A/N: Hello. I just had a huge brainstorm and, since I love 40s era movies/stories and Batman, well... put those two together and (if you're me) you might come out with this! The plan is to write a Batman fic, the main plots crime rivalry, maybe a bit of romance, etc :) Please R&R! There's more to come, I swear. But I won't post til I have at least, um... 4 reviews. :D

Summary: Organized crime has rooted itself beneath Gotham City, circa 1940. The Dark Knight, aided by Commissioner Gordon, Selina Kyle, and other notables, attempts to break it, while at the same time being thwarted by various rogues. Will include some of our favorite Bat friends and foes, as well as cameo's galore! Character list will be long!

PS: 'T' rating a precaution. Allusions to gang violence and streetwalking, drunkeness, and very mild language.

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any stuff like that. All of it belongs to DC. Don't sue me... please.

These Shameless Streets

Chapter One: Stormy Night

Cigar smoke curled up high inside the dark, sepia-toned room. It was completely black, save for one small ceiling lamp in the very center. Furniture was scarce, but the few items that graced the room were expensive and old-fashioned, inherited pieces – including a tall, walnut bookcase filled with valuable first edition classics as well as several illustrated aviary textbooks, and five low-backed chairs situated around the square card table in the center of it all. A small radio sat unused on the table, and a round-faced clock hung on the wall next to a curtainless window. Outside, the sky was pitch black except for the glow of street lamps ten stories below. The hands of the wall clock read twenty minutes to ten. Four of the five chairs surrounding the card table were occupied and hushed voices hummed, not allowing occasional car horn blares or ambulance sirens to interrupt the current conversation or the game.

"This time I want them to know," grunted the fat man with the odd-shaped nose. He wore an eye-glass on a silver chain clipped to the lapel of his purple silk vest. He stared down at his hand, but his expression was unmistakably hard and preoccupied. A busty blonde woman in a red, low-cut sequined dress sat next to him, on his left. Her name was Liz.

"Know what, baby?" she asked hoarsely, her dark red lips staunch against her pale skin and black-rimmed eyes. He ignored her and turned an ugly face toward the opponent who sat across the table. This man was a huge man, not only heavy-set but monstrously built. His hair was dark with wide smudges of white and silver above his ears and a downward peak at the top of his hairline. It was a haggard visage, with sagging under his eyes and deep lines about his mouth and double-chin that gave the impression of a long and overworked life. This man – wearing a dark green, three-button suit jacket, white shirt and wide black silk tie – shrugged his shoulders carelessly.

"They do know, Cobblepot," Rupert said smoothly, white smoke floating out of his mouth from the half-smoked cigar.

The man with the beak for a nose squawked like a ruffled bird. "Hah! I'm not so sure they do, Thorne. But they must!" He slammed a palm down and hit the card table with a loud thud, making the girls jump. The man in the green suit offered some reassurance to the nervous brunette – called Rita – next to him, patting her bare shoulder with a meaty hand and a spreading a sardonic smile. Then, taking his time, he turned back to his business partner and smirked.

"What message do you want me to send, Oswald?" he inquired with a sigh, cigar smoke spewing weightlessly through his nose.

Oswald glared at him. "This is the third time he's stolen cargo from me, and now that includes you, Rupert. We're partners here in this business venture, and we can't go in empty handed, can we?" His green-suited companion shook his huge head. The fat bird's face evolved into something resembling pleasure and determination.

"You want me to do something about it?" asked Thorne.

He narrowed his black, beady eyes and said: "Use your boys, Rupert. It's what I'm paying you for. Falcone's got to get it through his cracked skull that nobody moves in on my operations – and nobody who tries gets away with it! I'm Oswald Cobblepot!" He squawked, raising his voice. "I'm the Penguin, dammit!"

...

Across town, in a high-rise, five-star hotel, the piano was being closed up and the white-jacketed band members were returning their percussion instruments to their cases. Lights were slowly being dimmed; waiters and waitresses gathered empty champagne glasses and dinner plates and silverware to be cleaned; cream-colored tablecloths were being folded up and stored away. Carla Swanson's party guests were either going home or going to check in at The Plaza's front desk. The heiress was still out on the dance floor, swaying to non-existent band music, her navy-blue gown flowing along with her movements. She was not alone. A tall, broad-chested young man was holding her up and pretending to dance with her at the same time. Carla was grinning at him shyly, and whispering things he couldn't quite make out, but he smiled at her and watched as the hotel night-staff began sweeping the marble floor. He looked down at her, her chestnut hair glistening under his chin.

"Carla?" he asked quietly. She mumbled some kind of reply. "The party's over. Everybody's gone home."

Her head felt very heavy, but she leaned it back and stared at him through half-closed eyes. "It's all over?" she repeated.

"Yes," her companion nodded. "It's all over."

"Oh."

He stopped swaying and leaned down close. "Would you like to go home, Carla? I can call you a cab."

Carla shook her head slowly, loosening stray pieces of her brown hair from her high. fancy up-do. "No... no cab," she mumbled.

The young, dark-haired man frowned. "You can't drive, Carla. You're too drunk, and I'm–" He was interrupted.

"No, Bruce," she slurred. "I'm staying at the hotel."

"Well, that's fine, Carla." Bruce straightened up, satisfied. He was glad she didn't have any place to go tonight. She was in no condition to walk, much less drive or direct a cabbie, which meant he'd have done it for her. And while it would have been the proper thing, Bruce Wayne had other matters to attend to as well. "Come on, let me take you to your room."

His tipsy companion offered no resistance as Bruce gently took her by the arm,with one hand around her waist, to the new elevator, and finally the door of her suite. Carla pleaded briefly for Bruce to stick around, maybe for another night cap? But he politely refused, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry, Carla. I can't." He watched as she swaggered further into her room, her back to him. She probably wasn't listening anyway. He shrugged his shoulders and said loud enough for her to hear: "Good night, Carla!"

Now at least that was done, but he had to hurry. Back downstairs, Bruce walked swiftly through the large, glitzy hotel foyer and out the front door, past the pair of young, uniformed doormen. He signalled George, the valet who had parked his automobile earlier. The boy nodded and went around back while Bruce waited patiently on the steps. It was cold and late, so he shoved his hands into the pockets of his tuxedo. He would have gone home much earlier, had it not been for Carla. Soon, George pulled up alongside The Plaza's front steps in the silver Highlander.

Burning out of the hotel lot, Bruce sped through downtown Old Gotham, down Main Street, then turned right onto the cliff-side roadway of Marina Drive. Marina Drive ran along a lengthy rocky bluff; the salty, black waves of Gotham Bay churning below. A blustery evening, Bruce could feel the steering wheel jerk everytime the car was hit by a powerful gust of the seaside wind. The top was down, and his jet-black hair was blowing wildly about. Bruce had to squint to guard his eyes from the cold, whipping air and keep his focus on the road ahead. Eventually – about twenty minutes out – on the top of a dark, grassy hill, he could just make out the familiar lights distinguishing his home. There it was: Wayne Manor.

...

It had been peaceful for a while, and she had been sound asleep. It was a scream that woke her up, coming from outside on the street below. A woman's scream, but not a terror-stricken or agonized scream – just a scream of excitement, of thrill. Then came another, then a shrill laugh and a high-pitched squeal. The girl must have been having a good time. Selina rubbed her eyes and, easing out of bed, moved to the broken window. Down there, on the corner of East Corwin and Lower Main, leaning under a lamp post, was Sadie.

Sadie was one of Signora Luciana's many busty, red-mouthed, face-painted "ladies." Anyone who knew anything about anything knew who Luciana was and how she made a living. And Luciana answered to somebody upstairs, but matters weren't always so clear as to who that somebody was. Most speculated that it was either "Boss" Maroni or his cousin and street rival, Carmine Falcone. Best anyone could ever come up with was that it was "a family affair," no doubt about it. Selina knew, though. Selina Kyle knew everything.

So there Sadie stood, under the dim, flickering light, wearing a tight, crimson halter-type dress that was dangerously low-cut, and laughing in that high-pitched voice. There were two men with her. Selina hadn't seen either of them before. Both were lean, both wearing black suits and fedoras, and both were sneering, pretending to laugh with Sadie at what ever had been said that was so amusing. Selina's lips formed a grim line. Sadie was drunk. One of the men said something and cleverly grabbed for Sadie's arm. She let him take it, but remained propped up against the lamp post, giggling inebriatedly. Selina frowned as she watched the other man reach for her skirt.

Decisively, she leaned out the open pane and yelled: "Sadie!"

It caught the attention of all three, including Sadie, who jerked her head upwards to look for the voice. Selina waved, with a sleepy smile, and Sadie saw her, having to squint.

Clumsily, she waved back with a floppy arm. "Hi, 'Lina!"

"Are you all right, honey?" Selina inquired, trying to sound lighthearted. Smiling, she kept a wary eye on Sadie's two companions.

"'Course I am, 'Lina!" Sadie nodded her head up and down, her movements exaggerated by the liqour she'd drank. The men looked up at Selina and she shot them a dirty look, knowing Sadie wouldn't catch it.

"Coming up soon, Sadie?" She recieved another head shake, 'no' this time.

"These boys are taking me to the Coco Club." Sadie gestered to the shorter of the two men. "Johnnie, here, wants me to dance with 'im!" she slurred.

"Is that so?" she said, with just the right amount of interest blended with disgust.

"Yeah! Hey! Why don'tcha join us, 'Lina?" Sadie shouted. "Y'ain't working tonight, are you?" This made the two men look up to her window.

It was Selina's turn to shake her head, and she slowly, solemnly did. But her voice kept a cheerful, non-chalant note when she spoke. "Yes, sugar, I've got the night off. But I plan on using it for sleeping, not..." – she couldn't help hesitating – "...dancing. Sorry, hon."

Sadie shrugged her shoulders. "Too bad." The men enthusiastically nodded their agreement. Perhaps too enthusiastically. She turned to the shorter one, who was called Johnnie. "Well, gents? Shall we go?" Taking an arm each, the men started talking again, making Sadie giggle. Before she forgot, she spun her head 'round and yelled back to her friend. "Night, 'Lina! You're missin' out!"

Selina frowned at her words. "Missing out on what?" she whispered to herself, wryly. She watched the girl in the crimson dress walk, arm-in-arm with two strange men across the road, their voices fading as they went farther and farther away. They headed down a short, dark alley and then turned a corner, and were finally out of sight. Quietly, Selina mouthed: "Be careful, Sadie," into the dark.

She shook her head again, almost mournfully, as she left the window and shuffled back to the crooked, four-post bed. Sliding under the scanty covers, she shuddered from the shock of the chilly bedding next to her warm skin. Once settled, she laid there with her eyes open, staring at the cracks and splatters on the ceiling, thinking about what Sadie had said.

Selina did work for Madam, it was true. In fact, it had been easy to get a job as one of her "pretty ladies." Her dark, raven hair and flashing emerald eyes had been attractive selling features, not to mention her well-developed bosom and plump, puckering lips. Men had been hopelessly drawn to the new girl, "'Lina."

However, Selina Kyle did not work for Signora Luciana because she was homeless, or addicted to the opium, or a drunk who'd been kicked out by her abusive husband. No, Selina had something much more valuable going for her. Three weeks on the "job" had made her a very educated woman, and because of that, The Cat – as she was known to her other employers – was up to her ears in lush, green lettuce. Because, secretly, "The Cat" was really a pigeon.

...

What had began as a cool, breezy summer night had quickly become a raging, thunder storm. Gale-force winds whipped through the branches of the several, tall birches, relentlessly forcing them against the side of the building again and again. The ominous noise of thunder rolled above, loud and foreboding. Jagged streaks of lightning flashed in the black, cloud-filled sky. Every so often, the blinding light outlined the entire courtyard, and the white bark of the birches were suddenly glaringly bright against the dark, red brick. There was no rain. It was only a lightning storm, dry and gusty and loud.

The wind was blowing through Gotham from the west, and down along the westward wing of the red brick building, there was a barred cell window. Every time the natural electric spasms surged, the entire cell was edified with white light. Inside, the shadows the bars made were imprinted onto both the brick wall and the small, crouched figure that leaned against it. The man's gangly body was curled tightly into a somewhat spherical shape, and he held his hands over his head in a defensive gesture. The lightning didn't bother him – he enjoyed anything hot and destructive – but the thunder spooked him. Somewhere, far within the depths of his tattered psyche, there was a long-suppressed hint of astraphobia – fear of thunder – that made him shudder at every clap of hot air meeting cold.

As soon as the rumbling started, he'd flung himself to the ground and covered his ears with his scarred, white hands. He was thankful that they hadn't left him in the straight-jacket overnight. His body shook with fright and surprise each time the sky boomed, and his hands clawed nervously through his shockingly green hair. His hands ran over his entire face and head. The white, spindly fingers covering his face resembled a cage, and every so often he warily peeked between his bony knuckles with a blood-shot eye to see if it was over yet.

Eventually, the thunder eased, with longer time gaps between each roaring clap. Finally, he stretched out on the small, flimsy cot, ready to sleep. There were probably only a few hours until daylight, and then the guard would be coming around with breakfast. He'd have to eat, of course. If he didn't, the guards would notice and there might be problems. They'd drag him down for a "check-up" on his mental health. Hah! On the other hand, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe he'd get to visit that young, blond doctor. She was a sweet, naive little thing. Shrinks were all the same. But he could probably have fun with this one...

Lying there on the cot, with his arms folded behind his head, he shut his eyes to think. Soon, he thought. Soon he would be out of this juvenile place. He could feel it. Something was about to happen, and then he would be set free. Suddenly, his thoughts strayed back to the pretty, fair-haired psychologist, and the Joker's blood-red lips formed a wicked smile.

...