Chapter Fourteen: Make 'Em Happy
He called himself a comedian. I didn't know what was less funny—the fact that he called himself a comedian, or he was trying to prove it whilst on stage in front of ten other people. Sitting around the circular tables were said guests, all of whom appeared either bored, pissed, or both. The 'entertainment' of the night had started out pretty decent, giving an introduction to himself and then after that, it seemed to go downhill.
When people started jeering at him, he was steadily getting nervous, messing up his lines and jokes, despite the note cards he held in his hand. The gatherer of the entertainment was Butch Gilzean; he'd worked the scene for years with Fish Mooney backing him, and now, I had to wonder what miraculous thing this so-called comedian had done to pull the wool over his eyes.
How was this guy even supposed to be 'funny' when he wasn't even that?
He threw out another joke, stammering through it: "If you ever get cold, just s-stand in a corner for a bit. They're usually 98 degrees…. wait…." (he cleared his throat, looking at his cards) "I mean 90 degrees. Yeah, they're usually 90 degrees. Heh…."
More jeers came his way.
"Learn geometry, you shit!" One of the guests guffawed.
"Say something funny!"
"Do you know what 'funny' even means!"
Tough crowd.
I strolled to the bar where Tiffany Rubberdale was shadowing one of the bartenders. Noticing me, she waved; I acknowledged her and saw Butch sitting at the end, drinking a whiskey shot. I sat down next to him.
"Where did you even find this guy?" I asked, referring to the nervous comedian. "Did you pull him out of a storm drain, post-monsoon?"
"You're hilarious," Butch said, smirking at me. "Maybe you should go up there."
"Fuck that. He's already got them riled up. No way I would go up there."
"You're pretty charismatic. Maybe you could calm them down."
"Said the spider to the fly."
He snickered at my response. Three of the staff members, excluding my own girl, were talking in hushed, urgent voices as the guests started throwing papers at the middle-aged man on stage. Oswald, who was watching the spectacle nervously, noticed, and he stepped to the bar counter.
"What's wrong?" Oswald questioned.
Henry and another employee left quickly so the older gentleman had to speak on their behalf. And he was nervous the entire time.
"Oh, hello, Mr. Penguin—I mean the Penguin, I mean—" He stuttered.
Oswald held up a hand to stop him: "What is it?"
Crestfallen, the man answered, "We're out of booze."
"What—hello, behind you there is a wall of booze," Oswald pointed out incredulously.
"That's just colored water, always has been," said the bartender weakly. "We keep the real stuff down here, but we're out."
"Then, duh, order more!" Oswald uttered impatiently.
"We tried but—"
"It's Maroni's booze," Butch finished for the nervous man, earning Oswald's attention. "And he's a little grumpy with you these days."
Relieved that the attention was directed away from him, the nervous bartender resigned to cleaning the counter top and pretending that all was well. Henry came out of the back, muttering something quizzically to his senior before the man responded, "Just don't say anything to the rest of them."
Oswald approached him, glancing at me then to Butch.
"He was hardly a fan of Fish either. Why did he sell her booze?"
Butch replied, "Business is business. But he hates you with a passion. And he can't kill you so…"
"This is ridiculous," Oswald responded, annoyed. "There must be a thousand places to buy booze!"
"Well, that's where it gets complicated—"
"—As if it wasn't already complicated—" I muttered.
"—Maroni supplies to this whole side of town," Butch continued without interruption. "And no one would dare cross him to help you."
Just at that moment, the guests started throwing more than just wads of paper at the entertainment: I swore I heard glass shatter.
"Fuck…." I muttered. "I'll be right back."
Oswald looked at me curiously, although I said nothing in response. He turned to Butch to continue their conversation about acquiring what apparently was necessary for the club's prosperity: good alcohol, for one. And I figured I would provide the other: entertainment.
I stood on the stage and looked at the comedian.
"Get off." I hissed.
"But I'm—" He began. (A bottle of beer shattered at his feet and he bowed stiffly to me.) "See you later!"
I turned to the crowd, squinting against the blinding lights, and lowered the microphone to my height.
"Good evening, ladies and gentleman and self-identified objects in the audience," I greeted, smiling sweetly.
The jeers stopped, if only just to see where I was going with this.
Improvisation was not my strongest suit—and I admittedly had a bit of stage fright. My legs felt like they were being placed in a vat of iced water, and my heart beat thumped through a small vein in my neck.
"So, I apologize for the so-called comedian," I said lightly. "When we hired him, we thought he would be, you know…funny."
Someone tittered in the audience, if only for moral support.
"With a show of hands, how many of you here have a dark sense of humor?" I asked, raising my own indicatively. After a moment, I said to the stage hand, "Would you please turn down the lights? I can't see anyone agreeing with me."
"Sure…." one of the staff members stood to the side and dimmed the lights. I was able to see my audience.
Everyone except a few were raising their hands. In the back, nearest to the bar, Butch and Oswald had finished talking; the latter strolled up the stage. I sensed that he wanted to speak to me shortly and I lowered myself down to hear him.
"What are you doing?" Oswald asked.
"Keeping the people happy," I reasoned. "They want a comedian? They'll get one."
"I thought you didn't like the stage," Oswald reminded.
"I don't," I muttered, uneasily glancing back at audience, all of whom began talking amongst themselves. "I have never been more terrified in my entire life."
"Why are you doing this then?"
"Like I said, to keep the guests happy." I gave him a once-over. "You look like you're on a mission."
"As I just finished telling Butch, I have to procure some alcohol for my dwindling clientele," Oswald said, verbatim. "In the meantime, would you ensure that nothing else goes awry in my absence?"
"You got it, boss." I said dutifully. "Is Butch going with you?"
"I highly doubt it. Despite his previous affirmations, I still believe he enjoys watching me fail."
"If the crowd goes up in arms, I suppose it'll be nice having him around to disperse the crowd while I try and make a run for it, huh?" I joked. "Have fun, boss. Take Tomas with you—he's an efficient form of back-up."
"Fine then. You'll be all right here by yourself?" Oswald asked; there was a protective edge to his tone.
"Five-by-five."
He kissed my hand and strode away. I straightened and smiled at the crowd again. They were watching expectantly.
"Okay," I continued. "Let's have a bit of honesty in the crowd, huh? How many of you are gangsters?"
A couple hands rose to the air.
"Two. Okay, you can put your hands down. Now, how many of you don't like pineapple on pizza?" I asked curiously.
The couple lowered their hands and everyone else raised their own.
I said loudly, "That makes all of you just as bad as the rest of us!"
More snickers, and the two self-identified gangsters laughed loudly in appreciation.
"You know, most people don't know how an architect measures the distance between the roof of a building and its foundation." I told the crowd.
The guests glanced at each other.
"Sure, there's all sorts of ways to measure—yard sticks, tape, the like. But here in Gotham, we have a different way of measuring distance from the roof to the ground, don't we?"
There was a titter of agreement.
I said smoothly, "A lot of people would presume that the person who built the Gotham Bridge used the measuring stick to determine the distance from the pinnacle to the ground. In Gotham, we just tie a rope around two of our own people, push them off the ledge, and wait for the bodies to hit the ground, and then we cut the rope. It gives a brand-new meaning to the old adage 'measure twice, cut once'."
At first there were crickets. Then one snicker caused a ripple effect of several giggles. Butch looked at me from the back of the room, smirking. Some people clapped and one fella even whistled in approval. I did a little bow, and gestured for the pianist to come on stage. The stagehands rolled a piano onto the surface.
"Thank you, everyone," I addressed the crowd. "Next up, we have a pianist. Accompanying her is John Dubianchi. I'm assuming they're going to be performing together as one, otherwise this will be an awkward moment for all of us."
A few snorted in laughter—I think they were still drunk off laughter from the dark joke. I placed the microphone up at a higher setting since John, the singer, stood taller than myself. He looked at me appreciatively.
"I'm glad you got them in a better mood," He muttered in a deep voice. "I was about to write my will."
"Don't be too quick to reconsider," I warned. "It's a tough crowd."
"I didn't realize Penguin had a sense of humor," said John with a smile. I sent him a confused look, and he added, "He must have a good sense of humor if he managed to catch you."
"Aw shucks."
The pianist, the same that Henry had tried hitting on, looked at me expectantly, saying, "Our other performer is running late."
"What do you mean 'running late'?" I asked.
"She's running behind on time."
"I know what 'running late' means," I snapped, glaring at her.
"Carol," John addressed the pianist, "Where is Rose?"
"I don't know," Carol answered resentfully. "She was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago—before that guy came on stage and started ruining everything."
"I don't know. Rose was supposed to sing with me."
"Who is Rose?" I asked.
"We're doing a duet together," said John unhappily. "That was the whole point of the damn piano."
"Don't look at me like that, Johnathan," Carol snapped. "You knew full and well that my piano was going to be up here. It's not my fault Rose is late—she is always late—"
"Shut up, the two of you!" I ordered.
Carol and John looked at me quizzically.
I turned to John: "The guests are waiting. What do you want me to do?"
"Can you sing?" John asked.
"I—"
"Can you sing?" He demanded. "All I need is someone who can sing. Then we're fine. Then we're good."
"Sure, I can sing," I responded defensively. "I can sing very beautifully—but I don't do this sort of thing."
"Sing?"
"Anything on stage. I hate being on stage in the lime light."
"You were just doing it," John pointed out, indicating my comedy bit.
"That was all improvisation!" I snapped—my snippy remark hid my panic. "I can't fucking sing on stage. I'll fucking die of a heart attack."
"Do you know anything with Elvis Presley?" John asked.
"What?"
"Elvis Presley—King of—"
"—I know who Elvis Presley is!" I interrupted snidely. "Why does that fucking matter?"
Carol butted in: "Do you know the lyrics to 'Can't Help Falling In Love With You'?"
"Of course, I do. It's a classic."
"That's our song," said John, glancing between Carol and myself. "That's the one Rose and I were going to sing, but she's not here. And your guests, Miss Gordon, are getting ticked off…."
I glanced at the crowd, watching them frown back at me: "You two are infuriating."
"We're not able to do the song without—" Carol began, but John interrupted her.
"Rose isn't coming, for god's sake. Miss Gordon…." John looked at me desperately. "Will you please?"
"Ugh, fine." I hissed, grabbing the microphone.
"Thank you so much." John said gratefully.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah—you owe me a drink after this!"
"I'll buy you a round."
I looked at the crowd once more.
"Good Evening…again," I said with a soft laugh (only to hide my nerves). "I'm back!"
Frowns turned to smiles.
Well, that's always a good sign.
"Today, there has been a change of events," I told them all calmly. "How many of you like Elvis Presley?"
The majority of the people in the crowd (from ten people had now become twenty) raised their hands. I noticed Butch was gone—how long he'd been gone, I didn't know—but that was rectified as I saw Oswald and Butch come into the club, shortly followed by Tomas and others with a lot of crates. I figured that they had been able to acquire what the club had been desperately needing.
"Well," I continued with some gusto. "Tonight will be one of those nights where improvisation is apparently the theme of entertainment."
From the back, Oswald and Butch were talking and drinking together (That was odd) and they turned in their seats to see me on the stage for the second time tonight. I forced my attention back to the audience, who were expectantly watching.
"Apparently," (I slapped myself mentally as I heard my own voice shake). "Apparently, the third performer, a woman named Rose, has failed to show to sing a duet with Mr. Dubianchi…. I know, it sucks, right?" (I responded to the jeers.) "However, in light of circumstance, I will be taking her place."
I glared at John, muttering, "The things I do for these people astounds me."
"You're doing great," John whispered.
"Just play the goddamn song!" I hissed. "John, you'll have to nudge me when my part comes up. I have no fucking idea when to start and when to end."
"I'll help you." John reassured.
"Fucking better."
Carol played the intro.
Then John sang in marvelous imitation of Elvis Presley's voice:
"Wise men say
Only fools rush in.
But I can't help
falling in love with you."
He nudged me.
I sang (shakily at first then steadily, my voice only shook due to my vibrato rather than my anxiety):
"Shall I stay
Would it be a sin?
If I can't help
Falling in love with you."
Then we both sang in perfect harmony, where his natural deep baritone rose half an octave and my natural soprano lowered to an alto:
"Like a river flows
Surely to the sea
Darling, so it goes,
Some things are meant to be."
John nudged me. I glanced up and saw Oswald smiling at me.
I sang:
"Take my hand.
Take my whole life too.
For I can't help
Falling in love with you."
Then once more, in harmony, John and I sang:
"Like a river flows
Surely to the sea
Darling so it goes
Some things are meant to be."
"Take my hand.
Take my whole life too.
For I can't help
Falling in love with you."
John finished the song, smiling lovingly at Carol; and I noticed Oswald mouthed the words back to me:
"For I can't help
Falling in love with you."
Carol smiled back at John and the soft piano music trailed off naturally.
At first there were crickets. But then slowly but surely, an eruption of genuine applause thundered throughout the club. I stared at everyone incredulously, looking at John and Carol who were grinning back at me.
John spoke in the microphone: "Give Miss Gordon a round of applause! Wasn't she just beautiful!"
There was an encore. I felt my face burn a deep shade of red, and was certain that it outdid the color of my own ginger roots. Looking further back in the crowd, Oswald was clapping as well, and he winked at me. Even Butch was clapping, a small smile trying to tug its way at the corner of his mouth.
I cleared my throat and said into the microphone: "Well, thank you all for that. And let's give a round of applause for John Dubianchi and his lovely wife, Carol Dubianchi."
I introduced the next bit of entertainment who appeared to be some puppeteer and strode off the stage. John and Carol met me at the end of the stairs.
"You certainly do sing beautifully," John noted. "That went better than if Rose was actually here."
Carol said pointedly, "I'd have sung it but I don't have the same type of pipes."
"Well, you do, but you just prefer to play the piano than sing with me, darling," John returned, smirking at me. "She's always making excuses not to sing with me."
"You make excuses not to clean the bathroom—"
"—That's a whole different story—"
"—I consider them the same—"
"—I can't believe we're going to rehash this argument again—"
John and Carol continued on their way, hand-in-hand. I looked after them, perplexed, wondering how long they had been together.
I felt eyes on me, so I turned to see Oswald smiling brightly.
"You were magnificent," He praised. "Stunning as ever."
"Had no choice! Rose never showed."
"I doubt the performance would have been the same—especially the audience's response." Oswald commented. (I half-smiled.) "They love you."
"So, I can sing. Whoop-de-woop."
Butch popped up from behind, adding, "Not just your voice—they responded to you. You had them dying of laughter in their seats!"
"I sure hope not," I said pointedly. "Our numbers would go down."
Butch chuckled, pointing at me: "See, that humor? That's what they like—you have charisma, Sylvia. You were made to entertain."
"I'm not made to do anything," I told Butch coolly. "I simply took the stand because if I didn't, they all would have left. But I will admit. It felt pretty good."
Oswald took my hand, kissed the back of it: "You know what I'm going to suggest, Pigeon" (Butch glanced at him oddly, hearing the pet name) "You let me know what you decide."
"Sure," I said, smiling. "I'll let you know by the end of the day."
He leaned into me, kissed my cheek, and then walked on. Butch looked at me expectantly.
"What?" I said defensively.
"'Pigeon'?" Butch repeated.
"Can't be worse than 'Butch'." I teased.
"You're terrible—I got to choose that name; and I like it."
"Well, I could call you 'Bitch'. It's only one vowel off."
"I'd rather you not."
I shrugged saying, "Options, Butch. Options."
"I guess you're liking me a little more, huh?" He suggested as I followed him to the bar; he sat beside me. "Not so grumpy with me anymore?"
"I'm still debating. You used to work for her, for Fish."
"You did too."
"We both know I didn't really work for her just to work for her. I did it so I could work with him."
Butch looked past me to see Oswald directing Tomas and Gabe as far as where to store the newly acquired booze and so on. I followed his gaze and turned back to look at Butch.
"You'd go above and beyond for that guy, wouldn't you?" Butch guessed.
"You're not as stupid as you look," I said, smirking. "And I already have. And I would go even further, if he asked it of me."
He poured me a shot of whiskey, offering it to me: "What's he done for you?"
"He's my fiancé. All he has to do is be there for me. So far he has—more than anyone else has in the past."
"How's your brother, the detective?"
I shrugged: "He has a new girlfriend."
"The thing with the blonde fell through?" Butch asked. "I liked her."
"I know you did. And it's because of you and Zsasz that she left Gotham in the first place," I said curtly.
"It was just a job, Sylvia," Butch explained, business-like. "You know how Fish is."
"Was," I corrected. "She's not in Gotham anymore."
"You don't think she'll come back?" Butch asked stoically.
"Am I to assume that you think that she will?"
He said nothing to the fact.
"Let me tell you something, Mr. Gilzean," I said carefully. "Victor may have fixed you in his basement, wired you to do whatever Oswald tells you to do. But I am still on the fence about your loyalty. I'll be friendly to you because Oswald wants me to, but…." I downed the shot of whiskey. "You make one move to hurt the love of my life, I will gut you and make you eat your own fucking intestines. Got me?"
Butch nodded, unaffected: "I got you."
"Cool beans," I said. I smiled, "Now that's out of the way…." I refilled his glass. "How did you get Maroni to give you this much alcohol?"
"We stole it."
"Shocker there. How'd you manage that?"
"Well, your 'love of your life' wanted to go in, guns blazing. But I have a few cops in the pocket still. They helped us out."
"Which officers?"
"Wouldn't you like to know," Butch taunted.
"I can punch you in the face and then ask again nicely."
"I'd rather you not."
I smiled saying, "Like I said, Butchy. Options."
"'Butchy'?" He scoffed.
"Do you prefer 'Bitch'?"
"No."
"Then 'Butchy' it is." I clinked my glass against his: "Cheers."
