Harley's taxi stopped beside the curb.

"Here you are," the driver said pleasantly.

Harley reached into her pocket and pulled out a few bills to pay the man. Taking the chocolate colored briefcase she'd picked up from an old haunt of the Joker, Harley opened the door and slipped out of the cab.

A cool breeze swept past her, but Harley ignored it while looking at the massive entryway in front of her. The neon sign, glowing brightly white from the second floor, declared the name of the place, the Iceberg Lounge. The illuminated letters were written across a painted sculpture in the shape of an iceberg.

Harley knocked on the door, and a tiny window slot opened for the eyes of the guard inside to see who was trying to enter.

"Hey there," Harley said sweetly. "Open up."

"No clowns allowed," the guard snarled. "Get lost!"

Before the rectangular window could close, Harley shoved the barrel of her gun through the window and restated her request in the same sweet voice she'd used before. "Open up."

The door unlocked, and Harley walked right in, keeping her gun in the window until she was already inside the nightclub. Taking the gun with her, Harley kept it pointed toward the doorman.

"Thanks a bunch," Harley said happily as if nothing had happened between them. "Where can I find your boss?"

When the thug guarding the door didn't answer, Harley gave him some incentive.

"He'll want to see me," Harley declared. She held up the briefcase. "When was the last time he turned down money?"

The door guard opened a side panel in the wall and revealed an in-house phone. Picking up the receiver, the guard spoke quickly.

"Harley Quinn is here and has a briefcase for you," the man reported. After a moment of silence, he turned his attention back to Harley. "Open the briefcase."

Harley set down the case on a nearby table, allowing her to flip the latches and lift the lid without taking the aim of her gun away from the guard. Inside the briefcase were stacks of money neatly arranged to cram as many of them as possible into the limited interior dimensions.

"It's money," the guard spoke into the phone. After hearing a question on the other end of the line, he added, "A lot."

The guard hung up the phone and gestured toward the hallway behind him. "Welcome to the Iceberg Lounge. The Boss will see you."

"Thanks," Harley said happily. Closing the briefcase and taking it with her, she skipped her way into the expensive restaurant.

Tables, chairs, and all linens for the Lounge were done in shades of white and pale blue to reinforce the arctic theme. The glasses were frosted with laser etched snowflakes on them. In the center of the room, protected by a chrome railing to keep visitors at a distance was a spacious pool occupying half of the room. In the center of the pool floated an iceberg with a number of arctic seals swimming around or resting on it.

Harley looked up to the balcony where more tables and chairs for guests were arranged. Above the second floor, an ornate dome trimmed in silver covered over the entire restaurant for the purpose of letting in sunlight or starlight depending on the time of day, but Harley thought the dome was rather useless as the near constant cloud cover made Gotham dark and gray almost all the time.

"Well, well, what brings such a rare bird like you to my nest?" asked a cultured voice from behind her.

Harley turned around, leaning on the railing by the pool. Walking with a short gait more closely resembling a waddle was a short man in a tuxedo, top hat, and monocle perched beside his long and pointed beak of a nose. A folded umbrella was gripped in his left hand and used in a similar fashion to a cane. Oswald Cobblepot was his real name, but most of Gotham knew him by a different one.

"Hello, Penguin," Harley said cheerfully. She held up the briefcase. "I got some business to discuss."

"Of course, right this way," Penguin said, taking off his tall hat and using it in a formal bow to her. "Please accompany me to my private table."

Penguin waddled his way around the center pool to a small room separated from the others by a velvet rope strung across the doorway. Standing guard at the door was one of Penguin's girls. Dressed in a tuxedo and top hat, she was almost exactly like her employer in attire except her pants weren't slacks to match the tuxedo but a pair of very tight shorts of jet black and gray nylon tights.

Harley wondered how the girl could work in the air conditioned environment of the Lounge without freezing to death. She thought hypothermia might be in the job description.

The girl unhooked the rope and pulled it aside for Harley and Penguin to enter the private room. Harley sat down at the table while Penguin uncorked a bottle of champagne and poured her a glass.

"What business, may I ask, brings you to my humble abode," Penguin asked, setting the bubbling glass in front of Harley.

"You've got guns, and I need a few to kill Batman," Harley answered. She picked up the champagne to have a sip, but Penguin abruptly slapped the glass out of her hand. The glass fell to the floor and shattered, spilling its contents on the rug.

"That vintage simply won't do for such an auspicious occasion as this," Penguin stated. He waddled over to the door to speak with the girl outside. "Have the waiter being us the finest bottle in the house."

Penguin turned back to Harley, a cruel smile showing his teeth ever so slightly.

"Tell me, how I can help you dispose of our nocturnal pest?" he encouraged.

Harley opened the suitcase and showed Penguin the stacks of money she'd brought with her. "How many guns will this buy?"

"Quite a few," Penguin answered, rubbing his hands together in greedy anticipation. "However, for a job of this much import, quality is better than quantity. Seeing as how you'll be taking care of a mutual thorn in our side, I'll even give you a fifty percent discount on everything I have in stock."

The champagne arrived, and Penguin poured two glasses; holding up his own, he made a toast. "To the long overdue death of Batman."

  ***  

Attached to the Iceberg Lounge was an old museum. Originally the Lounge had been the built-in restaurant for the museum visitors, but Penguin had changed the Lounge into a personal retreat and front for his criminal operations. The museum had become a warehouse and showroom for all the illegal weaponry he trafficked.

Harley wandered between the glass display cases formerly holding artifacts of bygone civilizations, now stacked high with guns, explosives, and other implements of death.

"How much is the ammo for this one?" Harley asked, pointing to a sizable machine gun with an under mounted grenade launcher.

"Usually, ammunition is extra, but in this case, I'll let you have as much as you want for free," Penguin offered.

"In that case, I'll definitely need one of these," Harley announced, pointing to a different weapon resting inside an Egyptian sarcophagus.

"I do love a woman who knows what she wants," Penguin praised.

"I came by taxi, and a cab driver might have a problem loading all this in the back," Harley said. "How do I get these things home?"

"Simply select everything you want, accessories and the color, and I'll have it delivered anywhere in Gotham within twenty-four hours," Penguin promised. "Outside Gotham will take no more than forty-eight hours."

Harley continued her shopping spree until every last dollar she'd brought in the briefcase had been spent. Thanking Penguin for all his help, she hopped in a cab and had the driver take her to a store for a disposable cell phone before dropping her off at an abandoned warehouse Joker had used from time to time.

Harley dialed a number on the phone, plopping down on a dusty crate and idly twisting one of her blonde pigtails around her finger while waiting for the person on the other end of the line to answer.

"What?" came a gruff voice in her ear.

"Hey there," Harley said happily. "I have a job for you."

"I don't do jobs in Gotham anymore," the man's voice growled.

"Two things to consider," Harley pointed out. "One million dollars and a chance to kill Batman."

A long silence followed before she got her answer.

"I'm in," the man said.

"Come to warehouse seven on Cypress road and Clement," Harley instructed. "We'll talk when you get here."

She disconnected the call and dialed another number, checking the red and black polish of her nails while the dial tone sounded in her ear.

"Yes?" answered a voice. Although deep and clearly male, this one was more polished and professional than the previous one.

"I have a job for you," Harley announced. "How fast can you get to Gotham?"

"How fast can you get the payment into my account?" the man asked in return.

"The transfer is already done," Harley told him. She heard computer keys softly clicking in the background as he checked his finances.

"Very good," the man praised. "I'm on the way."

"Warehouse seven on Cypress road and Clement," Harley informed her new employee.

The line shut off as the man ended their call. Harley tossed the phone onto the crate beside her.

A nagging thought clawed at the back of her mind and refused to go away. Previous attempts to kill Batman had all ended the same way, an all-expenses paid trip back to Arkham Asylum. Trying again might land her back in a padded cell and prevent her marriage from going through. She wondered if Bruce would change his mind about marrying her if her bridal dress included a straightjacket.

It had taken every last dollar of the money Joker had left behind to hire the two men she'd be using for her plan. If it failed, she'd be broke. Harley expected to have plenty of money after the marriage, but getting hauled back to Arkham might throw a monkey wrench into the works. She briefly wondered why it was called a monkey wrench since monkeys didn't use wrenches.

Batman had always managed to escape death because he seemed prepared for any situation. Harley thought he was similar to a human Swiss Army knife, a different solution for every problem that might arise. Batman wasn't invulnerable, and Mr. J had come close to killing him several times before. If her two hired guns could keep Batman distracted, he'd never see the real threat coming and would be unable to do anything to stop it.

Harley snickered. Tomorrow it would be all over for Bat...her train of thought screeched to a halt as she realized she had a lunch date with Bruce. She could always kill Batman the day after, but Harley realized that was out too as Bruce was taking her on a cruise in his yacht. She considered Thursday as a possibility. She also considered getting a day planner. Harley couldn't remember anything for Thursday, so she nodded decisively. Thursday would be the day Batman died.