Parties and Umbrellas (4)

"What gives you the right..." Cobblepot looked at Schiller with a dark expression, then suddenly realized something, frowned, and cursed, "Damn it..."

He turned to look at Schiller again, but he didn't see the triumphant expression on Schiller's face that suggested he had successfully extracted information during the police interrogation. On the contrary, Schiller was looking at him with genuine confusion, which made Cobblepot feel humiliated.

Cobblepot pursed his lips, craned his neck, tilted his head, stretched his shoulders, and said, "First, take the straps off my arms; they're making me a little uncomfortable..."

He thought Schiller would refuse, but Schiller stood up without hesitation, walked to his bedside, and untied the straps on the armrests. As soon as he untied One Hand, Cobblepot couldn't wait to stretch his arm.

His right hand was in a splint, Schiller reminded him, "Because of the delay in treatment, your right hand fracture has become very serious. If you had delayed treatment for just two more days, there would have been a risk of amputation, so keep it in place for now."

Cobblepot muttered something under his breath, seemingly cursing something. When Schiller turned his gaze towards him, he suddenly seemed to choke and fell silent.

Schiller sat back down, picked up the medical record, and said, "Come on, let's continue this discussion. Judging from the arrangement of the crime scene, you seemed to be in a hurry. Can you tell me what happened to you?"

Cobblepot wrinkled his nose and pursed his lips, making him look somewhat fierce. He seemed eager to refute Schiller's point of view, but felt he shouldn't say so much to a stranger, Doctor.

"Let me hear your criminal thought process. After all, you've gone to so much trouble and done so much; wouldn't it be a shame if you had no audience?"

Cobblepot gripped the railing tightly with his intact arm, turned his head, and stared intently at Schiller, saying, "You damn Doctor..."

Cobblepot admitted that Schiller's statement was more effective than any police interrogation method.

Schiller smiled at him, knowing full well that any criminal who would appear on the Gotham Big Stage in the future would be a fundamentalist in the criminal underworld.

They have their own pride in committing crimes, such as the sophistication of their methods, the way the results are presented, and the effect of misleading onlookers—they strive to achieve perfection in every aspect.

Every criminal plan they carry out takes these issues into consideration, and they hope that someone will see through their brilliant ideas.

They firmly believe that a crime without an audience is not a perfect crime.

Cobblepot's rational mind told him that revealing everything at this point was not a good idea; if Schiller had indeed recorded the conversation, he might not be able to escape trial.

But he couldn't resist the urge. Another voice inside him told him that Schiller was just like him, that he would be a good listener, able to understand the ingenious criminal processes that ordinary people couldn't comprehend, and to appreciate his unique perspective.

Soon, Cobblepot couldn't hold back any longer and said, "That was an accident, if it weren't for..."

Cobblepot paused, seemingly organizing his thoughts, then relaxed completely, lay on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and began his narration.

"... My meeting with the Godfather was a complete accident. My father was once a well-known gang leader in the East District. After his death, the territory and property that should have been inherited by me were divided up by those jackal-like gangsters..."

"To protect me, my mother moved me back to our old house near the Living Hell, but we still couldn't have peace. My father's former enemies kept hunting us down..."

"It was one night. I was washing dishes at a bar in the East District when I came out and was surrounded by people. They were about to open fire when a car drove by. Inside was His Falcone. He stopped the group and drove them away..."

"Did the Godfather save you?"

"Yes, I was only 12 years old then, but I was very thin and looked even younger. He probably couldn't stand them about shooting a child. Anyway, that's when I met the Godfather..."

"I don't know how he saw that I was worth nurturing. I was thin and small, in poor health, not good-looking, and not good at social maneuvering, but the Godfather still secretly helped me out..."

"So, when he needs you, you kill for him?"

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

"I must say, you handled Old Edward's case very skillfully, not like a novice. Could you tell me more about that day?"

Cobblepot shook his head and said, "That's all thanks to the Godfather's prestige. Nobody dares to cause trouble on his turf. It's nothing to be proud of..."

"Okay, let's get down to business. All of this you've done shouldn't be just following the crowd. What exactly are you trying to do?"

"I want to break free from the Godfather's control," Cobblepot said, making a startling statement.

"To be precise, not the Old Godfather ..." Cobblepot added, "I'm willing to work for Falcone, to kill for him, but only for His Falcone ..."

"I knew some time ago that the Old Godfather wanted to step down and hand over his power to his son, Little Falcone."

Cobblepot scoffed and said dismissively, "But he's no good. Little Falcone is no match for his father. There's no future in working for him."

"The new Godfather will inherit the Old Godfather's position, and naturally he will inherit his wealth and connections, which naturally includes me. But I think Little Falcone far from good enough, and I don't want to work for him..."

"Why do you think that?" Schiller asked him.

"Before that, he wanted to make reforms, and he messed up the territory that the Old Godfather had handed over to him."

"He is highly motivated, but lacks goals; he is ruthless, but lacks critical thinking. Simply put, he is not cut out for this."

"So, what did you do?"

"I know the Old Godfather is still alive. It's impossible to get rid of him by force. I will die."

"I have received his favors and have also killed people for him, so perhaps it seems that we are even."

"But every Gotham resident knows that once you've done something like that, you can never get back on shore. It's either death or a dead end."

"But I don't want to be part of the legacy and follow the instructions of the new Godfather. In other words, the new Godfather's stupidity will not only kill him but also me. I don't want to die, so I want to leave."

"When the Godfather sent me to this Living Hell to keep an eye on things, I realized that my chance had come..."

"My first target was the Muni Gang," Cobblepot said, raising his voice. "I needed to establish myself here and get a feel for the situation before I could make any further plans. So I joined the Mooney Gang, took orders from Fish, and quickly figured everything out."

Cobblepot's speech gradually became more fluent, and the future Penguin became quite talkative when it came to this topic.

"When I finished the preliminary reconnaissance, the Munich gang was no longer a good foothold because Fish's territory was being compressed layer by layer, and his range of activities was becoming very small. I couldn't gather enough intelligence. At this time, I couldn't let the Godfather think that I wasn't working hard."

"So, I found an opportunity to get in touch with Kevin. Yes, it wasn't that he chose me, but that I chose him..."

As Cobblepot continued to recount his story, his voice echoed in the ward, and his recent life unfolded like a series of dramatic scenes before the two of them.

As he finished speaking, the red curtain was drawn back, revealing a narrow corridor of Living Hell.

Cobblepot and Kevin stood in the hallway. The short, hunched Cobblepot fawned over Kevin, saying, "Mr. Kevin, please, you must patronize my business..."

The tall Kevin tilted his head back, took a pack of cigarettes from Cobblepot, opened it, looked at it, and said, "Are you the new cigarette vendor? I've never seen you before. You must be one of that crazy woman's men, right?"

"Yes, yes..." Cobblepot nodded eagerly, then rubbed his hands together somewhat awkwardly and said, "I'm only doing this because I have to make a living. There are too few places to buy cigarettes in the South Side, otherwise I wouldn't have risked coming here..."

How much do you sell it for per pack?

"Seventy cents, sir, just seventy cents."

Kevin raised an eyebrow in surprise and said, "Seventy cents? What's going on? The cigarette vendors around here sell them for ninety cents or a dollar. Why are you selling them so cheaply?"

Kevin glanced at the pack of cigarettes again, took one out, Cobblepot eagerly lit it for him. Then he said, "Actually, I still make a profit. I operate in both the south and north simultaneously, a round trip takes 1 hour and 20 minutes, and I can sell about 6 to 7 packs. Even if the profit per pack is only ten cents, with 13 hours a day to operate, on average I can sell..."

Kevin took a drag of his cigarette, exhaled the smoke, and looked Cobblepot up and down. "You can do math? That's amazing," he said. "The little brats I've met selling cigarettes can't even figure out how to give change..."

Cobblepot continued to nod and smile obsequiously, casually mentioning that he had attended school in Affluent Area of the South. He kept chatting with Kevin, after smoking two cigarettes, became somewhat smug. He held the cigarette butt and said, "I think you're not bad. Working with that crazy woman Fish won't end well."

"Go get me two cartons of good cigarettes, and I'll let you work at the second-floor distribution counter. You'll get a three-cent commission for every ten cartons, which is much more profitable than selling cigarettes."

Cobblepot's face lit up with delight, while Kevin scoffed and said, "Kids like you, all you can do is run errands, buy newspapers and cigarettes, and count numbers..."

"Those little bastards keep getting the numbers wrong, their brains aren't even as sharp as a rusty door bolt, they make me lose money, so don't you dare try to slack off..."

As the smoke from Kevin's cigarette gradually dissipated and the curtain slowly closed, Schiller turned to Cobblepot and said, "I can tell you've done a good job so far."

"Using your small stature as an advantage, you disguised yourself as the most common cigarette-selling errand boy in the Living Hell, inadvertently revealing your calculation skills, and successfully switched jobs to Kevin's team."

"But that's not all I want."

The curtain rose again, and the cardboard boxes were stacked higher and higher. Bills flew from Cobblepot's hands, passing through the narrow corridors of the Living Hell, past the shipping gate, the cargo stairs, and the restaurant's kitchen, where a small, thin figure moved through the chaos.

The last piece of paper slapped onto Cobblepot's face. When he removed it with his hand, his eyes reflected the dazzling neon lights of a restaurant sign.

"You're not lying about this part," Schiller commented. "I can tell you really want to open a restaurant."

Lying on the hospital bed, Cobblepot's lips moved. He was silent for a moment, then said, "That's right, but that's not something I should be thinking about right now."

"What I need to think about now is that I've reached the end of my road as a low-level errand runner, and now I need to figure out how to become a manager."