Education reform?

Gotham's Upper East End.

The Wayne Enterprises banquet blazed with light. Crystal chandeliers and champagne towers reflected it outward, dazzling enough to hurt the eyes.

Expensive perfume, cigars, tailored suits, and wave after wave of polite laughter made up the most typical atmosphere of Gotham high society.

Bruce Wayne stood at the center of the crowd, holding a glass of champagne.

He had not taken a sip.

He wore a black suit with his bow tie slightly loosened and the smile the media loved best on his face. It was frivolous and languid, every inch of him broadcasting wealth. Anyone who saw him would wonder what party he had thrown last night, hardly thinking of the smuggler whose ribs had been broken at three in the morning.

The socialites surrounding him discussed art, charity, and investment in the new district.

No one mentioned tonight whether anyone had frozen to death in the East End sewers.

That subject did not go with champagne.

A reporter in gold-rimmed glasses finally squeezed his way to the edge of the crowd.

"Mr. Wayne."

The conversation and laughter around them quieted.

Bruce turned toward him, his smile unchanged.

"Go ahead."

The reporter adjusted his glasses.

"I hear you're funding the shelter for homeless children in the East End again. Several million a year in expenses, with no publicity and no clear report on returns."

Facing the brightening gazes around him, he asked his final question.

"Is this really charity, or a more discreet form of tax avoidance for Wayne Enterprises?"

The hall fell silent.

The question was rude, but everyone loved hearing it. High society had never had many forms of entertainment. Insulting the richest man to his face was one of them.

Bruce turned the champagne glass halfway around in his hand.

"You mean a child has to add an attractive line of figures to a financial report before they deserve support?"

The reporter's hand froze on his glasses.

Bruce raised his glass toward him.

"That's a very Gotham way of thinking."

A few quiet chuckles sounded nearby.

"The East End shelter burns through money every year," Bruce said. "What we get in return is simple. Some children can eat and sleep there, without having to grow up among the docks and gangs."

He glanced around.

"Those numbers look terrible as a business proposition. Children shouldn't be treated as a business, either."

"Since everyone is so interested in the Wayne Foundation tonight, I might as well make an announcement."

The crowd stirred. Several voice recorders rose at once.

"Next quarter, the foundation will launch a new children's education program."

"It will cover homeless children who lack legal identification, have no stable guardian, or have spent years outside the education system. We'll work with Gotham Public Schools, community shelters, and legal aid organizations."

Bruce paused.

"They should be sitting in classrooms learning, not learning on the streets how to survive the night."

At least three business owners in the crowd looked as though they had toothaches.

Had Chen Mo been there, he probably could have translated those expressions at a glance.

He's going to burn through money again.

And this time, enough to make the entire board want to jump off a building.

"The scale is too large," someone murmured.

"Undocumented status will cause trouble," another added.

Bruce heard them. He finally took a sip of champagne, then put it down, the gesture made.

"Those children are already on the streets."

He said.

"Whether you call it trouble or not, they still need somewhere to sleep tonight."

The applause began in scattered bursts, then grew louder and louder.

High society was very good at applauding expensive, correct decisions.

Applause cost nothing.

Bruce Wayne was the one paying.

By the time the banquet ended, the wind on the terrace had turned cold.

Bruce stood beside the railing and handed the champagne off to a waiter for good. He disliked the stuff. Too sweet. The laughter in the hall tonight had been sickeningly sweet, too.

Alfred approached with coffee, a slim briefing beside it on the tray.

A label was attached to the cover.

[The Docks: Follow-up]

"Master Bruce, you just gave at least seven shareholders mild angina."

Bruce took the coffee.

"They'll get used to it."

"I'm sure they will. Every quarter, the Wayne Family helps the board acquire a fresh understanding of social responsibility."

Bruce opened the briefing.

The first page listed the change in operating rights for the Iceberg Lounge, along with several personnel handovers completed within the past forty-eight hours.

Falcone had taken the operating rights. The authorization documents had gone into effect, the core areas had been cleared out, and Penguin's remaining men had sworn allegiance one after another.

"That was fast," Bruce said.

"It took only two days after the melee at the docks," Alfred replied. "The office and underground base have already been handed over. The ledgers were taken as well."

Bruce turned a page.

"What about Cobblepot?"

"Alive."

Alfred slid another photograph beside his hand.

"The people who stayed at the lounge and anything that could be turned into cash have mostly been taken. By a careful accounting, his assets may now consist solely of that umbrella and a few crows whose tax status remains uncertain."

Bruce studied the photograph.

"Falcone never trusted him."

"Of course. Trusting Penguin is about as dangerous as expecting Gotham City Hall to operate efficiently tomorrow morning."

"He won't be making waves for now."

"For now," Alfred reminded him.

Bruce closed the briefing.

"He'll go back to the Iceberg Lounge. Someone might go looking for him."

As he spoke, his gaze drifted toward the East End.

The red-and-blue-clad boy who had crouched on a water tower scattering money flashed through his mind. The boy had even named a stray puppy Bruce.

Bruce's temple throbbed.

Alfred noticed and very tactfully lowered his head to straighten the tray.

The lights at the Iceberg Lounge were still on.

So was the sign.

Oswald Cobblepot stood at the entrance and looked up for a few seconds before climbing the steps with his custom umbrella as a cane.

The injuries from the melee at the docks had not healed. His shoulder was wrapped in bandages, and his complexion was poor. His top hat still sat straight, and his shoes were polished enough to reflect the entrance lights.

Even now, he had not let his top hat tilt an inch.

He pushed open the doors.

The waiter by the door had been replaced, as had the manager behind the bar. The old smell of cigars, hard liquor, and seawater was gone. Only the pungent scent of fresh disinfectant remained.

A man in a dark gray suit sat behind the bar, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and silver cuff links, with a folder before him. At a glance, he looked expensive and very much like a lawyer.

The man rose and bowed slightly to him.

"Mr. Cobblepot, welcome back."

Penguin looked at him.

"You're sitting behind my bar."

"At two thirteen this morning, operating rights to the Iceberg Lounge were officially transferred to the Falcone Family."

The lawyer opened the folder and slid the contract toward him.

"The effective date is on the first page. The authorization you personally signed is farther back."

Penguin looked down at the pages.

His signatures. Every last one of them.

Back when he had been trying to gain Falcone's trust, he had considered these authorizations a necessary price. Today, those signatures lined up across the pages had finally looped back around his neck.

The lawyer waited for him to finish reading, then continued:

"Your office has been cleared out, and the supplies at the underground base have been handed over. As for several of your trusted men..."

He placed the final personnel list on top of the contract.

"They have already sworn allegiance to Mr. Falcone."

The ice machine hummed behind the bar.

Penguin straightened the contract page by page and pushed it back toward the lawyer, even lifting the corners of his mouth a little.

"How thoughtful of Mr. Carmine."

He said.

"He knew how busy I've been lately and took care of so many things for me."

The lawyer closed the folder.

"Mr. Falcone has always appreciated efficient arrangements."

Penguin nodded, turned, and walked toward the exit.

His steps were steady, the umbrella's tip tapping the floor. As he passed the liquor cabinet, he saw several figures reflected in the glass. Someone by the door had kept a hand inside his coat the entire time.

Falcone had already made arrangements for every undignified reaction he might have.

Penguin straightened his top hat and walked out of the lounge.

The night wind slapped him across the face.

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he quickly forced it back down.

Penguin did not go far. He circled around the side of the lounge and descended the old maintenance stairs to the lowest level.

It was damp and cold, with two broken lights in the corner. The rooms that had once held weapons, hard liquor, cash, and intelligence files had been emptied. The shelves and safes had left several rectangular patches of different colors on the floor.

Everything worth selling had been taken.

A few crows still perched on their stand, apparently left off Falcone's asset handover list.

Penguin walked over, took the last handful of birdseed from his pocket, and scattered it over the wooden stand.

As the grain fell, several crows immediately lowered their heads to peck at it. The bald crow did not move. It kept watching him with its head tilted.

Penguin gave a quiet chuckle.

"Don't look at me like that."

"I'm not dead yet."

The crow blinked.

Penguin looked up at the empty basement.

During the melee at the docks, he had committed all his men, connections, and intelligence. Falcone had waited until those resources were exhausted before producing the documents Penguin had signed and taking the Iceberg Lounge along with everything else.

The umbrella handle pressed a red mark into Penguin's palm.

After a while, he loosened his grip and scattered the last few grains of birdseed.

Losing his temper was too expensive.

Now, even his anger had to be rationed.