The sign above the door flickered—The Iceberg Lounge—its neon glow bleeding into the puddles below. Through the tinted glass, the low thrum of jazz and clinking glasses drifted out into the alley.

A black town car idled at the curb, its engine humming like a held breath. The rear door opened, and a polished shoe met the wet pavement.

Inside, the Lounge was all velvet and brass, a gilded cage for Gotham's underworld elite. Men in tailored suits laughed with women in silk gowns. A piano player in the corner coaxed something mournful from the keys.

And at the center of it all, a short, rotund figure with a monocle and a top hat held court at a private booth.