Chapter Four
The Joker lay on a hospital gurney in the corner of the large room. Several tubes, connected to bags hanging beside him, ran into his arms. His skin, normally a chalk white, had paled even further, giving it an almost translucent quality. His green hair was oily and matted. A small woman stood at his head, wiping his brow with a damp washcloth.
"I've missed you, puddin'," she said. Her voice was high, girlish, and had had a child-like sing-song quality to it. Anyone looking at her slight frame and youthful face would have pegged her as a teenager, for nothing in her manner suggested the age and intelligence she truly possessed. "They tried to keep me from you, but we fooled 'em. And soon you'll be all better."
"Dr. Quinzel."
The voice, as well as the man it belonged to, relayed a majestic quality, one that demanded attention, respect and obedience. She looked up at him descending the stairs, his heavy velvet robes swirling around him and his hand-picked faithful followers trailing behind. She left the Joker's side and moved towards him, a bounce in her step but not quite skipping.
"Harley, please," she said, throwing her arms wide in greetings. "There's no need to stand on formality. We're all friends here."
"Indeed," he answered. "Do you have what I asked for?"
"We ran into an itsy-bitsy problem," she said, holding her hand in front of her face, her thumb and fore-finger less than an inch apart.
"And that would be?"
"He lost the girl," she said, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder at where Blockbuster sat, head down, as if asleep. He was wearing a bandage over his left eye and a piece of cotton protruded from one nostril, rust colored from dried blood. Harley glided close to the mad and lightly twisted his goatee around her finger. "But don't worry; we'll get her for you. You will still help Mr. J, won't you?"
He grabbed her wrist and forcibly pushed her away from him.
"Kindly refrain from touching me, Doctor." His eyes cut from her to the Joker and back to her. "I am not without patience, Doctor, but it is not infinite. I will take him with me as agreed and he will receive the best medical administrations while he is in my care. However, I will not cure him until you fulfill your part of the bargain. Is that understood?"
He snapped his fingers and motioned towards the comatose man. Four of his followers ran to the gurney and began wheeling it out. A bald, shirtless muscleman walked with them, talking softly into a radio handset. Harley watched this then turned on the man.
"If the brat is so important to you, why didn't you just grab her yourself?"
"Because," the man answered dryly, "I don't want the detective to see my hand in this until I'm ready. If you deposited the proper materials I gave you when you confiscated the Joker, the detective should be chasing his own tail around the world for quite some time, giving me plenty of time to set my own plans in motion. But for this I need the girl. Bring her to me, alive, and I'll restore your…Mr. J…to his former self. Improved, I would imagine. Until you bring the girl to me, however, he will remain as he is now. You know how to contact me. I suggest you do it soon."
He turned on his heel and left, his men still trailing behind. Harley watched him leave, fists clenched by her side, her bottom lip poked out in a pout. She turned and looked at three men standing behind the desk she had set up in another corner of the room. They were all that were left of the Joker's once formidable gang, but to their credit, they'd remained as loyal to him as she had.
"Go get word out on the street," she barked. "I want this girl found. There will be a sizeable reward for whoever gets me the information on her whereabouts. Don't try to snatch her yourselves. Just get the information to me and I'll take it from there."
"Yes, ma'am," they said and left.
"What about me, toots?" a voice came from another part of the expansive room. She focused her attention on him. He was short, dumpy and overweight and to her obvious distaste, dressed like a slob. He smelled, too. His long hair and beard were dirty and stringy and he had his pet perched on his shoulders. A weasel. Appropriate, she thought. Over his shoulder, he was carrying a pristine black leather case. His laptop. He was a master of electronics and computer systems. She'd hated lowering herself to having to deal with him, but sometimes circumstances dictated actions.
"Byte," she said sweetly. "I haven't forgotten about you. You want your payment, no doubt."
"You got it, toots," he said, smiling at her. His rotten teeth disgusted her. "One million five is what I'm looking for. Ya' know, I almost feel guilty about taking your money. It's not like the asylum's defenses were hard to crack. Get in, shut down alarms, open locks. Piece of cake."
"Good," she said, circling around the desk. "I'm glad it was so easy for you. I hate to give anyone anything that might be too much for them to handle. Blockbuster, notwithstanding." Her eyes cut again at the sleeping giant sitting on the couch. "Mr. J always said you needed to have at least one muscle-bound buffoon in your gang for heavy lifting. They don't come much bigger or dumber than that."
"Yo', toots, my money?" Byte said, approaching her. The weasel just glared.
"Here," she said and produced an oversized toy handgun. She shot him in the chest. The look of surprise on his face as the capsule exploded against him and his face was enveloped in a cloud of reddish fog was priceless. He coughed twice before he started to giggle. The giggles quickly turned to ticklish laughter to gut-wrenching belly laughs. Finally, he fell to the floor, a huge grin distorting his face. He and his weasel were both dead.
"Keep the change," Harley said. "And never call me toots."