Arthur

I left C parked three blocks out, engine running, lights off. He said it was standard practice. I figured it was to avoid being seen with the help, but either way, I was on my own.

The warehouse sat just past the old fish cannery, its roof caved in by time and neglect.

Harbor Street wound through block after block of condemned buildings, all of them stripped for copper, their windows blank and blind as moonlight poured through the shattered skylights and turned the oil-slicks on the concrete into purple shadows.

In another life, it would have been beautiful, in a dystopian kind of way.

The doors to the meetup hung crooked, perhaps by design.

Inside the place, someone had lined up the cars in neat rows, each one stripped to bare chassis, the paint acid-burned to bone, as I walked through the uncanny warehouse, my footsteps echoed.

Not really sure where to go, I walked between the dead sedans, clutching the package C had given me. The lock on the package was digital, thumbprint-encoded, whatever it was that was inside, was clearly only for the eyes of Harvey Dent.

There was a light at the far end of the shop, a single bare bulb stuttering in its own cage of dust. Under it was Two-Face.

He looked different in person to what the comics and animated shows showed, he looked much more scarred in real life. The right side of his suit was charcoal-black, perfectly pressed, the silk tie knotted with practiced precision. The left side was a representation of his trauma—the jacket ripped, tie half-melted, shirt stained a brownish red that probably wasn’t from wine. His hair matched: one side combed and oiled, the other burned to patchy stubble.

He held a silver coin between his fingers, flipping it over the knuckles of his left hand. His right hand was gloved, probably to keep the nerves from catching on the fabric. He looked up when I got within ten feet, his eyes registering me as a non-threat, that was good for me.

“You’re early,” he rasped. His voice was shredded, like he smoked sandpaper instead of cigarettes.

“I hope that’s okay,” I replied.

He made a small huff, unimpressed. He pointed to the package. “For me?”

I nodded. “Yes.” I held it out, arms locked, like I was presenting a birthday cake to a tiger.

He took it, set it on his lap, and flipped the coin in the air. Heads up, he unzipped the bag and peered inside. His face split into a grin, the ruined half twitching twice as hard as the other.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “You know, in the old days, they sent kids with telegrams. Telegrams! Now it’s all… this.” He snapped the package shut. “Do you even know who you’re delivering for?”

I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’m the courier, not the judge.”

He laughed. “Haha, good answer. Are you from around downtown Gotham?”

“I’m not from around here.”

He flipped the coin again. “You look like you are. Are you sure you’re not from Gotham?”

“Positive. It’s been an experience nonetheless.”

He eyed me with a lazy interest, one cheek twitching. “You’re not scared, huh. Are you a robot?”

“Not that I know of.”

He considered that. “You’re a weird guy.”

That’s funny coming from him.

I shrugged again. “I suppose.”

He reached into his jacket and produced a little envelope, the kind drugstores sell for wedding cards. He held it up. “Take this back to your boss.”

I took the envelope, careful not to touch his hands. My skin felt colder than normal, but I chalked it up to the warehouse chill.

He watched me pocket the card, then cocked his head. “Tell me something. Do you believe in fate?”

“No.”

He looked disappointed. “Most people do. Or at least, they learn to.”

I shifted my weight. “Is that what you do? Teach people to believe?”

He grinned wider, exposing a line of teeth that didn’t quite line up. “I teach them that choices matter. Even the little ones. Flip of a coin, roll of a die. You can only become truly free if you surrender yourself to chance.”

“That’s quite profund, I never thought about it that way,” I replied after a moment/

Two-Face’s eyes flicked to the doors. “Go,” he said. “Tell the man in the car that I am satisfied.” He gave a little salute with the coin. “Unless you want to see how the other side of the coin feels?”

I shook my head. “I’m good, maybe next time.”

He laughed again, softer this time, it seemed for some reason that he liked me. But I suppose it was best to be liked by the worst than hated.

“Didn’t expect you back so soon, sport,” Cee said. “I was betting the over.”

I dropped the little envelope from Two-Face on him. “No one bet on the under?”

He gave me a look, weighing whether I was joking. Then he grinned. “Not with that client. Harvey’s an odds man. Glad you survived the introduction, it seems I was right, you are the man for these types of customers.”

I shrugged. “Great.”

He opened the envelope, thumbed the card inside, and nodded to himself. “Great indeed my friend.”

“So… can I go?”

He made a little hand gesture. “See you next time, alligator.”

I nodded, turned for the door.

Behind me, C whistled a little tune. He was clearly happy with all of this, that made one of us.

Cee

Arthur might very well be the best investment I have ever made. I don’t know how or why, but the kid had a talent for pacifying those lunatics. Before him, I would need to hire new guys every other week, but with him things are looking a-okay~

I spun the chair around, put my feet up on the desk, and let the satisfaction roll over me. “That, gentlemen, is what we call a successful week.” Neither of them spoke. I continued, “Penguin’s happy. Two Face’s happy. I'm happy. Which means, unless the Bat himself shows up to piss in our lemonade stand, we are good.”

One of my man coughed, I think his name was pointy nose… hm, no that doesn’t sound right, but it fits. “The, uh, kid. Arthur. You want us to keep tabs? He has a lot of freedom, doesn’t he?”

I steepled my fingers. “Nah, don’t worry.”

Big-Shoulders cracked his knuckles. “And if he tries to run?”

“He won’t,” I said, “but if he does, I trust you to make it a teaching moment. No violence unless absolutely necessary. He’s an investment, the golden goose.”

I pushed off from the desk, stood, and walked to the little bar in the corner. I poured three fingers of bourbon into a clean glass, then raised it in salute to the window.

“Gentlemen. To new beginnings. To Arthur Morgan, the only man in with the uncanny ability to make the big boys of gotham like him.”

Pointy-Nose raised his glass.

I drank. “Holy fuck, I paid five thousand for this crap?”

“Eight thousand sir,” Big shoulders replied.

“Even better,” I replied, before immediately changing the subject. “You know what I love most about this city?”

Neither answered.

“Every night, some asshole tries to reinvent the wheel. Make a name, claim a corner, start a war.” I set the glass down. “But sometimes, just sometimes, you get a guy who understands the value of keeping his head down and doing the damn job. No showboating, no drama. Just results.”

I looked back at the phone, at the line of smudges on its glossy face. “Arthur’s got that spark. You see how Penguin, Harvey Dent—they took one look at the kid and said, he’s the one we want for our deliveries. We struck gold, boys. And we’re gonna mine that vein till the city’s running on empty.”

Big-Shoulders gave a grunt of approval.

“Let’s get him something nice,” I said, mostly to myself. “A little thank-you. Maybe a bed. Guy looks like he hasn’t slept on anything softer than a garbage bag in years, and a TV, and some porn, every guy needs some porn, we can all agree to that.”

Pointy-Nose made a note in his phone.

I finished my horrible eight thousand dollar bourbon, then filled the glass again, slower this time. It might be terrible but I didn’t like wasting money.

“To Arthur,” I said.

They echoed it, a beat behind me.

I smiled, all teeth, and drained the glass.

If Arthur lasted the month, I’d double his cut. If he didn’t… Well, that was the nice thing about investments in this line of work.

You could always write them off. But I had a strong feeling Arthur would exceed even my wildest expectations.

Arthur

The walk home took longer than it should have, mostly because my place was like four hours away on foot. My body still refused to get tired, which was good but concerning, but I really couldn't complain. By the time I reached my building, my shoes were saturated with all the shit in the street, and my mood had gone from numb to “why bother.”

I walked up the stairs, listening to the distant buzz of a TV from somewhere above. The hallway was empty, not even the usual echo of domestic disputes or cats howling through the vents.

My door was ajar. Not wide, just off the latch, like someone wanted me to know they’d been inside. If someone had come to steal from me, I felt sorry for them, I had nothing to steal.

Sighing, I pushed it open.

The first thing I saw was a bed. Not a cot, not a pile of blankets—an actual bed. Box spring, clean mattress, even a set of sheets that didn’t look like they’d been stripped from a hospital. There was a TV too, still in its shrink wrap, parked on top of a battered folding table someone had wedged into the corner.

On the bed, a stack of porn magazines. I picked one up. Hardcore amateur, judging by the cover. I thumbed through the rest: softcore, solo, couples, even a tasteful black and white that could have been considered art if you squinted.

Next to the stack, a card: “With love from your awesome boss, C. P.S. I didn’t know what kind of porn you liked so I put a little bit of everything, but based on our interactions you seem like the kind of guy that likes amateur, and Latinas so I put a bit extra of those, enjoy.”

I set the card and the porn down. Sat on the edge of the bed and tested the mattress with a careful bounce. It was better than any mattress I’d ever slept on.

Cee really spent a pretty penny on these improvements.

I stared at the wall for a long minute. The rain hit the window as I wondered if this was my life now—jobs for freaks, gifts from criminals, and a pile of porn as a thank you.

“Where’s the TV remote?”

The TV remote was on the folding table. I reached for it, not bothering to sit up. It slid off the plastic, rolled toward the edge, then stopped.

I reached again, more annoyed this time.

The remote jerked across the table, floated, and smacked into my palm. A faint magenta afterglow limned my fingers.

I flexed my hand.

“What was that?”