Tales of Gotham City

Gotham City Stories

by Starsky Hutch 76

A Hispanic, 27-year-old young man sat at a table wearing a red and blue t-shirt that said “Grant’s Gym”. Talking to him from across the table was a middle-aged man who looked like he’d seen his share of fights himself. His voice was a cross between that of a gangster and a politician.

“When this is all over, I think you’re going to find yourself one very happy guy,” the older man told the young Hispanic man. “Thing is, Carlos, right now you’ve got ability. But as unbelievable as it may sound at this point in your life, ability doesn’t last ya. Thanks to your trainer lasting as long as he did, this business is filled to the brim with unrealistic chumps who thought they would age like fine wine. But not everybody’s going to be a Ted Grant. And even if you went all the way like he did, what would you be? Featherweight champion of the world. I doubt you can even get a credit card based on that.” He laid an envelope full of money on the table in front of Carlos.

“Now the night of the fight, you may feel a slight sting. That’s pride. To hell with pride. Pride only hurts. It never helps. Fight through it. A year from now, when you’re lounging in the Caribbean drinking rum punch out of a hollowed out pineapple, you’re gonna say, ‘I did the right thing.’”

“I got no problem with that, Franko,” Carlos said, looking at the money.

“In the fifth, you go down,” Franko said, eyeing him seriously.

Carlos nodded his head. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“In the fifth, my ass goes down,” Carlos repeated.

 

*****

 

Floyd Lawton looked cool behind the wheel of his 1964 cherry-red Chevy Malibu convertible as swing music blared from his radio. He pulled into the parking lot of Giggles, a club by the airport that was secretly owned by the Joker.

Floyd’s classic Malibu whipped into the nearest empty space and parked next to a white Mustang.

Floyd paused for a second, staring at the entrance to the club. Was he sure about this? He could be walking into the lion’s den.

He realized the money was simply too good to pass up …and he definitely needed the money. He walked up to the entrance and knocked on the door. The front entrance was unlocked and opened, revealing the Dapper Dan fellow on the inside: English Dave. Dave wasn’t really English. He was an elderly black man from Keystone who had run a few clubs secretly owned by the Joker, including the comedy club known as Giggles.

“Deadshot! You old gun-nut you! Get in here!” he said in a voice that said they went way back.

Floyd stepped inside. English Dave slammed the door behind them.

The spacious, brightly decorated club was empty this time of day. English Dave crossed to the bar, and Floyd followed.

“Where’s the boss lady?” Floyd asked, looking around warily. If any guns started blazing, they’d find Floyd Lawton didn’t go down easy.

“She isn’t here,” English Dave said. “Franko’s in charge until she gets back,” English Dave said.

“Is that a fact?” Floyd said. Floyd had never personally had a problem with Franko. In the times he’d met him before he went straight, he’d seemed like an OK guy for a thief and a murderer.

Floyd watched as Carlos shook hands with Franko, who had his back to them.

“Hang back for a second or two,” English Dave instructed. “And when you see the Hispanic guy over there leave, go on over. In the meanwhile, can I make you an espresso?”

“How about a cup of just plain old American?” Floyd said.

“Coming up,” English Dave said. “I hear you’re taking Mia out tomorrow?”

“At Harley’s request,” Floyd said.

“Have you met Mia?” English Dave asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not yet,” Floyd said.

English Dave smiled to himself.

“What’s so funny?” Floyd asked.

“Not a goddamn thing,” English Dave said, shaking his head.

“Look, I’m not an idiot,” Floyd said. “She’s the Joker’s woman. I’m going to sit across a table, chew my food with my mouth closed, laugh at her jokes and that’s all I’m going to do.”

English Dave puts Floyd’s coffee in front of him. “That’s what you say now. But you’re Floyd and she’s Mia. Let’s see what happens when the two of you are together.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Floyd asked.

“You think Harley didn’t know you were a lady’s man when she asked you to baby-sit a woman who was dating her dad that she doesn’t particularly like?”

“Huh,” Floyd remarked.

Carlos bellied up to the bar next to Floyd “Can I get a pack of Lucky Strikes?”

“Filters?”

“No thanks.”

While Carlos waited for his smokes, Floyd just sipped his coffee, staring at him. Carlos looked over at him. “Lookin’ at somethin’, amigo?”

“I ain’t your amigo, bub,” Floyd said over his coffee.

Carlos did a slow burn toward Floyd. “What was that, old man?”

“I think ya heard me just fine, punchy.”

Carlos turned his body to Floyd when a voice suddenly called out, “Deadshot has entered the building. Floyd, get your wrinkled old ass over here!”

Laughing, Floyd walked off, never giving Carlos another glance.

Carlos, looking as if he were ready to go into the manners teaching business, watched Floyd and Franko shaking hands and clasping each other on the shoulder. He quickly made the wise decision that if this bendecho were a friend of Franko’s, he’d better let it go — for now.

“Pack of Red Apples, dollar-forty.”

Carlos was snapped out of his ass-kicking thoughts. He paid English Dave and walked out of the club.

 

*****

 

The old, classic white Mustang barreled down a street in Gotham City. In the front seat were two old, yet remarkably well preserved men. One had the hook-nosed look of a man who’d been in a lot of fights in his youth. The other was a man with a pencil thin mustache. Both wore pinstriped suits with fedoras, as if they’d stepped out of an old gangster film. Their names were Floyd Lawton, known to the world as Deadshot when he was in costume, and Franko, formerly chief henchman for the Joker and now for his daughter.

“I just want you to know I appreciate this, Franko,” Deadshot said. “I was a little leery when my guy got the call from Harley, but I really needed the funds.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Franko said. “Not for nothin’, but a guy with your kind of talent doesn’t come along every day. So when word got out you were back in the game, everyone was willing to let bygones be bygones. Personally, I aint got no beef wit’ you. Neither does anyone else. You can’t control what other people do. All that old stuff was a long time ago, so it’s all water under the bridge. Anyways, your trip OK?”

“S’all right, but I’m glad to be back in the U.S. of A,” Deadshot said. “Next time Gorilla Boss wants me to take care of business for him, I hope it’s a local job. I hate flying. I made a hefty dent in their supply of gin and tonics, let me tell ya.” He pulled out his passport with its fresh Quebec stamp and threw it on the dashboard.

“What’s it like up there?” Franko asked.

“Well.. you know what the funniest thing about Quebec is?”

“What?”

“It’s the little differences,” Floyd said. “A lotta the same things we got here, they got there, but they’re a little different.”

“Like what?”

“Well, in Quebec, you can buy beer in a movie theatre. And I don’t mean in a paper cup either. They give you a glass of beer, like in a bar. In Quebec, you can buy beer at Big Belly Burger. Also, you know what they call a Big Belly Quarter Pound Slamma Jamma with Cheese in Quebec?

“They don’t call it a Big Belly Quarter Pound Slamma Jamma with Cheese?

“No, they got the metric system there, they wouldn’t know what a Quarter Pound Slamma Jamma is.”

“What’d they call it?” Franko asked.

“A Belly Grande Royale with Cheese,” Floyd said.

“Belly Grande Royale with Cheese,” Franko laughed. “What’d they call a Big Mac?

“Big Mac’s a Big Mac, but they call it Le Big Mac.

“What do they call a Big Kahuna Burger?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t go into a Big Kahuna Burger. But you know what they put on French fries in Quebec instead of ketchup?”

“What?”

“Mayonnaise.”

“Damn!” Franko exclaimed.

“I’ve seen ‘em do it,” Floyd laughed. “And I don’t mean a little bit on the side of the plate, they drown ‘em in it.”

Franko gave a shudder. “That just ain’t right.”

*****

The trunk of the Chevy opened and Franko and Vincent reached inside, taking out two .45 Automatics, loading and cocking them.

Franko and Floyd walked through the courtyard of what looked like a hacienda-style Hollywood apartment building.

“What’s her name again?” Floyd asked.

“Mia,” Franko answered.

“How did she and the Joker meet? I mean, it’s not like a guy like him hangs out at singles bars!” Floyd said.

“I dunno, however people meet people,” Franko said. “She used to be an actress.”

“She ever do anything I would’ve seen?” Floyd asked.

“I think her biggest deal was she starred in a pilot once for Stellar Studios.”

“What’s a pilot?” Floyd asked.

“Well, you know the shows on TV?” Franko said.

“I don’t watch TV,” Floyd replied, lighting a cigarette.

“Yes, but you’re aware that there’s an invention called television, and on that invention, they show shows?” Franko said.

“Yeah.”

“Well, the way they pick the shows on TV is they make one show, and that show’s called a pilot. And they show that one show to the people who pick the shows, and on the strength of that one show, they decide if they want to make more shows. Some get accepted and become TV programs, and some don’t, and become nothing,” Franko explained. “She starred in one of the ones that became nothing.”

They enter the apartment building. Floyd and Franko walked through the reception area and wait for the elevator.

“You remember that Samoan dude? Used to call him Hula Hula?

“Yeah, maybe. Fat right?” Floyd asked

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call the poor sap fat,” Franko said. “He’s got a weight problem. What’s he gonna do, he’s Samoan.”

“I think I know who you mean,” Floyd said. “What about him?

“Well, the Joker messed him up real good,” Franko said. “Didn’t give him the permanent grin, but almost as bad. And word around the campfire, it was on account of a broad he was seeing.”

The elevator arrived and the men stepped inside. “What’d he do, bang her?” Floyd asked, highly curious.

“No, no, no, nothin’ that bad,” Franko said, shaking his head.

“Well, what then?”

“He gave her a foot massage,” Franko coughed.

“A foot massage?” Floyd exclaimed.

Franko nodded his head gravely. “Yeah, a foot massage.”

“That’s all?” Floyd said with disbelief.

“Yes.”

“What did the Joker do?” Floyd asked.

“Joker sent a couple of guys over to his place. They took him out on the patio of his apartment, threw his ass over the balcony. Ol’ Hula fell four stories. They had this garden at the bottom, enclosed in glass, like one of them greenhouses. Poor chump fell through that. Since then, he’s kinda developed a speech impediment.”

The elevator doors opened and Floyd and Franko exited. Morning sun poured through the windows of the hallway. “That’s a damn shame,” Floyd said. “I always liked ol’ Hula Hula. Still I’ve gotta say, play with matches, you get burned.”

“Whaddya mean?” Franko said.

“You don’t go giving the Joker’s girl a foot massage,” Floyd said.

Franko was used to defending his old boss’s manic behavior. It was odd coming from someone else. “You don’t think he overreacted?”

“Hula Hula probably didn’t expect the Joker to react like he did, but he had to expect a reaction.”

“It was a foot massage. A foot massage is nothing,” Franko said. “I give my 90 year old mother a foot massage.”

“It’s laying hands on the Joker’s main squeeze in a familiar way,” Floyd said. “Is it as bad as bangin’ her? No, but you’re in the same freaking ballpark. And he’s got a rep to protect.”

Franko turned to Floyd and said, “Whoa…whoa…whoa…stop right there. Banging a broad and giving a broad a foot massage ain’t even the same thing.

“Not the same thing, but the same ballpark,” Floyd said.

“It ain’t no ballpark either. Look, maybe your method of massage differs from mine, but touching his old lady’s feet, and doing the horizontal mambo ain’t the same ballpark, ain’t the same league, ain’t even the same sport. Foot massages don’t mean nothin’.”

“Have you ever given a foot massage?” Floyd asked

“Don’t tell me about foot massages,” Franko said. “I’m the foot master.”

“Given a lot of ‘em?” Floyd said, raising an eyebrow.

“Hell yeah,” Franko bragged. “I’ve got my technique down pat. I don’t tickle or nothin’.”

“Have you ever given a guy a foot massage?” Floyd asked.

Franko looked at him a long moment and realized he’d been set up. “Screw you,” he said with an aggravated chuckle, shaking his head as he started walking down the hall.

Vincent, smiling, walked a little bit behind. “How many?”

“Screw you.”

“Would you give me a foot massage?” Floyd teased. “I just got off a long trip and I’m kinda tired.”

“Man, you better back off, I’m gettin’ pissed,” Franko said, trying his best to sound stern. “This is the door.” The two men stood in front of the door numbered “49.”

“What time is it?” Franko whispered.

Floyd checked his watch. “Seven-twenty-two in the morning.”

“It ain’t quite time,” Franko said. “Let’s hang back.”

They moved a little away from the door, facing each other, still whispering.

“Look,” Franko said. “Just because I wouldn’t give a Joe a foot massage, doesn’t make it right for the Joker to throw Hula off a building into a glass-house, screwin’ up the way the guy talks. That just ain’t right. Guy does that to me, he better make sure the fall killed me, ’cause I’d waste him.”

“I’m not sayin’ he was right, but you’re saying a foot massage don’t mean nothing, and I’m sayin’ it does. I’ve given a million ladies a million foot massages and they all meant something. We act like they don’t, but they do. That’s what’s so cool about ‘em. This sensual thing’s going on that nobody’s talking about. But you know it and she knows it. The Joker knew it, and Hula Hula should’ve known better. That’s his moll, man. Even the Joker ain’t gonna have a sense of humor about that.”

“That’s an interesting point, but let’s get into character,” Franko said.

“What’s her name again?” Floyd asked.

“Mia. Why you so interested in the Joker’s girl?” Franko asked.

“Well, the Joker’s daughter’s heading to Florida to check on something that might wake her dad up from that coma he’s in,” Floyd said. “One of the reasons Harley sent for me was to take care of Mia.”

“Take care of her?” Franko asked, making a gun out of his finger and placing it to his head. It would be just like Harley to be jealous of her daddy’s old girlfriend.

“Not that! Take her out. Show her a good time. Don’t let Mia get lonely and go stepping out on her father while he’s laid up.”

“You’re gonna be taking Mia Wallace out on a date?” Franko said, looking at Floyd as if he were crazy.

“It ain’t a date!” Floyd insisted. “It’s like when you and your buddy’s wife go to a movie or somethin’. It’s just… you know…good company.”

Franko looked at him and smirked. No one he knew would’ve trusted him with their wives. No one in their right mind. Floyd Lawton had a reputation for more than just his shooting ability and his Clark Gable looks had given him plenty of opportunities to use it. No one had ever accused anyone in the Joker family of being in their right mind.

“It’s not a date,” Floyd said.

Franko just looked at him with the same smirk.

“I’m not gonna do anything stupid,” Floyd said.

Franko his head and mumbled to himself. “That broad’s gonna kill more palookas than time.

“What was that?” Floyd said.

“Nothin’,” Franko said irritated. “Let’s get into character.”

“What’d you say?” Floyd exclaimed.

“I didn’t say nothin’,” Franko growled. “Let’s go to work.”

“Don’t play with me! You said somethin’, now what was it?”

Franko gestured to the door with his gun. “Do you wanna do this?”

“I want you to repeat what you said,” Floyd exclaimed.

“That door’s going to open in about thirty seconds, so get yourself together,” Franko ordered.

“My self is together,” Floyd said, pulling on the lapels of his double-breasted jacket.

“Bull. Stop thinkin’ ’bout that broad, and get yourself together and start being the qualified pro Harley paid for.”

Inside the apartment were three young guys were sitting at a table with hamburgers, French fries and sodas laid out. One of them got up and flipped the loud bolt on the door, opening it to reveal Franko and Deadshot standing in the hallway.

“Hey kids,” Franko said, amused. They were babies! This would be easier than he thought.

The two men strolled inside. As they walked in, their eyes combed the room, taking in their surroundings.

The three young men appeared caught off-guard by their appearance at their apartment. One was a black young man who opened the door. He did his best to fade back into the corner. Another was a young blond-haired surfer kid with a “Flock of Seagulls” haircut. He sat at the table with a big sloppy hamburger in his hand. Last was Brett, a white, preppy-looking sort with a blow-dry haircut.

Floyd and Franko stood with their hands in their pockets. Franko was the one who did the talking. “How you boys doing?” He got no answer. He leaned into the table with a malevolent grin and said, “Am I crazy, or did I just ask you a question?”

“We’re doing OK,” Brett said nervously.

As Franko and Brett talked, Floyd moved behind the young guys. “Do you know who we are?” Franko asked.

Brett shook his head, “No.”

“We’re associates of your business partner Ms. Harley Quinn. You do remember your business partner don’t you?”

No answer. Franko stared at him coldly and said, “Now, I’m gonna take a wild guess here. You’re Brett, right?”

“I…I’m Brett,” the young man gulped nervously.

“I thought so. Well, you remember your business partner, Harley Quinn, dont you, Brett?” Franko asked.

“I remember her,” Brett gulped.

“Good for you. Looks like Floyd and me caught you at breakfast. Sorry about that, kid. What’chu eating?

“H-Hamburgers,” Brett stammered.

“Hamburgers,” Franko laughed. “The cornerstone of any nutritious breakfast. What kind of hamburgers?”

“Cheeseburgers,” Brett answered.

“No, I mean where did you get ‘em?” Franko said. “MacDonald’s, Big Belly Burger, Wendy’s, Jack-in-the-Box, where?

“B-Big Belly Burger.”

“Mind if I try some of yours? Yours is this one, right?” Franko said pointing to one of the hamburgers on the table.

“Yeah.”

Franko grabbed the burger and took a bite of it. “Uuummmm, that’s a tasty burger,” Franko said with satisfaction. “Floyd, you have yourself a Big Belly Burger since you got back to the states?”

“No,” Floyd said with a half smile.

Franko held out the burger towards him. “You wanna bite? It’s real good. Not like that horsemeat those frogs serve.”

“I ain’t hungry.”

“Yessiree Bob,” Franko said with a mouth of the repossessed hamburger. “I sure love the taste of a good burger. Say, Brett, You know what they call a Big Belly Quarter Pound Slamma Jamma with Cheese in Quebec?”

“No,” Brett said, sweating.

“Tell ‘im, Floyd,” Franko said.

“A Belly Grande with Cheese,” Floyd said.

“Belly Grande with Cheese,” Franko repeated. “You know why they call it that?”

“Because of the metric system?” Brett squeaked.

“Check out the big brain on Brett,” Franko said. “You’re a smart kid. That’s right. The metric system.” He pointed to a fast food drink cup. “What’s in this?”

“A Soder Cola,” Brett gulped.

“Soder, good, mind if I have some of your tasty beverage to wash this down with?”

“Sure,” Brett said, sweating nervously.

Franko grabbed the cup and took a sip.

“Uuuuummmm, hit’s the spot!” Franko said with mock satisfaction. He pointed to the kid with the Flock of Seagulls haircut and said, “You, Owl Boy. You know what we’re here for?”

The kid with the Flock of Seagulls haircut nodded his head. “Yes.”

“Then why don’t you tell my old friend Floyd, here, where you got the stuff hidden?”

“It’s under the be…” the black kid in the corner started.

“I don’t remember asking you a damn thing!” He turned back to Owl Boy “You were saying?”

“It’s under the bed,” the kid with the Flock of Seagulls haircut said.

Floyd moved to the bed and reached underneath it, pulling out a black snap briefcase. “Got it.” He flipped the two locks, opening the case. A small glow emitted from inside the case, bathing Floyd in light. He stared at it as if frozen at it, transfixed by the object inside.

“We happy?” Franko asked. When he received no answer, he turned to Floyd and snapped, “I said, ‘We Happy?!!”

Floyd jumped with a start and looked at him.

“We happy?” Franko asked again.

Floyd quickly slapped the case shut. “We’re happy.”

“Look, what’s your name?” Brett stammered, trying to give an ingratiating smile. “I got his name’s Floyd, but what’s yours?

“My name’s Franko, and you ain’t talking your way outta this.”

“I just want you to know how sorry we are about how messed up things got between us and Ms. Quinn. When we entered into this thing, we only had the best intentions…”

As Brett talked, Franko took out his gun and shot the kid with the Flock of Seagulls haircut three times in the chest, blowing him out of his chair. Floyd gave a sick smile. Franko had style. A psychotic style, but style nonetheless.

Brett stifled a scream. He wasn’t crying or whimpering, but Franko could tell he was so full of fear his body might implode.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did that break your concentration? I didn’t mean to do that. Your friend’s haircut was beginning to remind my associate and I of Batman. You see we have long painful memories of Batman. You know, you look a bit like Robin. But that’s beside the point. Please, continue. I believe you were saying something about ‘best intentions’.”

Brett was frozen in fear and could do nothing but stare at Franko with eyes wide with terror.

“Whatsamatter?” Franko said. “Oh, you were through anyway. Well, let me retort. Would you describe for me what Harley Quinn looks like?”

Brett stared at him with horrified confusion and Franko snapped, savagely tipping the card table over and removing the only barrier between him and Brett. Brett now sat in a lone chair before Jules like a political prisoner in front of an interrogator.

“What country you from?” Franko asked.

“What?” Brett squeaked, petrified.

“What” ain’t any country I ever heard of! Do they speak English in “What?” Franko said loudly.

“What?” Brett said, gasping.

“English! Can-you-speak-it?” Franko shouted.

“Yes,” Brett whined.

“Then you DO understand what I’m sayin’?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Now describe what Harley Quinn looks like!”

“What?”

Franko took his .45 and pressed the barrel hard in Brett’s cheek. “Say ‘What’ again! C’mon, say “What” again! I dare ya. I double dare ya! say ‘What’ one more time!”

Brett looked like a fish gasping for breath.

“Now describe to me what Harley Quinn looks like!” Franko growled.

Brett did his best. “Well she’s …she’s… got green hair…”

“Go on!”

“…And she’s…she’s…got really white skin” Brett stammered.

“ — Does she look like a whore?” Franko said.

“What?” Brett yelped without thinking.

Franko’s eyes went to Floyd’s. Floyd smirked, rolling his eyes, and then shot Brett in the shoulder. Brett screamed, breaking into a shaking, trembling spasm in the chair.

“Does-she-look-like-a-whore-to-you?” Franko repeated.

“No.” Brett cried in dumfounded agony.

“Then why did you try to #%$& her like a whore?

“I didn’t,” Brett said, twitching.

“Yes ya did Brett,” Franko said in a low menacing tone. “ C’mon, admit it. The spandex… the curves…the long, long legs? Ya thought it’d be a good #%$&, so you tried ta #%$& ‘er like a whore.”

“NO!” Brett cried. “No! I swear!”

“Sorry, kid, but you just ain’t her type.”

Brett let out a scream as Franko pulled his gun and fired round after round into his sitting form. When he was finished, the bullet-ridden carcass sat there for a moment, then toppled over.

Franko stepped forward and lifted Brett’s lifeless head. He pulled out a tube of lipstick and took the top off.

“Lipstick? Something you ain’t telling me, buddy?” Floyd laughed.

“Ha hah,” Franko said. “It’s my old lady’s. I ain’t got access to the same calling cards Harley and her Dad had,” He took the lipstick and drew clown lips in a wide grin on the corpse’s face.

From the corner of the room came the sound of muttering. “… Damn… damn…that was #&%^& up… damn, that was cold-blooded…”

Floyd pointed to the black youth in the corner. “Friend of yours?”

“Yeah, he’s Marvin. Marvin..Floyd. Floyd…Marvin,” Franko said, gesturing between the two of them.

“Tell ‘im to shut up, he’s getting on my nerves,” Floyd said.

“Marvin, I’d knock that off if I was you,” Franko warned.

Suddenly the bathroom door burst open, and a fourth man, as young as the rest, charged out with a silver magnum in his hand. “Die… die… die… die… die…die!” he screamed as he fired six booming shots from his hand cannon in the direction of Floyd and Franko.

A million different possible scenarios ran through Floyd’s mind. A million different trick shots to disarm the gunman and take him down. He went with the first. He leapt to his side, firing at a metal lamp. The bullet ricocheted, bouncing into the gunman’s hand, forcing him to drop his gun.

Unfortunately for the gunman, Floyd wasn’t the only one who reacted. Franko fired three rounds into the young man, dropping him. Franko, obviously shaken, sat down in a chair. Floyd rose to his feet, smoothing out any wrinkles in his suit with his hand, and then headed toward Marvin in the corner.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell us about that guy in the bathroom?” Floyd shouted at Marvin. “Slip your mind? Forget he was in there with a damn hand cannon?”

Franko’s eyes grew big and he said, “We should be dead right now.” He turned to Floyd and said, ” Did you see that gun he fired at us? It was bigger than him.”

“.357,” Floyd said.

“We should be dead!”

“Yeah, we were lucky,” Floyd said.

Franko rose, moving towards Floyd. “That wasn’t luck. It was somethin’ else.”

Floyd prepared to leave. “Yeah, maybe.”

“That was…divine intervention. You know what divine intervention is?” Franko said.

“Yeah, I think so. That means God came down from Heaven and stopped the bullets,” Floyd said.

‘Yeah, man, that’s what it means. That’s exactly what it means! God came down from Heaven and stopped the bullets,” Franko said.

“I think we should be going now,” Floyd said.

“Don’t do that! Don’t you dare do that!” Franko growled. “Don’t blow this off! What just happened was a miracle!

“Chill out, Franko, this stuff happens.

“Wrong, wrong, this doesn’t just happen,” Franko said.

“Do you want to continue this theological discussion in the car, or at the jailhouse with the cops?” Franko said with irritation.

“We should be dead now, my friend! We just witnessed a miracle, and I want you to acknowledge it!

“OK, man, it was a miracle,” Floyd shouted. “Can we leave now?

 

*****

 

As they rode away from the apartment complex, Franko was behind the wheel, Floyd sat in the passenger seat and Marvin in the back. “…Ever seen that show “COPS?” Floyd said. “I was watching it once and this cop was on it who was talkin’ about this time he got into this gun fight with a guy in a hallway. He unloaded on this guy and he didn’t hit anything. And these guys were in a hallway. It’s a freak, but it happens.”

“If you wanna play blind man, then go walk with a Shepherd. But me, my eyes are wide open,” Franko said.

“What the hell does that mean?” Floyd said.

“That’s it for me. From here on in, you can consider my ass retired,” Franko said.

“Jesus Christ!” Floyd said, turning to him.

“Don’t blaspheme!” Franko said.

“Goddammit, Franko,” Floyd snapped.

“I said don’t do that,” Franko snapped back.

“You’re freaking me out!”

“I’m tellin’ Harley today I’m through,” Franko said.

“While you’re at it, be sure to tell her why,” Floyd said, shaking his head.

“Don’t worry, I will,” Franko said.

“I’ll bet ya ten thousand dollars, she laughs her ass off,” Floyd said.

“I don’t give a damn if she does,” Franko said.

Floyd turned to the backseat with the .357 casually in his grip. “Marvin, what do you make of all this?”

“I don’t even have an opinion,” Marvin said.

“C’mon, Marvin. Do you think God came down from Heaven and stopped the bullets?” Floyd said, gesturing with the gun. The .357 went BANG! Marvin was hit in the upper chest, below the throat. He gurgled blood and began to shake. Floyd stared down at the gun as if it had betrayed him.

“What the %$&^%’s happening?” Franko said.

“Apparently I just accidentally shot Marvin in the throat,” Floyd said.

“Why the %^&$% did you do that?” Franko said.

“I didn’t do it. It was this piece of $#&% gun I picked up back at those kids’ place! It was an accident,” Floyd said.

“I’ve seen a lot of crazy $#&% in my time…”

“Take it easy. It was an accident, OK? I didn’t mean to shoot him. This gun just went off. Don’t ask me how! Now I think the humane thing to do is put him out of his misery.

“You wanna shoot ‘im again?” Franko exclaimed

“The guy’s suffering. It’s the right thing to do,” Floyd said.

Marvin, suffering though he was, listened to this debate. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“This is really bad,” Franko groaned.

Floyd looked at the new gun and gingerly placed it in the glove compartment lest it go off again. He pulled his own out of his shoulder holster and turned to the backseat. He placed the barrel of the .45 against Marvin’s forehead.

Marvin’s eyes were as big as saucers. He tried to talk Floyd out of this, but when he opened his mouth, only gurgles came out.

“Marvin, I just wanna apologize,” Franko said. “I got nothing to do with this. And I want you to know I think it’s #^%& up.

“OK, Pontius Pilot,” Floyd said, rolling his eyes. “When I count three, honk your horn. One…two…three.

Franko pressed down hard on the horn. There was a HONK and then a BANG.

The car was completely covered in blood. It was all over everything, including Franko and Floyd.

“Jesus Christ Almighty!” Franko exclaimed.

“Ah hell,” Floyd said.

“Look at this mess! We’re driving around on a city street in broad daylight!” Franko said.

“I know, I know, I wasn’t thinking about the splatter. I’ve been out of the game for a while,” Floyd said.

“Well you better be thinkin’ about it now!” Franko said. “We gotta get this car off the road. Cops tend to notice things like when you’re driving a car drenched in freakin’ blood.”

“Can’t we just take it to a friendly place?” Floyd asked.

“This is Gotham Heights, Floyd,” Franko said. “Harley ain’t got any friendly places in Gotham Heights She spends half her time robbing these folks!”

“Well, don’t look at me, this is your town, Franko,” Floyd said.

Franko pulled the car over and walked over to a pay phone and started punching digits.

“Who ya calling?” Floyd asked, sticking his head out the window.

A buddy of mine. Ozzie,” Franko said. “If Ozzie ain’t home, I don’t know what we’re gonna go. I ain’t got any other friends around here.”

“Ozzie! How you doin’, buddy! It’s Franko!” he said into the phone. “Listen, me an’ my buddy are in trouble. We’re in a car we gotta get off the road, pronto! I need to use your garage for a couple hours. …..Ozzie, you know I can’t get into this over the phone. But what I can say is we’re out in the cold and I’m asking you for some sanctuary ’til our people can bring us in….I appreciate this, man –We’ll be gone by then. … Ozzie, I’m aware of your situation. I give you my word, partner, she’ll never know we were there. …Five minutes. Later.”

He folded up the phone and turned to Floyd. “We’re set,” Franko said. “But his wife comes home from work in an hour and a half and we gotta be outta there by then.”

The car pulled into the garage of a two-bedroom suburban house and fifteen minutes later, Franko was bent over a sink in Ozzie’s bathroom, washing his bloody hands while Floyd stood behind him. “We’ve gotta be real delicate with this ‘cause of Ozzie’s situation. He’s one remark away from kicking our asses out the door.

“If he kicks us out, whadda we do?” Floyd asked.

“Well, we ain’t leaving ’til we’ve made a couple phone calls. But I never want it to reach that point,” Franko said. “Ozzie’s an old pal and you don’t bust in your friend’s house and start telling him what’s what.”

Franko rose and dried his hands. Floyd took his place at the sink and said, “Just tell him not to be abusive. He kinda freaked out back there when he saw Marvin.”

“Put yourself in his position,” Franko said. “It’s eight o’clock in the morning. He just woke up. He wasn’t prepared for this. Don’t forget who’s doin’ who a favor.”

Floyd finished washing his hands and then dried his hands on a white towel. “If the price of that favor is I got to take $%@%^, he can stick his favor straight up his @$$.” When Floyd finished drying his hands, the towel was stained with red.

“What the hell did you just do to his towel?

“I was just drying my hands,” Floyd said.

“You’re supposed to wash ‘em first!” Franko snapped.

“You watched me wash ‘em,” Floyd said.

“I watched you get ‘em wet,” Franko said.

“I washed ‘em. Blood’s real hard to get off. Maybe if he had some Lava, I coulda done a better job,” Floyd said.

“I used the same soap you did! It’s things like this that’re going to bring this situation to a boil. If he were to come in here and see that towel like that…I’m tellin’ you, Floyd, you best be cool. ‘Cause if I’ve gotta get in to it with Ozzie on account of you…. Look, I ain’t threatening you; I respect you and all. Just don’t put me in that position. Respect the man’s property while you’re here. Especially his umbrellas. He’s real funny about those.”

“Franko, you ask me nice like that, no problem. …Did you say especially his umbrellas?”

 

*****

 

The three men were standing in Ozzie’s kitchen, each with a mug of coffee. Jules, Vincent and Ozzie, a long-nosed, pear-shaped man in his 60s dressed in a bathrobe. “Damn Ozzie, this is some seriously good coffee. Me and Floyd here would’ve been satisfied with freeze-dried Tasters Choice. Then you go and spring this gourmet on us. What flavor is this?”

“Knock it off, Franko,” Ozzie said.

“What?” Franko said.

“I’m not a cobb of corn, so you can stop buttering me up. I don’t need you to tell me how good my coffee is. I’m the one who buys it, so I know how good it is. When Bonnie goes shopping, she buys garbage. I buy the gourmet expensive stuff because when I drink it, I want to taste it. But what’s on my mind at this moment isn’t the coffee in my kitchen. It’s the dead guy in my garage.

“Ozzie –” Franko started.

“I’m talking, here, so don’t ‘Ozzie’ me. Now let me ask you a question, Franko. When you drove in here, did you notice a sign out front that said, “Dead henchman storage?”

Franko started to “Ozzie” him and he cut him short. “Answer the question. Did you see a sign out in front of my house that said, “Dead henchman storage?”

“Naw man, I didn’t.

“You know why you didn’t see that sign?” Ozzie said.

“Why?”

“Because storing dead henchmen isn’t my damn business!

Franko started to “Ozzie” him. “I’m not through! Now don’t you understand that if Bonnie comes home and finds a dead body in her house, I’m going to get divorced. No marriage counselor, no trial separation. Just divorced. And I don’t want to get divorced. The last time Bonnie and I talked about this was going to be the last time we talked about this ever. Now I want to help you out, Franko, I really do. But I’m not going to lose my wife doing it. As far as she’s concerned, I’m reformed and I don’t want to give her reason to think otherwise.”

“Ozzie –“

“Don’t Ozzie me, ” he said, exasperated. “I can’t be Ozzied. There’s nothing you can say that’s going to make me forget I love my wife. Now she’s working the graveyard shift at Arkham. She’ll be coming home in less than an hour and a half. Make your phone calls, talk to your people, then get the hell out of my house.”

“That’s all we want. We just need to call our people to bring us in,” Franko said.

“Then I suggest you get to it. The phone is in my bedroom.

As Franko crossed the room, exiting, he said, “You’re a friend, Ozzie, you’re a good friend!

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m a real good friend. Good friend, bad husband, ex-con, soon to be ex-husband.” He looked up and saw Floyd. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think we ever had a chance to work together,” Floyd said. “Say, aren’t you…”

“Not any more,” Ozzie said. “My son holds that distinction now. He looks better in a tuxedo anyway.”

The two men laughed. “Well, none of us look as good as we used to in our Sunday finest,” Floyd said.

 

*****

 

Harley Quinn lay nude sprawled across a massage table as an Adonis dressed in an old fashioned Robin costume with the tunic open worked her back muscles. The phone rang and a similarly dressed Adonis handed her the receiver. She rose up on her elbows, flinging her long, wet green hair out of the way of her ear.

“Y’ello? Yeah… uh huh… …well, say she comes home. Whaddya think she’ll do? Well, No duh! Of course she’ll freak. No…That ain’t no kinda answer. You know ‘er, I don’t. How bad, a lot or a little?

Franko paced around in Ozzie’s bedroom on the phone. He leaned his hand on one of the many bird statues typical of the house and said, “You got to appreciate what an explosive element this Bonnie situation is. If she comes home from a hard day’s work and finds a bunch of henchmen henchin’ in her kitchen, ain’t no tellin’ what she’s liable to do.”

“Well, can’t you just plug her? You’ve still got bullets in yer gun, doncha?”.

“Well, sure, Harley, but I don’t wanna use ‘em!”

“Well, why not?!!” Harley said.

“He may be retired, but Ozzie still commands a certain amount of respect in Gotham City, Harley! Look, if push meets shove, you know I’ll take care of business. But push ain’t never gonna meet shove. Because You’re gonna solve this for us, young lady!. ‘Cause if after all the years I’ve given your family, if I gotta get into it with my old friend … and your father’s by the way… about his wife because you wanted Floyd Lawson here, I’m gonna have bad feelings.

Harley sighed. “You know why I wanted him there.”

“Bad blood between him and your old man. Right,” Franko said. Like this has to do with him and not Mia, he thought. “Joker couldn’t put a hit on him because of all his powerful friends in all the mob families. But if he bangs Mia, You can waste him without pissing off the families, waste her without pissing off your dad, and everybody’s happy. Thing is, right now, I ain’t too happy.”

“All I was doing was looking at all the options, Uncle Franko,” Harley said innocently.

“That ain’t no option, kid,” Franko said. “Look, I ain’t got no love of Floyd Lawton, either. Thanks to his buddy, my bones still hurt when it’s rainy or cold.”

“Just hold tight, Uncle Franko, I’m sending the Arranger,” Harley said.

“Thanks, kid,” Franko said. “That makes me feel a whole lot better.”

 

*****

 

Through the bedroom doorway of the hotel suite could be seen other similarly well dressed folk. Gamblers in tuxedos and lucky ladies were playing a crap game on a fancy crap table in fancy evening gowns. A distinguished tuxedo-clad man sat on the edge of a bed, phone in hand, listening as Harley instructed him. His name was Winston Worth, aka “The Arranger.”

The Arranger had a small notepad that he jotted details in. “Is she the hysterical type? When she due?…Give me the principals’ names again? …1265 Riverside Drive…..1 body (no head) …….Bloody shot-up car …Floyd…Ozzie … Bonnie (9:30). OK, got it. Expect a call around 10:30. It’s about thirty minutes away. I’ll be there in ten.” He rose from the bed and went into the other room to make apologies to his guests.

 

*****

 

A silver Porsche whipped the corner leading to Ozzie’s home, in hyper-drive. Easily doing 135 mph, the Porsche stopped on a dime in front of Ozzie’s house. The Arranger got out of the driver’s seat, walked up to the front doorway, and rang the doorbell.

Ozzie opened the door and did a double take at the tuxedo-clad man. “Hello?”

The Arranger looked down to his notebook and then up at Ozzie. “You’re Ozzie, right? This is your house?”

“Yeah.”

The Arranger stuck out his hand. “I’m the Arranger. I solve problems.”

“Good, because we got one,” Ozzie said.

“So I heard. May I come in?” the Arranger said.

“Please do.”

The two men walked to the dining room. “I want to convey Ms. Quinn’s gratitude with the help you’re providing on this matter. Let me assure you, Ozzie, her gratitude is worth having.”

In the dining room, Franko and Floyd stood up.

“Hello again, Franko. And you must be Deadshot. Much like Ozzie here, your reputation precedes you. Let’s get down to brass tacks, gentlemen. If I was informed correctly, the clock is ticking, is that right, Ozzie?”

“100%.

“Your wife, Bonnie…,” he said, looking at his pad, “comes home at 9:30 in the AM, is that correct?

“That’s right,” Ozzie nodded.

“I was led to believe if she comes home and finds us here, she wouldn’t appreciate it very much,” the Arranger said.

“She won’t at that,” Ozzie said. “Given my history, she’ll assume the worst.”

“That gives use forty minutes to get the hell out of Dodge… Which, if you do what I say when I say it, should by plenty. Now you’ve got a corpse in a car, minus a head, in a garage. Take me to it.

The three men hung back as The Arranger examined the car. He studied the car in silence, opening the door, looking inside, and circling it. “Ozzie?”

“Yes?” Ozzie said anxiously.

“Do me a favor, will you? Thought I smelled some coffee in there. Would you make me a cup?” the Arranger asked.

“Sure, how do you take it?” Ozzie asked.

“Lotsa cream, lotsa sugar.”

Ozzie exited and the Arranger continued his examination. “About the car, is there anything I need to know? Does it stall? Does it make a lot of noise? Does it smoke? Is there gas in it? Anything?”

“Aside from how it looks, the car’s good to go.” Franko said.

“Positive?” the Arranger asked. “Don’t get me out on the road and I find out the brake lights don’t work.”

“Hey, as far as I know, it’s tip-top,” Franko said.

“Good enough, let’s go back to the kitchen,” the Arranger said.

 

*****

 

Back in the kitchen, Ozzie handed The Arranger a cup of coffee. Thank you, Ozzie,” the Arranger said. Pacing as he thought, he laid out for the three men the plan of action. “OK first thing, you two,” he said, meaning Floyd and Franko, “take the body, stick it in the trunk. Now Ozzie, this looks to be a pretty domesticated house. That would lead me to believe that in the garage or under the sink, you got a bunch of cleaners and rags and things like that, am I correct?”

“Yeah, Exactly,” Ozzie agreed. “Under the sink.”

“Good. What I need you two fellas to do is take those cleaning products and clean the inside of the car. And I’m talking fast, fast, fast. You need to go in the backseat, scoop up all those little pieces of brain and skull. Get it out of there. Wipe down the upholstery — now when it comes to upholstery, it doesn’t need to be spic and span. You don’t need to eat off it. Give it a good once over. What you need to take care of are the really messy parts. The pools of blood that have collected, you got to soak that up. But the windows are a different story. Them you really clean. Get the Windex, do a good job. Now Ozzie, we need to raid your linen closet. I need blankets. I need comforters. I need quilts. I need bedspreads. The thicker the better, the darker the better. No whites. Can’t use ‘em. We need to camouflage the interior of the car. We’re going to line the front seat and the backseat and the floorboards with quilts and blankets. If a cop stops us and starts sticking his big snout in the car, the subterfuge won’t last. But at a glance, the car will appear to be normal. Ozzie — lead the way, boys — get to work.”

The Arranger and Ozzie turned, heading for the bedroom, leaving Floyd and Franko standing in the kitchen.

“A ‘please’ would be nice,” Floyd said, calling after him.

The Arranger stopped and turns around. “Come again?”

“I said a “please” would be nice,” Floyd repeated.

The Arranger took a step towards him. ” Lets set the record straight, Mr.’I once fought Batman” Deadshot. I’m not here to say “please.” I’m here to tell you what you got to do to keep your @$$ out of Blackgate. And if self-preservation is an instinct you possess, you better do it and do it quick. I’m here to help. If my help’s not appreciated, lotsa luck gentlemen.”

“It ain’t that way, Arranger,” Franko said. “Your help is definitely appreciated.”

“I don’t mean any disrespect,” Floyd said. “I just don’t like people barking orders at me.

“If I’m curt with you, it’s because time is a factor. I think fast, I talk fast, and I need you guys to act fast if you want to get out of this. So pretty please, with sugar on top, clean the $%^%&& car.”

Ozzie and the Arranger stood in the master bedroom. Ozzie had gathered all the bedspreads, quilts and linen he had. The Arranger was on the phone. “It’s a 1974 Mustang…White……Nothing except for the mess inside…. About twenty minutes… Nobody who’ll be missed…you’re a good man, Joe. See ya soon.”

 

*****

 

Both Franko and Floyd were inside the car cleaning it up. Floyd was in the front seat washing windows, while Franko was in the backseat, picking up little pieces of skull and gobs of brain. Both are twice as bloody as they were before.

“I will never forgive your @$$ for this $%$#. This is some %^%^%-up repugnant ^%^&!” Franko cursed.

“Did you ever hear the philosophy that once a man admits he’s wrong, he’s immediately forgiven for all wrong-doings?” Floyd said.

“Get outta my face with that! The man who said that never had to pick up itty-bitty pieces of skull with his fingers on account of your dumb @$$.”

“I got a threshold, Franko. I got a threshold for the abuse I’ll take. And you’re crossin’ it. I’m a racecar and you got me in the red. Redline 7000, that’s where you are. Just know it’s dangerous to be driving a racecar when it’s in the red. It could blow.

“You’re gettin’ ready to blow? I’m a mushroom-cloud! In fact, what the hell am I doing in the back? You’re the one should be on brain detail. We’re trading. I’m washing windows and you’re pickin’ up this guy’s skull.

 

*****

 

The interior of the car had been cleaned and lined with bedspreads and quilts. What once looked like a portable slaughterhouse could now actually pass for a non-descript vehicle. The Arranger circled the car examining it. Franko and Floyd stood aside, their clothes were literally a bloody mess, but they had a sense of pride in what a good job they had done. “Fine job, gentlemen. We may get out of this yet.

“I can’t believe that’s the same car,” Ozzie said.

“Well, let’s not start patting each other’s backs quite yet,” the Arranger said. “Phase one is complete, clean the car, which moves us right along to phase two, clean you two.”

Franko and Floyd stood side by side in their pinstripe suits, covered in blood, in Ozzie’s backyard. Ozzie held a plastic Hefty trash bag, while The Arranger held a garden hose with one of those guns nozzles attached.

“Strip,” the Arranger ordered.

“All the way?” Floyd said.

“To your bare ass,” the Arranger ordered.

As they followed directions, The Arranger enjoyed a smoke. “Quickly gentlemen, we got about fifteen minutes before Ozzie’s better-half comes pulling into driveway.”

“This morning air is pretty chilly,” Franko complained.

“Are you sure this is absolutely necessary?” Floyd asked.

“You know what you two look like?” the Arranger said.

“What?”

“Like a couple of guys who just blew off somebody’s head,” the Arranger said. “Yes, stripping off those bloody rags is absolutely necessary. Toss the clothes in Ozzie’s garbage bag.”

“Now Ozzie, don’t do anything stupid like putting that out in front of your house for Elmo the garbage man to take away,” Franko said.

“Don’t worry, we’re taking it with us,” the Arranger said, tossing them a bar of soap. Ozzie, the soap.

“OK gentlemen, you’re both been to County before, I’m sure. Here it comes.” The Arranger hit the trigger and water shot OUT, smacking both men.

“Damn, that water’s cold!” Floyd exclaimed.

“Better you than me, gentlemen. Don’t be afraid of the soap, spread it around,” the Arranger said as two men, trembling, scrubbed themselves.

The Arranger stopped the hose, tossing it on the ground. “Towel ‘em.”

Ozzie tossed them each a towel, which they rubbed furiously across their bodies. “You’re dry enough,” the Arranger said. “Give ‘em their clothes.”

“OK fellas, in the one-size-fits-all category, we’ve got swim trunks, one red — one white. And two extra-large tee shirts. A Hard Rock Café Metropolis shirt and an “I’m with Stupid” shirt.

“I get the ‘I’m with Stupid’ shirt,” Franko said.

In their tee shirts and swim trunks, Floyd and Franko looked a million miles away from the Pin stripe suited-suited, gangsters that walked into the house.

“Perfect. Perfect. We couldn’t have planned this better. You guys look like…what do they look like, Ozzie?” the Arranger asked.

“Dorks. They look like a couple of dorks,” Ozzie said. The Arranger and Ozzie laughed. The latter in his trademark “Waugh Waugh”.

“Ha ha ha.,” Franko said in a deadpan voice. “They’re your clothes.”

“C’mon, gentlemen, we’re laughing and joking our way into prison,” the Arranger said. “Lets speed this up.”

They started walking through the house to the garage. The garbage bag was tossed in the car trunk on top of Marvin. The Arranger slammed it closed. “Gentlemen, let’s get our rules of the road straight. We’re going to a place called Monster Joe’s Truck and Tow. Monster Joe is sympathetic to our dilemma. Now I’ll drive the tainted car. Franko, you ride with me. Floyd, you follow in my Porsche. Now if we cross the path of any cops or capes, nobody does a thing ’til I do something.”

He threw Vince his car keys, “I drive real fast, so keep up. If I get my car back any different than I gave it, Monster Joe’s going to be disposing of two bodies.

“Why do you drive fast?” Franko asked.

“Because it’s a lot of fun,” the Arranger said.

Floyd and Franko laughed as the Arranger got in the car. “Let’s move.”

 

*****

 

Inside Monster Joe’s, the Arranger counted out three thousand dollars to an older man in a dirty tee shirt, Monster Joe. Joe’s office looked like the office of every tow yard on the planet. A filthy, disarrayed mess.

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, your business is always welcome,” Monster Joe said.

“I would think by now I’ve earned the equivalent of Frequent Flyer miles,” the Arranger said.

“I’ll tell ya what, if you ever need it, I’ll dispose of a body part for free,” Monster Joe said. The two men laughed.

“Floyd and Franko waited by the Arranger’s Porsche. “We cool?” Franko asked.

“Like it never happened,” the Arranger said.

Franko extended a hand to Floyd. “I apologize for being in your face like I was.”

“You had every right, I screwed up. I didn’t know that gun. I shouldn’t have been waving it around,” Floyd said.

“So, where do you boys live?” the Arranger asked.

“Gotham Heights,” Franko said

“The Holiday Inn on fourth and main,” Floyd said.

“I see a cab ride in your future,” the Arranger said. “I’ll see you two around, and stay outta trouble, you crazy old coots.”

“Thanks, Arranger, It was a pleasure watchin’ you work.”

The Arranger smiled. “Call me Winston.” The Porsche then shot off down the road, leaving the two men left alone.

“Want to share a cab?” Franko asked.

“Sure,” Floyd said.

“You going to see Lance?” Franko asked.

“You bet,” Floyd said.

Franko reached into the pocket of the swim trunks and pulled out his billfold. He pulled out several 100-dollar bills. “Pick something up for me. Tell him to give me the usual”

“Sure. No problem,” Floyd said.

Later, Floyd sat at a table with two women inside the kitchen of an old house on the outskirts of town. One of them was Jody, a woman who appeared to have a fondness for earrings. Even though Floyd was at the same table, he was not included in the conversation. He was bored almost to the point of tears.

“Floyd, you can come in now!” a voice from the other room said.

Lance, to all appearances, was in his late-20s, with a wild and woolly appearance that went hand-in-hand with his wild and woolly personality. In actuality, Lance has been selling experimental drugs to the super villain community for nearly half a century. He’d never had a day job, never filed a tax return and had never been arrested. As if he were trying to be ironic, He wore a dirty lab coat over a Captain Carrot tee shirt.

Three bags of a glittery powder rested on Lance’s workbench. Lance and Vincent stood at the side of the bench.

“Now this is X-123, from Tyler Co. Very good stuff. This is rh44-E, a new derivative from Star Labs. Different, but equally good. And this is Ch-X123 from Hartz Industries of Germany. Now the first two are the same, forty-five an ounce — those are friend prices — but this one…,” he said, pointing to the CH-X123, “…this one’s a little more expensive. It’s fifty-five. But when you shoot it, you’ll know where that extra money went. Nothing wrong with the first two. It’s real, real, real, good $#!@. But this one’s a $%$^&’ fountain of youth. You’ll be dancing around like an 18 year old.”

“That’s a bold statement. And I got better prices in Quebec.”

“This ain’t Quebec. Coke is dead as disco. Heroin’s old news. Youth is the drug of choice in our circle and it’s hot as hell.

Floyd took out a roll of money that would choke a horse to death.

“Give me three hundred worth of Fountain of youth. If it’s as good as you say, I’ll be back for a thousand.

“I just hope I still have it. A lot of guys weren’t there for the Humanite and Karkull’s big rejuvenation shindig and need what I can give them. Whaddya think of Trudy? She hasn’t got a boyfriend. Want to hang out an’ get high?”

“Which one’s Trudy? The one with all the junk in her face?

“No, that’s Jody. That’s my wife,” Lance said.

Floyd and Lance giggle at the “faux pas.”” I’m on my way somewhere. I got a dinner engagement. Rain check?” Floyd took out his case of the works, his utensils for shooting youth enhancing drugs. “You don’t mind if I dose up here?”

“Me casa, su casa.”

 

*****

 

Later, all dosed up and feeling spry, Floyd Lawton walked up to the driveway leading to Mia Wallace’s front door. When he got to the door, he heard music on the other side, and a note in plain view taped to it. He ripped it off. The note read, “Hi Floyd, I’m getting dressed. The door’s open. Come inside and make yourself a drink. Mia”

He neatly folded the note up, stuck it in his pocket, and took a here-goes-nothing breath and turns the knob.

As Floyd stepped inside, the music that was behind the door swelled drastically. Floyd, hands in pockets, strolled inside, checking out the home. “Hello! I’m here!” he called out.

Floyd turned at the sound of a door opening.

Inside the room where the music was playing, Mia Wallace stood naked. She talked to Floyd through a crack in the door. The door shielded the front of her body from him, though the back of her was visible in the mirror on the opposite side of the room. “Floyd Lawton?

“I’m Floyd, you Mia?

“That’s me, pleased to meetcha. I’m still getting dressed. To your left, past the kitchen, is a bar. Why don’t you make yourself a drink, have a seat in the living room, and I’ll be out within three shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“Take your time.

Floyd stood staring at the closed door, contemplating what was on the side from which the music blared. He shook his head and then walked to the bar and poured himself a drink.

Floyd, drink in hand, moved into the living room. Hanging on the living room wall was a portrait that showed Mia sensually reclining on a couch.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” he said, flopping on the large leather sofa.

Barefoot, Mia walked out of the dressing room, through the dining room, through the kitchen and into the living room. She was carrying a camcorder and was videotaping Floyd on the couch. He looked up and saw her as she laughed, “Smile, you’re on Mia’s camera!

“Ready to go?” he asked.

Not yet. I’m going to interview you. Now I’m going to ask you a bunch of quick questions I’ve come up with that more of less tell me what kind of person I’m having dinner with. My theory is that when it comes to important subjects, there’s only two ways a person can answer. For instance, there’s two kinds of people in this world, Elvis people and Beatles people. Now Beatles people can like Elvis. And Elvis people can like the Beatles. But nobody likes them both equally. Somewhere you have to make a choice. And that choice tells me who you are.”

“Shoot,” Floyd said.

“Deadshot telling me to shoot,” she laughed. “OK. First question, Brady Bunch or the Partridge Family?”

“The Partridge Family all the way, no comparison. The Brady Bunch is boring.”

“Are you a “Bewitched” man, or a “Jeannie” man?

“Well, I always dug how Jeannie always called Larry Hagman “master.”

“If you were “Archie,” who would you do first, Betty or Veronica?

‘Betty. I’ve already been with plenty of Veronicas,” Floyd said, lighting a cigarette.

“Have you ever fantasized about being beaten up by a girl?” Mia asked.

“Sure.”

“Who?” Mia asked, interestedly.

“Well, what self respecting bad guy hasn’t fantasized about tangling with Wonder Woman? Y’know, the whole lasso and high heel boots thing. And there’s Emma Peel on “The Avengers”… And Arlene Motika.”

“Who’s Arlene Motika?”

“Girl from sixth grade, you don’t know her,” Floyd said.

Mia lowered the camcorder from in front of her face and Floyd suddenly had a pretty good idea why even someone as screwed up in the head as the Joker could fall head over heels. She broke out in a blinding smile. “Cut. Print. Let’s go eat.”

 

*****

 

In the past six years, 50′s diners had sprung up all over Gotham City. They were all basically the same. Decor out of a “Binky” comic book, Golden Oldies constantly emanating from a bubbly Wurlitzer, saucy waitresses in bobby socks, menus with items like the Fats Domino Cheeseburger, or the Wolfman Jack Omelet. Jackrabbit Slim’s was the big mama of 50′s diners.

Posters from 50′s movies were plastered all over the walls (“Rock All Night,” “High School Confidential,” “Attack Of The Crab Monster,” and “Machine Gun Kelly”). The booths that the patrons sat in were made out of the cut up bodies of 50s cars.

In the middle of the restaurant was a dance floor. A big sign on the wall stated, “No shoes allowed.” So wannabe beboppers did the twist in their socks or bare feet.

The picture windows didn’t look out the street, but instead, black and white movies of 50′s street scenes played behind them. The waitresses and waiters were made up as replicas of 50′s icons like Marilyn Monroe, Greg Saunders, Jack Masters, Donna Reed, and Martin and Lewis. They waited on tables wearing the appropriate costumes.

Floyd and Mia studied the menu in a booth made out of a red ’59 Edsel. Buddy Holly (their waiter), came over, sporting a big button on his chest that said, “Hi I’m Buddy, pleasing you pleases me.” “Hi I’m Buddy, what can I get’cha?” He asked them.

“I’ll have the Greg Saunders Sirloin,” Floyd said. “And to drink, a vanilla coke.”

“How ’bout you, Peggy Sue?”

“I’ll have the Derwood Kirby burger — bloody — and a five-dollar shake.

“Did you just order a five-dollar shake?” Floyd exclaimed as the waiter left with their order.

“Sure did.”

“A shake? Milk and ice cream?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It costs five dollars?”

“Yep.”

“You don’t put bourbon in it or anything?”

“Nope.”

“Just checking,” Floyd whistled.

Floyd took a look around the place. The yuppies were dancing, the diners were biting into big, juicy hamburgers, and the icons were playing their parts. Marilyn was squealing, Greg Saunders was twirling his lasso, Donna Reed was making her customers drink their milk, and Dean and Jerry were acting like fools.

Floyd felt a tinge of remorse at the site of the fake Greg Saunders. He knew what his friend would think if he knew he were back in this line of work.

“Whaddya think?” Mia asked him.

“I feel like I stepped back in time. I half expect Batman to leap over the next booth and whale the tar outta me.” He took out his pouch of tobacco and began rolling himself a smoke. It was one of the many things he’d picked up from being friends with the Vigilante.

“After a second of watching him, Mia said, ”What are you doing?”

“Rolling a smoke.”

“Here?”

“I’m a little old for that. It’s just tobacco, hun,” Floyd laughed.

“Oh. Well in that case, will you roll me one, cowboy?” Mia asked.

As he finishes licking it,” Floyd handed her the cigarette and said, “You can have his one, cowgirl.”

He handed her the rolled smoke. She took it, putting it to her lips. Out of nowhere appeared a Zippo lighter in Floyd’s hand and he lit her cigarette.”

“Thanks,” Mia said, impressed with his style.

“Think nothing of it,” Floyd said. He began rolling one for himself.

As this time, the sound of a subway car filled the diner, making everything shake and rattle. Marilyn Monroe ran to a square vent in the floor. An imaginary subway train blew the skirt of her white dress around her ears as she let out a squeal. The entire restaurant applauded.

“Harley said you just got back from Quebec,” Mia said.

“Sure did,” Floyd said, lighting his cigarette. “Taking care of something for the Gorilla Boss. I heard you did a pilot.”

“That was my fifteen minutes,” Mia said, as if the whole thing embarrassed her.

“What was it?

“It was show about a team of female super heroes called “Fox Force Five.”

“What?”

“Fox Force Five,” Mia answered. “Fox, as in we’re a bunch of foxy chicks. Force, as in we’ve all got super powers. Five, as in there’s five of us. Flaxxen, the blonde, was the leader. Then there was a Japanese one, a black one, a French one and a brunette one, me. We all had special skills. Flaxxen had telekinesis, the Japanese one, Jan Jitsu, was a kung fu master, the black girl was super strong, the French fox’ specialty was making herself invisible…

“What was your specialty?” Floyd asked.

“Knives. The character I played, Raven,… her background was she was raised by circus performers. So she grew up doing a knife act. According to the show, she was the deadliest woman in the world with a knife. But because she grew up in a circus, she was also something of an acrobat. She could do illusions, she was a trapeze artist — when you’re keeping the world safe from evil, you never know when being a trapeze artist’s going to come in handy. And she knew a zillion old jokes her grandfather, an old vaudevillian, taught her. If we woulda got picked up, they woulda worked in a gimmick where every episode I woulda told an old joke.”

Buddy came back with the drinks and Mia wrapped her lips around the straw of her shake. “Yummy!”

“Can I have a sip of that?” Floyd asked. “I’d like to know what a five-dollar shake tastes like.”

“Be my guest.” She slid the shake over to him. “You can use my straw, I don’t have cooties.”

Floyd smiled, “Yeah, but maybe I do.”

“Cooties I can handle,” Mia said, grinning slyly.

Floyd dug into his Greg Saunders Sirloin. As he chewed, his eyes scanned the restaurant, feeling an overwhelming sense of deja vu. Mia came back to the table.

“Don’t you love it when you go to the bathroom and you come back to find your food waiting for you?” she said.

“We’re lucky we got it at all. Buddy Holly doesn’t seem to be much of a waiter,” Floyd said. “We should’ve sat in Marilyn Monroe’s section.”

“Which one, there’s two Marilyn Monroes,” Mia said.

“No there’s not,” Floyd said.

Mia pointed at Marilyn in the white dress serving a table. “There’s one.”

“That’s Marilyn Monroe,” Floyd said.

She then pointed at a blonde waitress in a tight sweater and capri pants, taking an order from a bunch of film geeks. “And there’s the other.”

“That’s Mamie Van Doren,” he corrected. “I don’t see Jayne Mansfield, so it must be her night off.”

“Pretty smart,” Mia said, impressed.

“Not really. I was there.”

“Oh yeah, Mia laughed. “It’s hard to remember you’re that old.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Did ya think of something to say?”

“Actually, there’s something I’ve wanted to ask you about,” Floyd said, “but you seem like a nice person, and I didn’t want to offend you.”

“Oooohhhh, this doesn’t sound like mindless, boring, getting-to-know- you chit-chat,” Mia cooed. “This sounds like you actually have something to say.

“Only if you promise not to get offended,” Floyd said.

“You can’t promise something like that. I have no idea what you’re going to ask. You could ask me what you’re going to ask me, and my natural response could be to be offended. Then, through no fault of my own, I would’ve broken my promise.”

“Then let’s just forget it,” Floyd said.

“That’s impossible,” Mia said. “Trying to forget anything as intriguing as this would be an exercise in futility.

“Is that a fact?” Floyd said, taking a drag off his cigarette.

Mia nodded her head: “Yes.” “Besides, it’s more exciting when you don’t have permission.”

“What do you think about what happened to Hula Hula?” Floyd asked.

“He fell out of a window,” Mia shrugged.

“That’s one way to say it. Another way is, he was thrown out. Another was is, he was thrown out by the Joker. And even another way is, he was thrown out of a window by the Joker because of you.”

“Is that a fact?” Mia asked.

“No it’s not, it’s just what I heard,” Floyd said.

“Who told you this?” Mia asked.

“They,” Floyd said.

Mia and Vincent both smiled.

“They talk a lot, don’t they?” Mia remarked.

“They certainly do,” Floyd chuckled.

“Well don’t by shy, Floyd. What exactly did they say?” Mia asked. Floyd was slow to answer. “Let me help you, Bashful, did it involve the F-word?”

“No. They just said Hula Hula gave you a foot massage.

“And.?” Mia asked, gesturing with her cigarette for the rest of the story.

“No and, that’s it,” Floyd finished.

“You heard the Joker threw Hula Hula out of a four-story window because he massaged my feet?” Mia said incredulously.

“Yeah.”

“And you believed that?”

“At the time I was told, it seemed reasonable,” Floyd said.

“Throwing Hula Hula out of a four-story window for giving me a foot massage seemed reasonable?

“No, it seemed excessive. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Not only was he a jealous boyfriend… he was the Joker!”

“A boyfriend almost killing another man for touching his girl’s feet?” Mia said.

“Well, did it happen?”

“The only thing Hula Hula ever touched of mine was my hand, when he shook it. I met him once. The truth is, nobody knows why the Joker tossed Hula Hula out of that window except the Joker and Hula Hula. But when you scamps get together, you’re worse than a sewing circle.

“Are you mad?” Floyd asked.

“Not at all,” Mia said. “Being the subject of back-fence gossip goes with the territory, I guess.” She took a sip of her five-dollar shake, and said, “Thanks.”

“What for?”

“Asking my side,” Mia said with a smile.

At that moment, a great oldie-but-goodie blared from the jukebox. Mia looked to where the music was coming from and then turned back to him. “I wanna dance.”

“I’m not much of a dancer,” Floyd said, holding up his hands.

“Now I’m the one getting gypped. I do believe Harley Quinn, your employer, told you to take me out and do whatever I wanted. Well, now I want to dance.”

Floyd smiled and began taking off his wing tips. Mia triumphantly cast her shoes off. He took her hand, escorting her to the dance floor. The two faced each other for a brief moment before they began to dance, than they both broke into a devilish twist. Mia’s version of the twist was that of a sexy cat. Floyd’s was pure Mr. Cool as he got into a hip-swiveling rhythm that would make Chubby Checker proud. He was glad he’d had his dose earlier.

The other dancers on the floor were trying to do the same thing, but Floyd and Mia seemed to be strangely in sync. The two definitely shared a rhythm and they smiled as they sang along with the last verse of the Golden Oldie.

 

*****

 

The front door of Mia’s home flung open, and Mia and Floyd danced tango style into the house, singing a cappella the song from the restaurant. They finished their little dance, laughing. Then… The two just stood looking at one another.

“Was that an uncomfortable silence?” Floyd said.

“I don’t know what that was,” Mia said nervously. She paused and her mood changed suddenly. “Music and drinks!” she said, with a dramatic wave of her hands as she moved away to attend to both.

Floyd hung up his overcoat on a big bronze coat rack in the alcove. “I need to make use of your facilities, my lady,” he said, shuffling off towards the rest room.

“Go right ahead, sir knight,” Mia said, moving to her CD player to thumb through a stack of CDs and selected one: Chronus. The speakers blasted out with a high-energy number, which Mia played air-guitar to. She danced her way around the room and found herself by Vincent’s overcoat hanging on the rack. She touches its sleeve. It feels good.

Her hand went in its pocket and pulled out his tobacco pouch. Like a little girl playing cowboy, she spread the tobacco on some rolling paper. Imitating what he did earlier, licks the paper and rolled it into a pretty good cigarette …maybe a little too fat, but not bad for a first try. Mia thought so anyway. Her hand reached back in the pocket and pulled out his Zippo lighter. She brought it up to her lips and took a long, cool drag. Her hand slid the Zippo back in the overcoat pocket. But wait, her fingers touch something else. Those fingers brought out a plastic bag with white powder inside, the “fountain of youth” that Floyd bought earlier from Lance.

Wearing a big smile, Mia brought the bag of CH-x123 up to her face. “Bingo! Floyd, you little cola nut, you’ve been holding out on me.”

Inside the bathroom, Floyd stood at the sink, washing his hands and talking to himself in the mirror. “One drink and leave. Don’t be rude, but don’t do anything stupid. This is the Joker’s girl and he ain’t dead yet. Just sleeping. Drink your drink, say goodbye, walk out the door, get in your car, and go down the road.”

Mia had the unbeknownst-to-her experimental drug cut up into big lines on her glass top coffee table. Taking her trusty hundred-dollar bill like a human Dust-Buster, she quickly snorted the fat line.

Suddenly, her head jerked back and her hands went to her nose, which felt like it was on fire. Something was terribly wrong. Then the rush hit as a kaleidoscope of colors danced in front of her eyes.

Floyd dried his hands on a towel while he continued his dialogue with the bathroom mirror. “…It’s a moral test of yourself, whether or not you can maintain loyalty. Because when people are loyal to each other, that’s very meaningful.”

Mia was on all fours trying to crawl to the bathroom, but it was like trying to crawl with the bones removed from her knees. Blood began to drip from Mia’s nose. Then her stomach got into the act and she began to twitch and spasm.

As Mia’s body began to betray her, Floyd continued to lecture himself in the bathroom vanity mirror. “So you’re going to go out there, drink your drink, say ‘Goodnight, I’ve had a very lovely evening,’ go home, and clean the pipes. And that’s all you’re going to do.”

Now that he’d given himself a little pep talk, Floyd was ready for whatever was waiting for him on the other side of that door. He walked from the bathroom to the living room, where he found Mia lying on the floor like a rag doll. She was twisted on her back and her face was contorted. Not out of the tightness of pain, but just the opposite, the muscles in her face were so relaxed; she lay still with her mouth wide open. Slack-jawed.

“Jesus Christ!” Floyd screamed, moving like greased lightning to Mia’s fallen body. Bending down where she lay, he put his fingers on her neck to check her pulse. She slightly stirs.

Mia was aware of Vincent over her, speaking to her as he moaned, “Mia! Mia! What the hell happened?” in a voice that sounded as if he were trying to speak through water. But she was unable to communicate. Mia made a few lost mumbles, but they were ’t distinctive enough to be called words.

Floyd propped her eyelids open and saw the story. “I’ll be a sonofabitch. Mia! Mia! What did you take? Answer me honey, what did you take?”

Mia was incapable of answering. He slapped her face hard.

A thought hit him like a punch to the gut and Floyd jumped up and ran to his overcoat, hanging on the rack. He went through the pockets frantically. It was gone. He made a beeline to Mia. “OK honey, we’re getting you on your feet.”

He reached her and hoisted the dead weight up in his arms. “We’re on our feet now, and now we’re gonna walk out to the car. Here we go, watch us walk.” Floyd hurriedly walked the practically unconscious Mia through the house and out the front door to his car.

 

*****

 

Floyd drove like a madman, speeding the car into turns and up and over hills. He had one hand firmly on the wheel, the other shifting like Robocop. Both eyes stared straight ahead except when he glanced over at Mia. He winced at her slack-jawed expression, mouth gaping, and posture like a bag of water.

“Oh Jesus, he exclaimed. He picked up his car phone and dialed a number.

At this late hour, Lance had transformed from a bon vivant drug dealer to a bathrobe creature. He sat in a big comfy chair, ratty blue gym pants, a worn-out but comfortable tee shirt that has written on it, “Free Kid Grundy,” and a moth-ridden terry cloth robe. In his hand was a bowl of Captain Carrot Zoo Crew Crunch with Marshmallow Carrots. In front of him on the coffee table is a jug of milk, the box the Zoo Crew Crunch came out of, and a hash pipe in an ashtray. On the big-screen TV in front of the table is the Super Turtle Cartoon.

The phone suddenly rang and Lance let out a groan as he was snapped out of his cartoon induced stupor. He put down his cereal and made his way to the phone.

Jody, his wife, called out from the bedroom, obviously awoken by the ring. “Lance! The phone’s ringing!

“I can hear it!” he said, calling back to her.

“I thought you told those old farts never to call this late!”

“I told ‘em and that’s what I’m gonna tell this old fart right now!” he said, picking up the receiver. “Hello, do you know how late it is? You’re not supposed to be calling me this late.

Floyd, still driving like a madman, clutched the phone to his ear. “Lance, this is Deadshot. I’m in big trouble man, I’m on my way to your place.”

“Whoa, hold you horses man, what’s the problem?”

“I got a chick she’s O.D.ing on me.

“Don’t bring her here! I’m not even joking with you, don’t you be bringing some @#@%& to my house!

“No choice.”

“She’s O.D.in’?” Lance asked.

“Yeah. She’s dyin’,” Floyd groaned.

“Then bite the bullet!” Lance exclaimed. “Take her to a hospital and call a lawyer!”

“Negative.”

“She ain’t my problem! You $@#$ed her up, you deal with it — are you talking to me on a cellular phone?”

“Sorry.”

“I don’t know you! Who is this?!! Don’t come here!! I’m hanging up!!”

“Too late,” Floyd said. “I’m already here.”

Inside Lance’s house, Floyd’s Malibu was heard coming up the street. Lance hung up the phone, went to his curtains and yanked the cord. The curtains opened with a whoosh in time to see Floyd’s Malibu driving up on his front lawn and crashing into his house. The window Lance was looking out of shattered from the impact.

“What the hell was that?” Jody Squealed.

Lance charged from the window, out the door, and to his front lawn. Floyd was already out of the car, working on getting Mia out.

“Have you lost your mind?! You crashed your car in my $%#$in’ house! You talk about drugs on a cellular @%#$%in’ phone –

“If you’re through having your little hissy fit, this dame is dying, get your needle and get it now!

“Are you deaf? You’re not bringing that $%%&% in my house!

“This $%^*& is the Joker’s mistress and eventually he’s gonna wake up. Now if she croaks on me, I’m a grease spot. But before he gives me the permanent grin, I’m gonna be forced to tell him about how you could’ve saved her life, but instead you let her die on your front lawn.”

Lance seemed to shrink with resignation. Even while out of commission, the Joker still managed to scare the hell out of people.

Jody, hearing a commotion, threw off her bedcovers and stood up. She was wearing a long tee shirt with a picture of Sugar and Spice on it.

She opens the door, walking through the hall into the living room. “It’s only one-thirty in the mornin’! ‘s goin’ on out here?

As she walks into the living room, she saw Floyd and Lance standing over Mia, who was lying on the floor in the middle of the room. “Who’s she?”

Lance looked up at Jody. “Get that black box in the bedroom I have with the special shot.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s O.D.ing on us,” Lance said.

“Well get her the hell outta here!” Jody exclaimed.

“Get the $%@#^in’ shot!” Floyd and Lance both shouted.

“Don’t yell and me!” Jody snapped. “She angrily turned and disappeared into the bedroom looking for the shot.”

“You two are a match made in heaven,” Floyd said, looking at Lance.

“Look, just keep talking to her, OK? While she’s getting the shot, I gotta get a medical book.”

“What do you need a medical book for?”

“To tell me how to do it. I’ve never done this before.”

“You’ve had that thing for twenty six years and you never used it?” Floyd asked.

“I never had to use it. All of my friends know better!”

“Well then get it.

“I am, if you’ll let me!” Lance yelped.

“I’m not stoppin’ you!!” Floyd yelped back.

“Stop talking to me, and start talking to her!” Lance exclaimed, waving his arms as he ran out of the living room into a cluttered spare room. He frantically started scanning the debris for the book he was looking for, repeating the words, “Come on,” endlessly.

“Hurry up man! We’re losing her!” Floyd exclaimed

“I’m looking as fast as I can!” Lance shouted back, continuing his frenzied search.

“What’s he lookin’ for?” Jody asked Floyd.

“I dunno, some medical book,” Floyd said anxiously.

Jody called to Lance, “What are you lookin’ for?”

“My… uh…medical book!”

“As he continued searching, flipping and knocking over stuff piled up, Jody appears in the doorway.

“What’re you looking for?

“My special medical book. It’s like a text book they give to nurses. But it’s got a shiny cover and lots of symbols and stuff.”

“I never saw a medical book.

“Trust me, I have one.

“Well if it’s that important, why didn’t you keep it with the shot?” Jody asked.

Lance spun towards her. “I don’t know! Stop bothering me!”

“While you’re lookin’ for it, that girl’s gonna die on our carpet. You’re never gonna find it in all this –“ she squealed, waving her arm at the piles of clutter. “For six months now, I’ve been telling you to clean this mess!”

“– get your ass in here, screw the book!” Floyd shouted from the other room.

Lance angrily knocked over a pile of clutter, revealing a silver jacketed book with symbols across the front, some of which appeared to jump off the cover. “Hallelujah, he said, grabbing it and heading for the living room.

Floyd was bent over Mia, talking softly to her, when Lance re-entered the room.

“Quit playing around man and give her the shot!” Floyd ordered.

Lance bent down by the silvery case brought in by Jody. He opened it and begins preparing the needle for injection. He opened his book and scanned over the bizarre symbols.

“What the hell kind of writing is that?” Floyd exclaimed. “What the hell have you been feeding me?”

“You’ve been taking this %&^%& since 1961,” Lance said. Before there was STAR labs or anything. Where the hell did you think it was coming from? Now, shut up and take her shirt off and find her heart!” Floyd gave Lance a sour look and ripped her blouse open. Jody stumbled back in the room, hanging back from the action.

“Does it have to be exact?” Floyd asked.

“Yeah, it has to be exact! I’m giving her an injection in the heart, so I gotta exactly hit her in the heart.

“Well, I don’t know exactly where her heart is, I think it’s here.” He pointed to Mia’s right breast.

Lance glanced over and nodded. “That’s it.”

As Lance readied the injection, Floyd looked up at Jody. “I need a big fat magic marker, got one?”

“What?” Jody asked, staring dumbly.

“I need a big fat magic marker, any felt pen’ll do, but a magic marker would be great.”

“Hold on,” Jody exclaimed. She ran to the desk, opening the top drawer and, in her enthusiasm, she pulled the drawer out of the desk, the contents of which spilled to the floor.

The injection was ready. Lance handed Vincent the needle. “It’s ready, I’ll tell you what to do,” Lance said.

“You’re gonna give her the shot,” Floyd said.

“Nooooo, you’re going to give her the shot,” Lance laughed irately.

“I’ve never done this before!” Floyd exclaimed.

“I’ve never does this before either, and I ain’t starting with the Joker’s %$%^ girlfriend! You brought her here. That means you give her the shot. The day I bring a known psychopathic super villain’s piece of tail to your place, then I gotta give her the shot.”

Jody hurriedly joined them in the huddle, a big fat red magic marker in her hand. “Got it.

Floyd grabbed the magic marker out of Jody’s hand and made a big red dot on Mia’s body where her heart is.

“OK, what do I do?” Floyd asked.

“Well, you’re giving her an injection straight to her heart. But she’s got a breastplate in front of her heart, so you gotta pierce through that. So what you gotta do is bring the needle down in a stabbing motion.” Lance demonstrated a stabbing motion, which looked like “The Shape” killing its victims in “Halloween.”

“I gotta stab her?” Floyd exclaimed.

“If you want the needle to pierce through to her heart, you gotta stab her hard. Then once you do, push down on the plunger.”

“What happens after that?” Floyd asked.

“I’m curious about that myself,” Lance said.

“This ain’t a #$%#$% joke man!” Floyd snapped.

“She’s supposed to come out of it like… that,” Lance said, snapping his fingers.

“Floyd lifted the needle up above his head in a stabbing motion. He looks down on Mia. She was fading fast. Soon nothing would help her.

“Lance’s eyes narrowed, ready to do this. “Count to three.”

Lance, on his knees right beside Floyd, had no idea what to expect. “One……two……three!”

Floyd brought the needle down hard, stabbing Mia in the chest. Mia’s head jolted from the impact. Floyd pushed the syringe plunger down, pumping the neon substance out through the needle.

Mia’s eyes popped wide open and she let out a hellish cry of the banshee. She bolted up in a sitting position, screaming, with the needle stuck in her chest.

Floyd, Lance and Jody, who were in sitting positions in front of Mia, jumped back, scared to death. Mia’s scream ran out. She slowly started taking breaths of air. The other three scooted halfway across the room, shaken to their bones, looking to see if she was all right.

“If you’re OK, say something,” Lance gulped.

Mia, still breathing, not looking up at them, says in a relatively normal voice. “Something.”

Floyd and Lance collapsed on their backs, exhausted and shaking from how close to death Mia had come.

“So… Anybody want a beer?” Jody chirped.

 

*****

 

No one said a word as Floyd drove Mia home. Both Floyd and Mia were still too shaken. The Malibu pulled up to the front of Mia’s house and she got out. Still in a daze, she began walking down the walkway toward her front door without saying a word.

“Mia!” Floyd called out to her, making her turn around. What are your thoughts on how to handle this?

“What’s yours?” she asked.

“Well I’m of the opinion that Harley Quinn and the Joker can live their whole lives and never ever hear of this incident.”

“Don’t worry about it. If the Joker ever heard of this, I’d be in as much trouble as you.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“If you can keep a secret, so can I,” Mia said.

“Let’s shake on it,” Floyd said.

The two walked towards each other, holding out their hands to shake and shake they did. “Mum’s the word,” Floyd said.

Mia lets go of Floyd’s hand and silently made the see-no-evil, hear-no-evil, and speak-no-evil sign with her hands.

Floyd smiled, turning to leave. “If you’ll excuse me, I gotta go home and have a heart attack.”

Mia giggled. “You still wanna hear my “FOX FORCE FIVE” joke?

“Sure, but I think I’m still a little too petrified to laugh,” Floyd said, turning back around.

“Uh-huh,” Mia said. “You won’t laugh because it’s not funny. But if you still wanna hear it, I’ll tell it.”

“I can’t wait,” Floyd said.

“Three tomatoes are walking down the street, a poppa tomato, a momma tomato, and a little baby tomato. The baby tomato is lagging behind the poppa and momma tomato. The poppa tomato gets mad, goes over to the baby tomato and stamps on him –” she stamped on the ground “– and says: catch up.”

They both smile, but neither laughed. “The Joker would’ve liked it. See ya ’round, Floyd,” Mia said, turning to walk back to her house.

After Mia walked inside, Floyd continued to look at where she was. He brought his hands to his lips and blew her a kiss. He got in his Malibu, started it up, and drove away.

From across the street in a dark sedan with tinted windows, Franko watched with a pair of binoculars. “You had to pick now to develop restraint,” he said. “I’d hoped we wouldn’t have to drag this thing out.” Tomorrow, after the fight, he thought. There’ll be drinking and celebrating after Carlos takes the dive. Then it’ll be easy to push those two together.

Gotham City, 1968

In the living room of a modest two bedroom house in the lower east side of Gotham, a small boy sat in front of a TV set, engrossed in the antics of the cartoon, “The Inferior Five.”

“Carlos?” a 35ish Hispanic woman called out to him. She stood in the doorway leading into the living room. Next to her was a man dressed in the uniform of an American military officer. “Carlos, stop watching TV a second, she said. “We got a special visitor. Now do you remember when I told you your daddy died in a P.O.W. camp?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well this here is Colonel Saunders. He was in the P.O.W. camp with Daddy.”

“Call me “Speed”, ma’am, he said, “All my friends do.”

Colonel “Speed” Saunders stepped inside the room toward the little boy and bent down on one knee to bring him even with the boy’s eye line. “Hello, little man. Boy I sure heard a bunch about you. See, I was a good friend of your Daddy’s. We were in the war together. Hopefully, you’ll never have to experience this yourself, but when two men are in a situation like me and your Daddy were, for as long as we were, you take on certain responsibilities of the other. If it had been me who had not made it, Major Ramirez would be talking right now to my son Jim. But the way it worked out is I’m talking to you, Carlos. I’ve got something for you.”

The Colonel pulled a gold wristwatch out of his pocket. “This watch I got here was first purchased by your granddaddy, Private Ernesto Ramirez the day he left for Paris. It was your granddaddy’s war watch, made by the first company to ever make wristwatches. You see, up until then, people just carried pocket watches. Your granddaddy wore that watch every day he was in the war. Your granddad was a Marine and he was killed with all the other Marines at the battle of Wake Island. Your granddad was facing death and he knew it. None of those boys had any illusions about ever leaving that island alive. So three days before the Japanese took the island, your grandfather asked a gunner on an Air Force transport named Winocki, a man he had never met before in his life, to deliver to his son, his gold watch. Three days later, your grandfather was dead. But Winocki kept his word. After the war was over, he paid a visit to your grandmother, delivering to your father, his Dad’s gold watch. This watch was on your Daddy’s wrist when he was shot down. He was captured and put in a prison camp. Now he knew if the enemy ever saw the watch it’s be confiscated. The way your Daddy looked at it, that watch was your birthright. And he’d be damned if they were going to put their hands on his boy’s birthright. So he hid it. Five long years, he risked life and limb to keep this watch hidden. They would’ve beaten the tar outta him if they thought he was holding out. When he died of dysentery, he gave me the watch. I hid it for him after that. Then, finally, I was sent home to my family. And now, little man, I give the watch to you.”

Colonel Saunders handed the watch to Carlos, who held out his small hand to accept it.

 

*****

 

The 27-year old Carlos Ramirez woke with a start. He was dressed in boxing regalia: trunks, shoes and gloves. He lay on a table catching a few Z’s before his big fight. Shaken by the bizarre memory, he wiped his sweaty face with his boxing glove.

His usual trainer, Ted Grant, was out of the country. In his place was his assistant trainer, Klondike, an old fireplug of a man. He opens the door a little, sticking his head in the room. Pandemonium seemed to be breaking out behind Klondike in the hallway. “It’s time, kid.”

“I’m ready,” Carlos said.

Klondike stepped inside, closing the door on the wild mob outside. He went to the long yellow robe hanging on a hook. Carlos hopped off the table and, without a word, Klondike helped him on with the robe, which said on the back: “Raging Ramirez.”

The two men headed for the door. Klondike opened the door for Carlos. As he stepped into the hallway, the Crowd went wild. Klondike closed the door behind him, leaving behind the quiet, empty locker room.

****

A taxi was parked in a dark alley next to an auditorium. Rain was pouring down into the cluttered alley from above, filling the uneven pavement. Inside the taxi, behind the wheel, was a female cabbie named Esmarelda Villalobos. She was a young woman with dark, smoldering Spanish looks. She sat parked, drinking a steaming hot cup of coffee out of a white Styrofoam cup. The sound of the car radio could be heard coming from inside.

“– Well Dan, that had to be the bloodiest and, hands-down, the most brutal fight this city has ever seen.

“…Ramirez was out of there faster than I’ve ever seen a victorious boxer vacate the ring. Do you think he knew Willis was dead?

“My guess would be yes, Richard. I could see from my position here, the frenzy in his eyes give way to the realization of what he was doing. I think any man would’ve left the ring that fast.”

“Do you feel this ring death tragedy will have an effect on the career of Carlos Ramirez??”

“Well, a tragedy like this can’t help but shake the world of boxing to its very foundation. Ted Grant, who was noticeably absent tonight, will most certainly drop Ramirez after this. He’s not a man who goes in for this sort of unnecessary brutality. He was a former heavyweight champion who made it without — CLICK –”

Esmarelda shut off the radio. She took a sip of coffee, and then heard a noise behind her in the alley. She stuck her head out of the car door to see what it was.

A window about three stories high opened on the auditorium-side of the alley. A gym bag was tossed out into a garbage dumpster below the window. Then, Carlos Ramirez, still dressed in boxing trunks, shoes, gloves and yellow robe, leapt to the dumpster below.

Gym bag in hand, Carlos climbed out of the dumpster and ran to the taxi. Before he climbed in, he took off his robe and threw it to the ground. Soaking wet and naked except for trunks, shoes and gloves, he hopped in the backseat, slamming the door.

Esmarelda, staring straight ahead, talked to Carlos through the rearview mirror with a thick Spanish accent. “Are you the man I was supposed to pick up?”

“If you’re the cab I called, I’m the guy you’re supposed to pick up,” he answered.

“Where to?” she asked.

“Outta here,” he answered.

She twisted the ignition key and the engine roared to life. The meter was then flipped on and Esmarelda’s bare foot stomped on the gas pedal. The cab whipped out of the alley, fish-tailing on the wet pavement in front of the auditorium at a rapid pace.

****

Locker room door opens, English Dave fought his way through the pandemonium which was going on outside in the hall, shutting the door on the madness. Once inside, English Dave took time to adjust his suit and tie.

In the room, black boxer Mikey Willis lay dead upon a table. His face looked like he had gone dunking for bees. His trainer was on his knees, head on his chest, crying over the body.

Franko stood at the table with one hand on the Trainer’s shoulder, lending emotional support. The other held a telephone. Looking up, he saw English Dave walking towards him. “What’cha got?”

“He booked.”

“I’m prepared to scour the earth for this guy,” Harley told him over the phone. “If Carlos goes to China, I want a button man hidin’ in a bowl of rice, ready to plug him!”

“I’ll take care of it,” Franko told her.

****

Carlos changed clothes in the back of the cab. He got one of his boxing gloves off and tried to roll down one of the backseat windows, but couldn’t find the roll bar. “Hey, how do I open the window back here?” he asked.

Esmarelda watched in the rearview mirror. “I have to do it,” she answered. She pressed a button and the back window moves down. Carlos tossed his boxing glove out the window, then started untying the other one.

Esmarelda couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Hey, mister?”

“What?” he asked, still working on the glove.

“You were in that fight? The fight on the radio — you’re the fighter?

“Whatever gave you that idea?” he asked, tossing his other glove out the window.

No c’mon, you’re him, I know you’re him. Tell me you’re him.

“I’m him,” he said, drying himself off with a towel.

“You killed the other boxing man,” she said in a husky voice.

“He’s dead?” Carlos said with surprise.

“The radio said he was dead,” she answered.

He finished wiping himself down. “Sorry ’bout that, Mike,” he said to himself.” He tossed the towel out the window and then began to dig in his bag for a tee shirt.

“What does it feel like?”

“What does what feel like?” Carlos said, finding his tee shirt and pulling it out.

“Killing a man. Beating another man to death with your bare hands,” she said worshipfully.

Carlos pulled on his tee shirt. “Are you some kind of weirdo?”

“No, it’s a subject I have much interest in. You are the first person I ever met who has killed somebody. So, what was it like to kill a man?”

“Tell ya what, you give me one of them cigarettes, I’ll give you an answer,” Carlos said.

Esmarelda bounced in her seat with excitement. “Deal!”

Butch leaned forward. Esmarelda, keeping her eyes on the road, passed a cigarette back to him. He takes it. Then, still not looking behind her, she brought up her hand, a lit match in it.

Carlos lit his smoke, and then blew out the match. He took a long drag of the cigarette and said, “So….” He looked at her license “…Esmarelda Villalobos — very pretty — “Esmarelda of the wolves.” That’s one hell of a name you got there, sister.

“Thank you. And what is your name?”

“Carlos.”

“Carlos, what does it what it feel like to kill a man?”

“I couldn’t tell ya,” Carlos said. “I didn’t know he was dead ’til you told me he was dead. Now I know he’s dead, do you want to know how I feel about it?”

Esmarelda nodded her head: “yes.”

“I don’t feel a thing. You want to know why, Esmarelda?” Carlos said.

Esmarelda nodded her head “yes.”

“Cause I’m a boxer,” Carlos answered. ” And after you’ve said that, you’ve said pretty much all there is to say about me. Now maybe that son-of-a-bitch tonight was once at one time a boxer. If he was, then he was dead before he ever stepped in the ring. I just put the poor slob outta his misery. And if he never was a boxer –” Carlos paused, taking a drag off his cigarette, “That’s what he gets for entering my ring.”

Esmarelda dropped Carlos off at a phone booth and waited patiently as he as he made his call and talked enthusiastically to the person on the other end. “What’s I tell ya, soon as the word got out a fix was in, the odds would be outta control! Hey, if he was a better fighter he’d be alive. If he never laced up his gloves in the first place, which he never shoulda done, he’d be alive. Enough about the poor unfortunate Mr. Mike, let’s talk about the rich and prosperous Mr. Ramirez! How many bookies you spread it around with? … …Eight? How long to collect? So by tomorrow evening, you’ll have it all? Good news Scotty, real good news — I understand a few stragglers aside. Fabian and me’re going to leave in the morning. It should take us a couple days to get into Knoxville. Next time we see each other, it’ll be on Tennessee time.

Carlos hung up the phone. He looked at the cab waiting to take him wherever he wants to go. “Fabian my love, our adventure begins,” he said to himself in Spanish

Esmarelda’s taxi pulled into the motel parking lot. The rain had stopped, but the night is still soaked. Carlos got out, now fully dressed in tee shirt, jeans and a Grant’s Gym athletic jacket. He leaned in the driver’s side window. “How much I owe you?”

“Twenty Four- sixty,”

“Gracias,” he said, handing her the money. “And here’s a little something for the effort.” He held up a hundred dollar bill. Esmarelda’s eyes lit up and she went to take it. Carlos held it out of reach. “Now if anybody should ask you about who your fare was tonight, what’re you going to tell ‘em?”

“The truth. Three well-dressed, slightly toasted, white businessmen,” she replied with a smile.

“He gave her the bill. “Bon soir, Esmarelda.”

“Sleep well, Carlos,” she said in Spanish.

He tweaked her nose, she smiled, and he turned and walked away as she drove off.

Carlos entered the hotel room entered and turned on the light. Lying curled up on the bed, fully dressed, with her back to him was Carlos’ girlfriend, Fabian.

“Keep the light off,” she said in a thick French accent.

Carlos flicked the switch back, making the room dark again. “Is that better?

“Oui. Hard day at the office?” she asked him.

“Pretty hard,” Carlos said. “I got into a fight.”

“Poor baby,” Fabian said. “Can we make spoons?”

Carlos climbed into bed, spooning Fabian from behind. “Did you get everything, baby?”

“Yes, I did,” she answered.

“Good job,” he said, putting an arm around her waist.

“Did everything go as planned?” she asked eagerly.

“You didn’t listen to the radio?” Carlos laughed.

“I never listen to your fights,” Fabian said. “Were you the winner?”

“Oh, I won all right,” Carlos said with a sour laugh.

“Are you still retiring?” she asked.

“Sure am.”

“What about the man you fought?” she asked.

“He’s retired too,” Carlos said.

“Really?” she said, smiling. “He won’t be fighting any more?”

“Not no more.”

“So it all worked out in the finish?” she asked.

“We ain’t at the finish, baby,” Carlos reminded her.

Fabian rolled over and Carlos got on top of her. They kissed and then she looked up at him and said, “We’re in a lot of danger, aren’t we?

Carlos nodded his head “yes.”

“If they find us, they’ll kill us, won’t they?” she asked.

Carlos nodded his head “yes” again.

“But they won’t find us, will they?” she said, smiling mischievously.

Carlos nodded his head “no.”

“Do you still want me to go with you?”

Carlos nodded his head his head “yes.”

“I don’t want to be a burden or a nuisance…”

Carlos leaned in to kiss her and she held up her hand to stop him. “Say it!”

“Fabian, I want you to be with me,” he laughed.

“Forever?”

“…And ever,” Carlos said. Fabian moved her hand and he leaned in and kissed her.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

Rather than answer her question, Carlos leaned in and kissed her. It turned out, that was all the answer she needed.

 

*****

 

Later, Fabian stood in front of the large bathroom mirror in a white terry cloth robe that seems to swallow her up. She was drying her head with a towel. Carlos inside the shower washing up, his outline visible through the smoky glass of the shower door as steam filled the bathroom. Carlos turned the shower off and opened the door, popping his head out. “I think I cracked a rib. Can I have a towel please, Miss Beautiful Tulip?”

She finished drying her hair and wrapped the towel like a turban on her head before him a towel.

“Gracias.”

“Carlos?”

“Yes, lemon pie?”

“Where are we going to go?

“I’m not sure yet,” Carlos answered. ” Wherever you want. We’re going to get a lot of money from this. But it ain’t going to be so much we can live like kings and queens forever. I was thinking we could go somewhere in the South Pacific. The kind of money we’ll have’ll carry us a long way down there.”

“So if we wanted, we could live in Bora Bora?” she asked.

“You betcha. And if after awhile you don’t dig Bora Bora, then we can move over to Tahiti or Mexico,” he told her.

“But I do not speak Spanish,” she said.

“You don’t speak Bora Boran either,” Carlos said. “Besides, Mexican is easy: Donde esta el zapataria?”

“What does that mean?”

“Where’s the shoe store?”

“Donde esta el zapataria?” she repeated.

“Excellent pronunciation,” Carlos laughed. ” You’ll be my little mama ceta in no time.”

Carlos exited the bathroom as she brushed her teeth. “Que hora es?” he called out from the other room.

“Que hora es?” she repeated, spitting out a mouth full of toothpaste foam into the sink.

“What time is it?” he translated.

“What time is it?”

“Time for bed. Sweet dream, jellybean.”

Fabian brushed her teeth for a few seconds, then stopped as if remembering something. “Carlos?” She walked out of the bathroom to ask him a question, only to find him sound asleep in bed.

The next morning, Carlos awoke from his sleep, as if a scary monster was chasing him. His start startled Fabian. “Merde! You startled me. Did you have a bad dream?” Fabian asked.

Carlos squinted down the front of the bed at her, trying to focus, still trying to chase the cobwebs away, seeing the Crimson Avenger and Wing on TV creating havoc as they tore through an enemy hide-out.

“Are you watchin’ that?”

Fabian entered the room. “In a way. Why? Would you like for me to switch it off?”

“Would you please?”

She reached over and turns off the TV.

“It’s a little too early in the morning for all that ‘Biff’, ‘Bam’, ‘Pow’ stuff.

“What was it about?” she asked.

“How should I know, you were the one watchin’ it.

Fabian laughed. “No, imbecile, what was your dream about?”

“Oh, I…don’t remember,” Carlos said. “It’s really rare I remember a dream.”

“You just woke up from it.”

“Fabian, I’m not lying to you, I don’t remember.

“Well, let’s look at the grumpy man in the morning. I didn’t say you were lying. It’s just odd you don’t remember your dreams. I always remember mine. Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

“I don’t talk in my sleep,” Carlos grumbled. “…do I talk in my sleep?”

“You did last night.”

“What did I say?”

Fabian joined him in the bed, lying on top of him. “I don’t know. I couldn’t understand you.” She leaned her head down and kissed him. “Why don’t you get up and we’ll get some breakfast at that breakfast place with the pancakes.”

“One more kiss and I’ll get up.”

Fabian gave Carlos a sweet long kiss. “Satisfied?”

“Yep.”

“Then get up, lazy bones.”

Carlos climbed out of bed and started pulling clothes out of the suitcase that Fabian brought. “What time is it?”

“Almost nine in the morning. What time does our train arrive?

“Eleven.”

I’m going to order a big plate of blueberry pancakes with maple syrup, eggs over easy, and five sausages.

Carlos turned in surprise at her potential appetite. “Anything to drink with that?” he said as he finished dressing. As he goes through the suitcase, he suddenly said, “Where’s my watch?”

“It’s there.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not here,” he said in alarm.

“Have you looked?”

By now, Carlos was frantically rummaging through the suitcase. “Yes I’ve @$%@$% looked!!” he said, throwing clothes, “What the $%#$ do you think I’m doing?! Are you sure you got it?

Fabian could hardly speak. She’d never seen Carlos this way. “Yes. Beside the bedside table.”

“…On the little kangaroo.” Carlos finished.

“Yes, it was on your little kangaroo.” Fabian said nervously.

“Well it’s not here!

“Well it should be!” Fabian said, on the verge of tears.

“Oh it most definitely should be here, but it’s not. So where is it?

Fabian was crying and scared, so Carlos lowered his voice, which only served to make him more menacing. “Fabian, that was my father’s watch. You know what my father went through to get me that watch? I don’t want to get into it right now…but he went through a lot. Now all this other $#%^, you could set on fire, but I specifically reminded you not to forget my father’s watch. Now think, did you get it?”

“I believe so….”

“You believe so? You either did, or you didn’t, now which one is it?” Carlos said with controlled rage.

“Then I did.”

“Are you sure?”

“No,” she said, shaking.

“#$%^^@# it!!” Carlos screamed, punching the air. Fabian screamed and backed into a corner, as Carlos picked up the motel TV and threw it against the wall.

Carlos looked toward her, suddenly calm. “No! It’s not your fault,” he said, approaching her. “You left it at the apartment.” He bent down in front of the woman who had sunk to the floor. He touched her hand and she flinched. “If you did leave it at the apartment, it’s not your fault. I had you bring a bunch of stuff. I reminded you about it, but I didn’t illustrate how personal the watch was to me. If all I gave a damn about was my watch, I should’ve told you. You ain’t a mind reader.” He kissed her hand. Then rose.

Fabian was still sniffling as Carlos went to the closet. “I’m sorry.”

Carlos put on his jacket. It looked like a varsity jacket but with the embroidered letters “Grant’s Gym. “Don’t be, he said. “It just means I won’t be able to eat breakfast with you.”

“Why does it mean that?” Fabian asked with concern.

“Because I’m going back to my apartment to get my watch!” Carlos said.

“Won’t the gangsters be looking for you there?” Fabian said anxiously.

“That’s what I’m going to find out,” Carlos said. “If they are, and I don’t think I can handle it, I’ll split.”

Fabian rose from the floor. “My darling, I don’t want you to be murdered over a silly watch.

Carlos’ jaw set in grim determination. “One, it’s not a silly watch. Two, I’m not gonna be murdered. And three don’t be scared. I won’t let anything get in the way of us living a happy life together.”

Carlos pulled her close and put his hands on her face. “Don’t feel bad, sugar pop. Nothing you could ever do would make me permanently angry with you. ….I love you, remember?”

He dug into his pocket for some money. “Now here’s some money, order those pancakes and have a great breakfast.”

“Don’t go,” she pleaded

“I’ll be back before you can say, blueberry pie,” he reassured.

“Blueberry pie.”

“Well maybe not that fast, but fast. OK? OK?”

“OK,” she sniffed.

He kisses her once more and headed for the door. “Bye-bye, sugar pop.”

“Bye.

“I’m going to take your Honda,” Carlos told her.

“OK,” Fabian agreed, looking at the money he had given her. And with that, he was out the door.

 

*****

 

Carlos beat the steering wheel and the dash with his fists as he drove down the street. “Of all the things she could forgot, she forgets my father’s watch. I specifically reminded her not to forget it. “Bedside table — I said the words: “Don’t forget my father’s watch.”

The little Honda raced toward its destination as fast as its little engine will take it. “What am I doin’? Have I taken one too many hits to the head? That’s got to be it. Brain damage is the only excuse for this dumb a move. Stop the car, Carlos.” He kept on driving. “Stop the car, Carlos.”

He pays no attention to himself, I’m talkin’ to you. Put-your-foot-on-the-break!” Carlos’ foot slammed down hard on the break and the little Honda skidded to a stop in the middle of the street. He hopped out of the car like it was on fire.

Carlos began pacing back and forth, talking to himself, oblivious to passerbys and traffic. “I ain’t gonna do this. This is a punchy move and I ain’t punchy! Papa would totally understand. If he were here right now, he’d say, “Carlos, you’re loco. It’s a watch, man. You lose one, ya get another. This is your life you’re messin’ around with, which you shouldn’t be doing ’cause you only got one.”

Carlos continued to pace, but now he’s silent. Then he stopped and said, “This is my war. You see, Carlos, what you’re forgetting is this watch isn’t just a device that enables you to keep track of time. This watch is a symbol. It’s a symbol of how your father, and his father before him, distinguished themselves in war. And when I took Harley Quinn’s money, I started a war. This is my World War Two. That apartment in North Gotham, that’s my Wake Island. In fact, if you look at it that way, it’s almost kismet that Fabian left it behind. And using that perspective, going back for it isn’t stupid. It may be dangerous, but it’s not stupid. Because there are certain things in this world that are worth going back for.”

That was it. Carlos had talked himself into it again. He hopped in the car, started it up and took off.

 

*****

 

Carlos wasn’t completely reckless. He parked his car a couple of blocks from his apartment to check things out before he went through the front door.

Carlos walked down the alley until he got to another street, then he discreetly glanced out. Everything seemed normal. There were more or less the right number of cars in the street. None of the parked cars appeared out of place. None of them had a couple of goons sitting inside. Basically, it looked like normal morning activity in front of Carlos’ home.

Carlos peered around a wall, taking in the vital information. “Everything looks hunky dorie,” he said to himself. “Looks can be deceiving, but this time I don’t think they are. Why waste the manpower to stake out my place. I’d have to be an idiot to come back here. That’s how you’re going to beat ‘em Carlos, they keep underestimating you.”

Carlos walked out of the alley and was ready for anything. He crossed the street and entered his apartment courtyard.

Across the street from his building, on the corner, was a yogurt shop. A big sign stuck up in the air, with the name “Peachy Pet’s Frozen Yogurt” and a graphic of a giant hand holding a big pink yogurt cone.

Carlos walked into the courtyard of his North Gotham apartment building. Once again, everything appeared normal — the laundry room, the pool, and his apartment door — nothing appeared to be disturbed.

He climbed the stairs leading to his apartment, number 12. He stepped outside the door and listened inside. Nothing. Carlos slowly inserted the key into the door, quietly opening it.

From the looks of things, his apartment hadn’t been touched. Carlos cautiously stepped inside, shut the door and took a quick look around. Obviously, no one was there.

He walked into his modest kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. He took out a carton of milk and drank from it.

With carton in hard, Carlos surveyed the apartment. Then he went to the bedroom.

His bedroom was like the rest of the apartment — neat, clean and anonymous. The only things personal in his room were a few boxing trophies, an Olympic silver medal, a framed issue of Ring Magazine” with Carlos on the cover, and a poster of Jerry Quarry and one of George Chuvalo.

Sure enough, there was the watch just like he said it was: on the bedside table, hanging on his little kangaroo statue.

He walked through the apartment and back into the kitchen. He opened a cupboard and took out a box of Pop Tarts. Putting down the milk, he opened the box, taking out two Pop Tarts and put them in the toaster.

When Carlos glanced to his right, his eyes fell on something. What he saw was a small compact Czech M61 submachine gun with a huge silencer on it, lying on his kitchen counter.

“Holy $%&#.” He picked up the intimidating peace of weaponry and examined it. Then…a toilet flushed. Carlos looked up to the bathroom door, which was parallel to the kitchen. There was someone behind it. Like a rabbit caught in a radish patch, Carlos froze not knowing what to do.

The bathroom door opened and Floyd Lawton stepped out of the bathroom, tightening his belt. In his hand was Carlos’ copy of the book “The Golden Age” by Jonathan Law. Carlos and Floyd locked eyes.

Floyd froze, inwardly cursing himself. A few seconds sooner and he would literally have been caught with his pants down like some amateur.

Carlos didn’t move, except to point the M61 in Floyd’s direction. Ted Grant, his trainer, had taught him how to hide fear from his opponent. Otherwise, he’d be a quivering pile of jell-O.

Neither man opened his mouth. Then…the toaster loudly kicked up the Pop Tarts. That was all the situation needed. Carlos’ finger hit the trigger. And muffled fire shot out of the end of the gun.

Floyd was seemingly wracked with twenty bullets simultaneously lifting him off his feet, propelling him through the air and sending him crashing through the glass shower door at the end of the bathroom. By the time Carlos removed his finger from the trigger, Floyd has slumped to the floor, unmoving.

Carlos stood frozen, amazed at what just happened. His look went from the still form of Floyd Lawton in the bathroom, down to the powerful piece of artillery in his grip.

With the respect it deserved, Carlos carefully placed the M61 back on the kitchen counter. Then he exited the apartment, quickly, not bothering to check for a pulse. The man looked dead enough.

Carlos, not running, but walking very rapidly, crossed the Courtyard coming out of the apartment building, crossed the street, going through the alley and into his car. He cranked the car into gear and drove away. The big wide smile of a survivor broke across his face.

The Honda turned down the alley and slowly cruised by his apartment building. Carlos looked out the window at his former home. “That’s how you’re gonna beat ‘em, Carlos. They keep underestimating ya.”

This made the boxer laugh out loud. He drove by the apartment, but was stopped at the light on the corner across from the Peachy Pet’s Frozen Yogurt.

Carlos was still chuckling, singing along with the radio, as Franko exited Peachy Pet’s Frozen Yogurt, carrying a couple of pints of frozen yogurt and two large Styrofoam cups of coffee. He stepped off the curb, crossing the street in front of Carlos’s car.

Carlos’ laughing stopped when he saw the burly man directly in front of him. Franko, in front of Carlos’ car, casually glanced to his left, saw Carlos, continued walking…then stopped! His expression said, “Am I really seeing what I’m seeing?”

Carlos didn’t wait for the big man to answer his own question. He stomped on the gas pedal. The little Honda slammed into Franko, sending him, the yogurt and the coffee hitting the pavement at thirty miles an hour.

Carlos cut into cross traffic and was broadsided by a gold Camaro Z-28, breaking all the windows in the Honda and sending it up on the sidewalk.

Carlos sat dazed and confused in the crumpled mess of what at one time was Fabian’s Honda. Blood flowed from his nostrils. The still-functional tape player continued to play. A pedestrian poked his head inside.

“Jesus, are you OK?” someone asked him.

Carlos looked at him, spaced-out. “I guess.”

Franko lay sprawled out in the street. Gawkers gathered around the body.

“He’s dead! He’s dead!” someone cried. His yelling made Franko come to.

Two pedestrians helped the shaken Carlos out of the wreckage.

The woozy Franko got to his feet. “If you need a witness in court, I’ll be glad to help. He was a drunken maniac. He hit you and crashed into that car,” someone told him.

“Who?” Franko said groggily.

“Him,” the gawker said, pointing at Carlos.

Franko followed the Gawker’s finger and saw Carlos Ramirez down the street, looking a shambles.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Franko said. The big man took out a .45 Automatic and the gawkers backed away. Franko started moving towards Carlos.

Carlos saw the fierce figure making a wobbly beeline toward him. “Madre de dios,” he exclaimed, having picked the habit up from his Mexican born mother.

Franko brought up his weapon and fired, but he was so hurt, shaky and dazed that his arm went wild. Instead, he hit one of the onlookers in the hip. She fell to the ground, screaming.

That was all Carlos needed to see. He was outta there.

Franko ran after him as the crowd looked on, agape. Carlos took off in a mad, limping run. The big man was hot on his trail with a cockeyed wobbly run.

Carlos cut across traffic and dashed into a business with a sign that read “Full Moon Pawnshop.”

A pale boy, dressed like he was trying to look like Robert Smith of the Cure, stood behind the counter of his pawnshop. All of a sudden, chaos in the form of Carlos Ramirez entered into his world. “Can I help you with something?” he asked.

“Shut up!” Carlos yelled. He quickly took measure of the situation, and then stood next to the door.

“Now you just wait one damn minute,” the goth-looking boy warned. Before He could finish his threat, Franko charged in. He didn’t get past the doorway because Carlos landed his fist in Franko’s face.

The gangster’s feet went out from under him and he fell flat on his back. Outside, two police cars with their sirens blaring raced by.

Carlos pounced on the fallen gangster, punching him twice more in the face. He took the gun out of Franko’s hand, and then grabbed hold of his middle finger. “So you like chasing people, huh?” He then placed the barrel of the .45 between his eyes, pulled back the hammer and placed his open hand behind the gun to shield the splatter. “Well guess what, big man, you caught me!”

“Hold it right there, godammit!” the kid behind the counter shouted.

Carlos and Franko looked up at the goth kid, who was brandishing a pump-action shotgun, aimed at the two men.

“Look mister, this ain’t any of your business,” Carlos said, astonished. He had assumed the kid behind the counter was a sissy who wouldn’t get involved.

“I’m making it my business! Now toss that gun!” Carlos obeyed. “Now you on top, stand up and come to the counter,” he ordered.

Carlos slowly got up and moved to the counter. As soon as he got there, the goth kid hauled off and hit him hard in the face with the butt of the shotgun, knocking Carlos down and out.

After Carlos went down, the goth kid calmly laid the shotgun on the counter and walked around to where Carlos lay.

Franko, from his position on the floor, groggily watched the pawnshop owner as he grabbed a hold of Carlos’ wrists and dragged him to a doorway. He opened the door, revealing a set of steps. “Zed? Guess what!” he called down excitedly. The spider just caught a couple of flies!” Franko then passed out.

 

*****

 

When Carlos and Franko awoke, they found themselves tied up in two separate chairs. The pawnshop owner had taken a fire extinguisher and sprayed both men until they were wide-awake and wet as otters. The two prisoners first looked up at their captor then around the room. The basement of the pawnshop has been converted into a dungeon. After taking in their predicament, they looked at each other, all traces of hostility gone, replaced by a terror they both share at what they’ve gotten themselves into.

The pawnshop owner stood in front of them, fire extinguisher in one hand, shotgun in the other, and Franko’s .45 sticking in his belt. “Nobody kills anybody in my place of business except me or Zed.” He gestured over his shoulder to a dark maple coffin behind him. “That’ Zed.”

The lid of the coffin rose up and a gaunt figure appeared. Zed was an even more intense version of the pawnshop owner, if such a thing were possible. The two were obviously brothers- though what the pawnshop owner aspired to be, Zed really was. Zed stepped out of the coffin and into the room, standing in front of the two captives. He inspected them for a long time, and then said, “You couldn’t wait for me, Maynard?”

“I did,” the pawnshop owner said defensively.

“Then why are they all beat up?” Zed said. “I don’t need you to tenderize my food for me, OK?”

“They did that to each other. They were fighting when they came in. This one was going to shoot that one,” the pawnshop owner, Maynard, said.

“You were going to shoot him?” Zed said, bemused. Carlos made no reply.

“Who’re you going to drain first?” the goth pawnshop owner said eagerly.

“I am not sure yet,” Zed replied. Then with his little finger, Zed did a silent “Eenie, meany, miney, moe…” just his mouth mouthing the words and his finger going back and forth between the two.

Carlos and Franko were terrified. The pawnshop owner looked back and forth at the victims excitedly as Zed continued his silent singsong with his finger moving left to right, then stopped, zeroing in on Franko.

Zed stood up. “Want to do it here?”

“Naw, drag big boy to Russell’s old room,” the pawnshop owner said.

Zed grabbed Franko’s chair and dragged him into Russell’s old room. Russell, no doubt, was some other poor bastard that had the misfortune of stumbling into the Full Moon Pawnshop. Only Maynard and Zed knew whatever happened to Russell because his old room, a back room in the back of the back room, was empty. As Franko was dragged away, he locked eyes with Carlos before he disappeared behind the door of Russell’s old room.

The pawnshop owner disappeared into Russell’s old room. There must have been a stereo in there because suddenly the sounds of the goth band, BAUHAUS, filled the air.

From behind the door, the song “Stigmata” played. “Whoa, this one’s got a bit of fight left in him!” the pawnshop owner said.

Carlos could hear them beating on Franko “You want to fight?” Zed laughed. “You want to fight? Good, I like to fight! Carlos paused, listening to the voices. Then, in a panic, hurriedly struggled to get free. The ropes were on too tight and he couldn’t break loose.

In the back room, he heard, “That’s it…that’s the stuff. That hits the spot…. that’s good. Stay still…stay still! Maynard, dammit, get over here and hold him!”

Carlos stopped struggling and lifted up on his arms. Then, quite easily, the padded chair back slid up and off as if it were never connected by a bolt. Carlos removed his gag, then silently made his way through the red curtains.

Carlos snuck to the front door. On the counter was a big set of keys with a large Z connected to the ring. Grabbing them, he was about to go out when he stopped and listened to the vampire and the vampire wannabee slapping Franko around some more.

His Catholic upbringing got the better of him and Carlos decided that for the life of him, he couldn’t leave anybody in a situation like that. Se he began rooting around the pawnshop for a weapon to bash those abominations’ heads in with.

He picked up a big destructive-looking hammer, and then discarded it. Not destructive enough. He picked up a chainsaw, thinking about it for a moment and then put it back. Next, a large Louisville slugger he tried on for size. But then he spotted what he’s been looking for: A crossbow and a bunch of wooden tent stakes

Carlos took the crossbow off the wall and quietly snuck down the stairs leading to the dungeon. Music still poured from behind the closed door that lead to Russell’s old room. He pushed open the door. It swung open silently, revealing the vampire and his assistant. Zed was bent over Franko, who lay on a long wooden table. Maynard watched. Both had their backs to Carlos.

Maynard the pawnshop owner grinned obliviously as Carlos came up behind him with the crossbow. Miserable, bleeding from his neck, and looking like a rag doll, Franko opened his watery eyes to see Carlos coming up behind Maynard. His eyes widened.

“Hey freak,” Carlos said.

Maynard turned and saw Butch holding the crossbow. With a quick flick of his finger, a stake fired out and plunged itself into Maynard’s chest. Carlos moved passed him, now locked on Zed.

Maynard stood trembling in shock, a wooden stake jutting from his chest. He had always wanted to live as a vampire. Now he would die as one. He fell to his knees and then slumped the rest of the way to the floor.

Zed disengaged from Franko in a hurry and his eyes went from Carlos’ crossbow to Franko’s .45 Automatic, which lay within reach. Carlos’ eyes followed Zed’s. “You want that gun, Zed? Pick it up.

Zed’s hand inched toward the weapon. As slow as he was moving, Carlos wondered if he wasn’t toying with him. Vampires were supposed to be fast, though Zed didn’t seem to be an especially old or powerful one.

Carlos gripped the crossbow tighter. Zed studied Carlos. Carlos looked hard at Zed.

Suddenly, a voice from behind Carlos said, “Step aside Carlos.”

Carlos stepped aside, revealing Franko standing behind him, holding Maynard’s pump-action shotgun. KABOOM!!!! Zed was blasted in the knee. Down he went, screaming in agony. Another blast took out the other knee.

Franko, looking down at the whimpering vampire, ejected the used shotgun shell.

Carlos lowered the crossbow and hung back, staring at the vampire. “I thought they healed fast.”

“Not when you scratch little crosses on the shells,” Franko said, holding a rag to where the clumsy vampire had bitten him and left a gash.

“So what now?” Carlos said after a long pause.

“What now?” Franko said. “Well let me tell you what now. I’m gonna call a couple wise guys who’ll go to work on Zed here with a pair of pliers and a blow torch. Hear me talking, you ungodly freak of nature?!” He said, accenting his words by pumping the shotgun and delivering another blast to Zed’s hand. “I ain’t through with you by a damn sight. I’m gonna git Medieval on your ass.”

“I meant what now, between me and you?”

“Oh, that what now? Well, let me tell ya what now between me an’ you. There is no me and you. Not any more. As far as Harley’s concerned, I never saw ya.”

“So we’re cool?” Carlos asked

“Yeah, kid, we’re cool,” Franko said. “One thing I ask … two things I ask: don’t tell nobody about this. This is between me and you and Mr. Soon-to-be-living-the-rest-of-his-undead-life-in-agonizing-pain. It ain’t anybody else’s business. Two: leave town. Tonight. Right now. And when you’re gone, stay gone. You’ve lost your Gotham City privileges. Deal?

“Deal.” Carlos nodded.

The two men shook hands. “Go on now, get outta here,” Franko said.

Carlos left Russell’s old room through the red curtains. Franko walked over to a phone, dialing a number. “Hello Arranger, it’s Franko. Gotta bit of a situation.”

Carlos, still shaking in his boots, exited the pawnshop. He looked ahead and saw, parked in front of the establishment, the pawnshop owner’s Big Chrome Chopper. He climbed aboard, taking out the keys and started up the huge hog. It rumbled to life, making sounds like a rocket fighting for orbit. He twisted the accelerator handle and sped off.

Carlos rode up to the hotel on the large motorcycle. He hopped off and ran inside the motel room. Fabian was standing in front of a mirror wearing a “Frankie says, Relax” tee shirt, singing along with music coming from a boom box. She turned and let out a squeak when she saw him. “Carlos, I was so worried!”

“Honey, grab your radio and your purse and let’s go!” Carlos said.

“But what about all our bags?” Fabian said.

“Forget the bags,” Carlos said. “We’ll miss our train if we don’t split now.”

“Is everything well? Are we in danger?” Fabian asked.

“We’re cool. In fact, we’re super-cool. But we gots to go. I’ll wait for you outside.”

Carlos ran out and hopped back on the bike. Fabian exited the motel room with the boom box and a large purse. When she saw Butch on the chopper, she stopped dead. “Where did you get this motorcycle?”

“It’s a chopper, baby, hop on,” he said, kick starting the bike.

Fabian slowly approached the two-wheel demon. “What happened to my Honda?”

“Sorry baby, I crashed the Honda,” Carlos said.

“You’re hurt?” Fabian said, looking at him in the light.

“I might’ve broken my nose, no biggie. Hop on.” She didn’t move. Carlos looked at her. “Honey, we got to hit the road!”

Fabian started to cry and Carlos quickly realized that this was not the way to get her on the bike. He turned off the engine and reached out, taking her hand. “I’m sorry, baby-love,” he said.

“You were gone so long, I started to think dreadful thoughts,” she cried.

“I’m sorry I worried you, sweetie. Everything’s fine. Hey, how was breakfast?” he asked.

“It was good,” she sniffed.

“– Did you get the blueberry pancakes?”

“No, they didn’t have blueberry pancakes, I had to get buttermilk. Are you sure you’re OK?” she asked.

“Baby-love, from the moment I left you, this has been without a doubt the single weirdest day of my entire life. Climb on and I’ll tell ya about it.

Fabian does climb on and Carlos started the motorcycle. “Carlos, whose motorcycle is this?”

“It’s a chopper,” Carlos answered.

“Whose chopper is this?” she asked.

“Zed’s.”

“Who’s Zed?” Fabian asked.

“Zed’s dead, baby, Zed’s dead. And with that, the two lovebirds peeled away.

 

*****

 

It was about 9:00 in the morning at the Breakfast of Champions, a local super hero themed breakfast joint. While the place wasn’t exactly packed, there was a healthy number of people drinking coffee, munching on bacon and eating pancakes and eggs.

Floyd and Franko sat at a booth. In front of Floyd was a big stack of pancakes and sausages, which he ate with gusto. Franko, on the other hand, just had a cup of coffee and a muffin. His face was badly bruised. A huge bandage was across his nose. Another decorated his neck. He seemed far away in thought. The Waitress in a designer Powergirl imposter poured a refill for both men.

“Thanks a bunch,” Floyd said. He turned to Franko, who was nursing his coffee. “You OK? That pain killer working?

“Yeah, I’m all right.”

“So lighten up a little,” Floyd said. “You’ve been sitting there all quiet.

“I just been sitting here thinking.

“About what?” Floyd said with a mouthful of food.

“Miracles,” Franko said. “Twice yesterday we were nearly killed and here we are, sitting down having breakfast.”

“You say miracle. I say a couple of freak occurrences,” Floyd said.

“Do you know that a miracle is?” Franko asked.

“An act of God,” Floyd said.

“And what’s an act of God?” Franko asked.

“I guess it’s when God makes the impossible possible. And I’m sorry, Franko, but I don’t think anything that’s happened qualifies.”

“Don’t you see, Floyd, that doesn’t matter? You’re judging this thing the wrong way. It’s not about what. It could be God stopped the bullets. It could be he made Carlos come back and help me or tell you you needed to wear your bulletproof vest that day. You don’t judge things like this based on merit. Whether or not anything we experienced was a bonafide miracle is insignificant. I can’t shut my eyes to the possibility. And I can’t go back to the way I was.”

“So you’re serious, you’re really going to quit?

“The life, most definitely.

Franko took a bite of food. Floyd took a sip of coffee.

“So if you’re quitting the life, what’ll you do?

“That’s what I’ve been sitting here contemplating. First, I’m going to have to deliver the news about Carlos. Then, I’ll figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll get a real job.”

“Real job? Lets not get carried away here Franko,” Floyd said. “What you’ve been doing for the last few decades, you can’t exactly put on your resume. When did you make this decision anyway? While you were sitting there eating your muffin?”

“Yeah. I was just sitting here drinking my coffee, eating my muffin, playing the incident in my head, when I had what alcoholics refer to as a “moment of clarity.”

“O brother,” Floyd said.

“I gotta use the head,” Franko said. “To be continued.”

 

*****

 

Two of the diners were a young married couple. At least, they looked young thanks to an incident involving Ian Karkull, emerald energy, and most of the super villain community. It had cost them most of their savings outside of their kids’ college fund. The young-looking man had the haunted eyes of someone who had been struggling with internal issues for most of his life. He smoked cigarettes like they were going out of style. The woman seemed overly bubbly – almost cartoonish. Like the waiters and waitresses in the restaurant, they were wearing colorful costumes. Unlike them, they had the option to keep theirs covered with trench coats.

“No, forget it, it’s too risky,” the young-looking man said. “I’m through doing that.”

“You always say that,” the young woman argued. “The same thing every time!” She proceeded to pantomime him in a nasal tone. “‘Never again, I’m through, too dangerous.’”

“I know that’s what I always say,” he said grinning. “I’m always right too, but….”

“But you forget about it in a day or two.”

“Yeah? Well, the days of me forgetting are over, and the days of me remembering have just begun.

“When you go on like this, you know what you sound like?” she smirked.

“I sound like a sensible man, is what I sound like.

“You sound like a duck,” she mocked. At that, she folded her hands under her arms and began imitating the flapping of a duck’s wings. “Quack, quack, quack, quack, quack, quack, quack…”

“Well take heart, doll-babe, because you’re never going to have to hear it again. And since I’m never going to do it again, you’re never going to have to hear me quack about how I’m never going to do it again….”

“After tonight,” she finished, making them both laugh.

“Correct. I got all tonight to quack,” he replied.

A waitress came by with a pot of coffee. She was wearing what looked similar to a Wonder Woman costume, but there were red and white stripes where the blue with stars should be and blue with stars where the red should be. The tiara also looked more like something a prom queen would wear. “Can I get anybody anymore coffee?” she asked.

“Oh yes, thank you,” the wife said.

The Waitress poured the young woman’s coffee. The young man lit up another cigarette and asked, “Who are you supposed to be?”

“I’m Minute Maid,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve heard of her,” he said, taking another drag off his cigarette.

“There’s not. The restaurant made her up.

“Why not just be Wonder Woman?”

“I think they were afraid she might sue,” the waitress answered disinterestedly.

“Doesn’t sound like something Wonder Woman would do,” he said.

“Well, she did sue those two porno guys back in the 70s,” his wife said as she raked a forkful of her crime buster blintz into her mouth.

“It’s just that with a name like Minute Maid, you sound like you should be serving orange juice instead of coffee,” he grinned. He paused waiting for her to laugh at his joke.

Instead, she looked at him for a second then said, “You want orange juice?”

“naw… naw, I don’t want orange juice,” he sighed. The Waitress left and the young man took a drag off of his cigarette.

His wife laughed as she poured a ton of cream and sugar into her coffee, changing it from an inky black to sickeningly sweet beige. “I don’t think she likes you.”

“That’s good, because I don’t think I’ll be leaving her a tip.” The young man went back into his earlier tirade. “Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah…. the way it is now, you’re taking the same risk as when you rob a bank. You take more of a risk. Banks were always easier! Federal banks weren’t supposed to stop you anyway, during a robbery. They’re insured, why should they care? You don’t even need a gun in a federal bank. I heard about this guy, walked into a federal bank with a portable phone, handed the phone to the teller, the guy on the other end of the phone claims he was the Riddler and said ‘We got this guy’s little girl, and if you don’t give him all your money, we’re going to kill ‘er.”

“Did it work?” she asked, amazed.

Well, hell yeah it worked, that’s what I’m talking about! Guy walks in a bank with a telephone, not a pistol, not a bag of expensive tricks and a tacky costume, but a freaking phone and he cleans the place out without lifting a finger.”

“Did the Riddler hurt the little girl?

“I think you’re missing the point. It wasn’t the Riddler and there never was a little girl. The point of the story is they robbed the bank with a telephone.”

“Oh…. You wanna rob banks again?” his wife asked.

“I’m not saying’ I want to rob banks again. I’m just illustrating that if we did, it would be easier than what we’ve been doing.

“So you don’t want to be a bank robber?” she asked, confused

“Naw, all those guys are going down the same road, either dead or serving twenty. Look at how many of those old super-crooks from your pop’s time never made it out of sling.”

“Yeah,” she mused before immediately getting back to her previous train of thought. “And no more liquor stores?

“What have we been talking about? Yeah, no-more-liquor-stores? Besides, it’s not the giggle it used to be. Too many foreigners own liquor stores. They can’t speak English. You tell ‘em, ‘Empty out the register,’ and they don’t know what it means. They make it too personal. We keep on, one of those freaks are going to make us kill ‘em.”

“I’m not gonna kill anybody,” she said, shaking her head.

“I don’t want to kill anybody either. But they’ll probably put us in a situation where it’s us of them. And if it’s not the foreigners, it these old guys who’ve owned the store for fifteen generations. Ya got Old Man River sitting behind the counter with a Magnum. Try walking into one of those stores with nothing but a telephone, see how far it gets you.”

“Well, you ain’t exactly a spring chicken yourself,” she teased, “You’re just looking like it these days. Besides, what else is there? Day jobs?

“Not this life,” he laughed.

“Well what then?” she asks.

“Garcon! Coffee!” he called to the Waitress. Then looked to his girl.

“This place.”

The Waitress came by and poured him some more coffee. “Garcon means boy,” she said, leaving quickly.

“Here?” his wife said, confused. “It’s a coffee shop.”

“What’s wrong with that? People never rob restaurants, why not? Bars, liquor stores, gas stations, you get your head blown off sticking up one of them. Restaurants, on the other hand, you catch with their pants down. They’re not expecting to get robbed, or not as expecting.

“I bet there isn’t hero one in here. Even if they are dressed the part,” she said, looking around.

“Correct. Just like banks, these places are insured. That fat manager over there in the bad Green Lantern knock-off doesn’t care, he’s just trying to get you out the door before you start plugging the customers. Waitresses, forget it, they aren’t taking a bullet for the register. Busboys getting paid a dollar fifty an hour’s not going to really give a damn if you’re stealing from the owner. Customers are sitting there with food in their mouths,… they don’t know what’s going on. One minute they’re chowing down on a Dynamic Denver Omlette, next minute somebody’s sticking a gun in their face.

The young woman visibly took in the idea. The young man continued in a low voice. “See, I got the idea last liquor store we stuck up. Remember all those customers who kept coming in?

“Yeah.”

“Then you got the idea to take everybody’s wallet.”

“Uh-huh,” she nodded.

“That was a good idea.”

“Thank you,” she beamed.

“We made more from the wallets than we did the register.”

“Yes we did,” she nodded.

A lot of people go to restaurants. That means a lot of wallets.

The young woman scanned the restaurant with this new information. She watched all the patrons eating, lost in conversations: The tired waiters and waitresses, in their designer imposter super-hero costumes, taking orders and trying not to die of embarrassment. The bus boys, dressed like sidekicks, going through the motions, collecting dishes. The manager, with his fake power ring and bad comb-over, complaining about something to a cook dressed like a mad scientist. A smile broke out on Jewelee’s face.

“Pretty smart,” she said excitedly. “I’m ready. Let’s go. Right here. Right now.”

“Remember, same as before,” Punch said. “You’re crowd control. I handle the employees.

“Got it.”

They both pulled on their masks and slid off their trench coats. He looks at her and she back at him. . “Well,… it’s showtime!” And with that, Punch and Jewelee grabbed their weapons, jumped up onto the table, and proceeded to rob the restaurant.

“I love you, Pumpkin,” Jewelee said.

“I love you, Honey Bunny,” Punch said

“Everybody be cool this is a robbery! We don’t want any funny business!”

“Except from us, that is!”

Floyd looked up, not believing what he was seeing. Under the table, his hand went to his .45 Automatic. He pulled it out, cocking it.

“Customers stay seated, waitresses on the floor,” Punch said.

“Now means now! Do it or Die you hear me?!” Jewelee shouted.

Like lightning, Punch moved over to the kitchen. While Jewelee screamed out threats to the patrons, keeping them terrified.

“You in the kitchen, get out here!” Punch ordered. Three cooks and two busboys came out of the kitchen. “On the floor, comprende?

The portly manager in the bad Green Lantern knock-off spoke up. “I’m the manager here, there’s no problem, no problem at all…”

Punch quickly moved to his side. “You’re going to give me a problem?” He reached around him and stuck the barrel of his gun hard in the Manager’s neck. “What? You said you’re going to give me a problem? That outfit makes you think you’re a real super hero?”

“No, I’m not. I’m not going to give you any problem!” the manager exclaimed.

“I don’t know, Honey Bunny. He sure looks like the hero type to me!” Punch said.

“Don’t take any chances. Execute him!” Jewelee said animatedly.

The Patrons screamed. Deadshot watched all this silently, his hand tightly gripping the .45 Automatic under the table.

“Please don’t!” the manager pleaded. “I’m not a super hero. I’m just a coffee shop manager. Take anything you want.”

“Tell everyone to cooperate and it’ll be all over,” Punch said.

“Everybody just be calm and cooperate with them and this will be all over soon!” the manager repeated in a choked vice.

“Well done, now get your butt on the ground with everyone else,” Punch said.

Inside the restroom, Franko sat reading a copy of “The Golden Age” by Jonathan Law on the toilet that someone had left behind, oblivious to the pandemonium outside. “Quitting,” he grumbled to himself. “Who am I kidding? Like I could say ‘I quit’ to Harley.”

The cash register drawer flew opens and Punch stuffed the money from the till in a large polka dotted bag. He then walked from behind the counter with the bag in his hand and said, “OK, people, I’m going to go around and collect your wallets. Don’t talk. Just toss ‘em in the bag. We clear?

Punch went around collecting wallets. Floyd sat with his .45 ready to spit under the table.

Punch saw Floyd sitting in his booth, holding his wallet, briefcase next to him. Punch crossed to him. When he saw the look in his eye, his tone became more respectful, him manner more on guard. “In the bag.”

Floyd dropped his wallet in the bag. He eyed Punch up and down and said, “Circus in town?”

“Hah hah. I make the jokes here, old man.” Using his gun as a pointer, Punch pointed to the briefcase. “What’s in that?”

“My boss’ dirty laundry,” Floyd said.

“You boss makes you do his laundry?” Punch asked

“When he wants it clean,” Floyd answered.

“Sounds like a pretty crummy job,” Punch said.

“Funny, I’ve been thinkin’ the same thing,” Floyd said.

“Open it up.”

Deadshot’s free hand lays palm flat on the briefcase. “Afraid I can’t do that.

Punch was definitely surprised by his answer. He aimed the gun right in the middle of Floyd’s face and pulled back the hammer. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes, you did,” Deadshot said icily.

This exchange had been kind of quiet, so not everybody in the restaurant heard it, but Honey Bunny sensed something was wrong.

“What’s goin’ on, sugar pie?” Jewelee said.

“Looks like we got a super hero in our midst after all,” Punch said.

“Shoot him in the face!” Jewelee exclaimed.

“I don’t mean to shatter your ego, but this ain’t the first time I’ve had gun pointed at me,” Deadshot said.

“You don’t open up that case, it’s going to be the last,” Punch threatened.

“Quit causing problems,” the manager barked. “You’ll get us all killed! Give ‘em what you got and get ‘em out of here.

“Keep your damn mouth closed, fat man,” Deadshot growled. “This ain’t any of your goddamn business!”

“I counting to three, and if your hand isn’t off that case, I’m going to unload right in your freaking face. Clear?” Punch threatened. “One…

Deadshot closed his eyes.

“…Two…”

Floyd shot Punch twice, up through the table, sending him to the floor. While still in the booth, he swung around to Jewelee, who had aimed at Franko, but was slowed down by the shock of Punch getting shot. Floyd fired three times. Jewelee took all three hits in the chest. As she fell screaming, she fired wildly, hitting a punkish looking patron.

“She shot me! I’m dying! Sally! Sally!” the patron screamed.

Floyd now brought the gun down to Punch’s face. Punch lay shot on the floor at Floyd’s feet. Punch looked up at the big gun.

“You picked the wrong guy, choochi,” he said as he pulled the trigger and fired.

Deadshot’s eyes, still closed, suddenly open. Punch still stood, holding the gun on him. “…Three.”

“You win,” Floyd sighed, raising his hand off the briefcase. “It’s all yours, choochi.

“Open it.”

Floyd flipped the locks and opened the case, revealing it to Pumpkin but not to us. A crimson light shined from the case. Punch’s expression went from fierce to amazement.

“What is it? What is it?” Jewelee squealed from across the room.

“Is that what I think it is?” Punch said in amazement.

Deadshot nodded his head: “yes.”

“It’s beautiful,” punch said, mesmerized.

Floyd nodded his head: “yes.”

“Somebody tell me what it is!” Jewelee exclaimed, pouting and stomping her foot.

Floyd slammed the case closed, then sat back, as if offering the case to Punch. Punch, one big smile, bent over to pick up the case.

Like a rattlesnake, Deadshot’s free hand grabbed the wrist of Punch’s gun hand, slamming it on the table. His other hand came from under the table and stuck the barrel of his .45 hand under Punch’s chin.

Jewelee freaked out, waving her gun in Deadshot’s direction. “Let him go! Let him go! I’ll blow your head off! I’ll kill ya! I’ll kill ya! You’re gonna die, you’re gonna die bad!”

“Tell that bitch to be cool!” Deadshot growled. “Say, ‘bitch be cool!’ Say, ‘bitch be cool!’”

“Chill out, honey!” Punch said.

“Let him go!” Jewelee shouted.

“Tell her it’s gonna be OK,” Deadshot said softly.

“I’m going to be OK,” Punch said.

“Promise her,” Deadshot said.

“I promise,” Punch gulped.

“Tell her to chill.”

“Just chill out.”

“What’s her name?” Floyd asked.

Punch gave an almost hurt expression that their ‘fame’ hadn’t preceded them and sighed, “Jewelee. She’s called Jewelee.”

“So, we cool Jewelee?” Deadshot said, keeping his eyes on Punch. “We ain’t gonna do anything stupid, are we?”

“Don’t you hurt him,” Jewelee said, crying.

“Nobody’s going to hurt anybody,” Floyd said. “We’re gonna be like three Fonzies. And what’ Fonzie like?” There was no answer. “C’mon Jewelee, what’s Fonzie like?”

“He’s cool?” she said through tears.

“Correct-amundo! And that’s what we’re gonna be, we’re gonna be cool.” Floyd turned to Punch and said, “Now choochi, I’m gonna count to three and I want you to let go your gun and lay your palms flat on the table. But when you do it, do it cool. Ready?”

Punch looked at him.

“One…two…three.

Punch let go of his gun and places both hands on the table.

“OK, now let him go!” Jewelee insisted anxiously.

“Jewelee, I thought you were gonna be cool. When you yell at me, it makes me nervous. When I get nervous, I get scared. And when guys like me get scared, that’s when guys like him get accidentally shot.

“Just know: you hurt him, you die,” Jewelee said more conversationally.

“That seems to be the situation,” Deadshot said. “Now I don’t want that and you don’t want that and choochi here don’t want that. So let’s see what we can do.” He concentrated on Punch and said, “Now this is the situation. Normally both of you would be dead as the “Fantastic Fried Chicken”. But you happened to pull this $#!^ while I’m in a transitional period. I don’t want to kill you. I want to help you. But I’m afraid I can’t give you the case. It doesn’t belong to me. Besides, I went through too much this morning on account of this case to just hand it over to your ass.

“What the #$%%’s goin’ on here?” a voice suddenly called out. Jewelee whipped her gun toward the stranger. Franko, by the bathroom, had his gun out, dead-aimed at Jewelee.

“It’s cool, Franko! It’s cool! Don’t do a damn thing. Jewelee, it’s cool baby. Nothing’s changed. We’re still just talking.” He turned to Punch. “Tell her we’re still cool.”

“It’s cool, Honey Bunny, we’re still cool,” Punch said, sweating.

“What the hell’s goin’ on, Floyd?” Franko growled, gun raised.

“Nothin’ I can’t handle. I want you to just hang back and don’t do nothin’ unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Check,” Franko said, looking as if he were ready to plug Jewelee at any second.

“Jewelee, how we doing, baby?” Floyd said.

“I gotta go pee! I want to go home,” she whined.

“Just hang in there, baby, you’re doing’ great. Choochi’s proud of you and so am I. It’s almost over.” He gestured with his gun at Punch and said, “Now I want you to go in that bag and find my wallet.”

“Which one is it?” Punch asked.

“It’s the one with the bullseye engraved on it.”

Punch looks in the bag and — sure enough – there was a leather wallet with a bullseye engraved in it.

“Bullseye! Now open it up and take out the cash. How much is there?

“About fifteen hundred dollars.

“Put it in your pocket, it’s yours. Now with the rest of them wallets and the register, that makes this a pretty successful little score.

“Floyd, if you give this nimrod fifteen hundred bucks, I’m gonna shoot ‘em on general principle,” Franko said.

“You ain’t gonna do a goddamn thing,” Deadshot said. “Now hang back and shut the hell up. Besides, I ain’t giving it to him. I’m buying something for my money. Want to know what I’m buying choochi?

“What?” Punch said.

“Your life. I’m giving you that money so we don’t have to kill your ass.”

“And don’t think I don’t appreciate it,” Punch laughed nervously.

“You might think I never heard of you because you’re small time. That ain’t the case. When you said your names I remembered right away who you were,” Floyd said. Punch seemed to brighten a little. “I also know what you used to be.”

Punch’s grin began to fade as quickly as it had appeared. “You heard that too, huh?”

“You threw it all away on a dame,” Floyd said. “Oldest story in the book.”

“I don’t regret it,” Punch said. “We’ve been happy together.”

“You might not regret her, but you’ve got regrets, I can look right at you and tell,” Floyd said. “When I say I’m buying your life, I mean I’m giving you a second chance. Take the money. Go far away. Get a new start and leave all this behind.” Floyd lowered his gun, laying it on the table.

Punch looks at him, to the money in his hand, then to Jewelee. She looks back. Grabbing the trash bag full of wallets, the two ran out the door.

Floyd, who had never risen from his seat the whole time, took a sip of coffee. He looked at it disgustedly. “It’s cold. He pushed it aside.

Franko slid into the booth across from Floyd. “I think you oughtta take your own medicine.”

“What’s that?” Floyd said, pulling out his tobacco pouch to roll himself a cigarette.

“There’s not that much difference between you and that guy,” Franko said. “You were right about me. I’m too far in to give it up, but you’ve been walking the straight and narrow for years now.”

“And what am I suppose to do once I’ve gone straight again? Grow old gracefully?” Floyd snorted.

“A guy with your talents can find ways to make money to pay for his fountain of youth without working for crooks. Even if you didn’t, at least you’d get to grow old. You know I was supposed to kill you, don’t you?”

“I kind of figured,” Floyd said, lighting his cigarette.

“But I ain’t going to,” Franko said. “After all the stuff that’s happened to the two of us since we hooked up, I figure we were both supposed to carry on for a while longer. And who am I to argue with the guy upstairs on that.”

“But you’re gonna keep on doing what you do?” Floyd said.

“I am what I am,” Franko said holding up his hands. “I am what I am. Who knows? Maybe there’s an ultimate purpose for me being where I am. Can’t change fate.”

“Can’t argue with logic like that,” Floyd said.

“Anyway, we’d better get out of here,” Franko said.

Floyd threw some money on the table and Franko grabbed the briefcase. Then, to the amazement of the patrons, the costumed waitresses, the cooks, the bus boys, and the manager, the two grizzly old gangsters walked out of the coffee shop together without saying a word.

 

The End