Parties and Umbrellas (4)

"Why the hell do you…" Cobblepot glared at Schiller darkly, then suddenly caught himself and cursed with a frown. "Damn it…"

He turned back to Schiller, but there was none of the satisfied expression of a police officer successfully baiting a confession on Schiller’s face. Instead, Schiller truly looked confused, and that made Cobblepot feel humiliated.

Cobblepot pursed his lips, stretched his neck, tilted his head, and rolled his shoulders before saying, "Undo the straps on my arm first. They’re making me uncomfortable…"

He had expected Schiller to refuse, but Schiller rose without hesitation, walked to the bedside, and undid the straps on the armrest. The moment one hand was freed, Cobblepot eagerly flexed his arm.

His right hand was in a splint. Schiller reminded him, "Because you delayed treatment, the fracture in your right hand became quite severe. If you’d waited another two days, there would have been a risk of amputation, so keep it immobilized for now."

Cobblepot muttered under his breath, seemingly cursing something. When Schiller looked over, he suddenly seemed to choke on his words and fell silent.

Schiller returned to his seat, picked up the medical record, and said, "Come on, let’s continue discussing this. From the way the crime scene was arranged, I could tell you were in a hurry. Can you tell me what happened to you?"

Cobblepot wrinkled his nose and curled his upper lip, making him look rather fierce. He seemed eager to refute Schiller’s assessment, yet also felt he should not tell a strange psychiatrist so much.

"Let me hear your criminal reasoning. You went to so much trouble to do all this—wouldn’t it be a shame if there were no audience for it?"

Cobblepot’s uninjured hand gripped the bedrail tightly. Tilting his head, he stared straight at Schiller and said, "You damned psychiatrist…"

Cobblepot had to admit that Schiller’s words were more effective than any interrogation tactic the police could have used.

Schiller smiled at him. He knew very well that every criminal destined to appear on the Gotham Big Stage was a fundamentalist of crime.

They had their own pride in criminality. The precision of their methods, the presentation of the results, the way they misled onlookers—every aspect had to be as perfect as possible.

Every criminal scheme they carried out gave special consideration to such matters, and they hoped someone would recognize their brilliant ideas.

They firmly believed that a crime without an audience was not a perfect crime.

Cobblepot’s reason told him that laying everything out now was not a good idea. If Schiller really was recording him, he would likely be unable to escape judgment.

But he was unbearably tempted. Another voice inside him told him that Schiller was someone like him, that he would surely be a good listener—someone who could understand the exquisite criminal process that ordinary people could not, someone who could understand what made him exceptional.

Before long, Cobblepot could no longer hold back. "It was an accident. If it hadn’t been for…"

Cobblepot paused, seemingly organizing his thoughts. Then he relaxed completely, lay back on the bed, fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and began his story.

"…Meeting the Godfather was entirely an accident. My father used to be a somewhat renowned gang boss in the East Side. After he died, the territory and property that should have been mine were divided up by those jackal-like gangs…"

"To protect me, my mother took me back to our old house near Living Hell. But we still had no peace. My father’s old enemies came after us again and again…"

"One night, I was washing dishes at a bar in the East Side. When I came out, I was surrounded. They were about to shoot when a car passed by. Falcone was inside. He stopped those people and drove them away…"

"The Godfather saved you?"

"That’s right. I was only twelve then, but I was skinny and weak, so I looked even younger. Maybe he couldn’t stand seeing them shoot a child. In any case, that was when I met the Godfather…"

"I don’t know what made him think I was worth cultivating. I was thin, small, unhealthy, unpleasant-looking, and terrible at dealing with people, but the Godfather still supported me in secret…"

"So when he needed you, you went and killed for him?"

Cobblepot said expressionlessly, "What’s wrong with that? He saved me. I know it was nothing to him, but killing was nothing to me either…"

"I have to say, you handled Old Edward’s case with remarkable skill. You didn’t seem like a novice. Can you tell me about that day in detail?"

Cobblepot shook his head. "That was all thanks to the Godfather’s prestige. No one dared make trouble on his turf. It wasn’t anything worth boasting about…"

"All right, let’s get to the point. You weren’t doing all this just to drift along with the current. What exactly did you want?"

"I wanted to escape the Godfather’s control." Cobblepot’s answer was startling.

"To be precise, not the Old Godfather…" Cobblepot added. "I was willing to work for Falcone and kill for him, but only for Falcone…"

"Some time ago, I learned that the Old Godfather wanted to retire and hand the power in his hands to his son, Little Falcone."

Cobblepot scoffed contemptuously. "But he can’t do it. Little Falcone is nowhere near as capable as his father. There’s no future in following him."

"When the new Godfather inherited the Old Godfather’s position, he would naturally inherit his property and connections as well. That naturally included me. But Little Falcone is far too lacking. I didn’t want to work for him…"

"Why did you think that?" Schiller asked.

"Before this, he wanted to carry out reforms. The territory the Old Godfather gave him was turned into a complete mess."

"He had plenty of drive, but no goal. His methods were forceful, but he lacked thought. Simply put, he wasn’t cut out for this."

"So what did you do?"

"I knew the Old Godfather was not dead yet. It was impossible to break away from him by force. I would die."

"I had received his favor, and I had already killed for him. Maybe it looked like we were even."

"But every Gothamite knew that once you had done this kind of thing, you could never get back ashore. Either you died, or you walked down the dark road to the end."

"But I didn’t want to be passed down as part of an inheritance, taking orders from the new Godfather. Or rather, the new Godfather’s stupidity would not only kill him—it would kill me too. I didn’t want to die, so I had to leave."

"When the Godfather sent me to Living Hell to keep an eye on this place, I realized my opportunity had come…"

"My first target was the Muni Gang." Cobblepot raised his voice. "I had to establish myself here and figure out the situation before I could make further plans. So I joined the Muni Gang, followed Fish’s orders, and in a very short time, learned everything about this place."

Cobblepot’s speech gradually became more fluent. When it came to this subject, the future Penguin became endlessly talkative.

"Once I finished the preliminary reconnaissance, the Muni Gang was no longer a good foothold. Fish’s territory was being compressed layer by layer, and her range of activity was becoming very limited. I couldn’t gather enough intelligence, and at that point, I couldn’t let the Godfather think I hadn’t been working hard."

"So I found an opportunity to make contact with Kevin. Yes, he didn’t choose me—I chose him…"

As Cobblepot continued speaking, his voice echoed through the hospital room. His recent life became scene after scene of a drama, unfolding before the two of them.

As his words fell, a red curtain opened, revealing the narrow corridors of Living Hell behind it.

Cobblepot and Kevin stood in the corridor. Small and hunched, Cobblepot fawned over Kevin. "Mr. Kevin, please, do me a favor. You absolutely have to buy from me…"

The tall Kevin held his head high, took a pack of cigarettes from Cobblepot, opened it, and inspected it. "You’re a new cigarette seller? I haven’t seen you before. You must be one of that crazy woman’s people, right?"

"Yes, yes…" Cobblepot nodded eagerly, then rubbed his hands awkwardly. "I’m only trying to make a living too. Hardly anyone buys cigarettes in the South Side, otherwise I wouldn’t have risked coming here…"

"How much per pack?"

"Seventy cents, sir. Only seventy cents."

Kevin raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Seventy cents? What’s that about? The cigarette peddlers around here sell them for ninety cents or a dollar. Why are yours so cheap?"

Kevin looked over the pack again and drew out a cigarette. Cobblepot eagerly leaned in to light it for him, then said, "I still make a profit this way. I work both the south and north sides. One round takes an hour and twenty minutes, and I can sell about six or seven packs. Even if the profit is only ten cents per pack, there are thirteen hours in a day when I can work, so on average I can sell…"

Kevin took a drag, exhaled smoke, and looked Cobblepot up and down. "You can do math? Now that’s unusual. The little brats I’ve met selling cigarettes can’t even figure out change…"

Cobblepot continued smiling and nodding deferentially, casually letting slip that he had once attended school in the Affluent Area of the South Side. He kept chatting with Kevin. After Kevin smoked two cigarettes, he seemed a little pleased with himself. Pinching the cigarette butt between his fingers, he said, "I think you’ve got potential. Working for that crazy woman Fish won’t end well."

"Get me two cartons of good cigarettes, and I’ll let you work at the second-floor shipping outlet. You’ll get three cents commission for every ten items. That’s a lot better than selling cigarettes."

Cobblepot looked overjoyed. Kevin curled his lip and said, "Little runts like you, with weak arms and soft legs, are only good for running errands, buying newspapers and cigarettes, or counting things…"

"Those little bastards make mistakes every day. Their brains are less sharp than rusty door bolts, and they cost me money. Don’t you dare slack off or try any tricks…"

As the smoke from Kevin’s cigarette gradually dispersed, the curtain slowly closed. Schiller turned to Cobblepot and said, "I can tell that, up to this point, you did quite well."

"You used your small build to disguise yourself as one of the most common children in Living Hell—a cigarette-selling errand boy. You casually displayed your talent for calculation and successfully changed employers to Kevin."

"But that wasn’t all I wanted."

The curtain opened again. Cardboard boxes piled higher and higher. Bills flew from Cobblepot’s hands, passed through the narrow corridors of Living Hell, past the door of the shipping outlet, up the freight stairs, and into the back kitchen of a restaurant, while a small figure darted among them.

The final sheet slapped against Cobblepot’s face. When he pulled it away, the eyes revealed beneath it reflected the dazzling neon lights of a restaurant sign.

"You probably weren’t lying about this part," Schiller commented. "I can see that you really wanted to open a restaurant."

Cobblepot, lying in the hospital bed, moved his lips. He was silent for a while before saying, "That’s right, but it wasn’t what I needed to consider right now."

"What I needed to consider was this: as an errand boy, I had already reached the end of the road at the bottom. Next, I needed to find a way to become management."