Adam stubbed out his cigarette, gave a nod, and ducked behind the bar to follow her toward one of the quieter corners near the back booth.
There, sitting alone with a glass of bourbon, was a man in a dark leather coat. He looked relaxed… but too deliberate about it. Unbothered by the noise around him, watching everything while pretending he wasn't.
When Adam approached, the man looked up with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Nice place," he said. "Packed, lively—tight-dressed girls and music loud enough to cover most deals." He raised his glass slightly. "I like it. Looks like you've got something good going here."
Adam took a seat opposite him, sizing him up. "Appreciate the compliment. You looking to offer feedback—or something else?"
The stranger chuckled. "Straight to the point. I like that." He leaned forward. "Name's Ignatius O'Gilvy—but most people don't remember it the first time."
Adam's eyes narrowed slightly.
O'Gilvy.
He knew that name.
From the New 52 era in the Gotham comics, O'Gilvy was originally one of Penguin's top lieutenants. Called himself the "Emperor Penguin" when he tried to take Penguin's entire empire while Oswald was vulnerable. Ended up juiced on venom and modified toxins, nearly crippled Batman in a fight—until Penguin himself came back and dealt with him the old-fashioned way.
In short: this wasn't just some low-level errand boy.
Adam leaned back, calm but guarded. "Let's skip the small talk. Just tell me what Penguin sent you for."
O'Gilvy blinked, clearly not expecting to be clocked so quickly. He recovered quickly with a smirk.
"Well, boss," he said, "you're sharper than you look. I'll admit, that's rare around here."
Then he dropped the act.
"I've been watching this block for a while. Most bars here can't pull a crowd—yours just figured out how. Congrats on staying afloat... but I know you're feeling the tax pressure."
Adam's jaw tensed. He was feeling it.
Between Gotham's new prohibition taxes, license threats, and all the red tape Harvey Dent had rolled out to nail any bar still open, Adam's books were stressing him more than they should. He hadn't expected the success of his publicity gimmick to attract Penguin's crew this fast.
"Go on," he said carefully.
O'Gilvy smiled like a man who knew he now had his audience.
"The Iceberg Club has started supplying bars directly. Lower cost, better stock. You won't have to worry about bleeding out from taxes and regulators. You sell more, keep more."
He opened his phone and turned it toward Adam—an inventory sheet full of high-end whiskey, vodka, gin… all priced lower than market minimums.
It was tempting. Too tempting and it reeked of strings.
"You're openly selling liquor during a citywide crackdown," Adam said. "Dent's new task force has cash rewards for informants now. You sure it won't backfire?"
"You think people care about that reward? Dent's putting up a hundred dollars for whistleblowers—we offer a thirty percent discount. Bottom line speaks louder than morals."
He casually took another sip. "And people in Gotham don't snitch unless they get paid better."
Adam didn't answer at once. He wasn't planning to make enemies of Penguin's crew—not yet—but he wasn't ready to jump into bed with them either.
"Give me your contact," Adam said. "I'll reach out when I decide."
O'Gilvy nodded like he understood.
"Don't wait too long," he said as he stood up, placing payment for the drink—and a solid tip—on the table. "Most bar owners in Gotham weren't sure at first either. Give it time… they all come around. You'll see."
He finished his drink, gave Adam a slight bow, and slipped out the front door without a glance back.
The next morning, Adam pulled out the bar's ledgers and sat down to look over inventory reports.
The numbers weren't bad. Ever since the uniform update and swimwear-themed service, business had boomed. More alcohol had been sold in two days than the entire previous month.
Jason sat across the bar, tallying receipts and squinting at the inventory list.
"…We're low on everything," Jason murmured. "Johnny Red's almost out… so's the bourbon."
Then he frowned. "…And what's with these black and red card labels?"
Adam looked over from his clipboard, confused. "I thought those were poker comps?"
Jason sighed. "No. Red's high-consumption stuff. Black means private stock. You marked it as served, but we never got a replacement bottle."
Adam muttered something under his breath. He had never liked accounting—he left most of that to Jason when he could.
"I swear, for someone who doesn't drink," Jason said, "you sure manage to burn through supply like a college frat house."
Adam kept his expression blank.
He was still thinking about last night—about O'Gilvy's "friendly" offer, about the long game ahead, and about the fact that—for once—he was no longer hunting in Gotham.