Legacies of Justice

[Callisto]

Who: Batman, with Callisto as the Penguin
Where: Penguin's sanctum, Iceberg Lounge
Penguin: Oh, where to begin. He could have his nose toned down. He could lose some of the weight. He could wear gloves at all times, as befits the gentlemen. And he'd still be stumpy. Short-legged. The very anti-these of the tall muscular jock. Oswald Cobblepot never was and never will be a quarterback - but this isn't high-school. His birds love him. His business partners respect him, grudgingly. He didn't get to where he is today by lamenting the cruelty of fate. He got there by applying his wits, and taking it like a gentleman - and quite literally, at that. Wearing a tuxedo, top hat, and monocle, and often carrying an umbrella when outside, it's a clear message he sends to Gotham's underworld: take it like a gentlemen, and you will remain sane. In control. Able to outwit the more obsessive of your peers. You'll not go to gaol. You'll make money. You'll even keep it. Let go of the nonchalance, and you'll be just another Killer Croc, another Twoface, torn apart by your disfigurement, your obsessions. Oswald Cobblepot. The Penguin. Also, the Triumph of the Will - a waddling little man, rich, feared, respected, free, and with all the "birds" money can buy. A waddling caricature of a man that even the Batman strikes bargains with. Not a fighter. Not a lover. But a gentleman. A businessman. A man who knows that eventually, everybody will need SOMETHING.

Another night, another set of crimes to investigate in Gotham City. Though the season has turned increasingly chilly and the smell of winter lays ever heavier and heavier in the air about the city, crime in the city hasn't cooled down in the slightest. But then this is Gotham. Nothing ever does. Tonight, the sky above is shrouded by thick, steely grey clouds that blot out the twinkling stars and half moon, casting a larger gloom over sprawling metropolis by the banks of the Atlantic Ocean with the threat of a hard, cold rain imminent. But that too isn't enough of a deterrent to the Dark Knight to prevent him from doing his customary rounds.
Certainly, there is more then enough to be concerned about this evening, like most others. The Joker is still on the loose and that is his top priority, followed closely by tracking down Harley and Ivy before their erratic behavior can endanger anyone. And he has already given over part of his night to pursuing his few leads in each of those cases, working his way down the list of priorities. Which has finally brought him here, to the Iceberg Lounge. Base of Operations to one of Gotham's influence power brokers in the underworld; Oswald Cobblepot, better known as the Penguin. Slipping into his dark office, Batman's cowled figure looms silently in the corner of the room, listening intently to the buzz of conversation from the bar beyond. Waiting for his quarry to arrive.

The music is subdued in here. A shame, if you're into swing at all. Just now, the horns are blowing that sound, then finally give way to a soulful female vocalist, the rhythm section providing a strong anchor all the while. The sound is slightly muffled in the backroom, the acoustics likely dictated more by the wish to not let anything leave the room rather than not let anything enter it, and it's just quiet enough to allow for pleasant conversation. While it might not strictly be conversation the owner of the premises is after at this point, pleasant things he won't deny. The door to an adjacent room opens. Light seeps in in the shape of a quickly growing rectangle. A plump shadow stands out against it, the black silhouette providing a stark contrast as Oswald Cobblepot enters from what some might call his parlor where he enjoys the company of all kinds of exotic birds both literally and figuratively. He closes the door behind him, sets down a mostly empty sect flute on the desk as he sits behind it, turns on the lamp atop of it...

Even with the short, rotund figure entering the room, the Dark Knight does not immediately move towards him, instead lingering in the darkened confines of the corner until the door is closed, making sure that the Iceberg Lounge's owner doesn't have one of his burly 'security' types enter with him. You'd think he would have learned by now, given the number of times that he has been ambushed in more or less the same fashion. Then again, maybe he has. His 'protection' doesn't usually do him any good anyway, at the least being rendered unconscious, at the most having broken limbs for their efforts to keep the Batman from interrogating their employer. Maybe the Penguin just got tired of the pointless hospital bills. Maybe.
He is very much like a large, lurking shadow detaching itself from a greater sum, simply seeming to emerge from that dark gloom to stand right at the fringe of the light -- a swirl of blues and greys and blacks with what little of his face bared by the cowl he wears obscured by those shadows he wraps himself in. "Cobblepot," he says, raspy voice low and menacing. "We need to talk. Don't bother going for that gun in the drawer, or calling for your security. You'll just get a lot of people hurt before you give me the answers I want," he cautions, his words more a promise then a threat.

Penguin starts in his seat, cigarette-in-holder quivering, slipping, almost falling, the glowing tip describing frantic arcs like a cardiograph. "I'll say, old chap!", the portly fellow protests. "You'll give me a heart attack yet with that confounded hide-and-sneak of yours. It's most uncharitable of you." He glowers at the towering figure. "A gentleman should be allowed to conduct his business in peace, even here in Gotham."

And so it is time to begin the customary merry-go-round that they play each and every time he stops by it seems. He demands information, Penguin insists he's innocent and doesn't know. He threatens, Penguin stalls. A certain minimal violence or show of force is made, Penguin collapses and tells all he knows to save his own skin. It is a dance that they have done for quite sometime now and really, it is the only reason that this club hasn't been long since boarded up and Oswald carted off to jail. As a source of information he has long proven more valuable out here then any potential source of harm he might represent.
"I'm not in the mood for games tonight, Cobblepot," Batman says lowly, that quiet voice no less filled with menace and the threat of violence for all it's silence. "There has been a rash of counterfeit cash on the street the past few weeks. The police just stumbled onto it and so far haven't been able to trace it. But the people who have noticed all seem to have something in common. They're regulars here or have visited your casino recently," he adds softly, stepping out into that pool of illumination, looming over the diminutive figure who tries so hard to look defiant. "I want those forgers, Cobblepot. You're going to tell me where I can find them, where I can find their shop, or I'm going to take it onto myself to make sure that you're club is in no shape to pass phony fifties and hundreds for a good, long time. Are we understood?" Yeah, he's trying to skip a few of the dance steps tonight. He's ultimately a small fish in a big pond at the moment, but there's no reason to let him know. To steal a cliche, no need to ruffle his feathers.

"To get my regulars in trouble like that would be bad business.", Oswald notes, taking a drag from his holder, the tip of the cigarette briefly glowing brighter. "To let someone else do it here in my premises? Not my style." He peers up at the cowled figure, the lamp's light reflected in his monocle. "Bad business, as well. So, let me say, your story doesn't add up, old chap, pain though it may me to point it out." Stall, stall, stall. He seems determined to stand up - or sit up, as the case may be - to the caped intruder for slightly longer. Appearances. Etiquette. Ritual. The bread and butter of gentlemanly existence, as the last of the Pennyworths might confirm. He sits, waits. Ponders. His cigarette is burning, but he never seems to ash. "Anything else I can do for you?", he concludes, trying his best to sound bored. "I'd hate to sound rude, but you see I'm a man of many obligations."

So much for trying to skip over a few of the customary dance steps. That's Oswald. He can never do things the easy way, no matter how much time it would save for the both of them. It's annoying to be sure, but it's part of their game. Break the rules of it and well, then it's into uncharted waters. And right now Gotham's Dark Knight has more then enough problems to deal with without adding an unpredictable Penguin to the mix. For a moment, as Penguin speaks and even a few seconds afterward there is only silence to greet his protestations, that cowled figure simply staring at him with that customary grim intensity. And then abruptly he withdraws, drawing back once more to the fringes of the light, the details of his tall form difficult to make out except for the swish of his cape as it cuts through the circle of illumination. Slowly, he begins to circle the desk, his path bringing him closer and closer to the seated man, still not speaking. And when that low voice does finally break the silence, well, it is no friendlier then before. "Police raids that take half your customers into custody and all of your cash to be tested is even worse for business, Cobblepot. And that's your alternative to cooperating," he points out, suddenly advancing on the man, a pair of steps bringing him to a stop right beside him. One hand lays on the back of the swivvel chair, jerking it backwards and tilting it at an odd angle. "Lets say for the sake of argument that I believe you have nothing to do with it. Maybe it's a disgruntled employee making a buck on his own, maybe it's something else. This thing is right up your alley. I'm sure you have a list of names of everyone who'd be capable of this sort of thing in town at the moment. Maybe, in your own self-interest, you should think about sharing it. Before they ruin your 'good' reputation," he suggests quietly, without a trace of irony in his words as he looms over Cobblepot.

The Penguin starts at being manhandled in such a rude, yea, ruffian way, and as the chair is jerked, tilted, the cigarette finally drops. He swallows. His eyes widen. "You're suggesting someone could run an operation like that in here? Without my knowing of it? That's absurd.", he claims weakly, clutching the arms of the chair. "I put it to you you followed a red herring." He considers, contemplates. Or maybe, it's just an attempt to save some face, maintain some dignity, not give up quite as easily. Then, he shrugs. "Tell you what, old sport. I'll see what I can come up with.", he promises. "I have an idea or two about what.. entrepreneurs might possess such equipment." He pauses before finally adding, "I think you'll find though that the bills originated elsewhere. To think they came from here is preposterous. Absurd, rather." His plea, innocence? An educated guess? Or the condition for his providing the information?

Yep, this is wearing thin, and Batman just isn't in the mood for playing games any longer tonight. Instead, his mouth sets into a hard, thin line and he tilts the chair back even farther until it is very unlikely that the diminutive man seated in it can even touch the ground with his feet any longer. "I don't think so," he says softly through gritted teeth, leaning down over the man until he virtually fills his entire range of sight. "I don't care what story you concoct, I don't care what explanations you give. What I do care about is a name and a location. And I'll have it. By the end of business tonight, understood? Sometime between now and dawn I'll be back and when I show, you better have both those things for me. Or things won't go quite so... smoothly for you. Understood, Cobblepot?" he asks before abruptly straightening. "And don't think that you can cart out your cash in the meantime. Do anything stupid and believe me, the police raid that will come down on you will leave your club in ruins. Think about it," he adds lowly, his shadowed features still without expression as he abruptly tilts the chair back upright, shoving it in against the edge of the desk. And before the Penguin has the time to reply, to do much of anything, the Dark Knight is out the window, vanished into the night once more.