DC Comics novels--Harley Quinn

by Paul Dini

  “That’s not true!” she snapped.

  “Oh, please,” Batman said. “The moment you set foot in Arkham, the Joker had you pegged as hired help.”

  “No!” she yelled. “You’re a big fat liar. He told me things about himself—secret things, things he never told anyone else!”

  “Like what?” Batman gave a short laugh. “His abusive father or his alcoholic mom? Or was it the runaway orphan routine—that’s a tearjerker, very moving. He’s gets a lot of sympathy with that one.”

  “Stop it!” Harley started to cry. “You’re making me confused!”

  “I’m trying to remember what he told that one parole officer years ago—oh, yeah. ‘There was only one time I ever saw Dad really happy. He took me to the ice show when I was seven—’”

  Tears ran down Harley Quinn’s cheeks, leaving flesh-colored trails in the clown white. “He said it was the circus,” she said in a small voice.

  “Circus, ice show, carnival, puppet show—he’s got a million of them, Harley,” Batman said. “And like any other comedian, he tailors the material to his audience—he reads the room and goes with whatever he thinks will work best.”

  “No!” Harley screamed at him. “You’re wrong! My puddin’ loves me. He loves me!You’re the problem! Always tryin’ to come between us. We could be happy if it weren’t for you! But now you’re gonna die and we’ll live happily ever after!”

  “Oh, sure,” Batman said. “Except he’ll never believe you did it.”

  “He will so!” Harley Quinn squeaked with outrage. “I’m gettin’ it on video!” She pointed at the video-camera set up on a tripod a few feet away.

  “It’s easy to fake a video these days—even a baby could do it,” said Batman. “Think, Harley. How will the Joker know you really killed me? There won’t be any hard evidence—the only things these fish’ll leave are some scraps of cloth and a few bone shards. Those could have come from anything. Well, okay, you do have my belt—but that’s not the same as my body. Sorry, but you’ll never prove you killed me—not to him.”

  “We’ll just see about that!” Harley Quinn told him and pulled out a cell phone. “I’ll show you.”

  * * *

  Nothing on his desk looked good to him, and it was making the Joker question himself in a profound way. What if this were more than a creative dry spell—what if he’d really lost it?

  Since his escape from Arkham, he should have been wreaking high-powered, big-league havoc on Gotham City, the kind that made all good citizens quake in their shoes and hide under their beds, freaking out over what might happen next. But he couldn’t come up with a single new earth-shaking idea. And when he looked to his old ideas for inspiration, he saw nothing of his comic genius. It all looked lame and boring, clichéd. There was nothing that hadn’t already been done. None of it was funny, it was all just crap that was too silly, too “Riddler”—that hack—or just plain unworthy of him.

  How could this be? He used to dream up comic gems with every other breath. Being on the lam had never interfered with his creative process and this wasn’t the first time he’d escaped—

  Only he hadn’t, he realized suddenly. He hadn’t escaped from Arkham; Harley Quinn had broken him out. No wonder things were all wrong—she’d taken his mojo! He was supposed to call the shots but she’d turned him into her second banana.

  Harley Quinn definitely had to go.

  The phone rang, shattering his focus. He hated cell phones with a passion but Harley insisted they have them—another example of how she was calling the shots! He’d get rid of her and the phone, too. Just as soon as he found wherever it was hiding under the papers on his desk. When he finally got his hands on it, he was surprised to see what appeared on the screen.

  HARLEY

  Why would she call him when she was here? Or she was supposed to be—

  “Harley, where the heck are you?” he asked impatiently.

  Seconds later he was running for the car. He had a vague memory of Harley saying they couldn’t use that car anymore because the cops had a BOLO on it. But she didn’t tell him what to do anymore.

  He could just imagine what the rest of the criminal world would say if this got out, the Joker thought as he roared through the empty nighttime streets. The Penguin: There goes the Joker—you know, the guy whose girlfriend killed Batman! And Two-Face: I never thought he was that funny to begin with. Worst of all, the Riddler would rub it in every time they met: Well, hello, uh—what’s your name again? Oh, right—Mr. Harley Quinn!

  That hack.

  * * *

  “Now you’ll see, Mr. Smarty-Bat,” Harley said gleefully. “When I told Mr. J what I was doing, he was so thrilled, he couldn’t even speak! He’s on his way over right now to watch me feed you to the fish. And then—” She gave a long, happy sigh as her mind filled with joyful images of their happy-ever-after: wedding, explosions, children, holidays, more explosions, and then their golden years, when they would still be madly in love.

  “HAAAAAAARRRRRRRLLLLLLEEEEEEEY!”

  She jumped up from where she’d been sitting in front of the piranha tank on the bar and ran toward the Joker with open arms. “Puddin’! You’re just in time to see—”

  Everything disappeared in a blast of blinding pain, as if a flash-bang had hit her in the face. It hurt so much she was barely aware of hitting the floor.

  After a moment, she sat up, holding the side of her face, which was now throbbing. Had Batman gotten loose and hit her? No, he was still hanging over the fish tank.

  “Hello, Batman,” the Joker said conversationally.

  “Evening,” said Batman, as if he weren’t about to die the Death of a Hundred Smiles.

  “’Scuse me,” the Joker told him. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  “Take your time. No hurry,” Batman replied. “I’ll wait here.”

  Harley watched in disbelief as the Joker stalked toward her in a full-on fury. She had run to hug him and he had backhanded her, she realized. Why would he do that? Tears welled up in her eyes.

  “I don’t understand, puddin’,” she said. “Don’t you wanna finally get rid of Batman?”

  “Only if I do it, you idiot!” the Joker roared at her. “Batman is mine! You have no right to come between us!”

  Harley had stashed the blueprints of the plan up her sleeve; she was shaking as she took it out and unrolled it. “B-b-but it’s still y-y-your p-p-p-plan. Everything’s j-j-just like y-you want!” The Joker snatched the paper away from her. “A-all I d-did was hang B-b-batman upside down so he’d see their little p-p-p-piranha frowns as little smiles! Now it works how it’s supposed to—”

  The Joker tore the plan to shreds in a frenzy, then jumped up and down on the pieces. “You had to explain it!” he railed at her. “If you have to explain the joke, There! Is! No! Joke!”

  Harley scrambled backward as the Joker came at her. Veins were popping out in his neck, his forehead, everywhere.

  “My jokes are elegant in their simplicity!” the Joker bellowed, reaching for her with his fingers bent like claws, like he was going to rip her to pieces, too. “You see them, you get them, you laugh—End! Of! Joke!”

  Harley spotted a swordfish hanging on the nearest wall. She pulled it down and held it in front of herself.

  The Joker ignored it. “You should’ve remembered what I told you a long time ago,” he raged. “One of the few real truths of comedy!”

  “N-n-now, c-c-calm down, p-puddin’.” She raised the swordfish in defense.

  Instead of flinching, the Joker tore it out of her hands by the sword part and walloped her with the fish body. “You always take shots from people who just don’t get the joke!”

  Harley put her arms up to deflect the blows and staggered backward into a giant floor-to-ceiling window. Most windows in commercial buildings weren’t easily broken; she fully expected to bounce off it. Then the Joker would probably skewer her with her own swordfish. God, she hated fish.

  Unfortunately, th
is particular window shattered on impact. Harley found herself sailing out into the night before she could think to scream.

  * * *

  The Joker grinned. Here he’d just been thinking Harley had to go and—voila!—she was gone. Sometimes things just worked themselves out.

  He tossed the swordfish out the broken window after her. “And don’t call me puddin’,” he added, observing another cardinal rule of comedy: always get the last word.

  * * *

  “I have to apologize for the kid,” the Joker was saying as he lowered Batman to the bar in front of the fish tank. Batman could see it was a real struggle for him. He’d been locked up in Arkham for so long, he was badly out of shape. He wasn’t getting any younger, either.

  “She’s like a lot of young people these days,” the Joker went on. “No style, no sense of propriety. Tell you what, Batsie—let’s just pretend tonight never happened. Sound good to you?”

  “Sounds great,” said Batman. The Joker finally managed to lay him out on the bar. Distant noises coming from outside indicated the cops had arrived. The Joker didn’t seem to hear them; apparently he was also getting a little deaf in his old age. That was the downside of being a criminal: no health insurance, worker’s comp, or retirement plan. Criminals never thought about that sort of thing. But then, as Alfred had noted, no sensible person was wanted in two dozen states.

  “Okay, we’re done here! See ya!” The Joker patted Batman’s cheek affectionately and headed for the exit.

  Batman had just managed to slide off the bar into a standing position when the Joker suddenly stopped and turned back to him, a nasty smile spreading slowly across his face. “On the other hand, this is a rather rare opportunity,” he said, coming back toward him. “How does that old saying go—a bat in the hand is worth two in the belfry?”

  The Joker pushed Batman down on the bar, bending him backward so his feet dangled inches above the floor. “Whaddaya know, Batsie!” Laughing maniacally, he whipped out a handgun and pressed the muzzle against the part of the cowl covering his nose. “Looks like you’re going out on a laugh after all!”

  Batman brought his legs up in a sudden sharp motion just as the Joker pulled the trigger. The shot missed Batman completely and hit the fish tank. The world’s most dangerous waterfall cascaded down on both of them.

  Free of the Joker, Batman made it to the nearby table where Harley had tossed his utility belt. He could hear the Joker cursing furiously as he slipped and fell amid the piranhas flapping around on the floor. Piranhas weren’t quite as scary out of water but apparently some of them were determined to get a few last bites before their demise.

  “Very funny, Batm—ow! OW!” The Joker tried to shake off a couple of piranhas that had clamped themselves onto his fingers. “Ow! Real friggin’ funny, Batman. You must think you’re a comedian—ow, ow ow!”

  Batman freed himself from his last chain just as the Joker got to his feet and ran for the exit; Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock were already there to meet him.

  The Joker reached into his jacket. “Look out!” Bullock yelled. “He’s going for his—fish?”

  There was a piranha in the Joker’s hand instead of a pistol. He slapped Bullock with it and ran.

  * * *

  Knowing that cops were coming up the stairs and more cops had the building surrounded would have convinced most criminals to give up. The Joker took the stairs two at a time to the roof.

  Batman burst through the access door to see him poised on the brick ledge, looking a bit like a diver on the high board. There was a storage building across the way and the distance was plainly impossible even for someone in top condition, but the Joker was going to try anyway. Batman took a step toward him and started to say it was suicide when he sprang off the ledge, his arms windmilling and his legs pedaling air.

  Batman rushed to the ledge and was astonished to see the Joker hadn’t missed by much—he was hanging from an iron railing on the edge of the storage building roof. Before he could even try to pull himself up, however, the railing broke off under his weight.

  Laughing exuberantly, the Joker landed on the roof of a passing elevated train. “Made you look!” he jeered as it carried him away. Batman paid no attention; he was already heading for another part of the roof. He knew this section of track much better than the Joker did.

  * * *

  The Joker was obviously having the time of his life. He put his thumbs in his ears and waggled his fingers, blew raspberries, thumbed his nose, and blew more raspberries. When he finally began to wind down, Batman spoke up from his position behind him: “She almost had me, you know,” he said.

  A mix of disbelief and fury twisted the Joker’s features as he whirled to look at Batman.

  “My arms and legs were chained,” Batman went on conversationally, or as much as it was possible atop a moving train. “My belt was gone. I was dizzy from the blood rushing to my head—I was pretty helpless. I had no way out other than convincing her to call you.”

  The Joker swayed but kept his balance. All he needed was a little push.

  “Your massive ego would never allow anyone else to have the ‘honor’ of killing me,” said Batman, making air quotes. “Though I have to admit, she came a lot closer than you ever did.” Pause. “Puddin’.”

  He practically saw the Joker’s mind explode, vaporizing the last remnants of sanity. His wide, bloodshot eyes were wild as he leaped for Batman and closed his fists around his neck. Batman clapped both hands over the Joker’s ears and the Joker threw an elbow at his face.

  Batman let the momentum of the blow take him backward only far enough to give him room for a savate kick to the Joker’s face. The Joker was so crazed now, he didn’t seem to feel it. He threw several wild punches that Batman evaded easily, before he suddenly produced a knife.

  Some idiot always brings a knife to a fistfight, Batman thought and slammed the Joker’s wrist down on his knee. His fingers opened and the Joker tried to grab the knife with his other hand. It was a stupid move, and his last one of the night. Thrown off-balance, the Joker pitched over the side.

  “Noooooooooo!” he screamed. “Noooottttt aaaagggaaaaiiinnnnn!”

  He disappeared into thick clouds of black smoke from a factory chimney.

  A few seconds later, Batman jumped to a different train going the other way. As he passed the factory again, he saw no sign of a body.

  “…and although his body has not yet been found, in the chimney or anywhere else in or near the factory, it seems unlikely that Gotham’s Clown Prince of Crime could have survived his latest brush with Batman.”

  Harley sat in the wheelchair, watching the flat-screen TV in Arkham’s remodeled admissions waiting room through a fog of pain medication and regret. She’d never had so much of either.

  The policewoman who had found her lying in a pile of trash seven stories below Aquacade had been so gentle, telling her not to move, help was on the way, and everything was going to be all right. Her soft voice had brought tears to Harley’s eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had treated her with such kindness.

  Harley never got her name, never even saw her face clearly. She’d tried to explain it was her own fault for not getting the joke. But the woman told her not to worry about anything, they were going to help her.

  “Still, the Joker has been known for resurfacing when least expected,” the TV went on. “Time will tell.”

  Time will tell. One of those all-occasion clichés people used to sound like they were saying something while saying nothing. Time will tell. Harley closed her eyes.

  How long had she been waiting for an orderly to take her to her room? Time would tell. And there weren’t any rooms in Arkham, only cells. The people in them were called patients instead of prisoners. But they knew where they were, and what they were. They were crazy, not stupid.

  How long would she occupy a cell here? Time would tell.

  And vice versa, Harley thought. She could tell time, and the current t
ime was Never Again.

  No more obsession, no more craziness, no more Joker; Never Again. She could finally see that freakin’ slime ball for what he was. It had taken a seven-story fall to knock some sense into her, but all her broken bones would heal and all her bruises would fade; that had been Better-Late-Than-Never O’Clock. Followed by Never Again.

  The orderly finally arrived to wheel her to her cell and she opened her eyes. She didn’t recognize him, which was a relief. Finally she saw the upside of the higher-than-average turnover among the orderlies. He was gentle as he helped her from the chair into the bed, and made sure she was comfortable.

  I’ll serve my time peacefully, she thought as he poured her a glass of water and put it on her tray table. I’ll heal myself and I’ll get out of here to begin a new life, a better life. I will. I will.

  He left without closing her door. Harley wondered if he was coming back. Then Joan Leland appeared in the doorway.

  “I really hope you’ve learned a lesson from all this,” Dr. Leland said.

  Where was a nice policewoman when you really needed one, Harley thought, her misery deepening.

  “To think you were once so strong, so sure of yourself.” Dr. Leland’s expression was stern, and Harley supposed she couldn’t blame her. She wanted to tell Dr. Leland that she knew what time it was—Never Again—but she was pretty sure the woman was too busy telling her off to appreciate her insights.

  “Tell me,” Dr. Leland went on, “how does it feel to have been so dependent on a man that you gave up everything for him and got nothing in return?”

  She turned her face away so she wouldn’t have to see her ex-boss scowling while she waited for Harley to admit she’d been so wrong and Dr. Leland was always right about everything. “It felt like—” she began.

  And then she saw it, on the nightstand beside the bed: a single, perfect red rose in an elegant bud vase, with a note: