Chill struggles against the crippled cop's hold, but to no avail. He's strong, he's been trained, but he's out of practice. He was the Gotham version of the American Dream, working his way up from petty thug to minor boss. And along the way, charisma and connections became more important than technique or thumb-breaking.
Still, this is Gotham, and Chill isn't fazed by the threat.
"Really, lady? Take a ****ing number. You kill me, my boys kill you. And since I ain't dead yet, you want me for something. A job? Territory? Drop the act, let me go, and we can discuss this like gentlemen. And broad."