Batman’s lip twitched. He watched as Catwoman walked
around a gaping hole cut through the wood and metal of the modest one-story
roof. She bit her lip in either amusement or puzzlement, then glanced up at
him in a clear attempt to read some clue in his face. Finally she
walked to the edge of the roof, looked down, paced back and forth a few
times, and returned to the hole. “Well?” he graveled. “When I got here, you said not to take the ladder up,
‘it’s evidence.’ It’s theirs. Metal painted black, about three days ago give
or take. We’re obviously meant to think they came up the ladder and cut
through the roof, dropped into the vault area of the bank, took the tellers’
cash and safe deposit boxes…” she gestured to the dozens of empty boxes
stacked on the roof beside the hole. “Passed them up here to open and
stacked the empties there to be out of the way.” “That’s not ‘what we’re meant to think;’ it’s what
happened,” Batman said. “No,” she said, dismissing an m.o. that was too
absurd to be taken seriously. “It’s the tenth of this kind in five years. All in
the outer boroughs, small community branches with less than first rate
security.” “A steel door and a wood ceiling I would describe as
‘less than first rate,’ yes,” Catwoman said with quietly emphatic scorn. “Last time they came in through a wall. Scored around
three hundred thousand.” “Fine: steel door and a plaster wall. It’s still sad,
I don’t care how much they took. I thought you asked me to come out here to,
I don’t know, try to figure this out.” “No,” Batman said mildly. “I called because I thought
you might find it funny.” “Ah,” she smiled and looked grudgingly back at the
hole. “Another night I suppose I might have.” “Rough day?” “No, just…
Scottish
Fold, I’ll tell you later.” She
squatted down and examined one of the safe deposit boxes, running a claw-tip
over the edge of the number plate. “The
tenth
break-in like this?” she said in wonder. “I keep telling you, thieves are like gamblers,”
Batman intoned. “They never know when to quit.” “And I keep telling
you that’s the kind of thing cops say that
you
should not repeat because
you are not a
pinhead.” “Selina, I know it’s a generalization that doesn’t
apply to you, but it’s based on expertise, drawing on the observation of
hundreds or thousands—” “Of failures. Don’t play science with me, Sherlock. It’s a generalization based on a non-representative group: the failures who
get caught. Same reason nobody but Hugo takes Freud seriously. You can’t
just go drawing conclusions about all of mankind based on a dozen people who
were so screwed up they were seeing a psychiatrist when the idea was more
radical than monkey glands. You can’t go drawing conclusions about everyone
who can pick a lock—” “The point is—” “The point is you've
got all these tenets about criminals and what they do based on the ones that
are known. Look at this bunch. At the very least, you know what they did:
hole, empty boxes, there’s a crime to investigate. You know nothing about
the most successful specimens
because they’re successful. Murders that pass as natural deaths, thefts that are never discovered. You
want to pretend this is science? Your criminology buddies have created an
incredible evolutionary force on the criminal side of the equation, because
all these police mechanisms evolve to catch the injured fawns as if they’re
the entire herd.” “Maybe we should agree to disagree on this one,”
Batman graveled. “You know I’m right.” “Do you want a ride home?” “You don’t want to admit it, but you know I’m right.” “It’s not an original
theory,” Batman said flatly. “Agatha Christie put it forward, so did Alfred
Hitchcock and so did ‘Richard Castle.’ All
entertainers, one of whom is
fictional. Compared to actual police and criminolo—” “Hi,” Selina said,
stepping into his personal space and extending her hand until the tips of
his claws touched his sternum. “I don’t think we’ve met. Catwoman, cat
burglar, theme rogue. I’ll be your criminal adversary this evening.
Do I look
like an entertainer, jackass?!”
He grunted, but he didn’t concede the point. “Come on, I’ve already examined the scene inside. Quick pass through Bayside and I’ll give you that ride home.
You can tell me about the Scottish Fold,” he said lightly. The code word for
their once secret engagement now denoted the wedding plans, which were much
simpler than the ones for Dick and Barbara’s nuptials. Bruce and Selina were
significantly older, they’d been living as man and wife for years, and
throwing an extravagant party for several hundred guests was not a once in a
lifetime experience. So many mechanisms were in place for entertaining on
that scale, Selina could hand over nearly all the traditional planning apart
from picking the dress. That left her time to tackle the
other
arrangements a typical bride didn’t need to consider, such as ‘Fifth
Dimension Blackout Dates’ when a malevolent trickster was most likely to
appear and harass the best man. The subject of the bank heist didn’t come up again
until the next day, when Selina found Bruce in his study. “I’ve reconsidered,” she announced. “Your crime scene
on top of the bank, it’s funny now.” She spread a newspaper on his desk and,
as she leaned over to point to the story… “Right there” …her hair fluttered
in Bruce’s face. At first he thought it was the whiff of her shampoo, the
first really personal detail he’d noticed about the elusive cat burglar,
that flashed him back to early rooftops. Then he realized it was something
more substantive: “’Sophisticated burglary, police say,’” she read. “Sophisticated. Do they not know what words mean, or do they think leaning a
ladder against the side of a building and cutting a hole is a complex
operation that requires a high level of expertise?” “I—” Bruce began, but Selina rolled over him. “They are pros because they cut the video cameras,
Detective Schmidt told GCN,’” she read indignantly. “Pros! Because they cut
the video cameras.” “I—” Bruce tried again. “I’ve been nice,” she said emphatically. “Since we
got together, for your sake, for Barbara’s, I’ve been polite about the GCPD
in general and Gordon in particular. I practically apologized for the things
I repeated in Cat-Tales, as if Luthor didn’t have a perfectly fair point
about the state of law enforcement in this town sans you. These idiots
aren’t meeting me halfway.” “Can I talk now?” Bruce asked mildly. “Go for it.” “If I concede your point that a portion of criminal
science is flawed due to imperfect sampling, namely that we can only observe
those criminals we know about, usually because they get caught, and that
known burglars are not representative of burglars in general, will you agree
not to judge the entire Gotham police force because this Detective Schmidt
is, admittedly, not the brightest of men?” “Agreed,” she smiled. “Agreed,” he echoed. Bruce glanced at the picture of his parents while
Selina folded up the newspaper. “Before you go, there’s something I wanted to talk
about,” he said uneasily. “Hm?” Selina said, not noticing the uncharacteristic
hesitancy. “It was late when we got back last night, and then I
took a while with the logs and that’s a lie. I really just… We were in the
cave and it just…wasn’t the right time.” Selina had stopped and was looking
at him with concern. He continued stumbling. “I… should have said this when
we decided to have the wedding here. I should have said it before then,
probably.” “Do you want to change it? I mean, it’s your family
home, I love the idea of having it here. And like you said, it gives us
complete freedom picking the dates. Barbara knows there’s going to be a
certain amount of comparison to her wedding, but she’s fine with that. She
cares even less about socialite chatter than I do, I care less than you do. Alfred is the only one in the family who gives a damn, and even he said if
we have the ceremony inside instead of the garden, it minimizes the
point-for-point—” “It’s not that.” Selina took a step back. It was his roof-of-the-MoMA
voice. The first time she ever heard him speak as Bruce inside the mask, it
sounded just like that. “The first time I heard that voice, I didn’t even
know your name,” she said gently. “Bruce, what is it?” “When Dick and Barbara decided to have their wedding
here, I told Alfred that I wanted the planning of this one event to be a
Bruce Wayne matter entirely and that absolutely no Batman considerations
were to intrude. I didn’t want to give any thought to the public persona or
having strangers in the house. It was important to me that it be something I
did for the kids because Dick is my son, period.” “That’s incredibly sweet. I didn’t know that,” Selina
said warmly. “Sweet, maybe, but it set a precedent, and now I
can’t… I did it for them and I can’t do as much for you… There are
considerations we can’t dodge. The honeymoon for one—” “Oh that,” she laughed. “We’ll come up with
something.” “There is no way anyone can take my place for those
weeks,” he insisted. “Batman has to patrol while Bruce and Selina are off on
their honeymoon. He has to be seen patrolling, and anyone he encounters from
a name rogue to a common thug to a beat cop might be just a little curious. Catwoman got married. It’s human nature, given the stories about us over the
years, anyone might be curious enough to look for a reaction—or even probe
for one. And if that happens, no one who stands in for me can possibly be
expected to react plausibly, not Dick or J’onn or Clark, and certainly not
Jean Paul—” “No, they couldn’t,” Selina smirked. “But I would pay
top dollar to watch you pitch the idea to Jean Paul just to see the panic
attack.” “It’s not funny,” Bruce said, clearly not meaning
Jean Paul. “We’ll think of something,” Selina repeated. “Worst
case, I go into hiding for a few weeks. Professional cat burglar here, I can
lay low; I’ve done it before. I read trashy novels, I watch old movies, one
time I learned to cook. One time I learned to fly a helicopter. Boy that
paid off, remember?” She smiled up at him, and he scowled. “Sometimes I even go blonde,” she said daringly, and
he scowled deeper. “Not the point. It was just an example of… You’re
talking about spending your honeymoon alone reading throwaway paperbacks.” “It’s just a vacation, Bruce. We can take one any
time Joker isn’t free.” “But—” “I care more about being married than getting
married, okay?” “But if I can keep Batman out of it for Dick and
Barbara and I can’t do as much for you—” “Bruce, I know it’s been quiet since Spitcurl helped
clean up the city, but you have got to stop making problems just because—” “—there has to be an offset.” “—you’re not getting your regular allowance of
nightly pummels.” Selina saw that he was no longer looking at her and
his final words seemed to be directed at the painting over the mantel behind
her. “It used to be a good thing for kitty when Gotham was
quiet,” she said, trying to win back his attention with the old rooftop
tease. “You weren’t distracted by straw, tea cups, chattering teeth and
weeds, similar baddies that aren’t any fun.” His eyes said that the change of tone wasn’t working,
so she played back his final words in her head. “An
offset,
what does that mean?” “I have to keep Batman out where I can to make up for
the places I can’t... I was thinking pearls.” “…” “An exchange of gifts between the bride and groom is
customary for a wedding on this scale; a man of my means, pearls are the
usual thing.” “Bruce, you hate
pearls. I understand why.
Everyone
understands why. Why would you possibly—” “Selina, it is
the
traditional gift on this occasion, and my aversion to them goes to the heart
of… of what Batman is. It’s practically a sign if you believe in that kind
of thing. Yes, the thought of you wearing them makes me uneasy. I don’t know
how I’ll feel getting ready to go out and seeing those miserable oyster
tumors around your neck… As a gesture, there couldn’t be a more perfect way
to symbolize—” “Brutal
is the word you’re looking for. As a symbol, as a gesture, there couldn’t be
a more brutal way to send Batman out of the room on our wedding day, and I…
Give me a minute.” She looked back and forth. She swallowed. She looked
nervously over her shoulder towards the painting, then at the grandfather
clock. It took almost a minute to compose her thoughts, and finally she
shook her head. “I’m really not sure
how to say this well,” she said finally. “I know it’s meant as a loving
gesture, and I can’t tell you how much that means to me but… it’s wrong on a
really primal level. Batman is who you are. Sure it was sweet keeping ‘him’
out of Dick and Barbara’s wedding where ‘he’ is a… a set of priorities for
keeping secret identities secret. But here it’s just different. Batman is a
part of you. And how we met and who I fell in love with. Batman is a big
piece of who I’m marrying. I don’t want that part of you kept out of the way
or… or suppressed or ignored like it’s some kind of a character flaw that
should be overcome. That’s not a gesture for a woman who loves
you, it’s
for someone who thinks you’d be a great catch if only you weren’t Batman.”
She shook her head helplessly, none of the words were right. “Bruce, I love
you,
all of you. I could never want you to be less than you are.” “Just less of a jackass?” he graveled, and her eyes
smiled. “I
could
possibly do with less schlepping out to Queens to see the refuse of the
world’s least interesting bank—” She stopped and covered her mouth as her eyes lit
with delight. For a full second those too-green orbs blazed with a mixture
of surprise, curiosity, mischief, and wonder. Then she unclamped her mouth
and laughed—still looking into his eyes while some unknown calculation
flashed through hers. It all culminated in an excited squeal and she kissed
his cheek and ran off. Bruce watched her go silently as Psychobat began
earmarking protocols.
The relative lull Selina alluded to meant that Bruce
had more time on his hands. Normally he’d point it at the Foundation or
Wayne Enterprises, but with no indication at all when the respite might end,
he confined himself to Bat-projects where he could suspend the effort as
quickly as he’d begun without attracting attention. In addition to the outer
borough bank robbers, there were cold cases he had tagged over the years. Each day he selected one and reviewed the evidence, hoping to spot something
new. It was at the end of the third day’s perusals that Selina appeared in
the cave. “I have a much better idea for a wedding gift,” she
announced. “It’s technically for you, but if you like the idea, trust me, I
don’t need a thing. Nothing that comes in a box will come close. And if we
set it up now, it solves the honeymoon dilemma. Bonus.” “This I’ve got to hear,” Bruce said, bemused, while
Psychobat thought the same words in dread. Selina held out a small black thumb drive, which he
took with a thank you and inserted into his workstation. Soon, an insurance
photo of a darkened old master in an ornate gilded frame appeared on the
screen. “Wood
Nymph startled by a River God in tragic
need of a cleaning,” she announced crisply. “Orazio Gentileschi, oil on
canvas, 1620. Telegraphing the Sauli commissions that would link Caravaggian
naturalism with Tuscan lyricism, paying off in
Danaë
in 1623. Provenance is solid until it vanished from the collection of Simon
Stagg. Opinions vary if it was the work of Gentleman Ghost, The Shade or The
Mist. What is known is an ex-CIA reptile got it from Shadow Thief in the
late ‘90s and traded it to Russia for a little plutonium, which went to an
unmentionable Mid-Eastern Country in return for two tankers of embargoed
oil… Shall I go on?” “It’s not an original story,” Bruce said with a good
humored nod. “Yeah, people who get fetishy about stolen art often
have other interests, sometimes very nasty ones, and it’s twice as bad with
gems where something like the Rosaline Diamond makes a very compact way to
pay for two million dollars’ worth of firepower to jumpstart a coup. Which
brings me to my gift.” The slide show advanced to show a series of upscale
locations while Selina continued: “If you wanted to go undercover on the Wood Nymph the
way you did to suss out the rat’s nest in Hell’s Kitchen, you’d need someone
who blends in at Emirates First Class Lounge at JFK, the lobby bar at the
Peninsula and the West Side Tennis Club.” The next slide was a photo of Matches Malone as he’d
appeared in the final days of his lengthy mission with the Westies. “You made Matches to infiltrate dives, fit in among
the bottom feeders, low grade henchmen and mob associates. He was becoming a
conspicuous throwback and needed an update to go on fitting in—but he’s
still a scruffy guy from the Kitchen and he always will be. I want to give
you someone new who can blend in at the VIP room in Club 23 just like
Matches did at Finn’s, but… more like me. A new criminal identity to
inhabit, a thief on my level...” “Who can infiltrate a different kind of operation on
a different level,” he mused. He thought of the database she’d made him for
the Foundation bandit, profiling the guests of the fundraising galas,
breaking down their jewelry and the locations of their homes as they’d
appear to a potential thief. It was shockingly intimate, getting in
her head that way. “Malone is more than a name and a rap sheet,” he
said. “I know the man; I know how he thinks, what horse he bets on and how
he replaces the money when he loses. What he hears in any given conversation
and what goes over his head. Even how he rationalizes a screw-up. If we do
this… Selina, if we do this, it has to be all the way. You have to let me in
on everything, all the particulars of the lifestyle. I can’t… I can’t hide
funds the way I do to buy jet fuel for the Batmobile. I can’t have mastered
a zip line during a pop through Northern Wales to learn in an old slate mine
between Cryptography at Cambridge and Wing Chun in Foshan.” “Of course,” she
said, beaming. “That’s the idea, Bruce. Something that’s really from me and
really for you. It’s not just for the practicality of your having a
different type of cover, it’s for... the POV. The one you’re sadly lacking,
there’s no other way to say it, about being a successful criminal. Just
being
it for a while, living it, on that
level, smelling its smells and tasting its tastes.” “And the honeymoon bonus is what we fell into with
Matches and Gina: Bruce and Selina appear to leave, very publicly, in this
case to a very private undisclosed location, we come back in undercover and
live in Gotham in those assumed identities.” “You got it.” “I’ll kick the tires on that idea,” he said,
automatically deferring any plan that wasn’t his until he had a chance to
run it through a dozen Bat-filters. “As for the rest, let me file away this
blood spatter analysis and we can start right now.” “Boy, we are going to have to clean this story up
before we tell anybody,” Selina pointed out. “You gave me golf clubs and a round at St. Andrews
with Vandal Savage,” Bruce suggested. “I said ‘Thank you.’”
From a thief’s point of view, the beauty of a safe
deposit box is that nobody but the owner knows what’s in it. Rob Tiffany or
Feinstein & Son or even The Jewel Box on 19th Street and they know every
piece that’s gone. But a safe deposit box might contain anything, the
bank has no idea, and a used Breitling in the window at Gem Pawnbrokers is
exactly that. Tonight, Batman meant
to turn that perceived advantage on its head. When the Batmobile pulled out
of the cave, nobody in the underworld knew a thing about the previous
night’s bank heist beyond what was said on the news. By the end of his first
patrol, word was spreading that an Israeli competitor of Wayne Tech had
produced an ultra-high-security smart phone with some kind of military grade
encryption (whatever the hell it meant, that sure sounded impressive.) It
cost, like, $14,000 and was only sold at Harrods Department Store in London. You had to show a passport to buy one, because there was a list of countries
they couldn’t be sold to! And a
pair
of
those phones was in the safe deposit
box haul in Queens. Now all Batman had to do was trust the black
market’s greed. ‘Viper’ was the fence most likely to take the bait. She
specialized in gadgets, which wasn’t uncommon, but she also had a history
gutting high end gaming systems for the processors. Once she heard the phone
he’d described was loose as a hot item in Gotham—chip-to-chip 256
encryption, MU-MIMO and WiGig Wi-Fi—in the hands of some thief who had no
idea what he was holding, she’d pursue it like the Holy Grail. So he had
taken up a position across from the pizza joint she used as an office, and
waited. Oracle would ping him when Viper found one of the websites set up
for researching these fictitious technological wonders, but he didn’t think
he’d need the heads up. He’d know when the rumors reached her by the
activity on the street below. Of course he was set up to intercept any calls
and to follow her and track her associates, when the time came. For now,
there was nothing to do but wait—and consider the evolving identity of
Thomas Uaimhfife, who reinvented himself as Tommy Coronet after the dashing
titular thief in his favorite movie
The Thomas
Crown Affair. The truth of Tommy’s
early life would never be known outside of six archived databases where he’d
laid the foundation for a birth certificate and other necessities.
PARENTS:
Father dec’d, Age 5. Mother dec’d, Age 12. No siblings...
And that was the very last time any aspect of the character would be built
to the file rather than the other way around. The particulars of Tommy’s
career were still to be worked out. Selina was adamant that he not ‘work
ahead’ and make assumptions about where Coronet had been or what he’d taken,
but the one thing he
could say for
certain: Tommy had never operated in Gotham. He would be setting up his
first apartment, an aspect of any cover that spoke to Bruce’s sincere love
for his city… The Batmobile relay was sending map and street view
photos of the safe houses and satellite caves he kept throughout the city,
and he swiped through several screens pretending to consider them until he
reached a particular one on West 4th Street. Built in 1905, Storm Zone 5,
Police Precinct 6. Six stories of apartments above a restaurant with
outdoor seating, twenty-five units on paper, nineteen in reality since he
kept the top two floors empty to maximize privacy, minimize sound exposure
and restrict roof access. The sightlines weren’t ideal, which is why he rarely
used it, but aesthetically, it was a beautiful piece of pre-war
architecture. Red brick with dark green windows, neo-classic cornices in
sandstone and detailed wrought iron fire escapes painted to match. Even the
entrance had character—and a more practical consideration: psychological
cover. The restaurant’s outdoor seating made it seem the residents were
casually unconcerned if their comings and goings were noticed. On the off
chance police or federal agents were keeping an eye on Coronet, he clearly
wasn’t the kind of person who cared about that kind of thing. His movements
could be seen by anyone, but at the same time, they would be random anyones. A casual diner who happened to look up from his lobster ravioli at the
critical time would be almost impossible to track. A smart crook’s location
if ever there was one. Then there was the neighborhood. It was a few blocks
from the residential hotel where Selina had settled for a few weeks when she
returned from Europe, so she couldn’t complain about the quality of his
sample: 100% of the successful international cat burglars known to him had
settled in the West Village when they first hit Gotham. She also couldn’t
say he was cloning Catwoman since she’d only stayed a few weeks, declaring
herself ‘not a downtown girl.’ So Tommy Coronet would be a downtown boy and that was
settled. Granted he could not be using Bruce Wayne’s resources, but there
was no reason he couldn’t be Bruce Wayne’s tenant. By the time Viper
mobilized her contacts to find whoever pulled the bank job, the paperwork
was in place. Tomorrow, Bruce could have Lucius take over his afternoon
schedule (always a pleasure when Asian currency arbitrage was on the
agenda), clean out a few things and see about personalizing the generic
corporate furnishings.
Viper’s efforts never produced a lead on the bank
heist, but it did unearth a warehouse of stolen TVs, confirmed a suspicion
about Jonathan Crane’s source for the electronics he used at the Man’s Reach
exhibit, and answered the question of how the Spanish Town Posse had been
paying their bills since the Hell’s Kitchen raids. It took a week for Batman
to clean up the girls and drugs the Jamaicans were running in the Bronx, the
black market electronics shops in Harlem and Queens, and their supply
network of thieves working nightclubs and subway stations. He set Oracle on
the online business supplied by the Queens storefront, Clark on the Crane
tech source in Metropolis, and Gordon on the trail of counterfeit iPhones
and iPads sold alongside the stolen ones. The last would eventually
become a case for the FBI or Homeland Security and that would boost the
GCPD’s standing with the federal agencies. It made for a complicated log, but rather than go up
to bed when he finished, he changed into his most nondescript travel
clothes, packed a duffel with his make-up kit and the other appliances for
his disguise, and left for the airport. Hours later, a man with the build of
an ex-sailor and the elegance of a diplomat emerged from one of the shower
rooms in the first class lounge of an airline with whom Wayne Enterprises
had an arrangement. He had a “weekend beard,” a shadow of about two day’s
growth that strategically reshaped his mouth and jaw. His hair was browner
than Bruce’s, longer on top, a windswept style that was chic for the
nineties and, combined with the dark-rimmed glasses, gave the impression of
a vaguely out of touch intellectual—a novelist perhaps, but too highbrow to
be anyone you’d heard of. He strode down the corridor past the clocks of
various time zones and into the seating area where Lucius Fox was hunched
behind a newspaper. There was no more than a glance of acknowledgement as
he picked up a magazine from the table and took the seat opposite. Skimming
the amenities at the airline’s other clubs around the world, he casually
turned it for Lucius to see the picture. “I’ve never seen anyone that happy on a layover,” he
observed, and Lucius chuckled. He agreed they all seemed improbably
thrilled by a pitcher of orange juice. No names were given, but the small talk established
that Lucius was on his way to Germany on business while he himself was on
his way home to Metropolis, the last leg after a grueling twenty-hour flight
from Singapore, also on business. With the wry observation that
neither of them thought to wear a tie like the euphoric orange
juice-drinkers, they exchanged hopes that the other would have a smooth
flight and went their separate ways. Bruce could have ended it there, but he decided
another few tests were called for. He’d never before assumed a cover who
would move so freely in Bruce Wayne’s world, and given the nature of his
disguise…
“Don’t
React,” Clark heard as Bruce’s distant,
battlefield murmur in the seconds before a tall, broad-shouldered figure
walked uncertainly into the Daily Planet bullpen. Clark held his breath as
the bespectacled stranger hovered over Lois’s desk and asked for Mr. Kent. She gave him the hitchhike thumb without looking up, and Clark was amused at
the slight hesitation before Bruce changed tactics. He recognized her then,
apologizing like a star struck fanboy and burbling praise for her coverage
of the Wasner trial to get her to look up. She did, slipping into Gracious
Lane mode long enough to thank him and then directed him more explicitly to
Clark’s desk. “Come by for some pointers?” Clark asked when Bruce
reached him. “Among other things. I needed to run tests and
Metropolis is the best place. ‘Undercover Boss’ if I’m busted here, and at
STAR Labs or LexCorp, it’s corporate espionage. They’ll react, but they’ll
keep it quiet.” “You want me to hover nearby and listen, let you know
if they ‘react?’” Clark guessed. “If your lunch hour is free,” Bruce said as Clark
grabbed his jacket. “Sure, happy to help. As long as you tell me
how you’ve got the cheek and neck looking sort of… rounder,” he said,
gesturing around his own chiseled jaw. The infiltration of STAR Labs was uneventful, but
LexCorp brought the most rigorous test Bruce’s disguise would face. Luthor had
nearly restored his company to the prestige it enjoyed before his fall, but
he hadn’t yet achieved a corporate headquarters that dominated the
Metropolis skyline like the old LL Towers. The new LexCorp was
headquartered in the smaller Oxford Complex where it accounted for 73% of
the tenancy, so it wasn’t an absolute certainty that the man Bruce collided
with at the entrance was there on LexCorp business. What was certain, Clark
knew from meeting him in Gotham: Barry Hobbs was a keen Luthor supporter. He’d described Lex as ‘the greatest president this country ever elected’
and, according to Bruce, his pro-Luthor zeal was grounded in the rivalry
with Wayne. Barry Hobbs had a grudge against Bruce since ‘an old prep school
rugby match.’ Clark narrowed his focus, watching intently,
listening intently... Bruce’s blood pressure had surged when he recognized
Hobbs. His heart pounded, though there was nothing amiss in his voice as he
apologized and held the door for the other man. Drops of sweat beaded
under the make-up while the two men worked through the bottleneck going into
the lobby… Clark held his breath until they separated, Bruce breaking right
to a news stand while Hobbs continued on towards security.
“That was an unexpected bit of drama,” he said into
the communicator, and Bruce coughed. “Someday, I want to hear about that
rugby game.” The rest of the LexCorp tests were an anti-climax. Bruce signed in at the security desk, naming a law firm that was one of the
other tenants, and rode around in the elevators visiting offices on several
floors. Clark lost sight of him thanks to Luthor’s fetish for lead-based
paint, but he could still hear, the accommodations for sonic mesh being
limited in a building Lex didn’t own. At the end of the day, Clark offered a
fly home as he usually did, but Bruce wanted to get into character leaving
Metropolis as “someone who wouldn’t exactly be chummy with Superman.”
Selina had said to text her when he was ready to
begin, and since she was known to be Catwoman, it seemed perfectly plausible
that she could know Tommy well enough to pick him up at the airport. So he
disembarked from flight 6635 expecting to find her holding a sign reading
Coronet. Instead, he saw a platinum blonde, hair style identical to Gina
O’Malley’s brash red, funky ultramodern sunglasses like a visor, silver
frame and lightly tinted black echoing the black and white of her sweater
with the dramatic close-up of a lion. She was looking right at him with the
smug smile of ancient rooftops when she thought she had the upper hand, and
wiggled up to him with a welcoming kiss. “Clark gave you a heads up,” he graveled before she
could slip her tongue in his mouth. “Details of the disguise, maybe told you
what I was wearing?” “He sent a picture, actually.” He demanded to see her phone, not because he was
upset at the prank but because he hadn’t noticed when it was taken. Once he
saw the background and angle, he thought through the walk from the parking
lot to the Metropolis terminal, factored in where Clark must have been
positioned, how long he would have to be in a stable hover in order to take
a non-blurry photo, and if there were any indicators he should have seen but
missed. “Any bags, or is that it?” Selina said, guessing the
subject of his reverie and choosing to ignore it. “This is it. I’ll shop as we go,” he said, and then
when they reached the car, he gave her the address. She stared. “I was going to check you into The Mark,” she said. “Preferred hotel of cat burglars since the Falco/hair gel incident of 2003.” “When they found him
because the hotel’s exclusive hair gel was found in the air duct?” he
muttered with crimefighter disdain. “That makes it a
preferred hotel?” “It’s ironic,” Selina said simply. “I told you not to
work ahead. What else have you been up to?” “Nothing… much.” Selina recognized a touch of her own rooftop wordplay
and failed to suppress a scowl in response. “This is going to be harder than I thought,” she
muttered. The ‘Nothing much’ turned out to be a stack of Wayne
Industries bearer bonds he’d taken from the Wayne Tech office in Metropolis. When Selina reminded him the first rule he’d laid down was not using Bruce
Wayne’s resources, he said that he hadn’t made use of Wayne’s face or
keycards to enter and move through the building or his knowledge of the
combination to open the safe. “And you’ve said several times, in your view rightful
ownership has ‘nothing to do with who paid for the thing,’” he concluded. “I
say I stole it fair and square.” The last was said with a boyish grin that brought a
naughty one from Selina. “It’s fine by me,” she said. “Just be warned, if you
get to enjoying this new thing: bending the rules and turning on the charm
while you talk your way around it, I’m not going to stop you. Ever.” “Noted.”
When they arrived at
the West 4th Street address, Selina smiled as Tommy explained the
psychological cover provided by the restaurant, but it wasn’t a pleased
smile. It
would be
handy as a way to tweak the nose of any police or feds so arrogant as to
think they could tail you, to send an order of garlic bread and nibbles out
to the surveillance van, for instance, but that isn’t what Tommy/Bruce was
saying. No, he was suggesting police would not have the ingenuity or
wherewithal to pull the restaurant’s credit card receipts and go knocking on
the doors of anyone they could find on the off chance one of the random
strangers
did look up
from their plate at the opportune moment… Batman knew better, but he was
assuming Tommy would not. He was preloading Tommy with the overconfident
blind spots he assumed any criminal must have. And she would have to find
some way to correct that. To do otherwise would
be such a waste. That was her thought as he entered a 6-digit pin into the Dactyl Elite
keypad outside the door to his unit… PNZ601 he typed, then looked at her as
if for recognition. He opened the door with a key, held it for her but
warned her not to move past the foyer. Once he’d closed the door, there was
a pneumatic whisper as a small wall panel opened revealing a second,
identical keypad with the PNZ number still displayed on the LED screen.
Bruce/Tommy recited the remaining code aloud as he typed: QAU400.
“I assume that means something,” she grinned. “Stockholm, December 22, 2000, two Renoirs and a
Rembrandt were taken from the National Museum. As you probably know, the
thieves escaped by boat less than seven minutes after entering the gallery,
while police never got anywhere near the scene because of two car fires
completely blocking street traffic coming into that part of the city. The
first, one hundred meters to the northeast, was a Ford, license plate
PNZ601,” he said, pointing towards the door indicating the first keypad,
“The Mazda blocking the southwest entrance to the peninsula was QAU400.” “Oh that’s hot,” Selina murmured with a throaty
growl, but before Bruce could consider acting on the lustful response, her
attention shifted to the apartment and she let out a low whistle. Like the Wayne Penthouse when she’d first seen it,
there was an ultra-modern sensibility: clean crisp lines, a preponderance of
right angles, leather and metal. The color palette was reversed, though
still an achingly tasteful arrangement of supremely subtle grays. The
penthouse had offered slates so dark as to be nearly black, while the
furnishings here were so light as to be nearly white, set off by a dark wood
floor. “Nice,” Selina noted. “Wasn’t expecting a man cave or
anything, but this is… really nice. Now what’s going on there?” Her finger twirled at
the two anomalies in the room that were completely ornamental and also the
only items that weren’t remotely modern. An oil painting in the style of the
Dutch Old Masters hung on the wall, stretched and mounted on a board but
unframed… and a gold and crystal 18th
century snuff box. Bruce reeled off a
few of the particulars as Selina might have done in her Sorbonne lecture
delivery: the painting was
A Boy Bringing Bread,
Pieter de Hooch, 1663; the snuff box, Dresden, 1740, carved from a single
piece of rock crystal, one of the most expensive gemstones and extremely
difficult to work with, since it is solid quartz and second only to diamonds
in hardness… then he changed gears, and in a new tone dripping with playboy
charm, explained that they were reproductions he had made years ago to trap
a thief called Marlowe. Selina’s brow crinkled, and she looked quizzically
towards the window as if she’d heard a noise and was trying to guess where
it came from. “Déjà vu,” she murmured. And then, hesitantly,
“Do you have, like, an aspirin? Because this is exactly the headache you
used to give me. I’m not kidding. I haven’t had it in years, but it’s not
something you forget. Trying to plan a crime and there’s just no way of
guessing what you’ll know, what you’ll notice, what you’ll figure out and
where you’ll run with it, and where you’ll just unexpectedly turn up—bearing
a
17th
Century de Hooch,
God
my head hurts!” He recognized the exasperation, on her face and in
her tone, from a dozen other criminals… “Wallace Collection, right?” she asked, and he
nodded. To her credit, he’d never glimpsed that exasperation
in Catwoman. He thought about telling her, as a compliment… “I remembered them from the Wednesday exhibitions,”
he explained pleasantly. “Officially, I was studying at the London School of
Economics. Unofficially, Scotland Yard and Mi6 both had… never mind, it
doesn’t matter.” …But at the moment, it seemed doubtful she’d take it
as a compliment. So he simply brought her aspirin and a glass of water, and
after she took it, she eyed him with that adversarial glint in her eye. “Remind me, how many martial arts have you mastered?”
she asked sharply. “We’ve talked about this. There’s no real answer to
that question; it depends on where you draw the line saying a certain
master’s technique is different enough to call it a separate fighting style. Count Japanese, German and Brazilian jujitsu as three distinct disciplines,
that level of distinction it’s between thirty and forty fighting arts. But
if you go into the minutiae and politics of the dojos, where a master’s sons
and students founded different schools that feud, recognize and disavow each
other over time, the total must be over a hundred.” “What I’m asking, Bruce, is how often you’ve been a
white belt.” “Ah. You mean you want me to slow down.” “Considering we
haven’t started yet and you’ve got a Sterling Trust haul of bearer bonds in
your carry-on and a Wallace House de Hooch on your wall,
yes,
I would like you to slow the hell down.” She looked at the painting and
shook her head in frustrated awe. “Since you’re itching to give me your
resume, I guess that’s chapter one. And since you’ve been all over the world
learning Wing Chun in Foshan and spelunking in Wales or whatever the hell it
was, this part should be easy. Pick seven or eight places—I’ll narrow it
down to five and you’ll pick three—that have some particular food or drink
associated with it. Exotic but not too exotic, oddball but not too oddball,
hard but not impossible to come by in a place like Gotham, and ideally
something you liked enough to eat a lot.” “And alluding to these will be part of the
lifestyle,” he deduced. “White. Belt,” she said crisply. “Right, I’ll make a list and you’ll tell me what it’s
for later,” he said with a businesslike nod. “But assuming these things will
be part of the lifestyle, tea? I do just happen to have some Japanese sencha
I picked up at this Asian grocery down the block. The real thing from
Shiuoka province, just like I remembered from Tokyo…” “This might be a
difficult concept for a man who has the silhouette of a bat on every tool he
owns, but subtle
allusions. Not making a pageant of it.” “This
is
subtle. A pageant would have been the matcha pan bread they had behind the
counter, the matcha brownies, matcha muffins and matcha Kit-Kat bars.” “God, this
neighborhood has changed,” she said. “It’s the cleanest, most livable, most
European neighborhood in Gotham now. That’s you, m’love, it wasn’t like this when I stayed here. Do you ever stop
to notice how much
better things
are than when you started?” “Only you would bring up Batman’s accomplishments at
your first meeting with Tommy,” he said, changing the subject. “If you didn’t want
comparisons made, you shouldn’t have settled in this part of town,” she
countered. “How about I make the tea while you work on that list. Seven or
eight places, food or drink, something you like, and
try
not to be that guy who learns a wrist grab and is instantly working out six
variations, three ways to counter and adding a biomechanical exploit.” “Roger. Squid sandwich in Madrid, no biomechanical
exploit… like assuming it’s shorthand for stealing a Goya at the Prado.” “Bast and her kittens, what have I done?”
By the time Selina brought the tea, Bruce had a
written list which he handed over. “Japan at the top, no surprise there,” she noted as
she read. “Lotte Ghana Black Chocolate bar with extra cacao.” She looked up
at him. “Interesting.” Her eyes returned to the list and she read “London:
Spanish sea salt chocolates, 70p at Harrods Food Hall; Hong Kong: chocolate
covered nougat from Mr Simms Olde Sweet Shop; Italy: Pastiglie Leone… these
are all candy.” “I had considerable need for compact, highly portable
doses of sugar.” “I’ll bet,” she smirked. “I can come up with a more diverse list.” “Oh no, this is perfect,” she said, “You’ve got a
thing for oddball foreign candy, couldn’t be a more perfect angle. The thing
is—as you guessed—it’s not ideal to go through life confessing to felonies,
but like any business, you want to advertise what you do. The people who
will be inclined to hire you have to know you exist and what you’re capable
of. So you advertise in code…” She touched the top of the teapot. “If I know
you’re in the business and I see you’re always ordering green tea, you
mention ‘real sencha, the way I remember it from Tokyo,’ I know you’re
advertising something.” She tilted her head and looked at him appraisingly. “Maybe the Rubens taken from the Odawara board room a
few years back, or maybe it was the prototype chips from Hachinohe A.I. I
may guess wrong, but things will fit together eventually. The Rubens means
you can beat smart glass, a Phoenix box, passive infrareds and shock
sensors. Hachinohe, that’s key imprinting and a retinal scan, voiceprint
failsafe with heat and moisture detection. Rubens, you’ve got mad acrobatic
skills and a custom-made carbon fiber rig, five point harness with some kind
of auto-breaking resistance voodoo going on in the back. Hachinohe, you
cloned one of those high tech ID badges with smart paper. You’re a high tech
badass.” “Suppose I did both?” “Then you’re Batman,” she said flatly. He laughed. “If you deduce all that from the tea, maybe you’re
Batman.” “I can’t get all that just from the tea. But that’s
why every thief I know has half a dozen oddball exotic tastes, a collection
of regional specialties that add up to a resume. Paprika Hendl—Budapest,
Hapsburg Dagger. Dosa and vadas—Southern India, Tipu Sultan Tiger. You know
that twice-cooked pork belly they make in Sichuan province?” “Sanxingdui Museum for a Han Dynasty bronze,” Bruce
said quickly. “You got it. So in your case, let’s say I’ve got
Tokyo, London, Hong Kong and Italy to work with.” “Which could each represent countless targets, so you
would look for other cues. I should presumably pick actual thefts in each of
the cities I want to highlight from my travels, and without ‘making a
pageant of it,’ find occasions to let some knowledge of the subject show
through. Rubens in Tokyo, silver vaults in London, etc.” “I guess I better get used to the idea of your being
three steps ahead every step of the way,” Selina said, rummaging through her
purse and withdrawing a rolled up catalog. “This was for some light reading
in your hotel room tonight. Russian military surplus, I marked a few things
you might like: night vision spotting scope, thermal camera, the world’s
simplest short-range jammer. Just intercepts a signal and resends with a
stronger microwave a split-second out of phase, creates the most god-awful
signal mud.” “Is this how you set off all those false alarms to
get into the Whitebridge?” “No, it doesn’t have the range,” she said, sliding a
thin stylus from an old-style Blackberry and pointing it at him. “From here,
I can get your phone and the wifi, but even that keypad at the door is out
of range.” “Doesn’t sound very effective,” he sniffed. “Tech is the one area you are honestly a snob,” she
laughed. “A match stick isn’t exactly badass on its own. ‘Effective’ depends
what you light with it.” “Fair enough,” he said. “Can I at least take an item
like that apart, see how it works and enhance its effectiveness?” “Yes,” Selina said crisply. “That’s exactly what
we’re going to do, in fact. There are only a handful of Kittlemeiers in the
world, and when you go to one—” “It’s
a vulnerability,” he cut her off in
Batman’s dismissive gravel. “Use a Holt Descender like the thief at Hofburg
Castle, it had to be made by Koechert, Dulaq, Rodriguez, or Fang. Interpol
knows it. Other thieves know it. And Koechert is close to Vienna. If police
or a competitor find him, pressure him and he coughs up a lead… that points
them to Tomio as the thief.” “Very good. Solution?” “Make my own gear whenever possible.” “Meow. Nothing you
order from the catalog is going to set off flags, but I still wouldn’t have it
sent to my home. I didn’t figure on you
having
a home yet, so I’m going to check into that room I booked at The Mark. Have
your first order sent there, and anything after that, we’ll assume you’ve
been in town long enough to have found—” “Bosco on 21st, Tactical in Red Hook and McNeil’s in
Bludhaven to buy in person. Pay in cash, wear a ballcap, no logo, dark
glasses, and mind the traffic cameras.” Selina glared at yet another hijacking of the lesson. Seizing on the glasses, she added: “Try not to look like Matches.” Grunt.
Unlike Matches brazenly giving boxing lessons in the
grimiest gym in Hell’s Kitchen, Bruce felt Tommy would be discreet about his
daily workout. Like Bruce, he wouldn’t want his athletic prowess known, so
he’d made the second bedroom into a simple exercise room and, through six
sets of bent-over dumbbell rows, he drilled: the city, the tells, specifics
of the heist and the patois of expertise about the prize… London—Chancery
Lane—The Silver Vaults— Selina seemed to like the apartment overall, but
there was something early on that irked her. Harrods food
hall confectionary—Sea salt chocolates and rose-almond sweets— Was it the roof access? The sightlines from the
window? Flaxman tea
set—cast by Paul Storr—Georgian Entrée dish, Storr again—museum-quality— No, it started before they got to the living room. Both have full
hallmarks—London 1810— That little smile. From the inner
walk-in vault of a connoisseur collector— Patronizing. In the ‘never
sell these’ category of his collection— When she thought he was being
a hero-addled cape. Period
bird-figural armorial— No,
her view must now be his. Because he
was being
a hero-addled cape… Repousse rope
designs throughout— But how?
And one of the finest handles I have
ever seen with superb figural lion heads and acanthus leaves— Batman’s mindset instinctively began tagging this
item like a log entry: the bird in the armorial crest would make the item
attractive to Penguin, the lion heads to Catwoman or Catman, and even the
leaves might attract Poison Ivy. Such objects weren’t her usual thing, but
she went for such one-offs when she needed quick money to outfit a lab.
Original
matching Sheffield plate warming stand signed Matthew Boulton,
he said, repositioning for six sets of tricep
extensions. No.
No. There was no need to consider any of that in relation to an old Tommy theft. Next city: Hong Kong— Although a prudent thief should consider it in
planning a future theft, shouldn’t he? The tells:
The city was famous for tailors offering good bespoke suits—made incredibly
fast and incredibly cheap—for businessmen on layovers—If Tommy dressed in
those suits, it would be a near constant allusion to a Hong Kong past— If you were going to operate in a town full of theme
rogues, wouldn’t a smart thief stop to consider who he might run into going
after an objet de cat or bird or plant? —It
wouldn’t even take the actual trip to Hong Kong to arrange, as there was a
sign he’d noticed in his first stroll through the neighborhood, a “Hong Kong
Tailor” almost midway between his front door and the hotel where Selina had
stayed— That was it! They were still outside when that
patronizing smile crossed her lips. So it wasn’t anything about the
apartment itself. She must not like the location, or something about the
restaurant. The heist:
Kowloon—Kansu—Jade frog— Whatever he was missing, she didn’t point it out. Whatever he got wrong, she didn’t correct it. That must mean she meant him
to figure it out himself. The patois—The
frog was actually a three-legged toad called a Chin Chan. A grey white jade
with russet on one side of the head and hints of russet on the rear leg— Either that or it was personal preference and didn’t
matter that he wasn’t doing it the way she might. —translucent
in the center body with a light crystalline inclusion inside part of the
body… Maybe, but her prior irritation suggested otherwise…
And it was Selina, if she wasn’t irate, she’d be playful, if it was a
preference that didn’t matter, she would tease him…
Tommy had a number of errands he wanted to complete
before his training began in earnest. He started with a consultation at the
tailor (single breasted, two button, unplaited trousers and a couple of
shirts to begin) picked his fabrics (and a more colorful lining than Bruce
Wayne would have considered) and once his measurements were recorded, he
headed to the downtown heliport. He picked up a Knights ball cap and a cheap
camera to feel more like a tourist, and did his best to settle into the
mindset of one who simply did this as a job. Selina said a
helicopter tour was a must for a practicing cat burglar’s first day in a new
city—an idea so frighteningly smart, it bothered him. Considering how well
he knew the city just by swinging through its upper strata
at night,
considering he’d just come from Metropolis with Superman’s unique
perspective fresh in his mind, considering he himself was a
pilot
who often flew himself into new places for the first time, it was galling
that a bunch of… criminals…
could happen upon such an efficient way to get a quick, all-encompassing,
atypical perspective of a new place. He knew he wouldn’t be gaining actual insight into
Gotham, he knew every block, street and alley too well. But he welcomed the
chance to see it all in a new way, through the eyes of one who lived in a
world of speculative break-ins. What was burglary, after all, if not a
different way of using the streets and buildings? Through Tommy’s eyes, he
looked down to consider the criminal opportunities lurking in the urban
planning—the order of streets leading to and from the Gotham National Bank,
for instance… then the Sherry-Netherland... and the Excelsior Towers… He
thought through the sightlines, potential hiding places, how shadows would
be cast at different times of day… Tommy, he realized, must be one of the rarities who
grasped the elusive truth: architectural understanding is useless without
urban understanding. If you didn’t know how to get away from a crime, it was
pointless figuring out how to commit it. He noted getaway routes from the
Foundation burglar’s targets: The Mandell mansion on Fifth and the Brodland
Townhouse on 59th, the Beaufort place on the Park, and Coleman penthouse
atop a Yorke Avenue high rise that society people still called “Justine
Platt’s apartment”… His eyes darted as he looked down, mentally racing
through each escape, noting the potential hideaways, possible next turns and
preemptive roadblocks, and all the overlooked connections between distant
neighborhoods. Back on the ground, he took a more abbreviated
walking tour of the area between the Fifth Avenue mansion and the bank,
casually mapping out how a would-be burglar might escape on foot, blending
into the thick lunchtime crowd on the short walk to the subway… Despite
these weaknesses, he surmised the bank was safe enough to open a box there. He went inside and went through the process, performing an equally casual
analysis of the vault—as well as the clientele. John Blaine was coming out of
the elevator in the back… John Blaine of “Prosperity Partners,” Luthor’s dark
money outfit. Now what would Blaine be doing in Gotham, and meeting with
someone on the second floor? Batman made a mental note to research Prosperity’s
recent activity, and Tommy went about storing his bearer bonds until Selina
talked him through a larger stash point that could accommodate a wider
variety of loot. After that, it was time for his first fitting, so he made
his way back to the West Village, and after that, he took another run at
shopping. Cora Colette was the
legend Selina used with that Parisian fence Cancrelat, so unless she told
him otherwise, he decided Tommy knew her by that name from some meeting in
Europe. Without suspecting a Catwoman connection, it would still be clear
that she was a superior thief and someone he would like to impress, so now
that he knew the code, he scoured the stores for the little touches that
would make the right statement when she came over. The prizes she associated
with Tokyo had clearly made the best impression (“If
you did both, you’re Batman.”) so he
would focus on Japanese signatures. He picked up some good sandalwood
incense and, knowing her propensity to snack when she prepared a crime, some
seaweed rice crackers, shrimp chips, and in case their work sessions turned
into dinner, ippei-chan yakisoba with fish roe mayonnaise (authentic, a
savory taste of caviar, with the benefit of being nothing more than instant
noodles and safely within his culinary abilities). That left only a few technical remnants of the old
safe house/satellite cave which Selina would not appreciate but which Batman
was not going to do without.
Through six sets of dumbbell presses, Bruce
drilled on Tommy’s knowledge of Peter Paul Rubens and an oil sketch he had
taken from the corporate headquarters of
Odawara Electric.
Rubens was a
phenomenally popular artist in his own lifetime—He ran a studio employing
almost every painter in Antwerp—The sketches, like the one he’d taken, were
small oil paintings sent to the workshop as blueprints to reproduce on
larger canvases—so they were known to be done entirely by the artist’s own
hand—and they were small, light, easy to transport—the one he’d taken was
10” x 6”—easy to smuggle and easy to hide— He repositioned for seated dumbbell curls.
The one he’d
taken was Aphrodite’s Rage Against Psyche—oil on oak panel—was a late work,
1636—High Baroque composition and lighting—the fullsize canvases based on it
hang in the Museo del Prado, Uffizi and— “And the private collection of Xavier Lang,” a
familiar voice purred in the doorway. “Who also lent two imperial masks to
the Gotham Museum once upon a time. Can’t blame a girl for trying.” “You’re testing me,” Bruce graveled without slowing
his rhythm. “Lesson’s about to begin, I’m getting into character, and you
let yourself in and put on your rooftop voice, start alluding to crimes
past…” “That was a
very
good night,” she said coming into the room and, standing before his bench,
stroking the top of the right hand weight as if she were petting a cat. “And
if you can’t admit that at this late date, then I really don’t think I can
help you.” She sat facing him, straddling his legs, and traced where the bat
emblem would be as she spoke… “You’re going to need some bigger, badder
baseball stats for Batman to recite.” …then let her finger travel down his
body while her eyes held his as if mentally drawing on the mask. “Or there’s
no way Tommy is going to be able t—” In a lightning move he’d relieved himself of the
dumbbells and launched his chest into hers, propelling them both onto the
floor with her on her back and him on top as his mouth twisted into a lusty
snarl. “I’ll remind you that
Batman was the reason it was ‘a very
good night.’ Suppressing him would defeat the purpose of this conversation.” “Meow,” she said dryly. “Not good enough,” he graveled, lowering to nibble
her neck. That old rooftop voice as hot breath on her neck
produced a deep-throated purr, as always, which then resolved into a
reluctant “Mmmrwllllno, it’s really going to have to be. If you want that
first lesson.” He traced the top of her cheek where the mask ended
when she was wearing it, then gave a sad grunt. “How would Tommy react to your letting yourself in?”
he asked without changing their position. “He’s certainly not the type who
would give a woman his key.” Selina considered it—as well as the ease with which
he’d changed the subject and initiated a business conversation while they
were in an erotically charged position, a development she couldn’t help
seeing as Batman mimicking her own rooftop come-ons… which was intriguing. “That’s a good question. Since I’m sort of his mentor
right now, I guess he’d accept the situation. He knows I’m better than he
is, that’s why I’m useful. But he still wouldn’t like it, at first. I didn’t
like that you could get into my place when we started, but then it got kind
of sexy. I’d change a lock and you’d find a work around… It was hot, your
thinking that way.” “So if Tommy finds you attractive, the annoyance that
you can beat his security will be tempered by… other feelings.” Selina’s lips parted. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it,” she said,
running her fingers up his arm and the muscles that so recently bulged with
the weight of the dumbbells. “You think you can work with that kind of
conflicted feelings, stud?” “I’ll
try.” He started to get up, but she grabbed, twisted and
spun his momentum back into the floor until he was the one on his back and
she positioned enticingly on top. “What was the first big score that set you up?” she
asked in the same businesslike tone he had used. “London, the Silver Vaults,” he said, launching into
the highlights. “Good lord, that is a score,” she said when got to
the second Storr. “Wish I’d known you then, I’d have taken that baby off
your hands.” “You can, it’s in the Adam breakfront,” he said,
abandoning the Tommy performance for his Saturday at home manner. “I pulled
some old insurance listings to memorize between patrols. Figured that’s a
popular way to find targets.” “You’re still working ahead,” Selina said wearily. “And you’re getting it wrong. No, that’s not how we find targets. Insurance
can be a source of intel on security once we have a target, but we find them
on hunting trips—which we’ll start today. It was going to be tomorrow, but I
clearly have to mix it up if I’m going to stay ahead of you. Meet me at 72nd
and York in three hours… And I’m afraid this is where you start paying for
this location. You need to go through Midtown and get a couple of ties. Hermes, Asprey or Kiton, you like their ties, right?” “I do, but even if I didn’t, Tommy would if you tell
him to. My personal taste doesn’t—” “Buy
two
ties that you
like,”
she said firmly, “from two of those three stores, and meet me at the corner
of 72nd and York.” “You know there are plenty of downtown options. Fils
Précieux is the most expensive boutique in the city, 14th and 9th.” “I think you mean ‘Hai, sensei,’ don’t you?” “Ah, it’s not about the ties; it’s about carrying
bags from a few blocks away.” “It’s about being a white belt, Bruce.” “Selina, I know how to be a white belt. Taking the
term literally, it’s all I’ve ever been. Because I never stayed long enough
to become a black belt in the true sense. You know where the idea came from,
right? A belt is like an academic gown, it’s never washed. The longer you
study, the more it darkens and frays; the more you work out, the dirtier it
gets.” “And by the time it’s black, you must really know
your shit. I know, but—” “What I do,” he cut her off. “I know how to suppress
what I know, to lock it away in a corner of my mind and take my place at the
low end of the mat as a beginner.” “I see absolutely no evidence of that ability,”
Selina noted. “And as soon as I feel that click of understanding,
the box inside my mind unlocks and I begin integrating whatever technique
I’ve just learned into everything else I know. As soon as I feel the click,
I start adapting the technique to make it my own.” “Okay,” Selina bit her lip, considering this. “Okay,”
she repeated. “So what we have would seem to be a ‘premature clicking’
situation. Is there some way we could put that on a delay? You get to
thinking you understand something, can you maybe count to ten… or twelve…
thousand before you open the box?” “I doubt it.” Selina pointed to the dumbbell on the floor. “Can we talk about
the time you did six extra sets of bent over rows, three extra sets of flat
bench and three extra sets of low incline on top of six sets of triceps
extensions because you
didn’t want to come into town with me and meet Anna?” “What does that have to do with anything?” “The kind of workout
you do takes discipline—a lot—and you kept that one going much longer than
necessary because you’re stubborn. So why can’t you summon the discipline to put the mental box unlocking on a
time delay.” “Because this is
criminal behavior,” he said, a hint of the gravel creeping into his tone. “Anticipating is second nature. Say five words about the Ming Dynasty right
now, my brain will start trying to finish your sentence. You tell me people
who don’t know Chenghua or Wan-Li say ‘Ming’ like it’s Gucci or Prada, I
can’t
not think of
the Amherst Collection, Lansing, the guns, Rat Catcher and the Krugerrands. The associations are automatic.” “That doesn’t really go on in your head every time I
say ‘Ming,’ does it? I mean, my suite is in the Chinese room, there’s a
garlic head Wan-Li in the hallway outside the door. Please tell me you don’t
flash on all that every time I—” “Maybe not
every
time,” Bruce said with a lip-twitch. Then seeing she looked troubled, he
added “I’m exaggerating. But if I wasn’t, it wouldn’t be so terrible, would
it? You don’t think of me as ‘a great catch if only he wasn’t Batman’ well,
that goes both ways. Catwoman is how we met, and who I’m marrying, and—”
He was cut off by a warm, impulsive kiss, which…
continued… and deepened… a little more… and… no, a little more… ki breathing
techniques engaged… and tricks employed for underwater escapes… and
eventually resolved in a moaning sigh, and a lot of panting. “So there’s no way to put the Bat-brain on a time
delay,” she murmured against his mouth. “Not
reliably,”
he murmured back, pressing his forehead against hers. “Though that thing you
just did has a good track record slowing it down.” “Meow.” Dual labored breaths continued. “So you’ll
get a tie?” “Hai, sensei,” Bruce managed. “72nd and York.” “Hai, sensei… Three hours.” “Great, I’ll see you there. Enjoy the traffic.”
To be continued…
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