The images flickered in black and white: images of a man fighting for justice
and wearing a mask. The man battled evil on behalf of the weak and innocent, all
the while hiding behind a false persona. But there were differences. The mask
was not a full cowl. It was little more than a strip of leather, bound in the
back with holes around the eyes, and topped with a wide-brimmed hat. This man’s
tools were a razor-sharp rapier and a wit to match. He had a style, a flourish,
a certain panache as he battled seemingly insurmountable odds and yet was never
defeated—indeed, he seemed somehow predestined to triumph. When the man had
finally saved the day, he blurred and faded into darkness as two words glared
into being where he had stood: THE END, it said in harsh, brilliant white
against a pool of endless blackness.
Instinctively, Bruce knew the words lied. It wasn’t the end at all; it was the
beginning.
He stood from his seat and somehow saw his own
heel step on a torn ticket stub as he walked out of the theater. The foot
seemed strange, too small…
He should not be able to see that. Some deep recess of his consciousness
realized this was a dream.
Outside the theatre, as he stepped onto the sidewalk, his instincts took
over. Someone was behind him, following, tracking him. He listened intently to
the footsteps, trying to single them out amidst all the other sounds on the busy
sidewalk. He continued walking, taking care to give no sign that he knew he was
being followed, but at the same time, increasing his speed very subtly. The
footsteps grew faster as well, matching his speed. He now noticed not one, but
two distinct sets of
footsteps in synch with his own. He spotted an alley up ahead: a relatively safe
place to make a stand. He quickened his pace again, his pursuers matching suit,
and rounded the corner of the building, spinning quickly to face his would-be
assailants. He was frozen, staring up at two towering figures looming over him
and casting large shadows caused by the streetlamp behind them. He heard the
distant sound of a child crying out in joy. “Mommy! Daddy!” Against his will,
his hands lifted in the direction of the two figures. Each of them reached out
with a giant hand and grasped his. Suddenly, all anxiety was gone. All the
anger, all the tension, all the fear washed away. Bruce was… happy. They
walked hand in hand down the alley, the small boy and his two giant—There was a
scream, a muffled, distant scream. Someone, somewhere was in trouble, and from
the sound of the shriek, that someone was female. Bruce tried to pinpoint the
location of the scream, wanting desperately to find that screaming woman and
help her in this time of need, but—
Something was wrong.
It was too soon. The scream wasn’t supposed to come yet.
A third giant was supposed to enter the alley, then there
should be a flash and a strange, muffled pop. One of the large hands would
spasm and slip away.
But this scream was too early. It was a harmonic step
lower than his mother’s—and it was shorter.
He should turn first, after the flash and the pop, the one
giant would fall away and he would turn to the other as the ground trembled ever
so slightly under his feet, and little smooth spheres of ivory white would dance
before his eyes.
With a detached clarity, he noted that his eardrums were
ringing, which was an actual physical response, which meant there had been a
real, audible sound—
It was supposed to be later. After the pearls fell, he
would—
Bruce shot up in bed, panic gripping his chest. He gasped
for air, finally gaining his bearings:
bedroom-bed-Selina-window-sunlight-table-tray-newspaper. Selina clutching the
newspaper like a baton of death.
“What’s wrong?” he asked in an unexpectedly deep bat-voice.
She opened her mouth to speak, then reconsidered and closed
it. She repeated the move, gesturing with the newspaper death-baton but again
reconsidered.
Bruce gestured for her to hand him the paper, although he
was beginning to guess what new disaster it might announce. Rather than handing
it over, Selina found her tongue.
“Tell me again why we don’t kill people,” she said
tersely. “And it has to be something better than ‘against the law.’”
“Because it’s wrong to take life if you can’t create it,”
Bruce said sincerely—and then realized if the headline under her fist said
what he feared, that was exactly the wrong thing to say.
“Pffft, my lucky day,” she announced, tossing him the
paper. “Seeing as I’m about to start spitting out new people like a PEZ
dispenser, I get to take a few out. Needless to say, I’ll be starting with that
guy,” she added, pointing to the byline.
By now, Bruce had skimmed the headline and the first
paragraph of the story. He grunted, more at it than Selina’s statement. It was
just as he feared. The dictaphone mishap with Mrs. Ashton-Larraby
certainly hadn’t gone unnoticed, but he’d hoped—against Batman’s better
judgment—that Hermione’s coy hints about impending nuptials did not proceed from
a conversation with her. Batman’s strategic mind berated him for failing
to face up to a truth he just didn’t want to acknowledge. Of course Gladys
would be talking to “Hermoine” about the party, she would be courting the
columnist every way she could think of to get optimal coverage in his
prestigious column. And of course, Gladys being who she was, she would
“let it slip” about that snatch of conversation she’d heard on the dictaphone.
“Then again, if I kill that one,” Selina was saying,
“there’ll just be a new one replacing him and we’ll have to start all over
again. This lot, we’ve done whore and mother, we’re running out
of complexes where women are concerned—not that I’d put it past that bunch to
break new ground. How does idiocy like this even get started?”
Bruce averted his eyes, pretending to read the article. It
was just as he feared. He knew she would relent once her anger had spiked. She
wasn’t a killer after all. And now, mere seconds after the initial
claw-sharpening outburst, she was wondering aloud “how it started.” Bruce
decided the best course of action was to divert her attention entirely.
“’We always wondered what would happen if someone used
to costumed adventure found herself pregnant!’” Selina quoted from the page
just as Bruce happened to skim the words. “Now if that isn’t the stupidest
sentence printed since the advent of written language, I’d like to know what
is. First, while I’ve never had the dubious pleasure, I’m pretty sure the whole
process starts with peeing on a stick, not second-coming type in some trashy
tabloid. ONLY the Gotham Post could come up with something less dignified than
peeing on a stick. But there it is. A bunch of men sitting around wondering
‘what would happen if someone used to costumed adventure found herself
pregnant.’ You know I’m not a doctor or anything, but I’m going to guess
nausea, cravings, hormones, swollen feet, backaches, then at some point, a whole
lot of pushing. What the hell is there to ‘wonder’ about?”
Just how he could divert her attention from a paper
she despised declaring her pregnant “in second coming type,” that was a riddle
he doubted even Nigma could solve.
“Oh, and get this” she fumed, “did you see that cutesy part
implying you might not be the father, right after they say they’re going to
treat this seriously ‘and not as some cheap stunt.’ Explain that one!”
A riddle. Nigma. That might be the way to do it.
“Can I talk now?” Bruce
interjected, timing the question perfectly to complete just as she was pausing
for breath, so he could take her momentary silence as consent.
“Remember those phone calls from Nigma and Joker?” Bruce
went on calmly. “It had to lead to something like this eventually.”
“Screw Eddie, I’m pregnant in the Gotham Post,” she
hissed.
“How many Rogues have made quick, much-needed seed money
for a caper by selling a juicy tidbit to the Post? Not Riddler or Joker,
certainly, but if they thought it, the whole ‘Berg must have the story by
now.”
“I think it’s more the groupies and waitresses than real
players that sell to the Post,” she pointed out.
That was progress, Bruce thought. It was responsive, it
was rational and, most importantly, it had nothing to do with him, the
fundraiser, or the dictaphone.
“Point is, it’s the Gotham Post, Selina. Hopes for the new
ownership aside, this kind of inanity is exactly what the Gotham Post
does.”
“No, Bruce, they do Lex Luthor resigning the presidency by
flying around in a Mardi Gras Tylenol capsule and Black Canary having a thing
for Ra’s al Ghul. This is different. This takes it to a whole new level.” she
paused and her legs pressed together in a shuddering spasm of disgust. “This is
just ew.”
“Selina, according to the Post, Spoiler had a child, Ivy’s
had a child, Lois has had several. Hell, as far as the tabloids are concerned,
I’ve fathered at least half a dozen, most of them with women I have never met.
This is nothing new.”
She picked the newspaper up from the bedspread and held it
up.
“Did any of yours get a headline this big?” she asked, the
white-hot anger giving way to numb resignation.
“At least three,” he grunted.
Reluctantly, she smiled at that.
“The others weren’t as photogenic,” Bruce added, pushing
his advantage.
Her smile widened.
“Clark never made it higher than page 9,” he said.
This brought on a mild giggle— which then snapped back into
simmering fury.
“If I find out he had anything to do with this,” she began
heatedly.
Bruce laughed, flat out laughed. Another time, Selina may
have noted the incongruity and guessed something was amiss. But for now she
felt it necessary to complete her threat:
“I’m not kidding, I have a little bead of kryptonite, you
know. It’s… well, it’s buried in one of the hell-mouth closets, but I have it.”
Bruce continued to smirk.
“You’re adorable when you get all worked up like this, you
know that?” he concluded, kissing her cheek.
“It was a gift, from Felix Faust, during that whole ‘my
wife doesn’t understand me’ era.”
“C’mon. I need a shower and something tells me you’ll want
one now too,” Bruce declared—knowing ‘come and play’ was the ultimate
kitten-protocol.
She smiled, intrigued.
“Well aren’t you frisky today. Lucky your shower is big
enough to host a cocktail party…”
Dick stepped out of the shower—only to be hit in the face
by a wet washcloth.
“Is there anyone, anywhere that doesn’t know about your
thing for redheads?” Barbara asked angrily.
Dick blinked away shock and the droplets of water clinging
to his eyelashes, and he focused on the newspaper in Barbara’s lap.
“Catwoman’s pregnant,” he chortled. “God, she’ll kill them. She’ll flat out kill them. She’s got it in her, you know. That thing with the
whip is vicious and—”
“DICKIE!” Barbara cut in sharply. “It’s not that. Turn
the page.”
And with that, she threw the paper at him and wheeled out
of the bathroom.
Dick juggled the newspaper and towel, hoping to dry off at
least his hands before handling the newsprint. He only succeeded in smudging
his fingers, wrists, forearms—and a monogrammed hand towel—with streaked
blotches of blackish gray. Accepting defeat, he turned the page and skimmed
quickly… He was… allegedly photographed (if you could call those grainy smudges
photographs) with a very hot, unknown redhead. He followed Barbara, more
confused than ever.
“Babs, what gives?” he cried catching up to her in the
kitchen. “I mean, okay, this part about going into hotels is kinda smarmy, but
it’s not like we haven’t seen crap like this before.”
She sighed.
“With Nightwing, yes. Nightwing, they just love pairing up
with anything that breathes. But this is different. It’s Dick Grayson and—”
“With ‘Catwoman pregnant’ on the cover, Babs, I doubt
anybody will even see this story.”
“Guess again,” his wife announced, snapping into the crisp
detachment of the OraCom voice. “Four redheaded golddiggers have already
contacted the Post saying they’re the woman in the photos.”
“Oh.”
“Do you know how embarrassing this is for me?”
“For me too, Barbara. With the party tonight, Bruce’ll be
in Fop-mode and everyone will say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Or the condom wrapper doesn’t fall far from the bed.”
“What?!” Dick exclaimed.
“What do you want, Dickie, I haven’t got the rapier wit
right now. I haven’t had juice and coffee yet and I got hit with ‘the Wayne
heir spotted going into the Hudson at a late hour with a stunning redhead not
his wife.’ And what’s worse, that redhead they can’t identify is Poison Ivy.”
“No, it can’t be,” Dick said, looking at the paper again.
“It is. I pulled the originals from the Post mainframe and
ran it through a dozen graphic enhancement filters. It’s Ivy.”
“That’s a lot of trouble to go through ‘before juice and
coffee,’” Dick noted shrewdly. “Were you trying to clarify the details on her—or me? The not-me-blur, that is.”
Barbara took off her glasses and polished them with the
injured dignity of a prim librarian asked to find a racy bodice-ripper.
Realizing that was the only response he was going to get, Dick cleared his
throat.
“Well, then” he said, resignedly. “If it were any other
Wayne event, I’d blow off the party tonight. But you know I can’t. With that
Gotham After Dark theme, it’s sure to be a target. Bruce and the others will
need all the help they can get. You could give it a miss if you wanted.”
“Dick, if you go, I have to go. Otherwise, it will look
like we fought over this.”
“We DID fight over this,” he pointed out.
“This isn’t a fight,” Barbara maintained.
“You hit me with a towel.”
“Not hard.”
“It was wet,” Dick complained.
“You were wet yourself, you just stepped out of the
shower.”
“Exactly, and you ambushed me with a wet towel.”
They both stopped, locked eyes, and as if by mutual
agreement, laughed in sync.
“I love you, Dickie,” Barbara smiled.
“And I’m making breakfast,” Dick said, correctly decoding
her statement.
“French toast, please,” she said sweetly. “But maybe splash
off first, inky-face. You look like you just wrestled an octopus.”
Bruce watched transfixed as Selina primped in the
mirror. As a world-class playboy, he knew that any woman dressed for a
black-tie event should be complimented on her appearance. Yet as Selina came
out of the little dressing room off the master bedroom, he couldn’t quite find
the words. It wasn’t simply that she looked stunning in the red Dior, or that
he hadn’t seen the dress since her tussle with Catman sliced up the skirt at the MoMA opening. It was the contrast. That night, they couldn’t dress in the same
room. Batman and Catwoman had such a history at that museum. There was too
much baggage, too many associations. But now, she slipped past him on her way
to her vanity as if it were nothing. The ease and familiarity of it was…
refreshing.
“I thought I’d wear the pink sapphire tonight,” she said
casually.
“I figured,” he answered, the subtlest tickle at the corner
of his lip.
In the mirror, Selina’s eyes danced as her lips curled into
a naughty grin.
“You changed the combination?” she asked playfully.
“Of course.”
“Meow,” she said, heading for the safe.
Bruce tied his tie, fastened his cufflinks, and waited. It
wouldn’t take her long to crack—or possibly guess—the new combination. He
allowed his lip to twitch unrestrainedly when he heard a light, musical laugh
sound from the outer room. She’d cracked it, as expected, and now she glided up
to him, Catwoman’s most seductive sway tilting her hips this way and that, and
the sapphire glittering on her finger.
“Our anniversary,” she said, beaming. “The new combination
is our anniversary, that was a very nice touch.”
“You consider it our anniversary,” he graveled. For
reasons he could never fathom, she didn’t acknowledge anything that happened
before Cartier’s rooftop, even though it was 10 weeks and 7 encounters after
their first meeting on top of the train station.
Bruce watched her now, thinking of that night fighting the
mysterious new cat burglar, thinking of how much had changed… Through the
mirror, Selina saw his expression as he watched her, although she misinterpreted
it.
“We could always stay home,” she suggested. It was that
sultry Catwoman voice she always used to tempt him, and her fingertip danced
lightly along his shirt studs, as if she were tracing the non-existent bat
symbol.
“No,” he answered—another eerie echo of that earlier
time. “We needn’t stay long, but we do have to go and go early. It’s an old
tactic of mine. If you arrive late, there’s chatter all night: ‘When will Bruce
Wayne arrive?’ All people remember the next day is the impression that I wasn’t
there. Go early, however briefly, then the opposite occurs. Hostesses like
Gladys hate latecomers. She’ll use it as a pickling rod. ‘Oh what a shame you
didn’t get here sooner, Bruce was just here and now you’ve missed him,’ etc. It
cements in their minds that I was there, rather than emphasizing the
opposite.”
She paused, staring at him curiously for a moment. “You
have a Gladys protocol,” she smiled adoringly.
You have no idea, Bruce thought, his mind running
through a catalogue of options to cover his own culpability in the
Post-pregnancy matter.
Selina expected at least a lip-twitch, but there was
something strangely familiar about that flash in his eye; something unbelievably
Bat-ish in his expression. What was he…
But before she could explore it any further, he finished
adjusting his cufflinks, turned to her, looked her up and down once and took a
deep breath.
“Exquisite,” he rumbled, his eyes meeting hers.
“Me-ow.”
Claudia Reislweller-Muffington did not watch television, so
she could never understand the snobbery (that was really the only word for it)
she heard from people discussing “reality TV.” She asked Bob Wright one evening
at an AIDS benefit, Ted Turner at a dinner for Muscular Dystrophy, and Michael
Eisner at a fundraiser to battle Childhood Lymphoma. The heads of most major
networks had tried to explain it at galas for most major diseases, but to
Claudia it simply made no sense. Surely if you watched television, you watched
television. What possible difference could it make if it was the show with the E.R. doctors and that funny Mr. Clooney who went to all the political
fundraisers, or the one where they voted each other off the island?
Claudia was born and raised among snobs. She was one
herself by the standards of all these people who thought watching Mr. Clooney
made them better than people watching the island. It really made no sense at
all. Claudia mentioned this to Michael Kors, her favorite designer, as he
adapted the signature black-georgette halter from his 2005 collection to
accommodate her new boob job. She liked Michael simply because with him you
could call it a boob job and didn’t have speak in code about “vacationing in
Thailand,” as if the very act of sightseeing in Bangkok changed the way your
clothes fit. So she was unusually relaxed that day, chattering away about her
new pet puzzle: reality television. She was astonished to learn that Michael
himself was a judge for one of these shows. He told her it was a fashion
competition that gave aspiring designers the most outrageous challenges. They
might have to make an outfit from materials bought in a convenience store or, in
one case, at the flower market!
Claudia was struck, for only that morning she’d received an
invitation to this Gotham After Dark costume party, and here was Michael telling
her of a brilliant young designer from this television show who could make a
dress from flowers and leaves. While Claudia had no chemical abilities like the
famed Poison Ivy, she put her considerable human charms to work to persuade
Michael to tell no one else about this fabulous resource. She had called the
designer that very afternoon. And now, a scant three hours before the party,
she received her dress as promised in a special refrigerated case.
Bruce and Selina reached the Robinson Plaza Hotel before
the red carpet was rolled into place and long before any other guests had
arrived or any paparazzi swarmed at the entrance to snap pictures of the
arrivals. It was all just as Bruce had planned—until they stepped into the
grand ballroom and heard the distinctive jangling of Harley Quinn tassels.
Selina stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the incongruous image: the
Harlequin-from-hell pointing this way and that, directing the hotel staff
through the final stages of the setup. Selina’s grip tightened reflexively on
Bruce’s arm.
“Easy,” he whispered reassuringly. “We knew it was going
to be like this.”
“Yes, but knowing it and seeing it are two entirely
different things,” she replied.
He grunted. The fact was he agreed. The image of
Harley Ashton-Larraby wasn’t something you could really prepare for until
you saw it with your own eyes.
“Brucie! You’re early,” she cried out joyously. “Too good
of you to come so early. One less thing for me to worry about; you’re such a
considerate boy.”
Bruce smiled automatically, the same glib smile with which
he’d answered that kind of greeting since he was 17, but it had never produced
the strain it did now, stretching around his jaw, down his neck and into his
spine. That Ashton every-vowel-a-diphthong society drawl coming from under
Harley Quinn’s jester hat, mask and make-up—much as Bruce had thought himself
prepared, he began to think he’d underestimated the mind-bending challenges of
the evening to come.
“And Selina, my dear one!” Harley/Gladys went on. “I see
you had the Dior let out. So seamless, why you can barely tell. Of course, I
see now why Brucie was so reluctant to come in costume…”
A hot flush of nauseous disbelief heaved in Bruce’s
insides. It was like he’d gone into a criminal lair expecting to confront Hugo
Strange and found Darkseid waiting instead.
“…I simply couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t agree to
come as Batman when it was such an obvious choice for you both. But now, of
course, it’s all clear. You’ve begun to show, haven’t you dear; that catsuit,
such a lovely shade of purple, must be very unforgiving. And I, of all people,
should have realized…”
Darkseid and Joker. It was like he’d gone in expecting
Hugo Strange and found Darkseid and Joker.
“…Heavens, it was weeks ago that Bruce let it slip
about your little secret. Remember, Brucie darling, your clumsy little oops
with that little recorder thingy?”
Darkseid, Joker, and Mxyzptlk.
Selina turned, and Bruce saw that Darkseid, Joker, and
Mxyzptlk currently had astonishingly green eyes. Astonishingly pissed green
eyes—whose angry glare, combined with an indescribable series of pokes, tugs,
and yanks, brought them to the relative privacy of a side alcove.
“Clumsy little oops with the ‘little recorder thingy?’”
Selina hissed. “I should have pushed you off that Anderson balcony when I had
the chance. And you tried to blame Joker and Eddie and Iceberg groupies
for this mess when all the time you’re the one that started it with some ‘clumsy
little oops’ with the dictaphone? How the hell did you—never mind, you can tell
me on the way home. We’re getting changed and we’re coming back IN COSTUME.”
“No,” he snapped savagely. “Absolutely not.”
He had been wrong that morning. It was worse than he’d
feared—much worse. He’d been done in by Gladys Quinn, and she had him in a
snare worse than anything Darkseid, Joker and Mxyzptlk could have come up with.
Nevertheless, he was not, under any circumstances, going to appear at this party
in a batsuit of any kind.
“This is not a conversation, Bruce. The only way I can
keep that ridiculous woman from going around all night saying I’m in the Dior
because I’m showing too much for the catsuit is to be STANDING 10 feet
away IN the catsuit.”
“No,” Bruce repeated. “You want to go home and change,
that’s fine. But I am not… I repeat, NOT… going to show up in anything that
resembles the suit in any way shape or form.”
“Weren’t you listening back
there: Now she
understands why you wouldn’t come as Batman. You-not-Batman equals
me-knocked-up. And we are not—I repeat, NOT—going to give her an opening to
talk all night about how you were so reluctant to come in costume because you
figured I’d be showing by now.”
“Not a chance. Look, I’ll fix this. I’ll talk her out of
this crazy—”
“That’s what got us into this in the first place.
Bruce, look, you did this. I don’t know how and I can’t imagine why, but YOU
DID THIS. Talking to her is the one thing you’re absolutely not going to
try again…”
It occurred to Bruce that she was right about one thing—he really couldn’t talk to Gladys again. He couldn’t afford to split his focus,
for one thing. Riddler, Ivy, Hatter and Scarecrow were all free. The party
(quite apart from being a high society function crammed to the rafters with big
money and bigger jewels) was an event one didn’t have to squint hard to see as a
bunch of overfed, overprivileged assholes poking fun at the rogues of Gotham.
That at least one of them would strike back was a foregone conclusion.
Complicating that already impossible situation, Bruce strongly suspected that
half of those ‘normal’ guests who were coming hoped something would
happen and so add a little excitement to their lives.
Before the first bottle of champagne was opened—hell,
before the first invitation had been printed—Bruce knew this night would
demand his full concentration. He’d have to play the foppish dilettante while
constantly having eyes in the back of his head, maintain a conspicuously loutish
exterior while keeping Batman’s acutest senses on high alert. Even on his best
nights, that balancing act took a superhuman focus. It required his full
concentration—and he simply couldn’t do that if Selina was going to be this
pissed at him all night long. He knew telling her to go home was pointless.
She wouldn’t, for one thing, and merely suggesting it would stir her up more…
Plus… the harsh reality was… she wasn’t Darkseid, Joker or
Mxyzptlk the way a man might, figuratively, in a moment of wild unimaginable
disaster, imagine his inconveniently-mad-at-him girlfriend as Darkseid, Joker,
or Mxyzptlk. She was Catwoman. She was really Catwoman. She was
literally Catwoman. And she had a look in her eye he had seen before. The
truth was, deep down, as much as he knew her and knew about her, he honestly
didn’t know what she might be capable of in her current state.
He knew he had to calm her enough for her to accept his
doing whatever he needed to without any kind of interruption, no matter how
small or insignificant an interruption she might think it is. He desperately
wanted to do that without having to wear a batsuit. But then–
He nodded. It wasn’t anything Selina was saying, it was
what he saw behind her in the main ballroom that made him agree. He saw Harley
Quinn talking to a tall, thin waiter. The waiter wasn’t especially pale, nor
did he have green hair or wear purple pinstripe. But he was pointing something
out to “Harley” and, for just a fraction of an instant, the spatial relationships
were such that something in Bruce’s perception saw Joker. That’s all it
took. That’s all it would take…
Bruce thought hard on the implications: It wasn’t seeing
Gladys dressed up as Harley that made him flash on Joker; it was seeing the way
Gladys and the waiter were interacting that cued his brain. That is all
it would take, a split-second’s association to start someone thinking.
Selina was going to change into Catwoman—literally, not
merely change her outfit for a party, he knew that now. She would be at a full cat burglar,
four-months-of-prep-just-went-down-the-tubes-thanks-to-the-jackass-in-a-cape
level of annoyance. It was a mood he’d seen many times on many rooftops. And
worse, a mood many Rogues had seen her in. And they all knew the cause was
Batman. He began to see that the danger of attending the party in a batsuit
paled in comparison to getting through the party with Catwoman in that
particular frame of mind. Catwoman mad at him in a room full of rogue set
dressing, it was enough to set anyone’s mind down the wrong path. Whereas if he
agreed, not only would her anger be tempered, he would have the camouflage of
being ridiculous. As was so often the case in his particular ‘line of work,’ it
all came down to hedging his bets: The image of Bruce Wayne wearing a laughable
parody of a batsuit was far safer than the image of Catwoman glaring at Bruce
Wayne in the dullest dinner jacket if she was glaring like he was a judgmental
jackass she should have pushed off the Anderson balcony when she had the chance…
If she was glaring at him like Catwoman glared at Batman.
“It’ll take some time to put something workable together,”
he murmured, more to himself than to her.
In reply, she took his hand and lifted it to show him the
face of his own wristwatch.
“You’ve got two hours.”
He grunted, then lifted his wrist further to speak into the
hidden microphone in the cufflink.
“Alfred, bring the car around.”
It had been horribly uncomfortable getting into the icy
mesh bustier, but Claudia Reislweller-Muffington felt her efforts well rewarded
as every head turned when she entered the ballroom. The whispers about her fern
and orchid evening gown built as she moved through the receiving line, and
finally crescendoed when a Joker, a Riddler, and a Penguin all collided with
each other at the edge of the dance floor in their haste to ask her to dance.
She smiled regally. Perhaps whatever jungle spirits
empowered the real Poison Ivy approved of costumed dress up and had favored
Claudia with a touch of their magic. Or perhaps her “Thailand tuck,” as it was
called by those in the know, was worth every penny she’d paid. In any case, she
smiled and considered her options. She recognized Joker by his leer…
“Randolph darling, don’t you look frightening. Do give
Gladys my best and tell her I’ll be over to chat just as soon as I’m free.”
Randolph Larraby slunk away and Claudia/Ivy turned her
attention to the Riddler and Penguin… Julian Fitzwallace, a nice enough man but
not a joy to dance with unless you enjoyed the smell of Montecristo cigars… and
Martin Stanwick, a nice enough man as long as you didn’t ask how his novel was
coming along. She opted to dance with Martin.
As the couple moved to the dance floor, Edward Nigma, the
one true Riddler, had never felt such a glow of triumph as that of entering the
Robinson Plaza ballroom. He had remained undetected in Gotham City for a full
month to reach this night. He had remained free to dust off his bowler hat, his
favorite cane, and break in the new pair of fuchsia kid gloves which Kittlemeier
sent over just before Eddie was obliged to disappear. The color made him think
of Selina… She would enjoy his triumph, Eddie was certain. Wayne would be
furious, and she was sure to find that entertaining. The idea of parading his
victory over Batman in front of Selina was strangely exhilarating, it would
sweeten an already sweet—the thought froze as Nigma realized he’d just smiled
and nodded his way to the end of the receiving line and no Bruce Wayne or Selina
had met his gaze.
“Is something wrong?” the woman behind him asked. Eddie
turned back to see who had spoken. It was the woman at the end of the line, the
last one he’d shaken hands with… the plump, middle-aged Harley Quinn.
“Wayne, Bruce Wayne,” he answered without realizing.
“Isn’t he here? Surely he must be here, for what is a Wayne fundraiser without
Bruce Wayne?”
“Yes I agree,” the woman muttered under her breath. Then
she put on one of those forced party smiles—which seemed strangely appropriate
on Harley’s face. “Brucie had to step out,” she explained graciously. “I am
assured that he and that darling Selina will be back just as soon as they can.”
“What did you call him?” Eddie asked, amazed.
“Brucie,” Harley answered warmly. “To those of us who
consider him among our dearest friends, it’s always been Brucie.”
Nigma blinked, his face frozen into a mask of shock as
Joker’s mad nattering about his ‘good pal Brucie’ echoed in his memory. “Yes
quite,” Eddie said at last, producing his own version of the forced party smile.
He left this Harley—who he decided was quite as crazy as
the original, if not as perky—and began a slow, satisfied amble around the
ballroom. Halfway to the bar, he slowed as he spotted a Mad Hatter—or the
back of one—getting in line for a drink. Instinct jabbed him to turn on his
heel and walk ever so quickly (but casually) in the other direction, for he had
to avoid Jervis Tetch at all costs if he was to remain free. He squelched this
impulse, recognizing it for what it was, an empty echo. He had made it to the
party, and Jervis—wherever he was and whatever he was up to—was no longer a
threat. Batman had failed to find Nigma before the party, and now that he was
here, Jervis could call as much attention as he wanted to Riddler’s presence—
“Edward!” this same Mad Hatter called out, in perfect sync
with Eddie’s private thought as he reached the bar. “Why I haven’t seen you
since the opening at the MoMA—such a shame that uncouth ruffian The Catman
making such a shambles of the party, but so good to see you again.”
“Um,” Eddie mumbled, his mind racing for some kind of
response. He delighted in posing questions as a rule, and he had plenty of
questions to ask: “Who are you?” and “What the hell are you talking about?” to
name just a few. Unfortunately, while damn good questions (and questions
for which he would sincerely like to know the answers), they were pretty
rude as party patter while you waited in line for a drink.
“Catman,” Eddie said at last, latching onto the one word
that posed no riddle at all. “Uncouth. Yes indeed, terribly uncouth chap. Scratches the furniture, you know. Can’t take him anywhere.”
“Ha-ha, yes,” Hatter laughed as if this was a very funny
joke. “Quite in character, Edward old man. Good show. I suppose I should
say, eh, something about Alice and the March Hare in return—Oh, or I could
invite you to a mad tea party. You never did come out to my house in the
Hamptons.”
Mad Hatter shook his finger in a naughty-naughty gesture,
and Eddie nodded. Now he remembered. MoMA opening. House in the Hamptons.
Richard Flay. Just a few minutes before all hell broke loose and Eddie received
the worst bat-thrashing of his life, this Richard Flay had asked him out to the
Hamptons to ‘see his art collection.’
Eddie looked around for a way to escape… And found it as a
too-tall-for-the-role Penguin concluded his dance with a—whoa—a drop-dead
gorgeous Poison Ivy. The faux Oswald left this stunning creature (although
one couldn’t imagine WHY) with the crazier-than-she-knew Harley Quinn, and then
waddled up to join the men at the bar.
“Evening, Richard,” he quacked—too late for the name to
do Eddie any good so far as recognizing the Mad Hamptons Hatter, but perfectly
timed as an opening for him to pick up his drink and escape.
“Magnificent,” Martin/Penguin gasped appreciatively to his
companion as Ivy shrugged an impressive flutter of petals and leaves around her
chest.
“Certainly should be, considering what those titties cost,”
Hatter/Flay answered in the campy tone gay men use to praise flamboyant divas.
“But I don’t know if the garden dress will make it through the night…” Eddie
heard the conversation blur into the dull hum of a dozen others as he continued
his amble through the room.
“Clayface imitating Dick Grayson” reached his ears—and in
his peripheral vision he realized who they must be talking about: Dick Grayson
in the least imaginative “costume” of all time, Dick Grayson in a white dinner
jacket with brass buttons.
Eddie felt a tap on his shoulder and he winced, fearing
that Richard Flay had followed with more invitations to a Lewis Carroll Clambake—so he was delighted when he turned to see the face of a friend instead, albeit
a friend in the garb of an enemy:
“Evening, Harv, don’t you look spiff?” he said brightly.
“Nightwing, eh? You always were a ladies’ man.”
“Er, thanks,” Harvey Dent murmured. But before they could
begin to catch up, a paunchy Joker walked up like he and Harvey were old
roommates.
“Dent. Good to see you,” he began. “Gladys was so pleased
you accepted, lends just the right touch, she says. So, why aren’t you dressed
as you-know-who?”
“Claudia Reislweller-Muffington?” Barbara Gordon exclaimed,
a bit louder than the more refined ladies of the party would have permitted
themselves. “Dickie, you made that up,” she added, modulating her tone.
“Nobody could make that up,” Dick objected.
“Somebody had to,” Barbara laughed, “even if it was only
Mr. And Mrs. Rays-wemmermuff-whatever.”
“Yeah, well,” Dick hedged rather than correcting the name.
“She was in this dance class Alfred made me take when I first went to live at
the manor. We called her Muffy, she went to Vassar, I think she married some guy
in oil.”
“Hm, well you better steer clear of her all the same. That
costume is really good, and if anybody sees you together the penny might drop.
We definitely don’t want anybody to realize those pictures in the Post are
Poison Ivy.”
“Nobody in this room reads the Post, Babs,” Dick said
absently—then his eyes narrowed as he determined the orange and yellow blur at
the buffet was exactly what he thought it was.
“You’re supposed to be in hiding with BG,” he whispered
angrily. “Monitoring the situation and waiting to swing in as the first
response if something goes down.”
Robin turned with a grin and slathered a spoonful of
mustard onto his sandwich.
“Yeah, but it’s a costume party, Bro, no reason I can’t
sneak down for just a minute and get a sandwich is there? Besides, Cass said to
bring her a cookie.”
“If he saw you, Psychobat would go—well—psycho,” Dick
hissed.
“Yeah he would,” Robin agreed. “If he was here, but he’s
not. Why isn’t he, anyway?”
At the bar, two Scarecrows clinked glasses and sang how
they’d while away the hours conferrin’ with the flowers if they only had a
brain.
“Late or… late?” Tim asked carefully.
Dick turned in a slow, even burn.
“Don’t even go there,” he pronounced firmly.
Some distance away, just above the alcove where Selina had
dragged Bruce for that fevered tête-à-tête hours before, Batgirl monitored the
comings and goings from the ballroom. Naturally she paid close attention to
those not using the main entrance. There had been a parade of waiters,
bartenders, and bus boys at the service doors. They’d all carried themselves as
they should given the trays they held or the carts they pushed. The arrival of
the musicians had been problematic. Batgirl really had no idea of the relative
weights of a trumpet, trombone or saxophone, so she could tell nothing from the
way these men and women carried their music cases. So she had squirmed through
the vent and relocated to an observation point to watch them set up. Certainly
the musical instruments looked all right, but her training taught her
that meant nothing. The way these musicians handled their instruments, on the
other hand, was enough to convince her they were legitimate. They took them
from their cases the way the way sharpshooters assembled their guns, the way
samurai unsheathed their swords. These musicians didn’t merely earn their
living with those instruments, they cherished them.
Although her initial suspicions were allayed, Batgirl had
still returned to the observation point twice since the music started, just to
make sure everyone was playing. She found their choice of music dull—but on
the second trip, she did spot the cookies on the buffet and insisted that Tim
bring her one.
She saw Bruce and Selina’s
return. They had avoided the photographers at the hotel’s front entrance
and come in through a service door disguised as housekeeping employees.
Cassie spotted them at once and saw from their movements where their costumes
must be concealed. They disappeared in the direction of the rooms and
returned a few minutes later in… costume… kind of.
Catwoman was in costume but Bruce was… in a very strange outfit. With no
mask. And a shiny blue cape.
Under her own mask, Cassie bit her lip. Something must be
very wrong with Bruce for him to wear a shiny cape, no mask and a bright yellow
belt. She wasn’t sure what to do about it. There was no OraCom tonight. There
was no one to report this to or even anyone to ask. She decided to squirm
through the vents one last time and watch…
Just outside the ballroom door, Catwoman slid her arm
around Bruce’s—or, er, Batman’s or, well, BatFop’s—and then hurriedly looked
away.
“Don’t say it,” he warned in a low growl.
She hadn’t. She hadn’t said anything at the house when he
attacked her beautiful Porthault bedsheets with a glue gun and fishing line.
She hadn’t said anything in the cave when he opened some ancient display case,
or in the car when he tossed this bizarre utility belt in her lap and told her
to “shine it” on the drive over. She hadn’t said anything in the hotel room
while he tugged and pulled his way into a leotard that was clearly the first
he’d ever worn—when his thigh muscles and upper body weren’t nearly as
developed as they were now. And she hadn’t said a word—not one word—when, having completed this preposterous ensemble, he stood bareheaded in front
of the mirror and proceeded to comb complimentary hotel hair mousse through his
hair as if the fate of the world hung in the balance.
She had not said one word.
Now, at the door to the ballroom, her inner cat casually
scratched an ear, waiting for her to express herself.
“I wouldn’t know where-” Selina began—when the chance to
speak was lost forever. Bruce had pushed the door open with his free hand and
performed some magical tilting lead with the arm over which she was draped,
forcing her into step beside him.
“Brucie, darling!” Selina heard—the Ashton-Larrabys’
unmistakable battlecry—and in a nanosecond they were engulfed in a sea of
tassels, leaves, umbrellas, champagne, and Shalimar.
To be continued…
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