Batman 1 - Batman

by CRAIG SHAW GARDNER

  Harvey Dent stood, and the audience was on their feet as well, clapping and cheering. This part of Gotham City really was ready for a change.

  Dent motioned for quiet, and a moment later the audience agreed, returning to their seats so that they could hear the new district attorney speak.

  Tall and thin, he looked as though he had been born in a business suit. His deep-brown skin gleamed under the lights. Gordon realized that that was another thing to be thankful for. Dent’s leading-man looks would go over well on television—a lot better than a middle-aged, sagging, overweight police commissioner.

  Dent started to speak, his voice so clear he hardly needed the microphone. “I’m a man of few words. But those words will count. And so will our actions. I have talked today to Police Commissioner Gordon.”

  There was a smattering of applause. For the police commissioner? Gordon smiled politely. My, he thought, the audience was being generous tonight.

  “He is targeting businesses,” Dent continued, “suspected of fronting for the syndicate in this city. Within one week, we’ll knock down their doors—” He paused, his eyes sweeping the crowd. “—and shed the light of the law on that nest of vipers!”

  There was real applause this time. Gordon wished he could enjoy it more. He had a real job in front of him this time. A job that entailed a lot more than sitting around at fancy dress dinners: Most of the time, as long as you did what you were supposed to, the public managed to ignore the police commissioner. All this attention was making Gordon a little uncomfortable.

  Damn! Sometimes he wished he had the freedom to play hooky like Wayne. He could already tell that the rubber roast beef was going to give him gas. He smiled politely at Dent, and hoped his stomach would stay quiet long enough for the new D.A. to outline the rest of their plan—a plan that Gordon hoped, somehow, against all the odds, they could turn into a reality.

  What a dump!

  Jack Napier absently fiddled with his lucky deck. It was amazing, with all the money Alicia Hunt had—not only from her modeling career, but from all those little presents Boss Grissom always gave her—that she could have filled her apartment up with such crap. What was this livershaped coffee table, anyway, post-Yugoslavian modern or something? Others might call it classy, but to him it was just expensive junk. At least it gave him a place to rest his feet. And the way she covered the walls with her modeling pictures—well, at least it covered the walls.

  Jack chuckled at his own private joke. Since she slept with him, she had to have excellent taste in men. Too bad she didn’t have taste in anything else.

  Jack finished his one-handed shuffle. He turned his attention back to the television and this stiff who had just gotten himself elected.

  Who exactly was this guy? The newswoman had said his name only a minute ago. Bend? Bent? Dent—that was it. Not that there was anything particularly new about him. He spoke like any other politician Jack had ever heard. Jack had to admit, however, that the guy looked classy.

  Napier dealt four jacks off the top of the deck, each card with a bullet hole in its center.

  “Together we can make this city safe for decent people,” Dent droned on.

  “Decent people shouldn’t live here,” Jack said back to the set. “They’d be happier someplace else.”

  Alicia glided across the room. She might not have any taste, but she still looked pretty good, especially in that skimpy black negligee. She lifted his feet and rescued a Vogue magazine with her picture on the cover. Imagine that, Jack thought. He had been resting his Italian shoes on her face. He noticed with a frown that one of the polished black toes had a slight scuff. He’d have to fix that.

  Alicia brushed at her straight blond hair as she stared at the television.

  “Pretty tough talk about Carl.”

  Jack waved away her observation with a flick of his lucky deck.

  “Don’t worry about it. If this clown could touch Grissom, I’d have killed him by now.”

  Alicia leaned down over Jack, revealing even more of her cleavage. She grabbed his loosely knotted tie and pulled it tightly around his neck.

  “If Grissom knew about us,” she mentioned, “he might kill you.”

  Jack glanced from the TV over to a mirror above a nearby vanity. Damn, but that tie looked good on him! At least he had good taste—impeccable taste, really. He smiled at his reflection. He might try to give Alicia lessons, but you were either born with this or you never got it.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, angel,” he murmured, glancing at her at last. “He’s a tired old man. He can’t run this city without me.” He looked at himself in the mirror one more time. “And besides, he doesn’t know.”

  He flipped the TV off with the remote.

  Alicia frowned at him as he stood. “You don’t worry about anything, do you, Jack?”

  Jack smiled to prove exactly how worried he was. He glanced at his watch. Time to go. He grabbed his topcoat from the couch and stood in front of the vanity to put it on. He smoothed down the dark cashmere, checked to make sure his hair was in place. Yeah. Nothing but the best for old Jack.

  “You look fine,” she reassured him.

  Jack smiled at his reflection.

  “I didn’t ask.”

  The reflection smiled back.

  Alexander Knox tried not to even breathe too loudly.

  He had been rushing down the alley, anxious to get to the scene of the crime. That was before he heard Lieutenant Eckhardt talking to the police medic around the corner. That’s right, Eckhardt actually talking! The minute Knox showed up, the chubby officer always became dumber than one of the Three Stooges.

  Sometimes, Knox considered, you could be the best damn newspaper reporter in all of Gotham City by just taking an extra minute to get there.

  “You know what that guy says he saw . . .” the medic began incredulously.

  “No, let me guess,” Eckhardt wheezed. “A gigantic, menacing, supernatural form—in the shape of a bat?”

  “That’s it!” was the other man’s astonished reply. “What are they seeing up there?”

  Eckhardt dismissed it. “They’re all drinkin’ Drano.”

  “It’s still weird, Lieutenant,” the medic allowed.

  “Oh, Christ,” Eckhardt muttered in a half-whisper. “Knox!”

  Whoops. Knox had gotten a little too interested and a little too far out into the alley. Well, now that his cover was blown, he might as well make the best of it. He stepped toward Eckhardt with a big grin.

  “Hiya, gents. I hear we got another bat attack.” Eckhardt winced. Knox’s smile got even wider. “That’s eight sightings now in just under a month. I even hear the commissioner’s opened a file.”

  “Sorry, Knox,” Eckhardt replied, his face as expressive as your average slab of granite. “Those two slipped on a banana peel.”

  Two? So there were two crooks involved? Sometimes Eckhardt gave away tidbits without even knowing it. Knox wondered if there was any way he could sneak in a question or two with the eyewitnesses.

  That’s when one of the eyewitnesses got dragged past by a pair of cops. For a minute, Knox thought that Eckhardt might be right. This guy sure looked as though he could have been drinking Drano. What clothes he had left were torn in half a dozen places, the skin beneath crisscrossed with the dull brown of drying blood. His hair was matted with blood, too, but what was really weird was the guy’s face. He was smiling.

  “A bat, I tell you, a giant bat!” He giggled and twitched, his head jerking from Eckhardt to Knox to each of his captors. “He wanted me to do him a favor.”

  The cops dragged him away before the favor could be performed. Knox grinned at Eckhardt anyway. His most important question had been answered.

  Eckhardt actually let his irritation show. “Don’t be writing this crap in the newspaper, Knox. It’ll ruin your already useless reputation.”

  But Knox had this fat bastard now. An eyewitness to the bat!

  He pressed his advantage. “Lie
utenant, lots of punks in town are scared stiff! They say he drinks blood. They say he can’t be killed!”

  “I say you’re full of shit, Knox,” Eckhardt barked as he turned away. “And you can quote me on that!”

  So, they were going to stonewall him, even now? Knox couldn’t give up that easily.

  “Lieutenant. Is there a six-foot bat in Gotham City?”

  Eckhardt walked away without looking back.

  Knox shouted after him, “If so, is he on the police payroll?”

  Eckhardt lumbered around the corner, out of sight.

  “If so,” Knox persisted, “what’s he pulling down after taxes?”

  There was no answer. Knox hadn’t really expected one. He thought for a second about following the lieutenant, but decided it would be better for his health and career if be didn’t. As much as Knox disliked the guy, it didn’t pay to be too annoying.

  Besides, he had gotten what he really wanted. Fried or not, that smiling guy had seen the human bat. And Knox found it even more fascinating that, for some reason, the police didn’t want the story getting out. Eckhardt and the others should know by now that that sort of attitude just made Allie Knox want the truth that much more.

  Who was this guy who tried to look like a bat, of all things? A renegade cop? A criminal? Some kind of a vigilante? Or a total nut case? Knox had a feeling he might be every one of the above. And he was going to find out, and report everything he found in the Gotham Globe.

  When he was done, the human bat was going to be better known than Pee Wee Herman. And whatever the police were covering up would be splashed across the front page.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ah, here was the slob now. He looked nervously up and down the street as he waddled toward them. Gotham City’s finest, unshaven, his flab quivering up and down under his too-tight suit, threatening to burst his buttons with every step he took. Why couldn’t Eckhardt take better care of himself?

  Jack Napier leaned back on the hood of the stretch limo. Bob Hawkins, his right-hand man and insurance policy, was doing the usual—straightening the mirror, polishing the door handle—busy, but available, should the situation arise.

  Jack pushed himself upright and tossed the lieutenant a sandwich bag.

  “I brought you a little snack, Eckhardt.”

  The cop opened the bag to look suspiciously at the sandwich. The bread was stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. The cop looked back down the street where he came from as he tucked the sandwich in his coat.

  “Why don’t you broadcast it, Napier?” The lieutenant seemed a little irritated. Must have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. But that was no reason to get uppity with Jack. Napier decided it was time to put Grissom’s toady in his place.

  “Shut up and listen,” Jack ordered. “Harvey Dent is sniffing around one of our companies.”

  That managed to make the lieutenant even more steamed.

  “That’s my territory, Jack,” he snapped as he marched toward the limo. “If there’s a problem—”

  Jack had had enough from fat boy. His hands snaked out to grab Eckhardt’s coat.

  “Eckhardt,” he said simply, directly. “Your problems are our problems.”

  The cop knocked Jack’s hands away. “I answer to Grissom, not to psychos!”

  “Why, Eckhardt,” Jack replied with the slightest hint of surprise. “You should be thinking about the future.”

  “You mean”—the cop sneered—“when you run the show?” He waved his pudgy hand in dismissal. “You got no future, Jack. You’re an A-one nut boy, and Grissom knows it!”

  Jack clapped a hand to Eckhardt’s overfed face. He pivoted around, pushing the cop hard against the brick wall at the alley’s side. Eckhardt blinked, stunned by the suddenness of the move. Jack almost felt sorry for a second. But, after all, fat boy had so much padding, he shouldn’t have felt a thing.

  Eckhardt’s face had turned the same color Santa Claus usually wore. He grabbed Jack’s coat collar and whipped out his police special.

  Jack took his hand away as Eckhardt brought up his gun. Jack glanced at the gun, then the fat fingers on his collar.

  “Watch the suit,” he remarked casually.

  Eckhardt was having trouble catching his breath. He frowned at Napier, then let go of the coat and lowered the gun.

  Jack smiled. What a good fat boy.

  “See?” he added pleasantly. “You can make a good decision when you really, really try.”

  Jack started to laugh. All the color drained from Eckhardt’s face. That only made Jack laugh harder. Boy, the fat boy was really boiling now! Jack strolled back to where Bob had just opened the rear door of the limo. Jack couldn’t watch the cop anymore. Tears were streaming down his face. He glanced back a final time as he got in the car.

  Something almost stopped Jack’s mirth.

  When he looked back, why was Eckhardt smiling? Jack dismissed it, unable to hear Eckhardt having the last word, muttering “And where have you been spending your nights, handsome.”

  The red, yellow, and black banner flapped in the early-autumn wind: “200TH ANNIVERSARY OF GOTHAM CITY FESTIVAL.”

  Borg waved impatiently for Dent and Gordon to follow. The mayor could be surprisingly energetic when he was motivated, and he was taking this big anniversary celebration personally. They had already visited one of the float manufacturers and the Gotham Uniform Supply Company, personally making sure everything would be ready for the big day. Now the mayor was dragging them along to personally inspect the final construction of the reviewing stand in Gotham Square.

  Gordon felt as though they had been trudging around for hours. Today, he thought, Dent was really going to find out what it was like working for Gotham City.

  “I don’t care how much in debt this festival is!” the mayor shouted back at them as he bustled along. “I want a parade, hot dogs, balloons, the whole schmeer. We’re gonna celebrate this two hundredth anniversary proudly. And publicly!”

  Somehow, Dent was trying to remain the voice of reason in the face of all this.

  “We may be celebrating it in bankruptcy court,” he gently reminded the mayor. “The tax base is crumbling, and if this festival crashes you can kiss your bond rating good-bye. This festival is three hundred and fifty thousand in the red, and we haven’t seen one balloon.”

  “I’ll take care of the festival budget!” the mayor insisted, his voice rising again. Gordon sometimes thought the mayor was sure, if he was only loud enough, he could outshout whatever logic was thrown against him.

  “I’ve got a party of rich old ladies who’ll pay a thousand dollars each to see the the inside of Wayne Manor!” the mayor blustered along. “You fill this square with people, kids, dogs, families, and the businesses will come back here!”

  “I think a lot of people might stay away, Mayor,” Gordon said, trying to give Dent a hand. “They’re scared.”

  “They won’t be scared when you’ve got Grissom in that courthouse!” Borg insisted. “I promised that, right?”

  Gordon sighed and nodded. The mayor certainly had promised that. He glanced at Dent. The new D.A. shrugged helplessly. They both quickened their pace to catch up with their leader as he climbed the steps of the half-finished reviewing stand.

  Knox didn’t like the looks of this. The reporters were all gathered around Bob the cartoonist’s desk in the corner of the city room. Worse than that, they all smiled when Knox walked in. Knox knew that hungry kind of smile—wolves always hunted in packs.

  “Well, well,” MacPhee shouted jovially. “Count Dracula! You seen Bigfoot lately?”

  “They buried your story on the Batman,” Thompson confided with a smirk.

  “They bury garbage,” MacPhee agreed.

  Well, Knox wasn’t going to let the human litter of the Gotham Globe get him down. Grin firmly in place, he shouted back, “This is the Pulitzer Prize zone, boys. You wait!”

  “Oh, Knox?” Bob the cartoonist called sweetly. “I’ve got something fo
r you!”

  He held up a drawing of a human bat, an awful, fanged rodent face sitting on top of a man’s body in a business suit. The caption below read: “Have You Seen This Man?”

  Well, Thompson, MacPhee, and the others thought this was the funniest thing that had ever happened in the news office. Knox kept his grin in place. He did wish they could come up with something a little more original.

  “Very nice, boys,” he replied. “A little more gore on the fangs, perhaps?” He turned and walked on to his office.

  Knox stopped outside his door. There was somebody already in there. He could see her through the office window—and what he could see.

  Well, if he could calm his heart and hormones long enough, they really were only a pair of legs. Only! Any self-respecting panty hose would kill to be seen on legs like that! Knox took another step so that he could look at the rest of her. Not bad at all. With those legs resting on the desk, she was leaning back in Knox’s swivel chair, poring over a copy of the Globe. Nice figure, nice dress, nice blond hair.

  Knox stepped into the office. He couldn’t help himself.

  “Hel-lo, legs!” he greeted her.

  The hat tipped back. A face, fully in keeping with the rest of her form, smiled at him.

  “I’m reading your stuff,” the face informed him.

  “And I’m reading yours,” Knox happily agreed. He glanced at an oversized camera bag propped on the corner of his desk. It had a set of monogrammed initials: “V.V.”

  Legs stood up and offered her hand. Knox took it. She had a firm, no-nonsense handshake.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Vicki Vale.”

  Knox knew that name from somewhere. He searched his memory.