Batman 2 - Batman Returns (13 page)

Yes, he thought, it could get better, especially in the supply room, with the two of them alone.

“And you’re the hottest young person a role model could have,” he said aloud. He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “Here, wear a button.”

It was, of course, his duty to pin that button personally on her pert young breast. He wanted to see more of this volunteer—not to mention her pert young breasts—as soon as possible.

Ah, but there were still members of the press around. A politician had to be careful in these troubled times. He decided it might be best to go upstairs and cool off.

“I could really get into this mayor stuff,” he murmured to himself. “It’s not about power, it’s about—reaching out to people. Touching people.” He thought of his volunteer. “Groping people.”

He climbed up to his other headquarters. The Organ Grinder was supervising the construction of those special weapons so necessary for their next assault. Everything looked to be in order here as well.

The thin Clown stuck his face up close to The Penguin.

“Hey, Penguin,” he began, “there’s a—”

The Penguin stomped down on the clown’s foot.

“My name’s not Penguin!” he barked. “It’s Oswald Cobblepot.” Especially, he thought, if that name attracted the babes. He almost felt like singing. Heck, why not? “I’ll get a lot of tail on the campaign trail—”

“Oswald,” the Knife Lady interjected, “there’s someone here to see you.” She jerked her head toward The Penguin’s bed in the far corner of the loft. There, curled up on the mattress, with a pretty little kitty in her lap, was the woman of The Penguin’s dreams—the Catwoman.

He chomped down hard on his cigarette holder. Be still, he told his heart—not to mention other parts of his anatomy. He’d show this beauty that fur and feathers could mix and mate.

The canary beside The Penguin’s bed cried out in alarm, not at all pleased with the new visitors. But hey, what did canaries know? Maybe this Catwoman was dangerous, but it was The Penguin’s kind of danger.

The Penguin stepped forward to greet her. “Just the pussy I’ve been looking for.”

Catwoman sat up, moving her hands slowly up and down her upper arms. “Chilly in here.”

She must be talking about those air conditioners on either side of his sleeping area, set up to re-create the temperature of his beloved Arctic World. One always tried to relive the comforts of one’s childhood. But there was no reason this poor woman had to suffer for The Penguin’s sake. At least not while they still had all their clothes on.

“I’ll warm you!” he heartily volunteered.

“Down, Oswald,” Catwoman warned.

The Penguin stopped. He didn’t like the look of her claws.

“We need to talk,” she continued. “You see, we have something in common.”

“Sounds familiar,” The Penguin agreed. He’d like to have a lot of things in common with this babe. “Appetite for destruction?” he guessed. He tugged on his suit coat. “Contempt for the czars of fashion? Wait—don’t tell me—naked sexual charisma!”

“Batman,” Catwoman replied simply. “The thorn in both our sides, the fly in our ointment.”

“Ointment?” The Penguin leered. It sounded good to him. “Scented or unscented?”

Catwoman sighed and stood. “I’ll come back later.”

The Penguin gently pushed her back on the bed. Perhaps he was coming on a bit too strong. Maybe they did need to talk for a minute or two before abandoning all their inhibitions and giving themselves up to overwhelming sexual passion.

“Are you, perchance, a registered voter?” he asked pleasantly. “I’m a mayoral prospect, you know.”

She did not seem impressed. “I have but one pet cause today. Ban the Bat.”

“Oh, him again,” The Penguin replied dismissively. “what is it with you two? He’s already history—” He raised his umbrella and pointed to the blueprints on the wall. “Check it out.”

Catwoman walked over to the detailed diagrams of the Batmobile. It had taken Max a pretty penny to get them from the car’s designer—or a disgruntled former employee of that designer. The Penguin let the businessman handle that sort of particular.

And speaking of particulars, they had every single part of the Batmobile labeled on these charts; and not just those parts the average citizen might see, but every nut and bolt that held that infernal machine together.

The Penguin chuckled at the very thought of their plans.

“We’re going to disassemble his spiffy old Batmobile,” he explained heartily, “then reassemble it as an H-bomb on wheels.” He opened his umbrella as he made the sound of a muffled explosion—a visual aid for the death of Batman. “Yesterday’s victor is tomorrow’s vapor.”

The Catwoman shook her head disapprovingly. “He’d have more power as a martyr. No, to destroy Batman, we must first turn him into what he hates most.” She pointed at the Penguin, then herself. “Namely, us.”

The Penguin frowned. This was more complicated than he thought. Was she talking about sullying the hero before they could off him?

“You mean, frame him?” he asked.

But Catwoman was no longer looking at him. She had noticed the huge pile of yellow legal pads on his bedside table, and had even picked up one to peruse the names he had written there.

“Hmm—not even in office yet,” she mused, “and already an enemies list.”

How dare she! The Penguin scurried over to his special project, thrusting his gloves forward to protect his list from unauthorized observation.

“These names are not for prying eyes!” He frowned up at this intruder. What did he know about this woman, anyway? “Hey, why should I trust some Catbroad? Maybe you’re just a screwed-up sorority chick who’s getting back at Daddy for not buying her that pony when she turned sweet sixteen—”

Or maybe, he thought but didn’t say aloud, she was some sort of spy for the other side. Maybe even a spy for Batman.

She looked at him, nervous. He’d got under her fur with that last remark. Now what was he going to do with this Catwoman in his lair?

Before he could come to any conclusions, she reached into the birdcage and grabbed his pet canary. The Penguin bristled. If anything happened to his bird—

He grabbed one of the many umbrellas stacked by the side of the bed and pressed a button on the handle. A knife blade popped out of the top, a blade he used to pin Catwoman’s little kitty cat against the bed.

He looked up at his adversary. The minute she swallowed the canary, her cat was history.

Catwoman spit Jerry from her mouth. The canary, somewhat damp but very much alive, flew up into the rafters.

Very well. A deal is a deal. The Penguin pulled his blade away from the kitty cat’s throat. Catwoman protectively scooped up the cat in her arms. They stared at each other for a long moment.

What next? The Penguin thought. She freed one of her hands and leaned forward to gently stroke her claws against The Penguin’s cheek. Petting from a Catwoman? It was one response he decided he could deal with.

“Look,” she said, nodding at a scar below her wrist, “Batman napalmed my arm. He knocked me off a building just as I was starting to feel good about myself. I want to play an integral part in his degradation.”

The Penguin regarded her for a moment. She certainly sounded sincere. And angry; that was important. The Penguin was big on anger.

“Well,” he remarked slowly, “a plan is forming.” He rubbed his chin with one of his gloves. “A vicious one, involving the loss of innocent life.”

“I want in,” Catwoman insisted. She shivered. “The thought of busting Batman makes me feel all—dirty. Maybe I’ll give myself a bath right here.”

She slowly ran her tongue along her upper arm. The Penguin licked his lips.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, puss,” he replied huskily.

And with any luck, The Penguin had himself some action.

The Penguin was on TV. These days, it seemed like The Penguin was always on TV.

“I challenge the mayor,” The Penguin declared with a melodramatic swoop of his umbrella, “to relight the Christmas tree in Gotham Plaza tomorrow night!”

Bruce Wayne looked up for an instant as Alfred placed his dinner before him.

The Penguin droned on through his media forum. “He must prove that under his administration, we can carry on our proud traditions without any fear. Not that I have any faith in the mayor,” he squawked self-importantly, “but I pray, at least, the Batman will be there to preserve the peace.”

“Sir,” Alfred remarked, disturbing his concentration. “Shall we change the channel to a program with some dignity and class?
The Love Connection,
perhaps?”

Alfred was right. Bruce couldn’t become obsessed with this Penguin’s preening. But this crook had just offered a challenge to Batman, and Batman couldn’t help but accept. Bruce wondered exactly what The Penguin planned to do at the tree lighting. Whatever it was, Batman had to be ready for it.

Maybe, he considered, there might be a way that Batman could be there without The Penguin’s knowledge.

He looked one more time at The Penguin, talking away on the TV screen.

“Subtle,” he remarked.

As a flying mallet, he thought to himself.

He reached for the remote, and turned The Penguin off.

A rehearsal, he thought, for the real thing, when Batman turned The Penguin off forever.

I
t was almost Christmastime.

Remarkably, they had managed to reopen some of the stores on the plaza, making quick repairs to the devastation of a couple days ago. When he had left here that night, Bruce would have thought this kind of recovery was impossible. Still, he guessed that nothing was stronger than the lure of Christmas cash.

Bruce saw a boy, walking between his mother and father, as all three headed for the restored window of the toy store. The boy seemed so happy. And why shouldn’t he be? He had his parents. They all had each other at Christmastime.

Bruce had to turn away.

His mother screamed. His father tried to stop them. He heard the gunshots.

Bruce opened his eyes. Christmas.

Bruce could not think of a more depressing time of year.

When he turned, he saw a woman looking at a store window; a woman whom he recognized. And a woman he would very much like to get to know better. He walked her way. Maybe he could cheer up after all.

“Why are you doing this?” she said to her reflection. She didn’t appear to be happy herself. Maybe there was some way, Bruce thought, that he could cheer the both of them up.

He tapped her on the shoulder.

She jumped.

“Selina,” he said softly as she turned to stare at him. “Hi. Didn’t mean to—”

She placed one delicate hand on her heaving chest. Once she recognized Bruce, she seemed relieved to see him. Could that be a good sign?

“Scare me?” she replied. “No, actually, I was just scaring myself.”

“I don’t see how,” Bruce replied, doing his best to lighten the conversation. “Anyway, it’s a treat to find you out in the world, away from Ebenezer Shreck.”

“Treat to be here,” she valiantly replied. She sighed as if she could not possibly mean it. She took a step away from the window.

“What’s the story?” Bruce asked as he fell into step beside her. “Holiday blues?”

But Selina pointed at the Plaza Newsstand as they walked on past, full of newspapers with blazing banner headlines about the night before:

BATMAN BLOWS IT!
IT’S A CAT-ASTROPHE
MEE-OUCH!

“The news these days,” she explained, “weird. People looking to superheroes for their peace of mind, and blaming their problems on supervillains—instead of themselves, or their spouses at least.”

Yes, Bruce had to admit, those kind of headlines annoyed him, too. What kind of reflection were they on the realities of last night’s battle?

“And it’s not even accurate,” he complained. “I mean, ‘Batman Blows It’? The guy probably prevented millions in property damage!”

Selina nodded in agreement. “I heard on TV—‘Catwoman is thought to weigh one hundred and forty pounds!’ How do these hacks
sleep
at night?”

Their further progress appeared to be blocked by the preparations for the upcoming ceremony. Police were putting up cordons to keep the public away from a large portion of the square in front of the tree. A pair of workmen hoisted a new banner above the plaza that announced the exact timing of the event:

THE RELIGHTING OF THE TREE
TONIGHT AT SEVEN

Selina looked up at the banner, even more unhappy than before. “You’re not coming to that, are you? The ‘Relighting of the Tree’ thing?”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead,” Bruce agreed. “No, it’s probably how I would be caught.” He sighed exasperatedly. “The mayor stupidly took Cobblepot’s bait—”

“—and it’s going to be a hot time on the cold town tonight,” Selina said with a little laugh.

Bruce looked over at her. This was the first time he’d heard her voice rise out of the doldrums.

“You almost sound enthusiastic,” he mentioned.

She looked back at Bruce and shrugged.

“Oh, no, I detest violence but—” She paused, as if it was difficult for her to put her exact feelings into words. “Christmas complacency can be a downer, too.”