Rain in Gotham.
Without fail, it is perfect. Cold all the time.
Almost like needles encased in mist.
The city seemed to be suspended in a net of raindrops illuminated by the streetlights. Little explosions that went unnoticed as each one exploded upon impact.
A low-rumbling engine sounds from the alleyway.
Through puddles, tires hissed.
The chassis shook beneath the uneven pavement.
Headlights engulfed the rear of the police station, and Gordon was aware of it.
Trouble had arrived.
It wore a suit, too.
A sedan in black. Long. Silent.
The reflection of a gun barrel in the window.
Looking back, there's a nod.
No words.
Nothing but the city's air.
Gordon reached for his pistol.
Changed handhold. A brand-new trigger mod.
Didn't matter.
A police officer's weapon was ineffective in Gotham.
It only added a little intrigue to his status as a target.
A door swung open.
Standing next to it was a man dressed in all black.
The time was checked by Gordon.
9:12 p.m.
Dinner with Barbara?
Put on hold.
He entered.
The colors of the neon signs faded from red to blue to red.
The glass was smeared by the rain.
Haloes formed as colors bled.
Just like a dream that was left unfinished.
"Who am I meeting?" Gordon asked.
"You'll know," the man in the front seat said.
The road got quite bumpy.
As they swept over the broken brick and boarded windows, the headlights danced.
Turned down an alley Gordon didn't recognize.
The area is known as the East End.
Awful part of it.
He stepped out.
People in suits led him to a townhouse.
Upon approaching the door, two individuals holding guns were standing.
One stepped forward.
Gordon laced his fingers behind his head.
Gun taken. Patted down.
Clean.
The interior was light and airy. Lavish, but empty.
Upstairs. A door swung open.
Broad back. Big shoulders.
Sal Maroni.
Turning around, he stood up.
Not handsome.
Mouth pulled down like it carried weight.
The corners of the eyes droop as if they were perpetually amused by something sinister.
On his finger, he whirled a ring.
Hey there, captain. Just sit down. Sorry for calling so late.
"I had no idea that gangsters were so concerned with mannerism," Gordon remarked.
He took no seats.
Maroni's face twitched.
Then smoothed.
Let it go.
"I wanted to do some business, so I summoned you here. That type which is familiar to us both."
"Gangs are not a part of my business."
"Oh?" Maroni grinned.
"That's novel. 'Your price is too low.' is something I've heard. 'Not a part of my business.' Wow, that's unique."
"It's true. I don't."
"However, you're still deeply involved in the Don's operation," Maroni remarked. "Referral bonuses from Arkham have been raining down on your field unit. Is that what you call 'policing'?"
"I apprehend lawbreakers," Gordon declared.
"It's my job. What matters is whether it generates a profit.
I continue to do it even if it doesn't."
He locked eyes with Maroni.
"When no one paid, I still did it anyway.
It was just me. No one else did it."
Maroni relaxed.
"My proposition is straightforward. Stay put. Delay your teams if you must.
Find reasons. The weather. Paperwork. Whatever."
He spread his hands.
"Nothing done. No action. No harm done to you.
I am employing you for that specific action....
I will compensate you handsomely as well.
Gordon studied him.
"You've been rehearsing the lines that Falcone uses."
He cast a sidelong glance.
"Don is someone I've never met. However, Gotham is teeming with knockoffs.
Long sentences are being used by everyone to express simple ideas.
As if suits were costumes. Acting as if they are actors in a play."
A deep breath.
"But you're not him.
And there won't be another.
At the moment, he owns this city.
Not you."
The color faded from Maroni's face.
The nerve had been hit by Gordon.
Indeed, he was trying to mimic Falcone.
Much like half of Gotham's bosses.
Those who had previously skipped middle school now spoke with the authority of college professors.
Suits. The bouquet. Pens rather than firearms.
Following in the footsteps of the man who sewed grace into power.
The rules had been altered by Falcone.
When you were abducted, a silent car would arrive at your door.
Silence was required for negotiations.
Guests should not be disarmed out of respect.
No matter how much he claimed to be a police officer.
Particularly in the event that he was a law enforcement official.
Maroni, however, lacked such self-assurance.
He couldn't be.
So he searched for Gordon.
Took his gun.
Put behind him, a man brandishing a shotgun.
Certainly not something Falcone would do.
There was a distinction in that regard.
Gordon saw it.
Made use of it.
"If the Don had called me," he said, "I wouldn't have been searched.
He cares not whether I am armed or not.
Since he is well aware that nobody would dare try anything funny."
A pause.
"He believes in himself.
You do not."
Jaws clenched in Maroni's mouth.
Unprotected, Falcone sat in front of assassins.
Talked them into surrender.
His very presence served as a weapon.
The idea eluded Maroni.
With just one shot, defeat is certain.
It was too risky for him.
Unfortunately, being cautious came across as being weak.
Just like losing.
He became quiet.
"You really believe it's a good idea to provoke me where I stand?"
"Are you going to stop acting now?" Gordon exclaimed.
"That final line was so punk-ish.
No flowery language.
Is it because I called it that you now think pretending is useless?
Maroni flicked his hand.
Press the button.
A shotgun was ready to fire behind him.
Barrel aimed at Gordon's spine.
Gordon showed no fear.
"See, that's the difference.
You call it "business," but you threaten violence if I decline.
Why bother with the car? The suit? The etiquette?
Throwing me in a van was an option you had.
Beaten in a basement.
Gun to the head.
'Say yes."
Shaking his head, he expressed his disapproval.
"This entire situation? It's only a play.
And you're a bad actor."
"Enough."
Maroni took a long breath.
Waved the gun down.
You're very astute.
Overly astute.
That's why you're walking out."
He drew nearer.
"This is not mercy.
Patience is key.
Reflect on it.
You are well-informed about my whereabouts in case you reconsider."
Gordon stepped back into the rain.
Shirt soaked—not from the weather.
From sweat.
How near it had been was something only he knew.
One wrong word.
A brief moment of uncertainty.
And he'd be another stain on East End pavement.
A slash of wind mangled him.
He felt the harshness of the rain on his face.
He walked slowly.
Intense ideas.
Maroni was good.
He was not, however, Falcone.
When he became angry, he would lose control.
Prioritize ego over control.
Had the Don been involved?
Perhaps Gordon went on for too long.
But he'd still get a ride home.
And a bottle of wine as a thank-you gift.
Instead, you know?
No sound.
Darkness.
A long walk back.
He looked up.
His eyes were wet with rain.
He removed his facecloth.
And thought:
This was far from done.
📝 FOOTNOTE
The Gotham Chamber of Commerce has updated its "Welcome to Our Fair City" brochure: "Please note: black sedans at midnight are not Uber Luxe. They are either the Don's envoy or a death sentence. No refunds. Furthermore, if offered tea during a negotiation, decline. It's either poisoned or decaf.
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