A television, its volume muted, was mounted over the grimy mirror behind the bar. Nobody was paying it much attention.

Ordinarily, Selina wouldn’t be caught dead in a sleazy gin mill like this, but she had important business to conduct. She strolled boldly into the place, where her slinky black dress and lithe figure drew appreciative leers and catcalls. She was accompanied by a reeling drunk in a loud Hawaiian shirt. Barely able to stand under his own power, he sagged against her and mumbled incoherently. She batted away his sweaty paws, which apparently hadn’t learned their lesson yet. His ruddy face was unshaven. His drooping eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. She deposited him on a barstool before sauntering over to a nearby table to keep her appointment.

“You brought a date?” Philip Stryver asked incredulously. He was a waxy-faced creep in a three-piece suit who seemed distinctly out of place in the dingy establishment, not that anyone appeared inclined to make an issue of it. His unsavory reputation preceded him, even in this den of thieves and cutthroats. He looked askance at the drunk at the bar.

“I like having someone to open doors for me,” she offered by way of explanation.

She glanced around, scoping out the scene. Hired muscle was scattered all around the bar, just as she had expected. They weren’t even pretending not to be watching her. Opening her purse, she extracted an unmarked envelope and handed it over to Stryver.

“Right hand,” she said. “No partials.”

Not taking her word for it, he opened the envelope and took out a flexible acetate transparency. Held up to the light, the transparency showed four perfect fingerprint transfers.

“Very nice,” he pronounced, before pocketing the envelope.

“Not so fast, handsome,” she said. “You got something for me?”

A smirk lightened his typically phlegmatic expression.

“Oh, yes.”

He signaled a thug, who moved to lock the front door. Another bruiser joined them at the table. A gun bulged beneath his cheap sports jacket. He glowered at her in an obvious attempt at intimidation.

She wasn’t impressed—or surprised.

“I don’t know what you’re going to do with Wayne’s prints,” she said, “but I’m guessing you’ll need his thumb.”

Stryver blinked in surprise. Flummoxed, he took out the merchandise and checked it again. His reaction was priceless.

“You don’t count so well, huh?” she added.

“I count fine,” he snarled. He nodded at his flunky, who drew his gun and pressed it against her head. “In fact, I’m counting to ten right now.”

They faced off across the table. The thug cocked his gun. Nobody in the bar showed a hint of coming to her rescue, not even her tipsy companion.

So much for chivalry, she thought. I guess it’s true. Gotham’s last knight in shining armor died years ago.

“Okay, okay.”

She reached for her purse, only to be blocked by the bruiser, who insisted on reaching in and taking out her phone himself. He slid it across the table to his boss.