George thought Jenna’s was pretty fucking awesome.  Like TGI Friday’s, only better.

     George had never really gotten used to Gotham until now.  He’d been a star offensive tackle for the University of Metropolis for three years before he blew out a knee in the first game of his senior year.  That pretty much killed all his plans for that big NFL contract the following year, but it also gave him just enough time to give a shit about his studies. 

     He scraped through with his diploma and got a job as a derivatives trader at Bear Stearns in Gotham.  George had been told that a lot of ex-jocks went into the stock market, and he was surprised to find it was true.  There was a real jock mentality among the mostly male, totally white traders - none of that politically correct, liberal dyke crap, like back on campus.  Within a week of his arrival, George had felt like he was back in the locker room for the first time in months.

     Still, Gotham was a completely different world compared to Metropolis.  Gothamites could have been space aliens compared to people in the city back home.  Even after one year here, the trading room was still the only place he’d felt at home. 

     So a good place to get hammered on a Friday night wasn’t just a job requirement for a derivatives guy from the Midwest.  It was something to help him get through another week.  He had to adjust to this town sooner or later.  He’d found a few clubs like that in Gotham.  Jenna’s was the latest.

     Jenna’s had been recommended by a co-worker at Bear Stearns.  He said it was supposed to be filled with criminals and wackos and shit, but they wouldn’t pull anything on you.  Like “neutral ground”.  He said there used to be another club like that in town, but now some man-hating nutcase ran it.  She sounded a lot like his college girlfriend’s roommate, the one who said he was a “brutish, prejudiced Neanderthal”.

     Saying Jenna’s was filled with “criminals and wackos” didn’t do it justice, though.  It made the bar sound like a mental hospital.  This place was more like a freakshow.  They were costumed crazies like the ones back in Metropolis, but these didn’t seem to be the kind who knocked down buildings with their fists.  They seemed kinda colorful and harmless, actually.  Like birds.  Or Elton John. 

     And the freakshow was filled with hotties, too.  George had scored three phone numbers since his first night there, and the waitresses were more than friendly when you dropped enough of a tip on their trays.  There were also plenty hotties dressed like crazies themselves, but he’d been warned that they were “groupies”.  There were more fun ways of picking up an STD.

     With enough places like this, Gotham might actually start feeling like a home one day.  George was even debating which of those phone numbers to try out tonight.

     He was too busy mentally comparing the blonde with the big tits to the brunette with the nice ass to pay enough attention to his surroundings.  So George bumped into a much smaller man on the way to the bathroom, and almost clipped the guy’s head with his elbow.  “Sorry, little guy,” George mumbled absently as he walked on without even sparing him a second glance.

     George had just about decided on Candice the brunette about a half-hour later when he realized the guy to his right was dressed like a football player.  Huh, that’s a new wacko.  Gold helmet, must be a Notre Dame fan.  Wonder if he’s a fan of the fucking Notre Dame linebacker who screwed up my knee.

     He was just about to start an argument with the mystery player when George discovered he was, in fact, not standing next to a man dressed like a football player.  He was actually surrounded by football players.  There was nobody in the whole place now except for the Fightin’ Irish – and him.

     What the fuck?

     George’s mouth fell open as the player closest to him turned around and took off his helmet.  He actually almost looked like the same linebacker, except for the rows of long teeth pointed like needles, and the red eyes.  “Hey George,” he said conversationally.  “Thanks for the knee, but we’re gonna have to take the rest now.”

     Gotham was officially, seriously nothing at all like Metropolis. 

     Crane chuckled as the big oaf steamrolled five customers and two waitresses as he ran for the front door, flailing his massive arms at nothing visible, screaming, “Get away, get away, get your fucking claws away from my pants!”

     Several people nearby stared at the Scarecrow, and he smiled back.  They stepped away.

     “Little guy,” indeed.

     Robin looked at the three would-be burglars in front of him, and felt a degree of satisfaction that the crime normally wouldn’t deserve.  All three men had criminal records, but the attempted jewelry store robbery had been amateurish at best.  Nothing was stolen and no innocent people were hurt, but still, Robin could handle situations like this in his sleep.

     Except this wasn’t a normal situation.

     He looked over at Batgirl, who was tying up the last of the three burglars.  She’d handled herself professionally and flawlessly.  You wouldn’t know by looking at her that her one close friend had passed away recently.  A close friend who, until recently, had been his girlfriend.

     So it was an achievement for them to be out on patrol tonight.  The past few minutes had been the easiest part of Robin’s night.  For a brief time he’d been able to forget about Stephanie’s death.  He just slipped into the routine.  It felt great.  It still felt great.  He was riding the endorphins right now, but that was okay.

     “Guess you guys won’t be celebrating at Jenna’s tonight,” Robin said.

     “We weren’t going there,” one of the men shot back, trying to sound defiant.

     “Can’t get your names on the list any more?” Robin asked.

     The man looked at the other two.  “We were goin’ to the new Iceberg.”

     Robin raised an eyebrow.  That sounded about as likely as them going to the Metropolitan Opera.  “Really,” he said disbelievingly.

     “We heard the rumor mill,” a second robber said.  “The Hatter was talking about how he heard Clayface started drinking at the new Iceberg.”

     “Everybody knows how much Poison Ivy hates him,” the third burglar added.  “No way she’d let him drink there if she could stop him.”

     “It must be driving her batshhhh – uh, nuts.”

     “We wanted to watch.  It’ll be hilarious.” 

     “You were going to the Rydbergii so you could watch Poison Ivy be humiliated by Clayface,” Robin replied.

     All three men nodded.

     Robin shrugged.  That actually sounded reasonable.  He’d have to tell Oracle, though, about Clayface being back in town.  As far as he knew, she hadn’t known.  “Well, you won’t be going to either club then,” he told them before leaving the criminals there for pickup.

     Unsurprisingly, Cassie hadn’t spoken the entire time.  She was never talkative to begin with, and since Stephanie’s death she was positively…

     Damn it.  Good feeling gone.

     “Met Clayface once.”

     Robin looked at her, surprised, as she climbed onto the roof.  “You ‘met’ him?  You mean you fought him?  When?”

     “Rather not say.”

     He could imagine why.  By herself and without the right tools, she would have been nearly defenseless against him.  “What happened?”

     “Almost died.”  She paused.  “Ivy saved me.”

     Robin stared.  “Poison Ivy saved you from Clayface.”

     “Know had nothing to do with me.  Not know it me.  All about hurting him.  Saved me anyway,” she said.

     “And now Clayface is getting her back, and you feel what, bad for her?” Robin asked.

     Cassie shrugged.  “Worried a little.”

     “I’m sure she can take care of herself, Batgirl.”

     “Stephanie not take care of self.”

     Robin felt his gut clench, jump through a hoop, and do a cartwheel.  “Stephanie was nothing like Poison Ivy,” he said angrily.

     “No,” Cassie agreed sadly.  “She dead, though.  Couldn’t save her.  Ivy not dead.  Maybe save her.  Be even.”

     “But – “ Robin stopped.  It was just the kind of thing Cassie would feel.  Only now, coming so soon after Stephanie’s murder in that lonely alley, Cassie felt it twice as strongly.  The evening of the scales would also appeal to her.  And technically, if Ivy was being victimized, she had some right to be saved – even from something she’d started long ago.

     “We can’t just walk into the Rydbergii and announce we’ve come to save her from Clayface,” he pointed out.

     “Know that.  Not know what to do.  Want to do something," Cassie replied, her voice soft.

     He scratched his head.  “Well, we can report it to Oracle and Batman, have them look into it.  If something’s up, Batman will know how to handle Hagen.”  Batman, he suspected, would also find out what, if anything, Clayface had on Ivy, and he’d know what to do with that too.  Ivy certainly wasn’t going to be saved from her own crimes.

     “Okay,” Cassie said after a moment.

     “And hey, if worst comes to worst,” he added, trying to lighten the mood, “you can disguise yourself as a groupie and check things out in there.  They could use the business.”

     For some reason, Cassie made a choking sound in response.

     Charlie didn’t smoke, but he didn’t mind if people smoked around him, and he sure as hell didn’t mind if the stupid saps smoked them all their lives until their lungs rotted and the cancer got so bad it was building condos.

     After all, if the morons got a fucking clue and read the warning labels, which practically said “YOU WILL DIE IF YOU STICK THIS SHIT BETWEEN YOUR LIPS!,” then he’d be out of a job.  And as a litigator who’d started to build a niche in defending tobacco companies, it was a very well-paying job.

     Charlie loved Gotham, he loved his firm, he loved making partner next year, and he sure as hell loved it when women mistook him for Tom Cruise.  (Until that couch-jumping crap, who the hell would become a Scientologist now after watching that insanity on TV?)  He wouldn’t say he loved Jenna’s, but he liked it just fine, and “just fine” was enough to drop a couple hundred dollars in a single night on premium liquor for himself and whatever girl he’d picked up.

     He also liked watching the Arkham escapees trying to act like (relatively) normal people.  What a joke.  They weren’t crazy.  They were social rejects who killed people for the notoriety.  A guy like the Riddler?  Without his shtick he’d be a data processor somewhere.  And the Batman just fed their fucking egos!  If the Bat was in a prison where he belonged, those costumed nutjobs would just wither away.

     He should know, he used to be a public defender.

     Charlie hadn’t been interested in upholding the justice system for peanuts his whole life.  He just wanted to do it long enough for the experience on his resume.  Once you defended enough murderers and rapists, you developed a cast-iron stomach for defending the killers who paid real good money.

     And as long as the smokers who deserved what they got went on suing the cigarette manufacturers, his firm would rake in the profits.  When Charlie made partner next year, he’d rake a portion of those profits too. 

     He smiled at the waitress as she brought him another whiskey sour.  “Thanks, babe,” he said, casually dropping a twenty in her apron pocket.  “Any stars in tonight?”

     She gestured behind him and to his left with one finger.  “The Hatter’s in the corner like always,” she said.  “And Killer Croc’s over there.”  She didn’t bother pointing him out.  You’d have to be blind not to see the jolly green giant towering over everyone else.  “It’s a slow night.”

     “I’m not sure who’s harder to understand,” Charlie said.  “At least the Hatter knows some words with more than two syllables.”

     “Be nice,” she chided him.  “Jervis is harmless.”

     Which was exactly the point he’d always tried to make.  These people were harmless.  Sure, Croc could probably bench-press eight hundred pounds, but in here he could’ve been just another bouncer.  And the Hatter, well, Charlie’s waitress could probably take him. 

     Oh sure, some guy ran out of here screaming a few nights ago, he heard.  Scarecrow spiked his drink for no reason.  Scarecrow was also ninety pounds soaking wet.  If the Batman needed more than thirty seconds to take him down, he was an idiot.  Don’t drink what he serves you.  End of discussion.   

     Charlie got up and went to approach the “Killer”.  Not to actually engage him in conversation, of course.  What could you talk about with him anyway?  His taste in raw meat?  Just to look at him.  At least he was a sight to see.

     What Charlie didn’t see was someone else’s foot, and so he tripped over it.  He caught himself on a table, but his whiskey sloshed all over the floor.

     Including, as it happened, Killer Croc’s feet.

     Charlie looked up at the big reptile.  “Hey, my apologies, Croc.  Let me buy you a drink,” he said glibly, flashing that classic Cruise-like smile.

     Killer Croc glared at the manager.  “He had it coming,” he growled.

     “The man spilled his drink on you!” the manager said, agitated.  “He apologized!  We’re lucky you didn’t give him a concussion or break his collarbone!”

     “Well, he didn’t say sorry well enough!” Croc retorted.  “He said it like I was some guy on the street!  When you say sorry to Killer Croc, you get on your knees!” 

     “And so you threw him behind the bar?!”

     Croc shrugged.  “It felt good.  Like old times.”

     They asked him to leave.  He didn’t, of course.  How the hell could they make him?  But he resented them asking anyway.  They didn’t seem to get him here any more than the little man did.

     He left because he wanted to.

     Raven didn’t particularly enjoy this mission for a few reasons.  There was, of course, the fact that when Ivy inevitably retreated to her office for the night, she would be a gloomy, short-tempered, near-hysterical mess until the last customer was gone.  But there was also the fact that Raven was doing something which could conceivably be seen as betraying a fellow employee.

     It didn’t matter.  It was going to be a problem sooner or later, and she didn’t want Ivy to find out after it was too late, like she had with Jenna’s.

     She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.  “Ms. Isley?”

     The door opened after a few seconds, and Ivy’s face could be seen only by the light coming from the club.  The office was shrouded in darkness, and Raven found herself thinking back to high school drama class.  She didn’t think it would be a good idea, however, if she shared her thought with anyone else that Ivy reminded her of Blanche from A Streetcar Named Desire.  “What is it?” she asked curtly.

     “We’ve got a problem,” Raven said.  “Or we’re going to, anyway.”

     Ivy sighed.  “What now?”

     “I… I don’t think Becky is going to cut it.”

     “The bartender?  Why?”

     “Well, you know how business is up slightly?”

     Ivy smiled bitterly.  “Yes.  Apparently now that Hagen is drinking here, a few people have decided it’s safe to come in the water.  My hero.”

     Raven didn’t want to get anywhere close to between Ivy and Clayface.  She just treated him like she treated any A-lister back when it was still the Iceberg.  “Ever since more customers started coming in, Becky’s falling behind on drink orders.  You might need to add another bartender.”

     “Why Raven, are you making management decisions now?”

     Fortunately Raven had built up a resistance to Ivy’s passive-aggressive high school bullshit.

     Ivy’s hand came into view as she sipped from a wineglass and the snide look was replaced by one of mild apathy.  “Fine, I’ll put an ad in the paper.  There are over five million women in the city.  There have to be more bartenders.”

     “Becky was the best we could get,” Raven said unhappily.  Of course Ivy would eliminate half the available pool of applicants.  “And… “

     Ivy’s smile twisted.  “And with Jenna’s taking away all our business, no competent bartender will work for a place that’s just going to close in a couple months?” 

     Raven didn’t say anything.  Just because Ivy offered that herself, it didn’t make it any safer to agree with her.

     “Well,” Ivy said.  She tapped a finger on the glass.  Fortunately this didn’t seem to be one of those nights where she let alcohol affect her.  “Business is up?”

     “A little,” Raven agreed.  “Mostly henchmen.”  She chose her next words carefully.  “I think they’re disappointed you’re not down there.”

     Ivy perked up.  “Really?”

     Raven nodded.  She could have left it at that, and allowed Ivy to sweep downstairs in a blaze of feminine glory, but it would be better for her in the long run if she dashed Ivy’s hopes.  “They heard Hagen was here.”

     “Well, yes, of course, but you said they were here for me.” 

     “I think they might be here for you… so Clayface can lord it over you that he drinks here and you can’t afford to throw him out,” Raven said gingerly. 

     Ivy’s back stiffened.  “I see,” she hissed through clenched teeth.  “Oppressive, patriarchal, chauvinistic men.  All they want in this progressive day and age is to see a strong woman held down!”

     Raven doubted it had anything to do with Ivy’s gender, but she held her tongue.  She started, though, when Ivy shoved the wineglass into her hand.

     “Fine then,” Ivy said coldly.  “The little schoolboy shits can laugh behind their hands.  I’ll even serve Hagen a drink if it brings more in.  But I want their names, Raven.  I want their names, and eventually, when we’re busy again… well, we won’t need their business any more.” 

     Raven shivered.

     “And if I’m going to tend bar for Hagen like a common wage slave, he can drink Cosmopolitans all night!” Ivy added.  She walked ahead of Raven.

     But not before the hostess heard Ivy mutter, “Besides, it’s the only drink I can make.” 

     Raven permitted herself a smile.  The goddess wasn’t a mixologist?  Blasphemy!

     Even after six days here, Rita still looked at the city around her with a touch of awe.  Gotham, she thought, was a pretty swell place.

     Rita had never gone more than fifty miles from her hometown in Arizona.  She'd grown up there, gone to school there, went to the satellite campus of the University of Arizona near there, and then gone right back to teach junior high there.  And it had always felt just right there.

     Just because you were a small-town girl from birth, though, didn't mean you didn't want to see something bigger than yourself one day.  And when Rita won a little more than three thousand dollars in the state lottery, she spent most of it on a week's vacation for herself in the biggest city in America.  The little country mouse wanted to see "the city" one time before she settled back down.  There was that handsome young assistant football coach she had her eye on…

     Since arriving in Gotham, she'd purchased a half-price ticket to a Broadway show, walked through Times Square, waited in line for hours to see Letterman, ridden the subway, eaten a soft pretzel, and even had a picture taken of herself next to one of those big lions outside the library.  Rita would be going home tomorrow with enough memories to last her a half-dozen vacations.  (And let's face it, the next time she left Arizona, she'd probably be taking the kids to Disneyland.) 

     Tonight, however, she wanted one last glimpse of the Gotham nightlife.  "Try Jenna's," her cabbie had suggested.  "Da only place to see some of our local color."

     He hadn't really said what "local color" meant.  Rita had supposed he meant "homosexuals", something they didn't really have back home (that she knew of).  They certainly were flamboyant folks!  She discovered upon her arrival, however, that he'd been referring to "criminals who wore masks and silly outfits".  

     And those were something they really didn't have back home. 

     Rita had felt a bit out of place in Jenna's.  She was surrounded by people her age who dressed better, talked faster, and evidently had more money than she did.  The drinks all seemed outrageously expensive, even compared to what she'd already spent in Gotham, and she'd never even heard of most of the brands of beer and liquor they served.

     The entertainment, however, was surreal.  Rita could almost imagine this was what the giant costumed mascots were like at theme parks.  Of course, those mascots probably weren't a little bit creepy too.

     What she'd have to tell her friends back home, though.

     Eventually Rita gravitated toward a silly little man along the wall, because he was the one thing that had actually made her laugh that night.  In his arms he had a ventriloquist's dummy, like the ones you saw on television, and the dummy was dressed more nicely than he was!  He had on a fancy white suit and an old silk hat, and he talked like he was Al Capone.  And when he gave orders to much bigger men in suits, they did whatever he said.  Although he had the oddest habit of pronouncing the letter "b" like it was a "g".

     "You guys, move!" the dummy barked, pointing a little arm at two men blocking her way.  "Let the goil closer.  You mooks can't ge glocking my admirers of the female persuasion."

     The two men parted like gatekeepers outside a castle drawbridge, and Rita drew forward with a bit of trepidation.  If what she'd heard was any indication, this man was connected in some way to a criminal enterprise.  But how could this funny little man be taken seriously?

     "Name's Scarface," the dummy told her.  "Pleased ta meetcha, miss?"

     "Rita," she said.  Scarface!  She'd never seen the movie, but now she understood.  The ventriloquist must use his dummy to portray film roles!  "It's Rita."

     "Rita," Scarface repeated.  "I couldn't help but notice you geen lookin' my way."

     "I'm sorry," Rita confessed, "but I couldn't help myself."

     Scarface was almost preening.  "See that, dummy?" he said.  "All da dames love me."

     "O-of course, Mister Scarface!" the ventriloquist said.

     Rita clapped her hands together.  "Oh, the two of you are so adorable!"

     Scarface blinked at her.  His jaw dropped slightly.  He looked up at the ventriloquist.  "Did she just say I was adoragle?"

     "Umm… maybe?" 

     "Huh," the dummy said.  Then he grinned at her.  "Say, Rita, why don't you lean in close, and I'll let you in on a little secret?  Cuz I geen looking your way too."

     The act was incredible.  The dummy really seemed more lifelike than the man with his hand up its jacket.  "Sure thing - Mr. Scarface," she said.  She leaned in really close and put her ear close to his head.

     Before Rita quite knew what was happening, she felt something like tiny knobs rubbing against her bosom.

     "I like your tits," the dummy said into her ear.  

     "Mr. Scarface!" Wesker burst out, finally locating his employer.  "Are you all right?!"

     "Do I look all right?" Scarface demanded as Wesker picked him up off the floor.  "I coulda geen stepped on!  Where's the manager?  I wanna see the manager!  I want that gitch tossed out on her ear!"

     "There he is!  There's the little pervert who put his paws on me!"

     Wesker and Scarface turned around.  Rita was storming towards them with a manager in tow.  "You uppity little gitch!" Scarface snarled.  "Nogody puts his hands on me like that, nogody!"  He went for his gun before he realized Wesker had it.  "Dummy, gun."

     The manager's eyes widened, having evidently heard Scarface.  Since the people around them had gone completely quiet, it wouldn't have been hard.  "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said, turning to Rita, "but you have to leave."

     "What?!" she shrieked.  "He fondled me - with his dummy!"

     "You put your hands on her?!" Scarface yelled at Wesker. 

     "N-no, I n-never - "

     "She was mine!"  And then he clubbed Wesker in the face.

     Rita looked like she wanted to hit Wesker too.  Instead, she swiveled on the manager.  "Why should I have to leave?"

     "Well, er, you see - you shouldn't have thrown him across the room like that.  You could have hurt someone."

     "I was trying to!  I was trying to hurt that little asshole!"

     "Dames and their vocagulary these days," Scarface said, shaking his head.  "Dey don't make 'em like dey used to." 

     Clayface heard the room go silent behind him.  He wouldn’t have noticed a few weeks ago, when the joint was as quiet as the grave.  Now that business could be considered “barely decent,” you might actually find yourself within fifteen feet of a conversation.

     “Bats,” he muttered.  “You need something?”

     “Outside, Clayface,” Batman growled at him from behind.  “Now.  I want information.  Like where Poison Ivy is.”

     “What do I look like, her secretary?”

     Batman leaned in really close.  “Why not?  We both know you’re working for her.”

     Clayface wasn’t nervous.  He was just curious.  What did Batman think he knew?  So he slid off his barstool, and his ponderous bulk stood just a bit higher.  “You want the front or the back entrance?”

     “Back.  If this comes to a fight, I don’t want you risking the lives of innocents.”  Batman paused.  “Like you’ve been doing for the past two weeks,” he added meaningfully.

     Okay, so Batman knew a lot.  Or he’d guessed a lot.  It didn’t really matter.  He could have been more careful about it.  “Fine then,” Clayface said amiably.

     As Batman followed him through the rear of the Rydbergii, Clayface shrugged.  “I don’t know where Pammy is.  She went tearing out of here about fifteen minutes ago.  Anyone else here could tell you that.”

     “Then you can give her a message when she does get back.”

     “What’s that?” Clayface asked as he barged through the back doors into the alley where the dumpsters were kept.

     “If either of you goes even goes near Jenna’s again, I’ll come after you both.”

     “Why would I go to Jenna’s?  The word’s out, Batman.  I’m a regular here now.”

     Batman smiled grimly.  “I heard.  I heard the rumor that you were using some kind of extortion to force Ivy to serve you.  From someone who was worried about her, if you can believe it.”

     “Really?  How is Quinn these days?”

     “I’ve also heard a lot at Jenna’s,” Batman went on.  “I’ve seen a lot.  I’ve had it under surveillance since it opened.”

     “Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Clayface said piously.  “Do you realize what a powder keg that place is?  It’s like a zoo without cages!  Sooner or later, somebody’s getting eaten.”

     “Somebody like Charlie Parcher?”

     “Who?”

     “Over the past two weeks, there have been three incidents at Jenna’s where ordinary citizens were attacked by Rogues – the Scarecrow, Killer Croc, and Scarface.  All three were provoked by the most minor kind of mistakes and overreacted violently.  Any one of them could have started a riot that night.  More people could have been injured, or even killed.”

     “And this Charlie Parcher was one of the victims.”

     “You already know that.  All three victims were able to leave Jenna’s without assistance, but all three gave their names to the manager before leaving - Charlie Parcher, George Kaplan, and Rita Miller.  But there’s no record of anyone by those names seeking medical treatment or filing a police report in the wake of the attacks.  Parcher and Kaplan had recently become regulars there, but there’s no Charles or Charlie Parcher living anywhere near Gotham, and while there is a George Kaplan, he doesn’t match the description of the victim.  And Miller was a tourist, but no one by her name flew in or out of Gotham in the past week, or booked a hotel room.”

     “I think I’ve seen this movie, Bats,” Clayface interjected.  “Don’t you think we should go somewhere more appropriate?  Like a drawing room?”  

     “I don’t think any of these people were really victims,” Batman went on mercilessly.  “I think they intentionally provoked these criminals in the hopes of being attacked in order to drive business away from Jenna’s.  Any rational person who witnessed those attacks would realize that even the most minor offense at the wrong time could lead to them being attacked.  And that the club owners couldn’t do anything to protect them.  So now customers are using their better judgment, and business is down.  The only person who could stand to gain from this is Poison Ivy.”

     "Then why are you bothering me?  So she hired a bunch of actors to make trouble.  Actors are a dime a dozen in this town.  Believe me, I know.  I used to be one, remember?"

     "Oh, I do, Hagen," Batman replied.  "You've never stopped being an actor.  Like at Jenna's the past two weeks.  It's all about the names.  They were all named after film characters.  Rita Miller was a fake bank account holder in Ghost.  George Kaplan was a fictitious spy in North By Northwest.  And Charles and Parcher were the names of two imaginary people in A Beautiful Mind.  You didn't just pick movie characters, Hagen.  You picked the names of characters that don't actually exist.  Just like those three victims."

     Clayface chuckled.  He wouldn't have guessed Batman watched movies.  Anybody today could use Google, though.  "Why would I help Pammy?  I don't even like her."

     "You're helping Ivy so she'll let you into her club," Batman said.  "You're not controlling her.  She's controlling you."

     "Nobody controls me!" Clayface shot back.  Then he got his temper back under control.  "And anyway, you have no way of proving it.  Besides, what's the crime?  Being attacked by career criminals in the first degree?  Actually, as I see it, whoever Ivy hired, they were doing the city a public service.  They found a way to wake those people up, make them realize the danger they were putting themselves in, and all without a single trip to the hospital or the morgue.  I think those actors have a real career in public service announcements, Batsy."

     Batman's scowl became even more pronounced.  "But if anyone does get hurt at Jenna's?  Even if I can't prove it was you?  I'll find a way to put Ivy away, and I'll make the charges stick.  And then, Hagen?  When she doesn't have any further use for you?  Then it'll be back to Star City for you."

     Clayface glared back at him.  "Are we finished?  I have a beverage I'd like to pretend to drink before all the ice melts."

     "You pass that message along to your boss when you see her, Hagen."

     "Yeah, yeah," Clayface muttered, turning away.  Nobody had better find out about the truth, though.  If people thought he was taking orders from her, then Star City wouldn't be far enough from Gotham."

     To be continued…