Batman: Revenge, Chapter 7

Batman: Revenge

Chapter 7

        Sammy Evans, Bruce Segelski and Lawrence Kraut, members of the Joker’s original gang, were released from Gotham Federal Penitentiary just one week earlier. The day of their release they were picked up by Harley Quinn. Years earlier, Harley became the Joker’s confidant and main squeeze after the untimely demise of her predecessor, Alicia, a.k.a. "Sugar Bumps," who jumped from a tall building to her death. Several years earlier, at the age of sixteen, Harley became intimate with Jack Napier while he ran Carl Grissom’s crime ring.
        She never tried to control Jack and knew she couldn’t begin to control the Joker. Not the jealous type, Harley didn’t mind the Joker vainly chasing Vicki Vale. Attracted to him because of his wit and his love of danger, Harley had never met anyone with his sense of power and lack of fear. He frequently said that he and James Dean had both lived fast, died young, and left a good-looking corpse. He claimed the fear of death kept many potentially great men from living life to its fullest. Because he had already experienced and embraced the strangely liberating effects of the grim reaper, nothing remained to be feared.       
        Harley envied that lack of fear. Even though it scared her, it turned her on. She liked to be scared. It put her on the edge. Fear propelled her to a higher level when others froze up. She aspired to live up to the Joker's image, and challenged death in many ways. She drove too fast, drank too much, did way too many drugs, and let him have his way with her, any time, any place, in any way he wanted - and he wanted more than any living man. 
    When he fell fifteen stories from the rope ladder that dangled below his helicopter, fourteen years earlier, it altered her life. She became dedicated to managing his business affairs and following the orders he left in case something happened to him. He had never considered death as a possibility. Capture and incarceration were possible, but not death.
    Harley gave up the drugs and booze that dulled her mind and frequently sent her on a “bad trip.” Instead, she went on a power trip. She began to obtain her thrills by studying marshal arts and making bold, but wise, business investments, increasing the already huge net worth of his business empire. She religiously followed the financial plan the Joker left. Every day, with great satisfaction, she checked and studied the progress of his businesses, stocks and bonds.
        She gained a reputation for being flirtatious and generous, unless you let her down in some way. Those who failed Harley often sought refuge in another town, or, depneding on the magnitude of their failure, another country. She did never forgave or forgot, and did not believe in second chances. If you offended her, or questioned her business acumen, she would break you financially or physically, without hesitation. She attended college, graduating at the top of her class with a degree in business management and paid for her education and a breast augmentation with the funds left in the Joker’s bank accounts.
      Starting with nothing, she emerged from nowhere and became known, everywhere. She loved that. In the eyes of the public she achieved everything legally, but the public never knew where the money came from.
      Being recognized and admired by everybody amounted to lilving under a microscope. But even under the scrutinizing eye of the press, it seemed nobody questioned your past if you constantly did good things for the community and weren't running for a political office.
        As she grew more powerful in the business community, she became instrumental in the revitalization of the sagging Gotham economy, providing many new jobs with the rebuilding and reopening of Axis Chemicals. The Gotham Globe saluted her as the Business Woman of the year, with the memorable  headline, “Gotham Business has a Harley Quinn Romance!” She laughed gleefully when she saw it and framed that front page. She had rushed to a phone and called  the Gotham Globe to speak to the author of the story. Harley  flirted shamelessly with the writer, who turned out to be an egotistical fellow named Alexander Knox. He quickly let her know that he was a Pulitzer Prize winning writer, and offered to show her his plaque, if she would drop by his penthouse.
    “What story won the prize for you?” Harley asked, already knowing the answer.
    “The Batman story,” Knox replied. “I documented his existence in my daily column when everyone else said he was just a myth. I‘ve always been a trailblazer, just as you seem to be, Harley.”
    “Mr. Knox, I would love to come over tonight and take a look at your big prize,” she replied. “Perhaps we can blaze a trail together.”
      At that time Knox was very involved with Vicki Vale. They became close working together during the Joker's crime wave.  Finally, after Vicki gave up on her relationship with Bruce Wayne, Knox won her over on the rebound. She needed someone for support. What she did not need was to come home one night and find Knox cavorting in bed with Harley Quinn. She turned around and left, without ever letting him know what she saw. She never confronted him about it, after all, they weren’t married or engaged, but she never again trusted him, or shared his bed.
      He never figured out what happened to destroy their relationship, but was too busy climbing the ladder of success to be overly concerned. He had his sights set on the top spot at the Gotham Globe, and with the support of the business community and it’s most influential leaders he seemed certain to get it. Like Harley, he wouldn't let anything or anyone get in his way.
    The sky became as dark and sullen as Harley, who sat in the dim solitude of her office at the abandoned amusement park, cursing the stupidity Sammy displayed with the F-27. They had it in their grasp, and then he had to show off. That's what went wrong and now she paid for his mistake. Why were most men like that? She spoke out loud to herself, “It’s all about, look what I’ve got, don’t you wish you had it? They compare salaries, cars, toys, wives, children, and the size of their...”
      The door opened and she looked up, “Hello, lover,” she said, flashing a nervous smile. The smile faded, as she saw the anger in the penetrating eyes that stared harshly at her. “Well,” she shrugged, “at least things went smoothly with the mortician.” She knew she was in big trouble.
                     

      ~        ~        ~

   
      Later that night Police Commissioner James Worthington Gordon’s long day, one he had no wish to repeat, finally came to an end. As he slowed down in front of his modest, thirty-five-year old, two story home he made a mental note to find the time tomorrow to call the people who were supposed to come out and fix the crack in his driveway. The neighborhood was nice, but far from new. It resembled something out of “Leave it to Beaver,” or Father Knows Best,” with the majority of the homes having been built in the late 1950’s, or early 1960‘s.
      Cracks in many driveways and sidewalks were beginning to appear, as well as potholes in the streets, which were narrower than the streets of the posh, upper class neighborhoods on the outskirts of Gotham. The trees had grown up and out, to a point where they offered wonderful shade in the summer and formed a leafy roof over the main avenues that served as entrances to the subdivision.
    The driver’s side door on the white, city government issued Ford squeaked as he swung it open. “Damned embarrassing,” he thought, as he grunted with the effort of removing his 64 year old body from the vehicle. He looked again in disgust at the crack in his driveway and shook his head as he repeated the same thought, out loud, “Damned embarrassing.” 
      He headed for the front door, leaving the car parked in the driveway, rather than the garage, as was his custom. He hadn’t used the garage since the automatic opener quit working three years ago. Had it been that long? He promised himself he would have someone from Sears come out to install a new one. In fact, he would call them tomorrow, if he got the chance.
    Gordon fumbled for his house key in the dark. The beautiful trees which helped keep the electric bills at bay during the summer and provided shade in the daytime hid the streetlights from view in the evenings. He always left the porch light on so his entryway wouldn’t be dark when he got home at night, but the darn light burned out about a month ago, or had it been two. He would absolutely change that bulb tomorrow.
      Finally, he located the key to his front door, which was no easy task in the dark, as he had about 20 keys of all different shapes and sizes dangling from 3 interconnected key rings.
      The Commissioner wasn’t sure about what at least 10 of these keys unlocked. One went to his fire resistant, important papers lockbox at home. It was one of the small ones, but which small one he didn’t know. He hadn’t been in his important papers lockbox in about three years. He had last opened it to find the warranty information on his garage door opener when it quit working. Of course the extended warranty he had been talked into had expired. He made a mental note to go through his important papers tomorrow, if he had a chance, to see if there were any papers in there that were no longer important.
      Finally, he found the keyhole and inserted the key, turning it, and at the same time pulling up on the door handle in order to get the finicky locking mechanism to unlatch. On the other side of the door the crystal knob had become loose from years of pulling on it, and occasionally would come off in the hand of a visitor who didn't know to push in and  turn it to the right, before trying to open the door. “Damned embarrassing,” muttered the commissioner, as he stepped inside. He swore that he would find a handy man that knew how to fix the thing once and for all.
    Being completely familiar with his surroundings, he saw no need to turn on the light. He maneuvered just as well without the harsh glare. He headed straight for the bar and his favorite decanter, filled with Hennesey, Izambard Cognac, his preferred method of relaxation.
      Gordon tossed his keys on the coffee table as he passed it and reached into the ice maker for a couple of cubes to cool his drink. The clink of ice in a glass was a welcome sound to the commissioner, who’s day had been long and perplexing, to say the least. In the comfortable dark of his den he poured from the decanter and then replaced the stopper. He most certainly did not think of himself as an alcoholic. He didn’t keep a bottle in his desk at work. He never drank on duty. But every night, lately, he found himself enjoying a glass, or maybe two, of this libation as he sat in his dark living room and reflected upon the events of the day. The light from the moon, filtering in through the thin, pulled-back curtains provided all of the illumination he required. Leaning back, he took a satisfying sip. He smacked his lips and sighed.
    Just around the corner, retirement beckoned. On the force longer than any previous Gotham City police commissioner, he could have retired with full benefits a number of years earlier, yet he chose to carry on. Tonight, he made a mental note to put in for retirement just as soon as this bizarre grave robbing thing was cleared up. His daughter, who had married and moved to Houston, was now a mother and he never found enough time to spend with his grandson, Jimmy. He looked forward to having that time in the very near future. He took another sip and determined he would call his daughter tomorrow, if he got the chance.
                               

~          ~          ~

   
      Returning to her hotel, from Wayne Manor, Vicki handed the cabbie a twenty and awkwardly stepped out and down from the white and green “Happy Cab,” mini van, with the face of a clown on the back. “Thank God I’m not wearing a really short skirt,” she thought. She wondered what had ever happened to the classic 4 door Ford’s and Chevy’s that used to dominate the public transportation scene in Gotham City. The unkempt cabbie, wearing the classic sweat soaked T-shirt, whose remarkably wrinkled face was made all the more memorable by a 3 day growth of stubble, grinned his best 3 toothed grin and asked her if she wanted any change, but she wasn’t listening. With a heave she slid the mini van’s door closed and briskly walked right past the doorman at the hotel. She hurried through the lobby to the elevator where she punched the button for the seventh floor.
      Her day had started at 5 A.M. and now, at 11 P.M. in Gotham City, she felt more than ready to call it a day. A hot bath and a good night’s rest would hopefully refresh her, because tomorrow promised to be full of challenges and once again she'd need to get an early start.
      Slipping her door key card into the slot Vicki waited for the green light, which came on accompanied by a click after which she turned the door handle and pushed. As she entered the room she flipped the light switch and went straight to the bathroom, setting her purse down and then unfastening her watch and laying it on the counter.
      Twisting the hot water faucet to full force and then adding just enough cold to create the right temperature she watched as the water began to rise in the tub. It was a nice big one, with whirlpool jets and gold accented hardware. Judging that she could get back long before the water overflowed, she grabbed the ice bucket and her room key card and went back out to get a soft drink and ice.
    Everybody in the hotel must have come to this floor for ice, she thought, because there was none to be had. She envisioned some tourist with a huge ice chest, shaking the machine for it’s very last cube, and headed for the elevator again. Up on the eighth floor ice was no problem. She quickly filled the lined bucket and headed back down to the seventh floor. She put two dollars into the soda machine for a diet, caffeine free Dr. Pepper and stood back as clanging noises announced the arrival of her selection.
      Arriving back in her room she went to place her ice bucket and soda on the round table in the far corner of the room and saw what looked like a small box, neatly gift wrapped in lavender colored paper with a satin bow. Memories of a similar package 14 years earlier at the Gotham museum, which had contained a gas filtering mask immediately sprang into her head as she reached for the phone to call hotel security. Moments after she had opened that package, 14 years earlier, a lethal gas was released through the ventilation system killing all of the museum visitors and employees, with the exception of Vicki. She trembled at the memory and at the possibility of what might be in this box. The phone was answered on the first ring, with one word, by a confident sounding young man. “Security.”
    “This is Vicki Vale in room 709. I have just noticed a small package on the writing Table that was not there when I checked in earlier this evening. Could you have it removed and inspected for me, please?”
    The young man answered without hesitation, “Certainly Ms. Vale, we’ll have somebody up there in just a moment. Let me check to see if your account shows any deliveries.” There was a short pause, followed by, “Ah, here it is! There was a message that should have been attached. It says, Sorry things didn’t work out between us. Please accept this as my apology. Let’s try again. Your long-time admirer.”
    “Oh my goodness, that must be from Bruce. Don’t bother with having the package removed, it’s okay. Thank you for your time.” Vicki hung up the phone and eagerly walked over to the package. Maybe he hadn’t been intending to see that other woman, after all. Maybe she had just shown up unexpected. Vicki smiled and began to relax as she sat down at the table and reached for the box. The sound of the water still running in the bathroom made her think about waiting to open the gift, but what could it be? She tugged on the satin bow and removed it. She lifted the top of the box to see what present awaited, and saw a note that said, “press me,” on top of a satin lavender bag. She jumped backwards and cried out in alarm as a hideous mechanical sounding cackle escaped from the bag.
    “Ha,ha,ha,ha,ha,ha,ha,ha,ha,ha....” Her head swam; she tried to stand, but her legs became too weak. She collapsed and the room went dark.
    She came to when she began to feel the water from the tub, which had overflowed, and was now soaking the carpeted bedroom area. Above her the mechanical laughter continued. She pushed herself up on one elbow and looked upward, through the glass table, at the lavender box. Shakily she rose to her feet, dripping wet, and grabbed the top to the box. She slammed it back down, hoping to stifle the incessant sound. Although now somewhat muffled, the dreadful sound was still quite audible.  She picked up the package and went back into the bathroom where a waterfall of her own creation was spilling over the sides of the tub onto the tiled floor. She splashed her way to the tub and opened the drain, then, rather than calling the front desk for housekeeping, she simply grabbed her purse and walked out,  leaving a trail of water as she dripped down the hallway to the elevator, her shoes making squishing noises with each step. 
    As she passed the ice machine a heavy set, goateed, brown haired man with a hotel ice bucket, who looked to be in his middle 50’s, was repeatedly punching the fill button, saying with obvious and considerable annoyance, “This is the third floor so far!” His attention was diverted momentarily as he saw the soaked blonde breeze by. “Hey, don’t forget the bathing suit next time lady,” he said, trying to make light of a situation he knew nothing about. Vicki paid no attention to him and purposefully pressed the down button as she reached the elevators. Tapping her damp foot impatiently, she watched as the numbers above the elevator indicated the impending arrival of her ride to the lobby. After several delays while hotel patrons boarded and disembarked on other floors, the doors slid open and a young couple in their early 20’s got out holding hands. The girl’s lipstick was smeared, its remnants still faintly tattooing the cheek and neck of her male companion. They stared incredulously as Vicki walked past them, still dripping, with the muffled mechanical laugh coming from inside the lavender box. She rolled her eyes in exasperation, hearing them break into laughter as the elevator doors closed.
    As she exited the elevator and began to walk across the highly polished, white marble lobby floor she stopped and removed her shoes, which were slipping so badly with each step they threatened to cause a potentially nasty, not to mention embarrassing,  fall. Her damp feet slapped on the cold floor, leaving a trail of wet footprints all the way to the revolving doors which lead out to the taxi stand. She could feel the eyes of the curious hotel guests and employees following her. With each step the urge to turn around and tell them to mind their own business began to grow, but she figured she would be curious too, if a woman resembling a half-drowned rat, with a laughing box, walked through a hotel lobby where she was visiting.
    Outside, the cool night air, coupled with her wet blouse and bra, quickly chilled her to the bone. Even though her wait for a taxi wasn’t more than a minute or two, she was shivering as she stepped up and pulled herself into another “Happy Cab,” minivan. She told the driver to take her to Wayne Manor and asked if he would turn on the heater because she was freezing. She noticed the company slogan on the sun visor in front of the driver. “If you’re not happy, we’re not happy!” She told the driver she would be a lot more happy if she didn’t have to be an Olympic gymnast to get into his vehicle. This driver, who dressed and looked far nicer than the cabbie that had brought her back from Wayne Manor earlier in the evening, told her that the minivans offered a higher passenger capacity and more leg room, which frequently kept groups of people from having to take two cabs. He said she could always call in advance for a cab and request a different type of vehicle if she desired, but that the majority of the company’s vehicles were now mini vans. Vicki noticed the Identification tag on the visor next to the company slogan. This driver’s name was Bruce Segelski. The sign also identified “Happy Cab,” as a registered trademark of Quinn enterprises.
    “Pardon me, madam,” Segelski asked, “I hope you won’t be offended if I ask what’s up with the laughing box? And how’d you get soaked? An accident by the hotel pool, maybe?”
    Vicki was searching in her purse for her hairbrush. She looked up as she found the brush and began running it through her tangled, still damp, hair. She said, “It was a gag gift from a friend, and yes, you’re right about the pool,” she lied. But how could she, and furthermore, why should she tell him exactly what had happened? It was too weird. She knew Bruce would want to know about it and would want to see this “gift,” firsthand. Besides, she was curious to see if the Doctor was still making her “house call” at Wayne Manor. 
    The laughing box finally stopped laughing just a couple of minutes before they turned off the highway onto Wayne boulevard. The sudden absence of the muffled laughter caused both driver and passenger to turn and look at the box, and then at each other. Both shook their heads wondering, what had caused the sound, which had become a considerable annoyance, to cease. The gates were closed at Wayne Manor as they arrived, almost exactly at midnight. Segelski rolled down the driver’s side window and punched a button marked,“visitors intercom.”  He turned in his seat and asked Vicki, “So, you really know this guy, Bruce Wayne?”
    “Yes,” Vicki replied matter of factly, “I’ve known him for about 14 years. I was here earlier tonight, but I forgot something.”
      Segelski turned around now, even further, with a puzzled look on his face and blurted out, “What? And it couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning?” The speaker on the intercom saved Vicki from having to come up with some kind of  plausible answer.
    “Hello, who’s there?”
    Vicki rolled her window down and answered loudly, shouting as if she were in line at a drive-through, fast food joint, “It’s Vicki Vale, could you let Bruce know I’m here, please?”
    There was no verbal answer, but the gates began to swing open and the cabbie drove up to the massive front door of Wayne Manor. “That’ll be fourteen dollars, please,” he said. Vicki handed him a twenty and slid the door open. He had popped out and reached out to help her down. He began to slide the passenger door closed and said, “Whoops, you can’t forget these.” He reached back into the mini van and picked up the soggy shoes Vicki had left on the floor board. He turned around and held them out to her. “I don’t know if these are going to dry out okay or not. You probably ought to put some stretchers, or something like that in them while they dry.” Vicki thanked him and turned to ring the doorbell.
    Inside Wayne Manor, Bruce had put on his robe and was hurrying down the stairs. With Richards gone for the evening he had been forced to answer the intercom. Now the doorbell bonged throughout the cavernous mansion with a sound decibel level that was bad enough during the day, but seemed unbearable late at night. He had to get to the door before she hit that button a second time! He was almost there when the second round of tones began booming. Well, heck, he was awake, why shouldn’t everyone else be? He opened the door and was surprised to see Vicki standing there, with her shoes in one hand, a small gift box in the other, her purse slung over her shoulder, and her hair looking like she just got out of a shower, during which she only washed one side of her head, and then had just tried to brush it, rather than dry it.
    “What happened to you?” he asked.
    She held the box out to him, and said, “This. It was laughing.”
    He took the box, glanced at it without opening it, and then motioned her inside. “Why did you leave without saying goodbye?” he asked.
    “Your Lady Doctor gave me the impression that she was making an overnight house call. I figured you two would want to be alone. By the way, what‘s that smell?”
    “That is the French bread that burned in the oven because somebody told Richards to take the night off and then left without telling anybody that something was in the oven. What did you do, call a taxi from your cell phone? You’re lucky the gates were open, or you wouldn’t have gotten away. I wouldn’t have opened the gates until you had told me why you wanted to leave. Oh, and by the way, I want you to know the Doctor was not making an overnight house call. She was here to discuss a patient of hers that may be able to help me with some research. And, what the heck is this, anyway?” He nodded towards the box Vicki had handed him.
    She pointed to it and said, “Open it.”
    He knew what it was as soon as he laid eyes on it. It was identical to the laugh box taken off the Joker’s body 14 years earlier. “I know what this is; I don’t have to press it to know. Besides, if I press it, depending on what kind of shape the batteries are in, it could run anywhere from 30 minutes to a couple of hours. Commissioner Gordon told me he saw one of these around five this morning at Jack Napier‘s grave, well now, I should say yesterday morning, shouldn‘t I?
    Vicki had a guilty look on her face, as she said, “Are you mad at me for coming back so late?”
    Bruce looked at her intently, and after giving some thought to his answer he said, “I’m mad at you for leaving so early.”
    “I ruined your supper, didn’t I?” she asked.
    Bruce responded by saying, “Yes, you did. Did you tell your cab driver to wait for you?”
    “No.” came her weak reply. She was afraid he was about to call the cab company to come pick her up.
    “Then you’ll have to spend the night here,” he said. “But you have to be punished for messing up my kitchen.” He stepped forward, stopping less than six inches from her face.
    “A frown began to turn down the corners of her mouth as she asked, “What are you going to do?”
    He reached out, pulled her to him and held her tightly. “I’m never going to let you go. I’m going to squeeze you so hard, there isn’t going to be anything left but a puddle.” He stepped back all of a sudden with a confused look on his face, “Speaking of puddles, why is your blouse damp, and what about your shoes? And your hair, is this a new, head banger, Goth type, new wave thing you’re doing with it, or what?”
    Vicki told him about passing out with the water running in the tub and then regaining consciousness as the water reached her in the bedroom . She told him about dripping her way through the hotel with the guests and employees pointing and laughing at her.
    Bruce shook his head and said, “You’re a mess, aren’t you? You leave the oven on broil and stink up my kitchen. You leave the water running and flood your hotel room. I don’t know if it’s safe to keep you here, or not.”
    “I’ll be good, I promise,” she said, “just don’t make me go back to that hotel room.”
      Bruce said, “Well, okay, but we need to get you out of those wet clothes.”
    “Why,” asked Vicki, “Are you afraid I’ll catch a cold?”
    “No, I just want to get you out of your clothes, how do you like that?” He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her reaction, hoping it would be the one he wanted.
      She didn‘t say no, but she didn‘t exactly say what he wanted to hear either. “What about tomorrow?” she asked, “I have a lot of things to do and so do you. I think we should get some rest and get an early start, don’t you?”
    Bruce paraphrased an old Bob Seger song as he reached out and took Vicki’s hand, leading her up the stairs. “Who needs tomorrow, we’ve got tonight.” About an hour and a half later, as Vicki lay peacefully next to him, asleep, Bruce looked up at the ceiling and whispered, “She really is terrific, Alfred. Thanks.” He closed his eyes, rolled over, put his arm around her and slept, deeply, uninterrupted, until six the next morning.

Batman: Revenge Chapters 8 - 11  (18+) Commissioner Gordon is visited by an old friend #1469291 by George R. Lasher