Batman 1 - Batman (12 page)

“I kind of like this one,” he declared. “Leave it.”

Bob grinned and nodded. He jogged farther along the wall, ready to spray-paint a Jackson Pollock. Jackson Pollock? It seemed sort of pointless, but Bob should have his fun.

In the meantime, the Joker had other business. His date was waiting for him in the café upstairs.

Boom shakalakalaka. Boom shakalakalaka.

Vicki could feel the trap close around her.

The Joker and a dozen of his men had burst into the museum and set about methodically destroying the paintings. Vicki wondered if there was some way she could run for it, but, within seconds of their arrival, henchmen were covering both main doors and all of the emergency exits as well.

Then the Joker saw her. He waved pleasantly as he approached. His face was no longer ghostly white, but his unnatural smile was still there. His good cheer made Vicki feel even more trapped than she had before.

The Joker pulled up a chair. He nodded at her mask.

“I think it’s safe to take that off.”

Hesitantly, she took off her mask as the Joker snapped his fingers. Two of his goons rushed forward, one with a pair of candlesticks, the other with an enormous portable radio.

Boom shakalakalaka. Boom shaka
—

The Joker pressed a button. The disco beat was replaced by a thousand and one strings. He pulled a silver lighter from inside his purple double-breasted coat. He flicked it on, and a foot-long flame burst forth. He lit the candles. It was all like some sort of tremendous parody of romance.

“You’re beautiful,” the Joker remarked smoothly.

Vicki stared across the table. What did you say to a madman?

“Thank you” was what she finally decided on.

“In an old-fashioned sort of a way,” the Joker continued. “I’m sure we can make you more—
today.”

He moved his chair a little closer. Vicki resisted the urge to move hers away. There must be some way out of this. She would have to humor him, though, until she found it.

The Joker looked down at a medium sized black case leaning against Vicki’s chair.

“This is your portfolio!” he cried in delight.

“Y-yes,” Vicki replied, taken aback by his enthusiasm. “I’m meeting a friend who I wanted to see my work—”

The Joker snatched the portfolio and, in a single, fluid move, unzipped it and spread it out on the table. There were fashion photos on top.

“Crap,” he announced.

He turned the plastic pages to the magazine covers and celebrity shots.

“Crap,” he repeated.

He turned the pages more quickly, past photos of heads of state, world events, scenic vistas.

“Crap, crap, craap!” he reiterated.

The Joker stopped.

“Ah, now
here’s
good work!”

Vicki saw that he had gotten to the photos from Corto Maltese.

“The skulls,” the Joker gushed admiringly. “The bodies. You give it all such a glow. ” He grinned up at Vicki. “I don’t know if it’s art, but I like it.”

Vicki didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t say anything.

“Let me tell you what I’ve got in mind, sweetie,” the Joker began in a voice like velvet. “I was in the bathtub one day when I realized why I was destined for greatness. You know how concerned most people are about appearances. This is pretty, that is not?” He shook his head. “Well, that’s all over for me. In crime, the passions ripen fully.” His voice started to rise, as if here, at last, was something he really believed in. “Now I do what others only dream of. I do art, until somebody
dies
!”

He raised both his hands in a gesture of triumph. “See? I’m the world’s first fully functioning homicidal artist!”

Vicki had had enough of this madman. She glared at him.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“I want my face on the one-dollar bill!” he exclaimed, the fervor still there.

Vicki leaned back in her chair. “Good goal. I take it you’re joking?”

The Joker howled with sudden fury. He pointed at his face.
“Do I look like I’m joking?”

But instantly the Joker smiled at her again, the sudden anger suddenly over. “Look,” he said, the velvet tones reasserting themselves, “we mustn’t mistake ourselves for regular people. We’re artists! For instance, let me challenge you with a little piece I did.” He glanced at one of his men. “Bob, will you bring in Alicia?”

The lackey scurried away as the Joker turned back to Vicki.

“You’ll make a pictorial record of my work,” he insisted. “You’ll be with me in the avant garde.”

Vicki realized that, if she weren’t so afraid, she might find the Joker fascinating. He was completely mad, and at the same time, completely sincere.

A woman’s voice spoke behind her.

“Jack?”

Vicki turned around. The Joker’s henchman was leading a woman dressed in white, wearing a porcelain doll’s mask. The woman didn’t seem to be very steady on her feet, and her guide had to spend as much time ensuring she kept her balance as urging her forward.

“You said I could watch you improve the paintings,” the newcomer said. Her voice was slow and unsteady, as if slurred from alcohol or drugs.

The Joker rolled his eyes. “Uh-oh. I’m in trouble now!”

Vicki couldn’t help herself—it was the newshound in her. Even though she was afraid of the answer, she asked what was on her mind.

“Why is she wearing a mask?”

“Well, she’s just a sketch really,” the Joker replied humbly. “Alicia! Come here, have a seat. Show the lady why you wear the mask.”

Another henchman pulled up a chair, and Alicia sat. She started to remove the mask. Her drugged fingers moving slowly.

“You see, Miss Vale,” the Joker continued, “Alicia’s been made over in line with my new philosophy. Now, like me, she’s a living work of art.”

Alicia took off the mask.

Oh, God.

Vicki lurched out of her seat. She couldn’t help herself. The chair fell with a crash as she stumbled away.

“I’m no Picasso,” the Joker continued, as modest as before. “You like it?”

Vicki threw a second chair in the Joker’s path. Like it? She couldn’t look back at Alicia, no matter how much she tried. The left side was perfectly normal, a model’s face. But the right side—skin melted into muscle, which in turn eroded away to scar tissue and bone. How long had it taken the Joker to destroy Alicia’s face so completely?

The Joker grinned at her, that crazy, sincere grin. What could she say to him? How could she get out of here?

“Uh—it’s great,” she managed. “But what can I do for you? I—”

The Joker spread his hands wide.

“A little song,” he suggested tunefully.

His feet tapped across the floor.

“A little dance,” he added cheerfully. He mimed placing something large and round on a pole.

“And Batman’s head upon a lance,” he concluded brightly. “Tell me what you know about—”

His hands turned into a pair of bat wings.

Vicki shook her head. “I don’t know anything about Batman.”

“Really?” the Joker replied indifferently, as if this had been the answer he was expecting all along. He wiggled his eyebrows. “Well, then, what do you think about a little ‘you’ and ‘me’?”

This was impossible! There was no way to humor someone like the Joker.

“I think you’re insane!” she spat back, half rising from her chair.

“I am? And I thought I was a Pisces!” He spread his hands wide in a gesture of supplication as he stood. “C’mon. Let’s make up.” He walked around the table toward her. “Here’s a flower.”

One of his hands encircled a large, purple boutonniere on his lapel while his other hand reached into his coat pocket. The bulb was large and shiny. It looked as if it might be made of plastic. There was nothing natural about that flower.

“No!” Vicki screamed. She jumped aside, almost toppling the table, as a jet of clear liquid sprayed from the center of the purple bloom. A pillar behind her smoked and sizzled where the liquid hit. It was acid!

The Joker grinned at her. He took another step in her direction, as if she would certainly accept the flower, now that she knew its true purpose. He was going to kill her—or worse, make her into something like Alicia. Vicki backed away. She bumped into a waiter’s cart. The Joker walked toward her.

She had to keep him away from her. She needed a weapon. She grabbed a water pitcher from the cart and threw it at the Joker.

The pitcher missed, but it drenched the Joker with water.

“No!” He shrieked as his hands covered his face. “No!”

He bent over double. The tan was coming off on his fingers, revealing the bone-white skin beneath.

“I’m melting!” He fell to his knees.

“I’m melting!” He writhed on the floor. “Oh, God, I’m melting!”

Vicki was so frightened that it took her a minute to realize the Joker was quoting the Wicked Witch of the West.

“Help me!” the Joker croaked, staggering back.

Had she really hurt him? Despite herself, she took a step forward.

He leapt forward abruptly.

“Boo!” he screamed.

He was on top of her. She couldn’t get away. All she could see was the purple flower, and that big, big grin.

Something shattered overhead.

E
verything was perfect until that noise, the Joker thought.

He looked up. Something had come through the skylight, that same dark something that was dropping to the floor.

No, the Joker corrected himself. It wasn’t just any old something. It was the Batman.

He landed only half a dozen feet away. He pointed his fist at the Joker. There was something attached to the bat guy’s wrist.

Was Batman going to shoot the Joker? He was too young to die. The Joker considered running, but Batman would nail him before he took a step. Mother of Mercy! Was this the end of little Rico?

The Batman fired.

The projectile split in two, each half embedding itself into the walls past the balcony on either side of the Joker. The Joker realized there were wires attached to each of the spikes, and another wire leading from the Batman to his skylight entranceway.

The Batman grabbed Vicki and swung out along the escape wires he had created for himself, plunging off the balcony and straight through an arched doorway marked “Exit.”

It took the Joker a second to recover.

“Those toys!” he exclaimed at last. “Where does he get those wonderful toys?” He looked around at his boys. They seemed every bit as flabbergasted as he was.

“Well, don’t just stand there!” he yelled. “Go and
ask
him!”

They went. The Joker sighed. Did he have to think of everything around here?

It took Vicki a moment to realize she had been rescued. Batman had put his arm around her, and, a second later, they were off the balcony and out into Gotham Square. He let her go as they landed, and pointed to a side alley. She ran the way he pointed as he lobbed a small disc into the entranceway behind them. A second later, the foyer was filled with smoke.

“Get in the car!” Batman yelled behind her.

The car? Vicki looked at all the cars parked along one side of the alley.

“Which car?” she asked.

She saw it a moment later.

“Oh,” she added. There were a lot of cars here, but there was only one jet-black, supersleek sports car with customized bat hubcaps.

The hood slid forward with a barely discernible whir, revealing what looked more like twin cockpits than driver’s and passenger’s sides. Vicki climbed into the passenger cockpit. “Ignition!” Batman ordered.

The entire dashboard lit with a dozen different dials and indicators. A small light on the left-hand side flashed “Voiceprint OK.” There was some sort of control board between the seats as well, full of lights and buttons and toggle switches.

“Ignition,” a computerized voice replied.

The engines revved as Batman vaulted into the other side. The doors lowered to seal them both inside as Batman instructed Vicki to put on her seat belt.

The car squealed down the alleyway, straight toward the doorway they had so recently left—a doorway now full of choking goons.

The goons scattered as the Batman’s car roared from the alley. Vicki glanced in the rearview mirror. The Joker’s henchmen were climbing into a van and a pair of cars.

She noticed a flashing light to her right. She realized it was a turn signal. She glanced at the glowing speedometer. The car took the corner at fifty miles an hour.

They turned into the heart of Gotham City. Vicki realized with a shock that, despite all that had happened, it was still only early evening—barely after sunset. The streets were full of cars, the sidewalks and crosswalks full of pedestrians. She saw people running as the van behind them careened over a curb.

Batman pushed his car even faster. Vicki saw the blinking right-turn signal a second time. But they must be going ninety by now. Even a car as aerodynamically designed as this couldn’t turn at that speed!

Batman flipped one of the many switches on the control panel between them. A line rocketed from Vicki’s side of the car, a line with a spike on the end that embedded itself into a brick wall beyond the sidewalk. The car swung around the corner on the end of the line. Batman flicked another switch, and the line dropped away. They were still doing ninety.