It seemed like we just got back from Metropolis. Now, not a week later I found myself on Flight 19, Bludhaven to Zurich, and I couldn’t really say why—other than it was Bruce’s fault.
The Boeing 737 was a nice ride, but it was no Wayne One. I couldn’t very well ask to use his plane for this little jaunt when technically he wasn’t supposed to know I was gone. So I was slumming it with fifty-five other passengers, an “all business class” flight, which meant comfortable seats and a good dinner, slippers and aromatherapy gel, all those little amenities that are so impressive until one of the world’s richest men spoils you rotten flying you around in his private plane.
He does spoil me.
What was I doing? Bruce had been nothing but generous and loving since the day he told me his name. Now I was sneaking out of the country while he was on patrol. I had driven all the way to Bludhaven to catch this flight and it wasn’t because the early afternoon arrival was more convenient for checking into a Zurich hotel. I did it so Batman would be on patrol when I was sipping the pre-flight cocktail.
I couldn’t even say why I was doing it. Other than it was somehow his fault.
I wanted it to be Oswald’s. Or maybe Tim and Cassie’s; they’re the ones that burned down the Iceberg. But I couldn’t kid myself. That’s his influence, by the way. “Self-deception isn’t a luxury I can afford (grunt)” is rubbing off on me. I used to be able to focus on the Egyptian necklace as a symbol of the male cat, represented by the sun, coming together with the female cat as represented by the moon— and completely ignore the fact that going after it was a guaranteed Bat-encounter. I used to be able to, apart from a few wary glances from Mirror Bitch, I could just… ignore that it was him.
I couldn’t do that now. Oswald might have started it, the silly bird (pfft), landing in Arkham after the Iceberg fire. But the real reason I was going to Switzerland was him.
The real reason I was going to Switzerland was to take on Batman.
In the old days, whenever Batman captured the Penguin, he’d been sent to Blackgate. He was admitted to Arkham once or twice for “observation” but was always transferred back within a day, the observation amounting to “a fondness for birds does not equate to insanity.”
This was Oswald’s first experience actually taking up residence in Arkham Asylum. He could have up to four personal items in his room “to create a comforting and familiar healing environment,” although that was a moot point. His favorite parasol was not approved, even though the fragile antique was hardly a weapon, and his other possessions had been reduced to a smoldering mound of ash. Seeing them in that condition would hardly constitute a comforting, healing influence.
Oswald knew he wasn’t crazy. He might have caused a scene at the hospital after caped ruffians burned down his nightclub, but who wouldn’t squawk at such a development? He lived above that club—kwak! They burned down his home and his business in one fowl swoop—kwak! He had expressed his outrage with the tip of his umbrella—kwakwakwakwakwak! And if that awful Batgirl wasn’t so nimble, Justice would have been done!
Of course he was upset. They burned down his club and his home. But he was hardly “HAH AHA Harley pass me the shotgun” crazy. He was crazy like a fox, as the saying went, if only foxes had some sort of feathers to justify their cunning. It was precisely because they had burned down his home that Oswald permitted this shocking indignity. He had bigger problems than arranging a release from Arkham when he had no nest to return to. The asylum was a place to live while he went about rebuilding, and revolting though he found his present surroundings, it was a base of operations that cost him nothing. It even gave him an opportunity to observe certain persons up close, for Oswald did not completely accept Dr. Bartholomew’s diagnosis that he had a -kwak- “borderline obsession” with cleanliness before the fire. Control issues -kwak- What poppycock. If there was really anything unnatural about obtaining a few specialty wipes to keep one’s office properly sanitized, it might very well be Hugo Strange’s doing. Or Jonathan Crane’s. One of those lunatics (very good customers and esteemed fellow rogues, but lunatics all the same) that have a 400 page manifesto on fear—kwak, bullies—kwak, and settling scores, real or imagined, with chemicals—kwakwakwakwakwak!
A rude pounding on the wall interrupted his train of thought. It was Ivy again, and he sniffed. Anytime he indulged in a few kwaking expressions of frustrations, she pounded. Even though no lemon-tinged, goddess-is-angry pheromones could seep through the wall, he sometimes imagined he did smell something when she pounded that way. For those who knew Ivy, the associations were too strong.
So —Kwak!— Where was he? Ah yes, he would keep an eye on the Scarecrow and he would humor Bartholomew, but mostly he would work on rebuilding his club.
The stewardess came by with another round of champagne, fruit juice, or mineral water and a choice of American or Swiss newspapers. I glanced at the mastheads of the Gotham Globe, Daily Planet, Neue Zürcher Zeitung and Tribune de Geneve and opted for the latter. The last thing I wanted to see at this point was a Clark Kent byline or a picture of the Batsignal.
Yes. Superficially, Tim and Cassie started it when Bruce and I were in Metropolis. They burned down the Iceberg. Oswald would rebuild, we all knew that… But no one talked about it quite as much as Bruce. He said Oswald needed that role as “Emperor Penguin,” lording it over a notorious underworld hangout that was only the visible tip of a vast criminal enterprise hidden underneath. He said the Iceberg was a lynchpin of Oswald’s identity and self respect. He made it sound like some sort of psychotic condition, or at least a character flaw, but I couldn’t see it that way. I missed the Catwoman who could make it in and out of the museum right under Batman’s nose, make off with the priceless necklace, and then fight him to a draw when he came after it. I still miss her. If getting it all back were as simple as kicking some soot off my boots and hiring a few contractors, I’d do it in a Gotham minute.
It’s not that simple, not for me. If it was for Oswald, I was all for it. I probably would have helped him anyway when he called for a favor. It was only Bruce who made me pause. It was Bruce who turned it into something more than doing a favor for a… well, not a “friend” but for a guy who had a bad break.
Oswald might not be a buddy, but he’d suffered one hell of a blow. Why not do him a favor if I could?
When Saul Vics went to work at Arkham, he never planned to stay. High school football had filled him with big dreams and left him with nasty medical bills. Arkham was a paycheck, a good paycheck for the few months it would take to get on his feet financially. Then Joker decided to get a girlfriend, and if Saul wasn’t going to say “no” when the homicidal maniac asked for a few extra minutes alone with Dr. Quinzel, he also wasn’t going to say “yes” for nothing. One payoff followed another, and by the time Joker and Harley Quinn were an item, Saul had a complete price structure worked out. Anything from a quickie in the copy room to an overnight in Quinn’s cell could be had for a price—as could a game room in Saul Vic’s basement with a pool table, a pinball machine, a 42” plasma TV, and a free-standing bar with three kinds of Belgian beer on tap. Saul even had an inground swimming pool, which is why he was the only Arkham employee that didn’t think Patient Cobblepot was crazy.
“You might as well be going to Mordor,” he would tell you when you brought his dinner tray. “What with all the trolls that dwell there—KWAK!”
Other guards, orderlies, even nurses and doctors called him delusional, erratic, and volatile…
“And as the saying goes –kwak– ‘One does not simply walk into Mordor.’”
…Only Saul Vics recognized a man dealing with contractors.
“Codes Department?” he guessed.
Oswald nodded vigorously.
“Proper number of exits,” he complained, fingering a sketch with a chubby finger. “Last time, they made no mention of exits! It was all exhaust vents and grease catches when I renovated. And before that, it was the location of pumps and waste plumbing in relation to the underground sewer…”
“You gotta grease some palms,” Saul advised sagely.
Oswald sniffed.
“I am aware of how business is conducted in a civilized society,” he declared with dignity.
It seemed like a promising response, and Saul wondered if this new patient might be good for a nice sports car or maybe one of those real high end barbecues. He continued laying groundwork, hinting very delicately that Arkham was like anywhere else in that there are rules and then there are people. And people are always ready to bend a rule to help you out once they understand how important it is to you. Saul was about to begin the delicate transition from “helpful Arkham staffers” as a general category of humanity to himself in particular, and cold hard cash as the quickest way to demonstrate how important a certain service might be… when Patient Cobblepot took over the conversation and began steering in the same direction, but by a more direct route. Then he stomped on the accelerator: contractors were not the problem, he had to hold on to his staff. Waitresses, busboys, and dishwashers were a dime a dozen, but employees like Sly and Raven could not be replaced. He had to find some way to keep them from taking other jobs in the six months or so it would take him to reopen the club. But he certainly couldn’t pay them to do nothing. That was bad business. When he paid out good money, he expected service in return. From Saul, for instance, he expected … and out came a list. A pre-written list.
Saul looked it over, quoted a price, and found himself buffeted in a monsoon of outraged kwaking. It took a blanket fifteen percent reduction just to stop the noise and that was only the start of the negotiation. Before Saul realized that a sane Patient Cobblepot could drive a much shrewder bargain than a Lithium/Amitril case like Hugo Strange, he’d agreed to greater percentage discounts after “certain-kwak-benchmarks” had been achieved. Once Oswald’s payments exceeded $2,5 00, it was only fair that the fifteen percent reduction be raised to twenty. At $5,000, it would increase to twenty-five, and at $10,000… Of course Saul agreed, the man was planning to pay him more than $10,000 over the course of their association…
The stewardess came around with menus for dinner and a personal DVD player that plugged into the armrest. I passed on both. If I did this right, I wouldn’t be in Zurich long enough to be missed. I didn’t want to give it away after the fact by messing up my sleep schedule. That meant extending my seat and curling up for a nice six hour catnap on the flight.
So Oswald “had” to rebuild in Bruce’s opinion, and that little piece of deductive forecasting had him circling like Vultureman: for a place like the Iceberg Lounge, insurance was pipe dream. Ozzy would have to use his own money to rebuild, of which he had plenty. Since he’d exchanged the Penguin moniker for that of Legitimate Businessman, he had his beak in a thousand dirty deals, even commissioning a few Catwoman thefts once upon a time and fencing a few baubles for me whenever I gave him the chance. There was no question that Oswald had the money to rebuild; the trick would be getting at it. Batman had never been able tie him to the shady stuff, not absolutely. He knew the details of at least half the Iceberg’s real operations and he could speculate about the rest, but he could never get the proof, not the kind of unambiguous, admissible-in-court proof to send Oswald away for good. Rebuilding the Iceberg could change all that. If Oswald had to dip into those hidden bank accounts, accounts that must exist but that Batman could never find, he could finally tie Oswald to millions in illicit funds.
Hence the emergence of Vultureman.
I was right there when it happened. Creepiest thing I’d seen since that first smile in the mask.
He’d been in the cave all afternoon, so I went down to say hi. He was in the gymnasium working out, very meow. And he was happy to see me, which isn’t the norm when I interrupt his workout. I got the sense that he was only exercising to think something through and the parallel bars were no substitute for a real listener.
“So?” I asked, stretching out on a stalagmite, “What’s the brood du jour?”
“The Devil You Know,” he said. “Cobblepot has to rebuild, we know that, as much as Nigma has to send riddles. It’s an opportunity, but taking down someone so crucial to the underworld has repercussions. It will create a power vacuum—and who knows who might step up to fill that vacuum. Penguin has managed to get away with far too much for far too long, but at least I know what I’m dealing with. A new player would change the way things are run and could ultimately make everything worse.”
“I sense a ‘but’ approaching.”
“But,” he intoned with that gravelly bat-menace that is so sexy, “I have to weigh that risk against the size and scope of the opportunity: taking Cobblepot out of the game permanently. Not just for a little while, not making it ‘difficult’ for his criminal enterprises for a time, not two steps forward one step back, but finally ending him for good. Selina, can you imagine the message that would send? If someone of Penguin’s stature, someone who has gotten away with it over and over and over again, was taken down and utterly destroyed? There’s even a chance that I could prevent anyone filling the void, if I can keep the pressure on in the ensuing chaos after he goes down. At a time when so many of the major players are locked up anyway, Cobblepot is already crippled with the club gone and his cash flow disrupted. It’s a chance—a real chance—to effect a significant, permanent change in Gotham for the better. It would be… beyond irresponsible to let an opportunity like that go for a vague ‘what if’ about what might happen later.”
“I see.”
It wasn’t much of a response, but he didn’t seem to mind. He was so intense about it all, so focused and determined… It’s that intensity I always found so attractive. It’s pure mainline Batman: dark, driven, and sexy as hell. But something—ULGH.
Turbulence.
There was a nauseating lurch-bump drop-lurch bump-lurch-drop before the seatbelt sign came on. I pulled the downy “first class” pillow around my head and waited out the thirty seconds of turbulence and the ninety seconds of explanations from the cockpit. Then I rolled over, missing Captain Leffinger’s professionalism as much as Wayne One’s accommodations, and tried to get back to sleep.
Anyway, I don’t think Bruce’s ferocity bothered me much at the time. He was Batman, he was doing what he did best, he was doing… what brought us together in the first place. It was only later when Alfred brought me that message from Arkham that I really started to feel it.
We were having an early dinner together upstairs in the dining room. Bruce doesn’t mind as long as it doesn’t cut into his pre-patrol routine in the cave, and it makes Alfred so happy. He’d just cleared away the soup and was coming back with the entrée, when he brought me a message along with my lamb chop. Someone called Vics had placed a call on Oswald Cobblepot’s behalf. He wanted me to pay him a visit at Arkham, specifically he wanted me to pay a visit so he could ask a favor. I didn’t need to see or feel the density shift, I knew, given the way Bruce’s mind had been working, that BatPrick was about to make an appearance.
“There it is. A favor. He’s going to ask you to be his mule. Go to Switzerland or the Caymans for him and bring back a nice fat bankroll.”
“That’s quite an assumption, isn’t it?”
The look that answered me was pure rooftop PsychoBat.
“Is it? He was your fence. Probably feels this is your chance to repay him.”
“Okay, first, do you refer to any accountant who’s added a column of numbers at WE as your accountant? I had three regular fences over the years, and Oswald was not one of them. I gave him a few items to move now and then and that’s my doing him a favor, not the other way around, so please don’t make it sound like he’s the one with any markers to call in. He still owes me forty-five grand for screwing up the sale of the Hapsburg dagger, which you recovered if memory serves. So if you want to talk repayment, he owes me and you owe him.”
“Oh, put your claws in,” Bruce said… and it was Bruce suddenly, casual and half-amused at my outburst—which I rather resented. Batman started the fight and he wasn’t sticking around to finish it.
I pawed the air and hissed. His lip twitched, then the Bat-intensity resettled over his features.
“Back to Cobblepot,” he graveled. “This could be the break we’re waiting for. I’ve been waiting to see how he’ll try to get to the money and now he’s going to ask you. It’s unbelievably good luck. It will be a little rocky working out exactly how Batman finds out when it’s Selina Kyle he’s confiding in, but there’s plenty of time to figure that out. The important thing is that you go see him right away.”
“To lead you to his money? I can’t help but notice this is starting to sound a lot like crimefighting.”
“I’m a crimefighter,” he said simply. “Selina, this is what I do. And you’ve been more than willing to help in the past. Coming to Metropolis was crimefighting. All the paperchasing on the Vaniel case and breaking us into the Falcone compound, cracking the JLA security system on the Dibny murder…”
“I know, but… this feels different.”
“But why? Cobblepot isn’t one of your special friends like Nigma or Dent.”
He was right, but it still felt wrong somehow. I said so, and again he asked why. I studied his face as I searched for an answer.
“Maybe it’s the way you’re salivating,” I said bluntly.
“Look,” he said reasonably, “I know it’s very soon after Metropolis. And I realize that you’re not ‘Team Batman’ and that your involvement in a crimefighting operation should never be taken for granted. I definitely jumped the gun just now, not even wording it as a question.”
“I sense a ‘but’ approaching,” I repeated.
“But,” he said—sans Bat-gravel this time (although PsychoBat was still very much in the room, I was certain). “I think you’ll appreciate that I’m not the one initiating your involvement here, Cobblepot is. And particularly after our talk downstairs, I think you can appreciate that this is one of those very special cases, like the Dibny murder, when calling on your unique connections and expertise is… warranted.”
He said ending Cobblepot would be an unprecedented win. He said it would cripple the underworld in a dozen different ways. He said he could take advantage of the resulting void to thin out the various mobs and destroy any semblance of organization among the rogues. In addition to those boons for Batman, he added, he would undoubtedly have some extra time for Bruce. We could spend a few days at the Catitat or on the Gatta, maybe even Paris if I’d like.
I didn’t like. I didn’t like any of it.
Rogues aren’t a compassionate breed. When the news broke about the Iceberg, the phrase echoing through the walls of Arkham was “What do we do now?” not “Poor Oswald.”
Victor Frieze was the sole exception. A “misery loves company” kind of guy, he sought out Oswald as soon as he arrived in the common room, eager to embark on a lengthy joint wallow.
Oswald found it thoroughly depressing. He resolved to avoid the common room in future, and was pleased that Saul Vics had an established fee to be excused from the social hour. He wasn’t happy with the size of the fee, even with his discount, but that only served to open up a new round of negotiations. Since his money was hard to get at right now and he had these outrageous contactors bleeding him dry, he persuaded Vics that his early bribes should be rated at a premium, every dollar counted as three in working toward the discount tiers. “A loss leader, if you will, -kwak!”
In return, Oswald agreed that in the future, once he was over that $10,000 mark, he would reverse the process, only counting one dollar for every three he paid out. The fool said it seemed reasonable, never realizing that after $10,000 Oswald would have reached the maximum discount, so there was nothing more to count toward, Kwakwakwakwakwak… These Arkhamites, it was almost too easy. Kwakwakwak. They just didn’t know how to stri ke a bargain.
The Alps. I woke up to the Alps coming into view outside my window and the breakfast they serve an hour before landing: flaky croissants, fruit salad, choice of tea or coffee, etc. I figured, in the interests of staying on a proper Gotham timetable, it was time for some caffeine, so I ordered a cup of tea with milk.
After Bruce’s bizarre attempt to bribe me with offers of yachting getaways and weekends in Paris, I had decided not to decide about Oswald. I went to see him, just to hear him out, but I had no idea what I would actually do when he asked this favor. On the drive up, I joked with myself that if he made me a better offer than Bruce’s trip to Paris, I could start a bidding war between them.
Except Oswald’s offer wasn’t what I expected. For that matter, neither was Oswald. I’ve visited patients at Arkham before, and they’ve always been their usual selves. Ozzy was sort of… nice. Not creepy nice, not an oily ‘buttering you up for a favor’ nice, just… friendly… polite… normal. He said he was just telling Dr. Bartholomew about the term ‘catbird seat,’ how the catbird, named for its catlike call, attracts a mate by building a pile of rocks until it has achieved the highest point around, and then perches on it. This may not sound like enchanting conversation, but Oswald usually opens with ten minutes of “kwak-kwak felicitations my felonious feline kwak-kwak always a pleasure to receive a fellow kwak-kwak aristocrat of crime -kwak.” So a casual (and kwakfree) mention of catbirds was quite an improvement.
Then he mentioned the golden finch. Oswald wasn’t what I’d call a sentimentalist, but that finch was the one item he’d lost in the fire that he really missed. He stole it the first time, one of his earliest Penguin heists, but Batman recovered it. It wound up in an eastside gallery along with some Maya jaguars I was interested in. I knew he’d want it back, so I brought him the whole lot to fence, certain he’d take the finch for himself.
Now he told me he knew. He’d always known that’s why I brought him the goods from that particular heist. Unlike Bruce, Oswald was perfectly aware that he wasn’t my number one fence, or number two or three. He knew why I picked him to move the goods from that job. Made him pay through the nose for it but still, he said, it was kind of me to think of him and he’d always appreciated it. That’s the word he used. Kind. Not ‘magnanimously munificent on a scale of congenial generosity hitherto unknown among criminal persons of exceptional-kwak-standing such as ourselves.’ Kind. I was starting to wonder what kind of medication they were giving him and why the rest of us didn’t think to slip him some years ago.
Then he kwaked (only once) and got down to business. “Nice as it was” to see me again, he had asked me down there for a favor. I braced myself, still undecided how I was going to respond and still ill at the thought of becoming an “agent of the bat.” But the favor wasn’t what we thought.
“Certain members of my staff… Sly-kwak, Raven-kwak. Can’t lose them. Just can’t. Busboys and dishwashers, dime a dozen. But Sly. Raven. Dove. Kwak. Irreplaceable.”
“Okay,” I managed, just to say something while I recalibrated my brain.
“Could be six months before I reopen. Maybe more. They’ll get new jobs. I can’t have that. Might not get them back.”
“Yeah. I see the problem, Oswald, but what can I do?&r dquo;
“I need to either give them jobs in some other capacity, just temporarily—and that apparently won’t work as legitimate employees are quite ludicrously prejudiced about participating in criminal activities, even for a few weeks—or else pay them a lump sum to tide them over. Ruinous! I’ve been crunching the numbers all week and it’s ruinous-kwak. Plus if they sit around watching Jeopardy for six months, who knows if they’ll be fit to come back and work.” He paused there and his eyes gleamed with that old Cobblepot greed as he drew out the next word for three syllables. “O-o-or, let someone else do the paying for six months. Get them new jobs doing just what they do now, not let them go find something on their own where they might not come back. Nice temporary stint, so as soon as the Iceberg is ready to take them back, kwak-they’re fired.”
I noticed the kwak-count was up, which only happens when Ozzy is agitated, usually about money. I told him I sympathized but I didn’t see what I could do. I had no use for a bartender, a hostess, and a cocktail waitress out at the Catitat. It would confuse the tigers. His response left me… stunned.
“Not you! -kwak- Wayne!”
I blinked.
“You’ve got Bruce Wayne in your pocket, right? Must be a dozen places he could set them up.”
I blinked.
“You want me… Oswald, let me get this straight, you want me… The favor you asking is for me to ask Bruce…?”
“Kwak.”
I blinked.
I told him I’d get back to him.
And I left.
The seatbelt sign came on. Seats and tray tables up. Stewardess made her last round collecting glasses and headphones, and the plane began its slow descent over Kloten Airport… and I still didn’t know exactly why I was going to Switzerland.
I never decided, that was the problem. I never worked out how I felt about what Bruce asked me to do. And then when Oswald wanted something else entirely, it left me… lost.
A lost cat doesn’t stand there looking confused and pathetic. She tilts her head at a determined angle and heads off in some definite direction, working it out as she goes.
So I was going to Zurich. Bruce would find out, somehow. Finding out is second nature to the World’s Greatest Detective. Then we’d see.
?Oswald might not have a Swiss bank account, but I did. Useful little souvenir of my summer on the Italian Riviera. Contrary to popular belief, Swiss bankers do not just jump into bed with any shady character that wants to hide assets behind their legendary privacy laws. They expect to know their customers, all about their customers, especially the foreigners. I had an introduction from a good customer, Fabrizio, on whose yacht that first felonious summer was spent.
The thing I love, absolutely love, about Swiss banks: nobody gets them right, absolutely nobody. I never realized it before, not until I strolled into Paradeplatz, but suddenly there it was, as clear as Grossmunster Church towering over the smaller buildings around it: Go to a movie with a Swiss bank in it, it’s wrong. Read a novel, wrong. It’s absolutely astonishing. Not only do they all get it wrong, but each and every one finds a new way to be wrong.
Just like with Catwoman.
There are those who have the general idea but mess up a few insignificant details. There are those who get the general idea but mess up on some fairly important details. And then there ar e those who are so far off, they’re in Finland.
One of those recurring points of confusion is the numbered account. It’s anonymous to the world. It is not anonymous within the bank. You sign your checks with a number and there is no piece of paper that will ever link your name with that money unless you yourself are fool enough to write it down. The senior officers of the bank, however, know who you are, and that’s fine because neither torture nor telepaths can wring it out of them. (I thought the latter was just sales talk until Jason Blood confirmed it a few years ago.)
My banker was Bernard Ducret, senior partner in Ducret, Augustiner & Zaehringen, banque privée. He knew my name was Selina Kyle and as he wasn’t a total moron (who wants to entrust their money to a moron?), he had to have a fair idea where my funds came from. I was fine with it because, in Switzerland, that privée means “private,” even by the standards of a woman living over the Batcave. (Jason Blood also told me once why a firm in the heart of German-speaking Zurich would declare itself to be a private bank in French. He was obviously making up a story to mess with the woman who just found out he was immortal. I called him a liar to his face, fire-breathing demon inside or not, and he never pulled my leg again… But it did start me wondering why that sign is in French, and I never did come up with a plausible explanation.)
Anyway, it had been a while since I’d gone to DAZ in person, and the last several times I had, I only dropped off a few trinkets in my safe deposit box. The last time I’d talked with Bernard about my account was after Pheromones made his appearance as AzBat. If the real Batman was gone… If Batman was gone, I didn’t know how much longer I’d bother with Gotham, or if I’d even continue as Catwoman. So I came to Zurich and talked through my options with Herr Ducret. For nearly three days we talked, including a “let’s get you out of this office” excursion at the end of day two. We took a ten minute train ride out of the city, and a two minute hike to this restaurant atop Uetliberg Mountain where he introduced me to a traditional cheese dish called raclette—but really it was a “let’s get the crazy American out of the office for a while” outing and we both knew it. It was after that meal he asked me to call him Bernard, which is a big deal in ultraformal Zurich. I wasn’t that keen on the idea, but since I’d talked his ear off for two days straight, I couldn’t really refuse. We’ve been “Bernard” and “Selina” ever since.
So the word kibitz was taken from the Yiddish kibitsen, which was itself derived from the German kiebitzen “to look on at cards,” because the person looking over your shoulder while you tried to play your no trump invariably offered all kinds of advice you didn’t need and didn’t want. This kiebitzen came from kiebitz, a busybody, which was also the name of a shorebird with a bad reputation as a meddler.
Patient Cobblepot was certainly the most edifying inmate Leland Bartholomew had ever treated. They weren’t getting any closer to the root of his varied neuroses, but he’d uncovered the origins of the terms jaywalking, catbird seat, clay pigeons, and now kibitzing.
“Most interesting,” Bartholomew smiled with that air of patient understanding so important to the therapeutic dialogue. “Perhaps we could return to your decision to open a nightclub.”
Oswald looked up at his doctor with the beady disapproval familiar to Iceberg regulars, particularly henchman who betrayed signs of ill breeding their first time at t he bar.
“My dear doctor, does it not seem to you the height of insensitivity to inquire about a man’s business knowing said establishment has just burned down? Surely if there was a topic about which to restrain your incessant curiosity, this would be it.”
“Would you prefer to talk about the recent stresses resulting from the fire?”
Oswald sighed at this new outbreak of unseemly peasant curiosity.
“Allow me to tell you about the stormy petrel,” he answered politely, “Any of various sea birds having dark feathers and lighter underparts. Old time sailors thought its appearance meant a storm was coming, hence the term indicates one who brings trouble—kwak!”
The Iceberg Lounge had always been a place where Rogues mingled with “Normals.” Sly genuinely liked many of his customers, but he was never one of them. Rogues were a self-absorbed breed, with a detachment from their fellow beings that made it possible to shoot at them or take them hostage if the need arose. Sly was just the opposite. He had a natural empathy, which made him an excellent bartender but could make life very difficult in other ways.
Consider the other Iceberg employees. Sly was planning to go back to Florida and resume an active role running his own bar on Key West. Instead, he had a committee of cocktail waitresses sitting in his apartment, making plans for their future. Most men wouldn’t consider that a hardship, except, well, their ideas sucked. They were doomed to fail. And Sly wasn’t the kind of guy who could just turn his back knowing Dove, Peahen, Finch, Feather and Sparrow were going to waste all that time and effort on a bad idea. They wanted to make an “IceBirds” Calendar, featuring the girls of the Iceberg Lounge, along with some t-shirts and other novelty items. It would certainly make some money, Sly agreed, but not enough to pay all their bills starting right now. They had no grasp of timetables, startup costs, breakeven points or sales, so the whole thing was falling on him. And all he really knew how to do was run a bar.
The thought of his bar in Key West did spark another idea, one that might actually hold the solution. When Sly went to Florida to open his own place, the four most dangerous criminals in Gotham had piled into a stolen car to follow him down there and bring him home. If they’d go to that kind of trouble just to keep a bartender, what would they do to keep the whole Iceberg staff together?
Of the four who came to Florida, Mr. Dent was certainly the best ask. There was no more Two-Face, which was definitely a plus. No danger of a coin toss and gunfire if he didn’t like the question. But more importantly, when Two-Face was around, Sly distinctly remembered him recruiting for a “Galen McDoogle fanclub.” Harley Quinn had apparently shot one of his henchmen, leaving him with an odd number of members. He wanted Sly to join to restore the status quo. It wasn’t much to go on, but he definitely knew about having shirts and things printed on the cheap.
It was a place to start.
Sly told the others to wait and took off for the last known Two-Face hideout.
I checked into my usual hotel, in Old Town right off the Bahnhofstrasse. Even though I wasn’t spending the night, I did have a plan, and for that I needed a room.
I changed from my comfortable travelwear into a nice Chanel suit, a suit I’d bought in Paris with Bruce’s money. That led to a loss of ten minutes while I fought down another round of the guilts. Bruce was awfully good to me, and I didn’t want to hurt him… but I did have to do this. Generous and loving as Bruce might be, Batman set something in motion and now it had to run its course. I reminded myself that the Paris shopping spree was just a way to get rid of me during Hell Month. That didn’t really change anything; he’d sent me away out of love. But I clung to that thought of Hell Month. Hell Month was Batman. Hell Month was PsychoBat. And PsychoBat was finally going to answer for… whatever.
So I changed into my chic suit (which saves bother getting past the bank’s huissiers who size you up in the lobby and only let you upstairs if you look interesting). I stopped on the Bahnhofstrasse for a big hat and dark glasses (which saves bother from Barbara who likes to hack into the Credit Suisse security cameras now and then, just to see whose coming and going) and some matching gloves (because they went with my hat and sometimes a girl has to indulge that way).
I made my way to Paradeplatz, into the DAZ building, and finally past the Ashton-Larraby/Giovanni d’Annunzio lovechild of a hussier to the third floor. There, an equally snobbish but more reasonable hussièrre took over. I wrote down my account number. She scrutinized it like the numbers were mystic runes and then sent the slip of paper back to Herr Ducret’s office. Within seconds her phone rang, and she said she would be happy to sent me on to Herr Ducret even though I had no appointment—if I would just take a seat for a few minutes. I did. I knew I would be sitting the precise length of time it took for Bernard’s flunky to run down to Sprüngli for a box of pralines. Bernard had somehow picked up the same (delightful) habit as Igor, my fence in Brussels: whenever I arrive, they just happen to be opening a big box of the most decadent local chocolates, we each eat one, and then they give me the box to take home. I know Igor banks here, but I’ve never been able to figure out which of them told the other the chocolate trick.
When Two-Face saw the giant, stone comedy/tragedy masks on the façade of the Flick Theatre, it was love at first sight. He decided to make it a lair before he’d ever stepped inside. When he saw the same masks repeated a second time in an elaborate mosaic on the lobby floor, he bought the building. It was almost unheard of to buy a lair, but two faces, one smiling and one weeping, in two places, how could he resist?
When Sly saw the theatre, it was love at second sight—an irony Two-Face would have enjoyed if he was still around. Sly didn’t care about the outside of the building, but when he saw the lobby, the bar, the fixtures, it was…
“Woooow.”
Harvey politely showed him around, Sly repeating the awed “wows” every step of the way. At the conclusion of the tour, he asked what Sly wanted—but what Sly wanted had changed.
“I want to open up a bar here in Gotham! Just in the interim, just to give the girls a place to work until Mr. Cobblepot gets the Iceberg back on its feet. I hadn’t realized it until I saw this place, but Mr. Dent, this is wonderful. This place just has to be a bar. It’s a nightclub waiting to happen!”
HELL NO! Harvey said emphatically.
“Just look at that arch over the box office and all the heavy grill work behind, looks almost like a vault. Boy, that’d be a good name for the place too, considering the clientele: ‘The Vault’ or maybe just ‘Vault.’”
He stretched out his hands as if reading a sign mounted above the bar.
DID YOU NOT HEAR ME? I SAID NO! Harvey yelled.
“We’d have to do it on the QT to get it open fast. No time for a liquor license and all those inspectors. But that could work in our favor, with the Iceberg clientele and all. Make it a secret underground thing, like the old speakeasies, a password to get in. What do you think, Mr. Dent?”
NO! DIDN’T YOU HEAR US THE SECOND TIME, NO NO NO NO NO! Harvey wailed.
“…”
Then he paused, wondering why Sly was still smiling at him.
“…”
It took him a moment to realize…
“I didn’t say any of that out loud, did I?”
Harvey fished in his pocket and pulled out the famous two-headed dollar. Then he spoke again.
“Sly, my good friend, Sly, let me put it this way.” He turned the coin over so the scarred side lay face up in his palm, and pointed to it like an old acquaintance. “Never, never in my entire life have I heard a suggestion so replete in its wrongness that didn’t come from inside my own head. You said ‘Let’s turn this fine old theatre into a nightclub,’ and from sheer force of habit, I thought my answer rather than saying it out loud, because only Two-Face, only my own personal Darth Duality could have come up with an idea so despicably vile. No, Sly, you will not be turning my home into an interim Iceberg Lounge and, more importantly, you will not be turning me into an interim Oswald.”
Spending so much time with the villains of the Iceberg might not have turned Sly into a sociopath, but the Rogues’ bartender had seen enough to know the precise mixture of tenacity, creativity, and ruthlessness which yielded the ultimate “rogue cocktail.” He had a way to save the Iceberg staff: VAULT. It was the perfect solution for everybody, and he was not going to let the hokey courtroom theatrics of an ex-prosecutor get in his way. He took action… and that action is what led Harvey Dent to knock frantically on Jason Blood’s door at an hour when civilized men would hesitate to even telephone.
“Mr. Blood?” he began hesitantly. “I hate to bother you, I know it’s late…”
He was ushered in without further explanations. Jason felt an obligation where Harvey Dent was concerned. He had felt a kinship for the man, cursed with his own personal demon and trying his utmost to keep the evil at bay. Feeling this kinship, Jason had done what he could. He used magic to heal Dent’s face, but he succumbed to a low trick of Etrigan’s at the crucial moment crafting the spell. Dent was healed, but with metaphysical strings attached. Because of Jason’s error, Harvey could never use his coin again. If he used chance or “Fate” to make a decision, the spell would be broken and his scarring would return. Given his mental state, it was likely his evil persona Two-Face would return as well. So Jason felt… obligated. He told Harvey to contact him, day or night, if he ever felt himself in jeopardy.
Seeing that his guest was upset, Jason offered Harvey a drink, but the suggestion was met with a shudder.
“No alcohol, please. No scotch, no peanuts, no pretzels. Nothing you’d find in a bar. Um, you’re English, right? How about tea.”
Jason predated the English preoccupation with tea by more than a thousand years, but he did enjoy the beverage. He brewed a pot, then sat back, fingertips touching in a meditative triangle, as Harvey explained about Sly and the nightclub. When it was over, he gave a thoughtful sigh.
“So, you found this suggestion objectionable, and instinctively you replied internally, as if Two-Face suggested it?”
< p>“Yes.”“But he didn’t. It was this Sly.”
“Yes.”
“Two-Face has not, in fact, returned.”
“No.”
Jason nodded. As one who had daily exchanges with Etrigan, he could see how it happened.
“Upsetting, I’ve no doubt. But not cause for concern, surely.”
Harvey shook his head, his hand shaking with emotion as he tried to replace the delicate cup on the saucer without shattering it.
“It’s not that. That was only the opening arguments. Sly had yet to ‘present his case.’ He sent the waitresses over. They call themselves Ice Birds. Have you ever seen that old footage of the Playboy Clubs in the 1960s, all the Bunnies clustering around Hef? Was kind of like that. Luxury problem, I know, but until you’ve been there, you can’t imagine what it’s like. A special on E! is one thing. It’s like a piece of history there on the TV, black and white footage, like the Battle of Midway. Real women in living color, sticking their hands in your jacket, it’s different. Before I knew what was happening, I had a coin in my hand.”
Jason’s eyes flickered up in startled horror, and Harvey nodded vigorously.
“Wasn’t my fault, Blood, honest. It was that Peahen. She didn’t know anything about the condition of my cure, poor kid, none of them do. She just knew ‘Harvey uses coins.’ And I guess she figured if we flipped for it, they’d have a fifty-fifty shot.”
“A narrow escape.”
“Tell me about it. I was so flustered, I jammed my hands in my pocket and said okay.”
Jason’s grimace had more to do with Etrigan’s raucous laughter than Harvey’s decision, but Harvey had no way of knowing that.
“I’ve found it’s best in these situations to just make a decision, and if it’s the wrong one, it’s the wrong one. Better that than risk a coinflip…”
Outwardly, Jason nodded and offered Harvey more tea. Inwardly, he asked Etrigan what was so funny.
It was strange, I’d come to Switzerland to rattle Bruce’s cage—and maybe my own. I’d made it all the way into Bernard’s office and eaten this orgasmic little pellet of hazelnut cream coated in the most unbelievably rich milk chocolate… when I realized I didn’t really know what to say. I was here, ostensibly, to talk about my finances, but I hadn’t given a moment’s thought to the cover story. I crossed my legs, which is always a useful stalling tactic in situations of this kind. Then, in the absence of any last minute inspiration, it occurred to me that I might just tell Bernard the truth: I had re… I had re… I’d come to Zurich to talk about my investments because I had re… …tired.
I hated the sound of it, but Bernard just nodded like he’d already guessed. There hadn’t been a sizable deposit since the one from Atlantis, and before that there had been another “rather conspicuous hiatus.” In addition, of course, he’d seen my name linked with Bruce Wayne’s here and there. He assumed that was related to the “increasing intervals between deposits.” He’d been expecting my visit for some time “to discuss an investment profile better suited to my new circumstances.” We talked over some possibilities, seeing as my expenses had changed almost as much as the income since I’d moved into the manor (and would go still lower now th at Bruce was paying for the Catitat). And then when we’d finished, Bernard took me back to the vault.
We turned our keys and he withdrew my box, leaving me alone with it in the little consultation booth. I had brought one of the gold bars from Project Walapang. When I left Gotham, I wanted to feel I still had some ill-gotten gain to hide here, even if it wasn’t technically ill-gotten. Catwoman had taken it. It was Bruce Wayne’s gold to begin with. I had defeated all his security and cold cracked his safe, and now his gold bar was my gold bar… It made sense at the time. Now, after the talk with Bernard, after I’d actually said the r-word, it seemed a moot point. But I took the gold out of my purse anyway and placed it carefully in the back of the box. There was certainly no point in trudging it back home. I looked through the rest of the contents: some cash, that Egyptian necklace, a ruby necklace, an emerald necklace, some canary earrings, some other canary earrings, a sapphire… Oh.
It was a sapphire brooch, a large sapphire brooch, Van Cleef and Arpels, invisible mount. I’d taken it because it was so similar to the earrings I’d left that night at Cartier. Our first Cartier encounter. Our first kiss. Our first Christmas… I’d taken an awful ruby collar that was an absolute horror, destined to be broken down into a half dozen bracelets by my European contacts. But while I was in the vault, I just happened to see these wonderful earrings, sapphire petals around a diamond center, not too big, not too small, perfect for my coloring. But then when Batman showed up, after that kiss, I… I just left it all. A year later I saw the brooch in the VCA window, sapphire petals bordered with diamonds around a diamond center. I had to have it. I dropped everything else I was working on until I had this brooch in my hands. At the time, something so valuable and so linked to that kiss seemed incredibly… something. Precious. Significant. Powerful… Something.
Now it was just a piece of jewelry, a beautiful piece but no different from a thousand others. If I was still the woman I was then, I would let Igor sell it and pick up a few more acres for the Catitat. There was no need to be clinging to this one brooch like a magic talisman… But then, when I had been that woman, selling this piece was unthinkable.
I sat there for a long time trying to understand why. Naturally, it kept coming back to that kiss. I tried to make it something else, tried to think of another reason, any reason, any rationalization, but “self-deception isn’t a luxury I can afford” (grunt) is rubbing off on me. Of course it was him. Of course it was that kiss. Now that I can kiss him whenever I want, now that the promises of that kiss are a part of our daily lives, the association between that and a meaningless piece of cold, faceted mineral seemed unreal, absurd, and insane.
I returned the box to the vault and that was that. I had no time for this kind of crazy sentimentality. Bruce would be back from patrol now, finishing up the logs, and within the hour he’d be getting into bed and seeing I wasn’t there. It wouldn’t be cause for concern. I was probably prowling late and decided to stay in town, spend the night at the penthouse or the cat lair. There would be no cause for suspicion… yet.
A secret nightclub couldn’t exactly advertise, but a secret nightclub catering to the Gotham underworld didn’t have to. In another city, word-of-mouth might take time, but not in Gotham, not among the Rogues. All Sly had to do was take the C train up to Arkham and tell Jervis Tetch.
“Calloo Callay! Confused, I say.”
“Think of it as an illegal tea party only a select few are invited to attend,” Sly explained.
Jervis considered this.
“So we can eat the queen’s tarts without the knave of hearts getting his sticky fingers all over them?”
“If the knave is Batman or the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, sure.”
“Splendiforous! How can I help?”
Sly went over the name and location again, and explained about the password.
“The club is called Vault. In order to get in, you’ll have to give the password. So-and-so gave me the combination, where so-and-so is whoever told you about Vault. Get it?”
“So and so is so and wherever is whoever to get into the vault!”
“No, no,” Sly winced.
“So, so?”
“No—I—Look, just tell them to use the name of the person who sent them. Not a name-name, but the rogue name. Scarecrow, Joker, Catwoman…”
“Caterpillar gave me the combination, got it.”
“No, not caterpillar, Cat-woman. Catwoman good, caterpillar bad.”
“Cheshire cat then, to chase away the Dormouse?”
Again Sly winced. He didn’t like the idea of compromising on the password, especially at this early stage. It seemed like a little thing, but too much Caterpillar, Cheshire Cat and Dormouse might sound like it was really Mad Hatter behind the club. Oswald would be upset, and with Hatter being incarcerated after taking over a nightclub, it could even bring Bat-trouble. He had no choice, for the good of Vault, he held firm.
“Sorry, Mr. Tetch. If they want to get in, you’ve got to give them the right password. Let’s go over this again…”
Just because I never strapped Batman to a Jacob’s Ladder and lowered him into a vat of electric eels, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t lead him to a decoy location or a lair or even a trap as long as it wasn’t the lethal voltage variety. I was good at it. I AM good at it. Catwoman has always known the way to seed clues for the World’s Greatest Detective to follow. Not too big, not too small, not too many, not too obvious and—always a big priority for kitty in the old days—not something the sidekicks would pick up on. Batman was my goal and no one else. I wanted his personal involvement and his alone, and that required a certain touch, a feline intuition drawn from our special connection: what he would notice, what he would notice without even noticing he noticed.
The delicious part of this Zurich adventure was getting back to those Bat/Cat basics. Bruce wasn’t going to just swipe my purse and look for fresh stamps in my passport for no reason. I’d have to lead him, just like I used to, touching that connection in just the right way… So I went shopping in the Niederdorf district. There’s a quaint “Schnapsboutique” where you can pick from a selection of liquors, pick a glass bottle and a stopper, and they put the one in the other to create a wonderfully unique gift that could come from nowhere else in the world. I selected a delicious walnut liquor, locally made—very locally made, right near Lake Zurich. I figured that and the pralines would do the trick once his suspicions were aroused.
The last touch involved going back to the room and washing my hair with the hotel shampoo. It was nice, a honey-fruity scent, nothing like the tearose I use at home. I figured that would be enough. Back then, behind masks, we eac h locked on to the few details we had: the eyes, voice, lips… He noticed my hair.
We’re both still attuned to those behind-the-mask details.
It would be enough.
I checked out, and headed for the airport.
?Bruce hadn’t made a study of his psyche; he’d simply noticed that when he was reasonably well rested and went to bed at the usual hour, the Crime Alley nightmare woke him between 5 and 5:30 a.m. If it was one of those periods when he was exhausted, it could come as late as seven or even later. The dream itself seldom varied, and it was the variation rather than the lateness of the hour that made his heart pound as he strained to register the time on the clock.
6:42
He took several deep breaths to slow his heartbeat, and glanced at the still-empty place beside him. He didn’t really expect to see Selina there. When she wasn’t there when he got home, he assumed she had been prowling late and decided to spend the night in town. He was used to her being there, but he doubted her absence had anything to do with the nightmare.
Crime Alley never had a narrator before. It was Crime Alley, but not the usual Crime Alley, not the Crime Alley of that night. It was the present. He was Batman. He was patrolling. There was a gang lying in wait. He’d spotted their lookout. He was going in… and that’s when the narrator spoke, like a cheesy noir voiceover. Except it wasn’t his voice spouting overwrought clichés about alleys and the scum who dwell there. It was Batgirl’s audio log from the night before:
..:: Batman say crooks fall down on pride. Say caught up in cleverness of plan. Overlook things. Funny thing is father say same about him. Say cops and Bat catch up in own cleverness. Overlook things. Is strange when both say same thing.::..
It always unsettled him when someone likened Batman to a criminal. His annoyance varied if it was a politician, a pundit in the press, or just Selina tweaking his nose about “Eddie,” but the baseline annoyance was always there. Hearing Batgirl’s log last night was worse. She was so innocent in her observation. She wasn’t an ambitious poser angling to score points with a gullible public or a stunted fool seeking gratification by spouting opinions, no matter how ignorant or ill-informed. She wasn’t even a cat pawing the ball of yarn because it was fun. She was just… Cassie… saying what she thought. And what she thought in this case, what she’d observed, was that Batman said the same thing as David Cain, a professional assassin. It unnerved him so much, he’d incorporated it into his dream. Understandable really.
6:42
It was too early to get up, but he was too awake to go back to sleep. Of all the mornings for Selina to be gone. He got up, postponed the shower, and figured he’d work out for an hour before breakfast.
There are times a man senses the dilemma before him—and by “dilemma,” of course, Tim meant “girl”—has such potential for soul-scarring disaster, he wants advice from friends and family, from psychologists, spiritual advisors and astrologers, from advice columns and fortune cookies, a shaman if he is lucky enough to know one, the Batcomputer if he has access, and if all else fails, a Magic Eight Ball.
In Tim’s case, seeing as the dilemma in question could kill before she could talk, he wanted all the advice he could get. The thought that gnawed at his gut, however, was the last time he asked around for advice this way was for Dick’s ba chelor party. Superman hung up on him. Flash, Green Lantern, and Plastic Man charged over a thousand dollars’ worth of booze to Bruce’s credit card. Poison Ivy attacked the party, and Stephanie cut him off for a month when she found out Ivy got in disguised as a stripper. Asking for advice at this point seemed just as dangerous as going it alone.
Cassie felt bad about putting him in the hospital, that much he understood. She wasn’t exactly Miss Communication and she found oddball ways to express herself. That much he understood. She had taken to bringing him a giant chocolate chip cookie each night during patrol. That… was a stretch. He could only guess that, given the history with the Phoenix Ninja bets and chocolate sundae payoffs, she figured mid-patrol food delivery is the accepted way to settle accounts. He wasn’t sure, and that’s what bothered him. If the cookies had nothing to do with the hospital, if it some kind of hint that she was maybe kinda interested, he wouldn’t want to miss the cue—with any girl who was interested, but especially with Cassie who was already plenty dangerous even without a romantic axe to grind.
Thing was, if it wasn’t a hint, if it was just “Sorry for shin splint. Have cookie,” he wouldn’t want to go making a move.
It was a minefield. The situation was an absolute minefield. She was cute, sure, but was cute really worth it? She understood the life and knew the whole history with Steph, that did save all kinds of grief. He liked spending time with her. She was fitting in with the Titans, but… still… minefield. Hospital. Shin splints. Compound fractures. A snort of fear gas and she damn near put a batarang through his eye.
Dick’s analysis was spot on about one thing: “Cassie is a real sweetie—until she breaks bones.” (Tim already knew that.) “Plus side, she’s bringing you cookies. Plus side, I’ve seen those black and white cookies in that all night bakery on 87th, and if that’s where she’s getting them, they’re insanely good.” (Tim knew that too.) “On the negative end, it’s an obvious guilt thing, and you should talk to her. A gentleman wouldn’t just let this go on night after night, chocolate chunk after chocolate chunk.”
“I know. On all counts, I know. Kinda stating the obvious there, Bro. But how do I talk to her when she’s a friggin one-woman minefield?”
That’s when Barbara chimed in. Tim didn’t know that for sure, but the advice that came next: take her on a date and tell her in a quiet atmosphere that all is forgiven and she doesn’t need to keep on giving you cookies on patrol. It was an honest mistake, and you learn from it and move on… sure sounded like Barbara. It was girly. The addendum: then order a hot fudge sundae topped with crumbled cookies for dessert. Sundaes are always good for easing guilt… that was Dick again.
As Batman observed, pride is the downfall of criminals. Even the sanest, shrewdest, and most feline may become so enamored of their brilliant plan, they overlook surprisingly obvious dangers. In Selina’s case, she was so caught up in the renewal of Bat/Cat stratagems, she forgot a vital difference between that former Catwoman’s duels with Batman ‘the Caped Crusader’ and her present intrigue with Batman who is really Bruce Wayne. She’d accounted for the fact that Batman was Bruce who slept one pillow over. She accounted for the fact that Batman was Bruce who knew the one spot behind her knee where she was ticklish. What she failed to acc ount for was that Batman was Bruce whose butler was Alfred Pennyworth.
Bruce had reacted to her absence in exactly the way she expected: he assumed she’d spent the night in town. Alfred, on the other hand, had brought the breakfast tray down to the Batcave when he found the Wayne bedroom empty. He followed the rhythmic squeaking to the gymnasium and stood there, lips pursed, until Bruce dismounted the high bar and landed beside him.
“Your breakfast, sir,” he announced. “I dare say you will find the orange juice most refreshing after your exertions. Might one ask Miss Selina’s whereabouts, that I might deliver her refreshment as well?”
“I think she spent the night at the lair,” Bruce said casually.
In response to this careless statement, a density shift occurred, not unlike that which marks the transition from Bruce to Batman.
“Indeed, sir,” Alfred pronounced, stiff with disapproval.
“You can just leave her letters in the morning room and, ah, check off whatever you think she’d want for the menus. You know I don’t care.”
“Music to any cook’s ears, sir. Might one inquire if the lady is expected to return in time for lunch, for dinner, or if this is one of those occasions when the company of those possessing fewer than four feet will not be sought for some considerable time?”
“We didn’t have a fight, if that’s what you mean.”
This statement was met with the same skeptical air that marked most early morning discussions of Catwoman in times past. Bruce would insist he had no particular interest in “the catburglar” and that her escape, yet again, meant nothing. Alfred would answer with that look of pronounced but unspoken disbelief, then he’d pour the coffee and mention some item in the newspaper.
“There is an article on ‘designer technology’ in the Financial Times, sir, which may be of interest to you.”
“Alfred, I swear to you, Selina and I did not have a fight. I’d have noticed.”
“Cream and sugar, sir?”
“Crime- I mean- cream, yes, just a splash.”
Jason could certainly understand Harvey’s reluctance to live in a nightclub, rogue-centric or not. He himself had lived too near a boisterous Paris guinguette in the late 18th century, and it was hardly a Moulin Rouge fantasy of consumptive courtesans and glamorous intrigue.
Of course, understanding the problem was a fairly useless exercise unless he was prepared to do something about it. Jason had a premonition only that morning: an architect in San Pedro, California was visiting a farmer’s market where, at that very moment, a housewife was mistaking him for a worker in one of the stalls and was about to ask the price of the peaches. He would be so traumatized by this assault on his perceived social status, he would invite two friends and his elder brother out for a night on the town in Los Angeles, ostensibly to celebrate his brother’s upcoming birthday but really to reassert his affluence and social position. There would be considerable drinking, and tomorrow morning the brother would foolishly brush aside his hangover and go to work ferrying travelers to nearby Catalina island. In his diminished condition, he would brake too late when the speedboat towing the water-skier turned too sharply near the boat lane… with the result that his neighbor, Binky Sherborn, would soon receive a phone call summoning her to California because her niece was injured in a water-skiing accident and would need help getting around...
Given Harvey Dent’s preoccupation with Fate, Jason did not think it wise to explain t he series of dominoes already falling that would soon provide him with a housesitting job for several months. He said only that an opportunity existed (or would soon exist) that would provide Harvey with alternate living quarters if he could mind a thermostat and walk the dogs. Harvey agreed, but only on the condition that there were no plants to water.
Jason had no idea if Binky Sherborn had plants in her apartment, but he promised to take care of them himself if she did… Once again, he was forced to ask Etrigan what was so funny.
Bruce cancelled his one appointment at WE: a late afternoon sales meeting that Lucius had to know he would skip out of anyway.
He remained in the cave, activated an automated sweep of the ground security grid, and periodically checked the D, E, and F cameras himself looking for Selina’s car. When he saw her Jaguar make the turn from Country Club Drive some twenty seconds before the automated alert would sound, he switched off the monitoring system and moved quickly to intercept her in the garage.
It was the oddest protocol he’d ever executed, but then the circumstances were odd too.
Shortly after Selina moved in, she’d come to bed one night with the news that Alfred was “mad at her.” Outwardly, Bruce remained calm, but inwardly he hadn’t felt such turmoil since that moment on Cartier’s roof when he thought she was stealing again. Everyone had been so accepting when he’d brought Selina into his life, especially Alfred. The thought of trouble between them… He needn’t have worried. The “trouble” turned out to be quite endearing: Selina had asked where the washing machine was.
Alfred believed in starting as you meant to continue, and he meant to treat Selina as mistress of the manor, not some fiercely independent feline who happened to sleep under Master Bruce’s roof in a murky “my suite is foreign soil like an embassy” arrangement that he himself never agreed to. He would be doing her laundry, he said, ladies’ delicates or no. He would be sending out her dry cleaning, accepting delivery of same, and returning laundered items to her closet. Also, if Selina had any thought of coming into his kitchen and rinsing out the bowls in which her little feline companions ate their supper, she may as well give up that fantasy right now…
Selina had been stunned. Telling Bruce the story that night, she had been stunned all over again. Bruce had laughed at the time. It was only the next night, in the middle of patrol, that he realized it was Catwoman who was stunned— and stunned into actual compliance. Catwoman who didn’t flinch at Batman, at Joker, at Ra’s al Ghul, Lex Luthor or the Justice League. Catwoman who would never budge an inch on anything touching on her independence. Yet there she was, tucking in her tail and accepting Alfred’s dictates.
She did find the laundry room eventually—Catwoman was not to be thwarted and apparently she’d followed the pipes—but she never raised the issue with Alfred again, and he went on running the household, which now included her, exactly as he wished.
It was a trivial episode, but Bruce still wanted to avoid any similar conflicts, so he planned to give Selina a heads up before she reached the house. Of course, he could have gone to her lair or even called her cell, but when the issue was her staying out all night, neither course seemed prudent. Selina was hypersensitive about anything that smacked of concern for her safety: she was not the hero’s helpless girlfriend, she did not need rescuing, and woe to anyone who forgot it. If he called, she wouldn’t hear a thing he said about Alfred. She&rs quo;d hear “you were out of my sight for ten minutes and I thought Catwoman got herself shot, stabbed or kidnapped.” Hence the protocol: he would casually amble down to the garage and happen to see her when she got back from town but before she stepped into the house.
Cassie couldn’t believe how foolish she’d been. How much she had to learn. Tim had shown her how she should have brought ice cream instead of cookies to make up for the hospital. But that was nothing compared to how wrong she was about him.
She needed help on the Crispi case. Father and son were both mid-level operatives in the Falcone mob, and she was confident when she thought their business was guns and drugs. She knew how those operations worked, how to tell who was buying, who was supplying, where the money was, and who reported to whom. When the father’s business turned out to be gambling on basketball, and the son’s was a “pump and dump” that meant stocks rather than prostitutes, she had to get outside help.
Azrael was gone, and Oracle wasn’t a field operative. She could have asked Batman or Nightwing for help, but since she was going to find Robin anyway to bring him a Peanut Buster Parfait, she decided to ask him first… and was astonished at his knowledge and ability. He was a rokudan in the detective arts, a sixth degree black belt at least in all those investigating techniques that baffled her. She nearly bowed and thanked him as Master Sensei when he was so good as to explain the complexities of the stock swindle to her unworthy self.
She suddenly realized that all this time she had been seeing Robin, the crimefighter, through Spoiler’s eyes. Stephanie did not shine in many areas where others on the Bat-team excelled. Her fighting stance was very poor, her breathing undisciplined, and her stamina erratic because she would eat many carbohydrates one day and the next day none at all. She never seemed to realize how important those deficiencies were, and eventually Cassie stopped trying to help her.
Cassie saw now that this must have been the case with detective work too. Stephanie always spoke of Tim’s crimefighting habits as stuck up and patronizing. Cassie now realized this was just like her fighting stance. She dismissed as unimportant what she could not do well.
Cassie would have to make it up to Tim. She would show him how to play Phoenix Ninja so there would be no more bump tells with his twitchy thumb that led to Shadowbird’s inevitable defeat.
Selina knew the plan was in jeopardy the minute she pulled into the garage. Bruce was there, searching for something in the glove compartment of the Porsche, a completely convincing performance by one of the world’s great actors—completely convincing, that is, to anyone that didn’t know Batman…
Bruce knew the plan was in jeopardy the minute she got out of the car. She had that air about her, radiating guileless innocence—a look that meant she’d already been in the safe and had the stolen diamonds somewhere on her person…
“Hey, Stud. You weren’t worried, were you?” it began.
Guileless innocence. What was she up to?
“Not until now,” he graveled. “What are you up to?”
What was he getting at? He hadn’t even seen the chocolates, the liquor, or smelled her hair. She’d only just got out of the car. What did he know? What could he know?
She laughed, too lightly.
“What? If I’m out of your sight for ten minutes, I must’ve been emptying out the Egyptian wing?”
“No, but that laugh in answer to ‘what are you up to’ means you were definitely doing something.”
“Meow.”
“Woof.”
“Woof? Woof? My, you have changed. Whatever happened to ‘you’re gone too far this time,’ ‘this isn’t a game,’ and ‘theft is a crime in this city?’”
“That’s Cartier’s vault at three in the morning six years ago, not the hood of your Jaguar right now. Selina, enough!”
“There he is!”
Grunt.
Then…
“Selina… Suppose you tell me what the hell is going on.”
“No.”
She turned to go, tripping instinct on both sides as Bruce reached out to stop her and she spun and froze just short of scratching him. Reality broke through the muscle memory, and she realized she had no claws and also that scratching an unmasked lover with bare nails is both inappropriate and undignified. She settled for a spirited hiss, by the end of which he’d maneuvered her into a once familiar pin, her wrists imprisoned in his hands, twisted behind her back, and pulled high to almost touch the bottom of her hair—now smelling of honey and raspberry rather than tearose, a now-pointless clue in a futile chain of… damn him.
Rather than repeat his query, Bruce merely raised a questioning eyebrow. When that produced no answer beyond an angry glare, he conceded to a graveling “Well?”
She smiled, that enigmatic cat-smile… Then…
“Suppose you tell me.”
“What you’re up to?”
“Yes, Great Detective, you know so much, you tell me.”
Something was wrong—something besides the obvious that he was pinning her in a borderline-painful interrogation hold when he meant to just warn her about Alfred. What the hell was he doing? … you tell me… More to the point, what was she doing? …that enigmatic smile… …Great Detective, you know so much, you tell me…
After a long, silent beat, he let go of her wrists.
…that enigmatic smile…
Something was wrong—with her—but what?
… you tell me…
He’d seen that look in her eye before.
… you tell me…
Right after he’d asked her to move in, and again once she was settled into the suite, cleaning out that Hell Mouth of a closet. During the Vaniel case too, the night he asked her help getting into …
Of course.
You tell me.
“Come on,” he said quietly.
There are qualities that separate civilized men from hairless apes who have been taught to obey traffic signs and not make messes in the house. Oswald Cobblepot was a civilized man. He understood the virtues of tact and delicacy. Having run out of bird-words to occupy Dr. Bartholomew, he had moved on to ornithological superstitions: Crows were said to foretell the future. A single crow on the roof of a house was bad luck. Finding a dead crow, on the other hand, was good luck. Owls, being nocturnal creatures, had negative associations, signaling death or illness…
And that’s where Oswald trailed off, emitting only a single, nasal kwak as he realized the need for those twin hallmarks of civility had just arisen.
Nearly all the remaining superstitions were about ravens.
Tact-kwakwakwak. Tact and delicacy. Kwakwak...
“Another common bird used to foretell the future is the magpie,” Oswald m entioned in a fit of inspiration.
He knew a Magpie just as he knew a Raven, but that lady was a failed rogue turned profitable sneak thief. She was not dating the good doctor. There would be no indelicacy informing him “If a magpie perches on your roof, your building will never fall down. Five magpies mean company is coming…”
Neither spoke as Bruce led Selina through the cave and into the costume vault. He regarded a drilled hole in the stone wall, a hole that once contained a metal spike supporting a wooden shelf he shattered in a moment of Hell Month frustration. He shifted his attention to the Bat-cowl and the false head that held it in place.
“That night,” he said slowly, “after seeing Vaniel in the hospital, you… identified… ‘explained’… my situation pretty well, better than I was able to hear or accept at the time.”
“Bruce, I—” Selina began, uncomfortably.
“It wasn’t the first time,” he interrupted. “That one ‘Hell Month’ when you got back from Paris, I couldn’t meditate, I’d destroyed the shelf in here… You got to the bottom of that too.” He turned to her and studied her seriously. “I guess it’s my turn. ‘Great detective, suppose you tell me,’ that’s what you were getting at, wasn’t it?”
“No… I…”
“Maybe not consciously, but…?”
“Well… maybe.”
“Kitten isn’t big on introspection,” he noted with a sad smile.
“Woof.”
“Alright, let’s start at the beginning. Gathering what those not averse to crimefighting call ‘evidence.’ Selina… Where were you last night?”
“Oh come on,” she exclaimed. “Just like that? I had clues and everything.”
“I’m sure you did. And they were to point to…?”
“pfft.”
“Selina.”
“Zurich, okay! I went to Zurich.”
Bruce’s mouth dropped open. It had never happened in a thousand interrogations of a thousand criminals. Never had he been so unprepared for an answer. For a long moment he said nothing, and then, doing his best to conceal his astonishment, he went on to the next logical question:
“Why?”
Selina tapped her foot impatiently.
“That’s what you’re supposed to tell me, Handsome.”
“Not for Cobblepot, I presume,” Bruce graveled, ignoring the taunt.
“N-not necessarily,” came the halting answer.
“No. You started to say ‘no,’ then changed it to imply a maybe. So it wasn’t for Cobblepot, but you want me to think it might be.”
Bruce’s eyes went square.
“You’re still upset I asked you to help with that? Selina, why? You’ve helped before. I know I wasn’t exactly diplomatic when I asked, but it’s not like it’s that unprecedented.”
“The blood dripping from your fangs was unprecedented, Bruce. That was new.”
“What blood? What fangs? I’m doing what I’ve always done, fighting the criminals who prey on this city, of whom Oswald Cobblepot has always been among the most prominent, most active, most vicious and the most—”
“SUCCESSFUL! He’s always been among the most successful, right? ‘Getting away with it over and over and over’ an d that’s why finally ‘ending him once and for all’ or was it ‘utterly destroying him’ would be such a fucking boon to mankind!”
Bruce was about to answer with the resounding ‘Yes’ of Batman’s final word on the matter, when Batgirl’s poignantly simple log entry echoed in his memory: Bat catch up in own cleverness. Overlook things.
Bat catch up in own cleverness. Overlook things.
A gut punch of absolute truth, made all the more brutal for the innocent warble of childhood in which it was delivered.
“Selina, you’re nothing like Penguin,” he said sincerely. “You’re nothing like any of them—and not just because you look better in purple,” he offered in a half-hearted attempt to lighten the mood, as she certainly would if the situation was reversed.
It didn’t help. She just stood there, looking bewildered, vulnerable, and alone.
“You were always a top tier thief, but I never had that kind of frustration about not taking you down because you were never, ever a top tier threat. You never actively planned to hurt anyone, and I never saw you put anyone in danger other than yourself. You preyed on people’s property, yes, but you never preyed on people. That meant nobody was in danger if you were still free tomorrow night, and that’s why I never thought of you as one of ‘them.’”
“I need to sit down,” Selina sighed, looking a little pale and a little ill.
“Come on, there’s nowhere to sit in here,” Bruce said gently, walking her out to the main chamber and sitting her at workstation 1. He took a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, told her it would help the jet lag, and by the time she drank it, he’d pulled up a log entry on the giant screen.
“There, you don’t have to take my word for it,” he said. “Check the date. That’s eight years before we got… close.”
... ... ... ... :: Duty Log: Batman, Supplemental :: ... ... ...
cannot pursue every criminal Gordon mentioned any more than I could pursue every name on the At Large list. A determination has to be made, and I must accept the fact that if I devote my full attention to subject A, then B C or D will likely get away with something. I cannot let that reality paralyze me in making the choice. I can only make the choice wisely given what I know of these individuals. Penguin is dangerous to innocent people. Riddler is dangerous to innocent people. Joker is capital “D” Dangerous, period. Catwoman? Not so much.
“Not so much?” Selina quoted, managing a weak smile at the conspicuously non-Psychobat phrase used in the sacred logs, and used in conjunction with her.
“Of course I never felt that kind of animosity or viciousness towards you, Selina, because I never considered you a danger to the people I’ve sworn to protect.”
“Noted,” she said meekly.
“Feeling better?”
She took a deep breath.
“I will be,” she said, “once it all sinks in.”
“Good. One other thing: Alfred is none too pleased about your disappearing act last night.”
Okay, now Tim was genuinely scared.
“Oracle not in field. Azrael gone. Leaves you.”
That’s what she’d said, and it didn’t exactly sound like a compliment. He’d helped her because that’s the job, that’s what you do. And, ok, she brought him a Peanut Buster Parfait, which nobody else ever did when they wanted help with a case . So he helped her out and now, classic overcorrection from Miss Cain, he was a rock star. He was a prodigy. He was the Mozart of crimefighting!
Cassie being Cassie, that’s not what she actually said. Oh no, he would have understood that. She said he was the ‘Akamatsu Mitsusuke of crimefighting.’
He’d given a socks-for-Christmas smile and committed the words to memory, googled it later, and found out… ? Famous assassin. Yep. That’s Cassie alright. No idea who Lindsay Lohan is, but impress her and she might just liken you to a 15th century shogun killer.
And she meant it as a compliment! That’s why Tim was scared. Instinct said let it ride. If she wanted to think he’s the akimaroo of crimefighting, what’s the harm? Plus, he couldn’t really think of a way out of it. Letting a girl like Cassie put you on a pedestal seemed like a high-risk endeavor, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure a way to climb down: “Hey Cass, the parfait was great. Boy, we really nailed those Crispi thugs, huh? By the way, you know I’m a bit of a yutz when it comes to missing persons timelines, right? And I get pretty confused coordinating alibis if anyone claims to have taken public transportation…”
Selina held out a cone-shaped morsel of chocolate promising as tempting a sinful pleasure as she ever dangled before Bruce’s lips. He leaned forward just enough to bite, and forced down a chuckle as the velvety interior compelled him to bite on, taking the entire morsel into his mouth rather than the tentative nibble he’d begun.
“Very good,” he admitted, feeling his cheeks warm in response to the rush of almond-chocolate intensity ebbing and flowing over his palate.
“Oh, it gets better,” Selina laughed, pouring a thimbleful of fragrant, amber liquid into a cut crystal shot glass. “Sip.”
Rather than drink it, Bruce inhaled.
“Seems awfully strong,” he noted.
“Well, the woman in the shop did suggest cutting it with champagne or pouring it over ice cream,” she said lightly, then her voice slowed and deepened into Catwoman’s most seductive purr. “But for now… taste.”
Again, Bruce leaned forward obediently, and moistened his lips.
“Very nice,” he conceded.
“Meow.”
“Meow.”
“See what you ruined, Handsome? Nobody else is ever going to leave you clues like this.”
“No, I’ll admit only you could come up with this one,” he chuckled. “So the chocolate was to go in your suite?”
“Or the morning room, I hadn’t decided. The walnut liqueur would be at the lair. The more incriminating the item, the harder it should be to find, n’est pas?”
Bruce inspected the bottle.
“Well… the chocolate is actually more incriminating. The lack of a UPC code or nutrition information on the box indicates it wasn’t sold in the U.S., whereas the bottle is so non-descript…”
“But the liqueur is made right on Lake Zurich, it’s a local product.”
“No, they make walnut liqueurs in Northern Italy too.”
“Pfft.”
Bruce grunted and continued to watch her unpack. He was fascinated by the way her mind worked. He knew many fiercely intelligent people. He knew many cultured people. But a keen, cultivated intellect was one thing. A keen, cultivated intellect driven by feline logic was another animal entirely.< /p>
“I’m still not clear what were you shooting for,” he noted, the dry detachment of his voice providing bat-cover as he reached over and took another chocolate. “A confrontation in your lair or some kind of—”
He was interrupted by a respectful cough in the doorway.
“Begging your pardon, sir. miss,” Alfred announced formally. “If one or both of you are at liberty to come downstairs, I have shown a visitor into the drawing room. A Mister Bernard Ducret, from Zurich.”
?Back on a plane to Zurich. I couldn’t believe it. It was Wayne One this time, with Bruce’s blessing and on a mission that couldn’t be described as anything other than crimefighting. Even that awful word didn’t leave a sour taste in my mouth at the moment. That was hard to believe too, but it’s not like the goggle people would ever know what I was doing and… well… I love Bruce. Bruce is a crimefighter. And what he does, he does for a reason. I knew that, but I don’t think I ever felt it as powerfully as I had in the drawing room watching how he was with Bernard.
Speaking of which, I had to remember I had a guest onboard. Bruce said I should be very attentive during the flight so Bernard could see how comfortable we could make ourselves on our own. I can’t imagine anyone, least of all Bernard, caring if Bruce Wayne had a cabin steward or not. But Bruce wanted to make sure, and since it’s his plane and his identity, I complied… Okay, really, I complied because I didn’t want him getting edgy and resurrecting the fop when I’m out of the country. So I was attentive. I had already brought Bernard a cappuccino, and now I opened a bottle of champagne. I added a splash of the walnut liquor, since I’d brought it along, and rejoined Bernard in the main cabin.
When I left him, he had been paging through the movies in the entertainment system. While I was gone, he apparently selected The Bourne Identity and had it up on one corner of the 2 x 2 viewscreens. I showed him how to make it fill the full 4-screen grid, handed him his champagne, and proposed a toast to our new adventure. He answered distractedly, keeping an eye on the movie.
“Look at that,” he said acidly. “Their ‘Swiss’ bank isn’t even in Switzerland. That’s Prague and, adding insult to injury, it’s the infamous Pecek Palace where the Gestapo set up their headquarters during World War II. Hollywood. No wonder your Bruce Wayne takes us to be outlaws and gangsters.”
I sipped. There was no point in denying it. Bruce had been very subtle in his criticism, but Bernard is no Demonspawn or Azrael. He understands nuance. Hell, I wouldn’t trust my money to anyone that had to have every little thing spelled out in big block letters.
No, Bernard understood Bruce’s meaning just fine, he just misjudged the cause. Bruce didn’t think DAZ hid money for criminals because of any Hollywood movie; he thought it because they hid mine.
Bernard sniffed as Jason Bourne placed his hand on a slick palm reader to verify his identity before they would bring his safe deposit box. He asked if American banks used such high-tech gizmos, and I explained, truthfully enough, that it’s mostly the diamond exchanges and supervillains who go in for fancy biometrics. U.S. banks prefer old-fashioned steel tumblers, timelocks, and keys, just like the Swiss. I didn’t tell him the exception, that I’d been inside the World Bank’s headquarters in Gotham and that they had biometrics that made Hollywood’s lightshow in The Bourne Identity look like a game of p ong.
It felt weird holding back that way. Bernard knew what I did for a living, that’s why he’d followed me back to the States. It never bothered me that he knew I was a thief. It never bothered me that he’d probably guessed I was Catwoman. It was strange that I had more to hide now than I ever did as a practicing thief.
Planning a date with a new girl is tricky. Planning a date with a girl you already know but not as a girlfriend, that’s really tricky. But Tim had come up with a plan:
Phase 1 (preparatory): jettison Dick and Barbara. Yes, Dick was once a Robin who pursued and ultimately won Barbara, once a Batgirl. But that hardly made them experts. At Tim and Cassie’s age, they were doing little more than sticking their tongues out at each other behind Batman’s back, and if you look at how long that nonsense went on, they were nearly as hopeless as Bruce and Selina. Worse, they were worse. Batman and Catwoman were enemies. They had a reason to be cautious and confused. But Dick and Barbara were allies and partners… Anyway, he could do better on his own. On his own, he found out about Phase 2.
Captain Leffinger was giving us a much smoother flight than the commercial airlines, and Bernard, still on Zurich time, had settled in for a nap. It gave me a chance to plan, and I opened my laptop for a little in-flight research… Wound up feeling just a little too much like Bruce as the laptop completed a nested encryption uplink to a WayneTech satellite just to grab my email…
There were three letters waiting. One from Bruce—or, considering the brevity of the message, possibly from Batman—“Proud of you. Good luck.” The next was from Oracle. Subject line: “Knights Templar, warning large attachment.” She wasn’t kidding. Bruce asked her to do some digging just to get me started and she’d sent me this, a ten meg document with a four page table of contents. We all love Barbara, but this is why Catwoman works alone. Ask a research librarian to do your research and this is what you wind up with. Ask a cranky demonologist like I did and you get email #3: “Yes.” That’s it. One word long, a simple answer to a simple question.
Bernard snored, and my focus shifted from the challenges of the mission ahead to the wonder of how I got this far. Just like my last trip, it all came down to Bruce.
Bernard is the scion of a 23rd generation banking family. He may have followed me back to the States with a proposition for my ears alone, but when he found himself in Bruce Wayne’s manor, he couldn’t resist the chance to meet the man himself. So, when Alfred asked what he wanted, Bernard rather craftily implied that he wanted to see us both. I can’t say I object. I like a little craftiness in a banker. It’s what happened when the two men actually met that made me reevaluate both of them—and had me sitting on a plane to Zurich again.
Bernard seemed to regard Bruce as a figure of legend stepping out from the pages of a history book, or maybe stepping down from a stained glass window, and standing before him in the flesh. He gushed at length about the Wayne Foundation, its efforts at home and abroad, and about the quality-of-life improvements brought about by Wayne Enterprises, whose activities were no less laudable because they were engaged in for profit. He said what an endorsement it was in this cynical age to see a great fortune used so responsibly and so well, and what a stupendous privilege it would be to lend capital to such an institution, knowing the noble yet profitable use to which it would be put…&nbs p;
I’d never seen anything like it… and I’ve seen a cop Batman saved two years earlier stop and remind him of the incident, point for point, in front of two SWAT, a hostage negotiator, and a deputy commissioner that hated his living guts. The cop said he knew some of “the boys” didn’t like Batman and some flat out hated him, but he was one flatfoot who knew what Batman was and what he could do. Then he shook Batman’s hand and thanked him… for his life, and for his sons still having a father…
But anyway, I was stunned by Bernard’s little speech, but Bruce took it in stride and responded point for point. He didn’t allude to his parents, but he said crime had touched him at an early age and he thought it important to combat the poverty and ignorance that creates it. He said that was the guiding principle in his stewardship of the Foundation: local efforts to keep good people from desperate circumstances, and global ones to prevent those conditions that allow the truly evil to gain a foothold. Wayne Enterprises, he added mildly, dealt exclusively with Gotham banks.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Bruce—the real, complete Bruce, every facet of him—as clearly as I did right then.
Well no. Actually I had seen him, but it was always during sex when, well, there’s a lot going on and my focus isn’t exactly, um, focused… Meow. But there in the drawing room, neither of them were talking to me so I could really sit back and listen. It was astonishing… Bruce was astonishing.
There was the aristocrat, that inherited sense of responsibility. Bruce didn’t create the Foundation. It came to him with the name and the money, a charge from the ancestors that built all this to carry on and do some good with it. But the particular way he directs it, that’s the real man, that’s pure Bruce. There’s a compassion that nobody understands—even the ones who know about Batman, which is bizarre to me. I’ll never understand how anyone can look at him and not see it, but, anyway, there it is. If Bruce had his way, no one would ever suffer what he suffered. That’s what drives him. He knows he can never stop all the crime in the world, but he still does as much as he can, not just with his fists as Batman, but through those “local efforts to keep good people from desperate circumstances.” The Bat influence there is obvious. The “global efforts to fight conditions where the truly evil could take advantage,” that one is no mystery either, that would be Ra’s. And then, just when you thought Batman had said all he could possibly have to say one the subject, there was this flash in his eye, just for a split second, right before he talked about the Gotham banks.
It was flashed at me, Batman letting me know he’d seen me pocket a diamond bracelet.
He knew Bernard’s bank did business with Catwoman, and he was saying quite pointedly that Wayne Enterprises would not do business with a firm that laundered—or simply hid—the proceeds of crime.
Saul Vics had never been to college, and in high school he paid more attention to football than history or algebra. But he had something better; he had street smarts. He had a job that paid well. As a guard at Arkham, he was paid well because the job was very high risk. And he had turned that high risk-high pay scenario into an even higher paying one by eliminating the risk altogether. That’s what you call street smarts. By accepting bribes from the inmates, he became the one guard they didn’t particularly want to kill. In Arkham, that’s about as smart as it gets.
At least, that’s what Saul always thought…
Patient Cobblepot was finally ready to make his first payment for services rendered, a whopping $3500, more than three times what any other inmate had ever plunked over in a single payout. At this rate, Saul would have his barbecue by the end of the summer not the end of the year. He said something to that effect, and Cobblepot seemed interested. So Saul explained.
“Not talking a piddley tin burner for charcoal briquettes, you understand. This is a complete high end outdoor cooking system.”
Oswald stroked his nose thoughtfully and kwaked.
“Enlighten me.”
So Saul explained about the grilling surfaces made from porcelainized cast iron, hood-mounted halogen lights, and even an infrared burner that generates over 30,000 BTUs to provide the ultimate in outdoor cooking power.
Oswald couldn’t help but think it sounded like the themed deathtraps that Wormwood fellow was peddling a few years back. As with Wormwood, the price was simply outrageous, and as with Wormwood, Oswald’s delicate sensibilities were so offended he ejected the wastrel from his presence. He kwaked for a full five minutes, trying to clear the thought of a $12,000 barbecue from his system.
Ivy pounded angrily on the wall, and Oswald kwaked all the louder in reply. He felt if he could only tell her the obscenity before him, she would understand. If he could just explain —kwak— 12,000 of his hard-stolen dollars to be spent ON A GRILL!
Saul Vics was going to—kwak wakka wakka KWAK wakka wakka—He was going to—KWAKWAKWAKWAKWAK—pay retail.
Phase 2: Cheap movie. Tim found out the student groups on the Hudson U campus showed movies for fundraisers. They were worn prints of older films and shown in lecture halls where the seats weren’t that comfortable. But $2 for a movie, $1 for popcorn, you couldn’t beat that.
Best of all, Cassie had not been assimilated into the cult of Hugh Grant. Stephanie and Cecily were both into chick flicks, and Tim had come to hate Hugh Grant more than Joker’s hyenas. But he had done some careful research outside the window of a movie rental place, and he liked what he heard:
Cassie thought Jane Austen was that diet program they advertised on TV with the fat actresses announcing how much weight they’d lost. That was promising!
She thought Hugh Grant would “break easy” and had no particular interest in any movie he starred in. That was very promising!
She would be just as happy to see Speed, Raiders of the Lost Ark, or Gladiator, and she didn’t even want to see Gladiator because Russell Crowe would take his shirt off. She wanted to see if he could handle a sword any better than Tom Cruise in The Last Samurai. That was just… sigh… that just might be the girl of his dreams.
After the polite rebuff, Bruce left Bernard and I alone in the drawing room to talk, and Bernard came straight to the point. He knew I was a very talented high end thief. Since I just told him I had retired, he couldn’t help but think I was the ideal person to confide his problem.
“A vault has been breached,” he said.
A 23rd generation banker from Zurich is every bit as formal and conservative as you’d expect. There wasn’t a hint of melodrama in the pause that followed those words; he just took a breath. But in that fraction of a second it took him to inhale, I could have sworn I heard the dramatic staccato of violins and cellos as a Hollywood soundtrack kicked in.
“It isn’t your va ult,” Bernard said swiftly. “The bank’s main depository where your box is located, along with the bank’s own currency, gold, bearer bonds and other holdings kept on the premises, appears quite as secure as ever. At least for now.”
“Appears secure as ever,” I quoted. “‘At least for now.’ There’s something we like to hear.”
Bernard grimaced.
“Naturally, if it were as simple as an ordinary break-in, we would go to the police. The delicacy of the situation lies in the fact that, well, to be blunt, the vault which was compromised does not officially exist. Bringing anyone in for purposes of investigating would mean confirming the existence of a vault which, at this point, is only a legend. Hence why I’ve come to you, Selina, to implore you to return with me to Zurich and look into this.”
He had my attention, naturally. A vault out of legend? Of course I wanted in. But there was one thing we had to settle before I’d sign on. Bernard once told me, and Jason Blood had confirmed, that Swiss bankers can keep their secrets even from telepaths. With the recent history of secrets kept secret by magic mindwipes, I wanted a very convincing reason why Bernard was so willing to tell me—a known thief—about this secret vault he wouldn’t even reveal to the police.
“You are a thief,” he said simply. “Who could you tell?”
Convincing as far as it went, but it didn’t go that far. I pushed for a better answer, and he obliged. And while I absolutely believed the reason he gave, I almost wish he had been pocketing a mindwipe instead.
“You have an understanding of what is at stake beyond the mere valuables that any vault contains. The nature of the breach is such that an inside job is an absolute certainty. Hence, no aspect of the firm can now be considered secure.”
That meant my name, apart from everything else. It was one thing to stand on a stage and publicly say I was Catwoman. It was another to be linked to the actual Egyptian necklace that, regardless of what everybody knew, had officially been taken by a few unidentified pixels on a security tape. The Gotham Globe might have said IT’S A CAT-ASTROPHY and everybody from Batman to Hugo Strange might have known Catwoman had taken the necklace thought to imbue the Pharaoh’s consort with the qualities of the cat, but there was nothing in wearing a purple catsuit or knowing how to wield a whip that could ever link the woman on the stage of the Hijinx Playhouse with the figure who took that necklace. Owning box 9211 in the DAZ vault on the other hand… What was worse, I was no longer in a position to pull up stakes if disaster struck and relocate to a sunny island without extradition treaties…
So Bernard was right, I did understand. It wasn’t a threat; he wasn’t trying to blackmail me. He was just answering my question: he could trust me with his secrets because I had secrets of my own. He was asking for my help, and if I said yes, I’d be paid. “Compensated on the scale to which you are presumably accustomed” was how he put it.
That offer was fairly superfluous in the Wayne Manor drawing room, but just to make the point all the clearer, Alfred stepped in at that moment to see if Mr. Ducret would be staying for lunch. When the answer was yes, he asked if Bernard had any allergies to lobster, quail eggs, or asparagus. Once Alfred had gone, I gave the payment question the “pfft” it deserved. I wanted to try my luck with the secret vault that was only legend. I would have done it for nothing.
But since I could get something in return, it may as well be som ething I wanted.
“Bernard,” I said with a naughty grin, “I’ll be happy to come back to Zurich and look into this for you. All I want for my fee is to satisfy a cat’s curiosity. I’ve always wanted to know why that ‘banque privée’ on your sign is in French.”
Phase 3: Patrol. Kick some ass together, get into a rhythm, create a bond… Yep. That was the way to go after a movie. It would give them a chance to talk if she wanted, but wouldn’t put her on the spot since she didn’t usually have much to say.
It was kicking criminal butt, something Cassie was really good at, and that would put her at ease the way normal stuff like hitting a bucket of balls at the driving range never could. And since she already saw Robin as some sort of Shogun of crimefighting, a nice joint-patrol might just give him a chance to show off a little as a detective. That would come down to luck, of course, what kind of case they ran into. It could happen, and a chance to show off a little is always a bonus in a mid-date situation.
Saul Vics had street smarts, that’s what he always thought. Street smarts said he’d have to do something about the Cobblepot situation himself. He was all kinds of upset since Saul told him about the grill, and if one of the doctors or nurses saw him like that, they’d want to know why. Poison Ivy was getting worked up too, and if asked, she’d probably point them to Cobblepot’s kwaking. Same result. So Saul had to solve the situation and solve it fast. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew it started with taking Patient Cobblepot his dinner a little early—or delivering a second lunch a little late, depending on how you looked at it.
Opening the door, Saul expected another round of kwaking hysterics, but instead Oswald was calm and welcoming. Cautiously, Saul set down the tray and kept his hand on his stun stick, just in case.
“My dear Mr. Vics, we really must talk,” Oswald began in his best new-client voice. “We must discuss the facts of life. We live in a world of soaring hawks, falcons and eagles… and of pigeons. I took you for a hawk, a shrewd and voracious predator. I don’t blush to say I had high hopes for you one day unfurling your great wings and flying with me away from this place of petty payoffs into the greater world of larcenous largess!”
“Eh, okay,” Saul said carefully.
“In my organization, you would be known as… Razor Beak.”
“Eh, okay.”
“Thus my disappointment, Mr. Vics, my acute disappointment at this plumage of a pigeon appearing on one I thought a hawk.”
“Eh… don’t follow.”
“You don’t surprise me,” Oswald muttered under his breath. Then he began again with a fatherly air of patient instruction. “Men of the world such as you and I do not pay retail, Mr. Vics. Men such as you… you are now ‘connected,’ Mr. Vics, were you not aware? For now you are a paid associate of Oswald Cobblepot. If you wish this Viking… what was it exactly?”
“Viking 56-incher with infrared zone, a side burner, storage shelf, smoker, rotisserie, built-in tiling, remote griddle, cocktail station, refrigerator cart and tiki lamp.”
“Y-yes, that, if you wish this item, you come to me and my associates will obtain it for you. Please give me back my $3500.”
“But- but—”
“And cease at once in that sputtering call of the snub-nosed pigeon. You are a razo r beak!”
Saul put his hands on his hips, and calculated how swiftly he could break Oswald Cobblepot in two.
“Return my money and arrange for me to have the telephone this evening, at no additional charge, and you will have your grill installed by the end of the week.”
Saul’s head bobbed back in surprise, but he swallowed and swiftly handed over the money before Oswald changed his mind.
“Excellent,” Oswald cooed, pocketing the wad of cash.
Vics picked up the tray and prepared to leave. Just as he reached the door, Oswald added,
“Mr. Vics, when Crow and Talon arrive with your merchandise, it is customary to tip them. $300 a piece should suffice.”
As well as I always got along with Harvey, there were some tense moments with Two-Face back in the day. One of the most vivid involved an amusing little encounter at Gemini Gallery that became infinitely less amusing when he mistook my suggestion to flip for it. I was proposing a coin toss to decide who got the gold Venus we’d both come for. He took it to mean whether or not to shoot me. The look of embarrassment, anxiety, and dread on Harvey’s side of the face isn’t something I will ever forget—and that’s the look I saw now on Bernard.
“W-what, w-why, wh…?” he sputtered.
“Why ‘banque privée’ is in French?” I repeated. “You don’t have branches in Genève or Lausanne; you’re just in Zurich. Why’s it in French?”
“How did you happen to ask that question?”
“I have a friend who had a theory that was preposterous. And ever since telling him it was preposterous, I’ve wondered myself what the real reason could be.”
“Selina,” he began carefully, “do you remember a talk we had several years ago when you were at a crisis point?”
“Of course.”
“A crisis not unconnected to the masked vigilante you have in this city, correct? The Man-Bat.”
“Batman.”
“Yes. Batman. But he wasn’t at that time, was he?”
“What are you getting at, Bernard?”
“I appreciate that, in the course of that conversation, there were a great many things you simply couldn’t say outright…”
Like I was Catwoman, I thought. Like I was in love with Batman. And the Batman I knew had disappeared.
“…The situation with our sign is similar. I simply can’t say. But if you undertake this mission, I dare say you’ll glean the reason before long… just as I gleaned certain things that were never said in our talk all those years ago. Who knows, perhaps you’ll decide your friend’s theory isn’t so far-fetched after all.”
And then, after the movie, after joint ass-kicking possibly-impressing-with-detective-acumen patrol, Tim would finally be ready for Phase 4: a post-patrol burger at Big Nick’s or a slice at Gino’s depending what side of town they were on. Take their nosh to a handy rooftop and have a nice (if somewhat one-sided) talk, after which he would escort her home…
That’s where it got tricky.
Cassie lived in one of the identikit apartments Bruce kept around town as safe houses. Tim had seen the fire escape enough times that he didn’t relish doing the goodnight two-step there. It was awkward with any girl, shifting your weight back and forth, trying to figure out which way it would go. But when the girl can read the uncertainty in your body language? No way. He had to know the move before they reached the fire escape and be completely committed to a course of action before she ever said “Thank Tim for nice evening. Good burger.”
And that course of action would be…?
He had it, he had a first-class inspiration there: a hug. A goodnight hug. Because whatever else happened in the course of a date or patrol, Cassie Cain was still a friend, and a friend always rated a hug. Cassie especially, she hadn’t had enough of those. So okay, as long as she didn’t snarl at him during the hamburger phase, he’d give her a goodnight hug on the fire escape, and that would be that.
..:: ‘OUR journey was not slacken’d by our talk, nor yet our talk by journeying.’ This is Jason Blood. I journey as well, and though only a few blocks from home, it is too far, alas, to come to the phone right now. My journey will not be slackened by your talk. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you… ::..
“Jason, it’s Selina. Listen… You weren’t making it up, were you. All that stuff you told me about the Knights Templar and the Swiss banks, that was all true? Call me—No wait, my cell will be out of range. Drop me an email.”
I added the last because Jason had been known to send messages via these talking balls of light. Bruce had come into the room while I was on the phone, and I figured he’d be grumpy enough without magic orbs floating up to him in the middle of patrol asking where to find me.
I explained briefly what Bernard wanted, going back to Zurich and looking into the vault situation.
“I can’t help but notice this is starting to sound a lot like crimefighting,” he said with a perfectly obnoxious little lip-twitch.
I growled.
“I got sucked into plenty of adventures like this back when I was working,” I told him.
“I know that. What I don’t know is why it’s the dreaded C-word if I suggest it but an ‘adventure’ if you stumble into it on your own.”
I had to think about that. I had tripped up a few bad guys and worked with a few good guys in the normal course of being Catwoman. I even helped Batman when he asked, and the Justice League when they were collectively too frozen, shot, melted, morphed, electrified and beaten up to ask. The difference was…
“What I used to do, I got into in the course of Catwoman being Catwoman. I know Bernard because of kitty’s less-than-entirely-legal activities.”
“You know me because of ‘kitty’s less-than-entirely-legal activities,’” he graveled.
There was another lip-twitch. He wasn’t being confrontational or obnoxious, he was just being… completely confrontational and obnoxious. It’s one of his better bat-tricks, like throwing a shadow at midnight.
“That’s different,” I laughed.
He didn’t say anything at first. I felt that delicious density shift, and he took a step closer, took my chin between his thumb and index finger, and tilted it wordlessly into a long, mind-bending kiss.
“Very different,” he noted.
I purred until my head cleared.
“Ask me like that next time,” I told him, “and I might just say yes.”
?Tim Drake Dating Plan: Phase 1
It was kind of funny that Phase 1 was complete before he’d even asked for the date. Just deciding to put all Grayson-Gordon advice aside had liberated him like nothing else. Sure Dick and Barb ara meant well, but much as Tim had in common with Dick, Barbara had nothing in common with Cassie. Daughter of a police commissioner; daughter of a professional assassin. Grew up doing the usual girly stuff; grew up field stripping an AK47 before she’d be given dinner each night. Master’s degree in library science; used laminated library card as a throwing star.
So it was better to just put Dick and Barbara’s advice aside and proceed on his own, which he had, and so far it was really working. He had suggested “meeting a little earlier than they needed to” before patrol so they could “spend some extra time together.” That was better than asking her on a “DATE” when all her ideas about dating probably came from television sitcoms. He said he’d pick her up at 7:30, and that she should wear something “comfortable.” That took care of the costume-or-civvies question. He himself had a new t-shirt, that was a nice enough gesture for a first date while still ensuring he could change quickly into Robin when the time came…
It was a long time since Matt Hagen attended an opening, let alone an opening in an old movie house. He wanted to go as himself, his old self. He had stood before the mirror, morphing through his old headshots, and finally settling on the one night he looked the most glamorous: the London premiere of Space Tempest. But then he remembered that Cluemaster said that Roxy said that Scarecrow said that Hatter said to keep a low profile. There wasn’t going to be a red carpet or any paparazzi covering the opening anyway. It was just a bar, and a Rogue bar at that. His status among the rogues was as Clayface, not space bounder Lance Starfire played to galactic perfection by Hollywood heartthrob Matt Hagen. And Clayface, well, there wasn’t anything low profile in that form.
He decided to put on his latest body. His neighbor ordered a lot of pizza, and he had been experimenting with the delivery boy. He just about had it: a little shorter than the original… thinner… and with darker hair… better skin… and, an actor’s touch, a faint scar just over the right eye that Matt decided came from a beating in his late teens when his character was on the high school wrestling team. He’d dated his best friend’s sister, who cheated on him so he dumped her. She told her brother some sob story, and the brother beat the crap out of him. Yeah, that was good. He thought about that as he tightened the flesh around the scar, getting into character, letting the distrust of that early betrayal sour him on both friendship and romance… He tightened up the frown lines around the mouth in response and inspected the final result.
Now a name. Such an unfulfilled nobody deserved an appropriate name… He thought of those rivals for starring roles who were particularly deserving of the honor… Norris… Seagal. Yeah. Norris Seagal, now that was an unhappy nobody.
Matt-Norris nodded at the mirror in satisfaction, and left for the opening of Vault.
AIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-UNGH!
You never get used to those abrupt landings on the hood of a moving car, and a little European mini is no exception. I felt the impact throb outward from my knee and made a mental note to be nice to it for a while, and the ankle too.
I slid off the hood, gave the driver a friendly half-wave with the whip handle so maybe he’d consider the whole event as mundane as I did… and went back to the Widder to see about getting another room.
I have the worst luck with hotel rooms in Europe! At least this one wasn’t actual ly blown up; it was just a little fire. But I doubted the management would see it that way, especially since I’d set it. But really, what else are you supposed to do when you realize you’re being followed when you haven’t been in town long enough to raise any hackles? I did what any savvy cat would do: I laid a little trap. I went out for a walk through the neighborhood, lost him/her/them long enough to change into the catsuit, and circled back to see what would happen…
Eurothug was ransacking my room, that’s what was happening.
And since I hadn’t even unpacked yet, it was damn unlikely he was really searching for anything in the drawers and closets. I crept in closer… the room had a little entrance hall that let me get in close without being seen… My uninvited guest was busy stripping pillowcases off the bed—for effect, one presumes, there was no practical reason for it—and while he was busy with that, I got my hands on this black bag on the floor that wasn’t mine and certainly didn’t come from the hotel. Sure enough, I found a little bottle of chloroform inside and a slightly larger bottle of kerosene, enough to start a blaze but not an inferno.
As near as I can figure, he meant for me to return and see the room ransacked before he jumped me, then he’d knock me out, set the room on fire, and I’d wake up (we hope) in the middle of the burning room. So probably not trying to actually kill me, just scare me off the case and out of town. Not that I cared what the point was, Kitty doesn’t let things like that pass. I snuck back out—with his gear—blocked the door, and set a little blaze of my own. Turnabout is fair play. Meow.
He had to jump through the window to escape the fire, and of course I was waiting right there to punch his lights out when he did. Tapped him on the shoulder, just like a Bat with an axe to grind.
Unfortunately, he had a better block than I expected and a decent swing of his own. I don’t like the sound of sirens any more than he did, and the whole punching-running-jumping chase through Rennweg and Unaniastrasse just landed me on the hood of a mini coop while Eurothug got away. Woof!
Twenty minutes later, I was re-settled in a new room and took stock of what I knew:
I hadn’t been in Zurich two hours before this guy came after me. There’s absolutely no reason to think a random brunette checking into the Wittmer is bad news, so my nemesis had to be watching Bernard. If he was keeping an eye on the senior partners and Bernard suddenly left the country, came back a day later with a strange American, then okay. Check her out/scare her off…
But there was no reason to be watching anybody AFTER the heist. Before, yes, you watch. You watch to work out a victim’s routine: when they come home and when they go out if it’s a residence, when guards patrol a museum, when the salesman empties out the display cases for the night and stores the gems in the safe. But then you go in, get the sparkly, get out, and treat yourself to a bowl of cream for a job well done. If this guy was still watching the partners, that could only mean he wasn’t done with the vault. He’d already breached it, Bernard said so. But he hadn’t made the big score? What the fuck was he doing, taking little things that wouldn’t be missed like some pilfering accountant?
I was disgusted. Absolutely disgusted. This Mousy Maurice wasn’t worthy of a vault out of legend.
Tim Drake Dating Plan: Phase 2
“Movie good.”
So far so good. Cassie liked the idea of seeing a movie. She even liked the idea of seeing Raiders of the Lost Ark instead of some chick flick with Hugh Grant carrying on the way no man with an actual spine, penis, or an iota of self-respect would dream of carrying on. She liked Harrison Ford—or rather “Like Han Solo. Funny. Scoundrel. Have big hamster for copilot.”
That was the first snag, really. “Know from Stephanie.” She knew Harrison Ford was Han Solo because she’d seen Star Wars with Stephanie. It seemed like everything she knew from the real world she’d learned of through Steph. Tim spent the first half of the movie trying not to think about it, and then getting mad when he couldn’t think of anything else. Then he got mad at Cassie for being so insulated and limited, and then felt bad for getting mad when it wasn’t her fault. Finally he got mad at himself again for being such an insane jerk trying to date his dead girlfriend’s best friend and…
Oh shit. That’s when it really got ugly. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.
…He just thought how lucky it was they were watching an old movie that he’d seen a hundred times before. He hadn’t been paying a bit of attention, but since he already knew what happened, he could talk about it afterwards and Cassie would never know… And there it was… Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.
Indy was in a dingy bar, hunched over a glass of expensive bourbon because he thought Marion was dead. Belloq was doing the whole “not my fault, I didn’t bring her into this” and in a few minutes…
“I uh, I gotta, bathroom or, I’ll be back in a bit,” Tim whispered and worked his way through the narrow row of seats. Then he sprinted up the stairs three at a time. He exited out the back of the lecture hall and doubled over, feeling he might throw up, while at the same time clenching his eyes tight against threatening tears.
Indy thought Marion was dead, but in a few minutes, he was going to walk into a tent and see her gagged and tied to a chair—but very much alive—and Tim couldn’t quite take seeing that with thoughts of Stephanie so fresh his mind.
He would just wait. He knew the movie well enough, he could judge when it was safe to go back in. God he was so stupid. How could he be so stupid as to— the thought was cut short as the door started to swing open and Tim just knew Cassie had followed him. Couldn’t she even understand going to take a leak?
“I said I’d be right back,” he told her irritably.
“Body language say sad,” she answered.
“…”
“Say mad all time before. Then sad.”
“No, no it was just a little hot in there. I needed some air, that’s all.”
“Tim lie.”
“Yes, okay, ‘Tim lie.’ Lotta that goes on during a date, Cassie. If you ask what I’m thinking, and I’m waiting for Marion to show up on deck in the white nightie that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, I’m going to lie and you should pretend to believe me!”
“We on date?”
“Eh…”
“That why sad? Think of Stephanie?”
“Yeah. Yeah something like that.”
“I think of her too. Because of Han Solo.”
Tim couldn’t hold back the laugh. God, she could cut through the melodrama like no one else.
“He’s not Han Solo in this. He’s Indy.”
“I know. Indiana Jones. Know from Stephanie. Named for dog.”
“Rrrri ght. Tell you what, why don’t we go back inside, see the end of this, and maybe during patrol you can tell me all the movies Steph told you about.”
“Catwoman gave me the combination,” Norris Seagal confided to the doorman.
Mark scowled at the nondescript stranger. Sly said anyone who gave a legitimate password could enter, but that Mark should give them a bit of a show before letting them in. Really look them over like he was sizing them up, add a little note of suspense and excitement to the whole proceeding.
“Okay,” Mark nodded finally. He pushed a button which once operated Two-Face’s perimeter defenses, meant to call down an array of bi-fractal lasers on vigilante intruders. Now it activated a motor from an ordinary garage door opener. Behind him, a false “wall” that was really an ordinary sliding door with a paint job was pulled along its track, and Mark stepped aside to allow the newcomer to enter “the vault.”
“Thanks” Norris said, stretching out into his natural Clayface form as soon as he was inside.
Although he didn’t breathe in the conventional sense, Matt sucked in extra air for the sole purpose of letting out a low, impressed whistle. What had once been the lobby of the Flick Theatre was transformed into a gleaming, multi-level wonderland of theme-chic. Waitresses marched around like security guards—if security guards wore their uniform shirts three sizes too small, unbuttoned past their cleavage, and short shorts. On each side of the bar, a costumed “guard” stood at the base of a winding staircase. The stairs once led movie-goers to the balcony. Now, judging by the velvet ropes they “guarded,” they led to a VIP room.
The bar itself was the centerpiece of the main level. Everything led the eye back to it, its natural art deco features augmented with lighting, gears, steel bars and the rest of Two-Face’s laser defense grid to suggest a fortress of steel and technology protecting a sultan’s ransom of treasure. Glittering samples of that treasure were interspersed among the liquor bottles behind Sly. Little stacks of jewels peaked out from between bottles of Grey Goose and Absolut, while gold bars and bundled cash were wedged between Johnny Walker and Glenundrom. Clayface peered closely at the money bundles, extended a hand like a long crane, and picked one up for closer inspection. Sly didn’t seem to care as the clay hand passed overhead. He merely looked up at it, followed it back to its source, and waved cheerily.
“Hey there, Mr. Hagen!” he yelled over the crowd. “One mudslide, coming up!”
Clayface nodded and examined the money bundle—then laughed uproariously. The band around the center read $5000 National Bank of Gotham. On the top, a convincing $50 bill; on the bottom, a convincing looking backside of a $50 bill; and in between, blank paper cut to the appropriate size.
“Where did you get all these movie props?” he asked as soon as he reached the bar to claim his mudslide.
“We lucked out,” Sly winked. “It all happened cause we hit a snag with the girls’ costumes. I had gone to a, well, I guess you’d call it a lingerie store. They had some ‘dress up’ outfits for security guards and stuff, but as soon as the girls saw them, they started complaining that they wouldn’t be durable enough to get through a single night. Sparrow is friendly with a lot of the groupies. She made a few calls and found out about this costumer a lot of the B-listers use for henchmen and wenches if they can’t afford Kittlemeier. Turns out, this guy works at the Hijinx Play house, you know, where Miss Catwoman did that show. And they still had all this stuff from her set in storage. He said nobody’d miss it and we could help ourselves. Really adds to the atmosphere, doesn’t it?”
“Very impressive,” Clayface nodded as one of the “guards” came up to the bar and slipped Sly a note.
“Would you say nine out of ten?” he asked.
“More like forty-nine out of fifty,” the waitress answered.
Sly’s brow knit in confusion.
“Okay, well, it is what it is. Thanks.”
Tim Drake Dating Plan: Phase 3
It was the oddest patrol since AzBat. That night he’d hacked into the unstable, heavily armored, borderline-homicidal vigilante’s patrol route and tried to stay one step ahead all night, clearing street gangs and drug dealers out of his path before he could slice any throats open with those deadly shuriken.
Tonight wasn’t anything like that; Batgirl didn’t have murder on her mind. She’d just flit from talk of Star Wars and Phoenix Ninja to “yakuza six o’clock.” Then she’d jump down and have a dainty bat-boot on one’s throat and another in a choke hold before Robin had fired a line. So he was straining to keep one step ahead, spot any perps before she did, but still follow her conversation like a good date should. It’s just that Cassie’s conversation took a little more concentration than most, and he only had two eyes and two ears.
“New trilogy no have Han Solo. Have big hamsters though. Lots of hamsters in third movie. No Han Solo though. Don’t like new trilogy.”
And in the split second it took him to remember big hamsters were wookies, wonder where she picked up the word “trilogy,” and agree about the new movies, she spotted a kid in a red bandana breaking into a Lexus. Robin had no sooner cuffed the creep and called it in to Oracle, when Batgirl performed the pirouette air spike Phoenix Ninja had awarded her avatar when she won her 500th game.
“You probably shouldn’t do that,” Tim grumbled when they returned to the rooftop. “Phoenix Ninja isn’t sold here. It’s just available in Japan. You don’t want to do anything in public that could tie us to Bruce.”
“You think glass jaw car thief recognize special win dance from game no can get here?”
“N-not necessarily, but there’s no point taking chances.”
“Even if play game, would have to win 500 times like SilentShogee to see special win dance.”
“Yes, that’s true but…”
“You play game. You not win 500 times.”
“I know. Forget it. I was saying, it can’t hurt to be careful, but never mind. Forget I spoke.”
“Dick say win thousand game, get easy egg.”
“Easter egg, the little extras they hide in games are called Easter eggs. But that one is just an internet rumor. It is not going to turn your avatar into the actual Phoenix Ninja if you win a thousand games.”
“That what you say about SilentShogee special win dance.”
She repeated the move, and Robin looked down into the alley, praying a mugger would show himself.
Vault had no equivalent of the Iceberg dining room, so Sly had sectioned off the balcony floor as a VIP level to give high-ticket customers a private place to congregate. He pointed Clayface to the velvet ropes with assurances that Raven would be at the top of the stairs, managing “the li st” just as efficiently as she did her reservation book at the Iceberg and generally keeping the crowd grouped in ways that would not lead to gunfire. Before he left, Sly asked ever so casually how Clayface heard about the club, its new location and password. Hagen said he’d got it from Cluemaster, who got it straight from Roxy Rocket, who…
Sly didn’t listen beyond that. If Hagen heard from Cluemaster, he should have given “Cluemaster gave me the combination” as a password. Sly was very proud of that idea. It would give them a nightly overview of where their customers were coming from. Except it wasn’t working. Apart from four people Sly told, six that Raven told, Feather’s roommate, and two each from Dove and Peahen, everyone else was naming the same person: “Catwoman gave me the combination.”
It had to be Mad Hatter’s doing. The complexities of the “so-and-so sent me” formula were too much for him, so he fell back on the example: “Catwoman gave me the combination.” Well… it was a shame from a market research perspective, but for better or worse, it looked like that was their password now. Sly couldn’t worry about it. He had a much more serious problem: he’d just opened his last bottle of Wild Turkey. A bar couldn’t run out of bourbon, it just couldn’t. Mr. Hagen said that all opening nights are plagued by some kind of disaster, but as disasters went, if Sly had to choose between Batman crashing through the ceiling and challenging Joker to a bartender-throwing contest or running out of the Ghost Dragons’ most requested brand of whiskey, he’d have to think about it.
He sent Sparrow to the nearest liquor store, but he didn’t know the neighborhood well enough to know where it was or how long she might be. And he just saw Dove unhooking the velvet ropes to admit a party of Ghost Dragons to the VIP room… It was one of those moments, time for a command decision. Sly checked the bottles behind him, confirming what he already knew: plenty of Stoli.
“Catwoman gave me the combination,” they all said to get in. Well, so be it. He signaled to Feather and told her that Catwoman’s martini was now the house drink. Tonight only, it would be half price. Be sure to tell the Ghost Dragons when she went up to take their orders.
AIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-SPLASH!
Okay, now I was pissed. I’ve given up trying to explain that cats don’t hate water. What they hate is having to re-groom wet fur that they had just perfect before the damn water came along and ruined the whole night’s work. That’s why I was pissed. It wasn’t being WET, it was being swept into an underground RIVER by a sprung booby trap that I HAD ALREADY BYPASSED!!! The whole night’s work wrecked! I had spent— I had just— I had made it! I was there! I was right there at the business entrance of the vault out of legend and now— now I was DRIPPING WET hauling my furry ass out of Lake Zurich!!!
My boots actually made a wet squishy sound as I trudged back to Paradeplatz.
I had squishy boots.
Bernard had told me only that the vault entrance was under the DAZ building. Even that was more than I wanted to know. A case like this, I don’t want any help from the people I’d be planning to rob. I want to approach it like the thief did, face every problem he did, answer every question for myself. Still, since the damage was done, I let Bernard take me down to the basement level in this old-fashioned handcrank elevator. It looked like a lot of basements in small office buildings. There were boxes of old file folders, antiquated adding machines, and an office chair with a broken armrest. There was an “old paper” smell. And in the very back, behind archival boxes of (Bernard assured me) non-sensitive paperwork, there was a simple door with chipped paint and a not so simple timelock.
“LeFebure,” I noted. “Same kind as your vault upstairs.”
“Why am I not surprised you’ve inspected our locks upstairs,” Bernard smiled.
It would be a foolish thief that didn’t, given what I kept there. I had gone so far as to buy a LeFebure myself and take it apart. They’re a beautiful collection of intricate gears, just like you’d expect from any Swiss timepiece, and they’re incredibly hard to beat. But for my purposes I seldom had to. They’re meant to stop embezzlers. All a timelock really ensures is that someone who legitimately has the combination can only use it during business hours. When you’re cracking a safe my way… Of course, this wasn’t a safe. It was an ordinary door.
I had to wait until midnight to see what the ordinary door opened, and to say it was an anti-climax would be an understatement. At first it just looked like more basement. Metal steps and railings, and a raised walkway around a very damp, open space in the center, layers of eroding brick and stone… until my eyes adjusted to the dim light and I started to see patterns in the shapes of weathered stones.
“Looks like Roman ruins,” I whispered to nobody.
I had no reason to think that was the timeframe. It’s just the only reference I had for blocks of stone that had once been the foundations for something. I’ve never been one who can look at a pile of rocks grown over with moss and say “those were supports for towering columns, those were the arches of an ancient temple, that was a bathhouse.” But I could see that it had been something. That was the though as I followed the ruins through a series of increasingly damp and rancid-smelling passages. Whatever it was, it was something manmade, something planned, and something…
The thought trailed off when I came to the first skull.
Now, a human skull really isn’t something you run into much breaking into jewelry stores, and I felt I should, um, pay respect in a way. I didn’t want to just step over the thing like a loose chunk of Roman road. I also wondered what happened to the rest of the guy. So I squatted down with those twin thoughts vying for dominance: pay respect to the dead, and, if I could, figure out how he got that way (for the admittedly selfish reason of knowing if there was a head-lobbing booby trap nearby). That’s when I saw a weird little glyph etched into the bone. I had to scrape off a fair amount of crusted rock-slime before I could make out what it actually… was… Two stick men riding a horse. A symbol of the Knights Templar.
I took a deep breath, still finding it hard to believe this was happening. A vault out of legend, Bernard had said. I thought I believed him, but I guess I didn’t completely. It wasn’t real until that moment, holding someone’s former head in my glove with the rock-slime still clinging to my claws that had been in the crevices of this symbol for who knows how long.
Well, okay, I thought, good news. Nobody is born with a symbol like that naturally carved in their skull, so this guy didn’t just rot where he fell. Somebody put him there, and I had to assume it was done as a warning. I proceeded with caution…
…and right into trap number 1. A stone tunnel that was just a little too narrow, unnecessarily narrow. That usual ly meant some kind of motion sensor. Now what would the 14th century equivalent of a motion sensor be? Something would have to “trigger” it and without modern technology…
It was dark down there, and the passage ahead became absolutely black as it narrowed. It occurred to me that while I had infrared lenses in my cowl and a battery-powered flashlight, the assumption of the time would be light means fire. I forged ahead, inspecting the walls on both sides of the passage at what I assumed to be “torch height.” And sure enough, I found a block of wax, not that well camouflaged, with some kind of weighted gizmo and a gear inside. If that wax melted, I didn’t know what was going to be set in motion, but I’d bet it would be bad for kitty.
I found two skulls next, and the trap they announced was trickier. There was a niche in the wall with six notches and bin of at least thirty stones carved with all kinds of symbols. Some look Arabic, some Greek, some I couldn’t make any sense out of at all. I assumed it was a “combination” thing in that the right symbols had to be placed in the correct notches in a certain sequence. I knew there were going to be puzzle-combinations like this, I just knew it. Every damn movie you see that has anything to do with Templar knights… but then every movie you see with Swiss banks gets something wrong too, so maybe I had entertained a faint hope that I wouldn’t have to be deciphering bible verses in Latin, Greek, and Aramaic. Still, there it was. Sooner or later, there was going to be a lightning round of Crusader trivia to get to the prize—but maybe not just yet.
There’s a simple rule in safecracking, you do it the easiest way you can. You look to see if Bunny Wigglesworth keeps the combination written down in the righthand drawer of her makeup table before you spend three hours trying to cold crack it. In this case, I didn’t expect to see the combination etched into the stone wall so the knights wouldn’t forget, that would certainly defeat the purpose. But there could still be an easier way than solving multicultural word scrambles in dead languages. Most locks can be defeated by understanding how they work… Problem here was I had no CLUE how this medieval monstrosity worked, or what it was meant to do. But I did know one thing, these people were short.
It first dawned on me when the wax panel for the torch trap was lower than I had guessed, and as I continued on, ducking and hunching my way through the catacombs, I was becoming more and more aware that this whole setup was built by engineers with a 5’4” view of the world. This particular passage cut through a relatively cavernous opening, I could just about climb over it—as long as I didn’t mind risking the fall. If I fell and hit their pathway, it would undoubtedly trigger the whatever. If I fell and missed their path, it would be one ugly trip down a deep and spiky-looking crevice of black. But then, I didn’t intend to fall…
…Five. I had got past FIVE of the rockslide, waterwheel, steam valve, swing blade, poison dart, sandpit, steel spike deathtraps. I had finally made it to an opening ahead that would make Bruce positively giddy as a secret underground of cavernous wonders, when SOMEONE behind me reset the damn five-skull pressure chamber and this rocky clicking sound was followed by rocky grinding noise, a wooden clacking and then the unmistakable roar of rushing water—right before a wash of VERY cold, VERY smelly underground river swept through. Before I could even breathe, let alone process that it wasn’t the entrance to secret cave of Bruce-giddy wonders whipping off in the other direction, but me that was in motion, with the river rapids knocking my feet out from u nder me and sweeping me off who knows where...
Tim Drake Dating Plan: Phase 4
Those who appreciate the charm of an all-night trough like Big Nick’s call it a Gotham City institution. Those who don’t call it a greasy spoon. The tables need a wash. The waitstaff needs a wash. But the burgers are big and juicy, the pizza comes fast (and with a strange metallic flavor that somehow adds to the appeal rather than detracting), and the night people who drift in between two and four bring an atmosphere of pure, undiluted Gotham. It was the ideal spot for a post-patrol bite, and Robin was patting himself on the back for the impeccable timing as they reached the upper westside. Another fifteen minutes of patrol would land them right in front of Big Nick’s just as he was signing out of the OraCom for the night. He was already salivating for a sumo burger, and figuring that since Cassie was a first-timer, he’d recommend one of those sticky grilled cheese sandwiches made with that thick Texas toast… when he heard the soft click of the OraCom mic being switched on.
“Close by close by close by,” he chanted mentally.
“Getting some weird chatter on the south side,” the cool Oracle voice announced as an invisible hand whisked the sumo burger away from Robin’s grimacing lips. “Croc, Cluemaster, a couple Ghost Dragons, and a possible Joker henchman all sighted within a few blocks of each other. The sightings were hours apart; could be a coincidence. But still, you two better check it out. Just do a quick swing through the neighborhood before you call it a night.”
The south side.
The south side.
Where the heck did you go on the south side for a late night burger???
As hostess of the Iceberg Lounge, Raven could peg any rogue’s importance in the Gotham underworld. She could do it instantly and with greater accuracy than any Bat-operative, police, federal agent, or academic criminologists. She brought that same savvy to Vault’s VIP room and had spaced Ventriloquist, Double Dare, Cluemaster, and Roxy Rocket at relatively equal intervals, their modest stature raising the hip quotient of only a few surrounding tables. She was reserving two big clusters of tables for the heavy hitters, if any showed. Joker, Riddler, Ivy and Scarecrow were all at Arkham, but you never knew when there might be a mass escape…
When Clayface showed up, she decided he was the star of the night and showed him to the central table. It would fall on him alone to raise the stature of Ghost Dragons slurping down half-price lucky cat martinis, DEMON minions wolfing down fire wings, and Maxie Zeus trying to pick up Magpie.
In their relatively remote booth, Akiki and Margot Marceau, known to circus audiences and police as Double Dare, were telling the story again to a new group of admirers. How, once upon a time, when this was a Two-Face hideout, they had been lured to this very theatre, to that stage right down there, by rumors of a fabulous set of twin jewels Face had acquired. At least, Margot was telling the story again. Akiki’s attention was now drifting, more and more, in Matt Hagen’s direction. She didn’t seem to be looking with admiration, however. She was staring.
Matt obligingly let his right arm fall limp, glurp down into a separate entity, roll across the room to Double Dare’s table, and then morph into his pre-clay appearance, sporting Grant Gifford’s haircut and costume from the nightclub scene in Advocate for Love.
“Never seen a shapeshifter before?” he asked smoothly.
“Oh sure, we had one at the circus,” Akiki a nswered. “Never seen a mud man though.”
“Ah.”
There was a strained silence. Then Matt tried once more.
“I’m still better looking than Blockbuster, right?”
“Well, he was no charmer,” Akiki admitted, “but... you’re gooey.”
“How rude.”
Grant Gifford and Clayface’s heads whipped around as if operated by the same set of muscles. The voice had come from his table, where—hello—where a much more attractive figure was seating herself beside his body. “Grant” glorped down to a puddle and inched inconspicuously back to rejoin the rest of his body, which now had his full attention.
“It’s Roxy, isn’t it?” he said with a twinkle.
“Yep. Mind if I sit? Don’t know why those Double Troubles have such a high opinion of themselves. I was with Harv for a while, y’know. He was a kick. Stuck up bitches. Anyway, don’t know if you know this, but we did a movie together once. That Stargate ripoff, Curse of the Mafdet. We never saw each other, natch. I was on the second unit. Stunt double for that lion chick that ran up the pole and executed the guy with the razor claw and fought snakes…”
She chattered on. She seemed to have an amazing talent for chattering on without encouragement, so Matt let her talk. He remembered the picture. It was true he didn’t work with second units. On Mafdet, he didn’t work with anyone, really. He was an egyptologist for one scene, then got transformed into a CGI creature with a falcon head. He did all his lines in a recording studio with a soundman from Canada, who’d spent all his time on the phone because he was buying a house, selling a house, getting a divorce, or some combination of those, some rat’s nest of a personal nightmare that Matt didn’t want to know about. It was a crap job, and Matt wouldn’t have taken it a year later once he hit it big.
“…and that’s when I said ‘Look, you can spend all that money on computer animation, or you can just put the snake on my head and I’ll dive into the lava pool right now…’”
She was still talking.
Well, she was no Catwoman (even if she had doubled the lion chick with the razor claw, and even if she was drinking Selina’s martini) but she did have a nice voice. Even without that purr that made his mud ripple, it was awfully nice to spend an evening listening to a woman’s voice (as long as she wasn’t calling him “gooey” or delivering a lecture on plants and the goddesses who love them). To amuse his new friend, Clayface morphed into the falcon-headed servant of Mafdet, no CGI required.
She was tickled—and her laugh was very, very nice.
The DEMON minions in the corner were a little freaked out by the sudden appearance of a birdhead with the body of a man in an Egyptian toga, but you never knew what set those guys off.
Tim Drake Dating Plan: Revised
“Okay, we throw our com units in the river so they can’t track us. Go to the Batcave, use the Justice League transporter to get to the Watchtower. Then I call Conner from there and he takes us to Seattle, so there’s no more transport trail to follow. You ever been to Seattle? It’s a nice town, lotsa bookstores, internet cafes ‘n stuff. From there, I use a public computer to reactivate the Alvin Draper identity as Alva Draper. That’ll be you. Like it was a typo, you get it?”
“No get.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’re goi ng to be Alvin and Alva Draper when we fly to Honolulu, enroll at Kapiolani Community College and… and take classes in whatever the hell they teach at Kapiolani Community College until this all blows over.”
“No get.”
Tim sank down onto the fire escape outside Cassie’s apartment, the spot for which he had such high hopes when the evening began. He worked his fingers underneath his mask and rubbed his temples. Cassie, clueless as ever, held out her OraCom.
“You tell.”
“I don’t want to tell them, Cass. And I want to be several thousand miles away when they find out. Bruce is going to, to… I can’t even imagine what Bruce is going to do. I just think I’d like to be at a nice tropical island safety school when it happens.”
“Because Catwoman new queen of underworld?”
“I’m… sure there must be something wrong with that information.”
“Three sources confirm. Build new Iceberg. Use name get in. Use things from cat-tale show. Special martini is house drink—but no get what that means.”
“There has to be a mistake. Cass, there is just no way Selina would do this.”
“Three sources confirm. Tambov and Deadshot and dealer from Triad. All say Catwoman is new Penguin.”
“I know. Cass, I know. I was there, I heard them. And I don’t want to be the one calling in that report.”
“Batman not blame you.”
“Oh no? You never heard the one about killing the messenger?”
“Batman not kill.”
“That’s the theory, but I’d still rather not test it.”
“Get up.”
Robin felt an insistent tug on his cape, pulling him to his feet.
“You need go home now. Make report.”
“I know. I know. We who are about to die…”
“Tim?”
“Yeah.”
Thin, strangely strong arms sprung into motion, wrapping around his arms and back, squeezing him into a tight hug.
“Know what you try do tonight. Was sweet. Had good time.”
Manly instinct started to protest, but Tim wisely envisioned SilentShogee’s vicious high kick-neck chop combination flattening manly instinct to a twitching heap. He very carefully shifted his left shoulder, then his right, just like he would loosening up before escaping Joker’s straitjacket, until he had enough freedom of motion to wrap his arms around Cassie’s back and return the hug.
No evening at a pseudo-Iceberg would be complete without some skirmish, and no minion initiated into the cult of Ra’s al Ghul could ignore the sudden appearance of Qebsenneuf, fourth son of Horus, in their midst. They approached with sabers drawn, and before long all four weapons were plunged into Clayface’s chest. He allowed each to run him through, then clamped around it so it couldn’t be withdrawn. No follower of Ra’s al Ghul would allow his weapon to be lost in a filthy tavern brawl, so they charged him over and over, each pulling on their saber as if it were Excalibur… and having about as much success getting it out.
Matt bore it patiently until Fi’nul used his foot for leverage, placing it high on what would be Clayface’s thigh if he was bothering with a body below the waist right now. That was getting a little too forward, and he sprouted into a 10-foot falcon—the whole bird, not just the head—and gave an indignant get-the-fuck-away-from-me squawk to emphasize t he point.
The minions fled, leaving their sabers behind, and Sly came up from the bar to survey the damage. A few overturned tables, a few broken glasses, a few spilled drinks. A worthy christening for a new Iceberg.
A new round of drinks was ordered for everybody, on Matt’s tab as was the custom after a brawl. He and Roxy sat again at their table, which now had four DEMON sabers lying across the center. Roxy made a very dirty and very funny joke about the mud dripping off them— “gooey” indeed—and as the ranking rogue in the room, Matt Hagen was ready to pronounce Vault a success.
AAAAAAARGGGHHHH-fuckfuckfuck!
Something else you never get used to: getting shot! I don’t especially care that the bullet barely grazed my arm and the glorified scratch didn’t even bleed (much). The point was it HURT! A LOT! And with the day I was having, I was way past looking on the bright side.
After being washed out to sea, it was too damn late to start all over again at the DAZ entrance. I could beat that timelock but it would take (duh) time, and in the basement of an office building that would be quickly filling up with people, it just wasn’t worth it. So the return trip into the vault itself would have to wait, but that didn’t mean my day would be wasted…
?There’s nothing quite so exhilarating to round out a night on the town in Zurich as a narrow escape from a chain explosion right in front of Grossmunster Church on a Vespa stolen from the LZ police less than an hour before. But exhilaration only goes so far. It was time for some old-fashioned exposition. The key to this mystery was the secret nature of the vault. The first question wasn’t the usual: who had the technical ability to get in? It was a far more basic: who knew there was anything to get into? Bernard hadn’t been that communicative, even though he’d brought me in on this in the first place, so I decided a chat with Jason Blood was in order before my next visit to DAZ.
Jason doesn’t believe in securing telephone connections. He doesn’t trust technology any more than Bruce trusts magic, and he says even if a line is secure, half the conversation can still be overheard. He “prefers to be sure.” So he sent me out—I’m not kidding—he sent me out onto the Bahnhofstrasse at nine o’clock in the morning to buy a hand-dipped taper of purest white, six leaves of sage fresh and fragrant, ground rosemary and dried basil. That’s not as easy as it sounds when you don’t know a city well, but the nice boy at the front desk wasn’t holding a grudge about the fire in my room. He pointed me to a farmers’ market at the end of the street for the spices and a big department store for the tapers. Turns out, some people here have chandeliers that predate electricity and still burn actual candles. I went back to my room, arranged the spices at the base of the candle as instructed, and lit up. Within a few minutes, the flame grew very still and this peaceful white glow pooled out around it. The candle sprouted a second flame—or rather, there was a second candle superimposed perfectly over mine. And there was Jason sitting in front of it, looking as real and solid as if he was in the room with me.
“Selina, always a pleasure,” he began with a formal nod. “How may I be of assistance?”
“How about we play a little game of ‘everything you wanted to know about the Knights Templar but were afraid to ask?’”
“Oh dear, so it’s come to this,” he grimaced. “With respect to your delightfu l way of introducing the subject, Selina, perhaps you will allow me to reframe the question. ‘The Knights Templar for beginners’, perhaps? Please don’t be offended. I’m sure you know a great deal—or think you do—but the fact is that modern man, and particularly modern academics, are incomprehensibly stupid on this subject. I would not trust anything you have learned in your undoubtedly complete education. This is one of those areas where modern sources are quite hopeless. You simply… had to be there.”
“Right. At the risk of stating the obvious, Jason, that’s why I’m talking to you instead of Barbara.”
Again he grimaced.
“Yes, well, the fact is, the Templars are not exactly a pleasant memory for me. I was still—at the age of five hundred and eighty, by which time far stupider men would have learned their lesson—I was still inclined to help humanity when I thought I could. My efforts were scorned time and again by such arrogant, willful stupidity… It simply staggers the imagination that men so utterly lacking in wisdom or understanding can be so blind to their folly and so confident in their supposed ‘abilities’ when those abilities are only a manifestation of their intense ignorance!”
“Um, Jason, I’d like to point out that absolutely nobody is arguing with you.”
“Forgive me, Selina. It makes me angry still. It is you and Bruce who pay the price for those disappointments. They poisoned the well of my good will for a great many who came after.”
I always thought Jason was quite helpful and a good friend. I spent the next several minutes saying so, and finally he was ready to get down to business.
“Very well. An overview of the Knights Templar by Sieur Jason du Sang, who knew them well enough to lend them money. The order began, in theory, to protect pilgrims in the holy land. They were a poor sect in the early days, hence their symbol of two knights forced to share a single horse. Hence also, my occasional loan of two or three gold pieces which I never expected to see again. It took almost three hundred hectares of land for a nobleman to support himself as a knight on crusade. I never expected to see my money again. I simply felt for those who had been men of consequence, reduced to such humble circumstances. And I wasn’t alone.
“In 1118, Baldwin II gave these knights a place to live within the sacred enclosure of the temple mount. Hence they became the ‘templar’ knights. At the time, it was universally understood that they must be digging for treasure while they were there. That’s why Baldwin put them there, not on a covert mission to obtain ancient secrets and blackmail the church, as some have surmised, but merely to give them a means to support themselves. Baldwin was born a French aristocrat just as they were. Such men take care of each other. It is not charity; it is merely pride and the obligation of caste.
“Modern ‘scholars’ who say these were pious men that would not dream of defiling holy ground are simply blinding themselves to the reality of the crusader kingdom. These ‘pious men’ thought nothing of slaughtering every man, woman, and child they found in the holy city, Christian and Saracen they murdered on ‘holy ground.’ Do you imagine for one minute they would shirk from shoveling a little dirt said to be blessed when they’d already soaked it into mud with the blood of the men who decreed it so?”
“Again, Jason, no one’s arguing.”
He took a deep breath, and we had a long digression about “Les Annales.” In the 1960s, Jason h ad the misfortune to go to a dinner party in Paris where he was seated next to a woman from this group of French historians who evidently suck the life’s blood out of history.
“In the name of socio-economic analysis, they achieve the impossible: they make sex, war, and murder dull.”
“Okay, so, long story short. Templars: named for the temple, dug for treasure.”
Jason coughed; it was his version of a bat grunt.
“Most likely. In any case, the order did not remain impoverished for long. Whether they came away with the Ark of Covenant, Holy Grail, or merely the reputation for having unfettered access to the Temple of Solomon—and therefore the ability to sell any fragment of wood, bone, or gristle as a priceless relic of a lauded saint—is ultimately immaterial. They prospered.”
He stopped and chuckled.
“To put it mildly, they prospered. To put it bluntly, they became an international wealth machine that made modern equivalents like LexCorp or Wayne Enterprises look smalltime and disorganized by comparison. Official papal sanction made the knights a favored charity and exempted them from taxes. When new members joined, as they did in force now that there was power and prestige to be had, they had to take an oath of poverty. That meant signing over all their property—farms, vineyards, castles, what have you—to the order. Additional revenue came from business dealings. The knights themselves were sworn to poverty but had the strength of a large and trusted international infrastructure behind them. Can you imagine a more desirable business partner?
“So it came to be that many nobles leaving their estates for a time, whether to go on crusade or for some other purpose, would place all of their wealth and businesses under the control of Templars, a kind of bank and power of attorney in one, safeguarding their holdings until their return. The order’s financial power became substantial, and the majority of the Templar infrastructure devoted itself to economic pursuits rather than combat.
“Thus began the Knights’ transition into the bogeymen of the day. If you think the conspiracy theorists of the modern world are entertaining, the peasants back then imagined fantastic plots for which the virtuous fundraising for the crusades was but a smokescreen. Ultimately, it came down to petty local jealousies, because Templar-managed businesses paid no taxes and were run efficiently. It was that simple, really, but demonic influences like Etrigan’s can have a field day with such ‘simple’ jealousies. I did try to warn them, but… well, in any case…
“Templars were rich and they were powerful. They managed their holdings very well, and became richer still. And that’s when the innovations began. By 1150, the original mission of guarding pilgrims had changed into a mission of guarding their valuables through an innovative system issuing letters of credit. It was difficult to travel with any significant amount of money, gold is quite heavy. So they devised a system where a pilgrim might visit a Templar house in his home country, deposit his deeds and valuables, and receive an encrypted letter describing his holdings. He could then take this simple, light, convenient parchment with him to any other Templar hall anywhere in the world, and there ‘withdraw’ his funds.”
“A twelfth century ATM,” I smiled.
“Essentially. I personally found it a convenient solution to a sticky problem. Before the Templars came along, I was forced to ‘die’ every few decades and manufacture documents to inherit as my own son; it’s really the only solution when you don’t age. But that i s an isolated case, of course. Back to the ordinary men of women of medieval Europe. Those who didn’t travel still found it prudent to deposit dormant wealth with the Knights Templar. The order had a loophole which allowed them to charge interest lending it out again, something no others could do under church law. And, as armed soldiers, they had the physical means to protect the goods.”
“So they were the first modern bankers.”
“Correct. By the 14th century, they had grown a little too rich and too powerful. Every king in Europe owed them money, particularly Philip the Fair. They had also lost the holy land, and most European monarchs were very nervous about that kind of well-armed, well-financed fighting force being back in Europe. So, as history records, Philip acted to remove them. He installed a puppet of his own as pope, and on Friday, October 13, 1307, he arrested Grand Master Jacques de Molay and some sixty of his senior knights simultaneously, charged them with numerous heresies, and tortured them until they confessed… What history also records, but is quite bafflingly incapable of interpreting correctly, is that Philip failed to lay his hands on the Templar treasure.
“Selina, Batman’s identity is one of the great secrets of the modern age. How many people know it? Besides you and I, his own handpicked confidants like Pennyworth and Grayson, numerous members of the Justice League, Ra’s al Ghul, Hugo Strange… No secret is absolute. Philip wanted to arrest every Templar in France at the same moment. You cannot keep an operation on that scale a secret, particularly when you are conspiring against the most notoriously wealthy men in the world. The Templars knew what was to happen; it is that simple. Word got out, and they sacrificed the men at the top because they had no choice. The rest escaped with the treasure. Those who find the very word ‘treasure’ to be too sensational for their dry, bloodless view of history would suggest it never existed… And if you choose to fixate on the Holy Grail, the head of John the Baptist or whatever else they’re thought to have dug up from the temple mount, I tell you frankly I don’t know about that any more than you do. But the wealth they had beyond that? The wealth they amassed over two centuries controlling and consolidating the greatest fortunes of the day? That treasure is undeniable. It existed. Philip glimpsed it when he was busy entrusting the treasury of France to the Templars’ protection. He realized what he saw was only a portion of the whole, that the Templars had forts and estates throughout France—over 9,000 manors at one count, just within his borders—each containing its own deposit of treasure. He wanted it. He didn’t get it... That is your cue, Selina, to ask me where it went.”
“But I don’t have to, because this is where our talk began last time,” I pointed out.
“Indeed. At this precise moment in time, when the Templars become fugitives in France, a remarkable thing happens right across the Alps. Swiss settlements who for generations had been farmers, suddenly turn into skilled warriors, defeat all the brigands that had plagued them for decades, and then settle down to become bankers.”
“The Templars came to Switzerland.”
“Of course they came to Switzerland. Just look at their flag, for God’s sake. There are even stories of ‘white knights’ appearing to turn the tide of this battle or that one. Some remained in France, I’m sure, disappearing into other monastic orders. Some fled to England, Scotland, other countries not inclined to follow Philip’s lead… but the ones entrus ted with the treasure came to Switzerland. And they signaled they were a depository of some portion of the treasure with a designation that would have been perfectly obvious to anyone at the time who needed to know.”
“Banque privée?”
“Oui, the majority of the Templars were French. It was so simple; those who wished to continue availing themselves of the order’s discretion and expertise in financial matters could continue to do so. A Templar bank was still clearly marked for anyone with eyes to see. And Swiss banking secrecy is a natural outgrowth of Templar secrecy, and the Order’s outlaw status after 1307.”
“Bringing us to the telepaths?”
“An era obsessed with the devil’s black magic was more keenly aware than most that a man’s solemn oath is nothing when it comes to keeping secrets. However sincere he might be, torture or magic may compel him to talk, and there are those with the power to pluck the knowledge from his mind without it ever passing his lips. That is where I came in. I gave the custodians of the treasure, and their heirs, the means to cloak their secrets from mind probes. I did this because I… had a debt to repay.
“When a man like Phillip the Fair is determined to destroy you, he will find the means to do so. He found it in this case in a mysterious ‘Esquire de Floyran,’ who claimed to have been a member of the Knights Templar and would provide the testimony for the initial charges of heresy. Floyran said that the Templars had deceived the church for more than a hundred years. That what began as a pious service to pilgrims had degenerated into a monstrous blood cult that worshipped, among others, a demon called Baphomet—who happens to be Etrigan’s cousin.”
“Here we go,” I laughed.
“Quite. Philip’s inquisitors describe Baphomet as ‘a three-headed god of assassins’ and other accounts have run the gambit from the overtly satanic, feeding babies to demons and whatnot, to a Gnostic sect that committed the obscenest of blasphemies: recognizing women as the spiritual equals of men… That was the mindset of the age: misogynist, obsessed, and absurdly overcomplicated. The truth is simplicity itself: it was the name Etrigan used to seduce a woman he’d noticed. Basina of Auvergne was a ‘freethinking’ woman of the time, who also happened to be an herbalist and midwife. I have mentioned how attractive Etrigan finds your hatred of Zatanna. Let’s just say a freethinking woman in 1304 had a great deal more to hate in the world around her. Etrigan was a little drunk on the rampant chaos of the age, and he was quite determined to get free of me long enough to have her.
“He resorted to a trick I would never fall for today, but at the time, well, all I can say in my defense is there was so much talk of the Evil One plotting against the faithful. Every dark shadow was said to cloak evil spirits. As much as one knew it was nonsense, it was impossible to remain completely immune from the paranoia and dread.
“I had business with the Templars in the region. As I’ve explained, with their system of encrypted letters, I had no more difficulty being Jason Blood from one century to the next. So I found myself in Auvergne with a number of knights. Etrigan convinced me he recognized a gentleman of our company, one Hugh de Poitou who I disliked intensely, as his cousin Baphomet in mortal disguise. I admit I was too ready to believe him, too eager to set him free to take on Baphomet demon-to-demon. In truth, I was seduced by the thought of Etrigan ripping Hugh to pieces, even if the body was nothing but an illusion. So I set Etrigan free.
& ldquo;At a time when demonic possession was known, he did not risk exorcism by revealing his true name. Basina, the knights, and others of the town all came to know him as Baphomet in the month he remained free. I cannot tell you if Esquire de Floyran was on Phillip’s payroll from the beginning, if he was sent among the Templars deliberately to find or manufacture heresy, or if he joined the order sincerely and only went to Phillip later to avenge some personal grievance. But I can tell you how he came to hear the name Baphomet, a name found in the charges and confessions by torture of Templar knights and Templar knights alone. It’s because Etrigan got a hard on for Basina of Auvergne, and I was too weak to stop him.”
..:: Kitten? ::..
“Hey, Handsome. I wanted to catch you when you got back from patrol.”
..:: Then you overshot. I was about to turn out the light. ::..
“Aw damn. So you’re not in the cave?”
..:: Why, do you need something from the Batcomputer?”
“No, nothing like that. I just hoped you’d still be in costume or something. I spent the whole morning swimming in Templar knights and medieval intrigue, with a sidetrip into Jason’s personal complaints about constipated French historians. I badly need a dose of Gotham.”
..:: I’m flattered. ::..
“Mmmm,” Selina closed her eyes, letting the deep bat gravel flow through her. “More, please.”
..:: More? I always said greed would be your downfall. ::..
Luxurious purring followed, and Bruce had to cover the mouthpiece so she wouldn’t hear his chuckle.
..:: Catwoman. ::..
“Meoooooooowwwwww.”
..:: Remember, if you do find yourself in a lost Templar vault, nothing in there belongs to you. ::..
The luxurious purring segued into an equally luxurious hissing.
..:: No souvenirs. I’ll know. ::..
And the luxurious hissing segued back into a long, moaning meow.
Refreshed by an invigorating dose of battitude, I began sifting through Jason’s interesting but remote Templar lore for the pertinent bits that applied to my case. Specifically: who could know there was a Templar vault to get into?
Jason was certain a sacred trust like this would be a father-to-son deal. That meant only the descendents of the founding partners of Ducret, Augustiner & Zaehringen.
Bernard wasn’t a suspect, since he brought me in on the case. If you’re dipping into a known vault, then okay, you might bring someone in just to divert suspicion. But a secret vault is different. Besides, if you did want to throw people off the scent, you’d get a bad investigator. Bernard knew enough about my deposits over the years to know exactly how good I am at what I do. And finally, to be blunt, Bernard was a middle-aged banker with a paunch. Getting to the final vault entrance required wedging yourself in for a punishing vertical climb, one foot on each wall and pushing up like your life depended on it (because it did). It required strength in the legs, balance, and ability to stop halfway up and catch your breath. There was just no way I could see a man Bernard’s age doing it, and that went for Carl Augustiner and Gerald Zaehringen too.
That meant, whoever might be behind it, the actual footwork was done by someone young and athletic, quiet possibly my friend the Eurothug from the first day's search-and-burn at my hotel. But he had to find out about the vault somehow, and that meant one of the partners had talked…
A father-to-son de al, Jason had said. Bernard’s son was too young; he was eleven. There was a daughter, nineteen, not in the running for patriarchal secrets. Augustiner had a boy that would be just about the right age, but he was killed eight months ago in a skiing accident in Engelberg. With Jason’s schemes to conceal his immortality fresh in my mind, it occurred to me that death can be faked, so I got on a train, went to the Châlet Spannortblick, and made some very indelicate inquiries. I found out that Carl Augustiner Jr. was killed doing some damn fool ski jump out of a helicopter, and, while they didn’t find the whole body, they had a head. In other words, it wasn’t the kind of death you walk away from (an observation that brought the most astonished expression from the woman at the châlet, but I was past caring). I crossed the last name off the list on the train back to Zurich. Zaehringen was a “confirmed bachelor” with no children. What’s more, I found out the Zaehringens were a late addition to the DAZ letterhead. Up until 1890, the firm had been Ducret & Augustiner. It was possible that Gerard Zaehringen didn’t know as much as I did.
I couldn’t accept another dead end, so I decided on the one Catwoman maneuver that had never failed: hit the jewelry stores. One of those men that knew about the vault told somebody, and a good way to find out who men tell their secrets to is to find out who they’re trying to impress in other ways.
The absolute best part of that plan was the proximity: the myriad of jewelers on the Bahnhofstrasse were only a few short rooftops from my hotel. It felt just like the old days in Gotham, with my apartment so close to 5th Avenue jewelry stores, and I was giddy by the time I reached Cartier.
In honor of those wonderful Gotham prowls, I had decided to hit Cartier first, even though I was certain the DAZ boys would favor a hometown jeweler. Getting in was just the same as the Cartiers in Gotham and Paris. I would have peeked in their vault, just for fun, but I did want to finish this particular bit of research in one night. So I bypassed the gems and went straight for the sales records. As expected, there was nothing for Ducret, Augustiner or Zaehringen.
I found Bernard at my next stop: Bucherer is considered Switzerland’s leading jeweler. Twice a year, Christmas and late September, Bernard made a small purchase, a gold chain or a small cocktail ring… about half the September buys were sapphire or lapis, as in the September birthstones, as in his wife’s birthday… nope.
Beyer was next, and there I found exactly what I was looking for: Carl Augustiner had the same dull, predictable pattern of “wife purchases” as Bernard, dating back thirty-odd years. But then, twenty-four years ago, a second set of purchases began… only one a year, but not at all dull and conservative. Last year’s buy was a jeweled Rolex: forty-five square-cut emeralds, diamonds on the face, 140,000 Euros. That’s a mistress.
The next morning, I took off in search of Seefeld in Kries 8, a residential part of the city I had never been to before. I located the charming house on a quiet street where the Rolex had been delivered. In the old days, I had a number of approaches to get a peek inside a target’s house, just to know the layout before returning as Catwoman. But looking around the idyllic neighborhood—two little boys on bicycles, a woman waving at me for no reason—all my routines geared towards suspicious Gothamites seemed hopelessly out of place. So I knocked on the door, jettisoned my French and pidgin German, and introduced myself with a decided American twang as the companion of a U.S. industrialist considering a second home in Zurich. I sai d I was checking out the different neighborhoods and wondered if she could tell me what it was like living in Seefeld.
It seems ridiculously simple, but it worked. She introduced herself as Daniela Barras, she asked me in, she offered me tea. She laid out these delicious tea cookies and told me the shop down the street that sold them. I’d spent so much of my time in Zurich getting chased, shot at, and dodging fireballs, I’d forgotten how genuinely nice ordinary people can be.
Of course, counterbalancing Daniela’s helpful information about neighborhood was her equally helpful information about a photograph I admired. Her son, Mark… the Eurothug who tried to set my room on fire my first day at the Wittmer!
Small gap… tight squeeze… legs taking my weight… and finally… yes, stable. I could rest until my breathing and heartbeat returned to normal.
A follow-up “candle call” to Jason Blood had told me everything I needed to know to return to the vault and finish this nonsense.
Foothold… foothold… and… stretch…
A bastard son would not be brought into the 800-year old banking firm and told about their secret vault, not if there was a legitimate heir.
…lock the legs …
Carl Augustiner Jr. would be told, and he somehow found out he had a half-brother.
…and push up…
He looks up Mark Barras. “Why should you get shut out of the good stuff and be left with a small trust fund?” or something along those lines. For that matter, (thought but never said aloud), why should I have to WAIT forty years and work in the dreary bank when there’s a treasure out of legend right under our feet?
Foothold…
Mark likes the idea but not the partner. Hence the “skiing accident.” Auf wiedersehen, Carl.
Foothold…
A lot of people have died for this treasure, what's one more?
…and stretch… lock… and up…
The partners were so skittish about bringing in the cops.
Foothold...
An attitude I heartily approve of in the normal course of things.
Foothold...
But at the risk of sounding like Bruce, we're not going to just shrug at murdering his half-brother, are we?
…And here I finally get to use my arms, pull myself up… and this time you won’t sneak in behind me, you sniveling eurotrash creep, because this time, I don’t have to go around the steel spikes or the sand pit. This time, thanks to Jason Blood (for whom I really would have to make one more stop at Beyer before I left and get him a nice Patek Philippe), I knew that any bible trivia made up by Templars for Templars would only bother with the Book of Nahum.
There are maybe a thousand passages dealing with treasure: from Genesis to Chronicles to Kings, it’s everywhere. Hezekiah showing off the silver, gold, and spices in his storehouse; shields of gold made by Solomon; treasurers with names like Ahijah, Mithredath, and Pithom oversee the fortunes of Cyrus, Nehemiah and Egypt. Job tunnels through rock until his eyes see all its treasures. And, according to Proverbs, Vanity is the treasure of wickedness—or maybe it’s the other way around. Point is, there’s way too much to cram for if you consider the whole bible in play—not to mention, in the holy land, these guys had access to the Gnostic gospels rejected from the standard bible.
But Jason said it was the obscure Book of Nahum that the Templars could really relate to.
God is introduced as a righteous, powerful, angry warrior against whom no one can stan d. The appeal there is obvious, and there is endless mention of destroying, attacking, plundering, and destruction. There is also one single verse that is beautifully on point:
The lion killed enough for his cubs and strangled the prey for his mate, filling his lairs with the kill and his dens with the prey. —Nahum, 2:12
Now that’s an analogy for treasure our boys could relate to. And there was the word “LEO,” Latin for “lion” among the trilingual riddle etched above this large silver seal. I pushed on it and... rocky click… and there was the II, for book two …rocky click… and there was the XII…
A beautifully carved seal of gold and enamel dropped into place over the silver, and the “door”—which wasn’t even identifiable as a door until it started to open—began this slow, creaking, swing to reveal a clear pathway to the inner chamber.
Wow… just… wow. There were chests, and I mean CHESTS of gems: diamonds, rubies, emeralds and sapphires, some set in gold but most lying loose. There were gold coins, gold vases and gold cups… a gold shield and several swords and daggers with jeweled handles. There was…
There was something very sharp and cold pushing against the small of my back…
“This sword has not run through any infidels in quite some time, but I am sure it is still sharp enough.”
?“This sword has not run through any infidels in quite some time, but I am sure it is still sharp enough.”
That’s what he said. Really.
“Mark, word of advice,” I told him, ignoring a poke at my back with the tip of the sword. “If that’s the best you can do on the villainous banter, maybe steer clear of doing it in English. With the guttural accent, you’ve got a real MWA-HAHA thing going and it comes off pretty silly.”
“These are your chosen last words, woman?”
There was another poke at the small of my back, a poke that was pure bluff… I hoped. I could have pivoted and grabbed, but it was risky. My claws can do plenty of damage, even through Bat-body armor I can draw blood and tear meat, but a blind swipe would probably miss. An effective strike would mean holding the blade in place while I aimed at the arm holding it, i.e. a test of strength, if only for a second or two. And I knew from our first fight that he was strong. That’s why I’d opted for banter in the first place, and that’s why I kept on with it. If you keep your head in these situations instead of going all high kicks and headbutts like some mindless she-Rambo, something always shifts.
“Fine, Mark, be that way. Mwa-haha all you want if it makes you feel like a man. But we both know you’ve got two very serious problems to clear up before you can use that sword on me. And since I know that as well as you do, the threats do come off a bit silly.”
“American arrogance,” he muttered, and I laughed.
“You’re a pretty interesting guy, Mark. You’re talking to someone draped in purple leather from head to toe and wearing a catmask, and you think ‘woman’ and ‘American’ are the shots to take? I don’t know if you’ve got the imagination for this kind of work, Mark, I really don’t. But let’s put that aside and talk about your problems, shall we?”
I hadn’t raised my hands at his pointy-stick-in-the-back routine, and now I turned and stepped backward, clear of the blade. He continued to point it at me like it was a magic wand or something, and I was forced to point out that the sword-as-phallus thing is a sad enough metaphor with actual warriors ready to strike. But when you can’t actually use the weapon, and particularly when your would-be victim knows you can’t use it…
As I spoke, the tip of the blade inched downward, just like a wilting erection. It was unbelievable, really, considering the topic of conversation. You’d think the idiot would have just resheathed as quickly as possible, get the thing out of sight, out of mind. But that’s the thing about the truly stupid ones: when they don’t get it, they don’t get any of it. Their consistency is amazing... and the reason banter works. If there’s a mistake to be made, they’ll make it. You just need to give them time.
“Your problems,” I repeated. “First and foremost, Mark, you’d be a fool to kill me before finding out how I know that you’re Mark Barras, Orellistr 21 in Kreis 7, close enough to Mum’s place in Seefeld to go home for Sunday dinner each week.”
“How do you know this?” came the predictable question in the predictably menacing delivery.
“Of course, if you manage to answer that one, you’ve still got the original difficulty. When I first got to Zurich, I thought you must be an incredible wimp not to have polished off the vault in a single strike.”
He laughed bitterly, and I smiled.
“Yes, well, that was before I saw it, obviously. Then I faced that charming vertical climb and your problem became clear. You can’t get the stuff out. You can stuff your pockets with gems each trip, sure. But the easiest things to take down here are the hardest to sell up there, aren’t they? Legit dealers have to document where the stones come from. They ask questions you can’t answer. And you don’t have the contacts in the black market to find the other kind of dealers, let alone judge which ones will buy and which will slit your throat for the first handful of whatever you bring them.”
He tilted his head forward ever so slightly, not quite a nod, but a grudging admission that I was right.
“All I have been able to sell are a few gold pieces,” he said. “And there is a limit to how many of those can be found in a great aunt’s attic without arousing suspicion. I managed to get a jeweled anlace to the surface, only to have a thieving antiques dealer tell me it was a twentieth century fake made to cash in on an American fad called Dungeons & Dragons.”
The bitter laugh returned, and he gestured around the heaps of treasure, repeating the phrase ‘dungeons and dragons’.
“The lying cheat offered me a hundred Euros for it.”
“Not exactly the payday you killed your brother for,” I noted.
He looked up sharply.
“Carl would not have known where to find a first class fence any more than I do,” he said coldly.
That wasn’t necessarily true. Carl did work at the bank. Bernard knew me and Igor, and Mark’s father, Carl Augustiner Sr, undoubtedly had a few connected clients as well. If Carl Jr. had stuck with it instead of opting for the instant payoff, he would have eventually learned a name or two. At least, he would have if he’d lived. I didn’t name names, of course, but I let Mark know just enough of this to throw him off balance. He hadn’t denied killing his brother, but he hadn’t confirmed it either. I needed to change that.
I dangled highlights of my resume in front of him: the Egyptian antiquities, the Greek mirror and the Etruscan vase; the Hapsburg Dagger, the Kimberley Canary and the Crimson Star; my first old master was a Cezanne, my last a Rembrandt… and so on.
The shift, when it came, was quite dramatic. He still didn’t like me, he still didn’t trust me, but it finally dawned on him that he was standing in front of a world class thief, breathing the same air as someone with all the fencing connections he lacked. He became more communicative. It took some doing to really put him off his guard, though. It took a half-hour discussion of the practical problems removing a two hundred pound Maya jaguar from a well-secured gallery without an army of henchmen, but finally I was able to get the whole story. He confirmed each aspect of my theory: Carl’s revelation about the vault, the betrayal and the murder, all just as I had guessed it.
“Thank you,” I said, tapping a ball on the head of my whip and the WayneTech camera it concealed. “I was afraid I might have to edit out the parts where I talked about getting the stone jaguar. Pesky thing about these digital recorders, the embedded timestamps are hard to tamper with. But you were good enough to wait until I finished before the big confession, so…”
I was ready for the sword strike that came next; it was painfully predictable. I had maneuvered over to the shields and used one to block rather than disarming him with the whip. His strikes were panicked, desperate, and unfocused. It was better to let him vent a bit—and tire himself out—rather than disarm him at once and let the frustration keep building. I needed him to focus, and that wasn’t going to happen until he calmed the hell down.
He managed to land four actual blows against the shield, each a little wilder and weaker than the last. That’s the thing about amateurs, they’re not used to confrontations and they burn up the adrenaline during foreplay. I kicked him back after the fourth strike and he didn’t have the stuff to come back at me. The whip took care of the rest, but once he was down and disarmed, I decided to give his hand a good clawing to preempt any more swordplay.
“Now then,” I resumed, “Don’t get all panicky in a cave full of lethal weapons. Your confession isn’t going to the police unless you absolutely insist on it. It’s going to the partners, and since they don’t want the existence of this vault revealed to the world, they’ll keep it to themselves as long as you cooperate.”
“C-cooperate?” he panted.
“When you’re arrested for breaking into a different vault—several in fact. Turns out four different jewelers on the Bahnhofstrasse were burgled tonight, Mark, with all the proceeds left in your flat… where the police should be finding it right about now. Ta!”
$280 –kwak– with discounts –kwak– to have the schedules fiddled with until Poison Ivy’s session with Dr. Bartholomew preceded his own, and another $50 to have Saul Vics look the other way so they could have a private chat in the outer office. Of course, the latter was only theoretical money, not hard cash. A $50 credit towards a Bose entertainment center Vics wanted and to which Oswald was now applying his bribes. The $280, unfortunately, had to be paid to an office temp, regrettably not as gullible as Vics and insisting on actual cash.
It was an expense, to be sure. Especially when all Oswald needed to do to see Ivy face-to-face was ignore his prepaid exemption from the social hour and let himself be taken to the common room like everyone else. But bribes were non-refundable, and it was so much more agreeable to have privacy for conversations of this nature.
Oswald perused an ancient Newsweek featuring Martin Sheen, ultra -liberal star of the West Wing portraying an ultra-liberal president, sharing his thoughts on the newly elected Alexander Luthor… Oswald marveled that even in the criminal wing of an insane asylum, the magazines outside a doctor’s office must be years out of date.
At last the door opened, and Ivy emerged speaking hurriedly about yellow roses and Peruvian lilies. Bartholomew assured her they would pick up there next time, and she called him a small-minded troglodyte without taste, brains, or a soul.
So that was it. Kitty’s adventure in the vault out of legend concluded exactly where it began, in Bernard’s office over a fresh box of Sprüngli pralines. No race up a pyramid of fire to reach the totem of space-time before the infidel. Not a single pillar of godlight to burn the unworthy seekers into ash. Not that I was complaining. I don’t think Bruce would be very amused if I asked him to move his giant penny so I could put the Ark of the Covenant in his trophy room.
Bernard was pleased. The arrest went as expected, and the video evidence of Mark’s confession was entrusted to Carl Senior. If and when Mark got out of prison, it would be his decision how to proceed. After all, they were both his sons.
We hadn’t discussed payment, but I knew the moment had arrived when Bernard scratched his nose. It’s a very subtle signal, like Alfred’s cough. I’m not even sure he’s aware of it, but it means the social pleasantries are concluded—or in this case, the unsavory blackmailing of the junior partner’s bastard son is concluded—and he’s ready to get down to business.
He hit the intercom, and Carl Senior came in with a thin, elegant weapon, like a miniature dagger. His English wasn’t nearly as fluent as Bernard’s, and he spoke very carefully, presumably from a memorized script.
“The police found this in Mark’s flat,” he said, handing me the piece. “Because it did not belong to any of the jewelers that were robbed, it came to me. It is surely from the vault. It is now yours. For payment. With thanks.”
“The anlace he tried to sell,” I guessed, examining it.
It was a beautiful piece. Solid gold. The handle depicted a helmeted figure in Grecian dress with long flowing hair that curved back into the bottom of the toga, making a handy loop to grip the thing. The figure held a disc, also gold and pocked with red enamel that might have been made from garnet dust or even ruby.
I thanked them both… It felt very, very strange… Of all the payoffs I’d received over the years, this was the most solemn ceremony. It felt good to have beaten the bad guy. It felt very good to have such an exquisite (and valuable) memento of the adventure. It felt odd to know it was part of the treasure a human being had killed his own brother to obtain. And it felt… good but… confusing… for the men paying me off at the end of a job to be so grateful.
Bruce guessed what was happening when Wayne One returned to Gotham but Selina didn’t return to the manor. He’d done the same thing when she got back from Xanadu: Batman had a gift to deliver, so he avoided her as Bruce Wayne until he could meet her on a rooftop and present it to her in costume. This seemed like the same dynamic. If Selina wasn’t coming home to the manor, it was almost certainly because she wanted to see Batman first.
Under other circumstances, he’d be as eager as she was. But tonight, Batman had news that Kitten wasn’t going to like.
Reasoning that, even without the unwelco me news, the reunion with Catwoman would take some time, he called Dick to take over his early patrol.
Meow.?Meoooooooooooooowwwww.
I’d never been terribly domestic, especially with the cat lairs, but tonight I kept fluffing the pillows and dusting the knickknacks. I was wild with excitement, had been ever since the plane touched down. It built in the taxi from the airstrip, it spiked when I opened the door to the lair, and then it settled into this dizzy euphoria of anticipation.
Meow.?Meoooooooooooooowwwww.
I couldn’t even remember when I’d been this high.
First time in the catsuit was pretty damn good. First encounter with Batman, of course, and the first kiss on Cartier’s roof… getting away with the Sekhmet amulet after he put up such a fight—Oh, and getting away with the Picasso that time! After he stayed on my heels all the way down to 28th Street…
The loot! My god, I forgot the loot!
I ran to my bag and unpacked the anlace. It was just large enough to use as a letter opener in the morning room—that’s assuming I didn’t want to place it in the trophy room after all. It rather appealed, having something of mine in there besides an old whip handle.
In any case, whatever I might do with it in the future, tonight it was the prize. It was Catwoman’s prize for a job well done, and a prize Batman had forbidden me to take (always a bonus). When Batman is expected at the lair any minute, you want the forbidden object front and center.
Meow.?Meoooooooooooooowwwww.
The sun had gone down an hour ago. He could arrive at any time… I fluffed the pillows again and straightened a Bast statuette. My heart was beating like a hummingbird’s.
Before I left, I told Bruce I’d been sucked into plenty of adventures like this when I was working. I’d thought about that the whole flight home. The throwback had been sweet, of course, that taste of my old life after so long… But then… then… Meooooooowwww…
There was one thing I could never have back then. A good night was a good night. A good prowl was the sweetest pleasure I knew. But when it was over, there was just home, Whiskers and Nutmeg. A cup of cocoa and the memory of a new Bat-encounter to dream on. But now… now… Meoooooooooooooowwwww.
I licked a glovetip and buffed the gold emblem on the chest of the Bast statue.
I arranged myself in a feline pose on the sofa, then gave the pillow a last fluff and lay back again.
An hour and ten minutes since the sun went down.
Meoooooooooooooowwwww.
Dick Grayson walked into the living room and regarded his wife with a stunned expression.
“Babs, we may want to postpone the dinner with Wally and Linda,” he said dully.
“Oh hell, what’s up? Some League thing? I didn’t see anything in the briefing, but I only skimmed…”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s just… I’ve been grounded.”
“Excuse me?”
“I… It… Y’ever see something or hear something that reminds you so much of the past, you just snap right back into being Batgirl?”
“I guess, sort of. Sometimes when I hear a siren I still get the itch to—”
“No, I don’t mean a reminder; I mean a complete flashback. ‘Cause I was just on the phone with Bruce. And one minute, I’m a grown man standing in my own kitchen . And a second later, it’s like: cape, short pants, and I hear myself needling him about getting me out of the way so he could go after Catwoman on his own. And, well, I’m grounded for two weeks.”
Barbara stared in horror, unable for a moment to even laugh at this lunacy.
“Well first, Dickie, my silllybird, you are a grown man now, and your father cannot ground you, send you to your room, or dock your allowance.”
“Yeah, I do realize that, Babs. But if we go out with Wally and Linda, this is all going to come out. I know Wally, and somehow or other, between the cheese fondue and the margaritas, the whole story will come out. And then he’s going to go to some League meeting and have a laughing fit every time Bruce opens his mouth. Kyle will start ribbing him, ‘Mr. Flash, perhaps you’d like to tell the rest of the class what’s so funny,’ and before I know it, the whole story is telepathically broadcast to four star systems.”
“Should have thought of that before you teased him,” Barbara noted.
“I, it… I couldn’t help it. Barbara, I couldn’t help it; it was a flashback. I mean, with all this ‘she’s the new queen of the underworld’ talk flying around all week, and now he wants Nightwing to take a patrol for him so he can go to the catlair and confront her himself.”
“He’s not ‘confronting’ her, Dickie. For God’s sake, we’re talking about Bruce and Selina here. She’s been out of town for weeks, they’re probably can’t wait to… y’know.”
“I realize that, Babs, I really do. But you’ve got to realize how often this kind of thing went on when I was growing up.”
She sighed, then put her hands on her hips in a typical Batgirl pose and spoke in the smug big sister tone that marked many of their early encounters.
“Seems you’ve dug yourself in pretty good there, Boy Wonder.”
Dick stalked off muttering “Holy nobody understands my problems, holy never had a sense of humor anyway, holy one innocent joke in the spirit of old times and the whole friggin’ world crashes down…”
Batman approached the cat lair as he had many times before. He removed a glove and placed the pad of his index finger on the reader, waited three seconds, and then slipped the Bat-pick into the lock. Forty seconds later, he was heading through an entrance hall just narrow enough to subject an intruder to a nasty spray of knockout gas or a paralyzing jolt of electricity if this were the kind of hideout that employed such traps, and finally reaching the main…
He stopped, subconscious tactical analysis of the physical space suspended and his body stunned into immobility by a much different kind of electricity as the sight registered:
Catwoman… stretched out on her side, on a leopard print throw… toying with a lethal looking dagger, rubbing the sharp tip of the blade against the sharper edge of her claw… Her tongue creeping out between her lips and licking the corner of her mouth… while she fixed him with a low, ravenous glare, like the predator she was eying prey…
“Dangerous toy you’ve got there,” he observed dryly.
She laid it aside brusquely and stood, an almost hypnotic rhythm in the sway of her hips as she approached with that unmistakably feline gait. Usually the movement was deliberately seductive… tonight, it was hungry.
“It is,” she said, a voice of hot, liquid want pouring over the words. “Dangerous… but I can handle it… I’m the only one who can.”
It was clear she meant him. It was also clear this was not the time to bring up the Iceberg situation. Electricity pulsed through his body as the tip of her claw traced the lower scallop of the bat emblem. Then her head tipped back, lips parted, in an unfathomable merging of cat and woman. She looked exactly like a cat exhibiting the openmouthed, flared nostril Flehmen reaction in response to prey; she looked exactly like a woman tilting her head to invite a kiss from her lover, she looked… she looked… ooooh.
Batman suppressed a wince as the tips of her claws poked through the crevice where the body armor met the belt, and he moved reflexively to grab her wrist and move it clear—but not before feeling the scrape of cold metal grazing the skin of his side. Instead of the usual hiss whenever he grabbed her that way, she let out a low, rumbling laugh that sent a shiver up his spine, around his neck, across his shoulder and straight down his chest into his gut… a husky laugh that spoke clearly as a single word: mine.
A strange, once-familiar paralysis spread like ice through his brain. He should say… something or… do something… not just stand there like a statue while this wild, untamable creature stood there taunting him with her brazen criminal felinity.
“Ahh-I…” he managed stupidly—when she pounced.
Instantly, he was on his back, on the floor as she straddled him.
They stared deep into each other’s eyes, excitement, anticipation, eagerness and even a touch of fear all building to a fever pitch. With a jolt, he pulled her head down hard, his own coming up to meet it halfway. Their mouths collided, tongues searching desperately…
OraCom: Channel 2—Nightwing
..:: Wing?::..
“Go ahead, O.”
..:: Update, sweet’ums. Highway patrol picked up the escapees on the Pennsylvania turnpike. They’ll be back in Blackgate by morning.::..
“Shit. They did get out of the state, and they made it all the way to Pennsylvania?”
..:: That’s where they keep the Pennsylvania turnpike. Which means…::..
“Fresh squeezed orange juice, and a toasted English muffin dripping with an absurd amount of butter and a tiny dollop of honey—in the morning. For now, I’m going to keep an eye on this place. If they’re not our jailbirds, they’re still up to something in there, I can smell it.”
..:: Roger. Oh, and I called Keystone. Linda's not having it. She's already lined up the babysitter, she's made sure Wally has the evening off, and she's got a new dress she's been wanting to wear that Wally, ahem, doesn't know about. Dinner is on, make your peace with it.::..
“Rassafrassin smiggleworfin”
..:: What was that?::..
“I said the Melting Pot sounds good. Love that cheese fondue.”
Bruce lay naked on the floor of the lair, a jumble of fabric—cape, catsuit, and the leopard throw pulled down from the sofa—crumpled under his body and tangled through his legs and around his hip. Sharp claws had ripped fabric, and strong hands had torn leather. The remains would suffice for modesty around the lair, but not much else.
He looked up at Selina, the back of her hair just visible as she made coffee in the lair’s small kitchen, and he marveled, as always, at the transition from tigress to kitten. An hour before she was a wild thing, animal passion incarnate. And then, while her chest still heaved with exhaustion after the raw, primal sex, she became so tender, brushing his cheek with a kiss h e could barely feel and curling into his side with a barely audible “I love you, Bruce.”
He reeled. In his depleted condition and in such charged circumstances, hearing his name on Catwoman’s lips was beyond… anything. Then, after a doze, she told him about her adventures and with such a glow of girlish enthusiasm that you had to love her. She got up, smiling, purring, happy to be home, and padded off to change into a t-shirt—although she undoubtedly had a spare costume on the premises, a thought that brought Bruce’s mind back to his own ravaged tunic and the inadvisability of attempting a late patrol now.
He got up, put on the leggings, and examined the dagger until she returned with the coffee.
“The souvenir I told you not to take?” he chided playfully.
“Oh, how I wish it were,” she said, sticking out her tongue. “But alas, no. Payment for services rendered. Freely given. Woof.”
“Well, it sounds like you earned it,” he admitted. Then he sipped, looked at her… and took a deep breath. It was time. “We have to talk,” he said gravely.
“A collective bargaining unit?” Ivy asked, crinkling her nose.
“Precisely, dear duchess of daffodils. It has come to my attention that we who are at the forefront of roguedom collectively squander a woeful amount on a few opportunistic individuals in this establishment simply to procure those privileges which are ours by right on the outside by virtue of who we are.”
“Are you addled? Oswald, you don’t imagine that I have to pay for favors in this place?”
A whiff of irritated lemon tickled Oswald’s nostrils, as if to punctuate the question.
“I am aware of your abilities, naturally,” he said, raising a handkerchief delicately to his nose. “But surely, there are undesirable consequences to using them here. An aftermath, if you will. Punitive bouts of solitary confinement and the like?”
“Naturally, but when I get worked up, it’s worth it.”
“Yes, kwak, of course, but for the day to day conveniences, it isn’t practical, now is it?”
“Well…”
“And if the fees charged by these uncouth peasants were reasonable, you might well wish to avail yourself of their services? An hour of solitude in a private bath, for instance, with a scented candle and mineral salts, kwak? Palatable food, served in your cell for you and a guest? Harley, perhaps? Kwakwak?”
“I’m listening.”
“I have taken the liberty of negotiating fixed fees with sympathetic members of the staff for various services. As with arranging a diversion or alibi through the Iceberg, all arrangements would be made through myself or my appointed agent once I am released—”
“Meaning you get a cut. Knowing you, you probably get most of it, and the Arkham staff doing the dirty work is doing it for only a pittance of what we’re paying you.”
“My good woman, that is a matter between them and me. All that concerns you is that these low and reasonable rates are available only through my good offices. I assure you, Pamela, that none of you could possibly negotiate such a deal yourselves, for in all the years you have been incarcerated here, none of you have even attempted it. –kwak– It is only right that he who discovers the gold mine lays claim to an eagle’s share of the riches that will henceforth be -kwakwakak- Pamela please, the lemon, kwakwakwak…”
“In t he history of mankind, nothing good has ever followed those words,” Selina noted.
“And this is no exception,” Bruce graveled. “Selina, that day you came down to the cave and got your fur so ruffled about Cobblepot, do you remember the one reservation I had about moving against him?”
“Let’s see… I remember the blood dripping from your fangs, ‘size and scope of the opportunity,’ ‘someone of Penguin’s stature that got away with it over and over again,’ ‘the message it would send…’”
“Admirable recall. And counterbalancing all that?”
“Oh, right. ‘The devil you know.’ Taking down someone so crucial to the underworld has repercussions, creates a power vacuum. Quite a risk when there’s no telling who might step up to take his place.”
“Exactly. And that’s exactly what appears to have occurred. Just as I feared, the new individual at the helm of Cobblepot’s former empire is infinitely more… problematic.”
“Woof. So much for a welcome home getaway to the Catitat, then. And who is this nuisance?”
Bruce’s lip twitched, and he casually turned the Bast statuette on the table as if to better admire it.
“As I said, from Batman’s point of view, this new adversary is uniquely problematic. Turns out, Catwoman… it’s you.”
?Buying a diamond in Gotham’s diamond district has been likened to buying a prostitute in Hanoi: supply far exceeds demand. You can spend a day moving from one dingy stall to another, staring at merchandise which looks exactly the same yet differs dramatically in price. Sellers—many of whom have a thuggish aura about them—can be aggressive. Some will even stand on the street and openly solicit you if you so much as slow down near their door. And then there’s the haggling… It is not an activity for the naïve, the ill-informed, or for any lacking the confidence of a bullfighter.
Sly moved along the stalls of 47th street with the assured gait of a native Gothamite, a quality the savviest dealers could recognize. The less experienced, and those simply blinded by greed, saw only the farmboy good looks and the butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth smile. They moved in too quickly, and with the wrong assumption. “Here to buy an engagement ring? I can spot’em a mile away.”
Sly looked around in exaggerated bewilderment.
“If you mean me, that’s a lot closer than a mile you’re standing.”
Then came the oily salesman laugh.
“Such a clever boy, I like you. And I’m right about the ring, right? Getting ready to poppa the question?”
“Not even close, dude.”
And he walked on—except once. One time, when Sly shut down the pushy huckster, he heard a loud slap behind him and a deep roaring laugh that almost sounded like Joker. Sly turned in alarm and saw a short man, about sixty, in Hassidic dress. He had a salt and pepper beard, a rosy flush that suggested Santa Claus as he laughed, and sharp, shrewd eyes that danced with amusement.
“You told him, Sonnyboy,” the man said, slapping his thigh once more.
He introduced himself as Shlomo Feinberg, and told Sly to follow. They went into one of the bigger diamond exchanges, up several floors, beyond all the shiny, well-kept showrooms, to a simple door labeled Mishaan & Feinberg.
Bruce was beginning to worry. Twice Selina had opened her mouth as if about to speak, and twice she seemed to reconsider, closing it again without saying a word. Twice she looked over at the crumpled mass of cape and costumes on the floor where they had made love. It was as if she feared some vital part of her intellect had been jostled loose, something necessary for higher reasoning that she needed in order to deal with him. It was lost in there amidst the gauntlets and batarangs, and she couldn’t figure out how to get it back without arousing his suspicions.
“If I wasn’t jetlagged, would this be making sense?” she asked suddenly.
Bruce shook his head, relieved that she had at least recovered the power of speech, and mentally warned Psycho-Bat to stay silent, stay put, and stay out of it.
“Not a bit, don’t even hope,” he said reassuringly.
“Okay then,” she said thoughtfully. She sipped her coffee as if the conversation was over. After a minute of this, she looked up at him with a bright smile as if they were in bed at home and she was just waking up. But instead of the usual “Good morning, Handsome” she said “Okay, hit me.”
“Is there,” Cassie said, grabbing the remote from Tim and pointing to the screen. “Indiana Jones go meet bad man, have monkey on shoulder. See?”
“Yeah Cass, I know. He thinks he just got Marion killed. I told you, I’ve seen this movie a dozen times.”
“Forget sap love story, watch monkey. Monkey look off that way.” She turned behind her and pointed to a lamp on the end table. “Something stand right there. Monkey watch. 5 feet 8 inch high. Monkey watch all time. Is very important whatever stand there.”
“Probably his trainer. His trainer would be on the set giving signals and—”
“There! Bad man walk in front. You not pay attention! Look now! Bad man walk, monkey lose sight of thing in back. Freak out. Is very funny.”
Tim stared at the screen in wonder, then at Cassie in awe.
“I’ve seen this movie a hundred times and I never saw that,” he laughed.
Cassie smiled, although she didn’t get the joke.
“Miss best part if not watch monkey.”
Tim was starting to agree.
“Okay then, let’s go back to the beginning and watch the monkey.”
Sly wasn’t worried about the actual bargaining. He had locked eyes with Two-Face to enforce the Iceberg’s happy hour policy. He’d stood toe to toe with Joker to enforce an ad hoc “no beating Catman with a crowbar in front of TV cameras” policy. He wasn’t going to be intimidated by a little diamond dealer.
His only real worry was time. The beer distributor was taken care of before he left, but there were other deliveries coming after one. He checked his watch and ground his teeth. Raven was there to sign for any deliveries, but she didn’t always check what she was signing for, didn’t count up the boxes or make sure the packing slips matched the purchase order… He really couldn’t afford this time away from a fledgling business. But he also couldn’t afford to stash any more payoffs in the money bundles behind the bar.
The first time it happened, Sly had no idea how much of a problem money could be. Firefly’s cute little henchwench Char came down from the VIP room and slipped him an envelope. It was “the house cut” she said. Cut of what, he had no idea. Some deal closed on the pre mises, he guessed. Sly never had anything to do with whatever arrangements Oswald made with the criminal clientele. Any payoffs like this must have been made in the office, behind closed doors. Whatever was done with the money, Sly had no clue. He knew you couldn’t just take something like that to the bank, so he stuffed the envelope in the box of cocktail napkins under the bar and waited until closing. Then he counted it: $5,500. It occurred to him that was very nearly a nice round number. He swapped $5,000 for one of the prop bundles of cash behind the bar, took the $500 that was left, and applied all but twenty to Firefly’s tab, leaving him with a nice $140 credit. The twenty he deposited in his tip jar. It was high time somebody put something larger than a one in there.
The system worked for the first few nights, but before long Vince Onetti, the Petrof Brothers, and Maxie Zeus’s gal Aphrodite were all slipping him envelopes before the bell even rang on happy hour. All the money bundles had been replaced, and the box under the bar was overflowing with bulging envelopes, with only a thin layer of cocktail napkins spread on top in a hopeful but ineffective attempt at camouflage. He simply had to exchange the cash for something smaller, something he could set behind the bar as just another bit of Vault treasure. Two of Shlomo’s $60,000 diamonds should do the trick nicely.
“Say that again?” I asked, trying to wrap my brain around the news.
“Queen of the underworld,” he repeated distinctly.
When I got back from Zurich the first time, Bruce asked if I was hoping to provoke a confrontation in the lair with Batman. The truth was, I hadn’t known what I was shooting for, I just knew I had to do something. Now, returned from the second trip, it seemed I was actually getting one of those old-style Bat drop-ins. Granted, it was a little different when he was unmasked, naked to the waist, and sipping coffee from a Cat-Tales mug, but it was still… he was still…
“Queen of the underworld?”
“For the third time, yes.”
“Queen like in ‘God save our gracious,’ chess piece that can move in any direction, the lady giving all the orders; underworld as in criminal element, all the bad guys, organized and the other sort, object of your nightly pummels?”
He grunted.
“And how did I manage this?”
“That’s what we’ve spent days trying to piece together. You built a new club to replace the Iceberg, retaining Oswald’s entire staff. That masterstroke made the transfer utterly seamless, invisible to the outside world and nearly invisible to law enforcement. The underground operatives went on doing exactly what they always have and reporting to the middlemen they always have. The quickest and least violent coup d’etat in the city’s history.”
“Okay. And what was Gotham’s protector from all things criminal doing while I pulled this off?”
“Apparently having phone sex,” Bruce graveled.
I stared. I felt I was missing something. What did this mean? It had been a while since I worked this end of the conversation, but even so, even if Batman was unmasked, half-naked and sipping coffee from a Cat-Tales mug, he was in my lair. He just told me I had somehow become queen of the underworld. That’s something I should be able to instantly digest, dissect for possible advantages and respond to without a moment’s hesit—wait a minute.
“Why am I only hearing about this now? You could have told me first thing.”
His lip twitched, and he b ent down to pick his tunic and cape from the floor.
“The mood you were in? It could wait.”
“Bruce!”
“Selina. I did exactly what you urged me to for years: put the thought of your criminal status aside for the night and gave in to what we both wanted. In retrospect, it was a very good idea.”
“You picked one hell of a time to evolve a sense of humor,” I grumbled.
“I’m enjoying the irony… and wondering how long it may take you to start pawing at the possibilities.”
He had picked a clawed glove off the floor, and now he tossed it to me with what I would almost call… a naughty grin.
Tim hunched forward, resembling Rodin’s Thinker as he leaned towards the television, stroking his chin and completely absorbed in the behavior of several extras in the background of Beverly Hills Cop. Cassie’s analysis of the background action had become so engrossing, they now turned off the sound to avoid any distractions.
“You really think they’re having an affair?” he asked, studying the man in the ballcap and the blonde in a scarf. “I agree something’s going on, but I don’t know if it’s that.”
“Might not be. Probably is. See girl in stripe shirt? She is friend of big hair blonde. Blonde tell her about ballcap man before shoot scene, and now she keep looking at him. Later, he in background at racetrack and she have tight mouth, press knees together and won’t look his way. Think she went out with him after blonde told her about him.”
Tim chuckled.
“You mean like the blonde gave him a really good review? You’ve got to try this guy, he’s great in the sack?”
“No. She make in sack with him because blonde friend make in sack with him. They very competitive.”
Tim bit his lip, reluctant to correct the unusual phrase. He was usually happy to help Cassie with her English, but suggesting ways to talk about sex? No way. Instead he eyed the remote, wondering if he dared the reach-stretch-drop the arm over her shoulder maneuver.
“Here. Good part to see how competitive they are. Can tell by way they stand. See elbow? Girl in stripe shirt must hold drink higher than friend. And friend, she always stand a little sideways, so more of her face camera than friend.”
While she was talking about the extras, Cassie nudged the remote an inch closer and leaned forward ever so slightly. Tim realized he must have telegraphed his thought about the remote. He was unsure if this was encouragement or the opposite…
Possibilities, he said.
I was ridiculously slow to realize what he meant, but then my toes were still curled from the first true Catwoman adventure I’d had in years capped with a night in the lair with Batman that exceeded my headiest fantasies. I couldn’t feel my fingers yet when he hit me with that queen of the underworld business. So yes, it took my inner cat an inexcusably long time to notice the catnip and cream that had just been laid at my feet.
Gatta Corleone. Catwoman was queen of the Gotham underworld.
When that poor little girl in New Zealand donned a Catwoman mask to rob a Taranaki bank, every newspaper in Gotham ran the story except one. Everybody but the Post, everybody but the purveyors of the East End goggle whore. I had wondered what might happen if there was a real cat crime, something closer to home, something too big to ignore, something that could never be reconciled with their trashy East End crimefigh ter. Now, suddenly, here it was. I didn’t have to lift a finger, it had all happened without my picking a single lock. Catwoman was queen of the underworld.
“Judging by that Mona Lisa curl on your lip, I take it the full implication of the news has now occurred to you?”
“I certainly envision a great deal of digestive upset at the Gotham Post,” I said. “Maybe I should send them a fruit basket, lots of oranges and grapefruit, very high fiber.”
“Cute. In addition to your vendetta against that tabloid, any other possibilities spring to mind?”
Bruce has this wonderful smile—this wonderfully evil smile—it’s a shame he doesn’t do it more often in the cowl, because it out-menaces the biggest names in roguedom. When Superman saw it, he says he had nightmares for a week.
“The devil you know,” I whispered. “Since I’m the new Oswald and I’m not some bloody-minded mobster, you’re free to dismantle the operation. Oh woof, before I’ve had any fun at all, you want to take it apart.”
“Not quite. There’s more to ‘dismantling’ Cobblepot’s empire than punching out Joker or slapping the batcuffs on Scarecrow. There’s a lot I still need to learn about his activities, and that’s where your ‘fun’ comes in.”
“Meow.”
“Yes, you’ll have ample opportunities to ‘meow.’”
“Ooooh, come to good part,” Cassie smiled. “Stuntman double from car chase just break up with bellboy.”
That did it. Tim reached forward and, rather than grabbing the remote, he grabbed Cassie and kissed her full on the lips.
“I want to re-watch every movie I’ve ever seen in my life! Again! With you!”
Cassie, astonished, just tilted her head, almost twitching it to the side, and said nothing.
Tim stared, wondering if he had possibly activated some ancient failsafe implanted by David Cain to bring about the swift and violent death of anyone who kissed his daughter.
Cassie did the confused tilt-twitch again…
And Tim swallowed, thinking of all Robin’s triumphs as a crimefighter, all the heroic brushes with death in the righteous cause of saving innocents. He thought of training with Batman, training with Shiva, working with the Titans. After all he had achieved as the Boy Wonder, this would be a really stupid way to die.
Bruce preferred to keep crimefighting out of the manor whenever possible. Making up as Matches Malone was a crimefighting activity and he would have preferred to do it in the Batcave. But the lighting was better in the Wayne bedroom, and given that he had never been to this Vault and didn’t know what to expect there in terms of lighting, it was far more prudent to make up in the bedroom and make sure the disguise could withstand the closest inspection. He leaned towards the mirror, directed a second light at his upper lip, and scrutinized the moustache. Satisfied, he grunted.
It had been some time since Matches Malone made an appearance among the denizens of the Iceberg. Bruce knew men like that were always dropping off the radar. They got pinched. Or they tried their luck in Star City or Metropolis. Showed up a few years later: a few years older, a few years angrier, and not a day wiser. He might look vaguely familiar to some—a dumb thug with wire-rim glasses and a scraggly mustache, perpetually chewing on a matchstick—but he would not be remembered in any detail. If asked, he had a nice racket going down in Mi ami, but when his Cuban connection got whacked, it started gettin’ a little heavy, so he decided it was time to come home.
“No. Absolutely not, the jacket’s got to go.”
Bruce wheeled around, incensed.
“Kitten, I put up with enough suggestions from Alfred every time I make up as Matches. He has the excuse of training as a professional actor. What he doesn’t seem to understand is I know this man. I don’t approach it as simply putting on a disguise so I don’t look like Bruce Wayne. I approach it as keeping my hair and moustache the way Matches would, buying the clothes he would and—”
“And taking the jobs he would. Working for me is the best gig this loser ever had, so when I tell him to lose the jacket—”
“Lady, this is a classic!” Matches objected in an uncouth wail nothing like Bruce’s natural patrician tones.
“Shut up, Malone! Now, I don’t mind hiring you for ‘atmosphere’, keeping with my new position and all that. A bodyguard has caché. But I am NOT going to stare at five inch lapels all night.”
“Gotta be outta my mind, working for a broad,” Matches grumbled at the mirror as he removed the offending jacket, then Bruce segued back into his own voice. “I will need a replacement. Matches can change the jacket to suit his new boss, but he can’t go without one.”
He pointed to his lower back, and Selina peered at a tumor-lump of something under his shirt. Bruce lifted the fabric to reveal a mesh pouch.
“Microfiber-mesh versions of the boots and gloves,” he explained. “Cape and cowl are in the front. The real Matches had a bit of a paunch anyway, I took advantage of it.”
“Very slick,” Selina admitted.
“The places he goes and the company he keeps, I need the protection of the costume underneath at all times, and I have to be able to change into the rest quickly. The jacket is good camouflage. Not just the line, but the pattern…”
“Oh, if you want a loud pattern, Malone, no problem. I’ll get you tiger stripes,” Selina grinned wickedly.
“Tiger… Let me just see what I have in the closet,” Bruce said hurriedly.
“Heard the crazy bitch classifies a whole category of henchmen as ‘decorative’,” he muttered as he went.
Selina bit her lip, guessing correctly that this was an internal monologue she was not meant to hear, but Bruce-Matches saw her reaction in the corner of the mirror and he broke character long enough to wink.
“Better?” he asked, emerging in a sports coat that had once been the softest Argentine suede, but was now undeniably worn and borderline ratty around the edges.
Selina studied it for a minute, and then nodded decisively.
“My glasses okay?” Matches asked sarcastically.
Catwoman examined them critically.
“Meow,” she decided.
“That a yes?” Matches asked.
“Is he really that dumb?” Selina asked.
“He’s making sure,” Bruce explained. “He got his ass chewed on the jacket, and he’s freelanced for enough ‘theme’ bosses to know you don’t risk misunderstanding the jargon. It’s too dangerous.”
“Freelancing for theme bosses?” Catwoman arched an eyebrow. “People I know let you wear that jacket?”
“Freelancing generally means you don’t have to trade in the plaid wool for a two-tone windbreaker or an overcoat with a punctuation mark. Bu t this money’s too good to pass up, even if it means slapping on a pair of fuzzy cat ears.”
“…”
“Don’t even think it.”
“Okay, where were we? Meow means yes, better wardrobe. Let’s see, what else… Oh yes, does he really smoke or just chew on that matchstick?”
“He smoked two packs a day, quit, that’s when he started chewing on the match, and he got used to it.”
“Oral fixation on line two, paging Dr. Freud.”
“We’re not through yet. He enjoys the occasional cigar, and since he’s just back from Miami, he’s undoubtedly got a stash of illegal Cubans that he’s going through much faster than he should. But you can order him not to smoke in your presence. I would prefer you also forbid him to drink on duty. He drinks Tesco and Coke, it’s… revolting.”
“Consider it done. No smoking, no drinking on duty—oh, as long as you still use Johnny Walker to cover the smell of the spirit gum, since the alternative seems to be Old Spice.”
“I see Alfred briefed you. Kitten, tell me the truth, did he tell you to get rid of the jacket?”
“Not exactly. He did mention that it was green, that it was plaid, and that it was a horror. He may also have mentioned, just as a casual observation, that a bodyguard is one of those positions where the protectee winds up looking at them a great deal.”
Bruce shook his head and closed his eyes, acknowledging defeat with a sad chuckle.
“Must be out of my mind, working for a broad,” he repeated in his own voice.
“Oh, don’t be that way,” Selina soothed, taking off the glasses and coaxing a twitch from the corner of his lip with her finger. “I like looking at you, after all. And I like this mustache,” she added, fingering it softly.
“I don’t,” Bruce said, grabbing her hand and pulling it roughly from his face. Then he glanced at the mirror and instantly turned away, took the glasses from her other hand and quickly put them on again. “With the moustache, and especially with the moustache and without glasses, I look too much like my father.”
“Tim?”
Tim Drake’s life flashed before his eyes.
“Yeah, Cass?”
There wouldn’t be a memorial of his costume in the Batcave.
“You kiss me.”
Killed by Joker, memorial. Killed by Batgirl because even a soulless assassin without an iota of decency or conscience wouldn’t want some guy’s lips on his daughter, you don’t get your costume preserved in the Batcave. You get some generic twenty word obituary, and forever after when the Bat-clan speaks of you, it’s as “Ah yes, poor Tim.”
“Y-yeah, I guess I kind of sorta did, Cass, I…”
“Wasn’t good?”
“Huh?”
Three syllables, and a voice crack. Oh God, this was going to be a bad death. A very bad death.
“Kiss wasn’t good?”
“No! I mean YES! I mean, it was good, it was good. It was very, very good, Cass.”
What the hell was that? Was that begging? Not only was it going to be a bad death, it was going to be a spineless, ignoble, cowardly death.
“Why stop?”
“Huh?”
“If kiss good, why stop?”
“Uh, I uh, uh,” he swallowed. “I didn’t know if you liked it.”
In a move too swift to defend against, Tim found his legs yanked out from under him and hoisted to the side, leaving him flat on his back on the sofa, with Cassie poised on top of him to deliver the coup de grace.
“Wait a MMMFwinaminawom” were the last words he uttered as she planted her delicate mouth over his and proceeded to…
Matches entered Vault ahead of Catwoman. He blatantly checked the sightlines and exits, although there was little to note in the small entranceway. Then he ushered Catwoman in with the awkward deference of a trained Neanderthal holding a chair for a lady. Matches approached Mark, the bouncer/doorman, a halfstep ahead of his charge, keeping his body resolutely between Catwoman and the doorman’s. He advanced a fraction of an inch too far, into Mark’s personal space, before pausing ever so slightly and making hostile eye contact, as if assuring himself that he could take the younger man in a fight if he had to. Then he uttered the magic formula “Catwoman gave me the combination.”
Mark shrugged and thumbed the control, activating the sliding door and admitting the newcomers to the club. He knew he was supposed to give them more of a show, sizing them up suspiciously and only letting them in after a minute of suspenseful scrutiny. But it seemed absurd to go through all that when the very same Catwoman of the password was standing right in front of him. On the playacting side, what was he supposed to be suspicious about? On the reality side, the dumb brute with her didn’t look like he’d react well to suspenseful scrutiny. So he let them in, and would make up for the lapse on the next dozen customers.
Entering the barroom itself, Matches began the same elaborate routine checking the exits and sightlines… until the other sights in the room registered and he stopped dead in his tracks. He recognized the bits of the Cat-Tales set behind the bar… and the laser grid from Two-Face’s perimeter… Those identified, he began scrutinizing other details, wondering what else might be familiar. Too late, he remembered he wasn’t meant to be an ordinary customer or a slack-jawed tourist; he was meant to be Catwoman’s bodyguard. He turned swiftly to find her, and saw that—without being preoccupied as he was analyzing the space strategically—she had been struck by the scene much sooner, rooted to the spot only a few steps inside the door. He hurriedly rejoined her.
“Oh my dear lord,” she murmured, wide-eyed.
“Play it cool,” he whispered.
“It’s my set. It’s like Fellini saw my show, ate anchovies before bed, possibly with a fear gas chaser, and dreamt up this.”
“Not the most outrageous explanation that’s been suggested this week. Now play it cool, and let’s get you to a table.”
“Fuck that, I’m going to the bar. Sly’s going to make my special martini, and then he’s going to explain to why every third table in this place is drinking my special martini, and then he’s going to explain what my set is doing up there, and then—”
“Queen of the Underworld.”
“Excuse me?”
“However this happened, your majesty, it’s not what we’re here to find out. It IS the reason for your new reputation, and you’ve got to live up to it if we’re going to get the intel we came for.”
He led her determinedly to the best table, told the party sitting there to “take a hike”, and snapped his fingers for a waitress—whom he addressed as “trixiecakes”—to clean it off and bring some fresh ashtrays.
“N o smoking, Matches,” Catwoman reminded him coolly.
“Yeah. Right,” he grunted. “No ashtrays,” he told the waitress gruffly.
Catwoman sat, and Matches stalked to the bar. Inwardly, Bruce kicked himself for calling the waitress that way. Technically, Selina could have given her order right there. There would be no need for Malone to go to the bar himself. As a bodyguard, it was downright stupid for him to leave her alone that way… Then again, Matches was stupid. Working for Catwoman was the best job he ever had and he was trying too hard. Plus, the rationalization shifted from Bruce’s POV to Malone’s, he wasn’t really a “bodyguard” exactly; he wasn’t gonna take a bullet for her or anything. He was hired muscle, and the bigshots like Catwoman expect muscle to wait on ’em some. Yeah, that’s right. After all, a big deal like Catwoman could take care of herself. She didn’t bring him along for protection; she brought him for effect. And parta the effect was holding her chair and getting her a drink—and if he was lucky, pushing around some small fry that don’t show proper respect. That’s what he was there for, and damn he was doin’ it well. All the bigshots like that stuck up King Snake would see how they shoulda hired old Matches years ago.
“Tesco and Coke, sir?”
Matches’ eyes shot up and locked onto the bartender’s, a spark of hyper-reactive hyper-intelligence flashing in his eye before Bruce could slam down the shield of Matches’ dull-witted surprise at being remembered.
“You’re Tesco and Coke, right?” Sly repeated innocently.
“Yeah… uh, no. Boss lady won’t let me drink on da job. Gimme one a those hoity toity French waters that bubbles, and a ‘special’ martini fer the boss. She says you knows it.”
Sly looked up, almost as startled as Matches had been, and looked over the crowd with a series of birdlike twitches.
“You’re here with Catwoman?” he asked finally.
“Yeah. She’s da boss,” Matches nodded gravely.
“Oh wow, that’s good,” Sly smiled, as if some hidden burden was lifted. “She’s the biggest name we’ve had.”
“Yeah. She’s da boss,” Matches repeated.
While Sly made the drinks, Matches reached for a book of—what else—matches. Bruce scrutinized the cover and the printing, guessing it was the same printer as the Iceberg’s but reserving judgment until he could do a side-by-side comparison. Matches, meanwhile, had taken out a match. He placed it absently between his lips and gave it a thoughtful chew, then took it out and tossed it on the bar. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a box of wooden matches, selected one, and placed it at the same spot.
Happy with the texture, he turned his attention to the setup behind the bar. Viewed close-up, several of the chintzy stage props looked remarkably real. The money bundles in particular… Bruce was no stranger to the National Bank of Gotham’s $5000 and $10,000 wrappers. The ones he glimpsed peeking out from behind Riddler’s favorite scotch looked suspiciously authentic. A few of the gold bars looked strangely genuine as well, so much so, that even some of the gems were beginning to gleam with suspicious brilliance.
Matches was ready to compliment the “nice set up” when the drinks came, and with that opening, probe for details if not angle to handle a few items and figure out— when it was too late. The moment was gone, come and gone before he could open his mouth.&n bsp; Sly had brought the drinks and said that Catwoman’s credit balance from the Iceberg was still in effect at Vault, and since Matches was with her, his drinks were covered. “So no hassles opening a tab like last time.” Then he winked and turned his back, leaving Matches-Bruce too stunned to say a word.
He stumbled back to the table in silence and stared wordlessly at a bottle of Perrier while Catwoman sipped her martini.
“Counting the bubbles?” she asked at last.
Matches leaned in and spoke very quietly.
“Sly remembered me. Remembered the drink order and that there was a problem setting up a tab.”
“Sly’s a good bartender,” Selina noted.
“Yes. But he never knew my name. He did it just on physical features. I wish I knew how he did it. If it’s a natural gift or if he has some trick. Training the boys, it was always an uphill battle teaching them to recognize and remember that kind of physical characteristic, let alone cross-referencing with other data and…”
“Matches, why don’t you get me a refill,” Catwoman said coolly.
At first, Bruce thought she was shutting down the crimefighting talk that bored her. Then he saw she still had two inches of liquid in her glass, which meant she had no need for another drink. He met her eye quizzically.
“And see if they have a bar menu while you’re up there. I’m a bit peckish.”
His lip twitched. Now he could spend as much time at the bar as he wished, investigating.
“Will do, Catwoman.”
?Cats move with infinite grace, breathtaking beauty, and at times, with deadly speed. They do not move faster than news through a Gotham nightclub. Catwoman had finally come to Vault, and the whispers of excitement swirled in miniature, independent cyclones around the main floor. Occasionally one would crescendo into a chorus of expectant titters, so a God’s eye viewer could have followed the spread of news around the room and up the stairs to the VIP level. When it reached Raven’s podium, Wren was dispatched with an invitation.
She had only been waitressing at the Iceberg for a few weeks before the fire, not as long as most employees who had made the transition to Vault, but long enough to take a normal amount of craziness in stride. When a leopard passed her on the stairs like it knew where it was going, she knew not to react like it was anything strange. She didn’t even react when it said “excuse me” in an ordinary human voice. Wren also knew to postpone her mission and wait at the bar when she saw the leopard was heading for the same table that she was. The leopard had to be Clayface, and he was going to talk to Catwoman. Anyone working in a rogue bar for even a few nights knew to stay out of the way when A-listers put their heads together. So Wren drifted to the bar and Sly promptly met her eye, assuming she had an order or a message. She waved him off and pointed to Catwoman’s table. Some newbie with a matchstick in his mouth (who clearly wasn’t as smart as Wren when it came to meddling with A-listers) was practically sprinting to reach Catwoman before the leopard did.
Sly just nodded and turned his attention back to the patrons at the bar. Wren watched and waited, and after a minute, she guessed that her mission was null and void. Clayface himself must be inviting Catwoman upstairs, for all three of them—Catwoman, the matchstick guy, and the leopard—were now heading up the stairs.
Wren sighed. There would be no tip from a grateful A-lister admitted to the VIP floor. She could only hope that Catwoma n would have her own table and not join Clayface at his booth in Feather’s station. Feather had seniority, and Raven seemed to give her all the big tippers.
It was a setback. Not a disaster, but undeniably a setback.
Between the barbecue and the home theatre, Oswald had managed to conduct his affairs in Arkham without laying out much actual cash. Saul Vics was greedy and stupid. Greedy and stupid was easy to deal with.
Most of Oswald’s lieutenants were stupid, but they were ambitious and stupid. That could be dealt with too, but it required a sharper eye. An ambitious bird would not be content feathering his own nest if he thought he could take over yours. But a man who was merely greedy, that was infinitely more manageable. There was a docility in Saul Vics’s greed, a happy acceptance of what he was offered. Quite refreshing really, if rather sad. Oswald was beginning to feel he’d underestimated the profit potential in these respectable people with jobs… at least, he thought that until Talon and Crow got their beaks into his Arkham pigeon.
When Oswald’s men delivered his barbecue, Vics had tipped them as instructed. It was extra money, and Oswald would have guessed that Talon would go straight to the OTB and blow it on some nag paying three-to-one at Belmont while Crow spent it on liquor and whores. Unfortunately, both men were already flush from a phonecard scam that just paid off. They were planning a trip to Atlantic City and mentioned it to Vics. Said they’d pull a slot for him in payment for the generous tip. Vics, still greedy and stupid, started getting ideas. Now he wanted to cash out the $2300 he had accrued for the home theatre to go “try his luck at blackjack” in Atlantic City. Kwakwakwak.
$2300 Oswald had to pay out. $2300.
How was he ever supposed to get his club rebuilt if he had to actually PAY OUT the bribe money collected from his fellow inmates for various services?
Yes, kwak, it was a setback.
Cats move with grace, beauty, and deadly speed, but not as fast as news through a nightclub. By the time Catwoman reached the VIP level, there was practically a line waiting. Five sets of eyes watched Raven lead her to a table, and four sets of legs were in motion to triangulate on the spot as soon as her party was seated.
Rescue came from an unlikely source. The one watcher who was not maneuvering to approach Catwoman himself was a Ghost Dragon called Wanchai. Acting as the eyes of Edmund Dorrance, a.k.a. the Ghost Dragons’ blind but formidable leader King Snake, Wenchai simply bent down and whispered a brief overview of the situation in his master’s ear. Dorrance clapped his hands like a monarch demanding attention and waved invitingly in Catwoman’s direction, pointing to the chair opposite him. She regarded it like a cat considering the cushion on the sofa vs. the sunny spot under the window, but really she was looking at Double Dare and Magpie bearing down on her from different directions, and she wisely opted for escape. She went to Snake’s table, the line of Ghost Dragons that surrounded it parting before her like a curtain. She sat and crossed her legs, her whole manner exuding Gatta Corleone, the queen of the underworld. Her entourage followed, and Matches grunted at the Dragons like a petty man who wanted to emphasize his rise in status since the last time he approached Snake’s table. The leopard sat beside Catwoman’s chair, its back straight, its head held high, like an exceptionally well-behaved pet.
“Ordinarily, I would have sent a bottle of Cristal to your table by way of breaking the ice,” Edmund Dorrance declared, the epitome of a civilized man in an uncivilized world. “But I was informed that a gesture of this kind might be more welcome.”
“Thanks,” Catwoman dryly.
“Who informed you?” Matches piped up.
Even in the noisy club, Dorrance could pinpoint the exact location of the speaker and tilted his head up at Matches.
“You allow your creature to speak?” he noted, addressing Catwoman only.
“Why not? It’s a fair question.”
“Wanchai,” he indicated his man with a vague gesture, “is always informative. Tonight he has gleaned that Double Dare have a diamond necklace, a ruby ring and… what was the last?”
“A star ruby ring, sir,” Wanchai said promptly, “a diamond choker, and a heart-shaped emerald pendant surrounded by black diamonds. They spoke as if the last was the most valuable. Magpie has two specimens from the natural history museum, a palm frond fossil and a mummified falcon.”
“Why?” Catwoman asked archly.
“To fence, my dear,” Dorrance said smoothly. “Hard to believe, I know, but seeing as you have no private office the way Cobblepot did, they are evidently meaning to plunk the merchandise right down on your table in full view of everybody.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am merely speculating. One could never tell about the way Cobblepot conducted his affairs. But I trust you and I will be able to coexist on far more cordial terms.”
Catwoman raised an eyebrow, the leopard growled, and Matches deftly redirected the conversation.
“You drank in Penguin’s club often enough,” he said sharply.
This time, Dorrance did not acknowledge that it was Matches who had spoken. He simply directed his answer conversationally to Catwoman.
“It’s quite true that I used the Iceberg Lounge as a convenience, but even at that, I kept my back to the wall at all times. I find this new arrangement, coupled with Cobblepot’s absence, to be much more agreeable.”
“Well… great. Ciaomeow,” Selina said brightly, standing to go.
Wanchai caught Matches’ eye, a signal Matches understood by instinct. As Catwoman walked back to her own table, he remained behind for a private word with King Snake’s man, bodyguard to bodyguard.
“There’s been a bit of traffic in and out that door,” Wanchai confided.
“Opposite side from the johns,” Matches said, showing that he’d already worked out that much of the layout and could eliminate that explanation. “You think it’s trouble?”
“No,” Wanchai shook his head. “I was thinking it might be useful if the catlady wanted some privacy.”
“Thanks, mate.”
Matches gave a curt nod and joined Catwoman at her table. The leopard had snarled right and left as she walked, keeping Double Dare and Magpie at bay and ensuring that there would be no unwelcome visitors dropping by the table, at least for now.
At least, there would be no one unwelcome from Matches Malone’s point of view. From Bruce’s, the leopard himself was the intruder. What the hell was Hagen doing attaching himself to Selina like some kind of pet?
The Melting Pot was the kind of neighborhood place Dick Grayson loved. The margaritas were salty; the cheese fondues, rich and gooey; and the owner’s daughter was a cop. Dick and Barbara couldn’t go as often as they’d like, but whenever they did, they were greeted by n ame and usually given the same table along the wall, the one with a scooch more room for Barbara’s wheelchair.
Wally and Linda arrived first, and each had a timid little glass of white zinfandel in front of them when Dick and Barbara showed up. Dick kissed Linda’s cheek and then shook his head sadly at Wally. “I can’t believe we’re friends,” he chided. “What the hell is that you’re drinking, pink lemonade?” Explanations ensued, and soon four of “the best margaritas in Gotham” were brought to the table.
A second round was ordered with the fondue, and before long, the table erupted regularly into spirited laughter.
“I don’t know how the damn story got started that I think faster than anyone else,” Wally said through his teeth, then continued in a normal tone of voice, “but I’m just trying to get through the damn book like everybody was that weekend. It’s actually taking me twice as long, because I have to stop and answer the phone every five minutes. Everybody that, y’know, knows me thinks I must have got to the end by now. Kyle’s asking where the last horcrux is before I even knew what a horcrux was.”
Barbara laughed just a little louder than the rest.
“They should have asked me,” she confided. “I was checking the printer’s mainframe twice a month since April.”
“And I,” Dick announced proudly, “am happy to say, I don’t care. I still don’t know what a horcrux is, or a voldemort, or the intricacies of ‘wand lore’ that frankly sound like a load of BS to cover the fact that wands are fickle and not to be trusted.”
“His father’s son,” Barbara noted. “Magic bad.”
“It’s not ‘magic bad,’” Dick insisted over the snickers. “I just have enough to do with my time without trying to work out why somebody’s wand turns on them if they lose one lousy duel.”
Everyone stared at him. Wally finally spoke the universal thought.
“Sounds like you know a lot more than you’re letting on, Dick.”
“I was staking out a Yakuza safehouse,” he said with an air of long-suffering dignity. “And let me just say that any respect I had for those guys went out the window after listening to them spend a day and a half debating ‘phoenix feathers versus unicorn tail,’ and why Voldemort’s old wand was prone to ‘recent victim leakage’.”
Oswald had to stand on his bed, stand on his toes, and stretch like mad to reach the ceiling and withdraw his nest egg hidden behind the acoustic tiling. With the payoffs to Vics, Nurse Chin, that Orson fellow at the reception desk, and Rudy the temp, he was down $6,100 since forming the collective bargaining unit.
Long term, it was still sure to be a worthwhile investment. Arkham had a constant population of inmates who were Iceberg customers on the outside. He knew how one alibi turned into six more over the course of a year. How one diversion on the docks “just to keep Huntress away from the Biskin place until midnight” would turn into a dozen more incidents to occupy this vigilante or that one. ‘Just this once’ customers became repeat customers as long as you offered a quality product and gave the people what they were paying for. Long term, Oswald would have a steady stream of income from the little extras these corrupt Arkham staffers provided for a price. But long term wasn’t doing him any good right now.
He had to find a quick influx of cash to cover his startup costs for this Arkham operation, to rebuild the Iceberg, and to restore the steady flow of income that supported promising little investments like this.
So… how to obtain a quick injection of cash in the middle of an insane asylum?
After the cheese fondue came a boiling pot of coq au vin to cook up a bewildering selection of shrimp, bite-size sirloin, pork, duck, and vegetables, each with different cooking times and each with a different recommended dipping sauce. Although Dick and Barbara had been to the Melting Pot many times, they confessed that they could never keep it all straight and said the confusion was “part of the fun.” Only Linda had logged the complicated instructions in the waiter’s hurried recitation, and she reproduced it as needed with a reporter’s expert recall.
“Three minutes on that,” she reminded her husband.
“And it’s good in the teriyaki?”
“Or the mustard sauce.”
He nodded.
“So, what’s new in Bludhaven?” he asked suddenly.
Whenever Bruce left town now, Nightwing covered for Batman in Gotham. He asked Wally to “run through” Bludhaven each night, just to make sure nothing was brewing in his absence. Wally had developed a fondness for the city, and now he always asked about it whenever he saw Dick.
“It’s good. They’re building one of those historic riverfront deals. The local families and the Gotham mobs both tried to muscle in on the construction. B and I did some coordinated ass kicking to shut it down, both sides of the river at once. That’s really all the excitement there’s been.”
“Cool. Think the riverfront thing’ll be any good?”
“I don’t see that there’s much point to it,” Dick admitted. “Shopping and restaurants. That close to Gotham, who’s going to care about more shopping and restaurants?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Linda said, poking Wally’s arm. “There are advantages to a restaurant not being in Gotham.”
“He’s not that bad,” Wally said mildly.
“You’re kidding,” Dick grinned, guessing what the veiled reference meant.
“You’re kidding,” Barbara echoed, guessing the same.
“He’s not kidding,” Linda said emphatically. “He called it in right before we left Keystone. Coming into Gotham, proper notification must be given.”
Everyone but Wally laughed.
“Because Barbara and I asked you to dinner!” Dick said, unbelievingly.
“Tell you the truth, Dick, I don’t see anything wrong with it. I used to make all the jokes like everyone else. ‘His city’ and having to check in and all that. But y’know, the thing is, he was right. Seems like nobody is willing to admit that. All the paranoia—what we called paranoia—was justified. So, if he wants me to give him a call before I breeze into town, I really don’t see that there’s anything out of line about that.”
There was an abrupt shift in the air when Matches and Catwoman left Vault. He never broke character. Selina merely felt the strange tingle that once warned her when the Dark Knight was near. They were four blocks from the club when Matches coughed, once, and turned to her.
“I’ll leave you here, boss. Pick you up at the lair, usual time?”
“Sure,” she said carefully.
Matches glanced upward, which Selina took to mean ‘go back to th e lair by rooftop.’
“Oh, and Matches?” she said lightly, uncoiling her whip to confirm the instructions.
“Yeah,” with the slightest of nods.
With a savage crack, she snared the nearest fire escape and prepared to climb.
“Next time you meet someone like King Snake, don’t speak until spoken to.”
She winked, she left, and Batman intercepted her nine rooftops from the lair. With the minimalist greeting “roll with it,” he launched one of the fiercer attacks in the history of their rooftop encounters. Four minutes and a wrenched shoulder later, she found herself in the Batmobile.
“That hurt,” she said, rubbing her arm and neck.
“One minute more,” he grunted, checking several scanners inside the car. “There. We’re definitely alone. I wanted to make sure.”
“Yeah. I had a hunch.”
His lip twitched.
“Sorry,” he mouthed. “The way Hagen was hanging around, I couldn’t take any chances.”
“He didn’t mean any harm. He was bored. And I’m fun.”
“No doubt. That’s why I couldn’t risk that he might follow you home. Bad enough he wrecked any chance of serious investigation on that upper floor.”
“Wasn’t a total bust, was it? We found out Oswald did his fencing in his office, Double Dare have better taste in jewels than I thought, and Magpie needs some serious career counseling.”
“None of which is news. I did get a lead on a room that’s in use up there; nobody seems to know what it’s for. But I didn’t have a chance to check it out myself. I’m going back to do that once I get you out of the way.”
“Excuse me?! Get me out of the way?!”
“Selina, you can’t be a part of what happens next. This is ‘crimefighting’ with a capital ‘C.’ Catwoman just left Vault with her trained brute, she can’t very well go breaking in an hour later with Batman.”
“Look Stud, I appreciate the vigorous separation of Cat from all things crimefighting, I really do. But I also happen to be the world’s greatest living expert on breaking in, and I’m telling you right now that if you’re planning on being seen, you’re not doing it right.”
“I’m not planning on being discovered, but it could happen. If it does, I don’t want you compromised.”
“And I don’t want to be home waiting in an empty bed. So how about a different approach entirely? I go back tomorrow in street clothes, walk in the front door, and say that Harvey asked me to pick up a Collected Works of Charles Dickens that he left behind.”
Batman’s head slumped forward as if struck from behind.
“There’s a Tale of Two Cities joke coming, isn’t there?” he said, bracing for it.
“N-no,” Selina replied carefully. “Harvey really has a very beautifully bound volume of collected Dickens. First American edition, I believe. Green leather, marbled endpages, top edge gilt. His pride and joy. Don’t tell me he never showed it off to you.”
Batman massaged his brow, longing for a simpler time when a rooftop fight with Catwoman was just that and the rest of his enemies were soulless embodiments of criminality. Now they were all human beings with a favorite book or they got bored and trotted around a nightclub all evening as a leopard because Selina was fun to be with…
“He y,” a soft voice purred as a clawed glove reached across the car to settle on his shoulder. “This is why I shouldn’t leave for such a long time. All the psychobattitude builds up in there. Let’s go home. Release some tension. In the morning, you’ll see I’m right.”
“No.”
“You damn near pulled my arm out of the socket.”
“Don’t do that. If you want to go home, we’ll go home but… the shoulder, the fight, that was work. This is us. Don’t… mix them.”
She laughed, musically.
“Why stop now? C’mon, Handsome, that line has always been awfully fuzzy with us. What’s really bothering you?”
“Nothing. I’m tired,” he said simply.
“Have I ever mentioned what a rotten liar you are when where the subject of ‘us’ is concerned?”
He glared, waves of denial and dark intensity pouring off him.
“Bruce. What’s wrong?”
Muscles contracted through his chest, preventing a sigh. His name on Catwoman’s lips echoed with the same strange power it had on the floor of her lair.
“The line has always been blurry,” he admitted finally. “This latest, this ‘queen of the underworld’ business, was a lot easier to take when you weren’t around. At home, in the cave, even out patrolling, it was… more like it used to be. Now that you’re back, it’s… harder to reconcile.” He met her eyes. “And it could get rough.”
“Ah,” Catwoman said with a note of resignation which then blossomed into a winning smile. “Of course, darling, and you really are quite terrifying. Now… can we please go home?”
The meal concluded with a chocolate fondue into which bite sizes squares of cake or marshmallows could be dipped.
Barbara and Linda merely looked at each other while the men ate the lion’s share of the uberrich dessert.
“I can’t indulge since the twins,” Linda said sadly. “That last ten pounds just won’t go away. And I have to live with this.” She tilted her head disgustedly in Wally’s direction.
“What?” he said, a slow droplet of chocolate oozing from his mouth like blood from a vampire’s.
“See what I mean? Five minutes, if I could just hook up to his metabolism for five minutes.”
“How are Jai and Iris?” Barbara asked.
“Oh they’re wonderful, of course. But don’t let anyone tell you babies are a blessing, a joy, a wonder, a delight, or the longed for fulfillment of any woman’s life. When I was working, I always thought those women singing the June Cleaver ‘All I want is to be a mother’ song were either stunted, damaged, or lying. Near as I could tell, that Lynette character on Desperate Housewives was the only one willing to say it out loud. Well, now that I’ve been there myself, I congratulate myself on my perspicacity.”
Wally whistled.
“Tell us how you really feel, Linda.”
“I love my children,” she said resolutely. “But they are an infinite pain, the source of endless stress, and that’s even with you taking diaper duty.”
“Three seconds,” Wally snapped his fingers. “Old one off, new one on before any of the inherent hazards that diaper duty comes with can be initiated.”
“Yeah, well, for every plus, there’s a minus,” Linda put in. “Have you ever heard a baby cry at hyperspeed? It sounds like… there’s no describing what it sounds like. Take the Hamster Dance on 3000 rpm, drop it into the eye of a hurricane… and maybe slaughter some pigs.”
“My wife has a way with words,” Wally laughed.
“Does it or does it not sound like that?” Linda demanded, eyebrows arched.
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“A prepayment card?” Ivy scoffed. “Have you completely cracked?”
This time, Oswald refused to pay for a private meeting with anybody. He went to the common room for social hour and was making the rounds on the pretext of getting everyone to sign a birthday card for Mad Hatter. The lucky stoke there was if some loudmouth like Ivy started spouting off, the word “card” confirmed his cover story.
“Indeed,” Oswald said smoothly, as he always did before reviewing the product benefits with a reluctant customer. “For those repetitive services, it’s always more economical to buy in bulk. Why pay two hundred dollars for a single dinner in your room with a guest if you can get five for six hundred. Redeemable at any time within a year of purchase, kwak, I do call that a bargain. A simple punch on your prepaid card, printed on recycled stock, Pamela, a touch I’m sure you will appreciate.”
“You’re a loony bird and you should be locked up,” Ivy growled.
Rather than pointing out that they were both locked up, Oswald merely glanced across the room where Harley sat with Joker.
“The dinner with Ms. Quinn did not go well, I take it. I did warn you that, with Joker around, she wasn’t likely to be very receptive. But look at the proposition long term, my dear Pamela, Joker may be released before either of you, leaving you an open field.”
“Fat chance. He’s twice as crazy as everybody else here, and you know it.”
“Or…” Oswald mused, in the sure tone of a man with a trump left to play.
“Or?”
“For an additional fee, I could be persuaded to refuse any ‘private time’ requests from Joker. It would be quite expensive, you understand, my colleagues on the staff would be reluctant to turn down their first customer.”
“How much?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we Pamela? There is also a certain amount of hazard pay, since it is Joker you’re expecting them to say no to.”
“How much?”
Oswald smiled.
“I’m sure we can agree on a price.”
As Catwoman predicted, things did look very different in the morning. It began as soon as the horizon began to brighten, just as the Batmobile returned to the cave. Rather than go up to bed without him, Selina made cocoa on the Bunsen burner while he wrote up the log entry on Vault. When they reached the bedroom, the cats betrayed the lie that his life had been “more like it used to be” while she was away. They were waiting on his side of the bed and, as soon as he walked in, Whiskers jumped down and serpentined through his legs while Nutmeg rolled onto her belly and purred. Either because she found this performance adorable, or simply because she was glad to be home and sleeping in her own bed again, Selina was grinning and purring all around the room before settling in for the night. When she finally did slide between the sheets and curled up against him, she murmured “I missed you, Bruce…” as if the whole episode in her lair never occurred. She was on ly now “coming home.” For her, home is Bruce, not Batman, which is why any attempt to swap the real pearls for the counterfeit will fail.
Bruce saw these words flicker on the workstation screen as his fingers typed the log entry, the light and shadow of larger words flashing above him as they were echoed on the oversize screen that loomed over the cave. A miniature hologram of Catwoman circled just in front of his keyboard. She appeared just as she had on the stage of the Hijinx Playhouse. Without realizing he was doing it, he paused his typing and absently touched a spot on the back of the hologram’s knee. It responded with a squirming giggle, and typing resumed without Bruce’s fingers ever having to touch the keys. A telepathic link now existed between his mind and the Bat emblem on the oversized screen, translating his thoughts into words: A tactical analysis of ticklish knees, the pivotal research begun by Professor Wilfreder, Cambridge Criminology Chair 1956-1979...
“Are you coming up any time soon, Stud?”
Selina’s voice. Selina in the cave. Selina standing right behind him, with those words analyzing her strategic weaknesses gleaming down on them in 400-point type.
“What is all this?” she murmured, looking up at PsychoBat’s exhaustive analysis of Bruce Wayne’s relationship with Selina Kyle, now updating on the fly to incorporate a thermal x-ray simulacra of the ticklish knee response, and postulating how this maneuver accomplished what Batman-proper never could: putting Catwoman out of business.
“I’m doing what I’ve always done, fighting the criminals who prey on this city,” Bruce explained while mesh representations of Whiskers and Nutmeg flickered on the sidescreens.
He walked past her without a word and entered the costume vault, pealed off his face and rested it on the false head built to hold the cowl in place.
She was standing behind him, he could feel it.
“I told you to go,” he said without turning.
“Yes, I know. You said it’s not safe to be around you. And when that didn’t work, Psychobat reiterated the point by breaking Eddie’s legs. I know a tiny fraction of that was for me. I know it would have been better for whoever Batman ran into tonight if they were someone who’d never sent me a birthday card.”
“You’re nothing like any of them—and not just because you look better in purple. You never preyed on people. I never thought of you as one of ‘them.’ You wouldn’t be here if you were...”
“Then why did you want me to help with Oswald?”
When he whipped around to answer the question, she was gone. A Bat-vanish.
He was alone in the costume vault, alone in the cave, alone in the manor.
He saw himself as Batman staring down at Bruce Wayne in the empty house. He was at the Watchtower. Clark, Arthur, and J’onn stood behind him, all looking at the main viewer, all looking at Bruce Wayne, alone and isolated.
“We tried to warn him,” Arthur noted.
“It’s really about trust,” Clark interjected.
“No,” Batman shook his head. “Not anymore. It was once, a long time ago. Now it… isn’t. Now it’s safe. Now it’s home. It has to go on being that. I don’t want any more reminders of what it was before.”
Bruce sat up in bed, a salty taste in his mouth. He looked down at Selina, her eyes opening sleepily at the disturbance.
“Is it 5 o’clock already?” she asked blearily.
“Yes— No,” Bruce lied, then he thought the better of pretending it was his usual nightmare he was waking from. “No. Selina… In the morning… the thing you wanted to do with Vault, going back and saying you were getting a book for Harvey, you should do that. However you want to be involved in this… If we’re going to work together, you should have some say in how we go about it.”
“Sure, put it in the vrinkarickormon,” she said, pulling his pillow over her head as she turned over.
Bruce’s lip twitched as he shook his head.
It was a short walk from the Melting Pot back to the Graysons’ co-op. As they went, the men drifted to the edge of the sidewalk, the first chance they’d had to talk privately.
“Hey Dick, I hope I didn’t overstep before, about Bruce.”
“Nah, of course not. I know it’s a different perspective, working with him in the League and all. Sorry about that thing in the Post, by the way.”
Wally winced. Dick was referring to a special series the tabloid had run: A Day Inside the Watchtower, making the most of their “unprecedented access inside the world’s most famous global security facility.”
“Well that’s just it,” Wally said thoughtfully. “He told them. He tried to tell them if they let some damn tabloid in to do a story it would wind up a fiction at best, a trainwreck at worst. You saw what they came up with. Made it look like an episode of 24. They ripped off 24 and called it the JLA. He was right. Again. They didn’t listen. Again. And they’re making him our to be the paranoid psycho again.”
“Yeah. It bites. But you know, Wally, he doesn’t care. Why do you?”
“I dunno. It’s the twins maybe. I’m looking at a lot of stuff differently since they came along. Having a son, especially, that’s kind of… new perspective time. If we can’t learn from our mistakes… What kind of League are my kids going to wind up in if we just keep stepping in the same damn quagmire?”
“…”
“…”
Dick looked around, feeling a lighten the mood change of subject was called for. Finding no inspiration in the fire hydrant, streetlight, or newsstand, he thought back to the dinner.
“So, you really can’t, like, super-speedread?”
Wally shook his head.
“Technically, I can tap into the Speed Force and zip through the five hundred page manual on how to disarm a ten megaton warhead that’s going to go off in thirty seconds. But the retention is just about that, thirty seconds. The faster I read, the faster I forget. Not much use on anything I’m doing for enjoyment.”
“Oh, you better not be talking about what I think you’re talking about,” Linda said, a suggestive tone warming the words that might have been hostile in another context.
“Oh no, dear,” Wally said with a roguish smile.
“I’m thinking you guys don’t want to come up for coffee,” Dick laughed.
Selina shook her head, blinked, and stared across the street once more. She was fairly sure she wasn’t dreaming, but the sight of Harvey Dent coming out of her old building walking Binky Sherborn’s two corgis was just a little too surreal to be absolutely certain. She pinched herself. And Harvey was still there, waiting to cross the street into the park. She clicked her heels together and recited & ldquo;there’s no place like Gotham.” Harvey was still there, standing on the curb. She called out to him and waved, and waited at the park entrance until the traffic allowed him to cross.
“Selina! You look wonderful,” he beamed.
“Harvey, you look wonderful right down to mid-calf, where there seems to be two slobbering wet-nosed creatures that I hoped never to see again once I moved out of that building.”
“Yes, well, I needed a place to stay and Jason Blood arranged this housesitting job with your old neighbor. I was smart enough to make sure there were no plants to water. I didn’t think to ask about dogs. Watering the flytrap pales in comparison to walking these two little beasties around the damn park twice a day.”
Selina laughed as they strolled along.
“I’m looking on it as punishment for ‘our’ sins,” Harvey added as one of the little mutts strained at the leash to reach a bench it always had to investigate.
“Is that one Balmoral or Sandringham?”
“How the hell should I know?” Harvey asked archly. “I’ve been calling them ‘Twin’ and ‘Twain.’”
“Those were the two henchman that you…?”
“Yes, may they rest in peace.”
“Okay, not a fan of the welsh corgis then. Not that I blame you. Other than the four-footed roommates, how’s it going?”
“Not bad. New neighborhood means new restaurants, new drugstores, new dry cleaners and all the rest. Funny, it’s been so long since I set up a new hideout or anything. Lost the knack.”
“Seriously? I assumed stuff like that was like riding a bike.”
“I don’t know, maybe it’s me. I’m not like you, Selina. I’m not ‘nostalgic’ about it. I want to put Two-Face behind me. Get on with my life as if it never happened, to the extent that that’s possible. That’s why I’m steering clear of that damn club, even if it does mean walking these two twice-damned mutts twice a day right past Petal’s little nest back there.”
Selina felt if there was ever a cue to change the subject, ‘Petal’ was it. She cleared her throat and proceeded with what she came for.
“Well, Bruce and I feel just terrible that we didn’t find out about your plight until Jason mentioned it. We want to make it up to you. Lunch cruise on the Gatta?”
“That… would be very nice,” he coughed, strangely embarrassed by the invitation.
“And be sure to bring swimming trunks. There’s a jacuzzi on the sundeck, it’s absolute heaven.”
“I, uh, suppose I could stop by the Flick and pick them up. Not exactly something I brought with me to move into this place. Or just buy a new pair.”
“Oh,” Selina said, surprised by the dilemma and struck by a sudden thought. “Well you know, Harvey, I’m running a few errands in that part of town this afternoon. I could pick them up for you, and any other little things you didn’t think to bring.”
“Selina, we’ve said it before. You’re too good to be two.”
The wincing biting back of pained laughter was once a familiar experience whenever Selina and Harvey met.
“Didn’t Darth take those damn two puns with him?” she sputtered.
“Most of them, but now and then, I just can’t help myself.”
?Great day to be a bird, it w as a great day to be a bird. KWAK!
Oswald ate his dreary institutional breakfast with relish, knowing it was to be one of his last. Very soon now, he would be back in a nest of his own. The contractors had completed the new foundation, the rebuilds had cleared all the inspections certifying and recertifying that all hazards from the fire had been addressed, and the plans for Ice-3 had finally been approved by the dozen or so agencies that saw fit to meddle in his affairs. KWAK.
But he mustn’t dwell on that minutia while he was eating. Such thoughts did not aid the digestion, and the stale Arkham cinnamon bun needed all the help it could get. Oswald examined the dry specimen as he once viewed a brand new umbrella sliced by a batarang. The bun wasn’t hard exactly, not enough to pound on the table and complain you would break a tooth if you tried to eat it. It was just stale enough not to be fresh.
Ice-3. Yes, that was it, the soon-to-be-completed Ice-3. That was the thought to occupy his mind while he choked down this peasant repast. Nobody would call it Ice-3, of course, no more than they called its predecessor the Iceberg Redux. The Iceberg Lounge would always be the Iceberg Lounge, just as Oswald Cobblepot would always be the Penguin. That is what is meant by a classic, and classics were classic for a reason. From the tuxedo to the Audubon print, there are certain pinnacles of perfection that stand the test of time. They go on as they are and do not need to alter with any little twist of fashion, because they got it right the first time.
Staying power, that’s what separated the Oswald Cobblepots of the world from the Alex Ospreys. Alex Osprey. KWAK. Couldn’t even get the alliteration right. It should have been Oscar Osprey, surely. A young birdbrain who thought the Penguin was an outdated figure, clinging to outmoded ideas and afraid of change, ready to be swept away by the sharp-beaked young chicks. And how far did he get, hm? Osprey Man. He came up with a name. He challenged Penguin how many times? Two-kwak? Three-kwak? And then he was felled by Batgirl. By Batgirl! Not even the mean little one. The first one. The klutzy little bat-cheerleader.
Playing at being a rogue, that’s all he was doing. Osprey Man. It was unlikely his own mother remembered him now. The one time Oswald inquired, it was thought he’d gone to Canada and become a lumberjack. Oswald didn’t know there still were lumberjacks, but Ivy assured him that there were, too many in fact, and promptly went off to reduce their population. It was unknown if Alex Osprey survived the slaughter.
Oswald finished his roll and dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin.
It was the same in business, really. Closing the deal was the whole point. Anyone could amuse themselves thinking up a scheme. Anyone could play at being a businessman negotiating (although if they were no better at it than Saul Vics, they should not attempt it with the likes of Oswald Cobblepot). But if they couldn’t see it through to the end, they were nothing more than a cracked egg cluttering up the nest.
Oswald was a closer, and now that he could rebuild his club unfettered, it was time to remove himself from Arkham. Now that his stale sticky bun was chewed and swallowed, it was time to set his plans in motion.
It was Raven rather than Sly who opened the Flick Theatre’s service door for Selina, and Selina had a hunch that her easy admittance had nothing to do with the excuse she gave for dropping by. True, the Flick had been Harvey’s home, and true, he needed his swimming trunks if he was going to come cruisi ng with her and Bruce on the Gatta. True, he had left some CDs behind that would be nice to have with him to pass the time at Binky’s. True, there was a backlog of mail with a GQ, Maxim, and Law Review that he’d also like to have. Selina had taken care that every detail of her cover story would stand up to scrutiny… but Raven didn’t care. Raven just wanted someone to complain to.
She told Selina that she wasn’t naïve when she first went to work at the Iceberg. She knew who Oswald Cobblepot was, what he was, and she had armed herself thoroughly. The one time he asked her to come in early, before the nightclub would be open for business, she had shown him her brass knuckles, pepper spray, and the business card of one Morris Kleinschmidt, sexual harassment attorney. Her problem now was Sly. Sly was no Oswald. Oswald Cobblepot was the notorious Penguin. Sly was a sweetie of a guy. He’d gone to all this trouble to get Vault started just so the girls could stay together until the Iceberg was up and running again. She couldn’t go showing him brass knuckles and pepper spray just because he asked her to come in a couple mornings and sign for some deliveries. Except, Raven went on, he was asking, like, every other day. She was a hostess; she worked late. She didn’t even like being up at this hour. Surely, Selina must understand what that was like, being a night person and all. Plus, the deliverymen were pretty fresh. Raven could handle that; she handled fresh loudmouth assholes all the time at work. But dealing with it on the job made it that much more of a pain to come in at the crack of dawn (it was 11:15) and put up with even more.
Selina made sympathetic noises and escaped to Harvey’s quarters as quickly as she could.
Apart from the kitchen, Vault hadn’t touched the rooms that Harvey Dent actually lived in. They remained private and isolated from the nightclub, and Selina had no trouble locating the magazines, CDs, and swimming trunks she’d been sent for. She was amused to see the latter were still two-tone. How often did a man really wear swimming trunks, after all? Harvey probably had no occasion to wear them since Two-Face, and if he did, he probably didn’t think they were worth replacing.
Her cover story covered, she left Harvey’s quarters and made her way to the Vault VIP room and then to the mystery door.
..::That took long enough,::.. an acid voice graveled in her ear.
“I wondered when you’d pipe up,” Selina murmured.
He couldn’t hear. The sunglasses he’d equipped her with had a low frequency microspeaker just behind her ear and a pinpoint video camera embedded in the frame. But no microphone. Bruce could see what she saw, and he could talk to her. She couldn’t talk back. In other words, it was a typical piece of Bat-tech from the control freak technophile.
The door was unlocked. It led to a short hallway with a second door that had a small window to peer inside. The room beyond was the projection booth. Through the small window, Selina could see two men working on laptops.
..::That’s Raptor and Tremor::.. Bruce informed her—which made her long for a microphone to give him what for. She knew who Raptor and Tremor were, for god’s sake. Tremor worked for HER once before he hooked up with Scarecrow. (What had she called him? Mungo? Manx?) Raptor was Penguin’s man from way back. Anyone who was anyone in Rogue circles knew him.
..::That crutch against the wall must be Tremor’s,::.. Bruce observed.
Selina couldn’t see either man’s legs, which meant that Bruce couldn’t either. But only last week, Batman had surprised a number of Scarecrow henchmen setting up a new lair. It made sense that he knew what lowlifes he’d roughed up recently.
Selina opened the door brusquely—which brought a howl of protest in her ear. She ignored it. As far as the world was concerned, she was the boss of all things Iceberg/Vault. That meant these guys worked for her. If they happened to know that they didn’t, well, Mungo-Manx used to. And what she was going to ask was a trifle that no henchman would refuse a rogue of her stature.
“How’s it going, gentleman?” she asked with the light tone that meant “Hi, hello,” not a serious question expecting an answer. That was the mistake cops and crimefighters always made in these situations: blundering in, asking searching questions, subtle as a brick. Blundering and obvious was not the feline way.
Both men made the expected, noncommittal grumblings that also meant “Hi, hello” and Selina took it as such. From her new vantage point, she could see Tremor’s foot in a light brace and placed a mental check next to Bruce’s deduction about the crutch. Then she turned her full attention to the senior man.
“Raptor, would you run downstairs and stay with Raven until the deliveries come. Seems the deliverymen are a bit tiresome when she’s all alone down there. Feel free to scare the tar out of them.”
It was such a reasonable request, and Raptor stood, raising his hand halfway to his hairline as if giving a fleeting salute as he went. When he was gone, Selina glanced casually around the room, while Bruce grumbled that he was glad she pulled it off but it was a hell of a risk to take. Selina growled to herself that since he couldn’t hear, he couldn’t know she’d taken any “risk” at all and was just being a jackass. Then she sat regally in Raptor’s vacated seat, and gave Tremor her full attention.
“Of course, scaring the living tar out of them would be more in your line,” Selina offered sweetly. “But with the crutches, I figured you wouldn’t want to bother going downstairs.”
“Thanks,” he said sheepishly, touching the leg brace. “Guess you heard, I had some Bat-trouble last week.”
“Happens to the best of us,” she smiled. “Tremor, isn’t it?”
“Oh, please, Catwoman, you can still call me Malkin.”
(Malkin! That was it, he was Malkin.)
“It sounds more like an actual name,” he grinned.
“Malkin it is. How are you adjusting to all this,” she nodded towards the laptop. “After your ‘bat trouble’.”
“Raptor says I suck. I guess he’s right. All kinda new to me. Jackin’ up the price of PEZ dispensers and Pokemon cards. But I gotta do something while I’m on the mend, right?”
“Y-yes,” Selina said cautiously. “What did the PEZ dispenser finally go for?”
As she said this, she peered at the screen of his laptop, giving Bruce a good look as well. Several browser windows were open, all displaying auction pages on Ebay.
“Four hundred. Chickadee bought it. Raptor says she works from home.”
“Ah.”
“Uh oh,” Tremor said, refreshing his screen several times. “Somebody’s bidding up this Egyptian hookah. Tutelar7, I don’t think that’s…” He trailed off as he checked a legal pad with a list of usernames, and then looked back at the screen. “No, it’s not one of ours. I wonder what I should do. Let him have it, you think? Or keep it in the circle?”
Selina shrugged. She guessed Tutelar7 was Bruce helping her clear the room.
“I better ask Raptor,” Tremor said, maneuvering to his feet and picking up the crutch. “Can’t afford another screwup like yesterday with the Xena Bobbleheads.”
Selina managed not to react, even when Bruce—who still couldn’t hear but who could read lips—chimed in with an astonished ..::Did he say Xenon bobbly head?::..
“I’ll explain later,” she muttered once Tremor was gone. Bruce couldn’t hear that either, but she felt better for saying it.
..::Damnit, I wish I had outfitted you with a full utility kit. You could use the BatSpy to plant a virus that would copy all the files from those computers to Oracle and track—What is that?::..
Selina was holding her own “BatSpy” up to the camera. Her USB chip, no larger than a thumbnail and not much thicker than a postage stamp, was purple where his was black. And instead of the inevitable Bat emblem on its tiny face, hers had a simple sticker with a capital letter K, for Kittlemeier, placed imperfectly over the Sony logo.
..::Do Raptor’s machine first,::.. Bruce said without further comment. ..::Then get out of there. They could come back at any time.::..
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Selina whispered, hurriedly attaching her own cyberspying device on Raptor’s laptop and wondering, for the hundredth time today, just what kind of rogue pinup girl he thought she was all those years.
Did he really think she needed one of his bat-gadgets to steal some data off a laptop? Granted, her way wasn’t as sophisticated as his. She wasn’t going to broadcast all Raptor’s files to her own satellite to be downloaded to her personal superhacker’s master mainframe and then monitor everything he did on this machine forevermore. She was just taking a snapshot of the harddrive—or at least five gig of the most recently accessed files on the hard drive—which had always been enough to get the museum blueprints, guards’ duty roster, or guest lists for the big fundraiser. It would be more than enough for Operation: Bat-snoop, and if for any reason it wasn’t, the all-seeing Oracle would soon know the Ebay accounts these guys were using, as well as the building they were logging on from. She would have no trouble hacking in in her usual way and getting Bat-prick anything else he needed.
“So there,” Selina said, as if she was actually arguing it through with Bruce.
She withdrew her chip, slipped it back into her purse, and left.
The most important decision Oswald faced was who to appoint as his deputy in Arkham. Someone had to manage the collective bargaining unit, forward the prepaid requests to Saul Vics as they were redeemed, and, most importantly, collect future bribes and forward Oswald’s cut.
Arkham staff was out of the question. He would be assigning a vulture to deliver raw meat. But there were several quality candidates to consider among the inmates.
Ventriloquist, for instance. The Scarface dummy offered a perfect place to hide contraband and cash. On the other hand, the Scarface persona was a loudmouth, hardly a desirable quality in a deputy. Then too, new doctors were forever coming along and attempting different “cures.” Arnold Weskers never knew what approach was in vogue and when the doll might be taken away from him. It would be terrible to have the totem of his identity confiscated with several thousand dollars of Oswald ’s money crammed in its keister.
Crazy Quilt and Signalman were both in residence, but Oswald felt they really were too smalltime to represent Iceberg interests with the very top tier rogues like Joker and Poison Ivy.
He briefly considered Roxy Rocket, even though she wasn’t in Arkham at the moment. She was so eager to put herself in danger, she would have no problem marching up to Joker, tapping him on the shoulder, and telling him if he didn’t pay up “like now!” she’d have to smack him around. On the other hand, there was a firm rule about letting an ex handle your money. Any ex for any reason, even if she didn’t remember she was an ex and denied all knowledge of a certain coatroom at a certain Christmas party. Plus, Roxy’s bluster hid a rat’s nest of insecurities, particularly where first tier rogues were concerned. She would have no trouble threatening Joker or Ivy, but someone with a lighter touch like Strange or Scarecrow, someone that could play on her insecurities, could maneuver her into just about anything… which, come to think of it, was how Oswald got her into the coatroom in the first place.
Clock King was looking like the best choice. In terms of Iceberg prestige, he cut a poorer figure than Signalman or Crazy Quilt. But Temple Fugate had one quality the other smalltimers lacked: he had an absolute fetish for applying late fees and compounding interest. That took the sting out of picking someone from the middle of the heap.
Oswald really couldn’t see an anal-retentive clockwatcher like Fugate braving decapitation and dismemberment to collect from someone like KGBeast, but that’s what subcontractors were for. Oswald would mention in passing that Killer Croc was an excellent companion to have when calling on more difficult clients—although he would also stress that if Fugate brought Croc onboard, Fugate was responsible for paying him. Undoubtedly, there would be a needlessly complicated timetable where the contact at the Wing Shack would be driving by the south wall at precisely 5:23, and if the cash (“which Mr. Nigma seems to be holding”) did not fly over the wall at 5:24, the Assorted Mega Platter would not fly over the wall at 5:25. Amusing as the mental image was—Croc picking the Riddler up like a salt shaker and shaking out the cash in time to make the 5:24 delivery of hot wings—it really was none of Oswald’s business how his deputies chose to motivate their subordinates.
Bruce was waiting in the cave when Selina returned to the manor. She held up her tiny, purple USB chip the way she would a cat treat for Whiskers.
“Who’s your favorite queen of the underworld?” she asked playfully.
Bruce took the chip from her fingers and scowled.
“So, where’s the information?” he asked, examining the chip, front and back.
“You’re holding it, Stud.”
“What, transmitted to some account you can access with a keycode on here or—”
“No. Just what I said. On there.”
He did a doubletake, down at the chip in his hand and up at her again. Selina explained that her device didn’t install any fancy virus or trapdoor. It was really just a very small thumbdrive with a nice little routine to grab the most recent files.
“So you just take them?” he said.
Selina raised an eyebrow and gave a ‘surely we established that long ago’ stare.
Again, Bruce scowled at the chip in his hand. It was just a thumb drive.
“Sony,” he noted. “It’s not even WayneTech?”
“Do you make them that small?”
“We do now,” he graveled, closing his fist around it.
Selina laughed brightly.
“Whoever said you’re not fun to partner with, doesn’t know the meaning of the word,” she grinned to herself. “Okay, Handsome, you’ve got your data. I’ll leave you to it and come back in a little while with lunch. How much time do you think you’ll need?”
There was no answer. Bruce had already taken the chip back to his workstation and was completely focused indexing the new files.
Next order of business: finding a nest. Oswald wanted to be situated close enough to the Iceberg that he could keep a beady eye on the construction, but not so close that the thrice-damned noise kept him awake. Otherwise, he might stay where he was, suffering the intermittent pounding on his wall whenever Ivy had a complaint.
Harvey had evidently moved to some posh apartment off the park, the Upper East Side, which did seem a waste. If anyone was to enjoy such proximity to the true elite of Gotham society, it should have been Oswald himself. Nevertheless, attempts to contact Harvey about a spare room in his new digs proved futile. Harvey wasn’t returning his calls, and the one time Oswald did make contact, Harvey only made an insulting remark about “not wanting to know what that feathery thing is in the shower.”
Oswald deferred finding out more about exactly where Harvey was living and why. If a man would cast aspersions on the good name of feathers—KWAK!—there was no living with him. Oswald returned his attention to the downtown neighborhoods nearest the Iceberg lot. There were some passably nice hotels, and Oswald did enjoy being waited on… if only it weren’t for the expense. Victor Frieze suggested the old slip and fall routine and even offered the loan of a freeze ray to create a credible patch of ice. But Oswald felt that really was beneath his dignity. Also, Victor wanted a $200 credit on his Arkham card in exchange for the use of the freeze ray.
Oswald did like the root idea, however, that of blackmailing the hotel. He searched his rolodex for some general manager with a weakness for arena football or all night poker games. He searched and searched… and bemoaned for the hundredth time what a pity it was that Clayface deal didn’t work out. With Matt Hagen’s help, he could have blackmailed anyone with a face. And after all, kwak, who didn’t have a face?
At the end of an hour, Oswald was in despair. The only chap he could think of with gambling debts worked in a café at the Essex Inn, a full 30 blocks from the Iceberg, and what use would the guy in the restaurant be anyway?
It was such a handicap, having to rely on what people actually did. What were the chances he was going to find a person with the necessary authority at a hotel near the Iceberg that just happened to play the ponies with one of his bookies? Damn that Hagen! If only he’d…
Hm.
Well that was a thought.
The appeal of a Clayface Blackmail Anyone scheme—apart from an amusing “clay pigeon” play on words—was that you could manufacture photographic evidence of whatever you needed the mark to do in order to be blackmailed. While Oswald could not, on his own, get a picture of the Brinkmore general manager in bed with a whore, he could discreetly admit any number of working girls to the hotel in the course of his stay, traipse them back and forth in front of the security cameras, and then threaten to go to the police because a respectable figure like Oswald Cobblepot must not be seen frequenting THAT kind of hotel—kwak!
Yes, that would work nicely. A fine scheme right out of the Yakuza playbook. He liked the Yakuza. Always paid their tabs on time. Not quite as free with their money as Ghost Dragons, but much more so than those constipated Triads or the tightwad Falcones.
And soon they would all be lined up at his bar again, drinking igloos from souvenir glasses, theirs to take home for an additional $4.95. Yes, it was a fine day to be a bird.
Alfred was glad for the company while he prepared the lunch tray for the cave. He would have been happier serving in the dining room, naturally. In the weeks Miss Selina was away, Master Bruce had fallen back on old habits. Alfred still brought breakfast to the bedroom on a tray, or laid it out in the dining room to lure Bruce out of bed if there was early business at WE. But lunches and dinners had been taken more and more often in the cave, until finally there was no longer any question.
Alfred hadn’t planned to mention this to Selina, but she raised the subject herself, had she but known it, when she noticed the cutlets. The breaded cutlets of steak, pork, or chicken had once been a staple of Wayne Manor menus. The breading was highly seasoned, which discouraged the bats. And while the cutlets were tasty enough served hot as an entree, they really came into their own as leftovers. Served cold on an open-faced sandwich, with a dollop of mustard and perhaps a cup of chilled romaine soup, they made an absolutely delicious lunch. Given the number of dinners Alfred had served in the Batcave only to collect untouched a few hours later, he had developed a number of these recipes that could be “recycled,” as it were, into tasty and nutritious lunches that lived up to the Wayne Manor standard.
In recent months, particularly in that period after the Gotham Post party when so many of Batman’s usual enemies were incarcerated, meals in the dining room had become so frequent that Alfred phased out the cold cutlet and soup combos. Though Selina approved his menus each day when she was in residence, she hadn’t noticed their disappearance until their return.
Alfred explained the whole history to her now, since she had asked.
“And now the cutlets are back,” she noted, “meaning that he’s gone back to eating in the cave all the time while I was away?”
“Yes, miss,” Alfred nodded, pausing at the refrigerator door to consider that he had given Master Bruce the romaine soup twice already this week, and considering vichyssoise or watercress in its place.
“I’m on it,” Selina grinned, feeling it was her job to keep Bruce’s humanity quotient at acceptable levels.
Place to live—check.
Someone to pluck the pigeons in his absence—check.
Being absent… that was turning out to be more difficult than expected.
Oswald never considered that it might be a challenge to have himself declared sane. He actually was sane, whereas the rest of these loony birds (very good customers and esteemed fellow rogues, but loony birds all the same) got released all the time.
All he had to do, so he imagined, was go into Bartholomew’s office, say the first inkblot looked like the Golden Gate Bridge instead of a Golden Crested Finch, the second looked like a bust of Shakespeare instead of that statue of Washington Irving that all the pigeons roost on in Robinson Park, and the third looked like… something else having nothing to do with birds.
When that had no effect, he thought the next image resembled his sweet, former hostess, Raven, but she appeared to be off in the distance, as if wandering the dark and frightening streets of Gotham, forlorn and perhaps homeless. For how long could one g o on without a job? The next inkblot also looked like a woman, one sitting on the edge of the bed—right there, do you see?—and hinting to her paramour that they should cohabitate and thus spare her the expense of city rents. The next? What a large, bossy woman that one depicted. Someone’s mother dropping in for a lengthy visit now that her sweet little girl had moved in with the perverted old man she was sleeping with.
That would do it, Oswald was sure.
But days had passed and still there was no mention of a release date. Now that the rest of Oswald’s plans were in place, he really couldn’t wait any longer for Bartholomew to nudge him out of the nest.
He also couldn’t come up with any more nightmare scenarios to draw from a meaningless blotch from a leaky pen.
Hm…
Desperate times called for desperate measures. His next session, Oswald would have a breakthrough. He would realize he'd been wasting his gifts all these years, challenging the Batman and pursuing unlimited wealth and power. Such paltry goals, when all the while, he should have been teaching the fundamentals of business to inner city youths…
When Selina returned to the cave, she found Bruce muttering “that wily bird” over and over.
“That’s the mantra,” she said lightly, setting down the lunch tray. “Sometimes interspersed with ‘I’m going to kill that wily bird.’”
Bruce grunted and reached absently for the cup of soup, brought it to his lips and began to sip—and then pulled the cup back with a start. It contained no liquid, only a small slip of paper.
“It’s an IOU,” Selina said. “Alfred and I decided there really has to be a limit to how many meals in a row you can eat down here, and you have definitely exceeded it.”
“You and Alfred decided… This is my house,” Bruce sputtered.
“And that’s why Alfred has made you such a delicious lunch. So, unless this Oswald thing is going to require holograms or live bats as visual aids, you can tell me about it upstairs while we eat.”
Bruce’s lip twitched.
“And if it does require holograms and live bats to explain?”
Selina grinned.
“Ooh, he’s playful now. If there’s going to be a hologram of Ozzy, I’ll see it on an empty stomach, thank you. But make it quick, because the chilled watercress soup won’t stay chilled forever.”
“You’re an impossible woman,” he noted, switching off the monitor.
Once again, the fifty-minute session was drawing to a close with no talk of Oswald preparing himself to rejoin society. Any moment now, Bartholomew would intone the dreaded, “I think we’re about out of time,” and it would be another week or more of stale breakfast rolls and contractors working unsupervised.
Perhaps something more Freudian was needed. Perhaps he should realize he was kicked out of the nest too soon. Too soon. To try to fly… No, that was starting to sound like a haiku. And if he went on to reference his half-formed featherless stubs, that might offer a nice psychobabble rationale for the birds, but it also sounded a bit cuckoo. If he wanted to sound SANE, there was no point in being original or poetic. If only he had been tall or good looking, yes, that was more like it, captain of the football team or class president, maybe then! Maybe then… two-second pause to wipe an unmanly tear… maybe then, his father would have loved him.
That should do it. That re ally should do it. Bartholomew would try to conceal a satisfied grin, much like Catman when he walked into the Iceberg and saw that Selina was not present.
“I think it's just that… when I got into crime… no excuses here… but… it was as if I had finally found something I was good at… really, truly good at… and I thought…if I could just be successful somewhere, anywhere in my life… maybe, somehow my dad would be proud of me…”
Oswald sat back in his chair, as if wanting to examine this speech from a distance. Was it too much? No, it was just the thing. He held up his hand, as if it held an imaginary skull to which he could deliver his soliloquy.
“Maybe he would show up at the Iceberg one night… The place would be jumping… Celebrities… the upper crust… everyone having a good time… and he would see that I was worthy of being his son… He would say out loud, before the world, and for the first time ever… ‘This is my son…’” Two-second pause to stifle an unmanly sniff. “This is my son. Oswald Cobblepot III… and I love him.”
Oswald nodded at his own dialogue. If the heartless brute was unmoved at that, there was no hope for it. Oswald would decide that Bartholomew resembled his father and start harassing the man day and night for the coveted paternal affection, until finally the miserable shrink would have no choice but to release Oswald in order to escape. Kwak!
Alfred stood at the sideboard, trying to look like an attentive servant rather than a victorious general as Bruce and Selina seated themselves in the dining room.
“It’s an amazingly sophisticated money laundering scheme,” Bruce announced, filling his plate.
“Ebay?” Selina laughed. “Banged up henchmen on laptops selling crap on ebay?”
“That’s only one part of a three pronged operation. Ebay seems to cover the bulk of his regular underground income: the gambling, smuggling, and fencing the usual levels of stolen goods per month.”
“The ‘usual levels’? So if I brought him a Monet and he sold it—”
“Did you ever bring him a Monet?” Bruce interrupted.
“I’m not telling you that,” came the coy, naughty-grinned reply.
The grunt that followed meant “I’ll find out.” Selina took it as such, and continued.
“So, if I brought him a Monet and he sold it to some Japanese nouveau riche for $3 million, even after he pays me, his cut is going to be too much for these henchmen to cover up selling PEZ dispensers back and forth.”
“Correct, especially on top of their usual monthly cash flow. So for large amounts from a single one-time transaction, he has this circle of lawyers.”
“Lawyers? That doesn’t sound like Oswald at all. ‘First thing we do is kill all the lawyers’ is the only Shakespeare he knows. Harvey used to pay him twenty bucks a month not to quote it in front of Joker.”
“Typical clumsy subterfuge. He owns five lawyers in these sorry, one-man practices in Brighton Beach, little more than a painted nameplate on a door with a mail slot. They handle bogus civil suits of no interest to law enforcement, concocted by his men. A sues B for negligence. B sues C for copyright infringement. C sues D for breach of contract. All are settled out of court, and at each step, Cobblepot’s lawyers take forty percent of the settlement. Five or six rounds of that and the proceeds from your Monet are indistinguishable from legitimate income.”
“It’s got style.”
“It’s stupid. It leaves the worst paper trail of the three. Now that I know where to look, the lawyers involved, the patterns of suits filed and settled, those will be the easiest washes to spot. And once I nail down the timing, how long after a given deal it takes him to dispose of the proceeds, then I’ll be able to work backwards and determine the precise crimes he was laundering.”
“Well, if you do stumble upon a Monet, it isn’t me,” Selina winked. “I was at Martha’s Vineyard at the time.”
Bruce’s lip twitched, then he turned serious.
“Unfortunately, Oswald knew the lawsuits were the weakest method. He only used it for big one-time deals. A large, sudden inflow of cash that had to be explained.”
“Okay, so Ebay and lawsuits. You said there were three?”
Bruce nodded.
“For regular payments: protection, tribute, and the like, he has a fake collection agency collecting on bogus student loans. It’s not particularly clever; anyone can see the payees are unlikely students. But they’re also a category that won’t cooperate with authorities. They’ll work harder than Oswald would to avoid answering questions, so he probably feels he’s safe.”
“But he’s not,” Selina’s eyes gleamed.
“Now that I know what he’s doing? No. He’s not.”
Free as a bird! Within minutes, Oswald Cobblepot would be living out the one ornithological expression he had not dissected for Dr. Bartholomew: he would be free as a bird. The simile was drawn from flight, obviously, for what creatures are freer than those who can fly? Not even gravity may imprison a bird, and no mere fence or wall or stream may one hold back. And yet, the expression did not limit itself to birds that flew. The Penguin might be a flightless bird, but he too was free once these last forms were signed and his belongings handed over.
It was loving himself that did it. “But I see now, I see it so clearly, Doc. What good is it being loved by my father… being loved by the whole world even… if I can't love myself. I want to love myself, Doctor. Can you help me? Can you help me find the courage to finally love myself?”
“Sign here, and here, and initial there.”
“My good woman,” Oswald drew himself up with magnificent hauteur, “perhaps the riff raff you normally ‘process’ affix their signature to any line you say in their reckless haste to leave this institution. Oswald Cobblepot is no such creature. I shall read every word of this frightfully small print, and if I find I am acknowledging receipt of one item less than I have received, I shall be having words with your supervisor-kwak!”
The clerk didn’t react. Most patients from the criminal wing were unpleasant when they were released (although no one had ever quacked before). But still, the sign out desk was a good gig and worth putting up with almost anything. It was the one place none of them were dangerous. They might be five minutes before they got here, and they certainly were five minutes later once they walked out the door. But in that narrow span of time between seeing the front door and passing through it, they were on their best no-kill no-threaten no-freeze no-green no-morph behavior.
“My antique parasol appears to have a scratch that you will see is not mentioned in the admittance paperwork. I—and indeed any impartial jury—would be forced to conclude that the sc ratch was not present when I was admitted and this priceless antique was entrusted to your care. I must insist that this be noted on all three of these forms—that is the downside to triplicate, my dear, although I’m sure you have no say in the paperwork that is assigned. Please make the necessary changes—in ink—here, here, and here, and then (and only then) shall I sign. My lawyers will be in touch next week about suitable compensation… Excellent, that’s the personal property taken of. Now, about these supplemental releases…”
It took half an hour to dispense with the paperwork, and at last Oswald Cobblepot strode through the doors of Arkham Asylum to breathe the free air of Gotham once more. He was about to renew his musings on that delightful expression “free as a bird” when he saw he was being approached by a panhandler.
“Oswald Cobblepot?” the man said.
So not a panhandler. Perhaps a chauffer? Perhaps some sort of car service for released inmates needing a lift back to town?
“I am Oswald Cobblepot, yes,” he nodded.
“Subpoena, Internal Revenue Service. Subpoena, Internet Commerce Bureau. Subpoena, Interstate Trade Commission. Subpoena, Inter Gotham Alliance. Subpoena International Banking and…”
Oswald fled back into the asylum, pounding his fist on the admissions desk and renouncing all claims of sanity. He screamed hysterically about the birdy eyed beads or the beady eyed bats, or no, the batty shaped beetles that were looking at him funny! They were out there, lurking, waiting, waiting do you hear? Waiting to swoop down and (serve him with 147 subpoenas) peck his eyes out!
Bartholomew was sent for, and Oswald pointed feverishly to the door, explaining again about the poison fang demons waiting to (deliver 13 notices of asset seizure) eat his liver.
A shot was ordered, something to calm him down. And he explained, as the nice orderly plunged a syringe into his arm, about the soul-sucking succubae (the Internal Revenue Service), the fire belching banshees (Interstate Trade Commission), the five-headed goat beast (and other nasty things beginning with Inter)…
Bruce preferred getting fully into costume before pulling the At Large list and plotting out the night’s patrol. He had changed into the tunic, leggings, boots and cowl. But he postponed the gloves and cape until after he checked the new utility belt. He was halfway through the inventory when he noticed the bats outside had grown quiet. Then he heard the distant clip-clip of high heels approaching the costume vault.
“Knock knock,” Selina called before she reached the door. “Are you decent—Oh shit, you are.”
She was in costume as well, but without her mask, which made him feel somehow overdressed.
“Well, at least I caught you before you left,” she purred.
“Need a ride into town?” he asked, deciding the inventory was complete and hurriedly attaching the belt.
“No, I just wanted to tell you something.”
He looked up. Something about the way she said it sounded… significant.
“Well?”
“I had fun.” She said it simply enough, but as she continued, she had stepped in closer, too close, the way she used to when she wanted to tempt him. “Zurich. Metropolis before that. Going to Vault with Matches and then going back on my own…” A fingertip danced along the top ridge of his belt as she looked into his eyes and repeated “I had fun.”
“We’re talking about the ‘C’ word?” he graveled, the ominous bat-voice an automatic defense when she threw him a curve.
“Yes.”
His lip twitched, and he reached for the cape.
“Well… good. Does this mean—”
“No. It absolutely does not mean I’m going to exchange prowls for patrols. I just wanted you to know that… that it was good. And I hope we can do it again sometime.”
“So…” It was the bat-gravel again, but this time it wasn’t covering uncertainty. This time it was a deep, seductive murmur, not unlike Catwoman’s when she really wanted to tempt him. “The next time I want your help with something like Cobblepot’s money laundering…?”
“You can just ask.”
“Without you chartering a plane and running off to Switzerland?”
“Right. As long as there’s no blood dripping from your fangs while you sing an aria about finally nailing the one that got away.”
“You picked the wrong night to say that,” Batman growled. As he spoke, he pulled the glove down tightly over his hand and made a fist as if savoring the sensation.
“Ah,” Selina smiled, aroused as always by the menacing flashes of Psychobat that others found terrifying. “I thought I detected an unspoken ‘woof’ earlier when the news came in about Oswald. You’re not happy with the resolution?”
“It’s good that he’s back inside and going to be hiding there for a good long time. His organization is crippled, assets seized, bank accounts frozen. But it wasn’t… satisfying.” Before the last word, he ground the gloved fist into his bare palm and his eyes blazed with an ancient hatred.
“Meaning you didn’t get to beat anybody up,” Selina said dryly.
“Something like that.”
“It’s going to be a shitty night for muggers, isn’t it?”
He smiled, the slow, wicked smile seldom seen in the cowl. Then it faded, and with a final, casual tug at the cape clip, Batman seemed ready to go.
Before he did, Selina had one final thing to say, and she said it with uncharacteristic seriousness.
“It isn’t over, you know? ‘Queen of the underworld.’ Even if you got the bulk of Ozzy’s money and most of the small fry, Vault is still open for business and my new reputation right along with it.”
“I knew it,” Batman said softly, shaking his head as he turned away. “Any time you offer to help, it’s trouble.”
©2007, Chris Dee