gothamscitizens | (no subject)

(no subject)

The air in the hotel kitchen is still thick with the smell of food and cooking. It took a lot of pull to clear the kitchen in the middle of the day, but if there's one thing these men have, it's pull.

Each man -- and each of his bodyguards -- is ushered through a metal detector. Everyone knows everyone else is armed, but it's a gesture of truce. In here, they're all dealing with the same issue: their money.

Their accountant, Lau, is talking to them via satellite -- but what he's saying isn't being received very well.

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He says it in a language they'll all understand:

"If you're good at something never do it for free."

The Chechen sits back, slides his hands into his pockets, tucks his chin to his chest.

"How much you want?"

Here comes the fun part.

One of the fun parts.

He leans forward slightly. "Ah... half."

The laughter this time is more open.

"You're crazy."

The smirk drops off his face.

"I'm not," he says, almost over the end of the word. "No, I'm not." The t comes out like a projectile; he chews on the scar at the corner of his mouth for a moment to get his rhythm back.

"If we," he continues at last, "don't deal with this, now... soon? Little, ah, Gambol here - won't be able to get a nickel for his granma."

Bam. The bodyguards' focus snaps to Gambol.

"Enough from the clown!" he roars, rising to his feet.

"Aaahdatdatdatdaa," he cautions, sliding away from the table and opening his coat to reveal a cluster of grenades now tethered by purple thread to his other hand. "Let's not - blow - this out of proportion." To reinforce the point, he waggles his fingers, making the grenades rattle.

Gambol freezes, breathing hard.

"You think you can steal from us and just walk away?"

"Yeah," he fires back with casual disdain.

"I'm puttin' the word out," he continues, as if he didn't hear the clown. "Five hundred grand for this clown dead. A million alive so I can teach him some manners first."

He raises the hand with the string, lifting a finger admonishingly at Gambol... and then turns his attention to the rest of them instead with a quick sweeping gesture.

"All right, so, listen. Why don't - you - gimme a call, when you want to start taking things a little... more... seriously."

He reaches into another pocket.

"Here's—my—card," he says, holding up a joker; it makes a faint snap as he lays it on the table. Humming, he walks backward to the door, kicks it open, and steps out.

(Eventually, he acquires a shadow.)

The mobsters watch him go.

Nobody seems to quite know what to say for a moment after the door stops swinging.

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