"We're sure," Dent growled from across the desk.
Pipes didn't argue. It wasn't Nice Harvey speaking. You could tell, after a while. The way a group of school friends can tell the pair of identical twins among them awhile.
It's not about the voice. Not always. It's about the face. Which eye swings round faster to look at you; which side of the mouth - the lantern jaw or the charred, twisted lips - the smile plays across first.
"We need a front, for the bank job," Dent said. "And you owe us. All of you."
The compensation claims. Arkham City had been corrupt as hell, sure. But Pipes had run-ins with enough dirty cops to know justice flowed one way in Gotham. Well, it does if you haven't got the best lawyer the city ever saw running your class-action suit from behind the scenes.
"I get it, boss, I do," Pipes stammered. "It's just: Hell's Gate Waste Disposal and Legal Services? Really?"
Dent leaned forward. Pipes tried not to shudder as the weeping skin peeled from the leather chair.
"Trust me," Nice Harvey answered. "They're one and the same in this town."
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