SIX

Hank The Guard smiles warmly the next cold morning. Much too cold of a morning for work attire. "Good morning Doctor Quinzel. You like nice today."

She looks down at her Saturday jeans. Oh yes, very nice. "Hank, please – call me Harley. Doctor Quinzel is too formal for a place like this."

Hank smiles like he's just tasted honey for the first time. And he wonders briefly if she'd accept an offer for a date.

"Thanks for the compliment." She steps into the cell as Hank unlocks the door and holds it open for her. Across the room, the Joker sits, positively giddy. "What?" she dares.

"I see why you chose this job."

She takes her seat opposite from him and crosses her legs. "Oh, you do, do you?"

"You are so bored with your life that you're willing to risk it each day, just for the thrill. You don't care about helping me, you just enjoy the danger."

Harley ponders the suggestion. "Interesting theory, Detective." Joker lets out a small snort at her humor. "You just might be right."

His smile fades. "What?"

"You're right."

"Right?"

"Yes."

"Just like that?"

"Well, that's usually how right answers go."

Joker watches her eyes. They are noticeably different from every other pair of eyes on the planet. These eyes pop. These eyes demand attention. These eyes are unreadable.

"So I've decided that I do want to know how you got your scars," she says now.

He smiles widely, the scars scrunching with the smile, and his mind begins to race. "I was in China–"

"Oh my God," Harley interrupts, agitated. "Once," she holds up an index finger closely to his face, "just once in your life, will you tell the truth?" Joker opens his mouth, but Harley stops him once more. "Yes, I know that you prefer everything to be relative, including the truth… but there's a time and a place for relativity."

"Every minute of the day, beautiful," he retorts.

"Chained to a chair inside a padded cell would not be the time for relativity, Mister Joker."

And he mutters, "Says you," and begins to rock back and forth again at the mention of his chains. "We were expecting…" Harley's 'unreadable' eyes now widen – She just couldn't help herself. His voice is too solemn, too serious to be normal. "And we had no money. I didn't have a job and we needed money. I started robbing with," he shrugs quickly, "a bad crowd, you could say. Not terrible, but bad all the same." He doesn't look at her, but continues to sway. "One night, things go bad. Cops come and all the guys scatter. Somehow, they find a reason to put the blame on me. They push me off the roof, and I land on my face, with a knife in my cheek." Harley can't keep her eye from twitching at the imagery. He looks up at her now, as if sensing her increasing discomfort. "They thought I was dead, but I guess that wasn't enough for them… When I got home later that night, her throat was cut so deep, when I held her in my arms…" he starts to laugh, or maybe cry, "her head nearly dropped off."

And Harley gets it. He had a wife. He could have had a child. He had a life. Money – that's all it was. Money, such a preposterous thing to equilibrate happiness on, had been his downfall. It was tragic. Almost funny.

"So, naturally, when I saw my face later that night," he licks his right cheek. "I just had to complete it." And he licks the left side of his face, using his tongue as an indicator. "So now, no matter how bad things get, I'm always smiling." He sucks on his teeth and leans in as close as his restraints will allow him. "Aren't you glad you asked?"

And somehow, Harley manages a very, very tiny smile. "You know I don't believe you."

He giggles. Ha! Ha! Hoo! Hoo! "Good story, though, right?"

"No," she shakes her head so her hair flies. "Not at all."

"Ah, everyone's a critic."

There's a long pause that could have been awkward, but Joker doesn't let awkward silences get to him, and Harley is too busy thinking to notice the discomfiture.

"When's your birthday, Mister Joker?"

But Joker just squints at her, as if she were some blinding light. "Are you bipolar?" She doesn't answer, just waits for his answer. "I don't remember."

"That's a lie."

His eyebrows shoot up. "I'm a man of my word, Lizzie." She shakes her head; No. "Why do you wanna know, anyway – my birthday?"

"Everyone has a birthday, Mister Joker. Even you, the psychotic clown, have a birthday. Mine's April fourth, 1980. And I'm pretty damn sure yours isn't April first."

Ha! Ha! Hoo! Hoo! "If I don't have a name, I don't have a birthday."