BATMAN: GOTHAM CAMPAIGN OF CRIME
By Bruce Wayne
Batman created by Bob Kane and Bill Finger
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author.
CHAPTER 4
Edmond Hamilton paced across his spacious office leaving a blue trial of smoke in his wake. The mayor of Gotham City was mad, his teeth clamped around the ragged stump of his cigar as he swore under his breath.
"It's a blamed conspiracy, Gordon!" he raged.
Police Commissioner James W Gordon glanced up from a copy of his daily major-crimes report. "It's no such thing, Mister Mayor."
Hamilton pointed an accusing finger at the television set on a desk in the city hall office of the mayor. "How can you say that?" he practically howled. "Look how that man keeps doing ... that!"
He was pointing at the videotaped image of Dan Foster, already campaigning vigorously across the city a week after his surprise announcement. He was shown entering the Board of Elections waving a handful of signed nominating petitions that his busy and eager campaign volunteers had quickly gathered to place his name on the primary ballot.
"That's a damned efficient organization Foster's been able to get together so quickly. Haven't seen anything like that since my days in Chicago," Gordon said.
"Don't I know that, blast it! What I don't know -- and would just love to find out -- is: How come I don't have one just like it?" Hamilton thundered. "There're only three days left to file to make the ballot, and mine aren't even signed yet. And I'm the incumbent!"
"It's demographics, Mister Mayor. You know that. Foster is attracting the college kids and young career people to his campaign, the ones who'll work their tails off for their man. You know how the kids latch on to political superstars. And face it, everyone under the age of thirty grew up watching Dan Foster on the television. They've probably seen more of him than their own fathers."
Hamilton spat out the remains of his cheap cigar and lighted another almost immediately as he reached for the telephone on a cluttered desk nearby. "Walters!" he barked into the receiver. "I want your ass up here, pronto!" He slammed down the receiver and turned back to Commissioner Gordon.
"I don't care who Foster is, Gordon," he growled. "All I care about is how I'm going to beat him in this blamed primary."
"Money," the police commissioner said thoughtfully. "You need money for a media blitz."
"Bah! Everybody in this city's too tight with their money."
"Not with Foster. His campaign's been bringing in a lot of high-powered moneymen."
Hamilton glowered at Jim Gordon. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"
"Yours, Mister Mayor. I like my job," he chuckled.
"Well, then sound like it, blast it! But, anyway, you're right, Gordon. I need money! That's why I've invited Bruce Wayne to come down here and I'll see if I can if I can con -- I mean -- persuade Wayne to contribute to my campaign. When it comes to high-powered moneymen in this city ... he's the biggest."
"Wayne generally stays out of politics, Mister Mayor."
"Ha! It's time he got into politics! Maybe I can convince him to hold a fundraiser at that mansion of his."
Bruce Wayne stepped off the elevator into the city hall office of Mayor Edmond Hamilton. Harried-looking men and women, most of them in their forties and fifties, it seemed, hurried every which way across the suite of offices on the floor, their arms loaded with reports and paperwork that seemed to the office employees to actually grow and multiply in the dark of their desk drawers.
It was painfully obvious to Bruce that Hamilton was a slave-driver when it came to his employees.
He was escorted into the office of the mayor and spotted the candidate at a desk in the center of the room. As Hamilton talked to Commissioner Gordon, he sent up smoke signals from his cigar. Bruce figured it was an S.O.S.
"What this campaign needs, Gordon," Hamilton was saying as Bruce approached, "is something big! Something really spectacular that'll grab the voters!"
The mayor's eyes moved to the richest man in Gotham City. "Bruce! Bruce, old friend! Come in! Come in! So glad you make it! You know Commissioner Gordon, don't you?"
Bruce Wayne smiled. "The commissioner and I go way back, Mister Mayor." He shook the mayor's hand and then Gordon's.
"Good to see you again, Bruce," Gordon said in greeting.
"Mister Mayor," Bruce said, "I heard what you were saying and I've always believed the way to make friends and influence voters," he grinned, "is you've got to put on that big beautiful smile of yours ... you know, the one that shows off your dimples ... and stick out your hand and say 'Hi, my name is --"
"Bruce! I'm a professional politician! I've done this before, you realize?"
"Just trying to be helpful."
"Well, Bruce, there is a way you can be very helpful ..."
"Campaign going a little slow, Mister Mayor?" Bruce tried to sound sympathetic.
"Nooooo! No! It's going just fine! But we just need a little help to put on media blitz my advisors keep telling me we need to put on.
"Maybe you ought to get yourself a new campaign manager," Bruce advised.
Hamilton plucked the soggy cigar from his mouth and glared at Bruce as Gordon tried to hide his snicker. "I am the campaign manager!" he said.
"Oh."
Before Hamilton could reply, Bob Walters, a young lower campaign staffer trotted up to the desk. "You wanted to see me, boss?"
"How many times do I have to tell you, Walters, don't call me ..."
"Sorry, Mister Mayor."
"That's better! Now, what's the story on my petitions? I gave them to you a week ago to get the necessary signatures."
"Err ... Umm .. I'm working on it, Mister Mayor."
Hamilton narrowed his eyes at the fidgety young man. "Define 'working on it,' Walters!"
"Well, err ... I've got, umm ... most of the signatures, sir. They ought to be ready any day now."
"Try tomorrow, Walters."
"Sir?"
"I said, I want those petitions -- signed, sealed, and delivered -- on my desk by tomorrow, kid, by three o'clock so I can make the six o'clock news. Is that clear, or do I have to draw pictures for you?"
"I just love watching a dedicated public servant in action," Bruce mumbled.
Walters gulped nervously and hurried away from his boss's desk. "Can't get good help these days," Hamilton called after him.
The mayor looked toward Bruce Wayne again. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes! Bruce, old friend," the mayor placed an arm around Bruce's shoulder. Bruce turned his head to look at the hand. "... I was hoping I could call on your good citizenship as a member of this great community and ask you for a small contribution to my campaign fund."
"Well, Mister Mayor, as you may well know, I rarely get involved in Gotham City politics. It's been a longstanding policy of mine to remain neutral politically. But I've been considering getting involved in some small way this time around."
A big smile crossed Hamilton's face. "Splendid! Splendid! I knew I could count ..."
"Oh, I haven't made up my mind quite yet on who I might support. I was just on my way over to Foster's press conference to get his take on his position of some issues."
Hamilton's face dropped.
"Press conference?"
"Yes, Your Honor. He's holding a rather large one at his headquarters down the street in the Gotham Plaza Hotel in ..." Bruce checked his watch. "... fifteen minutes."
Hamilton began to hurriedly pull on his jacket and straighten his tie. "Is that so?!" he said. "We've got to get over to the Gotham Plaza!"
"We? You want to go to your opponent's press conference?"
"Yes!" Hamilton growled as he grabbed Bruce's arm and dragged him to the door. You don't think I'm going to let Foster grab all the time on tonight's news, do you? C'mon! I want you and all the voters to make an informed decision!"
Bruce was helpless. He shrugged at Commissioner Gordon as he was pulled roughly into the elevator.
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"My former colleagues of the press --" Dan Foster smiled down at the assemblage of newsmen and women seated before him in the Gotham Plaza's grand ballroom. "I think we can begin."
Immediately, several dozen hands shot up, vying for the candidate's attention. "Mister Jordan," he said, pointing to the heavyset columnist from the Gotham Daily News.
"Nice choice, Dan," Jordan said, a smile spread across his round face. "We were all betting your first question would come from a TV reporter."
Foster laughed easily with the rest of the room and leaned comfortably on the podium. "No longer, Bob," he chuckled. "Now that I'm a candidate instead of a newsman, all my television chauvinism has mysteriously disappeared. These days, I love all reporters."
The assembled reporters were still laughing as Mayor Edmond Hamilton pushed his way through the crowd, a hapless Bruce Wayne still in tow. "Listen to these clowns," Hamilton muttered. "This is supposed to be a press conference, not a stand up comedy routine! What're they laughing at?"
"It's called a sense of humor, Mister Mayor," Bruce said.
Hamilton looked at the billionaire as though he didn't quite understand the meaning of the reply.
"That's the main issue," Foster was saying in reply to a question. "I don't think the people of Gotham City are going to put up with police inefficiency any longer. And, frankly, I don't think they should have to."
"Will you listen to that blowhard?" Hamilton muttered as he pushed through the crowd of cameramen around the foot of the dais before Foster. Finally, only the newsman from the local ABC station stood in his way, and, pushing him roughly aside, Hamilton pulled himself up onto the stage.
"Mister Foster," he thundered.
Dan Foster turned, a frown creasing his forehead. But years of live television reporting had taught him to immediately compensate for any on-camera surprises and to proceed as if they were the most natural thing in the world. Even if the surprise was unpleasant.
Like Mayor Edmond Hamilton.
"If it isn't my distinguished opponent, Mayor Hamilton," he said pleasantly. "It's an honor to have you sit in on ..."
"Awww, can the phony Mister Nice Guy routine, Foster," Hamilton said as he strode up to the microphones. "I'm here to talk issues."
"So am I!"
The voice thundered from the rear of the ballroom, causing every head to turn as one, searching for the speaker. And what they saw made them all gape in shock.
For streaking down the aisle toward the dais was the familiar dark, gray-and-black-clad figure of Batman!
And, before anyone could make a move to intercept him, Batman was clambering onto the dais, his gloved hands outstretched to grab a startled Dan Foster by the lapels of his jacket.
"I'm only going to warn you this one time, Foster," the masked man hissed menacingly. "I don't like you trying to pin that sporting goods store holdup last week on me, and I especially don't like your running for mayor of my city!" He tossed the startled man aside. "Get out of the race, Foster, or next time you'll get hurt bad ... terminally bad!"
"Curse you, Batman!" Hamilton yelled as he rushed toward the masked man's side. "What're trying to do to me?! Make me look bad?!"
With scarcely a glance at the mayor, Batman shoved Hamilton aside and leaped down from the podium. He ran for the exit through the throng of reporters, all of whom were either too startled or frightened of the Caped Crusader to do anything but snap photographs and roll their video cameras to record the attack.
But nobody was more startled or concerned than billionaire Bruce Wayne, who stared in shock as the Masked Manhunter raced past him.
That's interesting.
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Even as the phony Batman disappeared through the exit, the horrified throng of newspeople was surging forward onto the podium to help the dazed candidate, who lay in a crumpled pile on the floor.
All, that is, except Bruce Wayne.
He stood where he was for long, agonizing moments while allowing the crowd to push its way past him. Then, turning suddenly, he sprinted for the same exit the fake Batman had taken.
Somebody's obviously trying to set me up for some kind of trouble ... and trouble like that I can live without.
Bruce ran out into the deserted corridor. He looked around quickly, searching for his evil double.
There!
To Bruce's right were a pair of double doors that led to a long service corridor running the length of the hotel. They were swinging slightly.
Looks like someone took off in an awful hurry through there ... maybe someone like a phony Batman?
He pushed through the doors, coming face to face with a busboy carefully balancing a tray of clean glasses on his shoulder. Bruce glanced down the corridor.
"Did you see anybody come through here just now?"
The busboy nodded.
"A guy in a gray and black costume?"
"A gray and ... black costume?"
"Yes, Bat ... forget it! If he was here, you'd noticed him. Believe me!"
Bruce turned and raced back into the corridor outside the ballroom.
That means my phony friend must've taken the scenic route through the lobby -- scenic for the public, that is. He probably wants the whole world to know that Batman's been on the prowl doing a lot of nasty things this evening.
Without pausing, he grabbed the knob of a utility closet door and ducked inside.
Assuming I can still catch up with him, it wouldn't look too good to have Bruce Wayne tackling a fake Batman in the hotel lobby!
Pressing a concealed button on his belt buckle, Bruce quietly spoke into the air. "Alfred?"
"Sir, is that you? I thought I just saw you rushing out of the hotel in your customary evening pajamas."
"That wasn't me! That's a phony Batman trying to smear my reputation even more than it already is."
"My word! The scoundrel just ran past me in front of the hotel."
"I need to change in the limo."
"I'll have all in preparation, sir."
Bruce quickly exited the utility closet and then left through the lobby of the hotel. He noticed that people were buzzing, relating about how they had seen Batman fleeing the hotel.
Alfred was dutifully holding the rear passenger compartment door of the limousine open as he approached. He got in and opened a concealed compartment located under the rear seat the vehicle.
Alfred got in the driver's seat and put the automobile in motion.
"Drive around the block and keep your eyes open for that other Batman," Bruce instructed.
It didn't take long for Bruce to change into the real Dark Knight of Gotham City.
As the limousine passed slowly in front of the hotel, Batman quickly opened the door of the limousine and rolled out onto the street. Alfred kept going. It all happened so quickly, no one was able to tell where the Masked Avenger had appeared from.
On the sidewalk, a Texas oilman from Austin gaped in undisguised awe at the dark figure appearing in the street. "Gawddarn!" he whooped happily to his wife. "Gotham City's mah kind o'town, Mother! This here city's got itself two Batmen!"
Which I guess is this citizen's way of telling me he has recently seen my counterpart!
Batman leaped over a cart loaded with luggage at the curb and looked in both directions.
Someone in a Batman suit couldn't have gotten far without being spotted by someone, even in Gotham City. I mean, look how much attention I'm getting, and I'm the real thing.
But before the Gotham Goliath could clear the front of the building that was under an awning of the hotel, a blue and white police car, its siren blaring, screeched to a halt at the curb. Before the car came to a full stop, a cop was jumping from the opened door, his service weapon in his hand, aimed straight at Batman's heart.
I don't have time for this!
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It was pitch-black.
Seven men, each with the over-developed physique of professional wrestlers and weight-lifters, cautiously entered the darkened warehouse in single file.
All were identically clad in black sweatpants and tanktops.
All were identically armed with long steel knives.
They glided silently across the cold concrete floor in their bare feet, knives clutched in the manner of professionals.
As one, they stopped dead in their tracks, their ears straining in the darkness for the source of that almost inaudible noise. There was nothing ...Wait! A slight disturbance in the air, as if someone moved ever so stealthily through the darkness. The brown-haired man in the lead squinted as his searching eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of light. He never saw the massive sledgehammer fist that sent him flying into the black pit of unconsciousness.
But the others did, and, their prey now located, they swiftly circled him, with their blades held at the ready. They moved on the balls of their feet, feinting with their knives held out before them, drawing closer to the figure at their center, ready to slice him to --
There was nobody there.
In surprise, the burly men scattered, no longer bothering to mask their movements in silence. Their eyes had adjusted to the dimness now, and vague, dark shapes were discernible about them in the large room, shapes made deceptive in the inky blackness.
And then the lights went on.
They squeezed their eyes shut against the sudden glare, but still they stood ready, their ears compensating for what they could not see. The real battle was about to begin.
"Quack, squawk. Begin, gentlemen."
The strongmen were scattered about the perimeter of the warehouse and they whirled quickly to face the center of the room and the massive mountain who stood there -- Shark.
Safely off to the side of the room was the master criminal known as the Penguin, who intended to watch the exercise.
The Penguin's henchman, Shark, stood like a statue of flesh, a wry smile spread across his lips as he glanced at each man in turn. He wore a pair of sweatpants, his naked barrel of a torso gleaming in the light, his feet bare and thick, powerful arms swinging loosely by his sides. He was unarmed. He moved like a ballet dancer on his toes, yet his seemingly fleshy body was solid, but a hint of the well-developed muscles beneath his pale skin.
The Penguin clucked deep in his chest and blew out a puff of smoke. "Too bad, gentlemen. Your clever move, alas, failed to catch Mister Shark by surprise."
Several of the burly men, smiles on their cruel lips advanced on Shark with blades held high. The Penguin's bodyguard/henchman watched with apparent boredom as they formed a semicircle in front of him, the overhead lights glinting off the flashing knives.
Shark was almost a blur as he stepped forward and reached for the first man's throat with his fleshy fists. He grabbed the man by neck and crotch, lifting him over his head like a child's rag doll. The man's knife dropped from limp fingers as the huge man heaved him at the onrushing musclemen. He plowed like so much dead weight into three of his companions, sending them sprawling.
"He's had it now!" one of them growled.
"Has he?" replied the Penguin from across the room.
Shark leaped forward, pivoting on his left leg as he drove his right foot in a perfectly executed savate kick into the speaker's chest. Before the man could topple to the ground, Shark's right hand snaked out and gathered his T-shirt, yanking the thug upright.
"You see, my friend, your first mistake was thinking Mister Shark was merely another muscle-bound oaf," the Penguin said.
Shark's left hand was a blur as it slapped back and forth across the man's face a dozen times. The man was unconscious before Shark let him drop to the floor.
"Your second mistake was verbalizing that thought. Quack, squawk!"
Shark did not wait for another attack. Rather, he took the initiative and sprang into the center of the cluster of strongmen. Without any apparent attempt at aiming his blows, the Penguin's henchman flailed his mighty fists about, striking at random.
The Penguin continued talking to the man. "It was people like you who ridiculed me when I was a boy!" A muscleman went sailing limply through the air. "I was nothing more than a freak then, a disgusting, obese specimen of America's youth."
Shark's fist ended another thug's participation in the fight.
"Bird brain they called me. 'Look at bird brain waddle!' Oh, I suffered those taunts, for there was nothing I could do against my bigger, stronger tormentors."
An explosion of air from startled lungs announced the finish of a third man.
The Penguin's voice droned on with his life story. "But that was then! As I grew older and wiser, I began to realize my true potential and I became what they called a criminal mastermind. I made it my deliberate intention to strike back against a cruel society. Make fun of me, would they? I would become the most powerful and feared man in all of Gotham City!"
A casual backhanded sweep of Shark's hamhock fist drove two men back.
"And I endured!" the Penguin said. "But still I was looked upon as a freak, a man out of place in normal society. So, I decided that if I was not wanted by them, I would join the company of other outcasts, the criminal element so prevalent in any big city."
Another man cried out as Shark's elbow crushed his nose.
"But I was smarter than any of them, and soon I rose to the top of organized crime in Gotham, never fearing to use either brain or -- as you are finding out as I speak -- brawn against any who stood in my way!"
But there was none to hear those final words, for all were lying unconscious or too engrossed in their own pains to pay heed. The Penguin waddled closer to stand among Shark's victims, his tiny eyes -- one of which was looking through a monocle -- were gleaming with pleasure.
"Quack, squawk! Excellent, Mister Shark!" he roared clapping his hands together. "That was most invigorating to watch you workout. As for you gentlemen on the floor, you may pick up your payment from my man Octopus on your way out."
He turned, starting to leave the carnage Shark had wrought. Chuckling and clucking to himself, he glanced over his shoulder. "That is, when you have all regained consciousness."
Without warning, a sudden weight landed squarely on Shark's broad back. It upset his balance, and even as he righted himself, his hand reached back, groping. Thick, powerful fingers struggled to find a hold under Shark's fleshy chin. The henchman grunted and stepped back abruptly, shifting his great weight to his other leg and flipping the weight on his back over his shoulder. Shark's attacker was a Japanese Sumo wrestler, a yellow giant who weighed even more than the Penguin's bodyguard. The size and strength of the sumo wrestler was incredible. He thudded to the floor, a pained grunt the only sound he made.
The Penguin's face brightened at the sight of this new challenger. The sumo scrambled to his feet and crouched low in the traditional style of his ancient craft, stalking his victim in short, sliding steps. Shark feinted right, faking out his opponent and charging in under the Japanese's outstretched arms. His balled fists slammed hard into the other's muscular stomach just before he brought his elbow down on the Oriental's exposed neck.
This time, however, he did not allow the sumo to recover as he moved in immediately for the kill. He grasped the Oriental's arm just above the elbow and yanked it sharply toward him as he brought his foot down on the back of the fallen man's neck. A sharp, brittle crack accompanied the breaking of the sumo wrestler's right arm. The Japanese was mercifully unconscious.
Smiling smugly with a cigarette holder clenched between his teeth, the Penguin sauntered through the tangle of bodies strewn about the cold floor. Shark could hear his boss' customary "Quack, squawk" as he left the room.
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"We don't like to be kept waiting, Penguin!"
The speaker was a tall man with a terrible face that was topped with a full head of two-tone colored hair. One side was brown and the other side was gray. He sat facing the little man over steepled fingertips at the far end of a long conference table. Penguin pulled out his own seat at the opposite end of the table in the oaken-paneled room and silently regarded the strange-looking man across from him, one of seven men seated around the table.
He was Two-Face, head of the second most powerful criminal organization in Gotham City. For years, his gang had fought bitterly against that of the Penguin for control of the city's illegal activities, ranging from gambling to the multi-billion dollar drug trade. Both organizations had established strong footholds in various areas and had only recently come to an uneasy peace.
To Two-Face's left sat Roman "Black Mask" Sionis, the heir to the Janus Cosmetics empire, who had a bizarre fascination with masks. It was a fixation that resulted in financial ruin when his company marketed a line of ill-conceived, toxic "Facepaint." When WayneCorp bailed out of the floundering company, Sionis resigned in humiliation. Later, he carved a death-mask from the lid of his late father's coffin and established a gang of masquerading thugs with Sionis as its "Black Mask" figurehead.
Sionis was a big man, who was dapperly dressed. His dull black eyes, behind the mask, showed him to be a cold, calculating animal that had helped him climb to his current high rank in the city's criminal elite.
Next to him, Ariel Shonstein from Gotham's Amusement Mile district on the city's far northeast side. He sat brooding at the blank notepad on the table before him. Unlike the others who sat at the table, the eighty-seven-year-old Shonstein was seated in a wheelchair. He had inherited his territory from then Godfather Vito Battaglia, he had gained control of virtually all criminal activity in his home territory.
Beside the aged Shonstein sat Eddie Skeevers, the man who controlled the eastern portion of the northern island of Gotham City. Skeevers was a tall, black man who had a ruthless reputation.
Across from Skeevers sat the black man's counterpart for the western portion of the northern island of Gotham City, Antonio Castro. Castro was a reputed killer who liked to cut out the tongues of his victims. It was his trademark.
To Castro's right sat the small, slim master of the Chinatown criminal district, Mister Yu. Since the seventies, he had held the valuable territory despite constant opposition from the area's many youth gangs. A vast majority of the gambling dens and houses specializing in the more popular Oriental opiates made many millions of dollars a year for this comparatively small criminal empire.
And finally, Jose Martinez sat in the sixth seat along the table's sides. Martinez was the newest member of this criminal combine having only the month before assumed control of a large stretch of the lucrative middle island of the city by assassinating the area's former boss. The large Spanish man felt he deserved his spot on the board. He had personally killed the old boss on Kane Avenue at the height of the noon lunch rush.
Two-Face straightened in his seat. "I said, Penguin, we don't like to be kept waiting. This meeting was scheduled to begin half an hour ago!"
"I was detained." The Penguin explained to no man.
"We're all busy men," Two-Face said evenly. "We don't have the time to waste sitting around waiting ..."
"He is here, Two-Face," Ariel Shonstein said. "And the purpose of this meeting isn't to discuss our colleague's punctuality."
Eddie Skeevers nodded in agreement. "Yeah, man. If ya don't like it, buy the man a gold watch for his birthday. Otherwise, let's get on with it."
Two-Face sat back and glared across the long table at the Penguin. His time would come.
Penguin merely smiled thinly at Harvey Dent. "It has been exactly one week since Mister Foster announced his intentions to seek his party's nomination. From all reports I have received, everything is proceeding smoothly and as per plans."
"What about da mayor?" Castro said.
Penguin dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "Granted, he is the incumbent in the race, I do not foresee this posing any difficulties. His organization is weak, at best, and the early polls show he is running behind Foster."
Jose Martinez shook his head. "I don't know about that, Penguin. As you know, I spend a good deal of time among the common people of the city, and frankly, many of them are happy with the status quo. Many are slowly becoming interested in Hamilton's tax-cut proposals." The criminal grinned. "Hell, if I didn't stand to make so much loot off Foster winning, I'd almost be convinced myself to give the old goat four more years in city hall. His ideas could save a lot of money for rich folks, like me."
"Quack, squawk! You actually pay taxes, Mister Martinez? You need a new accountant!"
Laughter was heard in the room.
"Gentlemen, please," Penguin interrupted. "As I recall, when we first embarked upon this endeavor, we were unanimously agreed that Dan Foster was the perfect, unbeatable candidate. Merely because he is running against the incumbent does not change that, hmmm?"
Two-Face said, "You talk a lot about how you've planned this operation down to the smallest detail, how nothing can possibly go wrong." The disfigured man did not bother to disguise his hatred for the Penguin. "And we've accepted your word, Penguin -- on everything! We've put up three million dollars a piece to get in on this ... and all on your word alone!
"Now, maybe this will work, Penguin, and maybe we all stand to make a hell of lot more than three million. But dammit, man, when are you going to let the rest of us in on this brilliant scheme of yours? As equal partners, we think we deserve to be told everything!"
Penguin leaned forward and rested his clasped hands on the polished tabletop. "Dent," he said, "you agreed long ago, with the rest of these gentlemen, that should we go forth with my plan, I was to be in control. Total control. And all I ask from you in return for being made part of this is your money and cooperation. If you do not intend to give me both, I shall gladly return your stake money to you and you will be free to leave." Penguin spoke softly, but none of the men seated around the table missed the harsh, menacing tone in the Black Bird of Prey's voice.
Two-Face stood and leaned his tightly clenched fists on the table. An uglier look crossed his ugly face. "Damn you, Penguin!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "Who do you think you are? Do you think you're the only high-caliber criminal in the city? You forget, we, too, have had to fight Batman to retain my territory!"
"And lost."
Harvey Dent's clenched fist rose and slammed onto the table. "What about you? We don't recall ever hearing of a Penguin victory in any of your many battles with the blasted Caped Crusader."
The little man in the tuxedo started to rise to his feet, his eyes on Two-Face.
But before either man could say anything further, Mister Yu spoke up. "Gentlemen," he said.
The small Chinaman rose and looked quickly to either end of the table. "Gentlemen," he repeated softly, "we accomplish nothing by bickering amongst ourselves. Please take your seats and let us reason together like friends." Mister Yu remained standing until the two rival criminal bosses sat. Then, taking his own seat, he continued, turning first to Harvey Dent. "As Penguin says, Two-Face, you agreed to his terms long ago, as have we all. The operation is already in progress, and matters proceed smoothly and according to plan."
Turning to the other end of the table, Yu said, "And I am sure, my friend, that they shall continue to run as they have. I have great faith in your ability, Penguin."
Penguin nodded his head in Yu's direction, but his beady, little eyes remained fixed on the man seated across from him. "Thank you, Mister Yu," he said. "Now, if there is nothing else ...?"
Dent's chair scraped noisily across the floor as he pushed it back and stood.
"Just this one thing, Penguin -- if this doesn't work, you can be sure you're finished in this city!" The tall man in a suit that was gray on one side and blue on the other strode to the door, stopping as he reached for the knob. "Finished for good, Penguin!"
He yanked open the door and disappeared down the hall.
Penguin's eyes narrowed at the retreating man's back. "I shall not fail."
Shall I?
To be continued ...
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