The Falcone family's car arrived at the Iceberg Lounge's back entrance at six twenty the next morning.
Maroni's men had arrived even earlier.
Three cars sat at the end of the street, without license plates, their trunks packed with guns, gasoline, and tools for forcing doors. Their leader watched through the window for a while, making sure there were no customers inside before raising a hand to tell the driver to move forward.
There were indeed no customers in the Iceberg Lounge.
Penguin had delayed the first returning staff members until ten that morning. The liquor, antique ornaments, and expensive tableware had all been moved out of the main hall the night before. Only a few veteran servers who had worked for Oswald for years remained.
A row of empty tables stood in the center of the hall.
Penguin stood behind the second-floor railing, his umbrella cane already detached from the table.
For the first two hours, every attempt to remove it had failed. It had only come free after the webbing dissolved on its own two hours later.
"Is he here?" the manager asked.
Oswald looked up toward the dome.
The black spider hung upside down above the chandelier, his white eye lenses curving at him.
"Bad morning."
Accustomed to patrolling at night, his schedule gradually drawing closer to Bat's, Chen Mo said, "All the antiques put away? Let's get this straight first: no inflated damage claims after the fact. I know you mobsters are flexible with your accounting."
Oswald was about to speak when engines roared outside the lounge.
Maroni's men drove a modified van straight at the front entrance.
Two steel beams had been welded to its front. The driver floored the accelerator, and the beams cleared the steps and rammed straight into the Iceberg Lounge's glass