20. Hellmouth

Jessie's motorcycle turned the street corner much faster than Dora would have liked, leaning at a very sharp angle. It roared as it straightened out and picked up more speed down the street. Dora squeezed Jessie's waist tighter, heart racing. She knew she wasn't going to fall off the motorcycle, but she couldn't shut off the frightened animal part of her brain that wasn't convinced.

"Could you just slow down, please! I'm not used to this!" Dora yelled.

"Calm down, we're almost there!" Jessie laughed.

They rolled into a poorly paved lot. The bike's wheels crunched over gravel as they approached a small truck-stop. Dora noticed an assortment of aggressive looking cars parked in front of it, alongside a dozen motorcycles. All were custom-fitted for racing, on a track or otherwise. On the far end of the lot loomed a dilapidated brick warehouse, overlooking the Gotham River with the Sprang Bridge in the background. Huge letters on the side of the building read "Morrison Motors." Jessie cruised past a small fleet of semi-trucks and pulled up to what looked like a bar attached to the truck-stop. Its sign indicated it was called "The Hellmouth."

Jessie rolled to stop, and her engine snarled before shutting off. She popped the kickstand, and leaned the bike over. Dora stumbled off with shaky legs, numb from clinging to the seat and absorbing the engine's vibrations.

Jessie gracefully dismounted the bike, swinging her leg over the seat like a ballerina performing a pirouette. She pulled off her helmet and unzipped her jacket, letting her waist-length braid tumble loose. It was so long she had tucked it in her jacket like a scarf.

Dora did the same, but not as elegantly. Her hair was shorter, but wavier and much thicker than Jessie's; it didn't play nice with a helmet. She combed her hands through it, trying to tame it. She fumbled around her pockets for her glasses, but remembered she left them behind and was wearing contacts. She didn't know what to do with her hands, so she just hooked her thumbs in her belt-loops. All in all, she just felt awkward, while Jessie looked cool.

Nonetheless, their dismount attracted the attention the people loitering around the warehouse's open loading dock. They appeared brusque and insolent; adorned in denim, leather, metal, beards, and tattoos. Each one of them leered at Dora and Jessie unabashed. Jessie basked in their gaze like a model on a runway, while Dora anxiously tried not to look uncomfortable. Self-confidence was everything to these men, and she wanted to be taken seriously.

#

Before they had left, Jessie insisted that Dora wear an outfit that would help her blend in. Holly had walked into Dora's cellar while they were getting ready, unannounced of course. She chimed in with her—unasked for, but welcome—fashion expertise.

Both Jessie and Holly were pleasantly surprised that Dora didn't have to try that hard to find an outfit that would work. Being a closeted metalhead, Dora choose the outfit she wore to concerts: her scuffed-up Doc Martens, naturally distressed jeans, and a band t-shirt. She also had her battle vest, made of black denim and adorned with patches of various bands she was a fan of. She felt oddly nostalgic wearing it. It had been almost a year since she had the time or money to go to a show. The feeling worsened when she remembered her father had helped her stitch the patches onto the vest.

"Okay, so I know it might seem like there's a lot of overlap between the metalhead and biker look," Dora had told Holly while putting on her makeup. She leaned heavily on the eye shadow. "But anyone who's either knows they're two different social tribes. Right, Jessie? Do you think they'll call me out?"

"No, you'll be fine," Jessie said, walking around Dora, appraising her up and down. "I do have one note though." She shared a look with Holly, gesturing at Dora in general.

Holly nodded back at her. "You're being a bit too modest, Dee."

"What do you mean?" Dora asked looking down at herself.

"If you want these men to take you seriously, you're gonna have to show more skin," Jessie said.

Dora blanked. "Are you serious? I thought men are more likely to treat you like their own when they aren't staring at your boobs."

Jessie shook her head. "Oh, Dee, if you're looking for their respect, that will never happen. Not soon enough anyway. What's easier to get is their attention."

Jessie had Dora abandon the T-shirt for a tight tank top that exposed a great deal of her arms, chest, mid-riff, and back.

"Wait a sec, Dee," Holly jeered with a grin, looking at the skin of her back. "You have a tattoo? Since when?"

"Oh," Dora said, positioning herself in front of her dingy mirror and looking over her shoulder. "Yeah, sometimes I forget it's there since I can't see it myself. Didn't you see it when..." She thought back to that night.

"No, of course not! I was too busy looking at Red Hood's abs." Holly gave her a cheeky grin. "And your lovely tits." She reached out to tickle them, but Dora slapped her hand away and rolled her eyes.

"That's a calavera, right?" Jessie asked, taking a step closer to look at it. The tattoo was an intricate and stylized skull, with floral patterns along it's defining lines. It took up most of Dora's right shoulder blade. "I thought that was a Mexican thing. Aren't you Santa Priscan?"

"Gonna accuse me of appropriation?" Dora joked. "I think they're cool, sue me."

"What's a calavera?" Holly asked.

"It's a sugar skull. It means death," Jessie said.

"To be more precise, it represents the death of a loved one," Dora said. "The numbers on the skull's eyebrows are my father's dates."

Everyone paused in silence for a moment.

"Well, that's morbid," Holly finally said.

"I think it's beautiful," Jessie said.

"Thank you," Dora said self-consciously. It was meant to be both.

"Either way, it's perfect," Jessie noted. "Helps you fit in all the more."

"You really think so?" She looked in the mirror. Outfit, hair, and make-up all summed up… she kind of looked like a chola. Maybe that's what she needed to go for.

"I was married to one of those goons, Dora. Tits and tattoos appeal to that demographic, trust me. Whatever we can do to lower their IQs and make us appear less threatening, the better."

#

A sharp wolf whistle brought Dora's mind back to the present. The bikers were ogling her and she was beginning to regret her outfit. She was certainly less threatening to them, but they were more threatening to her... Screw showing off her tattoo. It was personal anyway. She slid her vest back on, but left her hoodie in the bike's saddlebags. Hopefully a peak of her cleavage and tummy between the vest's lapels would be enough to distract them.

"You sure you want to do this?" Jessie asked her, tuned to her body language.

Dora rolled her shoulders. "Yeah. Let's go."

The entrance bar was beyond an outdoor dining area with benches and tables. As Dora walked through it, she finally noticed a few women hanging around the men, drinking and smoking and talking. They all sneered at her, like she stank or something.

As they approached the entrance, a man stepped in their way. He wore nothing underneath his leather vest, displaying his muscular chest, abs, and arms, all covered in tattoos. Dora could see a shoulder holster with a gun peeking out of his vest. The emblem of the Street Demonz was tattooed on his throat.

The man was average height, but Jessie was tall for a woman, so she was eye level with the brute. "Good evening, Alejandro." She gave him a coy smile and tugged on the flap of his vest.

"Jessie," the man said calmly. He brushed off Jessie's hand, but still seemed affected by her flirtatious approach. He spoke with a cholo cadence. "I know it's been a while, but you can still call me Alex."

Pouting, Jessie backed off. "Yeah, long time, Alex."

Alex then gave Dora a long once-over, his leer unsettling. "Who's your friend?"

Just as Jessie was about to introduce her, Dora gently pushed her aside. She knew she needed Jessie to vouch for her, but she had also realized she wouldn't get the Street Demonz' respect if she didn't speak for herself. "My name's Dee."

"Sorry, but the bar isn't open to the public right now, Dee."

"She's my guest," Jessie explained, wrapping her arm around Dora's shoulders in a possessive gesture. She eyed Alex steadily.

Dora knew the game Jessie was playing and leaned into her, placing her hand on her waist. If Jessie was the butch in this act, she could play the femme.

However, Alex wasn't impressed. "Only fully-patched members can have guests." His eyes wheeled on Jessie. "Which you are not." He suddenly grabbed the lapel of Jessie's vest, shoving the blank leather into her cheek then pushing her away. "Take your guest and leave, puta."

Jessie's stance straightened and her arm disappeared from Dora's back. Her expression became set and furrowed. She did her best to keep her balance and not stumble back from Alex. Dora peeked over her shoulder and saw that Jessie's hand had gone to a snub-nosed revolver secured in a holster attached to back of her jeans, once-hidden by her jacket.

Jessie clearly did not want anyone watching to think she was being cowed by this man.

Unfortunately, her defiant stand was against a pack of wolves. Several men surrounded them, menacing expressions on their faces. Dora suddenly wished she had her brought her own gun with her.

"I think we've hit a wall, Dee," Jessie whispered to Dora through clenched teeth, but she kept her eyes on the men circling them, her thumb on her revolver's hammer. "I overestimated my pull with these guys."

"Wait, wait," Dora said to Alex, "I heard you guys got a hold of a 1967 Chevy Impala."

Alex frowned and he snarled at Jessie. "You've been spilling our business to people outside the club? Jessie. Tsk, tsk." He drew his own gun. "You should know better." He nodded at the other men, who immediately grabbed Jessie and Dora. "You've reached the end of the road."

She had the phrase "end of the road" before, but the way Alex he said it carried some type of weight—it drew the attention crowd. Women shared glances, men stepped closer.

"No, wait, she didn't hear it from me first," Jessie said, somehow keeping her voice calm, although her flitting eyes betrayed anxiety. She withdrew her hand from her gun. "She heard it on the street. You guys don't cover your tracks well enough. Everyone knows your game."

"Yeah, well, you brought her here, didn't you?" Alex pointed at the ground with the barrel of his pistol. The men holding Dora and Jessie pushed them down. Dora hit the gravel hard, the stones biting into her knees and palms. There was a rustle of clicking and clattering. All the bikers drew guns on them.

Dora instinctively put her hands up. "Wait a sec!" she shouted. "I want to buy it!"

She had predicted this. Asking for her car back wasn't just a long shot, it could also be considered stupid and suicidal. It was better to appear like she was a buyer than the person the car was stolen from.

Alex's eyes narrowed. He lowered his gun slightly.

"I'm going to reach into my pocket, okay?" Dora said, moving her hand very, very slowly. She pulled out a fat wad of cash, wrapped in a rubber band. "Jessie's not a snitch. I already know about your business and she knows my business. She just wanted to make a connection. Help you guys out."

Alex snatched the wad of money from Dora and flipped through it, checking the bills. "This aint near enough for one of our rides."

Dora thought quickly. He had guns aimed on her and her money in his hands. What was to stop him from simply taking it and turning her away?

"It's a down payment," Dora said. "I wouldn't carry more than that on me. Crees que soy bruta?" Do you think I'm stupid? She laid heavy on the Priscan accent. "You want more? Let's talk."

Alex steeled his eyes on Dora.

She stared back, not blinking. Would the chola front work?

Tense silence weighed heavy on them all, broken only by the sound of the Gotham River lapping at the docks nearby.

Alex finally uncocked his gun and holstered it. "I think you've got balls. Get up." He waved his hand and the other bikers did the same.

Jessie and Dora stood, brushing the dirt and sand from their legs and hands.

"Sorry, not sorry, Jae," Alex said to Jessie, tossing Dora back her wad of money. "I had to test her nerve. Yours too. You've been away too long. Heard you sell pussy now with Ma's girls."

Jessie snorted and punched Alex in the chest. It was under the pretense of being playful, but Dora could see she put real force behind it. "Even if I was selling mine, you couldn't afford it anymore."

"We'll see." Alex smiled at her, pursing his lips.

"Dick."

"I know you miss it, but I'm more than that," Alex chortled. "Bitch."

Jessie paused awkwardly, then asked, "Alright, what about my girl's car?"

"You'll have to talk to Reilly about that car. I've got no idea if we have it, that's his gig."

"Thanks for the tip."

"No problem," Alex said, "but don't expect a cut for bringing him a buyer."

"That's between us and him."

Alex finally stepped aside and let them walk up to the bar. As Dora passed, he snagged her back pocket and let the fabric snap back into place. He sent her an air kiss and a smile. Dora was as flattered as she was disgusted. Her outfit was working, maybe too well.

"Well, that was fucking weird," Jessie said to Dora as they crossed the threshold.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that for a girl who comes across as timid, and anxious, and second-guessing everything all the time, you're super fucking chill under pressure. Like crazy calm and decisive. Didn't know you had steel nerves, Dora."

She felt her face warm up. "Um... thanks?"

It was actually something Leslie mentioned before. Dora assumed it was a side benefit of being an ER nurse. Or at least training to be one. When shit gets real, when lives are on the line, you slide on your game face, your mask. It's almost automatic. That confidence, even if false, is armor you need to get shit done, inspire confidence in your patients and fellow medics. Leslie had once said you fake it till you make it. Eventually the mask becomes as genuine as your real face.

"Where did you get all that money?" Jesse asked. "Are you really going to buy back the car?"

"They were never going to just give it back," Dora sighed. She had already resigned to the decision. "I got the cash from the bar's revenue. It's my cut for the next few months, but I can afford it. Won't be moving out of the cellar anytime soon, though."

"Why not buy a new car? Is this old car really worth that much to you?"

She didn't have to think twice. "Yeah, it is."

"Well." Jessie spread her arms. "Here it is. The Street Demonz Clubhouse."

The clubhouse was essentially a mechanic's garage converted into a bar. It had a high ceiling, and a loft elevated on what looked like scaffolding made of steel trusses and treadplates. The ductwork, roofing, beams, and electrical wiring were all exposed. The space near the entrance was made up of a lounge area, partitioned with free-standing plywood walls, and haphazardly strewn with mismatched tables, chairs, and couches. There sat a pool table in worse shape than the old ones Dora used to have in the Alibi. It was clearly so lopsided it couldn't be played on, but someone was laying on it bareback, getting tattooed by an artist that was smoking marijuana like a chimney. In wall opposite the entrance was an open garage door that lead to a make-shift shooting range. An assault rifle was just lying in the open, on a folding table next to a box of ear plugs and a military grade canister of ammunition. A whole pallet of cocaine just sat in the corner, one of the bags sliced open. The smell of oil, rubber, whiskey, and gunsmoke permeated the whole place.

Dora felt like she was on another planet. She had gotten a vague feeling of it back at the Vermillion and here it was again—stronger because there was no front, no façade. This was the criminal underworld she had heard about so often. It wasn't just a metaphor or a system of illicit relationships and exchanges. It occupied actual space. This was one of those spaces.

And she was neck deep in it.

Jessie pointed to a bar set up in one corner. The counter was made of repurposed industrial shelving and steel workbenches, the taps were jerry-rigged with wrenches, plastic hoses, and copper pipes. There wasn't a bar shelf, instead a wall of cracked open crates of liquor bottles were stacked upon other crates. The bartender, a curvy platinum blonde with tattoos on her chest and arms, carried a crowbar on her toolbelt—Dora made a double take. The bartender had a toolbelt. And a holster. And gun.

Jessie walked behind the bar and approached her. "Hey, Cali, have you seen Reilly around?"

"Jae!" The girl named Cali wrapped her arms around Jessie and squeezed tightly. "Good to see you back, honey! Yeah, Old Reilly's over there." The girl pointed down the row of workbenches that served as bar counters, all the way to a sleeping man. He was heavy set, had a dark complexion and full beard, wore a leather vest with the Street Demonz emblem on the back, along with several other patches that clearly signified a high rank with the club. An empty cup and a bottle of whiskey sat in front of him. He was hunched over, face down, his arms splayed across the top, snoring like a broken muffler. He was out.

"I don't know," Cali said, looking at Reilly with apprehension. "Maybe let sleeping dogs lie?"

"He's passed out drunk?" Dora asked.

Cali shrugged. "He's been there since before I got here tonight."

Jessie nodded. "This isn't a real bar, Dora. They don't follow the over-serving law here." She pointed at the open crate of liquor. "All that booze is all-you-can-drink to a fully-patched member, free, any time of day, no last call."

"Hmph," Dora grunted. She ran her own bar. She was used to blacked-out drunks, and this one wasn't going to get in the way of getting her car back.

She approached the man and was bombarded with the pungent scent of motor oil and sweat. However, she did not smell anything like alcohol. "You know what? I think he's just tired."

Jessie raised an eyebrow. "You really think so?"

"Do you have the stuff for coffee?" Dora asked, looking between Jessie and Cali the bartender.

"Yeah, if nothing's changed," Jessie said, walking behind the workbenches. She rummaged around for the ingredients with help from Cali. Once Jessie procured them, Dora noticed they had an imported Santa Priscan roast, one you only got from the Latin bodegas. "Where'd you get this stuff?" she asked Cali.

"I dunno," she said, looking at the label. "It was in some bit of cargo we ran. Santa Prisca... is that in Mexico or something?"

Dora shook her head, slightly amused at her ignorance. "It's in the Caribbean. My family is from there. Do you mind if I..."

Cali stepped aside. "Go ahead, honey."

She stepped behind the bar and took over. "I don't really like coffee myself," she explained, "but my mom and dad loved the stuff. My abuela taught me a traditional Santa Priscan recipe. We call it pocillo. I used to make it for them all the time growing up."

"That was nice of you," Jessie said.

Dora shrugged. She didn't really think so—it was par for the course. Her parents had worked so often, she was usually tasked with preparing breakfast. And dinner. And her sisters' lunches. Her grandmother had done it all up until she passed away.

She followed her grandmother's old recipe, making it very dark, but with lots of sugar. She placed a cup of coffee on the workbench next to Reilly. She wafted the steam into his face, and softly patted his shoulder.

The man jerked his shoulders and grunted, startled. He lifted his head, grumbling with heavy-lidded eyes. "Ugh, sorry, Cali... Dozed off a bit there. Long run from Blüdhaven." His rheumy eyes shifted around, passing over Jessie and Dora and landing on the cup of coffee in front of him.

"Holy shit, that smells good." He grabbed the cup and took a little sip. His dark brown eyes snapped open, and he put the cup to his mouth again, taking a huge gulp. The heat did not seem to bother him. "Mmmm, this is the best cup of java I've had in years. You've been holding out on me, Cali?"

Cali smiled and pointed at Dora. "Wasn't me, dude."

Dora slid onto the stool next to Reilly. "Hi, Mr. Reilly. Sorry for waking you, but I really need to talk to you. I hope the coffee helps." She really hoped he wasn't a handsy macho douchebag like Alex, but Jessie's flirty approach had yielded some fruit. She sat with her elbow on the counter, at an angle that gave her some cleavage.

"Well, thanks, kid." He ignored the cleavage, toasted her, and took another deep, grateful sip. "Mmm... Hmm?" He looked perplexed, licking his lips. "Wait, this tastes familiar..." He looked at Dora, his eyes narrowed. His gaze didn't stray from her face. The lines on his old face deepened. "Who..."

Dora's eyes widened, something dawning on her. She recognized this man.

He recognized her too.

"Dora?"

"Uncle Reilly?"

Notes

Sorry, no song references in the chapter title for this one. However, a "hellmouth" is a biblical depiction of a gate into Hell, which Dora has metaphorically walked through. Get it? I'm trying to make an allegory here about Dora dealing with the dark side, making deals with demons, and such... The painting back at the Vermillion in Ch17, that chat with her mom in Ch19... She entered the gray area back in Ch7, remember? Now she's in the black.

Yeah, whatever. I won't shove metaphors down your throats. It'll make more thematic sense later on. I'll try to make it more obvious in the rewrite.
You can probably tell from this chapter alone my other fandoms are Supernatural, Buffy, and Sons of Anarchy and Mayans.

Anyway, more coming soon! This "find the Impala" plot arc has one more chapter left in it, but no worries, it rolls right into the next arc, which is quite the juicy one. I'm currently writing Chapter 24 and I'm having so much fun with it! I'm hoping with this buffer I can keep a steady upload pace of one chapter a week, at least for the summer. (Spoilers: You'll see Red Hood again before I take another hiatus, I promise.)

Thanks for reading!

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