The Further Adventures of The Joker (49 page)

“B-boss?” The green bow on top of the box nearly blocked her vision. Franny staggered across the pine-wood parquet floor into the formal dining area.

“Yellow wall-to-wall carpeting. I should have expected it.” The Joker sniffed derisively. “And imitation Queen Anne. In mahogany veneer, no less. Well, what do you expect from the police? They never have any taste. I’m really doing Gordon a favor—once he opens this package he’ll be eager to redecorate, hee-hee. Maybe I’ll send him a few tips. Or some catalogues.”

Franny put the gift down with a loud thump, scattering one of the twelve silver place settings on the highly buffed dining table.

The Joker smiled a sharp, dangerous smile and shook his head. Green curls danced along his jawline. “Not there, you pretty ninny! Under the tree. The tree! What’s the whole point to this? Do you think I like wearing this false beard? Do you know how much ermine costs these days? My God, what does it take to get good help? Nobody understands an artist.” He wrung his hands in mock despair. “Under the tree!”

“Sorry.” Franny took up her burden once more and, wobbling, wove her way across the hallway and into the living room. She set the box down in front of the red-bedecked tree. She could hear a muffled ticking. It seemed to be coming from inside the box.

“Uh, Boss, what exactly are you giving Commissioner Gordon for Christmas?”

The Joker convulsed with laughter. “Ahahaha. What am I giving him? Oh, you are amusing, Franny. I knew you had hidden depths when I hired you. What am I giving him? What do you think? It’s a bomb.” The Joker wiped his eyes with a green silken handkerchief. “Bombs for Christmas. Isn’t it brilliant? Give the gift that makes for lasting memories, I always say.”

“Brilliant, Boss.” Franny shivered and backed away from the box. Oh, why hadn’t she become something nice and safe—say, a dental hygienist? Career decisions had never been her forte.

The house alarm shrieked defiantly, echoing down the long hallway leading to the front door. Franny’s ears began to ring. She pulled off a green satin glove and nibbled on her green-and-purple-enameled thumbnail, staring all the while at the big, ticking green box.

“Aren’t you worried that the cops will come?” she said.

“Of course not,” the Joker replied cheerfully. “I want them to come. That’s the entire point. Otherwise, they won’t read my little note.” He produced a folding tripod from his other pocket and set it up on the landing by the front door. Then he flicked an over-large playing card from a deck up his sleeve. It was a joker, in tones of green and white, with the words “Ho-Ho-Ho” in silver glitter ringing the boundaries of the card.

“You’re leaving a card?”

“A holiday tradition, my dear. Greetings of the season. A master always pays attention to details. Remember that.” He grabbed her sleeve and yanked her into the sleigh. “Come along. It’s getting late, and I’ve got a lot of people on my list. We wouldn’t want to deprive any of them, would we?”

The next stop was an imposing brownstone in the garden district of downtown Gotham. The sleigh settled quietly into the backyard, flattening a boxwood hedge and only just missing a red-metal swing set. The Joker rubbed his gloved hands together gleefully.

“City Council President Ruth Hays will come home to a holiday surprise,” he said. “Come, Franny. Bring those two packages. Stereo bombs for an overachieving baby boomer.”

With ease, he picked the backdoor lock and entered. The kitchen air was rich with cooking odors. The Joker closed his eyes in rapture. “Ahhh. Smells like the Christmas turkey is ready. Let’s have a bite, shall we?”

“Boss, I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Gingerly Franny balanced the two small boxes in her hands. She was eager to put them down and get away.

“I don’t pay you to think, my dear.” Reaching into the black-enameled microwave oven, he pulled a small bird out. “Ah, I see she’s used a browning dish. Good. I do so dislike the look of pale microwaved meat.” He tore at the drumstick, ripping shreds of meat away from the bone. “Mmmmm. Not bad.” He chewed reflectively. “But a trifle underdone.”

Franny set the boxes down carefully in front of the tiny tree by the white-tiled hearth and hurried back to the kitchen. Mouth watering, she watched the Joker finish his snack.

“Oh, sorry, dear. This is really much too rich for your simple tastes.” He turned, picked up the remains of the turkey, and heaved it, browning dish and all, through the leaded-glass window and out into the yard. Glass tinkled as a shower of glittering shards rained down on the snowy ground, reflecting the neighbor’s green and red Christmas lights as it fell.

“Why’d you do that?” Franny asked.

“Undercooked meat is dangerous,” the Joker said. “Salmonella and all that. Besides, Ms. Council President Hays can always afford another bird.” He pointed to a small video screen on the kitchen counter. “Turn on the set, Franny.”

“TV? Shouldn’t we be leaving?”

“Don’t ask so many questions.” The Joker’s smile grew wider. Franny hurried to switch on the television. Squawking, it came to life in a blizzard of white and gray static.

“Try channel twelve. I like that newscaster—she always wears green.”

Franny flipped channels until Venetia Fitter appeared: the anchorwoman of the Joker’s dreams. Tonight her pale hair was moussed into a series of frozen blonde waves. She was wearing three shades of green silk. Only a small red pin at her throat marred the purity of the effect.

“Good evening,” Venetia said. “The annual Christmas Eve giveaway at Saint Michael’s Church has gotten a big turnout and—this just in. There has been an explosion at Police Commissioner Gordon’s house. No injuries. This is believed to be the handiwork of the Joker—his usual calling card was found at the scene. A police spokesman reports that a canister was recovered from the debris and opened by the bomb squad. It contained a message—which read: ‘You’d better be good. Better not cry. Better not pout, I’m telling you why. Santa Joker’s coming to town.’ ” She paused and looked offscreen as though receiving additional information. A moment later she was focused back on the camera. “Batman has been summoned.”

“Oh, good, good, goody!” The Joker clapped his hands, dancing around the tiled kitchen with glee. “They got my message. They know I care.” His silver-tipped cowboy boots beat a manic tattoo on the kitchen floor. As he capered, he pulled another joker card out of his sleeve and slapped it down on top of the microwave. Still skipping, he nodded toward the sleigh. “Come along, dear. We’ve miles to go before we sleep.”

Franny followed him out into the cold night. “Where next?” she asked.

“That spoiled rich boy Bruce Wayne’s appalling mansion.” The Joker chuckled. “I’m an equal-opportunity Santa—but I believe in giving it to the rich first.”

Wayne Manor was dark and silent, a huge gray shadow looming in the snowy night. The sleigh landed quietly on the front lawn beside an enormous juniper bush.

“Looks like there’s nobody home,” Franny whispered. She tugged nervously at her black and green bangs. “What’s with this rich guy? No lights? No plastic snowmen on the front lawn? Oooh, this place gives me the creeps.”

The Joker nodded gravely. “And well it should, my dear. Generations of do-gooders have lived here. Philanthropists.” He shuddered. “It’s a dangerous concept. Luckily, I think it’s a dying one as well.” He pulled his bolt cutter out. “This door appears to be thick. Well, these cutters should suffice.”

He pressed the sawblades against the hinges and turned the machine on.

An alarm split the air, howling raucously. Its vibrations shook Franny down to her green-enameled toenails. Beside her, the Joker switched off the cutter and pocketed it.

“I-I d-don’t l-like t-this,” he said, oscillating to the alarm’s rhythm. He stepped back out of range. “Wayne never did seem to have much of a sense of humor. Let’s just leave the box and a card by the front door and go.”

“F-fine w-with m-me,” Franny said, vibrating like a cranberry in a blender. She put the gift down on the thick brown-rush doormat next to the Joker’s greeting card, turned, and raced for the sleigh. The Joker was already strapped in his seat.

Once they were aloft, he switched on the radio.

“How are we doing?” he said, chuckling.

“—the Christmas Eve wave of vandalism continues as the Joker leaves unpleasant packages at the homes of some of Gotham City’s best and brightest . . .”

“Hee-hee, I just love this season!” He kissed his wrists happily.

“Batman is reported to be hot on the trail of the Clown Prince of Crime.”

Franny bit all the way through her thumbnail. Batman! Oh, why hadn’t she become a hairstylist? She glanced uneasily at her boss. But he was hugging himself with joy.

“I should hope he’s on my trail,” the Joker said. “Otherwise, the Batdope isn’t worth his cape.” He turned off the radio. “Let’s pay a visit to Mayor Gregson next.”

The kitchen of Mayor Gregson’s handsome duplex was alight, the tables covered with immaculate porcelain trays of party treats. Obviously the mayor was expecting guests.

“Hmm. Seems we were left off the guest list,” the Joker said, peering through the window. “Must have been an oversight.”

He knocked smartly at the backdoor. A butler in black coat and striped silk pants answered. He paused and looked them over.

“You
must
be the entertainment,” he said. Each word was soaked through with condescension. “But you’re way too early. Nobody is here yet. And doesn’t Santa usually wear
red
and white?”

“There was a problem with the dye lot,” the Joker said, winking. He patted the butler on the back. “Be a good boy, Jeeves, and don’t breathe a word of our coming to anybody.”

The butler remained mum as the Joker removed his hand and wiped off the dart he’d palmed. A rictus of ghastly mirth spread across the man’s face and froze.

“Boss!” Franny scowled. “I thought we weren’t going to kill anybody on this trip.”

“I can’t stand a critic,” the Joker said. Gently, he set the corpse in place as a doorstop. “But come along, Franny. Don’t dawdle. You know the drill by now. Put the present down by the tree. And yes, you may sample some of these treats. But be quick.”

The Joker scooped up a salmon-colored canapé and took a bite. “Not bad. Not bad at all.” Pulling a plastic bag out of his voluminous pocket, he began shoveling caviar-studded crackers and cheese bits into it. “Never know when you’ll get hungry . . .”

“What are you doing?” a high-pitched young male voice demanded.

The Joker turned.

The voice belonged to a bespectacled boy of nine or ten. He had short, spiky brown hair and was wearing a faded black denim jacket with matching jeans. A small gold hoop pierced his left earlobe. He held a laptop computer dangling by its lid. “I asked you a question.”

The Joker’s smile broadened. “Go away, sonny, before you get hurt.”

Franny came up behind the boy in the hallway. “You’d better listen to him,” she said. “He doesn’t like little kids. Get lost.”

The boy lifted his nose higher and looked at them both with contempt. “You’re the Joker, aren’t you? Well, I’m Benjamin Gregson. The mayor’s my uncle. And Batman’s after you already. I saw it on the news. You’d better get out of here or—”

“Or what?” The Joker’s eyes twinkled murderously.

The boy faltered. Plainly, he was accustomed to adult attention and cooperation. “I-I’ll call the police.”

Still smiling, the Joker ripped the phone off the wall and tossed it to the floor with a clatter. “I doubt it,” he said.

Benjamin Gregson watched him, pop-eyed. “You really are crazy, just like they said.”

“They were right. They always are.”

The boy backed away smack up against the dead butler. “Carlton! What happened to Carlton?”

“He’s frozen with merriment of the season,” the Joker said. He moved a step closer to the boy.

Benjamin scurried to the far side of the kitchen. A forced smile appeared on his face. “I’ll bet you want to steal stuff, right? We’ve got lots of stuff here for you to steal.”

The Joker watched him the way a cat watches a mouse. “Such as?”

“My uncle’s got a new Rolex watch,” the boy said eagerly. “It’s under the tree in the red box. My aunt bought it for him for Christmas.”

“Too gaudy. Besides, I already have five.”

“There’s the stereo: Blaupunkt—”

“Too bulky.” The Joker took another step forward.

A fleeting look of fear crossed the child’s face. “Um, well, what about my Nintendo?”

“I prefer American goods, whenever possible,” the Joker said. “Last chance.”

“My mom’s fur coat?”

The Joker paused. “What color is it?”

“Russet mink.”

“A shame.” The Joker grinned with murderous glee. “I favor green. Oh well, I see our time’s up.” He grabbed for the child, clamping a hand on his windpipe and shaking him like a puppet.

“Boss, no!”

“Shut up, Franny. I’m not going to kill him. I’m just going to kidnap him. In case the Bat Bore gets too close. A hostage is always handy.” Even as he spoke, the sound of footsteps on the roof betrayed the presence of another visitor. “There he is now, no doubt,” the Joker said. “He’ll probably try to come down the chimney. No imagination, that man. We’ll just slip away . . .”

“Not so fast, Joker.” The Batman’s voice was transmitted from above by some electronic device. “I’ve been monitoring the house for five minutes. The police are on their way.”

“Swell,” the Joker replied. “They’ll get here just in time for the blast.”

“You’ve planted another bomb?”

“Bravo, Mr. Ears.” He shifted his hold on Benjamin to a hammerlock and applauded noisily. “You find it, you dismantle it, you own it. And the mayor’s house—not to mention those of his neighbors—are saved. Otherwise, boom. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

“You despicable maniac. Let go of the boy.”

“Oh, that’s out of the question. I’ve taken a real liking to young Master Gregson here.” The Joker patted the child on the head benignly. “Maybe I’ll return him in time for next Christmas.”

“Joker—”

“You’re forgetting that bomb, Batman. You’ve got five minutes.”

Blowing a kiss upwards, the Joker scurried out the backdoor, Benjamin Gregson in tow, and Franny right behind.