Batman 2 - Batman Returns (7 page)

Max pushed his way forward as the crowd gathered around the dark hole in the street. There was a moment of silence, then noise erupted from below.

“Hey!” someone yelled from down below. “Oww! Get away! Ouch!” The cries of pain were accompanied by a heavy thumping sound, as if someone was being soundly thrashed.

The crowd gasped as the acrobat, battered and bruised with clothing torn, dragged himself from the manhole and ran rather unsteadily—but still very quickly—away through the throng.

No one thought to stop him. He no longer held the baby. And there was something else down in that manhole.

“Stand back!” someone in the crowd yelled.

“My God, look!” another voice cried.

For, out of the darkness, the Mayor’s child was being raised up into the light. The crowd gasped. How could such a thing be? It was almost magic. But no, he was being held aloft by someone—or something.

A flipper emerged from the manhole, followed by the portly visage of The Penguin!

The crowd cheered.

The Penguin smiled.

Max had to admit, it couldn’t have gone better if he had planned it himself.

Which, after all, he had.

Alfred had paused in his hanging of ornaments on the tree. It was obvious from his expression that he didn’t believe this. But then, Bruce Wayne didn’t believe it either.

“This morning’s miracle,” the man on the screen intoned solemnly. “Gotham will never forget.”

The TV showed the abduction of the Mayor’s baby, and the supposed miracle of his rescue by The Penguin, who rose out of the sewer on top of the strangest of vehicles, a contraption that looked like nothing so much as a large rubber duck. The camera zoomed in on the rescuer.

“That’s him,” the announcer continued as if he saw large duck vehicles every day. “The shadowy, much rumored penguin man of the sewers, arisen. Until today, he’d been another tabloid myth, alongside the Abominable Snowman and the Loch Ness Monster.”

The Mayor’s wife was in tears as she grabbed her baby back. She swallowed hard, but somehow managed to embrace the man, or whatever it was, called The Penguin, who certainly looked as if he had spent his life in the sewers, and no doubt smelled accordingly. The Penguin, for his part, blinked as if he could not get used to the brightness of the light.

“But now,” the announcer again remarked, “this bashful man-beast can proudly take his place alongside our own legendary Batman.”

The Mayor reached out to shake The Penguin’s hand. But somehow, Max Shreck had gotten in the way, and now stood beaming by The Penguin, patting him heartily on the back.

“Gotham’s leading citizen, Max Shreck,” the announcer droned on, “had been on a fact-finding mission in Gotham Plaza.”

Shreck bent down to whisper something encouraging in The Penguin’s ear. The Penguin, embarrassed, took a little bow. The crowd cheered wildly. Loudspeakers in the plaza began to play “Joy to the World.”

The TV picture shifted to a live interview with the new hero. The Penguin shielded his eyes with a small, frayed umbrella as he spoke in a shy and halting voice:

“All I want in return”—he blinked at the camera—“is the chance to—to find my folks. Find out who they are—and thusly, who I am—and, then,
with
my parents, just—try to understand why”—he paused to take a ragged breath—“why they did what I guess they
had
to do, to a child who was born a little—different. A child who spent his first Christmas, and many since, in a sewer.”

His parents, Bruce thought.

Mother. Father. A scream. A gunshot. Lost to him forever.

“Mr. Wayne,” Alfred remarked softly. “Is something wrong?”

Bruce looked up to where the butler had returned to trimming the tree. Bruce shook his head, as much to clear it as to indicate the negative.

“No, nothing,” he began, “ah—his parents—I—” He took a deep breath. “I hope he finds them.”

Alfred heartily agreed as he returned to his tree-trimming duties. Bruce turned back to the television. So The Penguin had lost his mother and father. Or maybe, his mother and father had lost him.

Max smiled most pleasantly from where he stood within the entry way of the Gotham Hall of Records. A short flight of steps beyond, a whole cordon of police held back dozens of reporters, hungry for a story.

“What do you think he’ll do to his mom and dad when he finds them?” a reporter asked near the door.

“What would you do to your ma and pa,” another reporter replied sarcastically, “if they flushed you down the poop-chute?”

Somehow, one of the reporters had gotten around the cordon, and was quietly mounting the steps. Max snapped his fingers, and a pair of his personal Shreck security guards stepped by him to intercept the intruder.

They grabbed the reporter by the elbows.

“Mr. Penguin is not to be disturbed,” one of the guards remarked as he turned the reporter back down the steps.

“The Hall of Records is a public place!” the reporter yelled back in professional outrage. “You’re violating the First Amendment, abridging the freedom of the press—”

This had gone far enough. Max waved for his own phalanx of reporters to follow him outside. Now he’d give them the story he’d promised.

As he stepped forward, he waved to the guards to let their escort stay on the steps for the moment.

“What about the freedom to rediscover your roots,” Max asked the angry reporter as all the other newsmen around him jotted down his every word, “with dignity, in privacy?”

The once angry reporter smiled. He sensed a story.

“What’s the deal, Mr. Shreck?” He thrust his handheld tape recorder straight at Max. “Is The Penguin a personal friend?”

“Yes,” Max replied soberly, “he’s a personal friend—of this whole city. So have a heart, buddy.” He reached forward and hit the stop button on the reporter’s recorder. “And give the Constitution a rest, okay? It’s Christmas.”

There were so many records, so much to do.

The Penguin sat at a great table in the cavernous main hall of the records building, surrounded by hundreds of thousands of birth certificates. And The Penguin had to look at every one.

Occasionally, he would find what he wanted, and jot it down on a legal pad. He was only vaguely aware of the noises outside, of a crowd of reporters shouting questions and calling his name. This work was far too important to be distracted by such common concerns.

But day ended, and as the night descended, the reporters left at last. Still, The Penguin worked by the light of a single lamp, flipping through the certificates, and jotting down names, boys’ names, on his legal pads. He had already filled a tall stack of these pads with names, but his work was not yet done.

After all, this was only the beginning of The Penguin’s revenge.

I
t was far too quiet.

He guided the Batmobile down the deserted streets of Gotham City. Over the past couple of days, there had been almost a complete halt in heavy-duty crime; not a single bank heist, only one bungled attempt to hold up a convenience store, hardly even any murders. It was as if the criminals of Gotham City were staying off the streets, waiting for something really big.

A light flashed on the console in front of him. Alfred was calling. Batman pressed a button, and the butler’s face lit up a small video screen by the wheel.

“The city’s been noticeably quiet since the thwarted baby-napping, yet still you patrol,” Alfred announced in that disapproving way he had. “What about eating? Sleeping? You won’t be much good to anyone else if you don’t look after yourself.”

“The Red Triangle Circus Gang” was Batman’s terse reply. “They’re jackals, Alfred. They hunt in packs, at night—”

He glanced out the windshield. He had almost reached his destination.

“Are you concerned about that strange heroic Penguin person?” Alfred asked in his dry British manner.

Batman laughed. He pulled the Batmobile up in front of the Gotham Hall of Records. Two men, a policeman and a Shreck security guard, stood to either side of the entryway, or, to be more accurate, they slumped, since both appeared to be dozing.

Batman looked up at the single lit window within the hall. Why was The Penguin still inside?

“Funny you should ask, Alfred,” he said to the butler. “Maybe I am a bit concerned.”

Well, now, this was quite a turnout. Not only was the press out in force—but then, these days, they followed The Penguin everywhere—but there was a huge crowd of the general public as well, including a small number of young women dressed in black. Who were they? Penguin groupies? If he had known this sort of thing was going to happen, he would have come out of the sewers sooner. Now, if he could only determine some way that he could show his appreciation for these fine, nubile young women without the press nosing around. Ah well. All things in their time. At this moment, he had other fish to swallow.

The police once again formed a living chain to keep the curious away as The Penguin strode forward onto the tiny, private cemetery plot tucked in a forgotten corner of Gotham. The well-manicured headstone he sought was immediately ahead, with separate inscriptions for Tucker and Esther Cobblepot, his very dearly departed father and mother. It was a shame that they both had to die so young. And so mysteriously.

The Penguin fell to his knees in front of the markers, and reached within one frayed sleeve to pull out a pair of roses that, frankly, were a little the worse for wear. Oh, well, no matter. It was the sentiment that counted. And, by The Penguin’s count, there were at least a dozen TV and film cameras recording this sentiment at this very moment. And there was no way anyone could ever count all the news cameras.

The Penguin stood, and thought he saw a couple of his groupies swoon at the great emotion of his actions. Ah, yes, he would like to get one or two of those little chicks alone. But not here. Not now.

Instead, he walked back toward the crowd of reporters. One obnoxious example of the profession pushed forward from his fellows.

“So,” the reporter began, “Mr. Penguin—”

The Penguin held up his umbrella in protest. “A ‘penguin’ is a bird that cannot fly,” he remarked sternly yet sadly. “I am a man. I have a name. It’s Oswald Cobblepot.” Or at least it was now his name whenever it suited him.

“Mr. Cobblepot!” the reporter continued, unfazed. He waved toward the grave of The Penguin’s parents. “You’ll never get a chance to settle with them, huh?”

The crowd gasped at the effrontery of the reporter. My, The Penguin thought, it was certainly good to have the masses on his side. He twirled his umbrella pensively for a moment before he replied.

“True, I was their number one son”—he glanced back pensively at the twin headstones—“and they treated me like number two. But it’s human nature to fear the unusual—even with all their education and privilege. My dad, a district attorney, mother active in the DAR; perhaps, when I held my Tiffany baby rattle with a shiny flipper, they freaked.”

He paused and turned to the crowd before he continued.

“But I forgive them.”

The crowd cheered one more time. He had them in the palm of his hand.

Or should that be the palm of his flipper?

All of Gotham City was talking about The Penguin.

“Penguin forgives parents!” the paperboy called. “Read all about it! ‘I’m fully at peace with myself and the world!’ Get your paper!”

And Gotham City responded, grabbing the newsprint as soon as the papers could be dropped from the trucks. Everybody stopped whatever they were doing to read the charming news.

“ ‘You don’t need hands as long as you’ve got heart,’ ” quoted one from the paper before him.

“ ‘My heart is filled with love,’ ” a second read aloud. “ ‘I feel five feet tall.’ ”

“He’s like a frog,” another exclaimed, “that became a prince!”

“No, actually he’s more like a penguin,” another, calmer head replied.

A couple passed nearby, talking as animatedly as everyone else. “Abandoned penguins from the old Arctic World raised him!”

“Makes you remember the true meaning of the holiday,” the woman chimed in. “The love, the giving—”

Max chuckled. He’d been in that Arctic World, that old leftover pavilion from some world’s fair or wonders-of-tomorrow technology exhibition. Max should probably read a paper to find out which one. There used to be a lot of that sort of thing around Gotham City, back when ordinary people had money.