Edward Nigma returned to his hideout, pulled a
chalkboard from the storeroom, and drew a large question mark with green chalk.
He poured himself a glass of Glenundromm, his favorite scotch, and held it
up to the beguiling symbol of the unknown.
“A loaf of bread, a glass of wine, and
thou,” he toasted. “Or a box of
Triscuits and a glass of scotch,” he shrugged.
He had a mystery to solve, a mystery that might
just revitalize his criminal career: What
was Oswald up to?
What was Oswald up to?
What was Oswald up to?
What was Oswald up to?
Oswald Cobblepot was the cheapest man alive,
particularly where the Iceberg was concerned.
Riddler would have been astonished to receive a free drink on his
birthday, let alone this… this… enigmatic “gift.” But after Selina left, Oswald had waddled up to the table and
said he overheard her mention Eddie’s birthday. Then he puffed himself up importantly, quacked a few times,
and said he was in “a unique position to offer a most –kwak– advantageous
boon to a select circle of my –kwak– most respected
colleagues.” This “boon” would
ordinarily go for $100,000 up front, and a monthly tribute of twenty percent of
whatever the buyer earned with it. But
in honor of Eddie’s birthday, Penguin said he was prepared to waive the buy-in
fee, so sure was he that twenty percent of the esteemed Riddler’s take would more than
compensate him for his generosity.
“EYEING ROTS” Eddie told the question mark.
“SO TEENY RIG”… “I YESTER NOG, in fact”… “I GREENS
TOY!”… The word “Generosity,” promising as it was as a rootword for
anagrams, did not exist in the Penguin’s pompous vocabulary.
The payoff Oswald was expecting would have to be enormous for him to give
away a $100,000 buy-in just to have the Riddler involved. Eddie
was burning to know the details of the scheme, but he didn’t want it spelled
out for him in Oswald’s overblown oratory; he wanted to figure it out for
himself. Then he would
decide if he wanted to be a part of it. It
really wasn’t his style to sign on as a humble participant in someone else’s
intrigues, birthday gift or not. It
would be far more satisfying to work out the details of Oswald’s masterplan
and incorporate that into a greater strategy of his own.
Unfortunately, the only lead he had to go on
were those two girls from the Iceberg, two of the cat-groupies he saw
disappearing into the back room after last call…
Jervis said their names were Felicity and Felicia, but Sly thought the
second one was called Felina (which made Eddie wince, anticipating Selina’s
reaction), while Raven thought it was Felita.
All Eddie knew for sure was that they were cat-groupies and that Oswald
asked them to stay after closing.
It wasn’t much to go on, but he was the
Riddler after all, and this was a puzzle. No
puzzle could remain unsolved if he directed all the faculties of his great brain
to unlocking its secrets!
“Felicity and Felina?” Bruce asked,
allowing a trace of the old playboy to slip into the business persona he’d
maintained since these women entered his office.
“How… charming.”
They smiled at him, and the first one (Felina?)
struck what Bruce imagined she thought was a beguiling cat-like pose.
“We represent Moggie’s Purr, the new day
spa on West 45th,” she announced brightly.
“We’re sponsoring the MoMA re-opening
gala,” her companion added, “just like the Wayne Foundation is.”
“Although we can’t offer anything on the
scale of your donation, of course, Mr. Wayne.”
“We all do what we can,” Bruce noted
cautiously. “What is it I, or the
Foundation, rather, can do for you ladies?”
In unison, they smiled again, a smile vaguely
reminiscent of Catwoman’s naughty grin, a smile much closer to that
beguilingly feline quality they seemed to be going for.
“It’s what we’d like to do for you,
Mr. Wayne,” Felicity purred seductively.
“We’re newcomers to Gotham, so, of course, we want to introduce
ourselves to everybody that… matters. That’s
why we’re offering a free spa day to all the museum board members and, of
course, to fellow sponsors like yourself.”
“I see.
What a delightful idea,” Bruce enthused, permitting a little more Fop
to creep into his demeanor than he would usually exhibit in the Wayne offices.
“I will certainly consider it.”
A spa?
A day spa? Riddler tried to
massage the physical pain of idiocy out of his temples.
An EVIL HEALTH SPA??? It was such a ludicrously hackneyed cliché,
it made his head hurt.
But that’s what the silly woman said on the
phone when Riddler called the number he obtained from the Iceberg.
“Moggie’s Purr Day Spa,” that’s how those cat-groupies answered
the phone.
An evil health spa.
What could Oswald possibly be doing with that old chestnut that
was worth $100,000? As a riddle, a
conundrum, a tauntingly unanswered question, it was shaping up to be a
barnburner. But as a—a happening
amongst one of Gotham’s old guard rogues—it was… it was… it made
his head hurt!
Located eighty miles outside of Gotham, Zack’s
was the last roadhouse Greg and Talia would stop at before they got back to the
city. He stressed this.
It really was her last chance to throw caution to the wind and try some
pie. All roadhouses had great pie.
“Banana cream,” Greg read enticingly off
the menu. “Tee, how can you keep
eating scrambled eggs day after day and not break it up with a really good slice
of pie now and then?”
Talia raised a haughty eyebrow, picked
up her fork, and held it out in front of her, suspended between her fingertips.
“This,” she pronounced, “is cheap,
punched out tin. No one who
presents a diner with a utensil of this kind is fit to prepare food.
No food meant to be eaten with a utensil of this kind can serve any
purpose other than postponing starvation. As
we are only a few hours from Gotham and palatable meals, I am in no danger of
starving. A bottle of Evian is all
I shall require.”
Greg sighed and grinned apologetically up at
the waitress.
“Got any bottled water?” he asked mildly.
The waitress shook her head, and Talia assumed
the look of a long-suffering queen in exile as she settled for a cup of weak
coffee. Greg ordered “a big slab
of that chocolate pie—and two forks,” he added with a wink, “in case she
comes around.”
Bruce kept up the genial smile and witless
banter until the strangely feline representatives of the Moggie’s Purr Day Spa
left his office, then he underwent one of the most disconcerting transformations
in existence: his entire demeanor
shifted in a split second, his jaw clenching tightly, his eyes darkening, his
entire body seeming to condense into a heavier, denser mass. His walk as he returned to the desk was not that of Bruce
Wayne in either business or fop mode; it was Batman’s. The forceful punch of the intercom was Batman’s, and so was
the brooding scowl that crept over his features as a light, careless voice told
Lucius he was leaving for the day.
There was nothing unusual about a new business
aiming for upscale clientele. There
was nothing suspect in their using museum sponsorship to target the rich, the
famous, and the beautiful people. And
superficially, there wasn’t anything suspicious in their having a cat
theme and their representatives approaching him with such markedly feline
deportment. But something
about it was wrong. Every
instinct said so.
Bruce Wayne was known to be linked romantically
with Selina Kyle; Selina was known to be Catwoman.
It wasn’t a stretch to think he might be receptive to catlike women.
If this was a trap… His mind quickly listed and prioritized the
pertinent questions:
Who was behind it?
What were they after?
Why was Bruce Wayne the target?
Was he the only target?
When sprung, what would the trap itself consist of?
As with all questions of this kind, Bruce knew
finding any one answer would point him to others.
The most promising question in that respect was the last, and that meant
he had to investigate the spa.
The closer they got to Gotham, the more Talia
began to feel her old self again. The
sight of the great city growing on the horizon as they neared the 10th
Street Bridge, the pitch shift in the sounds of the traffic as they moved from
open highway to the close avenues between tall buildings, the smells of those
cars and busses, street vents and food carts… It was revolting.
Talia did not like Gotham City.
…A billboard for a jeweler screamed
“CATWORTHY”…
Talia ignored this large purple reminder of
a… a woman who made Belov-… who made Bruce Wayne happy in ways
that she herself evidently could not.
…A T-shirt store in Times Square displayed a
huge bat emblem in an enormous yellow circle…
Again, Talia made an effort to ignore the image
which represented her Beloved Bruce, and which he himself wore on the many
occasions when he… spurned her affections.
…On Fifth Avenue, discreet
banners hung from every streetlight announcing the MoMA reopening, sponsored by
the Wayne Foundation…
It was fitting, certainly, that Beloved’s
name be celebrated in the city he gave so much.
…They passed another banner…
It was fitting. Gotham was, in essence,
Beloved’s capital city—just as it would be if he had accepted her many
offers and taken his rightful place as her father’s heir. Gotham would be his
capital, and there would be banners throughout celebrating his name. But he declined this glory because it was not what he wished
his life to be.
…They passed another banner…
It was a pity he didn’t recognize how
wonderful it would be: the two of them reigning as King and Queen of DEMON, and
hence, the world. But what could she do? She
had tried everything a woman could to entice him, everything to make him
understand, and she kept on trying, rejection after rejection, denial after
denial, until finally he took refuge in the arms of that vermin slut.
…Finally they came to Wayne Plaza itself,
where a signboard listed LL-Research Group, LexTech, and LuCo Investments.
Talia’s stomach lurched as she saw these former LexCorp divisions being
publicly welcomed into “The Wayne Enterprises family.”
Everywhere were reminders of old rejections,
old failures, old bitterness, and old jealousies.
And Talia’s eyes swelled with tears… The “vermin slut” was…
was no slut. Her name was Selina Kyle and… Bruce, not Beloved, Bruce
loved the scheming cat-witch… loved “Selina” as he didn’t love her…
He wasn’t bewitched or seduced or ensnared.
He was in love. That was how
he behaved when he was in love. He
had never welcomed Talia into his life the way had the verm… the way he did Selina,
because he had never loved her—just like he’d said. Many times. Very
many times.
Talia did not like Gotham City.
Seventy-eight Floors above Talia squirming in Wayne Plaza,
one floor above Bruce leaving the executive suite, Selina strolled alone through
the lush penthouse. This is where
she’d come the night she faced the truth about the MoMA.
The museum had closed for renovation shortly after she closed Cat-Tales.
The final meeting between Batman-the-crimefighter and Catwoman-the-thief
occurred on their roof, watching from above as they packed up their collection. She had laid down a challenge that night, the reopening gala of the Gotham
Museum of Modern Art was going to be a banquet for Catwoman: the art, the
jewels, the prestige of the ultimate heist, all hers for the taking.
She had challenged Batman, and now, three years later, the time had come to
make it good, the museum was ready to reopen… and none of it was going to
happen. She lived in his house now,
she slept in his bed, she called him Bruce and he called her Kitten.
Catwoman’s great triumph at the MoMA
reopening could never happen now.
She’d faced up to that reality months ago,
and she’d come here to the penthouse with a vaguely formed notion of playing a
prank. The artworks were just as
modern as the museum collection, just as priceless, just as… “Catworthy”
as that billboard over the bridge put it. Then
she’d become distracted, there was an Ivy incident when she’d reached the
penthouse and she’d forgotten all about that prank.
But now…
After leaving the Iceberg the night before,
she’d felt restless and nostalgic. She’d
gone back to the MoMA, gone into the offices to learn what she could of their
new security and layout. By chance,
she found insurance documents on the Van Gogh, Batman’s favorite painting.
It reminded her of her original plans for the reopening gala.
She slept in his bed now, she kept her
catsuit underneath his bed—and she discovered the last time she was down
there that Nutmeg stashed her treasures there as well.
Her cat stole Batman’s socks and hid them underneath the bed they
shared; the days of filching a Van Gogh to prove she could were over.
So she’d gone home and crawled into that bed and spent an hour watching
him sleep… and then, this morning,
she’d come back to this penthouse to decide what to do now.
Oswald Cobblepot glanced at his own image
reflected in the banker’s lamp, thinking how much he resembled a Gotham Santa
Claus. For here he sat, pen poised
in judgment over an exhaustive list culled from so many sources: Arkham
admissions, Blackgate releases, and outstanding Iceberg Lounge bar tabs, to
determine who was most deserving of this priceless gift.
Here, truly, was a census of the Gotham
underworld… Double Dare, such
charming ladies and sure to make profitable use of the boon if it were offered
them. He was sorry indeed to learn
they were still locked away in Blackgate…
King Snake, limitless profit potential there—but a competitor. Oswald was not about to turn over so valuable a tool to a
competing crime boss. He would
receive twenty percent of all King Snake earned with it, but Snake himself would keep
eighty percent,
and with a war chest like that he could destroy the Iceberg.
On the same principle, the Italian mobs, Yakuza, Odessa, and the triads
were ineligible as customers… Black
Mask… a small -kwak- chuckle escaped his lips.
Like that nattering nabob would ever be anything more than a cheap Bond
villain wannabe. One does not
bestow the keys to a Ferrari on a pizza deliveryman…
That left the rogues, and the rogues could be sadly impractical when it
came to the bottom line. Joker,
Clayface, Croc, Frieze—they might put the boon to very creative use in their
personal vendettas against Batman, but it was unlikely they’d make any money
with it. And twenty percent of
“OOH-HAHAHAHAHA-Dead-Bat” was of no use to him.
Of course, the one perfect candidate—well,
no, that wasn’t possible. Damn
Hugo.
Nigma was an obvious choice, of course.
Even if his schemes were superficially about outsmarting Batman more than
turning a profit, he still managed to end in the black any time he didn’t end
up in Arkham. Riddler might not be
a cash cow, but he could be a solid, dependable earner so long as he didn’t
get himself captured.
Still, the one perfect candidate—the purrfect candidate, in fact—was Selina.
She wouldn’t go using it to kill Batman, that’s for sure; she’d use
it as it was meant to be used, to make a fortune for everyone concerned.
And yet Catwoman was the one criminal Oswald was forbidden to sell to.
Damn Hugo and his conditions! It
was all Blake’s doing, Oswald had no doubt, and why they needed him involved
at all Oswald couldn’t imagine. A
petty vindictive worm, that’s what Tom Blake was.
Selina would make them all a fortune.
In one week, most likely, she could set them all up for life.
Damn Hugo –kwak–. Damn
Blake –kwak–. Damn them
all.
Felicity greeted Bruce Wayne at the front desk
of the Moggie’s Purr Day Spa with the same suggestively feline manner she’d
exhibited at his office, the same manner she’d exhibited at the Iceberg in her
hope to attract Tom Blake. She
recommended the spa’s signature package, the Moggie’s Purr:
“A sixty-minute deep tissue massage accompanied by the soothing sound of a
cat purring.” As an added bonus,
she said, Mr. Wayne could keep the CD of recorded purrs, ideal for at-home
meditation, relaxation and self-healing.
He agreed and Felicity turned him over to a new
girl, “Mau,” the most unabashedly feline specimen so far.
As Mau escorted him into a plush salon, Hugo Strange watched from behind
a two-way mirror.
Soon.
Soon the soft lull of the cat’s purr, and the inaudible but highly
functional binaural tracks hidden within those sounds, would gently produce
soothing theta waves in Bruce Wayne’s brain, which, coupled with the sedative
in the massage oil, would induce a state of deep relaxation and intense
suggestibility.
Soon, Batman could be switched off with a simple
verbal command, enabling Hugo’s agents to escape from any confrontation
without fear of pursuit. Soon the
destruction of the Batman would begin!
“I don’t ask much of my friends and
colleagues,” Eddie complained to the chalkboard, which now displayed five
smaller white question marks surrounding the original oversized green one. “I ask only that they not occupy Batman’s attention when
I am trying to leave a riddle at the Bat-Signal, and that they not be stupid.
It really isn’t too much to ask.”
This Oswald puzzle would drive him mad!
The Penguin was one of the all-time great Gotham rogues, and the question
of how such a mastermind could be reduced to a tired cliché like “evil health
spa” remained unanswered.
Then Oswald compounded the riddle by
sending word that this great “boon” was now ready: A trigger phrase
implanted in BATMAN to make him abandon pursuit of any criminal that
uttered it??? It made no sense—Oswald said the Bat-password was now in place—a done deal. How could he possibly have achieved such a thing?
And how did the Moggie’s Purr day spa fit in?
And what was a Moggie anyway?
A quick trip to Google answered the last
question; it was a cat of mixed ancestry, the feline equivalent of a mutt—which didn’t get him any closer to solving the Oswald question.
A “cat-mutt” only reminded him of Tom Blake, the Catman, who the tabloids
had turned into a Greek god, while their new take on the Riddler’s appearance
could best be described as “Colin Farrell meets Boy George.”
Catman with a hoard of delicious cat-girl groupies, while the only
persons hanging around the Iceberg hoping to meet the Riddler were the
understudies from the Rocky Horror Show and… wait… Catman groupies were
staffing Oswald’s Zoolander day spa, which had a cat-theme “Moggie’s
Purr,” and somehow or other they got a trigger phrase implanted into Batman…
But Oswald didn’t know Batman’s secret
identity and neither did Tom Blake. There’s
no way they could know they had him in their spa unless… Someone else was
involved, someone who did know Batman was Bruce Wayne, and that was a
short list.
HUGO! Hugo
Strange was NOT one of the great Gotham rogues. Hugo Strange was not old guard
like Riddler, Penguin and Catwoman. Hugo
Strange was just the sort of addled nitwit that would come up with a
mind-numbingly stupid cliché like an Evil Day Spa!
Riddler marched up to the chalkboard, erased
the question marks, cracked his knuckles, and set to work.
Barbara knew her Oracle filters couldn’t
detect each and every piece of authentic bat-paraphernalia that came up on eBay. There were always typos and erroneous descriptions.
Even if she could locate every “Gotam City Bataroon” that came up for
sale, there would be so many fakes to sift through, she wouldn’t have any time
left to function as Oracle. Her
automated routines weren’t perfect, but she was satisfied that they acquired
most of the loose Batarangs.
It was only when Dick was outbid on that Haley
Circus poster that it occurred to her to tag the others who bid against her in
the Batarang auctions and investigate their future buying.
That was how she discovered “SigmundFledermaus,” who had purchased, as
nearly as she could determine, two genuine Batarangs. SigmundFledermaus… it warranted further investigation.
In her present state of mind, Selina wasn’t
thrilled about meeting Eddie for drinks at the Plaza (“just like old times, eh,
‘Lina?”), but given the funk he was in since his birthday, she didn’t see how
she could refuse.
He had her favorite drink waiting when she
arrived, and he was glowing with pleasure as she sat down as if it was the first
good thing that happened to him all day. It
was hard to ignore.
“So,” he announced, placing his palms on the
table with a determined glint after she raised her glass to her lips, “How many
years has it been, my ‘WEAK LION,’ hm?
Want to team up,
‘Lina? We
could set the city on its ear. I
see you in green.”
Selina smiled affectionately as she took her
cue. “I work alone,” she pronounced firmly.
“LAKE I NO ROW,” Riddler exclaimed, lifting
his hand to his brow in an exaggerated pose of dramatic woe as he churned out
anagrams on the familiar phrase. “OK, A LIER WON—OW LINEAR OK—WEAK LION
OR… The lady works alone.”
“There’s no one like you, Eddie,” Selina
laughed, “And there never will be… Thank god.”
He
smiled, then turned serious.
“They were good days.”
“They were,” she agreed.
“Eddie, you’re forty, you’re not dead. Get yourself a hot sports car… or beat up Azrael.
Both are great for the ego.”
He grinned sadly.
“That how you do it?”
She raised a dangerous eyebrow.
“Do what?”
“Massage the old ego now that you’ve hung
up your whiskers.”
“Ex-cuse me?” Selina blurted, nearly
spilling her drink in shock.
“C’mon,
‘Lina, you forget I know the real
story there: you, Bruce, cat, m-hm-bwm-vwm,” he added, making a subtle
flapping motion with his hands to punctuate the nonsense syllables, “and not
so much anymore with the best thief in Gotham City-meow-purr-hiss.”
“Good bye, Eddie” Selina spat, standing and
collecting her purse, “Enjoy your midlife crisis.
It’ll go real well with the receding hairline.”
“Now that hurt, Selina,” he replied
sincerely. “I’m sorry, I
wasn’t trying to offend you. I
didn’t know it was a hot button. You
have given it up, haven’t you?”
“Technically,” she admitted.
“Well, I’m sorry I upset you, in any
case” Eddie went on, and Selina sat back down.
“I won’t mention it again.” He
pressed his fingers to the front of his hairline delicately, as if feeling for
blood.
“I’m sorry I took the shot about your
hair,” Selina sighed mechanically. “I
did know it was a sore spot. I just
wasn’t prepared for that kind of… insinuation… damnit, Eddie.”
“I didn’t insinuate anything,” he
insisted.
“Maybe not, but… it felt like…”
“Selina,” he said with a strange gravity
she’d never heard before, “Have you got anybody at all over there you can
talk to about this stuff?”
After a pause, she smiled.
“I’ve got Whiskers, I’ve got Nutmeg,
I’ve got the gal in the mirror. I’m fine, Eddie.”
“You need a sports car,” he declared,
reverting to the lighter mood, “or to beat up Azrael.”
She laughed.
“Or a really good win,” he added.
“Yeah,” she admitted.
“A win… would be meow.”
The night the first reports hit the Iceberg,
Oswald should have been elated. Rumors
of wildly improbable escapes from Batman, backed up with celebratory rounds of
drinks for everyone at the bar and an extra C-note for Sly just for being the
best goddamn bartender in the best goddamn city in the world, Hurrah!
A barful of gleeful patrons falling over each
other to buy each other drinks, and he got twenty percent of the windfall they were
celebrating. He should have been
ecstatic, but all his greedy mind could think of was Catwoman.
Nigma let it slip that his favorite Felonious Feline was finally fed-up
with her fence. The lovely
alliteration made the ravenous birdman salivate.
For years, Penguin had been shut out of the most profitable fencing
opportunity in Gotham: Catwoman was headquartered here, Catwoman the best
thief in the world, Catwoman who came regularly into his nightclub, called
him “Pengy” and “Ozzy” and taught his bartenders to make her special
martini. Catwoman lived HERE and yet she gave her business to that Beverly Stendal in Argentina, Igor Fabricant in Brussels, and Anna
however-you-say-that-name in San Francisco.
One time Catwoman had given him the chance to
feather his nest and he’d laid an egg. She’d
just taken up with Bruce Wayne, a new world of fabulously wealthy Gothamites
opened up to her, and she’d given Oswald a chance to bid. He thought he’d offered a fair price, but it was too low
and she was insulted. He was too
“small-time” for her.
Penguin could not let another such opportunity
pass him by. He was not small-time;
he had a password in his possession to shut off Batman.
Twenty percent of everything Catwoman stole plus the
fencing contracts… it was the chance of a lifetime.
And the Penguin did not take policy from the likes of Hugo Strange.
To be continued…
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