Catman and Sparrow

On a Monday:

Pretrial conference in the chambers of Judge Chester Gould, Department Nine of Superior Court, in and for the City, County and State of Gotham:

Defense attorney Dickie Welles spoke, “This is an absurd travesty of justice your Honor. My client has a Fourth Amendment right to confront all witnesses against him. You can’t offer up a statement from a self appointed masked vigilante—this Catman. Even if you can produce him in Court we have no assurance that he is the witness he purports to be, anybody could be under that mask—he looks like a Mexican wrestler! We have no method to effectively cross-examine an anonymous witness. Therefor I insist that all charges be dropped forthwith.”

The Judge gazed over the top of his glasses at the prosecutor, “I’m surprised this challenge hasn’t come up before—I’ve expected it for years, haven’t you, Bonny?”

“Your Honor, the Jester has a lengthy criminal history, he is a hardened social deviant and extremely dangerous. It is unthinkable for you to order his release—the Catman’s statement is fully supported by all the forensic evidence.”

“His statement initiated what amounts to unlawful search and seizure, none of that evidence is admissible. I’m sorry Bonny. Case dismissed.”

Meanwhile, in the large estate atop Gotham Heights the telephone rang:

“Wayne Manor, this is the butler, Albert, speaking. How may I be of assistance?”

“This is Aretha Strehli, of Gotham Child Protective Services. Is Mr. Bradley Wayne available please?”

“I’m sorry, Master Wayne is indisposed at the moment. May I take a message?”

“You can tell Master Wayne that it is high time he took off the Cat mask and hung up his cape. He needs to be looking to the welfare of his foster son. I will call back tomorrow at this time, I expect Master Wayne to be available—I have the authority to remove Richard Whiteson from Bradley Wayne’s custody.” She hung up.

That evening in the Catcave:

“Holy Social Workers, Catman—Child Protective Services?”

“Don’t worry, Dick. I’m sure it is just a routine inquiry.”

“But she’s wise to your secret identity—that’s dangerous! What can she be up to?”

“That’s what I intend to find out. You must stay home tonight and do homework, Dick, you have the second draft of your Geography paper due tomorrow. Get to your room and start working. I’ll have Albert bring you milk and cookies.”

Earliest Tuesday:

Aretha Strehli’s apartment was on the second floor of a crumbling four story brownstone. The windows looked over the dumpsters in the alley and into the apartments across the way. People on both sides usually kept their curtains shut and Aretha had glued waxed paper over the glass in her bedroom, frosting it opaque.

Using his rope, Catman lowered himself from the roof to the ledge around the second floor and investigated Aretha’s windows—ancient double sashes in splintery wooden frames. The decayed building had long ago lost plumb lines and none of the latches fit together.

He wriggled open the window above the toilet, it was sticky, groaned in its track, Catman worked as slowly as he could.

Finally inside, he stepped down from the commode lid and crept to the Bathroom door.

Took a careful look and decided it was safe, he entered her living room.

A brilliant flash of light stole his vision, a woman’s voice came to him: “Hold it right there, Mr. Wayne. I’m placing you under citizen’s arrest.”

“What?” Catman blinked blindly.

A ceiling fan chandelier lit up the room. The voice resumed: “I’ve just taken a photograph of you entering my home uninvited—that makes you a burglar—and I’ve already posted the image on my blog. I’ve got you dead to rights, if you want to avoid jail you must cooperate with me.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to cease endangering the life of your ward Richard Whiteson. This crime fighter business has to end.”

Catman waved fingers in front of his eyes, sight slowly returned. “How did you find out?”

“We take child welfare very seriously, Mr. Wayne. Richard’s gymnastics coach was the first to raise concerns after he saw bruises—the coach was in the Marines, he knows what fistfights do. And Richard developed an alarming pattern of missing classes—especially morning ones, frequently his teachers thought it seemed as if he had been up all night engaged in heavy physical activity. They suspected he might be using drugs, naturally, and his guidance counselor felt my office should investigate. Richard was placed with you through Family Court and we have the responsibility to monitor these situations—an orphan like young mister Whiteson is extremely vulnerable to predators.

“You are a prominent man Mr. Wayne, greatly esteemed in the community, we felt it necessary to make our inquiries quietly. We placed Wayne Manor under surveillance and documented patterns of activity. Then, just by chance, I was looking at an old topographic map in the University Library and I noticed there is an abandoned mine tunnel up in Kanes Ravine and that’s almost directly beneath Wayne Manor.

“I had a hunch and biked up there last Sunday, just me and Rex, my Alsatian. I found your hidden road and the secret cave entrance—I had just got my camera ready and you came roaring out in the Catmobile. Great pictures—not on my blog, yet. I have them on a flashdrive that I put into my safe deposit box.”

Eyes finally clear saw that Aretha had risen from behind a dining table with a cloth that draped nearly to the floor. At her side lay a large well-trained dog with a curious gaze upon the stranger. He had a black wedge face with blonde brows and tall ears, black haunches, tawny flanks and black stockings. The dog was silent until Catman’s eyes met his, then he started to growl and his ears flattened.

“Easy Rex, that’s a good boy. Keep the bad man still.” Aretha spoke to her guest, “He used to be a Police Dog—trained at the Gotham K9 Combat Academy and earned a Gold Collar, the highest award they give the students. With a friend like him I am safe downtown at any hour, some people cross the street to get out of his way.”

African/American, bosomy, middle aged, short salon-curled hair and a large pair of round glasses with a thin gold chain around her neck, Aretha was athletically built—she went mountain biking virtually every weekend, ate vegan (Rex too) and never drank, smoked or used drugs. She wore a houserobe and slippers.

Noises fumbled outside her door. Bumps, footsteps, a shuffle and then a voice too urgent for whispers: “Quiet! We don’t want to wake the building! This has to be it—number seven, right?”

A tired female voice returned, “Yeah, Willie.”

“Okay, get that camera ready.”

“She won’t open up, I wouldn’t.”

“Fuck you and pick up that camera. How’s my hair?”

“Bald as ever, you should powder over the glare.”

“Fuck you.”

“Not even at gunpoint.”

A half-minute later a heavy knock rattled the door and the man’s voice boomed: “Open up, Miss Strehli. This is Willie Wilson of KGB Action News! Our viewers have questions they want you to answer.”

Rex barked twice and ran to the noise, he faced the entrance in a ready posture: crouched, ears and tail low, teeth bared, he growled.

Aretha shouted: “Go away!”

“You can’t keep the Press at bay, Miss Strehli. I have reason to believe that you are harboring the notorious Catman in there!”

“Go away!”

“The Catmobile is parked around the corner, our cameras recorded him entering your apartment. Open up in the name of the news!”

“This is my home—I can entertain whomever I wish!”

“Miss Strehli, come clean for our viewers, they have a right to know—are you and the Catman having an affair?”

“Are you crazy? Get out of here! I’m calling the police!”

“Tell the people, Miss Strehli. You are a public servant!” He banged the door again and Rex started barking.

Catman had bolted at the first sound, he scrambled over the toilet and out the window.

Camera lights shined down from the rooftop, camera lights shined at him from down in the alley.

With his back to the wall he struggled through the glare to find an escape route—there was a dumpster just below with a plastic lid only a few feet under his boots, he could use it for a springboard, a utility post had a street lamp on a long pipe arm and further beyond a fire escape offered access to the building across the way.

Catman jumped, the cracked dumpster lid broke under his heels and he sank waist deep into urban refuse, rats scattered in panic. The camera lights moved in close.

The Cowled Crusader struggled from the mess and got atop the side rails, dripping, he stood at a dumpster corner near the lamppost. With a short spring he bounded up and caught the metal climbing pegs, his crotch slammed into the post.

There was no time to experience pain, he shinnied up the pole. His boots wouldn’t catch on the pegs and he climbed with his thighs and hands, pulling on the rungs above. Splinters shredded the legs and chest of his uniform and embedded themselves deep into his flesh.

Once above the street lamp arm he closed his eyes and called up all of his remaining balance. The arm was a three-inch pipe and sloped upwards, Catman tightrope walked the ten-foot length, it sagged and the anchor bolts started to pull from the lamppost.

He stood atop the lamp and stretched for the fire escape—just out of reach. Catman flexed his knees and jumped, his hands caught the fire escape grill and the lamp fell, the camera operator below shouted curses as she leaped away.

Catman dangled from the bottom of the fire escape, the grillwork was closely spaced and his fingers were stuck between bars. Members of the news team entered the building.

Willie Wilson walked into the alley and stood directly underneath. He shouted upwards: “Just who are you, Catman? The people have a right to know!”

He tried a desperate maneuver, pulled his knees up and started to swing his body. The motion cut the metal edges into his fingers but he worked up momentum rocking back and forth, when he opened his hands in the forward arc of a long swing his fingers pulled from his gloves and he went flying.

He hit a window feet first and crashed into an occupied room, landing on a bed.

Karl and Edna were awake, disturbed by the commotion outside. The window was above their headboard, they watched Catman’s swing and ducked to either side before the shower of glass and crime fighter littered the mattress.

Karl didn’t recognize the hero in the darkness and thought he was a burglar, he shouted to his wife, “Edna! Get the gun! Top drawer of the dresser!” Naked, he stood and threw the blankets over Catman’s head then jumped atop with a wrestler’s grapple.

Catman’s left hand reached his utility belt. It was the Cowled Crusader’s policy to never carry weapons but his loyal servant Albert had insisted that he have one emergency device—a can of military grade riot gas the butler had obtained from old army friends he had served with in what was then Rhodesia.

Catman opened the can, it released a dense fog of stinging vapors, filling the room.

Karl made an anguished yelp and jumped from the bed, he stumbled out the door. The cloud reached Edna as she lifted the .45 automatic and she dropped it with a scream, then ran from the room.

Catman stood, the blankets over his head protected him from the gas. He drew a deep breath and held it, uncovered his face and ran for the door. The canister was still on his belt and still venting, a cloud of noxious fumes followed him.

Karl and Edna ducked into their Bathroom, slammed the door and latched it. They hugged and screamed together.

The apartment’s front door had two dead-bolts and a heavy chain, it took the crime fighter several minutes to get it open.

He had to breathe and took some of his own gas, he burst from the apartment choking and blinded with tears.

Two camera crews were in the hallway outside, the lights shined on his face but they retreated from the blistering cloud.

Still gassing, Catman clambered the length of the building and the stairs to the lobby. The building faced the street around the corner from Aretha’s and the Catmobile was parked immediately outside.

The hero vaulted into the driver’s seat and fired the motor, the pepper gas can was finally empty.

Willie Wilson’s satellite truck was double parked with its boom antenna extended and had the Catmobile hedged in. Wilson and his cameras were running around the corner.

But the sidewalk was clear in one direction. Catman cranked the wheel to the right and popped the clutch.

The Catmobile bounded over the curb, he twisted the wheel to the left and hit the accelerator. Fishtailing, the car’s rear end smashed the plate glass windows of the building’s street front payday loan shop and it launched down the promenade crashing through a bus stop shelter and scattering garbage bins out by the curb awaiting pickup.

Catman reached the corner and spun into the intersection, he heard sirens and saw police car lights coming from two directions. The Catmobile turned about, back down the street, as he passed the satellite truck he fired the rocket boosters attached to the undercarriage.

Thirty seconds of hard acceleration put him a mile down the boulevard before fuel exhausted. It was an insane ride, the car was barely under control and he blasted through eight red lights.

And it wasn’t fast enough. Two members of Wilson’s crew had motorcycles ready, of the type often called ‘crotch rockets’.

Catman had just slowed to reasonable velocity when he saw the bikes in his rear view mirror. He uttered an uncharacteristic cuss word and jammed the gas pedal again.

He finally eluded them by cutting over a railroad crossing seconds ahead of an approaching train.

He drove up Kanes Ravine and into the Catcave. The Catmobile was scratched, with dented tailfins and fenders, smashed headlights, cracked windshield, a nearly flat tire and the radiator steamed from a puncture—he had driven the last five miles with the temperature gauge needle stuck at the far red end, it dieseled and knocked when he shut off the motor.

Catman was scratched, torn, splintered, garbage splattered and bruised. He needed sleep, he needed love.

Shortly thereafter, overseas:

“Excuse me, Mick, my phone.” Clarabarta rose from the crowded luncheon table and went to a quiet room, sat on the closed toilet lid. She pulled her phone from a small purse and checked the calling number—her wealthiest client. “Hello Bradley, I can’t talk right now. What’s up?”

“Clarabarta, I’ve had a rotten night and I need you desperately. Only your fingers will soothe my pain.”

“I’m in London, Bradley. With another client, a very rich rock star—it’s his birthday party.”

“Are you stoned?”

“No, of course not. I’m a pro.”

“And I’m ten times richer than all the rock stars put together. I’ll have a jet at Heathrow ready in an hour—catch it. For me, please?”

“It’s a fun party, Bradley.”

“I’ll make it more than worth your while.”

“Bradley… ”

“I’m on my knees, begging.”

“Bradley… ”

Five minutes later she exited the loo and returned to the party two million dollars wealthier. She addressed the honoree, “I’m sorry, Mick. There’s an emergency. Can I borrow the limo and driver?—I need to get to Heathrow… ”

“No problem, Luv. I’ll take a rain check.”

Later that morning, as the workday began, there was another telephone call:

“Hello Aretha, this is Bradley Wayne.”

“Yes, I see your number Mr. Wayne.”

“We need to talk, privately.”

“I think we’ve talked enough, you know what I want.”

“Can I put Dick—Richard—on the line? He would like to explain a few things.”

“I’m being evicted from my apartment because of you, Mr. Wayne. Tabloid reporters won’t leave me alone, and half the civic administration of Gotham Burg are demanding answers—not to mention the District Attorney’s office. I owe you no favors.”

“Did you tell them about Catman?”

“Not yet. Satisfy me and maybe I never will.”

“Then we must talk—just you and me. I know a very quiet café with a private room—nobody will see us.”

“Mr. Wayne, my patience is running out.”

“Please! Just one meeting, I need you to understand… you will be satisfied. This afternoon?”

“Oh well, what’s the address?”

Just after midday Dick Whiteson arrived home, he rode his motorscooter into the Wayne Manor garage and parked it. He removed his helmet and placed it on the seat. Albert emerged from the door into the mansion. “You are home early, Master Dick.”

“There was a bomb threat phoned into the Principal’s office. Gotham High School was evacuated for the afternoon. I saw Willie Wilson and the KGB truck, it will be lead story on tonight’s news.”

“Indubitably. Did you present your paper?”

“No—My Geography class is in the final period. We’ll make it up tomorrow.”

“Very good, sir. Shall I prepare a lunch?”

“Don’t bother, Albert. I can manage.”

“Very good, sir. If you need me I will be in the Catcave inspecting the Catmobile.”

“It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”

“I fear the Master will need to take an older model out of the mothballs.” He shook his head and walked away, a faint ‘tsk-tsk’ came from his direction.

The mansion door led into the kitchen, Dick took a heavy butcher’s coat from a peg and entered the walk-in refrigerator. He found the fixings for a three-course sandwich and brought them out to the carving board, hung up the coat, selected knives and set to work. This was serious business.

A charming voice broke into his concentration, “Wow, caveman, I see eight cuts of meat there—you should balance the brown with a little green.”

She had a physique that matched the women on Dick’s favorite web sites, only she was clothed. Sensible flats on her feet, in a trim green skirt that ended below the knees, three buttons held a tight blue jacket to her waist and the frilly yellow blouse was fastened up to her collarbone. Straight black hair, green eyes, pearly teeth, smooth healthy skin.

“I’m Clarabarta. I got in from London overnight and I just woke up—jet lag.” She smiled and Dick heard angels sing.

“I’m Bradley’s foster son, Richard Whiteson—call me Dick.” He put out a hand, there was mustard on his fingers. He pulled back and wiped with a towel, offered the shake again. “I didn’t know that Bradley was seeing anybody.” Her grip was stronger than his.

“I’m not his girlfriend. Bradley pays me.”

“Oh.”

“I’m a body worker—kinetic therapist. I’m a masseuse, physical trainer, yoga guide, exercise coach and a licensed chiropractor—I do acupuncture too. I have an exclusive clientele. I usually work with Bradley at his office in town, that’s why we’ve never met. He speaks of you a lot, he’s very proud.”

“Gosh, thanks.”

She bent down and gave Dick a kiss on the cheek, not a peck, a solid smack. He turned red.

“You’re a sweet boy. Very handsome. How old are you? Sixteen?”

“I turn seventeen next month.”

“I bet you have a bunch of girlfriends—more than Bradley, I hope.”

“No, actually. He keeps me real busy. I don’t have time to hang out with the other kids. It’s been two months since I had a date.”

“That’s sad. How does he keep you busy?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Please tell me it’s nothing bad? or illegal?”

“No, no… Mostly we work out—I guess you know that he is serious about exercise.”

“Yes he certainly is.”

“How come Albert didn’t tell me you were here?”

“I don’t know Albert and I’ve never seen him. Is Albert a servant?”

“The butler.”

“I came in very early in the morning and slept on a sofa in Bradley’s library. I guess Albert hasn’t been in there yet.”

“I kind of missed your name—it sounded strange, sorry.”

“That’s all right, most people miss it the first time. I’m Clarabarta—no last name.”

“Clarabarta… that’s pretty.”

“Don’t tell anybody but I made it up—I changed it legally. My parents named me Clara Barton Teller.”

“Like Edward Teller—the guy who invented the hydrogen bomb?”

“That’s why I changed it—he is so ancient history but everybody remembers that detail—no, we’re not related, and I’m glad. I’m actually named after Clara Barton, she started the American Red Cross and there is a distant family link.”

“I never heard of her.”

“It figures, not many have. And she was a great human being.”

Meanwhile, at a fine café in the central business district, in a private dining room:

“Don’t worry about the eviction notice. I bought your building and had a talk with the manager. Maybe there are improvements you need?”

“That’s very generous, Mr. Wayne.”

“Call me Bradley, please.”

“I do not wish to be on first name terms with you, Mr. Wayne, nor will I be influenced by noble gestures and fancy lunches. I’m vegan, Mr. Wayne, and I inquired of this restaurant, the only foods they have for me are plain bread and salad without dressing. They use a lot of cheese here, and they cook rice with lamb broth—I find the menu quite toxic.”

“There’s an excellent wine list.”

“I never touch alcohol.”

“You are hard to please.”

“You said you can satisfy me?”

“I’m starting to wonder. But let me try. I’ll never get through if your stomach is empty—I can have them send to the market for whatever you need, it won’t be any trouble at all.”

“I have a job, Mr. Wayne. I can only give you half an hour of my time.”

The waiter entered.

“I’ll dine later, Maurice. We’ll have coffee.” Bradley faced Aretha, “Coffee is okay? I hope… ”

“Is it organic? Fair trade?”

“I don’t know. Maurice?”

“Oui, Madame. We have the finest coffee, our specialty blend, Guatemala and Ethiopia, shade grown and certified rainforest friendly.”

“That will do, but make sure it is black coffee, Maurice. And no sugar, either.”

“Oui, Madame.” He turned on a heel and strutted away.

Bradley started, “Aretha, I need Dick… uh—Richard, or is it ‘young Mr. Whiteson’? How do you want me to address him?”

“Start by addressing me as Miss Strehli, if you please. As for Richard, use the term you are most familiar with, I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I know this is a difficult discussion for you.”

“Thank you, Miss Strehli. As I was saying, I need Dick.” Bradley looked steadily into her eyes, he saw intriguing depth, color and texture. “Not only because he is Sparrow, I was Catman before Dick, I can do that without him. I need Dick because he came into my mansion and turned it into a home. Before Dick I was a feckless playboy, dallying around town. Now I go to PTA meetings and review his schoolwork. He’s very impressive: he’s writing a paper on ‘Fluvial Processes in Geomorphology: an Introduction to Hydrology’. I do flatter myself as something of a scientist and I had never even heard those words before! Dick is amazing!”

She ignored Bradley’s stare, she was used to earnest pleading eyes, whether billionaire tycoon or penniless drug addict, when it came to the children, parents all had the same eyes. “Richard is indeed an excellent student, Mr. Wayne. I have no issues with your mentoring in that regard. However, I reviewed the top news stories of the past year. There were over one hundred incidents where Richard and yourself confronted armed felons. That constitutes reckless endangerment.”

“And we got safely through each one of those incidents, we apprehended those felons, they’re all in jail—except the Jester. Dick and I will put him there, it’s only a matter of time. Lousy lawyers… ”

“That is another disturbing aspect of your relationship. The way you attract so many gaudy supervillains like the Jester. Obsessive psychopaths like him will devote years to an act of revenge—a sixteen year old boy should not collect lifelong enemies.”

“That’s why it is absolutely imperative that nobody learns our secret.”

“Secrets always come out, Mr. Wayne. Attempting to keep secrets is inherently deceptive, it turns everyday life into a lie. That undermines Richard’s character development—and at a critical phase of adolescence. Your activities may stunt his personality, it is very unhealthy for Richard.”

Maurice entered and served the coffee. “Will there be anything further?”

“I’ll order lunch after Miss Strehli leaves. We’re having an important meeting. Thank you, Maurice.”

“Tres bien.” He spun, disappeared.

Aretha lifted her cup and savored the aromas then tried a sip, “This is excellent coffee, thank you.”

Bradley thought he saw a quick smile on her face, it inspired him. In fact, there was a lot about Aretha he found inspiring. She was twice the age of his typical dates, twice as literate, twice as disciplined. He felt chastened under her iron manner, like a naughty schoolboy. He imagined her with a ruler in one hand, slapping her other palm, slapping his knuckles, his backside, his bare bottom, over her knee, calling him a bad boy, punishing him.

“Why are you smiling like that, Mr. Wayne?”

“Forgive me, Miss Strehli. But when you said that you like the coffee I thought ice may be breaking.”

“I wish you would stop trying to charm me, this is serious business.”

He lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Mistress—Miss Strehli.”

“What did you call me?”

“Nothing—just a stutter.”

“I hope so.” She lifted her cup and took another sip, let it sit on her tongue and she breathed over it, vaporized flavor filled her olfactory nerves. “Truly good—tell Maurice.” Aretha stood, “I should leave. We must talk again—I’ll call you. And don’t let me see any more news stories about Sparrow dodging bullets.”

Maurice took a cigarette break in the back alley, he brought the last of a bottle of pinot noir from table fourteen—Napa Valley, to his disgust.

He swigged and drew his phone, punched up a friend. “’Allo? George?… Yeah, Maurice... Do you still know those guys?… You know, the friends of that funny man, Mr. Jester?… I just heard some talking that he will like to hear. For a price... No, not over the phone. I’ll come over after work… Tres bien—bye!”

He pocketed the phone, finished the wine and lit his cigarette. He looked at the sky and thought about the prospect of rain. Then he thought about the prospect of lots of tax free cash money.

Maurice smiled.

Bradley Wayne kept a museum with a forty piece collection of classic sports cars, insured them for a total of one hundred million dollars, he designed (Albert built) nine editions of the Catmobile, he owned a vintage Triumph motorcycle once ridden by Marlon Brando, and he did not have a street car, not even a limo, he traveled by taxi.

The sprinkles were starting when the cab drew up to Wayne Manor’s carriage entrance. Wearing oil stained coveralls and holding an umbrella Albert came out to pay the driver and escort the Master in.

“Albert, I need to talk with Dick. Will you fetch him please?”

“I’m sorry, sir. He went out with Miss Clarabarta.”

“Where did they go?”

“For a walk in Gotham Central Park and to visit the museum. She said they might be out for dinner, as well.”

“Well that’s very nice. I can talk with him later. Did you look at the Catmobile?”

“I have just returned from the Catcave, sir.” He shook his head, “I’m afraid it is a total loss. The motor block is cracked, the suspension is shot, the body is irreparable. I’ve brought model eight from storage, it will be ready by tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Albert. You’re a good man. You gave me gas and it saved me from an embarrassing situation.”

“Yes sir. Another thing, sir. I discovered a GPS tracking device affixed to the chassis. I disabled it.”

“Who would track the Catmobile?”

“It isn’t a Government issue device but one that sells on the private security market, and to the news media. Not an accurate device at all.”

“That’s very interesting, Albert. Thank you again.”

“Yes sir.”

Meanwhile, in the middle of a second lap of the one point five mile loop around Goose Pond in Gotham Central Park, raindrops began:

“ …We called it ‘Wisegals’, like that gangster movie, ‘Wiseguys’, four of us with a little aerobics, yoga and massage studio in the old downtown—the building started as a dance school back in the Jitterbug days. We barely met our rent and my partners dropped out, one after another—mostly because of the crime and the drug addicts, they thought it was too risky to go down there, most of the clients felt that way, too—remember those days?—before the big redevelopment project bulldozed everything?”

Dick agreed with her, he nodded.

“I was the last one and Bradley came in. He was a major investor in the project and felt a duty to visit all of the businesses that were relocated, so he came in with the ninety days notice in hand and an air of apology.

“I wasn’t impressed—he’s got a reputation, you know. But he saw the studio and decided he needed a workout and a rubdown. I thought for sure he was going to make a crude advance as soon as he dropped his trousers. He surprised me and behaved like a perfect gentleman, and he gave me a thousand dollar tip.

“Then he did try to romance me, in a courtly manner. He sent flowers, invited me to dinners, the ballet and those things, and I always refused—firmly.

“Still, he came to the studio every week, left the thousand dollars each time. And he raved about my services around his clubs and the boardrooms. I picked up new clients and pretty soon I was getting a dozen thousand dollar tips each week and I moved on up the food chain. All very clean, no hanky-panky at all. I work with my clients nude but I’m always dressed. Believe it or not, I’m a virgin. Maybe I’ll be one all my life, I don’t seem to need it—not after what I’ve seen.

“I like a simple quiet life, Dick. When I started being in the company of stars and moguls gossip about me began. I’m an international woman of mystery—none of the paparazzi have learned my identity yet—they call me the ‘black topped beauty’. They have a million pictures of me and there’s a one hundred thousand Euro prize for the person who coughs up my name, half a million for a nude picture.

“It’s bound to happen, probably soon. And my life will be ruined—I’ve seen the most famous men in the world naked and they all want me to talk about it.”

“I understand about identities and deep secrets, I keep one with Bradley.”

“Really? What can you mean?

“He’s Catman, I’m Sparrow.”

“Are you for real? I love Catman! And Sparrow is so darling! You’re just saying that to impress me. You shouldn’t tell lies.”

“It’s true.”

Clarabarta stopped walking, her arm on Dick’s elbow held him back and they faced into each other. Light rain had matted their hair and taken the crisp from their clothes but it wasn’t cold. One pair of friendly eyes met another. “I believe you. It explains a lot about Bradley.”

“You can’t tell anybody! It’s the biggest secret!”

“Of course, his life would be ruined, yours too. We don’t want that. Bradley is a kind man and I like him. I like you, Dick, too.” She smiled.

He turned red, flummoxed and stuttered. She laughed gently and he joined her, then they hugged.

Meanwhile, in an inconspicuous warehouse near the Port of Gotham Burg a French waiter was being grilled:

Maurice screamed again, “No, please! I can’t take any more! Stop it! You’re killing me! Ah-hah. Hah-hah, hee-hee, whoop! Hah, hee—Oh have mercy!”

“I’m a Jester, mon ami, not a fool. You tell me that Bradley Wayne is Catman? That’s the worst punchline I’ve ever heard. I’ve met both gentlemen, they have nothing in common.” He addressed his henchman, “Enough with the goose down, give him the peacock feather.”

The henchman, Lee Stans, had a large tattoo of a spider on the back of his hand, “I don’t think he can take it boss. We don’t want to lose him.”

“Maybe you don’t, but I am loving his squeal. Tickle him!”

“Yes boss. Would you mind if I put in earplugs? It’s getting to me.”

“Oh give me that feather—I’ll do it. I marvel at how a sadist like you can be so weak.”

Clarabarta took Dick to supper at The Caliph Ate, an organic pita bar in Gotham Burg’s south of the tracks Bohemian Village—the old Sweat-Shop District. They had hummus, dolmas, curried lentils, babaganoush, grilled tempeh and tabouleh, sat upstairs at the rail and watched the belly dancers in the mezzanine, ate and talked.

“ …I come in every morning for the ‘Early Worm Cocktail’—chai tea, wheat grass juice, royal jelly and nutritional yeast. My loft is three blocks down and six flights up—the elevator never works—and this is the finish line for my sunrise run.”

“I’ve eaten this kind of stuff before. At school on ‘United Nations Day’ the ethnic clubs have food tables in the quad. It’s good.”

“Much healthier than that sandwich you made—all that fat and salt.”

“Bradley tells me that, too.”

“And Bradley’s diet is none too good itself. You should listen.”

“Yeah. But I like baloney.”

“You’ll get over it.” A moment of silence, then she went on, “I keep thinking about Bradley. How I will deal with him, now that I know.”

“You must have been very puzzled sometimes.”

“Like this morning. I don’t dare tell you how much he gave me to fly across the Atlantic and treat him at, I don’t know, I think it was four, five o-clock Gotham time when I came in. I shouldn’t tell you this, but we’re sharing secrets. He was all scraped and splintered on his chest and tummy, a bloody mess. He said he fell off of a motorcycle, but this was no road rash like I’ve ever seen. I pulled two hundred chunks of wood out of his skin. I told him to see a doctor, but he insisted. I bet he was doing Catman stuff and got into a fix.”

“It was on the news… ”

“I don’t watch TV, especially the news. Were you with him? How come Sparrow didn’t get his lumps?”

“I was home. It was a school night.”

“And tonight too. I better get you back. Don’t you have homework?”

“Not much tonight, school was cancelled after a bomb threat.”

“Is it getting to be Finals season already?”

“Mid-terms.”

“Somebody wasn’t prepared.”

“It was me.”

“You? Why?”

“I’m not ready with my Geography paper.”

“Dick… ”

“Don’t tell—please.”

“You must tell Bradley.”

“I can’t—he’d be so disappointed. I can’t break his heart!”

Clarabarta took up his hands, “I understand… ”

They strolled to her building, a converted garment factory, and got her car. Clarabarta drove an ancient Datsun two-seater, black, the heater didn’t work and the windows didn’t close tight, everything rattled.

Dick shouted over the noise, “All the money you make, how come you don’t have a better car?”

Wind tumbled black hair over her face. “I love this car! It’s the first one I ever got and I want to keep it forever—just like it is!” She zipped around a corner and zoomed into the straightaway, Dick held both hands tight to the ceiling grab bar as he pressed against the door, it swung open, slammed shut again. He was glad he always fastened the safety belt.

Porch lights were on at Wayne Manor.

Clarabarta pulled up and stopped, left the motor running. “I don’t want to come in. I need to think a little before I talk with Bradley. But you need to tell him about what you did.”

“Yeah.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

They hugged over her stick shift, she kissed him in front of the left ear.

Dick got out and climbed the marble steps, the car roared away.

Albert opened the doors at his approach. “Good evening Master Dick. Did you have a pleasant time?”

“Yes Albert. Clarabarta is really swell.”

“Yes sir. Master Wayne is in the library, he wishes to see you.”

“Thank you, Albert.”

Dick stopped in the kitchen on the way. He went to the freezer, got ice cream, made up a sundae with two scoops of mocha fudge, a scoop of strawberry, a half-pint of maraschino cherries and another half-pint of chocolate syrup warmed in the microwave.

The library was upstairs, occupied the third floor. Dick rode the elevator and avoided dripping ice cream on the priceless Persian rugs.

The doors opened, he saw Bradley at a reading stand poring over one of the first editions, he wore white silk gloves and drug store glasses.

“I’ve got ice cream—you don’t want me in there.”

“That’s all right, Dick. I was just waiting for you. I’m ready for dessert myself, let’s go back to the kitchen.” He peeled off the gloves, dropped the glasses, killed the lamps and went to the elevator. Bradley smiled, “You made friends with Clarabarta.”

“Yeah, she’s keen.”

“She wouldn’t approve of a sundae that large—give me the spoon, I’d better help you.” He took the implement and scooped a huge helping, jammed it into his mouth, a brown/red trickle ran down from one corner. “Mmm… ” He returned the spoon.

“We had vegetarian dinner. I guess I’m still hungry.”

“I understand, Dick. A growing young man needs his protein.”

The elevator landed across the hall from the kitchen, they went in.

Bradley made up a cocktail with two scoops of the mocha fudge in a tall glass, he poured four ounces of thirteen year old Scotch over it and took it under the smoke hood above the sixty square-foot grill. He used a foot-long match and set his dessert afire, let it burn a full minute then put a saucer over the dish and snuffed it. While he watched the flames he spoke to his foster son, “I talked with Aretha Strehli, Dick. I’m sorry to say but she has a valid point. For the time being, I think you should keep the Sparrow uniform in your closet. At least until the end of the semester.” He took a long silver straw from a drawer and jabbed it into the heart of his dessert.

“She’s blackmailing you, huh?”

“If she talks about our secret identities that’s the end of Catman and Sparrow.”

“Or we can move on, free to live in the open.”

“What are you saying?”

“Well I guess I should tell you something… Clarabarta knows, too—I told her.”

“Dick! Why?”

“It just seemed like I should. We were talking and she told me things about herself—I wanted to reciprocate. I think I was trying for her approval.” He put a fat spoonful of sundae into his mouth.

“You have that anyway—I’m sure.” Bradley drew on his straw, it sucked air and gurgled.

Speaking through ice cream, “She’s special.”

“She certainly is. And I think we can trust her. She is paid for confidentiality.” Gurgle.

“I want to marry her.”

“Now Dick, that’s just infatuation.”

“I want to marry her and get her the Hell away from Gotham Burg and the Willie Wilsons and paparazzi and other stupid Jesters.”

“Now Dick, what would you do? Where would you go?”

“She’s rich Bradley, you made her that way. We can go anywhere and just live on the interest and dividends. That’s how you get by.”

“Now Dick… ”

“Stop calling me Dick! My name is Richard!”

“She’s twice your age, Di—Richard.”

“More than that—can’t you do math?”

“She’s almost forty.”

“Thirty-eight and a half. Her birthday is in May.”

“You have been getting to know her.”

“I figured it out. She told me she’s a Taurus.”

“This sounds serious.”

“I love her Bradley. She doesn’t know it yet, but I do.”

“Richard, there are a dozen men ready to take her. Men her own age with their own money.”

“She’s not interested in those guys, she told me so. Everything is strictly business.”

“You’re not thinking very clearly, Richard. Once you’ve had a few experiences, you will see. You’re just excited because she’s your first crush.”

“And you’re just a dirty old man who wants her for himself!”

“Now Dick… ”

“Richard!”

“Now Richard, listen to me… ”

“Fuck you, old man!” Dick took his spoon and catapulted a glob of sundae at Bradley. Reflexively, he ducked, ice cream and sauce sailed over his head and into the hallway raining cherries, it landed on a four hundred year old rug from Isfahan.

Dick went to the sink and dropped his bowl in, turned on the tap, then he took one of the butcher’s coats and stomped out the back door. He punched the garage door opener then put on the coat and his helmet, he got onto his scooter, started it, ducked under the still rising door and putted off down the hill.

Bradley followed, steps behind. He ran into the driveway with the ice cream cocktail in one hand. “Dick—come back!” he cried and then took a sip, the straw gurgled.

Returned to the kitchen. Dick had left his bowl on top of the drain and the sink overflowed, water already soaked the carpet with the ice cream stain, was running down the hall in search of more wool.

Bradley shut the water off and shouted, “Albert! Where the blazes are you!”

The elevator was working, coming from above. The butler emerged wearing a trench coat and had a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck. “I’m sorry sir. I was upon the widow’s walk observing the sky above City Hall. The clouds are still rather thick but I thought I saw the Catsignal.” He noticed the mess on the floor, “Oh dear.”

“The Catsignal! An emergency! Is Catmobile eight ready to go?”

“I’m sorry sir. There is no petrol on the estate. I intended to go out in the morning with my bicycle before the Master arose.”

“Blazes! How am I to get to the Police Station?”

“A taxi, sir.”

“I can’t have Catman seen taking a cab from the mansion! I’ll have to call from the mini-mart. I think they still have a payphone.”

“Yes sir.”

“Where is my spare uniform?”

“In the laundry basket, sir. With Master Dick’s gymnasium clothes.”

“Will you fetch it please? And bring me some money for the taxi.”

“Yes sir.”

The rain had let up and clouds parted, revealed stars and a rising full moon. Catman stayed on the side of the street without lamps, hurried from Wayne Manor down to the freeway exit mini-mart, a half-mile jaunt.

He turned a corner, four police cars came around up ahead, their lights flashing, no sirens. He crouched behind oleanders as they passed, they sped up the street he came down from. A few seconds later the KGB satellite truck raced along in their wake, he ducked again.

He got to the mini-mart and called a ride.

Forty minutes later:

“Sorry you had to wait, pal. Rainy night like this and nobody wants to walk, been real busy. Hey—nice Catman costume. Going to a party?”

Catman entered the cab. “Take me to the Police Station, and hurry, please, it’s an emergency.”

“Right, good line. You saw the Catsignal too, huh? Phew! What’s that smell? They start running a night shift at the pulp mill again? Like sweat socks on steroids—lemme turn on the AC a minute, see if we can blow it away. So where you really wanna go?” He took a good look in the mirror at his fare, he saw a familiar chin that fit the familiar voice, “Oh, Bradley!—you shoulda said something. You know I coulda got you at the mansion, you up to some kinda gag? So, where we going?”

“I told you—the Police Station, and hurry!”

“Okay Bradley. Five minutes.”

“I’m not Bradley. I don’t know any Bradley.”

“Good—stay in character! You shoulda jumped in saying ‘follow that car!’—oldest gag in the hacks.” He chuckled and pulled onto the street, started his meter. “Jeez! That smell sure sticking around, I’m turning the AC full blast—hope you ain’t too cold.”

Five minutes later:

“That’ll be seventeen fifty, Br—Catman.”

“Albert only gave me—I mean, I only have fifteen. I’ll have to get the rest to you, and a decent tip.”

The driver laughed, “That’s fine Bradley, I know Catman is good for it. I oughta give the ride free just to be civically responsible, you being a crime fighter and all. I’ll catch you next time I take Bradley home, have fun!” The cab drove away.

Still shivering from the ice-cold ride, Catman ascended the Police Station steps.

People in the crowded lobby found reason to go elsewhere upon his entrance. Three suspects remained, handcuffed to chairs at the booking desk. The duty sergeant stood by his post, grew slightly green with Catman’s approach. “I’ve been holding the elevator, sir. Commissioner Maclaren is getting impatient.”

“Sorry, I was detained.” He got into the elevator and went to the tenth floor.

The antechamber to the Commissioner’s office was crowded, mostly with police officers—four of Gotham’s finest looked at him as he crossed the room, one pinched her nose.

More people were in the office, including a certain green-haired foe: “Jester! What are you up to? If this is some diabolical scheme… ” Catman seized the villain by his ruffled shirtfront.

The Jester’s laugh cackled, “You see? The mere sight of me sends him into a pathological rage!”

“That’s assault and Battery, Catman. In front of a room full of witnesses, including the Police Chief and Commissioner Maclaren! Let my client go before you are in deeper trouble.” He was a chubby man in a Saville Row suit stripped down to opened vest and rolled shirtsleeves, his toupee was slightly askew.

Chief O’Leary came to Catman’s right flank, “Let him go, me friend. It’s all okay,”

The Cowled Crusader released his archenemy.

“It really is all right, Catman,” Commissioner Maclaren said, he sat at his desk. “The Jester is here on legal business, with his attorney—Mr. Dickie Welles.”

“My client is initiating proceedings against you, Catman. You have harassed and abused him, sullied his good name, invaded his privacy—there’s more!” He presented a file of papers to the hero, “You have been served.”

Another man stepped forward with documents, thin, tall, dark, in a pinstriped suit, “I’m Russell Procup, Mr. Catman. I’m an attorney representing Karl and Edna Marx, the innocent couple who’s home you invaded at one o-clock this morning with a tear gas attack. They await outside with four police officers. My clients want you arrested Mr. Catman. You are spending this night in jail!”

Then a gray woman with stern eyes and a stiff suit held out more papers and addressed him, “I’m Gloria Abzug, from the City Attorney’s office. I’ll give you the small bad news first: two invoices from the Public Works Department. The first one is for the sum of one thousand four hundred and twelve dollars and sixteen cents. That is the cost of replacing one mercury vapor street lamp, including labor. And the second is for twenty-one thousand seven hundred and eleven dollars and two cents—that is for the bus stop shelter destroyed by your reckless operation of the Catmobile.

“But that’s only the beginning, Mr. Catman. My office is conducting a complete review of the City’s relationship with you. It is far too cozy, the City’s bond underwriters are getting very uncomfortable, you make Gotham Burg wide open for liability claims of the most outrageous proportion.”

Commissioner Maclaren spoke again, “I’m sorry Catman. We have to end it like this—no more Catsignal, no more Catphone, we can no longer turn our eyes when the Catmobile is parked in a tow-away zone, it will be impounded.”

Chief O’Leary added, “You need to surrender the key we gave you to the City restrooms, me laddie.”

“This is incredible!” He stared at the documents in his glove.

“Not really, Catman,” Dickie Welles said, “It’s merely the rule of Law.”

He had but one resort, lies, bad ones. “I don’t know anything about any of this! I wasn’t anywhere last night—the Catmobile is in the shop, that’s why I took a cab. And I’ve never heard of any Karl Marx! How could I have been in his home! As for the Jester—sure we have our misunderstandings. I bet if we just got together over a beer—maybe go bowling together—we can work it all out—I’ll buy.” He grinned like a used car dealer.

“No deal.”

“I think we’re done here,” Russell Procup said. “We should bring in the officers and put Mr. Catman into handcuffs.”

“And remove his mask,” Dickie Welles finished.

The Jester leered, “I heard the funniest thing! That our dear Mr. Catman is in fact Gotham’s dandiest citizen, none other than Bradley Wayne himself!” He cackled, “That is, of course, utterly ridiculous, isn’t it, Catman?”

The attorneys and police officials all laughed.

“That’s great, Jester!” Chief O’Leary said, “You sure picked the right persona when you decided to become a psycho!”

“Thank you.”

“You ever do standup?”

“I got tired of the hecklers. I killed one, strangled him with the microphone cord—the audience thought it was part of my routine, best laugh of the night. That’s how I turned evil.”

O’Leary chuckled, “I understand, Jester.”

“And there are better opportunities in crime—but you need a good agent.”

Dickie Welles spoke up, “I’m the best.”

“He is. If you’re thinking of a career move—talk to him, he’ll get you into serious felonies in no time.”

“Thanks, it’s been on my mind—retirement is coming up and I don’t want to slow down.”

“Here Chief, my card. For you I think we can make superior arrangements—give me a call next week.” Welles gave over a small piece of pasteboard.

“You bet,” the Chief took the offering.

Meanwhile, Catman considered his options, including a head first dive through the tenth floor window. Of the people in the room only the Jester, Abzug and Procup looked able to put up a fight, Welles was too fat, the Chief was too kindly and the Commissioner never rose from behind his desk. Abzug was large, hawk faced and formidable, and Procup, while slight, had the quiet presence of a secret kung-fu master. Catman wished for another can of gas.

The door stood open, ten feet away. The four police officers were on the benches outside talking Junior Varsity football, Karl and Edna Marx were near the water cooler watching into the office, the elevators lay just across a narrow corridor at their rear.

Procup went to summon the police and Catman sprang as soon as the lawyer’s back was turned. A flat-handed shove to Abzug’s bosom with the wad of documents sent her backward into the Jester’s arms, then the Cowled Crusader’s right boot heel motivated Procup’s rump through the door in double time.

Our hero was close on his footsteps and faster, quickly dodged the stumbling attorney. The four officers sat in amazement, stunned by the Catman’s bold action.

His burly beard bristling under glowering eyes and a red-badged leather peasant’s cap, Karl Marx barred the way.

Catman cut left, to the water cooler. He reached for the enormous bottle on top and threw it to the floor, a spare bottle stood next to the cooler and he rolled that at Marx’s feet as well.

Water gushed and gurgled, Karl danced a lively jig above the tumbling jugs.

Edna Marx faced him yet, Catman leaned down and rushed his shoulder into her midsection, lifted her in a rescue carry and then dumped her off of his back. The way was clear and he dashed to the row of elevators, ducked between a closing pair of doors.

The car started, it went up. Three other passengers stared in wonder.

They passed the eleventh floor, “Pardon me,” Catman said, “Wrong track.” He pushed the button for twelve and the elevator stopped.

Into the hallway outside the Mayor’s office. His Honor had just completed the evening press conference, reporters and camera crews mingled.

“Hey look! It’s Catman!”

The lights and microphone booms all turned in his direction.

They recorded him sprinting away and around a corner.

The media followed.

And the corridor was empty.

Jane Dornacker carried a camera for KGB Action News and her last break in a busy day had been for ten minutes after the bomb squad finally cleared Gotham High—five hours ago. She needed to pee. She went down the hall to the toilets, a City worker was just leaving the powder room.

Washrooms at City Hall are locked to keep the homeless out but Jane caught the ladies room door before it closed. She unshouldered her camera, lay it on the vanity, hung up her trench coat on the inside of a stall door, dropped her pants and squatted.

Under the door she saw somebody in black boots emerge from another stall and go to the sink, water ran, stopped, the paper towel dispenser rattled, hands wiped.

Jane finished, pulled up her jeans and flushed, put on coat and opened the door. The boots started walking while she emerged.

“Excuse me, but I need your camera and your raincoat,” Catman said as he put her into a choke hold, she reached for the pepper spray in her pocket and managed to squirt a few drops before she lost consciousness.

Just enough spray to blind him, Catman peeled off his mask and put his head under the faucet but there wasn’t room. Desperate, he dashed into a stall, went to his knees and dunked his face into the cool water. He brought his hands in and washed the irritant away, he came up bloodshot, teary and grateful that Jane had flushed.

Her coat didn’t close around his middle and the sleeves bunched at his elbows but he managed to fasten the belt on the last hole, then he strapped the camera to his shoulder. The coat ended halfway down his thighs, his cape dropped a foot lower, Catman decided he needed more confusion to effect a getaway.

He exited the ladies room, went directly to a fire alarm and pulled the tab.

Bells, whistles and buzzers sounded, the air raid siren on City Hall roof wound up it’s long voice. People dashed for the stairs with unmasked Catman in their midst.

A large crowd milled on the sidewalk outside City Hall, Catman tried to slip through.

“Where are you going? Turn that camera around and shoot the scene!” A hand on his elbow made him spin about.

Willie Wilson looked up at him, “You’re not on my crew! Who the hell are you?” Then he saw the Cat emblem under the raincoat. “Catman! What the … ” The Cowled Crusader’s fist knocked Wilson to the City Hall lawn.

The crowd pressed on one side, arriving fire trucks cut off another direction, a building on a third flank, but a chain link fence had an open gate, he ran through.

Into the police vehicle lot, behind him Wilson rose and shouted for more cameras, lights shined upon him.

The nearest car was a three wheeled parking squad cart and the keys were in.

Catman dropped his camera and the coat, he pulled his mask down but it snagged and only covered one eye. He jumped into the cart, it started right up, the vehicle purred away with Wilson running in close pursuit. He made a couple of wrong turns and circled the lot before finding the exit lane. There was a guard booth and a wooden barricade, television cameras made a gauntlet of blinding lights.

Zooming to fifteen miles per hour he crashed the gate, reporters scattered from his path, Catman disappeared into the night.

Meanwhile, across town:

“Look kid, you’re too young, anybody can see that. I don’t care even if you got ID, it’s gotta be fake. We don’t mess around with that kind of trade—take it to the sleazes in Metropolis.”

“What?” Dick said.

“You been hanging around here for over an hour, you make people nervous. They think you’re some kind of police sting decoy. They sent me down to make you go away.”

“I’m looking for my friend Clarabarta—she lives here. Upstairs.”

“Somebody lives in this building?”

“Clarabarta—she has black hair.”

“They all got hair one color or another.”

“Real pretty.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Just let me in. I’ll find her.”

“No way, kid. Stick around any more and we’re calling the cops.”

“But she told me she has a loft on the sixth floor—her car is in the lot!”

“The sixth floor? Wow, kid, you don’t want to go near those guys. Not a sweet face like you got.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. She teaches yoga.”

“Oh!—the exercise lady. You shoulda said. I know who you mean, still can’t let you in—too many creeps in here, you’ll never get up the stairs. Buzz her loft, she’ll come down and get you.”

“I don’t know her number.”

“Sorry, kid.”

“I don’t have any place to go!”

“Ain’t there a shelter downtown? Maybe they closed it for the tax cuts… ”

“I’ve never been on the streets.”

“Too bad kid. Get outta here.”

Dick walked away, turned a corner, snuck into the parking lot, went to Clarabarta’s car, let himself into the passenger seat and fell asleep.