“Absolutely,” she reassured him.
“Cool,” he answered. “See you then.” There was a click, and the kid was gone.
The line fell silent. Still, he hadn’t heard a second click, one that would have signaled Cathy’s departure. Was it possible? Was she still there? Would he have yet one more chance to turn the game around and pick up where he’d left off? He pressed his ear hard against the receiver, as though that might improve his hearing.
He heard her take a deep breath. “You’re a bastard . . . a sadistic bastard,” she said in a measured, somehow confident voice. “What did I ever do to you? I called this line to have some fun! Because I wanted to be something I’m not! I look at myself in the mirror everyday. I can see what I am! I don’t need a jerk like you to tell me. But what the hell’s wrong with playing some other part once in a while?”
He was about to answer her, but the question turned out to be a rhetorical one. A click, and she, too, was gone. He was alone.
It was hopeless. He hung up the phone. He’d lost the game. The goddamned surfer punk had done it. It was all his fault. He wished he could shove his fist down the punk’s throat and tear out his beer-bloated teenaged belly. He knew where they were. He had the address. He wanted to go to that party so badly he could taste it. Wanted to enter the house with his trusty Uzi in hand and mow them all down. Let God sort out which one was Cathy and which one was that damned punk.
But he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t afford to be seen on the streets. Not now. Not yet. They all thought he was dead. If someone—a cab driver, a pedestrian, anyone—should identify him, the hunt would start all over again. And he wasn’t prepared for that. All he could do was stay here. Sit in this hotel room, while the woman whose life he’d come so close to destroying discovered the meaning of life all over again.
God, it was depressing.
Nothing had gone as planned. Not even the slightest thrill was afforded him by that humorless God upstairs. He couldn’t do anything right. He closed his eyes tight in the darkness, feeling tears welling up inside him. His life was a waste. There was only one cure for it.
He reached under his bed and groped around between mattress and boxspring until he felt the cool polished wood handle in his hand. He pulled it out and held the gun gingerly.
He snapped off the safety. Pulled back the trigger. Heard it click into place. Pressed the barrel against his temple. Squeezed the trigger.
He heard the pop! sound as the rolled-up flag with the word “Bang!” on it unfurled and bounced against his head. It smarted. But it felt good.
He laughed himself to sleep.
The Fifty-third Card
Henry Slesar
POLICE NAB ARMORED CAR BANDITS
ARSON SUSPECTED IN WAREHOUSE FIRE
GOTHAM BANK ROBBERS ESCAPE
BUT LEAVE LOOT BEHIND
22 DIE IN CRASH OF CHARTERED BUS
Commissioner Gordon scanned the front page of the Gotham Gazette with the grim satisfaction of a general studying the map of a battle zone. These communiqués from the front line didn’t mean the endless war against crime was being won, but at least the forces of law and order were holding their own, and at a time when the Commissioner feared the possibility of an underworld blitzkrieg. The explanation for his concern was simple enough. Batman was on holiday.
Gordon didn’t begrudge the Caped Crusader some respite from the combat zones of Gotham City. If anyone deserved some R and R it was that dedicated daredevil who had slammed the iron doors of justice in so many evil faces. In a way, the Commissioner welcomed the opportunity. While he freely admitted Batman’s contribution to the low crime rate, there was no doubt in his mind that his capeless but competent police forces were capable of protecting the public, without the necessity of flashing the Bat-Signal across the heavens of Gotham City.
Of course, it helped to know that master criminals like the Joker hadn’t been heard from in weeks. And judging from the conventional caliber of crimes and disasters reported in the local press, it looked as if that Grinning Ghoul was still licking his wounds from his last encounter with Batman. With a sigh of relief, the Commissioner turned to the sports pages. His mood changed when he saw that Gotham’s pitching ace, Les Kovacs, had been assaulted with four home runs by the Cubs the night before.
That was how his daughter Barbara discovered him, muttering into his morning coffee. She laughed when she learned the reason.
“Is that all?” she said. “I thought sure it was something in the headlines.”
“I know, I know,” he growled. “You expect me to go to pieces just because Batman decided to take some time off. You don’t think I can keep this town under control without him?”
“I never said any such thing.” She locked her arms about his neck and kissed his bald spot. “But I also notice,” she said mischievously, “that you haven’t told anyone about Batman’s little vacation.”
“No use tempting Providence,” Gordon said, “Batman himself asked me to keep it quiet. He also said that he could still be reached in the case of a real emergency. He gave me a number to call, told me just to leave my name. Peculiar number . . . it has an area code I can’t identify.”
“But if I know you,” Barbara said, flipping back to the front page, “you won’t call him because of stories like these. It would have to be an atomic bomb threat or an invasion from Mars . . .” But she was frowning over the paper now, and Gordon looked at her curiously.
“What is it? Read about someone you know?”
“No,” she said. “Not personally. But these musicians who were killed . . . The Bobby Armstrong Band. They played at Kate Allenby’s debutante ball, just a year ago . . .”
“I don’t remember reading anything about musicians.”
“It’s right here. The bus accident.”
“Oh, that.”
“Don’t be so callous, Daddy.” She scanned the story rapidly. “They went through a guardrail on the highway. All those poor broken bodies strewn among their instruments. It’s just awful.”
“I wasn’t being callous, baby.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “Life is full of accidents, unfortunately, and there isn’t too much we can do about them. But crime is something we can do something about—which means it’s time for me to get to that office.”
He didn’t give another thought to the dead musicians on his drive to Police Headquarters. There was too much else to think about, including his daughter’s ill-concealed concern about his ability to handle the Batmanless days ahead. But it was almost a week since the Night Creature had appeared in his study to announce his departure, and no catastrophe had befallen Gotham City. With any luck, that odd telephone number in the Commissioner’s wallet would never be used . . .
There were two things Commissioner Gordon didn’t know about that number. One was the fact that the “area code” was actually a United States satellite signal. The second was that any message reaching that number would be conveyed to the newly established Moonbase One, where a group of prominent investors had gathered to formulate a plan for private development of the moon’s mineral wealth. “Batman” wasn’t among them, but Bruce Wayne was. The caped figure was being lightly ironic as he told the Commissioner about his forthcoming “Vacation.” It may have been a holiday for Batman, but for Bruce Wayne it was strictly business.
Gordon had often wondered about the economics that allowed Batman to pursue his nonprofit career. Once he had even made a tentative suggestion about public funding, but Batman had disdained the idea. If Gordon had known his true identity, he would have realized that Bruce Wayne’s fortune supported his crime fighting mission handily. But even crime-fighting was inflationary. The equipment in the Batcave alone, including its state-of-the-art supercomputer, was worth more than a hundred million dollars. Bruce Wayne had good reason to keep expanding his fortune. He was Batman’s sole support.
There was the usual stack of messages on his desk when Gordon arrived, and the first three wid
ened the slightly self-satisfied smile he had worn all morning. The crime laboratory had concluded that the warehouse fire had, indeed, been arson, and the second message told him that the owner had confessed to insurance fraud. The third message concerned the capture of the hapless bank robbers who had become too unnerved to take the loot with them. The fourth, however, wiped the smile from the Commissioner’s face. It was an accident report that read:
Gas main explosion at Yacht Club social hall. Fourteen dead, all rehearsing musicians.
It was the last word that troubled him.
Musicians.
He was thinking about Barbara as he picked up the phone and called Matt Stampfli, the deputy assigned to the Accident Division. Matt wasn’t there, however, so his assistant recited the meager details available.
“There was a big annual dance scheduled for tonight,” he said. “The band rehearsed until about one-thirty this morning, and they were just about to break up when the explosion hit. None of them had a chance.”
“And where’s Matt?” the Commissioner asked. “Is he out there?”
“No,” the assistant said. “Matt’s at the auto shop.”
“What the hell is he doing at the auto shop?”
“Well . . . something else came up. About that bus crash yesterday, the one that ended up in the ravine?”
“What about it?” Gordon asked, feeling a sudden chill.
“There was something funny about the brake linings of that bus. He wanted our guys in Auto to look them over.”
Gordon said some religiously inspired words, but there was nothing reverent about the way he said it.
He tried not to let the information spoil his morning. The fact that thirty-six band players had died within thirty-six hours was a grisly coincidence, but no basis for panic. If the brakes of the bus had been tampered with, there could be more than one explanation, including insurance, as in the warehouse case. The alternative notion, that there might be some connection between the bus crash and the gas explosion—well, all right. Suppose there was some maniac out there who hated musicians? They’d catch the loonys and put him away. He shook the subject out of his head and picked up the next message. A man named John Burke had been shot and killed late last night for no apparent motive. Gordon checked out a later report, and was relieved to learn that Burke was a headwaiter. Not a musician.
There was a conference at the Mayor’s office that afternoon, but Hizzoner didn’t attend, being too busy politicking in this election year. Gordon did see District Attorney Tom Riggs and Milt Jaffe, Police Chief, and asked them about the two accidents. Riggs wouldn’t commit himself, but Jaffe was his usual blunt self.
“Accident, my left eyebrow! Somebody clobbered those brakes, and I wouldn’t be surprised if we came up with bomb fragments from that Yacht Club explosion. Somebody doesn’t like two-step music. Some crazy rock-and-roller, probably.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Riggs said. “Milt’s got three teenagers.”
“What have your boys got on this shooting last night?”
“The headwaiter? I’ve wanted to take a potshot at one of those snooty bastards myself.”
“So far, nothing,” Jaffe told the Commissioner. “Burke had no family, no friends outside the restaurant, lived alone . . . It may have been just a random shot from a window or rooftop.”
“That’s all we need,” Gordon said sourly. “A sniper on the loose.”
His good mood of the morning was gone.
That evening, the Commissioner came home to find his daughter entertaining a yuppie assistant D.A. named Mark Something-or-Other, whose deference toward Gordon made him feel ancient. For Barbara’s sake, he answered his questions with forced cordiality—until they got around to the subject of Batman.
“Some of us at the office were talking about him,” Mark said. “You know, wondering whether this vigilantism was good or bad for Society . . .”
You could hear the capital S. Gordon bristled and started to explain about Batman’s deputized status with the police, but the look on the A.D.A.’s face told him that he wasn’t going to buy that rationalization. As far as Mark Something-or-Other was concerned, Batman served the law by breaking it, and maybe the Commissioner was making a mistake by encouraging this superhero approach to crime control. If Gordon had had a better day, he might have let the matter slide. Instead, he exploded.
“So you think we don’t need ‘superheroes,’ huh? Then just who is going to handle the supervillains? Or hasn’t that occurred to you?”
“I’m not saying Batman hasn’t done some good,” Mark said stiffly. “But personally, I think these ‘supervillains’ have been overrated. I mean, in terms of the overall crime problem. This Joker, for instance. He’s done a great deal of damage, but he’s never really succeeded in his grandiose schemes, has he?”
“Because Batman has always foiled him,” Barbara said. “You have to admit that, Mark.”
“Yet he’s not behind bars, is he? The Joker is still on the loose, Batman or not.” The look of smug triumph on his face raised the Commissioner’s blood pressure ten points. But he saw the pleading look in Barbara’s eyes, and decided to change the subject.
“Well, where are you two headed tonight? Movies?”
“Mark’s taking me to the Comedy Corner. Jackie Jeeps is going to be there tonight.”
When Gordon seemed unimpressed, Mark said: “He’s one of those hot new stand-up comics.”
“Too damn many of them right now,” Gordon grunted. “And what I’d like to know is, why do so many comics have names that begin with J? Jackie Mason, Jackie Gleason, Jack E. Leonard, Joey Adams, Joe E. Lewis, Joe E. Brown, Jerry Lewis, Jerry Lester, Jimmy Durante, Jay Leno, Joan Davis, Joan Rivers . . .”
“You have a wonderful memory, Daddy,” Barbara laughed.
“But you left one out,” Mark said. “The Joker.”
Gordon was asleep when he heard the front door open, and he automatically reached for the bedside alarm. He still hadn’t broken the habit of monitoring his daughter’s homecoming hours, even though she was old enough to set them for herself. He was pleased to see that it was still before midnight, until he heard the mumbling voices downstairs and detected a treble note of hysteria. Was Barbara crying? If it was a lovers’ quarrel, it was none of his affair, he told himself. Yet, just the same, he slipped into a threadbare robe that should have been discarded five years before and padded quietly downstairs. He was just in time to hear the door close behind Barbara’s date. When she saw her father, she went trembling into his arms.
“Oh, Daddy, it was horrible! It was just awful!”
“Jokes that bad, huh?”
“No! He was killed—murdered! Right on stage!”
He pushed her away and saw the unmistakable stamp of terror on her face.
“Jackie Jeeps,” Barbara said. “The comedian. He was shot by someone in the audience! He just pulled out a gun and shot him!”
“Good Lord,” Gordon said. “Did they get the assassin? He didn’t get away, did he?”
“I don’t think anybody even got a good look at him! He was all the way in the back, near the exit door. But he was laughing louder than anyone else. He was still laughing when he shot him!”
“You poor child. It’s one thing to read about murder, but to actually witness it . . .”
“Mark and I were at a table in the front row. He was hit once in the chest and once in the head . . . there was so much blood! And there was that laughter—that terrible, eerie laughter.”
Gordon held her close again, rubbing her icy hands. But he felt cold himself, even in the warm confines of his comfortable old wool robe. He couldn’t help remembering Mark’s last words before they left the house only two hours before. Joker begins with J . . .
He expressed no theory about the murder at the office meeting the next morning. Nobody even mentioned the possibility of linkage until he dropped the hint himself.
The idea was quickly shouted down, although Riggs, perha
ps out of professional courtesy, did admit there might be a vague pattern in the recent spate of violent deaths.
“Thirty-six musicians. A headwaiter. A stand-up comic. I suppose there’s a bit of a connection. Gotham nightlife?”
Jaffe was as blunt as ever. “The Bobby Armstrong Band only played for society weddings and geriatric dances. Same goes for the Yacht Club bunch. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. If you ask me, it was one of Jackie Jeeps’s girlfriends. He had one for every day of the week.”
“How would you know that?” Gordon asked.
“I read it in Johnny Fisher’s column, in the Gazette.”
“Funny you mentioned Fisher,” Riggs said. “I noticed somebody else wrote his column in today’s paper. Said something about him being sick.”
“What’s that got to do with the price of tomatoes?”
“Sorry.” Riggs shrugged, looking like a kid caught with jam on his fingers. “I kind of enjoy his stuff.”
That afternoon, when word came that Fisher had died of a yet undiagnosed ailment, the Commissioner thought of Riggs’s remark. The story made the Gazette’s evening edition, and Gordon read it curiously.
GOTHAM CITY, Sept. 4—Johnny K. Fisher, the syndicated gossip columnist whose “My Kind of Town” column has been a favorite of Gotham Gazette readers for the past five years, died at Gotham Hospital at two A.M. A spokesman for the hospital, Dr. Myron Buchalter, said that the cause of death was a toxic reaction, but its cause could not be determined until the autopsy was completed.
Thomas Brennan, editor of the Gazette, said that Fisher had fallen ill upon his return from an interview with some personality whose name Fisher had refused to divulge. The columnist had only stated that his interview would be a “first” for his column, and would have his readers GRINNING FROM EAR TO EAR.
The Further Adventures of The Joker Page 40