Fascinating Villains

{13} - Routine

I wish Ousmane a pleasant night, as I prepare to leave. I read the time on my watch: 11h54. I was the last one in the park, since the establishment closes at midnight.

The man circles his front desk, calling out, "Tanza?"

"I'm leaving, don't worry!"

I smile, but he adds: "Are you takin' the subway or your car?"

Hesitantly, I still reply, "The subway. I should get going."

"At this hour, really?!" he gawks at me, seemingly worried.

"Better than being out in the streets."

I instinctively stop in front of the doors, suspecting he will not let me go.

"Let me give you a ride. The boss is closing tonight."

"No, it's really not necessary. I like taking the subway."

"You do? No one likes the Gotham City subway, not even the rats that live there! I'd feel bad to let you walk away when it's late."

His grin is earnest, however I do not make a habit of accepting lifts from strangers. I politely decline, again, even if I agree that the subway is not significantly safer - or cleaner - than the streets.

"You shouldn't go out of your way to do this, I didn't bring my car, it's my problem. Have a nice night, again, okay?"

Before I can fully step back, the employee attempts, "I'll drive with the windows open?"

I half-sigh, half-chuckle.

"Alright, Ousmane. Thank you."

My driver memorized my address from my file in the 'Rampes n' Roll''s database. Fortunately, as established by my lack of automobile, I do not live far away. I inattentively listen to the low and crackling music that escapes his radio, looking out the rolled down passenger window.

"My father never would have forgiven me if I let our number one customer get jumped," jokes Ousmane.

"When you're closed, he's your father again?" I laugh shortly, and he joins me.

"Yes, yes. All jokes aside, you know this already, me and him are very close. Same thing with my brothers."

A blood-curling shriek prevents me from coming up with an answer. The voice of a woman screams two other times, in a row.

In my opinion, if you're in Gotham City, you have just as many chances to get shot inside of a car than by simply riding on the subway. It's just another of the city's many charms.

The words leave my mouth of their own volition: "We have to stop."

"Are you crazy? We can't do anything about that." For once, his voice isn't booming and pleasant, rather thin and shame leaks from it.

"I'm calling the cops, then."

I produce my cellphone from my sports bag, dialing the Gotham City Police Department.

"If it makes you feel better," he comments, unusually dryly.

I listen to the subtle ringing, awaiting someone to pick up. The line abruptly shuts down, so I try again, as Ousmane slows down his car and parks in front of my apartment building. After five rings, a croaking bark emanates from my phone:

"Ya?"

"Uh, is this the Gotham City Pol..."

The old-sounding man on the other end of the line cuts me off. "Yeah, yeah."

"Hi. I heard screams at the corner of Hudson Avenue and 20th Street, a woman is in danger there."

I wait for a second, hearing him merely breathe loudly into the receiver.