"I lie awake on a long, dark night,
I can't seem to tame my mind.
Slings and arrows are killing me inside—
Maybe I can't accept the life that's mine.
'Cause me, I'm rusted and weathered,
Barely holding together.
I'm covered with skin that peels and it just won't heal."
"Weathered" –Creed
Chapter Six:
"Margot, you're late for class!" The shout was less of a shout and more of a wheeze.
Margot entered the front room and began to run her hands under the sofa cushions. "I know, Mom. Have you seen my keys?"
"You slept through your alarm again, didn't you?" Mrs. Vallant, reclining in her tattered old lounge chair, didn't sound surprised.
Margot began to fling the cushions from the couch, searching frantically. "I'm sorry. I stayed late at work last night."
"What do they have you doing there that's so urgent that you have to stay so late?"
"It's never urgent, I just get carried away."
"Gardening," scoffed her mother softly.
Margot stood straight and abruptly looked at the woman. "Well I had to do something, and I wasn't going to turn to bartending like you."
"I'll have you know that bartending is an art," Mrs. Vallant retorted.
Margot didn't respond, letting out a soft "Ah!" as she discovered her keys under a pile of clutter on the side table. She disappeared quickly into the next room.
"Would you grab me a beer out of the fridge on your way out?" her mother called after her.
Margot emerged, backpack on her shoulder, books in her arms and her keys dangling from her finger. "You can't have beer for breakfast," she grumbled as she dashed into the kitchen, lifting the keys to her mouth and hooking her finger through the plastic handle of the half gallon of milk. "Here," she mumbled, plopping it down on her mother's armrest.
"It's almost empty!" protested Mrs. Vallant.
"Love you, Mom," Margot responded absently, bending down to kiss the woman's forehead as she rushed for the door. "Maria's going to check in on you in an hour!"
"Be safe, kiddo!"
Kiddo, Margot scoffed to herself. After thirty years, you'd think she'd be tired of saying that. But she wasn't tired of saying it. And Margot wasn't tired of hearing it.
She'd never be tired of hearing it.
Margot sat in the hallway, wedged in a corner, her feet tucked under her so that people wouldn't trip over her as they passed by on their way to class. Her notebook lay open on her lap, the pages filled with her class notes, but she wasn't studying. She was busy scribbling on the back of a ripped envelope, writing sums down with careful precision, punching numbers into the calculator on her phone.
"Damn," she whispered softly to herself, coming up short for the fourth time in a row.
It wasn't the first time she had come up short on a budget, but it was the first time she'd seen such a large discrepancy in the figures. She knew it was her mother's trip to the emergency room, and the extra visit to the nephrologist that week. Medical care wasn't cheap, and most of it was coming out of Margot's pocket, insurance or not.
She had already considered asking for an advance on her salary. Mr. Harrison probably wouldn't mind, but since it was a matter of finances, approval would have to come from Alfred, and that was simply not going to happen.
Margot knew she'd be declined by the banks. She'd been declined before.
There were other options available, friends of hers with connections that she could lean on, but she was reluctant to use them, especially since she'd grown up in one of the grittier parts of Gotham and had seen what happened to others in her same position. It was a slippery slope, and she didn't want to be on it.
Margot wasn't sure why she even bothered going to class that day. She didn't pay attention, distracted as she repeatedly went through the numbers, almost manically. What was it Einstein had once said? Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
She escaped her last class without having drawn too much unwanted attention to herself, though her professor noted as she left, "Margot, you seemed distracted today."
Distracted. That was like looking at a hurricane and calling it a breeze.
Outside, a frigid wind had picked up, and dead leaves scuttled by on the pavement as Margot walked to her motorcycle. It was an older model that her father had fixed up. It was loud and got terrible gas mileage for a bike, but it was reliable, and it was one of the last things she had of her father's.
In her hurry to get to class, she'd had to park on the outskirts of the lot. She was looking forward to jamming her helmet over her head, covering her ears—which were beginning to sting in the brisk afternoon air—and riding home.
Except as she approached her bike, she felt a gut-wrenching shock.
Her helmet was gone, and her headlight had been bashed in.
"Shit."
The word escaped her more like a sigh than a shout, and she stood frozen for a few seconds, as if she'd accepted that the cosmic forces of the universe were determined to work against her today. For a second, she stopped fighting it, letting the despair creep past her defenses, overwhelming in its cold, quick advance.
Then, suddenly, as if she'd been lit up like a fuse, Margot swung her leg over her bike, turned the key in the ignition, and let the vehicle roar to life, rumbling beneath her. She sped out of the parking lot, fueled by some demonic energy, almost wishing that some anonymous delivery truck would crash into her and spread her all over the pavement, where she could stop caring for once and slowly fade away until she was just a name on a headstone, and then finally nothing at all.
She didn't stop until the rage inside her had died down, leaving her at the mercy of the cold wind in her face, freezing her hands to the grips of her bike. Becoming aware of her surroundings once more, Margot found herself deep in the maze that was Gotham's East End.
She'd spent quite a bit of her childhood in these neighborhoods, sauntering past the diverse assortment of restaurants, pawn shops, clubs, and bars, bothering passersby and being generally annoying. Some of her acquaintances were still there, working in the bars and clubs now instead of loitering in front of them. One of her friends, a skinny kid they'd always called "Slim Jim" owned his own stall where he sold knockoff brands of clothing. At least, that was what she had heard.
On a whim, Margot turned down a familiar street and revved her bike, driving it up over the curb and parking it outside of one of the more well-known clubs.
Still wearing her backpack—if her helmet had been stolen in the university parking lot, she wasn't going to leave her backpack lying around the East End—she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and entered.
Red light glowed by the light of several low-hanging lamps, and a soft murmur of conversation permeated the warm air. It was quiet at this time of the afternoon, but business would soon pick up. It was Monday night, and Monday night was comedy night.
Margot limped stiffly to the bar, still waiting for her limbs to thaw.
"What can I get you?" asked the blue-haired bartender without looking her way.
"Is Freddie on shift tonight?" she inquired.
The man turned to face her. "Margot?"
"Freddie?" she exclaimed incredulously. "I didn't even recognize you! You're so thin! And what the hell have you done to your hair?"
He grinned and stepped out from behind the counter, pulling her into a tight embrace. "You approve? My girlfriend's got me on this new diet," he explained.
"How've you been?"
"Hold on," Freddie said, holding up a hand. "Ruben!" he called to a man across the way. "I'm going on break!" Turning back to Margot, he asked, "Can I get you a drink?"
She shook her head. "Better not."
"Come on, just a small one."
Margot sighed. "Scotch and soda."
"Coming right up."
Freddie took Margot and the drink to a secluded table in a forgotten corner of the club, where the two of them spent several minutes catching up with each other. Finally, though, the inevitable question came up.
"So what brings you here?"
Margot ran her finger absently along the edge of her glass. "I'm in a bit of a bind, Freddie, and I was wondering if you could help a girl out."
The man frowned slightly. "What sort of bind?"
"Look, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important, but I need money."
"Like pocket change, or…?"
"A pretty big chunk," she replied reluctantly. "It's my mom. She's not doing so well."
Freddie frowned and shook his head. "How bad is it?"
Margot shrugged. "Dialysis and a lot of visits to the doctor. Plus, I pay the neighbor to look in on her when I'm not there."
The man sighed heavily. "Look, I shouldn't be doing this, but since it's your mom, I'll have a word with my boss. She might be able to help you out."
"I'm sorry to ask this of you," Margot apologized ruefully, "but I didn't know where else to go."
Freddie nodded. "I know. Just be careful, all right? These people are scary and important." He slowly got to his feet. "Give me a minute."
Margot watched him go in silence. She couldn't help but feel a sense of dread envelop her as she stared at her drink.
Freddie wasn't long. He returned and gave her a wan but encouraging smile. "Turns out, I know how to talk somebody up. She'll see you."
Margot downed the rest of her drink in one quick gulp and got to her feet, leaving her backpack in the booth. "Thanks, Freddie."
He grabbed her by the shoulder before she could walk past. "Be careful," he hissed into her ear, squeezing her shoulder before he let go. "She's up in her office." He pointed the way.
Margot took a deep breath and made her way up the stairs. There was a man in front of the door, big, bulky, and mean like a Rottweiler. She gave him a once over and found herself thinking: here's a dog with big bark and a little bite. She didn't mention that to him, though.
Instead, she said, "Freddie sent me."
The man nodded and opened the door for her. She stepped past him and entered.
The room was a darker shade of red than the downstairs, soft and plush, but with a businesslike edge. Across the room, flanked by two colossal bodyguards, sat a slight woman, her legs crossed over her desk. She watched Margot approach with a raised brow and a curious smile on her face.
"A friend of Freddie's, are you?" she greeted Margot pleasantly.
Margot hesitated, reluctant to respond. This woman had bite, and she didn't like it. In fact, she was simultaneously repulsed and impressed with the woman. There was something about her, something strong and frightening lurking just below the warm smile and curious eyes.
"Yes. Margaret Vallant," she introduced herself.
The woman leisurely uncrossed her legs and stood, coming around the desk. "Fish Mooney," she replied, adding, "That's Ms. Mooney to you."
Margot inclined her head. "Yes, ma'am."
A satisfied smile crossed her face. "So, Margaret, I hear you're in need of some cash."
She nodded.
"Tell me," the woman murmured, approaching Margot, circling her slowly, "what brought you to me?"
"I had nowhere else to go," she answered quietly.
"And what makes you think I'll help you?" Mooney examined her fingernails calmly.
"I'll pay it back," Margot promised. "You write the terms and I'll keep them."
She looked up. "And if you can't?"
Margot felt a dark, sticky dread well up inside her, but she pushed through it and responded, "I have certain skills that you may find useful, should I be unable to pay when the time comes."
That seemed to pique Mooney's interest. "Tell me more about these skills," she purred.
"I was a sniper with the Marine Corps," Margot told the woman, staring fixedly ahead. "I'm trained in target acquisition, stalking, infiltration, close combat, and with a clear shot, I can kill a man a mile away."
Her eyebrows both rose this time. "Is that so?" She considered Margot for a moment before snapping her fingers.
One of the bodyguards behind the desk shifted and came forward.
Without removing her eyes from Margot, Mooney murmured, "Let's test those combat skills."
The man cracked his neck and advanced on Margot.
She hadn't necessarily expected such a test, but she wasn't all that surprised by it. She didn't want to fight, but it seemed that today wasn't her day.
She was a good foot shorter than the man, and he probably had a hundred pounds on her. He took an experimental swing at her, and she ducked, taking a step back. She had to manage the uneven spread of her body, knowing she'd be unable to put much weight on her lame leg, which was still aching from the time she'd spent on her bike out in the cold.
Fortunately, the man was not as quick as she was.
He swung again and she dodged to the side, this time grabbing his arm and twisting it forcefully, using his own momentum to bring him to his knees. The man groaned, but his free arm slipped around her leg, and suddenly Margot found herself crashing to the floor, her head hitting the corner of a low table as she fell.
Her vision exploded in white light for a moment. She couldn't see, but she felt the man move over her, grabbing for her throat. She deflected his hand with a sweep of her arm, kicking downward with her good leg, catching him in the knee and rolling swiftly away.
Margot stood quickly, using the table to help lift herself. She didn't give the man time to recover and get to his feet. She grabbed his head and yanked it downward, thrusting her knee up to meet his face. The two connected with bone-shattering force and the man collapsed limply onto his back, blood pouring from his nose.
She rubbed her knee with a grimace, wincing a little as she looked up at Mooney. "Satisfied?" she inquired in a growl.
Mooney was smiling. "I could use someone like you," she said.
Margot shook her head emphatically. She was done pussyfooting around. "I'm not here for work. I'm here for a loan. I need twenty grand. If I can't pay it back by next year, then you can put me to use, but not before then."
The woman eyed her serenely, thoughtfully. Then she shrugged. "In that case, I'm afraid I can't help you."
"What?" Margot exclaimed angrily. "But I just—"
"I'd be happy to loan you the money, Margaret, but I also happen to have a need for people with certain skills, ones that you have demonstrated quite effectively to me. If you're not willing to help me out, not even a little bit…well, I'm afraid we have no business together."
"I can't," Margot said hoarsely.
Mooney sighed and rested a hand on her hip. "Tell me, Margaret, why do you need this money?"
"My mother's sick, and I can't pay for her care."
"I see. Do you love your mother, Margaret?"
"Of course I do."
"Then help her," Mooney replied in a silky voice. "I'm perfectly willing to work out an arrangement with you, my dear. I'll loan you the money. In the meantime, you'll do some work for me, and I'll take your payment out of your remaining balance. You could have the entire loan paid off in a matter of months."
Margot stared into those brown almond eyes. "I won't break the law for you."
Mooney laughed. "The law, my dear, is not an immutable line. It shifts. Do what I ask, and I promise nothing will happen to you. And when your debt is paid off, you can walk away and forget that we ever had this conversation." Her eyes narrowed, and she went in for the kill. "Think of your mother, Margaret. Help me to help you."
Her throat tight, Margot inquired softly, "What do you need me to do?"
"Oh, I'll decide that when the time comes. For now, do we have an agreement?"
Margot hesitated for a moment. She didn't really have much of a choice, and her hope of a lifeline was slowly disappearing as the woman watching her grew increasingly impatient. Margot nodded once. "Yes."
"Very well. I'll have someone draw up the paperwork. It should be done by next week." She retreated back to her desk, stepping over the unconscious bodyguard. "In the meantime, take this. Consider it a starting bonus." She reached into a drawer and removed a strap of twenties, pushing it across the desk.
Margot took it and pocketed the money quickly, leaving without a goodbye, trying to rid herself of the bitter taste in her mouth.
At least now she could buy a new helmet and fix her headlight.
Margot returned a week later to sign the papers. Freddie was there, and apparently he'd been told to expect her. He handed her a slim folder and showed her the papers inside, explaining the terms to her. Twenty-thousand dollars' cash would be paid immediately to Margot, to be paid back with interest, for a total of twenty-two-thousand dollars on that date the next year. For every job that she did for Mooney, the payment would be taken out of her debt.
She knew she didn't have a choice—her mother needed those visits, the medicine, food, and a roof over her head. But it still felt as if Margot was signing away her soul as she lowered her pen to the paper and scribbled her name. She left the club with two straps of hundred-dollar bills in her pockets. Twenty-thousand dollars. She should have been relieved.
But she couldn't rid herself of the dread in her gut.