Catman and Sparrow Wednesday

Midnight passed, Wednesday:

Catman’s initial thought was that he could go to Bradley Wayne’s downtown office but he realized that his keys and his wallet were in his other uniform. He turned the cart around, meandered the alleys and side streets for a while in confusion, then decided to go up Kanes Ravine, he kept a spare Catcave key in a hollow stump.

The cart ran out of gas a mile from downtown, five miles from Kanes Ravine.

An hour into the hike his phone buzzed. He pulled it from a boot pocket and looked at the incoming number, “Hello Miss Strehli. It’s rather late.”

“This is the same hour you visited my apartment last night, Mr. Wayne.”

“I guess it is… How did you get this number? Not even Albert knows this line.”

“I did my research, Mr. Wayne.”

“Why are you calling?—I’m rather indisposed at the moment.”

“I know. I’ve been watching the news. Willie Wilson is offering a one million cash dollars reward to the person that turns you over to him. He wants to unmask the Catman live on global TV.”

“And you want to collect?”

“My only concern is for Richard’s welfare, Mr. Wayne.”

“This is not a good time to talk.”

“There was another story on the news, Mr. Wayne. The police went to Wayne Manor and arrested your butler Albert. They traced the High School bomb threat to his telephone.”

Catman stopped in his tracks, “Albert?”

“He’s been released. It seems his phone was stolen.”

“Incredible.”

“Where is Richard, Mr. Wayne?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? You are his guardian, Mr. Wayne.”

“He ran away—I think he went to Clarabarta’s—in the old Gotham Shirtwaist Building.”

“That’s an infamous building, Mr. Wayne.”

“She has a studio there.”

“They film pornographic videos in that building.”

“Not Clarabarta—she does massage! Dick thinks he loves her!”

“I am growing very troubled by what I am hearing Mr. Wayne.”

Catman shouted into the phone, “It’s perfectly innocent! She’s a virgin!”

“Mr. Wayne? Perhaps you had better come over here, we need to find Richard and make sure that he is safe.”

“You don’t want Catman around your apartment again.”

“You are correct. I’ll get on my bicycle and meet you near the Bohemian Village. I’m bringing Rex.”

“That’s across town from here, it’ll take a couple hours… and… Miss Strehli?—by any chance have you some men’s clothing? I feel conspicuous.”

“And well you should. My ex-husband left a few things when he went to prison, they might fit.”

“Thank you.”

Dick woke and looked at the phone in his pocket—Albert’s. The time was 4:15. Feeling a need, he got out of the car and under a chilly full moon, walked a few feet away, looked around and saw nobody so he unzipped, urinated into a rain puddle.

As he was packing it away a female voice giggled from the shadows, “I always go over between the dumpsters—more private.” She stepped into the light.

She didn’t just resemble one of the women on Dick’s favorite web sites, she was one of the women. “Lotsy Totsy!” She wore a clingy robe to her knees and rubber boots.

“You must be a fan—sorry, I don’t give autographs.”

“I made up a DVD with all your clips from the ‘Midnight Missionaries’ series.”

“Ooh you naughty boy! Does your Mama know you look at that kind of stuff?”

“I don’t think so—she’s dead, Dad too.”

“I’m sorry!”

“It’s all right. It’s been a while, I hardly notice anymore. Bradley takes good care of me.”

“Well that’s nice. Listen, I can’t talk, I’m on a break. I have an arthritic condition and the Doctor gave me a prescription—it’s almost four twenty—time to medicate.” She opened her purse, drew forth a glass pipe and a little jar of marijuana buds.

Dick stared, “Is that pot?”

“It ain’t banana peels, honey.”

“Wow.”

“You wanna try? I’m not supposed to share unless you show a scrip—but I bet I can trust you.”

“Holy smokes, sure!”

“Let’s sit down. I usually go to this car over here—it’s a friend’s. I always leave her a nug.”

“You know Clarabarta?”

“Sure, we grew up together. Used to be partners in an aerobics studio downtown. I hooked her up with this loft—she loves the waterfront view.”

“I never knew you were that old—you look so smooth.”

“Thanks, I take care of my skin—for bread and butter.” She opened the driver’s door and sat down, Dick went to the shotgun seat. “I saw you get out of the car—you been here all night?”

“I ran away from home.”

“And you came here?” Lotsy opened the jar and broke out a chunk of her medicine, skilled fingernails shredded the herb and extracted a stem, tucked the remains into her pipe. She lit it.

“There’s no place to go… I don’t have any friends except Clarabarta. I just met her yesterday. I need to see her.”

She gave him the pipe, “Put your finger over the carb hole on the side,” she helped his hand find the spot, “and when you finish, take the finger off and suck air through it.” She sparked a lighter and held it over the bowl, “Take a small puff—it’s your first time. You’re gonna cough, just go with it.”

Dick’s lungs took the smoke readily, he didn’t cough until he exhaled.

Lotsy kept talking while he toked, “I don’t have time to run you all the way upstairs, and we don’t need to wake her. She always goes for a run at five thirty, just meet her at the door, or go to The Caliph Ate an hour later—you won’t miss her.” She smoked, coughed, jiggled, as was her nature.

Dick caught his breath and she gave him the pipe again, still burning, he puffed.

“You are a pretty boy, that’s sure. You’d look great in one of my shorts—I’ll be the naughty French Maid and you’re the Young Esquire with his riding crop—when do you turn eighteen?” She puffed.

Coming out of a cough, “Not for over a year.”

“Jeez—forever in my business. But if you’re interested, keep in touch, if I’m still at it, we can have a birthday party.” She smiled sweetly, puffed.

“Wow. I’ve never… ”

“S’okay, I’m an expert, and you are cute. Like Mike and Jello’s statue of Dave.”

“Who?”

“That famous statue of the naked guy? All white and he’s got curly hair? Everybody knows… ”

“That’s David, from the Bible.”

“Of course, yeah—bet his friends called him Dave. You could pose for him.”

“Wow… ”

“Like the smoke?”

“Wow… ”

“Somebody needs to go back to sleep, I gotta go back to work. Only one more session—face close ups, mostly faking it—should be done by six. I’ll meet you and we’ll both go to The Caliph Ate—I’m always hungry after a shoot. Clara will love to see us. How’s that sound?”

“Wow… ”

Lotsy leaned across, put her hands on his head and gave him a mouth kiss, slipped some tongue in—she had a pearl stud.

Dick went senseless and fell into his bucket seat with his brain swimming in a sea of emotional turbulence.

Lotsy laughed, dropped a small bud into the ashtray, put away her paraphernalia, took one last deep breath of the smoked air and let herself out of the car. She leaned back in and smiled into his dazed eyes, “Don’t go nowhere.”

An hour later, in an alley a mile distant:

“My department works with the police regularly, Mr. Wayne. They often encounter children living in gang situations or around heavy drugs activity, we sometimes enter on raids—I have a bulletproof vest—and I monitor police radio with a scanner. I’ve been listening tonight, the alert for Catman is the most intense Dragnet this City has ever seen. It’s amazing you got across town in that costume.”

“I prefer to call it a uniform—would you mind turning the other way?”

She sniffed with exaggerated boredom, “You really have an opinion of yourself, don’t you? I can handle the shock, but for your delicate sensibilities… ” Aretha turned and looked out to the street, Rex sat and kept close supervision on Catman.

They used the shadows behind a parked delivery van for his dressing room, used a scrap of cardboard to sweep away broken glass before he sat down, pulled off his boots, dropped his trunks and removed his tights. The new pants were too small, white flare bottomed peg legs with a hooked closure that he couldn’t get within an inch of fastening and the zipper was hopeless, stuck halfway. The two-tone shirt sparkled pink and black under moonlight, with wide stiff cuffs and lapels, epaulets and an enormous tasseled flap over the breast pocket, the jacket had huge square shoulders, was fur trimmed black corduroy, matched a foot-tall fez.

“What kind of work did your husband do?”

“Ex-husband. He drove a service truck for Gotham Porta-Potties, he kept the City fresh. Those are his Disco clothes. He’s in prison for hijacking a shipment of triple-ply toilet paper from his employers. He attempted to sell it on the Canadian underground but all of his contacts were covert FBI agents and Mounties, it was a sting operation.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“He was over ambitious. That’s what happens when you chase easy money.”

“I have a problem, Miss Strehli. These pants are far too tight. I can’t close them. Did you bring a belt?”

“No—there’s a bungie cord on the truck. Will that do?”

“Maybe… ” It hooked one belt loop, circled his waist and halfway around, caught a rear pocket, the seams twisted oddly but the pants remained in place. He folded the Catsuit and rolled it in the cape and cowl, tucked the bundle under his armpit.

“It’s almost five thirty, Mr. Wayne. Daylight soon. Rex and I will circle the neighborhood in case Richard is walking the streets. If I don’t see him I’ll leave my bicycle on the rack at The Caliph Ate restaurant and meet you in front of the Gotham Shirtwaist Building in twenty minutes.”

Meanwhile, in the back of KGB’s satellite truck, there was a press conference:

“Get some sleep, Willie, I need it,” Jane Dornacker still had a headache from the knockout squeeze, and another night of chasing Catman sightings had her body and nerves worn to stubs. She was fourth generation Chinese/American and petite, with short bristly black hair, amber eyes, a modest bust under a plain gray tee shirt and a bulky bottom in baggy jeans. She had been on overtime since midnight, third late night in a row on the ‘Catman Unveiled’ special investigation—she needed the money—and the rest of the crew had gone home hours ago. Behind her shoulder was a bank of video monitors, the images cut through the footage of Catman outside City Hall.

Wilson sat, his hands fussed with the control board, he struggled to find a clear head shot of the half-masked figure. “I’ll never sleep, not until I figure it out. I saw his face, for just a second, in the shadows and flashing lights… He is familiar to me, I’ve seen that man before.”

“I was saving this for tomorrow, but that’s today, now. Here goes, you gotta fire me Willie.”

“Why do I have to fire you?”

“Need a reason?—I’ll call you a shitfuck asshole.”

“You do that all the time.”

“I’ll do it on-air.”

“What is this?”

“I figured it out, but I can’t claim your million bucks reward if I work for KGB. You gotta fire me, I’ll never tell otherwise.”

“I wasn’t planning to pay anybody a million bucks. Pull up the file and play my statement, listen carefully, it’s nothing but weasel words and qualifications. It’s impossible to claim a reward the way the lawyers wrote it.”

“Well fuck you, then.”

“Anything you learned while working for me is intellectual property of KGB. We’ll sue you for that information.”

“You only pay me to carry a camera and drive this truck, I worked on my own time, with my own money—my own GPS gadget… ”

“I’m listening.”

“A million bucks, Willie—cash. There’s other networks.”

“You disloyal bitch!”

“Learned from the master—Willie Wilson. How’s that Pulitzer feel?”

“Fuck you.”

“I heard poor old Barry White died in prison. Such a shame, he was a good editor.”

“Fuck you.”

“A million cash bucks, Willie.”

Barry White was trading with our Communist enemies!”

“You shouldn’t have turned him in. For Cuban cigars?”

“And rum. His associates were organized crime.”

“You didn’t expose them, did you? Only poor old Barry.”

“He never gave me any real assignments—I was just a ‘cub reporter’!”

“A million cash bucks, Willie, or I’m going to FAKES* News Network.”

“The banks aren’t open.”

“I’ll wait. You look like you need something, I sure do. Let’s go to The Caliph Ate and have a couple Early Worms.”

“What the hell is that?”

“A health drink, Willie. It won’t kill you. I’m buying so you got no beef.”

Meanwhile, daybreak approached:

A knock on the car window yanked Dick from delirious dreams.

“Clarabarta!”

Jogging in place, she wore a warm up jacket, unzipped, and a tight blue nylon running suit, matching headband. “Lotsy called me and told me you were out here.” She opened the door, “I’m going for my run, want to join?”

“Yeah.” Dick emerged, his blood rushed, made him dizzy, he bent double and stretched, stood, he removed his coat and tossed it onto the seat.

“Lotsy is wrapping up. She’ll take a shower and join us at The Caliph Ate. Smells good in the car, did she get you baked?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have a scrip?”

“No.”

“I have a doctor friend, we can get you a card if you want.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s easy. C’mon, let’s go to the park—only a mile.”

They trotted north across the lot to the street next over.

Meanwhile, ten minutes later:

“Have you seen anything, Mr. Wayne?”

“I found his scooter locked up around the corner, he’s in the area.”

“Rex and I covered every alley and homeless camp within a half mile—we didn’t see him.”

“He must be with Clarabarta.”

“Do you know your friend’s number? Buzz her studio.”

“I already have. No answer.”

“We need to get in there, Mr. Wayne.”

“That’s a top of the line security door, it takes a rocket launcher to get through.”

“Maybe we can open a fire door in back. Let’s see what’s out there.” With Rex’s leash in her left hand, her right one pulled Bradley on the elbow, he followed obediently and remained a step behind.

Up a narrow sidewalk between buildings and into the rear parking lot.

Rex barked once and went into an alert posture.

Aretha explained, “That’s his signal—he was trained to locate drugs. I think I smell burnt marijuana.”

Bradley sniffed the air, “Is that what that is?”

“He is interested in that black car.”

“That’s Clarabarta’s car.”

“Does she use drugs, Mr. Wayne?”

“Not that I ever knew.”

“Let’s have a look.”

They approached the Datsun, bright morning sky shined through its windows.

“There’s a coat on the passenger seat. It looks like one of my butcher’s jackets.” He opened the door and took up the garment. “See?—the Wayne crest embroidered on the pocket. Dick wore this when he left the Manor.”

“Somebody has definitely been smoking pot in this car, Mr. Wayne.” She went around, opened the other door and checked the ashtray, removed the bud. “Look what I found.”

“You know, marijuana is hardly a serious offense any more.”

“I understand, Mr. Wayne. But there is an issue when youth are involved.”

“What should we do?”

“We’re still looking for Richard, this is only an additional complication. We’ll address it when we know that he is safe. Let’s try the back doors.” She dropped the bud back into the ashtray.

“One moment,” He stripped off the Disco jacket, shirt and fez, replaced them with the butcher’s coat, buttoned it tightly. “No disrespect to your ex-husband.”

“Not at all, toss those things in the dumpster—I couldn’t give them away.”

They went to the shadows at the rear of the Gotham Shirtwaist Building. The old brick industrial structure had a crenellated façade with many doors and loading docks dimpled into alcoves and blind alleys, garbage chutes emptied into a rank of dumpsters, retrofitted air conditioning and plumbing trellised the walls. The sun rose but light seldom penetrated this corner of Gotham Burg.

Shortly thereafter, just three blocks away:

“Morning Hashi, I’ll have the cous-cous with mushroom gravy and falafel, and the ginger, carrot, mung bean, lemon grass, holy basil and quinoa salad, please—Clarabarta has a drink for me over there already, see, corner booth?”

The turbaned server smiled behind his white beard, “Very good choice, Miss Totsy. How was work?”

“Oh, you know—same old grind. Tell you the truth I’m getting tired of it. I’m ready for something new.”

“What would you do?”

“I always wanted to work on a ship. Maybe I’ll join one of those anti-whaling campaigns.”

“Very good choice, Miss Totsy. I will bring your dinner.”

“Thanks Hashi.”

“Who is the young man with you? He seems too youthful for one of your pictures, but he is very sweaty.”

“Oh, that’s Dick! He’s a darling! Clara took him running—that’s why he’s tuckered. But he’s the kind of sweetheart even a girl like me could wait for.”

Hashi grinned, “Very good choice, Miss Totsy.”

Meanwhile, across the room, the media entered:

“Figures you never been here Willie. You wont find no steaks or chops, no burgers, no strippers, no big screen TV—and no beer either. It’s great, always open. About five families from Kashmir own it together—I think there’s a ton of brothers and cousins and whatever—I can’t keep track. All the hippies, artists and poets hang out here.” She took Wilson to a wrought iron table with a fake marble top.

“Dirtbags—I smell patchouli oil.” He draped his jacket over the heart-shaped chair back and sat.

“Welcome to Bohemian Village.”

“If I hear sitars I’m leaving.”

“Don’t try to ditch me Willie. I’m hanging on to you until I have my mil.”

“That’s going to be my money, you know—KGB won’t pay this.”

“Ain’t life a bitch? Stay here, I’ll get the drinks, want any food?”

“I’ll pass on the salmonella, thank you.”

“Jeez, Willie, lighten up.” Jane rose and went to the beverage line.

Waiting, she looked around the two level room, the early breakfast crowd hummed over saffron potatoes, hot and sour soup, chapatis, kim chee, basmati rice, miso, cucumber sauce, gazpacho, mango salads, buckwheat waffles, borscht and chutney. She saw old friends in a corner booth.

She reached the counter, “I’ll have two Early Worms—send them to that table, please—is it Hashi?” She pointed to where Willie sat.

“I am Grupna, Miss, Hashi is my brother.”

“I’m sorry. Just send them to that gentleman, I’m going to visit.”

Jane paid and dropped five dollars into the tip jar. She went to the corner booth, “Clara! Loretta! It’s been years!”

Shouting “Jane!” Clarabarta and Lotsy both climbed from the vinyl bench on Dick’s flanks and rushed over for hugs and smooches.

Meanwhile, behind the Gotham Shirtwaist Building:

“Hey! You two! What are you doing back here?”

Rex barked and pulled his leash, Bradley and Aretha turned around. A large man stood in an open door, one they had investigated a moment earlier, the man held a baseball bat.

“Keep that dog under control, lady. What are you doing back here? I’m building security and I know who belongs here—you don’t.”

“We’re looking for somebody—a youth.”

“My foster son.”

“We don’t allow no juveniles in here. Go away, I’ll call the cops.”

“We need to find him!”

Aretha turned away, pulled Bradley’s elbow, “Come on, let’s go.”

He didn’t move. “Let us in—he’s with Clarabarta!”

She yanked again, firmly, and used a stern voice, “Mr. Wayne, come, now!”

He about faced and fell behind her, hung his head and muttered, “Yes, Mistress Strehli.”

“That was no stutter, Mr. Wayne. Strangely, I approve, I think it is only proper that a powerful man like you should demonstrate humility, obedience and respect. You and I must spend time together when this is all done.”

“Thank you, Mistress Strehli.”

“Let’s not go public with this, on the street you say Miss Strehli.”

“Yes, Miss Strehli.”

They reached the front of the Shirtwaist Building, Aretha paused for a final look at the door. “We can’t stay here. I’m ready for a boost, let’s go to The Caliph Ate.”

“Yes, Miss Strehli.”

Rex at her side and Bradley dutifully in tow, she led the three blocks to the restaurant, once an industrial laundry. There was garden seating, unused on the damp morning, a pair of bicycle racks by the open doors and a hydrant shaped tether that Aretha fastened the leash to.

Bradley followed her to the drinks line and read the menu boards. “Miss Strehli?”

“Yes, Mr. Wayne?”

“This is embarrassing—I have no money, or a card.”

“Do you want me to buy something for you?”

“Whatever you’re having. I’ll repay.”

She rolled her eyes and made a small ‘Hmph’, “I guess you are good for it.” She got to the counter, “Good morning, Rana.”

“Good morning, Miss Strehli. This is early for you.”

“I’m on a special case. We’ll have two Early Worm Cocktails, please.”

“Very good. It will be right up.”

She paid and tipped, turned to look for a table.

A voice shouted across the room, “Rita! Is that Aretha Coolidge?”

Aretha faced it, “My gosh! It’s all of you!” She ran to the corner booth as Clarabarta, Lotsy and Jane clambered out to greet her.

Bradley followed, then he saw Dick, still in the seat. “Dick!”

“Bradley!” the teenager worried his way from the center space and up to his feet.

Silage for humans, that’s what Willie Wilson concluded the beverage really was, foamy, sludgy, green/brown, with floating particles, black, orange, yellow, it smelled like week old grass cuttings. The sleepy young woman server with limp brown hair in a ponytail and acne on her chin further diminished his confidence, she was a strong source of the patchouli aroma.

Jane was ignoring him, caught up in a girl’s reunion, it appeared—first with the two knockouts—could that be Lotsy Totsy having breakfast?—then the beefy black lady came in accompanied by a tall dark haired man in what looked like a lab coat.

The man’s face was familiar… Willie had a double dose of déjà vu, first from seeing that very face over the collar of a trench coat not eight hours earlier, and further because it was the second most well-known (after Willie Wilson’s) face in Gotham Burg, a face regularly seen in the social news, the financial news and the civic news.

He stood up and strode toward the group, used his most authoritative voice, “I want to have some words with you, Bradley Wayne, or should I say Catman?”

Suddenly Bradley was glad he was carrying no ID, faked a bashful grin, “You must be mistaken. It’s a flattering error, but I am not Bradley Wayne. Sorry.”

“Don’t try to fool me.” He turned to the women, “Jane! Get your camera! We got a scoop here! And sorry, you just lost the million.”

“Well shit on you! I quit!”

He faced the youth, “And you, I presume, are Bradley Wayne’s adopted wonder boy Dick ‘the Sparrow’ Whiteson!”

Clarabarta was faster than Dick, seized his arm before he threw a punch that would have broken Wilson’s nose. “Dick! No!”

Catman’s phone buzzed.

Bradley took it from his boot, “Hello?”

Albert’s voice, “I’m sorry Master Wayne, I have been trying to reach you all night. I have had the Devil of a time finding one of your old paramours and obtaining this telephone number. You must return to Wayne Manor at once sir. You have been robbed.”

“Robbed! How?”

“While I was detained by the police, sir. The mansion has been emptied.”

“Great Scot!”

“Yes sir.”

“How could they have moved so quickly?”

“I was held until after midnight, sir. I was about to be released earlier when the false alarm sounded and the jail went under lockdown. And the neighbors saw moving vans arrive ten minutes after the police took me away. Mr. Willie Wilson broadcast my arrest live, sir.”

“Did he?” Bradley made a hostile glare at the reporter.

“Yes sir. And sir, the moving vans were from the Harlequin Transport Company—a rather suggestive name, sir.”

“I get the jest.”

“Sir?”

“This is not the best moment for the discussion. I will return as soon as possible. What did they take?”

“Everything, sir. They opened the safe, sir.”

“My negotiable bonds!”

“Yes sir.”

“I have to go now. I’ll see you soon.”

“Yes sir.”

Bradley dropped the phone into a jacket pocket and turned toward Wilson, “I have a terrible personal emergency, I can’t be detained here. Me and my… uh, ‘nephew’, Rick, here, will just mosey along and catch a bus.” He took Dick’s arm and started for the front door.

Dick resisted, “Wait a second. What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain on the bus—we need to get home.”

“I want to stay with Clarabarta.”

“You have school in a little while, young man.”

“He’s right, Dick,” Clarabarta said.

“He’s ‘Rick’, not Dick.”

“I’m Richard.”

“Okay—Richard, let’s go!”

“Wait a second,” Wilson intervened. “We’re not done, Mr. Catman Wayne. I’m going live the minute you’re out the door.”

He was ready for the fist, ducked back at the windup and the swing was a strike. But Willie found himself in the restraining arms of Clarabarta and Aretha. “Take my bicycle—it isn’t locked,” the social worker shouted. “We’ll keep Mr. Wilson quiet.”

“What about D—Rick?”

“He is safe here.” She used her Mistress voice, “You need to get away—now!”

“Yes, Miss Strehli.”

Rex barked and pulled at his leash when Bradley grabbed the bike but the tether held.

He had to unbutton the coat to get astraddle the bicycle frame, it fluttered in his wake, he wobbled briefly, then pedaled away.

The four women hemmed Willie in.

“I’m a reporter, I have First Amendment rights.”

Jane ignored him and addressed her friends, “We got a KGB production van outside. Let’s take him there, it’s quiet—good for talking.”

“Can we bring our drinks?” Clarabarta asked.

“Sure—will you pick those two Worms off the table over there?—for me and Willie.”

“My drinks haven’t arrived yet,” Aretha said. “Can you three manage?”

“Maybe you should make two trips.”

Dick spoke up, “I’ll bring the drinks. I’ll grab a tray.”

Clarabarta smiled, “Thanks Dick.”

Lotsy added, “Will you bring the rest of my food, too, please?”

“Sure thing.”

“Thanks. I was starving!”

Willie shouted to people nearby, booming his deepest voice, “Attention bystanders! This is Willie Wilson of KGB News! I am being kidnapped by terrorists! Somebody call nine one one, help me please!”

Curious diners turned their eyes toward the spectacle, behind the counter Hashi looked on in confusion.

A skinny man with a black beret, dreadlocks and a goatee left his table and approached the wrought iron railing overlooking the mezzanine, “What kind of terrorists?”

“Animal Liberation extremists!”

“Oh, okay.” He walked away and sat down again.

People returned to their meals, Hashi went to bus a table.

Defeated, Wilson meekly followed the women.

Jane led them to the rear door of the satellite truck, they all ducked and entered. A huge control board dominated the space, a dozen video monitors were arrayed above it, signal processors, a computer and an auxiliary generator filled in underneath, three rolling chairs on the floor. They put Wilson into a seat and stood in a ring around him.

“We can’t keep him forever,” Aretha observed.

“Just long enough,” Jane said. “Willie, there’s something you need to see. My backup argument.” She went to the video board and cued up a file. Wilson’s face appeared in all of the monitors, he was shouting, “Fuck you, you stupid asshole!” it cut to another image of the reporter stepping over a homeless veteran asleep on the sidewalk, “Get out of my way, stinking bum!” he kicked the man’s shopping bag and scattered his worldly goods into the street, the video cut again, Willie, drunk, “I don’t care how many God-damned Mooslims there are—just nuke the fucking bastards, all of them!—use that bomb that only kills people, not property, save the oil wells.” She paused the play. “Over two hours of the real Willie Wilson—these ones are just the teasers. You should hear some of the things he says about the Mayor—bet His Honor thinks you guys are friends, not after I go public with this.”

“The Catman story is worth it.”

“I recorded you hacking into people’s voicemail, Willie—you’ll go to jail.”

“This is treason to the spirit of journalism.”

“You’re no journalist, you’re like some kind of media dung beetle.”

“I don’t make the news, I only report.”

“Yeah? Well here’s a report from me.” She turned her posterior in his direction and passed gas, noisily.

A knock on the door, Clarabarta stood nearest, she opened and let Dick in, he carried a loaded service tray, carefully balanced seven tall Early Worm Cocktails and Lotsy’s meal. “Here’s the drinks!”

There was more elbow room at the forward end and it was further from Jane’s gas, they gathered there while he doled things out. People stood and sipped, Lotsy put her plate atop the control board.

Jane handed Willie his cocktail, he spat into it.

The front of the truck lifted from the ground, a heavy mechanical noise came to their ears.

Wilson’s chair rolled, hit the door and he went flying through.

The others tumbled right behind him, the van tilted to a steep angle.

Wilson got up and took off running.

The rest were in a pile on the street, splattered with Early Worms and vegan salad, Dick inadvertently received the brief pleasure of a personal Lotsy Totsy under-the-skirt extreme close up. Jane extracted herself and stood. She went around to the truck’s front.

A parking control officer had his three-wheeler by the driver’s door, in front of the news vehicle was a tow truck, it carried the KGB van in its hoist.

“What’s going on?” Jane yelled.

The parking officer handed her a citation, “You blocked half of a bus zone with this rig, it’s impounded.”

“We’re the news! You can’t tow us!”

“What’s the story here? Action News team stops for breakfast? Pick it up at the yard this afternoon.”

She went back to her friends, “Why should I care—I quit, didn’t I? I’m not responsible.” She crumpled the ticket and tossed it into the gutter.

Lotsy went to pick it up, “Don’t litter. Paper recycles, you know.”

“Sorry.”

Behind them the satellite truck rolled away.

The social worker faced Dick, “I’m Aretha Strehli, of Gotham Child Protective Services. Bradley and I have been looking for you, young man.”

“You want to take me away from him!”

“Didn’t you run away last night?”

“I was just angry and confused.”

“Did you make the bomb threat to Gotham High School?”

He hesitated, looked to Clarabarta, she gave him a sober stare and a slow nod.

“Yes, I did,” Dick said. He pulled Albert’s phone from his pocket, “I kind of borrowed this.”

Aretha took it. “You need to clean up and get to school. I will deal with this matter—and you—later.”

“Okay—I’m gonna be late already.”

Clarabarta volunteered, “I’ll drive you, Dick—or do you prefer Richard?”

“Yeah, Richard—I think I’d like that.”

“I’ll take you. Do you need to go home?”

“I better get fresh clothes and I can microwave a bagel dog for breakfast.”

“That sounds ghastly, don’t make me watch.” She took Richard’s arm and escorted him away.

Lotsy looked at Jane and Aretha, “How can we stop Wilson?”

“Without the van he needs to get to the station to go live.” Jane said.

“How soon?”

“A scoop like this, as soon as he’s in makeup—they’ll cut into the morning show.”

“What can we do?”

“Nothing, short of taking KGB completely offline. We gotta shut the station down or completely hijack it.”

“How?”

“Beats me.”

“I have to go to work,” Aretha said. “My clients need me.”

“You can’t just leave.”

“They are helpless children, I have my responsibilities.” She drew her phone to call a cab. “And Rex needs to get his rest, the poor boy has been up all night.”

Ten minutes later, in violation of the speed limits:

“I’m very proud of you, Richard. Admitting what you did, and you can trust Aretha. She’s always been true.”

Clarabarta zoomed the car to eighty five miles per hour up the Stirling City Expressway and took the Gotham Heights cloverleaf ramp at sixty, the light turned red outside the mini-mart and her brakes squeaked the Datsun to a sudden stop.

“I’m glad I spoke up. I’ve been feeling awful about it.”

Made the right turn onto Estates Lane. “I bet you have.” Clarabarta reached his hand for a squeeze as she pulled the car into a hard left, Richard’s door opened, slammed again. She geared down and revved up.

Police cars barred one entrance to the Wayne Manor driveway, the second had an officer on sentry. He stopped her car and bent toward the driver’s window, “This is a crime scene investigation, you’ll have to move along.”

Richard leaned across Clarabarta’s lap, rested his right hand on her left knee, “I’m Richard Whiteson. I live here.”

“Show some ID.”

Richard extracted his wallet and Gotham High School identification.

The officer studied the card, looked at Richard and made a careful scan of Clarabarta, he took his time getting satisfied. “Okay—check in with the Sergeant before you go into the house. The lab crew are still working.”

She circled the figure eight driveway, it was filled with more police cars and two vans from the Crime Scene Squad, officers milled on the lawns and sat on the benches, they sipped coffee and smoked, dropped paper cups and stinky butts. The car came up to the main steps and stopped, Richard and Clarabarta emerged.

A police officer with chevrons on his sleeves and holding a clipboard stood on the porch, Albert was at his side, more police sauntered around collecting overtime pay and trying to look useful.

“Master Dick!” the butler shouted as Richard came up the stairs.

“Albert, I owe you an apology.”

“Sir?”

“I took your phone, I made that call.”

“I see, sir.”

“I’m terribly sorry and I shouldn’t have done it, please forgive me.”

“Very well, sir.”

“What is going on here?”

“The house has been robbed, sir. They took everything.”

“Holy breaking and entering! I must see!” He went to the door, the sergeant stepped into his path. “You have to wait until the investigators are finished.”

“It’s my home, I need to get in!”

“Sorry.”

A technician came from inside the house, “We found something I think you should see, Sergeant.”

“What?”

“In a hidden alcove behind a sliding panel. There are a pair of brass poles that drop through the floor, like out of a firehouse, one of my team slid down to have a look.”

“And?”

“She hasn’t come back yet. It’s been fifteen minutes—we’re getting concerned.”

The sergeant addressed Richard, “What do you know about this?”

“Nothing!”

The technician turned to Albert, “You polish all the brass around here, how about it?”

“Yes sir, that is one of my duties.”

“And where do those poles go?”

“Below, sir.”

“What is below?”

“A survival bunker, sir. Many years ago, when Master Wayne inherited the estate, there was considerable talk abroad about the possibility of another War. Remember the fear over Persia, sir? And that unfortunate affair in Korea? Master Wayne had a bomb shelter installed, by sheer coincidence there is an old asbestos mine in Kanes Ravine that tunnels directly beneath the Manor. Master Wayne’s contractors made a shaft into it and modified the space into comfortable living quarters. It is very capacious.”

“You get down on the poles, how do you return?”

“An elevator, sir. Into Master Wayne’s study.”

“So where is my intern?”

“Perhaps your person is lost down there, sir.”

The sergeant had been listening, “Perhaps we’ll have to search this bomb shelter.” Speaking to the technician, “Who went down?”

“That High School science intern, Helen Humes. When the hidden panel opened she saw the poles and went for it before we could stop her, she was laughing and said ‘Whee!’”

“This could be serious.”

During the talk the people had shifted around on idle feet and moved away from the entrance, Richard saw his chance and broke for it.

Through the doors, he locked them behind then turned to see an empty space. The floors were naked polished wood, no art on the walls, no antiques, no furnishing, living room bare, even the potted plants were gone. For all his urgency Richard had to stop and consider the transformation with a state of awe—it was simply unbelievable.

Then he dashed for the Catpoles, an evidence technician using a vacuum cleaner worked in the hallway, another rushed through with a toilet plunger. Richard shouldered past, two others were at the poles and he didn’t hesitate. A karate chop to the knee felled one in pain, the second one doubled over after a kick below the belt. Richard jumped onto a pole and slid down.

The Catcave was reassuringly normal, that worried him. Of course even from here he saw the crumpled tailfins on the Catmobile. Then a faint noise echoed, human voice, feminine, a soft rhythmic ‘aaah… aaah… aaah… ’ It came from the car, the car rocked, slightly.

Curious, he approached the driver’s side. Blonde hair tumbled over the headrest, there was a lovely young face with shut eyes and an open mouth.

Richard’s shoe scraped the floor and she lifted her lashes at the sound, her hands came up from her lap, he smelled a warm aroma, like rising dough. “Oops,” she said faintly, then she saw the face looking at her. “Dick! You’re Dick Whiteson! The rich boy up front in my Geography and Biology classes! And if Bradley Wayne is Catman you must be Sparrow! That is fucking awesome! I’ve had the biggest thing for you for years!”

“Helen? I’ve seen you. Yeah, you’re pretty… ” he realized that her jeans were down to her knees and her underwear as well. “Gee… ”

She giggled, “Gee is right. I saw the Catmobile and I got in, started playing with the gearshift and I let myself go.”

“Gee… ”

Helen made a crooked smile, “Bucket seats don’t work for two—wanna climb in back? I know, put on the Sparrow suit, lemme strip search Sparrow—but I’ll leave the mask on!”

Richard suddenly understood that he was about to get laid, “Yeah! I’ll be right back!” He dashed for the Catcloset.

One block into his getaway run Wilson decided to call the station for a ride. He stopped and searched his pockets, no phone, it was in his jacket, back at The Caliph Ate.

This was an unfamiliar part of town, one he was not comfortable alone in. All the people looked like Gypsy vagabonds, ready to slit his throat at his passage, he buttoned his trousers pocket over his wallet—bystanders thought he scratched a rude itch.

Willie hustled across the drawbridge over the Gotham Estuary, the tide was out and exposed mud smelled like effluent.

Two miles of tenement neighborhoods before downtown, he had urgent news but his bladder grew more urgent. There was a familiar joint up ahead—Lay-Law’s Pizza and Beer (grill open 24 hours).

Wilson trotted to the Men’s room and took care of business, washed, wiped, went to the counter. “I need to borrow a phone, and give me a beer—I’ve been running all night!”

“Sure thing Willie. Anything to eat?”

“Gimme a couple slices of the breakfast pizza, Juanita—the one with the eggs, bacon and sausage, not that whole wheat vegan pesto crap. And load it up with cheese, too.”

“Gotcha Willie, here’s my phone—no sex lines or hookers, my wife checks up on me.” She turned to draw the beer.

Wilson went to a booth and started punching the number for KGB Action News Hotline.

The quickest bike route was up the creek from Goose Pond in Gotham Central Park then around the east shore of the reservoir, through the viaduct under the Stirling City Expressway and past the abandoned hazardous waste dump into Kanes Ravine, a nine mile ride from Bohemian Village.

With the morning yet early the park was lightly populated, mostly with runners and dog walkers. Bradley had to reduce speed in congested reaches, other spots were empty.

Half the way and there was a man ahead in a bright red nylon jacket and yellow flannel pants. As the bike approached he raised a hand as if to wave a greeting, he had a happy smile and carefree eyes.

Bradley nodded and smiled back.

The man swung out a stiff arm in front of his face. Too late to turn the bike, he was knocked from the seat and went tumbling onto the dirt. The happy man was atop the cycle and pedaling away before Bradley rose to his knees.

The crotch seam of the Disco pants had split the entire way from front to rear exposing white briefs turned pink in a laundry accident.

Bradley ran for the Catcave.

Hashi and his brothers took a hookah break in the rear of The Caliph Ate. He had Bradley’s bundle on his lap, “ …that tall man with Miss Strehli dropped this.”

“What is it?” Rana asked.

Hashi unfolded Catman’s uniform.

Grupna’s phone rang. “Hello?… Oh! Miss Totsy! A pleasure to hear from you… ”

Meanwhile, back on the porch at Wayne Manor:

The door slammed and they heard the lock bolt.

“God damn it!” the sergeant yelled, he faced Albert, “Who was that guy? You called him ‘Master Dick’.” He put his clipboard up into working position and clicked his pen, “I need to keep track of everybody in and out—just a second, give me the full name. I gotta write it down.”

“Master Richard Oxtot Whiteson, sir. Dick, sir.”

The sergeant scribbled and muttered, “Master… nah, nuh, nah—how you spell the middle name?”

“Oh-Ex-Tee-Oh-Tee, sir.”

Muttering, scribbling, “ …Whiteson. He said he lives here so this address. Guess I got it.” In full voice, “Now, can you open that door?”

“I have a key, sir.”

“Good—let’s hurry!”

Albert unlocked the door and admitted the sergeant.

Clarabarta followed.

The sergeant spun around, “Wait a second!” took up the clipboard, “Name? Address?”

“Clarabarta—just that. Spell it like it sounds. I live in the Gotham Shirtwaist Building—loft six six six.”

He couldn’t suppress his lecherous grin, “I bet you do some real living there.” Then he examined her more closely, finishing with her face. “I’ve seen you. On the news this morning. Didn’t you rob a liquor store in Metropolis yesterday? They had security camera footage.”

“No, that wasn’t me. I was here yesterday.”

Albert volunteered, “She was, sir.”

Sergeant nodded, “Okay. Where did I see you? Wait… after the sports and weather they do the celebrities—that’s it!—You’re the Black Topped Beauty! Wow! Can I get your autograph?—for my wife, she’ll kill me if I don’t. Here, use this,” he offered clipboard and pen, “And don’t sign your real name, just Black Topped Beauty, make it to Lisa D. Francesca. Go ahead and write over my paper, nobody ever looks at that.”

While she was writing the evidence technician spoke up, “Could you do one for me, too? I collect them. Sign it ‘for Gerald’, please.” She turned over the clipboard page and started the second signature. The clever technician snuck behind her, drew a tiny pair of scissors and snipped a lock of her hair, put it into one of his specimen bags.

She felt him, “Hey what are you doing?”

“Sorry. Just brushing away a fly.”

The sergeant was impatient, “Can we go see the poles now?”

The technician led the way.

His two associates were just back on their feet and rubbing their bruises. Everybody gathered around the Catpoles and looked down, police shined flashlights, the illumination died in the deep blackness.

“How far is it?” the sergeant demanded.

“Thirty meters, sir.”

“In English!”

“One hundred feet, sir.”

“That’s better. No wonder I’m uncomfortable. I don’t like heights or tight spaces and I’m scared of the dark. Let’s use the elevator.”

Albert took them back through the living room and down the South Wing corridor to Bradley’s study, he opened the sliding bookcase that concealed the lift. It was designed to carry two people and here was a crowd of six, they made two trips. First Albert, the sergeant and Clarabarta went down and sent the car back up. The elevator landing was in a short dead-end tunnel, wooden wine racks covered the walls.

They waited for the technicians.

“How much space down here?” the sergeant asked. He eyeballed the area, the further tunnel was vast to his perception, lighting was better than adequate—it didn’t feel like a cave.

“Two hundred thousand square feet, sir. Most of it is storage room.”

“No wonder you said she could be lost.”

Clarabarta remarked, “Do you hear voices?”

They went silent, the only sound was the whir of the elevator and an occasional happy echo—laughs, moans, gleeful yells.

The sergeant’s lecherous smile returned, “Sounds like fun.”

Meanwhile, a few twists of the Catcave away:

Afterwards, they relaxed in the rear seat, leaning against the opposite doors.

“Wow,” Richard said. “That was great! Thanks!”

“My pleasure,” she purred. “Did I get your cherry?”

“Yeah.” He grinned like an idiot.

“I’m honored. We should celebrate. Can you reach in the front seat and grab my purse? I have a joint—let’s smoke.”

“Sure.” He got up and leaned over the center panel, she admired his bare lifted buns while he reached. He returned to the seat and gave her the bag. “You’re a police intern and you smoke pot?”

“I became an intern to get pot,” she giggled. “I help process evidence and in the process a little falls into my purse—not just pot, either. We should do ecstasy and really fall in love.” She pulled out a cigarette and lit it, took a deep drag and held her breath.

“Right now?” He received the joint and sucked on it.

After a long slow exhale through her nose, “Nah. We probably ought to get back upstairs. Would you mind reaching up front again and grabbing my pants?”

While he was thus busy Helen took her phone out of her purse and captured images of Richard’s elevated and naked rear end. She giggled, toked and tucked the phone away before he was back in the seat.

KGB Action News Producer Silver Shelstein entered Lay-Law’s and looked for her star reporter. Wilson was in a booth, his blank face stared at a wall mounted TV and a soccer game from Barcelona. The table held a plate with two pizza crusts on it, an empty glass stood beside. He turned when she slid onto the seat opposite him.

“How many beers you had, Willie?”

“Only a couple, why?”

“Whad’ja drink earlier? I was sound asleep when the station patched you to my phone—we do the evening news, right? So where’s Jane? Where’s the van?”

“I left them at that godawful restaurant.”

“Can you verify this story, Willie? Whaddayou got? Any video?—No. You say you know Catman is Bradley Wayne, lotta words, Willie. We can’t go live without proof—Wayne’s got more lawyers than Washington DC’s got lobbyists. Go to the Men’s room, look in the mirror, look at your eyes—red as a pair of Stop! signs—look at your hair, and your shirt, what is that shit you’re splattered in?”

“Health food.”

“Well you should try eating it for a change. I’m your boss and I’m instructing you: Go home, get some sleep, have a cup of coffee and a decent lunch, then come and talk this afternoon. We’ll see what kind of story we have then. Okay, Willie?”

“Call Jane, she’ll confirm it.”

“She ain’t answering. Is there anybody else?”

“Lotsy Totsy was there.”

“The porno star? Now I know you been drinking, Willie. You prob’ly got tight last night and went online, you watched some flick she done and they always use Bradley Wayne doubles in a lot of those things—like that Mexican guy, Juan ‘the Duke’ Juayne. I bet it’s a porno Catman and you been up all night playing with yourself and now you’re believing the plot. Jesus Christ Willie, ain’t it time you grew up?”

“There was another woman, just as pretty. I’ve seen that face before.”

“Prob’ly with Lotsy Totsy and a nine-inch hunk of meat.”

“I don’t think so—this woman doesn’t have that slut look to her. She was in a sexy running suit I could see right through but she had a disgustingly wholesome attitude, like she was in a cult. But I know her face.”

“Willie, I’m doing you two favors: First I ain’t gonna fire you—you deserve it just for the complaints I get from female staff—you’re on your way to a class action restraining order. The sponsors still like you so your job is safe, for now. Second, I’m gonna drive you home and give you the day off. We’ll start fresh tomorrow, by then Jane and the van will turn up.”

“Can we swing by that restaurant and pick up my jacket?”

“Yeah, Willie. You paid up here?”

“Yes.”

“Well leave a good tip for a change, huh? And let’s go.” Silver slipped from the booth.

Wilson stood, fished into his pocket and came up with two quarters a nickel and three pennies, he put them on the table. He looked over at her, “It’s all I have.”

“God punishes liars, Willie.”

Grumbling, he drew his wallet and tossed down a single dollar bill.

“The World shouldn’t have to endure people like you,” she added.

“Thanks.”

She took his arm and pointed him toward the street, they went to a KGB car. Silver opened the door for Wilson and he sat, she went around and let herself in. A video monitor over the center hump lit up when the motor started, it was tuned to the KGB signal, the audio was muted.

The second half of the morning show was underway, the segment on entertainment, celebrities and gossip.

Silver pulled the car into the street and Willie shouted, “Stop! Look!” He pointed at the screen, there was a black-haired woman’s face with a huge question mark superimposed over it. “That’s the woman from the restaurant!”

She glanced at the image, “They been running that picture all morning—you gotta do better, Willie.” Drove on.

“It’s her!” He turned on the sound, the pretty anchor with glittery hair and teeth was saying, “ …and it is confirmed that Europe’s mysterious ‘Black Topped Beauty’ may have a connection with Gotham Burg. Reporters in London yesterday saw her at Heathrow Airport apparently waiting for a private jet that had been rented at the very last minute by none other than our own multibillionaire Bradley Wayne. Correspondents monitor air traffic control and they definitely heard the jet receive clearance for a flight to Gotham… ”

Silver snapped the audio back to mute, “It’s bullshit, Willie.”

“I saw her.”

“People like you used to wear lampshades for hats and see pink elephants—now it’s Catman, porno stars and international glamour girls. I swear… ” and she did.

They arrived at The Caliph Ate along with all the rest of the media, including KGB’s second production van. The monitor in her car cut to a live shot of the restaurant’s entrance. They saw the cameras running in.

“What is going on here?” Silver wondered and her phone rang.

“Hello?”

The news director, Walter Burns’s voice, “Silver, where are you? Get to The Caliph Ate restaurant, there’s a press conference underway—where the fuck is van number one and Jane and Willie?”

“Willie’s with me, we’re at the restaurant. Van two is here and shooting.”

“Well duh—I have a monitor.”

“What’s going on here?”

“The restaurant’s owners say they have proof of Catman’s real identity.”

Out of the car, they followed the crowd in.

The mezzanine tables were pushed aside and Hashi stood atop a wooden crate, he held up a dry cleaning hanger with the Catsuit, in front of him was an easel and a poster sized enlargement of a low resolution photograph from an overhead angle. It showed a close-up of Bradley Wayne in his butcher’s coat. A second easel had a publicity poster from a recent adult film and a face shot of the male lead.

Rana stood by the graphics and used a long wooden spoon for a pointer, illustrated Hashi’s words, he tapped the first image, “This gentleman dropped these garments on this very floor only about an hour ago. The picture comes from the security camera on the ceiling above your heads. And the other picture shows the face of cinema star Juan ‘the Duke’ Juayne. As you can see, there is no doubt but these must indeed be the same gentleman. We have been trying to connect with Mr. Willie Wilson, he has offered a substantial reward for this information. However he is not answering his telephone—that is why we called the rest of the news media here.”

Wilson shoved his way forward, “I’m Willie Wilson and I say you are wrong! That man,” he pointed to the grainy enlargement, “is Bradley Wayne! Can’t you see?”

With a white beard and a jolly face, Hashi’s laughter made him resemble a turbaned and deeply tanned Santa Claus after a weight loss program. “Oh my silly friend! How could a soft man like Bradley Wayne be the Catman? Bradley Wayne has dated the most charming women in Gotham Burg and he cannot keep a relationship with any of them. He must have virility problems, such a man could not possibly be Catman. Juan Juayne obviously is a man of very healthy virility, a manly man indeed, just look at his films!”

The argument was logical to Willie, but he couldn’t back down. “Juan Juayne has a thick Spanish accent—he can’t put two English words together.”

“Accents can be imitated. It took my brothers and I years to adopt a Parsi accent, we grew up in Gotham Burg schools.” While he spoke he shifted from melodious Himalayan tones to the whiney nasal bray of the Gotham gutters. Then he spoke like a day laborer from south of the Rio Grande, “My Spanish is perfect, too, Senor Wilson. When I was a young man I bummed around for three years in Mexico and Central America with a surfboard and a microbus.”

“Jane said you were from Kashmir.”

“Our grandparents left Kashmir, Mr. Wilson, when the departing British imperialists partitioned the country between India and Pakistan—there was war. It is a very poor country, a divided land where language and religion are the roots of conflict. We came here and became Americans, speaking English and worshiping no Gods—not even Jesus. My brothers and I grew up eating cheeseburgers, pizza and fried chicken, just like you.”

Rana spoke up, “We turned vegetarian and started the restaurant after our eldest brother, Bill, died from a heart attack.”

Hashi went on, “Enough about our background. Miss Lotsy Totsy is a regular costar with Juan Juayne and she has gone to bring him here. You can ask him for yourself.”

The elevator arrived and the technicians got off.

Sergeant spoke, “Good! We’re all here. Let’s do the search—keep together, we don’t want anybody else getting lost.” He faced Albert, “You know the layout, show us around. Take us to those sounds.”

“Yes, sir.” He started a parade.

This portion of the Catcave was mostly used to cellar Bradley’s wine collection. They zigged and zagged several passages out to the main tunnel.

Here they came to Catman’s laboratory. The crime scene technicians went to the benches and computers, admired the equipment with envy.

“Nice setup,” the sergeant remarked.

“Master Wayne is an amateur scientist, sir. He enjoys analyzing random materials.”

“Very likely. This could be some kind of dope cooking kitchen.”

“Sir, Master Wayne hardly needs to peddle narcotics.”

“Yeah, but he could be one of those rich junkies—like a rock star. Maybe this is how he keeps up his supply.”

“One does not use an electron microscope to manufacture drugs, sir.”

“So you say. This looks mighty suspicious to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is this ‘Master Wayne’ of yours, anyway?”

“I cannot say, sir. He is coming home as soon as possible.”

“Not soon enough. I’ve got questions for him.”

Voices echoed again from down the tunnel, the sounds approached and a moment later Richard and Helen walked around a bend into view. They were side by side with a chaste distance between but they held hands.

Richard was finishing an explanation, “ …so now Bradley feels rather stupid about the whole thing. He spent all that money and there wasn’t a War, just threw it down a hole as far as he can see. That’s why he never talks about it—he doesn’t want Gotham Burg calling him a fool. That’s our big dark secret.” He saw the crowd in the lab, “Hi Albert! Showing the police around?”

“Yes, Master Dick. We were looking for you and your friend.” Albert made inquisitive eyes at the young intern.

“Albert—this is Helen. I think we’re going steady. Right Helen?”

“Soon as I break off with Howard. I never liked him much.”

“Howard Fine? On the wrestling team?”

“Yeah, him.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll kick his ass, I’m sure.”

Clarabarta spoke up, “You have to find a non-violent resolution, Richard.”

“Who is she?”

“A friend.”

“What kind of a friend? Maybe we’re moving too fast here, Dick. If you’ve already got ‘a friend’, and I got Howard.” Helen examined Clarabarta more thoroughly, “I know you… ”

“She’s the Black Topped Beauty,” the sergeant volunteered.

“Oh really?” Helen smiled, “I never met a real celebrity before.”

“I’m not a celebrity, I try to avoid the cameras.”

“Well, you’re famous anyway.”

“I know,” Clarabarta sighed. “Have you been acquainted with Richard for long?”

“Oh we been in classes together for years. Never talked much—our families aren’t on the same social level.”

“But the Wayne’s aren’t snobs. Bradley is actually a rather modest man. You should visit and get to know them.”

“You think so?”

Clarabarta made an eager smile, “I’ll arrange it. Dinner here next week, I’ll cook—vegan. Do you think you can bring your parents?”

“Mom sure—I live with her. They’re divorced, Dad stays in Metropolis. I only see him on visitation days.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. He’s a drunk.”

“Mine too, but he’s dead now.”

“So you and Dick aren’t a thing?”

“Don’t be silly! I’m old enough to be his mother!”

“You’re pretty enough to be anybody’s girlfriend.”

“Thank you, you’re very sweet. But that is my problem—I draw too much attention just by being me.”

“Sucks, huh?”

“You’re very attractive, too. Do you work out?—I’m an exercise coach.”

“I run in the park all the time, and Mom gave me a weight set, it’s in the garage. I can knock Howard down whenever I want too.”

“Good, then you don’t need to involve Richard. You can do the ass kicking, if it comes to that.”

“Gee… I never thought that way... ” Helen smiled.

“Hey,” Richard cut in. “I think we’re done in the shelter. Let’s go back upstairs.”

“Wait a minute,” the sergeant said. “Tell me about this lab setup.”

“What about it? Bradley likes to keep up on science and technology.”

“The butler says you study random materials.”

“That’s like channel surfing—something to look at until something interesting pops up.”

“Uh-huh… ”

The chief technician stepped in, “There are no narcotic substances here. Just old fashioned mad scientist stuff.”

“Okay. Then I guess we can go. Where’s that elevator?”

Albert escorted the group back.

Now with eight people they organized three trips. Richard, Helen and the sergeant went first.

They waited in the study, the only item in the mansion not stolen was the portrait of Bradley’s late Aunt Harriet that had concealed the safe. The painting lay on the floor with a footprint across it, the safe was open and empty.

The sergeant looked around the bookshelves, “Didn’t I leave my clipboard in here?”

Nobody had an answer.

Clarabarta and two technicians arrived, the elevator went back down.

The house was silent.

When the last group got up from the Catcave they all went out to the rest of the mansion—no crime scene investigators were in sight.

They opened the front doors and faced a semicircle of television cameras and reporters. The technicians and the uniformed officers were holding a press conference.

A policeman with the sergeant’s clipboard in hand explained to the media, “That’s her,” he pointed to the people coming out the door. “The Black Topped Beauty! Her real name is Clarabarta and she teaches yoga at the Gotham Shirtwaist Building!”

Lenses all zoomed in to Clarabarta’s face.

“No!” she screamed and turned about, she hid her face against the nearest breast, Albert’s towering frame. He held her with great delicacy.

Willie Wilson blinked, reeled on the edge of reality and madness. Behind his eyelids he saw the entire World peeling off masks and becoming exact opposites—Catman unmasked and revealed the Jester uncovered to be Lotsy Totsy exposed as a beatific nun became Hashi turned out to be a televangelist, and Bradley Wayne evaporated into a puff of smoke.

Wilson screamed, “Who the fuck is anybody? Everybody!” Hollering in top incoherent voice he ran from The Caliph Ate. KGB’s second van was the nearest vehicle and he carried a key. He leaped in, the satellite antenna was extended and he had to retract it before driving.

Silver followed him out, she tried to open a door but Willie hit the lock button first. She went to the driver’s window, “Open up Willie, don’t go crazy on me!”

“Fuck you, you mealy mouthed blogger! I know that Catman is Bradley Wayne and I will prove it!” The antenna was secure and the gears unlocked, he threw the van into drive and roared off, Silver jumped away.

Bradley came around the head of the reservoir and on up the creek, it was warm for late October and the next mile of trail had no shade. When he reached the Stirling City Expressway he rested inside the viaduct. Six busy lanes of traffic boomed and thumped on the roadway overhead. Trail parking and a highway ramp were on the far side of the freeway.

The following mile was also exposed, it cut across the old mine tailings dump, heaps of mercury and asbestos tainted gravel behind a fallen chain link fence. This was the mouth of Kanes ravine, only derelicts and imbeciles ever went there and even they never lingered.

Catman, Sparrow and Albert had gone in at night and doctored a portion of the fence, installed a mechanism that lowered a section of the barricade at the touch of a garage door opener in the Catmobile. They also graded a one mile road to the Catcave entrance and installed a second mechanism—a genuine garage door and garage door opener. They pasted paper mache rocks and plastic shrubbery over the door, from more than thirty yards away it looked completely natural.

An artificial hollow stump concealed an opener button, Bradley pushed it and the cave revealed itself. He went in, closed the door and proceeded. As he passed the broken Catmobile something on the floor slipped under his boot—a discarded condom, used.

“Yuck!” he said and picked it up gingerly, with fingertips. He took it to a trash can and muttered imprecations against sloppy lovers.

“Wait a minute! Who had sex in the Catmobile?” And it dawned on him what a fabulous pickup opportunity he had been wasting all of these years.

“Dick, Dick, Dick… Oops—Richard, Richard, Richard… ” He made a sly smile, “Or maybe it is Dick, Dick, Dick… But who did he have sex with?—Clarabarta! Dick you dirty dog… ” he shook his head, smiling, and went to the Catcloset, used the adjoining Catshower and then changed into a fresh Bradley Wayne costume. Cleaned, he almost felt like a billion bucks.

Aretha had a morning appointment with the counseling staff at Juvenile Hall, she took a City car and drove across town. Waiting at a stop light she let her eyes wander, a man in a red jacket sat on a bicycle in the right lane. She recognized the bike.

Aretha got out of the car and ran around to the cycle, she stood astride the front wheel before the man even saw her. The light changed.

She grabbed the man by the earlobes and pulled his eyes up until she looked straight into him. “What are you doing on my bike?”

Angry drivers started honking their horns, shouting and waving fingers.

The man stammered.

Aretha shifted her grip to his jacket collar and lifted him off of the bicycle seat, she held him over the handlebars, her eyes never left his, “What are you doing on my bike?”

The terrified thief screamed.

A police car drew up, it’s lights flashed and it’s horn squawked.

Lotsy and Jane took a cab to a faded clapboard bungalow on the outskirts of town. There was a vegetable garden in the front yard, chickens scratched around the dirt and goats browsed the five-acre back lawn.

The taxi waited when they went to the front door and knocked.

Barefoot, wearing a stained tee-shirt, cotton briefs and holding a bottle of beer, Bradley Wayne’s double answered. “Lotsy! Did I leave something at the studio?” His voice was thin and sleepy.

“No, John. We have a special job we need you for.”

“John?” Jane wondered.

The man smiled, “Sure. The real name is John Marion. Juan Juayne is my screen persona—my lead one, I have a bunch.”

“He wanted to do cowboy movies but he gets carsick on a horse,” Lotsy said.

“That left porn.”

“He’s equipped for it.”

“I wouldn’t know. When I look at porno all I can see are camera angles and lighting setups. I like photography.”

John yawned, “I’m about ready for bed, Lotsy. What do you need?”

“Ever wanted to play Catman?”

“As a matter of fact I’m dressing as him for the Gotham Shirtwaist Halloween party. Studio wardrobe delivered my costume yesterday.”

“We can do better. We got the real outfit.”

“What are you on?”

“For real. It’s at The Caliph Ate—bet Hashi’s on air by now. Turn on your TV and you’ll see what we mean.”

“Okay—take off your shoes before coming in, please.”

They got barefoot and went inside.

The living room had no furniture beyond a shin-height table. Soft rugs and pillows covered the floor, tie dyed hangings draped the walls, a small TV occupied a bookshelf space, John picked up the remote and turned it on.

“Tune KGB,” Jane suggested.

It showed a helicopter view of the KGB van careening the streets in the hills above downtown, a white car with a KGB logo placard raced along in its dust. The anchorwoman’s voice explained, “Both of our remote broadcast vans are now missing in action. We are sorry, we cannot bring you live coverage of these dramatic events from ground level. What we know is that KGB Action News’s own reporter Willie Wilson is hard on the story. To recap: the owners of The Caliph Ate restaurant claim the Catman to be none other than adult film sensation Juan ‘the Duke’ Juayne. Our sources confirm that Mr. Juayne’s considerable physical endowments extend to much more than his most famous feature and that he is an accomplished acrobat and practitioner of mixed martial arts and more than capable of the fantastic feats we are so used to seeing the Catman execute.

“Furthermore, we have KGB Action News Producer Silver Shelstein on the line, she is at this moment in a car and following Willie Wilson as he races towards… it’s not clear at this moment—we think he is headed for Gotham Heights and Wayne Manor where another surprise press conference is even now underway with the long awaited unveiling of Europe’s mysterious Black Topped Beauty. Silver, what can you tell us?”

John muted the audio, “Who says I’m Catman?”

“The Tewari brothers, John. The Caliph Ate’s owners. But shit! This is breaking too fast, we don’t have time to go back across town—we gotta stop Willie Wilson! Get your Catman outfit.”

“Why?”

“We’ll explain in the cab. We need to get you into costume and you need to confront him.”

“I’ll do many things for you Lotsy—you’re a hard-core angel and you know it. This is the weirdest I would have ever imagined.”

“The publicity will be great for your career.”

“Yeah… Hey! I better put some pants on!” He guzzled the end of his beer and hurried from the room.

Lotsy yelled after him, “Just your Catsuit, John. And dress in the cab, we got no time!”

Catman’s phone buzzed the moment the elevator doors opened in Bradley’s study. He picked it up.

“Hello, Miss Strehli.”

“Mr. Wayne? I just recovered my bicycle from a drug addict. I wanted to know if you were all right?”

“Thank you for the concern, Miss Strehli. I’m fine—Great Scot!”

“What is it Mr. Wayne?”

“I just saw my study—it’s empty! Miss Strehli? This is a bad moment, I’m facing a crisis.”

“Another one? I’ll be in touch.” The phone went dead.

Bradley walked to the front of the mansion and out through the doors.

Into the media circus. “Bradley Wayne! Bradley Wayne!” reporters shouted, “What is your relationship with the Black Topped Beauty?”

The sergeant had recovered his clipboard, he confronted Bradley and clicked his pen. “Where did you come from?”

“This is my home.”

“It was empty five minutes ago. Did you come from the bomb shelter?”

“What bomb shelter?”

Albert suggested, “The one at the bottom of the poles, sir.”

Bradley got wise, “Of course! That bomb shelter. I forgot all about it.”

“So where did you come from?”

“I lost my keys and climbed in through a window.”

“Okay.”

“What’s going on here?”

“Some of my people recognized your friend, Mr. Wayne. They phoned the press while we were in your cellar.”

“This is a complete invasion of my privacy! I’ll have those officer’s badges for this!”

“They don’t care. They’re famous now.”

“It’s an outrage!”

“That’s why God gave us lawyers, huh, Mr. Wayne?”

“Very funny. I’ll be sure to name you in my actions.”

“I ain’t done nothing, ask the butler.”

“Yes sir. He was with us.” Clarabarta still had her sobbing face on Albert’s chest, he clearly was uncomfortable with her presence.

“Well shit!” Bradley yelled. He felt better immediately.

With a roar, the KGB Action News Sky Camera helicopter swooped in over the treetops, it turned about and hovered above the street in front of the mansion, the chopper’s rotors fanned roadside shrubbery into a thrash. A moment later KGB’s second van came screeching around the corner from Estates Lane, it bounced off of the oleander hedges along the street and nearly overturned as it spun into the main driveway entrance of Wayne Manor. A police car barred the access but didn’t quite cover the entire opening. The van smashed the car’s rear end and knocked it around one hundred eighty degrees.

The satellite truck entered the estate—other media vehicles crowded the driveway space, had their antennas aimed skyward. Dodging a huge sycamore with bronzed autumn leaves, Wilson drove the van across the center lawn toward the front steps and bounced it back onto the cobbled pavement, camera crews grabbed their tripods and jumped out of his way.

The van got halfway up the steps before the rear bumper hit the stones and dragged it to a halt with a lurch and a thud.

Wilson had no idea why the media were present, in his condition he assumed that they were here for his sake. He exited the truck and ran to the top of the stairs. He saw Bradley Wayne, dashed to the mogul.

It was Willie Wilson’s policy to always carry a pistol in an ankle holster—court order be damned. He got behind Wayne and had the gun in hand, seized his nemesis with his left arm and pressed the barrel tip at Bradley’s forehead. “Ah hah, Catman! Tell the World—they are watching!”

Silver’s KGB car was close on Willie’s tail and drove in behind the van, stopped on the lawn. She raced up the steps, “Willie! Don’t do it! Let him go!”

“Fuck you! You’re in the Conspiracy to drive me crazy! God damn it—it’s working!” He cocked the pistol and fired a shot into the sky. “Back off!”

A taxi pulled across the lawn in Silver’s wake and Catman leaped out. He charged up the stairs and boomed out, “Let Bradley Wayne go!”

Wilson did. He pointed the gun at Catman’s chest and pulled the trigger, squeezed off four more rounds before Clarabarta seized him from behind.

The smoke cleared and Catman stood, unmarked.

Wilson fainted.

Catman turned toward Bradley and spoke loudly for the microphones, “Are you safe, Mr. Wayne?”

Bradley nodded, he hoped his dark pants didn’t reveal the wet stain, they did.

Together they faced the cameras, Catman put an arm over Bradley’s shoulders.

The sergeant and two other uniformed officers closed in on Catman. “We have warrants for your arrest!” he shouted.

“What the fuck?” Catman said as he was handcuffed.

Sergeant pulled off the Caped Crusader’s mask—Bradley Wayne’s long lost twin, or so it seemed. He searched the utility belt and found sex toys, water based personal lubricants, condoms and a wallet, he drew forth a Gotham Shirtwaist Building ID badge. “The porno King, Juan Juayne!”

“That’s ‘Duke’, not King, we got an Elvis impersonator calls himself the Porno King,” Catman snarled.

“Don’t worry about your legal expenses,” Bradley said. “I’ll get you the best attorneys.”

“You make sure I’m bailed out before we start shooting tonight. I can’t afford to lose the pay.”

“Don’t worry—you’re covered. Don’t tell the police anything until my lawyers talk with you.”

“I know my rights.” The officers dragged Catman away. Going down the steps they passed Lotsy and Jane coming up.

Lotsy had paid the cab, she and Jane hurried to Clarabarta’s side, much to Albert’s relief. Willie lay on the ground, police cuffed him and carried him away.

Lotsy took Clarabarta by the hands and whispered, “Just follow my lead.” Then she kissed her friend full on the lips, with maximum tongue extension.

Clarabarta responded favorably and they gave it a couple of minutes, the cameras captured every detail.

Lotsy broke away and faced the media, “Hi gang! You all know little old Miss Lotsy Totsy,” she made her popular smile and giggled, as she spoke her fingers casually loosened the top buttons of her thin white blouse. “I know you all love me, but you’re gonna hate me soon as I tell you that you’ve all been conned. Best publicity rollout for a porno movie ever! Look at all you guys, here on our jive ass tricks!” She was down to the button between her lovely curves, they were peaking over a semi-exposed lacy bra, she breathed deeply and made them quiver, she played with the fastener, played with the bra, teased the cameras.

“Juan Juayne and I are gonna shoot a Catman porno, Bradley Wayne and Willie Wilson are backers, so are the owners of The Caliph Ate. And this here lady—who looks so much like that Black Topped Beauty, you know the studios just love celebrity faces—she’s my new co-star. We’re gonna be Tara and Tara,” she pronounced it ‘Tare-uh’ and ‘Tar-uh’, “the Tantric Terror Twins, yeah we don’t look that much alike, but it’s movies, we can fake it.” She kissed Clarabarta again.

Clarabarta gave the cameras a wave and a smile, she imitated Lotsy’s sexy shake, it worked well with her running suit.

Nobody hates Lotsy Totsy, even when she makes a monkey of them. They assembled press gave the women a round of hearty applause.

“Check my web site!” Lotsy shouted over the roar, “I’ll post a full press release by tomorrow! I love you all!” She undid the button at last and leaned forward blowing kisses to the cameras. At home anxious parents and spouses snapped off the picture before delicate eyes received offensive content.

Hours later the media were finally gone. A brigade of tow trucks had removed the crashed satellite van and the police car, and also extracted the taxi and the KGB car from the ploughed up lawn. The Crime Scene Squad had gone home but a few officers remained.

Albert supervised the police still on hand, dragooning them into patrolling the grounds for litter. The task was done and he returned to his Master’s side.

Lotsy and Clarabarta took the Datsun to The Caliph Ate and picked up lunch—vegan chili burritos with shiitake mushrooms, avocado, brown rice and cilantro. They brought the meal to Jane, Bradley and Albert. While they were gone Richard and Helen went by cab to Gotham High School.

The group sat on the marble steps and ate.

“I owe somebody a favor,” Bradley said. “I don’t really understand what happened here, but I didn’t get shot and nobody thinks I’m Catman anymore.”

“Except us,” Jane noted.

“That’s all right. How did Willie Wilson’s gun get loaded with blank ammunition?”

“I did it a long time ago. I saw the gun, he thought it was a secret but he can’t take it through security gates with metal detectors, he hides it back of a monitor in the van—I seen him, and I knew what kind of a crazy fuck he is, somebody was bound to get shot and I’m closest to him all the time—I didn’t like the odds. So I got him drunk and slipped him one of those date rape pills—stole it from Willie. Then I changed his bullets while he was out, he never guessed.”

“It’s a good thing he didn’t reload.”

“Willie’s too cheap, he doesn’t pay to use a shooting range and he ain’t just gonna buy new ammo. I knew what he carried.”

“Still, it was very brave of Juan Juayne to face the gun.”

“John didn’t know about the gun until he ran up the steps,” Lotsy said. “We never told him about it—I didn’t know... ”

“I forgot.”

“Amazing. We owe that man a lot.” He faced Clarabarta, “But now you have to make a pornographic movie! I feel awful for you.”

She smiled, nonplussed, “Don’t worry, Bradley. It’s movies, everything can be faked.”

“Actually, she’s already been in a lot of my films.”

“Oh really?”

“I’ve never posed nude or done any of that stuff. I play clueless bystanders—like in ‘The Mile High Club’ I’m the pilot of an airliner that turns into a ‘sky orgy at thirty thousand feet’, according to the poster. You can’t even see my face behind the mirrored glasses and captain’s hat. It’s very dramatic, my copilot, the navigator and the flight engineer—all men—leave me to fly solo across the Pacific Ocean. And Lotsy makes a safe sex awareness video series I do the intros for, I’m Doctor Barbara Crampton of the Public Health Service and I have charts and graphs showing all the statistics on STDs and unwanted pregnancy. I dress in a starched lab coat, stethoscope in the pocket, thick glasses and a blonde wig with a tight French braid—you’d never know me.”

Lotsy explained, “I’ll teach her how to fake an orgasm and we’ll shoot shoulders high close ups. Then we’ll put Betty Page wigs on body doubles for the action and mix her face in with digital morphing—nobody will ever see.”

“Amazing—the movies really are magic.”

“But Bradley,” Clarabarta said. “Now you are a porno magnate. Won’t that scandalize your more straitlaced business associates?”

“Some might find it distasteful, but they’re just a bunch of ugly old farts who can’t get it up without a pill.”

“Wow Bradley. I’ve never heard you speak like that.”

“Well, it’s about time. Actually I have quietly invested in the erotic film industry for years. I hold a dummy corporation that owns the Gotham Shirtwaist Building.”

“You’re my landlord?”

“Indirectly. I’ve never gone inside.”

“Can you do something about the elevator? It seldom works, and when I have a full basket from the Farmer’s Market the stairs get real tiring. I believe in exercise, for sure, but I like to be lazy, too.”

Bradley smiled, “I’m sure I can arrange it.”

“This is definitely a side of you I would never have imagined.”

Lotsy broke out with laughter. “He started the whole craze of using Bradley Wayne doubles in porno. It isn’t always a double.” She leaned in and gave Bradley a deep mouth kiss, broke away and giggled.

He continued to smile, but an embarrassed flush covered his face, sweat trickled. “With my Catman activities it’s difficult to have a normal social life. When I do manage to go on a date I’m worried that I will miss an emergency, I keep one eye on the sky looking for the Catsignal and the evenings always end early with a handshake on the young lady’s doorstep. They seldom return my calls after that. I actually pay the society reporters to manufacture gossip about me, my notorious reputation is a fake.”

Lotsy added, “He discovered John Marion and turned him into Juan Juayne, and Newton Wayne, and General Mad Randy Wayne, and also the porno rock star Wayne Eddy. I bet there’s a dozen other characters. We shoot most of them at John’s house.” Her giggle became a yawn, “I need to get to bed!” she giggled some more, yawned again, “That’s what they called my first feature, but I need to for real. Been up all night and we shoot again tonight, plus I gotta write a press release.” She took out phone and punched the taxi company.

Jane was laying down in the shade of a short privet hedge, snoring.

One man in plain clothes had been examining the area completely, paid attention to the driveway access, fences, windows and doors, he took many photographs. At last he approached Bradley. “Good afternoon Mr. Wayne.” He offered a handshake and a business card, “I’m Johnny Otis, I’m a claims officer for Ellington, Kennedy and Edward, your insurance agency. I’m here about your sudden loss.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the prompt response.”

“You are our top client, Mr. Wayne. We aim to provide all the service available. However… ” he made an uncomfortable cough, “I’ve noticed a few things about your situation that raise concerns. I see no evidence of any security system at all—no flood lights, no motion sensors, no alarms. At least there is a lock on the door. The policy requires homeowners to take reasonable precautions against losses to theft, your claim may not stand. And I understand that you kept over a billion dollars in negotiable instruments in your home safe. Our adjusters are not going to like the sound of this, Mr. Wayne. To be honest, we may not have to pay a cent on this loss. You should have taken measures.”

“You can’t reject my claim! Most of my fortune was in those bonds!”

“I’m sorry Mr. Wayne. I’ve seen what I need for today. Send a complete invoice of the loss to my office by fax and I’ll see what we can do. But frankly, don’t expect much—the company cannot afford to underwrite negligence. Have a nice day.” He turned and went down the stairs to his car.

Bradley sat on the top step lost in thought.

It was lunchtime before Helen and Richard left Wayne Manor, they detoured the cab to the drive-thru line at the Gotham Grease Pit, got burgers, tacos, fries and artificially sweetened beverages on his credit card, they bought lunch for the driver too, she had coleslaw and green tea.

Arrived at school with enough time for Helen to take Richard to the library and show him how to go online and cut and paste a paper on any topic he liked. Then they smooched in one of the study rooms, got as far as third base before fourth period.

They had separate classes next, reunited at final period—Geography.

The instructor was pleased with the paper.

After school the new lovers lingered on the lawn beneath the flagpole, but they had to part.

Richard went to get his scooter, it was a half-mile to Bohemian Village and he decided to walk.

Partway there he realized that somebody followed him. He turned around.

A heavily muscled youth was coming at a run, three others watched from a short ways back. “Yo! Whiteson! Come here!” he shouted.

Richard recognized Howard Fine, the other boys were his wrestling teammates.

He turned to flee but Howard was already on him. He seized Richard in a neck hold and spun his head toward a granite block wall but threw a cushioning forearm between face and impact. He whispered into his victim’s ear, “Pretend like I’m hurting you.”

“Yow! Hey!” Richard yelled cooperatively.

“Steal my girl! You little punk!” Howard screamed in return, then he whispered again, “Just fake that I’m beating you up, if you fight back I might accidentally hit you for real.”

Richard let Howard ‘knock’ him down and throw Hollywood punches at his face. He whispered back, “I thought you’d want to kill me,” and shouted, “Get off of me!”

“No way. You’re doing me the biggest favor. I’ve been trying to find a way to tell Helen something for months now. I need to quit with her but I don’t want her to be hurt.”

Richard faked another pained yell, then said, “Yeah? Why?”

“I’m coming out of the closet, you made it possible. Me and Billy Strayhorn are getting into each other in a big Gay way. Thanks man. You’re the first to hear. Now I go home and tell my parents—then Helen and everybody else.”

“I’m glad to help.”

“I just had to do this shit to impress the guys there—they say you stabbed me in my pride, they have no idea. I’m gonna stand up now and sort of kick you a few times, be ready for it. Thanks for playing along.”

“No problem.” Then he yelled, “Ouch! Hey, that hurts!”

“Good job, man. I owe you.” Howard went to his feet and mimed three heavy boot swings at Richard’s groin, then he ran off.

Aside from a little dust on his clothes Richard was unharmed.

In the entire history of City Hall nobody had ever seen Commissioner Maclaren rise from behind his desk, people had no idea where he went when the building was closed nor how he tended to his sanitary needs. The Mayor needed to confer personally, he had four lackeys convey His Honor’s gilded recliner to the Commissioner’s office, his valet accompanied him and carried a humidor of Cuban cigars. A phalanx of upper echelon City Administration joined the meeting.

The Mayor sat, the valet hung His Honor’s hat over the ‘No Smoking’ sign and stood on a chair to pull the battery from the smoke detector before handing out the stogies. He then circulated with silver scissors and a golden lighter, everybody clipped their butts and puffed up.

With formalities out of the way, His Honor, Mayor Oliver Armstrong Smith, spoke, “Gentlemen, Ladies, Commissioner, Gotham Burg is in a crisis over Catman. For years now he has consistently polled as the most popular public figure in the City. Then the media caught him in a few bad moments, and this disgruntled man Karl Marx played his supposed victimization before the cameras and the numbers dived, the City was forced to move against him. And now, after all of the hullabaloo for that new fuck flick he’s a public hero again!

“Furthermore, an overnight nationwide poll of criminals by FAKES News Network shows that with the word of Catman’s termination as a crime fighter ninety nine point ninety nine percent of them think Gotham Burg may be a desirable location for relocation to and they are making plans to move in. Without Catman the City stands naked.” He puffed his cigar to signify the end of his statement.

The President of the Visitors and Conventions Bureau, a happy faced man with a pencil thin mustache, Louis Jordan, went next, “Catman is Gotham Burg’s major tourist attraction, to be honest, our only tourist attraction. Visitors are canceling reservations at an unprecedented rate, if the trend continues we are looking at only a ten percent hotel room occupancy next summer. People will go across the Bay to Metropolis and gawk at Superman. Something must be done!”

An upwardly mobile politician, District Attorney Bonnie Barrow wore a thousand dollar ‘casual look’ suit and had perfect hair. She sat on a corner of the Commissioner’s desk, crossed knees allowed her skirt to reveal a few strategic inches of silk coated thigh, she held her cigar in her teeth while speaking, “My department has drafted a top secret confidential oath, we are prepared to swear the Catman in as a peace officer and declare him an authorized clandestine operative. That should cover the Constitutional issues raised by his investigations.”

“But who is the Catman?” His Honor demanded.

“Catman is a crime fighter in a mask,” Commissioner Maclaren stated, “His exact identity is unimportant, the World needs only to see a Cat-man, and a Spare-row, as well. In a city as large as Gotham there should be hundreds of qualified candidates to recruit from.”

Chief O’Leary noted, “The Department can produce at least half a dozen, and we can get Spare-row out of the Police Athletic League youth basketball and football teams.”

City Treasurer Charlie Christian spoke, “I kicked through the Municipal Budget with a creative eye toward a Catman slush fund. There are places we can push and squeeze and pass accounts forward. We can make an extra million dollars cash available annually and nobody will be the wiser.”

The Mayor wanted to know, “What if the Feds do an audit?”

“I’ll move to my vacation home in the Crimean Peninsula and never return. I’m learning to play a balalaika.”

“I see your assets are covered.”

“I am a good accountant.”

“I should get you on my taxes.” His Honor faced Gloria Abzug, “If we recruit and deputize our own Cat-man will the insurers be satisfied?”

“I think that is within reach. A properly regulated atmosphere of vigilanteism boosts overall security for insured property. But another issue arises if we create our own Catman. The City holds no rights in the character, the genuine Catman will sue us for copyright infringement.”

“How can he have a copyright with a secret identity?” the Mayor puffed.

“After so many years in public, there is an implicit copyright.”

“He would still have to prove that he is the real thing. We need to find the bona fide Catman, whoever that is—definitely not Juan Juayne. I think this is a decent way to pull the wool over the public’s eye, but Catman must be cooperative or the plan is doomed. Commissioner, activate the Catsignal.”

“It doesn’t function under daylight, Mister Mayor. And you ordered me to remove it from City Hall. I sent a crew up this morning and they hauled it to the City Corporation Yard. I instructed them to dismantle it, it may be a few days to get it back—the Department is gearing up for Halloween weekend, they’ll be in Urban Combat Mode, all leaves are cancelled—even sick leaves—officers are in Kevlar vests, carrying shotguns and gas.”

“Damned students!” His Honor snorted, “It wouldn’t be so bad if the boys shot a couple. But get somebody on that Catsignal pronto, I want to see him tomorrow night.” His Honor puffed one last time and gave the cigar to his valet, then waved to the lackeys waiting in the vestibule. They came in and lifted the Mayor’s chair on shoulder poles, carried him back to his own office.

That evening over Lay-Law’s vegan pesto pizza with extra olives, garlic and mushrooms, Bradley explained, “ …most of my investments were leveraged against those bonds. It should be fine as long as markets stay with me, but I’m famous for my risky ventures. I actually lose money on a lot of schemes and recoup when I hit the big payouts. If more than four or five of the current speculations turn sour I could be down to my last ten million overnight. I kept the bonds at home in the event of such a crisis—it’s never happened. But I wanted to be able to swap them at a moment’s notice, the market is a twenty four hour organism and I’m prepared to fly to Switzerland, or Hong Kong or Caracas at a phone call—just in case. Of course I kept a record of the bonds by serial numbers, but it was written in a ledger I held in the safe. There’s no way they can be traced without it. Meant to copy it to my computer but I never got around to it.”

“You mean you are broke?” They sat in the empty living room, Albert had gone to the mini-mart and returned with a small brown nylon tarp that they used for a dining surface.

“Almost, Richard. Without those bonds as security my position is undermined. My various partners will want other assurances—the classic cars for instance. I’ll have to liquidate many holdings that I own outright, it’s going to be a rugged ride.”

“Let me help,” Clarabarta said, “You’ve been so generous with me. Now I can repay.”

“How?”

“I’m almost as rich as you, Bradley. All the money I make plus you tycoons are always giving me insider investment advice, it piles up. My Swiss account holds at least three billion, last time I checked. I’m planning a public health foundation. I want to improve access to wholesome organic food. It’s going to sponsor Farmer’s Markets and nutrition education, give grants to food banks and soup kitchens, do the work all those useless charities quit doing years ago because it interferes with the fund raising.”

“You sound like a socialist.”

“Capitalism isn’t doing its job. Only a handful of people make out under it and most of them are crooks. People need to live, and it’s time the rich looked toward something other than further accumulation.”

“My grandfather would have called the FBI on somebody speaking like that—J. Edgar Hoover himself. They were in the same club.”

“Is that how you feel?”

“Hardly. I’ve had a chance to see a little more of the World than Gramps. I know how people get kicked around. It isn’t somebody’s fault if they need food assistance.”

“Then if I help you through this emergency, you can help my foundation. Your name will give it a lot of good exposure, help me meet the right people in Capitol City and Washington.”

“I would be delighted! Thank you, that’s the best thing since the blank ammunition.”

“Friends take care of friends, Bradley.”

Albert approached with a telephone, “For you, sir. The police.”

“Thank you, Albert.” Lifted it to his ear, “Hello?”

“This is Lieutenant Rose Maddox of the burglary detail. We have some good news for you, Mr. Wayne. We believe that all of your property has been recovered.”

“That’s fantastic! Amazing! How?”

“When they booked Willie Wilson they discovered rent receipts in his wallet indicating that he occupied an entire warehouse in the waterfront district. Armed with search warrants, officers entered the building and found three moving vans from the supposed Harlequin Transport Company. The loot was still onboard. They also found a hostage, a French waiter named Maurice LeCoq, and he claims that Wilson was working with the Jester on the scheme.”

“The Jester! And Maurice! It all fits, thank you, Lieutenant.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Are you sure you have everything? Did you find any financial instruments?”

“I didn’t know you were a musician, Mr. Wayne, me and my brothers have a country/western band, we should get together, it’s a hoot!—but no, we haven’t even begun inventory. You would be very helpful if you assisted with a catalog. Do you think you can come in tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course. I want to get my things back.”

“You understand that it all is evidence. We’ll have to retain custody until after the trial, and maybe an appeal. These things will be in storage for at least a year.”

“There’s valuable artworks and antiques in that material. They need to be carefully maintained.”

“Everything will be fine, lots of room in the basement of City Hall. I think they cleared the rats out and it hasn’t flooded since the storm of ’02, the mold should be gone by now.”

“I feel very assured.”

“Glad to be of service, Mr. Wayne, you know the motto: ‘To Protect and to Serve’. Well, I need to go, my honey has chili mac for dinner tonight and I don’t want to be late, it’s my favorite. We’ll see you at the station tomorrow. Good night, Mr. Wayne.”

Meanwhile, across the Atlantic in a tiny landlocked republic famed for its user friendly financial regulations:

“ …Please, Francoise, step aboard,” the Jester waved his favorite banker into his private jet. “Have a seat. If I remember, you like Pernod?”

“Oui, Monsieur le Jester.”

“Just call me ‘Jess’.” He poured drinks and brought them to the lounge. “Thank you for meeting me at the airport. That silly Interpol has another warrant with my face on it, I fear I cannot stay long.”

“I understand, Monsieur Jess. I have many clients with similar difficulties, but we deliver superior services wherever possible.”

“I do love a banker’s commitment to confidentiality—and profits. There’s easier stealing if I work with a bank than if I rob one, but you understand that. It’s why you are fantastically rich! You must be so proud!”

The financier bowed his head modestly. “Oui, Monsieur Jess.” He sipped his drink, “What have you for me this morning?”

The Jester offered a leather briefcase. “Vintage bonds with a one hundred year maturation. Issued to finance industrial redevelopment in the wake of the Great Depression. They will redeem for one hundred billion American dollars in twenty years—I ask one hundred million, cash, today.”

“Very interesting, Monsieur Jess.” He opened the briefcase and pulled out a stack of ornately engraved documents on fine rag paper. The banker drew a jeweler’s loupe from his breast pocket, secured it under his right eyebrow and scrutinized them. He made funny, eager noises, like a small child leaving nose marks on a candy store window, then he stopped and went silent. Francoise took a dramatically deep breath, looked up to his host and extracted his eyepiece with exaggerated caution. “You are famous as a man of comedy, Monsieur Jess, but this joke is upon you. These are historical curiosities, perhaps there are collectors—men of bad taste, if I may speak freely. Did you not examine them carefully?”

“I’m not following you.”

“These bonds were issued by the finance ministry of the National Socialist government of Germany in nineteen thirty four. Nazi Germany, Monsieur Jess—look, see the swastikas?” He tapped the papers, the twisted cross motif was worked into the design at each corner. “They are worthless.”

The Jester looked. “Well, I’ll be gosh darned. You know, I just grabbed those things on my way out the door. I’m so sorry to have wasted your time.”

“Perfectly fine, Monsieur Jess. We had drinks and a pleasant visit. I look forward to your next call.”

“You Continentals are so polite. I wish Americans were like that. Everyone in the States is so grabby and in a rush rush rush all the time. I love the Old World ambiance.”

“Perhaps Monsieur Jess wishes to emigrate. I can show you many fine properties—castles, chateaux, we can buy you a title—there are always bankrupt Ducal estates.”

The Jester shrugged and sighed ruefully, “Alas, without those bonds I’m out of the market—for now. And that pesky Interpol… ”

“It is tragic, Monsieur Jess.”

---

* Fascist Australian Kleptocratic Extortion Syndicate