Previously: The Joker tasks a heartbroken Harley with dropping Janice Porter off with Lucy at the Iceberg Lounge.
Theme: Planningtorock - 'Drama Darling' (Maxi Edit)
The Pantomime
4.
As Frost drove her Uptown, Harley could feel him looking at her in the rearview mirror, checking on her, she guessed. He was a weird one, at least compared to their usual henchmen—soft-spoken, thoughtful, obedient, smart. He had disciple written all over him, and if Harley wasn't so fucking pissed off and miserable, she might have appreciated him caring.
Nah.
Harley turned the smartphone she used to stay in touch with Pam over in her hands. It felt tainted now that she knew the Joker could use it to keep an eye on her. Fucking Lonnie.
She tucked the phone in her purse and scrubbed a hand over her face, feeling sick and empty inside. This was not sustainable, this lingering as her partnership with the Joker devolved into outright hostility. She could either stick around to see how it played out, which appeared likely to be a long, drawn-out, painful process... or she could cut the cord and leave.
Harley started to make a plan. She had ten thousand dollars cash, and once she dropped Janice Porter off with Lucy, she'd have another six grand to add to that. She had a fake passport waiting for her back at the safe house. She didn't need much more than that to buy a first-class ticket to Melbourne, where she could meet up with Pam.
It would be easy. Deal with Janice. Collect the six grand. Have Frost drive her back to the safe house. Kill him. Grab the passport and change clothes. Call Pam to let her know she was on the way. Destroy the encrypted phone so she couldn't be traced. Drive Frost's car to the airport. Get on a plane. Get off in Melbourne. No more Joker. No more lingering. No more uncertainty.
Frost pulled the car into the alley behind the Iceberg Lounge and turned the engine off, then turned around to look at Harley in the backseat, his face sinking into a deep frown.
"You alright, doc?" he asked, looking concerned.
"Pop the trunk. Stay in the car," she snapped, pushing her door open and slipping out into the warm night air.
The walls of the club were vibrating with the thud-thud-thud of bass from the music playing inside. Two exceptionally attractive bouncers were guarding the back entrance, and Harley thought it was a very Lucy touch to make sure her henchmen were good looking.
She looked between them quickly, sizing them up, then gestured to Janice Porter's unconscious form in the trunk.
"I have a delivery for Lucy," she announced, her throat feeling thick as the bouncers shot each other dubious looks.
"Are you on the guest list, miss?" one of them asked. "Can I take your name?"
Harley narrowed her eyes, and they both visibly tensed.
"Get Lucy," she snarled outright. "Before I get impatient."
The bouncers looked at each other again, then one pressed a finger to his ear and turned away.
Harley rotated around, so her back was to them, and rubbed both of her hands over her face, trying to push away everything.
"Wow, that was quick!"
Harley whirled around at the sound of Lucy's voice, her eyes widening. Lucy was wearing an electric-blue dress, its strapless bodice covered in sparkling rhinestones, its skirt ruffled like a ballerina, showing off Lucy's long, coltish legs. Her hair was crimped and teased sky high, a floppy blue bow securing it to one side, and her green eyes glittered with pink eyeshadow. Harley thought she looked like a Barbie doll from the 80s.
"Hey," Lucy's smile faltered when she saw Harley's face. "Are you okay?"
"Just give me my money," Harley snapped.
"Oh," Lucy's eyes widened, and she glanced back at the bouncers. "Bobby, can ya ask the guys to bring the van around?" she flashed Harley a smile. "Hey, why dontcha come on inside!"
Harley never wanted to go through that backdoor ever again. The Iceberg Lounge held nothing but horrific, depressing memories for her, including her last outing with the Joker. But she wanted to get paid, so she nodded quickly, and followed Lucy through the backdoors into what used to be the club's kitchen. It had since been turned into a sitting area, with a Persian carpet flanked by expensive brown leather sofas, a glass coffee table hosting a crystal-cut decanter between them.
Trying not to tap her foot impatiently, Harley waited as Lucy disappeared into Penguin's old office and reappeared with an envelope thick with cash. Harley ripped it out of her hand and yanked the money out, not bothering to count it as she shoved it in her clutch then turned to leave.
"Harley, do ya wanna come have a drink or something?" Lucy asked, sounding concerned. Everyone was so concerned. "Just one? It might do ya good if you're having a bad night, you know?"
Harley stopped short, knowing that if she kept acting erratically, it would come back to bite her. A drink was just what she needed to calm herself down so she could think clearly and plan properly, rather than running off half-cocked like she currently was.
From the kitchen, she could hear the music in the club change, a new track opening with the thud-thud-thud of a bass drum quickly joined by a nervous staccato of synthesizers. Harley listened to the crowd cheer as a bouncy bassline picked up, the song building into a frantic 80s pop song even she recognized.
She nodded silently, and Lucy's pretty face split into a happy grin.
"Well, c'mon then," she beamed, heading for the old kitchen doors, which led into her absurd birdcage. "Ed makes the best martinis in town," she added, tossing another pink smile over her shoulder.
Harley took a breath to calm herself before she followed Lucy through the curtains but stopped short once she was on the other side, immediately on her guard.
Alberto Falcone and Fats Gambol were sitting on a magenta chaise lounge, talking with their heads close together. Alberto held a cigarette out to the side as he spoke into Fats' ear while Fats nodded along eagerly.
The last time Harley saw Fats, she'd stabbed him through the hand repeatedly while the Joker threatened his girlfriend, Lucia Viti, Alberto's cousin.
More bizarre: Standing guard beside the crystal curtains separating the VIP area from the dancefloor was Victor Zsasz. He looked bored but content, his bald head bobbing in time to the bass line as he kept an eye out for potential threats to Lucy's safety.
That wasn't the sadistic freak who tore Harley's fingernails off with pliers, she realized uneasily. That was someone else entirely.
"C'mon, let's get a drink!" Lucy grinned, gesturing for Harley to follow her.
Harley stepped past Victor into the sea of bodies moving in time together, their voices almost rising above the music itself as they sang along to the chorus like a congregation worshipping at the altar of 80s synth-pop.
Most of the crowd was young, dressed like Lucy in flamboyant 80s get-ups, but there were men and women of the stockbroker variety like Harley had seen at the Tobacconist's Club too. They'd shed their jackets before joining the dancefloor, their sweat-stained shirts and blouses shining beneath the flashing pink and purple lights as they danced with the younger clubbers.
There was a velvet rope separating the dancers from a more exclusive group. Bobby and Kennedy Kane from Made in the Diamond District were there, dancing with Lucia Viti and Mario Falcone. Harley watched incredulously as Mario mimed lassoing his cousin, who bounced toward him with a goofy smile, singing along to the chorus and tossing her thick black hair.
"C'mon Harley d'you want that drink or not!" Lucy shouted over the music, grinning as she grabbed Harley's hand and led her around the edge of the dancefloor toward the bar.
The bartender who served them drinks before was behind the bar again tonight, wiggling his shoulders and grinning as he shook a cocktail shaker. His strawberry-blonde hair was coiffed into horns on either side of his head, an ode to the night's theme, and he was wearing the same pink eyeshadow as Lucy.
"Buttery nipples anyone!" He chirped, emptying the contents of the cocktail shaker into a line of shot glasses on the bar.
Lucy threw her head back and laughed before grabbing a shot and turning to Harley, beaming.
Harley only realized then that Lucy was high as a kite.
And it wasn't just her—so was everyone else in the room.
Harley accepted a buttery nipple warily, clinking the glass against Lucy and Ed's. It tasted more like dessert than booze, and she made a face as she lowered the shot glass back on the bar, her eyes drifting around the room again as she tried to put a finger on what exactly it was that didn't feel right to her. Like she was missing something. Again.
"Who's your gorgeous friend!" Ed grinned, grabbing a fresh cocktail shaker and pouring out a hearty measure of gin and a splash of dry vermouth. Dry martinis. Harley's drink of choice. She refrained from narrowing her eyes suspiciously.
"Ahh... this is, uhh..." Lucy faltered, not wanting to give Harley away.
"Peaches," Harley offered, watching Ed's face as he mixed up the martinis. He was handsome too—the only kind of man Lucy employed apparently—with high cheekbones and perfect pale skin that was almost translucent. His hazel eyes glittered mischievously when he met Harley's, and for a split second, she thought she saw a flash of recognition there. But it was gone just as quickly, and he was beaming at her like he was thrilled just to have her there.
"Tell us a joke, Ed!" Lucy pleaded.
"What has a head, a tail, is brown, and has no legs?" Ed shouted over the music. "A penny!" He whooped, pouring the martinis into glasses with a swift, polished flick of his wrist.
Lucy threw her head back and laughed again. "Isn't he hilarious, Har-Peaches!"
"Not really," Harley shouted back distractedly. She downed the martini in a few gulps then slammed the glass down on the bar, preparing to leave.
"Oh, Peaches, you need to loosen up!" Ed sang, doing a little two-step behind the bar.
He grabbed a bottle of gin and a tumbler and poured out at least six measures, the clear liquid bubbling in the bottle as it glugged out of the pour spout. He shoved it toward Harley and flashed a set of perfect white teeth as she cautiously accepted the tumbler.
"C'mon!" Lucy grinned, grabbing Harley's hand and dragging her back to the birdcage.
Mario and Bobby Kane had their ties wrapped around their heads now, their jackets were thrown off while Lucia and Kennedy Kane partnered up for a sexy salsa-style dance. Harley swallowed a mouthful of gin, too bemused to do anything but drink and follow Lucy back into the VIP area where Victor offered her a dopey little salute that Harley decided she couldn't worry about at the moment.
She lowered herself down onto the purple chaise lounge to sit beside Lucy, keeping one eye on Alberto and Fats as she sipped her drink while Lucy pulled a vape pen out of her clutch, which was blue satin and ringed with pearls.
The whole club looked like Lucy had exploded all over it, Harley realized. The pink crystals, the magenta couches, the cheetah print, the buttery nipples. After Penguin went away, the Iceberg Lounge floundered. How the fuck did she afford to turn it around like this?
Lucy pulled a small glass vial filled with violet-colored powder out of her bag. She scooped out a small amount with a little spoon attached to the vial's lid, and sniffed it up, then flashed Harley a bright smile as she tucked it away in her clutch.
Harley had questions. Many of them.
"So, you and Mario, huh?" Harley shouted over the music, her eyes drifting to where Mario and Bobby Kane were karate chopping the air as they danced around one another in a bizarre male mating ritual.
"Yeah," Lucy sighed happily, looking lovesick as she watched her boyfriend make a fool of himself. "Oh, Harley, he's wonderful, I'm tellin' you."
"Really? I heard he was an idiot," Harley said honestly.
Lucy laughed as if Harley had just made a hilarious joke, which Harley supposed she kind of had. She was used to Lucy glaring or scowling at her when she made snarky comments, but it seemed love, drugs, and a thriving club made her far more tolerant.
"Ya know, most guys when they go to the joint, it hardens them up and makes them mean," Lucy leaned closer so she didn't have to shout. "Not Mario, he's a big sweetheart, you know?"
"Uh huh," Harley said flatly. "So, Mario Falcone's just a big teddy bear?"
"Yeah," Lucy sighed dreamily, then she offered Harley a pretty smile. "So how's things with you?"
"Oh, you know, same old same old," Harley shrugged, sipping her drink. It made her tongue feel loose and helped her shake off some of the unbearable tension that had been twisting her up in knots since she left the Tobacconist's Club.
"Same old, same old," Lucy laughed. "Nothing with you is ever the same or old, know what I mean?"
"No," Harley said, distracted when Alberto disappeared into the old kitchens and reappeared a moment later with something tucked under his arm. "Staying the same is boring," Harley added, her attention fixed firmly on Alberto.
He sat daintily on the couch and crossed his legs, then handed Fats what had to be at least five kilos of Blue Orchid, wrapped up tight in plastic.
Harley drained the rest of her drink to cover the fact that she was openly staring as Fats stood and shook Alberto's hand before fetching his girlfriend from the dancefloor. Alberto lit a cigarette and pulled out a cell phone, his Italian leather shoe bouncing along to the music as he tapped out a text.
Harley had dealt with enough drug dealers and mobsters to know that quantity of drugs was more than your standard drug deal. That was a supplier side exchange. She slowly turned back to Lucy, her sense that there was something strange going on, that she was missing something, intensifying tenfold.
"There's nothin' boring about you, Harley," Lucy gushed. "That's probably why the Joker likes ya so much, I'm guessin'."
"Probably," Harley agreed moodily.
"I remember that day you came over here looking for Victor," Lucy continued, digging through her pearl-encrusted clutch to retrieve the small vial of BO again. "And he came looking for ya, but he didn't have his face painted. I remember thinking shit, he looks so normal, ya know? But you can still tell it's him."
"Yeah," Harley sighed, setting her empty glass on the floor, wishing Ed would show up with another one.
Lucy scooped up a small bump of BO, but instead of taking it for herself, she lifted her anime-like eyes to Harley's.
"Ya want some?" she asked innocently.
The word 'no' was on the tip of Harley's tongue as a reflex. She liked a stiff drink or three, especially to help her relax after some especially chaotic work, or like tonight, when she just wanted to blot the world out. Anything harder than that wasn't part of her wheelhouse. It just didn't interest her and was too much of a hassle. Besides, drug addicts and drug dealers were so dull. But this stuff, Blue Orchid, this had her very curious indeed.
"Sure," she shrugged and lowered her head to sniff up the small pile of purple Lucy was offering her.
It hit her like a bolt of lightning. Harley almost gasped as euphoria spread through her whole body in a single, powerful wave. Once the wave passed, an intensely satisfying sense of calm settled over her, making her feel so light she was nearly floating. It felt like scratching an itch deep inside her brain, something that made Harley realize she just didn't care. About anything.
She laughed incredulously.
"It's good, huh?" Lucy grinned, taking a bump for herself. She closed her eyes, indulging in the high before she rolled her head toward Harley to beam at her.
"It's okay," Harley agreed, feeling herself mirroring Lucy's smile. A little bit stupid. A little bit sweet. "How did you do this?"
"Do what?" Lucy asked, tucking the BO back in her bag and swigging the last of her martini.
"The club, how did you turn it into this?" Harley gestured to the swelling crowd of dancers throwing their hands up to another song Harley recognized.
"Oh, you know," Lucy shrugged mildly. "A little bit of luck, a good boss with a lot of money."
"A good boss, huh?" Harley raised an eyebrow as she started swaying with the music. She remembered she was supposed to find out about bosses, especially those of a mysterious persuasion, but at the moment, she just didn't care.
"Penguin was a good boss," Lucy said, turning melancholic. "I wonder what he'd think about all this."
"Are you kidding? He'd hate it," Harley checked over her shoulder to see if Ed was en route with more drinks.
"You think?" Lucy frowned.
"Fuck yes," Harley shot back, her hand fluttering through the air to emphasize her point. "Penguin's a manic narcissist. He would be jealous, Lucy. He'd try to take you down."
"You don't think he'd be proud of me?" Lucy looked hurt, making Harley scoff impatiently.
"Why do you give a shit what Penguin would think?" Harley asked, blinking hard—suddenly, she could feel the music as if it was threading through her ears and into her brain, like yarn unraveling. Her eyes closed and she gave in to the sensation, letting it consume her.
"Before Penguin gave me a job, I was dancing at the fuckin' Cheetah Bar," Lucy explained sourly. "He saw something in me. I guess the new boss does too. He's the only reason I got to turn this place around—I dunno where I'd be without him."
"The new boss?" Harley's eyes snapped open. "Lucy, look at this place. Everything is Lucy, and these people love it. You're the boss here."
"You really think so?" Lucy asked warily.
Harley narrowed her eyes and searched Lucy's face, thinking back over their history together. Something had happened to Lucy to bottle up her sassy, spunky attitude since Harley last saw her, most likely this new boss she spoke so highly of. Usually, Harley wouldn't be interested in boosting someone's self-esteem, so maybe it was the drugs, or maybe Harley just didn't like seeing women be controlled by society or men or anyone else. Or maybe it was because Harley had always sensed there was more to Lucy, and she was curious to see what Lucy was capable of…
"Your boss has money. That makes him useful to you, but useful people are expendable once they've given you what you want," Harley said, watching Lucy's eyes widen in surprise. "You're smarter than you pretend to be, and you have good instincts," Harley pointed a finger in Lucy's face, holding her gaze steadily. "That makes you dangerous. Never forget it."
Lucy blinked hard, looking bewildered as she stared back at Harley.
"You don't think money makes you powerful?" she asked hesitantly.
"Money doesn't mean anything," Harley countered, leaning forward. "Real power is freedom, and you're the only one who can decide if you want it or not," Harley narrowed her eyes. "If you want freedom, you don't pay for it, you take it, and you do not apologize for anything."
There was a beat of silence in which Lucy continued to eye Harley suspiciously like she was uncertain if this advice was coming in good faith. Then her pink lips slowly spread into a grin, the message sinking in.
"It's kinda weird you saying nice things to me, Harley," she pointed out.
"Why, because I'm a terrorist?" Harley widened her eyes.
"No, 'cause you're an asshole," Lucy grinned, making Harley throw her head back and laugh at the ceiling.
Lucy got her vial of BO out again, offering Harley a bump and doing one herself. This time, Harleys' eyes rolled back in her head as she breathed through the initial high, leaving her feeling like her blood was buzzing as it gushed through her veins. She examined her arm and the thin blue lines beneath her skin, all of which seemed to be vibrating in time with the relentless bursts of a synthesizer from the club's speakers. The dance floor was screaming the chorus, and all of it seemed to bleed into one all-encompassing hive of movement that made Harley giggle stupidly.
"You wanna dance?" Lucy grinned, her shoulders wiggling, and Harley looked down to see her own shoulders were rolling erratically.
"I don't dance," she protested, watching her body move, bewildered.
"Whaddya mean you don't dance," Lucy laughed.
"I mean you have to like music to dance, music doesn't do anything for me," Harley explained, her mouth moving faster than she could keep up with it. "I can pretend, I can move like you're supposed to move, but I don't feel anything."
Psychopath, a voice in the deepest recesses of her brain whispered.
Suddenly, Harley remembered going to the opera with her college boyfriend, the one she murdered with a hammer, her first kill. They'd seen Mefistofele, and he'd cried, but Harley hadn't felt anything. When he asked what she thought, she shrugged helplessly, not understanding what all the fuss was about. Music never got to her, just like movies, plays, books; nothing made her feel anything. Nothing made her cry. She'd always had to pretend for the sake of those around her—even Pam. The Joker was the only person who really knew her, who accepted her as she was. He understood. He made her feel things.
Harley had to take a deep breath to calm her racing pulse; it was pounding in her throat like she was running a marathon.
Never tell a psychopath they're a psychopath, another voice whispered, more aggressively.
Ed arrived then, sweeping into the birdcage with a tray of drinks balanced on one hand. He and Lucy exchanged well-worn banter and they all squealed together, Harley joining in because she couldn't help herself but laugh and laugh and laugh. Ed pushed another gin-filled tumbler into her hands, and when Harley caught his eye, she saw the same mischievous glint she'd noticed earlier, and she knew he was pretending for the people around him, just like she did.
Was he lying to himself like Harley used to before she met the Joker?
Or was he performing for a useful, expendable crowd as Harley so frequently did…
"You alright, Harley?" Lucy cooed once Ed was gone, and Harley offered her a sloppy smile.
"I'm thinking a lot," she admitted.
"About the Joker?" Lucy's face twisted sympathetically.
"No," Harley said haltingly, realizing that aside from a few blips, he was mostly absent from her mind. "About me."
"I could tell you were pissed off at him the other night," Lucy said, her eyelids drooping as she patted Harley's arm in a show of comfort.
"He's an asshole too," Harley shrugged, shooting Lucy a smirk. "That's why I like him so much."
Lucy cracked up, folding forward and grabbing her ankles as she howled with laughter, and Harley sat back, enjoying watching her.
You can't spell Slaughter without Laughter, a voice that sounded like Ed's camp drawl chimed in.
Harley started cracking up too, holding onto Lucy's arm as she swayed back and forth, laughing hysterically. She didn't know why she was laughing, but it felt fucking great.
Then she caught Victor staring at them, looking amused as he loitered near the dance floor. He was heavily armed and not bothering to hide it, with four semi-automatic pistols and multiple rounds of spare ammunition stashed neatly in a holster beneath his well-tailored suit jacket. A watchful guardian dedicated to Lucy's safety.
"What the fuck happened to Victor anyway?" Harley demanded as Lucy pulled the vial of BO out again.
"Ah, the boss had a word with him," she said dreamily. "I couldn't stand him before, but the boss says he's good to have around."
"Huh," was all Harley could think of to say to that. Another song she knew came on, the bass line bouncing in on top of candy-floss synthesizers and digital drums, making Harley's skin vibrate.
"Let's dance!" Lucy pleaded again, and Harley protested again even though she was swaying back and forth where she sat, her head bobbing and shoulders twitching. The music felt visceral. Like she could see it floating through the air around her, so real she could reach out and grab it.
Lucy offered Harley another bump to 'get her over the edge,' and Harley sniffed it up obediently, the driving need for more, more, more, not making her question it.
White spots appeared in front of her eyes, and her body seemed to float weightlessly off the chaise lounge, everything around her thundering with life like a living body. Then the white spots disappeared, and Lucy was in front of her again, beaming wildly. But this time her face was painted chalky white, her eyes ringed with black, her mouth smeared red. Harley reached out to touch Lucy's painted cheek, exhilarated by what she was seeing. She knew it was a hallucination. See shit, Bullock had said. But she didn't care.
Harley's head lolled to the side, and she saw Alberto watching her from his post on the cheetah-print armchair, his face painted too. Lucy took her hand and pulled her off the couch, leading her out of the birdcage onto the swollen dancefloor. They'd gotten rid of the velvet rope, the plebian party monsters converging upon the elites, and Harley was swept out into the heaving crowd, relying on their moving bodies to keep her upright, their painted faces a comforting hum around her.
Song after song after song played, and Harley danced through them all, her eyes rolling back in her head as she swayed through a messy two-step. She was a terrible dancer, just like she was a terrible dresser—more examples of how she had to pretend. But right now, she didn't care enough to pretend.
Then suddenly Ed was in front of her, his clown warpaint impeccably applied. He wore it better than all the rest, Harley thought as he grabbed her hand and spun her around.
"Well, well," he sang, sounding delighted and mean. "Look at you."
Harley's tongue had grown heavy and stuck to the roof of her mouth, but she couldn't think of anything to say anyway. She only knew the driving sensation that told her to keep going, which blocked out everything else. Every worry, every suspicion, every anxiety, every fear. They were gone.
Then over Ed's shoulder, someone caught Harley's eye, cutting through the haze of drugs cloaking her. The painted faces were still bouncing around her, including Lucy, Mario, and Ed, but up in the birdcage, watching them all with a critical eye was a man she didn't recognize. His black hair was curly, cut short on the sides and long on top, his cheekbones were high, and his jaw was strong and sharp. But it was his eyes that drew Harley in. Sunken, empty, bug-like as if they were trying to escape his skull, and smeared with black greasepaint just like the Joker's. He was staring right at her, Harley realized, and then she saw Alberto Falcone whisper in this man's ear.
A smirk pulled at the man's painted lips, but before Harley could form a coherent thought, she was swept away on another wave of euphoria.
The art dealers in South Channel were a complete waste of time. Dinah took out two of them so she could question a third, holding a taser to his neck as she hauled him up against the side of a shipping container. They were selling knock-offs shipped in illegally from China, and they wouldn't know a real Jackson Pollock or Francis Bacon work if it bit them on the ass. So, if the Riddler was hawking his stolen treasures, it certainly wouldn't be to these con artists.
Dinah knocked the thug out and tied him up with the other two, then sent Lieutenant Essen a text in case the GCPD were interested in arresting them. She doubted they would—Commissioner Akins had mostly abandoned the Eastside, focusing on cleaning up Downtown and keeping the rich people safe in the main island of Gotham proper.
Essen replied with another tip, an address Uptown, which turned out to be a fancy gym, making Dinah's eyebrows knit together as she peered at it through the night vision goggles Lucius made for her. She hid the Batpod in an alley behind the building and headed for the parking garage, sticking to the shadows like Bruce taught her. The lights in the garage were dim, bathing the space in an eerie orange glow. Dinah tapped out a code on the miniature computer at her wrist, and her suit released a small electromagnetic pulse that lowered the LED lights further. Then she spotted the crime scene, cordoned off by police tape circling a sleek BMW, it's driver's side door open.
Lieutenant Essen was talking to a middle-aged Latina woman wearing a cheap brown suit and a detective's badge, both of them frowning around at the dimming lights as Dinah appeared behind them.
"Shit," the detective hissed, startled when she saw Dinah standing there, prompting Essen to spin around.
Essen was about fifty, a few years younger than her boyfriend, Jim Gordon. Her eyes were warm and unexpectedly kind, her light brown skin smooth and youthful, though she was usually sporting bags under her eyes from late nights on the job.
"This is Detective Renee Montoya," Essen said, gesturing to the Latina woman, who was eyeing Dinah uncertainly. "Detective Montoya just transferred here from Bludhaven," Essen explained.
"Good to meet you," Montoya nodded grimly. "I hear you're the lady to talk to if you wanna get shit done in this city."
Dinah tapped the side of her helmet, the night vision goggles retracting as she examined the crime scene.
"What happened?" she hissed, disguising her voice the way Bruce had taught her.
"This is Janice Porter's car," Essen explained, squatting down beside the open door and pulling a pen from her blazer to point at an evidence tag on the floor. "And that's her blood."
Dinah pressed her lips together as paranoia prickled at the back of her neck. Janice Porter used to work for Harley. But, Dinah reminded herself, nearly everyone in Gotham worked for Harley at some point. Not everything was about Harley.
"Her gym bag and purse are still in the car," Essen continued, rising to her feet. "And the car was found with the driver's door open. We think Porter was dragged out," she pointed to the blood again. "Fell here, possibly already unconscious, and was then carried or dragged to another vehicle."
"When was she last seen?" Dinah asked, her voice low.
"About 8.30 PM, according to the folks in the gym," Montoya jumped in.
Dinah looked around the parking garage, spotting a handful of CCTV cameras perched in corners. "Have you seen the footage from these cameras?"
"Yep," Montoya drawled. "Someone hacked them. The timestamp is correct until about 7.30 PM. Then they switch to a completely different day, playing old footage for about two hours before they flip back to the present. So we got no idea what went down here during those two hours."
"Like the cameras at the Ritz on Christmas Day?" Dinah asked, looking at Essen.
Essen's eyes widened. "Yes," she nodded. "Exactly like that."
"Christmas Day?" Montoya frowned.
"The Joker and Harley Quinn attacked the Ritz," Essen explained. "All the CCTV cameras were taken out for about six hours, showing old footage, just like this. We think they had some kind of hacker working for them. But they haven't been seen in over six months."
"That doesn't mean they won't come back," Dinah pointed out, her eyes drawn to Janice Porter's blood on the concrete. She envisioned the DA being dragged out of her car and kidnapped by Harley's thugs. But why? She looked at Essen again. "Why did you ask me to come here?"
"It was my idea," Montoya admitted gruffly. "DAs mysteriously disappearing? No suspects, no mob, no motive?" She shot Dinah a loaded look. "It all smells pretty fishy, doesn't it? Like maybe it needs a special touch?"
Dinah took a deep breath as she looked around the crime scene again. "Was Porter investigating anyone who might be capable of this?" she asked.
"We spoke to City Hall a few hours ago," Montoya said, pulling a Juul from her blazer and taking a drag off of it. "She was looking into all the big corporations based here in Gotham, trying to root out corruption, according to her colleagues."
"Just doing a clean sweep by all appearances," Essen agreed. "I can't imagine any of them being capable of kidnapping or killing the DA."
"People can surprise you with what they're capable of," Dinah observed grimly.
"I agree," Montoya announced, exhaling a plume of water vapor. "And we shouldn't forget what happened to Gotham's last DA."
"You really think this could be the Joker?" Essen asked dubiously. "This feels way too quiet for him."
"This is always how it starts," Dinah said darkly. "Something that doesn't make sense until it does."
"And by that point, you gotta call in the National Guard," Montoya chuckled darkly. "At least no one can say being a cop in Gotham is boring."
The sun was getting low in the sky when Harley woke up on Samantha's bed, face down on top of the covers, still fully dressed from the night—and morning—before, her cheek sticky with drool. She opened one eye and licked her lips, her mouth as dry as a desert, and her skin slick with boozy-sweat.
She grunted as she forced herself to roll onto her back, deciding she would never take Blue Orchid again. Not because of how she was feeling. As far as she could tell, this was a standard hangover which, by her count, was deserved after whiskey with Bullock, martinis with Reeves, and many, many glasses of gin straight up at the Iceberg Lounge. It seemed BO was even more of a miracle drug if there was no comedown. But there had been a distinct feeling of not being herself when she was high on it that Harley was not fond of with hindsight.
She sat up and kicked off her heels, then unzipped the back of her dress before she pulled the oversized pearls off her aching earlobes. With a great deal of effort, she dragged herself into the kitchen in her underwear and drank water straight from the tap, then yanked another one of Samantha's frozen batch cooked meals out of the freezer. Sweet potato and chickpea curry this time. Harley shoved it in the microwave and stabbed at the defrost button, then leaned against the counter, glowering at the little container rotating around as she recounted the night before.
Dancing for hours on end, drunk and high and giddy and surrounded by a sea of people wearing imaginary warpaint. The club shut around six in the morning, and the DJ closed out his set of 80s pop classics with 'I've Had the Time of My Life' from Dirty Dancing. Harley remembered Lucy's 'favorite' bartender Ed insisting he could lift her over his head, and Harley had eagerly obliged, jumping into his arms just like in the movie. He'd held her up over her head and spun her around, much stronger than he looked, while Harley posed like a gleeful idiot.
There was more she remembered too. She remembered Lucy dropping hints about her mysterious 'boss' and benefactor. She remembered seeing Alberto Falcone selling a massive quantity of BO to Fats Gambol. She remembered a man appearing in the VIP area, staring at her in the sea of people, and smiling as Alberto muttered in his ear. The drugs had made her hallucinate, but this man stood out, the mirage of warpaint shaking around the edges as if the sheer force of his personality could cut through her fever dream.
Damnit.
She grabbed her food out of the microwave and ate absentmindedly as she tried to coax a memory of the man's face out of the recesses of her brain. But the memory was tainted, forever spliced with her hallucination.
Her burner beeped with a text message, and Harley's eyebrows rose when she saw it was from an unknown number.
Drink later? - Sly.
Sly wanted to meet at a dive bar in Midtown, suggesting it was unsafe to meet at any of his usual haunts. Harley grabbed a silk blouse and a pair of tailored navy trousers from Samantha's closet so she would be invisible in the city's financial district. After stepping into some flat loafers, she chucked the contents of her clutch into a shoulder bag and headed for the metro.
Harley wasn't sure what to expect from a dive bar in one of the most expensive parts of town, but when she strolled in, she quickly realized it was a tourist trap. It was a long, narrow bar, claiming to have been open since 1932. Most of the bar stools were occupied by businessmen and women talking with their heads close together, but there were a few delighted-looking people from out of town in the mix too. The walls were covered in photographs from decades past, musicians and actors and boxers and baseball stars from the days when Midtown had at least a vague air of culture.
Harley spotted Sly at the end of the bar, wearing his usual leather trench coat despite the heatwave outside, and sulking over a bottle of Budweiser.
She climbed onto the stool beside him and ordered a beer for the sake of blending in, then looked at him expectantly.
Sly seemed to be struggling to form a sentence, very out of character for him.
"How ya been, doc?" he settled on at last.
"Oh, fine," Harley replied, keeping her voice low as she narrowed her eyes. "Mostly wondering why it took you three weeks to get back to me."
"I got a new number," he said shortly, draining the rest of his beer and waving the bartender down for another one while Harley stared at him.
"Listen," Sly leaned closer so they wouldn't be heard. "I started hearing whispers the last couple days that you were back. So as soon as I found your number, I got in touch."
"What kind of whispers," Harley squinted at him.
"Just that you're back, wanting to know what it means, wondering where you went, shit like that," he said, peeling the label off his bottle of beer, looking uncomfortable.
"And what kind of work are you doing these days, Sly?" Harley asked coldly.
"Same shit, different boss," he muttered, meeting Harley's eye, and she could tell he was trying to convey his loyalty.
"What boss?" she pressed.
"I got no idea," he shook his head. "I get envelopes with instructions in a PO box, then I get cash in the PO box once the job is done." He shook his head again, making a face. "No wise guys, no back alleys, no phones, no nothing. Clean and simple and quiet."
Harley didn't say anything; she just waited for him to continue.
"Listen," Sly leaned in close, really close like he was really nervous about being overheard. "After you left, things went to hell, alright? I'm sure ya heard about the Russians self-imploding and Alexandra Kosov taking over the Eastside, huh?"
"Yes," Harley confirmed as Sly looked over both shoulders before continuing with his story.
"So there's like a month of this after Christmas. I got no employer with all this shit going on, all I got on the table is jobs from that socialist Kosov bitch since she runs most of the muscle in town these days," he complained. "I gotta kid to take care of, ya know? Then I get an offer for a job, something a little more top tier if ya know what I mean, but they say I gotta go in for a chat with the boss's people first. Fair enough, I think. We meet at a warehouse out Oldtown, and I realize too late something ain't right. I mean, I'm used to tense fuckin' situations, doc, you better believe it, workin' for the Joker toughens you up."
Harley stared at Sly as he spoke, seeing how nervous he was. Seeing he was telling the truth, and that he'd been keeping this inside for months.
"They put me in a room with a guy in a suit, wearing a black mask that covers his whole head which, let's face it, ain't so strange in Gotham these days. He says he wants to know about the Joker and Harley Quinn."
Harley's eyebrows rose in surprise. That wasn't what she had been expecting at all.
"I says I don't know nothin', and the last thing I heard was you were starting shit with Alexandra Kosov on Christmas Day, but I don't know nothin' after that," he shifted awkwardly on his stool and took a swig of beer while Harley watched silently. "He says, you gotta kid dontcha, Sly. Billy, Right? wouldn't it be fuckin' sad if something happens to Billy..."
Harley's eyes widened indignantly—no one else was allowed to threaten Sly's kid.
"So what am I supposed to do, he's threatening my fuckin' kid. I says, yeah, I did jobs for the Joker, but I ain't got any idea where he is. He says what kinda jobs, I says, whatever you want, I don't ask questions when the Joker or Harley Quinn want me to do a job. Then he asks me about you two, about your uh... relationship."
Harley grabbed her beer and took a few gulps while Sly kept talking.
"I says whaddya mean, they're together, goin' out, whatever. He wants to know more. He wants the soppy details. He wants to know if the boss loves you. I says you two don't exactly talk about your personal lives with me. I says you two got somethin' special, anyone could see it. He wants to know if Harley Quinn's brainwashed like that Mad Love article..."
"Shit," Harley huffed, gulping down more watery beer as a feeling of foreboding settled in her gut.
"And I'm feelin' a little indignant on your behalf, doc, so I says, fuck no, and I tell him..." Sly hesitated, and Harley knew he had said something he shouldn't have. "I said I saw ya a few times before that all went down. That you killed that wiseguy at the pier, and about killin' Cassamento's wife. I says you were obviously not some innocent little lady back then. He believes me, I think, cause then he asks me about the operation, ya know."
"The operation?" Harley said quietly, her jaw twitching as she watched Sly run a hand over his oiled hair. "Sly... what did you say?"
"I says there ain't no fuckin' operation in the way he's thinkin', that you two just sorta do whatever the fuck you want and guys like me who like the money or crazy ones who don't know what they're doin', we all just fall in line. He says what about safe houses so... I tell him about Marty's place in Gotham Heights. I says you guys have other ones I don't know about, but Gotham Heights is where we meet ya sometimes, though its normally random places around the city."
Harley closed her eyes, thinking about the Joker and all those henchmen sitting in Marty's kitchen, snorting BO and getting shit faced when the safe house was no longer secure.
"Then, doc, then he asks me about how the Joker hacked all that shit about Crowne and Wayne and those fuckers. He wants to know how you guys get on GCN, he wants to know about anyone special you got workin' for you. Now I'm thinkin', thank fuck the Joker never tells me nothin', but he presses me hard, doc, so I say I know you gotta guy that's real technical, that the Joker's always talkin' to him. I say I don't know his name." He met Harley's eye, serious as death.
"Lonnie?" Harley hissed. "He asked you about fucking Lonnie?"
"Fuckin' Lonnie," Sly nodded, not looking away from her. "I swear though doc, I didn't say his fuckin' name, I didn't say nothin'. I just says there's a guy, I don't know him."
"What else did you tell him?" Harley demanded.
"I tells him about Bruno, about Marty, I figure that ain't so bad cause they're dead," Sly shrugged, glancing at Harley to see if this was okay, and she nodded once to confirm he'd done the right thing. "Then he wants to know..." Sly licked his lips quickly. "He wants to know... what it would take to get Harley Quinn to kill the Joker."
"What?" Harley snapped, and Sly threw his hands up like he was equally bewildered.
"I got no fuckin' idea, that's what I tell him. I say it's impossible to predict what you two will do in any given situation, and that's why you're so fuckin' dangerous. And then, ah, doc, then he asks me about Poison Ivy..."
Harley covered her mouth with her hand.
"And again, I ain't got no idea, do I? I stayed away from all that mind control shit. He believes me, I think, then he takes my phone and sends me on my way with a job and some cash to thank me for my fuckin' time."
"Jesus," Harley sighed, running through a list of names and faces, anyone who knew Pam's real name. She thought about Dinah, wherever she was. Could they get to Dinah? Did this extend beyond Gotham?
"Listen, doc," Sly looked around nervously again. "They didn't just shake me down, okay? They tried it with Dough Boy, but he musta not talked cause they whacked him."
"Dough Boy's dead?" Harley's eyes widened.
"He sure fuckin' is. And you better believe they got to some of the other guys. Big Tuna couldn't keep his mouth shut if he tried. The Lemon's a fuckin' asshole. Bambi wouldda cracked as soon as they threatened his mother. All the Grins people are dead. Ralphie, Ginger, Murphey, all of em' cause they knew Marty wouldn't want em' to talk. Anyone fuckin' loyal is dead."
"What about Sergey?" Harley pressed. "Is he alive?"
"Who knows, I wouldn't thought he'd flip but..." Sly sighed and shook his head.
Harley took a deep breath, thinking fast. Then she looked up at Sly. "You need to get your kid and get out of the city."
"Oh, you better fuckin' believe I sent my ex and my kid to her parents in Chicago after this shit started," Sly huffed bitterly.
"You need to leave too," Harley insisted, glancing up and down the bar at the stockbrokers and the tourists. Any of them could be someone else. "Leave tonight. I'm serious. Do you need money?" She started to reach for her bag.
"Alright, alright," Sly agreed, waving her off. "I got plenty of money, don't you worry. At least these assholes pay well, whoever they are."
"Fuck," Harly sighed, running a hand over her hair.
She couldn't tell if she knew more or less after this conversation, but she certainly had more questions. The Blue Orchid. The Iceberg Lounge's renovation. This mysterious boss shaking down anyone close to them, asking for very specific details. Details about their relationship, details about Lonnie and Pam. Then there were the bodies in the Narrows—a conspiracy, Bullock had said.
But what could Harley do? The Joker was surrounded by traitors, though the idea that their moronic henchmen would be able to betray him and get away with it was too ludicrous to entertain. Did that mean he already knew? He had to.
Harley felt like her fingertips were tingling, the need to do something productive making her heart hammer in her throat. There was only one tangible place she could think to start. Bullock's case.
Harley turned to Sly, fixing him with a steely look. "What do you know about dissolving bodies in acid?"
"Eh?" He looked bewildered. "Shit, you mean like the Toad?"
"Who?"
"The Toad, real fuckin' creepy guy Maroni's boys used to use when they wanted someone disappeared forever," Sly explained. "Body disposal of the highest caliber. Very expensive compared to a shallow grave or a cinder block necklace. I only met him once when I had a guy Maroni never wanted found."
"Where can I find him?" Harley demanded, already getting to her feet.
"Uh," Sly scratched his neck, trying to remember. "Downtown near the harbor, it was an old office block at the shipyard, the one that closed down during the depression... But this was three or four years ago, doc..."
"Thanks," Harley said shortly, shouldering her bag and preparing to leave.
"Doc, hang on," Sly called after her.
Harley turned around to see he was offering her a pistol under the bar. She grabbed it and shoved it in her handbag.
"Get out of town. Tonight," she instructed again, waiting for Sly to nod in agreement before she turned and hurried out of the bar.
Outside, the sky was gray, the clouds thick with a thunderstorm. Harley stopped to look over her shoulder at the patrons sitting at the bar, feeling paranoid that someone was watching her. The bartender offered her a smile and wave, which she ignored, spinning on her heel and striding down the street toward the metro.
It took twenty minutes to walk from the metro station to the old shipyard, during which time it started to rain, the clouds above rumbling unhappily. By the time Harley had scaled the chain-link fence circling the abandoned office block, the heavens had opened in a torrential downpour that left her soaking wet. With her clothes sticking to her body and her hair sticking to her face, Harley trudged through the small gravel parking lot toward a small, abandoned office building.
She found a side door and pulled Sly's gun out of her bag before she staggered into the stale-smelling building. It was almost pitch black inside, so Harley grabbed Pam's phone and turned on its flashlight function, then edged carefully through the building's ground floor, passing old cubicles and meeting rooms, the single beam of light from the phone bouncing on long-abandoned desks and office chairs.
Then, faintly, she could hear opera music. She scraped her wet hair off her face with the back of her arm, bracing herself as she weaved through the cubicles. The music led her to a supply closet at the back of the office block, its door propped open, a dim orange light emanating from below.
Harley tucked Pam's phone away so she could use both hands on the gun—she was a god awful shot, so being quiet enough to get close was essential. She peered into the closet, finding a narrow flight of stairs leading down into a basement, the opera squalling as someone shuffled around, tending to their work. Harley kicked off her sodden shoes and laid her bag on the ground, then crept down the stone steps.
It smelled awful. Like burnt hair and old blood. Most of the small space was taken up with plastic tubs full of steaming liquid, a lifeless hand covered in acid burns flopping over the lip of one as it bubbled and popped.
Harley could only assume the man tending to the acid baths was the Toad; short, obese, and wearing scrubs beneath a leather apron. As she crept up behind him, she spotted a small radio blaring opera next to the chemistry set, and Harley turned the volume down as she pressed the barrel of her gun against the back of the Toad's reddened neck.
"Uh oh," he said, sounding amused, not nervous.
"Turn around," Harley said calmly, and once he did, she could see why people called him the Toad. His face was flat and his mouth wide and flabby, with weak lips and a fantastic set of jowls, his eyes pink and milky.
"What can I do for you, madame," the Toad asked, his voice low and warbly.
"I'm here for information," Harley said, keeping her gun trained on his face.
"I do not give out my clients details," the Toad replied, proudly.
"I'm not here for your clients," Harley snapped. "I'm thinking about starting up a business of my own," she improvised, eyeing the hand slipping into the tub of acid. "Where can I get a starter kit?"
"Hydrofluoric acid, you mean?" The Toad lifted an amused eyebrow. "For an amateur, that is a good place to start."
"I assume it's not something you can buy off the internet?" Harley deadpanned.
"You are correct, madam," he nodded, his jowls quivering. "It is something you can purchase from certain specialist retailers."
"And do we have any specialist retailers here in Gotham?" Harley asked coldly. When the Toad didn't reply, she pressed the barrel of her gun against his forehead, letting it make her point for her.
The Toad chuckled, his eyes rolling up to look at the gun. "Very well. Are you familiar with Texas Joe's Body Shop?"
"Oh, yes," Harley growled. "Texas Joe sells hydrofluoric acid?"
"Correct," the Toad nodded, looking pleased with himself. "He is—"
Harley shot him before he could finish the thought, a jet of blood shooting out of the back of his skull in the wake of the bullet, and he fell to the ground with a meaty thump.
That was more than enough, and Harley was ready to get the fuck out of that stinky little basement. She raced up the stone steps and stomped back out into the rain.
Thirty minutes later, after hotwiring the Toad's powder blue VW bug, Harley screeched to a stop outside Texas Joe's Body Shop under the east side of the Midtown Bridge. It was still raining hard, loud claps of thunder joined by bursts of lightning as she stomped through the rain into the garage.
Texas Joe immediately knew he was in trouble, pleading with Harley as she backed him up against the wall and got in his face.
"I don't know nothin' I swear!" he protested.
"You don't know nothin' about what?" Harley snapped.
"About anything!" Texas Joe wailed, his dirty white beard quivering, his rosy cheeks growing darker.
"But you don't seem surprised to see me," Harley spat, cocking her head to the side as she pressed Sly's gun to his jowls, forcing his head back. "Why is that, Joe? Have you heard whispers too?"
"Please, doc, please," he begged pathetically, making Harley roll her eyes. God, he could do with spending some time in Guadalajara with the Penitente Cartel.
But Texas Joe was now suitably scared, which meant he wouldn't lie to her.
Harley took a step back, her expression glacial. "Have you sold any hydrofluoric acid lately?"
"Huh?" Joe looked bewildered as he scrambled to reply. "Uh... yeah, actually, yeah."
He seemed to puff up a little bit, hopeful that if he could be helpful, he wouldn't be killed or maimed.
"Who's buying it?" Harley raised an eyebrow.
"I dunno," he shrugged helplessly. "They leave the money for me, and I have it delivered."
Harley remembered what Sly had said—no wiseguys, no phones, no back alleys, just clean and simple. She ground her teeth.
"Give me the address," she demanded.
The address was in the Narrows, and Harley was shocked to learn it was a warehouse overlooking the same docks where the bodies first started showing up. It was outrageously brazen.
The storm was still in full force when Harley climbed out of the VW Bug, rain pounding into the street as lightning cracked overhead. Her blouse had become see-through, plastered to her like a second skin while Samantha's trousers grew heavy and waterlogged, dragging her down. Her bones felt wet.
Harley darted across the street to the docks' entrance and peered up at the massive warehouse beside it. She took note that the windows on the top floor on the left side were open, and after some searching, she found a side door and slipped inside. She took a moment to wring her hair out before she hunted down the stairwell and jogged to the top, anticipation starting to sweep through her. Confronting minions like the Toad or Texas Joe was hardly worth getting excited over, but she had no idea what awaited her at the top of these stairs. Hopefully, something to give her some answers.
At the top of the stairwell, she found a sliding steel door with a keypad locking mechanism. But the door stood ajar, not locked. There was a clap of thunder outside, cutting through the constant pounding of rain as Harley rolled her shoulders back and took a deep breath, preparing herself. Then she threw the sliding door open, sending it crashing into the wall with a CLANG! that echoed around her, and Harley's eyes widened incredulously.
It was immediately apparent that there was much, much more she didn't understand as her eyes jumped around the room, taking in the operation set up there. But all of that was relegated to the back of her mind for later inspection.
Casually draped across an old chesterfield sofa in the middle of the room was the Joker, and sitting beside him in a matching armchair was Dr Jonathan Crane.
Harley's eyes darted between them, her jaw working until she found her voice again.
"What the fuck is this!" she demanded.
A/N: BAH-BAH-BAHHHHHHH.
I LOVE how half of you guessed the Joker was behind the bodies, and the other half guessed Crane. I sense some of you are Breaking Bad fans and caught the 'Easter egg' with Frost buying the container.
But who saw our first reluctant bad guy team-up coming down the pipeline?! Any of you lurkers? Oh, that's right. There is more than one team-up on the way!
Fact Check: You can actually buy Hydrofluoric acid off the internet, but: storytelling.
Admin note: "BO" is pronounced "B.O."... like body odor… my terrible little joke.
Next: Dr Jonathan Crane recounts his reluctant partnership (read: bromance) with the Joker.
Please comment and review!