A bright full moon illuminated the rooftops of the L & L Lofts in the heart of the once seedy, now ultra-fashionable Meatpacking District. Batman retrieved his grappling hook and reloaded the ascender, then he removed his gloves and massaged the knuckles. It wasn’t the three hours of
Zogger, he told himself, it was the JLA meeting.
Sitting there for an hour and a half of interminable nonsense, he’d
expressed his disgust the only way possible, by clenching and unclenching his fist.
A burst of hoarse laughter came from
below. Batman turned to see a trio
of drag queens leaving a nightclub, one pointing in his direction. The moon, he was perfectly silhouetted by the full moon.
He muttered an obscenity, firing a line to a more discreet location and
swinging out of the moonlight. The Meatpacking District. In the 60s, it was SoHo; in the 80s, TriBeCa. Struggling artists find a rundown area where rents are cheap. They improvise studios and performances spaces however they can from old warehouses, factories or, in this case, meat lockers. Then someone becomes a success, and the beautiful people find them. Pretty soon, restaurants, boutiques, galleries and super hot nightspots are popping up in the rawest of raw industrial spaces. The Meatpacking District was still in the early stages of transition, but before long, it would be saturated in chic, the remaining spaces would be converted to apartments, the rents would skyrocket, and the artists who started it all would move on. Batman scowled.
It wasn’t like him to look on any corner of his city with contempt.
Hell Month. It was just Hell
Month. A tone sounded in his utility belt.
It was the alarm he’d been waiting for.
Six hours ahead in Paris. She’d
just be waking up. He muted the
OraCom and took out Bruce Wayne’s cel phone.
“Good
morning, Kitten,” he
began, with a cheer he didn’t feel, “how was the opera?” ::Morning, Handsome.
Little known fact: today, it’s mostly ballet that’s performed at the
Paris Opera House.:: “Just a minute.”
::Just a minute,:: the deep voice
graveled. Then there was a clunk, a
swilsh, and silence. In her lush
suite at the Ritz, Selina sipped her café.
After a few minutes, the voice returned.
::Still there?:: he asked. “Mugger, dealer, or pimp?” ::Excuse me?:: “You put down the phone, swoosh,
and you come back out of breath. You
just pummeled somebody.” There
was a pause, and she bit into her croissant.
“Pummel opportunities are few and far between this time of year, n’est
pas?”
::Pummel opportunities are few and
far between this time of year, n’est pas?:: Batman’s lip twitched.
Nobody teased him during Hell Month.
Never. Not even Dick the
wiseass. Not even Plastic Man.
Nobody. Only the Cat would dare. “If you want to play detective, I do have a puzzle I wanted to ask you about.” ::Oh?::
“A package arrived at the manor. Gift basket. Box of cigars, lime scented candles, bodywash and shampoo, big natural sponge, and a card with a cat on one side and a riddle on the back.”
He heard a happy laugh on the other end of the receiver.
He growled. It was
encouragement to continue, but merriment annoyed him during Hell Month.
A lighthearted outlook on crime always irked him, but during Hell
Month… He glared at the cityscape before him, then sighed, looked back at the
phone and read the riddle: ::Well?:: Selina prompted. Batman liked that.
She knew he had the answer. She
was giving him the opening to show off. “A baker’s dozen is
thirteen, or twelve plus one. Half
twelve is six. The first syllable
is six. A broken down car is towed;
the sound alike is -toed. Six-toed
something. Third syllable is
inspiration to you, his dear friend. Six-toed
cats, or polydactyl cats are indigenous to Key West, an island off the coast of
Florida where Hemingway, Tennessee Williams and many other writers lived, and
was historically a base for numerous pirates and wrecking crews.” ::Meow:: was all she said, but he
could hear the smile in her voice. He
felt a pang. Sending her away
seemed the best course at the time—it was for the best—he wasn’t about
to second-guess his decisions. He
did miss her though. He expressed
this with an angry snort. “Meow, nothing,” he spat,
“it’s not an answer. It answers
the riddle but not the puzzle of the card and the clues: cigars, candles, soap,
sponge - And what’s this ‘I return on the 17th’ bullshit?” The laughter that had been merry now
became downright delighted. ::You’re too adorable,:: she
gasped at last, ::They’re not clues, you obsessed jackass.
They’re souvenirs. Eddie’s
gone to Key West, he’s coming back on the 17th.:: Batman
stared into the phone… It was all too familiar.
That voice, mocking him. Meow.
So light, so carefree, so sexy. Meow. He wanted her back home, wanted her to cut the trip short and
come home and be with him, wanted that voice as hot breath in his ear, “Meow,” not
the cold treble of a telephone. He
wanted… just like he used to, he wanted and he couldn’t admit it.
She knew too, like she’d always known, and she wouldn’t help him.
Vicious cat. Like now.
Laughing. He was trying to
think over these clues and this riddle in light of new information and all she
could do was laugh at him. ::Eddie is always like that,:: she
was saying. “Fine,” he snorted, “but if I
find out he’s been up to something all this time–” ::Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’ll take it
out of my tail. Whatever.
Oh wait, you can’t, can you, ‘cause you sent my tail 3,000 miles across
the Atlantic.:: Turning the screw.
Vicious cat. He did it for
both their sakes, why couldn’t she see that? “So…” was all he could manage,
then after a pause, “…How’s Paris?” ::Great…:: “So it’s mostly
ballet at the
Opera House now?” he heard himself ask, while fingering a Batarang absently. PsychoBat was starting to stir.
What the hell was he doing talking about the ballet… ::Yes.
Giselle. Quite a production.:: There were crimes being committed in
his city. “Sounds
wonderful,” he grunted. “The weather ok?” ::Well, it is winter. And the House of Chanel has never embraced central heating, so the fittings have been an arctic experience. Rather like Kittlemeier’s backroom.:: Kittlemeier’s. It brought his thoughts back to Gotham. To Selina being back in Gotham. To Selina, scantily clad, in that cold little room… The grumbling that followed concealed a knowing chuckle.
“Yes, it’s quite cold here as well…” ::I’m sure it is, being January and all.
How many flights up right now?:: “Fifteen.” ::Wind is pretty harsh up there.:: “Not too bad. It’s when I’m
mid-swing that I feel it the most…” Reflexively, PsychoBat clenched,
unclenched, and reclenched his fist. It
was time to check the docks. Then
last call at the Iceberg, see who’s closing the place and who heads out where. Then a quick pass through the diamond district.
Then museum row and the park front condos.
On the phone, the silence had become
conspicuous. ::Well, button up then,:: she said finally. He nearly remarked that there were
no buttons on the Batsuit, but that would only rile the cat.
Instead he grunted “I
will.” There was another painful pause
while PsychoBat railed in his brain: This
was all wrong, the conversation was wrong, the words were wrong. Why was he
thinking like this? Why was he
TALKING like this? He had WORK to
do. “I should go, I’m on patrol,” he said finally, just as she said, ::I should let you go then. You’re mid-patrol.:: “ … ” :: … :: “ … ” :: … Well, good night then. :: “G’night… … I—”
::Yeah… Tomorrow… Bonsoir.:: There was a click.
Batman stared into the phone, the instinctive What the hell was that?
response cut off by a commotion below. At
last, PsychoBat had the action he craved, but the wind cut a little colder than
it had before.
Selina sat on the roof of 13
Rue de
la Paix, otherwise known as Cartier Paris.
She’d forgotten what it was like, the awkwardness, the unspoken
questions, the unspeakable wanting, and then, the curt slap of the
bat-rejection. Was this all it took to set them
back? A few days apart and they
were back to square one. Worse.
Worse than square one. “Button up,” she had said.
Catwoman, mistress of innuendo. Button up now, sweetie, it’s cold out
there. Drink plenty of liquids, have some chicken soup… “…Well, good night then.” How suburban. Mary
Lou Lipschitz leaning in after the movie. Well
g’night, Bobby, I had a wonderful time…
::I’ll talk to you tomorrow,:: he
had said. That’s the one that
hurt. Why? Why did it feel so much
like—like the Watchtower. She’d
saved them, the whole goddamn JLA was taken out by that blowhard Prometheus with
his gadget and his tinpot Renfaire-reject armor.
Superman thanked her. Steel
thanked her. Flash said “not a
moment too soon.” Green Lantern,
in no shape to talk, nodded. Huntress
admired her whip. Aquaman held her
chair. And Batman? Batman said
“Put the storm opals from Rann back on your way out.” ::I’ll talk to you tomorrow.:: Thanks again, from Flash.
A smile from Green Lantern who still hadn’t entirely recovered from the
neural chaff and gunshot wound. …PAUSE…
… … … … … And finally… a grunt. Then Martian
Manhunter looked at Batman, Batman looked at Manhunter, more pausing… She could
just tell they were talking mentally to one another, having an argument from the
looks of it. And then Batman walked
off without a word. “Well,”
Martian Manhunter said with an air of covering for a missed cue, “I guess I’ll
shuttle you back.” ::I’ll talk to you tomorrow.:: Jackass.
Bruce knelt beneath the stalactite
where he always meditated after a workout.
He sat up straight, but found it difficult to relax his shoulders for the
breathing exercises. They were
stiff. They ached.
He inhaled through his nose, slowly, steadily, feeling the air fill his
lungs, taking care not to lean forward, expanding his stomach area as he
inhaled… What did he expect?
No sleep, so his shoulders ached.
He felt the air moving into the top
of his lungs—maximum capacity. He
held the breath for a second, then exhaled slowly through his mouth. The tension twisted down his back.
::Yeah… Tomorrow… Bonsoir.:: She sounded so—off. Four regular breaths, then inhale
again. What the hell did she want from him?
He was on patrol. What did she expect, a sonnet? Inhale—deep—don’t lean—DAMNIT! WHAT THE FUCK DID SHE WANT FROM HIM??? He sent her to Paris!
Wouldn’t any woman—wouldn’t Catwoman especially—He FLEW HER
to PARIS in his PRIVATE PLANE—he said GO TO CARTIER, BUY YOURSELF SOMETHING
NICE! Wouldn’t any woman flip? Wouldn’t
Catwoman of all women wrap her arms around him and kiss him?
What the hell did she expect, he was on patrol!
::Yeah… Tomorrow… Bonsoir.:: There were criminals loose in his
city. Dick once said a crime was
committed every eightteen minutes in Gotham. He
was wrong. It’s every sixteen
minutes. What the hell did she…
-the aching shoulders crumpled- …want? He wanted her home.
If she was here, she would have soothed him and he would have slept.
She would have massaged his aching muscles.
She would have noticed
him clenching his fist and taken his hand, opened the fingers, kissed the tender
flesh inside the palm… Zogger.
He’d been meaning to make some modifications, version five was past
due. He could insert heat coils
into the steel arm to prevent the user from grabbing onto it, that would also
open up the possibility of steam. Intense
shots of heat, highly pressurized… Heat.
Pressure. Intense.
Who the hell was he kidding…
“Selina?” :: Yes? :: “I know it’s late there—” :: S’okay, I wasn’t sleeping. :: “ … ” :: … :: “ … ” :: … :: “So, I’ll send the plane to pick
you up in the morning?” :: No, I’ll get the concierge to
get me on the next Concorde out. Be
home by lunchtime. ::
Oswald Cobblepot reread the
offending document in disbelief. He
flipped it over and checked the postmark: Key
West, Florida. With a hostile
agility not seen he’d retired from fieldwork, he grabbed the nearest umbrella,
charged from his office, and angrily rang the brass bell over the bar. “Your attention please, Iceberg
patrons!” he began with an icy hauteur, “Be it known that from this day
forth, the person of Edward Nigma is persona non grata in this
establishment. The Riddler is BANNED from the Iceberg Lounge!”
…to be continued…
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