Grissom turned off the water and grabbed a towel. Too bad about Jack, but he knew as well as anybody what happened when you stepped out of line. Carl Grissom hadn’t gotten where he was today by being a nice guy
He heard the elevator door open in the next room and someone settle with a sigh into one of the overstuffed chairs. It was Alicia, back from her daily shopping spree. Security would have called him if it was anyone else.
“That you, sugar bumps?” Grissom called.
She didn’t answer. Probably too busy looking over what she bought today. He wrapped the big towel around his waist and grabbed a smaller one to dry his hair as he walked into the other room.
Alicia wasn’t in her usual chair. Grissom looked around the room. He could just make the silhouette. There was someone sitting behind his desk, someone totally covered by a raincoat, scarf, and oversized top hat. It didn’t look like Alicia.
“Who the hell are you?”
“It’s me,” the muffled figure answered dryly. “Sugar bumps.”
Grissom recognized that voice. “Jack?”
Maybe the other man nodded. It was too hard for Grissom to tell with all that clothing. They said he’d been shot, that he’d fallen into a vat of acid. How could he have survived? And what did he want now?
Grissom decided it was time to start covering his tracks.
“Thank God you’re alive,” he said with all the sincerity he could muster. “I heard you’d been—”
“Fried,” Jack interrupted caustically. “Is that what you heard?”
Jack stood up. Grissom tried to think what he could say next, to keep things under control. Grissom always kept things under control. But there was a slight problem with that control just now—Jack would have a gun.
“You set me up!” Jack spat out the words. “Over a girl. You must be insane.”
No, Jack, Grissom thought. I’m not the crazy one around here. He could feel his heart beating, much too fast. This kind of excitement wasn’t good for someone Grissom’s age. He edged casually around the corner of his desk. If he could only reach his desk drawer . . .
“Don’t bother,” Jack remarked.
Grissom stopped and looked at the gun pointing at his belly. This time, Jack was serious.
“Your life won’t be worth spit,” Grissom announced.
“I been dead once already,” Jack replied matter-of-factly. “It’s very liberating. You have to think of it as therapy.”
Jack raised the gun so that it pointed at Grissom’s heart. Grissom couldn’t let this happen. Jack had to listen to reason. Grissom had gotten out of worse than this.
“Jack—listen. We’ll cut a deal.”
The gun didn’t move. “Jack? Jack’s dead, my friend. You can call me Joker.”
Then this “Joker” took off his hat and coat. Grissom wished he had left them on. He hardly looked like Jack Napier at all anymore. His flesh was bone white, his hair as green as artificial turf. But it was his mouth that was really horrible. Something that happened in the accident must have frozen his flesh that way, his lips much too red against the rest of his skin, his mouth warped into a never-ending rictus grin.
“As you can see,” Jack replied, “I’m much happier.”
He giggled. He really was crazy. But his gun had moved when he took off his disguise. The muzzle was pointed at the floor. This, Grissom knew, was his only chance.
The giggling turned to laughter as Grissom lunged for the desk drawer. He laughed even harder as he turned his gun on Grissom and fired. And fired. And fired.
Bruce Wayne couldn’t sleep.
He’d gotten himself involved at the worst possible time.
He looked over at the woman who slept beside him in the king-size bed. She was a remarkable woman: witty, intelligent, and very beautiful. Her hair cascaded across the pillow. It seemed to glow in the moonlight. Her eyes closed, mouth open ever so slightly in sleep, she looked very peaceful, even innocent. Sleep brings out the child in all of us, he thought. She looked like a painting by one of the Pre-Raphaelites, even more beautiful in the moonlight than she had been in the glow of the setting sun.
Why did she have to come into his life now? After all his hard work, all his resolve, all his denial?
Maybe, Bruce thought, that was the answer. Maybe this regimen, this goal, this quest he had given himself was simply too much for any one man. Everyone had their needs, after all. As much as you tried to avoid them, they’d come back, one way or another.
And his needs had been answered by Vicki Vale.
The grandfather clock in the hall struck four. He looked at his watch. His watch said four as well. He climbed quietly out of bed.
She was so beautiful.
There were things he had to do.
He stepped to the window and looked out at the moon.
You ever danced with the devil by the pale moonlight?
Too bad he didn’t have the chance to say those words to Grissom. He had used up all his bullets instead. Ah, well. His life as the Joker had just begun.
The Joker sat in the dark. That way, he didn’t have to look at Grissom’s body, crumpled in a corner. He’d have to get someone to take it away, someone he could trust. That was the problem with being a criminal mastermind. All these niggling little details.
Still, this was a nice office that Grissom had given him—the Boss had taste in some things. And what a great view it had, with the city beneath him—a thousand sparkling lights, stretching to the limits of the window. And overhead, the moon, almost full again, his own, personal night-light.
The Joker sighed in contentment.
“Gotham City. It always brings a smile to my face.”
He glanced at the desk and saw the headline on the Gotham Globe, large enough to be legible in the moonlight: WINGED FREAK TERRORIZES GOTHAM’S GANGLAND!
Nice of Grissom to leave him this newspaper—a little blood-splattered, perhaps, but otherwise quite readable. He picked up the paper and hummed a happy tune.
“Watch it, Batman.” He chuckled merrily. “Wait until they get a load of me.”
Was that man going to sleep forever? And why had he gotten out of bed to sleep on a sofa?
Vicki was almost dressed, and all that Bruce had done was to roll over and mumble something incoherent.
He rolled again as she walked past. One eye struggled to open.
“Bruce,” Vicki said softly. “I’m late, but I’ve a proposition.”
He blinked and sat up. Actually, Vicki thought, he woke up pretty fast.
“I’ll make us lunch tomorrow,” she explained. “I’ll show you some of my photos.” She pulled a brush from her purse and ran it through her hair. “Will you come?”
Bruce stretched and smiled at her for a second before his expression became more doubtful.
“Sure. Oh, no—I—I can’t make it.”
She stopped brushing and looked back at Bruce.
“Oh. Is anything wrong?”
He shook his head sharply, as if to rid it of cobwebs.
“No—I—I’ve got a real important meeting.”
She put her brush away. “Well . . . later in the day?”
“No—I—I’ve got to leave town for a few days.”
Vicki frowned. Each time he answered her, it seemed less certain than the answer before. “Well, when you get back,” she said at last. She closed her purse and managed a smile. This was only a one-night thing, after all.
“Hey,” she said more brightly than before. “I’ve got to get moving. See you.”
She kissed him lightly on the cheek and walked away.
“Yeah,” Bruce replied quietly. “I’ll see you.”
And then she was out of the room.
Alfred met her at the end of the hall. He opened the front door for her.
“So nice to see you again, Miss Vale.”
“Yeah.” Vicki smiled at the gentleman’s gentleman. “I guess I’ll see you when you guys get back.”
“Back, ma�
�am?” Alfred asked with the politest of frowns. “We’re here for quite a while, I believe.”
“Oh,” Vicki replied, her cheer suddenly deflated. “Never mind. See you.”
She stepped through the doorway and walked away from her one night in Wayne Manor. So much for dreams where millionaire playboys were concerned.
This was the first time he’d been in Alicia’s apartment in ever so long. The place hadn’t improved in the meantime. But the Joker had an idea for a change or two.
She’d come in already, but she hadn’t noticed him. She was far too busy in the other room with her dress bags and packages. There! He could see her in the doorway.
“Honey!” he called.
She turned around. She dropped her packages. She screamed.
Was that any way to greet your lover? And here he was, in smoking jacket and slippers, dry martini at his side, reading the evening paper while waiting for his Alicia to come home.
Oh, well. Perhaps a little conversation would break the ice.
“You wouldn’t believe,” the Joker quipped, “what happened to me today.”
Alicia fell to the floor in a dead faint.
Then again, the Joker considered, perhaps their relationship needed some work.
This is the way it was supposed to be! All of Grissom’s ganglords in one big room—and the Joker at the head of the conference table.
“So that’s the way it’s supposed to be, gentlemen,” the Joker concluded. “Until Grissom resurfaces, I’m the acting president. And I say we start with this Gotham City Anniversary Festival and run this city into the ground!”
All of Grissom’s boys muttered to each other. The Joker certainly hoped they all appreciated his efforts. After all, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have to make sacrifices to run this meeting. First, there was all that trouble finding the flesh-colored makeup thick enough to cover his deadly pallor, then there was the black hair dye over his natural green. Just so he could look like Jack Napier again for this one important afternoon. Of course, there was nothing he could do about his charming new grin, but didn’t a big smile make life just that much more pleasant?
The Joker waited pleasantly for the gang’s decision. Oh, there were some, like that wimp accountant Luce, that were cowed from the minute he walked into the room. But there were others, like that Vinnie Ricorso over there, who wanted to think for themselves, who actually might question the Joker’s decisions.
The Joker allowed himself a silent sigh. Why was life always so full of Vinnie Ricorsos?
“Why don’t we hear from Grissom?” Ricorso demanded.
Carmine Rotelli was at the other end of the table. Rotelli was always good at being brave, as long as someone else was brave first.
“How come you’re wearing that stupid smirk?” Rotelli demanded.
“Because life’s been good to me,” the Joker replied.
But that answer wasn’t good enough for Rotelli.
“What if we say no?” he demanded even further.
But the Joker was ready for this too. A leader of men had to be ready for these eventualities.
“Nobody wants a war, Carmine,” the Joker replied smoothly. “If we can’t do business, we shake hands—and that’s it.”
“Yeah?” Rotelli asked, still a little doubtful.
“Yeah,” the Joker agreed. It was time for a demonstration. He stuck out his hand.
Rotelli stood and put his hand in the joker’s. They shook. It was too bad the Joker hadn’t told Rotelli about the joy buzzer.
Forty thousand volts surged through Rotelli’s body. What was left of him fell back into his chair, smoke pouring from what remained of his sleeves and shirt collar.
The Joker used only the very best joy buzzers.
The doors at the back of the room burst open, and the Joker’s own personal army marched in, much more personably dressed than the thugs already sitting in here. Of course, the fact that the Joker personally designed those colorful outfits had a lot to do with their stylishness.
The Joker grinned at good old Bob, his number-two man, as he explained:
“Carmine got a little hot under the collar.”
“You’re insane!” Ricorso shouted. He looked as if he wanted to leave.
The Joker was quite upset. “Haven’t you heard of the healing power of laughter?”
He started to laugh all over again.
“Now, get out of here!” he told Grissom’s goons. “And give it some thought.”
The joker’s boys escorted the other fellows out. The Joker grabbed a copy of the Globe and waved for Bob to stay behind.
“Bob,” the Joker spoke tersely, “I want you to take this camera and follow this reporter Knox. Find out what he knows about Batman. You’ve got to learn to use people, Bob.”
“Yes, sir,” Bob replied. Good old Bob. He always knew exactly the right thing to say.
Bob left. Everyone was gone now, except for the Joker and the charred corpse of Rotelli. Maybe it was time, the Joker thought, for a little conversation.
He turned to Rotelli.
“Your pals, they’re not such bad guys. What do you say we give them a couple of days to come around?”
He paused. He had to give Rotelli a chance to reply.
“No?”
The Joker could hardly believe his ears.
“Grease them now?”
Well, if that’s what he wanted.
“Okay.”
The Joker shook his head. “You’re a vicious bastard, Rotelli. I’m glad you’re dead.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
It had to be in here somewhere. WARNER . . . WATSON . . . WAXMAN was the last folder in the drawer. Where was it?
A pair of fingers tapped Vicki on the shoulder. She glanced around, right at a manila folder with the title “WAYNE, BRUCE.”
Allie Knox grinned at her. She grabbed the file from his hands.
“I’m looking for that.” It was a very thin file.
“I thought we were a team here.” Knox shook his head. “I’m losing confidence in you—going out with this weirdo.”
She opened the file. There was hardly anything in here: “Bruce Wayne Attends Society Fund-Raiser”; “Bruce Wayne Gives to New Orphanage.” This sort of filler wasn’t going to tell her a thing she needed to know!
She had had just about enough. She glared up at Knox. “You’re speaking strictly professionally, right? This wouldn’t be a personal issue for you, would it?”
“I just want you to do your job,” Knox replied defensively.
“I am doing my job!” Men! Vicki didn’t know the last time she had been so angry.
“Me too,” Knox insisted. “I’m protecting my partner. The guy collects weird weapons from Japan! He probably roller-skates through the female population like a bulldozer.”
Vicki punched the file with her fist. “Where does it say that, Knox? There’s nothing in this file but social puffery. No photos. No history. Nothing. That’s strange! Where’s he get his money? What’s he do all day? Who is he?”
She flung the file angrily to the floor and stormed from the room.
“Who cares?” Knox called out after her.
She did, Vicki realized as she slammed the door behind her. She cared very, very much.
She would wait forever if she had to. She had parked a block away from Wayne Manor. Sooner or later, something would happen. She had that same feeling she had gotten sometimes, taking pictures in Corto Maltese, just before all hell broke loose.
Who was Bruce Wayne? If she hadn’t been so upset when she first looked at his file at the Globe, she would have realized something was really wrong. But she had put it down to sloppy filing at the morgue, or maybe Allie Knox keeping one or two choice pieces for himself.
It was only when she pursued her other contacts—a sports reporter (once a college sweetheart) who worked for the rival Gotham Herald, and an evening news anchorwoman who she’d become friendly with during her years in fashion photography—that she
stopped thinking of the lack of publicity as simply strange. Now she thought of it as more of a conspiracy. The Herald’s file was every bit as skimpy and uninformative as the one at the Globe, full of short news fillers and society clippings. Strangely enough, they didn’t have any photos either. But it was the TV station that clinched it. There were no videotapes of Bruce Wayne on file at the station, even though Vicki’s friend could have sworn her evening news show had covered dozens of events that Wayne had been a part of.
A millionaire playboy who hobnobbed with the rich and famous every night, and never, ever had his picture taken? That sort of thing didn’t just happen. You had to consciously avoid all the “photo opportunities.” Even then, someone like Vicki was bound to take a candid of you when you least expected. What could you do then?
If you had Bruce Wayne’s kind of money, she imagined, you could always buy the pictures back from some newspaper or TV employee who needed a little extra cash on the side. But why?
Allie Knox might have been right for once. Bruce Wayne was more than a little strange. The more Vicki tried to find out about him, the less she realized she knew, until she was surrounded by a mystery that threatened to consume her.
Who was Bruce Wayne? Maybe it had been her pride that had started her on this but it was her news instincts that would find the truth.
He had gotten too close to the wrong woman. Whatever Bruce Wayne was hiding, it wouldn’t stay hidden for long.
Someone dressed in dark glasses and a long black overcoat stepped from inside the gate of Wayne Manor. She thought it might be a workman until she focused her telephoto lens.
It was Bruce, dressed very much unlike a millionaire playboy. He paused to put on a pair of sunglasses, then walked toward the heart of the city, just another working man with a long and narrow package under his arm.
One more mystery, Vicki thought. But this one wouldn’t get away. Taking her camera with the helpful telephoto lens, she got out of the car. She paused long enough to lock the door—even in this neighborhood, one had to be careful—then walked, quickly but casually, in the direction Bruce had taken.
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