In Miller's Harbor, Little Italy, East District of Gotham, at Johnsonburg's Gunfire Feast, the balding owner sipped his coffee, eyes scanning the news.
He had hoped for updates on Bruce Wayne. For a Gotham old-timer like him, the name Wayne carried weight. Yet the current Wayne kept a low profile—returning after seven years, appearing briefly at the airport, then vanishing into Wayne Manor. The television offered nothing new.
Instead, the screen showed reports of gang gunfights in the Burnley District. Over seventy people had died. The Balding Owner barely flinched. People died in Gotham every day; seventy fewer scoundrels was almost a reason to smile. He stirred his coffee, adding a sugar cube, and allowed himself a small grin.
But his thoughts drifted to the young Asian robber from before. The fire in that youth's eyes was rare—he hoped it hadn't been snuffed out.
Crash!
The shop door slammed open. The Balding Owner squinted toward the entrance and froze. The very youth he had been thinking about strode in: Axel.
"Boss, your gun's nice. Feels good in my hand." Axel grinned, tossing his backpack onto the bar and pulling out two wads of cash. He dropped them in front of the Balding Owner.
The owner exhaled, surveying the pile and the remaining cash in the bag. "Looks like Gotham's got another successful scoundrel. Honestly… I might have preferred you stayed gone."
"Don't be sharp-tongued, Boss," Axel shot back. "The 'successful scoundrel' you see could be someone else's future boss. Success matters more than the name you slap on it."
He pulled out more stacks of cash. "Stop lecturing. Let's do business. Your stuff's top-notch, but where are the customers? If they won't buy, I will. Show me some grenades."
The Balding Owner chuckled and grabbed a wooden crate. "Fine, fine. But listen, the reason I have few customers is I'm too legitimate. Cooperate with the National Guard, proper paperwork required—under normal circumstances, a scoundrel like you couldn't buy a damn thing."
"I get it, you're not very smart." Axel smirked. "Opening a legitimate gun shop in Gotham's most illegitimate neighborhood—Little Italy, Falcone's stronghold—is bold. You're selling weapons to middle-class folks who could be robbed by the Roman's men anytime."
He gave a thumbs-up. "Your shop doesn't trouble them, but even small problems are problems for Falcone's people. You've got few customers, but no missing organs—your backing's solid, and your National Guard claim isn't just talk."
Axel shoved all the grenades into his backpack, patting the crate heavily. "If the Guard's gear is standard military issue, why not show me the fun stuff? Barretts, rocket launchers—open my eyes. People like me don't come around often."
"To hell with that!" The Balding Owner shoved the crate aside, grumbling, then took a wad of dollars from Axel's bag. "A pistol, a dozen grenades—you can report them lost or damaged. Used at the range, no one checks. But the things you're asking for… my shop won't sell. Need real stuff? Underground dealer—my son. Top quality. But listen, Gotham doesn't care about your background. My son's connections keep me alive here, not the Guard."
He handed Axel a stiff card. "Call this number. He'll know I guarantee you."
Axel tucked the card away, grabbed a handful of cash, and placed it on the bar. "Interesting, old man. You call me a scoundrel but give me a direct line to your son. Is it respect for me, or just the money in my bag?"
The Balding Owner laughed and stuffed the cash back into Axel's bag. "Who wasn't a scoundrel when young? Only those who survive with some money become old men like me. Every sum comes with risk. Save your cash—it's pocket change to my son. But I like your spirit. Could be a good addition to my son's operations."
Axel smirked, flipping him the middle finger. "You want me working for your son? Good luck, old man. He's got a new job now. Hope he can keep up with me, haha!"
Laughing, Axel slung his backpack over his shoulder and moved toward the door.
But he paused, spinning back. "Oh, one more thing—where's the Iceberg Lounge?"
"You bringing grenades to ask directions? You think you have a future?" The Balding Owner returned the middle finger and pointed left. "Out the door, left to the sea, follow the port past the warehouses, where thugs loiter—you'll find it."
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me. Move fast. I need to pack up and leave town for two days—shear sheep or whatever. If I knew your fire was aimed at the Roman, I should've shot you the first time you walked in. Now? After you die, Roman will trace it to me. I made twenty grand off you but owe Falcone tens of thousands. Big loss."
"Can't you think ahead? What if I don't die?" Axel grinned, giving him two middle fingers.
The Balding Owner put hands on his hips, thrusting forward. "If you survive, maybe this old dick of mine can rise again. Take your guns and cash, leave quietly, live well."
"Haha, live well—compared to this, my old comfort was like never tasting good pork. Enough talk, I'm off. Time for more fun. We'll meet again, old man!"
Axel laughed, stepped into Gotham's near-constant rain, and didn't look back.
The Balding Owner watched, a hint of regret in his eyes. If the Waynes ruled the city by day, Falcone reigned at night. In thirty years, every challenge to Wayne ended in bankruptcy; every challenge to Falcone ended at the bottom of Miller's Harbor. Today, Miller's Harbor would gain another corpse—courtesy of Axel.
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