Chapter Text
Fidgeting slightly on a wobbly barstool, Clark Kent tried desperately to blend into his surroundings. He knew that he probably stuck out like a neon light against the hazy, smoke-filled backdrop of this dingy, possibly illegal, quite literally underground Gotham dive bar… but if this was where his informant wanted to meet then this was where they would meet.
Unfortunately.
If he’d been allowed to choose the meeting place this bar would have been near the very bottom of the list, right below “that one alley that always smells like raccoon farts” and maybe one step above “Gotham’s sewers at high summer”.
Fingers curling around the glass of tepid beer he couldn’t bring himself to drink, Clark focused on watching the door in the least suspicious way possible. It was hard to stay focused though, with every single one of his senses screaming for him to get out. His sharp ears caught the rats scuttling in the kitchen cabinets and he suppressed a shudder. His contact had better get here soon or he was going to walk away from this cesspit, crucial information or not.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long. The front door of the “establishment” swung open enthusiastically under the forceful hand of a man the room greeted with quite a bit of raucous yelling.
“Matches! I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age!”
“--stories for you when you’ve got a mo’!”
“Aw, dude, you missed a fantastic–”
The newcomer sauntered into the room, pausing briefly to clap shoulders but steadily making his way to the bar. He was truly a sight to behold: light green suit (slightly wrinkled), a pinstripe shirt and checkered tie (clashing in a way that might have been intentional), and dark sunglasses resting heavily over a thin pencil mustache. Clark had to fight to keep from openly staring.
“I’ll have to catch up with you boys later,” said Matches, slipping between tables with practiced ease. “Boss assigned me ‘reporter wrangling’ duties tonight.”
“Oh is that why that nervous nelly is holding up the bar?” A young man in mostly leather biking gear leaned his chair onto its two back legs and looked right at Clark with a grin just the wrong side of feral. “I’m surprised he didn’t cut and run half an hour ago.”
“Reporters are made of sterner stuff than all that, kid.” Matches reached over and ruffled the young man’s hair. He squawked indignantly and slapped at his friend’s hand, but the amused scrunch of his eyes gave him away. “Now, I’m gonna go collect my new friend and get all this sorted. Don’t the lot of you have any better place to be?”
The group huddled at the table gave a collective shrug. “Beer’s cheap,” said an older man, his shirt sleeves rolled up and a slouchy cap shoved back from his face. “Can’t beat that… plus a little people watching.” He nodded towards Clark, who shrank further onto his barstool.
Matches sighed and rocked back on his heels, fishing something out of his pocket to stick between his teeth. “Alright, but if the beer gives you the runs don’t come crying to me.”
“Man, what the fuck did my beer ever do to you?” said the outraged voice of the bartender, a lot closer to Clark’s elbow than he’d expected. He barely managed to contain his startled flail, hand narrowly avoiding knocking his full glass of shitty beer into his own lap.
An auspicious start to this interview, for sure.
“Quiet lil fucker, isn’t he?” said Matches, leaning against the bartop with little regard for how sticky the surface seemed to be. This close, Clark could tell that he had a match clenched between his teeth like a toothpick. It was roguishly charming and Clark tore his eyes away before he could be caught staring. Matches continued on with no indication that he had noticed Clark’s distraction. “I think it’s his personal mission to add another inch of grime to the counter with spilled drinks alone.”
Clark must have pulled some sort of disgusted face because his contact laughed and held out a hand. “Matches Malone.”
“Clark Kent.” He reached out and shook Matches’ hand. The man had a firm handshake and Clark could feel layers of calluses across his palm. Not unusual in a mobster, but every detail told a story. He was not sure yet what story these callouses told beyond years of hard work.
“Yeah, Kent. Investigative reporter.” Matches nodded to himself. “The boss wanted me to give you the scoop on Jeffery Graves’ arrest.” He jerked his head towards a few booths tucked around the corner and away from inquisitive eyes. “If you wanna get started, let’s move somewhere a little more comfortable, yeah?”
Clark nodded earnestly even as he carefully reached out with his hearing. It would be embarrassing for all parties involved if he got this far only to be caught in an obvious mobster trap. To his great relief, he heard nothing beyond the calm, steady beat of Matches’ heart… and the alarmingly large colony of roaches in the wall behind the bathrooms.
He suppressed a shudder because really, how was he supposed to explain hearing the world’s worst wall insulation in full-blown stereo? As soon as he got out of this interview he was going to go home and take the hottest shower of his life. Maybe even take this suit and toss it directly into the sun for good measure.
Fortified by the thought of a hot shower and sun-based arson, Clark followed his contact to a booth in the far corner (thankfully far away from the skittering bathrooms). He slid into the slightly sticky bench seat and patted through his pockets until he found his recorder and notebook. With a memory like a steel trap - as his ma used to say - he didn’t really need them, but it was helpful to have hard evidence if someone decided to sue the paper for libel.
Matches didn’t really seem the type, but you never knew.
The mobster sprawled opposite Clark, arms slung across the back of his bench and teeth worrying at the match between them. Clark had the distinct feeling that he was being sized up, even though he couldn’t see beyond the man’s dark sunglasses and he was not rude enough to use his x-ray vision for something so trivial as making eye contact.
Clark set the recorder on the table with a decisive click. “Shall we get started, Mr. Malone?”
“Oh please, call me Matches. Everyone does.” The man grinned around his namesake, still clenched in his teeth.
“Alright, Matches then.” Clark agreed amicably. “Let’s get the elephant out of the room before we get into the finer details. Are you worried at all about this interview labeling you a snitch?”
Matches laughed, a low chuckle that did funny things to Clark’s insides. Things he definitely planned on ignoring. “Nah, son. Jeff was an asshole with more enemies than the Bat. Hell, he probably had an enemy IN the Bat. He got what was coming to him, that’s for damn sure. Crime only pays if you don’t piss off everyone else in the city.”
Tapping his pencil against his notebook, Clark said, “Just for the record, we are speaking of Jeffery Graves?”
“Yeah, Jeff was a real piece of work.” Matches looked off to the side, where greasy wallpaper had started to peel off an equally greasy wall. “I only had the misfortune of working with the guy once, and he pinned one of the younger crowd to the floor with his boot and laughed. Just because he could.”
Clark heard the snapping creak of wood as the match started to splinter under the force of Matches’ jaw. The man took a deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly through his teeth before he continued. “I know working for the mob is an ugly business sometimes, but there’s no need to be a prick about it.”
“He doesn’t seem very well liked, at least by you,” Clark said mildly, taking a few notes so his paper didn’t seem blank. “What led to his arrest?”
The grin that crossed Matches’ face was sharp, with a hint of smug satisfaction. “Oh, I made sure he went away. After that little stunt with the boot I started spreading the word that he needed to be watched. Good thing I did too, cause soon after, he started going out with one of Mr. Cobblepot’s godkids. Not the brightest move on his part, but I guess the heart wants what it wants. And I guess his heart always wanted to be an irredeemable asshole.”
Clark winced. Admittedly, he didn’t know much about Gotham’s crime scene, but everyone had heard of the Penguin. “I can’t imagine that went over very well with Mr. Cobblepot?”
“Like a lead balloon,” said Matches with a lazy nod. “Honestly, the man is probably safer in jail than he’d be out here with the rest of us.”
Clark leaned forward, interested. “I heard you were instrumental in his arrest, could you tell me a bit about that?”
He watched the man as he launched into a rambling account of the events leading up to Jeff’s arrest, hands gesticulating lazily as his thick Jersey accent filled the air. Matches sprawled across his bench with an easy grace, his large frame taking up most of the space in a manner reminiscent of a large cat - relaxed at a glance but ready to spring to action at a moment’s notice.
Understandable, for a mobster.
The story he told was simple enough. Jeffery Graves had been caught using his new beau as cover for a handful of money laundering operations across the more affluent parts of Gotham. Not unusual, but ill-advised when you were elbowing in on many different people’s territories. People with money and connections far grander than some two-bit lackey with a known reputation as an asshole.
The way Matches told it, Jeff had been hated enough that Matches had been tasked with watching him for anything to get him in trouble. It hadn’t taken long for the mobster to figure out Jeff’s angle and arrange for authorities to catch him.
“Didn’t even have to plant any evidence,” Matches said with a shrug and a sharp grin. Clark would bet anything his eyes were twinkling behind the sunglasses. “Just had to point the cops in the right direction and watch them go. Me and some of the boys even set up a popcorn stand for the occasion.”
“Isn’t it unusual for Mr. Cobblepot to cooperate with law enforcement?” Clark said, tapping his pencil eraser against the table thoughtfully.
“Nah, they have their uses. The embarrassment of getting brought down by the cops irreparably damaged Jeff’s reputation, not that he had a great one to begin with. When he gets out of jail, if he ever gets out, nobody’ll give him the time of day. He’s gonna have to figure out some other way to piss people off.”
“Huh, never thought about it that way. That does seem like an effective deterrent.” Clark chewed his lip thoughtfully as he mentally reviewed everything Matches told him. “I think I’ve got all I need to write this up, was there anything else you wanted to say that we didn’t cover?”
Even with the dark lenses in the way, Clark was suddenly absolutely certain that Matches’ eyes had flicked appreciatively over his body, and he fought back a sudden flush.
“Nothin’ relevant to your job, sweetheart,” said Matches, leaning forward over the table to rest his chin in one palm before reaching out and turning off Clark’s recorder with a decisive poke of his finger. “I’m sure you’ve got places to be, but lemme give you my number in case you’ve got any more questions for old Matches Malone.” Beneath his glasses the corner of one eye scrunched in a clear wink. Clark swallowed hard.
“Sure.” His voice squeaked and he cleared his throat and tried again. “Sure, in case I need it.”
Matches smirked and reached into his jacket, producing a business card with a bit of a flourish. “I don’t give this number to just anybody, understand?” he said as he passed it to Clark. The reporter wasn’t sure if he intended the brush of their fingertips, but the light touch lingered anyway. “If this number gets out, I’ll know who did it.”
“Of course,” Clark said, a bit affronted. “I protect my sources, Mr. Malone.”
“You’re so formal, Mr. Kent. I thought I asked you to call me Matches.”
“You did, but I know when I need to be serious.” Clark hauled himself out of the booth, packing the tools of his trade back into various pockets and tucking the business card into his breast pocket with a small pat. He allowed himself a little smirk as he looked at the mobster. “If I think of anything I’ll call you, Matches.”
The last thing he heard as he bustled out of that horrible bar was the startled yet genuine laughter of his contact.