, and roasted chicken. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it, instead her eyes scanned the shifting movement around her. 

The streets pulsed with the afternoon crowd—people running errands and kids darting through the chaos. A group of boys rounded the corner, their shorts, plain t-shirts, and scuffed sneakers marking them as regulars from the basketball courts. They were likely heading for the nearest pate vendor, desperate for a cheap snack. 

She stopped at a laundromat where several payphones lined the wall. Digging a quarter from her satchel, she slipped it into the slot and dialed a number. Skateboarders weaved past her, earning shouts from frustrated pedestrians. 

As the phone rang, Perez leaned an arm against the phone box, glancing into the laundromat. Residents milled about inside, loading washers and folding clothes. A clock on the far wall read five minutes to three.

"Yeah," an irritated voice finally answered.

"Charlie, I need a favor," Perez said.

"Not a chance," Mendez snapped. "The Chief's real strict this time about us talking."

"It's not about that," Perez lowered her voice. "I need a file on someone. Completely unrelated to the mess in Uptown."

Mendez groaned, shifting around. She caught him in bed sleeping—his breathing was heavy. "I don't know. I've got enough shit on my plate as it is. I've been moved to answering calls from fucking attorneys and—"

"I'll double the price, Charlie."

Silence. Then, a frustrated sigh. "Who?"

"Detective James Gordon," Perez said.

"Who?" Mendez sounded genuinely confused.

Perez blinked. "He's in your precinct, Mendez."

"Never heard of him," Mendez admitted, though curiosity crept into his tone. "But I'll get it for you. Name the place and time."

"Milner's off Main, at seven?" Perez said, glancing at her watch.

"Meet you there," he said.

She hung up and crossed the street. At the neighborhood's edge stood a rundown corner gym with a weathered sign that read "Taino's Gym." The long window front offered passersby a glimpse inside—rows of weight benches, punching bags and the rhythmic thud of fists meeting leather. A fair number of guys were lifting, sparring, or pounding the heavy bags with quiet intensity.

Stepping inside, the sharp stench of sweat and damp socks hit her instantly, her nose wrinkled. She scanned the room, her gaze landing on a familiar face—young, pale, with ruddy cheeks.

Tyler Fritz stood over a bench press, spotting a man. As she got closer, she noticed it was Chen, who exhaled sharply as he racked the barbell.

Perez sauntered over.

"Beefing up, boys? Getting tired of taking shit from the old men?" she teased as Chen sat up and wiped his face with a towel.

"Hey, Mari. How's it going?" Fritz greeted her, his tone easy.

"All good, you know—typical Saturday chasing leads." She smirked. "Didn't know you were trying to bulk up, Fritzy, like the girls don't already melt over that face."

He blushed. Fritzy, as the boys called him, was the youngest officer in the 52nd—not even twenty-one yet. He had the kind of face girls might pin to their bedroom walls, too cute for a dingy precinct or a sparring ring. She glanced at Chen. He wasn't exactly a dime, but he had that rough-around-the-edges look—worn in the way cops got after too many late nights and too few victories.

"How'd you find me?" Chen asked, catching his breath.

"You're always here on Saturdays before work, Tommy."

"Shit, am I that predictable?"

"You're turning into Rusty, slowly but surely."

"Don't jinx me," Chen smirked. He turned to Fritz. "Give us a minute."

"See ya, stud," Perez teased as Fritz walked off toward the dumbbells.

"So, what did Pollack tell you? That his rookie's still too skinny?"

"No, he asked me to keep him close," Chen said, tossing his towel over his knee. "He's worried Loeb's guys might try to press him. Now, with all this shit, he's really pushing it. Told me to hang with him and keep him out of harm's way."

"Didn't know Pollack was that invested in his rookie."

"He's a nice kid. A little naive, but that goes away with time." Chen leaned back. "So what do you want?"

"Just checking in after everything that went down."

"Oh yeah? Worried about me, is that it?" Chen teased.

"I hate seeing guys turn. Reminds me how shit everything really is."

"Well, I don't plan to," Chen said. "What's the real reason you're here?"

Perez smirked. "Curious about someone on your squad."

"Gordon?" Chen asked immediately.

She looked surprised.

"He's the only one you don't talk to, Mari. Not hard to guess. What about him?"

"Just what you know."

"He's quiet. Keeps to himself. He's married, has kids. That's all I know."

"None of you tried to get to know him?"

"Syd did, but Gordon's the loner type. And you know Harv—he doesn't talk to outsiders. Rusty said not to bother, figured he'd be gone in a week." Chen smirked. "Man, was he wrong. Lost the bet, too."

Before she could respond, Chen's expression shifted. His body tensed. Without warning, he stood and grabbed Perez's arm, yanking her toward the back exit. "Beat it, Mari," he hissed, pushing her into the alley.

"What the fuck?" she whispered, but Chen was already gone.

She ran towards the street where several gym rats were already pouring onto the street.

"There's gonna be some pig-on-pig violence," one muttered, swinging a gym bag over his shoulder.

Perez stopped at the window, peering inside. Two suits loomed over Chen and Fritz. They exchanged words, Chen shaking his head, his body taut with tension—then the fight exploded in an instant. Chen drove one man against the wall, his fists landing fast and hard. Fritz, younger and clumsy, took several hits before managing to block one.

"Come on, Fritzy," Perez muttered.

A crash. One of the suits tumbled over a bench. Chen crouched briefly, yanked something from the man's jacket, then ran to help Fritz. He tore the second man off the rookie and threw two fast punches, sending him sprawling. "Let's go!" he barked.

Perez watched as Chen and Fritz bolted out of the gym, leaving the suits groaning on the floor. A smirk tugged at her lips, but a sadness in her eyes lingered—this was only the beginning, and in the end, someone always breaks.