Penguin

The doors to the Iceberg Lounge creaked open, the hum of jazz melting into the low murmur of the crowd. Oswald Cobblepot stood near the bar, swirling a glass of brandy between gloved fingers, his monocle catching the soft blue light of the chandelier above. Without turning, he spoke.

“Well, well... I had a feeling someone might come sniffing around tonight. Let’s hope, for their sake, they know how to conduct business with a gentleman.”