DC Comics novels--Batman

by Christa Faust

  He was becoming overexcited again, his heart lurching like a kicked dog in his chest. Oh, how much longer must I rot in this hell hole, away from my crucial work? He set the O block down on the right side of the board, and then passed a shaking hand over his eyes. In what seemed like inhuman torture his captors wouldn’t even allow him to keep a handkerchief to blot the anxious sweat from his brow. His eyes stung from the salt, and he wiped the sweat away as best he could with his clumsy fingers.

  The Joker placed another X block on the board, achieving the win with a diagonal Stephens hadn’t even noticed.

  “Fascinating,” the green-haired man said, drawing out the word in his tinny voice. “What did you say this kid’s name was?”

  “Tazic,” Stephens said. “Zach Tazic.”

  Why do I even bother? He felt grouchy, with a touch of vertigo, and couldn’t organize his thoughts. It’s this wretched place. It bleeds away the intellect.

  His companion seemed distracted, as well, though by external stimuli. His mad and merry gaze had shifted across the room. The professor turned to look, and recognized a slender, mousy blonde with a sloppy topknot and round glasses. She entered the room dressed in an oversized doctor’s coat over a tight plaid pencil skirt. Her blushing cheeks and bright eyes implied strange, almost frenetic excitement that seemed utterly out of place among staff members whose only visible emotions were mild annoyance, boredom, or contempt.

  A laminated staff badge hung on a ball-chain around her neck. It featured a blurry, unflattering photo of her angular face and the improbable name QUINZEL.

  “Well, Professor, it’s been a pleasure chatting with you,” the Joker said with exaggerated formality as he stood, straightened his ratty boutonniere, and gave a perfunctory bow. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my… physical therapy session.”

  “Indeed,” Stephens said. “Indeed.”

  He struggled to rise, but by the time he succeeded, the Joker and his questionable therapist were already gone.

  * * *

  Leaving the computer lab, Pennyworth followed a tunnel lined with recessed lighting. More man-made than natural, this route took him under part of Wayne Manor and to an elevator that lifted him into the mansion’s more conventional garage.

  Stepping past several cars that were housed there, including a pedestrian Dodge Diplomat and a sleek Porsche 911, Pennyworth came to a silver, low-slung Jaguar XKE. He got inside, turned the key in the ignition, and the car came to life instantly.

  Pennyworth guided the vehicle up a ramp, where automatic doors slid back, and out onto a road that ran alongside the property. There wasn’t too much in the way of traffic at this time of the evening, and soon the Dark Knight’s aide-de-camp was negotiating a new sort of caverns—the streets of Gotham.

  His route took him into a neighborhood that at one time had been frequented by the upper crust of city society. Now the streets were lined with files of garbage, and many of the buildings were dark, with broken-out windows that resembled sightless eyes.

  Here, not that many years ago when the area was still referred to as Park Row, Thomas and Martha Wayne had taken their son to a theater, and after the performance they had chosen a shortcut as they headed for home. It was the last thing they would do among the living, and their murders would haunt the boy for the rest of his life.

  The place where Batman was born had come to be known as Crime Alley. Each year, on the anniversary of their deaths at the hands of small-time criminal Joe Chill, Bruce Wayne returned to the place where they were slain, lay a rose on the filthy concrete, and rededicated himself to his cause.

  The Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic was an oasis of healthcare among the ruins. One of the people who had comforted young Bruce in that dark time was Leslie Thompkins, a resident of the neighborhood. Today as Dr. Leslie Thompkins she was a clear-eyed, dedicated physician who served as the clinic’s director, and persisted in her crusade to make a difference.

  The facility serviced the working poor, the indigent—indeed, any who needed help. Though the streets appeared to be all but deserted at this time of night, in fact the area was dense with people living under the worst conditions in crackerjack apartments. For many, the clinic was their only relief.

  Older cars and vans parked damn near bumper-to-bumper, Pennyworth had to park several blocks away. After setting the alarm on the Jag, he began the brisk walk to his destination. As he passed a twenty-four-hour laundromat, he heard footsteps behind him. The two he’d clocked following him from a block or so back were about to make their move.

  “Well, look what we got here,” a voice said as its owner came even with Pennyworth. “You get lost, old man? Your car break down or something? Maybe me and my friend can help you out.” He was over six-foot-two, heavy in the arms and legs, with scraggily blond hair. His jeans jacket was cut off at the sleeves, revealing a stippled tattoo that most likely he had received while in prison.

  His companion came close to Pennyworth’s back, trying to be quiet about it. However, the man didn’t seem to have been acquainted with a shower in quite some time, so his presence didn’t go undetected.

  “That’s a nice suit you got,” the robber behind him said, sniffing loudly. Pennyworth didn’t think it was because he had a cold. “But we ain’t into fine threads, you dig?”

  “I’m afraid I do,” Pennyworth said.

  “Wallet,” the one beside him said. He stepped just ahead, a knife appeared in his hand, and he flicked the tip of the blade against a brass button on Pennyworth’s vest. “Make it quick, pops.”

  “I will endeavor to do just that,” Pennyworth replied. “A gentleman doesn’t keep a lady waiting.”

  “Yeah,” the other one said. “M-make it quick.” He stepped closer, and his voice was shaking as if he had been plugged into a wall socket. “D-damn patrol blimp is gonna be circling back this way any s-second, so hand it over.”

  Pennyworth’s arm shot out as he leaned in to get his hand behind the elbow of the man in front of him. At the same moment he used his other hand to grab the wrist of the second man’s knife hand.

  “Hey man,” the startled ex-con said.

  From behind his partner put an arm around Pennyworth’s neck, seeking to throw him to the ground. Most likely he expected an easy target, and was surprised when he encountered corded muscle. As he grunted with unanticipated effort, Pennyworth kicked backward so the heel of his shoe struck the man twice in quick succession.

  The grunt turned into a howl of pain.

  While the assailant in back crumpled to the ground, Pennyworth calmly dislocated the other one’s elbow.

  “Ke-rist,” the tattooed man bellowed.

  Somehow he managed to hang onto the knife, though. He switched it to his other hand and came at Pennyworth. A flurry of blows landed faster than he could see them. Losing his grip on the blade, he went toppling backward to land on his ass. A quick kick to his forehead sent him onto his back.

  Holding the knife, Pennyworth turned to find the second mugger rising to his feet. The thug was about his height, and surprisingly much older than his partner. This man had a lined face and, even accounting for the ravages of drugs, a great many more years behind him.

  Why, he must be near my age, Pennyworth observed.

  “What on earth, man?” he declared. “One would think you would know better.”

  “The fuck,” the older robber replied, his tone a mixture of anger and indignation. “What do you know, what with your suit sounding all David Niven? You don’t know nothing.” He wiped his runny nose with a grimy sleeve, and spat at the ground between them. “You got nerve looking down your nose at me. Who are you to judge? You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

  “Yes, but…” Pennyworth began, then he squelched a sarcastic retort. Holding the jackknife at his side, he stepped back a few paces until he could keep the two of them in his line of sight.

  “Off with you then,” he said.

  “Hey, look, fancy pants,” the older
man said, holding out a gnarled hand. “How about a little something? You know, just to tide us over.” As Pennyworth considered it, the man added, “Giggle Sniff don’t grow on trees, you know.”

  A cold anger rose in Pennyworth, and it took him a moment to understand why. When he did, he was able to tamp it down.

  “I’m not going to give you money,” he said evenly, “but I know a place where you can get help.” The one he’d kicked in the head groaned and began to come around. The man lifted himself into a crouch, and he peered with hatred at the man who had beaten him.

  “If you do anything but sit there, I’ll bury this in you,” Pennyworth said, brandishing the blade. “Do you follow?”

  “Fuck you,” the man said, but he didn’t move.

  “Well?” Pennyworth said to the one who was standing.

  “Well what, padre?” the older mugger growled. “You gonna take us to a clinic? Get us clean? Be a hero? You think I haven’t tried to kick before? I have, more than once. Even stayed clean for almost a year. But it gets real out here.” He spat again. “You wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “You’d be surprised at what I know,” Pennyworth said quietly.

  “Okay, fine, you ain’t even gonna fork over a couple of bucks, just for pity’s sake. Fine. Take your lecture, stuff it up your ass, and leave us alone.”

  The hand holding the knife trembled, and Pennyworth brought it up in front of his face. The knife’s edge reflected the neon glow of an overhead sign.

  EMPIRE LIQUORS

  CHECKS CASHED HERE

  “Leave you to prey on someone else you mean,” he said. “Leave you to address your addiction by assaulting some other passerby, or worse.”

  “What about it, hand-wringer?” the crouching man growled. “What’s it to you?” He rose to his feet and thumped his chest. “I got a right to do what’s necessary for living, just like anybody else.”

  The hot rage returned. Before the man had finished speaking, Pennyworth drove a fist into his mouth, staggering him. He hit him again, and before the man could react he snaked an arm around his throat and pressed the knife to his neck.

  Pennyworth’s eyes were wide, and he was breathing rapidly. He pressed the tip in until blood trickled down, leaving a trail.

  “Go ahead,” the man said, his voice a coarse whisper. “You’d be doing me a favor.”

  “I should…” Pennyworth said, but he didn’t finish.

  “Hey, man, hey,” the ex-con yelled. He had both of his hands up now, palms forward. “Just be cool, okay?” he said, lowering his voice.

  As if he were outside his body, Pennyworth watched as the trail of blood ebbed downward. The man put up no resistance—it was as if the life had already left him.

  Then from the dark came a thrum of turbines. A light speared down and swept across the upper floors of the dilapidated brick buildings then swung downward, illuminating ground floor stores such as a shoe retailer, a nail salon, and the liquor store. Finally it pinned the men where they stood.

  “Here, look, we give up,” the scraggly haired man shouted. He stared up into the light, his hands raised. “Come on, arrest us, huh? Take us to the precinct. Just get that crazy old bastard off of us.”

  “Don’t move,” an amplified voice said, coming from the bottom of the blimp. “A patrol car is on its way. I repeat, do not move.”

  The older man turned, gaping. His partner was on his knees again, his head down. He was still breathing, but other than that he didn’t even twitch.

  They were alone.

  * * *

  From the shadowed gap between buildings next to the shoe store, Pennyworth watched as the men waited to be arrested. After a moment he heard sirens in the distance.

  Carefully he placed the knife on the ground to be found by the police. It was incriminating evidence and while he did not have a nylon line or clever gadget to subdue the two brigands as Master Bruce would have, he could do his duty to testify against the thieves, if it came to that.

  10

  Arriving at Dr. Thompkins’ clinic, he walked up the steps to the front door. While its cinderblock exterior wasn’t much on style, he knew the building housed the most modern equipment money could buy. Much of it had been supplied by the Wayne Foundation, while the rest had been paid for through tireless fundraising efforts.

  He knocked on the shatterproof glass of the locked front door, and saw movement behind the drawn blinds. A latch was turned, and the door opened.

  “Hello, Alfred,” Leslie Thompkins said. A tall, trim woman with close-cropped white hair and an alert face, she wore a white lab coat.

  “Hello yourself, Leslie.” He stepped inside.

  “I was just finishing up my records for the day,” she said, leading the way back toward her office. As they continued down a hallway, they passed the rooms that housed the clinic. During the day various staff members went about the business of caring for patients young and old. But now it was after hours.

  “Would you like some coffee? It’s reasonably fresh.” She gestured toward a kitchen nook.

  “Yes, that’s fine.” She walked on, and he poured himself a cup from the steaming carafe. On the refrigerator door, stuck in place by magnets, were several pictures that had been drawn by the neighborhood children. He blew on his coffee, stepped back into the hallway, and followed her into her office, where she was sitting behind a desk.

  In a corner was a human male skeleton held upright in a stand. It had been painted in various colors, and a stethoscope was draped around its boney shoulders.

  “I’ll just be a few,” she said, making notations in a file. He sat opposite her and gathered his thoughts, doing his best to push the mugging to the back of his mind. Watching her work, he remembered the conversation with Bruce.

  Pennyworth wondered if one day she’d be making those notations in a file floating on a computer screen. He’d been to the newsroom of the Gotham Examiner, and watched the writers use desktop computers to prepare their stories. That was a far cry from the complexity required for medical work, but what if she had something more like the equipment in the cave?

  For the moment, equipment like that was prohibitively expensive, and took up far too much space to be practical on a daily basis—but would that always be the case? Though it wasn’t the same sort of thing, the Dark Knight’s mission required precise calculations and an attention to detail not unlike the medical profession.

  Batman’s mission…

  He set his coffee cup on her desk.

  “Not to put a damper on our evening,” he said, “but have you heard of a drug called Giggle Sniff?”

  She stopped writing, looking up at him over the rim of her thin glasses. Then she put the pen aside.

  “Sadly, I have, why?”

  “I just… it came up today, in conversation,” he replied. “What is it, exactly?”

  She sighed wearily. “It is our version of the West Coast’s crack, I suppose, that’s recently made the scene on Gotham’s streets.”

  “Crack is a rock-like crystal, isn’t it?” he said. “Derived from boiling down powdered cocaine.”

  “Yes, and in that concentrated form, the high it provides is intensified. It’s pernicious as it triggers certain receptors in the brain. The effects don’t last long, yet because of its effects on the physiology, the addict craves more and more as time passes. A growth industry for the criminal world.”

  “And this Giggle Sniff is similar?”

  She made a face. “To some extent. Like crack, on Giggle Sniff your performance and dexterity increase. You’re aware of its effects, yet… floating along. Giggle Sniff makes you happy, damn near giddy, as befits its origins.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  She seemed surprised by the question. “Why, right here, Alfred. It’s a homegrown product, derived from Joker Venom.” She paused, then added, “And yes, it’s green.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Oh my indeed. Now I don’t exactly know who
was the enterprising back alley chemist to figure this out, but the stuff’s been on the streets for about six months now. And like all American dream stories, all of the crabs in our underworld barrel are clawing to control the Giggle Sniff trade. Men like Antonio ‘Python’ Palmares.”

  “Competition is that fierce?”

  “Oh, yes. There’s no shortage of opportunists.”

  “Fascinating.” He would make sure to mention this to Bruce. Not that it was likely to come as a surprise.

  She returned to her notes and Pennyworth sat in silence, sipping his coffee, sorting out the business on the street. What had it been about that man that had unhinged him so? He’d witnessed the atrocities of war during his time with the Special Air Service. He’d seen innocents frozen by Mr. Freeze, their limbs shattered, and morgue photos of bodies where Killer Croc had bitten off body parts. Yet this petty thief had somehow gotten to him.

  What was it about using violence to address problems of a systemic nature? Night after night Bruce would go out as Batman, attempting to stem the tide, staring in the face of madmen like the Joker or Two-Face, who operated on a twisted pretzel logic that only the insane could devise, and sought to define life through one heinous act after another.

  “Done, at least for tonight.” Thompkins closed her last file folder. Pennyworth surfaced from his reverie.

  “Then Don Giovanni awaits.”

  * * *

  As they stepped outside into the cool night air, and Dr. Thompkins locked up the clinic after setting the alarm, she put her arm in the crook of Pennyworth’s elbow as he escorted her to the Jaguar.

  “That smear of blood on your cuff,” she said with remarkable calm. “I hope there wasn’t a mishap on your way to the clinic’s doorstep?”

  “Oh that,” he said lightly. “Rushed my shave, you see. Too excited to see how this new baritone Vitalli handles his chores in the title role.”

  “Mmm-hmmm,” she murmured.