‘Harley Quinn’ surveyed the grand ballroom
of the Robinson Plaza Hotel in a series of twitchy birdlike movements that
any Gotham socialite (and now all Plaza waiters) recognized.
“Brucie, Brucie, Brucie,” she muttered,
“Bat-Bat-Bat, where did that man go?”
The Penguin finished his graceful dance
with Poison Ivy and, with the ingrained etiquette of the ballroom, duly
escorted her back to her friend before taking his leave.
“Too awful, he’s late” Harley
complained. “He missed the
receiving line. All the guests
have arrived, band is playing, bar is serving, and still no Batman!”
“A quick and silent disappearing act,
from him?” Ivy replied in a bored drawl. “That’s hardly
unprecedented, Gladys.”
“Forget that it’s a Gotham After Dark
party and we’ve no Batman,” Harley Ashton-Larraby answered curtly. “It’s also a Wayne Foundation Fundraiser and we’ve no
Bruce Wayne. Claudia, really, I
thought you of all people would sympathize, considering how many of your
parties he’s skipped out on over the years.”
Claudia-Ivy merely shrugged. It was the nonchalant shrug of an experienced Gotham hostess
long used to Bruce Wayne’s stunts—or it would have been in a Carolina
Herrera gown. But
in an unfamiliar leafy costume, the movement caused a great deal of
fluttering, from the orchids draped so gracefully around her bodice through
the fern leaves cascading down her skirt.
Not for the first time since her arrival, the rapt attention of every
man in the room was hers.
“Magnificent,” Martin-Penguin gasped
appreciatively to his companion.
“Certainly should be, considering what
those titties cost,” Richard-Mad Hatter-Flay replied in the campy tone gay
men use to praise flamboyant divas. “But
I don’t know if the garden dress will make it through the night.”
“We can hope,” Martin whispered to
himself. In his secret
identity as Hermoine the society gossip columnist, Martin knew he’d
have ample material from the party without any “wardrobe malfunctions”
(a term Hermoine herself shoved into the public lexicon after the notorious
freeze ray-hoopskirt incident at the Spring Fling). Martin’s interest in
Claudia was more personal. Gotham
Society had always assumed he was gay, and Martin had never minded.
It kept him at the front of the hostess rolodex as a handy fill-in to
cover last-minute cancellations. But
since his brief affair with that stunning Dinah Lance, Martin found he liked
being in a couple. It was more
enjoyable attending party after party with the same person, even if it would
put an end to his “extra man” status.
Hermoine’s social schedule wouldn’t have to suffer as a
result. If he were with a partner like Claudia Reislweller-Muffington,
that would ensure his place at the A-list parties, not jeopardize it.
Plus, she was beautiful, just beautiful.
Just look at her, every man in the room’s eyes riveted on her as
Poison Ivy. From Dick Grayson to Nightwing, every man in the room was
entranced.
“Nightwing” was, in fact, Harvey Dent.
Since his healing, he’d been accepted back into Gotham society and
was the only true “night person” (apart from Selina) to be officially
invited. He’d accepted,
against his better judgment, in order to help out Selina and Bruce.
Despite Harvey and Batman’s best efforts (well, despite Batman and
Harvey’s best efforts), plenty of the Iceberg crowd—the real Iceberg
crowd—was still at large. This
idiotic idea for a costume party was sure to attract at least one crasher,
and poor Bruce had already suffered a rogue encounter this year with that
pompous al Ghul showing up at Wayne Manor. Harvey had helped then, shooing the miserable goatherd
off the premises, and he was prepared to do the same tonight.
As such, he repositioned to get a better
look at a suspicious-looking Riddler. The
costume—a suit of snug green leather with matching bowler hat, set off
by buttons, kid gloves, shoes, mask, and rim of the hat all in a vibrant
fuchsia—was very, very good. But then, most of the costumes
in the room were. The rich
didn’t skimp on their appearance any more than real rogues.
What set this Riddler apart from the rest was the cane: green
again, with a gold question mark handle.
It too was not unique in accuracy or quality, but it was the only
Riddler cane in the room that looked used.
The handle didn’t gleam under the lights, and there were scratches
all the way down to the worn rubber base.
Harvey tapped the suspicious figure on the
shoulder… and was not surprised when Edward Nigma turned in his direction—and smiled brightly.
“Evening, Harv, don’t you look spiff?”
he said, clearly viewing Dent as a friendly face in a strange, hostile land
rather than a bouncer fixing to eject him.
“Nightwing, eh? You
always were a lady’s man.”
“Er, thanks,” Harvey murmured, disarmed
by the unexpectedly gracious greeting. The invited guests weren’t half as
sensitive. Indeed, the most
common remark on Harvey’s costume had been… exactly the one
Randolph/Joker Larraby was about to deliver, Harvey guessed as the slightly
inebriated host toddled their way.
“Dent.
Good to see you,” he began. “Gladys
was so pleased you accepted, lends just the right touch, she says. So, why aren’t you dressed as you-know-who?”
“Voldemort?” Harvey asked, unfazed (for it was the sixth time he’d been asked).
“Ha, ha!” Randolph snickered, and then, noticing Claudia/Ivy making her way to the dance floor again with
Martin/Penguin, he relocated for a better view in case her foliage slipped.
Harvey turned back to Nigma, whose mouth
had dropped open in shock.
“Why aren’t you dressed as
you-know-who? Lends just the
right touch? Even Batman’s
not that… that…” Eddie exclaimed, and Harvey reconsidered ejecting him
from the party.
Instead, his eyes drifted back to the dance
floor and Claudia/Ivy. Talking
now with the only man in the room that knew his history with the real Poison
Ivy, Harvey could finally speak the thought that had echoed in his brain
since first seeing the imitation:
“Now that’s alabaster skin,”
he croaked in a hoarse but admiring voice.
“ALA BREAST” Nigma agreed. Then when
Harvey’s neck snapped fiercely in his direction with a dangerous Two-Face
glint in his eye, Eddie quickly exclaimed “Alabaster, it’s an
anagram for alabaster. A ABEL
STAR, A SLAB TEAR, A BRA STEAL.”
Harvey growled at this second reference to
Claudia’s stunning orchid-draped bosom, but he couldn’t really blame
Nigma for the chain of thoughts. Both
men returned their attention to the dance floor and watched in awed silence.
Across the room, Dick tore his eyes away
from the image and moved in on a “Robin” helping himself from the
buffet… a Robin who was, in fact, Robin.
“You’re supposed to be in hiding with
BG,” Dick whispered angrily. “Monitoring
the situation and waiting to swing in as the first response if something
goes down.”
“Yeah, but it’s a costume party, Bro.
No
reason I can’t sneak down for just a minute and get a sandwich is there? Besides, Cass said to bring her a cookie.”
“If he saw you, Psychobat would go—well—psycho.”
“Yeah, he would,” Robin agreed. “If he was here, but he’s not.
Why isn’t he, anyway?”
“I’m not sure,” Dick sighed, glancing
towards the door. “I heard he
and Selina were here earlier before the party started, checking in with
Ashton-Larraby and all. I think B wanted to quash the red carpet, keep any
press from snapping pictures as guests arrived.
Then something happened. They took off.
Bruce said they’d be back but…” he checked the door again.
“Check it out. They’re
late.”
“Late or… late?” Tim asked
carefully.
Dick turned in a slow, even burn.
“Don’t even go there,” he pronounced
firmly.
Across the room, Harvey/Nightwing was
delivering a warning in similar tones to his companion.
“Glad as I am for the company, Edward, I
don’t want you making trouble for Selina.”
“Why would you think I’d make
trouble?” he queried.
“Why else would you be here? These shindigs are never something one goes to expecting to
have a good time. The only
reason to crash—this one in particular—is if you’re planning
something.”
Eddie’s face puckered into an offended
grimace and then brightened into an I’m-so-clever grin.
“Two holes in your theory,
counselor,” he declared triumphantly.
“First, riddle me this: what makes The Riddler
‘The Riddler?’ Why,
announcing every crime as a puzzle to be solved, of course! And has any such
clue been delivered? No. And secondly, when is a Rogue more than
famous? When he is
‘infamous!’ This party is like a Neilsen rating for the
‘Berg crowd, Harvey, old man! What other reason do I need to attend but to
gauge name recognition and popularity?
“Look at all the Jokers—not
surprising, really, although you have to wonder.
The idea of people—husbands and wives, especially—dressing up
as Joker and Harley. It’s
just so… How clueless can these people be?
But fine, Joker is the most popular, regrettable but expected.
Who is next, I ask you? Look
around the room, and who do I spy with my riddling eye?
There—and there—and there—and there. Why it’s me!
I count six proper Riddlers, and three regrettable GenX versions from
the Post. No one else has so
many repeats. I see three or
four Penguins, a few Scarecrows, two Mr. Freezes, three, eh, You-know-whos,
and one silly ass dressed as Cluemaster.
Chap must work in television.”
Eddie broke off suddenly, and he and Harvey
parted to allow a… figure to pass. The
figure was presumably attempting a Clayface costume, although he looked more
like a “Giant Pile of Walking Poop Monster” than a Gotham Rogue.
The true rogues simply watched in horror as
the “Clayface” made his way across the dance floor… past a woman in a
wheelchair talking to a decent looking Robin by the buffet… and finally
took a plate and heaped it with several spoonfuls of what appeared to be chocolate pudding.
“One can take a theme too far,” Nigma
said thoughtfully.
“Quite,” Harvey agreed.
Barbara had wheeled up behind Dick and
Robin/Tim. She wore a man’s
suit and held a plush Batgirl doll in her lap.
Tim figured she was supposed to be Ventriloquist, but he waited for
some confirmation rather than asking.
“Good evening, Goy Wonder,” the doll
seemed to say in a far more skillful feat of ventriloquism than Arnold
Wesker ever achieved.
“Heh. Hi there,” Robin grinned. “Boy, that’s really clever.
And you’re good, Babs, really.”
She smiled as if she had no idea what he
was talking about and no awareness of the doll in her lap.
It answered rather than Barbara.
“I am cute, gagycakes, gut you’re in
gig trougle. You’re not
supposed to ge here.”
“She’s been doing this all day,” Dick
said with a theatrical wince. “I’ll
be discussing it in my upcoming book: Why I Kill.”
“Goo hoo, Girdygoy,” the doll said.
Then Barbara seemed to notice Tim for the first time and smiled
warmly. “Don’t let them
pick on you. Dickie wasn’t
above making an ice cream run or two when he was supposed to be staking out
the docks.”
“’Scuse me,” Dick said, still eyeing
the door and moving suddenly in that direction.
Tim gave Barbara his full attention.
“Okay, I get that you’re Ventriloquist. But what’s Dick
supposed to be?”
Barbara laughed.
“He’s Clayface impersonating Dick Grayson.”
“Sweet!” Tim exclaimed.
“Not really, it’s not as clever as it
sounds. He had been planning to
come as Batman, so we’d have an extra on the premises if something
happens. But then the Post came
out this morning and, well, this way he gets to introduce the subject of
a Dick Grayson imposter to everybody he sees tonight.”
Tim grimaced.
“Babs, it’s the Post. You guys know
that nobody takes it seriously, right?”
“I know, but… it does make you wonder if
maybe Selina is right about them.”
“Yeah,” Tim nodded—then his
attention riveted on the dance floor.
“Is that?” he gasped.
“Harvey Dent, yeah.”
“No, not him, who he’s dancing with.
That Ivy, that’s not… it is! It’s… oh god.”
“She’s some socialite, I can’t keep
them straight. Dick knew her,
but I don’t remember the name.”
“Muffy,” Tim said soberly.
“Technically, Claudia Reislweller-Muffington… of the
Reislweller-Muffington School of Debutante Ninjitsu.”
Barbara laughed at the joke, but Tim
didn’t.
“It’s not funny,” he insisted. “She’s the oldest, and she’s got sisters.
Georgiana, Clarice and Madeline.
They cast no shadow. They make no sound.
All of a sudden, they’re just there and they want to
waltz.”
Barbara’s laugh was building to a cackle.
“I accidentally threw Randy-quad into a
fountain when Madeline was stalking me at the Colonial Ball last year.”
Barbara’s laughter became strident.
“I hear men can tell if another guy has
‘waltzed’ just by looking at him,” she teased.
“That’s a 1-2-3 limp, not a pressurized ice dart limp.”
“Something like that.” Tim answered with
dignity, then he grinned. “I said I was trying Capoeira, the rhythmic
dance-based martial art of the former slaves in South America. Nobody bought it.”
“But I’ll bet Bruce hasn’t laughed
like that in years, sans SmileX exposure,” Barbara smiled.
“He did say he remembered the time Becky
Rutherford tried to teach Dick Capoeira.
And Alfred mentioned that ‘the charming Miss Hellinsford’ (or, as
Bruce refers to her, “whatshername-Gretta”) might have been a factor in
the decision to get kicked out of Princeton and go to Oxford, on the theory
that ‘England’s got to be far enough.’”
Barbara’s chortle defused into a knowing
smirk.
“You’re lying through your teeth,”
she declared. “There is no
way—simply no way. That’s not Alfred, that’s not Bruce. Some things
just do not happen in this world and that—”
She stopped short, her eyes growing wide
with some shocking sight behind him.
“Oh my god,” she murmured.
Tim turned, and felt his mouth drop open at
the sight.
“Bruce?” he gasped.
It certainly looked like Bruce… in a
batsuit. It looked exactly
like Bruce in a batsuit, minus the mask.
It looked exactly like Bruce in a batsuit,
not wearing a mask, and escorting Catwoman into a room full of…
“What were you just saying?” Tim asked
feebly.
“Some things just do not happen in this
world,” Barbara recited dully.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought you
said,” Tim nodded, still stunned.
It was a suit he had only seen in a case in
the costume vault: black
gloves, boots, and briefs over gray tights.
There was a small black bat printed directly on the chest, no oval or
other enhancement of the emblem.
The belt on the other hand was yellow. Bright yellow, road
sign yellow, “Look at this” yellow—which would be more than a little
off-putting on a BELT where “Look at this” meant “Look at my pelvis”—if it wasn’t completely upstaged by the CAPE!
The costume in the case, Tim remembered, had a black cape and cowl.
Bruce was wearing neither. His face was bare, but the cape… the
cape was a rich royal blue, thin and shiny, like silk. It almost looked like
a bedsheet, except it was properly scalloped at the bottom, just like a
regular batcape.
“Evening, all!” Bruce greeted them,
grinning with foppish cheer.
“Um,” Barbara said.
“Hi?” Robin asked.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Bruce
graveled through clenched teeth, then ran his fingers through his hair and
announced loudly. “Of course not, mustn’t muss the hair.
Besides, how else would everyone know it’s me?!”
“I’ll get back to my post,” Robin
murmured apologetically.
“Do,” Bruce graveled, then broke into
another foppish grin and slapped Catwoman’s backside.
She’d been eying various women in the room, and when she thought
they were looking her way, she turned to display her profile.
At the slap, her eyes snapped back to meet Bruce’s in a murderous
stare.
“I’m getting a drink,” she hissed. “Strong, alcoholic, and the first of many.”
“Selina,” he said quietly.
“Alcohol impedes judgment. Not
in this room, not tonight, please.”
“That’s not all it does,” she spat.
“You have your point to make and I have mine.
I am going to be seen drinking alcohol, especially in
this room, especially tonight, and all night long.”
Before he could answer, a mad Joker-like
cackle ripped through the room. It
wasn’t any of the fourteen Jokers present but the Riddler, the real Riddler,
Edward Nigma, pointing vaguely in Bruce’s direction as wave after wave of
helpless hilarity rocked his insides. He
slapped his thigh, pounded his fist up and down as if on an imaginary table,
and finally doubled over, hyperventilating with mirth.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say
that’s a SmileX attack” Barbara said dryly.
“Are we absolutely sure Joker is in Arkham.”
“We’re sure,” Selina answered as
Bruce wandered off to belatedly greet the other guests.
“He’s so despondent, he’s on suicide watch.”
“Because he’s missing this,” Barbara
noted.
“Best joke ever,” Selina said absently,
looking across the room.
“I was sorry to see your Post
troubles,” Barbara said kindly.
“I was sorry to see yours,” Selina
answered—when Harvey approached. Selina
glanced twice at the redheaded leaf-garbed woman beside him, but she held
her tongue. After the
introductions, Harvey left Claudia with Barbara and pulled Selina aside.
“Is Bruce all right?” he asked,
concerned. “He seems to think the phrase ‘judgment of Paris’ from
Greek mythology has something to do with Ingrid Bergman from Casablanca—and that Ingmar Bergman the Swedish director is somehow connected to
Paris Hilton.”
Selina looked in the direction Harvey
indicated, and Bruce had the cape swept up over his shoulder and across the
neck like a World War I fighter pilot.
Selina rubbed her temples and said,
“Excuse me,” before heading off in the direction of foppish laughter.
“Hey, Selina, this is interesting,” he
said, gesturing with a fistful of cape as she approached.
“Did you know flying aces wore those silk scarves so their bulky
flight jackets wouldn’t chafe their necks?
I’ll bet that’s what the capes are for, because this thing
isn’t Kevlar or anything and it’s really uncomfortable.”
She pulled him to a quiet alcove, checked
to make sure they were alone, and then snarled.
“Would you tone it the hell down! This
goes beyond being foppish or stupid; people are going to think you’re drunk.”
“Kitten,
I have been doing this long enough without any direction or assistance from
you.”
“They’ll think you’re getting drunk
because of the… you know,” she gestured, “the story in the Post about
the…” she gestured again, helplessly.
“Look, I know you’re upset about that
story, Selina. I am standing
here in public in a batsuit because of it.
I have gone this far. But that image has to be counteracted in their
minds, and the only way to do that is—”
“That’s how you got me pregnant in the
first place,” she hissed venomously.
“Look,” he said firmly, “you can
blame me for the blonde East End imposter if you want, but I did not…
You got yourself pregnant with that dictaphone.”
“You got me pregnant fopping out with
that dictaphone.”
There was a spurting noise above them, then
a soft click, then the grate above opened and Batgirl climbed down. She walked up to them solemnly and said, “Tim say tell you
we can hear. In vent. We hear
everything. Please stop. Him no can breathe for laughing.”
“I hate you all,” Selina said sweetly.
Batgirl put her hand suddenly to her ear,
and her head tilted as she listened.
“What is it?” Bruce asked sharply.
“Is starting.
Scarecrow in ballroom. Is
real one, Robin say. He get
into position. I go.”
“No, I’ll go,” Selina declared
instantly. “I feel like
setting someone on fire; he’ll do nicely,” she added, meeting Bruce’s
eyes before he could interrupt. “All
that straw.”
“Thirty seconds,” he declared, “and then
Robin and Batgirl will be in position to support you. The rest of us will be
there in four minutes tops.”
“Take your sweet time, Jackass,” she
said counting off the rest on her fingers.
“Zatanna mindwipes, East End goggle-imposter, knocked up by the
Gotham Post, and now I’m at Gladys Ashton-Larraby’s rogue party with
bat-fop. At this point, there isn’t a thing fear gas can do to me
the rest of you don’t already have covered.”
To be continued…
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