Before we begin…glad you readers caught the Rocky Horror reference!
And thanks Karrana for solving a minor dilemma regarding "Does Joker wear cologne?"! You picked up the option I hadn't thought of! (Great to see you again, by the way)!
Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight, Pasquale's Bistro (sadly), or the occasional pop culture references. (I hope to make less of those in the future). I do own this plot.
Chapter Sixteen: Bruce
Pasquale's Bistro isn't as busy as I would have expected.
In fact, aside from Joker, our waiter and myself, I'm pretty sure the only people left are the kitchen staff. Our linen-clad table is the only one being used.
Despite the noticeable lack of customers, the restaurant still has an almost dreamy quality to it—perhaps it's the soft lighting, the soft European love ballads sliding through the speakers above us, or the smell of fresh, well-cooked food.
Joker chuckles and rolls his eyes at the speakers. "Y'know, there are only so many times you can dedicate a love song to 'mio amore'. Makes you wonder about their, ah, track record, doesn't it?"
"Not really." I adjust my (fake) wire-rimmed glasses and rest my hands on the table. "You don't really like romantic things, do you?"
Joker shrugs and adjusts the lapel on his blue plaid shirt. His gray pants make a dull scraping noise as he fidgets in his seat. "It's not really…my brand of romance. But you knew that already."
"True. But what I don't know is…where are the others? I'm not used to there being so few…people here. Did you…?"
"Nope. Promise." Joker holds out his little finger, his war paint-less face seemingly serious. "You're looking at a…man of his word, here."
I decide not to test that idea. Instead I try to focus on a new topic. "Do you always have to have a 'J' in your name?"
Joker nods, then grumbles as his scruffy ponytail begins to unravel. "Force of habit, I guess you could say."
I find myself complimenting him despite myself: "You make a convincing redhead."
In a sense, I have to compliment him—it takes my eyes and mind away from those scars, which move like sentient beings when he talks. When he last went without his war paint, I wasn't paying too much attention—I had people to save. Now, though, when I have all the time in the world to look him over, I have a front row seat to his "ugly truth", if you will.
"And you make a…tasty blond yourself. You a master of disguise too?" The scars wriggle into a brief smirk, then subside.
"Of sorts. I only wish I could say the same about your naming skills."
Joker laughs softly. "Ooooh, clever boy."
At my request, Joker is under an alias—Jacob Johnson. For the purposes of this meeting, I'm Brad Steed. (Joker chose it himself). As if names like that aren't eye-catchers.
"Think of it this way," Joker whispers as our waiter scurries toward us with menus. "I could've gone with Janet."
"Why didn't you?" I ask, trying not to let my irritation show.
"Well…" Joker grins, and his scars writhe chillingly to accompany the action. "Let's just say there's a certain, ah, frame-of-mind I need to be in before I can play dress-up. Now just isn't the time."
The waiter hurriedly scuttles away, his ears bright red.
"And yet you've been using strictly female aliases." I raise an eyebrow.
"Hey, you are Gotham's playboy. Female aliases make things less…complicated for you."
"I didn't know you cared." I put as much sarcasm as I can into my voice.
Joker giggles. "Oh, aren't you a charmer."
"It's my job."
"You're, ah, pretty swell at it then."
"I've had plenty of practice," I say dryly, looking over my menu. "What about you? I've noticed your henchmen are still quite actively supporting your endeavors."
Joker grins and shrugs, and this time I pay the scars less attention. "My boys and I get along okay. Some of 'em even consider me their father. Pretty crazy, huh?"
"You seem more like a cult leader than a father," I retort, glancing back at the menu.
"And you seem more like a, ah, wet-behind-the-ears billionaire than Gotham's savior. You really need to break out of that…superficial mold you've made for yourself."
"And what about you? You see people as either toys or obstacles. Isn't that a superficial mold?" I lean forward, and I can smell the scent of his cologne—bubble gum and cherry. "Maybe you should look a little closer at yourself before criticizing me."
"Right back at you, Batsy," Joker says coolly, meeting my stare. "And besides, I've looked at myself long and hard, and believe me by this point there's nothing I dislike about me. And d'you want to know why? Because I've let all the bad stuff…go. That's all you have to do. Just smile and step forward."
"I already have."
Joker snorts. "No, no, not…at…all. If anything, you've stepped backwards."
The sound of the waiter clearing his throat brings us back to the moment.
"Are you ready to order?" the waiter asks, a light Italian accent coating his words. There's a slight tremble in his fingers—I still don't trust Joker's "word".
"Sure," Joker says cheerily, drumming his fingers on the table like a tarantula on sugar. "Mind if I order first, Ba—Br—Brad?"
Suddenly he's acting like everything couldn't be better, like we're just friends out for lunch. I respond accordingly ("Sure, go ahead") and Joker nods in brief thanks. He clears his throat—as though he's preparing to utter an Oscar acceptance speech instead of his order.
"All righty, then! I'll have the Cal-a-mar-i du Vin and the Pasta Pierre. With a glass of milk. White n' whole. With one of those little umbrella things in it."
Joker beams at the waiter, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here.
"All-All right. And you, sir?" the waiter turns to me, looking more hopeful.
"I'll just have Lamb Normandy and Pinot Noir." I hope that my smile is a little less creepy.
"All right, good choices. I-I'll be back shortly." The waiter is gone before I know it.
Joker and I chat a little more before our meal is served—it takes the waiter a shorter time than usual, which is a plus. Unsurprising, as we're the only customers. Joker even gets the "little umbrella" he wanted. At first we eat in silence, and then eventually we get down to business—like we were supposed to.
"So…you're a scheming kinda guy, Brad. What's your, ah, plan of attack?" Joker swirls the umbrella around in his glass, not breaking eye contact with me.
"So far the plan is simple. I'm going to round them up—"
"Like cattle? I've got some rope handy. You and I could be cowboys!"
"…I don't think so. Let me rephrase that." I clear my throat. "I'm going to have a meeting with the various Mob bosses. Just them and me. Then, we're going to have a man-to-man talk over our plans for Gotham. Then we'll come to an agreement."
Joker raises an eyebrow, a smirk slowly sliding into place. "Uh-huh. And then what?"
I shrug. "Then we're done."
I can already see the laughter ready to ooze from his throat, so I close my eyes and wait for the inevitable. I've found myself doing that a lot lately.
Sure enough, Joker slaps the table and laughs so obnoxiously I half expect him to turn into a hyena. The waiter seems to have mysteriously disappeared. I don't blame him.
"Oh, you're just too much, Brad!" Joker runs a hand through his hair, dyed-red curls melting into pale fingers. "You just…think you're going to win the Mob over that way?"
"What makes you think I won't? Is there some kind of magic trick you used?"
That makes Joker laugh even harder. He's actually shaking as he slaps the table again, making the dinnerware rattle.
"Oh, you. Just…you. I mean, really, who even thinks of the Mob in those, ah, cute little terms. Man-to-man talk? These men don't talk, Batsy. They kill and swindle and string you around like a puppet. They do not 'talk'."
I look Joker straight in the eye. No backing down. "I've made them talk before."
Joker waves a hand dismissively. "Oh, sure, with those lovely fists. You're going into their territory as a regular guy. A guy who can be shot, stabbed, set on fire…hell, you're pretty enough, maybe they'd even…have you compensate."
I can't help but shiver at the look he gives me across the table. "They wouldn't. They couldn't. I'd get them first."
"Oh, sure, you say that, but you've never actually had it happen before." Joker licks his lips thoughtfully, still stirring his milk with that damn umbrella. "But then, I don't doubt you could show 'em what you're made of. Maaaaybe."
"Do you have another option?" I add a little sarcasm to my tone.
"Oh, you bet. But, ah…" Joker glances around, looking like a caged animal. "It's one of those things you don't talk about in public. Trade secret, I guess you could say."
Now my curiosity's tweaked. "So what do we do?"
Joker grins and leans closer, whispering in my ear: "It's actually pretty simple. You are going to go outside for a smoke. I know, I know, you don't, but just run with it. I'll join you in a sec."
I glare at him. "Don't you dare kill anyone."
Joker rolls his eyes. "The waiter's already scared of me. He wouldn't…be any fun."
"I'm going to check that," I assure him coldly before getting out of my seat.
Joker leans back in his seat, fingers curled around the armrests of the chair, head cocked to one side. His eyes are half-lidded, deceptively drowsy. The tip of his tongue slowly pokes out of his mouth, tracing his scars. His very posture is that of a man who knows what he's doing.
It's somewhat frightening.
"See you outside, Batsy."
