That evening, Harley was the last to leave the diner as usual. She finished the cleaning and then turned off the lights, heading into the back to grab her coat, hat, and purse. Then she headed out the door, locking up the diner carefully behind her and preparing to face the dark streets of Gotham alone.
She heard a noise and turned. She couldn't see much in the darkness, but her eyes suddenly fell on the owner's car which was still parked in front of the diner. In the dim light from the streetlamps, she could just make out a dark shape tinkering with the engine.
"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded.
The shape looked up at her, and she was stunned to see the familiar face of Jack Napier. "Mr…Mr. Napier…" she stammered.
"Miss Quinzel, good evening," he said, removing his hat again and smiling that same, easy, beautiful smile.
"What…are you doing?" she asked, gesturing to the car.
"Just taking the opportunity to get a closer look at this very fine motorcar," he said, patting it. "I was hoping to be able to examine it at my leisure in a more well-lit location, and I was just attempting to move it there…"
Harley gaped at him. "You…you were trying to steal it?" she stammered.
He sighed, lighting up a cigarette. "Stealing is such an ugly word, Miss Quinzel – I would prefer not to use it."
"But that's what you were planning on doing," snapped Harley. "You're a thief, and a criminal, and…and is that what you meant by having a stroke of luck recently? Is this…is this dirty money?" she demanded, reaching into her purse and pulling out the tip he had given her.
"Would it matter if it was?" he asked, puffing on his cigarette.
"Of course it would!" she snapped. "I can't accept stolen money!"
"Why not? You clearly need it," he replied.
"No, I don't need to break the law to get along in life!" snapped Harley. "I'm not as immoral a person as you! Take it back, please," she said, holding out the money to him.
He shook his head. "It's yours - I gave it to you. Keep it."
"It was not yours to give!" snapped Harley. "You can't just…steal from people! You can't just steal the owner's car…"
"Why not?" interrupted Jack. "He steals from you. He steals your time and your effort and your life, the more he makes you work your fingers to the bone for your pitiful little salary. He steals your youth and your beauty, every day you waste cramped in that hot, horrible little diner, serving ungrateful, horrible people. You don't think you deserve better than that, Miss Quinzel?"
"Maybe I do," she agreed. "But stealing is not the way to get it. Please take the money back."
He nodded, taking the bills from her and folding them back into his pocket. "Feel better now?" he asked.
"Yes," she snapped. "I do. But I'll feel even better once you get away from that car and get out of here before I call the police."
He puffed out a cloud of smoke. "I'm not going to let you do that, Miss Quinzel," he murmured. "I consider myself a very polite, generous man, but I do have a nasty temper when pushed. I would hate to show that side of myself to a woman as beautiful as yourself."
"You expect me to just head home and let you steal the owner's car?" she asked. "And if the police question me about it, to just lie?"
"I would certainly appreciate that," he agreed, nodding.
"I don't know what kind of woman you think I am…" she began.
"Do you want me to tell you?" he interrupted. "I think you're a very good woman, Miss Quinzel. I think you were raised to know right from wrong, and good from bad, and I think those were very easy things to see when you were young. But I think as you've gotten older, the world has disappointed you more and more. I think you dreamed of having your own life, of being free to do the things you wanted to do, not dependent on the wishes of a parent or husband. And I think in your quest for freedom you've sold yourself into slavery which you will never escape from. I think you've tried your best and worked your hardest, and you keep futility hoping that this will somehow give you the freedom you so desperately crave. But it doesn't. You live day after day hoping for better, but it never comes. And you can't understand why the world is so disappointing, why everything is so difficult when you've done everything you were supposed to do. When you followed the rules society set down, when you did nothing wrong, when you were a good, decent person, and yet you've received no reward. Not even the tiniest bit of happiness for doing everything you were supposed to do. And you're starting to hate everything about your life, and yourself, because you figure something's gotta be wrong with you, that the world just doesn't like you, for some reason. Otherwise why would it be so cruel to you? And you're going to keep hating, and become even more bitter, and eventually the world will destroy you. And you will die, alone and unloved and hating everything, but yourself most of all, for seeing yourself as a failure. But you haven't failed anyone. The world has failed you. It's at fault, and it should have to pay for breaking its word, for not upholding the deal you made with it. So you make a new deal. You play by your own rules. Or you drown in your own bitterness. It's that simple."
"You think…you think you can just excuse stealing like that?" demanded Harley.
"Yes," he replied, puffing on his cigarette. "I do."
She opened her mouth to respond, but he reached out, cupping her face in his hands. "I can see your beauty dying inside," he whispered, stroking her hair back. "It's the saddest thing I've ever seen. Pretty little flower like you, being crushed and withered before you've even had a chance to bloom. Being suffocated in that horrible diner, yearning for just a glimpse of the sun. Don't let them trap you anymore. Don't let them lock you up."
"Of…the two of us…you're the one more likely to be locked up," stammered Harley, trying to sound indignant, but her heart was beating wildly at the touch of his hands and the nearness of his body.
He shook his head. "You're already in a cage. I'm free. Truly free. Wouldn't you like to know how that feels, for once in your life?"
"I would like…Mr. Napier…" she began, but he gently brought his lips down to hers and kissed her tenderly.
Harley didn't want to like it. But she loved it, and she couldn't control the natural response of her body to pull him closer and return the kiss. This was wrong and horrible, her mind chastised her – this man was a thief, and a criminal, but her heart only beat more wildly at that, and her body wanted him even more. She never could have imagined that so wrong a man could feel so right.
"Oh…Mr. Napier!" she gasped when he drew away at last.
"Jack," he said, smiling as he touched her chin. Then he turned away, returning his attention to the car.
She tried to regain control of herself. "You think…sweet talking me and…kissing me means I'll let you break the law?"
He laughed, and then pulled aside his jacket to reveal a gun tucked into his pocket. "Believe me, Miss Quinzel, if I thought any less of you, I would have shot you when you interrupted me. And if you insist on interfering with my business, I guess I can do you the favor of giving you a quick death with a bullet to the skull. Probably preferable to you slaving out your days in that diner and dying slowly, wouldn't you agree?"
He turned back to the car. "But I don't want to do that. It would be such a waste, killing a smart, pretty girl like you. So I'm giving you a choice. You can walk away a free woman, or I can kill you. But either way, I'm taking the car."
Harley folded her arms across her chest. "What if I walk away and then call the police?"
"I trust you not to," he said, shrugging. "But even if you do, Jack Napier ain't my real name. The cops know that alias, but they'll never find me. But feel free if you wanna waste police time."
Harley glared at him. "You're a very good liar, aren't you?" she asked. "Did you tell me the truth about anything?"
"Yes," he said, turning back to her and grinning. "I am single."
He started the engine suddenly and then climbed into the car. "Can I give you a lift home?" he asked, opening the passenger door. "I'd hate to think of you walking the streets of Gotham alone at night. Can't be too careful with all those dangerous people out there."
"You think I trust you?" she demanded. "Why wouldn't you just kill me in the car and dump my body somewhere?"
"Well, for one thing, it would ruin the fine leather upholstery," he said. "And the cleaning would set me back almost as much as the car. And I told you, I don't want to kill you. You can't hurt me. That's why they lock people up – to make 'em harmless."
Harley continued to glare at him. "I don't want my fingerprints all over the car in case the police impound it…"
"Believe me, the cops won't get their hands on this little baby," chuckled Jack, running his hands along the dashboard. "This little beauty belongs to me now. And I take very good care of all my things. Especially my pretty things."
He smiled at her, and Harley's heart fluttered, despite how her rational self ordered her not to be attracted to this horrible man, this criminal, this thief…
She climbed into the car. Jack shut the door, and they drove off without another word.
"Where do you live?" he asked.
Harley gave him the address. "That ain't a nice area," he said.
"No, but it's all I can afford," she replied.
"Awful being a slave to money, ain't it?" he asked, casually.
"Where do you live?" she demanded. "Someplace fancy that you stole from somebody else, no doubt."
"You could call it a steal!" he chuckled. "It's an apartment across town. Nothing too fancy, but it ain't a dump."
She said nothing, staring out the window. "You wanna see it?" he asked at last.
She laughed, and then saw that he was being serious. And then her eyes narrowed. "I don't know what kinda girl you think I am, but I ain't that kind!" she snapped. "I don't just go home with a guy I just met, especially not a thieving one!"
"Ok, don't get so touchy – it was just a question," he retorted.
Harley began to panic. "Wait…is that why you offered to drive me home? You're gonna take me someplace and…and…oh God, you're gonna assault me in this car, aren't you?!" she cried, reaching desperately for the door.
"What? No!" snapped Jack. "I ain't that kinda guy! I don't force a dame to do anything she don't wanna do!"
Harley calmed somewhat. "I just…y'know…thought you kinda liked the kiss," he muttered.
"Well, maybe I kinda did," she agreed. "What of it?"
He shrugged. "I dunno. I kinda got the impression…from earlier today too…that you were kinda…interested in me."
"Maybe I was," retorted Harley. "I kinda got that impression about you too, but now I know you're a compulsive liar."
"I wasn't lying about that," he retorted. "You're an attractive gal."
"Yeah?" asked Harley.
"Yeah," he agreed.
She shrugged. "Well…maybe I think you're an attractive guy too."
They drove in silence. "I mean, that was before I knew you were a criminal," said Harley at last.
"That's killed your attraction, huh?" he asked.
"I didn't say that!" she snapped. "But it would be wrong to be attracted to a criminal…"
She shrugged again. "But like you said…sometimes it's hard to tell right from wrong these days."
She shook her head. "Anyway, it's not like we'll see each other again. It would be really dumb for a wanted criminal to leave his address or telephone number or something. And I don't have a telephone anyway. And how dumb would I have to be to get involved with a criminal? What kinda future could I have like that?"
"What kinda future do you have now?" he demanded.
"I got a steady job," she snapped. "I pay my rent, and my bills, and I don't depend on anyone! I'm free!"
"Yeah, you look it," he said, pulling up to Harley's apartment building. "This is how free people live, packed into small, dirty, ugly cells. Oh no, wait, that's how prisoners live. My mistake," he said, sarcastically.
Harley glared at him. "Well, let's see if your home is any better!" she snapped. "Because I don't believe it is! But let's see the result of your ill-gotten gains!"
He sighed. "I ain't gonna drive you all the way back here afterwards," he muttered, turning the car around.
"I'll walk," retorted Harley.
"I ain't gonna let you do that," he said.
"Then call me a cab," she said. "You can pay for it with the tip you were gonna give me."
He nodded slowly and drove back off into the streets of Gotham again. They were silent the whole drive until Jack pulled the car into a garage in a fairly nice area of the city – well, anyplace that had a garage had to be fairly upscale. And the paint on the outside of the apartment building was clean and new. And Harley saw, rather jealously as they went inside, that the complex even had an elevator.
Jack unlocked the door to his apartment and Harley looked around enviously at the space. Jack's classy style was reflected in his decoration – the house looked to belong to someone well off, but not showy about it. There were paintings on the walls and tiny sculptures for decoration, and the furniture was of good quality. Jack flicked on a lamp so Harley could see better, and she felt the injustice of it all burning the pit of her stomach when she reflected on her own minimal furniture and rotting wallpaper in her bare, undecorated apartment.
"It's not fair," she whispered.
"I know," he replied. "Believe me, I know. I spent a good part of my life like you – good kid, working hard, getting nothing in return. But then I saw other people around me prospering, and gaining wealth by doing things that were against the law, things they weren't supposed to do, and I hated how unfair it was too. But rather than beat 'em, I decided to join 'em. And I ain't done too badly for myself," he said, lighting another cigarette.
"What kinda crimes do you do?" she asked.
He shrugged. "You name it, I've probably done it. Criminal Jack-of-all-trades, that's me," he said, grinning. "But for the past two years, my specialty has been bank robbery and bootlegging."
"You must be very proud," said Harley, sarcastically.
"I am," he said. "Aren't you proud when you do a good day's work?"
"And you consider bank robbery and bootlegging to be a good day's work?" asked Harley.
"It takes skill, you gotta admit that!" chuckled Jack. "I can show you, if you want. Got something going down tomorrow night if you wanna come along."
"Are you hoping showing me a crime will impress me?" asked Harley.
"Wouldn't it?" he asked.
She was silent. "I think you're a special girl, Harley," he murmured. "I really do. I've dealt with a lotta women in my time, and they were always shrieking and hysterical when they encountered a criminal. But not you. You're brave and strong…and you stood your ground even when you knew I could've killed you. You were so determined to do the right thing that not even the threat of death would stop you. That kinda resolution is so rare, believe me, but I like it. And now here you are, in the home of a criminal, and you're not afraid. You're still so strong and defiant. It's very impressive."
"Thank you," she said, quietly. "Most men I've met…don't like that about me. They'd prefer me to be a little more submissive…"
"They're idiots," interrupted Jack. "There is nothing more rare or attractive than strength of character. And you've got that in spades."
Harley felt herself trembling. "You smoke?" he asked, heading over to the fireplace and opening a box of cigarettes.
"No," she murmured. "Thank you."
"That's a shame," he said. "No more beautiful sight in the world than a gal with a cigarette. Except a gal with a gun, of course."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his gun. "You ever held one?" he asked.
Harley shook her head. "You wanna?" he asked, holding it out to her.
She nodded, taking the gun with trembling hands. The metal felt so smooth and dangerous, and she felt a sudden jolt of power holding a weapon, a weapon that could theoretically kill someone, that probably already had killed lots of people…
Jack grinned. "You should put that down if you don't want me to kiss you again," he murmured, putting out his cigarette.
Harley said nothing, but aimed the gun at him, sliding her finger along the trigger. He didn't even flinch, approaching her slowly until the barrel of the gun pressed into his chest. She stared up into his beautiful green eyes, deep and intense. She had the power to kill him, to blast a hole into his chest right now…and it was the single most thrilling experience of her life.
He kissed her again and she moaned, dropping the gun and pulling him into her hungry embrace. He lifted her into his arms and she wrapped her legs around his waist, working to unbutton his shirt.
"Mmm, I thought you weren't that kinda girl," he murmured, carrying her into the bedroom.
"What, a bad one?" she whispered, grinning. "It's the only kind I wanna be anymore, Jack."
He chuckled, pressing her down on the bed. This was crazy, Harley knew, but she didn't care. She had been good little Harleen Quinzel all her life. And now was her time to be a little bad.