Written for the Internet by: Nightwing
The two men who were leaving the diner were called Waldo and Griswald. People always pointed out the similarity of letters in there name. Whenever someone did, Waldo would always insist, "It's only four fuckin' letters."
The street was busy; there was no crossing it. Waldo and Griswald stepped up and stood on the curb, waiting for an opening in the traffic.
"You know, it occurs to me that ol' Frankie in there's been doing a pretty good job of keeping on time." Griswald observed to his partner. "Maybe we oughta talk to the boss about throwing some more business his way."
Waldo agreed, "But what about Johnnie?" he wondered. "Shouldn't we talk to the big man about tossin' more business their way?"
Griswald bit his tongue. "Ain't no Johnnie, dumbass. It's just Frankie. He chose that title because people'd recognize it. You know, like . . . like Frankie and Johnnie?"
"Oh," Waldo said, nodding his head. "Hey," he suddenly realized, "wadn't there a movie called that a few years ago?"
Griswald nodded. "Yep, with Al Pacino. He played a . . . cook or somethin'."
"And Michelle Pfeiffer. She's in it, too."
"Yeah. Yeah, I think she mighta been in it."
They started across the busy street. On the other side was a light blue Chevy sedan; their associate Eric was behind the wheel. Eric had decided to drive this particular car because it was the last thing a person pictured when they thought of gangster wheels, and if there was anything Eric hated, it was a clich�.
Griswald and Waldo were halfway across the street when the shooting started. Three men without faces in a black Cadillac with New York state license plates--that's all Eric saw before they opened fire and riddled Griswald to death. Griswald hit the pavement dead, but Waldo managed to run behind the blue Chevy and make his way up to the passenger side. He opened the door and climbed inside.
"Go!!" he yelled, and Eric started the car and peeled out of his parking spot. "Come-on, get the bastards!!"
Eric could still see the gunmen in the black Cadillac, and as long as he could see them, he could catch them. The Chevy's engine's hum built up to a loud roar in mere seconds as the car's speedometer needle lunged for 70 miles per hour. The retreating Cadillac was all at once right in front of them. Waldo rolled down his window and leaned his entire upper body out the speeding car, pulling a semi-automatic pistol from his inner jacket pocket and taking aim at the back of the driver's head in the car up ahead. He fired, shattering the Cadillac's windshield, but missing the driver. Finding another, better target, Waldo lowered the gun to the back right tire of the other car and squeezed off three more shots in rapid succession. The back tire of the Cadillac exploded, and the car lurched hard to the right for a second, then back suddenly to the left.
The driver of the Cadillac slammed on the brakes and spun his car around sideways. Eric hit his brakes and tried to swerve, but he only succeeded in avoiding smashing into the side of the Cadillac head-on. Both cars skidded diagonally down the street until the Cadillac backed up against a Dodge Ram truck that was parked along the curb. As soon as the movement was halted, Eric popped open his door, and both he and Waldo crawled out, Waldo's finger still on the trigger of his semi-automatic.
Waldo came out right behind Eric, and they both kept close to their car. They could hear movement from the Cadillac, which meant that at least one of the men in the other car had survived. From the sound, it was at least two of them, probably all three.
Eric wasn't wondering about that for too long; one of the men in the Cadillac whose faces he'd never seen shot him twice in the top of his head. Just before the second shot went off, Waldo grabbed the hand of the gunman, who was standing on the roof of the Chevy. When the gunman's weapon was neutralized, Waldo shot him three times, sticking the gun up into his stomach and firing up into the man's chest cavity. He hit the ground limp, blood running from his mouth, his body wracked with involuntary muscle spasms.
If Waldo hadn't been shot in the head six times by bullets from two separate guns a moment later, he might have been able to exact a bit more vengeance on those who murdered his friends and partners. But, as it was, he didn't. What was left of Waldo's head smacked into the pavement, as lifeless as the man he himself had just shot to death. He never saw the faces of his killers.
His killers were gone a second later. Later, it would be said that no one got a good look at them. At least no one who recognized them.
Avian Paradise Casino, 5:02 p.m.
This was most distressing.
Oswald Cobblepot took one last look at the papers in his hand, then crumpled them into a ball and threw the ball hard across the room. "Ahhhck!!"
Groverton turned his head around and glanced at the crumpled police report on the floor behind him. "Would you like me to repair those for the files?"
Cobblepot was obviously in no mood to discuss this. He threw up his hands, then gestured with frustration at the papers he had thrown across the room. "I suppose you might as well." He pounded the desk with his fist. "Ack!! I can't believe this!" The Penguin stood and stalked out from behind his desk. "No one saw who did it, Groverton? No one saw a car crash and shoot-out--albeit brief--in the middle of a city of fourteen million people?!"
Groverton could only nod at the balled-up police report. "That's what the officer's report says, sir. It's the only information I have. No one's come forward as a witness; it was four minutes before the first police officer arrived at the scene, and by that time everyone involved was either dead or long gone."
Cobblepot made a fist, squeezing his hand together until his fingernails dug into his palm. He looked like he was about to scream, but then suddenly a calm washed over him. His face took on a cold serenity. "Where did they go? Where . . . did they go?"
Groverton's face had a thoughtful expression, his head tilted to the side, his eyes fixed to the floor. "Since that is a rhetorical question, I'll move on to the next order of business, which is: What are you going to do now?"
"Waldo, Griswald, and Eric were all three with me from the beginning. When I was released from Blackgate the last time, those three were among the first to join with me. They pulled job after job after job, first with me, then for me. And everyone in Gotham with even half a clue knew it. Especially now that I'm the one and only man in charge of this city . . . who in the world would have the unmatched audacity to . . . to perpetrate an assault like this? Who am I going to have to kill for this?!?"
Someone who wasn't the Penguin or Groverton cleared his throat. Cobblepot's eyes shot to the elevator, which was open. A short, well-built Italian man in a nicely-tailored double-breasted black suit was standing in the door. Two taller, larger, tanner Italians in equally good suits were standing ominously behind him. The short Italian stepped out of the elevator, along with his bodyguards. "You can try to kill me, but I don't think it'd work out all that great for you," he said.
Groverton stepped forward and said in a belligerent tone, "How did you get in here?"
The short Italian raised his hand and patted the air in front of him, telling Groverton silently to calm the hell down. "It truly wasn't all that difficult, if I can tell the truth--and, I can when it fits in with the rest of my story." The Italian paused as if he were expecting laughter. Instead there was silence and angry, expectant glares from Groverton and Cobblepot. "I merely told your secretary down there who I was, and who I work for." Apparently, he expected that this information would clarify the situation.
"All right . . . fine," Groverton began, "Who are you and who do you work for?"
The Penguin held up his hand to his assistant. "Quiet, Groverton." He walked around and sat down again, calmly behind his desk, folding his hands on his stomach. "Now," he said, regarding the newcomer, "why don't you start by telling me just who you are, and who it is you work for, all right?"
The short Italian nodded, seeming to agree that this was the best thing, although he seemed more than a little puzzled that Cobblepot and Groverton didn't recognize him. "My name is Anthony Carretti, from New York. And, I'm a top lieutenant to a man who was born as Frank Lebenetti . . . but I suppose you would know him better as Mossman."
Cobblepot's face was still, cold, colorless. He recognized the name; anyone would recognize the name Mossman. It was the nickname of one of the most powerful men on this side of the country, the unchallenged kingpin of nearly the entire east coast drug trade. He alone controlled and reaped most of the benefits from the trafficking of marijuana, heroin, metamphetamine, and numerous varieties of cocaine.
Mossman was one of the most feared and respected figures in the vast criminal network popularly known as the Underworld.
"So, Mossman sent you." The Penguin stated this fact as flat and matter-of-factly as he possible could have. He then asked the next obvious question. "Why?"
"Your immediate predecessor, Roman Sionis--"
"--Black Mask."
" . . . Black Mask. He operated under the auspices of Mossman, and as gratuity for being allowed to operate freely in Gotham City, Mr. Sionis would pass on ten percent of his monthly profit to him. It was only fair, afterall."
"Yes, but Black Mask is gone. I'm here now, and I do not operate under anyone, least of all Mossman," the Penguin argued stubbornly.
"Mossman's drugs still travel via Gotham's streets and skies and harbors, and you still make money off of them. Problem is . . . you're not paying your taxes. So, the big man has sent out the I-R-S."
Cobblepot chuckled. "Tell me, Mr. Carretti, who writes these witty metaphoric ad-libs of yours? My compliments to your scripter."
Carretti pointed a black-gloved finger in the Penguin's direction. "I have already killed three of your associates. That was just to drive home the message. You may now own Gotham, but Mossman owns you. And you'd better start paying your dues, or the landlord may just see fit to evict you."
Cobblepot shook his head. "That last metaphor was weak . . . but then I suppose every writer goes through a dry spell every now and again." The Penguin cleared his throat, and took a ball-point pen from a cup sitting in the corner of his desk. He twirled the pen expertly between his fingers. "I'm asking you nicely to leave this first time. If need be, Carretti, I'll have two of my employees who you did not murder escort you and your . . . admittedly somewhat threatening duo of bodyguards out of my residence and place of business."
Carretti shook his head as if he knew that Cobblepot had made an empty threat. "You don't want to do that. If I go, it'll be by my personal choice. And I'm not making that choice until you agree to kick back fifteen percent of your drug profit to my employer."
"You said Black Mask kicked back ten."
Carretti shrugged. "Consider it a tax hike. I can take it as high as I feel is necessary; I've been given a shitload of latitude in this matter."
The Penguin inhaled sharply, and gave Carretti a disappointed look. "Oh, Mr. Carretti . . . and I assumed you were a man of integrity, one above a cheap swear. Oh my . . . I'm usually such an accurate judge of character, too. I'll ask you again to leave voluntarily . . ."
"You don't know what you're flirting with, Cobblepot. You have no idea the problems you could have on your hands if you don't cooperate."
"This isn't New York, Carretti. You are now in my city, in my penthouse, on top of my casino. Your jurisdiction is nil."
Carretti nodded his head slowly, then looked from side to side at his large colleagues. "All right, Cobblepot. I'll tell you what I'll do--I'm going to be very nice to you. You have forty-eight hours to contact me . . . at this number--" Carretti removed a business card from an inner pocket and dropped it on the Penguin's desk. "--and tell me that you've changed your mind. If not, I don't like what I'll have to do to you."
And with that, Anthony Carretti and his two towering gumbas walked back to the elevator and disappeared. The Penguin stood, picked up the card Carretti had left, and handed it to Groverton. "You'd better keep this, my friend. I may need it, but if I keep it I'm afraid it'll find its way to the trash . . . in pieces."
Groverton took the card and tucked in away in his shirt pocket.
The Penguin looked thoughtfully at the cupful of pens in the corner of his desk. "Groverton . . . I want you to find someone for me. Carretti was right; I don't know who I'm dealing with. I'm afraid I may be in over my head in this one."
Groverton nodded obediently. "Of course. Who?"
Cobblepot drew in a breath as he said the name. "Find me Phillip Mosbey."
Beneath Wayne Manor, 7:33 p.m.
Dick was in the weights section of the Cave's gym doing bench-presses. Bruce was in the middle of twenty miles on the stationary bike, and Tim was working on five miles on the treadmill. "You know," Dick said between breaths, "I had a thought the other day. You ever watch Seinfeld? Because I was thinking that we're kind of like the people on there. I mean, think about it. Bruce is Jerry . . . and Tim, you could be George. I guess that makes me Kramer . . ."
Bruce kept right on pumping on the bike, although he was following the conversation with more interest than usual. Tim smiled and just shook his head with disbelief. "So, what does that make Alfred?"
Dick did three more reps with the barbell, then put it back up in its wrack and sat up, straddling the bench. "Well . . ." he said, giving the question some serious thought, "I suppose that Alfred could be . . . Jerry's faithful butler." Tim looked at Dick as if he'd given up too easily. "All right," Dick said defensively, "look . . . it makes sense, doesn't it? Jerry should have a butler! Come-on, the show is about his life, right? Well, a hit sitcom is a part of his life! Why doesn't he have his own show on his show? Hell, he needs the butler just to keep things straight."
Tim still had more. "What about Harold?"
"He could be Jerry's genius dwarf inventor." Dick had obviously anticipated this question. "See, Jerry's apartment building probably has a basement. That's where his Harold lives."
"I think you were closer when you said you were Kramer."
"I think I agree with you . . ."
They both laughed. Dick stood and walked over to the wall of the large gym, taking a towel off of a rack and drying off his sweaty forehead. He rolled the towel up and hung it around his neck, then stretched, his back popping. Dick smiled at the sound. "Ah. My favorite kind of gas."
Tim almost stopped running. "What?" he asked with a combination of confusion and disbelief.
Dick sat back down on the edge of the weight bench to explain. "Whenever something pops, like your knuckles, your back, or whatever, the sound you hear comes from millions of tiny gas bubbles popping all at once in your bloodstream. It's true, I saw it on P-B-S a few years ago. Nova, I think that was the show."
Tim finished up his fifth mile, slowing to a jog on the treadmill. "You are Kramer," he said as he slowed further to a walk, then stopped altogether.
"Nah," Dick said, shaking his head. "I have better hair. At least, I think I do . . . I mean, it does lie down on top of my head when I tell it to."
Tim laughed, and stepped off the treadmill. He grabbed his own towel and began dabbing sweat off of his arms. He sat down on the bench next to Dick. "So," he began, changing the subject, "Alfred said you two went to see . . . uh, Heidi's baby today."
"Yes," Dick answered hesitantly. "Yeah, we did. I hadn't seen him yet."
"It's a boy?" Tim asked, smiling faintly.
Dick nodded. "He is. We ran into Heidi's mother on our way out; she and Heidi's father are going to take care of him--of the baby." Dick looked at the floor between his feet for a silent moment. "She . . . wants to name the kid after me."
Bruce looked up from the distance meter on his bike and took part in the conversation for the first time. "What did you say?"
Dick held out his hands in front of him. "What could I say? I did my best to discourage it, especially since Heidi told me the first time I went to see her that she wanted to name the baby Bruce--" Bruce looked at Dick curiously. "--after her husband's father."
"Did you tell this to the grandmother?"
"Of course, I suggested it as obviously as I could. Alfred even helped me out, said that Bruce was a fine, strong name for a fine, strong man."
Bruce slowed his pedaling on the bike, then stopped and slipped his feet out of the stirrups. "She was still determined on 'Dick' as a name?"
"Yeah, I couldn't talk her out of it. She's more stubborn than yuh--awfully stubborn woman." Dick stood and walked back to hang his towel up. He turned around half way there. "Bruce, I don't want that boy named after me. It wouldn't be right, I'm telling you."
"That's just what you think," Bruce reminded him. "That woman, among others, sees you as a hero for saving the life of her daughter and granddaughter."
"You are a hero," Tim added.
Dick hung up his towel. "I don't want to talk about this now, or any other time in the near future, all right? Just . . . for future reference."
Bruce nodded and motioned for Tim to get off the weight bench. "Understood," he said as he slid in under the barbell and began pressing the weight.
Tim rubbed his towel vigorously over his sweat-soaked hair, and by the time he was done every hair was standing straight up. "I need a shower, guys," he said as he tossed his towel onto the rack with the others.
Dick walked up and sniffed the air around where Tim had just been standing. "Yep," he said, "definitely a shower."
Tim was halfway to the elevator. "Wait, Tim," Bruce called, leaving the gym behind Dick and flipping off the row of light switches. All three of them rode the elevator up to the top level of the Cave. Alfred was sitting at the computer console, reading over something on one of the smaller monitors.
"Master Bruce!" he called as the elevator reached the end of its climb. Bruce stepped off and walked briskly across the Cave floor.
"What is it?"
"Your retrieval program has secured a message from one of your electronic mail accounts on the Greenwich network."
Alfred stood to allow Bruce to have his chair. Bruce sat down and checked the monitor. "It's not addressed to Hemingford Grey?" he asked after viewing the return address of the email.
"No, sir. It was sent to one of your alternate addresses."
Dick came up behind Bruce's chair. "Alternate addresses?"
Bruce nodded, eyeing the small monitor and reaching for the keyboard. "Yes. The Greenwich network is an Internet outlet used primarily by criminals to communicate with each other. It's completely closed and private to everyone who doesn't have a certain modem I-D. Oracle managed to hack into it around six months ago, and created several online identities for me. One was Sir Hemingford Grey, which Batman uses to communicate with his underworld contacts. There are others, as well . . ." Bruce opened the new message; it was addressed to [email protected]. "This one is to Phillip Mosbey."
Dick leaned forward slightly and read the first few lines of the message. "You weren't expecting this?"
Bruce shook his head slowly, absently as he read the email. "Not expecting . . . but hoping maybe. This note was sent by Bumpershot."
Tim came up and stood beside Bruce's chair. "Bumpershot?"
"Yes," Bruce said as he started to read the message again, "that's one of the Penguin's accounts."
Avian Paradise Casino, 8:10 p.m.
"This is all you could find on him?" The Penguin glanced again indicated the half-sheet printout on his desk.
Groverton nodded. "And that after nearly an hour and a half of asking questions in chat rooms and raiding bulletin boards, all the while trying desperately not to look like a snooping police officer. Mosbey is a man of great reputation, but there are precious few facts about him."
Cobblepot tapped his finger on the surface of his desk as he read aloud the words on the paper. "Black. Male. Six-feet, two inches tall, two-hundred thirty pounds, approximately. Forty-two years of age, born in Richmond, Virginia, currently resides in Los Angeles, Metropolis, and Gotham City, although he spends most of his time in L-A. That is all the information we can find on one of the most renowned Mafia peacemakers in this country?"
Groverton was standing directly in front of Cobblepot's desk, his hands clasped in front of him. "Most of Mosbey's renown comes from the story that tells of his expert diffusing of a potential gang war in New York thirteen years ago. A street gang calling themselves Hate's Offspring were about to become openly hostile with a crime family headed by Bobby Nelli. The story goes that Mosbey was called in, and a few days later both sides agreed to leave each other alone. It was apparently as simple as that."
The Penguin looked at Groverton, as if he were expecting him to say more. "Is that the entire story? Seems rather hollow . . . no one knows what Mosbey did?"
Groverton shook his head. "Apparently not. It's reasonable to assume that a degree of secrecy was part of the deal. And, it must have been quite a brilliant deal; it isn't very often that a Black man makes peace between two gangs, one predominately of Irish descent, the other almost entirely Italian. It was quite a feat."
"He's worthy of his reputation, if it's true." The Penguin cleared his throat, shifted gears. "Has he sent a reply to your message?"
"Not as yet. I assume he's still thinking it over. Mosbey hasn't been seen but a few times for almost eleven years. He remains in contact with people via mail and the Internet mostly, at least that's what I was told. He may be reluctant to become involved in another matter of this kind, especially one of this potential magnitude."
The Penguin nodded. "Probably true. But, surely he realizes that by involving himself in this that he will cause the potential magnitude to drop tremendously."
Beneath Wayne Manor, 8:32 p.m.
"The Penguin wants you to save him from Mossman?"
"No, Tim . . . not exactly," Bruce said. "Phillip Mosbey is just another one of my identities. But--"
"Like Matches Malone was."
"Yes . . . was being the operative term there. But, Mosbey is different. The other disguises I've used; Matches, Gaff Morgan, so on, have all been entirely manufactured. There used to be a real man called Phillip Mosbey."
"What happened to him?"
"Nine years ago, just a few weeks before Dick's parents were killed, Batman found himself in a situation where he and Mosbey were trapped in a hotel penthouse by members of a New York gang who called themselves Hate's Offspring. Four years before that, Mosbey had negotiated a peace between that gang and a crime organization led by Robert Nelli. An integral part of the deal Mosbey constructed was that he himself would forever remain neutral, and not work for either side separate or together ever again. Of course, eventually Mosbey went back on that promise and went to work for Nelli as kind of a shylock, collecting debts and so forth.
"Mosbey was badly wounded in the penthouse shootout, but I managed to get him out of there before he died. Looking back, this was an immoral act. But, Mosbey was an immoral man. I removed all identification from his person and left his body at the front of Gotham General's emergency room. He was pronounced dead at the scene, and buried as another John Doe in Potter's Field."
"Then you assumed his identity?"
"Not physically. But, I conducted business via mail, telephone, found out who his contacts were, what he knew, who he knew. When the Internet began expanding into a legitimate means of communication, Oracle and I started to expand Mosbey's identity into that media. That's where the facts mixed with the story, and created sort of an underworld myth, with just enough fact to it to make it believable to most."
"And now the Penguin is requiring his services?"
"Apparently three of those men found shot to death at the scene of a car accident on Lucasite Street earlier today were some of Cobblepot's most trusted lieutenants. They were killed by men working for Tony Carretti, who was sent to Gotham by Mossman."
"Mossman? Oh man . . . that's not good, is it?"
"No . . . certainly not. The Penguin needs Mosbey to straighten things out for him and Mossman. But, that would most likely require that Mosbey make a physical appearance . . ."
"What are you going to do?"
"Something, I just have no idea what yet. Mossman gaining a strong foothold in Gotham is the last thing I want, now or ever. But . . . the Penguin is a risky connection to make. I may be able to hold off Mossman, but I'll also have to hold off Cobblepot's gratitude if I succeed. Avoid getting mixed up in the inner workings of his organization."
"That might be helpful, though. If you don't get caught, I mean. If you found evidence of where most of his money comes from--"
"That's not a risk I'm even remotely willing to take. I can't decide what would be worse; the Penguin discovering that Bruce Wayne is Batman, or that Bruce Wayne is a dead mob icon."
Electronic Mail, Received by [email protected], 9:02 p.m.
I've taken your problem into consideration. I think a meeting would be in order. You tell me exactly what's the problem, who's involved, and then we go about solving it. Just you and me this time.
Reply ASAP.
--PM
Beneath Wayne Manor, 9:47 p.m.
Dick came down the staircase in the irregular trot he had fashioned in order to avoid hitting the "rigged" steps that would set off the alarm. The computer monitors were all in screensaver mode, and the elevator was up. Even if the light in the vault hadn't been on . . . where else could Bruce be?
Bruce was in the vault, in the back of the vault, sitting at the make-up table. Except for his face (somewhat), he was unrecognizable. Bruce was wearing a full-body "fatsuit"--designed to make him look about 20 pounds heavier. And, the weight wasn't just in his stomach. In addition to giving Bruce a more sizable gut, it also added a large degree of flab to his arms and legs, and expanded his chest by almost three inches. Sitting on the make-up table was a latex apparatus that, when worn, would thicken Bruce's neck by nearly an inch and a half.
Bruce was currently sitting in front of the mirror, gluing latex prostheses to his chin and cheeks, making his face look fatter, a little bloated. Dick walked into the vault and let out an impressed whistle. "Heeey there, good-lookin'."
Bruce looked away from the mirror at Dick for a moment, then back again. "How was dinner?"
Dick started walking towards Bruce, pretending to admire the Batsuits that hung in here along his way. "It was good. Mashed potatoes, broiled chicken . . . Alfred really outdid himself. There's plenty up there for you."
Bruce shook his head. "Not for a long time yet."
"I take it you'll be meeting the Penguin tonight."
Bruce nodded, finished applying the current prosthesis, then examined himself in the mirror. "The last thing I want is for Mossman to get directly involved with Gotham. If it takes Phillip Mosbey to do that, then Phillip Mosbey will just have to come out of hiding."
Dick chuckled. "You mean back from the dead."
"Yes, well . . . not for everyone else in the world."
Dick stepped forward and stood beside Bruce, leaning down and scrutinizing his face. "You know, Phillip Mosbey looks a lot like Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy and all-around dopey bachelor."
Bruce nodded at the neck apparatus, as well as another prosthesis beside that. "I haven't added the neck or nose pieces yet. Or the skintone, for that matter." Bruce gestured towards several cans of medium-brown make-up."
Dick cracked a grin. "I can't wait to see this."
10:02 p.m.
Dick was sitting in the Cave, reading the electronic edition of the Gotham Globe, with today's Gotham Gazette being downloaded for later. He noticed movement to the left of him out of the corner of his eye, and turned to see a large, intimidating Black man walking out of the vault, dressed in a pair of black slacks, and a black blazer worn over a dull red turtleneck sweater. His head was bald and smooth, and Dick immediately pointed out this feature.
"I like the wig," he said, grinning. "A little Lou Gossett junior, and is that a tiny bit of Yaphet Kotto I detect in there?"
Bruce nodded upwards. "The bald look was easier than trying to simulate the hair. And, it makes me look older. What do you think? Convincing?"
Dick stood, walked up to Bruce, and walked around him in a circle. When he got back to the front, he looked him in the eye and nodded with approval. "You look like . . . anyone but Bruce Wayne. Kudos."
Bruce nodded with assurance, and then cleared his throat. As he was preparing to speak, Alfred trotted down the stairs. "Oh, good. Alfred. I want to see if you think I've got the voice right."
Alfred seemed almost amused at the request, but was all too happy to oblige. He crossed his arms. "Proceed, sir."
Bruce cleared his throat again, and looked down at the floor as he got into character. "Nice to meet you, sir. I'm Phillip Mosbey." he said in a low, deep voice. " A-E-I-O-U. One, two, three." He looked at Alfred for a verdict. "Well," he said in his normal baritone.
Alfred rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You sound convincing enough, although perhaps if you made it a little deeper, and added a slight rasp."
Dick seemed to agree. "Yeah. Make it sound like you need to clear your throat, but just a little. Not too . . . phlegmy."
Bruce nodded. "Good. I'll practice for a few minutes before going out tonight. By the way, that reminds me; you and Tim will have to handle patrol for a few hours tonight."
"Sure. I won't have to wear the suit, will I?"
Bruce shook his head. "No, Nightwing will be just fine. But, you can take the car, if you like."
Dick looked at him with pleased surprise. He then turned and glanced at the Batmobile, sitting ready on the turntable at the end of the stone plateau. "The big car, huh? I don't think I've driven this particular Batmobile."
Bruce started back for the vault. "No, I don't think so. You can take a few minutes and familiarize yourself with the controls. It's not dramatically different, and anything you can't figure out, Alfred or Tim can help you out with."
"Great." Dick started for the dark car. He looked at the driver's side of the roof canopy. "It's the panel six inches below the window, right?"
"Yes," Bruce called back, entering the vault. Dick felt down from where the canopy met the body of the car until he felt a hollow plate. He pushed in on the plate, and it popped open. Inside was a speaker, beside the speaker was a small five-digit number pad. Dick leaned down and spoke into the speaker, "Open."
A few seconds later, the canopy released and moved forward. Dick climbed in behind the steering wheel and began looking over the control console between the driver and passenger seats. "You and Robin shouldn't be by yourselves for very long," Bruce called back from the vault. "I should only be delayed two, perhaps three hours at most."
Dick nodded, and gripped the steering wheel with anticipation. "Take your time." He laughed quietly to himself. "Man . . . if I had poker buddies, they'd be so jealous . . ."
2934 Ashton Street, 11:30 p.m.
Quentin was in the car beside Groverton.
"It's three-A, right?"
Groverton shut off the car and popped open his door. "Yes. Now, come-on. I'd like to get this over with as soon as possible."
Quentin opened his door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. "Nervous?"
"Phillip Mosbey is one of the only urban legends not to play dress-up. He earned his reputation with more than the . . . manipulation of impulsive fear, and that's intimidating."
Quentin shrugged and put his hand in his pockets. "Well, I guess that's why I came along. Don't underestimate me, Skinny. I'm pretty damn intimidating myself." The two men started up the front steps of the building. "You know I been in fifteen fights to the death all over--"
"--the world, and you've won every one," Groverton finished, rolling his eyes.
Quentin hopped up the last two steps and opened the door, beckoning for Groverton to go ahead. "You realize that if you were anyone else, you'd be lying on the sidewalk without one of your major organs."
Groverton walked inside. "I'm flattered."
Phillip Mosbey apparently kept apartments in at least three cities, and had recently arrived in Gotham from Los Angeles. As Quentin had remarked, "Maybe he just got sick of the West Coast." There was no other explanation, really, although perhaps the fact that he kept two of his homes on the East Coast, and only one on the West said something.
His apartment was on the top floor of the building, apartment 3-A. Groverton and Quentin took the elevator. "So . . ." Quentin began as the car started up, "what's this guy look like? Big guy?"
Groverton took a breath. "He's approximately six foot two, Black, about two hundred-thirty pounds. So, yes, he's big."
Quentin nodded thoughtfully. "Could he kick my ass, you think?"
"Somehow I doubt it. You've already defeated him in your mind anyway, is that right?"
Quentin smiled. "Well . . . yes, actually. Why do you think I asked what he looked like?"
The elevator came to a stop, and the doors slid open. Mosbey's apartment was just down the hall to the left. When they reached the door, Quentin and Groverton engaged in a quick silent debate over who would knock. Eventually, Groverton was given the honor. He was, afterall, the official representative of Mr. Cobblepot. Quentin was just muscle. Not that Quentin minded. In fact, he seemed to relish being a gangland "tough."
Groverton knocked on the door, and almost immediately there was the sound of numerous locks and dead-bolts being undone, slid back, unshackled. The doorknob turned, and the door came open two inches. "What?" said a deep voice from inside the apartment.
"We're here on behalf of Oswald Cobblepot. We're here to meet with you," Groverton said, trying not to sound timid.
"Where's the Penguin?" the voice behind the door asked earnestly.
Groverton glanced at Quentin, who raised his eyebrows. "Mr. Cobblepot sent us here to talk with you. He didn't want to negotiate in person until--"
"Oh, didn't he?" the man behind the door said sharply. "Well, if he doesn't come here, then I'm not helping him. I suggested a meeting with him. I thought I had done enough for you people that I didn't have to sit through meeting with Lieutenants anymore."
"Yes, well may--"
"--If he wants me, then he has to come here personally. It's a nice place; I don't live in no slums."
The door slammed shut. Groverton started to knock again, but stopped short; from behind the closed door, the deep voice called back, "That's final! Now get outta here!"
Quentin made a fist and drew it back, staring right at the door. He threw a punch hard towards the middle of the door, but Groverton grabbed his forearm and pulled his fist back. It took both of Groverton's arms to deflect one of Quentin's. "What the hell are you doing, man? Didn't you see how that pompous asshole just blew you off?"
Groverton nodded and turned Quentin back towards the elevator. "Of course I did. But, remember why we are here. Mr. Cobblepot wants Mosbey's help. He can't do much good against Tony Carretti when he is dead, can he?"
Quentin conceded, "You're right, I guess. But, if Cobblepot decides to meet this guy face to face, I'm gonna be there." Quentin punched his right fist into his left palm and grinned wickedly. "I hope he tries something . . ."
They stepped into the elevator. "I'm sure you do," Groverton remarked as the doors slid shut again.
Thursday
1:21 a.m.
The phone rang inside Apartment 3-A, and Bruce Wayne answered. It was Alfred.
"Hello, sir. You answered on the first ring. Am I then to assume that we may speak freely?"
Bruce nodded. He was in the bathroom, wiping the brown make-up from his face. "Yes. Cobblepot himself didn't show, but that's as I expected."
"Was your performance as Mr. Mosbey a convincing one?"
"Well, obviously, if I'm here talking to you. But, I didn't get a chance to test out how the make-up worked out. Since the Penguin didn't show up himself, I didn't even open the door. I think if I seem stubborn and insistent, I'll be able to meet with Cobblepot personally tomorrow."
Bruce could almost see Alfred smirk as the butler said, "I imagine that won't be a too difficult performance, if you'll pardon the minor insult, sir."
"Pardoned. Are Nightwing and Robin handling the patrol okay so far?"
"I've not spoken with them since they left, but I have nothing but the utmost confidence in them."
Bruce nodded and shifted the phone to the other ear. "As soon as I've finished getting out of this costume, I'll get into the more standard uniform, complete the patrol."
"I shall notify Nightwing and Robin of Batman's impending arrival."
"Thank you. I'll see you in a few hours."
"I shall wait with bated breath."
"Good-bye, Alfred."
"Good-night, Master Bruce." Alfred hung up on his end, and Bruce could almost see the butler still smirking. Alfred was the king of all things droll, and honestly Bruce wouldn't have it any other way.
He hung up the phone and sat it down on the floor beside the bathroom vanity, then picked up his damp washcloth again and went back to becoming Bruce Wayne again.
Ascotte Avenue, 2:05 a.m.
The Bone Eaters were still in Gotham. At least half of them, anyway. And, it seemed they were going shopping. Seven of the remaining gang members who had opted to stay in Gotham after their leader was gunned down by Two-Face, had just become patrons at the Ascotte Avenue 7-Eleven. From the looks of things, they weren't being polite customers, either.
Nightwing and Robin were perched on the roof of Karstead Apartments across the street, watching through the store's glass front. The lone clerk was obviously inexperienced with a situation like this. He must've been new; anyone who lived or worked at Ascotte Avenue had learned to fear and in some way to deal with the presence of the Bone Eaters.
"They seem pretty evenly dispersed inside," Robin whispered to his partner. "It really wouldn't help us any to go in through the back, plus it'd take longer."
Nightwing nodded. "Agreed. We might as well waltz right in through the front door." He grinned briefly. "Should be fun." He rose to his feet and took a small hop off the roof, somersaulting once and landing deftly on the sidewalk below. Robin followed, and started across the street. Nightwing's arm shot out in front of Robin's chest and pulled him back to the curb. He shook his head, feigning disappointment, then pointed right and left, up and down the street. "We must look both ways, Robin," Nightwing chided in a mock-patriarchal tone. He then leaned forward and gave an exaggerated look to the right and left, then ushered Robin forward across the street.
As they approached the 7-Eleven's front door, Robin removed his snap-staff from his utility belt and held it ready behind his back. Nightwing walked up to the front door and pulled it wide open, stepping in boldly. "Hi ya!" he said happily to the frightened clerk. "Do y'all have beef yogurt? Or am I mixed up?"
A look of hope came over the clerk's face, but it quickly changed to fear when one of the gang members yanked a pistol from his belt and opened fire. Nightwing jumped forward and to the left, diving behind the counter. He reached up and grabbed the clerk by the shoulder, pulling him down as well. "All right, pal. I'm gonna try to help you out here, but do me a favor and keep your head down . . . against the floor." Nightwing put his hand to the clerk's ear and pushed him all the way flat to the floor, then sprung straight up, jumping up on top of the counter.
"Shoot me, you fools!!" he cried out, throwing his arms out as if asking for an embrace. The seven Bone Eaters turned towards him immediately and opened fire. As they did so, Robin snapped his staff out to it's full five-foot size and leapt forward from the front entrance. He flipped over a beef jerky display that sat in the middle of the floor and landed two feet away from three of the Bone Eaters. He swung his staff up, clipping the muzzles of their weapons, knocking the guns to the floor. He immediately swung the other end of his staff around and knocked two of the closer gang-bangers in the back of their heads, causing them to fall forward. Nightwing leaned forward to meet them, took hold of their heads and smacked them hard together like two coconuts.
Robin stepped up to the one remaining of the initial three and kicked him hard in the stomach, then clocked him in the top of the head with the end of his staff.
Two of the remaining four gang members were making their way over to Nightwing and Robin, guns blazing. Nightwing, still atop the counter, kicked one in the face as soon as he was close enough. As this punk fell back, Robin stepped up and knocked out another one with his staff, then kneed a third in the gut and tossed his staff backwards to Nightwing, who caught it. Robin took hold of this third Bone Eater's shoulders, stepped one foot behind him, and floored the punk with a Judo throw.
Nightwing gripped Robin's staff at the end, and swung it out as far as he could, reaching beyond a shelf and catching the one standing Bone Eater across the eyes. This punk grabbed his eyes and yelled in raw pain, then took off for the door. Robin waited for him to run past, then reached out with his right leg, catching the punk around the neck with the back of his knee and snapping him to the ground.
Nightwing hopped down from the counter and looked around the store, which was in a shambles, thanks mostly to the shooting. Hearing silence for more than a few moments, the clerk's hand timidly reached up to the top of the counter. "It's okay now, you can get up. Just prepare yourself."
The clerk rose up behind the counter, and his face turned even whiter than it had been. His mouth dropped open as he saw seven unconscious bodies lying on the floor, and the contents of the shelves lying beside them, or on top of them. "Ooohh man . . . oh man, I'm gonna get fired," he whispered. He looked at Nightwing. "Oh man, I just got hired last month. Man, I'm gonna get canned." Nightwing held up a calming hand. "Relax, my friend. The Civil War was a lot worse than this." Nightwing reached across the counter, where there was a pad of paper and an ink pen. He glanced at the clerk's name tag, scrawled a note on the top of the pad, then tore it off and slapped it down on the countertop. "There you go, friend. I ain't Batman, but I'm as good as my word."
The note read:
The clerk picked up the note and read over it. "N-W? What's that stand for?"
"Nightwing," he said, patting Hank the clerk on his shoulder. "I'm an urban legend too, just not a well known one." He flashed a smile to the clerk, and then he and Robin left the store.
Batman was standing on the roof of Karstead Apartments when Nightwing and Robin returned there. Nightwing jerked his thumb back in the direction of the 7-Eleven. "You know, I hope those idiots follow their buddies to Metropolis. Clark could have some fun with them, I think."
"From what I saw, you handled them just fine," Batman said, looking past Nightwing's shoulder at the front door of the convenience store.
Nightwing straightened up, sliding his heels together. "Only too happy to stand in for half of the Dynamic Duo, sir." He gave a stiff salute, then assumed a more relaxed, casual stance. "So," he said, changing gears, "how's Mr. Mosbey's meeting go tonight?"
Batman shook his head. "Cobblepot himself didn't show. I know what the problem is, though I'm not sure how to solve it exactly."
Robin crossed his arms. "From what I hear, the Penguin's in over his head. He might be numero uno in Gotham right now, but Mossman is the man on the East Coast."
Batman nodded in agreement. "At least as far as drugs go. Cobblepot isn't likely to bow to Mossman's demands, and if he doesn't find a way to get Tony Carretti and company out of town, there's going to be a gang war here. Gotham definitely doesn't need another one of those, not after all that transpired between Black Mask and Cobblepot. And, if that does happen, Cobblepot will most certainly lose. I don't want Mossman in Gotham City. The Penguin is definitely the lesser of the two evils at this point."
Nightwing rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Robin looked out over the city. "No one wants Mossman in Gotham, except for Mossman . . ."
"Right," Nightwing agreed, then turned to Batman. "But how are we gonna keep him out?"
Batman looked at the roof and shook his head slowly; he didn't have an answer . . .
Yet.
Avian Paradise Casino, 8:12 a.m.
Groverton heard the shower running when he stepped off the elevator into the penthouse. "Mr. Cobblepot?" he called, looking at the closed bathroom door.
The water shut off, and there was silence for a moment. "Groverton? Are you here?"
Groverton started for the bathroom door. "Yes, sir. It's me."
There was another silence, probably as Cobblepot was stepping out of the shower and reaching for his towel. "So, my friend," he called. The bathroom door opened, and Cobblepot emerged, holding a towel around his stomach. He started for his dressing room, just a few feet away. "Tell me, how did your meeting last night go with Mosbey?"
Groverton cleared his throat. "Actually, sir, there was no meeting. At least not one worth talking about."
Cobblepot stopped short of the dressing room, looking angrily at Groverton, his stringy black hair falling over his face. "What do you mean there was no meeting? What happened?"
"Mosbey . . . when Quentin and I arrived at his residence, Mosbey insisted on meeting with you personally. He refused to even speak with us."
Cobblepot stood on the floor of his penthouse between the bathroom and the dressing room, holding a towel around his waist with one hand, the other hand clenched into a tight fist. The man was clearly fuming. "This man who has not shown his face to anyone of note in a very long time responds to my offer of help with demands of his own? Is that what you are telling me, Groverton?"
Groverton had no choice but to nod. "That's what happened, sir. I think it would be prudent for you to--"
The Penguin held up his hand. "Quiet, please. Now, I shall tell you what I'm going to do." He took a deep breath, then turned back towards his dressing room. "I'm going to get dressed, take care of the day's business . . . and then I want you to arrange a meeting between Mr. Mosbey and I. If I must play by his rules to save myself . . . well, it appears I must."
With that, Cobblepot walked into his dressing room and shut the door, almost managing to stop himself from slamming it.
Wayne Manor, 4:01 p.m.
Bruce was sitting at the dining room table, cutting up a lean steak. He reached up for a sip of water just as Alfred entered to take away his empty salad bowl. "I trust the meal has been to your liking, sir?"
Bruce nodded, and waited until he swallowed the bite he was chewing. "It's very good, yes." A sip of water. "I think that . . . perhaps you should make dinner this early more often."
Alfred pulled out a chair and sat down close to Bruce at the table, folding his hands on top of the tablecloth. "Yes, I suppose I minor re-adjustment of my schedule wouldn't be too hurtful. Afterall, I've personally found that my meals taste better when they are heated by processes other than radiation."
Bruce took another bite of the steak, then swallowed it with a sip of water. "I tend to agree."
Alfred respected the silence for a moment, then tapped the tip of his index finger several times on the tabletop. "Will Mr. Mosbey be returning to his apartment tonight?"
Bruce finished off the steak, took a final sip of water, then pulled the cloth napkin from beneath the edge of his plate, wiped his mouth, and pushed out a foot from the table. "I'm not certain yet, but I expect so. Cobblepot's entire organization is in serious jeopardy, so I think he'll do what he has to. Hopefully tonight I'll get a chance to test more than just the authenticity of my voice."
"Have you given any thought to how Mr. Cobblepot could . . . solve his problem? From what I understand, it is a difficult situation he's been placed in."
Bruce seemed to agree, standing up from the table. Alfred picked up his glass and plate and started for the kitchen. Bruce followed, hands in his front pockets. "I've given thought to little else today. I was pondering the problem this morning on the treadmill. Cobblepot isn't likely to be willing to compromise with Mossman or his thugs at all. My problem is how the Penguin is going to keep Mossman out of Gotham without igniting another street war."
Alfred placed the plate in the sink and turned on the faucet. "Quite a problem. I take it you've found no solutions to the dilemma?"
Bruce shook his head. "If this were any other city, I might be able to convince Carretti that it wasn't worth Mossman's trouble. But, this is Gotham; it'd be a jewel in the crown of any druglord. It'll be quite a task to turn Mossman off of the idea."
Alfred nodded as he started to scrub the plate. "So it seems . . ."
2934 Ashton Street, 10:56 p.m.
The Penguin stepped out of the elevator, followed closely on either side by Groverton and Quentin. Groverton brushed ahead and moved to knock on the door of Apartment 3-A, but Cobblepot reached ahead and pulled his assistant back. "Please, allow me."
Groverton stepped back, and the Penguin walked up and stood opposite the door. He reached up and knocked hard four times. From behind the door came a deep, low voice. "That you, Cobblepot?"
"Yes. Yes it is; I'm here in person this time."
The numerous locks and shackles on the door were undone in sequence from the top to the bottom, and the door came open four inches. The face of a bald-shaven Black man in his mid-forties looked out, his eyes drawn half shut. He had the look of a predator. Phillip Mosbey looked at Cobblepot, then behind him at Quentin and Groverton. "All right. Come on in." He opened the door just wide enough for Cobblepot to step, then started to shut the door. Quentin stopped the door with his foot, and he and Groverton managed to squeeze inside. Mosbey looked the two men over quickly. "You two were here last night," he observed. He looked at Groverton, then at Quentin, then back at Groverton and shook his head. "Phillip Mosbey don't deal with numbers two and three." He held up his right index finger. "Just one."
Mosbey turned to Cobblepot, who was standing, hands in his pockets, near the middle of the room. Mosbey pointed at the kitchen of the large apartment, where there was a table large enough to seat at least six people. "How 'bout we sit down, and you tell me what your problem is. Then, I'll solve it for you." Cobblepot, Groverton, and Quentin started for the table. Mosbey moved back to his door and secured all of the locks and chains. Starting for the table, he nodded backwards at the door. "Apologies for the security. It gets a little annoying at times, but after the trouble I had with the Offspring a few years ago . . ."
Cobblepot pulled out a chair and slid in at the table. "Yes . . . I suppose I understand."
Mosbey sat down at the table across from Cobblepot, pushing the chair several feet away from the table and sitting with his hands clasped, resting motionless in his lap. "So, I understand you have some problems with Mossman. Am I right?"
Cobblepot nodded once, looking at the surface of the table. "It seems that Black Mask was willing to turn over ten percent of his profits in a certain area of commerce to Mossman. With the fall of Black Mask, Mossman has missed his kick-back. Tony Carretti, one of his lieutenants, is here to collect, plus five percent."
Mosbey nodded, and said plainly "Mossman wants fifteen percent of your drug money."
Groverton joined the conversation. "That's essentially correct."
Mosbey stood suddenly from his seat and pointed straight at Groverton. "Number two," he said in his deep, commanding tone. He then pointed at Cobblepot, but still looked directly at Groverton. "Number one. I'm talking to number one." Groverton said nothing. Mosbey nodded, eyes wide. "Good. Now keep quiet while I talk to your boss."
Cobblepot cleared his throat, and tried not to seem intimidated by this man, who was not only physically much bigger than he, but who also showed no signs whatsoever of fear or respect. "You've solved problems like this before in Los Angeles, and without violence."
Mosbey held up his hand. "Without immediate violence."
"At any rate, your negotiations were successful. And, I don't believe I'll be able to hold onto what I have without your assistance."
Mosbey looked at Cobblepot thoughtfully. "You're not lookin' at compromise as a solution? If Black Mask kicked back ten percent, why not call up Carretti and put up that offer?"
Cobblepot shook his head firmly in the negative. "He insisted that it would have to be fifteen percent. I'm not going to be bullied. The reason I'm seeking out you is that--"
"--you have no idea how you could bully him. Well, I'm afraid I'll have to have a few days before I can give you a solution on that one."
"We have one day. Carretti gave me a forty-eight hour period to either go along with his demands, or declare war for all intents and purposes."
Mosbey rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I've just been thinking . . . thinking if there was any way we could make Gotham a little less attractive to Mossman."
"I'm not sure how you could do that," Cobblepot lamented. "If he doesn't get his fifteen percent, Mossman means to take everything that I have."
Mosbey looked up suddenly, as if just struck by a brilliant revelation. He leaned forward , resting his hands on the table. "He wants everything you have . . . but, do you have everything?"
Friday
Avian Paradise Casino, 5:03 p.m.
Tony Carretti's door was opened, and he stepped out. As they were walking inside, one of his bodyguards remarked, "You think this'll take too long?"
Carretti shook his head. "Not really. At least I hope not; I wanna be back in New York in time for Pauly's viewing tomorrow. Besides, I figure this Cobblepot . . . Danny DeVito clone's gonna roll over like a cheap hooker after hot sex."
Carretti and his two bodyguards walked across the floor of the casino into the elevator. The security guards gave him no trouble, just as before. The elevator rose steadily up to the penthouse. There it stopped, and after a short pause, the doors slid open. Carretti stepped out into the main room, his cohorts close behind him to either side. Cobblepot was seated at his desk at the far end of the room, flanked by his assistant Groverton, and a tall, muscular blonde man whom Carretti hadn't seen before, but who seemed vaguely familiar.
Cobblepot stood from his desk and greeted Carretti with a smile. "Welcome back. I think you'll find that I've reached an equitable solution. . . . For both of us."
Carretti stopped several feet in front of the desk and stood, ready to hear what Cobblepot had to say. Cobblepot walked out from behind his desk and stood directly opposite Carretti. "I've decided that I'm not going to pass on a single penny of my business to your boss. Not fifteen percent. Not ten percent. Not five, either. Nothing."
Carretti stared at Cobblepot blankly for almost a full minute, totally unprepared for this response. He literally couldn't believe what he had heard. "What?" he asked finally, his face fraught with disbelief. "You're not paying? You don't have a choice."
The Penguin shook his head, the unbreakable confidence that nearly always defined him back in force. He just grinned smugly and turned towards the blonde man, who was still standing quietly beside the desk, as he addressed Carretti. "Anthony, I'd like you to meet a new associate of mine." The Penguin pointed at the blonde man. "This is Sir Edmund Dorrance. He's a very wealthy man. He's also perhaps the most capable martial artist in the world."
Carretti looked at the blonde figure, who was wearing a pair of dark designer sunglasses. "Why am I supposed to give a shit about this? What does martial arts matter if you got one a these?" Carretti snapped his fingers, and both his men pulled semi-automatic pistols. Instantly, the blonde man flashed into motion. He was beside the closest of Carretti's goons before they knew what was happening. Another instant, and Carretti was standing alone before Cobblepot, his guards disarmed and lying on the floor, their chests caved in at the sternum. The man Cobblepot had called Sir Edmund Dorrance was standing on the other side of him, hands clasped calmly in front of him.
"Sir Edmund is quite an amazing fellow wouldn't you say? Especially for a blind man."
Carretti looked at Sir Edmund, who nodded. "Blind?"
"Yes," Dorrance said in a voice as cold as any Carretti had heard.
"You might know him better as King Snake," Cobblepot offered, then stepped off to the side. Carretti and Dorrance now stood squarely facing one another.
Recognition dawned in Tony Carretti's face. "The leader of the Asian gang . . ."
"Not just the Asian gang," the Penguin corrected. "He heads the largest drug cartel in the world. Larger than Mossman. He commands an army of . . . well, a lot of people. And, he is wealthier than many of the countries from which his soldiers come."
Sir Edmund inhaled, his wide chest rising up, then falling back down slowly. "Mossman will not be coming to Gotham City," he said; there was an English accent barely detectable in his cold, merciless tone of voice.
Carretti, proud as he was, felt he had to at least try to salvage the situation. "Exactly why will Mossman not be coming to Gotham City? He wants fifteen percent of the drug pie. If he can't have it, then he'll take over and take whatever he wants."
Sir Edmund shook his head. "I don't believe so. I will be involved in Mr. Cobblepot's drug operations."
Cobblepot walked around and sat down behind his desk. "He will be involved in five percent of that particular business."
"Oh is that so?" Carretti asked, still not quite believing what was happening. "Suddenly willing to compromise?"
"Oh, no, no, no," Cobblepot was quick to correct. "Sir Edmund and the men he controls will be providing me with a service that I cannot yet provide for myself: keeping you and your boss out of my personal business."
"What is it you want now, Cobblepot? It seems you've managed to negotiate yourself into a position to make demands."
Cobblepot grinned wide, arrogant. "Peaceful coexistence," he said, then laughed once. "You stay out of my city, and I'll stay out of . . . all of yours." He glanced over at Sir Edmund. "But, I can't speak for my associate here."
Tony Carretti left then. Sir Edmund Dorrance shook hands with Oswald Cobblepot, and then a few minutes later, he too left. Once the penthouse was empty, Groverton cleared his throat to break the silence. "Shall we play a game of pool, sir?"
Cobblepot thought on that a moment, then nodded and stood. He started for the pool table. "Yes, I think that would be good." He took his favorite cue from the rack against the wall. "You'll rack, of course."
Groverton took the triangular frame from the shelf and laid it gently on the felt-covered top of the table. "Of course."
Penthouse One, McClain Tower, David's Avenue, 11:47 p.m.
Batman was perched on the corner of the balcony's railing, his eyes surveying his city from high above. Inside the penthouse, which Batman owned under an alias, and which served as one of several strike bases scattered strategically throughout the city, sat Robin. He was able to catch the last few minutes of David Letterman's monologue during this nightly break, and tried not to miss it.
A figure in the night spirited across Batman's field of vision, and a few seconds later, Nightwing dropped down onto the balcony, holding onto the end of a long length of cord. Batman turned and gave him a nod of greeting. "Anything tonight?"
Nightwing shook his head, then pulled back on his long ponytail. "I think I'm gonna get a haircut."
Robin heard this and sat forward on the couch, looking out the balcony doors with interest. Batman stepped down off the railing and gestured towards the glass doors. Nightwing stepped inside the penthouse. "I've been suggesting that you do that ever since you started growing it longer," Batman reminded him.
Nightwing shrugged. "Well, maybe I'll go totally against character and actually follow your advice." He smiled with genuine amusement. Robin stood and approached the two men, switching off the television.
"Chopping off the tail?"
Nightwing nodded and pulled on his ponytail again. "Yeah, I think so. I'm getting a little sick of it . . ."
"Going for the George Clooney look, maybe?" Robin joked.
Nightwing gasped. "Oh, no! I still want to look heterosexual. I'm probably not gonna go back to keeping it as short as when I was first with the Titans. Maybe something long, just above or just below the shoulder. But, definitely a lot shorter than now!" Nightwing reached back and pulled his ponytail up front, over his shoulder. "This thing's two feet long! I don't want the old-Clark Kent style, but a little less of a mane."
Robin nodded. He seemed to like the idea; a little more civil-looking Nightwing. Not that he was uncivilized now, but . . .
"So," Nightwing said, turning to face Batman and folding his arms, "can we consider this whole Mossman-Penguin takeover thing solved?"
Batman nodded. "I think so. Calling in King Snake probably scared off Mossman, hopefully permanently."
"You're not concerned that Dorrance will have an increased presence in Gotham?"
Batman shook his head. "King Snake is a very cold, logical man. He controls a worldwide narcotics empire; Gotham won't strengthen him considerably, and not having Gotham won't weaken him noticeably, either. Mossman is a rival of his; I think he takes pleasure in denying his rival a prize. The important thing is, in Gotham City, we still have only Oswald Cobblepot to deal with."
Nightwing rolled his eyes, and Robin sighed and said, "I never thought I'd see that as good news."
Anyway . . . it only gets better from here! Heading for the home stretch of the first season! Stay tuned!!