Chapter 8
"Gordon!" The voice called from above the bullpen floor. Eyes darted back towards one of the occupied cubicles where Captain Jim Gordon stood with an open file in his hand. The heavy timbre of the Commissioner dropped like a weight dead in his path and nothing would remove it till he went to see what the fuss was all about for himself. Groaning as he closed the file, he dropped it on the desk. Gordon adjusted his tie as he made his way to the left wall and climbed the stairs up to the Commissioner's loft office. The second landing within the bullpen chamber was a balcony with access to the single, large office. The brown blinds of the wide office windows were always down yet opened just enough for an occasional peek to the bullpen floor without being noticed, it was a true sign of the shadiness of Gillian Loeb. Gordon opened the door and let it close behind him. Gillian Loeb had sat behind the same desk since before a young Jim Gordon transferred from the Chicago Police Department. Loeb was no cop, he was an unofficial bureaucrat, a politician. He had the figure of a desk rider, not obese, but not fit either. His hairline was nearly gone, leaving only a thin wrap of dark hair around the ears. His beady eyes didn't even look at Gordon as he stood in wait. Hung on the wall behind the Commissioner's desk was a painting of a sad clown, the Commissioner always had a dark, obscure sense of humor. As Gordon glared at the disturbing painting, Loeb finally spoke. "Where are you with this Black Mask guy?" he inquired.
"No credible leads," Gordon reported. "His hit in Maroni's Restaurant was clean, so to speak."
"Well then buckle down on it, I want him found," Loeb retorted, still not looking up from the papers cluttering his desk.
"I do too, sir, but the investigation is going nowhere and as is, the latest escalation of gunrunners is a crucial situation."
"I don't care about a few mooks selling guns in the Narrows, our priority is Black Mask," the Commissioner said definitively. Gordon eyed him through his glasses, clenching his fist at his side to sooth his simmering temper.
"Our priority, sir? Or Carmine Falcone's?" Gordon blurted stiffly. Loeb froze then slowly raised his beady gaze, fixing Gordon sternly.
"What are you saying, Captain?" Gordon clenched back his temper again, now was not the time.
"Nothing, sir," Gordon said through grit teeth. As Loeb continued to issue his orders, Gordon knew he had a long night ahead of him. He checked his watch, four forty-six, he could only hope his daughter would forgive him.