Marco sat in the assault vehicle, watching Darnell make trip after trip, hauling bags of groceries into the trunk. Pasta, eggs, garlic, olive oil, parmesan cheese, pancetta, fresh basil, and an entire arsenal of pots, pans, utensils, and portable burners. After Darnell clapped his hands in satisfaction and climbed into the driver's seat, Marco finally couldn't hold it in anymore.
"You don't need all this crap to make arancini, do you?"
Darnell looked at him with complete sincerity. "Oh, see, here's the thing. I don't want arancini. I've been craving pasta carbonara lately."
Marco smacked him on the forehead. Then he started the engine with more force than necessary, the assault vehicle rumbling to life beneath them.
"When the hell did you come up with this brilliant idea?"
"That goes back to not too long ago... You remember that firefight under Wayne Tower, right?"
"Yeah... ah, fuck!"
Marco yanked the steering wheel, narrowly avoiding a pickup truck that had blown through a red light going at least eighty.
"What about Wayne Tower?"
"That night, I realized something." Darnell gestured dramatically. "This vehicle took more rounds than I could count, and the interior?" He slapped the dashboard. "Not a single scratch. That was when I knew it was time to restart the Mobile Kitchen Initiative."
Marco stared at him, trying to determine whether he was serious. "The 'initiative' is just me cooking, isn't it?"
"Details." Darnell waved a hand dismissively. "Besides, you're Italian. Cooking pasta is in your blood or whatever. And honestly, we should drive this thing down to the Bowery and set up shop. With protection like this, we would make a fortune."
Marco chose not to respond.
---
Marco parked the assault vehicle at an angle beneath a half-dead oak tree on the slope overlooking Grant Park. From here, they could see most of the park without being too conspicuous, though a bulletproof police vehicle with a kitchen setup in the back wasn't exactly subtle.
Darnell hooked up the portable burner to the vehicle's auxiliary power. Soon, steam filled the air and the smell of garlic and olive oil started wafting through the park.
Marco chopped garlic, diced pancetta, grated parmesan, and set a pot of heavily salted water to boil.
Darnell stood nearby, watching him work. "Man, you're like those cooking show guys. Except, you know. Armed."
"Stop talking and hand me the eggs."
Within fifteen minutes, Marco plated two servings of pasta carbonara. It was proper carbonara, not the cream-soaked imitation most American restaurants passed off as authentic. He used only eggs, cheese, black pepper, and crisp pancetta, tossing everything with the hot pasta until the residual heat transformed it into a smooth, glossy sauce.
Steam rose from the plates, carrying the rich aroma of cheese and rendered fat.
Slurp.
Darnell wound pasta around his fork and took a bite. His eyes went wide.
"Oh, damn. That's... yeah. Okay. You're cooking from now on."
Marco smiled and dug into his own plate. For a few minutes, they ate in silence, leaning against the hood of the vehicle.
"Hey, Frank!" Darnell called out, carrying his half-finished plate toward a nearby food cart. "Trade you for two hot dogs. Extra relish and mustard."
The vendor looked up. He was a man with a thick beard and a grease-stained apron. His eyes flicked from the pasta to his own grill, where hot dogs hissed and sputtered.
He swallowed.
"Deal, officer. That smells a hell of a lot better than what I've got."
They stood there eating, Darnell finishing his hot dogs, Marco working through his pasta and picking at the hot dog Frank had given him. The afternoon sun was trying to break through Gotham's cloud cover and failing miserably.
"I still think you should've added cream," Darnell said around a mouthful of hot dog.
"That's not carbonara. That's bastardized American bullshit."
"Tomato, tomato."
"It's really not."
Darnell was about to respond when something caught his attention deeper in the park. He stood up, still holding his hot dog, and pointed.
"Hey. What's that?"
Near a small, sad-looking fountain surrounded by dead leaves and graffiti, a tall, painfully thin man in an ill-fitting purple suit stood on a rickety wooden crate. He had a battery-powered speaker at his feet and a microphone in his hand, and he was performing standup comedy for an audience that didn't exist.
"...so I told her, 'Honey, my paycheck is like Gotham's sunny days, shows up twice a month and disappears before you can enjoy it!'" The man forced out a laugh. "Hahaha...?"
Silence.
A couple walking past slowed down, drawn by the man's bright purple suit, listened for maybe ten seconds, then hurried away.
The comedian plowed ahead anyway.
"My wife asked me why I'm always so optimistic. I said, 'Because in Gotham, if you're not optimistic, your only option is finding a roommate in Arkham Asylum!'"
More silence.
Marco and Darnell ate, watching blankly.
"That's terrible," Darnell said, gesturing with his hot dog. "I'd rather listen to the chief's annual budget presentation. At least that puts you to sleep instead of making you cringe."
"Yeah," Marco agreed, setting down his fork. "His timing's all wrong. He's rushing the setup and killing his own punchlines. And the material's stale, those are jokes people have been making about Gotham since the '80s."
They kept watching as the man's forced smile slowly crumbled. After what might have been his tenth failed attempt, he finally gave up. The smile died completely. He switched off his speaker, packed up his props, and shuffled away from his stage.
He wandered aimlessly for a bit until the smell of hot dogs pulled him to a stop in front of Frank's cart.
Marco watched him pat his pockets, pull out a handful of loose change, and count it over and over in his palm. Each count seemed to depress him more.
"How much for a hot dog?" the man asked, his voice hoarse.
"Three-fifty, pal," Frank said without looking up, wiping down his griddle.
The man stared at the coins in his hand. His lips moved slightly. Finally, he put the change back in his pocket and turned to leave, shoulders sagging even further.
Marco made a decision.
"Hey!"
The man turned back, and spotted Marco and Darnell leaning against the assault vehicle.
"You hungry?"
The man blinked. "What?"
Marco walked back to the vehicle, grabbed a clean plate, and loaded it with a generous portion of leftover pasta. He added extra pancetta, a heavy dusting of parmesan, and a crack of fresh black pepper. Then he walked over and held it out.
"Try this."
The man stared at the steaming pasta. His throat worked. His eyes filled with disbelief and a trace of suspicion.
"Go on," Marco said, pressing the plate into his hands. He pulled a plastic fork from his pocket and handed that over too. "You know how to twirl pasta, right?"
Hunger won. The man took the plate and fork, wound up a bite, and started eating. After a few mouthfuls, some color returned to his face.
"Thank you," he said thickly, eyes getting a little wet. "I'm Jack. Jack Napier. I haven't eaten since yesterday morning."
"Marco Vitale. That's Darnell Wilson." Marco gestured to his friend. "We're out of East End and saw your act earlier. You seemed committed."
At the mention of his performance, the fragile light in Jack's eyes guttered out.
"Yeah. My act..." He kept eating, but slower now, like the food had reminded him of everything he'd lost.
"I used to be an assistant engineer at ACE Chemicals," he said quietly, staring down at the pasta. "The pay was decent. The benefits were solid. It was stable. But I hated it. Every day was exactly the same. I spent my time mixing compounds, checking safety protocols, and going home to watch television. Then the next day, I would do it all over again." He looked up, meeting Marco's eyes. "I thought I could make people laugh. I really thought maybe I had something more to offer the world than just keeping systems running."
He stabbed at the pasta with his fork.
"So I quit. I walked away from everything. I burned through my savings chasing that dream. But nobody thinks I'm funny. The money is gone. I cannot even support my wife anymore."
"Real talk?" Darnell shook his head. "That bit about paychecks and sunny days? I've heard that joke carved on tombstones. You're working with dead material. Maybe you should try something else. Stand-up's not for everybody."
Marco shot Darnell a look.
"I don't think your problem is the dream. It's your approach. You're trying to copy what you've seen on TV. But you're just doing an impression of comedy instead of being funny."
Jack's face fell even further, if that was possible.
"Your timing's off," Marco continued. "You're rushing through your setups because you're nervous, and you're telegraphing your punchlines before you deliver them. And the material... It's surface-level stuff and generic observations anyone could make. You need to dig deeper and find your own voice."
Jack set down his fork, staring at the half-finished plate.
"So you're saying I should quit too."
"No." Marco pulled a business card from his wallet, flipped it over, and wrote an address and a name on the back. Then he held it out. "I'm saying you need better training."
Jack took the card, frowning at it.
"If you still want to try, go to this address in Little Italy. Look for Sal Giordano. He runs a community center there. He was my landlord when I first moved to Gotham. They hold an open mic night every week, where mostly local comedians perform. Most of them are amateurs trying out new material. It isn't glamorous, but it's honest. The audience won't lie to you. They'll tell you when you aren't funny. Tell him I sent you. He won't pay you, but if you're willing to help set up chairs and clean up after shows, he'll feed you. Your wife too, if she wants to come."
Jack stared at the card.
"They'd really let me join?"
Marco smiled slightly. "I still owe Sal four months' back rent from when I first made patrol officer. If he doesn't do me this favor, he's never seeing that money. So yeah. He'll let you join."
Jack's hand trembled as he gripped the card tighter.
"I'll go. I'll try. Thank you, officer."
"Don't thank me yet." Marco grabbed two more hot dogs from Frank and a bottle of Coke, then shoved them into Jack's hands. "This business isn't easy. Maybe you'll figure it out. Maybe you won't. But at least you'll know you gave it a real shot."
He met Jack's eyes, making sure the man was listening.
"Comedy isn't about making yourself feel good onstage. It's not about ego or validation or proving you're clever. Sometimes it's about reminding yourself, and everyone watching, that even when life is as shitty as Gotham's weather..."
He tapped the business card still clutched in Jack's hand.
"...you can still find something worth smiling about. You understand?"
Jack stared at him for a long moment. He didn't say anything else. He just nodded, then turned and walked away. He disappeared into the lengthening shadows at the far end of the park.
Darnell finished the last of his hot dog, wiped his mouth, and looked at Marco.
"You think he'll make it?"
Marco watched the spot where Jack had vanished.
"I don't know," he said quietly. "But we shouldn't laugh at people who have dreams. No matter how stupid those dreams look from the outside."
He picked up the remaining half of his hot dog and took a bite. The mustard had gone sharp and bitter, and the bun was slightly soggy.
"Goddammit. Hot dog turned into a cold dog."
Darnell snorted. "That's terrible. You should stick to cooking and leave the jokes to professionals."
"Yeah, well. At least I know when to quit."
They climbed back into the assault vehicle. Marco started the engine, and they rolled out of Grant Park.