Sequel: A Serious House on Serious Earth ›
Status: Sequel? Yes? No?
The Joker and the Thief
The Job
An hour later, I was fixing a caramel turtle cappuccino with whip cream at Barney’s Café on the corner of 52nd and Market Street. I worked at Barney’s every Wednesday and Friday from two to nine. My job at the café, which I’ve held for an impressive six months, was my first step towards living an honest life. My quickly approaching 18th birthday was the main reason for ‘retiring’ from my other job. I knew that if I got caught stealing something after I turned 18 I would spent most of my life in prison, but as a minor, with only a few juvenile charges on my record , I would only get a few months behind bars and a year or two probation. Nothing too serious.
Work at the café wasn’t too bad and it was nice to talk to normal people rather than harden criminals that were prone to violence. At Barney’s Café the most hostile people I encountered where the ones in expensive suits who were late to work and complained that I was taking to long with their ten dollar coffee. I was cleaning a table in the corner when I felt a soft tap on my shoulder.
A large black man in a tan suit was standing behind me when I turned around. His round head was shaved and the suit had a thin gray pin strip which gave it a darker color. He was two heads taller than me and about twice my size. I recognized him as one of Gambol’s goons, but I didn’t know his name. I tried to avoid getting on a first name bases with too many of Gotham’s criminals. The man didn’t waste anytime on greeting me; he got straight to the point. “Gambol has a job for you.” His tone was bored and sounded as through he had said those words a thousand times.
“Sorry, but I’m retire-.” I started to say before he cut me off. “He’s willing to pay more. A lot more.” I shook my head. Even through I said I was retired, I knew the mob would just throw more money at me to get me to continue doing their dirty work. I just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. “What’s the job?” I said with an annoyed voice. Again in the same monotone he said, “The Joker, the clown at the meeting you so rudely interrupted earlier today, made the mistake of insulting Gambol so he’s offering 500,000 dollars for him dead.”
My sudden anger made blood rush to my face. “How many times to I have to tell you people? I do not kill people. Find some one else.” I said all this though gritted teeth to keep from yelling it out for the entire café to hear. I had told them from the very beginning that I wouldn’t kill people. Not only was it wrong but it also went against my whole no-serious-charges plan. I doubted that I was even capable of killing another human being. I wasn’t that type of person. The man in the suit kept this flat face but there was annoyance in his voice when he spoke again. “Or a million if you get him alive.”
I opened my mouth to speak but closed it when I understood what he had said. A million dollars? This Joker guy must have really pissed Gambol off. I thought about it. I could do a lot with a million dollars; leave Gotham City, go to college, start over. I could even do that with $500,000. But how would I do it? I couldn’t possibly pull it off alone; without help. And that’s how I worked; alone. I didn’t even have the means to kill him. I owned no gun. The only weapon I had, if you want to call it a weapon, was a small Swiss Army knife that was once my father’s. The blade was still sharp but I doubted that I could kill anyone with it, even if I wanted to. And what about this Joker guy? Someone who walks around with demonic clown makeup on probably wasn’t that most sane person out there. After thinking about it for a few seconds I finally answered. “I’m retired.” I returned to work as the man walk out without protesting.
My mother worked nights at the local power company on the other side of town. She went in at 8 and came home around 5 or 6 in the morning. So she wasn’t home when I climbed in through my bedroom window on the back side of the house. My room wasn’t anything special; just a dresser, a bed and a small out of date television. When I first started coming in through the window I wasn’t very graceful. I would fall on my head or land on my knee so that it was bruised for an entire month. Now, I could get in without injuring myself. Opening the white refrigerator door was the first thing I did. My mother didn’t cook. She saw cooking as being below her so fridge didn’t hold anything of great value. I grabbed a Coke and popped some left over pizza into the microwave. Thirty seconds later I was eating a slice of greasy pepperoni pizza.
When I was finished and after I cleaned up my mess I walked into the bathroom. Before my mother met my father she was a hair stylist in a fancy salon on the north side of Gotham. She was very ADD with her hair; she would re-style it every month or two. I had apparently inherited the unusual trait. She always kept hair dye in the house and my hair needed to be dyed again. Under the sink the only color I found was ‘midnight black’. I didn’t like the thought of coloring my hair black; it seemed too much of a stereotypical teenage thing to do. But the color would look better than the outgrown blond highlights that I currently had. Two hours later, after I dyed and trimmed my hair, took a shower, and put on a clean pair of clothes, I was climbing back out my bed window.
I pulled my jacket tighter around me as I darted off the street and into a dark alley way. I wish I would have stayed on the street.
Work at the café wasn’t too bad and it was nice to talk to normal people rather than harden criminals that were prone to violence. At Barney’s Café the most hostile people I encountered where the ones in expensive suits who were late to work and complained that I was taking to long with their ten dollar coffee. I was cleaning a table in the corner when I felt a soft tap on my shoulder.
A large black man in a tan suit was standing behind me when I turned around. His round head was shaved and the suit had a thin gray pin strip which gave it a darker color. He was two heads taller than me and about twice my size. I recognized him as one of Gambol’s goons, but I didn’t know his name. I tried to avoid getting on a first name bases with too many of Gotham’s criminals. The man didn’t waste anytime on greeting me; he got straight to the point. “Gambol has a job for you.” His tone was bored and sounded as through he had said those words a thousand times.
“Sorry, but I’m retire-.” I started to say before he cut me off. “He’s willing to pay more. A lot more.” I shook my head. Even through I said I was retired, I knew the mob would just throw more money at me to get me to continue doing their dirty work. I just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. “What’s the job?” I said with an annoyed voice. Again in the same monotone he said, “The Joker, the clown at the meeting you so rudely interrupted earlier today, made the mistake of insulting Gambol so he’s offering 500,000 dollars for him dead.”
My sudden anger made blood rush to my face. “How many times to I have to tell you people? I do not kill people. Find some one else.” I said all this though gritted teeth to keep from yelling it out for the entire café to hear. I had told them from the very beginning that I wouldn’t kill people. Not only was it wrong but it also went against my whole no-serious-charges plan. I doubted that I was even capable of killing another human being. I wasn’t that type of person. The man in the suit kept this flat face but there was annoyance in his voice when he spoke again. “Or a million if you get him alive.”
I opened my mouth to speak but closed it when I understood what he had said. A million dollars? This Joker guy must have really pissed Gambol off. I thought about it. I could do a lot with a million dollars; leave Gotham City, go to college, start over. I could even do that with $500,000. But how would I do it? I couldn’t possibly pull it off alone; without help. And that’s how I worked; alone. I didn’t even have the means to kill him. I owned no gun. The only weapon I had, if you want to call it a weapon, was a small Swiss Army knife that was once my father’s. The blade was still sharp but I doubted that I could kill anyone with it, even if I wanted to. And what about this Joker guy? Someone who walks around with demonic clown makeup on probably wasn’t that most sane person out there. After thinking about it for a few seconds I finally answered. “I’m retired.” I returned to work as the man walk out without protesting.
My mother worked nights at the local power company on the other side of town. She went in at 8 and came home around 5 or 6 in the morning. So she wasn’t home when I climbed in through my bedroom window on the back side of the house. My room wasn’t anything special; just a dresser, a bed and a small out of date television. When I first started coming in through the window I wasn’t very graceful. I would fall on my head or land on my knee so that it was bruised for an entire month. Now, I could get in without injuring myself. Opening the white refrigerator door was the first thing I did. My mother didn’t cook. She saw cooking as being below her so fridge didn’t hold anything of great value. I grabbed a Coke and popped some left over pizza into the microwave. Thirty seconds later I was eating a slice of greasy pepperoni pizza.
When I was finished and after I cleaned up my mess I walked into the bathroom. Before my mother met my father she was a hair stylist in a fancy salon on the north side of Gotham. She was very ADD with her hair; she would re-style it every month or two. I had apparently inherited the unusual trait. She always kept hair dye in the house and my hair needed to be dyed again. Under the sink the only color I found was ‘midnight black’. I didn’t like the thought of coloring my hair black; it seemed too much of a stereotypical teenage thing to do. But the color would look better than the outgrown blond highlights that I currently had. Two hours later, after I dyed and trimmed my hair, took a shower, and put on a clean pair of clothes, I was climbing back out my bed window.
I pulled my jacket tighter around me as I darted off the street and into a dark alley way. I wish I would have stayed on the street.