All That Jazz

The alley was dark, polluted with the smell of mold and rotting garbage. Out in the street, three of the men waited for me to let them and The Joker inside the building. Their figures were solid black against the backdrop of street lamps, headlights, and the steam rising from the manhole in front of our van.

“You remember the plan, dollface?” The Joker asked, sidling up next to me. He was dressed in his trademark purple suit like always, and the men wore their clown masks. I was getting ready to climb five stories up the side of this decrepit building. Gambol lived on the top floor, with no windows near the ground. I would have to break into his penthouse, then sneak out of it to run downstairs and let the men inside.

“Yeah, I’m coming back up with you guys right?”

“I’d rather you didn’t, dollface, it could get ugly.”

“Please? You know I can handle it.” I wasn’t about to let this go down without me. I HAD to be there.

“Alright, fine, but I warned ya.” The Joker sang. “Go do your stuff and we’ll be waiting for you.” He walked back toward the men. Clapping my hands together, I surveyed the wall in front of me. The fire escapes were so rusted in places that the metal had actually been eaten away. Some of the platforms hung from the wall with only a single bolt, and their staircases weighed them down tremendously. “Can you make it?” one of the men called.

“Yeah.” I called back uncertainly. “It’ll take some work, but it can be done.” I jumped up and grabbed a rung on one of the ladders hanging from the wall. When it didn’t fall straight to the ground, I started to pull myself up. I was halfway up the ladder when a screeching noise filled the air and the ladder started to pull away from the platform. I scrambled up the rungs and leapt up to grab the platform as the ladder crashed beneath me. I could hear the men running toward the ladder, searching for me beneath the metal wreckage. As I looked down at them, the platform started to tilt, coming unhinged from the bricks. I looked around frantically, terrified of falling. At the far end of the platform, a metal railing was rusted and collapsing. Please, Anubis, don’t come for me tonight. Once I could get past the lower levels, the fire escapes looked good and strong. Just a little ways to go…

I looked down at the alley below; I was at least five stories high now. I was still shaking from my dangerous climb up the rusted fire escapes, but I wasn’t about to let The Joker know that. Thank Ptah my mother had seen fit to force me into gymnastics. I’d be splattered on that pavement had she not. Willing my heart to beat normally, I walked to the nearest window and pushed it up, with some elbow grease, of course. It wouldn’t be fun if any of the windows opened easily, would it? Once I was in, I stuck to the shadows, ducking out of the hazy orange rectangles of lights that created twisted shapes of the hallway in front of me. I slinked my way downstairs and let the men and The Joker in through the back entrance.

“Good work, doll face. You’re better than I thought.” The Joker said casually as we walked up the stairs. Gambol lived on the very top floor, but his thug friends kept watch as low as the fifth floor. I’d just missed them, from what The Joker was saying. I was still smiling with pride at his remark, pleased that I’d helped.

“Ok, guys, you know what to do.” The Joker said, coming to a stop. One of the men pulled out a roll of kitchen trash bags and tore off one. Crossing to the window, he held it outside and let the wind open it quietly. He came back to the group and held it out in front of him, allowing The Joker to step inside and get cozy. Another man wrapped a black plastic bag around The Joker’s head.

“Keep behind us.” One of the men said to me as they lifted The Joker and began to carry him up the stairs. I followed behind, watching with curiosity as we approached the fifth floor.

“Halt!” came a male voice. We all looked to the source of the voice, the top of the stairs. “Can I help you?” he asked menacingly.

“We’ve come to collect the reward on The Joker’s head.” Said the man in front of me. The man at the top of the stairs grunted, as if he didn’t believe us, but waved us on. We heard him talking on his radio as we walked up the next flight of stairs. The next guard walked us into Gambol’s pent house.

“Yo Gambol, somebody here for you. They say they’ve just killed The Joker.” He said as we followed him, taking in our surroundings.

“They brought the body.” Said another man. Gambol was playing pool with two of his buddies, but they came forward to see The Joker. The two men next to me laid The Joker on top of the pool table, stepping back quickly. Gambol removed the bag from The Joker’s head, revealing his smudged makeup and Glasgow smile. He seemed satisfied and turned to face us.

“Dead? That’s 500.” He was reaching for his wallet when the Joker sprang up and put his knife at Gambol’s throat. Gambol’s friends and his guard were already on their knees in front of us, guns pointed at the backs of their heads.

“How about alive? Hmm.” The Joker asked, slowly turning Gambol around to face him. “You wanna know how I got these scars?” he asked quietly. He nodded, as if to persuade Gambol. “My father was…a drinker. And a fiend. One night he goes off crazier than usual. Mommy gets the kitchen knife to defend herself, and he doesn’t like that. Not. One. Bit.” He pauses for a second to lick his lips. “So…me watching, he takes the knife to her, laughing while he does it. He turns to me and says ‘Why so serious?’ He comes at me with the knife, ‘Why so serious?’ He sticks the blade in my mouth-“ The Joker stuck his potato peeler in Gambol’s mouth, at the corner of his lips. “‘Let’s put a smile on that face!’ And…” The Joker looked at one of Gambol’s men. “Why so serious?” he asked nonchalantly, just before slicing Gambol’s face open and letting him fall to the floor. He pulled the bag off of his body. ”Now, our operation is small but, there is a lot of potential for…aggressive…expansion. So which of you fine gentlemen would like to join our team? Oh, there’s only one spot open right now so we’re gonna have…” he snapped the pool cue in half, creating jagged ends on both halves. “tryouts.” He looked at the jagged edges before dropping the wood on the floor in front of the men. “Make it fast.” He said as he walked out of the pent house, most likely to take care of guard below.

~~~~

It was late at night, and once again, The Joker and I were seated next to each other in front of the grand fireplace. This had become a nightly ritual since he’d ‘kidnapped’ me. It wasn’t like I was going anywhere; this was the best week of my life so far. Between threatening the mob and getting looked at like I’m candy at Christmas, I’d had a lot of fun working with The Joker. He was surprisingly very doting towards me, buying me clothes and shoes and letting me redo the bedroom I’d been given, furniture and all. I wondered what we would talk about tonight.

“Harvey Dent is having a fundraiser.” I mentioned casually when The Joker took his usual place next to me on the couch.

“No, Bruce Wayne is throwing a fundraiser for Harvey Dent.” He corrected me. “We’re going.” I looked up at him, closing my book as I did.

“What do you mean, we’re going? Don’t you think people would recognize you?” I gestured to my face.

“When I get there, yes. You’re going in first.” I stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Now I’m confused. What am I supposed to do in a room full of rich bitches?”

“It’s simple; you stand there and look gorgeous.”

“And what if they talk to me? I’m not civilized; and rich people freak me out! What if they kick me out? Do I have to talk to fucking Bruce Wayne?” I asked, starting to panic. He can’t really expect me to mix with the elite of Gotham! The Joker and I shared a mutual dislike for the do-gooder known as Bruce Wayne, though neither one of us could pinpoint why we hated him so much.

“Relax, dollface. Surely you know how to make polite, civilized conversation?”

“Oh yeah sure, I always revert to proper English after I whip out some gansta slang.” I replied sarcastically. The Joker smacked his forehead.

“Look, I know you’re not stupid. You can pull this off, trust me. We’ll get you a nice dress, get your hair done, and you’ll blend right in. But if it makes you feel better, we’ll get you brushed up on etiquette.” He shrugged.

“Can’t I just shoot the bastard and be done with it?” I asked hopefully.

“No, that ruins all the fun.” The Joker chided playfully.

“Don’t you want the job done?” I complained.

“Yes, but it’s not about how fast you get it done. It’s how well you send the message.”

“Oh, so I’m taking Post-it’s?” I asked. “Where d’you want me to hide ‘em, up my skirt?”

“No, no, no-“ The Joker tried to hide his smile. “You’re just going in to scope things out before we get there. It will also keep you out of the way while we’re breaking in.”

“So now I’m a liability.” I grouched.

“Ever tried breaking and entering in a dress?”

“Have you?” I flipped my book back open when he didn’t respond. I was halfway through a paragraph when he said something.

“I never got to ask you the other night, what was your mother like?” With a huff, I snapped the book closed again and turned to face him.

“She did her best with what she had. She was caring, protective, stubborn…everything I am and much more. She doesn’t deserve the life she has.”

“What…nationality are you?” The Joker sounded unsure of himself for the first time since I’d met him.

“Mom is Egyptian, as you know, and Father dearest is German, Irish and Cherokee.”

“So you’re half Egyptian?”

“Yeah…I’m a weird mix.”

“Huh.”

“Yep.” Why are things awkward all of a sudden?

“What does your mother’s name mean? I assume she was born in Egypt?”

“Yeah she was. Her name, Rehema Eshe, means compassionate life.”

“And did she give you an Egyptian name? Or are you just Jazmyne?”

“She did give me an Egyptian name, but my father refused to use it because it wasn’t English. He’s the reason why the name on my birth certificate says ‘Jazmyne Abryane Maria Summers’. He didn’t even tell my mom he’d changed my name until I was twelve.” I said bitterly.

“Wouldn’t she have noticed?” The Joker asked. I shook my head.

“She can’t read or write English. When I ran away, she could barely speak it. She always called me by my Egyptian name, Astarte Bahiti.”

“And what the hell does that mean?”

“Goddess of love and fortune.” I smiled. “Fits, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does. Have you thought about changing your name; it seems to really bother you.”

“Yeah, I thought about it, but it cost too much money to go to court, and I already have all these bitchin’ nicknames.” I laughed; remembering some of the crazier things my friends had called me.

“Oh, do tell.” The Joker laughed with me.

“Ok, first it was Jazz, then Jazi. When I came here, my friends started calling me ‘Jersey’ and ‘Jazifrizzle’. Some of them even called me ‘Cleopatra’ or ‘Cleo’.” A few of my high school teachers called me ‘Trouble’. They were pricks.”

“Yeah, my teachers were shitty too. Full of themselves, arrogant-“

“Normal.” I interrupted him.

“Absolutely.” The Joker smiled. “So you speak Egyptian…any other linguistic talents I should know about?”

“Um…I’m good with accents.” I thought for a minute. “Most of my friends come from immigrant families like me, and they all taught me a little bit of their native languages.”

“Like?”

“Let’s see, I know a little bit of Spanish, Mandarin, Russian, Italian, German, Greek, Cambodian, French, Gaelic, Hawaiian, Portuguese, and a dialect of Swahili from South Africa.”

“Impressive.”

“Eh, you pick it up when you’re around someone for so long.” I shrugged, it really was no big deal.

“You really are the most valuable person on our team.” The Joker praised, making me feel warm and toasty inside. “The fundraiser is a week from tomorrow. Is that enough time for you to get a dress?”

“Yeah…I’ll find one somewhere.” I said nonchalantly, my faint blush fading quickly. I excused myself and trudged upstairs, exhausted. I flopped down on the bed, not bothering to put the book away or turn out the light.







AN: Ok, how am I doing so far? Remember, any kind of review is awesome!!