The Mafia

The man that had just introduced himself as one of the Falcone spread his arms, jazz-hands style, as if to say: Ta-da. “I’m just messing with you kid. Not him. Sorry. I’m not even a Roberto. Not even a Robert. Fuck, my name doesn't even have an R. But… sometimes I tell people I am, because I like to scare the shit out of them, and the Falcone name sure works for that. You don’t look scared, though.”

“I’m not,” That was partly true, partly a lie.

I was concerned, but ever since I woke up here… emotions feel different.

“See, that’s the problem with you homeless types,” he said, wagging a finger. “You get so used to real fear, the manufactured kind barely makes a dent. Not that I blame you. Gotham’s a special place, some might even call it hell. This city chews you up, spits you out, then pretend you don’t exist.”

He put his feet up on the table.

“So what’s your name?” I asked.

He looked delighted. “Call me Cee. As in, ‘see you later, alligator.’ Or, if you like, C as in ‘Confessor.’ Or ‘Councillor’ Or just ‘C’.” He leaned forward. “I’m the guy you meet before you get to meet the guy you actually want. In this case, Mr. Falcone.”

“You work for him?”

He snorted, clearly amused by my question. “Kid, everybody on this side of the harbor works for him, whether they know it or not.” He gestured toward the blank warehouse walls, the faint sounds of ships out beyond. “Hell, even the cops work for him. They just do a shittier job.”

There was a briefcase on the table.

I hadn’t noticed it before; maybe I wasn’t supposed to.

He popped it open, spun it around so the inside faced me. No gun. No drugs. No wads of cash. Just paperwork—reams of it, each sheet stamped.

He thumbed through until he found one with my new name on it. “Arthur Morgan,” he read aloud, then laid it flat on the table in front of me. The paper smelled faintly of ammonia and fresh ink.

“You really think you’re the first legal ghost to come to Gotham?” he said. “I keep a list of everyone in this city without their papers.” He looked at me sideways. “Don’t worry, you’re not special. But you’re interesting. I’ll give you that, not a trace on you, like zero, for a moment i thought you might be an assassin of some kind.”

That makes sense considering the many organizations that made business on that.

“Really?”

Cee grinned wider. “You’d be amazed how much traffic passes through the system. Every week, new batch of runaways, foreign nationals, ex-cons looking to go legit. Some of them, like you, don’t know what the hell they’re doing. I keep tabs. That’s what makes my operation the gold standard.” He tapped a finger to the paper. “And right now, you’re what you might call a ‘blank canvas.’ Which, if you know anything about the art world, is worth a lot more than a crummy old painting.”

I tried to steady my hands. “You running a forgery operation?”

“I prefer the term ‘document curation.’ But yeah, you got it in one.” He sniffed, proud. “I’m the reason half of Gotham’s upstanding citizens get to keep being upstanding. Drivers’ licenses, green cards, state IDs, whatever you need to stay out of lockup. If you want to be a real citizen, you come through me. If you want to be a ghost, you come through me twice.”

I wanted to ask what he meant, but he was on a roll.

“You probably wonder how I found you,” he said. “Simple: you called too much attention to yourself, you went to every place asking for a job saying you had no papers, and well… one of those places called me.” He pointed at me with the pen he’d fished from his breast pocket. “I have to be honest, you are quite the enigma paperwise. You got no social security number, no medical records, no prints on file anywhere. You’re either a spy, an alien, or a time traveler, and I’m not nearly drunk enough to care which.”

I replied. “What if I’m just an unlucky bastard?”

He shrugged. “Statistically speaking, half the people in Gotham fit that description. But you—you’re the other half.” He jabbed the pen at my chest. “You want to know what happens to people like you? People with a ‘blank canvas?’ You are less than a nobody. Or, if you’re lucky, someone with my particular skill set makes you a somebody. For a price.”

I replied. “I don’t have money.”

“Yeah, I figured.” He clicked the pen closed and slid it into his pocket. “But you have something better: plausible deniability. That’s a hot commodity in my circles.”

He shut the briefcase and latched it, then set both hands on it like he was prepping to give a sermon. “You want to survive here? You’re going to need a new name, maybe even a new set of memories. That’s not cheap. So, let’s cut to it: you’re going to do a job for me.”

I waited. The hum of the light got louder, then suddenly softer, like even it was eavesdropping.

“Tomorrow night, same time, you’ll come back here,” he said. “I’ll have the paperwork ready. In exchange, you deliver a package for me.”

“Package?” I repeated.

He reached under the table and hoisted a small, battered box onto the surface. Duct tape, battered shipping labels, reeking of antiseptic and something else—something sharp and metallic.

“It’s nothing illegal,” he said, smiling. “Well, not by Gotham standards. Just a thing for a friend of the family. You make the drop, you get your papers. Simple.”

“And if I say no?”

He shrugged, pure indifference. “You won’t. You need me more than I need you. That’s just how the math shakes out.” He leaned back, the chair creaking. “But don’t worry. If it goes sideways, you can always run. You’re good at that, right?”

I didn’t answer.

He checked his phone again, this time actually reading a text. “Time’s up. I got places to be.” He stood, gathered the box and the briefcase, and strode to the far door, pausing only to toss a second, smaller envelope onto the table in front of me.

Inside was a folded card, pre-scrawled with my “new” signature and the address of a shelter three blocks away.

“That’s your safe house,” he called, halfway out the door. “Show up tomorrow, or don’t. You are free to choose man.”

The bulb flickered once, then finally gave out. Total darkness.

I sat there for another minute, listening to the rain and my own pulse, wondering if doing this was the right call.

It probably wasn’t, but in this world… hesitation was just another way of dying. And I needed to survive.

By midnight the rain had stopped.

And I had made my decision to go through with this.

I found Cee exactly where he told me to met him the next day.

He wore a different coat this time. He’d ditched the mustache and replaced it with a five o’clock shadow that looked like it’d been applied with a stencil. The effect was less “unhinged uncle” and more “mall cop who moonlights as a hitman.”

He didn’t look up as I came in, just nodded at a crate across from him, the kind with the Falcone logo burned into the side.

Cee kept his eyes on his phone, scrolling through something with a bored thumb.

“Thought you might flake,” he said.

“I considered it,” I replied.

He pocketed his phone, leaned forward with elbows on knees. “You think about my offer?”

I tried to match his tone, keep it casual. “I did. But we both know I can’t pay for any of this.” I gestured at the stack of fake credentials—passports, ID cards. “I’m not an idiot. I know these aren’t charity.”

He smiled, genuine this time. “You’re right. The city runs on favors, not handouts. And most of the favors come with teeth.” He ran his fingers along a groove in the crate, nails stained with something darker than grease. “Still, you’re not the worst investment I’ve seen.”

“Then what’s the catch?” I asked. “You gonna harvest my kidneys, or just sell me to the highest bidder?”

He pretended to ponder it. “Kidneys don’t go for much these days. Too many drunks in the market. Besides, you’re a bad bet for organ work. You look like you haven’t slept since the Bush administration.” He fixed me with a stare. “I need you to be a courier. Simple job. In, out, no questions.”

“Sounds like something you could have any junkie do,” I said.

He grinned. “Most junkies don’t have your—how should I put this—lack of backstory. That’s valuable. You’re an enigma. The cops can’t trace you, the cameras don’t ping you as soon as they see you, even my guy in records couldn’t pull a single dental x-ray.” He flicked a card onto the crate between us. “Means if you get caught, nobody knows who you are. Nobody knows who sent you. You just—” he snapped his fingers, “—disappear.”

“So, what? I’m delivering a package across town?”

He nodded. “Iceberg Lounge. Tomorrow night. Make the drop, walk away. After that, you get your ID, and a little walking-around cash.” He made a rubbing motion with his fingers. “If you fuck it up, nobody comes looking. Not for you, not for me.”

“Generous,” I said.

He fished a cigarette from his coat, lit it with a plastic lighter that had seen better days. “Listen. I could send you out there with nothing, but you look smart enough. You’ll figure it out. You got the look of a guy who knows how to blend in.” He tapped the end of the cigarette, ash drifting to the floor. “If you pull it off, you’re a made man. Not literally, but you get the idea, as in made with papers. If you bail, you’re just another name on a list of disappointments.”

“So, what do I have to deliver?”

He handed me a bag, “Inside: your package. Contents don’t matter, and for legal reasons, I’d prefer you don’t look.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “All you have to do is deliver it to the Iceberg Lounge, tonight, before three A.M. Not to the bouncers or the front desk—directly to the owner’s office on the third floor.”

The Penguin…

I looked down at the envelope. “You said this wasn’t dangerous.”

He shrugged. “You’re not a target. No one’s expecting you. The Lounge is neutral territory—for now. Just walk in, hand it off, walk out. Standard messenger gig.”

“Why me?” I asked, once more. “It can't be because of my situation, an organization like this has to have more couriers, people you trust more than me.”

He rolled his eyes. “That's true... but it's also true what I said kid, it's because you don’t exist, and also I like the way you don’t flinch when I say unpleasant things.” He pointed a thumb at himself. “I’m a problem solver for the family. Right now, the problem is that the usual couriers are getting clipped, scared, or too well-known to be useful. Someone’s spooked the whole underworld—probably that damn Bat and his little helpers.”

He pulled out a flask, unscrewed the top, and took a long pull before offering it to me.

I shook my head. “No thanks, gotta keep a clear head”

He seemed genuinely pleased. “See, that’s why you’re getting the offer.” He pocketed the flask, folded his hands. “So: you in, or do I toss you back in the gutter and find the next John Doe with good posture and a good sense of humor?”

“I’m in,” I said.

Cee slapped the table. “Knew you had it in you. Here’s your route—” He slid over a napkin, the kind you’d find at a cheap Italian restaurant, with a hand-drawn map and two street names. “Avoid the main drag. There’s been police on and off since ten. Use the main entrance. Show this to the doorman.” He tossed a cheap plastic poker chip toward me.

He fished out a cigarette, tapped it against the table, and lit it, ignoring the No Smoking sign stenciled on the door.

“Anything else?” I asked, stalling.

He considered it, blowing smoke at the ceiling. “Yeah. If you see anyone following you, don’t come back here. I mean it. You’ll be doing both of us a favor.” He grinned. “And if you decide to screw me over, just remember I know your face.”

I stood, envelope under my arm, poker chip in my palm. “You always this friendly with new hires?”

He gave me a slow, exaggerated wink. “Only the ones I’m not planning to kill.”

Well, time to do crime.

It took me three hours to reach the club, but I did so without meeting any possible problems or Bat-branded interferences. I did cross paths with many homeless and junkies, but they seemed to ignore more than not, something that worked on my favor.

The Iceberg Lounge was very different to other clubs—an old bank converted into a monument of the Penguin’s self-image. The entrance was flanked by two slabs of faux marble penguins, each wearing a top hat and monocle.

There was a long line, but I ignored it, walking straight to the velvet rope. The sooner I finished this, the sooner I would get my papers.

The bouncer looked me up and down and before he could reject me, I handed him the chip, and just like that he stepped aside.

Inside, the place was cold as fuck. The walls shimmered with LED in an ice colored palette, everything blue and white and very winter themed. The air reeked of cologne and dry ice.

Nobody paid me any attention; I was invisible in a room full of people trying to be seen. That worked on my favor.

The third floor was even colder than the rest of the floor, somehow.

There was no crowd here. Just a few men in tight suits at the blackjack table and two women in crystal masks grinding against a wall in a very seductive manner.

The Penguin, aka Oswald Cobblepot was at the far end. Even hunched over, you couldn’t miss him: the black coat with its silk lapels, the monocle, the cigarette holder clenched like a baton. He looked like a caricature of himself, and the club’s frostbitten luxury only made him more so.

He was generally one of the criminals you could avoid making an enemy of… all you had to do was about looking at him with pity, or making fun of him.

I threaded my way past the slot machines, eyes on the exit at the far end, and slipped onto the stool next to him. He didn’t turn. His breath came out in short, sharp huffs, the tip of his nose as red as a warning light.

“You’re new,” he said, accent rolling the words out all at once “Who sent you?”

I set the package on the bar between us. “C said to deliver this personally.”

He snatched the bundle and worked a thumbnail under the edge. He peeled back the paper just enough to see inside. It looked like old books—maybe ledgers, maybe something worse—but he smiled, an ugly, toothy thing.

“Good. Reliable, for once. Was half-expecting some headcase...”

He slid the package inside his coat. The cigarette holder clacked between his teeth.

I waited for a tip, a nod, a signal that I could leave. Instead, Cobblepot spun on the stool to face me. “You like Gotham?” he asked, voice low. “You look like fresh meat.”

Was it really that obvious I didn’t belong here?

I shrugged. “I get by.”

“Survivors are useful,” he said. “Maybe you’ll come work for me one day.” He let out a 'Waugh' a sharp bark that made the bartender flinch, then waved me off. “That’s all. You did your bit. Go enjoy the nightlife, if you must.”

I didn’t have to be told twice.

As I stared at the sky, I began to chuckle... I half-expected a bullet in the back, or at least a warning. But things had gone surprisingly smoothly, maybe because I wasn’t worth the trouble yet. And that had worked in my favor.

I turned up my jacket and started toward the address Cee had given me, it was time for my payment.