Marco got exactly three hours of sleep before his alarm went off. Not four. Three. His body felt like it had been beaten with a bat, his eyes burned, and his mouth tasted like something had died in it. But the case wasn't going to solve itself.
He drove across Gotham as the sun struggled to break through the industrial smog. The light that made it through was weak and gray, the kind of light that made everything look washed out and exhausted. Which was fitting, because that's exactly how he felt.
The Iceberg Lounge sat on the border between the Bowery and the East End, a converted warehouse that still looked half-industrial from the outside. The only indication it was anything more than another crumbling building was the neon sign.
As he pulled up to the curb, he spotted Cobblepot standing at the entrance, adjusting his suit collar. Cobblepot had come a long way from being Falcone's errand boy. This place was his first real operation. First time he'd been trusted with the whole package: staffing, finances, operations.
Marco climbed out of his car, zipped his jacket against the cold, and started walking toward the entrance. Cobblepot hadn't noticed him yet, he was too busy giving orders to his bodyguard.
"Gabe, go get last week's ledger—"
The bodyguard suddenly lifted one finger, pointing past Cobblepot's shoulder. Cobblepot turned, saw Marco's shadow falling over him, and damn near jumped out of his skin.
"Good morning, Mr. Cobblepot."
Cobblepot jolted like he'd been electrocuted, his hand flying to his chest. Then recognition set in.
"Good morning, Officer!" He smoothed down his hair, which was damp from the morning fog, and extended his hand with exaggerated enthusiasm. "So good to see you again! We're old friends, aren't we?"
"Yeah," Marco said, ignoring the offered handshake. "Old friends."
He tilted his head back, looking up at the Iceberg Lounge sign.
"Mind if we go inside? Have a chat?"
"Of course!" Cobblepot hurried forward, limping slightly as he moved to open the heavy frosted-glass door himself. "Please, come in. Marco, if you'll allow me to call you that, please."
---
Outside was Gotham's reality, gray, and unforgiving. Inside the Iceberg Lounge was a twilight world of velvet and shadow.
The main hall was huge, but the lighting made it feel smaller, and intimate. A massive crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, but only a handful of its bulbs were lit. The air was cold, colder than it should've been. Central air cranked up high, creating an artificial chill that mixed with the stale smell of expensive cigars.
At the center of the room stood an oval bar made of black stone, polished to a mirror shine. Behind it, a floor-to-ceiling shelf displayed every type of liquor Marco had ever heard of, and plenty he hadn't.
The rest of the hall was drowning in shadow. Chairs sat upturned on tables, making the place look abandoned despite the staff he could see moving around in the back. Everything about the Iceberg Lounge screamed "trying too hard," too much money, too much style, not enough substance.
Cobblepot led him to a booth in the back corner, the farthest from the entrance. Privacy, or the illusion of it. They sat across from each other, and he immediately snapped his fingers twice. A server came with a bottle and two glasses.
"I'm really glad you came to see me." he opened the bottle, and poured half a glass for each of them. "What can I do for you?"
Marco didn't answer right away. He leaned back in the booth, looking around the room. After a moment, he said, "You've done a nice job with this place. I'm impressed."
Cobblepot's smile widened. "I'm just doing my small part for Don Falcone's organization. Speaking of which, he speaks very highly of you. Not long ago he even said he wanted to have you handle that vigilante running around in the cape."
"Is that right?" Marco swirled his glass, ice clinking softly. "Funny thing, I've never heard him say anything like that. You just leaked his internal business. That's sloppy."
Cobblepot's smile froze. "No, you must be misunderstanding—"
"Am I?" Marco picked up his glass. "Or are you just bad at keeping secrets?"
"It's a misunderstanding," Cobblepot said quickly, raising his own glass. "We're all working for Gotham's benefit, aren't we? Let's drink to the city."
"A misunderstanding." Marco clinked glasses with him, then took a small sip. "Sure. To Gotham, and misunderstandings."
"Hahaha..." Cobblepot drained his glass in one gulp.
Marco set his glass down. "So. How've you been? Zsasz hasn't given you any trouble lately, has he?"
Cobblepot's expression flickered, just for a second, before the smile came back. "Of course not. Victor and I both serve Don Falcone. We have our occasional disagreements, but it doesn't affect our working relationship."
"That's good to hear." Marco nodded slowly. "Because I heard Victor was pretty pissed about what happened last time. When I used one of his guys to call in that ambush."
"Victor can be temperamental. In the end, we did eliminate Mooney, didn't we? So really, everything worked out. What exactly brings you here today?"
Marco pulled a folded stack of papers from his jacket pocket and placed them on the table between them.
"The GCPD's got a case. That's a summary of what we know so far. Interested?"
Cobblepot picked up the papers and started reading. When he finished, he looked up at Marco with puzzlement.
"This case doesn't have anything to do with me."
"No," Marco agreed. "It doesn't."
He stood up, walked around the table, and sat down next to Cobblepot in the booth. Close enough that their shoulders were almost touching.
"But now that you've read it, it does."
"You want me to help you find this person." Cobblepot straightened up. "No problem. We're friends, after all. And friends help each other out, don't they?"
"Help each other? I haven't even asked you for anything yet, and you're already fishing for payment. That's not very friendly."
"Well, I..." Cobblepot's smile faltered. "Everything has a price, doesn't it? That's just business."
"See, the thing is..." Marco draped his arm over Cobblepot's shoulders. "I could take this to Don Falcone directly. He's got way more resources than you. But I thought I'd come to you first."
Cobblepot stiffened under the weight of Marco's arm. "If you go to him, the price will be much higher. I'm sure we can work something out that's mutually beneficial."
"Mutually beneficial. Alright. Here's what I want. I won't raid your territory in the East End. Your operations stay off my radar. But, you keep your places clean. No powder, snow, crystal, or pills. Not even weed."
Cobblepot tried to shift away, but Marco's arm kept him locked in place. "That's impossible. The junkies will riot. And Don Falcone would never allow me to give up that kind of profit. It's one of our biggest revenue streams—"
"Figure it out." Marco leaned in closer. "You can move anything else you want. Guns, stolen cars, electronics, black market cigarettes. Even if you want to run a chop shop, I don't care. You want to hit Thorne's smuggling warehouse? Go ahead. My guys will be looking the other way."
He released Cobblepot's shoulder and sat back.
"But no drugs. That's non-negotiable."
Cobblepot stared at him for a long moment. Finally, he picked up his glass, realized it was empty, and just held it in front of his mouth.
"Your shirt collar's dirty," Marco added. "Might want to get that cleaned."
"Yes, I've been very busy lately..." Cobblepot set the glass down, poured himself another drink, and sat in silence for several seconds.
Then he nodded.
"Alright. Deal."
Marco poured himself another drink. "To lasting friendship."
"Friendship..." Cobblepot echoed.
They clinked glasses and drank. Marco stood up.
"So?"
"So." Cobblepot picked up the case summary again, reading it more carefully this time. "I'll dig up every short person in Gotham if I have to. You'll get your suspect. But forgive my bluntness, this is bullshit."
"Excuse me?"
"This profile." Cobblepot tapped the papers. "If this guy can really hypnotize large groups of people into killing themselves, he's like the Pied Piper. He could walk down any street in this city and have followers throwing themselves at his feet. He could be running for mayor right now if he wanted."
"Maybe," Marco said. "But maybe that's not what he's after."
Cobblepot stared at him like he'd lost his mind. "Someone with that kind of power, and he's sitting at home throwing tea parties and playing with dolls?" He shook his head. "Don't worry. I'll find him. I want to see what kind of pathetic creature wastes that kind of gift."
He stood up, walking Marco toward the door. But halfway there, he stopped.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"Why are you so obsessed with clearing drugs out of the East End? When it comes to law and profit, there are far more serious things happening in this city. Is someone pressuring you to target us specifically?"
"No. This is my call. Mine and the East End precinct's. Nobody's leaning on me."
"Then why—"
"You said you don't believe in hypnosis," Marco interrupted. "So how's he controlling these people?" He gestured at the case summary still in Cobblepot's hand. "You know what junkies are like. They'll snort, smoke, or shoot anything you put in front of them. They don't think, they don't question, they just consume. Now imagine this lunatic figures out he can use that. Imagine he starts dosing drugs with whatever chemical cocktail he's using to control people. Suddenly your customers aren't just high, they're his puppets. They're walking into your clubs, bars, or gambling dens, and they're not spending money. They're following orders. And when this psycho decides he wants your business? Or your head? He sends a dozen controlled junkies through your front door. You going to shoot them all? How's that look to Don Falcone when you're explaining why you killed a dozen paying customers?"
"That's a bit alarmist."
"Is it?" Marco raised an eyebrow. "Fifteen girls walked into Miller Bay and drowned themselves with smiles on their faces. You think that's a fluke?"
Cobblepot was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded slowly. "You're right. At least until we deal with this individual, drugs are a liability. I can't make money off lunatics. Bad for business."
"Exactly." Marco extended his hand. "So. We have a deal?"
"Yes." Cobblepot gripped Marco's hand firmly. For the first time since Marco had arrived, they were speaking the same language: profit and self-preservation. "A pleasure doing business with you, Marco."
"For this city?"
Cobblepot's smile took on a strange quality.
"Yeah," he said. "For this city."
They stood there for a moment, hands clasped.
"For this city's future," Marco said.
"For this city's future," Cobblepot echoed.
In Gotham, the lines between right and wrong were drawn in pencil, not ink. Easy to erase when you needed to.