Downstairs, Oswald Cobblepot glanced up at the top floor.
That flash of light had been faint. Through the dirty glass and boards, it looked like a short circuit in the old building.
Short circuits were normal in Gotham's old buildings; not having one was the strange part. Every wire here seemed to be risking its life performing conceptual art.
Penguin was in a terrible mood today.
Before going into Arkham, Joker had left him a message, asking him to find the author of "Gotham Phantom."
Joker said the author was "very interesting."
In Gotham, being called interesting by Joker was basically the equivalent of Death handing you a membership card. No annual fee for the first year; renewals cost your life.
Penguin wanted absolutely no part of it.
He had limited interest in comics, and even less interest in Batman doujinshi.
He had survived all his ups and downs by assessing risks. The risk here was as enormous as a black gorilla in a cape squatting on his dining table, asking him with its fists what was for dinner.
But refusing someone like Joker was trouble, too. If you refused to help him look, he might grin and say it was fine, then send a truckload of bombs that sang "Happy Birthday" to your restaurant.
Penguin would rather discuss tax avoidance with Falcone for three hours than guess which corpse Joker's sense of humor would land on.
So he had come.
With his men, with information, and with a bellyful of "Why am I so damned unlucky?"
As he walked toward that dilapidated building, he felt as though Gotham had fished him out of a gutter, wiped his face, then stuffed him into another one.
The city was fair. Nobody got to stay clean.
One of his men looked up