Blüdhaven, R.F.D.

By SKH

©July 2002

Rating: PG13

Characters: Matches Malone, Dick Grayson, Oracle

Disclaimer: Above-mentioned characters are owned by DC Comics.

No profit is realized from creation of stories based on these characters.

Comments and feedback are welcome to

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Blüdhaven Police Department Officer Dick Grayson was seated at a desk in his precinct, impatiently filling out paperwork. He hated the rotation days he and his partner, Sgt. Amy Rohrbach, stayed off the streets in order to process the reams of reports on their caseload.

"Duplicate, triplicate... nothing but a load of bullsh--"

Dick's grousing was interrupted by his pager's silent signal. That pager. He looked at the alphanumeric message and smiled. His mood improved dramatically, Dick picked up the desk phone and dialed a certain, shielded telephone number.

"Hello, gorgeous. You call to tell me you can't live without me?"

"No. Dick, did you file a stolen vehicle report on your car this morning?" Barbara Gordon asked.

Dick's smile vanished, replaced by a pout of disappointment. "Yeah. I came out of my apartment and it was gone. I got it out of the garage last night because I was gonna go to the new Super WalMart. It's kind of difficult to carry 48 rolls of toilet paper on a motorcycle."

There was a pause, and then Barbara said, "I'm... not even going to touch that line."

"You have no idea how much ribbing I got from Amy about it, too. The GPS tracer indicated my car was in North Carolina. I filed my report with the BPD and then called the North Carolina Highway Patrol and gave them the vehicle information. --Why? How did you... or why do you know that?" Dick's voice lowered with suspicion.

"Because I'm Oracle, the divine font of knowledge, blessed by the gods, Dunce-Wonder. I intercepted a call to the BPD from the Mayberry, North Carolina jail. The sheriff there has a suspect in custody for possession of a stolen car."

"And?" Dick asked, really curious now as to why Oracle had intercepted the confirmation of a suspect arrest.

"The suspect in custody is Matches Malone."

Dick held the phone receiver away from his face for a moment, staring at it like he hadn't heard what he just heard. Putting it back to his ear, he tried to keep a straight face while responding to Oracle's revelation.

"Matches Malone?" he repeated, his voice cracking from lost composure on the last name. Dick held the phone away again, this time to double over in laughter. He hooted his amusement for a good half minute before returning to the conversation.

"The one and only," Babs laughed in sympathy. "Oh, wait a sec..."

Barbara put Dick on hold. He listened to the on-hold music, a Burt Bacharach tune from the 1960s. He hummed along, and began tapping his pencil in time to "Do You Know the Way to San Jose?"

"Dick!" Oracle exploded back onto the line. "That was him. He said, and I quote, 'Send him. Now!' and then he hung up. I've got you booked on a flight to Raleigh. Leave now and you can just make it."

"Roger that, gorgeous -- I'm on my way!" Dick slammed the phone down and grabbed his jacket.

"Amy, my car's been recovered... clock me out, I'm going to get it!" Dick shouted over his shoulder on the way out of the bullpen.

Matches Malone reclined on the bunk in one of two cells in the small, rural jail. He tried to ignore the window-rattling snores from the drunk in the next cell. He had made his obligatory phone call, contacting Oracle to send Matches' "son," Robbie Malone to bail him out. Batman's undercover case had gone down well. He had, as Matches, obtained the information he was looking for to crack a cigarette hijacking and resale operation. On the Gotham City end of the operation, a mob dispute had resulted in the deaths of three men, one an innocent bar patron.

He had needed an appropriate car to go with his ruse, and not wanting to awaken Dick Grayson -- who never got enough sleep ever since he took that damned police job -- Batman, or rather Matches, quietly overrode the muscle car's security defenses and drove off to his southern destination.

Matches' thoughts were interrupted by the apnea-explosion from the next cell. The drunk jerked awake and sat up, scratching his stubble and smacking his lips. Matches said nothing, and watched, curious, as the drunk got up and stumbled to the cell door.

"Hey, Barney?" he hollered, his voice gravelly from sleep. "Barney?" When the received no answer to his beckoning, the drunk walked to the corner of the cell, reached his arm through the bars and plucked a ring of keys off a hook.

Matches sat up. The drunk wobbled back to the door, unlocked it, and walked out of his cell, leaving the keys in the lock. He stumbled to a coffee pot on a table across the room, poured himself a cup and drank it down. He then walked down a short hall to the bathroom.

Matches walked over to his cell door and gave it a testing shake. Then he walked to the front corner of his cell and reached through the bars, trying to reach the ring of keys. He hadn't noticed any security cameras in the tiny jail, and the prisoners had been left alone by the short, wiry, overconfident deputy.

The front door opened. Matches drew his arm back through the bars. A small, red-haired boy entered the jail carrying a basket covered with a checkered cloth. The boy eyed Matches carefully as he crossed the room and unlocked the cell next door. He took a plate covered with aluminum foil out of the basket and placed it on the bunk, then left the cell. The sound of the flushing toilet resonated through the room, and the stumbling drunk wandered back to his cell.

"Hey Otis. Aunt Bee sent supper," the boy chirped.

"Hey Opie. Tell Aunt Bee I said thank you," Otis replied, giving the boy a pat on the head.

The boy walked to Matches' cell and took out a second plate. He pushed it through a horizontal slot in the door. "Here you go, Mister," the boy said, patiently holding the plate until Matches took it.

"T'anks kid."

Matches sat on the bunk and uncovered the plate. The fragrance of fried chicken, some kind of peas with whole pods of boiled okra lying across them, potato salad and a fresh baked biscuit with butter and honey wafted invitingly through the air.

"You want some coffee to go with that, Mister?" the boy asked.

"How 'bout a cola?" asked Matches, eyeing the boy through his sunglasses.

"You got fifty cents, Mister?"

Matches reached into his pocket for the coins the deputy had neglected to collect from him. He flipped two quarters through the bars. The boy caught them and ran like a rabbit out the jail door. In less time it took for Matches to eat a drumstick, the boy was back with a tall, open bottle of RC Cola. He held it through the bars of the cell, his skinny arm well within Matches' reach.

"Here you go, Mister."

Matches took the bottle. "T'anks, kid." He returned to his bunk and resumed eating the delicious meal. After a moment, Matches realized the boy was still standing at his cell door, staring at him. He wondered if he needed to tip the boy or something.

"You want something, kid?" he asked.

"I never seen a big city Yankee criminal before," the boy replied.

"You got a name, kid?"

"My name's Opie."

"Well, run home, Opie. I t'ink I hear ya muddah callin' youse."

The boy stood his ground. "I ain't got no mother. She died when I was a baby. I got my Pa and Aunt Bee."

Matches looked at the serious green eyes staring him down. "Maybe your Pa's callin you," he suggested, not as gruffly as before.

"My Pa's the Sheriff. He's down at Goober's filling station where they got that car you stole."

Matches finished his meal, wiping the last traces of juice from the peas with the biscuit. He stood up and walked to the cell door. The boy backed up a step. Matches pushed the plate through the slot. The boy stepped forward and took the plate, replacing it carefully in the basket.

"Hey, kid," said Matches. "Here, dis is for your trouble. It's a tip." Matches held out a five dollar bill.

The boy's eyes lit up as he took the money. "A tip? Gee, thanks, Mister!" A serious look fell over his young face. "This ain't stolen money is it, Mister?"

"Nah, it's legit," Matches replied, sitting back on the bunk.

"That's swell! Thanks again, Mister, and I hope you didn't really steal that car!"

The door to the jail opened and a tall, red-haired, uniformed man stepped though it. "Opie, what you got there, boy?" he boomed.

"This big city Yankee criminal gave me five whole dollars, Pa. It ain't stolen money, though. It's legit!" the boy eagerly replied, his face beaming, displaying a missing front tooth.

"Waaal, ain't that nice, now? You run along home, Opie. Tell Aunt Bee I'll bring Otis' plate home with me after a while," the sheriff said to his child.

"Yes, Pa." The boy shoved the bill into his pocket, picked up the basket and marched out of the jail.

The sheriff approached the cell door, giving Matches a good-natured appraising look.

"I reckon you're just about on your way out of here, Mr. Malone. A young man is here to escort you back up north."

"Dat would be my kid, Robbie," Matches said evenly, although he was relieved Dick had gotten here as quickly as he could. Matches had spent as much time in picturesque rural America as he could stand.

"No, sir," the sheriff answered crisply. "The young feller who came to get you is a po-lice officer. He's come to transfer you back to... what city did that feller say? Blood Haven. Yep, that's it. He's here to transport you to Blood Haven. Mighty grim name for a town, ain't that? Not near as friendly-sounding as Mayberry." The sheriff grinned a mile wide.

To be continued...