Blueprints
by Chris Dee

Technically, he’d stood her up.  They were going to meet at Gallery Athena and hit a few of her favorites on East 57^th.  Museums, after all, represented only a quarter of the art out there for the taking.  There were auction houses, private collections, and of course, her favorite targets: galleries.  Quite often, galleries bought back whatever prize she’d taken, eliminating delays, a fence’s percentage, and no end of fuss with exchange rates and Cayman bankers.  It was all for the bragging rights.  A Catwoman theft was a kind of endorsement.  Any item worthy her attention was a piece of unquestionable quality.  Plus, it lent a veneer of glamour and international intrigue which collectors loved, enabling the gallery to raise their prices across the board.  Selina was looking forward to explaining it all to the judgmental jackass.  He’d be so grunty and disapproving, and he was so sexy like that.  The only thing sexier than Batman disapproving was Batman disapproving and stymied.  In this case, once he’d grunted and scowled at the galleries’ pragmatic lenience, she could point him to a dozen collectors in Bruce Wayne’s immediate circle of friends who went all a-flutter at the chance to buy—or even ‘view with an eye to buying’—any painting, sculpture or antiquity with a cat-theft in its provenance. 

It gave her a strange sense of déjà vu.  When her relationship with Batman had first started to change, he began stopping by her apartment after what he called his “late patrol.”  As the visits became more frequent, she’d started to, well, ‘expect’ him, and that took some getting used to.  It was one thing to be prepared for Batman-the-crimefighter possibly locating a catlair after a successful heist.  It was another thing entirely to be waiting to see if Batman-the-gentleman-caller dropped by after patrol.  She got used to the idea after a few weeks, but tonight’s wait on the roof of Gallery Athena brought it all back: checking the time, musing about who was free and what could have happened to delay him, deciding what hour was a reasonable cutoff that, if he didn’t show by then, he wasn’t coming at all… it was a powerful emotional memory, and it left her vaguely unsettled. So she’d come home, parked in the carriage house as usual, and finessed her way through the grounds security.  Instead of taking the spruce tree up to the bedroom, she took the Elms to the roof and lowered herself to the East Balcony, picked the lock on the French doors, proceeded into the study and then to the cave. 

She hadn’t been planning to discuss this kind of target-selection with Batman, but since their visit to the gallery itself had been delayed, this would give them something to do tonight.  He would probably find it interesting, the (grunt) “thought processes of the criminal mind” (grunt) that led to taking this piece instead of that one.

She yawned again. 

And no Batmobile. 

She browsed some more and found a Hellenistic armlet with lion heads capping each end…

She stretched again, feeling miserably stiff through her shoulders and back, and made her way up to the manor.  Dim light was just starting to pour through the windows.  It was dawn.  She went upstairs and heard water running… Alfred’s room.  Maybe he was getting up soon but she was ready for bed.  She headed into the bedroom and saw Bruce sleeping peacefully.

She slid between the sheets, too tired to wonder much about when he got home or why he’d left her in the cave.  She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

In between groupies, the waitresses Sparrow and Jay were more than attentive, and Raven stopped by his table twice just to make sure he was fully satisfied with the service.  It was after her second drop-by that Sparrow said Mr. Cobblepot wanted to see him in his office.

This time, Selina awoke feeling warm and cosseted by crisp Irish linen.  She opened her eyes and saw a pretty vase of lilacs on the bedside table.  And she smelled coffee. 

“Much better,” she murmured into her pillow.

“Woof,” was her only comment until she’d had her coffee, exercised, and showered.  Then she went looking for him.  She tried the study first, then the cave, then the library, and finally she found him in the south drawing room looking out the window.  It was a nice view of the river and the city beyond, but Selina preferred seeing it from the garden just outside the window.  It was the same view, but without the windows framing it like a painting, making it seem like a part of the house, Wayne property, “his” city.

“Morning,” he grunted after a pause.

“You seemed comfortable,” he said.  “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He grunted and continued to look out at the city. 

“No,” he said harshly.  Then to soften it he added, “No, I’m busy today.  Tonight, too.  I’ll be busy for a while.”

But then, when she went upstairs, there was an envelope taped to the door of her suite.  An envelope from the formal Wayne Manor stationary sealed with a gold W.  The folded sheet inside was embossed “From the desk of Bruce Wayne.” Underneath, in familiar masculine handwriting, it read:

She grinned, Cheshire style, and continued into her suite, wondering how such a gloriously strange man ever came into her life.

That morning, Alfred considered approaching Miss Selina about it, for the distribution of flowers throughout the house was really a question for the mistress of the manor and Alfred was always eager for her to assume that role in any way she could… Yet even Alfred didn’t entirely believe this was his real motive for involving her. 

And then, without a word to anyone, Bruce simply didn’t show up to dinner.  Miss Selina sat alone in front of the white carnations, drank her seafood consommé and ate her lobster dumpling in thoughtful silence, thanked him perfunctorily for a delicious meal, and left.  He doubted she even noticed the flowers.

“Harley gave me up,” he explained with a light c’est la vie gesture.  “So I gave up the Monarch.”

“I haven’t decided,” Matt said frankly.  “It’s something to do.  But I don’t really need the money.”

Matt Hagen raised a condescending eyebrow.

“Raven is a valuable asset,” Oswald said testily. “One who knows how to handle the Iceberg clientele. One of those few people who won’t get everyone killed because they forget it’s Joker’s Trivia Tuesday and the correct answer to any question about coconuts is ‘African or European.’

“As such, nobodies such as henchmen, Ghost Dragons, and slumming playboys are not permitted to truck with my hostess.  It disrupts the smooth operation of the well-oiled machine that is the Iceberg Lounge.”  Oswald paused again and preened.  “Were you not of a standing within the greater Iceberg organization, you would have already been introduced to other, less comely members of my wait staff, Raptor and Condor to be precise, who happen to be former Green Berets.”

Matt sighed.  He saw where this was going and could have interrupted, but it did no harm to let Oswald complete his threat, such as it was.

“It is Raptor and Condor’s function to invite certain patrons to the Champagne Room—this being the room where they hit you with a champagne bottle, pour the contents over your clothes, deposit you in your car, crash it into the fire hydrant down the block, and notify the police.”

As Oswald spoke, Matt transformed himself in stages into a 6-foot condor, the non-descript artsy fellow with a bottle of champagne sticking out of his head, a giant fire hydrant, and finally a policeman. 

“None of that works on me, Ozzy,” Officer Hagen announced for a finale.

“Indeed,” Oswald conceded, “But that is irrelevant since you are, as I say, of a standing within the Greater Iceberg Operation which offsets the taking of certain liberties.”

Matt glurped into his natural state.

“Meaning as long as Clayface is a star that’s making you money, I can pinch all the extras I want, eh?  You’re a prince, Oswald, a real prince.”

Selina entered the east garden as soon as the sky began to darken.  Bruce was already there, prompt as always, and she announced her presence with a rooftop meow.  He turned—and grimaced.

“That’s what you’re wearing?” he asked critically.

She looked down, surprised.  She was wearing what she’d worn to dinner, black silk over leopard spots.

“What’s wrong with my dress, I thought you liked this dress.”

“The note was addressed to Catwoman,” he said, looking pointedly at the animal print trim.

“It’s the east garden,” she answered, pointing around defiantly.  “I figured if this was bat-business, you would have ‘summoned me’—arrogantly—to the cave (grunt).”

“Arrogance and grunting aside, the letter was still addressed to Catwoman,” he said coolly.

“You’re not in costume either, Stud,” she noted with a suggestive purr.

“That’s because it’s Bruce Wayne that wanted a meeting with Catwoman,” he explained. 

“Playing poker with Harvey and Two-Face wasn’t this complicated,” Selina grumbled—mostly to herself, but Bruce obviously heard and he scowled the way he always did when she compared him to the Rogues.

“Yes, well, since you mention Dent, the process he laid out for Ra’s that time, the way someone would go about contacting Catwoman for a job, going to the Iceberg and sending a message through Penguin…  Not appealing.  So I did this.”

Selina grinned. 

“Well Handsome, you’ve got my attention.  After an intro like that, whatever the hell this is you’re up to, it’s gonna be good.  Look, I can go upstairs and get changed if you want, but since I’m not as screwy-schizophrenic as most nightfolk, present company included by the way, why don’t we just sit on the bench over there, and you tell me right now what you want?”

“If it were that simple, I could have done that at breakfast,” he said, moving to the bench.

“Yes, you could, but we’re here now.”

He looked at her searchingly, seemed about to speak, but then turned away.  He seemed to look around the garden, staring at nothing in particular, but Selina knew his wheels were turning.

“A complete analysis and overhaul of manor security,” he said carefully, as if testing out each word before speaking it.  “Room by room, foot by foot—inch by inch, if necessary.” 

Then he turned to her and spoke faster and with more animation, as if he was satisfied with the word-test and was now free to unpack the idea in detail. 

“More than the simple tweaks you made to the ground security after you moved in.  More than the strategies you worked out for Wayne Enterprises when we had that LexCorp problem.  Selina, this is the big picture: manor, grounds and cave.  A blank canvas.  You can look into anything, change anything—I mean anything—in the course of devising a better system.”

“Why?” she asked, the cat’s curiosity overriding the thief’s delight in the ultimate challenge.

Bruce looked straight ahead, as if the answer was etched in the terra cotter planter.

“The Dibny murder,” he said dully.  “It’s been in my head since the Dibny murder.  I believe our system here is superior to the League setup the Dibnys used, but a colleague murdered in their home is apt to make anyone reexamine the strengths and weaknesses of their own personal security.”

It didn’t ring true.  Selina knew this man better than anyone.  She wasn’t sure if it was the reason he gave or the way he said it, but something didn’t add up.  If he wasn’t actually lying, there was still something he wasn’t saying.

But then, as if he anticipated the danger, Bruce changed the subject before Selina could frame a question or voice any doubts.

Leaving the Iceberg, Matt Hagen could have settled under any roof for the night.  All he really needed was a place to stay dry, a roof and a solid floor where he could glop out in his natural state and not be disturbed.  Any warehouse would do, any storefront, school or restaurant that was closed for the night. He could even make do with a car in a pinch, although the seal on the doors wasn’t as tight as he liked to glop out and relax completely.  But he could make do with almost anything; there was no need to return to that empty hotel room where he’d watched television.  He was going back there anyway, but only for the walk. 

He felt he needed to walk—and think.  Oswald wanted him to continue robbing banks.  It figured, Ozzy was a greedy little bird and he was making good money fencing the goods from the safe deposit boxes.  Still, Matt was ambivalent about the whole thing.  He only got into it for Harley; he had little use for money himself.  Maybe it was power like Ozzy said, but not useful power.  There were plenty of people that Matt would like to fuck over, that bitch Rebecca, just for starters.  Get some payback for being turned into Clayface.  But he didn’t see how any amount of money could settle those old scores.

Maybe he’d read too many of those predictable action scripts, but he just didn’t see how money would do him any good. 

Still, he said he’d think about Ozzy’s proposal.  Being a Gotham Rogue gave him a community.  He was connected to something, to Oswald and the Iceberg and the freaks who gathered there.  Of course he wasn’t about to become Oswald’s lapdog. He would decide what jobs to do, when and how he wanted to do them.  Clayface was his own agent, not an operative of the Penguin. 

He reached the hotel and morphed into a blind man with a guide dog to walk through the lobby.  He returned to the room he’d occupied before, turned on the TV, and glopped into the viscous state he found most relaxing… 

Ozzy hinted that there might be more lucrative work in Matt’s “hiring out” his shapeshifting abilities, but again that came down to money, which simply didn’t interest him.  He didn’t want Oswald telling him to go impersonate some judge or town councilman to further some scheme of his own.  He didn’t want Ozzy brokering deals for him to replace a museum guard for Catwoman or infiltrate an ice cream factory for Mr. Freeze.  He alone would decide when and how his abilities would be used, and for what purpose, and no amount of money would tempt him otherwise. 

Of course, Clayface was on that same movie star level, whereas the Monarch of Menace was a TV player at best.  It was time he returned to Gotham for real, not in a borrowed identity, not pulling some lackluster robberies to satisfy Harley’s idea of roguedom, and certainly not as Oswald Cobblepot’s bitch.  It was time to reclaim his position as Clayface.

“I’ll make sure you have everything you need by noon tomorrow.”  That was the last thing Bruce had said.  Like she was Patterson from marketing… 

Rather than prowl in the city, Catwoman was spending the night investigating perimeter defenses around other stately homes in Bristol.  Some setups were better, some worse, but since she was only gathering data rather than trying to penetrate a particular house, she had time to think.  Something peculiar was going on with Bruce.  Putting aside her doubts about the job itself and the reason he gave for offering it, there was that quick exit he’d pulled at the end of their meeting.  He said he had to make some modifications to the utility belt before the night’s patrol—and if that wasn’t a second cousin to his “gotta prep for an early meeting” excuse he used to give the bimbos, Selina would have agreed to walk Krypto the wondermutt for a month!  And then, right before slinking off to make his ‘modifications,’ he’d said, “I’ll make sure you have everything you need by noon tomorrow.”  Like she was Patterson from marketing.  Very, very odd. 

She tried to put the questions out of her mind and focus on her work, but they kept creeping back into her thoughts, like some awful long-legged insect. They waited lurking in the shadows once she got home too, a faint undefined worry that haunted her dreams but which she couldn’t quite remember on waking.  All she knew was that she woke up tired, and she decided to skip her morning workout.  The bed was empty, again. Bruce must have got up first again, even though last night she’d beaten him home as usual.  Again, a vague disquiet settled somewhere in the back of her mind, which she did her best to ignore.  She took a hot bath instead of a shower, dressed leisurely, and only then emerged from the master bedroom.  The first thing she saw was a thick manila envelope taped to the door to her suite, just as the invitation had been.  She opened it curiously, and pulled out a number of large folded sheets: blueprints of the manor, survey map of the grounds, floorplans, details of the ornaments on the front entrance and the decorative molding indoors, everything from the kitchen to the drawing rooms, the great hall to the greenhouse.  Everything she needed, he’d said. Well, here it was, with an hour to spare before his noon deadline.

To be continued…