The Further Adventures of The Joker (48 page)

“I got even, though. Didn’t I, Bats? . . . First the brats, then her? . . . And what better way to get my revenge than to stick it to you at the same time, eh, old sport?”

His breathing was quite shallow now. He was slipping. Batman crawled over to him and pushed the hair out of his eyes. “Easy, Joker.”

The Joker managed a ragged grin, then a painful, labored chuckle, then silence.

There was a low vibration building in the wall behind them, slowly rising to a deafening roar. Batman inched as far away from the sound as he could without leaving the Joker, and in short order a large portion of the wall collapsed around the jaws of some great metal beast with blazing yellow eyes. Batman squinted at it as the engine shut down and a man, wearing a hardhat and coveralls and carrying a medical bag, climbed out of the driver’s compartment. “Are you all right, sir?”

“I’ll make it, Alfred. You found us faster than I expected.”

“No trouble, sir, once you activated your homing device.” He reached for the light Batman had imbedded in the wall and handed it back to him. “And it was most fortuitous that the digging machinery was still in storage from when you first excavated the tunnel. My garden shovel was not quite up to the task. My word, sir, is that—?”

“Yes, it is,” Batman said, staring down at the Joker.

“Is he dead?” asked Alfred, gazing at the still Joker.

“No,” Batman said. “Not yet.”

Alfred blinked. “I see. If I may say so, sir, your hand appears to be broken.”

“It’ll keep,” he murmured, still staring at his old foe. The questions wouldn’t stop echoing through his mind. How much of it was true? And how much a twisted fantasy? And more, could he live with the answers, if he found them? Or should he simply let it end here, forever entombed from human memory? It would be easy now, to walk away without a second glance. But the Joker had been right about one thing: he had no stomach for murder. Anyone’s murder.

“Help me lift the stone off him, Alfred.”

“Very good, sir,” Alfred said, and looked around as he moved to the task. “Been doing a spot of redecorating, have you, sir?”

“Not now, Alfred.”

Working together, they managed it, though the Joker’s legs were a bloody mess. Alfred administered some quick first aid to stop the bleeding, and when it was done, Batman himself bent to lift the unconscious Harlequin of Hate.

Then he spotted something sticking out of the Joker’s vest pocket and took it out. It was an old black-and-white photograph of a small grinning boy. And as he stared at it, all the color suddenly drained from Bruce’s face.

On a chain encircling the boy’s neck was a pendant—the other half of Leslie’s heart-charm. And the photo was just clear enough to make out the inscription:

best of all.

It wasn’t until after he’d taken the Joker to the Arkham Hospital Annex that he spoke to Gordon and learned that Leslie was going to make it.

He went to the hospital as Bruce Wayne, and even so, her doctor allowed him into her room only reluctantly. She lay there in her bed, stitches everywhere, her silver hair a tangled mane. Bruce had to fight to control his anguish when he saw her.

She smiled at him when he approached and kept her voice very low. “Hi,” she said weakly.

“Hello, Leslie. How do you feel?”

She made a slight movement that he took to be a shrug. “Painkillers help. I should be up and around in no time the doctor said. Doctor also said it looks much worse than it is. Stupid quack.”

Bruce smiled.

Her finger brushed his hand. She felt the cast around it. “What happened?”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “Little accident.”

“I’ll bet.” She paused. “You saved my life. Thanks.”

Bruce’s face fell. “I couldn’t save the children.”

“I know,” she said. “You tried. I know you did. And I love you for that.” The pendant still hung around her neck.

“Leslie . . . I have to ask you something.”

“What is it?”

Bruce pulled the picture from his pocket and put it in her hands.

“Do you recognize this?”

Leslie looked at the photograph and breathed in suddenly. “Oh, my God . . .” she whispered.

Bruce leaned in closer. “Who is he, Leslie?”

She stared at the photo for a long time before replying. “When this picture was taken,” she said slowly, “he was all the joy in the world to his parents. Then a terrible thing happened, and he was taken away. His mother almost killed herself after that, because she blamed herself for what had happened.” She looked up at Bruce. “But she found a reason to go on, although she never saw him again. And she spent the rest of her life trying to atone for her weakness, and her failure.”

“And the pendant?”

“I used to work in an orphanage, Bruce. I had dozens of those things made. I kept one half. The children got the other. All the children.”

Bruce studied her face. “Was he your son, Leslie?”

Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “You’re my son, Bruce.”

Bruce bit his lip, then slowly bent down and kissed the top of her head. “Good night, Leslie.”

Alone in his study, Bruce contemplated the photograph as outside his window, the sun went down and night threw its black cloak once again over Gotham City. And as he stared at the grinning face, he almost thought he could hear it laughing at him.

The Joker’s Christmas

Karen Haber

T
he big green iguana sat blinking placidly in the glass cage by the fireplace. A huge ribbon of green silk was tied in a bow at its neck. It was Christmas Eve, but the lizard didn’t care. His beady eyes took in the festive preparations going on all around him without a glimmer of comprehension or interest. He crouched in his aquarium thinking slow lizard thoughts, dreaming of hot flat rocks and tropical nights.

“Jesus,” Alfonso fumed. “Why did the boss adopt that thing as a pet?” He tapped his purple-enameled fingertips against the glass. The lizard didn’t move. “Creepy. Why doesn’t he just have the thing stuffed? Then at least we wouldn’t have to feed it.”

“Leave it alone,” Franny said. Deftly she spun a silver ribbon around a large green box and whipped it into a fluffy bow. “Come help me finish wrapping these gifts, or they won’t be ready. And you know how crazy
he
gets if we’re not ready on time.” She put the finishing touches on the glinting chartreuse package and leaned back to survey the effect, nodding her head until her green-and-black-frosted mane covered her eyes. “Not bad. I should go into packaging.”

“Where is His Highness?”

“Upstairs, making sure everything’s perfect for his outfit tonight.”

Alfonso snickered. “Checking his list?”

“Twice.” She smiled. Her mouth was a long red slash splitting a pale, thin face. “Glad I’m not on it.” She went work on smother box.

“Don’t be so sure of that,” Alfonso said. He picked up a circular box and began wadding paper around it. “Remember Fat Louie’s Thanksgiving bonus?”

“Yeah.” Franny shivered. “Now
that
was ugly, wasn’t it?”

“Took us weeks to clean up, too. And we had to replace all the wallpaper—twice.”

“Don’t remind me. I thought we’d never find the right shade of green Mylar. Still, the Boss usually doesn’t kill anybody onstaff this late in the month. Hard to get replacements. Especially around the holidays.”

“Good point. You hope.” Alfonso managed to tie a crooked silver bow near the middle of the hatbox and tossed the finished package into a green sack by the door. Leaning back on his Cuban heels, he paused a moment to check his appearance in a pocket mirror. The reflection showed his square jaw, olive skin, dark eyes, and short bleached hair almost covered by a black beret. Not bad, he thought. But the room around him was something else.

Green. Everything was green. The tree was green. The lights that winked within its foliage were green. The green mylar walls were decked with boughs of green holly and green ribbons. To Alfonso, it was like standing in the middle of a giant dollar bill.

“Godrestyemerrygentlemenletnothingyoudismay—” The music poured out of the wall speakers, holiday carols set at manic fast-forward speed, sung by what sounded like crazed chipmunks and yodeling raccoons.

“Nice music,” Alfonso said. He put away the mirror.

“Shhh. Here he comes! Quick, pile those packages into that sack.” Frantically, Franny tossed him an armful of gifts. Alfonso slam-dunked them into the sack.

“And remember,” she whispered, “chill out. He’s really wired tonight.”

A step in the hallway sent them scurrying like rabbits.

Then the door opened.

“Hey, Boss,” Alfonso cried. “Haven’t you heard that Christmas colors include a little red occasionally?”

The Joker gave him a cool stare. He was wearing a green silk smoking jacket lined in quilted plum satin. His hair was green. His skin was white as new-fallen snow. Or a corpse’s inner arm. Only his lips, stretched over a ghastly smile, and around an expensive cigar, were red.

“I like green,” he said quietly. Green fire danced in his eyes. “Any problem with that?”

“No, Boss,” Franny whispered. “Love green!”

Alfonso turned as pale as the winter sky beyond the window. “Green is great,” he said quickly. “Terrific color. My favorite.”

The Joker’s smile widened. His eyes gleamed with cheerful malice. “That’s what I like to hear from my little helpers. You know how I thrive on agreement. Or, rather, how you do.”

He chuckled and twirled the razor-tipped walking stick in his hand like a baton. “Now hurry, children. Idle hands are the devil’s playground. Besides, I’d hate to have to punish one of you just because you made me late on Christmas Eve! I’ve got a lot of stockings to fill. So make sure those presents are wrapped and ready by the time I come back down. I’m almost finished donning my holiday apparel, but I wanted to see how you were getting along.” He peered into the sack by the door. “Good. Almost done. I’ll be back in five minutes. Be ready. Especially you, Franny. You may accompany me as Joker’s little helper
numero uno.”
He reached into his jacket, pulled out a short green velvet-and-ermine robe, and tossed it to her. “Get dressed.”

She cast a desperate look at Alfonso. He grinned and made a slashing motion across his throat. Luckily, the Joker had turned away to straighten some green tinsel on the tree.

“Right away, Boss.” She gathered up the costume and hurried into the bathroom to change.

The big green sleigh quivered on the loading dock as the engines flared to life: headlights came on like eyes opening in the dusk—green sodium eyes staring out over manic chrome grillwork in the shape of a grinning mouth.

“Gonna find out who’s naughty and nice,” the Joker sang. A curly green beard framed his smile. “Oh, I love the holidays,” he said, fussing with the ermine cuff of his green velvet suit. “Hmmm, the stitching is crooked here. Guess I’ll have to kill the tailor.” He smiled cheerfully and blew a kiss to Alfonso on the dock below. At the touch of a button, the Joker’s sleigh lifted off on huge airjets and took to the dark Gotham sky.

“Justhearthosesleighbellsjinglingringtingtinglingtoo . . .” the tapedeck sang at Mach 3.

“Franny, punch in the autopilot,” the Joker said. “That green button there. I’ve already programmed it for tonight’s run.”

“Yessir.”

Below, the lights of Gotham winked with Christmas color, blue and gold, red and green, yellow, white, a thousand earth-bound stars twinkling up at them.

The Joker raised a scornful eyebrow. “Garish display, don’t you think? Excessive.”

“I don’t know—” Just in time, Franny saw the murderous twinkle begin to ignite in his eyes. “Oh, you’re absolutely right, Boss. Tacky. Really.” She nodded wildly until her green and black hair hung limply across her shoulders. “What’s our first stop?”

“Commissioner Gordon’s house.” The Joker giggled. “He’ll be out at the big Christmas gala at Gotham Country Club. And when he gets back, there’ll be a big surprise waiting.”

The big sled tilted down, cutting through the swirling snowflakes to land in front of a white, two-story colonial house.

“Commissioner Gordon! How will we get in?” Franny said. “The chimney’s too small . . .”

“Down the chimney? In this suit? Don’t think like an amateur, Franny.” Smirking, the Joker pulled an electric bolt-cutter from his pocket and handed it to her. “The red button controls the speed. Try maximum.”

Obediently she pressed the snarling machine against the hinges. Sparks flew, and with a spectacular whoosh of air the front door gave way, falling backward as a high, thin alarm began to wail.

“A shame about those hinges,” the Joker said, stepping inside the house. He put the electric bolt-cutter back into his pocket. “A smart cop like Commissioner Gordon should really know better than to have substandard hinges on his front door. Well, I’m sure he’ll get them fixed soon. Bring the big square box, Franny.”

She ran back to the sleigh and grabbed the gift sack. Which big box did he mean? She hunted furiously, tossing rejected packages over her shoulder onto the floor of the sleigh. She was halfway into the bag before she found the huge square box at the bottom. It was heavier than she’d expected. Teetering in her spike-heeled ankle boots, she hurried back to the house.