The Further Adventures of The Joker (28 page)

Wayne shrugged. “You and I have both heard Batman speak of the Joker’s surprising strength and agility.”

“The Joker may be strong and agile,” Gordon objected, “but he’s not a trained professional athlete. If he has strength, it’s the strength of a madman.”

“We’ll see,” said Wayne, oddly curious in spite of himself. “Maybe he’s a madman with a good fadeaway jumpshot.”

“Well, Chuck, we should extend a warm welcome to all our affiliate stations along the Gotham City Knights’ radio network. This looks like the largest crowd of the season here in Gotham Garden, and with good reason. Tonight is the first game of the Knights’ four-game home series, and it’s also the one in which the Joker, the Clown Prince of Crime, claimed he’d appear in a Knights’ uniform. I imagine a lot of these people are here to witness that, to see if it’s more than just another of the Joker’s loony pranks.”

“Right you are, Tom, although if the Joker does go out on the court tonight, he may have more in mind than shooting a few baskets. In the past, when the Joker shot something, he usually used bullets.”

“Well, on the legal front, he evidently has some very clever attorneys. They’ve managed to outmaneuver the NBA commissioner’s office, getting a court order preventing the commissioner from banning the Joker from playing. A hearing has been set for next Tuesday, however. In the meantime, the Joker will be permitted to suit up and appear on the court, if that’s what he really has in mind.”

“And who can ever say
what
the Joker has on his mind, Tom? I’m sure Police Commissioner Gordon and the Batman are nearby, to prevent him from pulling some truly insane and dangerous stunt in this jam-packed arena. In any event, a lot of people will be following this game closely. Now let’s go down to courtside for the introduction of the teams.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” came the voice of Gotham Garden’s announcer, “welcome to tonight’s game between the Boston Celtics and
your
Gotham City Knights!”

The announcer paused while the more than twenty thousand fans cheered. First he introduced the starting lineup for the Celtics: Larry Bird, Kevin McHale, Robert Parish, Dennis Johnson, and Reggie Lewis. As their names were called, they got up from their team bench and ran onto the court. There was mild applause from the Gotham City partisans. The Celtic players shook hands with each other and waited until they’d all been introduced, then went back to their bench and stood staring across the hardwood floor at the Knights. The Joker was nowhere in evidence.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,
your
Gotham City Knights!” The crowd jumped up and shouted its approval. “At forward, number six, from Ivy University, Hilton Foster!” Foster ran onto the court, grinning at the ovation he got from the fans. “At the other forward position, number fourteen, from Saint Didier College, Kennedy Turner.” Another long, loud cheer, and Turner joined Foster at the midcourt stripe. “At center, number four, from Hanson Tech, Monroe Parks. At guard, number sixteen, from Wray College, Bobby O. ‘Dogtrot’ Brown. And at the other guard position, number fifty-three—” the announcer paused for a moment “—from . . . Arkham Asylum . . .
the Joker!”

The crowd went wild. There were thundering waves of boos, but there were also a few shrill cheers mixed in. The familiar white-skinned, green-haired figure emerged from the runway to the Knights’ locker room, laughing insanely and blowing kisses to the angry, howling fans. He joined his teammates at midcourt. The others hesitated to greet him, fearing some deadly Jokerish trick, but at last Turner shook his hand. Then Foster, Brown, and Parks welcomed him, and the Knights retired to their team bench.

“Well, Chuck,” said one of the radio announcers, “we’re witnessing history of a sort being made here tonight.”

“I suppose so, Tom, although I never would’ve believed I’d see anything like this. They’re getting ready for the opening tip-off down there. The officials for tonight’s game are Tony Mangiani and Cliffort Dupree. Mangiani’s taking the ball out to midcourt, between Robert Parish and Monroe Parks. Mangiani puts the ball up . . . and it’s batted by Parks into the hands of the Joker.”

“Okay, now we’ll see if the Ace of Knaves, as the papers in town like to call him, knows one end of a basketball from the other. The Joker dribbles the ball a couple of times, then starts bringing it up slowly on the left side. He’s calling a play down there, although Coach Jim Westfahl no doubt set one up in the locker room. The Joker’s got that bizarre, evil grin on his face, and the Celtics can’t seem to take their eyes off him. The Joker passes the ball in to Parks, the Knights’ center. Parks holds the ball out of Parish’s reach. Now the Joker and Dogtrot Brown cross each other just in front of the foul line. Parks fakes a shot, Parish goes up, Parks feeds the ball into the Joker—
yes!
The Joker made a nice move around Reggie Lewis and drove to the basket for a clean lay-up. The Knights draw first blood and lead, two to nothing.”

“Have you noticed that the booing hasn’t stopped, even though the Joker canned those two points? He doesn’t have a lot of fans in this crowd. I’m impressed now by how he’s hustling back on defense. The Joker’s keeping close to Dennis Johnson, not letting the Celtics’ point guard have an easy time moving the ball up. Johnson clears it out to Reggie Lewis, who feeds it in to Larry Bird. Bird’s open for a second, goes up with that beautiful, soft shot of his, and the score is tied.”

The game stayed close all the way to the end, with the Gotham City Knights coming out of it with an exciting win, 114 to 109. The Joker finished with impressive statistics: He was in the game forty-one minutes, had twenty-one points, eight assists, two steals, and was two out of three from beyond the three-point line.

Immediately after the game, reporters and sports-writers from all around the country rushed down to the Knights’ locker room, but the Joker was nowhere to be found.

That same night, many blocks away in the new Seaside Coliseum, a few furtive figures made their way down a broad, carpeted corridor. It was after hours and the Coliseum was closed to visitors, but these six men hoped to arrange a private tour of one of the exhibit halls. The night watchman heard their steps and lifted his feet from his desk. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking up, “but—ulp!”

“Forgive me, my good man,” said the Joker. “I hope we didn’t startle you. I understand there is a rare treasure on display here, the fabulous Corsican Condor.”

“Why . . . yes, it is, but—” the night watchman stammered.

The Joker gave his insane laugh and gazed down at the watchman affectionately. “Don’t tell me any more, I know
exactly
what you’re going to say. Believe me, I’ve heard it all before, countless times! Something about the exhibit hall being closed now, and no one’s allowed in until morning, and that if I don’t leave, you’ll have to call the police, and all that sort of thing. Am I right?
Hmmm?
”

The night watchman looked terrified. He’d heard about the horrible things the Joker had done to scores of other men and women in exactly his position. “Yes,” he said in a fearful voice, “I’ll have to. It’s my job.”

The Joker looked around at his five henchmen. “Isn’t he wonderful?” he cried, spreading his hands. “Isn’t he just the perfect night watchman?” The Clown Prince of Crime turned back to the cowering man. “Ah, if only I had a dollar for every time someone has said that to me in my long, illustrious career. But I wouldn’t be the Joker if I took you at your word, now, would I? I mean, if I did just turn around and leave, what would be the point of all my elaborate preparations? I have my reputation to think about, too, you know!”

The night watchman tried to speak, but his throat was too constricted. Finally he managed to get out, “I . . . I don’t know.”

“You’re afraid,” said the Joker solicitously. “You’ve heard about my acid-squirting flower, haven’t you?” The night watchman nodded, his eyes wide. “Well, I don’t need my acid-squirting flower. You’ve heard about my deadly joy buzzer, too?” Again the watchman nodded. “Well, I won’t use that toy, either. In fact, Mr. Night Watchman, I don’t need any of my wonderfully amusing gimmicks, because I have official permission to be here tonight for a private showing of the Corsican Condor. Here’s the engraved invitation, signed by the executive secretary to the director of the Seaside Coliseum herself.” The Joker laid the card on the watchman’s desk and waited.

The night watchman glanced down at the invitation, then back up at the Joker. Then he removed his eyeglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on and picked up the invitation to study it more closely. “I’ll admit, this does seem to be in order,” he said thoughtfully. “It sure looks like Miss Brant’s signature, too. Maybe I should just give her a call and—”

The night watchman gave a sudden, startled gasp, then rose halfway out of his chair. He dropped the invitation to the desk and began clawing at his shirt collar. His facial muscles began to tremble, and then his mouth pulled back in a ghastly grin, the hideous, telltale mark of the Joker. The corpse of the night watchman fell heavily forward across the desk.

“I couldn’t very well allow him to disturb Miss Brant at this late hour, could I?” said the Joker, looking innocently from one henchman to another. Then he threw his head back and laughed his cold, grim laugh.

One of his accomplices began to reach forward to take the invitation from the desk. The Joker slapped his hand away. “Careful, you fool,” he said. “Contact poison. Absorbed through the skin. I’m wearing gloves, but you’re not.”

“Ah, brilliant, Boss!” said the henchman.

The Joker merely shrugged. “It’s a gift,” he said modestly. “Now, if I were a five-hundred-year-old gold and jeweled statue of a bird, where would I be?” He led his gang down the corridor toward the exhibit halls.

The Batman stood in one corner of Exhibit Hall B, watching Commissioner Gordon’s expert investigators gather what little evidence the Joker and his men had left behind. The commissioner himself stood with the Caped Crusader, shaking his head in bewilderment. “I don’t know what to think, Batman,” he said. “The dead night watchman shows all the marks of one of the Joker’s victims, but that damn villain has a perfect alibi.”

The Batman rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “You mean that between eight o’clock and eight-thirty, when the watchman was killed, the Joker was in plain sight before twenty thousand spectators, in the uniform of the Gotham City Knights.”

Gordon turned and looked at the smashed display case, where only a short time before someone had removed the priceless artifact known as the Corsican Condor. “I don’t know what to think. It could be that the medical examiner is mistaken in his estimate of the time of death. Or else there are
two
Jokers in town tonight!”

“That’s a terrible thought, Jim. I’ve seen the videotape of the Joker’s news conference, when he announced that Joculator, Inc. had purchased the basketball team. I’d stake my life and reputation on the fact that
he
was the real Joker. Who the other Joker is—if there is, in fact, a second one—is the mystery.”

Commissioner Gordon slammed a fist into the palm of his other hand. “It’s more than that, Batman. At the press conference, the real Joker merely made fools of us and the legal system. I suppose I can live with that, although it makes my stomach burn. But whoever came in here tonight committed murder, as well as a variety of lesser crimes up to and including grand larceny. That I can’t live with. If it’s the Joker or an impostor, we have to catch him and put him where he’s no longer a threat to society. It’s our duty, Batman.”

The dark, cowled figure nodded. “I don’t think your men will learn anything more of value,” he said. “I’m going to begin my own investigation, using my own methods. I’ll keep you informed of my progress.”

Commissioner Gordon threw up his hands in frustration. “The Joker!” he cried, and then he kicked some shards of broken glass across the room.

The Batman had much to think about as he made his way through the cold March rain from the Seaside Coliseum to the Batmobile. The theft of the Corsican Condor was an audacious crime, the sort of thing in which the Joker had specialized in years past. Now, of course, the Clown of Crime had graduated from mere smash-and-grab antics to become the insane killer all Gotham City had come to dread.

Perhaps a decade ago, the Corsican Condor would have been enough of a temptation for the Joker. No longer, though. Now his motivation was a single-minded determination to prove his cleverness and superiority over Batman, to humiliate his foe where all could see—and if one or ten or a hundred innocent victims died in the process, the Joker only shrugged and took no further notice.

So the Batman felt sure that the disappearance of the Corsican Condor was only a small part of the Joker’s grand scheme, whatever it was. Wars had been started, tens of thousands of soldiers had perished in battle, and towns and cities reduced to rubble—all to gain possession of the legendary Corsican Condor, which the Joker may well have unceremoniously tossed into a corner. It was possible that the dazzling golden sculpture meant nothing to him now. It was merely a prop he no longer needed in his urgency to get on to the next part of his mad plan.

The Batman stood staring back at the Seaside Coliseum, at the flashing blue lights of the police squad cars parked haphazardly around the main entrance. He rested his arm on the roof of the Batmobile and pondered his helplessness. The worst part was that he’d learned nothing at all tonight. He knew only that the Joker was introducing another of his crazy puzzles, and he would have the upper hand until he revealed enough clues for the Batman to figure out the Crime Clown’s theme. Until that time, the ball was very definitely in the Joker’s court—and the Batman hated having to wait on the Joker’s pleasure.

“Thirty-four seconds left in the fourth quarter, the Knights up by a single point over the fiercely determined Lakers. The lead in this game has been seesawing back and forth since early in the first period, and neither team has been able to build a lead better than six points.”

“It’s going to go right down to the wire. Chuck, a typical Knights—Lakers matchup. All right, Dogtrot Brown inbounds the ball for the Knights. He passes it to the Joker, who brings it up slowly, using as much of the clock as he can. He dishes it back to Brown, who throws it in to Foster. Back out to Brown, who puts it on the floor and thinks about trying the lane. No, he passes it across to the Joker. Now in to Turner—the game clock is down to fourteen seconds—back out to the Joker, who drives on Byron Scott, stops, goes up—the shot is good! The Knights increase their lead, one hundred and seven to one hundred and four. The Lakers immediately call a time-out. Down on the court, all the players are moving toward their respective benches except the Joker, who is still treating the crowd to that awful laughter of his. It’s enough to make your flesh crawl.”