Watching the scene toward the end of Batman Begins where Bruce Wayne fires Earle, I wondered where he was going in the limo, and the obvious answer seemed to be, to go stay in the hotel he bought. After all, Bruce handed a check over to the maitre d', didn't he? However, it takes more than writing a check to complete a transaction like that.
It's not going to be that simple.
It never is...
Fortune Cookie
The phone on my desk gives a discreet buzz. It's Gruber, at the front desk. "Bruce Wayne is here, Miss Sterling."
Of course. I've been behind my desk for a scant fifteen minutes after spending the night running all over the city to confer with Gotham Emergency Management. The confrontation I've been expecting is going to take place today of all days, when I've had no sleep and am ready to tear someone to shreds. The envelope with his name on it rests on my desktop, edges creased from having been in my evening bag the night before.
"Bring him back," I say with resignation. A quick inspection in the small mirror from my desk drawer reassures me somewhat; my hair is in place, and the concealer helps disguise the circles under my eyes. This is as good as it's going to get this morning.
In the brief time it takes for Gruber to escort Wayne to my office, I practice deep breathing and hope I can manage not to lose my temper too badly. I will not scream...I will not throw things...I will not shout...I will not stab him with my letter-opener... To be on the safe side, I sweep the blade onto my desk drawer with the mirror before Gruber knocks on the door.
The boy billionaire enters, looking fresh and serene. I'm disgusted; has he no sense of shame? Last night, he alienated most of Gotham society, and this morning's news reports he's burned down his family home in a drunken episode. By rights, he ought to be hungover and upset, but instead, he's dapper in a pin-striped suit with a burgundy tie...and here he is in my office, settling into one of the leather chairs in front of my desk as if he owns the place---which he thinks he does.
"This is for you," I say, extending the envelope. He has to stand up to take it, and as soon as it leaves my hand, a great weight is lifted from me. His smug expression changes as he looks inside, and I struggle to keep the pleased smile from my face at his perplexed visage.
"I don't understand," Bruce Wayne says, dropping back into the chair and focusing on me for the first time.
"It's really very simple," I reply with artificial sweetness in my voice. "My name is Olivia Sterling." I pause for that to sink in---for his alcohol-soaked brain to make the connection with the name of the Gotham Sterling Hotel. "I own this hotel. It is not for sale."
Watching his mouth open and close as he looks from me to the check with 'VOID' written across it, back to me, is almost amusing. "But---but---I need a place to stay! I was planning to stay here."
"What a pity. I was going to return that to you last night," I say, biting off each word with crisp precision. "However, your inexcusable display of rudeness to your guests was sufficient to disuade me from that course of action." That makes him blink. Maybe he's a tiny bit hungover? I do hope so. After hearing him loudly accuse his well-wishers of being suck-ups and syncophants, I hope his head falls off. "I have never seen a more blatant display of bad manners and poor hospitality in my life."
"That's no reason to back out on a deal."
"Deal? We had no deal. You came into my hotel, caused a drunken scene, and thrust your check at one of my subordinates as though you were buying a new pair of shoes. You can't possibly be so naive as to believe that constitutes a binding contract. Rest assured, if I were going to sell this hotel, it would not be to you."
"Why not?" He interjects a note of insulted pride into the question, but neither that nor his pleading puppy-dog eyes melts me in the slightest. "My money's as good as the next guy's---that's if the next guy has a few billion on tap."
At just shy of forty, one feels an overwhelming fatigue after being awake for over 24 hours. If this young cretin survives another decade, perhaps he'll find that out. Perhaps he'll also realize that one can't always get everything one wants merely by writing a check.
"You are in no way suited to be a hotelier, and you won't receive a very warm welcome as a guest, either, if your reputation for torching things preceeds you."
Oh, the hurt look that gets me! I'm sure he's been using that wounded expression to get his way for years, spoiled brat that he is. The Sterling fortunes lag behind the Wayne's vast empire by a scant zero, but I've never been idle. Some of my earliest memories are of learning to fold napkins for use in our restaurant. Has he ever in his life worked for anything? Ever gotten his hands dirty or done anything for anyone except himself? Does he have any idea of what goes on outside the safe little world he inhabits?
"My grandfather built Gotham's finest hotel sixty years ago. It's still standing; it's now the Westside Home for the Elderly. I maintain it in his memory." Thinking of Grandpa stiffens my spine. He'd enjoy taking this child of privilege down a few rungs. He certainly had no qualms about taking the starch out of me when I got too full of myself. "His grandfather took over management of an old fleabag hotel, which he later bought outright. That became the first hotel in our chain. After the new hotel went up, it became a shelter for the homeless...until last night. Now it's been commandeered as a triage facility in the Narrows."
"The Narrows?" Bruce's lip curls. He has looks and superficial charm, but no empathy whatsoever. "That's a crappy location for a hotel."
"Last night, while you were busy burning down a hundred and fifty years of your family's history, terrorists detonated a biochemical weapon in Gotham, and the Narrows were at Ground Zero." I don't think I've ever been so furious with one individual in my life. "Several hundred people have lost their lives outright, and there are thousands more who may never recover. Frankly, Mr. Wayne, I don't give a damn if you end up sleeping in a box!"
"It wouldn't be the first time," he says---as if passing out in a gutter after a night of boozing is something to be proud of.
"You are the most insensitive, irresponsible, egotistical---" I launch into a laundry-list of his shortcomings, finishing with, "---and your mother would be ashamed of you!"
"Leave my mother out of this!" he snaps back, the first crack in his composure. "You never knew her."
"As a matter of fact," I say through my teeth, "I was a flower girl in her wedding. "So, yes, I remember Miss Margaret Schuyler VanLandingham quite well, thank you." Temper, temper, Olivia! I can almost her her chide me as she did when I smacked the ring-bearer for knocking my bouquet out of my hand during the dress-rehearsal. I was eight-and-a-half at the time. "She was a lovely, gracious woman. Thomas Wayne was thoughtful. Considerate. A gentleman. You act like you were raised by wolves."
For a moment, he says nothing. He looks blank. I wait for the results of whatever may be going on behind those hazel-green eyes. "Miss Sterling," he says after some cogitation, "Right now, I'm homeless. If you'll allow me to stay here in the Presidential Suite while I get my act together, I'll make a big donation to your shelter." His tone is reasonable, even a little anxious.
"Why here?"
"It's the only five-star hotel in Gotham," he wheedles.
Well, that's true enough. It's a compliment to me, since I'm the one who created it, with Grandpa Stanley's blessing. As always, I regret that he didn't live to see it completed. "The standard rate for our Presidential Suite is ten thousand dollars per week, but for you, it will be twenty thousand. You will pay ten thousand to the Westside Home for the Elderly and ten thousand to the Gotham Narrows Relief Fund." Let some of his money go to people who need it.
Bruce Wayne gapes at me. Whines, "That's not fair!"
"Twenty thousand a week, and ten hours of community service." I'm going to keep raising the stakes until he bolts or learns something. "What happened in the Narrows last night wasn't fair either, but we all have to help pick up the pieces. You can't go romping through life as if it's your own private party. With great power comes great responsibility."
"That sounds familiar," he retorts." I think I got that in a fortune cookie once."
"Twenty-five thousand dollars and ten hours of service per week."
"Thirty thousand and not a penny less!" Wayne blurts, and he's grinning like the fool he is.
I'm not going to argue with him. "Thirty thousand a week and community service," I emphasize, glaring at him. The infuriating young pup looks happy---he's gotten me to agree to his demand for a room, but just wait---he's going to work for it. I'm going to teach Bruce Wayne to think of the welfare of others if it's the last thing I do.
I own no rights to Bruce Wayne, but I'd like to get my hands on his wallet. Snarky Olivia Sterling is my own creation, but the only thing I have in common with her is a prodigious vocabulary. Bear in mind that the circumstances surrounding the fear-gas attack aren't going to be immediately clear to the general public, giving rise to talk of bio-weapons and terrorists. Currently, the antidote is cooking down in Fox's lab while he's conducting the board meeting.
Don't bother suing me; my other car is not the Batmobile.