Previously: Harley has started to suspect Hamilton Hill is tied to the big boss. Arthur Reeves sets up a meeting between his prep-school buddy Roman Sionis and Harley and the Joker, who are not currently on the best of terms.
Theme: David Bowie - 'D.J.'
The Pantomime
07.
Harley barely slept, her mind bouncing between her fight with the Joker, their imminent meeting with Reeves' Wall Street friend, and the fact that she had the big boss's men stalking her, maybe even waiting outside her front door that very minute to see what kind of move she would make.
It reminded her again of what Sly told her, reinforcing her gut feeling that there was something personal about all of this, though she couldn't pinpoint what exactly it meant . Being followed and having questions asked about her by some mysterious mob boss? It left her feeling uneasy and a little bit helpless, which in turn made her more determined to take control of the situation. Although she wasn't quite sure how she would go about doing that yet.
She eventually found sleep, and when she woke up the next afternoon, exhausted and unrested, she was relieved to find the Joker and Crane were gone.
The Joker's accusation that she'd been out-smarted by Reeves haunted her. She replayed every moment she'd spent in Arthur Reeves' company, searching for holes in his story or things she may have missed. It made her question herself and her instincts, which she'd foolishly believed were never wrong. If she couldn't trust her instincts, what did she even have left? If Reeves was a plant and she'd fallen for his bullshit hook, line, and sinker, that meant the big boss had already outmaneuvered her. It meant she'd lost the first battle in what was beginning to feel like a war.
Harley was not accustomed to losing, and feeling helpless or questioning herself was even harder to accept. She needed to take back control. She needed to find the big boss.
She spent the remainder of the day working out and cleaning Samantha's apartment to distract herself, including reorganizing the closet, which led to the discovery of a fantastic pair of flat thigh-high leather boots that looked just like a pair she'd lost track of.
Eventually, Harley plucked up the courage to go for a run, but once outside, she was dismayed to find a BMW waiting on the other side of the street. There were two men in the front seat watching her, and Harley couldn't tell if they were unabashedly brazen or just unfathomably incompetent.
When it was time to get ready, she found herself standing in front of Samantha's closet again, staring blindly at the dresses hanging there. Eventually, she grabbed the red dress she'd worn the night before, pairing it with black stilettos that would make an adequate weapon if things went sideways.
Once she was dressed, she examined her pale face in the mirror above Samantha's vanity, and grabbed a brown paper bag with three pots of greasepaint inside. Painting her face was second nature to her now, one that didn't require a mirror. It was something she usually enjoyed because it meant action was on the horizon instead of more waiting or negotiating or investigating or sneaking. But it meant none of those things this time, leaving Harley feeling pinched and depressed.
Frost texted her when he was outside, and after hesitating for too long, Harley grabbed the paper bag of paint and headed out. She and the Joker would need to present a united front no matter what was going on with them. With too many people interested in their relationship, it was dangerous for there to be any daylight between them.
She kept her head down as she jogged down the front steps where Frost was waiting with the shiny black town car. Harley ducked into the backseat, her heart sinking when she found it empty.
"The boss is gonna meet us uptown," Frost explained as Harley flopped into the seat and pulled her door shut, looking miserable and sulky, she was sure.
"Great," she said drily, folding her arms and looking out the window, her whole body feeling clenched.
Frost pulled away from the curb, and Harley could feel him looking at her in the rearview mirror.
"Can I help you with something?" she snapped irritably.
"We gotta tail, doc," he explained quietly, seriously. "You want me to shake em'?"
Harley sighed and ran her hand over her face, inadvertently dragging black greasepaint over her temple and into her hairline. "What's the point?"
They got off the freeway Uptown and headed south, eventually coming to a stop at the corner of Robinson Park. No sooner had the car rolled to a stop, the backdoor flew open, and the Joker folded his long body inside, a cigarette pinched between his lips. Frost took off before the car door was even closed, and an awkward silence settled between the three of them.
Harley glanced at the Joker when he turned to flick the butt of his cigarette out the window. His face wasn't painted, and he was still wearing the black suit she'd seen him in for days. She shoved the brown bag across the seat, not looking at him as he fished through it and set about applying his warpaint in silence.
That was how the whole drive went. Their awkward silence, the BMW creeping along behind them, Harley sulking while the Joker fidgeted and smoked. He wasn't even bothering to be a dick to her, which was assuredly worse. It occurred to Harley that they should have compared notes or had some kind of conversation to prepare themselves, but she couldn't bring herself to, not knowing what kind of response she would get.
Frost pulled the town car into the alley behind the Tobacconist's, Club, where a butler wearing a coat and tails was waiting at the backdoor. Harley took a deep breath to clear her head, trying to push away her depressed mood so she could concentrate. She needed to observe, to collect data, to understand where all these people fell into place.
The Joker climbed out of the car in his usual ungraceful fashion, slamming the door and catching Harley's eye as he loped around the hood to stand beside her.
"Good evening," the butler greeted them with a nod, unphased that he had the Joker and Harley Quinn in front of him, both obviously in terrible moods which should have scared the shit out of him. "This way, please," he added mildly, pushing the back door open and gesturing for them to enter.
Suspicion prickled at the back of Harley's neck as she stepped into the club, finding herself in a mahogany-paneled hallway with a black and white tiled floor and crystal sconces emanating a warm glow. Something in her gut twisted uneasily, warning her to be careful. But then the Joker pushed past her, forcing her to speed walk behind him to keep up.
There was an elevator at the end of the dimly lit hallway, the only apparent exit at this otherwise dead end. The Joker slammed his fist against the call button, his jaw twitching and shoulders rolling, the tension making him eager to do something brash and chaotic.
Harley stepped into the lift after him, then promptly turned around so she wouldn't have to look at him as the elevator began to lower. She glanced at the keypad, which only had one button labeled "Vanderbilt Bar", and beside that, a keyhole without a label. Harley squinted at it for a moment, wondering what floor that keyhole would take them too, and what they would find there.
But then the elevator came to a stop, and the doors parted, and Harley's curiosity over unlabelled keyholes vanished.
The Vanderbilt Bar was a private room with the same aesthetic as the rest of the Tobacconist's Club; rich wood paneling, mosaic-tiled floors, glittering sconces, and buttery brown leather furnishings. There was a small but fully stocked bar across from the elevator, with two stools in front of it. Perched on one of the stools was a stunning blonde woman wearing a lavender mini dress, a matching beret resting jauntily on her sleek 1960s-style bob.
Behind the bar stood an odd-looking but attractive man, with large, deep-set eyes and high cheekbones, his curly black hair cut short on the sides and floppy on top. He wore a white polo shirt and khakis, and he was pouring top-shelf gin into a cocktail shaker. They both looked like old-fashioned caricatures of country club elitism, frozen in time.
"Oh, wow, hey," the odd-looking man greeted them with a smile. "I'm so happy you guys made it."
Harley immediately looked up at the Joker, who had turned to look down at her, their painted faces unmoving as they silently agreed this was really… weird.
"Come on in, don't be scared," the man encouraged affably. "I'm Roman," he added, laying a hand over his heart before he gestured to the blonde wearing a beret. "And this is my fiance, Circe."
Circe waggled her fingers at them, beaming silently.
Harley looked between Roman and Circe, every instinct she possessed telling her to be on her guard no matter how harmless they looked. But it seemed her instincts might not have been as good as she'd believed them to be, so she hesitated, frozen with indecision until the Joker gave her a gentle (for him) push to get her moving out of the elevator.
"Can I get you a drink?" Roman asked, turning his affable smile on the Joker and pointing a finger at him. "Let me guess," he grabbed a bottle of brown liquor off the shelf and held it up. "You're a bourbon guy."
The Joker didn't say anything, but Harley could feel his incessant fidgeting had stopped. She didn't have to look at him to know he was glowering at Roman, his entire body coiled tight like a cobra ready to strike if given half an opening. She had been on the receiving end of that glare and knew just how hard it was to ignore, but Roman seemed unfazed.
"How about you?" Roman asked Harley, stirring the contents of the cocktail shaker. "Circe loves a good martini. Extra dry, right, honey?"
Circed beamed lovingly at Roman but didn't say anything, and Harley ground her teeth, thinking if noonr ever offered her a dry martini ever again, it would be too soon.
She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, savoring the familiar taste of greasepaint before she walked up to the bar. She narrowed her eyes at Roman, simply observing him, trying to decide if this nice-guy schtick was naivety or a performance. He smiled back at her patiently and poured the contents of the cocktail shaker into three crystal coup glasses, then pushed one toward her.
"So," he said, sipping his drink while Harley ignored hers, still staring at him intently. "What do I call you? Dr Quinzel? Ms Quinn? Harley?"
"I don't care what you call me," Harley replied, her voice low and steady.
"Harley it is," Roman offered her a more subdued grin, then looked at the Joker, who had slithered up behind her. "I hear Arthur calls you Mr J," Roman folded his arms over his chest. They were lean and well-toned, lightly tanned like he'd been on vacation recently. "Do you mind if I call you that or…"
The Joker laid his hand on the small of Harley's back, his thumb tapping against her spine firmly and rhythmically like a metronome, an outlet for the restless energy coursing through him. He was having a hard time reading these strange people too, Harley realized.
"Alright then, I guess we should get down to business," Roman clapped his hands together, smiling at Harley. "Arthur says he told you about my work?"
"Reeves," Harley hummed after a beat, turning to look at Circe, who was still smiling dreamily at Roman. "He says you work for Hill, and your clients are dictators and terrorists."
"Ah, God," Roman shook his head, feigning sheepishness. "And that's why Arthur isn't our PR guy!" he laughed.
Harley's eyes lingered on Circe a moment longer before she braced both her elbows on the bar and leaned forward, squinting at Roman thoughtfully.
He smiled back at her and waited for her to speak.
"What do you want?" Harley asked crisply.
"I have a job for you," Roman's smile dimmed to something more business-like. "Arthur isn't wrong about our business. We do work with some… unsavory people. The kind of people you wouldn't want to be associated with as the Mayor of Gotham."
"Right," Harley agreed flatly.
"Our work is completely legal," Roman continued. "We pay our taxes, we don't engage in any foreign lobbying without consent from the US government. We simply advise our clients based on their best interests, and unfortunately, that sometimes means doing business with people the American media might find… distasteful."
"People like us?" Harley raised her eyebrows.
"Sure," Roman shrugged easily. "Some might call this colluding with terrorists. I see it as… thinking outside of the box."
"How progressive of you," Harley sneered.
Roman laughed and folded his tanned arms again, studying Harley's face like she was something fascinating. He cocked his head to the side and hummed thoughtfully, his eyes drifting over her silvery hair, his smile growing.
His eyes were unsettlingly large and strangely vacant, his eyelashes long and dark, almost girlish.
Harley's face darkened to an ugly scowl. The way he was looking at her made her feel strangely… Vulnerable.
"Here's the deal," Roman said candidly, bracing his hands on the shelf beneath the bar and leaning forward, speaking directly to Harley as if the Joker wasn't there. "Hamilton's going to be Gotham's next Mayor. All of our polling indicates that'll be the outcome of the election." He pressed his hand to his chest, his expression turning sympathetic, or at least a well-honed imitation of it. "What I'm concerned about are… investigations into our business. Everyone signs a non-disclosure agreement, but all it takes are a few questions from Commissioner Akins, and we'll have the media sniffing around."
"Commissioner Akins?" Harley cocked her head to the side. "You're worried the GCPD will look into Hill Consulting's morally-dubious business practice?"
"Morally dubious," Roman chuckled incredulously. "That's funny coming from you. But yes, I'd like you to bring Commissioner Akins in for us."
"You want us to kidnap the police commissioner?" Harley tipped her chin down and raised her eyebrows. "That's the job?"
"Please understand," Roman laid his hand over his heart again, projecting earnest-ness that felt like bullshit to Harley. "Hamilton is like a father to me. I don't want to see him slandered in the press. It would be such a waste to have his first term as Mayor muddied by investigations."
"Alright, why can't we kill Akins?" Harley shrugged one shoulder. "No muss, no fuss."
"We'd like to have a conversation with Mr Akins first," Roman offered her a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "To cover our bases."
"Right," Harley squinted at him. "To cover your bases."
"Let me tell you what I'd like to see," Roman continued, his tone suggesting he frequently got what he wanted. "Ideally, you'd make it obvious it was you. You know," he waved his hand at them. "In your style, so to speak."
"Our style? " Harley lifted one disbelieving eyebrow.
"Sure," Roman nodded. "It's not like anyone's going to catch you, right? If it's clear it's you, then we won't have any unhelpful questions asked."
He waited for Harley to say something, his eyebrows rising expectantly.
"What are you offering in return?" Harley asked coldly.
"What do you want?" Roman's expression softened as he caught Harley's eye. "I'll give you anything you want if I can," he promised her gently. "Anything that's in my power to give you."
The soft, almost tender way Roman was looking at her made something icy and uneasy slide across Harley's shoulder blades. And the longer she stared into his large, unsettling eyes, the more she came to believe he honestly would give her whatever she wanted, whatever was in his power to give. Harley could see he was genuine, and she began to wonder what he could give her, and at what price…
She took a deep breath, her curiosity morphing into outright suspicion before she could follow that train of thought any further. She turned to glare at Circe, meeting her heavily made-up eyes.
"I want her dress," Harley announced
Roman's face lit up like he'd won the lottery.
"Alright," he grinned, looking impressed, and very pleased. Then he turned to Circe, his eyebrows raising expectantly. "Honey, you heard her."
Circe grinned at them as she climbed off her stool and reached behind her head to unzip her dress. She shimmied out of it quickly, leaving her standing in old-fashioned, cream-colored lingerie, including a lacy garter belt holding up flesh-colored stockings. She folded the dress into eighths and handed it to Harley, offering her a pretty smile, then stood back and crossed her arms over her chest, rolling her eyes up girlishly, feigning modesty.
Harley grit her teeth, uncertain what she was seeing, but suspicious of all of it.
"Okay," Roman clapped resolutely, looking between Harley and the Joker while Circe hopped back up on her stool. "Are we good?"
Harley looked up at the Joker, and they silently agreed it was time to get the fuck out of there.
"Yes," she confirmed, meeting Roman's eye for a lingering moment before she turned to follow the Joker into the elevator.
"Oh, Harley?" Roman called after her, prompting Harley to look back over her shoulder. "Please don't be upset that Arthur told me about your… friendship," he offered her that imitation of sympathy again. "He's my oldest friend, and I could tell he was hiding something. I actually thought he was cheating on Helen if you can believe it!"
He laughed softly, and Harley's eyes narrowed to a squint.
She didn't know what game Roman was playing, but it was definitely a game, and that was clearer than anything yet.
"Helen's pregnant, you see," Roman continued. "I wouldn't want anything to upset her right now."
Harley said nothing as she stared back at Roman, still failing to get a read on him. His smile softened again as if he saw something in her that made him feel… content .
Then the elevator doors snapped shut, startling Harley enough to make her jump. She stared at the closed doors as the elevator started to rise, trying to understand what had just happened, and after a moment, she turned around, widening her eyes at the Joker.
"Cameras," he muttered, looking up at the top corner of the elevator, and flashing the CCTV camera there a wry smirk.
"Right," Harley murmured. She looked down at the lavender dress in her hands, feeling rattled.
They stepped out of the lift together, and strode back down the hall, ignoring the butler as they escaped out into the alley and dove into the town car. Frost already had the engine running, and once they pulled out of the alley, the BMW that had been tailing them earlier immediately slid into place behind them.
Harley looked at the Joker, finding his eyes in the dark backseat. His jaw was tense, his teeth grinding together.
"What the hell was that ?" she sputtered.
"They were fucking with us," the Joker growled, baring his teeth. " That came from the big boss."
"We don't know that," Harley pointed out, prompting the Joker to shoot her a truly dubious look. "They could just be entitled assholes who think they can get away with anything," she insisted weakly. "We don't have all the facts yet."
"Oh, the facts ," the Joker rolled his eyes. "You really think that little performance was about keeping their reputations clean?"
Harley's eyebrows knit together as she tried to find the right answer. American consulting firms working with bad actors abroad wasn't a job for the GCPD—that was for the CIA or FBI to deal with.
"But why?" Harley demanded. "Why would the big boss want Akins? And why do they want us to be the ones to do it in our style ?"
The Joker pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his suit jacket and popped one between his lips, his forehead creasing as he retrieved a zippo from his pocket. It was the silver-plated zippo from the mercenary in El Salvador, Harley realized, her eyes widening as a long flame leapt to life. She was sure he'd lost it or cast it aside, but nope, there it was, still on his person.
"It's... a test ," the Joker sneered, catching Harley's eye, reminding her of the situation at hand. " Just like Porter was."
"A test for what ?" Harley sighed, frustration over not understanding making her chest feel tight. "What does the boss want from us?" she scowled.
It seemed the Joker didn't have an answer to that. He flopped back in his seat, smoking quietly, his leg bouncing restlessly while he eyed Harley across the car.
She realized then that he agreed with her—that this was personal. Finding the big boss wasn't about getting ahead of the Batman for him anymore. This was self-preservation now.
"And what was wrong with that woman?" Harley pivoted, holding up Circe's lavender dress. "She didn't speak once."
"Mm," the Joker seemed to agree.
"I couldn't get a read on him at all," Harley admitted, remembering the intensity of Roman's unsettling eyes. He had been singularly focused on her as if they were alone, without their significant others there. She thought about his soft smiles and his promise that he would give her anything she wanted. She looked at the Joker, feeling lost. "What do we do?"
" Don't ," he snapped, waving his cigarette at her. "Don't do that."
Harley took a deep breath and nodded slowly. Worrying was not something that burdened the Joker, and as per usual, she found his predication for rising above the politics of human beings reassuring, helping her shoulders relax a fraction as she slumped in her seat.
"Let's give the big boss what he paid for," the Joker purred, his tongue flicking over his bottom lip as he nodded to the purple dress. "See what turns up."
"I hate this," Harley announced miserably. "I hate this… sneaking around and not knowing what the hell is going on."
"Yeah... I know ya do," the Joker drawled, sounding annoyed as he looked out the window. "You just can't help yourself."
Harley turned to stare at him, her heartbeat bouncing in her throat. "What the fuck does that mean, J?" she demanded.
The Joker grumbled something under his breath, something about women , making Harley's blood boil, making her forget how calming she found him. But before she could reply, he swung around to face her squarely.
"It means you can't let anything go," he snapped, his eyes boring into hers like two black pits. "You always gotta know everything , so you can control everything, and not knowing drives… you… crazy ."
"You mean like not knowing you're roommates with Jonathan Crane?" Harley shot back.
" Yep ," he was staring into her eyes intently, trying to make her understand something.
Harley was on the verge of snapping something cruel when it hit her what he was trying to say. That he didn't tell her about Crane because she would have insisted on getting involved one way or another, regardless of Crane's visceral disdain for her.
Confused, Harley flopped back in her seat and sat there silently, feeling rattled in a way she couldn't remember feeling before as they took the exit for Otisberg.
She understood what the Joker wanted to do. He wanted to play the long game, the subtle game just as the big boss was doing. He wanted to see this play out, which was why he'd gone to Lucy and kidnapped Janice Porter for her, and why he'd agreed to meet Roman. It was why he was using Crane to help him find the big boss via the drugs and the poppies. He wanted the big picture before they made a move.
Harley looked out the back windscreen as they pulled onto Samantha's street, the BMW parking just two spots behind them.
The Joker started to get out of the car when Harley stopped him.
"Wait," she said, and he swung back around to squint at her owlishly. "It doesn't make sense for us to… pretend anymore," Harley said, feeling like her organs had turned to lead as she gestured between them. "You know, about… this ."
The Joker stared back at her blankly, not blinking, not moving, but definitely understanding what she was saying.
"Whatever they want from us, we're more dangerous together," Harley continued, staring at the back of Frost's seat so she wouldn't have to look at the Joker. "That's what they want. That's what I'm letting Lucy believe, and that's what she'll be telling the big boss."
He continued to stare at her as she studiously refused to look at him. But when she pushed her door open and started to climb out, the Joker grabbed her wrist, squeezing it hard enough to make the tiny bones grind together as he yanked her back into the car.
Harley sighed miserably as she bounced back in her seat, meeting his gaze reluctantly.
"Crane can't stand you," he growled, making Harley's eyes widen. "He wouldda turned on us the second you got involved, so I kept you out of it."
He searched her face intently, and Harley stared back at him, realizing he was again trying to explain himself and why he'd hidden Crane from her.
But regardless of what he had intended, he'd lied to her. He'd betrayed the fundamental trust their relationship was built on.
Harley tried to pull her hand free from his, and he held on a moment longer before letting her go.
"That wasn't your decision to make," she said softly, shooting him one last miserable look before she climbed out of the car and pushed the door shut.
She took a deep breath as she crossed the street, looking back over her shoulder to watch the town car slide away.
She glanced at the BMW to see if it would follow them, its occupants well aware the Joker would still be inside, but the BMW remained where it was.
The big boss wasn't interested in the Joker, Harley realized then.
This was about her.
Wayne Manor was ridiculous. That was the only word for it. It was overwhelmingly large and mostly vacant, its three occupants confining themselves to two or three common rooms and their bedrooms in the East Wing, which was itself a sprawling constellation of luxurious rooms.
Bruce's bedroom was at least the size of Vicki's entire apartment, if not bigger. The first night she stayed over, she made a joke about stealing a pillowcase to pay her rent, and he'd laughed it off, looking uneasy. Now a few months later, Vicki still wasn't used to the opulence and finery, but when she was with Bruce, she was too content with his company to care how obscenely big the bed they were sharing was, or that the art on the wall cost more than her annual salary. When she was with Bruce, she was happy and relaxed, and she couldn't stop smiling.
For the past twenty-four hours, she'd done little else but obsess over her conversation with Lois Lane, and it was only when she showed up on Bruce's doorstep the night before that she finally felt a sense of calm.
Now early morning sunlight was streaming through his bedroom window, making Vicki's pale blonde hair glow like a halo as Bruce hooked one muscly arm around her and pulled her against his side. She ran her fingers down his chest, tracing a sprawling purple bruise below his left collarbone that looked fresh and painful.
"Did Dinah give you this one too?" she teased, tipping her head back to smile up at him.
"Uh, yeah," he chuckled awkwardly. "She's training in jiu-jitsu, and I'm her test dummy."
"I think it's sweet you two train together," Vicki beamed at him. "Even if she does kick your ass and leave you covered in bruises."
"She has a lot of rage," Bruce replied drily, threading his fingers through Vicki's and pulling her hand away from the bruise.
"I don't think she likes me," Vicki admitted, making a face.
"She likes you, she just has some... trust issues," he explained, frowning. "She was on her own for so long, it's like she expects everyone to turn on her."
Vicki bit her lip as she snuggled into Bruce's side. The story she'd been given about where Dinah Pennyworth came from was full of holes, but she sensed there was a degree of protecting Dinah's privacy in those missing pieces. She was Alfred's niece but she wasn't British, and after her parents disappeared for unknown reasons, she'd spent time on the streets of Gotham. Somehow, about a year earlier, she'd reconnected with Alfred, and Bruce had welcomed his butler's niece into his home with open arms. Vicki was curious but not curious enough to pry any deeper than that.
"She's really protective of you," she pointed out, watching Bruce's frown deepen. "It's obvious how much she loves you."
Bruce laughed softly, looking bewildered.
"I guess she does," he agreed, as if this was a revelation to him, making Vicki's smile grow.
"What does she want to be when she grows up?" she asked, shifting back on the pillow so she could look up at him, and Bruce sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.
"If I can get her to agree to go to college, that'd be a start," he shrugged mildly. "After that, who knows."
"Maybe business school?" Vicki smirked. "Does she have aspirations to be on the board of Wayne Enterprises one day?"
"God, no. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy," Bruce wrinkled his nose, making Vicki chuckle. "Half the board hates me and wants to see John Daggett in charge," he added, rolling his eyes.
The laughter died in Vicki's throat, the calm contentment she was feeling immediately stepping aside to make way for the oh-so-familiar, raging curiosity.
"John Daggett?" she asked, keeping her voice light as she propped herself up on her elbow. "Why would the board of Wayne Enterprises want John Daggett running things?"
"Money," Bruce shot her a knowing look. "When I bought a controlling interest in the company, I made some changes to the way we do business and who we're willing to do business with. That made some of their pocketbooks feel lighter."
"How much lighter?" Vicki narrowed her eyes, but Bruce just shrugged helplessly.
"I couldn't put a number on it," he admitted. "But I know half the board is loyal to my parents' vision of Gotham— my vision of Gotham—and the other half are loyal to their bank accounts. They think I'm holding the company hostage."
"So how does John Daggett factor in?" Vicki frowned, making Bruce's eyebrows raise, surprised that she was questioning him on what he probably saw as a throwaway comment.
"Well... I'm no expert," he said, eyeing Vicki curiously, almost warily. "But I've been told John's pretty aggressively buying up shares of the company to get himself a seat on the board." He shrugged. "We're still privately-owned, so it'll take a lot more than his pocketbook to make that happen. But half the board would love to see John break us up and put us back together again under Daggett Industries."
"Wow," Vicki's eyes widened. "Break up Wayne Enterprises? Like, liquidate it and reappropriate as part of Daggett's portfolio?"
"Uh… I'm no expert," Bruce said again with an uneasy smile, and Vicki could tell he was refraining from laying on some of that smug billionaire shit he used to cover himself when he was hiding something. "But my understanding is it would take Wayne Enterprises going bankrupt to make it possible, and that isn't happening anytime soon." He forced a smile. "Not while people still want to buy our fancy cell phones and cheap Chinese imports."
Vicki frowned thoughtfully, her eyes drawn to the bruise below Bruce's collarbone again. She realized it looked like a bruise from something very tiny and very fast, like a bullet striking a kevlar vest, not a fist.
She looked up at Bruce. "What do you know about Roman Sionis?"
Bruce seemed genuinely taken aback for a moment. "Roman Sionis?"
"Yeah," Vicki nodded eagerly. "He's a consultant at Hill, and I think he consults for Daggett. He might be the one advising him to make these hyper-aggressive moves."
"Uh," Bruce shifted uncomfortably. "Tommy and I went to school with Roman when we were kids. We were all in the same year, Arthur Reeves too," he explained awkwardly. "But I haven't seen him in years."
He was hiding something. Vicki could smell it.
"Where's all this interest in Daggett and Roman coming from?" Bruce asked warily, and Vicki sighed, deciding not to push him any further than she already had.
"I interviewed Hill for the magazine," she explained with a shrug, flopping back on the pillow and frowning at the ceiling. "The other night I found an expose from the Daily Planet basically accusing Hill of courting dictators. His lawyers had it retracted and threatened the journalist."
"That sounds like Hill Consulting," Bruce said darkly. "One of the reasons I'm so unpopular with the board is I fired Hill's consultants. They were advising us to do some very profitable but morally bankrupt things."
"Daggett's his biggest donor," Vicki continued, glancing at Bruce. "By about half a million dollars."
"Half a million dollars?" Bruce's eyes widened incredulously. "For a mayoral election?"
"Exactly," Vicki squinted at the crown molding framing the ceiling. "There's a bigger story there, I just don't know what it is yet."
"Are you going to go after it?" Bruce asked, sounding concerned.
"I don't know," Vicki admitted, closing her eyes for a moment before she looked up at Bruce and offered him a smile. "Right now I just want to enjoy being with you."
His face split into a goofy grin that made Vicki's heart soar, helping her forget about Daggett and Hill and Sionis and even Harley Quinn.
Ed was pretty sure there was nothing like a lunchtime robbery, especially feeling as refreshed and fancy as he did right now. It had been his night off, so he went on a date with a charming gentleman of about fifty. This man—married, kids, successful, rich, nervous —had obviously been swimming in vagina for years when what he really wanted was something much more substantial . And he'd been so appreciative, basically worshipping Ed, and Ed loved nothing more than being worshipped. It was miles better than the sex itself.
And , the gentleman slipped Ed a thousand dollars to keep his mouth shut—it really didn't get much better than that.
Money was always a problem for Ed, forcing him to keep his shitty bar shifts at the Iceberg Lounge while he freelanced for Alexandra Kosov whenever she had a job for him, which had become increasingly rare as the city cleaned itself up. It wasn't until Ed discovered how his performance as the Riddler could be lucrative that he started raking in the cash, which seemed to fly right out the window as soon as it came in.
But Ed's love of performing was quickly overtaking his love of money. It was that intoxicating, satisfying moment when his victims realized who he was. It was the look on their faces when they tried to understand what he meant appearing the way he did. It was the way the media and all their little sheep subscribers fretted over what he wanted from them.
Ed was still trying to figure out those things too. For now, attention—or more accurately, love , because what was the difference really—and money were more than enough reasons to keep performing.
So with fresh money in his pocket courtesy of the closeted boomer, Ed took himself to Saks for brunch and some light shopping. Green snakeskin loafers from Dior, oversized sunglasses from Chanel, a fantastic new bowler hat from Burberry. With his new packages swinging from his arms, Ed headed to the Conservatory of Modern Art in Midtown with his white Gucci blazer in all its delicious double-breasted glory slung over his shoulder. He'd worn it for a job a few months earlier, and one didn't want to repeat oneself, but the shoulder pads were iconic , the wide-legged trousers so achingly beautiful , and wearing white Gucci made Ed feel so fabulous he could sing.
He stopped in the bathroom on the second floor of the Conservatory to freshen up, changing into his new loafers and using the paint gun stashed in his satchel to apply a perfect black rectangle over his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He shrugged on his blazer and dropped the new Burberry bowler hat on his head with the sunglasses as a final touch. Then he whistled cheerfully as he checked the magazine on a modified automatic a Russian arms dealer working for Alexandra had sourced for him. Apparently, it was the same gun preferred by Harley Quinn herself.
And one did want to give a nod to those who came before.
Then it was time for the show.
De Kooning's "Gotham News" hung behind plate glass on the Conservatory's second floor. Ed strode up to it, humming a tune stuck in his head as he examined the multimedia portrait. It was the perfect piece to round out this adventure in high-brow , and it was worth 15 million at auction.
But before doing anything else, Ed pinned his message to the wall.
It was funny how the sheep thought he was giving them clues. They just couldn't keep his name out of their mouths.
And that was all Ed really wanted.
He wanted to see them consumed by him.
We ache to impress and leave you wanting more
Man and beast and things not found on these shores
If we don't make you laugh, you leave us feeling blue
Not just the clowns, but the rest of us too
What are we?
Harley's day started with a list. She liked lists, they helped her organize her thoughts when they were all over the place. And at the moment, there were so many plates spinning, she needed to indulge in some Type A behavior.
There were two groups of people that she could see. The people who owned the Iceberg Lounge and currently ran the mob under the big boss: Lucy and the Falcone brothers. Then there was the second group of Hamilton Hill and his associates, Arthur Reeves and Roman Sionis, who were all painfully auspicious even if she didn't have anything to pin on them yet.
Staring at the lists, Harley couldn't see anything concrete connecting these two groups of people except they both offered her and the Joker jobs and apparently socialized together at the Iceberg Lounge.
So she got creative. She pulled down the screen prints of Audrey Hepburn from one of Samantha's living room walls and found a stack of index cards and a magic marker. She wrote each of the names on an index card and taped them to the wall, drawing lines between those she knew to be connected. Mario and Alberto radiating out from Lucy. Sionis and Reeves from Hill.
Then she added a card for Alexandra Kosov; she ran the Eastside, including all the muscle-for-hire based there, and her minions sold Lucy's drugs.
Harley chewed her bottom lip as she stared at the murder board, deciding Hill was still the most obvious candidate for the big boss. She needed to meet him face to face, speak to him and look him in the eye. Luckily, he had a campaign fundraiser the very next evening at Wayne Hall, a golden opportunity to slither in and speak to him.
The problem was Reeves would be there, and he would recognize her no matter how good her disguise was.
That meant she needed to get Reeves out of the way.
A thought that brought an enormous smirk to her lips.
Because regardless of whether he's been spying on her or not, he'd ignored her warning. And now he would need to face the consequences.
She wouldn't kill him yet, just in case he had more to tell her. But that didn't mean she couldn't have a little fun to drive the point home.
Her phone beeped with a message, and Harley's eyebrows rose when she saw it was from the Joker.
Gonna grab Piggy w/ Crane.
She didn't know what to make of that. It appeared to be an attempt to keep her in the loop on his plans to kidnap Akins… Why he would do that was less obvious.
Distracted and no closer to understanding the mystery of the big boss, Harley turned on the news and learned the Riddler hit another gallery. This time it was the Conservatory of Modern Art. Two people were dead and he'd stolen a De Kooning work called "Gotham News," and left a riddle.
We ache to impress and leave you wanting more
Man and beast and things not found on these shores
If we don't make you laugh, you leave us feeling blue
Not just the clowns, but the rest of us too
What are we?
The pundits on GCN said the answer was 'Circus' and brought on an art expert to explain De Kooning's work, which was a fraction more interesting. Painted in the post-war era, the piece represented how Gotham was crowded, confusing, and violent to some, exciting, colorful, and energetic to others.
"Although de Kooning did create his images spontaneously, without preparatory drawings, he placed each mark with careful consideration ," the art expert explained.
That sounded somehow… resonant , but Harley had enough on her mind without psychoanalyzing the Riddler and the art he stole.
So she decided to burn off some energy, pulling on a pair of Samantha's leggings and sneakers, and jogging around the block a few times. It was impossible to miss the gray BMW idling outside her safe house, her babysitters watching her so they could faithfully report back to the big boss.
When she got back to the apartment she had a new text from the Joker.
Piggy is a real squealer.
She frowned at her phone, interpreting the message to mean he'd gotten his hands on Akins. But it also appeared to be another attempt to keep her informed, making it hard to ignore that he was trying to prove something to her with this gesture.
A gesture from the Joker?
Bewildered, Harley tapped out a reply, returning the gesture by letting him know about her plan for Reeves.
Hill fundraiser tomorrow night. Need to lose the scumbag.
Feeling distracted and on edge, Harley turned on the news again, sensing the commissioner's kidnapping had not been a quiet affair—especially if done in a 'style' to make it obvious who was doing said kidnapping.
And of course, J had made it unwaveringly obvious by jumping out of a van in the middle of the afternoon on a busy downtown street. He'd literally grabbed Commissioner Akins while he was buying a gyro from a food truck. There was cell phone footage of the kidnapping, none of it very clear, though it did capture the Joker laughing like a maniac after throwing Akins in the back of a van.
There went flying under the radar. The news was already speculating that Harley and the Joker kidnapped or killed Janice Porter, pointing out they had a history of threatening DAs and police commissioners and judges and mayors...
Which was… obviously true.
Could that be why the big boss chose to disappear Porter and Akins as the jobs to test them? To expose their return to Gotham?
Or could there be a more relevant, practical reason for wanting them out of the picture?
Needing to be productive, Harley turned her attention to her task for the evening: getting Reeves out of the way so she could get some facetime with Hill. She had a few fantastic ideas, all of them sure to be violent and satisfying, making it tricky to decide on just one.
After a shower, she wiggled into the smallest dress in Samantha's closet, an electric blue thing that was skintight and almost pornographically short. She truly couldn't give a fuck about blending with the evening's theme, not with what she had in mind. She pulled on Samantha's flat thigh high boots and examined herself in the mirror again. She was missing something.
So she grabbed a pot of black greasepaint and dipped her fingers into the tacky substance, smearing it neatly around her eyelids, less dramatic than her usual warpaint. With a slick of scarlet lipstick, it was sure to be effective.
Then she got another text from the Joker.
Bet you can't make him squeal as loud as this little piggy.
Harley's eyes widened, and something a little giddy raced around her stomach.
Was he flirting with her?
Frost showed up shortly thereafter to pick her up, watching in the rearview mirror as she slid into the backseat.
"How you doin', doc?" he asked as they pulled away from the curb. "Looks like you're ready to work."
"Very astute, Frost," Harley smirked. "How did it go with Akins today?"
"I think the boss was happy to get out and stretch his legs." Frost caught her eye in the mirror and smirked back at her. "The cops were on our tail for a while there, but we outran em'."
Harley laughed as her phone beeped with a new message from the Joker, making her heart leap.
Tear him to pieces.
She sat back in her seat, drumming her fingers on her leg and bouncing her heel, unsure what to make of these attempts to engage her. The incomprehensible idea that this was some form of repentance occured to her, but after knowing the Joker for two years and being his partner for half that time, she had a hard time wrapping her head around that possibility.
It was Thursday night, and the line for the Iceberg Lounge was wrapped around the block. Harley told Frost to stick close by, knowing she'd need to make a quick escape, hopefully, sooner rather than later. She ignored the handful of party-goers staring as she slipped out of the town car and swanned up to one of the handsome bouncers, giving them the name Peaches Kane and letting them check her bag before she strode into the club, determined to make this quick.
Harley pushed through the crowded dance floor, ignoring their ridiculous outfits and the swooping music, which was all early 90s dance hall pianos and steady two-step beats, a woman crooning joyfully over the top about dancing forever.
Ed was behind the bar at his usual spot, pouring out cocktails. When he saw Harley, his mouth fell open and he drew a heart in the air with his fingertips.
" Meow! " he gasped happily, shouting over the music. "You look like absolute trash , Ms Quinn, and I am living for it!"
"Hi, Ed," Harley greeted him with a grin, leaning on the bar. "Anyone interesting here tonight?"
Ed's eyes twinkled as he nodded toward the birdcage. "Just Hamilton Hill's backup dancers."
"Uh-huh," Harley narrowed her eyes at Ed, trying to work out his angle as she toyed with a small knife used for cutting limes.
"Ooooooh , don't look at me like that," Ed pretended to swoon, fanning himself. "All that fierceness is gonna make me need my fainting couch!"
Harley snorted and twirled the knife between her fingers, showing it to Ed.
"I'm going to borrow this," she told him, raising one eyebrow, and Ed took a deep breath, nodding mutely, and looking…
Thrilled.
Shooting Ed one last curious look, Harley slipped the knife into the fanny pack buckled around her waist and shoved her way over to the VIP area, where Reeves and Bobby Kane were talking animatedly while Lucy cracked open a bottle of champagne. There was a group of Hill campaign staffers there too, laughing like hyenas as a stream of bubbles fizzed out of the champagne bottle. When Lucy saw Harley, she shoved the bottle of champagne at Mario who took over pouring it into a pyramid of coup-glasses, most of the champagne ending up on the floor though it seemed to delight their guests.
"Harley," Victor greeted her with a vacant smile. "I like your makeup."
Harley ignored him, her eyes settling on Reeves, the only reason she was there. She felt her pulse throb in her neck, knowing exactly what she wanted to do.
"Harley, you're back!" Lucy beamed. She was wearing a mini-dress made of pink latex with matching elbow-length gloves, both fringed with pink feathers.
"Hi Lucy," Harley offered Lucy a smirk as she examined Harley's blackened eyes. Her sunny expression dimmed briefly before she recovered, or at least hid it and started beaming again.
Harley turned to find Reeves, who was swigging champagne with his colleagues.
"Peaches!" he crowed, prepared for her presence this time. He opened his arms wide and flashed his Colgate grin. "You look beautiful, baby," he crooned, his eyes lingering on the short hem of her dress.
Harley could tell he was picturing her anatomy beneath it.
Oh, she was looking forward to this.
She put her hand on his arm and looked up into his eyes, watching him get a little flustered, some of that boorishness wearing off.
She unzipped her fanny pack and reached inside to thumb the call button on her burner, letting Frost know this was going to be quick.
"I need to talk to you," Harley told Reeves, glancing over her shoulder before she reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his, and meeting his eye again. "Alone," she added.
Reeves nodded stupidly, and Harley offered him a quick, reassuring smile before she turned and led him through the old kitchen doors, ignoring Lucy's green eyes on her back.
Once they were in the old kitchens, Harley headed for the back door leading out into the alley, releasing Reeves's hand and letting him trundle along behind her, excited and nervous and probably aroused, knowing him.
She stopped short in the small hallway leading to the club's back entrance, a dark, narrow space lined with crates of champagne. She took a deep breath to prepare herself, then used two fingers to smear her lipstick around her mouth and up her cheeks.
"So uh, what did you want to talk about," Reeves drawled behind her, a suggestive smirk in his voice. "I can think of a few things I've been dying to ask you."
Harley turned around to face him, her expression decidedly unamused, and Reeves stopped short as he realized he had massively misjudged the situation.
Harley grabbed the lapels of his jacket and shoved him up against the wall, his head cracking against the plaster. Reeves probably had at least a hundred pounds on her, but he still froze, his eyes widening as he threw his hands up in surrender.
"Woah-woah-woah!" he chanted when Harley pulled the knife on him. "You said you wanted to talk!"
"Oh I do want to talk , Arthur ," Harley growled, yanking him forward by his suit jacket then slamming him back again, making his teeth rattle. "You broke the rules. "
"The rules ?" Reeves yelped when Harley held the knife to his throat. "Harley, no, no, no, please, please… " he begged, his eyes squeezing shut as Harley tisked loudly over the pounding bass from the club.
"We had an agreement," she sneered. "You keep your mouth shut, and I don't hurt you ."
"Harley, please—" he pleaded, his pulse visibly leaping at his neck.
"But you still went and bragged to your buddy," Harley continued softly, watching a few beads of blood dribble down his neck under the pressure of the knife. "Didn't you!"
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry !" Reeves pleaded. "Roman's my oldest friend, he—he got it out of me. I swear Harley, I thought maybe—maybe you would want to work with him, I don't know!"
Harley searched his face as he spoke, and she immediately knew he was lying. She hadn't been looking for it before, but now that she was, it was so obvious.
She chuckled and ran the tip of her finger down his jaw, just as she had at the Tobacconist's Club when she first laid out the terms of their relationship. Then she met his eye again.
He had gone completely still, frozen with fear.
Now that was more like it.
Harley grabbed Reeves' wrist and slammed it up against the wall beside his head. Before he could pull away, she stabbed the knife through his little finger, straight into the wall on the other side.
Reeves screamed bloody murder, fruitlessly trying to pull his hand free until Harley pinched the tip of his partially severed finger and ripped it off. She yanked the knife out of the wall and had against his throat again before he could attempt an escape, her hand flying up to grab his screaming face. She shoved his head back against the wall and dug her nails into his cheek, forcing his mouth open wider. Then she shoved his amputated finger past his lips, slapping her palm over the lower half of his face before he could spit it out.
Reeves' eyes bulged in horror as he screamed into her hand, trying to wriggle away until Harley dug the point of the knife into his jugular, cutting him and making him freeze up.
Then she leaned in close, staring into Reeves' eyes as she spoke to the big boss through him.
"You do not want to fuck with me," she said softly, searching Reeves' horrified face. "I promise… you will regret it."
The back door flew open, revealing two of Lucy's handsome bouncers. They looked between Harley's semi-painted face and Reeves, who was still screaming into her hand, and started reaching for their guns.
Harley dropped to the ground and swung her leg at one of the bouncers' ankles, knocking him off his feet, his gun skittering across the floor as he fell on his ass. She snatched up the gun and put two bullets in his partner's chest, then pivoted back to him, shooting him in the head and killing him instantly.
Harley hopped back to her feet, adrenaline coursing through her, making her dizzy. She spared a quick look for Reeves, who had slid down the wall, panting and swooning, his bloodied finger in the palm of his hand.
Satisfied with her work, Harley stepped over the bodies of the two bouncers and burst out into the alley where Frost was waiting with the car.
A girl screamed, and Harley spun around to face the people waiting to get into the club. She was still holding the bouncer's gun, and her dress was splattered with Reeves' blood. She looked up and down the line of people, watching them react as they realized who she was—who she really was— and she let them see her, basking in the glow of their fear and confusion.
They were like cattle .
Harley flashed them a grin before she dove into the back of the town car, prompting Frost to hit the gas before her door was even shut. Harley collapsed back against the seat, panting and feeling nearly delirious as she ran her hands over the soft leather of Samantha's boots, laughing to herself.
Then the burner in her fanny pack beeped with a new message, and Harley scrambled to pull out the phone, a stupid grin on her face when she saw it was from the Joker.
Don't leave me hanging.
Harley beamed happily and tapped out a reply.
Not a squealer. A screamer.
A/N: First Harley & Roman meeting!
Harley and the Joker making nice with flirty texts!
Got to see a little bit more about Ed. I don't think it's spoiling anything to say this is kind of an origin story for him. Right now he's very much a copycat who enjoys toying with people, but as Bruce notes in chapter 1, he isn't quite a Joker-level, call-the-National-Guard threat… yet .
And, Harley FINALLY gets some revenge! Silly Reeves.
Follow me on Tumblr (knit-wear-it) for more content (like the inspiration for Lucy and Harley's dresses in this chapter...) and general lolz. My Asks are always open, especially on Sundays & Mondays. We're having a lot of fun over there right now.
Next: The Joker and Crane get some facetime with one of the big boss's thugs while Harley goes to Hamilton Hill's fundraiser.
Next week is probably the most squeal-inducing chapter yet.
Please review and comment! I live for it!
xo