A/N:Hey, here's the second chappie. Hope its ok. Please R&R! Let me know what you think. ;)

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters/settings/backgrounds, etc. DC does. And this story is NOT being written for profit of any kind.


These Shameless Streets

Chapter Two: Designs

The room was small and square. In the middle stood one wooden desk, littered with papers and file folders. There was a green desk lamp with a golden chain to switch it on and off, but the glass shade was cracked and it had not been dusted in a while. A tall, dark bookshelf stood self-importantly in one corner, and in the other was a glass water cooler. In front of the desk were two chairs with checkered cushions and behind the desk was a fancier – leather – chair. Blinds over the window behind the desk kept the outside, summertime heat out of the office, but bright morning sunlight still shone through the slits.

James Gordon was Gotham City's Commissioner of Police, and this was his office. It wasn't very special, but it served its purpose. Gordon had two seperate telephones, but only one sat atop the desk. The other was safely stowed away in the second drawer to the left. Nobody but the commissioner was permitted to use this phone. There was someone very special on the other end.

Last night there had been quite a storm, but this morning all was well: the sun was shining, and the birds were cooeing. Since police headquarters was situated in the heart of downtown Gotham, in the business district, there were virtually no trees to speak of. And without trees, little birds were rarely around to chirp. That job was done by the high-rise- and telephone wire-perched pigeons. And they didn't chirp, they cooed.

Today, Jim Gordon sat in that fancy leather chair at his desk, and drummed his fingers along the top. The skin of his face was weathered after fourteen years on the force and nineteen years living in Gotham City. Over time, his pale ginger-coloured hair had turned to a powder white, as did his thick, bushy mustache. The black, rectangle-frame spectacles he wore were constantly down on the tip of his nose.

The cleaning lady had opened his window the night before and must have forgotten to close it again. Jim could hear those blasted pigeons cooing like mad on the ledges up the side of the building. Roughly, he stood up and shut the window, making the frame creak. It was an old building.

There was a knock at the door to his office, and Jim turned towards it and said: "Come in." It opened and in walked a short, lean man wearing a black suit and holding a black fedora in his hands. He had the kind of face that could often be mistaken as vile simply because it had been built with high cheekbones and thin lips. But he was really a good and loyal man. Jim seated himself in his chair.

The man took a tentative step forward. "Commish?"

"'Morning, Carter." Gordon motioned for the plainclothes policeman to take a seat. "So? Did the Croft girl talk?"

Carter sunk into one of the checkered chairs with a sigh. "We were with Sadie all night, and she didn't know nothin'."

Gordon eyed him. "All night, huh? You and Harman didn't... ?"

"No, sir! I'm a married man, I am." Carter shook his head vigorously, his expression aghast. The commissioner heaved a deep sigh at both Carter's steadfastness – good man, see? – and his unfortunate news. Sadie Croft was one of their few leads on Signora Luciana's enterprise, and thus a lead on the so-far elusive "Roman."

Carter frowned down at his hands, fingering his hat. "Boy, they sure do keep those girls on a tight leash. Sadie couldn't even tell me Luciana's last name! But we already know what it is."

Jim nodded absently and mumbled the name: "Cenza." He thought a moment. "What did you learn, Carter?"

The plainclothes man shrugged. "Just about everything unimportant, I guess. Sadie Croft has been workin' for lady Cenza for one year. Pay is lousy, and she gets pushed around a lot, but it's work, she says." Carter paused, remembering what else Sadie had told them about herself. "Oh, and she's snagged herself a beau. Works at the Coco Club, name's Mario."

Gordon's ears perked up. "Mario?"

"You know who he is?"

"Mario Falcone. It must be. His father owns the club," Jim tapped his chin for a minute, then he snapped back to reality and turned to Carter, his brow furrowed. "You and Harman catch a few hours of sleep, then get back out and tail this 'Mario' character."

...

For a few hours it had been dark and it had been nice. Until someone mercilessly yanked back the heavy curtains and let the bright, glaring sunlight spill into the room. Bruce groaned, pulling the duvet up to shield his face from the light. He'd got in some time after four in the morning, and now he was being woken up. He didn't know what time it was now, but it couldn't have been very long. Bruce could hear the patter of footsteps moving from one end of the room to the other. Alfred was tidying up. Last night, he had gotten in later than usual. Bruce had been so exhausted that he'd just stripped off the components of his suit and let them lay where they fell.

It sounded like Alfred had gone out the door, and Bruce shifted in the bed, turning over onto his back. He let out a loud breath and blinked his eyes, adjusting to the light. The bedroom had gone from pitch black to a blinding white in just a few moments, and his eyes were still not accustomed. After a minute or two, Alfred re-entered the room, this time wheeling a cart with a white tablecloth draped over it and well-polished silver dishes sitting on top.

"Good morning, sir," he greeted cheerfully, stopping the cart at the edge of the bed.

Bruce eased himself onto his elbows and sat back against the headboard. "Alfred, what time is it?" He rubbed his face with his hand. The sun was exceptionally bright.

"Ten o'clock." Alfred arranged the cutlery setting on a breakfast tray. "You have an eleven o'clock appointment this morning with–"

"Lucius," Bruce finished his sentence. "I know."

The older eyed the younger as he offered the tray of food to Bruce, who sat it on his lap. "Business meeting, sir?"

He nodded his head. "He wants me to approve the blueprints for the new laboratory we're building down on Worthington."

"Is that all?" The butler said airily and handed a napkin to Bruce.

"Fox could do it, easily, I know. I really have to delegate these things," he said, mostly to himself, unfolding the napkin with a short sigh.

"Was it an eventful night, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked after a moment.

Bruce shook his head, tasting the fried bacon. "Not really. Jervis Tetch is back in Arkham, where he belongs," he said in between bites, finishing off the eggs. "And I think Cobblepot's finally recruited Rupert Thorne. I've been keeping close tabs on those two."

Alfred refilled Bruce's tea cup with strong, black coffee and frowned. "What of Falcone?"

Bruce downed the coffee. "He hasn't made a move yet, but my lead should prove... enlightening," he said, after a pause, with a hopeful gleam in his eye.

"Ah," the butler nodded superficially, "Which lead is that, sir?"

With an almost anxious grimace, Bruce looked up at Alfred. "I've got a man on the inside."

"Ah..." This time Alfred raised his brow in recollection.

...

An ever-present cloud of blue-grey smoke hung in the center of the cool – but stuffy – dark basement, lit with only one ceiling lamp suspended over a green baize-covered poker table. Five broad-shouldered men with easily forgettable faces sat at the table, each with a hand of cards. They were in the middle of a game.

At the other end of the furnished basement was a small, brown leather couch and a plain coffee table. A crystal ash tray was crowded with stubby cigarette butts and and still-smoking cigar ends, and glasses either half-filled with either whiskey or leftover ice made a jumble of the table. Two men and one woman sat around this coffee table: a young man and the woman at the couch and the other upright in a leather reclining chair. They were in the middle of a conversation.

The younger of the men frowned, his black brows meeting at the center. "You are taking too many chances, Papa. It's–" He was cut off by the older man sitting across from him.

"Quiet, my boy," he grumbled, quietly thumbing through a wad of paper bills, a frown on his face.

The young man with slick-backed hair persisted. "It's risky! They've got it out for you, Papa." His father looked up. "Why do you have to cause so much trouble?"

"Basta! Enough!" The older man almost shouted in Italian, his native tongue. He glared at his youngest son, whose brown eyes were wide at the sudden outburst. "It's none of your concern, ragazzo." He suddenly stood up from the leather couch. He was a tall man, and he drew up to his full six feet. He had a stern brow, dark beady eyes, and a sharp, roman nose, indicative of his Italian heritage. "Cobblepot deserves every ounce of trouble I give that fat bird."

He slowly walked over to the small but surprisingly well-stocked liquor cabinet in the corner of the room. The redheaded woman sitting on the couch stretched out her hand and called out in a whining voice: "Get me a drink, would you honey?"

Bending, he took out a tall bottle of imported bourbon and poured himself a tumbler, ignoring Patrice's request. "I used to own this blasted city," he said in a deep, gravelly voice, with his back to the others. "Providing goods and services for the people, I was. Me, 'the Roman,' like my father before me."

"You are still on top, Papa," his son spoke up, almost timidly. Carmine spun on his heel and glared, and Patrice flinched in surprise.

"For how long?" He started to pace, still gripping the tumbler. "Ever since my cousin and I split, Oswald has been moving in on my racket. Any influence that the Falcone name ever had in this town has been slipping," he angrily washed back a swig of the drink. "I'm slipping..."

The Roman's youngest kept quiet. Turning swiftly to his son, Carmine narrowed his eyes. "Those dockyard shipments are mine, Mario! I'm taking them back, one way or another."

...

Black pigskin pumps clipped at a moderate pace down the sanitarium's linoleum-floored hallway. The young woman to whom they belonged wore a white lab coat with a vibrant red, knee-length skirt and white cap-sleeve blouse beneath, tucked in and cinched at the waist by a thin black belt. The doctor's fair, blond hair was piled high and pulled tightly into a bun at the back of her head. She wore thick-rimmed spectacles over her luminous blue eyes and her lips were bright pink and plump. She had a lovely white smile, bedazzling.

Finally, she reached her destination and used her set of keys to unlock a wood door, painted grayish-blue, like all the doors in the huge building. Printed on the small glass window of said door was the name "Dr. Harleen F. Quinzel, PhD.," with the description: "Forensic Psychologist" printed below.

Outside, she knew it was sunny and bright – one of the nurses had mentioned it at lunch – but Harleen had been inside since arriving around nine, and the halls of the asylum were tungsten-lit and held an eerie greenish tone from the moss green-colored walls. Sometimes the lights would flicker, but that usually only happened during bad storms, like the one the night before.

Doctor Quinzel, however, didn't seem to mind all that much as she stepped into her cheerfully-lit office, stark in contrast compared with the outer hallway. Inside, the walls were painted a creamy off-white and scattered with various posters and charts relating to the study of criminal insanity and other mental disorders she commonly dealt with. There were no windows in her office, but there were two bright lamps in the room to compensate. A plain wooden desk faced the door, backed against the far wall, and behind it was a plain wooden, high-backed chair.

Humming to herself, she eased her petite form down into the seat and straightened her skirt for good measure. Then, with a second thought, she opened a small drawer and removed a hand-held mirror. Taking a quick glance at her blue-eyed reflection, she rubbed her pink-stained lips together and checked that her teeth were clean. A few stray golden strands had escaped from the high bun, so she hurriedly tucked them behind her ear.

Suddenly, the intercom sounded on her desk, and the loud buzz made her jump in surprise. The mirror fell from her grasp and onto the table with a little clink. She tried calming her heart by placing a free hand over her chest. Harleen could feel the frantic pulsing beneath her blouse. With the other hand, her fingers found the intercom button that connected her to the secretary of her department and pressed, holding it down.

"Yes, Daisy?" she inquired into the tiny speaker, then released the button.

The line sounded fuzzy as the secretary replied: "Your one o'clock patient is here now, Doctor."

Harleen Quinzel sounded nonchalant as she answered the girl on the other end. "You may send him in now, please. Thank you, Daisy."

She struggled to control her excited breathing and replaced the mirror, shoving the desk drawer closed with urgency. Straightening in the chair, her mouth formed a line. She had to stop grinning like an idiot. But it was useless. By now, her whole face was smiling. Harleen shook herself, trying to snap out of it, and bent her head over the desk. Her hands absently made sure that her clean, mess-free, yellow-paged notebook was perfectly aligned with the straight edge of the desk, and that her number-two pencil was also parallel.

The door opened and in stepped one large, burly guard – wearing black trousers, a white short-sleeved dress-shirt, and blue bow-tie. Behind him came another guard. Both were armed with nightsticks attached to their hips. Finally, he entered. She looked up and stared as one of the guards led him to one of the plush yellow chairs stationed before her desk. No one spoke.

He was cuffed, with both hands in front, and wore the usual Arkham-inmate garb: a faded orange jumpsuit with the numbers, "752890086" stamped on both the back and on the unused breast-pocket. Harleen noticed that he wasn't in the jacket today, but she wasn't shocked. His behavior had improved over the last couple of days so much that he hadn't needed a straight-jacket.

She could see yet a third and fourth guard position themselves easily outside her office door as one of the others closed it behind them. Then she watched as the patient plopped himself lightly into a butter-colored chair. His skin was so white that it seemed almost luminescent against the orange of the outfit, so the doctor thought. And that hair! She'd never known a man with green hair before him. In some strange and sick way, she thought him somewhat attractive, appealing even.

Settled, he looked her straight in the eye and his twisted red mouth grinned, displaying his yellowing teeth. "Good afternoon, Doc!" he said with enthusiasm. She blinked, re-focusing her attention to the actual appointment, and then replied in a sweet voice.

"Hello, Joker."


A/N: If you would like to read more, please R&R! It keeps me going! :) If, however, you aren't a fan of my story... or my (one-time) take on certain characters, please don't leave any nasty comments. If that's how you feel, I respect that, but just don't keep up with the story. Leave it alone, and please just keep your negative opinions to yourself. It just hurts my feelings. Thank you in advance. :)