The officer unclipped the key ring, selected the right key and unlocked the thick door. Badoya and Commissioner Gordon waited in the hallway as Batman stepped through. In the shadowy cell he looked for all the world like a giant bat.
* * *
The door softly clanged shut behind him.
He stood there for a moment, surveying the spartan ten-by-twenty-foot cell. A simple overhead light hung from the ceiling over a metal table that was built into the concrete wall. The Joker sat, most of his features hidden in the gloom beyond the beam from the light. He was playing a game of solitaire. Behind him a bunk bed, also connected to the wall, was unmade.
As Batman grasped the back of the only other chair in the room, he wondered what sort of dreams haunted the man. Did he even sleep that much? Judging from the reports, the answer was no.
Then again, if the masked manhunter got four hours’ sleep in the early morning hours, it was as if he’d taken the day off and slept in. In the Joker’s case, he considered, that unbalanced mind was always too busy working out some fantastic endeavor that would cause mayhem and panic. Batman and Gordon had discussed at length the fact that most of the Joker’s crimes were motivated, not by profit, but by pure effect. Many of them were as insane as their creator.
Once he had used a derivative of his Joker venom to mutate the fish in Gotham Harbor. He and his henchmen turned them pasty white with features like his own; red-lipped stretched death’s-head grins. After an initial panic the fish turned out not to be poisonous as the Joker sought to patent the process, thinking he would get a cut for all of the fish sold in Gotham.
Another time he sought violent revenge on five former members of his gang who in one way or the other had betrayed him. This forced Batman to protect people he’d ordinarily be hunting. Still another time he’d built three-story-high jack-in-the-boxes and positioned them in several locations around Gotham City. When the huge grinning clown heads popped out on giant springs, shards of glass spewed forth from their smiling mouths. Dozens of people had been injured, often blinded when the glass slit their eyes. More than a few had died.
The Joker sometimes called such schemes “gags.”
Big joke.
Yet here he sat, calmly playing a card game, his namesake card prominently displayed. There was an empty card box on the bed marked “Apex Playing Cards.”
The masked man moved the chair over to the table and sat opposite the cell’s occupant. So far, the Clown Prince of Crime hadn’t acknowledged his presence, but that wasn’t uncharacteristic of him. In truth, nothing about him could be called “characteristic.” The one constant with the Ace of Knaves was his unpredictability.
Ranting one moment, then coolly calculating the next. Whatever weird, delusional logic guided him, it was his alone. He allowed no one a glimpse behind the wall of his madness. Numerous attempts had been made to ascertain what was going on inside of his head, in the hope that they might derive a methodology that would help him. Those efforts had failed.
Nevertheless, Batman acknowledged, here he was.
The triangle of light bathed the table and cards in a yellow glow. Their torsos and hands clearly visible, both men remained with their heads and shoulders in shadow. Hints of the light glinted off the Joker’s wildly unkempt green hair and the points of Batman’s cowl. The Joker regarded the two of clubs in his hand, holding it aloft for a beat as if for dramatic effect… then he played it.
Fnap. Card against card.
“Hello,” Batman said evenly. “I came to talk.”
No response.
The Joker played a jack of clubs. Fnap. Water dripped intermittently from the faucet, part of the cell’s built-in metal sink. The drips weren’t regularly spaced, Batman noted. Rather they occurred randomly. A perfect metaphor for the actions of the cell’s inhabitant; a rational man would have given up on this agent of chaos long ago.
“I’ve been thinking lately. About you and me.”
Again, no reaction from his arch-nemesis dressed in an inmate’s drab gray shirt and pants. Where others had their last names on a patch sewn where a breast pocket would have been, for him it was just his cell number.
“About what’s going to happen to us in the end.”
It was warm in the cell, yet the man’s pale skin was perfectly dry. It was an oddity Batman had observed over the years. For instance, he’d encountered the Joker dressed in wool coats when the temperature was in the nineties, and there had been no perspiration on that pasty face of his. Perhaps it was a weird byproduct of whatever it was that had transformed him.
“We’re going to kill each other, aren’t we?”
Fnap.
The Joker played another card, loudly slapping it on a pile of others. Batman gritted his teeth, his broad shoulders sagging imperceptibly. Why try? What could have motivated him to do this? The man had kidnapped children and left them scarred for life, if he didn’t snuff them out for a lark. All without the slightest hint of remorse. Had he been born that way, or had some horrible incident made him what he was now? Was he tormented by the death of a loved one, as young Bruce Wayne had been that momentous night?
Even after all his training, all the good he’d done, he could never shake the slow-motion images, snippets of which replayed themselves each time he put on the uniform of his alter ego. It might happen as well when he was exercising, or watching a news show, simply to see what was going on in the world.
Or just the other day, when the sky was overcast and the rain a day away, cold wind buffeting the windows. He’d been sitting in his maple-paneled study, going over a sheaf of Wayne Enterprises paperwork listening to one of Bach’s sacred cantatas, “Ach Gott, wie manches Herzeleid.” It was melancholy music to match his melancholy mood.
The tragedy that shaped his life had rippled up from his subconscious as he sat there, working through the events when he and Barbara had raided Maxie Zeus’s lair. Not unlike the Joker, Zeus was his own form of warped self-image, having styled himself on the Greek god of thunder. Entirely unlike the Joker, however, the gangster’s motivations, based on grandeur and greed, were readily understandable.
Maybe that was what had brought him here.
After the Zeus mission, he’d felt somehow off-balance—though he would never admit it. Not to Batgirl, not to Nightwing. It was as if he’d begun to question his perceptions, that the arena in which he operated had shifted. He’d been thrown off, and he knew he had to regain his balance.
His dealings with the likes of Clayface, Poison Ivy, even relatively inconsequential criminals like the Zodiac Master all boiled down to one core objective—to eradicate their kind once and for all. To restore order, at least enough that the normal denizens of the city could go about their lives without worrying that homicidal vines might suddenly erupt through the floor, or a pint-sized wooden puppet might open fire in a public space.
Such a mission demanded absolute focus.
Yet Barbara didn’t seem thrown off balance. As Batgirl she approached this burden of the never-ending mission in cavalier fashion, and still got the job done. Who was he to impose his single-minded brand of morality on a colleague? Dick, too, was more likely to accompany action with a sarcastic remark. And like Batgirl, when the situation demanded it he remained focused and disciplined. He was proud too that Dick Grayson had segued from his role as Robin to become Nightwing, leader of the Teen Titans.
* * *
Focus, Batman reminded himself. Focus on the task at hand.
“Perhaps you’ll kill me,” he said, his voice offering no hint of his internal conflict. “Perhaps I’ll kill you. Perhaps sooner. Perhaps later.” He paused, but still there was no response. “I just wanted to know that I’d made a genuine attempt to talk things over and avert that outcome. Just once.”
The Joker played another card. Thudding his gloved fists on the table, Batman again gritted his teeth, fighting the frustration roiling within him.
“Are you listening to me?” he demanded. “It’s lif
e and death that I’m discussing here. Maybe my death…”
The Joker flipped over another card. Batman’s hand shot out and he gripped the Joker by the wrist. He wasn’t going to be dismissed.
“Maybe yours.” He withdrew his gloved grip, pointing an accusing finger at his opposite. That got a reaction. The Joker glared at him from the shadows, holding his hand upright next to his face, gripping it with the other as if offended that Batman had dared to touch him.
“I don’t fully understand why ours should be such a fatal relationship,” the cowled man continued, “but I don’t want your murder on my…
“…hands…”
Batman stared at his palms. Stark against the dark blue of his glove, streaks of white greasepaint stood out.
That’s not possible. The Joker’s white did not come off.
The defiant gleam left the Joker’s eyes.
Batman lunged across the table in one smooth motion. The Joker didn’t flinch. He just sat there, seeming almost… unplugged. His eyes went wide.
Fear.
Batman put his hand to the Joker’s face.
“Don’t,” the person who wasn’t the Joker said, his monotone voice almost too soft to hear. The voice was wrong. The Joker had a particular lilt to his speech patterns. There was no mistaking it. That voice echoed in his nightmares.
“Don’t you touch me!” the man hissed between clenched teeth. “You’re not allowed to…” The white came away on Batman’s fingertips, leaving streaks of flesh exposed beneath them.
“… touch me.”
He pulled the gray-garbed inmate into the cone of light. Stark terror reflected in the man’s expression as Batman stared at him with unbridled fury. Cunning, ruthlessness, twisted mirth, those attributes he’d seen in the Joker’s eyes. Not confusion. Never. This was an imposter—but it meant his long-time adversary was gone. Gripping the man by the front of his shirt, pulling him close until they were nose-to-nose, he uttered a growl.
“Where is he?”
“Aaaaaa! Oh, God, no…” the man pleaded.
“Do you realize?” Batman said, his baritone voice echoing through the tightly confined space. “Do you realize what you’ve set free?” Guttural, almost too low to hear clearly, he repeated, “Where is he?”
“Get him offa me!” the pretender screamed. Then came unintelligible gurgles from his throat. He became stony and frozen, near catatonic.
* * *
“Dear God, he’s gone berserk,” Gordon said, hearing the screams from his position outside the cell. He was surprised at how matter-of-fact he sounded. An acknowledgment that deep down he always knew the man who donned the garb of a walking bat didn’t have both feet planted solidly in the sane world. “Open that door, man,” he commanded Badoya.
His hand shaking slightly, looking as if that was the last thing he wanted to do, the officer got the key in the lock and turned. Belying a man of his years, Gordon felt a burst of adrenaline and easily slammed the door open. In the cell the bat loomed over its helpless prey.
“Okay, that’s enough!” Gordon barked. “You know the laws regarding mistreatment of inmates as well as I do! If you harm one hair on his head—” He peered at the man the Dark Knight held, and choked off the rest of the words. Oh, God… not again. The wall-to-wall media saturation would itself be maddening.
Batman straightened and turned toward the two as if they were interlopers on his private keep of the depraved. In his upraised hand he held a green wig.
“Commissioner,” he said to the shocked top cop, “if you’re concerned about it, it’s yours. Take care of it.” His mouth a tight thin line below the cowl, he tossed the wig aside and returned his attention to the pretend Clown of Chaos.
“Now, you whimpering little smear of slime, I’m going to ask you politely just one more time…” He paused to let the words sink in.
“Where is he?”
TEN DAYS BEFORE
3
The golden light of late afternoon settled over the city. Its warm tones shone into the third-floor office of Antonio “Python” Palmares who sat in his plush chair, eyeing the marvelous figure of the woman before him as she mixed his vodka tonic at the wet bar. A metal attaché case rested next to the chair.
The woman making his drink had big hair, wore a wide-belted leopard print jumpsuit as if she was heading out to the disco, and tall heels. On the floor below them, standing and working at long tables were numerous other women, dressed in their underwear and assembling glassine packets of Palmares’ newest product, Giggle Sniff. The packets of green twinkling powder had been stamped with a logo showing a black oval with an open white grinning mouth.
The women were dressed that way to make certain nobody was trying to rip Palmares off, and that they didn’t take home a tell-tale chemical smell on their clothes. It pervaded that floor even though the lab area was well ventilated.
Thanks to the profit margin on the drug he’d introduced to Gotham City, the up-and-coming gangster paid a decent living wage. He was of the opinion that money made for better loyalty than fear—though he wasn’t shy about regulating when the need arose.
With high cheekbones and slicked-back black hair long at the nape of his neck, Palmares wore sharkskin slacks, Italian loafers, no socks, and his pastel dress shirt was untucked, the top three buttons undone. A small ornate hinged heart inlaid with ivory hung around his neck on a silvery chain. The stubble on his chin had been dutifully barbered for just the right three-days’-growth look. Part of his python tattoo was visible. The elaborate skin art done in the style of Japanese prints encircled some of his front torso and all of his back.
There was a soft knock at the office’s padded double doors.
“Come in,” he said.
In stepped yet another woman. She was bespectacled and professional in a charcoal gray Chanel business suit. Her hair was cut short and her glasses complemented the fine bones in her face, her fashion model lips set in a line.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
Big Hair gave her the once-over, but said nothing.
“Here you go, Wanda,” Palmares said, rising.
Wanda Washawski took the aluminum attaché case in hand, nodding her head curtly toward the gang boss. There was half-a-million in 100s in the case.
“Very good, Mr. Palmares.”
“See you soon.”
“I look forward to it.” She turned and walked out.
Palmares eagerly watched the prim woman’s backside undulate under her clothes as she left his office. She was some kind of fineass money laundering accountant, he reflected gleefully.
Big Hair brought his drink over, taking a sip first then handing it to him. She sat on his lap and began massaging his muscular chest with her red-nailed hand. She had a vacant look on her face as Palmares began unbuttoning her blouse.
The doors banged open.
“Frankie, what’d I tell you about knocking first?” Palmares blared. It was Frankie Bones, born Franklyn Marris.
“Couldn’t be helped, boss,” Bones said. “One of the lab rats ingested some powder and is going apeshit down there. Figured you’d want to hear about it.”
Palmares shot up, upsetting the woman. She stuck out her hand in time to break her fall to the floor. Being a pro, she didn’t complain. Palmares was helping big time on her rent.
By the time she regained her feet, he had already crossed to the door.
“You got somebody handling this right?” he demanded. “He suck in the straight venom?”
“Naw,” Bones said, “it was diluted, but he sneezed when he was mixing a batch and he took in too much.”
“Well, get him calmed the hell down or croak him, one or the other,” Palmares said. He regained his composure and headed toward the door. “Can’t have him running around outside and calling attention to us.”
“I hear that,” Bones said as the two exited.
“Be back in a few,” Palmares called over his shoulder. “Help yourself to whatever,
Suzi.”
* * *
Standing under the skylight, its glass grimy with city soot and pigeon droppings, Susan Klosmeyer with the big hair, who went by Suzi Mustang when on stage, buttoned up her shirt. It was chilly in here, even given the sunlight.
Stepping back over to the wet bar, she made herself a drink, and then moved to the window, hoping the direct sun would warm her up. She watched as in the distance a small jet banked in the sky and headed out toward the water.
When Palmares returned, she would have to restore the mood. Had to keep him happy and satisfied if this was going to work. Being arm candy for a gangster was harder work than shaking her ass for catcalls and dollar bills at the Lacy Pony, or the occasional skin mag shoot. She had to have the opportunity to hustle Giggle Sniff. It was all part of her self-improvement plan, she reminded herself.
* * *
The unique plane Suzi Mustang saw in the sky banked again as it came in over Gotham Bay, on its course to the Springer mountain range. Set on whisper mode, it hardly made a sound. Bearing the same nose ornament as the Batmobile, the jet was piloted by Bruce Wayne’s so-called butler, the ex-SAS soldier Alfred Pennyworth.
“Good luck you two,” Pennyworth said in his British accent as he worked the controls. “Any last-minute requests?”
“How about some of those delicious three-cheese grilled sandwiches of yours when we get back, Alfie?” Batgirl spoke while fastening her rig. The man who was far more than a butler sighed dramatically.
“And I suppose you’d like some of my Mexican sweetcorn succotash to go with that, Ms. Gordon?”
“That would be yummy.”
“Focus,” Batman said, tamping down his annoyance.
“Always.” Batgirl grinned broadly, enhancing his irritation.
“Bringing her around now,” Pennyworth said, veering the aircraft and dipping down into a cotton candy fluff of low-hanging clouds. With the flick of a switch he opened the rear hatch, and the two jumped from the plane. As it sped quickly away, they descended silently on the western side of the range that overlooked Blackgate Prison. The facility was located on its own outcropping, safely away from the city proper—but it wasn’t their objective.
DC Comics novels--Batman Page 2
