Batman 1 - Batman (11 page)

“That luscious tan!” the Joker announced. “Those ruby lips! And hair color so natural, only your undertaker knows for sure!”

The scene switched to quick shots of a dozen delivery trucks, their sides emblazoned with the names and logos of all the fine products that have made this great nation of ours what it is today.

“I know what you’re saying,” our pitchman’s voice crooned over the pictures. “Where can I buy these fine new items? Well, that’s the deal, folks. Chances are, you’ve bought them already!”

The Joker’s handsome and distinctive face returned to the screen. He winked broadly at the audience.

“So if you did,” he added cheerfully, “remember, put on a
happy
face!”

The happy voices came back on, singing a different tune: “Joker Brand! We’re changing the face of Gotham!”

The Joker cut the transmission. What a wonderful show! He could see all of Gotham now—young women, afraid to get ready for their big night out; young men, fearful of using deodorants or shaving cream; whole families, unable to trust their medicine cabinets.

This was the Joker’s finest hour! It was showtime in Gotham forever and ever!

Or at least as long as there was anyone left alive.

Let’s see the Batman top this!

Bruce Wayne turned off his television. The Joker’s transmission was over. Snow once again filled the screen. It was exactly what he thought was happening. Now he simply had to find the quickest countermeasure.

Alfred entered the room and handed him another piece of paper to add to the file.

Bruce read it aloud:

“Assault with a deadly weapon, age fifteen.” He glanced up at Alfred. “Nice guy.” His eyes returned to the paper. “Psychological testing—high intelligence, unstable, aptitudes in science, especially chemistry, and art.” He made a thoughtful noise at the back of his throat. “Chemistry?”

He flipped to a photo of Jack Napier, then glanced up at his butler.

“Let’s go shopping, Alfred.”

PANIC GRIPS GOTHAM! the
Globe
headline read. CONTAMINATED PRODUCTS CLAIM 13 LIVES! WHO IS THE MYSTERIOUS ‘JOKER’?

An anchorwoman looked out of the TV screen. Her complexion wasn’t very good, was it? And look at those bags under her eyes.

“—six new deaths,” she was saying, “with no clues as to the Joker’s deadly weapon.”

The camera shifted to an anchorman, one with a big, ugly zit on his nose.

“And what is the pattern?” he added, “beauty and hygiene products, cologne, mouthwash, underarm deodorant—”

The camera was back on the anchorwoman. My, she didn’t look very good at all. Her hair was all frizzy. She didn’t have any eyebrows. You could see every wrinkle on her middle-aged face!

“Or worse yet,” she said, “there may be no pattern. The search goes on through Gotham’s shopping nightmare.”

Gotham’s shopping nightmare? My, those newspeople certainly had a way with words, even if they did look like death warmed over. The Joker clapped his hands. This was getting better and better with every passing day!

Gordon couldn’t believe the mayor had called him in here. Gotham City was under siege!

Harvey Dent was still on the phone. The mayor started talking anyway.

“We’re having this festival if I have to carry a shotgun and get people there myself!”

Dent hung up the phone as the mayor rattled on.

“Do you hear the words coming out of my mouth, Dent? The festival is on! You find out what this madman is poisoning us with, and fast! Do I make myself clear?”

Dent glanced over at Gordon with a If-you-don’t-kill-him-I-will look.

“We’re working on it,” he replied.

Bruce Wayne wandered into his personal armory. Alfred looked up from where he was oiling a blowgun.

“Oh, sir, did you see the message from Miss Vale?” the butler asked. “She’ll be ten minutes late in meeting you at the museum.”

Museum? Miss Vale?

“Am I—I’m meeting her?”

Alfred nodded in that efficient way he had.

Bruce had forgotten all about it. He hadn’t been thinking about anything at all for the past day and a half except this chemistry problem. Was he becoming too obsessed with Napier? But how could you be too obsessed with someone who wanted to kill all of Gotham City?

Still, he had his own life to lead. Apparently, he had promised to meet Vicki at the museum. She was going to be ten minutes late? He was afraid he was going to be even later.

He wondered if Alfred had any idea what time he had been supposed to meet her in the first place.

Oh, he was a clever Joker!

He’d already rinsed his hair a very attractive shade of black. Now he had to cover his white skin with the flesh-tone makeup again. There was no use frightening Vicki Vale too quickly, especially after all the trouble he’d gone to. First, impersonating Bruce Wayne’s butler to make the date with the lovely Miss Vale, then getting Alicia—after he’d sobered her up a bit—to call that selfsame butler to impersonate Vicki and make the date on the other end. It probably wasn’t necessary to have invited Wayne, but the tidiness of all of it appealed to the Joker. After all, why not kill that millionaire playboy now and get the competition out of the way?

He smiled at his reflection as he put the finishing touches on his face. True, this was all a lot of trouble, but you had to look your best on a first date.

“Jack?” Alicia’s slurred voice interrupted his toilet. “Where are you going?”

She staggered into the room, half-closed eyes staring through that white porcelain mask she always wore these days. Such a shame. What could he tell her that her poor, drug-numbed mind could understand? The Joker shook his head. It just proved what too much high living could do to you.

He stood with a flourish, admiring his countenance in the vanity mirror. Was there anything he had missed—any last-minute touch to make the total effect even more devastating? Ah, yes. He placed a very special flower in his lapel. Alicia stumbled back a step.

“I’m going to the Fleugelheim Museum,” he announced. “Daddy’s going to make some art.”

It was hard to pull himself away from the mirror. But he could hardly keep Miss Vale waiting—especially now, when he was perfect.

V
icki glanced at her watch. She’d been waiting here for twenty minutes! And she was getting angrier with every extra minute that passed. How could she confront Bruce Wayne if Bruce refused to appear?

Why was Bruce Wayne so important to her all of a sudden? They had had only that one night together—they hadn’t made any commitment at all, except for the one that might be in her head.

She didn’t know what to think anymore. Ever since the other day, when those two models died right in front of her eyes . . . It was like Corto Maltese all over again, a world full of violence and arbitrary death—a world where you could trust no one and nothing could be taken for granted. She found herself in the middle of a brand-new war, a war where the Joker made up the rules. Except, this time, instead of a war started by a hand grenade or an assassin’s bullet, this battle had begun when the two women laughed themselves to death—the Joker’s little touch.

Vicki stared down at the gin and tonic on the pastel-blue tabletop. The café here was very nice, on a balcony overlooking all of the Fleugelheim. And yet, it all seemed so unreal here in the museum, her surroundings like a bright, polite coat of paint on the oil-soaked, half-broken machine that was Gotham City. A machine that was about to explode.

It was the fault of Corto Maltese, she supposed. After you’ve lived in a war zone, you can never quite trust the peace of everyday life. She had lived the last couple of years wandering close to the edge. This time, though, she might have already crossed the edge without even knowing it. What did this madman want from her?

She was beginning to feel trapped. She wanted to talk to someone about all this. She wanted to talk to Bruce.

Somehow, there was an inner strength to Bruce Wayne, something far deeper than the absentminded facade he showed the world. At first, it surprised her how much she wanted to confide in Bruce about this. But her feelings ran deeper than she first realized, and not just about the Joker and Gotham City. Maybe Bruce wouldn’t share her feelings, but she had to find out.

She glanced at her watch again. Only a minute or two had passed. She would sit here a while longer. Bruce should be coming. After all, he had reserved a table for them in the museum’s tea room. The waiter had shown her there right away, mentioning that Mr. Wayne had yet to arrive.

She started to wonder what Bruce had asked her here for. Unless, Vicki realized, Alfred had arranged the reservation for Bruce. She was rather charmed by the old butler, and she imagined he felt a certain warmth toward her as well. It had never occurred to her before this—Alfred couldn’t possibly be matchmaking, could he? If so, what did Mr. Wayne feel about the whole thing? Was that why he was late? Vicki wondered if she might be entirely misreading Bruce’s intentions. Why didn’t she just get up and leave? She looked at her watch again.

She decided she would wait a minute longer.

She sipped her gin and tonic as she watched a waiter approach. He was carrying a package.

“Miss Vale, this just arrived for you,” the waiter murmured before he turned on his heels and disappeared.

It was a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper, with three words written on it in crayon: her name, and a large, red URGENT.

She tore off the wrapper. Inside there was a small, white box, with a note attached, also written in crayon:

DEAR V. VALE
PUT THIS ON
RIGHT NOW

Vicki opened the box. But what was this small, red and green thing inside? It looked like nothing so much as a miniature gas mask.

She noticed an odd hissing noise. There was purple smoke coming from the ventilators in the corners of the room. Waiters collapsed on the floor, letting trays of food crash with them. The fellow at the table next to her dropped his fork and fell face first into his pasta salad.

Vicki put on the mask.

A moment later, she was the only one still conscious in the entire restaurant. A hundred people had fallen around her. Some rested on tables, half in and half out of their meals. Far more had fallen to the floor, their arms and legs at unnatural angles. Some of them had collected in piles near the doors as they realized what was happening and tried, futilely, to turn and escape. All of them were out cold.

At least, Vicki hoped they were only unconscious.

The far door of the museum slammed open—violently. Whether she wanted it or not, Vicki was receiving visitors.

A couple of the boys used a little plastic explosive to rip the delivery doors of the museum off their hinges. Sure it was visiting time, and they could have walked right in. But where was the drama in that?

The Joker led the way. He had put on his artist’s beret for the occasion. The boys followed quickly, toting the champagne and the glasses, and, of course, Steve-arino carted that huge ghetto-blaster.
Boom, shakalakalaka. Boom, shakalakalaka.
It was time to party.

He walked over to the nearest wall to examine the artwork.

“Okay, everybody,” he announced. “Let’s broaden our minds.”

The boys all went to look at paintings of their own.

Boom, shakalakalaka. Boom, shakalakalaka,
the radio commented.

The Joker sighed, awed to be in the presence of so much fine art. Not, of course, that these were ideal viewing circumstances. Oh, the champagne and music were fine, but you had watch out with all these bodies on the floor. A person could trip or turn an ankle or something if he wasn’t careful. Ah, well. It was true what they said. You had to suffer for your art.

Ah, here was a painting the Joker recognized: “Blue Boy,” by Gainsborough, a beautiful full-length portrait of a young man dressed in blue. What lines. What a sense of color. It was almost perfect.

The Joker raised his cane to trace the outlines of the portrait. Yes, he could feel that artistic impulse now. He pressed that special button on the handle of the cane, the one that tripped the switchblade. Now he wanted just the right sensibility here. The Joker bit on his tongue as he carved a large Joker smile in the Blue Boy’s canvas face. There! Much better! He smiled at his underlings. Art could be so satisfying.

The boys took that as their cue to make artwork of their own, working quickly with their knives and spray paint, giving all those stuffy old Manets and Renoirs and Degases some thoroughly modern additions.

Boom, shakalakalaka,
the radio urged them on.
Boom, shakalakalaka.
It was much better with music. As the Joker always said, whistle while you work.

He moved on down the line of paintings, letting the boys have their way with all but the very best. What had we here? “The Scream,” by Edvard Munch. A black-and-white figure, screaming with pain and anguish and madness, a creature both pitiful and terrifying in its intensity, as if it contained all the pain and anguish and madness in the world.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dagger swinging into action. He glanced around to see Bob about to make a slice of his own. The Joker raised a cautionary finger.