The Laughing Man, Book Two: Goner

Chapter One

The forecast called for a moonless night in Gotham. Business was rarely done at night anymore but when it was, the looming darkness that encapsulated the city was the perfect cover. However, the snow had just started to fall, blanketing the streets in white and creating a strange pink glow in the sky. As the glimmering flakes fell to the ground, they reflected against the unending lights in the city, turning the night to a stunning, perpetual dusk. Harley Quinn looked up to feel the cold snowflakes drop on her bare cheeks, sticking out her tongue to capture a snowflake with a smile.

"Isn't Gotham beautiful when it snows?" She said to the empty street, shrugging when she received no reply.

Turning her face back to the entrance of the building and rapping loudly on the door, Harley tipped her head upwards, idly wondering how best to set the structure on fire. She pushed back the thought, knowing Mr. J wouldn't approve of it. It was the first time he'd sent her on a solo mission, and this deal was too important to cancel on account of arson, but she imagined the flame would have been stunning, licking up the side of the building. She could see herself dancing through the fiery ashes of the building, feeling the heat against her skin as embers collapsed and burned. A laugh bubbled up from her as she shook her head. No, Mr. J wouldn't approve at all.

Unlike her boss, her lover, she didn't feel the need to dress in uniform every time she went out, not that she was allowed out often. Harley Quinn didn't need an iconic image to intimidate. Despite her public persona of extreme violence and destruction, amongst the criminal circles, she was just another piece of ass, a woman to be used and eventually discarded. It was one of her best qualities, Mr. J had said, to be both dangerous and underestimated. Tonight would be no different. Her clothing was basic black, concealing the repugnance of her battered and scarred body from prying eyes. An ankle-length trench coat covered her tight-fitted clothing, turtleneck, pants, gloves and her long bleach blond locks were pulled into a ponytail that sat loosely at the nape of her neck. Harmless to the casual eye.

The door opened and a balding man poked his head out, "You Harley Quinn?"

"No, I'm your mom," she retorted, snidely, shifting a heavy briefcase from hand to the other. "Now let me in. It's fucking cold out here."

Baldy stepped aside, waving a hand to the interior in permission. She had no doubt he was checking her out as she passed, her hips swaying sensually with each step. Just another piece of ass, she reminded herself. No danger here. Another out of the blue laugh escaped her lips, making the doorman pause to stare at her. The look on his face saying that he wondered about her sanity. She could prove him right by gouging out his eyes but she refrained for the time being, remembering Mr. J's warnings as she left. Harley did not want to go through his punishments again. The moron didn't know how lucky he was.

The entrance led to a good sized warehouse floor, large painted pillars floating upwards to connect with the metal girders at the roof. Brightly lit, fluorescents hanging from the rafters. A large 18-wheeler truck cab was in the corner near a loading dock, dry. No snow. It had been here awhile. Pallets of what she was assumed were auto parts or truck parts had been lined up in a pattern around the room, some labeled with names of people, likely workers unassociated with the gentlemen she was here to meet.

Four men stood by a large desk towards the back, talking amongst themselves, only looking up when her boot made a squeaking noise against the floor, tiny amounts of water dripping from the soles, melted snow. Baldy was right behind her, she noticed when her head turned. That made five. Her eyes cautiously looked around for any sounds or signs that anyone else was present but nothing caught her eye, so she leveled her eyes on the men in front of her.

It was obvious who was in charge of the group when he looked her over, as if appraising her value. "Ah, Harley Quinn, welcome," he said, with the hint of an Italian accent. His dark hair was greased back and he had the olive complexion of someone of true Italian descent. An air of cologne came off him, musky and foul to her nose. He was stocky, some added girth around his waist, a glimpse of an expensive watch glinting from under the cuff of his expensive three-piece suit. It was clearly handmade just for him as it looked fantastic on his frame. The man had style, she had to give him that.