The Further Adventures of The Joker (52 page)

“You talkin’ to me, dude?” the kid said defiantly. “What’re you, king of the phone company, or what?”

“Don’t push your luck, punk,” he answered. “Don’t make me angry. We’re in the middle of a conversation here. We don’t want to be interrupted.”

“Oh, yeah,” the kid said. He could almost see him smirk. “A conversation. Right. Sure. That ain’t no conversation, man. You’re just playin’ with the babe’s head. Tryin’ to screw her up. Make her cry. Why’n’t you leave her alone, dude. Why’n’t you just kill yourself.”

“I can trace this line, punk,” he said. He was bluffing and he prayed the punk wouldn’t know it. What else could he do? “I can find out where you live. I can kill you. And your parents. Burn your house to the ground. Don’t push me.”

“You’re full of it, dude,” the kid answered. “Go ahead and trace it, if you can. I’m at a party right now, man—and I don’t even know who’s throwin’ it! You killing anyone, it’s gonna be the dudes who threw this bash!” The kid began to laugh, a slightly drunken hiccuping laugh. He was taunting him. It was infuriating.

“Final warning,” he said, knowing that he’d already thrown down his last card. “Get off the line, or I’ll—”

“I ain’t talkin’ to you anymore, creep,” the kid said, dismissing him. “Where’s the babe? She still there?” He paused, waiting for her to respond. “Yo’, babe! You still out there? Come on—I wanna talk to you.”

From somewhere far off, he heard her again, emerging from the despair-filled corner he had backed her into. Her white knight had arrived to save her, and she was rushing up to meet him. “Hi,” she said. Her voice was hoarse. She’d been crying.

“Hi, babe,” the kid said. “My name’s Ronnie. What’s yours?”

“Cathy. Nice to meet you, Ronnie.”

“Likewise,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you that this dude is a psycho. A nut job. Any dude plays with someone’s head like that, they gotta be a freak. Know what I mean?”

“I guess . . .” she said. She was coming back. It was over. He’d lost.

“You don’t wanna even talk to a guy like him,” the kid said. “Scary dude. He’s probably sitting in some hotel somewhere, all by himself, like, gettin’ off on all this.”

“You think?” she said. He could feel his anger reach a new level. He wanted to break in on the conversation, wanted to tear the both of them up into tiny pieces—but he knew his power was gone—and that, for tonight at least, he was totally, utterly impotent.

“I know,” the kid said. “Guys like that—they’re losers.”

“I guess you’re right,” she said.

“Lissen. I’m at a party over on Northside right now. It’s pretty cool. Lots of beers, good music. We’ll probably go till dawn. Why’n’t you come on over? It’ll be fun.”

“Really? You think it’d be okay?”

“Sure. Got a pencil?” He was about to give her the address when she stopped him short.

“Wait,” she said. “What about . . .
him.
I mean, he’s probably still listening—if he hears the address, he could come over and—”

“Don’t worry about it. He tries anything, me ’n’ my buddies, we’ll kick his butt. Might even do this party some good—it could use a little excitement. Matter of fact,” he continued, “if the psycho dude is still out there, I’d like to extend a personal invitation to him. You come on over, we’ll give you a dose of some righteous hell.” After the kid gave the address to her, he prepared to sign off. “You’re sure you’re coming?” he said. She sensed he really wanted her to.

“Absolutely,” she reassured him.

“Cool,” he answered. “See you then.” There was a click, and the kid was gone.

The line fell silent. Still, he hadn’t heard a second click, one that would have signaled Cathy’s departure. Was it possible? Was she still there? Would he have yet one more chance to turn the game around and pick up where he’d left off? He pressed his ear hard against the receiver, as though that might improve his hearing.

He heard her take a deep breath. “You’re a bastard . . . a sadistic bastard,” she said in a measured, somehow confident voice. “What did I ever do to you? I called this line to have some fun! Because I wanted to be something I’m not! I look at myself in the mirror everyday. I can see what I am! I don’t need a jerk like you to tell me. But what the hell’s wrong with playing some other part once in a while?”

He was about to answer her, but the question turned out to be a rhetorical one. A click, and she, too, was gone. He was alone.

It was hopeless. He hung up the phone. He’d lost the game. The goddamned surfer punk had done it. It was all his fault. He wished he could shove his fist down the punk’s throat and tear out his beer-bloated teenaged belly. He knew where they were. He had the address. He wanted to go to that party so badly he could taste it. Wanted to enter the house with his trusty Uzi in hand and mow them all down. Let God sort out which one was Cathy and which one was that damned punk.

But he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t afford to be seen on the streets. Not now. Not yet. They all thought he was dead. If someone—a cab driver, a pedestrian, anyone—should identify him, the hunt would start all over again. And he wasn’t prepared for that. All he could do was stay here. Sit in this hotel room, while the woman whose life he’d come so close to destroying discovered the meaning of life all over again.

God, it was depressing.

Nothing had gone as planned. Not even the slightest thrill was afforded him by that humorless God upstairs. He couldn’t do anything right. He closed his eyes tight in the darkness, feeling tears welling up inside him. His life was a waste. There was only one cure for it.

He reached under his bed and groped around between mattress and boxspring until he felt the cool polished wood handle in his hand. He pulled it out and held the gun gingerly.

He snapped off the safety. Pulled back the trigger. Heard it click into place. Pressed the barrel against his temple. Squeezed the trigger.

He heard the
pop!
sound as the rolled-up flag with the word “Bang!” on it unfurled and bounced against his head. It smarted. But it felt good.

He laughed himself to sleep.

The Fifty-third Card

Henry Slesar

POLICE NAB ARMORED CAR BANDITS

ARSON SUSPECTED IN WAREHOUSE FIRE

GOTHAM BANK ROBBERS ESCAPE
BUT LEAVE LOOT BEHIND

22 DIE IN CRASH OF CHARTERED BUS

C
ommissioner Gordon scanned the front page of the
Gotham Gazette
with the grim satisfaction of a general studying the map of a battle zone. These communiqués from the front line didn’t mean the endless war against crime was being won, but at least the forces of law and order were holding their own, and at a time when the Commissioner feared the possibility of an underworld blitzkrieg. The explanation for his concern was simple enough. Batman was on holiday.

Gordon didn’t begrudge the Caped Crusader some respite from the combat zones of Gotham City. If anyone deserved some R and R it was that dedicated daredevil who had slammed the iron doors of justice in so many evil faces. In a way, the Commissioner welcomed the opportunity. While he freely admitted Batman’s contribution to the low crime rate, there was no doubt in his mind that his capeless but competent police forces were capable of protecting the public,
without
the necessity of flashing the Bat-Signal across the heavens of Gotham City.

Of course, it helped to know that master criminals like the Joker hadn’t been heard from in weeks. And judging from the conventional caliber of crimes and disasters reported in the local press, it looked as if that Grinning Ghoul was still licking his wounds from his last encounter with Batman. With a sigh of relief, the Commissioner turned to the sports pages. His mood changed when he saw that Gotham’s pitching ace, Les Kovacs, had been assaulted with four home runs by the Cubs the night before.

That was how his daughter Barbara discovered him, muttering into his morning coffee. She laughed when she learned the reason.

“Is
that
all?” she said. “I thought sure it was something in the headlines.”

“I know, I know,” he growled. “You expect me to go to pieces just because Batman decided to take some time off. You don’t think I can keep this town under control without him?”

“I never said any such thing.” She locked her arms about his neck and kissed his bald spot. “But I also notice,” she said mischievously, “that you haven’t told anyone about Batman’s little vacation.”

“No use tempting Providence,” Gordon said, “Batman himself asked me to keep it quiet. He also said that he could still be reached in the case of a real emergency. He gave me a number to call, told me just to leave my name. Peculiar number . . . it has an area code I can’t identify.”

“But if I know you,” Barbara said, flipping back to the front page, “you won’t call him because of stories like
these
. It would have to be an atomic bomb threat or an invasion from Mars . . .” But she was frowning over the paper now, and Gordon looked at her curiously.

“What is it? Read about someone you know?”

“No,” she said. “Not personally. But these musicians who were killed . . . The Bobby Armstrong Band. They played at Kate Allenby’s debutante ball, just a year ago . . .”

“I don’t remember reading anything about musicians.”

“It’s right here. The bus accident.”

“Oh, that.”

“Don’t be so callous, Daddy.” She scanned the story rapidly. “They went through a guardrail on the highway. All those poor broken bodies strewn among their instruments. It’s just awful.”

“I wasn’t being callous, baby.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “Life is full of accidents, unfortunately, and there isn’t too much we can do about them. But crime is something we
can
do something about—which means it’s time for me to get to that office.”

He didn’t give another thought to the dead musicians on his drive to Police Headquarters. There was too much else to think about, including his daughter’s ill-concealed concern about his ability to handle the Batmanless days ahead. But it was almost a week since the Night Creature had appeared in his study to announce his departure, and no catastrophe had befallen Gotham City. With any luck, that odd telephone number in the Commissioner’s wallet would never be used . . .

There were two things Commissioner Gordon didn’t know about that number. One was the fact that the “area code” was actually a United States satellite signal. The second was that any message reaching that number would be conveyed to the newly established Moonbase One, where a group of prominent investors had gathered to formulate a plan for private development of the moon’s mineral wealth. “Batman” wasn’t among them, but Bruce Wayne was. The caped figure was being lightly ironic as he told the Commissioner about his forthcoming “Vacation.” It may have been a holiday for Batman, but for Bruce Wayne it was strictly business.

Gordon had often wondered about the economics that allowed Batman to pursue his nonprofit career. Once he had even made a tentative suggestion about public funding, but Batman had disdained the idea. If Gordon had known his true identity, he would have realized that Bruce Wayne’s fortune supported his crime fighting mission handily. But even crime-fighting was inflationary. The equipment in the Batcave alone, including its state-of-the-art supercomputer, was worth more than a hundred million dollars. Bruce Wayne had good reason to keep expanding his fortune. He was Batman’s sole support.

There was the usual stack of messages on his desk when Gordon arrived, and the first three widened the slightly self-satisfied smile he had worn all morning. The crime laboratory had concluded that the warehouse fire had, indeed, been arson, and the second message told him that the owner had confessed to insurance fraud. The third message concerned the capture of the hapless bank robbers who had become too unnerved to take the loot with them. The fourth, however, wiped the smile from the Commissioner’s face. It was an accident report that read:

Gas main explosion at Yacht Club social hall. Fourteen dead
,
all rehearsing musicians
.

It was the last word that troubled him.

Musicians
.

He was thinking about Barbara as he picked up the phone and called Matt Stampfli, the deputy assigned to the Accident Division. Matt wasn’t there, however, so his assistant recited the meager details available.

“There was a big annual dance scheduled for tonight,” he said. “The band rehearsed until about one-thirty this morning, and they were just about to break up when the explosion hit. None of them had a chance.”

“And where’s Matt?” the Commissioner asked. “Is he out there?”

“No,” the assistant said. “Matt’s at the auto shop.”

“What the hell is he doing at the
auto
shop?”

“Well . . . something else came up. About that bus crash yesterday, the one that ended up in the ravine?”

“What about it?” Gordon asked, feeling a sudden chill.

“There was something funny about the brake linings of that bus. He wanted our guys in Auto to look them over.”

Gordon said some religiously inspired words, but there was nothing reverent about the way he said it.