Martin was a lean, dark-skinned young man with thick black hair but almost no eyebrows. His brow bones curved gently, and he had the large eyes and long lashes common among Latinos.
The moment Schiller approached, he rose from his chair, flashed a warm smile, and invited him to look over the so-called Mexican souvenirs he had brought from his hometown.
What surprised Schiller was that Martin lacked the slightly weary gaze common among Gotham's lower-class residents, and he had none of that bone-deep wariness when sizing people up. His eyes were practically clear, and his smile was bright and welcoming.
No wonder he got along so well, Schiller thought. But he also felt that this man was probably no simple character. Without some special skills, there was no way he could have done so well in Gotham's underworld.
Schiller opened his spiritual vision. Sure enough, this whole spread of items Martin called ancestral relics was nothing more than useless trinkets. Only the Crystal Ball he had been holding while reading the newspaper earlier contained magical power.
Although Schiller saw through it, he said nothing. Gotham had no shortage of oddballs, and one more made no difference.
Schiller smiled and struck up a conversation with him. Clearly, Martin followed a rule every low-level Gothamite followed: never provoke people who looked gentle.
Schiller wore a long gray wool coat and a plaid scarf. Since he was not dressed formally, he had not used hair gel, merely combing his hair simply. The morning sun turned it a grayish brown, its slight curls making it look soft and fluffy.
Besides his glasses, the air he carried in every gesture made it obvious that he was not a manual laborer, but an office worker who had spent years sitting behind a desk. Judging by