Batman and associated characters are not my intellectual property.

-September 3, 2011-

Part Two

The three men wore black ski masks. Not very imaginative, but it did the trick. "You don't know what you're doing, son," Gordon warned.

The one who spoke stepped forward. "Open the door and walk out to the curb. There'll be a black limo. Get in. If you try to run, you will die."

"I don't take orders from punks with masks," Gordon snarled. Man, this is a really awful day.

"You do this time." The man shifted his weight to his back leg and motioned with the gun. "We know you have a daughter, Commissioner." Gordon clenched his teeth, his hand balling into a fist behind his back. I'm outnumbered and outgunned, he thought. I guess I have to comply.

Gordon turned around without a word and went out the door down the sidewalk. Once he reached the curb, a black limousine pulled up the street, and the back door opened. A man inside motioned for him to get into the car.

Gordon hesitated, but stepped into the vehicle. He didn't have much of a choice. He sat down inside and buckled his seatbelt. The interior of the car was dark, and he couldn't quite make out the face of the man sitting beside him. He only saw that the man wore a trilby and a trench coat. He couldn't make out the face of the driver through the rearview mirror, either. "Who are you?" he asked the man on his left. He got no answer out of him.

"I see you're not a chatty Kathy," Gordon muttered. They haven't blindfolded me. That's unnerving. It means they don't care if I know where I'm going. Three reasons for that: it's an easily recognizable landmark, they're too powerful to care, or they plan on killing me. That last thought lingered in the back of his mind for the rest of the ride.

Traffic had cleared up, so the drive was relatively quick. They drove straight downtown, to the business sector. Gordon had the distinct feeling he had been kidnapped by the mob. Falcone's tower stood in the middle of town, right across from the only slightly taller Wayne Enterprises skyscraper.

Sure enough, the car stopped at the curb in front of the steps at the bottom of the dark building. "Out," said the man in the hat. Gordon opened the door and stepped out of the limousine, looking up at the immense structure above him, a dark reflective colossus in the sky. He couldn't even see the top through the clouds.

The man in the hat walked around the car. "We're going inside," he told Gordon.

"I hadn't guessed," Gordon muttered under his breath. He hiked up the steps and through the revolving door at the base of the building. The man gestured to the private elevator to the left, swiping his keycard to gain access. After a short pause, the silver doors parted and Gordon stepped into the elevator.

He noticed a black camera watching him the top corner of the elevator compartment. He also noticed the kitschy jazz lounge elevator music.

The man in the hat stepped inside, pressing the top floor. The doors closed, and the elevator rose. Falcone wants me in his pocket, Gordon thought. He doesn't realize how stubborn I can be.

It felt good to be underestimated.

The elevator slowed to a halt, and with a chime, the doors opened. Gordon walked out into a waiting room decorated with furniture that looked like it had been imported straight from the 1960's. A petite blonde woman looked up from her computer, behind a spacious desk by a door labelled "Mr. Falcone."

"Go right in, Mr. Gordon. He's ready." Her voice was deep and silky, almost husky even, like a woman from an old smoking commercial. Her hair was even in a bob. The whole room stank of the past.

The man in the hat sat down on a sofa. "Do as the dame says," he told Gordon, settling down and picking up a magazine.

Gordon hesitated, but walked forward, aware that he had to make the right impression. If he came off as too much of a boy scout, he had no doubt Falcone would have a hit out on him the moment he left. But he didn't want to appear corrupt or weak. It was a balancing act. He wanted to gain Falcone's respect, but he didn't want to be on the payroll.

Gordon got to the door and turned the knob. It swung open without a sound on perfectly oiled hinges. The room beyond was remarkably modern, a marked contrast to the oldies lobby behind his back. Modern art hung on the wall, an array of original copies bought for hundreds of thousands of dollars each. As much as Gordon liked the aesthetic, he doubted a work in the style of orphism was really worth it. The walls were navy blue and the filing cabinets were the same color.

The wall in front of him was entirely a floor-to-ceiling window looking out over Gotham's crowded urban vista. In front of the window sat a massive silver desk facing the door. Behind it in a black leather chair sat Carmine Falcone, owner of Masque Shipping Corporation and head of the Falcone family mob.

He was a thickset man with a double chin, a grey receding hairline, and a fat lip; in all honesty he was ugly, but powerful enough that you wouldn't dare say it, even behind his back.

"Hello, Police Commissioner. How good of you to drop by." His voice was deep and thick, with a slight Boston accent that reared its head every time he said a word with an 'R'.

"Dropping by? Is that what you'd call it?" Gordon asked. He snorted. "What do you want, Mr. Falcone?"

"Sit down," the man rumbled. He raised an arm and pointed to one of two comfortable leather chairs positioned in front of the desk.

Gordon took a few steps forward and sat in front of the mob boss' desk.

Falcone cleared his throat. "Mr. Gordon, I've just donated six thousand dollars to you publicly."

"What?" Gordon frowned. "I don't think I understand, Mr. Falcone."

"Call it a...token of friendship." Falcone's thick lip curled up into a smile that sent ripples through his unattractive face. Gordon knew the game, and he knew what Falcone was playing at. Trying to blackmail me, huh?

"I'll just have to return that money, then," he replied. He adjusted his wire-frame glasses. "Look, Mr. Falcone, we're no amateurs. You're a mobster and you're trying to bribe a police chief. I'm not going to be on the payroll, now or ever. If the mayor wants me to do him a favor, he's going to have to stop hiding behind your power and he's going to have to give me some good reasons why I should do anything for him." Gordon chuckled. "Plus, if you want a special taskforce hunting down the batman, why don't you get some of your own henchmen to do it, huh?"

Falcone's insidious smile shifted downward into an annoyed grimace. "I believe you understand that I can influence your career."

"You've got no dirt on me, Falcone. Don't try to play me without a ball." Gordon stood. "Are we done here?" After Falcone's curt nod, he pointed a thumb back at the door. "I'll let myself out."

There was no limo ride home. Gordon had to call a cab and wait at the curb until the dingy yellow car pulled up with squeaky brakes to take him back home. As he got into the taxi, he thought only one thing: I think I might be in over my head.

Then again, he thought that most days since his wife had died. When the cab stopped at his house, he almost forgot to pay, he was so caught up in his thoughts. Among the myriad of them, swirling around in his head, one stood out: I need to talk to the batman.