Chapter Three
Ohmygooooosssh! He was such a beast at pinochle!
He had won fifty dollars on the day that school let out for the holidays and he was going to use it to buy his grandmother a Christmas present. She had chastised him for bringing her gifts he had stolen, but he had never returned them to the stores, even when she insisted—going so far as saying she would walk him there herself. He would lie and say he had taken them back and all had been forgiven, but instead he had hocked them for a little extra cash which in turn he used to skip school and go to the movies or the arcade. Nobody ever questioned why a ten-year-old boy was wasting money in their establishment on a school day. Nobody cared. It was about the money after all. Sometimes he paid for his buddies so they could accompany him and they would make an afternoon of it, stopping to get burgers for lunch.
He was their leader. Their king . . . their emperor. Yeah, he reckoned he liked that better.
Nobody messed with them, with him. That is because Ignatius Ogilvy figured that even at his tender age, he was a badass. After all, he was called into the principal's office at least three times a month—yeah, that's right, I'm a boss—for things Iggy considered minor, like graffiti in the boy's toilets or wet, wadded up crap paper thrown into the girls. It was hilarious to hear them screech when the bombs flew in and stuck to the opposite wall. If the bombs stayed attached to the tile overnight, it was like prying off pieces of cement the next day. He had learned that smidgeon of information from the one time he got caught throwing the sopping paper projectiles and had to stay afterschool to remove them.
His criminal career also included him being caught smoking and trying to steal the teacher's wallets and purses. But there was always a ready excuse or sad-eyed expression that usually demoted the intended punishment. He had been threatened with juvie so many times, he had lost count.
So he was the tough guy, the one even the older kids would not mess with because of his reputation for not fighting fair. He liked to draw blood, and being sneaky was a hobby. Ingrained in him from somewhere—not by his grandmother, his mom's mom. I mean, really. She even left the tags on the mattresses.
At least he would not have to steal her a gift. He could pay for it fair-and-square, even if he had cheated at cards to get the cash.
He sauntered into Rags 'n' Tatters pawnshop and purchased the string of pearls he had been eyeing for weeks.
"Real thing?" He had asked the proprietor Mr. Regan, as he bit down on a pearl as if he was an expert and had been buying jewelry all his life.
"Ay. Real thing. Why you out by yourself, Ignatius? It's too dark. Where's your grandmother?" He rang up the boy's purchase.
"She's at home. She's expecting me."
"You need a lift? Rory Junior is still here, he can give you one."
"Naw. I'll be alright. People know not to mess with me."
Mr. Regan raised his brows and began to gift wrap Iggy's purchase—on the house. "Oh, is that right?"
The boy nodded empathically. "I'll cut them if they try. See?" He pulled a knife from his pocket and proudly displayed it to Mr. Regan. It was of obvious good quality and Mr. Regan nodded his approval before securing a red bow on the gift box and then placing it in a brown bag with twine handles.
"You know how to use that?"
"Sure thing. Watch." Iggy held out the knife.
Click. Click. Click.
"I like the way it sounds," he stated as he took the bag from the shop owner.
He liked Mr. Regan. Iggy had made up his mind never to steal from his shop. Plus, he was the only person who was allowed to call him Ignatius. Well, him and his grandmother. Oh, yeah—and the teachers. Not that he could stop them, and boy how he had tried. Earned him detention once.
"Ay. Nice sound. Excellent blade. You be careful, Ignatius. I can get Rory, you know—Rory!" Mr. Regan bellowed into the backroom, but did not receive an answer.
Ignatius scampered to the door. "Don't worry about it, Mr. Regan. I am more than I seem." He started to open the door and then turned back. "You let me know if anyone messes with you, Mr. Regan. I'll take care of them."
Mr. Regan grinned at the young boy. "I believe you would, Ignatius. Have a Merry Christmas, and wish the same to your grandmother for me."
"I will, Mr. Regan, you too—Merry Christmas, I mean. Oh, and Happy . . . Happy . . ." He struggled to remember the word. Mr. Regan found it for him.
"Chanukah," he said, failing miserably at hiding his amusement.
"Cha-nu-kah," Iggy repeated. "Happy . . . Cha-nu-kah." Mr. Regan nodded and Iggy waved goodbye as he leaned against the door, pushing it open. The bell above him jingled as he walked out.
Around the same time, Oswald decided he needed to get out of the mansion. He had turned down several Christmas Eve party invitations, but was now rethinking that decision. He had already attended what felt like a hundred delightful (bleck) yuletide celebrations and could not endure another one, especially now since New Year's Eve was right around the corner. Double bleck.
Who would he kiss at the magical stroke of midnight? He closed his eyes and stretched his neck backwards, groaning.
Not that I feel any sort of true affection when I kiss anyone. Or am kissed. Which is rare, and empty. Any kiss he received was usually from someone who was trying to taste his money instead of him, and when he placed his lips on someone, it was out of pure attraction or need (how original)—a base urge—not any kind of devotion.
He allowed himself to remember what it was like to kiss Cassandra and have her enthusiastically return his advances, lingering on the memory before shaking his head to clear his thoughts. Do not dwell on things that you have lost. A sad laugh escaped his lips. Oswald had repeated this phrase to himself every day. It did no good.
The fire popped and there was a slight smokiness in the air. The fire . . . the fire. Other than that, there were no other noises.
It is too quiet here, too still. He kicked the table with his good leg and knocked the bottle to the floor just to hear it crash.
Gabe was with his family in the other wing of the mansion, and Oswald had been invited to celebrate, but did not want to intrude. He had given Fara the night off and she was out with friends and would not return until much later. Honestly, he kind of just wanted to a have a self-deprecating pity party, and the bubbly alcohol had helped with that, but now it was no longer fun. He burped and got up from the leather chair and paced, attempting to release the gas in his nether regions. His intensities were cramping.
He strolled through the large empty house, full of furniture, but not warmth. That had been ripped from him. He gritted his teeth.
A succession of echoes bounced off the walls as he limped across the hardwood floors, not sure which direction he should actually take—just walking aimlessly—his wingtips tapping like dance shoes with each irregular step. It was like a maze, a giant house that felt more like a trap than a home.
Where am I going? I am a living ghost haunting the dead.
He stood underneath the lintel of an immense entryway that opened into a formal living room, and leaned against the jambs. The room was stark in its lack of color, seeming almost antiseptic with its white plush carpet and ivory walls. In front of a vast bay window that housed a built-in settee was a black baby grand piano, the centerpiece, and Oswald considered tickling the ivories, but decided to slump instead, staring past it and outside onto the lawn. Oh, how it glittered in the deepening evening, the snow looking more blue than white. What time was it anyway? Around 7:30?
Maybe I will go for a turn about the sparkling courtyard, or perhaps take a drive, test the snow tires on my new, custom-made black Cadillac SUV—a Merry Christmas present to himself. Maybe a drive downtown, like, maybe, to Oswald's. Maybe there.
No, definitely not, he would not go there, he adamantly decided, although he knew damn well that was exactly where he was going to end up. At his first club—the one he had pirated from Fish.
Twice.
Well, she had threatened to take it from him when she made her ghostly second reappearance after fooling everyone into thinking she was dead—disappeared in an undertow. Hey, he could not fault her for that—he had, after all, performed that little trick himself, and it had been a rebirth. A purification, if one will. A cleanse. A transformation into something else.
Fish had resurrected into a creature much more lethal, and slightly perturbed—not at all happy with Oswald. She was a nightmare straight out of a Poe story, showing up as deadly and as menacing as a figure cloaked in red, proving noxious, but not to him. Not to Oswald, who beat the clock again and defeated that bringer of eternal sleep, tricking the Grim Reaper out of another notch on his bedpost of death.
It really should be a world's record—Oswald had to hand it to himself—the number of times I have escaped its claws. It was almost laughable. He was impressed with his skill. When was he not? He had to pretend to be, at least—impressed with himself, worth something. To get through the days. Remind himself—convince himself, more like it—that he was still alive and not an animated corpse, already dead, just waiting to rot. He lived! He should live like it!
Ugh, but sometimes it was just too tiring.
He needed to get out of the house even though doing so was blatantly unwise since the streets were packed with snow, its top layer crystalizing into ice as the night came and the temperatures dropped. But why should he care? What was he going to do? Die? Not hardly.
The champagne also was not helping in his quest to leave the premises. There was still a slight buzz, even though he had been pouting for nearly an hour. He thought the tickle in his blood would have cleared by now. Oswald plodded towards the kitchen and tore a bit of baguette to munch on in order to place something besides alcohol in his stomach. He tore another piece and added butter, before grabbing his coat—formerly Maroni's—and keys and slipped out the front door.
When he pulled up to Oswald's, he parked halfway on the sidewalk, ignoring the slight bump as the vehicle came to a stop. He turned off the lights and unclicked his seatbelt before leaning back and closing his eyes, listening to the low hum of the heater. Another sound joined in, barely audible, and he sat up to turn the heat down, trying to decipher the direction the noise was coming from—it sounded like a child yelling—and Oswald had to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness—the shadows and objects merging too closely into one another, before he saw the group come around the corner, a few yards away from his club.
Boredom and curiosity got the best of him, as well as added bravado from the residual champagne, and he shut off the vehicle before getting out. When he pressed the security button on his keyring causing his SUV to beep, he caught the attention of what looked like a group of college-aged kids picking on a young boy.
"Evening, gentlemen," he said approaching the bunch, a smirk playing upon his face. The snow crunched underneath his feet—gosh he liked how that sounded and felt—and he used his umbrella to steady himself. He noticed there were three of them, one wiry—in the back; one sort of tall—the soon-to-be-incapacitated leader, no doubt, in the front; and a stocky one that made up the middle. Oswald wanted to poke him with his umbrella to see what kind of filling he had.
The young men turned and crossed their arms over their chests. What is this? West Side Story? Oswald assumed that they were trying to look intimidating, but . . . He shook his head slightly.
Amateurs. When you're a Jet . . .
"May I be of assistance?" he asked, when he got to them. Oswald's breath caught in his throat when he saw the boy. He was clutching a gift bag in one hand and a switchblade in the other. Oswald recognized the knife as his own. The last time he had seen that knife, it was stuck in the leg of Kim "Phil" Jong, the man who had shot and then kidnapped Cassandra. Oswald recognized the boy as his own too, and felt his heartrate increase. His boy was being bullied. That would not do.
Anger flowed through him like melted lava from a volcano.
"I don't need no help!" Iggy piped up, his face red from fighting and screaming. He still had the knife, but one of the men had grabbed his grandmother's present during the exchange. Oswald did notice that the child had cut his assailants, drawing a fair amount of blood, and he was immediately filled with fatherly pride.
I always knew you were more mine than Ed's.
"That's right!" said the tallest mugger. "He don't need no help! Now, why don't you move along, gimp!" All three of the men laughed.
"Yeah!" chimed in the stout one, obviously trying to fit in with the other two. He dragged his finger across his nose to remove an invisible booger. "What are you going to do? Beat us with your umbrella?"
When he said that, the third in the group stopped laughing and frowned a little, like he was trying to remember something that at this particular moment was really, really important.
"Oh, I would not dream of it!" exclaimed Oswald, jovially. "This material is too expensive to risk getting your pansy-assed, Neanderthal-brained, small-peckered blood on it. Offense completely meant."
This did not make the leader happy. "Why you . . . I ought to . . ." He approached Oswald, his hands bunched into fists. Oswald turned up his umbrella and pressed a button, spraying fumes into the man's face. He fell over unconscious.
Oswald looked down at him. "I told you I wasn't going to get my umbrella dirty!" He regarded the others with a malevolent grin. "I guess he did not believe me. Now, gentleman . . ." he said, stepping over the body. "In light of current circumstances . . ." He saw the portly one curl his fingers into a fist. Oswald raised his index finger to him and scolded him. "Ah, ah, ah . . . learn from the mistakes of others."
The third man shivered. "Is he dead?"
"In time." Oswald flashed a predatory smile, flashing his teeth. The stout one drew back his fist. "You should really consider your actions," Oswald told him. "I happen to know a man that relishes using a lot of fatback in his recipes. It rarely comes from pigs. At least, not the ones on four legs."
"You should talk," he sputtered, his eyes darting from side to side as if looking for an emergency exit.
"You are right! I should! And, I will! Now put your arm down," he said, dismissively as if he had not a care in the world.
Iggy was entranced by this new player and scooted against the brick to watch Oswald.
"Now that I am talking, listen to me very carefully." He grabbed the side of the pudgy man's face and brought it near to his, the tip of his umbrella pointed into the man's face. "Are you listening?" The young man did not answer, trying instead to stare Oswald down. Oswald felt movement and twisted his umbrella to catch his attacker's arm and slam him against the wall beside Iggy. A stun gun fell from the man's hand and Iggy grabbed it, holding it in the direction of the third man and shouting, "Don't you move!" The man put his hands up.
"Nice work!" Oswald told him. The man who the boy had the stun gun trained on spoke up, his voice shaking. He had suddenly and untimely remembered what it was that was so important.
"I-I-I'm so s-s-s-sorry, Mr. Penguin!"
"What!" the other guy tried to shout, but his cheeks were pressed firmly under Oswald's hand and squashed against the wall. The other would-be mugger continued to spit out an apology.
"W-w-w-we didn't know it was you . . ."
Oswald shrugged and wrinkled his nose. "Kind of sucks to be you two right now, doesn't it? Well," he jutted his chin over his shoulder. "Three."
Releasing the tubby man, he grabbed his collar and shoved him backwards hard enough to send him sprawling butt first into the snow, where he scuttled like a crab away from Oswald and Iggy. Pointing and turning his umbrella in lazy circles, Oswald motioned to the gift bag the slim man held in his hand. "I do not believe that belongs to you," he said, and watched as the man gingerly placed it in the snow. Iggy ran to get it and then returned to stand beside Oswald.
"Now let me tell you what you are going to do. You are going to get. OFF. MY. STREET. Then you are going to go home to your lovely wives, mothers, girlfriends, other . . . kiss them goodbye and then spend the rest of your short days looking over your shoulders. Your friend here," Oswald gestured to the passed-out man on the ground. "He does not get that brief reprieve. I have not extended that same courtesy to him. There are other immediate plans awaiting him." He looked back up at the men with a cheesy grin and blinked. "Well . . ." he paused. "What do you say?"
The men looked at each other, confused. Oswald rolled his eyes. Whyyyy must I alwaaays deal with morons? His nostrils flared and that luminous quality that had just adorned his face evaporated.
"Thank you!" he yelled at them as if that was the most evident answer in the world. "You say 'Thank you, Mr. Penguin for letting us see our families one last time'!" Oswald threw his hands up in frustration. "You know what? Never mind. Shoot one of them, son," he said with an exasperated sigh.
Iggy shot the stout one with the stun gun and he went down with a thud. "What would you like to do with the other one?" Oswald asked him. "It was, after all, you they were accosting." Before Iggy could answer, the other man dashed down the street into the darkness. Oswald pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes before looking back down at Iggy.
Oswald shrugged and regarded the boy who, he noted, was about a head shorter than himself. "It seems we shall have to save him for a rainy day, which should not be too hard to find come spring. How does that sound?"
"Good." The boy chipped away at the hardened snow with the heel of his boot. "I was holding my own, you know," Iggy insisted, but obviously in awe of the man and wanting to impress him.
Oswald nodded in agreement. "Indeed. I would have never have dreamed of interrupting. It is just that they were dirtying up the front of my establishment. Nice blade, by the way, young man."
The boy beamed up at him, but tried to hide his pleasure because—tough guy.
"You're The Penguin."
He smiled at Iggy, "Correct. And, you are . . ." Knowing full well who he was.
"Ignatius Ogilvy."
"Well, Ignatius Ogilvy, we need to get these men off the street before they revive, and then see to it that you arrive safely home."
"I am fine, sir. I can . . ."
"Nonsense," said Oswald, digging out his phone and texting someone. He motioned for Iggy to come over as he sent the message and then kneeled by the overweight hoodlum, still lying on the sidewalk, twitching. Oswald searched the man's pockets and found his wallet. Inside were a couple of hundred dollar bills. Oswald pulled them out and handed them to Iggy.
"Here. I believe you have earned this." Iggy took the money, held it up to the light, and then folded them in half and placed them in his pants pocket.
"Thank you." He watched as The Penguin removed the other man's wallet. Oswald shook his head.
"No need to thank me. I mean it. You earned it." Inside was a five hundred dollar bill. He did not remove it, but regarded the boy. He knew the grandmother was on a fixed income, but Oswald had always made sure "Boo" had everything he needed.
"You did well tonight. You have, young man, what is called moxie." Oswald remembered using that adjective to describe him when he was a baby. "Do you know what that is?"
Iggy nodded. "Courage, determination."
"Good," Oswald nodded, relieved to see his money was buying the boy an education. He had been worried about the quality of teacher when he had first heard the boy's grammar. Frightful.
Just then Harold exited out onto the street and Oswald directed him to help drag the men inside. Oswald told Iggy to follow. He wanted to keep an eye on him—not let him run off into the dark.
He pointed to Harold. "This is Harold," he told him. "Very intelligent, but has a hearing problem. Practically deaf," he said, giving Harold a knowing look. "This is Iggy," he signed to Harold, to keep up appearances. Oswald had learned a few words here and there, but knew the alphabet front and back. Harold grunted at the boy and signed 'hello' before zip-tying the men to separate chairs.
Oswald stumbled his way through signing to Harold that he was taking Iggy home, but since he was speaking it aloud, Harold knew what he had said, even if some of the signed words had been incorrect.
"Shouldn't you have a driver, or something?" Iggy asked, when he climbed into the passenger seat.
"Or something," replied Oswald. "They do not seem to have any brains," he hissed, failing to mention it was because they were spattered against a concrete wall. "None at all."
"Like a scarecrow," piped Iggy.
Oswald let out a small laugh and nodded, "Yes, most seemingly like a scarecrow. Tell me where to turn," he said, although he knew exactly where Iggy lived.
"I could drive you," Iggy stated, rather self-assuredly. Oswald glanced sideways at him.
"What?"
"I could be your chauffeur."
"You are . . . how old, if I may inquire?" Like he did not already know.
"I'm ten, but I am tall for my age."
Oswald chuckled. "True, but you have to be sixteen to get a permit."
"So?"
"And, you are too short. Even if you are tall for your age."
The boy frowned. "Well, how do you drive?" He looked down at Oswald's feet. "We are almost the same height."
Oswald pressed his lips together in tight grin and slowly shook his head. "There is that moxie again." He thought about the time Iggy had smacked him in the nose. "You do know you are talking to the most-feared man in Gotham."
"Are you saying there is something wrong with my height?" the little boy asked, becoming defiant. Oswald was caught off guard. The child had turned the argument around.
"No. Your height is just right. Is there a reason you did not put on your seatbelt?" Oswald asked him.
"I ain't wearing no seatbelt."
"Is that so? Well, let us get a couple of things straight here so that there is no misunderstanding in the future. Number one, you will wear a seatbelt if you want to ride in my car or be my chauffeur. I learned from personal experience that it is one of the few laws with which I intend to follow. Number two, never say the word 'ain't' again in my presence. I highly doubt that is the type of grammar they are teaching you at Gotham Academy."
"So I can be your driver?" Iggy's face lit up like flashlight, and Oswald chuckled.
"In due time," he said. "I will teach you how to drive. Once this snow melts away. In the meantime, come around after school. After. Notice I said after. An education is important, whether you believe me or not. You need book smarts and street smarts to survive. You know the city well?"
"Yes, sir."
"Excellent. You have heard the term 'playing the bug'?"
"You mean gambling? I'm good at math. And, counting cards," he said, wanting to add that last bit of information in case he could be useful in that area too.
Oswald nodded. "Good to know. Come around on weekends, if you can get away from your grandmother. I need another runner and you seem like a smart and ambitious young man. You will be paid each week." He was using this an excuse to spend time with his son, even if Iggy did not know he was his. "Off the books, of course."
Iggy could not believe his luck. The Penguin had offered him a job! He could not believe all the things he was going to learn. He could not wait to tell the fellows at school that he was working for The Penguin. "Right here," he said, and Oswald pulled up in front of a modest, but inviting building.
"Hey," Oswald nudged his son in the shoulder and handed him the five hundred dollar bill. "Here." Watching the child's eyes slowly widen when he realized the currency, Oswald had to bite the inside of his lower lip to keep from laughing. "If you do not show up next week, we will chalk it up to payment for work done—or a Christmas bonus!" he chortled. "If you do show up, I expect you to be professional and take it seriously. I will be depending on you, should you accept."
Iggy plucked the bill out of The Penguin's fingers. "Thanks, Mr. Penguin! I'll be there! You can count on me! Merry Christmas!"
Oswald was wistful. "Merry Christmas." He pulled his card out of his breast pocket and handed it to Iggy. "Call me if you need anything." The boy lowered himself to the ground and sprinted towards the building, his boots kicking up the snow as he ran. Oswald watched Iggy until he made it safely inside. He could see him wave through the door window until he was joined by his grandmother who gave him a great big bear hug.
Oswald's chest felt heavy and he sighed. He wanted his wife more than anything, but was beyond grateful to have his son.
What a gift! Christmas was suddenly starting to look fun again.