Enemies & Allies (7 page)

G
OTHAM CITY’S MOST ILLUSTRIOUS CITIZENS ATTENDED
Bruce Wayne’s famous parties, and ample front-page coverage in the
Gotham Times
society section went without saying. Sparing no expense, Bruce always centered these soirees around an important humanitarian cause; though most of the celebrities and important personages attended just to be seen, they also brought their checkbooks.

“Wayne Manor is, after all, my father’s house,” Bruce had once told the lovely reporter Vicki Vale for a feature article. “Thomas Wayne devoted his life to helping people, and I intend to honor his memory.”

“You can’t possibly remember him very clearly, Mr. Wayne. You were only six years old when—”

He had been tempted to cut off the interview then and there, but instead he interrupted and said, “I remember him, Miss Vale. I remember him well.”

The guests arrived in limousines that glided into the porte cochere. They displayed their most expensive formalwear, furs, and jewels. The glitterati included Gotham’s most prominent citizens, as well as celebrity guests: movie stars, singers, and sports personalities, including Rock Hudson, David Niven, Buddy Holly, Paul Anka, Sugar Ray Robinson. The quiet, revered star of the show was Eleanor Roosevelt, the former first lady, who had turned her considerable energies to supporting the cause of polio research.

Though he’d changed promptly into his finest tuxedo, Bruce did not step through the entry doors until he considered himself fashionably late. His aloof nature was well known, and the guests had started without him.

When he finally descended the grand staircase, moving with an air of casual mystery, all conversation stopped. A few—the first-timers or the nouveau riche—applauded politely until Bruce alighted in the main hall and held up one hand for silence, the other for a drink. Alfred appeared immediately with a tray bearing a martini glass and his specially mixed Vesper (in reality, a bit of lemon peel and chilled ice water).

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my humble home.” There was a quick titter at the old joke. “Tonight I offer you an opportunity to be generous—to raise funds for polio research. Countless poor children around the world are crippled by this awful disease. The medical research and new vaccine of Dr. Jonas Salk shows great promise, and we must not let him lack for resources.” He nodded toward Eleanor Roosevelt, who stood stoic and proud, like visiting royalty; she applauded loudly, though her gloved hands muffled the sound.

The former first lady cleared her throat and spoke in a strong, confident voice that might have been used in a Shakespeare performance. “You all know my personal reasons for wanting to rid humanity of this terrible scourge. My wonderful husband would have congratulated Mr. Wayne for his efforts. And I congratulate you all for being here. Please help fight this disease with the weapons you all wield—your checkbooks.” The audience responded with a ripple of laughter.

Bruce stepped forward to conclude his speech. “Let us show Mrs. Roosevelt the generosity and vision of Gotham City. Tonight we can make our mark on the world—a mark that begins with a dollar sign.”

“Bruce, dear, you have more money than all of us combined,” purred Selina Kyle, dusky, lithe, and beautiful as she came up behind him as if to take possession. “For the cost of this party, you could have made a substantial donation of your own.”

Bruce lifted his glass to salute the beautiful socialite. “I intend to do both, Miss Kyle. After you all make your donations, Wayne Enterprises will match the total, dollar for dollar. So if you’d like to make
me
dig deep into my pockets, then dig deeply into yours.”

A squawking chortle emanated from a dapper, rotund man, whom Bruce instantly recognized as Oswald Cobblepot. “At that rate, he’ll fund a cure for polio in a single night.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Cobblepot, I’m sure we can find other worthy causes.” Bruce bowed slightly. “All of you, please enjoy yourselves.”

Alfred ran the manor household and serving staff like a militia. No tray of hors d’oeuvres was allowed to circulate half-empty; glasses of wine and champagne always had to be filled. Cuban cigars and Turkish cigarettes were offered in ornate silver cases.

Bruce worked his way through clusters of the rich and famous, shaking hands, trying not to spend too much time with any one person or group. Selina Kyle slipped her arm through his and walked along smoothly beside him. Her well-trained society voice carried perfectly. “We really should see each other more often, dear. You know, we are absolutely
perfect
for each other.” She rolled her
r
’s as she talked. He had never been able to place her accent precisely.

Despite the temptation, he expertly cut her out of his sphere and slid into another clutch of the well-to-do, pleading an important bit of business with the city treasurer (though he had met the man only once). Selina accepted the brush-off with a flirtatious smile and a promise that they would talk again soon.

The conversations generally had nothing to do with polio, extending well beyond the concerns of Gotham City. Bruce repeatedly heard the excited buzz about the so-called Superman from Metropolis. Gotham police commissioner Loeb, a corrupt man at the top of a blue pyramid of corrupt officers, delighted in talking about strangeness in another city rather than the problems of his own. He lost no opportunity to make disparaging comments about the inept Metropolis police.

“But Gotham has its own costumed maniac.” Cobblepot chomped down on his ebony cigarette holder. “Maybe the Batman has alien superpowers, too, eh, Commissioner? That would explain why your men can never catch him.” He let out a nasal snicker.

Loeb’s face darkened. “Superman’s a hero, saves children from burning buildings in broad daylight. The Batman slinks around at night, evades arrest, and assaults on-duty officers. He’s nothing but another criminal. We have twenty-nine pending charges against him, and that’s just for starters. He’s Gotham’s number-one most wanted.”

Cobblepot took a long draw, then tapped a stem of ash into a silver tray as he let out his birdlike laugh again. “You’re just upset, Commissioner, because you can’t make the Batman pay you a bribe.”

Loeb bristled. “I will not be insulted by a petty gangster in an ill-fitting top hat and tails!”

Now it was Cobblepot’s turn to take umbrage. He screwed a monocle into his eye to inspect the commissioner as though he were an interesting specimen. “I am a respectable nightclub owner, sir.”

“Respectable!”

“And what is
your
opinion on the Batman, Mr. Wayne?” said an unmistakable breathy voice. Bruce turned from Cobblepot and Loeb to see that Marilyn Monroe had shown up, accompanied by her new husband, playwright Arthur Miller.

“He baffles me, Miss Monroe. Why should the Batman spend his nights lurking in alley shadows when he could be at a cocktail party instead?” His flippant comment drew polite laughter from the nearby listeners. “Speaking of which…” He raised his now-empty “martini” glass. “Time to freshen my drink.”

He melted away again, seeking Alfred. The butler was handing a leather jacket back to Rock Hudson, ushering him genteelly out the door. The heartthrob actor had to leave early due to his shooting schedule. As they watched Hudson’s sports car swirl away down the drive, Bruce asked quietly, “How much longer, Alfred?”

“The evening has barely begun, Master Bruce. Chin up.”

“All for the greater good, I suppose,” Bruce said, then lowered his voice again. “Are you marking the glasses carefully when you collect the empty drinks?”

“Indeed, sir. You’ll have plenty of new specimens for your crime lab—
tomorrow.
” He emphasized the word with a scolding tone. “Tonight, you must play your part and socialize with your adoring public, no matter how difficult it may be for you.”

“Yes, Alfred.”

With a wry expression and freshened faux-Vesper, Bruce returned to the social fray. The people were laughing and drinking and smoking in a background drone, a blur of sensation and sound and smell. He made them all feel welcome.

Trays strategically placed about the halls and exit received checks and envelopes of cash donations. It was a bright and glittering party, one of his best, judging by the amount of money raised for charity. The members of Gotham’s high society would consider it a triumph. Even Eleanor Roosevelt seemed to be enjoying herself, and Bruce spent a generous amount of time talking with her. She sat alone at the side of the room, watching the people who seemed too intimidated to engage her in casual conversation.

Bruce, though, was a gracious host. Mrs. Roosevelt sipped her soda water. “Thank you for this evening, Mr. Wayne, but you don’t need to bother with me. I know you have many social obligations. I’m doing just fine, thank you.”

“Why, you’re no bother at all, ma’am. We wouldn’t be here if not for your work. I’m just helping to rid the world of an awful blight on humanity.” At least this was one blight he might be able to eradicate completely, forever.

She shooed him away. “Now, you go on and talk to your other guests. You’re making me all teary eyed.”

He bowed politely and went to attend his party. Through every excruciating moment, Bruce maintained his cordial smile. He had an innate aversion to being relaxed in public, but he had a flair for looking comfortable in almost any social setting, while his sharp eyes and ears picked up on every bit of knowledge that might prove useful. It definitely made his detective work easier.

He didn’t view the event as a party so much as a chance to gather data on some of the wealthiest people in Gotham society so that he could analyze the information in his secret lab tomorrow. For tonight, he had his role to play.

T
HE NEXT MORNING, LOIS LANE STRUTTED INTO THE
DAILY
Planet
office as she always did, head held high, heels clicking a confident staccato. She flung open the glass doors into the bullpen with her typical saucy “What’s news, everybody?” (countered by the just-as-usual daily groaning at her corny joke).

At his desk, Clark was buried in letters, still not sure which ones to answer or how. When she noticed him, she paused, her face showing a sudden and unexpected warmth. “Were you working all night on that, Clark?”

“Oh, hi, Lois. I went home, but I didn’t stop thinking about it. I’m a fish out of water with this stuff.” He shrugged his big shoulders helplessly. “I sure could use your advice.”

She hesitated, as if on the verge of turning away with a dismissive “Not my problem,” but then she stopped. “You’re a sweet aw-shucks kind of guy, Clark, but I wouldn’t call you an expert on women. I don’t know what the Chief was thinking giving you that assignment.”

“He
did
suggest that we work together.”

Lois plainly heard the hopeful lilt at the end of his sentence.

He showed her a few of the toughest letters. “What kind of advice can I give these people?”

Lois read the handwritten pages with an eagle eye, face tightening and frown deepening. She finally slapped them down on the desk. “I see what you mean. These women don’t really want to do the work to solve their problems. They just want someone to commiserate with them. If you give them an honest answer, they won’t want to hear it. So you’ve got to give them the
right
answer instead.”

Clark was confused. “The right answer isn’t the honest answer?”

“Trust me. Just look at the letters.
This
one”—she pointed sharply—“and
this
one. Her boyfriend keeps beating her, and she goes back to him every time? I’d like to give that guy a knuckle sandwich myself, see how he likes a taste of his own medicine.” She sighed. “Then again, even if she left him, that woman would probably find someone just the same, or worse. I know the type, Clark. If they knew how to find the strength within themselves to see their own worth, then they wouldn’t let men take advantage of them, much less write letters complaining about it. Unfortunately, they’ve gotten themselves in up to their necks, and they just expect some hero to swoop in and magically save them.”

Clark baited quietly, “You mean like Superman?”

“He’s the exception.” Lois was obviously embarrassed, but a bashful smile crept across her face. “If only there were
more
exceptions like him.” She covered her blush quickly. “Do your best, Clark. You’re good at showing compassion. Just be yourself.”

“Would you read over the draft before I turn it in to Mr. White? I…I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

She smiled. “It’s a deal.”

Clark watched her go, not sure whether or not he had actually asked her out for a date. He faced his task once more, wanting to do a good job. He still didn’t understand these problems…but he knew someone who might. Someone who would also understand just how lost he was—and why.

His mother had always helped him out when he couldn’t understand the nuances of life from a human point of view.

Mind made up, he went directly to Perry’s office. He straightened his tie, smoothed down his shirt collar, then knocked on the door. “Excuse me, Mr. White, I’m feeling a little under the weather. I’d like to take the rest of the day off, please.”

“I need your column by tomorrow, Kent—no excuses!”

“You’ll have it, Mr. White. I’ll be back at my desk in the morning, I promise.”