Batman: The Killing Joke by Christa Faust & Gary Phillips

Author:Christa Faust & Gary Phillips
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
ISBN: 9781785658105
Publisher: Titan Books
Published: 2018-09-15T05:00:00+00:00

“Aren’t you going to impress us with your stack?” St. Regis said acidly.

“I wouldn’t want to make you jealous,” she replied. She began to change into street clothes. This had been her last set, and she wanted to get out of here.

“Uh-huh. Like you’re all that.”

The Lacy Pony’s owner encouraged the girls to work so-called “after hours” sets, which meant giving lap dances. If a customer was particularly generous in his donation, that dance could include various extras, and the boss only took twenty percent off the top.

St. Regis was all about those extras.

Mustang knew she should ignore the snark, but small-timers like St. Regis had to be reminded there were people not to mess with. Tucking her bundled towel in a backpack, she walked over to where St. Regis sat on the rickety chair, smoking a cigarette.

“Don’t be shy, Diane,” she said flatly. “You got something to say, say it.”

St. Regis stabbed the cigarette at her.

“Look, skank, maybe you think your—”

Mustang kicked the legs out from under the chair. They broke and went skittering over the dirty rug as the seat dropped to the floor with a bang. The recently arrived stripper let out a gasp and gaped. Dakota just watched.

“Bitch, you’re going to regret that.” St. Regis was on her butt, trying to get off the floor. Before she could, Mustang sent the backpack upside her head knocking her sideways. Then she loomed over her, pointing down at the dazed dancer.

“I won’t tell you how to shake that saggy rump of yours,” she said, “and you damn sure better keep your trap shut when it comes to my business. Nod if you understand, or I’m happy to make your head go up and down.”

St. Regis glared venomously, but did as commanded.

“Glad we could have this little chat, and clear the air and shit.” She threw the backpack over her shoulder—it held the money, her costume, platform boots, and a flashlight with two D batteries. As she moved to leave, Tricky Ricky stepped to the doorway.

“Boss would like a word with you, Suzi,” he said. “Says it’s in your best interests.”

“Tell him I got a date tonight, Ricky.”

“He won’t like that as an answer.”

“Is that right?” she said, slipping past him. “I guess you’ve gotta break the bad news to him then.” Pushing through the side exit, she stepped out into the chill air.

As usual, there were a couple of men who, augured by booze and delusional lust, looked to spark it up, impress her with a wad of dough and the promise of fancy dinners and jewelry if only they could have a date—a real date.

It wasn’t about sex, oh no.

Tonight was no different. One of the regulars—Chuck something, she recalled—was standing at the base of the metal steps, a raft of roses in his hand. Over the door was a cowled light bulb. She almost felt pity for the poor bastard. As she descended, she could see the lighter band of skin on his left hand, where normally his wedding ring would be.

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