Chapter Two

Harold Allnut's favorite holiday was Christmas. He liked the sparkling lights, the music, and the feeling of comradery that seemed to permeate the entire festive season which lasted a solid two months. He liked it that the stores filled up with green and red before Halloween had passed, and only slightly pitied poor Thanksgiving that could never catch a break. He listened to the complaints that bounced, swirled, and whizzed around him, staying silent and secretly enjoying every silver tinsel and golden ornament and peppermint-infused everything that kept the air fresh and him in good spirits. Even the music was uplifting and he always kept his radio tuned to any station that would play Christmas carols 24/7—to the chagrin of his boss, Mr. Cobblepot.

Harold had just finished adhering a handle to one of Mr. Cobblepot's latest umbrella inventions and placed it in the rack with the others before standing to stretch his muscles, his knees creating the sound of someone twisting bubble wrap, and went to the window to watch the snow fall, humming along to the music playing over the airwaves. He never hummed if someone else was in the room. Had to keep up the appearance of being deaf.

He rested his forehead against the window, enjoying the coolness against his skin, knowing he was tucked away someplace warm.

This place sure beats the half-way homes and shelters, he thought. And especially the cardboard boxes.

"Grateful" was the sentiment he felt every day. He liked being here in the cozy home on the top floor of Oswald's. The club was still operating, but underperforming, which did not really matter since it acted as a cover for other small-time crookery anyway. The low cash flow from this joint did not negatively affect his boss's wallet. Not in the slightest. Mr. Cobblepot had opened The Iceberg Lounge, the coolest hotspot in Gotham, not long after his mother had died, and it had fast become THE place to be seen as well as THE place to eat, having been regularly featured on several "around the town" and "foodie" shows, as well as Page Six—in all its glorious hydra-like forms of media, and receiving top ratings and reviews from Zagat.

His boss had changed nothing in the office at Oswald's, but told Harold he was welcome to make modifications to the rest of the upstairs rooms, even proposing adding a kitchenette to Harold's living quarters. After an inspection of the other rooms, Harold was pleased to discover that most everything he would need to construct a small band of specialized weaponry was already present, but he would need a current computer network, and suggested closing off part of the hallway to widen half the rooms to accommodate. Mr. Cobblepot agreed and had said to order anything Harold needed with one stipulation, it had to be the best, even if that meant the most expensive. Mr. Cobblepot's money could buy anything. And it did.

Harold did have reservations about his boss from time to time, like whenever Oswald got that wild look in his eyes and Harold knew he was going to have to rig him a weapon that was deadlier than the last. He did not like doing that so much because those particular weapons seemed more for unprovoked attacks than self-defense, but he resigned himself to doing so since Mr. Cobblepot would, on rare occasions when Harold protested, threaten to retrieve his caseworker to haul him back to Illinois—where Oswald knew Harold did not want to go. Oswald also used the lure of maybe seeing Cassandra again, if ever they could find her, and prodded Harold constantly—for years on end—if there was anything more he could remember about the masked creature and the rumor of The Court of Owls.

On those days, when his boss graced the languishing club, Harold wondered which personality would step off that elevator. It was the proverbial toss of the coin. Would the day bring a docile and accommodating Dr. Jekyll or an enraged and violent Mr. Hyde?

Oswald had never hit him. Mr. Cobblepot knew better if he was to get his toys; however, many objects had been broken, holes in walls had been created, and some things had to be replaced. The hunchbacked man was not dumb. He knew this too—knew his boss would not risk him injury. Harold realized he was invaluable to Mr. Cobblepot for his skills in engineering and technology. Being incapacitated would have hampered the progress of fulfilling Oswald's goals in the manner to which he wanted them filled—both on time and without error.

Harold hated to admit to himself that he liked the trust and attention Mr. Cobblepot had given him. It was such a change from the abuse he had endured for most of his life. His ego had been stroked by Oswald's complete faith in his abilities to create anything the little murderer's heart desired and he had been moved when he realized how desperate the well-dressed monster was to find Cassandra. Harold was more than glad to communicate to Oswald what little he knew about The Court. It was not a lot, but something was better than nothing, right? He whole-heartedly believed . . . knew that Cassandra would be safer with Oswald than were he calculated she was now. He had viewed his boss on several occasions lamenting the loss of his wife and Harold had no qualms about helping him find her.

Ten years ago, Harold had found her, only to see her shot down on the sidewalk of Gotham City. He had travelled from Illinois to the East Coast to warn her of an approaching danger, following leads and risking getting caught by his caseworker and returned back to the half-way house he shared with others. He was not supposed to leave the state without permission and usually he was a stickler for rules, but this was an emergency. He had managed to save a little bit of money earned from doing odd jobs throughout the years and bought a bus ticket that got him midway to Gotham, before walking and hitchhiking the rest of the distance. He only stuck to church vans or truckers for rides. He either had to listen to gospel or confessions. He preferred the gospel. Some of the confessions made his stomach churn. Sometimes he would fake being sick just to get out of the cab. He would take his chances on the dirt and asphalt until another ride came along. He thought it better just to stick to choir vans.

Harold had a stutter and people thought he was stupid because it took him longer than what is considered "normal" to voice his thoughts so, as a teenager, he used a tragic event—a fatal fire—to quit talking altogether. This led people to think he was deaf. He did not correct that assumption. It made it easier to find out things—secrets spoken in front of him as he was dismissed with a shrug. "It's only Harold," he would hear them say. "He's deaf."

And you think I am the one that is a moron, he thought.

Acting on the notion that people believed he could not hear, Harold learned sign language and communicated through writing notes and highlighting passages in books as well. It was not until he encountered some thugs who wanted to take him to "their boss" that he actually lost hearing in one ear. It would have helped if he had known who "their boss" was, Harold had been looking for him, knowing he was connected to Cassandra, his friend he was trying to protect. Instead, the deadly, desperate bird hunted him down.

For weeks, Harold had been living on the streets, turning to shelters when the weather got cold. He spent a better part of his time outside after he overheard a detective inquire with one of the shelter volunteers about Harold's whereabouts. Harold had been standing nearby, hidden on the other side of a column when he heard a Detective Gordon want to know if they had "ever seen this man . . . had a few questions to ask him." The red-headed man who was with him—Harold noted he was also a cop—let it slip that Harold's caseworker was also in town looking for him. The volunteer told them that too many bums passed through the shelters on any given day or night, and there was no way he could remember every single one of them.

Harold had considered going to the Gotham City Police Department and asking to see to the detectives, but he reasoned that once he did that, he would be on a one-way flight back to Illinois with his "handler".

Not yet, he would tell himself. I have to find the dark-haired man that was with Cassandra first. He figured he was her husband since Harold had also seen them with a child.

He waited every day for news about Cassandra, watching one of the TVs propped up at the shelter or stopping to gaze at the flickering screens in pawnshop windows. For days, the newsreel consisted of a panoramic shot of the courthouse, city hall, and the surrounding streets, focusing on the route the ambulance and black SUV had come barreling down. Harold had not seen what had occurred after the first shots. He had seen Cassandra fall, being caught by the man beside her and lowered to the concrete. He had then panicked and disappeared back the way he had come, zigzagging through the throngs of people that were rushing towards the gunfire to get a better view and capture the event on smartphones.

In front of Rags 'n' Tatters pawnshop, Harold stood close to the glass—the muted glare from the sun reflected the grimy streets onto windows which were equally as grimy. He squinted as if that would help him see the moving images better. The video was being replayed because it had been recorded live at the time of the shooting!—the anchor was incredibly excited about that—and learned that the ambulance from the nearby hospital had been stolen but had not been recovered. No word about the SUV.

On the footage, the man Harold had seen Cassandra walk out with, had commandeered a police vehicle while clutching a bloodied toddler to his side, with a cop—Harold recognized him as Detective Gordon—jumping into the passenger seat. What happened next, Harold could not quite believe—the paramedic seemed to focus on the driver borrowing the cop car and stuck out his tongue at the man, as if teasing him. Even the reporters seemed not to believe it, and had asked for the camera to zoom and focus in on the man's face, when he suddenly disappeared from screen, the result of being run over by the police vehicle. It was later determined that the mode of death was internal injuries, particularly the crushed skull and flattened brain.

Well, that would do it, Harold mused. Apparently his head had popped open like a zit. Harold could only imagine the sound it had made. They had also recovered a knife from his leg, but it had nothing to do with actual cause of death.

Too bad, thought Harold. He had seen the man mow the family down and had no pity for him.

Harold invoked that same sentiment when he woke up in an unfamiliar bed after having being beaten by those brutes on the street who had wanted to bring him to "their boss".

Mission accomplished, it seemed.

He did not harbor much pity for them as he broke the jaw of one of his attackers. The thug clutched at it and moaned.

"He deserved that," came a smooth voice. Harold had to control his impulse to immediately turn in the direction of the spoken words. The man whose jaw he had just dislocated frowned and left the room with the second assailant. Harold figured they had given him enough bruises that he would be blue before midnight. If only he had a fairy godmother to rescue him from whatever new misfortune was about to befall.

Where does one hide when one is cerulean? He eyed the shadowed figure in the corner and shivered when it chuckled.

"You can drop the pretense now, Mr. Allnut. Mr. Harold Allnut?" The voice mocked him. It knew exactly who he was, yet still prodded him for an answer. Harold did not respond. The pain in his ribs increased as he shifted into a more comfortable position and then became dull again. His chest felt tight and he looked down to discover that he had been bandaged up. There also was a butterfly stitch over his right eyebrow and iodine stains across his knuckles. Something tickled his ear and he rubbed it, pulling his fingers back to see traces of blood on them. He felt unbalanced, like he had water in his ear after a swim.

"I must apologize for that, but . . ." his host sighed dramatically. "If only you had come quietly. Pardon the pun." There was a pause as the man drummed his fingers on the armchair. "My . . . employees . . . got a tiny bit carried away. I never meant for harm to come to you."

Why do I not believe that? thought Harold, who had reached back up to feel his ear. It was packed with gauze, but obviously some blood still seeped through.

"A medic has examined you and patched you up, as you see . . . you will be just peachy." Upon hearing the word "peachy", Harold realized he was a tad hungry, and very thirsty. The shadow addressed him again.

"May I interest you?" He saw the silhouette of the man's arm and hand as he gestured to the small table beside the bed. Harold just then noticed a tinge of something sweet in the air.

"Help yourself. There is water, hot tea, red or white wine. Cookies or crackers. Some petit fours. Take your pick." Harold hesitated, and the voice continued. "I am not going to poison you," it laughed. "That is, not unless you give me reason." Harold noticed that there was also a pencil and a small notepad on the table and he scribbled something down, tore the sheet along the ridges, and held it out towards his host. The man did not move. Harold traced over what he had written to make it bolder and held it up. The man leaned forward, but still Harold could not make out his face. The man laughed and leaned back.

"No, you are not," he said.

Huh. That was unexpected. On the paper, which he now returned to the table, Harold had written: I AM DEAF. He was not sure what to do next. Run for the door? Twiddle my thumbs? Drink all the wine and hope for the best?

Harold felt like he was playing a game of chess, a game he was rather good at playing, winning many times. He certainly did not intend to lose now. Not unless he was up against a better, more cunning player. But he doubted it. After all, in his lonely childhood, he had needed a pastime other than reading to keep his mind active and to make the hours pass. It also had afforded him some time with other people where he did not have to communicate, except through wooden pieces on a checkered board.

The two men sat in silence regarding each other. At least, Harold thought the man was looking at him. Since he could not be sure, Harold slowly removed his gaze from the shadow in the corner and took his time studying the room. It was pleasant, resembling a mash-up of someone's home and a motel room. There was writing on the wall and Harold could see snippets of the words, piecing them together until he recognized it as one of Shakespeare's sonnets. It was a love poem.

As Harold was reading it, the voice spoke again, softer than before.

"Mr. Allnut. Harold. Your secret is safe with me. I know you are not deaf. I know you have a speech impediment . . . have had it since childhood . . . I can understand whatever suffering you have experienced. How the world treats those of us who are . . . better." This got Harold's attention. "I know you communicate through sign, writing, and books. I know you have an aptitude for construction and technology."

The silhouette stood and started to approach Harold who also got to his feet. He could tell he was taller and brawnier than the figure, and this reassured him. He lamented that he could have been even taller, but his back deformity kept him from straightening up to his full length.

"I know these things because . . ." The man stepped into the light and Harold's features changed. He recognized the dark-haired man that had caught Cassandra as she fell, and Harold involuntarily muttered her name. It came out more as a hoarse grunt, but his host's face collapsed when Harold spoke it. Harold could not decipher if it was rage, fear, despair, or triumph that registered on the man's pale face, but he flew in closer to Harold, nearly tripping, and bunched the front of Harold's shirt in his fist, glowering at him with crazed bright blue eyes.

"Tell me everything you know," he demanded in a fierce whisper, spittle flying from his mouth.

That had been a decade ago, and since then Harold had created and tweaked umbrella weapons for Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, aka The Penguin, also known as the "boss" who had wanted a word with him those many years ago.

It was very nearly dinnertime, and since the chef had left the day before to spend time with his family over the holidays—Oswald's had closed for a few days, Harold rummaged through the freezer in his mini-kitchen and pried a frozen boxed meal from the ice. He nuked his turkey dinner—complete with water-soaked corn and dried-up dressing—and settled down to a marathon of A Christmas Carol (the one with Allister Sims) and It's A Wonderful Life. He should have been sad, sitting there all alone, eating his rubbery Christmas Eve meal, but he was not. Harold had been freer and more content in his ten years in Gotham than he had at any point in his life. And, deep down he knew it was because of Mr. Cobblepot—and in a warped way, because of Cassandra too, wherever she was—that is why he would do anything for them.

Build, search, spy. He was their guy.