Money, check.
Shaving, check.
Clothing... check.
Thomas grinned. He must be in a pretty good mood if he was cracking jokes like that. Even if he wasn't cracking them aloud. And even if they were lame jokes that didn't make sense. He honestly should have checked all this before he left the house. He sighed and ran a flustered hand through his hair. Where the hell had the day gone? He could have sworn he'd just been sitting in his desk, bored out of his skull, a moment ago. Now, he was sitting at a bar stool in the Iceberg Lounge, waiting for whoever this "Jay" character was to show up.
He'd ordered a water to toy with while he waited, though he'd been sorely tempted by the beer taps jutting out over the edge of the counter top. Maybe a bar wasn't the best place to meet for business, especially when he was (he hated to say it, but Gerald had convinced him) a recovering alcoholic. Hopefully whoever he was meeting wouldn't push that idea.
Then again, there was that nagging voice in the back of his head calling him a prude and a pussy, and it was starting to irritate him. He tapped his fingers on the counter top and sighed. "Who the hell is this guy, anyways?" he muttered quietly, checking his watch. Late. Of course.
. . .
Napier smoothed out the front of the dress shirt he had chosen, the white button-up that was supposed to be worn with the business suit, and pulled the suit-vest on over it. It was a variation of his usual attire, not quite as striking or comfortable, but it would do. He checked himself, making sure he had everything, and then slipped his hands into the pockets of the suit-pants. He looked casual at the moment, but all he needed was the jacket of the suit and he would have looked professional. All he needed was to wash his hair a little, and he would look like any other guy on the street.
Well, almost.
Napier sat down on the bed and pulled on his shoes, his own worn brown oxfords, and tied them up tightly. The last thing he needed was to lose the only part of his outfit he had left that was not spattered in blood or ripped to shreds – or both. He frowned at the thought as he finished off the second knot and sat upright, placing his hands on his knees as he considered the blank wall in front of him. He would never be able to replace that outfit, he realized. It was too special. Then again, he reasoned, getting up from the bed and pulling the vest tightly down across his sturdy frame, perhaps he could get Jeanette to mend it for him.
He picked up the watch he had gotten from the most recent coat-and-tie killing he had done and checked it. It was already a few minutes past eight – the time he, himself had set for the meeting. He cursed himself, then quickly slipped the watch onto his wrist and opened the door of the guest bedroom, letting himself out. He was surprised that it had taken him so long to decide on an outfit to wear – usually, that was something that women were notorious for, not men. He frowned at the thought as he buttoned up his sleeve and looked around for any other sign of life.
"Jeanette?" he called. "You still here?" He glanced over at the kitchen table, where she had been sitting when he had gone into the bedroom in the first place, but she was not there. Her laptop had gone to sleep, so he knew that she had not been on it for a bit. "Mm," Napier said thoughtfully, putting one hand in his pocket. Then the sound of a door creaking open caught his attention, and he looked up to see Jeannie Rose emerging from her bedroom, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Jeanette had been right; the little girl had been sleeping for a few hours, it seemed. A small smile curved up the corner of Napier's mouth. She probably needed it, poor thing, he thought. Too much excitement would wear out a little thing like her.
"Hey, Jeannie Rose," Napier said, smiling at her. "How was your nap? You sleep okay?"
"Mm," Jeannie Rose replied groggily, reaching out and taking his free hand and attaching herself firmly to his arm. "Hi, Daddy." She yawned again, and Napier bent and picked her up. Jeannie Rose looked at him for a moment, then turned and looked around. "Where's Miss Jeanette?" she asked.
"I don't know," said Napier, shrugging. "She was here the last time I saw her… maybe she's putting on makeup or something." He played with one of Jeannie Rose's curls. "Daddy has to go out for a little bit, so you be a good girl and do what Miss Jeanette says while I'm gone, okay?"
Jeannie Rose nodded, still sleepy, and rubbed her eyes again. "Where are you going, Daddy?" she asked.
"Daddy's going to meet up with someone to talk about things," Napier replied, careful to word his answer very carefully. "I'll be back in a little bit, though. Don't worry about me."
Jeannie Rose nodded again and then looked at him, studying his face. She reached out a hand and traced the scars on either side of his mouth thoughtfully, then dropped her hand with a sigh. "Why do you have those scars, Daddy?" she asked. "Other men don't have those scars, and Mommie doesn't have those scars… why do you?"
Napier opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Then he answered, "Daddy… has done a lot of things he shouldn't, baby. And now he has these scars as a result." He smiled at her. "So just remember to always do what you're told, and you won't end up looking like Daddy. All right?"
Jeannie Rose nodded, her eyes wide. "Okay, Daddy," she said.
Napier nodded back. "And eat your veggies," he reminded her, tapping her little button nose with one finger. "They're good for you. Make you grow up big and strong."
Jeannie Rose giggled. "Okay, Daddy," she said, batting his hand away.
Napier smiled, then set the little girl down and turned away. Jeannie Rose ran to him and grabbed hold of his hand again. "Come back soon, okay?" she said. "An' when you come back, will you play with me?" She stared up at him, hopeful, and held onto the edge of her little pink dress hopefully, tugging on his hand. "Please?" she asked.
Napier stared at her for a long moment, then smiled and nodded. "Okay," he said.
"You promise?" asked Jeannie Rose, pulling harder on his hand.
Napier laughed, crouching down to her level, and lightly pinched her pink cheek. "I promise," he said. He stood, turning away from her, and crossed to the door, opening it. "Bye," he said, turning back and waving with a smile.
"Bye," said Jeannie Rose, waving back.
Napier stared at his daughter for a long moment, content. Then he closed the door behind him and was gone.
. . .
The Iceberg was at a moderate capacity when Napier entered and looked around, scanning the place for the reporter he had asked to meet him there at what had been supposed to be eight o' clock, but he had now turned into something around eight-fifteen. Maggie was not tending the bar, which meant that she was probably mingling with the guests. Instead, Tally had taken her place, and he was dutifully and silently filling two mugs with frothing beer. Cobblepot, however, was nowhere to be seen, and Napier supposed he was glad of it, really. He did not want to have to deal with the man, when he had apparently said something offensive to him before. That, and Cobblepot and Maggie had a nasty way of nitpicking at his rather unsteady social life. He was sure they did not mean any harm, but the topic still made him slightly uncomfortable.
Napier checked his watch with a scowl, hoping Thomas had not gotten irked by his lateness and left already, and was relieved when he saw him sitting at the bar, looking thoughtful. He crossed to the bar and settled himself down on a stool one away from the man with a satisfied exhale, then looked up and offered a slightly overzealous grin to the brooding barkeep. "Evening, Tally," he said. "Business been good so far this evening?" Tally glared wordlessly at him, but said nothing. "Always good to hear from you," Napier said, nodding. Then he turned to Thomas. "I don't guess you've been interviewing him while you've been waiting?" he asked. "I'm surprised… he never shuts up, usually."
He offered his hand to Thomas to shake. "I'm Jack," he said, grinning at him. He checked his watch again. "Sorry I'm late… I got a little tied up." He looked up again. "Good thing I know how to untie sailor's knots," he said with a grin. He laughed, slapping Thomas on the back, then looked away, back at Tally, and said, "Can I have a glass of water? Thanks." He turned back to Thomas as the water was placed on the bar in front of him.
"So, Thomas Hale," he said thoughtfully, picking up the water and taking a drink of it. "I've been reading your articles in the paper, and I have to say… you are a phenomenal writer." He set the glass down, nodding. "I, uh… I'm especially fond of your stories about the, uh… the Joker." He grinned at Thomas. "In case you didn't know," he added as an afterthought. He picked up his glass, considering taking another drink, then set it back down again. "So tell me, Thomas," he said, "how does it feel to be hated by everyone in Gotham because you're smarter than all of them? Hm? How does it feel to be on top of a revolution?"
He picked up his glass and took a drink, then looked at Thomas again. "You know," he said, "you're the reporter here, but… I would give anything to be able to just pick your brain." He grinned at this. "What do you say?" he asked.
Thomas frowned, unintentionally leaning a bit away from the newcomer. Jack's actions and words confused him. He seemed cordial enough, with his joking and laughing, but his words almost seemed...offensive. Thomas was also more than thrown at the guy's appearance. Whatever he'd expected, it hadn't been this. A gruesome Glasgow smile was stretched across his face, curling up at one side; the skin obviously hadn't been well-taken care of, since it puckered and bubbled into scars on either side of his mouth. And his hair...it was difficult to see in the low lighting, but Jack's hair was tinted a distinctive green.
He nodded his thanks to the compliment about his articles, then shook his head. "I don't know what you mean. What revolution?" He paused, then added in a near-mutter, "And I'm not hated by everyone. Someone has to agree with me." He was not fighting a hopeless war. Things would change, and then Gotham would look back at Thomas Hale and say that he'd been right all along.
Jack's request was unusual but, hell, he was talking to a guy with green hair. And he had nothing better to do that night; plus, he had to stick around the Lounge to meet up with Maria later. So he shrugged. Being interviewed couldn't be that awful. "Don't see why not," he replied apathetically. "Though I can't promise you'll find anything interesting."
"You know… the revolution of change." Napier picked up his glass of water and swirled it around. "The Joker is bringing in a new revolution, where the good guys run scared and the bad guys run free, and you can't trust anybody because you don't know who they're working for – but I'll tell you who they're working for." He nodded, grinning. "They're working for the Joker," he said, raising his eyebrows. "You'll see… one of these days, you'll figure out that everything you knew is a lie, and that everybody who isn't firmly stapled to their goody-two-shoes ways is actually a double-crossing grubby-handed back-stabber."
He took a drink of water, then set down his almost-empty glass, taking a deep breath. "You know, you're right, Tom. – Is it all right if I call you Tom?" He shrugged, then went on, undaunted, "Tom, there is at least one person who agrees with you." He looked over at Thomas. "I agree with you," he said, inclining his head towards him. "I think that everything you've written… it couldn't have been said better. And your titles…" He chuckled. "Genius. I mean, really… where do you come up with those things?"
He leaned forward towards Thomas slightly, watching his expression. "Well, since you don't mind…" He wet his lips, thinking. Then he paused. "You seem nervous," he noted, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Is it the scars?" He grinned a bit at this, then said, "But anyways, since you said I could, I'd like to ask you a few things about… yourself." He took a shallow breath, then asked, "Sometimes, I read your articles, and they just make my day. But what I want to know is… what made you take the side of the Joker in this whole big deal?"
Napier leaned back, considering Thomas. "I mean, most people would instantly take the side of the GPD, or… the Batman." He dragged out the vigilante's name. "But not you. You take the Joker's side, loud and clear, right there on the cover of the daily paper." He blinked slowly, watching Thomas. "Why?" he asked.
Thomas frowned. That was a depressing outlook on life. If he had to hazard a guess (and, being the reporter he was, of course he had to), he'd say this Jack guy had been hurt as badly as he had by those so-called "goodie two-shoes". Too badly. So badly that he now railed against that lifestyle and preferred to connect himself to the criminals in the city. Thomas liked to think he wasn't being that extreme. Sure, he was trying to expose all of the fraud and deceit in the police force, but he wasn't trying to bring them down so that the criminals and psychos on the streets could start their own reign of the city.
So he had to protest the wording of Jack's question. "It's not...I'm not siding with him. In those terms." He sighed, ran a hand through his hair. "The Gotham police department is the problem in this city. Any other place could handle the crime that goes on here." He chuckled. "Hell, look at LA. Look at Chicago. They're not as bad as Gotham, and there's only one reason for that." He picked up his drink and pointed at Jack before taking a sip. "The police."
For the first time in a while, Thomas felt like he could talk to someone about this. Jack was someone who was siding with him, not tearing him down for being anti-American and pro-terrorist. He understood. "There is so much corruption in this city, it makes me sick. Officer Gordon has his own private unit in the GPD, and he's practically got the Commissioner in his pocket. Garcia...hell, I don't know what to say about the guy." The edges of his mouth twitched upward in a sneer. "And what needs to be said about Batman? The guy's a nut job out for some kicks."
He shook his head. "No, I don't need to side with that much idiocy and sleaze. If it means being outcasted, fine." He glared down at his glass, and the intense frown softened to a look of deeper pain. "I've been affected by all of this. Call it revenge, I don't care; I want to make them pay for all the horrible things they've been doing."
Then he glanced back up at Jack with a bitter smile. "Sorry, probably talking your ear off," he said, somewhat embarrassed. He paused, looked at Jack more carefully. "Do I...know you?" he asked, squinting slightly. He'd seen those scars before, he just couldn't remember where. It was on the tip of his tongue.
Napier listened with interest to Thomas' explanation of his views, nodding every so often to show he was still paying attention. So Thomas was not exactly an ally, per se, but at least he was not an adversary. He picked up his glass of water, draining the remaining liquid from the bottom of the glass, and nodded. "You know, you're right," he said, turning to look at Thomas. "The GPD isn't doing its job. I mean, how hard could it be to catch a few criminals?" He grinned. "Unless the criminals were really smart," he said, pointing at Thomas. "You need to take that into consideration." Then he raised his eyebrows, turning away. "Though if one criminal is smarter than an entire police force…" He scoffed. "That isn't saying much for the police force's brain capacity."
He glanced over towards Tally, his fingers playing over the rim of his glass. "I think I'll have a Bevo, Tally," he said, wetting his lips. "Something low-key, for the moment. Don't want to rush into anything." He chuckled uncomfortably, making sure not to make eye contact with Thomas as Tally cracked open the near-beer and poured it into his glass. He did not know if Thomas remembered the last time they had seen one another, but he knew for sure that he did not want to do anything stupid that might result in a repeat of that time. He picked up his glass, taking a sip, and then set it down with a satisfied exhale. "That's some good stuff," he lied, shaking his head. Then he turned back to Thomas.
"You don't care if you're an outcast?" he asked, sounding slightly impressed. "I remember when I used to care about things like that… it just drove me to more extreme measures to try to fit in. The stress was overwhelming. All of that nonsense just made everything worse." He picked up his drink, taking another sip, trying not to make a face at the taste. "You know, you've got a valid point," he said, nodding as he set down his glass on the bar. "They do all this shit to us, the little people, and then expect no retribution on our part. And, worse than that, the people never fight back, despite their constitutional rights to do so." He shrugged. "But you've got the right idea," he said. "Give it to 'em. Stick it to the man."
Napier brought his glass to his mouth, and raised his eyebrows when Thomas voiced his concern. "No, no," he said, shaking his head as he brought his drink away from his lips. "You're not. It's actually really interesting." Then a grin split his face. "Well, I don't know," he answered, turning to face Thomas straight-on. "We might have met before… once. You might have seen me around. I'm pretty sure you know me." His smile widened. "Then again, it might just be a coincidence," he said with a shrug. "I mean, there are plenty of guys running around Gotham with Chelsea grins." He brought his drink back to his lips, taking another sip.
Something about Jack's not-quite-nasally voice was naggingly familiar to Thomas. He watched the man intently as he spoke, searching through his mental Rolodex of familiar faces. So he was right, he knew Jack from somewhere; the man just refused to tell him. And it was those scars that seemed more than faintly familiar...
The realization hit him so hard that he nearly fell out of his seat. The gala, the scars, the strange "businessman" that Gordon had said was Casper Dolohov, but who Thomas had later discovered to be...the Joker.
He was talking to the Joker. Face to face. The madman who had murdered countless people in the last few weeks was sitting a foot away from him, chatting about politics and morals. How had he not realized this sooner? There were hints everywhere. He talked about the incompetent police force, how much he loved Thomas' articles about the Joker (himself, as it were), the "change things or die trying" mentality that he'd often heard of in the criminal's psyche as presented by the chief psychoanalysts around the city. For chrissakes, his hair was still green.
Thomas didn't quite know what to do, so he vocalized his confusion in the first way that presented itself to him.
"Shit."
He half-stood up. "You're...you're...oh my God," he said, finally giving up. He pointed at Jack. "You're the Joker." His voice was low and quiet; he looked around in a panic. There were tons of people here. Who was he to say that the man didn't have a gun hidden at his belt right now, or knives tucked into his sleeves? He would keep this to himself, for now. "What do you want? You going to kill me?" he asked, dull terror in his tone.
"Shh, shh," Napier said, holding out both hands towards him. "Sit, sit. You're overreacting." He retracted his hands, looking somewhere between amused and concerned for Thomas. "You guessed right," he admitted, picking up his glass and considering taking a drink. "But I'm not interested in hurting you." He took a drink, then set his glass back down. "I just wanted to talk to the only man in the city who supports my cause. And on the front page of the Gotham news… you can't get any better than that in my books."
He picked up his drink again, considering taking another sip, then set it back down with a grimace. "I can't even pretend to like that," he surrendered. He looked up at Tally. "Let's see… I think this time I'll try…" He paused, considering it. "I think I'll try something a little different this time," he said with a grin. "It's been a while since I've had something new." He thought for a moment, then said, "Make me a Clayton." Napier watched as Tally set his drink down in front of him, then picked it up, taking a sip, and nodded in approval of the new drink. "That's much better," he said with a sigh, setting the drink down.
Napier turned back to Thomas, looking him up and down. "I don't just kill everyone who crosses my path," he said, shaking his head and turning back to his drink. He traced his fingers around the rim of the glass. "Only those who are in my way, or who have done something specifically to… piss me off." He arched an eyebrow. "You've done neither," he informed Thomas, inclining his head. "So I have no problem with you." He turned and grinned over at Thomas. "You don't have to worry about suffering a horrible death anytime soon," he told him.
Napier picked up his glass and took a long drink, then let out a deep breath and set the glass back down. "What I was thinking," he said, nodding slightly, "was that we could work together. Cooperate, as it were." He glanced over at Thomas. "I let you interview me, or… whatever it is you want to do…" He wet his lips. "And you… you continue to write those great articles of yours." He grinned at Thomas, leaning towards him slightly. "If it had been anyone else," he told him in a low voice, "I wouldn't be making this deal. But you're lucky… I like you."
He leaned back, his lopsided grin wide, and held out a hand towards Thomas. "What d'you say?" he asked, watching him intently. "Do we have a deal?"
"Overreacting?" Thomas sniped, disbelieving, as he took his seat once more. He didn't dare run for it now; no matter what the Joker said, he wasn't out of the red yet. He kneaded his knuckles into his eyes for a moment, then groaned and looked up at the barman - Tally, he supposed. "Get me a Guinness, I'm going to need it," he requested, and buried his face in his hands once more. It wasn't giving in to alcoholism, he told himself. It would help him get through this - whatever it was - in relatively one piece.
He'd screwed the pooch on this one. Setting up an interview with the psychotic killer that was turning the city inside out? Thomas wanted to bash his head into a wall until some common sense was knocked into it. Well, suffice it to say that this would be the last impromptu interview he ever set up.
"Guess that's comforting," he said in a mutter, before straightening up and seeming to collect himself. He'd get through this "interview", or whatever it was, with at least his dignity. It wouldn't be so horrible, if he thought about it. Getting information from a primary source was always a positive thing - it was the first lesson they taught you in communications classes. And this would earn him credibility (and maybe a little more respect) among the citizens of Gotham. "Alright, deal," he told the Joker, nodding to himself. Then he paused and shot the other man a nervous sidelong glance. "I can't help but wonder what you'd've done if I said no."
Napier watched Thomas, frowning slightly as he ordered his drink, then finished off his own drink and nudged the glass forward towards the bartender. "Get me a Flying Scotsman, Tally," he said, rapping his knuckles lightly on the bar. "I'm pretty thirsty." He let out an exhale as he turned back to Thomas, considering him in an almost superior manner, though he doubted Thomas would catch his competitive quirk. It just set something off to see someone else drinking and to be foolishly sipping at a mocktail beside them. He waited until Tally set the drink down in front of him, then picked it up and sipped at it, licking his lips at the dull, burning sensation.
"Now that is good," he said, nodding in approval. Then he turned back to Thomas. "Of course it's comforting," he said, leaning his elbows on the bar, casual. "It's always good to know you aren't some crazy killer's next victim. And as long as you keep writing those articles, it will continue to be a comforting thought." He grinned, poking at the ice in his glass with his fingers, then picked up the glass, clinked the ice around a little, and took a long, satisfying drink. "Flying Scotsman," he mused, shaking his head as he set down the glass, staring at the ice cubes. "You know, people are so creative sometimes." Then he pointed to the glass, looking up at Tally. "I'll have another," he said with a nod. "That was pretty good."
Then Napier looked over at Thomas. "If you'd said no?" he asked. He stroked his chin thoughtfully as Tally filled up his glass and handed it back to him, then shrugged, taking the glass and taking a sip. "I'm not sure," he answered truthfully. "I like you, so… I probably would've done something paltry. Like…" He paused, tilting his head back and forth as he thought about it, then glanced over at Thomas. "Like shoving needles under your toenails and sticking your hands into two blenders. Then, because I wouldn't want you to scream… it would pain me to hear you scream, since I like you… I'd rip out your vocal cords. And probably then I'd cut you a nice Chelsea grin… just for fun." He smiled genially at Thomas. "Aren't you glad you said yes?" he asked, taking another sip of his drink.
Napier traced the rim of his glass with the tips of two fingers, then turned to Thomas. "So tell me, Thomas," he said, his dark eyes straying back to his glass, "what exactly turned you into such a bitter person? Because most everyone else here in Gotham who isn't, you know… like me…" He swallowed, thinking. "They're always trying to put a happy spin on shit. Shooting sunshine up one another's asses to try to make the best out of some fucking godawful situation…" He chuckled as his description grew darker, and his eyes returned to Thomas. "I'm glad you're not like them," he said, raising his eyebrows. He took another sip of his drink. "Otherwise you'd probably be wasting your talent writing stories to benefit the Batman."
He set his drink back down, reminding himself that competition did not mean he had to get carried away. He wet his lips, looking back at Thomas, and grinned at him. "You tell me a story, I'll tell you one, if you want," he said. Then he looked down at his nails. They needed to be trimmed, but he would worry about that later. "Or I'll tell you about my latest killing," he offered. His dark eyes returned to Thomas' face. "It will be newspaper gold," he assured him. "Not even the police have found out about this one. It's brand new." His awful grin widened. "I'll even give you all the gory details about it… if you think you can handle it."
Thomas dully watched the bartender deliver the new drink, and glanced between it and Napier for a moment before draining his own glass. He still felt shocked at this sudden turn of events; he needed to numb that a bit, or he'd go totally insane. "Two," he told Tally, holding up two fingers then pointing at Napier's drink to indicate what he wanted.
His tired eyes turned back to Napier and he winced. "Yes, I'm glad I said yes," he muttered, shifting backward in his seat. All it took was one measly threat to remind him that this wasn't one of his drinking buddies. He curled his toes instinctively and turned his eyes back down the counter. A glass was placed in front of him then; he stared at it for a moment, then picked it up and drained it in a gulp. He set one elbow on the counter and rested his head on his upturned palm.
Then he considered Napier again. "Bitter?" The word sounded funny...not completely accurate. "Not really. I'd like to think of it as realistic." He rubbed his neck, stiff from doing nothing but stare at news feeds on a computer all day. Regardless of what he considered himself, was it wise to answer?
On one hand, Napier promised more information if he did. On the other, Napier was an infamous murderer who would likely use whatever Thomas told him in his twisted games.
"It was my wife," he ended up answering. "She was a reporter, just like me. One of the good ones; she always got the latest scoop on criminal activity, and she ended up helping the police out on a lot of cases." He smiled faintly. Emily'd always been proud of her work. She loved the justice system. Then the grin faded. "One time she went too far. She got one of the ring leaders arrested, and nobody liked that. If I'd have known how much trouble we'd be in...if I'd have known what was going on..." He raised his hands helplessly, trying to find what to say. After a moment, he let them drift back down the counter. "But I didn't. And then...she was shot. Just like that. I was out at work, and I came back to the apartment, and..." His frown deepened, and he looked up at Napier. "The police didn't do a damn thing. I probably didn't have enough money to interest them...At least, not as much as the other guys."
He shoved the glass away, leaning back with crossed arms. "I'd like for the city to know what their precious police force is really all about. Money, corruption...it's too real." He gazed off into space. "Things shouldn't be...like that." Then his eyes darted back to Napier. "Your turn. Your latest murder. All the gory details."
Napier watched Thomas intently, his brow furrowing slightly as Thomas ordered another drink from Tally. As little as Napier would have liked to admit it, his obnoxiously competitive streak was starting to kick in, and he could not stand to sit aside and give in to the idea that he had a problem. He did not have a problem, he told himself. He picked up his own glass and drained it, then set it down on the counter and turned to Tally. "Get me another glass of that, Tally," he said, indicating towards the glass. Then he turned back to Thomas, amused as he watched Thomas squirm at the thought of what had been one of Napier's less extreme torture devices.
"You're a smart guy, I'll give you that," Napier said, grinning at him. He took up his now-full drink and took a long sip, then set it back down, running the tip of his tongue over his lips. "And realistic views of the world can sometimes be bitter ones," Napier said, shrugging. "It's all in the eye of the beholder, really." He picked up his drink, clinking the ice cubes against the sides of the glass thoughtfully. "I mean, look at me," he said, indicating himself. "I used to have such a sunny disposition, back in the day… and look where it's got me." He frowned slightly, taking a sip of his drink. "But now at least I'm always smiling," he added in an undertone.
Napier set his drink down and wet his lips, nodding along with Thomas' story, dark eyes dwelling on his glass as he took in the details of the man's tale. So Thomas had once had a wife, and he, like Napier, had lost her, and so he, like Napier, begun drinking. Napier raised an eyebrow, his eyes returning to Thomas as the reporter finished his story. "She got shot?" he asked, slightly monotone. "Any idea who did it?" He watched Thomas for a moment, picking up his drink and finishing it, then set it back down and motioned to Tally to fill it again.
"Was it one of Falcone's thugs?" Napier asked. "They've been such a menace, the past few years." He picked up his once-again-full drink and took a thoughtful sip, watching Thomas' expression. "Y'know, I hear they're still around somewhere… though now the city's shakin' at the feet of some prick called Warren White. You ever hear of him?" He shook his head then, setting his glass back down. "But that's unimportant," he said. "I promised you gory details, I'll give you gory details." He wet his lips, his eyes moving away from Thomas' face, and opened his mouth, considering what to say.
"There was this guy, see…" he began. He paused. How to tell Thomas about the murder would be tricky. He looked back at Thomas. "He… We weren't exactly the best of friends. He did some stuff in his past that… was not quite agreeable with me." He cleared his throat, thinking, and wet his lips again. "Well, if you want to lead the police right to him," he said, leaning forward slightly, "you'll find him in the old abandoned blacksmith shop. You know, the one that burned down all those years ago, with that big fire, and now everyone thinks it's haunted and shit…"
He waved it off, then went on. "That's where he is. Though, uh, you might want to brace yourself before you go inside to find him." A slight smirk quirked at one corner of his mouth. "He's not exactly… how shall I say…" He considered how to word it, then said, "Well, he's… a little…" He paused again, frowning. Then he looked at Thomas and said, "He doesn't have a head." He paused a moment, then finished off his drink and set the glass back down on the bar with a satisfied sigh. Then he looked back up at Thomas. "So tell me, Thomas…" He paused, considering what he wanted to ask the reporter. "Now I've got you here… why don't you tell me a little about the world above?"
Napier wet his lips. "I mean, how is everything holding up in the world of the plentiful?" he asked. "The place where people with too much money buy things they don't really need just to buy it, and beautiful women go on dates with the highest bidder." He smirked. "Somewhere over the rainbow," he added, somewhat bitterly.
"You. Had a sunny disposition." Thomas' tone, flat and toneless, expressed his disbelief rather well. Maybe he was biased, but he couldn't see the Joker as anything but that. He was a criminal. He didn't "used to be" anything.
But he pushed aside his skepticism when Napier began to describe the murder, pulling a pen out of his pocket (he always had one on hand; one never knew when, oh, say, an infamous criminal would start spilling his deepest, darkest secrets) and scribbling furiously on a napkin. Decapitated...that was a new one. The Joker really had a creative, albeit morbid, streak in him. He nodded at the description of the shop; he didn't know the place, but the city tended to keep tabs on old, abandoned spots. After all, where better to find a criminal?
He chose to ignore the further questions about Emily. It was far too touchy of a subject for him still. He wondered if that might be a bad thing; it had been nearly a year, after all, and he was still grieving. People dealt with their grief in different ways, he assured himself, finishing the alcohol in front of him. Some ways may be better than others, but who was he to judge?
Thomas caught himself a moment before he thanked Napier, instead poking at his glass again. Tally came by almost immediately with raised eyebrows, looking at the glass. Thomas nodded. He was barely feeling a buzz, he could stand a bit more. Just a bit, though, he promised himself. In response to Napier's question, he said, "Oh, the usual things. Bruce Wayne - I suppose you know him," he told Jack with a smirk. "He's been up to his usual mischief. Guy's totally insane, if you ask me."
He winced at his word choice, chancing a glance at Napier, and tapped a finger on the bar. A look of enlightenment sprang into his eyes. Maybe it was bad to ask a question out of personal curiosity, since this may have been the only chance he'd get to actually interview the Joker, but..."That shooting," he finally said, turning the question over in his mind. "While back. You were...robbing a bank, I think. Not far from here." He frowned, sobering up a bit. "But one of the guys with you was shot. What happened there?" He leaned back in his seat, boozy smile again settling over his features. "I mean, one of the Joker's guys gets shot? Something's screwed up there."
Then he settled back down in his chair, hurrying to go on. "Harvey Dent's being his grand old self. Too grand, if you ask me. And he deals too much with Gordon." He nodded to himself. "I'll bet there's some secrets that guy's hiding. But anyways, nothing besides that. I mean, the entire city's up in flames over you," he nodded to Napier, "and some other guy who escaped Arkham a while back that the police still haven't caught. Crane, I think it was. You know, that nutter behind the Narrows incident a month or so ago?" Thomas would hazard a guess that Napier knew who he was talking about. Crime, funny as it was, brought people together in this town. Hell, maybe they'd worked together at some point.
"You sound so sceptical," Napier said, frowning slightly. "I was just like you, once." He considered his statement, his dark eyes straying. "Well, not just like you," he corrected himself. "But... similar." He pushed his empty glass forward and nodded to Tally. "I think I'll try something creative this time," he said with a grin. "Surprise me. Gimme something new and exciting." He watched as Tally took his glass, looking remarkably dour the whole time, and began to mix something up. Napier lost track of what was being put into the glass, and turned back to Thomas, suddenly realizing that he felt slightly tipsy. Perhaps it was the four glasses of scotch in rapid succession. He blinked, trying to clear his head and appear as sober as possible, then grinned at Thomas.
"Yeah, I've heard of Bruce Wayne," Napier said, nodding. "Always got a babe on his arm, or two, or three..." He chuckled, then looked up when Tally placed his drink in front of him. "Thanks," he said, picking up the drink and toasting the bartender with it. He grinned amiably at Tally. "You didn't put poison in this or anything, right?" he joked. Tally glared at him, stolidly silent. Napier stared at him, the slightly uncomfortable grin plastered on his face. Then he turned away towards Thomas again. "Always such a reassuring fellow," Napier said in an undertone, taking a sip of his drink. It was strong, whatever it was, and Napier had to pause a moment before continuing his conversation with Thomas.
"Ah, good old Harvey Dent," Napier said with a bitter smile. "He fucks everyone – even the economy is fucked because of Harvey Dent!" He chuckled at his own slight pun, taking another sip of his drink. "But it's all good, because he's got that movie star smile and, for god's sake, fellas, this guy's the one who puts all the bad guys behind bars!" He shook his head then, frowning. "Harvey Dent is incompetent and inexperienced. Maybe if he'd lived on the streets, himself, for a few years, he'd know how to help Gotham. All he's doing is making it a little prettier by putting up huge billboards of his grinning mug." Napier let out a huff of laughter. "If it were up to me, I'd certainly put a smile on that face," he muttered, taking another drink.
Then he paused, thinking. "Crane," Napier said in a dark undertone. He looked away from Thomas, setting his drink down on the counter, his fingers playing over the glass. Then he picked up the glass and drained it, setting it back down on the counter with a soft, irritated thud. "Crane is... flashy and juvenile," Napier spat, looking back at Thomas. "He always glorifies himself, but for what? Deep down, he's just the kid on the playground that nobody wanted to play with 'cause he wore duct-taped glasses and ankle-socks."
Napier tipped his glass towards him, frowning at the emptiness, then set it out for Tally to refill. "Another, Tally," he said, forgetting his playful formalities.
Thomas began turning to look at Tally, but stopped suddenly, a somewhat bold smile stretching his lips. "You're..." he began, looking at Jack. He glanced at the cup in the man's hands, then at his own, and started laughing. "Oh, god, don't tell me we're competing," he exclaimed in a near-shout, drawing some curious glances from the groups still seated in the eating area. Maybe it was just the alcohol talking, but something about the situation just tickled his funny bone. He leaned forward, laughing hard and squeezing his eyes shut. He nearly swayed off of his barstool.
"Competing?" Napier laughed at this, almost embarrassed that it was true. "If that's what you wanna call it," he said. He picked up the now-full glass and took a long drink of it, then set it back down with a huff of breath. A familiar warmth was starting to fill up inside of him, and suddenly he was much more comfortable talking to Thomas about things that would otherwise have been hard to disclose.
After a moment, Thomas straightened up, tears in his eyes. He brushed them away with the back of his hand, finally pushing his glass toward Tally. "Whatever the fuck he's got, I want one," he barked, still grinning like a lunatic. Competition was just fine with him. He could hold his alcohol. Sort of. "Christ, that's funny," he murmured, letting out one last chuckle before looking back up at Jack. "Sorry 'bout that. Um, anyways..."
It took him a moment to regain his train of thought. "Yeah. That Dent guy...yeah. He's got it coming," he said weakly, nodding thankfully at Tally as his new drink was delivered. It packed a punch; he smacked his lips, pleased, and set it down after just a sip. "And I don't know much about Crane, but you're probably right. Usually are, anyways…
"So what happened?" The question was out in the open before Thomas could stop himself. His curiosity had gotten the best of him. Hell, the entire city would be reading his articles if he got the story behind the Joker's twisted smile. Now he just had to bank on the hope that Jack didn't decide to kill him for being a nuisance.
Napier looked up when Thomas asked about his scars, and his grin widened. That was his favourite part of any interview… telling his scar stories.
"Would you like to know how I got my scars?" Napier asked, leaning forward towards Thomas and grinning. He paused, thinking, his head fuzzy with liquor, then started, "When I was younger, about five years ago… I was married to this woman named Kitty." He shook his head. "I loved Kitty like no other, an' she loved me. The only problem was, neither of us had any money, an' no matter how hard we worked, there were always bills to pay. We didn't have a house, since all we could afford was a little apartment. We barely managed to scrape together enough money for a little wedding. But we did it…"
He paused, thinking on his story. "Well, we're just barely managing along when one day, Kitty comes to me an' tells me she's pregnant. This would be wonderful news, but…" He let out a deep breath. "We were so poor, I didn't think we would be able to take care of a baby. I mean, we could barely take care of ourselves…" He shook his head again, looking away at his empty glass, tipping it forward as if he could find the rest of his story at the bottom of it. "But I was happy for her… I mean, I was gonna be a father." He looked up at Thomas again. "That's the greatest feeling in the world," he told him with a faint smile.
Napier turned away, thinking, and took a breath. "Everything seemed to be going well for a while," he said. "We didn't have the money for doctor visits, so we just took care of everything ourselves… we were doing just fine, for a while…" He looked over at Thomas, raising his eyebrows. "It was such a smooth pregnancy… not a single problem. We thought we were going to make it…" His voice trailed off, and he looked away, staring back at his glass. "Then one day, Kitty agreed to take an extra shift at work… you know, try to earn an extra few dollars in tips."
He hesitated, unsure if he wanted to continue his story, then went on, "I went to pick her up from work. It was nighttime, and we didn't have a car…" He scoffed. "It wasn't like we could afford one," he said bitterly. "Hell, we could barely afford to pay the rent on our apartment, let alone…" He stopped, taking a breath, and then continued, "I came to pick her up from work, and on our way home, we were stopped by these three thugs in an alleyway." He stared down into the bottom of his glass, frowning. "One guy had a gun. He pointed it at me an' Kitty… Don't be a hero, he said. Just hand over the money." Napier shrugged. "So I did," he said. He paused, then looked over at Thomas. "But he wasn't through," he said.
"I gave him my wallet, and Kitty's tips, and I tried to shield Kitty… but then they went after her." His frown deepened. "They wanted to rape her," he said, his voice started to get weak. "A helpless, pregnant woman… and they wanted to rape her." He set his glass down, trying to regain his composure. "Of course, I wasn't about to stand by and let them do that," he said, shaking his head. "I fought back. I went for the guy with the gun, and I told Kitty to run, get the police…" He took a breath. "She ran," he said. "But the guys… they weren't happy with me."
He glanced over at Thomas again, making sure he was still listening. "The guy with the gun… he was the leader," he said. "He got the other guys to pin me… they were strong, too, and I was tired from working all day long… And the guy with the gun, he pulls out this switchblade, and he says, 'You think you're so fuckin' clever, huh?'" He stopped, looking away again. The story was getting hard to get through. "And he took this switchblade," he said, "and while the other two guys held me, he sliced open my face… like this." He indicated his scars. "Then he and his thugs beat me up and left me in the alleyway."
Napier absently traced the line of his scars with his fingertips, thinking. "I went looking for Kitty soon after that," he said, "but I couldn't find her anywhere." He shook his head, thoughtful. "I looked for months for her… I asked everyone who might've seen her… I reported her to Missing Persons, but…" He shrugged. "I never found her. She wasn't in the hospital records when I tried to look for her, for when she finally had her baby…" He put his head in his hand. "That's when I started drinking," he said, indicating his empty glass. "Trying to forget Kitty… and everything that went with her."
He looked over at Thomas. "Now, five years later, I finally figured out what happened to her," he told him. He looked away again. "I talked to an old friend the other day," he said. "He said… she was dead." He shook his head. "All my efforts," he said quietly, "and she died anyways." He thought about it for a moment, and then shrugged. "And that's my story," he said.
Napier took a moment, then picked up his glass and moved it forward. "Fill it up, Tally," he said. "I need it."
Maggie gingerly fixed a few flyaway hairs as she entered the main room of the lounge, looking around for Os. She had not seen him for a while, and it was starting to get late. Maggie checked the clock on the wall, then looked up to where Tally was patiently fixing the drinks of two regulars. Maggie recognized them instantly; one was the reporter from the local paper, and the other was the Joker. It took her a moment to get over the shock of seeing the two of them conversing like friends, but she decided not to ask. The affairs of Gotham's criminals were really none of her business. She left that kind of thing to Os.
Maggie moved forward towards the bar, fixing her furs and jewellery as she did so, and smiled genially at Tally, putting a hand on his large forearm. "You've been on duty for hours, Tally," she said. "Why don't you take a break? I'll take over for a little bit." Tally nodded silently, then moved out from behind the bar and walked away, disappearing into the crowd. Maggie moved behind the bar, pulling off her fur coat and setting it aside as she did so, then looked up at the two regulars with an amiable smile.
"So, how are you boys doing this evening?" she asked, pulling out two clean glasses and setting them out in front of her. She raised her eyebrows, slightly concerned, as she watched them laughing like loose schoolboys, but tried to keep up her smile. "You guys started a little before me, didn't ya?" she asked, trying to sound friendly, but her naturally motherly nature was starting to creep in. Os would be peeved at her if she did not do her job, though, so she picked up a bottle and started to fill one of the glasses.
"You look like you're running a little low," she said, uncomfortable. "Would you like a refill? What're you boys drinking?" She filled a glass and set it down on the counter, seeing if either would take it. "And what's the juicy gossip tonight, Mister Reporter?" she asked, leaning on her elbow and looking towards Thomas. "I take it some of this is going to be in tomorrow's paper."
Thomas sobered up quickly (not in the literal sense, of course; he was still nearly tipping off of his seat) at the story. And he'd thought he had it bad. He looked down at the bar top, just thinking. This Kitty had been pregnant. He and Emily had only been married. Sure, they were planning for kids, but...it hadn't happened like this.
In the one person that Thomas related to least in the city, he had found someone with a past as close to his as he could get.
Then he finally glanced up at Jack again, frowning. "Why didn't y'go after those guys?" he asked, genuinely curious. "I mean, you must've looked for 'em. Couldn't just...Just leave them." This was the Joker he was talking to, after all. If he wanted someone dead, they were dead. Maybe he had his reasons. Didn't make sense to Thomas, but who was he to say?
His thoughts were interrupted by the new bartender. He grinned at her, glancing at his empty cup and shrugging. "Don't know what that guy was givin' us," he said lazily, turning the glass around with his hand. "Some strong shit, whatever it was." Then he turned his bright smile to her fully. "An' of course it is. Isn't every day y'get an interview with the Joker, for chrissakes, right?"
"Something strong...?" Maggie asked, lost.
"It's called a one-nine-hundred," Cobblepot cut in, leaning on the counter beside Thomas. He slipped onto the barstool, his half-smoked cigarette smouldering lazily in his hand. He brought it to his lips and took a long drag, then let the smoke seep from his mouth. "It's Tally's specialty," he said with a sigh, raising his eyebrows. "He learned it while he was working for that skeeze Warren White."
"One-nine-hundred?" Maggie asked. She held up her hands, lost. "I don't know how to make that."
Cobblepot waved her off, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter," he said. "It's a terrible concoction, anyways. It's for poor fucks who just want to get drunk quick." Cobblepot glanced over at Thomas and Napier, then let out an unimpressed huff of breath and took another drag of his cigarette. "Maybe you can get him to teach you how to make it when he gets off his break," Cobblepot suggested. "Until then, I think these two will do just fine with vodka shots."
"Where'd Tally go?" Napier asked, frowning over at Cobblepot.
Cobblepot exhaled smoke, looking unimpressed. "He's on his break," he answered. "He needs a little fresh air, too, once in a while." He glanced over at Napier. "Some men have more needs in life than pussy and booze," he said.
Napier paused, then answered, "I thought you liked cock."
Cobblepot stared at him for a long, silent moment, indifferent. Then he stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray and stood from the bar. "Some people have no class," he muttered, then walked away.
Napier watched him walk away, then turned back to Thomas. "What was I s'posed t' do?" he asked, defensive. "I mean, I dunno what happened to her. I told her to run, an' I took on the guys, myself… I don' think they were th' ones that did anything to her." He paused, thinking about it. "I dunno what happened to her," he repeated, his voice distant, his dark eyes straying. Then he turned back to Thomas. "I mean, I couldn' jus' start killin' every guy in Gotham 'til I came across my wife's killer."
Maggie looked up at this. "What?" she asked.
Napier looked over at her. "Well, I couldn't," he argued. "That wouldn't make any sense. How would Gotham reproduce?"
"No, no," Maggie said, pointing at him, "what you said after that… about your wife."
"Um…" Napier thought back on his statement, but it was hard to do. Then he shook his head. "My wife's dead," he said, looking up at Maggie, hoping that was what she was talking about.
Maggie tossed down her glass-cleaning rag and shook her head. "No, she's not," she said, sounding somewhat triumphant.
Napier slit his eyes at her, staring at her incredulously. "What'd you say?" he asked.
"Your wife," said Maggie. "She isn't dead."
"But..." Napier looked away, confused. "But... Gerald said she died!"
"I don't know Gerald," Maggie said, "but someone fitting your wife's description, whose name was Kitty, came in here just the other day... might've even been yesterday." She paused, thinking. "She was with a man," she said. "But she didn't look too happy to be around him. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was holding her against her will."
Napier stared at Maggie for another long moment. Then he picked up the glass of liquor and downed it, and then stood unsteadily from his seat. He leaned on the bar counter towards her, frowning. "You say my wife's still alive?" he asked.
"I know she is," Maggie said, nodding assuredly.
Napier nodded, too. "You wouldn't lie t' me, would you, Maggie?" he asked, his speech slurring. "You wouldn't lie t' me on something so important, would you?"
"I would never lie to you," Maggie said, putting her hand over her heart. "Your wife is still alive. I swear it."
Napier stared at Maggie for another long moment, then turned away. "Good seein' you, Thomas," he said as he headed for the door. "But I got some unfinished business I still gotta attend to." And with that, he was out the door.
Thomas looked up at Jack, confused, as he said something about unfinished business and disappeared. Then he glanced between Maggie and Cobblepot, and shrugged. "Don' know what th'fuck that was about," he muttered, mostly to himself. Then he stood up; or, at least attempted to. He leaned heavily on the counter, finally feeling the effects of the liquor.
He glanced up at the clock. Nearly eight. "I better get goin'..." he told the other two, settling his balance and leaning away from the counter. "Don' want to be out too..." He paused, shock momentarily sobering him. "Ah, shit, I'm supposed to meet with Maria," he moaned.
He was in no state to be conducting interviews, that much was clear. He waffled for a full minute, alcohol-saturated brain slowly weighing the possibilities. In the end, he turned to Maggie. "Hey, this gal with brown hair, kind of tall...she'll be coming in here soon. Goes by Maria Goodhart. Could you let her know that I had to...erm...resched'le?" he requested, putting a hand to his head. He ought to go sit down somewhere and sleep this off. "Thanks." Without waiting for a reply, he slowly trudged out of the Iceberg Lounge, hoping that Maria wouldn't be too angry with him.
