Previously: Lucy hires Harley and the Joker to kidnap Gotham's DA under her boss's instructions. Arthur Reeves invites Harley to the Tobacconist's Club.
Theme: Unloved - 'Danger'
The Pantomime
3.
Victor stayed in the car while Lucy took the gold-plated elevator up to Roman's penthouse. She wore her favorite pink Juicy Couture tracksuit and a cute pair of flip flops covered in rhinestones, her dark hair tied up in a limp ponytail. She was tired, and not looking forward to getting dressed up for 80s Night at the Iceberg Lounge when all she wanted to do was curl up with Mario and watch Real Housewives of Gotham. Lucy wasn't especially looking forward to this encounter with Roman either, knowing instinctively it would have something to do with Harley and the Joker.
Lucy reminded herself that being summoned by Roman to his home was a privilege, one not afforded to all of the members of their group. She reminded herself how much she owed Roman, and that he trusted her, so she should trust him in return.
The private elevator opened into a small reception room with fluffy white carpet and a low table outfitted with a cozy lamp and a fern, a pair of imposing double doors looming over it. As soon as Lucy stepped foot on the carpet, one of the doors swung open, revealing a beautiful, willowy blonde with a sleek bob, beaming at Lucy. She wore a white apron over a pale blue A-line dress with a matching headband and heels, the picture of a perfect housewife right down to the smell of shortbread cookies lingering behind her.
"Hi, Circe," Lucy greeted Roman's fiancee, trying to return her warm smile as Circe silently gestured for Lucy to follow her into the penthouse, the shortbread smell growing almost sickly sweet.
This was the Falcone penthouse. It was where Mario grew up, though now that he was out of Blackgate, he wanted nothing to do with it, claiming he only had horrible memories from childhood, memories of his dismissive father and cold mother, and siblings of the same ilk. He and Alberto were more than happy to hand the keys over to Roman and Circe, who were better suited to it anyway.
Roman was sitting at the island in the kitchen, examining one of Circe's shortbread cookies with a critical eye. He was handsome in an unsettling way, with large, deep-set eyes and high cheekbones, his curly black hair cropped short on the sides and floppy on top. He'd thrown his suit jacket over the back of a bar stool, and his white shirtsleeves were rolled up at the elbows, a splotch of blood staining one cuff.
"Lucy," he smiled beatifically and got to his feet, tossing Circe's cookie aside. "How are you?"
"I'm alright, boss," Lucy replied, forcing a smile.
"I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to talk," Roman braced his elbow on the bar and cocked his head to the side, staring at Lucy intently. "About the other night. I know you were worried."
"Oh, that's fine boss," Lucy protested, still smiling. "It went alright in the end. They agreed to six-grand, and—"
"I know, Lucy. I've spoken to Alberto," Roman cut her off kindly. "I wanted to get your impression of how things went. If anything stood out to you." He raised his eyebrows like he was challenging her.
It wasn't a challenge—it was a test. Lucy had quickly learned that Roman liked to test people, to push them to their limits. But Lucy saw these tests for what they were; hoops to jump through so he could control her. After working with Roman for nearly a year, Lucy couldn't see what choice she had but to perform as expected to keep him happy.
She'd seen him unhappy, and that was not a side she wanted to be on. Ever.
That wasn't to say Roman led by fear. He didn't with most of their associates, at least not the politicians and businessmen, or the old school gangsters who'd stepped aside for him. But anyone with any sense—which Lucy found a remarkable number of people lacked—would be nervous to refuse him.
"I noticed..." Lucy hesitated, a nagging voice in the back of her head telling her it was wrong to pursue this thread even though it would make Roman happy. She barrelled ahead. "I think Harley and the Joker may be having some relationship problems, boss," Lucy announced.
Roman's eyebrows rose, his full lips spreading into a pleased smile.
"What makes you say that?" he asked.
"Just things I noticed about the way they were acting," Lucy shrugged. "Maybe it's a woman's intuition, ya know?"
"That's very good, Lucy," Roman beamed, laying a hand on her shoulder and searching her face. "Very good," he repeated, squeezing her arm.
Lucy smiled back at him numbly, hiding her uncertainty and projecting loyalty as she'd learned to do long, long ago.
"Listen, boss, I don't wanna overstep," she said cautiously. "But maybe… if I knew why we're offerin' Harley and the Joker a job, I could be more help. Ya know, like if I've got all the information I can make better decisions?"
Roman sighed, his sunken eyes drifting to the plate of shortbread cookies before he looked at Lucy again.
"You've known Harley a long time. In fact, you probably know her better than most people." He narrowed his eyes. "What do you think about Harley Quinn?"
Lucy pressed her lips together and looked down at her glittering flip flops, uncertain what Roman wanted her to say.
"Your honest opinion," Roman added, watching Lucy's tired face closely.
"She's dangerous," Lucy said slowly. "She's unpredictable, impulsive, moody, and she's… sadistic." Lucy looked up at Roman, meeting his gaze. "A face like hers, people get distracted, they underestimate her," she warned him. "They don't wanna believe what she's capable of even when she shows them."
"And do you think it's better to have someone like that be your friend or your enemy?" Roman asked mildly, making Lucy's eyes widen as she realized this was about employing Harley.
"Boss, Harley Quinn… she don't do friends," Lucy insisted. "She and the Joker—"
"But she and the Joker may no longer be a package deal," Roman cut her off smoothly, smiling. "Harley may be sadistic, but she is not the Joker. She's not a rabid dog, or an anarchist, or insane, even if she's chained herself to someone who is. If we separate them," he pressed his hands together and drew them apart. "Harley can evolve into something more…" He rolled his large eyes up, searching for a word. "Sophisticated," he settled on. "Something we can work with."
"Sophisticated?" Lucy asked warily, not missing that he called Harley something, not someone.
"You'll see what I mean," Roman offered her a patient smile, and even though Lucy returned it, she still felt her heart sink that Roman was taking them down this path.
Working with Harley? Separating her from the Joker? It was suicide, plain and simple. Lucy struggled to imagine the other members of their group agreeing to it, but Roman had power over those people too, and Lucy had yet to see any of them refuse him. In the end, they always came around to his way of thinking and gave him what he wanted.
"One of them will come back to the club," Roman predicted cheerfully. "I'd be very impressed if you can find out more about this for me, Lucy."
Lucy swallowed thickly, her stomach sinking further.
Another test—a very dangerous one.
"Of course, boss," Lucy replied obediently.
"Why don't you go get dressed for tonight," Roman suggested as Circe appeared behind Lucy, hovering silently at her elbow. "Maybe get your nails done. That'd be nice, right?" He offered her a smile.
"That'd be real nice, boss," Lucy agreed, forcing a grin.
She turned to face Circe, who was smiling dreamily. She led Lucy back to the foyer, and while they waited for the elevator, Circe silently handed over a gauzy piece of fabric holding a few shortbread cookies, tied up with a white satin bow.
Lucy kept smiling as she stepped into the elevator, waiting for the gold doors to close before she finally let her face relax, exhaling a shaky breath she'd been holding.
"Shit," she whispered, feeling rattled… and trapped.
The sun was setting by the time Harley got back to the safe house to get ready for her night out at the Tobacconist's Club. She grabbed a shower before heating up one of the batch-cooked meals still waiting for Samantha in her freezer—vegan chili and cauliflower rice, the handwritten label said—and ate it standing up as she examined Samantha's closet of colorful frocks and stylish separates.
Eventually, she chose a Little Black Dress, then picked through a box of costume jewellery until she found a huge pair of clip-on pearl earrings and a matching necklace that looked like it should have belonged to Betty Rubble. Her hair was still a complete mess, so she wound it back in a chignon bun, adding a few lashings of hairspray to keep it neat.
After applying some heavy eye makeup and false eyelashes, Harley examined herself in the mirror and concluded she looked more like the stately wife of a conservative Republican politician than a spoiled member of the trust fund brigade. That would surely do the trick considering who she'd be spending the evening with. As a final touch, she reorganized the contents of her fanny pack into a clutch shaped like a baguette and resolutely snapped it shut.
Harley considered blowing off Bullock and heading straight Downtown to meet Reeves but decided whatever this ASAP lots of people are dead stuff was about, it was worth finding out. Besides, she liked Bullock, and he was good company. Not in the same way she liked Reeves, who was more like a clown to keep her distracted and entertained, and whom she didn't trust as far as she could throw him. Bullock, on the other hand, Bullock was completely loyal to Harley, and he was amusing in his own grumpy alcoholic way.
She grabbed a cab to the Cauldron neighborhood on Gotham's Eastside, offering the driver a hundred-dollar bill when he complained. There was the usual gaggle of thieves huddled outside the bar, smoking and dealing drugs and generally being anti-social. Harley breezed past them, ignoring the stares of the criminal patrons inside as she searched for Bullock.
He was at his usual table near the door, a rickety little thing flanked by two stools with fading maroon upholstery. As usual, he was hunched over a pint of beer and a line of shots, his tattered trench coat bunched up around his elbows and a trilby sitting crookedly on his graying ginger hair.
Harley smiled as she dropped onto the stool opposite him, chuckling when Bullock jumped and clasped a hand over his heart.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ, why you always gotta sneak up on me, huh?" he demanded, taking a long draught of beer as he looked Harley over, taking in her disguise. "Well, look at you, all fancy," he observed wryly, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.
"I have stuff to do," Harley shrugged, grabbing one of his shots and knocking it back. It was cheap whiskey and burned the back of her throat, making her nose wrinkle and her fingertips tingle. "So, what's going on?" She asked, dropping the shot glass on the beer-slicked table with a little rattle.
Bullock pitched forward, his expression serious.
"Listen, I need to know if you two are the ones stirring up shit in the Narrows," he insisted. "If you can tell me why, that'd be pretty helpful too."
"Stirring up shit in the Narrows?" Harley lifted an amused eyebrow.
"I've had twenty-one bodies show up in less than three weeks," Bullock explained, sounding exasperated. "So, ya know, it'd be good to get a heads up on what I can expect next."
"You're asking me if we've killed twenty-one people in the Narrows?" Harley asked, and when Bullock spread his arms wide as if that was obvious, she laughed. "Nope, not us."
"Great," Bullock grunted, swaying back and grabbing a shot.
"I can't tell if you're relieved or not," Harley chuckled, watching him toss back the whiskey.
"I got a serial killer on my hands, Harley," Bullock said irritably. "I ain't gonna be relieved until I catch them."
"Twenty-one people in less than three weeks, huh," Harley pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Why aren't the papers writing about it?"
"Cause they're probably all junkies," Bullock huffed and waved his hand impatiently. "Besides, it ain't as glamorous as the Riddler shooting up some fancy gallery." He hitched forward, pulling a folder from the depths of his coat. "Listen, maybe you could help me."
"Oh god," Harley groaned and rolled her eyes. "You want me to consult on a case? You know they used to pay me for that when I worked at Arkham."
"Call it a favor," Bullock pleaded, looking desperate.
Harley made a reluctant sound in the back of her throat then nodded once in agreement. She could do with another distraction.
"Alright, so bodies started showin' up at the docks about a week and a half ago. The killer pierced the lungs so the bodies would sink, but eventually, the corpses bloat and float to the surface," Bullock explained. "The dock manager finds twelve fuckin' bodies floating in one place ten days ago."
"Jesus," Harley made a face. "How long had they been dead?"
"The coroner says they all woulda died and been disposed of within a week prior," Bullock grabbed another shot and considered it carefully before ultimately putting it down and fixing Harley with another grim look. "We think all of em' were junkies."
Harley sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, remembering the addicts from the clinic earlier that day, and what Dr Thompkins had said about them replacing heroin with Blue Orchid.
"And this is where it gets fuckin' gross," Bullock shook his head. "Seems whoever was dumping the bodies there figured out they needed to do something better. A few days later we start finding these."
He opened the folder and Harley was confronted with a crime scene shot of red, oozy pulp spilling out of a plastic grocery bag.
"What the fuck is that?" Harley asked.
"That's what's leftover when you dissolve a body in acid," Bullock said sourly, turning the photo over to reveal a second shot of a plastic bucket filled with more of the bloody substance. "That one's got three DNA profiles in it," he turned the picture over to a new one, this time a dumpster stuffed full of trash bags with more of the bloody pulp dumped on top. "We found this a couple days ago," Bullock explained, sounding tired. "At least five DNA profiles."
"Yikes," Harley's eyebrows rose appraisingly. "That is gross."
"We asked around. Apparently junkies have been disappearing," Bullock shook his head again. "Those poor fucks don't know what's goin' on with all that BO they're shoving up their noses, but they're scared."
Harley hummed thoughtfully, her eyes lingering on the dumpster shot.
"So, you think these nine... leftovers are another nine drug addicts killed by the same person?" she asked.
"Well, we got junkies missing, and don't psychopaths usually have like a type, ya know? Like a pattern?" Bullock hunched forward on his elbows, nearly knocking over the remaining shots of whiskey on the table.
"Psychopaths either take pleasure in killing or they feel no remorse about killing," Harley agreed, her eyes drifting over the remains in the dumpster as she considered the merits of a pattern in these murders. "If they kill for pleasure, sometimes they'll choose their victim because they have a type or a delusion they need to play out, or it could be completely random and impulsive..."
"Yeah, a delusion. We gotta theory," Bullock hunched his shoulders. "They're killing junkies as some kinda purification shit."
"No," Harley shook her head and tapped the photo with her index finger. "Nine times out of ten when you're dealing with that kind of psychopath, their killings are ritualistic. They don't just kill them and dump the bodies. This person is killing at least one or two people a night, there's no time for a ritual, or even to enjoy it."
"So what're you sayin'?" Bullock squinted at Harley.
"I'm saying this is the other kind. Killing without remorse," Harley gestured to the pictures. "This is work."
Bullock made a face. "How the fuck is killin' junkies work?"
"I guess that's what you have to figure out," Harley mused, again thinking about what Thompkins told her. "How much do you know about Blue Orchid?"
"BO?" Bullock looked surprised. "Some of the guys down the station take a small dose to help em' stay up or concentrate, but you take too much of that shit and you start seeing things."
"Seeing things?" Harley frowned. "Like hallucinating?"
"Yeah," Bullock rolled his eyes. "Kids take it to party now that they can't get coke or pills. But it's not illegal, so it's not like we can do anything about it."
"Aren't you curious about where it came from?" Harley asked, her own curiosity leaping to life. "If it's being made here in Gotham, someone is making a shit load of money off it."
"Eh," Bullock shrugged. "I got murders to worry about."
"Why isn't the Batman worrying about it?" Harley pressed. "He cut off all the other drugs, why not this one?"
"Well for a start, he and BC got the Riddler to worry about now, don't they," Bullock pointed out.
"BC?" Harley asked, a smirk tugging at her lips.
"Look," Bullock blustered, looking embarrassed. "All the big mobsters and crime lords are dead or retired or disappeared. There ain't no kingpin and crime is down across the board. Murder is down, corruption is down. The DA is prosecuting criminals instead of protecting them, and you two are supposedly dead or disappeared. Batman's focusing on the Riddler, and he don't give a shit about BO or who's making it. And like I said, it ain't even illegal."
Harley ran her tongue over her teeth, thinking back to Alexandra Kosov's prediction that Holiday had been killing mob bosses to make space for someone new. Now she and her gang were running Gotham's Eastside, which the city treated like no man's land, and as far as cops like Bullock were concerned, organized crime in Gotham proper had disappeared entirely.
But organized crime was in Gotham's DNA, and it always involved drugs.
Lucy was dating Mario Falcone and hiring people to kidnap district attorneys. Just because the Batman and Black Canary had been lulled into a false sense of security and were distracted by the Riddler, didn't mean there wasn't something bigger at play.
"You think there's a conspiracy, dontcha," Bullock leaned forward, his baggy eyes searching Harley's face intently. "One that explains these bodies?"
Harley drummed her fingers on the sticky tabletop, knowing she was missing something.
Damnit. And she already knew she was going to have to figure it out even if she didn't want anything to do with the mob or drug dealers or Bullock's cases.
"I don't know," she admitted, getting to her feet and grabbing her clutch. "I'll look into it."
"Look into it?" Bullock's scraggly eyebrows nearly jumped into his hairline.
"Yeah," Harley shrugged. "I'll keep you posted," she added, shooting him a smirk before she turned and walked out of the bar, chuckling when Bullock sputtered and swore behind her.
The first thing Frost learned about working for the Joker was not to ask questions. On that first job, when they were hunting down Holiday, Sly had pulled Frost aside and told him as much, saying he would find out whatever he needed to know in due course. So far, Frost had followed this advice, quietly following instructions and not asking questions, and it seemed to have paid off. There were plenty of guys that hung out at the safe house in Gotham Heights, but Frost was the only one doing any real work with the Joker. And even if he didn't understand the Joker's endgame, he sure did know a hell of a lot more than those guys.
Frost knew more than even Harley Quinn, an idea that made him deeply uncomfortable, to be honest.
The parking garage's yellow lights flickered on as the Joker unfolded his lanky body from the backseat of Janice Porter's BMW, stretching his arms over his head with a grunt after twenty minutes of crouching back there. The green dye in his hair had faded to a faint tinge, grease and sweat washing the temporary dye away. Tonight he wore the same skinny black suit he'd picked up a couple of weeks earlier, the white shirt wrinkled and speckled with blood, a few buttons missing at the throat so his tie was permanently askew. Frost wasn't sure why the Joker hadn't made a trip to his tailor to pick up a new purple suit, but he suspected it had something to do with wanting to fly under the radar.
The Joker flung open the BMW's driver's door, and reached inside to slap the unconscious District Attorney, making sure she was out for the count. Frost had watched him soak a rag in enough chloroform to take out an elephant, so she was sure to be unconscious for several hours at least. That meant talking to her was out of the question any time soon, and he couldn't help thinking they were missing a trick there. If they shook her down before they handed her over, maybe they could find out why Lucy and her Iceberg Lounge entourage wanted her brought in alive in the first place.
Then again... shaking the DA down and handing her off to be shaken down again would end in Lucy and her people knowing that the Joker knew what they knew.
Whatever three-dimensional chess he was playing, the Joker seemed to think it best to play it discreet for now.
The boss dragged Janice out of her car by her arm, letting her fall face-first on the concrete with a meaty slap. He stepped back and pulled a pack of Marlboro Reds from the inner pocket of his suit jacket, watching with vague interest as Frost ducked down to haul the DA over his shoulder. She was heavier than she looked, and he grunted as he carried her over to the town car and carefully lowered her into the trunk.
"Shit," the Joker muttered around his cigarette.
He was looking at a burner phone, his eyes rolling in exasperation as he exhaled a stream of smoke out of the mutilated corner of his mouth.
"He bein' a pain in the ass again, boss?" Frost asked before he could stop himself, and the Joker lifted one eyebrow as he looked up, like he was surprised to see Frost standing there.
"You catch on quick," he rasped, then sighed melodramatically as he thumbed out a quick response and tucked the burner away. "We're gonna need someone to ah... drop this package off for us," he grumbled, more to himself than Frost.
"You got someone in mind, boss?"
"Mmm," the Joker hummed, low in his throat, his face souring as he smoked and thought something over.
Frost waited patiently, wondering if he would get one of those rare responses to a direct question, which most of the time were just snarky replies that seemed to be more for the boss's own entertainment than actual communication. The only person Frost had ever seen him hold a real conversation with was Harley... Unless you counted shaking a guy down as a conversation.
But instead of replying, the Joker loped over to the passenger side of the town car and ducked inside, and Frost obediently followed his lead, diving behind the wheel.
As Frost waited for directions, the Joker held his phone up to his ear, his foot tapping restlessly until Lonnie finally answered.
"Find her," he snapped, and then immediately hung up.
Her. There was only one 'her' that Frost was aware of, and his stomach twisted a little thinking that whatever it was they were finding her for, Harley wasn't going to like it.
It was virtually impossible to catch a cab in the Cauldron, so Harley strolled up the street to the neighborhood's decrepit metro station instead, catching the train west to Downtown Gotham. There was a heatwave approaching; she could feel it in the air as she sat on the smelly old train, a trickle of sweat running down the back of her neck. It felt like an omen, but for what she didn't know. Her death. The Joker's death. Gotham's descent into a cleanly version of organized crime that somehow played by the rules well enough to get away with it.
Harley preferred Gotham dirty—she preferred its corruption out in the open.
She ignored the catcalls she received as she walked up the street from the station to the address Reeves had texted her. It looked like an old, recently-renovated hotel, its red brick and white marble exterior expertly cleaned of the grime that featured so prominently on Downtown properties. The lower third of the main island of Gotham had always been a solidly working-class area, built up in the early twentieth century with neat townhouses and red brick apartment blocks. It had never descended into the same level of desperation as the Eastside, but it was where the mob originally formed, and it had yet to be gentrified.
But by the looks of this old hotel, now a private member's club, someone certainly had gentrifying Downtown in mind.
A doorman wearing a coat with tails and white gloves stood at the top of the old hotel's steps, an iPad in hand. Harley watched from the sidewalk as two people gave their names and the doorman consulted the iPad, then graciously gestured for them to enter through the heavy front doors.
Harley hummed dubiously before lifting her chin and climbing the white marble steps, maintaining a practiced expression of haughty indifference as the doorman smiled at her.
"Good evening, madam," he said with a short bow. "May I have your name?"
"Peaches Kane," Harley replied breezily, projecting entitlement as she watched him swipe the tablet's screen. He offered her a smile and gestured to the door the couple had just passed through.
Harley fought back an exasperated sigh once she was inside the former hotel's foyer, which now operated as a cloakroom. She could already tell what she was in for—a nostalgic ode to Gotham's first Golden Age, when men made their millions off the railroads and newspapers before Teddy Roosevelt broke up their monopolies. And what happened since? Neoliberalism allowed the elite to run amok, hoarding every measly dollar they could get their hands on whether taken fairly or not.
Not having a jacket, Harley passed the couple checking their coats and strode down a mahogany-paneled hallway, following the gentle bursts of saxophone and jazz piano interspersed with delighted laughter and chatter.
Harley's eyes swept the relatively compact room, dimly lit by gilded chandeliers and paneled in more rich mahogany. There was no less than a billiards table on one side, a group of younger men and a few women in suits laughing as they read instructions telling them how to play while they sipped high balls of expensive scotch. Along one wall was a short bar, manned by two men rushing to make cocktails for a small crowd of smug, laughing people.
Harley picked out a few familiar faces, most of them from Made in the Diamond District and Real Housewives of Gotham, both of which had just launched new seasons with the threat of terrorism mostly at Gotham's back. She spotted Lulu Crowne, Bertie Crown's widow, sipping champagne from a coup glass, and Ivania Dumas looped around one of the young stock-broker types playing billiards.
Harley moved through the sparse crowd quickly, not drawing attention to herself as she searched for Reeves. He was at the bar, speaking to a very tall, very muscled man with fair hair, whom Harley recognized but couldn't place.
When she reached Reeves, she tapped him lightly on the shoulder, and he turned to look down at her, still talking out of the corner of his mouth. At first, there was no recognition in his eyes when he looked at Harley—in fact, he seemed to be staring right through her. She lifted her eyebrows expectantly, and something clicked into place for him, his face spreading into a delighted grin.
"Jesus Christ," he laughed, looking her up and down before he glanced over his shoulder at his muscular friend, then leaned in close to Harley. "You look so… Chardonnay at the country club," he smirked, searching her face.
"Are you saying I look like your wife, Reeves?" Harley's mouth lifted up on one side.
He laughed and pulled away from her, looking almost bashful as he waved his friend closer.
"Tommy, this is Peaches Kane," Reeves said smugly, gesturing to Harley.
"Thomas Elliot," the friend greeted her, his voice a deep baritone that matched his bulky physique. He offered one large hand to Harley, who accepted it with an intrigued hum.
"Thomas Elliot of Elliot Pharmaceutical?" She asked innocently, absolutely not giving away that she tested drugs for this man's company when she worked at Arkham. Not to mention, she was currently in the middle of a relationship meltdown with the terrorist who had revealed said company's dubious business practice, which may have all culminated in his family estate getting burned down by homeless people...
Ha.
"I'm happy to say my grandfather's company is no more," Elliot countered politely, not smiling. "It's Elliot Biotech these days."
"Elliot Biotech," Harley repeated, her eyebrows raising. "Fascinating."
"That's why we're celebrating tonight," Reeves grinned lazily, raising his high ball of scotch. "Daggett Industries just bought Elliot, so Tommy here can finally do some real work now that he's got cash under his belt."
"Correct," Elliot agreed stiffly, meeting Harley's eye as Reeves waved over the bartender. "And how do you know Arthur, Miss Kane?"
"Cambridge," Harley improvised smoothly, remembering Reeves drunkenly telling her he'd studied abroad there. "We were just babies then, but we've stayed in touch over the years."
"How nice," Elliot nodded politely. "And what brings you to Gotham?"
"She wants to donate to Hamilton's campaign, don't you, Peaches?" Reeves grinned, turning away from the bar with a pair of cocktails. "Hope you're still drinking your martinis dry these days," he added, looking delighted with himself.
"Always," Harley smiled patiently and accepted the drink, turning to Elliot. "You're a doctor, aren't you?" she asked, taking a dainty sip.
"Formerly," he replied, looking uncomfortable as he swirled his glass, which Harley noted contained soda water, not booze. "These days I'm focusing on the company."
"I see," Harley purred thoughtfully, just as something behind her caught Elliot's eye.
"Ah, I've just spotted Roman," he said to Reeves. "I'll catch you before I go, Arthur." He nodded to Harley. "Ms Kane," he said, before shuffling away, his soda water in hand.
"He's awkward," Harley noted drily, watching Elliot weave through the crowd. "And muscley."
"God, you're amazing," Reeves observed incredulously, drawing Harley's attention back to him. "The way you just spun him. Like knowing me from Cambridge…"
"Uh huh," Harley said dismissively, sensing this whole role-playing thing was going to be bedroom material for Reeves and his wife later. "So, what's his deal?" she asked, inclining her head in the direction Elliot had scampered off in.
"Tommy's an old friend from prep school," Reeves explained, sipping his martini.
"Boring," Harley rolled her eyes. "Come on, Reeves, there's something dirtier there."
"Alright," Reeves smirked. "He's an alcoholic. Lost his medical license last year when he turned up to the hospital drunk."
"Mmm, that's more like it," Harley smirked over the rim of her glass. "Who else is here—only the interesting ones."
"See Ivania Dumas over there," Reeves nodded across the room, and Harley glanced over her shoulder, finding the buxom blonde socialite had braced herself on the billiards table, batting her eyelashes at the men fawning over her.
"Her father was reluctant to endorse Hamilton," Reeves explained slyly. "Right up until he learned Ivania had a sex tape, and what it would take to make it go away."
"You truly are a scumbag, Reeves," Harley chuckled fondly.
"Oh, here he comes," Reeves flashed Harley a grin before he waved at his boss. "Hamilton, over here!"
"Christ," Harley muttered, downing the rest of her drink.
Hamilton Hill looked like the kind of man who was supposed to be fat but was currently succeeding in a diet. He was balding and graying with a bushy mustache, and he was darkly tanned like he spent a lot of time on vacation or in a tanning bed. He was outwardly jolly, but there was a familiar gleam in his eye, one Harley recognized from the many ruthless men she knew, and that was what made her eyebrows raise when he slapped a sun-damaged hand down on Reeves' shoulder.
"Reeves!" Hill greeted his campaign manager, his eyes landing on Harley. "Who's your lovely friend!"
"This is Peaches Kane," Reeves grinned. "She's in town for a few weeks."
"Mr Hill," Harley smiled, shaking Hill's hand, and they went through the whole routine of who she was and why she was there and blah blah blah, just like they had with Elliot. Reeves did some very obvious improvising that Harley helped him out of, deciding he would make a terrible criminal.
"I'm surprised they've opened a club like this down here," she said, hoping to get something meaningful out of the prospective Mayor after a solid thirty-plus minutes of bullshit. "Downtown's not exactly the Diamond District."
"That's the whole point!" Hill exclaimed. "This side of town is a shithole, but why! It's close to Midtown, and the land these old buildings are sitting on is worth a fortune. There's no reason you can't build down here, clean the place up and get some respectable folks in the area—you'd make a mint!"
"Isn't that what Bertie Crowne tried to do in the Meatpacking District?" Harley pointed out.
"Ah, poor Bertie," Hill shook his head sadly because the Joker had thrown Bertie Crowne off the top of his own skyscraper a couple of years earlier. "Bertie's problem was the economy."
"The economy?" Harley lifted a dubious eyebrow. "The depression ended over thirty years ago."
"You gotta think bigger, Ms Kane," Hill enthused, pumping his fist in the air. "Economic growth has no ceiling! You gotta reach for the stars! That's how you really fight crime—not with a mask and a cape but with a paycheck in your pocket. If people had jobs, they wouldn't have to steal or turn to drugs or join up with that anarchist gang running the Eastside. Mark my words, Ms Kane, when I'm Mayor, I'll clean this whole city up. That's how we're gonna Make Gotham Great Again."
"Wow," Harley said, fighting hard to keep her smile in place. "You're very ambitious."
"You don't build a billion-dollar consulting firm from scratch without a little ambition, Ms Kane," Hill pointed out, wagging a finger in her face.
"Sounds like you'll miss the business world, Mr Hill," Harley observed, her voice dry but her face smiley enough to make up for it.
"I have a good man ready to fill my shoes," Hill beamed proudly, then looked at Reeves. "Speaking of whom, you haven't seen Roman, have you? He keeps slipping off."
"He's downstairs having a chin wag with Tommy Elliot," Reeves said breezily, already on his third martini while they'd been listening to Hill speak at them.
"Good, good," Hamilton nodded soundly. "Uh oh, here comes the lawyer!"
A nervous-looking bespeckled man sidled up beside Hill and began muttering in his ear, making Hill scoff boorishly.
"Ah, Jesus, can't it wait?" he complained. "This is a party! And where's John, huh? I throw him a party, and he doesn't even show?"
"John needs to speak with you too," the lawyer said, keeping his voice low. "He's downstairs."
"Ah, for chrissake," Hill grumbled, downing the last of his scotch. "Good to meet you, Ms Kane," he offered affably, and Harley shot him a pretty smile, wondering what Hill would look like with barbed wire wrapped around his throat.
Reeves braced an elbow on the bar, looking a little drunk as he leaned into Harley's personal space.
"So, what do you think of your future Mayor?" He grinned sloppily at her.
"I think he's in danger of being killed on live television," Harley replied honestly, flagging down the bartender. "Bombay Sapphire, straight up," she requested crisply.
"Waitwaitwait, you don't mean that," Reeves protested. "I mean, you wouldn't repeat yourselves would you? You've already killed one mayor on TV, after all."
Harley turned to look Reeves in the eye, shedding every layer of the charming socialite she'd been pretending to be all night, and the nice girl she'd given him at the wine bar the night before, and even the beguiling criminal he'd met up with at the Stacked Deck. She let him see Harley Quinn, hot-blooded, fearless, and free to kill whomever she wanted without reservation.
"Reeves," Harley said softly, staring into his eyes so she knew she had his attention. "We haven't discussed what will happen to you if you fuck me over."
Reeves paled, quickly sobering up once he realized he'd finally gone too far.
"I will kill you," Harley promised him calmly, holding his gaze. "And I will make sure it's slow and painful… and personal." She lifted her hand to trace the tip of her finger along the sharp line of his jaw, watching his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed nervously. "Do you understand?" she asked softly, meeting his eye again.
Reeves nodded mutely, his eyes wide.
"Good," Harley's face split into a rueful grin, and she patted him on the cheek roughly. "Oh, come on! Don't look like that. This is a party, remember!" She slid her fresh drink toward him, and Reeves downed it quickly.
"You really mean that, don't you?" he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Yep," Harley chirped, offering him a smile as she waved the bartender down again. "Another one," she ordered coldly.
"You're incredible," Reeves breathed, making Harley roll her eyes. "I mean it," he insisted, sounding sober now. "You're so beautiful and… and terrifying. It's just incredible."
"Yeah, I get it. You've got some kink about living dangerously," Harley shot him a knowing look. "Now, who else is here who's worth speaking to?"
Reeves cleared his throat, apparently realizing he was out of imminent danger. "Looks like Bruce Wayne just arrived," he said, nodding down the bar.
"Fuck," Harley muttered, weighing up the likelihood that Wayne would recognize her. It had been almost two years, but she was pretty sure dancing with someone who turned out to be a terrorist might stick with you. She downed her drink then looked up the bar, expecting to see Bruce Wayne with his smarmy smirk, waggling his eyebrows at some hot blonde in a tight dress.
Harley wasn't far off, but her eyes still widened in surprise.
Wayne had his arm looped around Vicki Vale, both of them smiling as they chatted to Thomas Elliot. It was clear enough they were together, Wayne rolling his eyes bashfully while Vicki laughed at something Elliot said.
Then Vicki saw Harley, and her smile instantly froze, obviously recognizing Harley for who she was.
Harley and Vicki stared at each other for five very long seconds while Harley tried to decide what Vicki would do. Would she scream? Would she tell Wayne? Would she call the cops?
She might have once called Vicki a friend. They did each other favors. Harley was Vicki's source and helped her get promoted, and Vicki got the news Harley wanted people to read printed in the papers. It was a mutually beneficial relationship, and on a personal level, Harley enjoyed Vicki's merciless ambition. They'd even shared a bottle of wine in Vicki's living room once while Harley whined about her relationship troubles.
But In the end, Vicki had her limits, and that limit was blowing up kindergartens.
"I have to go," Harley said quietly, grabbing her clutch off the bar and turning away from Vicki.
"Hang on, hang on, just like that?" Reeves looked disappointed as he followed Harley away from the bar and through the loose crowd of wealthy people. "Let me walk you out at least."
Harley didn't reply or even acknowledge Reeves as she strode through the party and back down the wood-paneled hallway, her ears straining for sirens.
What if Vicki announced to the world that Harley was back via the Globe? Fuck.
So much for flying under the radar for a little bit longer.
It was approaching midnight, but it was still humid out, that heatwave Harley had sensed slowly settling over the city as she trotted down the white marble steps and prepared to hail a cab.
"Hey, Harley, I mean Peaches, wait!" Reeves pleaded, and Harley turned around to face him, forcing a smile.
"I have something I need to take care of," she told him smoothly, then popped him on the cheek affectionately with her palm. "This was almost fun."
"Almost?" Reeves gave her a sloppy grin and clasped both hands over his heart. "Oh my God, almost fun. What counts as real fun?"
"You wouldn't like my idea of real fun," Harley shot back.
"Try me," Reeves replied suavely, edging closer to her, the booze making him bolder. Then he spotted something over Harley's shoulder, and his eyes widened, the bravado immediately slipping away. He didn't look scared so much as shocked, and when Harley looked behind her, her chest tightened painfully.
Across the street, leaning against a town car beneath the yellow glow of a street lamp stood the Joker, smoking a cigarette. His face wasn't painted, and he was wearing the same black suit he'd had on the last time Harley saw him. He could have passed for a normal man if he wanted to, even with his scars. But his dark eyes were narrowed at them across the street, gleaming in the darkness like a predator, and there was no chance Reeves wouldn't know who he was.
"Shit," Reeves breathed, looking at Harley.
Harley forced another smile and stood on her tiptoes to give Reeves a kiss on the cheek.
"Next time I'll show you some real fun," she promised, then turned on her heel and marched across the street, her face souring.
The Joker watched her cross the street warily, a bitter twist to his mouth. He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt away just as Harley reached him, but instead of stopping, she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his, an imitation of a kiss so Reeves would think everything was peachy keen between them.
Harley still hadn't worked out how life was supposed to be without the Joker as her partner, and when she pulled away from him, the question spiraled through her brain like a tornado raging out of control.
"Putting on a show, are we?" the Joker sneered, glancing at Reeves across the street. His lip curled as he lifted a hand to grab the bun at the back of Harley's head.
"J, stop it—" Harley started to protest when his arm snaked around her waist, and he rotated her around so they were in profile for Reeves to see.
Harley shot him a warning look, and he offered her a humorless smile in return, then dipped down to kiss her.
She kissed him back stiffly for Reeves' sake, knowing this wasn't jealousy or possessiveness, but an intentionally hostile act designed to piss her off, a slap in the face. Anger made her cheeks get hot as she resisted the urge to shove him away, the familiarity of the scar splicing his bottom lip against hers painfully, heartbreakingly familiar.
Harley didn't want it to feel so familiar. She didn't want it to turn her on. She didn't want the taste of him to linger on her tongue for hours like it inevitably would. But then something shifted. She felt his arm tighten around her as his tongue brushed against hers, and she felt his chest expand as he inhaled sharply, and she understood that he was feeling everything that she was. The frustration, the anger, the desire. Suddenly, that intoxicating feeling of connection was back in a way she'd been missing for weeks, tying him to her, and Harley couldn't help herself but lean into it.
Her hands wrapped around the base of his skull as she pressed closer to him. He squeezed her closer too, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, deepening the kiss and making her pulse leap as she sighed weakly, her fingers threading into his hair.
Harley pulled away abruptly, her eyes snapping open, her throat feeling thick as she looked away to collect herself. She waited for a beat, then shot the Joker a dirty look that he returned bitterly, and she withdrew her arms from around his neck as he released her.
She pulled the car door open numbly, and when she bent down to duck her head inside, the Joker suddenly and unexpectedly slapped her ass. Hard. Making her skin sting through her dress and lingerie. Harley yelped in surprise as she fell into the car, but when she swung around to scream at him, he slammed the door in her face.
The members of the Tobacconist's Club exuded wealth and elitism so intensely Vicki could nearly smell it. It wasn't just their diamonds, or their platinum Rolexes, or their expensive glassware, or their even more expensive booze. It was the way they carried themselves and smirked at each other, reveling in the fact that they were members of a small club few were invited to join. She didn't really mind it or even find it distasteful, but the look on Bruce's face when they were cornered by Lulu Crowne reinforced what Vicki already knew; he hated it.
"Brucie!" Lulu preened, offering both her cheeks to Bruce, who kissed them obediently. "I was hoping we'd see you here."
"Good to see you, Wayne," her squirrely-looking son Artie added stiffly, shaking Bruce's hand.
"And who is this!" Lulu beamed at Vicki, who stifled an amused smirk.
"Ah, this..." Bruce widened his eyes at Vicki and she widened hers right back, intrigued to see what he'd say. This was the first time they'd gone on a date around Bruce's 'people,' the trust fund brigade, and they hadn't discussed how he would introduce her. "This is my girlfriend," Bruce settled on, offering Vicki a goofy smile as he slid an arm around her waist. "Vicki Vale," he beamed down at her.
"Vicki Vale?" Lulu did a poor job hiding her shock that Bruce Wayne was dating a woman best known for her tabloid journalism. "Well... it is lovely to meet you, Ms Vale!" she added, forcing a sickly-sweet smile that Vicki returned, trying not to laugh.
"Wow, I've never seen someone actually clutch their pearls before," Vicki grinned once Lulu and Artie made their excuses.
"I'm sorry," Bruce sighed, looking conflicted as they made their way to the bar. "These people are..."
"Hey," Vicki stopped short and smiled up at Bruce, laying a hand on his cheek to make sure she had his attention. "I could not give less of a shit," she promised him. "I just want to laugh at them and find one who can help me sell some papers, okay?"
Bruce laughed quietly. "Alright," he agreed.
"Alright," Vicki beamed, tugging him up to the bar. "Let's get a drink and see what kind of gossip we can sniff out."
Bruce ordered Vicki a scotch and soda water for himself, and they settled in to survey the room when a tall, muscled man with fair hair approached them uncertainly.
"Bruce," he nodded awkwardly, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets.
"Tommy," Bruce faltered. "Uh, hey... hey, good to see you, man!" he laughed boorishly and grabbed Tommy's hand, pulling him into an embrace Tommy didn't seem to expect or want, his face tense.
"Vicki, this is my oldest friend," Bruce said smugly, laying on some of the asshole schtick he used when he was uncomfortable. "Tommy Elliot."
"Hello," Elliot nodded at Vicki, not offering her his hand. "You're Vicki Vale," he observed, without feeling.
"I am," Vicki confirmed cheerfully, looking between Bruce and Elliot a few times, wondering what the hell was going on there. "Congratulations, by the way," she continued holding up her drink in cheers. "You must be so pleased to be working with Daggett Industries."
"Yeah," Elliot agreed, shrugging. "We've been putting a lot of resources into the company so it's um, good to see it paying off. Daggett are being very generous."
"I'm happy for you, Tommy," Bruce announced, slapping his old friend on the back. "I'm sure you'll do great things together."
"That's what the Hill Consulting people say," Elliot agreed awkwardly, rocking back on his heels. "I know you're not a big fan of what they do but—"
"Hey, no judgment," Bruce held up his hands and gave Elliot a smarmy grin. "So, you've got Hill working for you too, huh?"
"I don't think I'm allowed to talk about it," Elliot looked disgruntled. "They've got iron-clad NDAs. My lawyer was literally sweating when we came out of that meeting."
"Wow," Vicki's eyebrows rose. "Makes you wonder what they're hiding."
"Probably something not very nice," Elliot admitted, looking uncomfortable. "So, um, how's Alfred doing?"
"The same," Bruce said drily, shifting into his more natural tone. "He still thinks he's hilarious."
"You're the only one who doesn't think Alfred's funny," Elliot cracked a smile for the first time, looking at Vicki. "One time, after Alfred caught Bruce with his first girlfriend, he—"
"Okay, okay," Bruce interjected, looking embarrassed. "We do not need to relive my teenage humiliation."
"Oh, I am so getting that story out of Alfred later," Vicki grinned, laughing along with Elliot, when someone over his shoulder caught her eye.
There was a beautiful blonde woman at the other end of the bar. She wore a simple black dress, her hair tied back in a neat chignon, her ears and throat decorated with over-sized pearls. She didn't stand out among the myriad of other beautiful, wealthy women present, but she was offering the man she was speaking to a disarming smile that didn't reach her eyes, and it was her eyes that Vicki recognized. They were a glacial blue, cold and calculating, intelligent and... alive.
It was Harley Quinn, Vicki realized, the smile freezing on her face.
Harley Quinn was standing right there. Just ten feet away.
Then Harley caught Vicki's eye, recognition flashing across her face, sending panic racing through Vicki like an electrical current. They stared at one another for what felt like an eternity, Harley's expression unreadable, possibly wondering how Vicki was going to react just as Vicki was wondering how Harley would react. Then Harley turned and breezed into the crowd as if nothing had happened, and Vicki watched her walk away helplessly, feeling like she'd been sucker-punched as she took note of the man Harley had been speaking to rushing after her.
Suddenly, a torrent of moments and memories swept over Vicki. Everything from those early stories she'd written about Arkham back when Harley's boss was leaking stories about the Joker, to the day Harley first approached her on a park bench with a juicy scoop about the drug war. From there, it had spiraled until one afternoon, Harley handed over former Detective Ana Ramirez to give an account of what really happened to Harvey Dent, and Vicki had run with it, not so much as questioning Harley's motivation. Then three days later, Harley and the Joker blew up four kindergartens off the back of that information being in the public domain.
Vicki remembered having Harley in her apartment, drinking wine and Campari with her. She remembered talking to Harley outside a hotel room, her lips swollen because she'd spent the afternoon in bed with her boyfriend, who just happened to be the Joker. Vicki remembered thinking Harley was actually pretty funny, and that it was kind of sweet albeit twisted how she thought her relationship with the Joker was normal.
And Vicki remembered watching those kindergartens crumble, and being horrified by all of it, especially of herself.
And everything that had come next.
Harley was supposed to be dead. If she wasn't dead, that meant she was back for a reason, a thought that made Vicki's pulse leap nervously.
"Can I get you a drink?" Elliot was asking Bruce.
"Soda water for me, thanks," Bruce grinned toothily, apparently enjoying himself. "Vicki?"
"Um," Vicki licked her lips as she watched the man Harley had been speaking to slip back into the club, a satisfied smirk on his lips. "Who's that?" she asked before she could help herself.
Bruce and Elliot looked in the direction she was staring.
"Arthur Reeves," Elliot said while Bruce waved him over. "He's Hill's campaign manager."
"And another alumnus of St Regis Boys School," Bruce added drolly.
"Bruce Wayne!" Reeves beamed, slapping Bruce on the back. He was tall and handsome like a polo player with all the swagger and privilege that came with it. Vicki instantly disliked him, and not just because he's been speaking to Harley. "Good to see you, man, good to see you," Reeves blustered. "Look at you guys —this is like a reunion!"
"Roman's here somewhere too," Elliot noted, looking around again.
"Ah, he's downstairs with John and the lawyers," Reeves waved him off. "He never stops working. Now... who is this?"
He looked Vicki over, examining her like an object, and Vicki had to fight back a scowl.
"Vicki Vale," she introduced herself, forcing a smile and wondering if he knew who Harley really was.
"Vicki Vale!" Reeves grinned, shaking her hand. "Wow, what a thrill!"
That old sixth sense for a good story, the one Vicki had spent nearly a year trying to quash, jumped to life suddenly, fighting for oxygen despite her better judgment.
"I hear you're Hamilton Hill's campaign manager?" Vicki asked, perfectly polite and unable to help herself. "We'd be very interested in profiling our potential future mayor in the Globe Magazine."
"Oh, ho!" Reeves beamed. "My understanding was the Globe wasn't taking sides in this race." He shot Bruce a pointed look because Bruce had yet to endorse Hill like all the other wealthy elites.
"This wouldn't be taking sides," Vicki replied, feeling Bruce frowning at her. "We just want people to be well informed before they vote."
"I'll tell you what, Ms Vale, I think that's a great idea," Reeves smirked. "Let me speak to Hamilton and our PR girl, and we can schedule an interview."
"Perfect," Vicki said, her face aching from smiling.
Harley stared numbly out the tinted window, her heart thumping hard in her neck, and her ass stinging where the Joker slapped her —a little show of ownership for Reeves' benefit. She couldn't decide if she was pissed off or indignant or heartbroken as she fell back against the leather seat and stared straight ahead.
The Joker folded himself into the seat beside Harley, and she turned to glare at him incredulously as Frost pulled away from the curb. He slumped down, his long legs splayed out in front of him, ignoring her as he popped a cigarette between his lips and patted down his jacket until he found a disposable lighter, thumbing the spark at least ten times before a flame finally jumped to life. He rolled his head in a circle, the bones popping disconcertingly as he exhaled a stream of smoke and tucked the lighter back in his suit jacket, still ignoring Harley.
He had a lousy track record with lighters, always losing them and only ever able to find broken ones or ones on their last legs, the final drops of lighter fluid slopping around inside the brightly colored plastic.
Harley had pilfered a silver-plated zippo off a mercenary's body when they were in El Salvador. It had the owner's initials engraved on the side — PG —and later that night in their unairconditioned hotel room, sweaty and sticky with sex and Antioqueno, they'd made each other laugh trying to guess the mercenary's name, each guess more ridiculous than the last. Percival Gyro. Paddy Gotcha. Pedro Giggles. The Joker managed to hold onto that zippo all through their travels until they got back to Gotham, though it seemed he'd lost it since. A perfect metaphor for what had happened to their relationship since getting back to this hellhole.
"How did you know where I was?" Harley demanded, her throat feeling thick as she tried to move past the storm of emotion swirling inside her. He didn't deserve that from her.
He exhaled another cloud of smoke, filling the car with the acrid smell as he dipped his head toward Harley, offering her a smile completely lacking humor or affection.
"Lonnie hacked Red's phone," he informed her lazily. "So uh, he tracked ya down since you've always got that thing on you."
Harley blinked hard twice. The encrypted phone was supposed to be impossible to track. But if anyone could crack it, Lonnie would.
"So you've been keeping track of me?" she spat indignantly, an ancient flare of irritation that he would try to control her cutting through everything else.
"Nah," he drawled, staring at the back of Frost's seat instead of looking at her. "Just tonight. I got an errand for ya."
"An errand?" Harley scowled, her heart slamming against her breastbone furiously.
"Calm down, doll face," the Joker rolled his eyes, another dig because he knew she hated it when he used pet names, and he only ever used them when he was trying to annoy her or hurt her like he was now.
They'd driven just a few blocks when Frost pulled into a dark alley, the only illumination coming from the street, which didn't reach the dark corners.
The Joker promptly climbed out of the car while Harley remained frozen in place. Then he ducked his head back in, blowing smoke into the car.
"C'mon, cupcake, I ain't got all night," he complained, slamming the door shut.
Harley caught Frost's eye in the rearview mirror, but he quickly looked away too. At a loss and without any other options, Harley pushed her door open and climbed out into the alley.
There was an old, wood-paneled station wagon idling at the end of the alley, the reading light on in the front seat, though Harley couldn't see who was behind the wheel. She heard the town car's trunk pop open, and she turned to join the Joker at the back of the car numbly.
She wasn't overly surprised to see Janice Porter unconscious and bruised in the trunk, though Harley had almost forgotten about the job Lucy offered them. But now that the DA was right in front of her, she remembered how bizarre it was that the Joker agreed to it in the first place. It solidified her suspicion that he was up to something without her, and the overt hostility she was now on the receiving end of only confirmed it beyond a shadow of a doubt.
"You can keep the six grand," the Joker said gruffly, pulling a new cigarette out of the pack with his teeth, and lighting it off the one he'd just finished. Harley watched him flick the butt away and start the new one, her eyes widening as she once again tried and failed to understand what was going on with him. "Just drop her off with Lucy," he instructed, shooting Harley a dubious look before he slammed the trunk shut on Janice and loped off down the alley without another word.
Harley watched him climb into the passenger seat of the station wagon as the old engine rumbled to life, and the car sped backward out of the alley, the bald tires squealing as it fishtailed on the street and took off into the night.
The anger was leaking out of her, making her eyes start to sting. So she tried to hold onto her anger, refusing to let it melt into something far more painful that she couldn't control.
A/N: oooooooh the ANGST.
There are answers coming next week.
Vicki and Harley reunion!
We also got a relatively unrevealing first look at Roman (and Circe!) earlier in this chapter— he seems nice, right? I have Rami Malek in mind for Roman. The man is begging to be cast as a sophisticated villain type.
Lots of little clues in the Tobacconist's Club. We also had a cameo from Tommy Elliot (aka Hush) who is *begging* me to write some future installment. For now he's just making a cameo which is more fun than an OC.
I finally saw Birds of Prey! So much fun!
Next: Harley drops the DA off at the Iceberg Lounge and an old friend reappears with unnerving information.
Please review! They feed my very needy ego and my even needier soul.