The Iceberg Lounge's neon sign threw a cold blue glow across the rain-slicked street, reflecting off puddles. Marco parked two blocks away and made his way through a series of narrow alleys. He slipped in through an unmarked side door that led past the kitchen, where line cooks were prepping for the dinner rush. Nobody looked up or asked questions. By now, the staff knew who he was. They knew better than to make eye contact.
A waiter appeared at Marco's elbow before he'd taken three steps. Young guy, maybe twenty-five.
"Captain Vitale," he said quietly. "Mr. Cobblepot is expecting you. This way, please."
Marco followed him through the main hall, past tables full of Gotham's upper crust pretending not to notice each other. Everyone here was either buying something, selling something, or trying to figure out which category they fell into. The waiter led him through a door marked PRIVATE and down a hallway lined with framed photographs of old Gotham. They stopped at another door.
The waiter knocked twice, then opened it without waiting for a response.
"Captain Vitale, sir."
He stepped aside, and Marco walked in.
Cobblepot's office looked less like a workspace and more like a collector's showroom. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound books that had probably never been read and art objects that definitely cost more than an officer's annual salary. A Persian rug covered most of the floor. The desk was antique.
Cobblepot himself stood with his back to the door, up on his toes, winding a mechanical penguin perched on a high shelf. The thing was maybe thirty centimeters tall, made of brass and painted enamel, with wings and a key sticking out of its back.
Marco dropped onto the sofa without waiting for an invitation.
"I have to say," he said, leaning back and getting comfortable, "that tin bird is a lot easier on the eyes than that Cupid statue you had last time."
Cobblepot finished winding the mechanism with three turns, then stepped back to admire his work. The penguin began to sway stiffly from side to side, its wings flapping in jerky motions.
Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.
Only then did he turn around.
"Marco! What brings you here at this hour?"
He walked over. In one hand, he still held the tiny brass key.
"Forgive my rudeness. I was just winding my latest acquisition." He gestured at the penguin, which continued its dance. "Fully wound, it runs for an hour. Late nineteenth-century craftsmanship. French, I believe. A reminder of a bygone era of artisanship, wouldn't you say?"
"Whether it's marvelous or not, I couldn't tell you." Marco didn't touch the drink that appeared on the side table courtesy of a silent waiter. "Does it apologize when it runs slow?"
Cobblepot's smile flickered, then returned even brighter.
"Ah. That's what I appreciate about you." He settled into the armchair across from Marco, setting the brass key on the table. His fingers steepled in front of his chest. "But you didn't come all this way to critique my taste in collectibles. So tell me, what can I do for Gotham's finest this evening?"
"I'm here to give you a piece of information. Free of charge."
Cobblepot's eyebrows rose. "A free message from the East End's ranking officer?" He let out a theatrical little laugh. "That already sounds more valuable than my penguin. Do go on."
"Nathaniel Barnes." Marco's tone was flat. "He is our new commissioner. At today's full-department meeting, he announced it himself. His top priority is bringing down Don Falcone."
The mechanical penguin's clicking was suddenly the loudest sound in the room.
Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.
Cobblepot's expression didn't change. Not even a flicker. He just sat there, fingers still steepled, smile still in place, like Marco had mentioned the weather.
"Is that so?" He chuckled softly, reaching for a crystal decanter on the side table. "I must confess... that news is hardly fresh. Three hours ago, I'd already heard at least four different firsthand accounts of Barnes's rather ambitious declaration."
He poured himself a measure of amber liquid and swirled it thoughtfully.
"That said..." He took a sip. "The way you questioned the commissioner that was absolutely brilliant. I almost felt compelled to applaud."
He set the glass down.
"So tell me. Did you really come all this way just to repeat old news? Surely you have something more substantial to discuss."
Marco said nothing. He just looked at Cobblepot.
Cobblepot's smile faltered slightly. He stood up, walking over to the window that overlooked the club's main floor below. From up here, you could see everything.
"Let me guess," he said quietly, his back to Marco. "You and Chief McGinnis had your cover blown in front of every precinct chief. Now you're angry and frustrated. But you can't, or won't, go after him directly."
He turned around, leaning against the window frame.
"So you thought of me. And through me… our mutual acquaintance. You want me to whisper in his ear and get him to handle Barnes for you."
Cobblepot tilted his head, studying Marco's face.
"No... wait. That's not quite right, is it?" His expression shifted, becoming sharper. "You know Don Falcone needs me, but he doesn't trust me. He won't act rashly on my word alone. Not unless someone draws blood first."
His eyes narrowed.
"You want me to feed his information to Barnes. And let Barnes make a move that forces Don Falcone to respond."
The mechanical penguin continued its dance.
Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.
Marco raised an eyebrow, then smiled slightly.
"Not bad. Clear logic. Obvious motive." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Now here's the real question: why do you think I believe you'll do exactly what I'm asking?"
Cobblepot straightened up, smoothing his vest with both hands. The confident smile returned to his face.
"Why? Because we have history? Because we're friends?" He snorted. "We both know this is Gotham. Everything has a price. You've been winning from me for too long. Maybe it's time to settle accounts."
"If someone put six million in cash on my head," Marco said calmly, "I might just cut it off myself and deliver it to them. What do you think? Would I take that deal?"
Cobblepot's smile froze.
Marco leaned back, his hands clasped loosely in front of him.
"I thought someone as smart as you would be able to see the bigger picture here. When Don Falcone and Barnes clash, and they will clash, someone's going to bleed."
He held up one finger.
"If Don Falcone wins, he'll be weakened. He'll need people who can solve his problems, people like you, more than ever."
A second finger.
"If Barnes wins, there'll be a power vacuum. All of Don Falcone's territory, all his operations and connections... someone has to fill that void. Someone like you."
Marco pointed at Cobblepot's chest.
"For you, the best outcome is that they both get hurt. Only then can you step out from behind the curtain. Stop being the Roman's errand boy and middle manager. Start being a player in your own right. That's what you want more than anything, isn't it?"
Cobblepot had gone still. The smile had vanished entirely.
"Easy for you to say," he said quietly. "If this goes wrong, I'm the first one who gets crushed."
"Then don't let it go wrong. This is your stage. What rumors to release. Where to point Barnes. How much damage Don Falcone should take. How you walk away clean. Those are the questions you should be asking yourself."
He stood up, walking over to the mechanical penguin. He flicked it with one finger, making it wobble more erratically.
"Not sitting here negotiating with me like some street-corner fence trying to sell stolen watches."
Cobblepot's jaw tightened. "And what if I say no?"
Marco turned to look at him.
"You're right about one thing. Barnes has his eye on me. I don't have many chips left to play." He shrugged. "Worst case, he kicks me out of the department and strips me of my badge."
He walked slowly back toward Cobblepot.
"And then what happens? A man who knows every police operating pattern in Gotham. A man who knows your secrets, ambitions, and long-term plans."
His smile widened slightly.
"Where do you think a man like that goes looking for work when he's got nothing left to lose?"
Cobblepot's face had gone pale.
"Do you think I'd go work for Maroni? Or maybe I'd go straight to Don Falcone. Tell him exactly what his most 'loyal' lieutenant has been planning. How much money you've been siphoning off over the years. All those side deals you've been making."
He leaned in slightly.
"I imagine that information would be worth more to the Roman than anything Barnes could ever threaten him with."
The room fell into silence broken only by the mechanical penguin's relentless clicking.
Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.
Cobblepot stared at Marco. The color had drained from his face entirely. In Marco's eyes, he saw nothing. Just a bottomless calm that was somehow more terrifying than any threat. After what felt like an eternity, His shoulders sagged slightly. He walked to the table, picked up his unfinished drink, and drained it in one gulp.
"Damn you," he said hoarsely. "Damn you. You bastard cop. You'd really do it, wouldn't you?"
His arm trembled violently as he held the empty glass, looking like he wanted to smash it against the wall. But he didn't. Instead, he set it down on the table.
Marco's expression softened slightly.
"You can smash a few glasses if you want," he said. "I won't get mad. Just try not to splash the liquor on my pants."
"You're an asshole, you know that?"
"Takes one to know one." Marco moved closer, sitting down on the arm of Cobblepot's chair, draping one arm around his shoulders. "Stop acting like you're getting screwed over here. Yeah, maybe I'm taking a little advantage. But think about it... haven't I brought you bigger opportunities every single time? Haven't I helped you climb higher than you ever could on your own?"
Cobblepot was quiet for a long moment.
Finally, he sighed.
"Fine... I'll find a way to leak Don Falcone's information to Barnes. But what he does with it... that's beyond my control."
"That's all I need." Marco stood up, walking toward the door. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, not turning around.
"When a storm's coming, hiding behind an iceberg isn't necessarily safe. Sometimes you have to ride the wind to see a higher view."
He pulled the door open and walked out.
Cobblepot stood alone in his office. The mechanical penguin continued its dance, oblivious.
Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.
He stared at it for a long moment. His hand twitched toward the empty glass again, wanting to throw it, to break something.
But he didn't.
Instead, he walked to the window, looking down at the club below. His reflection stared back at him from the glass. But behind that reflection, he could see something bigger.
"Two sides wounded," he murmured to himself. "Opportunity... and a better future."
He hated being backed into a corner. But that damned cop might be right.
The mechanical penguin wound down slowly, its movements becoming more sluggish.
He turned away from the window and went to wind it again.