A rainy night in Gotham. The rain in Gotham is always delicate and enduring, bringing an icy chill that gnaws at the soul. The jewelled strands of rain look like a dim veil under the lights. As they near the ground, each droplet stirs up a tiny splash upon impact.
The sound of an engine rang from the far end of a dark alley, accompanied by the slight noise of water splashing and tires rolling over uneven surfaces. The noises grew louder, the blinding headlights appearing at the back door of the police station. Gordon knew trouble was coming.
A luxury limousine parked in front of Gordon. He saw the reflection of a rifle barrel in the car window. A man in the rearview mirror nodded at him. No one spoke, the whole process was as quiet as a Gotham night.
Gordon took a deep breath, his hand reaching for the gun at his waist. Despite freshly replaced parts, it brought him no sense of security. In this city, a policeman couldn't ensure law enforcement with a gun, let alone protect himself.
A man in a black suit stepped out of the car and opened the door for Gordon. He glanced at his watch. It was 9:12 pm. Again, he would miss dinner with Barbara.
Finally, Gordon got into the car. As it started, he looked out the window. Neon signs of shops blinked past, leaving traces of red and blue hues. The rain blurred the radiance outside, morphing it into an indistinguishable halo.
"Who am I meeting?" Gordon asked.
"You'll find out when you see them," the person in the passenger seat replied.
When the car got onto a bumpy path, the vehicle swayed slightly, casting lights onto different buildings. Soon, they turned into an alley that Gordon had never visited; he knew this was in the dangerous fringe of East District.
He stepped out of the car. The man in the black suit led him to the door of a mansion. Two men stood in front, both holding guns. One of them came up. Gordon crossed his hands above his head while the man took his gun and patted him down. Once sure he was unarmed, Gordon followed his guide into the mansion.
The mansion was luxuriously furnished and brightly lit, but there were not many people. On the second floor, the guide opened the door, and Gordon saw a stout figure. He knew it was Sal Maroni, the new big boss in the East District.
Maroni turned around; he wasn't handsome and looked rather fierce. The corners of his mouth always turned down sharply, yet his eyes had an evil upward twist.
Twirling his ring, he said, "Chief, please, have a seat. My apologies for summoning you here tonight."
"Funny how you gangsters are so polite nowadays. You seem more like a cop than me. "
Gordon's response was rude. He did not take the offered seat; instead, he stood tall.
Maroni's expression changed, but he seemed not to mind Gordon's offense. "I invited you here to discuss a deal. As you know, the type mobsters always negotiate."
"I don't negotiate with gangsters."
"Oh?" Maroni laughed, "That's a novel response. I've heard some of you say that my offers weren't generous enough, but I have never heard of anyone refusing to cooperate with a mobster."
"The fact is, I don't collaborate with any gangsters."
"Why then, do you get involved with the Godfather's business? Your field team must be making a fortune from his private prison."
"I'm just doing my job as a cop, fighting crime is a police duty," Gordon said.
He meant every word. Even though the criminals he captured only brought higher profits to the Godfather, his actions were indeed the apprehension of criminals. If his actions could generate profit, all the better. But even if they didn't, he would still do his duty. After all, he'd been doing it when there was no profit, and he was the only one who did so.
"My condition is simple. You don't have to do anything. You just need to stall, come up with all sorts of reasons to hold back your field team."
Maroni spread his hands and said, "So simple! All you have to do is nothing, and I'll offer you a satisfactory price."
Gordon said, "I can see that you've been imitating the Godfather. I haven't met Falcone, but I know Gotham has countless poor imitators of him. They fancy themselves eloquent and polite, affect accents and even mimic his Italianisms."
"But it's useless, Mr. Maroni, you're not Falcone, and Gotham won't have a second Falcone. At least for now, Gotham belongs to the Godfather, not you."
Maroni's face fell completely. Gordon had hit the nail on the head. He had offered a poor imitation of Falcone - like many people in Gotham.
Even though they had hardly finished middle school, they emulated Falcone, using elegant phraseology to twist simple sentences into complex long ones.
They wore suits, donned ties, pinned flowers on their chest, and held pens instead of guns, just like the Godfather.
Falcone was like a benchmark in Gotham City. The charisma of the Godfather was so strong that all the mob bosses, Maroni included, mimicked him.
When you came to Gotham, you'd be surprised. Here, the mob doesn't hire a bunch of kidnappers to abduct you. Instead, they silently pull up in a black luxury car on a rainy night at your front door, then have a polite conversation with you in a luxuriously decorated room, sitting behind a black office desk, dressed in formal attire.
They didn't look like gangsters, more like a group of old-school nobles, all influenced by Falcone.
This shamed Maroni because he was different. He believed that he never succumbed to the Godfather's power and was destined to overthrow Falcone. Yet, he had to admit, he had been imitating the Godfather.
And his imitation was not good. Maroni wasn't meant for suits. He lacked the elegance of the Godfather. Even a tailored suit couldn't hide his savagery.
But Falcone represented the most glorious era of the Gotham Gang. His every move carried the marks of that turbulent era. The demeanor brought from those golden years, the aura of having everything under control, fascinated Maroni.
He held malice toward usurping the Godfather but also, like everyone in Gotham, had deep respect for him.
Gordon looked at Maroni's silence. He said, "You know, before I entered this door, I knew it wasn't Your Excellency Falcone who invited me here, even though you used his favorite car model and the most common way he invites people."
"Oh? Why?" Maroni asked.
"Had it been Your Excellency Falcone who invited me today, I wouldn't have been frisked or had my guns confiscated. The Godfather doesn't care if I'm armed when I meet him because he is far more confident than you."
Maroni was barely holding on to his disguise. Gordon's each word struck his heart. He spoke nothing but the truth.
When Falcone invited someone over for a chat, he would never confiscate their weapons. Even if they were notorious criminals, he dared to sit at the table, unarmed, less than two meters from them, persuading them with words alone.
But Maroni didn't dare.
How could he let a trained old policeman approach him, armed, within two meters? He had no confidence whatsoever. He had to be cautious of Gordon suddenly attacking him. He didn't even understand why Falcone could do that.
Why was the Godfather so confident that no one he met would act against him? Maroni never understood this. In his view, a single mistake could ruin all his efforts and he would never give anyone that chance.
Though he believed his caution was warranted, he couldn't deny the sense of defeat before even battling. He said in a deep voice to Gordon, "Do you think your actions are wise? Provoking me again and again on my turf?!"
"Have you begun to drop those pretenses?" Gordon asked him. "Your language just now was no different than a street thug's. No sophisticated words. Is it because you feel I can see through the truth, no point in continuing the act?"
Maroni waved his hand, a click echoed in the room behind him, the sound of a bullet being chambered. The suit-clad man behind him had a shotgun, aimed straight at Gordon.
Gordon shook his head, "This is where you differ from Your Excellency Falcone. You invited me here to discuss business, but there's no need to kill if negotiations break down. You're still resorting to mob tactics. If I say no, you point a gun at me, forcing me to agree."
"So why bother sending a car to bring me here? You might as well have hired a group of kidnappers, like the other mobs in the East District. Tie me up in a basement, punch me a couple of times, and then point a gun at my head, asking if I agree. If I don't, shoot my arm."
"Enough." Maroni said. He took a deep breath, waved his hand, and the man behind him lowered the gun. He said, "You're bright, you know that I don't want to lose to Falcone."
"Your brightness saved your life, Chief Gordon. Tonight, I can let you leave. But it's not because I'm imitating anyone. It's my benevolence offering you a chance to ponder. If you change your mind, you know where to find me."
When Gordon left the mansion, his shirt was soaked with cold sweat.
Only he knew how perilous that had been, had he not continuously provoked Maroni with Falcone, stirring up Maroni's rebellious psychology. Whether he would've been able to leave the mansion intact was questionable.
The cold wind of Gotham blew against him, the fine rain hit his face, as he slowly made his way back, thinking that he hadn't misspoken. Maroni fell short compared to Falcone. His temper was flaring.
If it had been Falcone who invited him tonight, regardless of whether his petty tricks could provoke the Godfather, even if he was disrespectful, the Godfather wouldn't deny him a ride home.
Having thought that, Gordon looked up at the night sky of Gotham, raindrops fell into his eyes. He wiped his face thinking, it seemed that the troubles were far from over.