The light rail left the lower districts behind, its rusted wheels grinding across the bridge over the Gotham River, cutting through the murk toward the city center.
In the near-empty fifth car, seven or eight Romans in suits had claimed an entire row of seats.
Oswald finished handing out food from a paper bag and dropped into the seat beside Will, passing over the last hot dog.
"You look like you're somewhere else."
Will shook his head and said nothing. He took the hot dog wrapped in old newspaper, blew on it, and took a bite.
"I was the same way when I first started. Lost. But every time I saw Mr. Maroni it put fire back in me..."
In Oswald's telling, Maroni was elegant, magnetic, the kind of man who walked with a cane like he'd stepped straight out of The Godfather. A real Michael Corleone.
"When I take Mr. Maroni's seat someday, I'm getting a cane exactly like his."
Will nodded.
Strange thing was, hearing it from Oswald right now, it didn't sound ridiculous at all. It sounded like a man describing something that had already been decided.
The train stopped. New passengers boarded, took one look at the row of suited men, and disappeared into other cars as fast as their legs would take them.
One old man didn't.
He was hunched, white-haired, almost nothing left of him. His coat smelled sour and his hands were wrapped tight around a paper bag. He sat down directly across from them and kept his eyes on the half-eaten hot dog in Will's hand.
"You want this?"
Will had no appetite. He held it out.
The old man nodded, muttering something that might have been gratitude, and started eating in big, urgent bites.
"Had enough? Good. Now get lost."
Oswald's voice cut across the car. He pulled out his brass knuckles from his inner pocket, not putting them on, just showing them. The old man scrambled to the far corner of the car.
Oswald pocketed them again and turned to Will.
"The Romans aren't a charity. You have to stay hard. Show one crack and everyone thinks they can push through it."
Will nodded.
The moment wasn't over yet. The old man was still in the corner, gnawing at the hot dog, when a hand shot out from beside him and grabbed at his paper bag.
He clutched it to his chest. He barely got his head up before the slap landed.
Three young men had wandered in from another car, reeking of bad liquor.
The Romans glanced over. Nobody moved. Violence in Gotham's corners was weather — you noted it and looked away.
The old man wouldn't let go of the bag. The three of them dragged him to the floor and started in with boots and fists.
Will's hand closed into a fist.
He started to rise. Oswald's hand came down on his shoulder and held him there.
"Forget what I just said?"
Oswald's brow was tight, eyes shadowed and cold.
The old man's voice filled the car.
"They're being loud," Will said. "I just want to ask them to keep it down."
Oswald looked at him for a moment.
"That's a creative reason. If that's really how you feel — go ahead. The Romans' honor is behind you."
The man sitting next to Oswald leaned over. "Boss, you're really letting Will go? Those guys are drunk."
"First time out of the East End." Oswald settled back. "Let him see what Gotham hospitality looks like."
The three hadn't noticed anyone approaching. They were too busy with it. The first sign they had was when one of them got grabbed by the collar and slammed face-first into the window glass.
The other two pulled knives.
"We've got no beef with the Romans!" one of them said.
"You're loud." Will looked them over with the flat expression he'd spent three months watching the older Romans perfect. He tilted his head. "You're hurting my eyes."
Falcone's name had weight in Gotham. The three of them started shifting their feet, shoulders curling in.
"Alright, alright. We'll back off. Just let him go."
Will relaxed his grip.
He didn't see the knife come out of the back pocket until it was already moving.
The train was slowing for the next stop. The one he was holding threw an elbow into his face, broke free, reversed the blade, and drove it down toward Will's gut as he stumbled back.
The knife was inches away when something hit the man from the side like a freight train.
One flying kick. One scream. The man went down and the knife spun up in a clean arc and dropped into Oswald's waiting hand.
"Tell me." Oswald crouched down, perfectly calm. "How many lines on that pretty face will it take before you understand fairness and humility?"
Behind him, every Roman in the car was on their feet.
These weren't men who got rattled. Some of them had worse things than bar fights on their record. The pressure coming off them was nothing like what Will could manage — it filled the car like a change in air.
The three tried to run. The aisle was already packed with onlookers who weren't going anywhere.
They got controlled quickly.
"Morrie. Open the door."
"Yes, boss."
Morrie jammed a blade into the door seam. The alarm screamed. Wind came howling into the car as the door wrenched open, the bridge rushing past outside.
Everyone in the connecting car could see it. Everyone knew what was coming for those three.
Nobody said a word.
The screaming and begging didn't last long. One of them had wet himself.
Then they were gone — three heavy impacts below the bridge, a squeal of brakes from something on the road beneath, and then just the sound of the train leaving it all behind.
The car went quiet.
The old man was on the floor collecting what was left of his paper bag. It had burst open sometime during the fight. His lip was split and bleeding. On the floor around him were the crushed remains of a cake, the icing smeared beyond recognition — but you could still make out the inscription: For my dear Jenny.
The words tilted with the ruined cream, crooked and half-collapsed.
"Good excuse," Oswald said, watching Will watch the old man. "But you should work on letting go of that useless sympathy."
The train pulled into the city center station.
Walking out onto the platform, Will was swallowed immediately by towers of glass and steel. The buildings shot straight up in every direction. Luxury cars moved through clean streets. The people out here walked with their chins up, each step deliberate, like the city owed them the ground they stepped on.
One river separated this place from the East End. It felt like a different planet.
"Chest up, my friend." Oswald straightened Will's collar. "We represent the Romans. Don't let them look down on you." He winked.
That evening, in a rented room in Gotham's North Harbor district, the old man pushed open the unlocked door.
"Jenny, I'm home."
The room was quiet.
"Bad news — I ruined the cake I brought you. Good news — I met someone interesting."
He cleared his throat. The rasp was gone from his voice now, smoothed out completely.
He walked to the bathroom. From inside came small sounds, quiet and deliberate.
From the back, it looked like he was pulling at his own hair.
A mask of human skin appeared in his hands.
"He helped me. Gave me half a hot dog. Even stepped in to deal with those three thugs."
A pause.
"Can you believe it? Someone like that, in Gotham." A short laugh. "Funny."
The room said nothing back.
His polished shoes moved through the dust and into the living room.
"Jenny. There you are. Why didn't you answer?"
He walked to the sofa and took the mummified hand in his.
He looked into the hollow eyes for a long time, searching for something. Then, slowly, he raised two fingers and pressed them into the shrunken mouth, working the dry lips into the shape he wanted.
"Please, my dear. Just one smile. Why do you always have to be so serious?"