Bruce walked over to his aquarium, and reached into the replica of Wayne Manor in the middle of the exotic fish. He fished out a key from an upper bedroom window.
Alfred frowned at the TV. “I’m less worried about this ghastly, grotesque—more concerned about repairing the Batmobile. It’s not as though we can simply bring it to Joe’s Body Shop. Is it, sir?”
Bruce glanced up at the butler. Look who was worried about security.
“Hey, who let Vicki Vale into the Batcave?” he asked with a smile and a shake of his head. “I’m sitting there working, I turn around, it’s like, ‘Oh, hi, Vick. C’mon in.’ ”
The butler did nothing more than raise an eyebrow. Sometimes, Bruce wondered who exactly was in charge around here.
But there were other, more interesting things to wonder about. “Selina,” Bruce mused as he shook the water off his wrist. “More facets than Vicki, huh?” He walked over to an Iron Maiden in another corner of the room. “Funny, but sort of mysterious—”
Alfred nodded curtly. “That’s your own affair, sir.”
Was it really? Whenever Alfred allowed his employer to have an opinion—rather than curtly commenting upon his mistakes—it meant the butler actually approved of Bruce’s latest interest.
And Bruce Wayne always held Alfred’s opinions in the highest regard.
“Affair,” he murmured. “Yes, maybe—if she—”
He let the rest of the sentence hang as he placed the key in the maiden’s lock and turned. It sprang open to reveal its deadly spikes. Bruce stepped inside.
“I believe I’ll take the stairs,” Alfred commented dryly.
The spikes retreated and the bottom dropped out from under Bruce.
He was on his way to the Batcave.
And The Penguin was on his way to a surprise.
Bruce jumped from the chute that had brought him from the mansion above. He pulled out the recordable CD that he had taken from the Batmobile, and inserted it into his specially modified player.
Alfred came puffing down the stairs behind him. The Penguin was displayed in all his glory on the large monitor that dominated this corner of the cave. He droned on with his never-ending speech.
“You ask, am I up here for personal glory?” The Penguin asked.
That was it, Bruce thought. Keep on talking until I can get the equipment set up properly and Alfred can determine the frequency. He flipped a whole bank of switches.
“Ha!” Cobblepot barked. “I toiled for many years in happy obscurity, beneath your boulevards.”
In the meantime, Alfred toiled as well. He sat down at his own console, and punched up the FIND FREQUENCY command. The computers only took a few seconds to respond with FREQUENCY FOUND. They had the signal. Now, all they needed was to make a few minor adjustments, and those modifications Batman had made to the Gotham Plaza public address system should soon become apparent.
“No,” The Penguin continued, oblivious to the fun that was to come, “the glory I yearn to recapture is the glory of Gotham!”
Alfred punched in another command, JAM FREQUENCY.
“How can this be accomplished?” The Penguin continued grandly. “I know you’re all concerned.”
FREQUENCY JAMMED. That’s what it said on Alfred’s computer.
It was time to play.
The Penguin was on a roll. He had all the birds and babes in Gotham in the palm of his flipper!
“—the glory of Gotham!” he shouted.
Everybody cheered.
“How can this be accomplished?” he called.
“Tell us!” they called back. “We want to know, Oswald!”
“I know you’re all concerned,” he continued, “and I’ll tell you!”
There was no response. His microphone had gone dead.
Certainly, it was only a momentary glitch in the communications system. Max’s people would have it fixed in a jiffy. The Penguin decided to repeat the last sentence, just to see if he’d get any results.
“I know—” he began.
His voice boomed back at him: “Hey, just relax and I’ll take care of the squealing, wretched, pinhead puppets of Gotham!”
The Penguin stared at the microphone.
“Wait a sec—” he sputtered. “I didn’t say that!”
At least, he hadn’t said it since last night, when he was talking to Batman.
Last night? Batman?
But nobody could hear his real voice anymore. Instead, his recorded voice boomed on.
“You gotta admit, I’ve played this stinking city like a harp from hell!”
But those remarks were strictly off the record! Not, of course, that he didn’t mean them, but not in front of the babes!
The crowd was booing now, and throwing things! His campaign workers were backing away from him. The Penguin turned and glared at Max. How could he allow something like this to happen?
Perhaps it was time to rethink his campaign.
Bruce Wayne allowed himself a smile.
The crowd was reacting just as he’d hoped they would, angry that The Penguin had deceived them. And The Penguin, not the most stable of individuals, was getting angry right back at them!
What could Bruce do now but raise the stakes?
He punched a series of buttons and placed his palm on the CD, letting the computer single out that special phrase. Here it was.
“This stinking city—” and again, “stinking city—stinking city—stink-stink-stinking city—” Just like a DJ at one of those downtown clubs. Penguin, how do you like that rap?
“—stink-stink—”
Hey, it had a beat. And who said Batman wasn’t up-to-date?
The Penguin fell back from the microphone, spinning around, almost losing his balance.
“—stink-stink—stinking city—”
Somebody hit him with a snowball, lettuce, tomatoes.
And the performance went on.
“—stink—stinking—stink—”
It was music to Bruce’s ears.
The Penguin had to get out of this place.
He grabbed his umbrella. Now, if he could get the rotor motor working.
But wait! He’d brought the wrong umbrella for escape. Why, after all, would he have to escape from his adoring crowd? The Penguin squawked bitterly. Say something bad about Gotham, belittle the populace a little, and how soon things change!
This black number The Penguin held now had another function entirely.
People threw more things at the stage. And, even worse, some of the missiles were finding The Penguin. Rotten fruit, vegetables, eggs?
“Why is there always someone who brings eggs and tomatoes to a speech?” he cried aloud.
He guessed it was just a part of the American Way. Well, he carried another part of that inalienable dream in his umbrella: the right to bear arms.
He lifted his bumbershoot and sprayed bullets into the crowd.
Turn on me, will you, Gotham City?
Somehow, this just seemed to make the audience more upset. The Penguin decided it was time to head for cooler climes.
He jumped from the stage, heading out of the plaza and toward the park. A number of the good citizens gave chase.
Oh, dear. He didn’t want to encourage a mob scene. He managed to leap a park bench, but the Gothamites were gaining. He turned and gave them another taste of lead.
Still, his machine umbrella didn’t have a limitless amount of ammunition. And cops were showing up, returning his fire!
He had to get out of here.
That bridge, ahead, looked awfully familiar. Almost like it was out of a storybook someplace, a quaint stone bridge nestled in the woods above a rushing stream. Except the Penguin thought this particular story was much more personal: He had visions of a baby carriage, and another fall, a long time ago.
The Penguin jumped, losing himself in the icy waters of the river below, and the sewer beyond that he called home.
So much for politics.
Now it was ti
me to get down to his real business.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Penguin trudged out of the sewer pipe. He was wet, bedraggled, and humiliated, but he was home. He kept his eyes low, partially perhaps from dejection, but also from self-preservation. You never knew quite what the sewers held.
He banged into something. He looked up. It was his rubber-duck boat. Yes, he could use this in his plans, too, those same plans he’d let Max and his own foolishness lead him away from. What did he care about babes? When the time came, The Penguin would take all the babes he wanted, and there would be no one to stop him!
He jumped into the boat and revved it over the sewage lagoon to his arctic island. There, ahead, were the penguins, his penguins, squawking and playing.
The Penguin smiled despite his pain.
“My babies,” he murmured. “Did you miss me?”
The penguins seemed to squawk in reply. He drove his duck up to the dock as he saw the first few members of the Red Triangle Circus Gang enter his lair through the main tunnel. He guessed things got a little bit too hot for them, too, after his speech. Or the speech that Batman made for him.
There were debts to be paid, when the time came.
The clown waved and bounded over to The Penguin as he climbed from his craft.
“Great speech, Oswald!” his grease-painted crony said with a laugh. “The way you told those rubes the score!”
Penguin smacked the clown on the head with his umbrella.
“My name’s not Oswald,” he barked, “it’s The Penguin!” Yeah, he thought. That was more like it. “I am not a human being!” he continued. “I’m an animal! Cold blooded! Crank the A.C.!”
He pulled off his tuxedo coat and those damned gloves. Ah, how good it felt for his flippers to be free! It was time to get cold.
“Where’s my list?” he demanded. “Bring me the names!”
With that, the Knife Lady entered the lair, carrying a great stack of yellow legal pads with all the information he’d gathered, courtesy of the Hall of Records and the Gotham City phone book.
“It’s time!” He chortled with glee, hopping from one foot to the other. For this was the night of Max’s party, the social event of the season, and all his victims would be unprotected. Yes, indeed. “Gotham will never forget.”
He tore off the top page and handed it to the first of his minions, then the second page to another.
“Evan Black,” read an acrobat who’d taken a page, “181 Shepard’s Lane?”
“Thomas Frankel?” the clown chimed in from the page he now held, “273 Carlton Avenue?”
The Penguin decided he’d better spell it out for all of them.
“These are the firstborn sons of Gotham City!” he cried to the assembled gang. “Like I was! And just like me, a terrible fate waits for them! Tonight, while their parents party, they’ll be dreaming away in their safe cribs, their soft beds, and we will snatch them”—he closed his flippers into an approximation of fists—“carry them into the sewer”—he danced merrily over to the water’s edge—“and toss them into a deep, dark, watery grave!”
Some of the gang members muttered at that. A few even exchanged looks. The acrobat who’d taken the first yellow page looked to his boss.
“Ummm, Penguin?” he said hesitantly. “I mean—kids? Sleeping? Isn’t that a little—”
The Penguin lofted his sleek black umbrella and shot the acrobat dead. Not to mention to pieces.
“No,” he finished the other’s sentence dryly, “it’s a lot.”
The rest of the Red Triangle Circus Gang managed a hasty cheer. Good. Showed just what a little well-placed discipline could do.
Not to mention a few well-placed bullets.
There were certain duties a butler never approved of. Still, a duty was a duty, and could not be forgotten until it was fulfilled. So it was that Alfred took the invitation down to the Batcave to remind his employer.
Master Bruce was hard at work on the undercarriage of the Batmobile, which still looked like a total shambles. Alfred would not be surprised if it took weeks to get the vehicle in proper working order.
Alfred cleared his throat. Bruce looked up from his work, and the butler proffered the invitation. He held it as far away from himself as possible. He wished he didn’t have to hold it at all.
“Mr. Wayne,” Alfred managed. “A reminder. Tonight is that loathsome party, hosted by that failed kingmaker, Max Shreck. May we RSVP in the resounding negative?”
His employer paused for a moment before responding. “I’m tempted, but”—he frowned—“well, it is an occasion for celebration, and—ummmm”—his frown changed to the slightest of smiles—“Selina will probably be there.”
Oh, dear. There were certain more important things, then, than snubbing kingmakers.
“Ah,” Alfred replied. He regarded his employer for an instant. “Who, may I ask, are you going as?”
But Bruce only smiled enigmatically.
“You’ll never guess.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
This, at least, would come out right.
These last few days had not been among the best for Max Shreck. First, there was that little altercation with Selina. Unfortunate how Max’s temper could sometimes get the better of him. It was very fortunate she survived her tumble from the tower, he supposed, although the fall did seem to have done something to her brain. Perhaps it would be better, after the holiday season was past, to have her removed. Permanently. Except this time Max would have the job done by outside professionals. He was much too big a man to get personally involved in that sort of thing anymore.
And what about The Penguin? Max had thought he had seen opportunity knocking with the little birdman, but unfortunately, his chosen candidate appeared to have even more screws loose than the average politician. At least now that The Penguin had been disgraced and was the subject of a massive police manhunt, he and his threats were out of Max’s life for good.
So now it was time for the big party, time for holiday cheer, time to forget the old and embrace the new. And it was a time for renewal, and a new year to finally get his special power plant under construction.
Yes, there had been some pitfalls along the way, but Max had successfully avoided them all. And he wanted to show he was still here, and still kicking. What better way to do that than hold his annual Max-squerade in the recently bombed department store, patched up and lit like a nightclub for this occasion?
Sometimes, Max was so clever he surprised even himself.
He had dressed himself in a special turban headdress for tonight’s party. Just like a swami who knows all. And the guests started to arrive in droves. He saw someone dressed as the leaning tower of Pisa, another dressed as the sinking of the Titanic.
But, with all the varied costumes, it was telling that there wasn’t a single penguin. How fickle the public was in Gotham City!
Max climbed up on the platform. It was time for the party to begin.
“Attention, shoppers!” he called into the microphone.
A number of the guests laughed appreciatively. They’d better, with what this was costing Max. But, hey, the goodwill this generated, especially among certain Gotham City departments and commissions! A party was always worthwhile when it got officials to look the other way.
“Like this splendid department store,” Max continued, “Gotham can quickly bounce back from the tumult, the sturm and drang of the past days.” He lifted both his hands above his head and waved to the crowd. “So deck the halls and shake your booties!”
The band behind him launched into a tune with a heavy beat, and a number of the guests obligingly crowded the makeshift dance floor.
Max spotted the mayor, wearing a Julius Caesar toga, complete with rubber knife handles and a lot of fake blood. Max lifted his drink in a toast to the mayor with his best “forgive me” smile. The Mayor nodded noncommittally. Still, the very fact that His Honor had attended meant he realized how much he needed Max Shreck’s
money, power, and influence.
Max turned to stare at the another newcomer who stood out in the crowd.
It was Bruce Wayne. Obviously. Because Bruce Wayne had come dressed as himself.
Well, no matter what Wayne decided to do, Max decided he should be the gracious host. Especially considering Wayne’s money, power, and influence.
“Ingenious costume,” Max remarked as he shook Wayne’s hand. “Let me guess—trust fund goody-goody?”
But Wayne wasn’t in the mood for banter. “Of course you’re feeling fine,” he replied with a frown. “You almost made a monster the mayor of Gotham City.”
What was this Bruce Wayne talking about? Didn’t he realize all that Penguin business was part of the past?
Max took a deep breath. “I am the light of this city. And I am its mean, twisted soul. Does it really matter who’s the mayor?”
Wayne regarded him coolly. “You know what? It does to me.”
“Yawn,” Max replied. It was time to find more interesting conversation.
There was something about Max Shreck’s money-can-fix-anything attitude that brought out Bruce’s most self-righteous instincts. He found the man extremely unpleasant. For a moment Bruce Wayne thought it was a mistake to come here.
Then he saw Selina.
She wasn’t dressed in costume either, unless her costume was Selina Kyle. Heck, with a face and figure like that, why should she want to hide it?
Bruce quickly crossed the dance floor in her direction. She was talking to Chip Shreck, who was dressed like some soldier from ancient Rome. Or, rather, Chip was talking to her.
“Selina,” Chip said in what almost sounded like awe. “Ms. Kyle. May I have this—”
Bruce stepped in, and Selina looked at him as if Chip Shreck didn’t even exist.
He smiled at her. She smiled back. The band started to play something slow. Somehow, they were in each other’s arms and dancing.
“Sorry about yesterday,” he said quickly. “Some big deal came together—” No, that wasn’t what he’d told Alfred to say. “—uh, no, fell through, and—” Or was that what he told the butler to say? Bruce couldn’t remember.
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