At Dixon Docks, Miao Mu carried a bag of medicine and only sauntered away after checking his stockpile of supplies.
He owned three warehouses here. There was no need to worry about security; each one bore the seals of the Gotham Police Department.
The local gangs would not touch police property. They did not want the police using the opportunity to interfere with their business.
Ports like this were full of shady dealings.
Whether they were prostitutes waiting on the streets for sailors about to embark on long voyages, or drunks who had drunk too much and were only half-conscious, they all knew that some things could not be touched and some people could not be provoked.
Some matters would not kill you. Even if you beat the Waynes to death in an alley, as long as you kept the situation under control, you could live until your acquittal more than a decade later—only to be shot dead afterward.
But there were some things that, if you dared touch them today, ripples would spread across Gotham's river that very night. Gotham's fish did not eat human flesh, but there were plenty of bucket stakes on the riverbed.
"You look pretty free to actually come here."
Wrapped in a brown overcoat, with his collar raised to cover his face and a top hat on his head, Al Simmons sat on the dock with a fishing rod in hand, idly passing the time.
"I thought you'd already left."
Miao Mu sounded somewhat surprised. If Simmons had not spoken, he truly would not have noticed him.
"I'm waiting for something. You're in a good mood."
Simmons reeled in his line. A strand of seaweed hung from the hook, which he pulled off and tossed into the bucket beside him. Several pieces of trash