by Paul Dini
Dr. Irene Smith took her tablet out of her bag and brought up the notes on her new patient. The combination of motor noise and wind made conversation impossible and she was pleased that her aquatic chauffeur didn’t feel the need to try. She wanted to use the time to collect her thoughts before she met her eccentric, Brooklyn-averse patient.
She’d been told she’d be arriving in the middle of the patient’s welcome-home party, which had made the news days ahead of time as the party of the year; anyone who was anyone would be there, and if you didn’t get an invitation you were officially no one. Some claimed to have seen the guest list and said it was a mix of the usual suspects—Denzel, Krysten, Carrie-Ann, Keanu, Dwayne, Swoozie, and Pedro—along with some unusual suspects who were so important no one knew who they were. There were also a few Senators (but no Congressmen), two or three governors, and some representatives of the Mothers And Fathers Italian Association, all of them law-abiding children of law-abiding immigrants who had come to the US with nothing and made a fortune via hard work and ambition.
Dr. Irene Smith had never been to such a fancy shindig, nor had her alter ego, Harley Quinn. But neither persona felt particularly intimidated—a party was a party was a party. Harley figured it was too much to hope that the bar would be extensive enough to include grape soda. They’d probably have Orange Crush and Dr. Brown’s Celery Soda, and all the fixings for egg creams so the guests could feel like they were having a taste of New York back in the day.
* * *
Dr. Irene Smith, MD, had appeared right after Harleen Quinzel had disappeared following her discharge from Arkham Asylum. Dr. Joan Leland herself had pronounced her sane and healthy, and yet, scant minutes before Quinzel was supposed to have entered a halfway house to begin the next stage of her recovery, she had encountered the criminal who had abused her and ruined her life. The sight of him in a ghastly purple limo had obviously triggered violent emotions; Quinzel had jacked the car and driven off without him. Not that the Joker had pressed charges.
Harleen Quinzel, aka Harley Quinn, vanished and became a folk hero, legend, and role model to aspiring young female criminals everywhere—the days when the best a girl could hope for was being a gun moll or some made guy’s goomar were definitely over. (Poison Ivy’s assertion that they should already have learned this from her never got any play on network news.)
* * *
Dr. Irene Smith was perfect in every way. She did nothing to attract attention to herself or to make anyone ask questions. But as a doctor, she could access all sorts of sensitive information. Hospitals were teeming with it; all she had to do was put on a white coat and hang a stethoscope around her neck and she was practically invisible. And free to do as she liked.
The Joker’s greatest desire was to be seen by everyone everywhere, all the time. But he was totally clueless. He’d never understood that you were most powerful when you went unnoticed.
What would Dr. Leland have made of that? She might have agreed but it was more likely she’d have asked Harley what did “power” mean to her, why was it so important, and did it really have to be? Which was missing the point, but Dr. Leland wasn’t a criminal.
Batman would get it, though. He was a criminal, walking the fine line between fame and obscurity. In all the years—decades—he’d been Gotham City’s favorite outlaw-hero, he had become a household name without ever being doxxed. To Harley, that was solid proof he was super-rich. For a while, she thought he might be several super-rich guys taking turns in the costume. But even if a group of men could have maintained the persona so consistently, Harley doubted they could have kept such a big secret for so long.
No matter how rich or well-paid they might have been, money was never enough. Harley was pretty sure that sooner or later, one of them would have gotten drunk in a bar and said, Yeah, I’m Batman, baby, wanna ride in my Batmobile?
Either way, it was crazy. And in Harley Quinn’s professional opinion as an expert in human craziness, the Joker and Batman were two sides of the same crazy coin. Someday they would finally get a room and they’d never come out. What would become of Gotham City then?
Harley didn’t know and didn’t care.
The motorboat caught up with the yacht under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, just east of the Rockaway Ferry. Passengers rushed to the side facing the yacht, elbowing each other and the paparazzi; the latter would have been tipped off by someone on the yacht-owner’s staff. Tomorrow the web would be full of telephoto shots of famous people dancing badly. There was no point in throwing a fancy party without any little people to gaze longingly at what was out of their reach.
Two men in tuxedos helped Harley board the yacht from the stern. Their shoulder-holsters bulged slightly under their jackets—the idea was to discourage misbehavior without being too obvious. Harley chuckled inwardly; when you knew the tricks, you wondered why they weren’t obvious to everyone.
“Glad you could join us, Dr. Smith,” one of the men said. “I’m Thomas, Mr. Dell’s executive assistant. My compliments on your choice of footwear.” He looked down at her non-slip white canvas boat-shoes. “Have you spent much time on the water?”
“Only in quantities small enough to fit in a glass with ice cubes,” she replied.
Thomas laughed politely. “Mr. Dell is waiting for you on the upper deck. Follow me. Joseph will take your medical bag for you.”
They went up two ladders, passing the DJ on the middle deck. He nodded at them, grinning from ear to ear as he hovered over his equipment. Harley nodded back, amused; he probably thought this was the gig of a lifetime. He had no idea.
“Are you sure this is a yacht?” Harley asked Thomas as they reached the top deck and entered an enclosed area. “It seems more like a scaled-down cruise ship.”
“Actually, my dear, it’s a mega-yacht,” said an elderly man in a reclining chair. “Or so I’ve been told. It doesn’t sound like an official classification to me. Young people these days, they’re all mega-this and mega-that.”
Two more men in tuxedos stood behind him, their faces expressionless as their boss touched a button on a control in his hand and the chair cushion rose, standing him up on his feet. “So lovely to meet you, Dr. Smith.” He took her hand and kissed it. “I’m glad you’re able to join the party.”
The years had not been kind to him. It took all of Harley’s self-control not to wipe her hand on her trousers. When he smiled, the old man looked like a slightly more human version of Killer Croc. She hadn’t noticed that the last time she’d seen him, but he hadn’t been smiling at the time.
“Not to be a party-pooper, but I’d like to examine you. Nothing too extensive or invasive,” Harley added, as the old man’s expression turned apprehensive. “Just get your vitals, ask a few questions. A quick and dirty once-over.”
He was grinning again as the chair lowered him back down to a sitting position. No doubt he had an endless supply of playing-doctor jokes he couldn’t wait to use.
“So if you executive assistant types wouldn’t mind giving us some privacy?” Harley said, looking from Thomas to the other men.
No one moved.
“Sorry, my dear,” Mr. Dell sighed, “but it’s no use trying to get me alone. They won’t let me out of their sight. Garbo would die of frustration.”
Thomas appeared to be the only one with the ability to change expression; he looked politely puzzled.
“I vant to be alone,” Harley said, mimicking Greta Garbo. Thomas only looked more bewildered. Harley turned to the old man. “Young people these days.”
He threw back his head and laughed himself into a coughing fit. “Oh, my dear,” he panted when he could speak. “I love beautiful young women who don’t need references older than last week explained to them. What did you say your first name is?”
“Doctor,” Harley said cheerfully, which set him off again. She already had her stethoscope out and was undoing the buttons of his shirt. His cough sounded like textbook congestive heart failure. No doubt a doctor had already told him t
hat; Harley imagined his response had been to order a thirty-two-ounce prime rib and sprinkle an inch of salt on it before popping some Viagra.
“Please try to be a little quieter,” she said after a bit. “I need to hear if your heart’s still beating.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure it is now that you’re here, my dear doctor,” he chuckled.
Harley’s hackles went up; she covered it with a five-hundred-watt smile. “Your pacemaker isn’t set on disco, is it?”
More laughter; Harley had to wait to listen to his chest. Then she took his blood pressure with a wrist cuff instead of the more accurate upper-arm wrap. He wouldn’t have to worry about his blood pressure for much longer.
Harley took three readings, then turned to Thomas. “Are you sure your assistants can’t wait outside till we’re done here?” she asked him. “The numbers I’m getting here are dangerously high. This usually happens when there are too many people in the room—the patient’s attention is all over the place and it’s impossible to get an accurate reading.”
Thomas looked slightly apologetic. “Mr. Dell’s safety has to be our primary concern. A man as successful as he is has a lot of enemies—”
“And one of them is high blood pressure, ‘the silent killer,’” Harley said impatiently. “It’s like this: I’m going to take his blood pressure again, and if I get numbers as high as before, I’ll call the Air Ambulance for emergency transport to the nearest urgent care facility. From here, that would be the new clinic at Norton Point.”
Threatening him with Brooklyn finally did the trick. The old man gestured at the men and growled, “Get. Out.”
“But Mr. Dell—” said Thomas.
“I’d be a sitting duck in Norton Point,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “If that happens, you’re all fired and you won’t like your severance.”
Harley made her face assume the same expressionless look the men wore as they left. She wondered if they noticed the resemblance. Probably not; they didn’t look like detail guys.
“Alone at last!” The old man practically licked his chops. “Now, what did you have in mind, my dear?”
“First, let’s get you nice and comfy,” Harley said, slipping the chair control out of his hand and reclining the chair fully. He wasn’t lying as flat as on a proper examination table but this was good enough. “I need you to relax before I take your blood pressure again.”
“You wouldn’t really send me to North Point, would you?” He sounded playful but Harley heard a plaintive undertone. Poor baby.
“I’d only want to make sure you got to the closest facility.” Harley moved behind the chair and began gently massaging his temples. “But never mind. Try to relax now.”
“That feels so good,” he sighed. “Would you mind doing that just a bit longer?”
“Not at all,” she purred, keeping her touch gentle. “We need to get that blood pressure down out of the stratosphere.”
“I think you’re just what the doctor ordered.” The old crocodile chuckled. “The doctor that the doctor ordered.”
“Good one,” she sneered. He didn’t notice.
“You know, I’ve been doing business for a very long time,” he went on. “When I started out, you probably weren’t even a twinkle in your father’s eye.”
Harley made herself go on rubbing his temples instead of stabbing her fingers into them.
“I’ve still got plenty of deals left to make,” he said. “But I find now I’m in need of a personal physician to help me through the day. And my days can be pretty long. I won’t bore you with the details.”
“Oh, I know all about your monkey business, Mr. Dell—vecchio.” The tough Brooklyn cookie crashed the party. Harley vaulted over the chair and landed astride his chest. “How ya doin’? Remembah me?” she asked as he stared up at her, dumbfounded. “Harleen Quinzel, of the Brooklyn Quinzels. Ya tried to sell me to one o’ yer poivoit friends. Ring any bells now?” She squeezed his torso between her knees, hard enough to make him gasp.
Delvecchio fumbled at the arm of the chair. Harley knocked his hand away, lifted the panel on the arm and found the pistol he’d been going for, just in time to shoot his “assistants” as they came back in. Even without the silencer, she doubted anyone could have heard anything over the music, which wasn’t disco but breakbeat. She’d always loved breakbeat. The Joker had hated it, but he’d hated all music.
Delvecchio tried to grab at her but he was too feeble to do anything more than annoy her. Still straddling his chest, she hit his solar plexus with the heel of her free hand, knocking the wind out of him.
“Uh-uh-uh!” Harley said. “Finders keepers!” She wrinkled her nose cutely at him. “Know what else I found? This nice big boat. An’ I’m keepin’ that, too!” She climbed off him, took him by the front of his shirt and yanked him out of the chair. He stumbled but she held him up easily as she dragged him outside to the part of the deck overlooking the party below.
“But just to show you I ain’t mean,” she said, “I’m gonna let you swim home! That’s gonna be quite a ways since you got something against Brooklyn—I would, too, if I tried to sell the sweet little Quinzel girl from round the way to a poivoit—so I guess you better get started!”
Delvecchio cringed in terror as she dragged him around to the side directly over the water so he could see all the foam churned up by the engines.
“Bon voyage, Mr. Delvecchio, and don’t get caught—” Harley pitched him over the railing. “—in the engine propellers under the—” The foam turned red. “Oops.” She wiped the gun off and tossed it after him.
Harley went back inside, stepping over the assistants’ bodies, and removed several components from her medical bag. It didn’t take her long to put them together. This was her favorite toy. The Joker had hated it because he was terrible at assembling anything. It was that instant gratification thing—he always wanted stuff to pop into his hand fully formed and ready to go, which was why he had turned his nose up at the lightest, most portable machine gun ever made. She hadn’t.
Sticking extra clips in the waistband of her neat trousers, Harley stepped outside again and looked around. She should probably handle the DJ next, she thought and slung the machine gun over her shoulder to climb down to the next deck.
“Turn it off!” she shouted. He shook his head, putting a hand to his ear. Harley mimed turning a knob. “OFF!”
The DJ gave her an incredulous look. “Say what, baby?”
Harley shrugged. “I tried,” she said and killed his equipment with the machine gun.
The DJ screamed and backed away.
“Don’t call me baby,” she said, and motioned toward the rail with the gun’s still smoking muzzle. “Now swim home.”
He went over the side without another word.
Harley turned to look at the rest of the partygoers, who were gaping up at her with shocked, terrified faces. None of them looked like they could have been named Denzel, Keanu, or Swoozie.
“From where we are right now,” Harley announced loudly, “you can swim to Coney Island and get some Nathan’s hot dogs. So everyone who wants to survive this party should jump right now. And anyone who doesn’t—” She fired into the air.
The screams were louder than the music had been. But the boat was clear in barely a minute.
“Okay!’ she said aloud, slinging the machine gun over her shoulder again. “Now where’s the steering wheel on this thing?” In fact, she had looked up information on the yacht ahead of time. The control room or bridge or whatever they called it was right where the map had said it would be.
The radio crackled suddenly. “This is the Coast Guard calling recreational vessel King’s Throne. We have received calls of an emergency and people in the water. Please advise, over.”
“It’s all good in the hood, CG,” Harley replied. “Buncha folks decided they wanted to go night-swimming. You know rich people—they’re different. Pick ’em up if you want, it’s no skin off my nose. Over.”
“Ah, who am I speaking with?” asked a different male voice. “Please identify yourself. Over.”
“Oh, sure,” Harley said. “I’m None of Your Business, Stay Outta My Way,” Harley said cheerfully. “Maybe you hoid o’ me. Ovah!”
“Is this Harley Quinn, the Joker’s girlfriend?” demanded the man on the radio. “Respond immediately, over!”
“Hey, pal, I ain’t nobody’s girlfriend,” Harley informed him. “Now step off or get stepped on.” That didn’t really work when you weren’t on land, she thought, but what the hell. “Ovah an’ out!”
“You’re making a big mistake—”
Harley snapped off the radio. Sooner or later, they always started with the you’re-making-a-big-mistake routine. Maybe she was. But if so, it wasn’t one she’d already made.
She changed course and put the lights of Coney Island behind her.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Very special thanks to:
My wonderful son, Robert Fenner. We used to watch Batman: The Animated Series together when he was a little boy. I had no idea at the time that having fun with my kid would be so advantageous professionally.
Thanks also to Steve Saffel for inviting me to the party and to Ella Chappell, super-editor with nerves of steel.
And to Paul Dini, for giving us this very intriguing, very dangerous woman.
…and always to my husband The Original Chris Fowler, who is the complete and utter opposite of Mr Wrong.
—Pat Cadigan
Mad thanks to:
Steve Saffel, host, editor, sanity preserver and mentor on this wonderful journey.
A terrific collection of collaborators including Alan Burnett, Eric Radomski, Bruce Timm, Tom Ruegger, Dustin Nguyen, Paul Levitz and so many others I’ve been fortunate to work with on Bat-related animation and comics through the years.
Just about everyone at DC.
Jimmy Palmiotti and Amanda Conner, for Coney Island.
And most important, to my dearest Misty Lee—my toughest critic, my eternal inspiration, my love forever.