DC Comics novels--Batman

by Christa Faust

  “Let’s go!” she shouted, leaning over and pushing open the passenger side door.

  “You don’t have to tell me twice.” He was halfway in, leaning the bulk of his body on the seat as she backed up again, spinning the wheels. Sirens bleated through the air. Ashford grunted and hauled himself all the way into the van.

  Two more scarecrows emerged from the smoke.

  “Use those,” Mustang said, indicating the canisters. “Pull the pins and toss them.”

  He did as instructed. The grenades arced through the air, then went off with bangs and intense flashes of light. The hoods dropped their guns and clawed at their eyes.

  “Go that way,” Ashford said, closing the door and pointing toward a narrow street. It wasn’t the way they’d come.

  “That looks like a dead end,” she said.

  “I know this area from deliveries I’ve done around here,” he said. “The cops’ll be coming in the same way we did. Douse those lights,” he added, pointing at the dashboard.

  “I hear you.” Mustang turned off the headlights and drove along, straining to see. She banged into some trash cans, scattering them and the garbage they contained.

  “Crap!” She over-compensated, steering the opposite way and heading alarmingly toward a brick wall, but then centered the van again along the roadway.

  “It’s okay,” he said, patting her arm. “We’re cool.” The sirens were louder than ever. “Steady now, just go slow.”

  Reassurance, fear, and irritation mingled in her as she peered through the gloom, trying to discern their path. Ahead to her left she had the impression there was a gap in the wall, but she wasn’t sure.

  “Here,” Ashford said, “turn right here.”

  She tapped the brake. “What is this?”

  “Just do it, Suzi.”

  “Yes, master,” she cracked, making the turn. The space was tight, and the rear end of the van bumped the wall on the passenger side, but they made it through. She then had the sensation of going downhill. “Brad, I can’t see a damned thing.” She wasn’t about to admit how scared she was.

  “Yeah, okay, turn on the parking lights,” he suggested. “That should do the trick.”

  She fumbled with the unfamiliar controls, but found the knob on the dashboard and gave it a twist. The way ahead of them was bathed in dim amber light, but compared to the blackness it was plenty. Their van was on a concrete ramp that descended into an underground parking garage.

  A few cars were present in the mostly empty space. Square columns served as supports. Several sections of concrete were missing from columns where a vehicle’s bumper had chipped away at them.

  “Hold up,” Ashford said.

  Mustang stopped the van a little faster than she meant to, shifting into neutral but keeping the engine on. She strained her ears but didn’t hear anything other than the idling of the motor. After the frenetic activity they’d left behind them, time seemed to move in slow motion. They sat there for what seemed to be forever.

  “This way,” Ashford said, pointing. She jumped a little at the sound of his voice.

  “How’d you know this was down here?” she asked as they started forward again, moving slowly now. “Your truck wouldn’t fit on that ramp.”

  “This garage is used by the workers around here,” he explained. “Since it’s kind of tucked away, drivers like me get invited for beers and cards sometimes, especially at the end of the day.”

  She gave him a sideways glance. “What else goes on down here?”

  He smiled and pointed. “There’s the other ramp.”

  “You sure about this?”

  “Trust me.”

  Following his lead, she drove up a ramp on the other side of the parking garage. It took them onto a street further away from the turmoil. The sirens had stopped, and in the van’s rearview the GCPD blimp hung in the sky, its twin spotlights beaming down steadily on the police mop-up operation.

  * * *

  It didn’t seem like a good idea to go to either of their homes, at least not yet, Mustang warned. At her suggestion, they drove to a place called the Aparo Motel. The guy at the front desk didn’t even glance twice at them, or at the cash they used to pay for the room—in advance.

  It wasn’t a bad place. Spartan, with a few stains on the carpet and some mildew in the bathroom, but nothing particularly disgusting. There was a TV in the room, secured to a platform up in a corner of the ceiling near a dried water stain.

  As they stepped into the room, Mustang made sure the door didn’t close completely. Ashford didn’t notice. They dumped the duffle and the paper grocery bag on one of the two beds, along with some fast food and beer they’d picked up along the way. Mustang walked over beneath the television set, stretched up on tiptoes, and twisted the dial that turned it.

  The first thing that came on was an in-house commercial for “adult” movies. She changed the channel to WGNN. Sure enough, there was an Action News bulletin.

  “…authorities believe the shootout occurred between a group of drug dealers and associates of Jonathan Crane, better known as the Scarecrow,” the news anchor said. Behind him there was footage of the area they’d just vacated, with the police blimp still hovering in the sky. “His current whereabouts are unknown, and the Commissioner’s office has issued a statement saying that they do not know if Crane himself was behind the heist.”

  She turned the volume down while an image of a wounded hoodlum, handcuffed to a gurney, played on the television. They unwrapped the fast food and beer.

  “How am I going to explain my truck being there?” Ashford sat in the room’s one chair, his elbow leaning on a small round table. His open can of beer sat next to a thick glass ashtray.

  “I don’t know,” Mustang said, shrugging, then she brightened. “They stole it.” She sat on the bed, legs crossed. A hamburger sat on an open wrapper, and she’d squeezed out some catsup next to it. Several French fries dangled from her fingers as she dipped them into the condiment. She gobbled them down wolfishly.

  “None of those hardheads will back that story up,” he protested.

  “No, they won’t, but what does that matter? You’re a solid, upright, tax-paying citizen. Who’re the cops going to believe—you or a bunch of crooks and drug dealers?” She took a bite out of the burger. Narrowly escaping death and arrest had made her ravenous.

  “The cops are gonna press.” He wiped his hand over his face, pulling it down, distorting his features. “Why didn’t I report it stolen?”

  She shook a bunch of fries at him. “You were with me and you… lost track of time. Yeah, that’s it.” She grinned at that. “In fact, call the police in about an hour, to say you just saw your truck was missing.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Don’t think so hard.” She got off the bed, walked over, and sat on his lap. “Baby, we got away with the cash. We’re going to be set.”

  He shook his head. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this kind of thing. I mean, I guess I got carried away, being with you… living the high life.” He shook his head again. “And what about the Giggle Sniff?”

  “It was never about the dope.” She got off his lap, standing and waiting.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She means it was always about the money.”

  Ashford jumped up like a startled rabbit and gaped at the newcomer. It was a woman, conservatively dressed all in form-fitting black and wearing glasses.

  “Hey, girl,” Mustang said. “It’s about time.”

  “Who the hell are you?” the truck driver demanded as the other woman stepped into the room, closing the door behind her.

  “I’m your silent partner,” she said.

  “Brad, this is Wanda,” Mustang said. “Wanda Washawski. She’s got the connections that’re going to turn our money into gold.” He frowned, and she added, “Wanda used to do the books for the Lacy Pony. That’s how we got to know each other.”

  “Huh?” Ashford said. He pointed a finger
at Mustang. “Wait a minute. You had this worked out already, didn’t you?” He didn’t seem happy.

  He looked hurt, angry, and confused. She thought it was sort of cute, in a stupid kind of way.

  “Yeah, the two of us did,” she responded. “It’s our way of getting out from under Python, Galante—all of those scumbags. Scoring a payday that’ll let us tell them where they can shove it.”

  It was dawning on him what the score was. “You always figured to rip off Palmares’ dough?”

  “That’s right,” Mustang confirmed.

  Washawski sat down. “We never intended to sell dope, we wouldn’t sink that low,” she explained. “The idea was for me to lob a couple of stun grenades into the warehouse, along with a smoke device, grab the money and the drugs, and take off in the chaos. I had in place a false trail so that Palmares would blame a rival gang, and we’d be in the clear.”

  “But he still might suspect it was an inside job,” Ashford said.

  “That’s true,” Washawski replied, “but we’d stick around, no big cars or diamonds. This money from tonight and what I’ve been skimming from Python’s money laundering, that sum is by my calculations the right amount to reap long-term rewards in this new venture.”

  “This new venture isn’t drugs?” Ashford said.

  “But then the Scarecrows conveniently showed up,” she continued as if not hearing him. “You and Suzi improvised masterfully, I must say. They’ll never suspect us, and with luck they’ll think the money was absconded with given a couple of them got away.”

  Ashford tried to absorb all this.

  “What now?” he asked, his voice edgy. “If we’re not going to sell the drugs.”

  “Now we go forward,” she said, looking pleased with herself.

  “It’s called the Arpanet and if the pocket protector wearing guys who started this sweet little company on the West Coast are right, one day there’s going to be a computer on everyone’s desk, home and office.”

  “Why?” he said.

  “If what Wanda has researched pans out,” Mustang began, “you can use them to write letters and other stuff, replacing the typewriter. Use them to send messages back and forth and send pictures over the…” She searched for the word. “Airwaves I guess they call ’em.”

  Ashford stared blankly. If you weren’t an engineer or some kind of egghead scientist, what the hell would you need a computer for? Washawski claimed that a tsunami in communication was in the offing.

  And they were going to be riding the wave.

  * * *

  That night the three stood on a small hill of patchy land behind the motel. They watched fascinated as green-tinged flame rose from the burning gym bag of Giggle Sniff. Possibly they glimpsed their future in the flickering light.

  24

  Harvey Bullock steered his dented Mercury Marquis along the boulevard. The lit stump of a cigar was lodged in the corner of his mouth and a mournful Chet Baker tune played low on the car’s tape deck.

  In the trunk were the items he’d assembled for the takedown, including ones confiscated from the special evidence lockup. As he drove, he gave Thea Montclair a squeeze on her knee. She sat next to him, wearing jeans and tennis shoes. Her features were drawn tight.

  “Relax, we got this,” he said. “Right?”

  “It’s just… what if something goes wrong, Harvey?”

  “Then we make it up as we go.” He took the cigar from his mouth and blew a stream of smoke out the partially rolled-down driver’s side window. “You can do it.”

  “I got too much riding on this.”

  “I know,” he said. “We both do.” He smiled reassuringly at her.

  “I need a hit,” she said. “I gotta calm my nerves.”

  “No, you don’t.” He glanced at her.

  She looked back. “You’re right, I don’t.”

  He pulled the Mercury to a stop amid a row of low-slung buildings, none more than two stories high. Except one.

  The Novick Novelty works stood out in the near distance at three stories high. Putting the car into park, Bullock killed the engine, took the key out of the ignition, got out, and unlatched the trunk. He pulled out a thick duffle bag and closed the trunk lid. There was a growl nearby as a worker guided a noisy diesel-powered forklift.

  “Okay, countdown to success,” he said, handing her the keys through the passenger side window. She slid over behind the steering wheel.

  “Good luck,” she said.

  “Good luck to us both,” Bullock amended, hefting the duffle bag over his shoulder.

  Montclair started the car and drove away. The man with the forklift removed a pallet of plastic-wrapped cartons from a semi. He paid no attention to Bullock, dressed in a wrinkled cotton shirt and khakis. Given his build, the detective could easily be mistaken for a worker delivering machine parts.

  He got to the corner and looked down the block. The “empty” novelty company faced out onto Andru Street and took up most of the short block. The first two stories of windows were blocked out with a reflective material that kept him from seeing inside, but Bullock was pretty sure anyone inside could see out. Closer to where he stood was a single-story warehouse with a large rollaway door in front—storage for frozen produce, busy at the beginning of the day with trucks arriving steadily for pick-ups by local restaurants and grocers. Since it was early afternoon, however, most of the day’s business already was done.

  Just past the warehouse he turned and followed a narrow passageway that led between the buildings. About midway to the next block he reached his objective, on the side of but toward the rear of the Novick building. He bent down and unzipped his duffle, which he’d set on the ground. Bullock extracted five mechanical items that resembled reptiles. These were geckos created by Winslow Shott, also known as the Toyman. His usual stomping grounds were in Metropolis, but for a price he helped finance his own endeavors by supplying gadgets to other criminals.

  The gizmos had been made for a crew of arsonists who employed controlled fires to pull off their heists. Confiscated when the gang was caught in the act, the mechanical lizards could climb walls and were designed to explode into fireballs.

  “All right, you little bastards,” Bullock said, “it’s time to do your thing.” He flipped a switch on each of the robots, and slit irises glowed red in their artificial eye sockets. He’d listened and taken notes on the taped interrogation of one of the arsonists, describing how to program them. Bullock sent the mechanical reptiles scurrying up the outside wall of the novelty works. Each went toward a different destination, identified via the building schematics kept in the public records.

  Wearing a lopsided grin on his face, Bullock removed two more objects from his bag—a semi-auto Mossberg shotgun and a Batman mask. The mask was the cheap sort, picked up in the kids’ section of a chain drug store. He appreciated the irony as he pulled the stretchy material over his blockish head. Checking the weapon, he returned it to the duffle, then secured the bag onto his back.

  “Time to rock and roll,” he muttered as he psyched himself up. From previous reconnoitering, he knew there were piles of old crates and pallets strewn all about the building. He heaped some of them up under a set of built-in rungs that scaled upward to the Novick building’s rooftop. While he wasn’t in the best of shape, Bullock managed to haul himself up onto one of the crates. Standing and balancing as best he could, he reached for the first rung. The crate creaked and shifted under his weight.

  “Shit.” He’d purposely laid off the chili fries and extra cheese lately, but who was he kidding—he was far removed from the days when he’d been an offensive tackle, back in high school.

  “Come on, goddammit,” he grumbled. Sweat ran out from under the rubbery cowl on Bullock’s unshaven face, and he considered pulling the itchy thing off, but he didn’t dare take that kind of chance. The crate began to splinter beneath him, but stretching as far as he could, he got a hold on the lowest rung.

  Feet propped against the wall
to support his weight, he sucked in air for several moments. Then he started climbing upward, passing between windows of the second floor without incident. As he got toward the third floor there was a flutter behind a curtain at a window off to one side.

  He froze.

  There stood Python Palmares, staring out over the rooftops of the shorter buildings. He hadn’t seen Bullock, yet. Heart beating in his mouth, the detective remained stock still. The curtain partially blocked him from view, but if Palmares turned even the slightest amount, he’d be screwed.

  Time stopped.

  Bullock’s dry tongue touched his dry lips.

  He couldn’t even produce enough saliva to swallow.

  Finally Palmares moved away from the window. Sucking in air, Bullock clambered up to the roof faster than he thought he could move and went over the low parapet.

  Taking a knee with a thump, he wiped away as much sweat as he could. Adjusting the eye holes in his Halloween mask, he checked his watch. By now his robot geckos would be in place. Lurching to his feet he walked to the square structure that held the roof access door. It was locked, but he pulled out a small container, also “liberated” from GCPD storage. It was a vial of the acid the Joker liked to use on random victims, and just a few drops dissolved the padlock.

  He reached to open the door, but then stopped. Examining the hinges, he confirmed that they were covered in rust. Bullock damn sure didn’t want to alert Palmares and his boys downstairs—his plan relied on catching them off guard. In another page from the Batman playbook, he took out a small can and placed the nozzle against the hinges, squeezing out a generous amount of oil on each one.

  That done, he slowly worked the door back and forth, loosening up several years of decay. The result wasn’t entirely silent, but it was quiet enough that he slipped inside without raising an alarm. He descended the stairwell to the third floor, then the second. Regarding his watch again, he began a countdown in his head.

  “Showtime,” he muttered gleefully.

  * * *

  One of the women packing the Giggle Sniff happened to look up. She was originally from a small village in the Mexican highlands, and had seen plenty of lizards in her lifetime, though she hadn’t noticed any in Gotham. Shrugging, she lowered her head and returned to her repetitive task. The swing door leading to the lab opened near her as a fresh batch was wheeled out.