Chapter 2

I made my third—or was it the fourth—cup of coffee and tipped some cereal into a cracked bowl. Later, I took a bath, dressed, and headed out again. My hours of thinking had reminded me that I had six months to sort out some way of earning money, before my free ride came to an end. So long as I went to my counselling sessions, they'd give me my prescriptions, but I'd be homeless if I wasn't employed.

I called into a diner for more coffee with my last few coins, and quizzed the waitress, after I convinced her I wasn't about to rob the place. I supposed my appearance didn't encourage people to be friendly. But she told me I could visit the local taxi office if I walked six blocks or buy a reasonable used car three blocks farther down from that. All I'd ever done—besides being a marine—was drive a taxi. I'd worked for a yellow cab company in New York, although I doubted they'd give me a reference. My vigilantism had been all over the press after I left Sport's house a bloodbath.

"Yes, can I help you?"

I shook myself, realising I'd walked all the way to the taxi office and approached the counter, lost in thought. The middle-aged man behind the desk stared at me through narrowed eyes.

"I'm looking for a job. I was a taxi driver in New York for a few years."

"Looking like that?" His brows drew together until they met in the middle.

I bit my lip. "I can wear a hat," I offered.

One of the man's eyebrows crawled upwards. "We don't have any vacancies."

"I'm a marine vet," I said, guessing it would be in vain.

"Really." He pursed up his lips. "Get out of here, buddy."

I turned away and let what I'd hoped was a pleasant expression slip into a scowl. The door slammed closed behind me and I hovered in front of the building, gazing up and down the busy street. Several yellow cabs passed, and so did a couple of independents—large cars with simple "TAXI" signs stuck on the sides.

As I walked back towards the apartments—the place I should think of as home—one of the independent taxis pulled up close by to let a passenger out. I stooped to look through the window.

"Hey, pal."

"You need a ride?" the Asian driver asked me.

"No. Thanks. Do you have a cab license?"

"Are you a cop?" His eyes took on a look of alarm.

"No. Just interested in setting up myself. Do the cops bother you much?"

"Not often." He smiled. "Occasionally you get one with a chip on his shoulder, who'll jump on you for the slightest thing."

"Is there much competition?"

"Some, but most drivers prefer to go through the official channels and work for the yellow cabs. Then you have your weekly rent for the car, fuel costs, license, and a hundred and one rules and regulations. Get your own car, set your own prices. I undercut the yellows by about twenty percent and still make a decent profit. Car's my own, you see, so no rental. Only the initial outlay and running costs."

"Thanks, my friend." I grinned at him and stuck my hand through the window to shake his. "My name's Travis."

"Good to meet you, Travis. I'm Jazz. I'm knocking off any time now. You want to get a beer or something?"

"That'd be good, but some other time. I'm new around here, just getting set up. I couldn't even shout one round." I shrugged and smiled awkwardly.

"I can get you a beer. You can just owe me one. Hop in." He shoved open the passenger side front door.

"Thanks." I got in the car. Perhaps Jazz could give me some more tips about taxi driving in Gotham. I might even make a friend. I could use one.

Two hours later, with two beers giving me a pleasant fuzzy feeling, I made my way up the steps to my building. I had Jazz's phone number and he'd promised to meet me at the used car garage at the end of the week when my cheque had cleared, to help me get a good deal. He'd bought two cars from that garage and knew the dealer well enough not to get ripped off or be sold a lemon.

I punched the button to call the lift and waited impatiently, shuffling my feet as it rattled its way down the lift shaft. Eventually, the doors opened, and I stepped in. I'd just touched the button for the eighth floor, when someone called out.

"Hold it, please!"

I stuck my foot out and held the doors open until the young woman and child I'd seen the day before came into view, hurrying and struggling with bags of groceries. She hesitated, eyes wide in alarm as she stared at me.

"I don't bite," I said and smiled. "It's just a haircut."

Her dark skin flushed, and she looked away. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"I look like a thug. I'm not one, I assure you. I moved in yesterday. My name's Travis."

"Oh. Okay." She glanced at me nervously. "I'm Sophie. I live on the eighth floor."

"Me too. Come on. I'm harmless, I promise."

She giggled. "I'm sorry," she said again, and stepped into the lift, tugging the little girl by the hand. "I didn't mean to be rude."

"It's fine. I should probably grow my hair out. I went to ask about a job today and got turned down because of the way I look." I snapped my mouth shut. I didn't usually talk so much. At least I hadn't before I'd gone to Arkham. Perhaps being locked up for so long, away from anyone normal, had loosened my tongue.

"What do you do for work?" Sophie asked.

"I was a taxi driver. In New York. Yellow cabs, you know?"

She nodded. "They have them here."

"But they don't want me. I'm gonna buy a car and set up on my own."

"Well, good luck then." She gave me a small smile as the lift doors opened. "I guess I'll see you around." She walked away in the opposite direction to that I was going. I glanced after her, noticing she stopped outside apartment B. When I spun around and started walking the other way, I bumped straight into a hurrying man.

"Oh! Oh God. I'm sorry," he gasped, and suddenly barked with laughter.

"No, I'm sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going." He looked oddly familiar, despite me having met no one so far besides Sophie and Jazz. I took in a long thin frame, dressed in a brown suit and white shirt. His collar-length brown hair had a slight wave to it, and his green eyes were wide and shocked. It was the eyes that were familiar—the clown's eyes.

"Do you, um, do you—?" The clown forced out the words amidst wild laughing, and stopped, shaking his head. He pulled a laminated card from his pocket and offered it to me. I took it and read the words on both sides, which told me he had a condition that caused him to laugh inappropriately. I handed it back to him.

"I'm new here," I said calmly. "Moved in yesterday. I live on this floor."

"Me too." He sucked in a breath and spluttered it out. "I mean, I live on this floor. I'm not new here."

"I saw you yesterday. Outside that music store." He sidled past me and his eyes took on the same look Sophie's had—the same slight look of alarm I'd seen in them when he took a step away from me outside the music store. I cursed my stupid haircut I'd been so determined to keep. "I don't bite," I said for the second time.

"You, um, you look like, um, one of those protesters on the TV."

"Protesters? What are they protesting?"

"You know. The state of the city. The government. Everything."

"I don't know, I'm afraid. This is, well, I suppose it's only my second day in this city."

"Where are you from?"

"Um—" It probably wouldn't be a good idea to tell him I'd been in Arkham for five years. He still looked ready to run for his life. "New York."

"And you moved here?" He laughed wildly. "I'd go back if I were you." He continued down the corridor to the apartment at the end, glancing over his shoulder a couple of times as he went.

"Hey!" I called out, realising I hadn't introduced myself.

He looked over his shoulder again as he fumbled with his key. His door opened and he shot through it, then slammed it behind him.

"What's your name?" I asked the empty corridor. Damn. Both of the neighbours I'd met were scared of me. A great start to my new life.