It was raining in East Gotham. Icy water rattled along the gutters and shuddered along the barred windows of Arkham State Penitentiary in dim, yellow-lit torrents. The streets were awash in clear water, with a little shimmer on the surface where the searchlight reflected. It was the kind of night that inspired random muggings, shootings, assault, and jaywalking all over Gotham. Overhead, the moon was sunk behind clouds almost as thick as the cigar smoke inside the guard lounge, where the night shift guard, Lucky O'Grady, cowered just underneath a NO SMOKING sign and prayed to God to live up to his name while three men in pinstriped suits blew smoke in his face.

"What seems to be the problem, O'Grady?"

This was a big guy, built like a tank with a few extra pounds of ironside laid on for good measure. He tipped his fedora back a few inches and gave the hapless guard a predatory grin.

"You're behind on your payments. Again."

"I'm sorry! Look, things have been busy. I think the warden's on to me. I just gotta lay low for a while, you know?"

"Lay low? You're layin' so low, you'd be under concrete if you went any lower," the big man scoffed, puffing out hazy smoke with each word.

His companion grinned, showing a mouth full of crooked teeth the color of old caulk.

"You ca'n't go any lower; you're on the floor as it is," he pointed out in a clipped English accent.

"Look," O'Grady said. "I can get you the dough tomorrow, no problem. Come on. You know I'm good for it."

"Good for it?" the third man interrupted, with a smile even larger and more vicious than the second gangster's. His eyes were lost to shadow, but his face was an unnatural sort of pale, the white dead pale of a man who's been drowned and fished up again out of someplace cold and wet and dark. "Don't make me laugh! You're such a greasy, slimy, disgusting little piece of garbage not even fit to breathe the same air as me, you're not even good for fish food! Isn't that right, Harleen?"

The woman on his arm looked up quickly. She was one of those big-eyed, blonde-headed dames who always look like they're seeing into a brighter world. What she was doing with this guy was anybody's guess.

"Don't do it, please," she pleaded. "I hate fish! Ew!"

This set her fellow off like an alarm clock, an alarm clock some sadistic nurse had set to psychotic laughter. O'Grady seemed to be developing a bad case of palsy.

"No, please! You can't do that, please, no!" he begged. "Daly, Tetch, you can't let him!"

"It ain't up ta us, O'Grady," Daly sneered, turning on his heel and taking a long drag on his fat cigar. "You can take things up with Mr. Scarface."

"That's right," the man who laughed put in. His smile was enormous and stretched from ear to ear. "Don't look at me, Lucky ol' boy! I'm just along for tricks and giggles! No, no, no, it's this fellow right here you want to take things up with!"

O'Grady's face drained as the gangsters stepped aside and a hulking shadow moved up and out of the back booth. As the big man moved towards the hapless guard, the yellowed lamplights fell on his face. It wasn't a pretty one. Scarface had the face of a bulldog, with sharp mean little eyes like a cornered rodent's and a long, badly stitched scar running up one cheek. But the Gotham underworld didn't award leadership of mob families based on pretty looks. Scarface had earned his status as mob boss around the same time he'd earned his nickname, and wore the four-inch-long gash as a medal of honor, or maybe a reminder that offing Mr. Big was harder than it looked.

"Well, well, well," Scarface sneered, reaching into his jacket for a cigar. "If it ain't my old pal, Lucky O'Grady." He shook his head and lit up the cigar. "Someone's got da wrong nickname, and it ain't me." Daly and Tetch chuckled dutifully. "Now, look here, Lucky. My goys tells me youse behind on your payments again. Is dat true?"

"Uh…" Lucky blinked. Unfortunately, it was a blink of surprise. "'…Goys?'"

Scarface's face flushed scarlet.

"Funny guy, huh? Shut it! Folks what makes fun o' my speech impediment don't live long enough ta do it twice!"

He leaned in close to the shuddering guard and blew smoke into O'Grady's face.

"Got it?"

"Er, er, Mr. Scarface," a quavering voice broke in. "Remember your blood pressure, sir."

O'Grady looked up in surprise. Behind Scarface's large frame, a smaller, older man in a tuxedo and bow tie was leaning out, looking like a cross between a lost carny barker and a mugging waiting to happen. In a flash, Scarface backhanded him and shoved him into the shadows.

"Shuddup, Dummy, who asked you?"

"Aw, don't be mean ta poor Arnie," the laughing man's moll put in. "Ya know he's just tryin' ta think of what's best for you."

"That's right, Scarface," her man grinned. "You can't just slap your… ah… business associate around like that. It's simply not polite!"

"Can it, Jack," Scarface grunted. "Dummy an' I have an agreement. I talk care o' gusiness and he doesn't talk. Isn't dat right, Dummy?"

The man seemed to shrink even farther within himself, holding up one hand apologetically, or maybe to ward off blows.

"Oh, y-y-yes sir," he stammered. "You're the boss, sir. I won't say a word."

"Good."

"Well, whaddya know," Jack mused. "You two do have a mutual understanding!" He tipped back his violet fedora, revealing a face that was the stuff of comedy and nightmares. "Isn't that cute. Ya know, Scarface ol' buddy, I absolutely love seeing a working relationship like the one you've got going." Shaking off Harleen with all the tender mercy of a man ridding himself of a small, tenacious dog, Jack waltzed over to the mob boss and placed a pinstriped arm around his shoulders. "It's a testament to the condition of the human race!"

Scarface glared at the psychotic hitman and ground his teeth together, trying to ignore that little voice that made him want to strangle, stab, shoot, and murder Jack Napier. The ghastly gangster was one of Gotham's best and most infamous killers; the only thing stopping Jack from heading up a gang of his own was his unpleasant habit of killing all his underlings on a joke. While he might despise the grinning hitman, Scarface didn't exactly want him angry, at least not until the mob boss had time to remove himself to a safe distance. Say, three or four hundred miles.

"Jack, old pal," he growled. "Give me some breathin' space, will ya? And you—" he turned on the guard—"you getter pay up, or I'm gonna let my guddy Jack teach ya how ta smile. Scarface is da boss here, see, and anygody who stands in my way is gonna end up with more than just a pretty scar. Ain't dat right, Jack?"

"Uh, yep, yep, yep, that's a big yessirree, yes sir!" Jack grinned. He didn't take his arm from around Scarface's shoulders; if anything, he tightened his grip. "But see, Scarface ol' chum, ol' buddy ol' boy, there's just one little thing. One little teeny weeny… eensty… weensty… problem."

Scarface wriggled a little in the hitman's grasp. Jack had suddenly become very close, the sort of closeness used only for lovers and victims, and Scarface hadn't gotten any signals that Jack wanted to get cozy with him.

"Yeah?" he said, keeping his voice gruff. "What's dat?"

"Oh, just this." Jack's grip became unbearably tight, and Scarface could feel his legs going cold. "I'm the only boss in here. Got it?"

Blackness blurred at the edge of Scarface's vision, and it wasn't just the failing lights. Somewhere nearby, Harleen laughed.

"Dummy! He's got me!" he yelled, feeling himself go limp.

Jack chuckled, breathing out cigar smoke and rancid sweet breath, and Scarface passed out.


Thanks so much for the kind reviews! So sorry about the long delay... perhaps I should resort to some manner of begging and/or groveling at this point. What can I say? I was ambushed by life.

Anyway, I plan on posting multiple updates this week, so stay 'tooned!