Stacks of twenties still sat neatly on the table when Barbara pushed her chair back, her gaze sharp and serious. "Ladies, we need to spend this money quickly. We can't just let it sit around forever. I'm taking one million to buy out the land in the surrounding area."
Pamela leaned her elbow on the table, her fingers tapping against her cheek as she studied her. Barbara's tone carried no hesitation. "We'll keep the second million as a reserve. Using my father's connections, I can force the zoning board to lower the land tax price to a one time fee of one million."
Pamela frowned, concern shadowing her features. "Isn't that severely undercutting the other landowners around here? You're going to strong-arm them into selling?"
Barbara's lips curved into a sly smile. "Who says it's private landowners? Every inch of this land is under the thumb of a local mob boss. And we both know what we're going to do about him."
Pamela's eyes narrowed, realization dawning. "Oh. You're just using the million as an excuse to go meet him, aren't you?"
Barbara nodded slowly, approval in her eyes. "You're catching on. That's right. It's going to cost money to develop the land… but who says we have to spend a cent acquiring it?"
Harley pointed back and forth between them, her expression animated. "Wait a sec… are you using a million dollars as an excuse to shake down a local mob boss and legally swipe all this land for free?"
Barbara shot her a glare, exasperation in her voice. "Harley, stop pointing out the obvious plan to the audience."
Harley looked around the room in exaggerated confusion. "I don't see anybody."
Pamela and Barbara turned their heads toward her, their voices flat in unison. "Never mind."
Barbara straightened, nodding toward the exit. "Let's get moving."
They left the lair with the Unicorn rolling through Gotham's quiet side streets, its reinforced tires splashing through shallow puddles. A mile from their hidden entrance, Barbara eased the car to a stop in front of a faded building with a sun-bleached sign that read: Laundry R Us.
Pamela eyed the cracked windows and flickering neon open sign. "This place has potential."
Barbara reached for the duffel in the back seat. "Pamela, we need to acquire this laundromat too. It'll be our first legitimate front for laundering money."
Pamela's lips twitched with amusement. "You got it."
Harley hopped out behind them, squinting up at the peeling sign. "We can launder money through a laundromat? I learn things from you girls every day."
Pamela rolled her eyes as they stepped inside, the scent of detergent masking stale smoke. "Harley… even the Joker doesn't mess with the IRS. If you want to evade taxes and not end up in prison, you run your dirty money through legit businesses."
Harley's jaw slackened in awe. "Makes sense. Joker's never smart enough for that. He'd rather blow up his money than give it to the government."
Barbara's tone was bone dry. "Even I'd pay taxes if they asked. But if I can claim everything as a loss or wash it through property write-offs, why pay anything at all?"
Pamela's eyes glinted as she passed humming washers. "Tax evasion? Impossible."
Harley muttered, "This is like villain school."
The low hum of machines filled the small space. A few cracked plastic chairs lined the wall near the counter, where a man in a grease-stained apron slouched behind a battered television.
Barbara walked up to the desk, her voice cool and precise. "I'm here to see Phil."
The man barely lifted his eyes, pointing lazily toward the back. "Back there. Don't keep 'em waiting."
They slipped past him, the sound of cards shuffling and muffled laughter growing louder. The back room reeked of smoke and sweat. Four heavyset mobsters lounged around a scarred table, cards in hand, half-empty bottles crowding the wood. Laundry bins were pushed against the walls, calendars from years past curling on their hooks, and a ceiling fan creaked overhead with every rotation.
At the head of the table sat a man in a velvet tracksuit the color of old bruises, gold chains hanging heavily across his chest. A fat cigar jutted from his mouth as he exhaled smoke in lazy spirals.
Barbara leaned toward Pamela, her voice low. "That's Phil Collins. He runs this area. He answers to Rupert Thorne—the real heavyweight Batman always slaps around."
Pamela tilted her head, unimpressed. "Thorne. Bottom-tier mob scum."
Harley scoffed and waved dismissively. "Pfft. Joker would kill him in like… two seconds."
Barbara raised a hand, steadying them both. "Let me do the talking."
She strode forward, the duffel bag hanging from her shoulder. "Phil."
Phil squinted through the haze, pulling the cigar from his lips. His voice was thick with derision. "Who the hell are you?"
Barbara's tone was calm, measured. "I'm Barbara Gordon. It's come to my attention that you legally own every surrounding block near here."
Phil chuckled, shaking ash into a tray. "Yeah, I own it. It's worthless. I use it to shuffle my 'laundry' and offset my taxes. Haven't paid a dime to Uncle Sam in thirty years."
Barbara's smile grew sharp. "I want to purchase all of it. The laundromat, the land, everything."
Phil leaned back in his chair, the chains on his chest catching the dim light. "What makes you think I'd sell? That land's a depreciating asset—I make bank writing it off every year."
Barbara lifted the duffel and dropped it onto the table with a heavy thud. The stacks inside shifted and settled, the table rattling under the weight.
"Because," she said evenly, her gaze locked on his, "I'm offering you one million reasons… and that's the polite option."
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