Miriam

“It’s necessary, Miriam,” she tells me, heels clacking on the tiled floor.
I nod, hands folded in my lap. She’s pacing in front of me, totally oblivious to how badly I could hurt her right now. And I want to, the hate bitter on my tongue, because no matter how much I train unfairness will always bother me.
“Baby Doll’s in prison now, and honestly, it’s not looking good for you. You were there, we have witnesses....you’re going to end up paying for it somehow.” She looks back at me, arching a delicately sculpted brow. Perfect stuck-up bitch. “I think it’s best if you disappear for a bit. Take a vacation.” I know what she wants, for me to hide until this blows over. This stupid mess with Baby Doll. Sure, she’s a criminal, a kidnapper. And I helped her. But it was a job. No emotions. All that mattered was money. It’s not fair for me to be punished for doing my job, and doing it well.
I’m one of the best goddamned assassins in the world, and this is how I end up, scolded by some two-bit whore of a lawyer who thinks I’m a secretary. I grit my teeth and smile coldly.
“Thanks, Karen. I’ll, ah, see myself out.”
She waves a dismissive hand, and I pray I’ll get a job where she’s the target. I could enjoy a job like that.

Fucking Gotham. It starts raining as I walk home, soaking my clothes and fogging up my glasses. I don’t need them (perfect vision) but they add to the illusion. Modest, bland, and normal, the perfect secretary. Who once killed sixteen men in under a minute armed with only a shoelace, but that’s why I’m hired.
By mobsters, mostly, wanting to look respectable while still being protected. I organize their lives and guard them, killing them if that’s necessary. It’s all part of the job. I take the glasses off, pushing wet hair away from my face as I head for my crappy apartment.

I’m rich enough to afford better, sure, but miserly. I’ve lost too much to take chances anymore. Wealth can vanish in an instant. I’ll keep earning until I’m richer than Bruce Wayne and twice as spoiled. I’m about to grab a snack when the phone rings. The special phone I use for clients. Sooner than I expected, after the Baby Doll disaster.
I could take a break, but money is more important. I pick up.
“Hello?”
“Is this Miriam Webster?”
Not my real name. My favorite alias. It’s a man’s voice on the other end, soft and clipped. Orderly. The kind of voice I could like. I wonder who it is-a butler, maybe? My clients rarely contact me themselves-too paranoid or snobby to discuss matters that might involve murder.
“Yes, this is she. May I ask who’s speaking?”
Calm, collected, a perfect voice for the perfect killer. I may have messed up with Baby Doll, but I’m still at the top of my game.
“An interested party.”
“Interested in what?”
“Hiring you, Ms. Webster.”
This part is easy. Business.
“I’m interested. Where and when?”
“Tomorrow, five in the morning. Down in the old carnival.”
That makes me wonder, for a second, if this is the Joker, but I disregard the thought. The man is chaos walking, he doesn’t want someone like me around to straighten him out. Either way, this client is big news. I can sense it.
“Alright. See you then.”
The man hangs up without another word. I eat, shower, and fall asleep.