DC Comics novels--Batman

by Christa Faust

  “Hey, Jeannie,” he said brightly, seeking to mask his frustrations.

  His very pregnant wife sat at the table in a hard-backed chair. She wore a slip and slippers, her robe open for comfort. There was a bowl before her, and she’d been shucking crawfish tails in preparation for making some of her gumbo. There was a bowl of okra on the sink, and she’d be firing that up later. He liked her gumbo a lot.

  “Well, how did it go?” she asked. “Did they like your act?”

  He chuckled mirthlessly as he walked over to the sink, picked up a raw piece of okra, and took a bite.

  “Well, they, uh… They said they might call me,” he said, chewing. “I dunno. I, I got nervous and messed up a punchline.”

  “You stink!”

  The shame came rushing back.

  “Oh,” his wife said.

  Storming back to the table, he leaned in on her.

  “What do you mean, ‘oh’?”

  “I… I didn’t mean anything…”

  The hell she didn’t. “Yes you did,” he growled. “The way you said it. ‘Oh.’ Like that.”

  “Jesus, all I said was—”

  “You said ‘oh.’ As in ‘Oh, so you didn’t get a job?’ As in ‘Oh, how are we going to feed the baby?’” He stared at her angrily, but she didn’t give ground.

  “You think I’m not worried about that?” he continued, stepping away from the table and clenching his fists in sheer frustration. “You think, you think I don’t care, that it’s all a big joke to me or something…”

  Then his anger was gone, replaced by despair. He fell to his knees at her feet, his arms tenderly around her, his head in her ample lap.

  “Oh, God,” he said. “Oh God, I’m sorry…”

  “Oh, baby.” She laid a hand on his back. With the other hand she smoothed down his unruly thicket of hair, which she’d always found so appealing on him. They’d wondered what those curls would look like on their child.

  “I don’t mean to take it out on you,” he said, sobbing. “You’re suh-suffering enough, being married to a loser.”

  “Honey, that’s not—”

  “It’s true. I can’t support you.” He gulped in air. “Oh, Jeannie. What are we going to do?”

  “It’ll be okay,” she answered, her voice soft and sure. “Junior won’t be here for another three months, and I think Mrs. Burkiss will let the rent go a little longer. She feels sorry for me.”

  “She hates me,” he said, a hint of anger returning. Climbing to his feet, he leaned against the window. “She comes out into the hallway to scowl at me every time I go upstairs. This house stinks of cat litter and old people.” Outside the rain had increased, and rivulets of water ran down the bricks.

  “I just want enough money to get set up in a decent neighborhood,” he said, staring into the night. “There are girls on the street who earn that in a weekend without having to tell a single joke.”

  To his surprise, he heard a chuckle. Turning, he saw that she was laughing. There was no malice in it, though.

  “Honey, don’t worry,” she said, reaching out for him. “Not about any of it. I still love you, y’know? Job or no job, you’re good in the sack…”

  He had to smile at that. Even six months pregnant, there was a grace and sureness of movement about her. What a lucky bastard he was. He just had to do right by her.

  “…and you know how to make me laugh.”

  12

  The three of them were sitting at a round table in the Boondoggle. The tavern was crowded, though it wasn’t even that late in the day. The place was bustling and humid as hell. They had a bowl of boiled crawfish appetizers sitting between them.

  He was drinking.

  When did that start?

  He’d never liked the taste of alcohol. Especially when he’d worked at the chemical process plant. He’d taken precautions, but he was pretty sure some of those chemicals had leeched their way under his skin.

  Yet here he was downing his second beer, and it wasn’t even late afternoon.

  “Y’see… Y’see, I have to prove myself. As a husband, and, and as a father,” he heard himself say. Why in the world would he admit that to these two… hoodlums. Thugs? Why would he be so forthright? Must be the booze. That’s why I shouldn’t drink, he noted, taking another belt. “I mean, I, well, I wouldn’t be doing this thing, if it wasn’t something important.”

  “I hear you,” the heavier guy, Joe, said. He was in a suit and bowler hat and, despite the heat, wasn’t sweating. His mustache was heavier, bushier than his skinny partner’s. “You want to provide, and we’re gonna make sure you can do just that, pally.”

  “It’s like, I began as a lab assistant, right?” he continued. “Was a good job. Real good job. So what I did, I quit to become a comedian.” Biggest mistake of his life. “I was so sure. So sure I had talent.” He got the notion watching those guys on TV. They had the audience in the palm of their hand when they were on a roll. I mean, I always made Jeannie laugh, so I figured I had a talent for that sort of thing.

  “But, ha, well, look at me. I guess my talents didn’t lie in that direction,” he said. “So you see, if I just do this one big crime—”

  “Hey, jeez, man,” the skinny guy said. He was rakishly built, with pointy shoulders in his suit, and he wore a slouch-type hat. His mustache was old-fashioned like a matinee idol might have worn in the 1930s. He rolled a cigarette around between his reedy lips. People smoked in the Boondoggle, even though they weren’t supposed to.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” the long-faced man said. “It’s just, if you’re sure we can get away with this thing and that nobody will know I was involved…” He shut up, worried that he was saying too much again.

  “Don’t worry, friend,” Joe in the bowler said. “We’ll take care of you.” He picked up a crawfish, plucked off its head, and stuffed it in their guest’s mouth, leaving the tail hanging out. “We need your help getting through that chemical plant where you worked,” the man continued, “to the playing card company next door. We really appreciate your expertise.”

  “So, like, to absolutely guarantee nobody connects you with the robbery…” The skinny guy pulled a fancy, old-fashioned carpet bag out from under the table. It looked like something from the 1800s. He opened it and held it up. “…you’ll be wearing this.”

  What the hell?

  Inside the bag was a bright red, tube-like thing, round on the top. It looked like the sort of domed covering he’d seen on the clock on his grandmother’s mantle. But this was larger, and opaque, and it looked like it would fit over his entire head down to the shoulder blades. The jangled comedian took the dangling crawfish out of his mouth, spitting out pieces of the creature.

  “Wearing…?” he said, confused. The thing looked vaguely familiar. “B-but there are no eye slits. I won’t even be able to see.” This had to be a joke. Maybe they’re testing me, to see if I’ll go along with them. To his right side Bowler Hat busied himself tearing apart another crawfish, pulling its spindly legs off one by one.

  “There’s these lenses o’ red two-way mirror glass set into it,” the skinny guy said. “Pretty smart stuff, right?” He smiled a thin smile.

  “I dunno. That mask…” the long-faced man said. “Isn’t it the one that Red Hood guy wears, who raided that ice company last month?”

  “Smarten up.” Skinny closed the bag again and put it on the floor. “There ain’t no ‘Red Hood.’ There’s just a buncha guys, anna mask.”

  His heavy associate downed the crawdad and nodded. “Right! It doesn’t matter who’s under the hood. We just sort of let the most valued member of the mob wear it for, uh, additional anonymity.” He made it sound like the most logical thing in the world. Behind him a pro was chatting up a sailor.

  “Sure,” the skinny guy said. “The most valued member. That’s you, man.” He picked up a crawfish and started to shuck it. His partner followed suit.

  Somewhere in the bar, someone threw up.


  The would-be comedian wanted to believe them. This could solve all of his problems, give them a new start.

  “Ah, look,” he said, “really, I don’t know… that chemical plant’s so grim and ugly. That’s partly why I quit.” That and what they were making there. Stuff for the military, “worse than Agent Orange,” he told Jeannie. And there were things he couldn’t tell her. Psychoactive drugs. Compounds tested on people without their knowledge. There had been a slip-up, and he’d gotten a dose.

  God, he hoped it didn’t affect the baby…

  “But you said there’s minimal security, man,” Skinny said.

  “Listen, do you want to raise your kid in poverty?” Joe added. They continued to tear the limbs off of crawfish.

  He buried his head in his hands.

  “No, no, of course not. You’re right,” he said. “I mean, it’s just this once, then I can switch neighborhoods and start a proper life.” With a real home, and a proper school for his son. He’d give Jeannie the sort of existence she deserved.

  “That’s the attitude,” Joe said, patting him on the shoulder. Why were people always patting him on the shoulder? “So… next Friday night, at eleven?”

  The man who would be funny nodded tentatively, laughing a little as the stress lifted from him. “Sure,” he said. “Sure, why not? Friday it is. And then, starting from Saturday morning, I’ll be rich.” He liked the sound of that. “I can’t imagine it. My life’s going to be completely changed! Nothing’s going to be the same…

  “…not ever again.”

  13

  Friday arrived, and the three would-be thieves met at the Boondoggle again, to go over last-minute details. It made sense to meet back there, since the customers and the staff were used to looking the other way.

  It was that kind of place—not a bar to which you took your date.

  It was where you went when she dumped you.

  * * *

  What a dump.

  Miller, the plainclothes cop in his trench coat and snap brim, reflected on the establishment as he and a uniform stood looking in on the bar through the dingy glass in each of the swinging double doors. He glanced briefly at his beefy fellow policeman, McCorkell, and then pushed one of the doors inward.

  Mrs. Burkiss, the landlady who smelled like kitty litter, had told them they might find him here. Not that she advocated drinking before the sun went down, she’d added, but she and the deceased used to talk. The poor dear, the landlady had gone on, had been lonely, what with her husband out all hours. Comedians who worked in strip clubs frequented the Boondoggle, or so she’d been told.

  * * *

  “So, everything’s settled for tonight?” the robber with the matinee mustache said, leaning back in his chair. Today there were no boiled crawdads out in bowls.

  “Uh, well, of course!” the grasping jokester said. “I’d be crazy to back out now.” He leaned on the table, trying to sound confident. “I mean, the worst part, lying to Jeannie, that’s over. She, she thinks I have a club engagement tonight…”

  “No reason why she shouldn’t keep right on thinking that,” the heavier thief said, adjusting his bowler.

  “Right, man,” the skinny thug agreed. “No reason at all.”

  “Listen, tonight,” Joe said, “wear a suit and bowtie. It’s a kinda trademark with this Red Hood business.”

  “Of course,” Long Face replied. “That’s what Jeannie will expect me to wear, for the nightclub. It’s perfect.”

  “Uh, Joe…” The rakish one looked over at the bar, and put a hand on his partner’s shoulder. From where he sat, the comedian saw two men talking with the bartender. One of them was a cop.

  They made a beeline for the table.

  The guy in the trench coat had to be a detective. While the two robbers did their best not to let their faces be seen, the plainclothes cop dropped a photo on the table, and spoke to the long-faced would-be comic.

  The photo was him and Jeannie.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the detective said. “We’re police officers. Could we speak to you outside for a moment?” It didn’t really sound like a question.

  “It’ll only take a moment, sir…” the uniformed cop said. Something in his voice sounded sad.

  “Me? B-but… why?” Confused, the long-faced man looked at their set faces. “I haven’t… I mean, uh…” He tried his best to look innocent. How could they know? Giving up, he stood and followed them out to the street.

  “Uh, listen, what,” he said to the detective. “What’s the problem here? I—”

  “Sir, I’m sorry,” the cop said, interrupting him.

  Sorry?

  “But your wife had an accident this morning,” the cop continued, not making eye contact. “Apparently testing a baby-bottle heater. There was an electrical short, and, uh…” He looked really uncomfortable, and at that moment the comedian knew.

  “Well, she died, sir. I’m sorry.”

  Still avoiding the long-faced man’s gaze, he put a cigarette into his mouth, and lit it with a match.

  “What?”

  What else could he say?

  “Listen, I hate to break it to you like this,” the detective continued, finally looking at him. He sounded sincere. “It was a million-to-one accident. They have full details waiting for you at the hospital.” He laid a comforting hand on the comedian’s shoulders. “There’s no hurry.”

  “If I was you,” the beefy uniform said, “I’d have another drink.”

  With that they left.

  * * *

  The long-faced man just stood there, watching them walk away. There wasn’t anything he could say, or do. Like a sleepwalker, the comic went back inside and sat down. There didn’t seem any other place for him to go. Jeannie and the baby…

  “Hey, pal, you okay?” the skinny guy said, draining his beer.

  “My wife,” he responded. “She’s dead. My wife…” He heard himself say it as if from a pronounced distance.

  “Gee,” Joe the heavy one said. “That’s terrible. We’re really sorry.”

  “Yeah. Hey, listen, man,” the skinny one said, standing and leaning over the table. “You probably wanna be left alone right now, huh? We’ll see you here tonight, okay?”

  What’s he talking about? the comic thought, his eyes going wide. “Tonight?” he said. “But… but I can’t do anything tonight. Ththere’s no reason anymore. Jeannie… Jeannie…” He choked, then continued. “Jeannie’s dead. You don’t understand—”

  Joe didn’t let him finish.

  “No, no, no,” he said. “No, I’m sorry about your wife, but it’s you that doesn’t understand.” He rose, as well, and they stood on either side of him. “What’s happening tonight, it’s no little thing. Nobody backing out now remains healthy.” He let that sink in, then added, “No exceptions.”

  “But…”

  “No buts,” the skinny guy said, giving him a grotesque grin, a cigarette clenched in his teeth. “Tomorrow, you bury your old lady in luxury. Tonight, you’re with us. Get the picture?”

  He knew they’d kill him if he didn’t comply. He had to be alive, if only to take care of his wife’s remains. The remains of their child.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I get the picture.”

  They left without another word. Pausing in the doorway, the skinny thug looked back over his shoulder. His message was clear.

  The long-faced man watched them go through teary eyes. He lowered his head, crossing his hands over the top of his hat as they trembled, and he cried. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the patrons in the bar were watching him, and laughing at his pain. But what kind of people would they be to do that?

  Who would be that monstrous?

  14

  He stood on the edge of the concrete channel, studying his dark-eyed reflection in the slow-moving filthy water. A light rain creating ripples that distorted his appearance. He was dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and bowtie—the suit Jeannie had taken in for him last week—and lo
oked ready for the stage.

  His companions wore trench coats. How come he hadn’t?

  The narrow waterway ran along the side of the Ace Chemical Processing Company. Streams of oily fluid dribbled out of round, three-foot-wide drainage pipes that snaked from the plant. Up a slight embankment stood a chain-link fence topped with loops of concertina wire.

  “Hey, c’mon! Quit daydreamin’. Are we doing this thing or ain’t we?”

  The comic hardly heard. Didn’t even know which of the men had spoken.

  “Uh, yes, yes, of course,” the comic said. “I was, I was just remembering… I used to walk along here on the way to work each morning…”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the skinny one said. His hat was pulled low against the weather, and he was struggling to pull the red tube mask out of the carpet bag. “Now put this sucker on, man. An’ shut up.”

  “What, right now?” he said as the guy lowered the thing over his head. “I mean… I mean, are you sure it’s okay? Will I be able to breathe?”

  “Hey, man, everything’s cool,” the guy said. “Jeez, y’know, you got a funny-shaped head.” After a moment it was resting on his shoulders. “There… you still see okay, man?”

  “Wuh, well, yeah. I guess,” he said. “Except everything’s red… It’s kinda stuffy too, and it smells funny.” Like old sweat and desperation. “Does my voice sound echoey to you?” Seen through the bizarre red lenses, the skinny thug looked strange, with dark eyes and a grotesque grin.

  “You sound great,” Bowler Hat said impatiently, leading him over to a crumbling set of steep concrete steps. “Now… how about guidin’ us through this stinkin’ factory to the joint next door?”

  The skinny guy went ahead of them, backing up the stairs and steadying the comedian to keep him from falling.