jla_watchtower | (no subject)

Well, this could be the stupidest thing I've ever done, Floyd thought to himself, idly toying with the saltshaker on the diner table in front of him. A small greasy spoon on the outskirts of Suicide Slum was where he'd made the agreement to meet Clark Kent. Kent wasn't late; Floyd was early. It always made more sense to show up at a meeting with enough time to get the lay of the land.

Just because he spent years not giving a damn whether or not he died, it didn't mean he was a fan of taking unnecessary risks.

There was still something a little sour in the back of his throat about turning rat on the Gotham underworld. You just don't do that kind of thing, after all. There'd been a lot of people in the past who had done horrible things, had screwed up jobs, but you don't turn on your fraternity brothers and drive a knife between their ribs.

That's what he was doing now, offering up the inside scoop on the Gotham criminal scene. He didn't particularly care if they came to square up with him. What's one more dead lunatic in a costume? If there was anything right in the world, Batman would be thanking him for putting down mad dogs like the Riddler or that loser Black Spider.

Floyd checked his watch, for what had to have been the third time in the last ten minutes. Another fifteen before Kent would show up. Time for a slice of pie, maybe. Maybe some baked apple would get the bad taste out of his mouth.

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Precisely twelve minutes later, a man wearing a shirt and tie, fedora, and Metropolis U. lettermans jacket walks into the diner. The first thing Floyd notices is the bruise on his right cheek.

Floyd didn't get up. Kent was a bigger fella in person than you'd think, and Floyd had been in and out of too many federal correctional facilities to show any sort of intimidation, even when dealing with a reporter.

He did favor Kent with a nod, and took the unlit cigarette from behind his ear, tapping it on the table before putting it back in his pack.

"What's the world comin' to when you can't even smoke in a diner?" he asked, not really expecting much by way of an answer. Just making conversation, really.

Clark nods. Although he agreed with the practice of smokeless restaurants, it certainly didn't improve the smell of the place. He offers Floyd his hand. "I'm Clark Kent, Mr. Lawton. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me today."

"Hey, you're the one doing me the favor, Kent," Lawton said, returning the handshake, although his grip was perfunctory and dry, a quick one-pump shake. God, the man had a grip on him. Must be a good gym in the Planet building.

"I'm just sharing information that ought to be a matter of public record, I think. Now, we're agreeing that my name, where I'm living, all of that can stay off the record, protected, right?"

"I think 'anonymous' would be a better way of describing it. No, I have no intention of publishing who you are, where you live, or even what brand of cigarettes you smoke. A good reporter never reveals a source that wishes to remain anonymous - otherwise, a reporter would have no sources." Clark smiles, in a way that Floyd knows he's being more affable than condescending in any way.

Mentally, however, Clark wonders what Bruce is going to think of all this.

The waitress stops by, and Clark orders a large milk and a piece of blueberry pie. "So where would you like to start?"

Milk? Jesus, this guy's the world's biggest Boy Scout.

Floyd kept his face as carefully neutral as possible, and ordered another cup of their horribly watery coffee.

"First thing you gotta know is, the mobs in Gotham, they don't have anywhere near the power you'd think. Not anymore. Not since the freaks hit the streets, anyway. That kind of juice went out with the Maroni family, the Zuccos, those people. Dent did his job really well, before he went away."

The digital recorder was, of course, on the table and rolling. Not that he wouldn't remember the whole thing word for word, but CLARK may not...

"I remember reading about those days. The Gazzo's from around here were particularly close to the Falcones. Before Batman began work in Gotham."

"Sure," Floyd said, nodding. "I knew Alberto before he flipped his wig and started with the Hoilday thing, way back. Didn't hang out with him much or anything. I was friends with his big sister, Sofia. Friends is maybe too strong a word. We ran in some of the same circles, is all. Shot things together at the Gotham Gun Club, you know."

Clark nodded. It had said in his dossier that at one point Floyd Lawton was part of the high society circles of Gotham. Looking at him now, few would have guessed.

"OK, so organized crime in Gotham City isn't ruling the underworld currently. Who is?"

Floyd tilts his head to one side. The big bastard just wants to hear me say it, is all.

"Well, first of all. Ain't a thing goes on that don't get run by Oswald Cobblepot first. 'Less it comes from one of the biggies: Joker, Ventriloquist, Ivy. They usually don't bother stoppin' in to say, 'Oh, by the way,' before they pull a job. Joker might, but if he does, usually whoever he leaves his message with goes out the door toe-up. There's actually three lookouts Ozzie has on pretty much a constant rotating deal to get word of Joker showing up before he actually does, so that they can minimize damages. In Gotham, when you're dealing with the guys who usually fight Batman, you gotta think in terms of how can we keep this from getting too outta hand. Because it's always gonna get loose. You just have to figure out how loose."

"So what you're saying are that the costumes and the metas have more or less instilled their own version of organized crime, to a degreee." Clark says.

"You aren't getting it," he replies, leaning forward, jabbing the surface of the table to make his point more clearly, "There is no organized crime in Gotham without the metas. Sure, the Russians think they have things sown up in their turf, but that's just because Scarface and Ventriloquist haven't gotten around to squashing them like bugs yet. The street gangs, like the LoBoyz, half the time, they're running product that Penguin had brought into town. Half the guys in Arkham have steady information channels running back out onto the streets. Before he was all fixed up by the docs, Dent was running part of his operation from his cell."

That got his attention.

"Well, Arkham isn't exactly a shining example of 'maximum security'. So the only organized crime is being run through the metas."

"So these gangs co-exist with one another? I find that hard to believe, especially given some of the more...driven natures to come out of Gotham."

Floyd snorts a laugh.

"Maximum security." He sticks the unlit cigarette into his mouth, patting his pockets for his lighter. "There's about fifteen guys who are career 'caregivers' at Arkham who are on payrolls of some of the worst freaks in Gotham. You want names?"

"Is Luthor bald?" Clark says with a straight face. This he gets a notepad out for.

(continued here (http://community.livejournal.com/jla_watchtower/930336.html))