A/N: Those were the best reviews ever. Just thought I'd mention. Apologies for the long wait; I'm starting college soon.
I've noticed that all my chapters seem a tad formulaic, the best example being that Vicki always has a heart to heart with Gordon, and ends up in the Narrows at some point, so the next chapter will change that up a bit. It will take place at Wayne's birthday party. But in the mean time...
Warnings: In this chapter, Vicki abuses children and the Joker writes poetry.
CHAPTER THREE: The Alleged Hero of Gotham
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Newspapermen learn to call a murderer 'an alleged murderer' and the King of England 'the alleged King of England' to avoid libel suits.
Stephen Leacock
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"Nothing hemmed above mid-thigh, tacky, feathery, patterned, ruffled, tasseled, or pastel!" –Constance B. Mooreston
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"And then what happened?"
"I dunno, he, like, disappeared inta thin air, like he flew, or somethin'!"
Iphegenia "Gen" Gellar tried to keep her cool as she stood before the vendor, with his—double-chin, and scraggly beard and thick 'city' accent—and she got the sneaking suspension that he did not have the capacity to communicate beyond the bewildered description of Batman she'd already gotten from other 'eye-witnesses'. It was the third time that morning that her question had incited such a response, but what could she expect? The Narrows wasn't legendary for housing the most intelligent of Gotham's population; not even the most devious. The average IQ of citizens in the Narrows was just shy of Forrest Gump's or a Playboy Bunny's.
Although Gen had heard drastically differing accounts of the previous night's events, her gut instinct was always right on where the story lay. Batman had been here last night. He'd been spotted, stumbling through an alley, on fire. A tenement had gone up in flames somewhere in the vicinity that same night, and Batman had lurched around a corner, sight unseen. His trail disappeared after that, with everyone musing that he'd flown out; but people couldn't just fly into the air. They just couldn't. They could buy or steal tools that would aid them in gliding through the air, yes. And Gen was after such evidence, which would provide the citizens of Gotham the most ease: That the Batman was human.
Gen brushed off the hotdog vendor and kept on hunting, trying to weed out which pedestrians were actual witnesses to the event, and which just wanted to bullshit her. She paid no heed to the upstart photog she'd brought with her. Her usual photographer, Rosique, had chosen to get rundown by a cab today and so was indisposed. Vicki Vale had taken his place.
Vicki was picking around the stretch of road where Batman had been sighted in most of the accounts. In one hand was her camera; in her other was a cell phone, one finger poised to dial 911, now the first number on her speed dial. She couldn't believe she was hanging around the slums of the Narrows again; this had to stop. Although she'd taken a few self-defense classes in keeping with Detective Gordon's advice, and sure she had the balls to keep her cool when most people would just quake in their boots, Vicki knew that pressing her luck could only end up with her getting mugged, raped—hopefully post-mortem—and face-down in a ditch somewhere.
Her only consolation was Rosique's car accident. That left Vaughan's workload as the Times' top photographer a bit overwhelming, having to run after several different leads and all, so Vicki had been assigned to work with Gellar for the time being. Vicki was deluding herself by thinking that being able to snap a shot of the hero vigilante was her ticket to a raise and a possible upgrade in her living style.
The air was thick with smoky black plumes issuing from the decimated tenement down the block. Half-burnt—but salvaged—furniture crowded the block, causing breaks in the outpour of people. There were enraged blue-collar men hulking around in their boxers, wives cowering in willowy nighties smudged with soot, stick-thin junkies wandering through the crowds in a daze, little children wailing with all the force of their tiny voice boxes, and casual looters sauntering by to take whatever struck their fancy. Vicki ducked in and out of the destitution, taking photos whenever she felt confident that she would not be noticed. Gellar eventually got a lead and directed Vicki down a block.
Vicki kicked over a cardboard box, revealing five hub caps and a pile of tire rubber. At least no one was living in it. At this rate, I'll be living in the same shitty flat for a good… rest of my life. Maybe I'll just move back in with my parents. No hookers there…
Autumn was in full swing; the wind-chill was picking up, snapping at Vicki's exposed skin and numbing it. She'd re-enter the office later with a Rudolph nose. At least the tenement was warm from the minute fires still burning beneath the rubble. She glanced up to the sky, clouded over with a pale shade of gray, and received a stiff, black sweater vest, flying full-force, in her face.
She took a minute to untangle herself and browsed her surroundings for the source; it was a laundry line strung between two fire escapes, whipping frailly in the wind. An idea shot through Vicki's brain.
The fire escape was slick from the previous night's downpour, so Vicki crept up the steps with the utmost attention to how she planted her limbs as she scaled the tenement. It was nine stories high; once she got to the top, without so much as rolling her eyes downward, Vicki clambered for a ladder that led her up onto the roof.
She surveyed the scene; it was barren. Yet another dead end, only Vick was all the more bitter because she'd risked splattering herself all over the pavement below for it. If the Batman had gone up, he'd have been on this roof, but the rain had washed away any evidence of him if he'd been present. Across the alley was another roof one story higher than her building, but it was slanted and would've been impossible to scale. At least for her…
Vicki loitered around the roof a couple of minutes before she descended on the other side of the building, where she'd found a much more stable-looking ladder and stair system.
When she hopped down to the pavement, a young boy with dreadlocks whizzed past her toward a group of boys congregated by a trash fire, launching whatever garbage they could find into the flames. Another boy whizzed past, this one diminutive with straw-colored hair, hollering after the first kids.
"Chase got a spy thing!" The dreadlocks boy pulled something black and shaped like a nerf gun out of his jacket. He held it out to the boys gathered around the trash and tossed it around the circle, examining it. The blonde, Chase, Vicki presumed, jumped in the middle, snatching at the device. The other boys held it away, just above his fingertips.
"Give it back! Batman gave it to me!" Chase shouted at the top of his lungs.
"Hey!" Vicki approached the boys, nudging away a freckled boy on the edge of the group so that she could see everything. The object, the 'spy thing', had been returned to the boy with the dreadlocks. "What's going on here?"
"None of yer business, bitch," seethed a thin-faced boy to Dreadlocks' right. The other boys nodded in agreement, casting an army of territorial glares at Vicki.
Ah, the young misogynists of tomorrow. Chase went back to clawing at the object, holding back tears as he jumped for it. Vicki grabbed his shoulder and drew him back from the others.
"Yeah, Chase, Batman ain't gonna give somethin' cool to a mama's boy," the dreadlocked boy taunted, waving the black object in the air as Chase ceased his resistance, letting Vicki push him out of the circle. Betraying no hint of calculation, Vicki snatched the object out of Dreadlocks' hands before he could blink. She tried to jump out of the way before any of the boys could retaliate, but she'd already caused an uproar. The thin-faced boy darted forward and punched her in the gut; Vicki grunted, but kicked him in the shin and shoved him back into the circle, where he smacked onto the concrete.
"Lay another hand on me, you little dickweed, and my uncle Maroni'll burn down your house all over again," Vicki bellowed, holding the object behind her back and waving a finger threateningly at the boys. For one second, she was afraid they wouldn't believe her lie, and she'd have to contend with a miniature mob of street boys who couldn't spell chivalry, let alone define it.
Her fear was for naught. The name of Salvatore Maroni, cousin of Carmine Falcone, third most-feared mobster in Gotham, registered in their scrawny, livid faces; they scattered away down the alley. Only Chase remained, trembling before her, still determined to retrieve his property.
Once the last of the gang had rounded the corner, Vicki took stock of the 'spy thing'. It was crafted out of fine, polished black metal, all but pristine, with minimal water or fire damage. After twisting at it like a Rubik's Cube for a minute, Vicki managed to yank it into a staff shape; at the base was a transparent, green screen. She held it up to her eye; it was some sort of X-ray device.
"Did you say Batman gave this to you?" Vicki asked, spinning around bit by bit as the surrounding buildings opened themselves to her. Chase nodded, his eyes growing wider as she stepped toward him. "He just… let you have it?" Vicki dropped the X-ray device and stared at him.
"Yeah…" Chase began. His inner chatterbox gained a little bravery. "He was hanging on my wall, looking inside the upstairs window. I told him that the kids at school didn't believe me, so he gave me that."
"Did he say anything to you?"
"No," Chase replied, shaking his head rapidly back and forth.
The Batman's résumé was growing stranger and stranger with every turn the story took. He dressed like a bat. He jumped out of dark corners and snatched criminals into the rafters. He took down the most terrifying mobster in Gotham. He inspired the bureaucracy of Gotham's legal system, which moved like sludge, to get to work. He gave expensive spy gear to little children. He spied on the shittiest tenement in the city. He might've triggered the fire that burnt down the same tenement. He could friggin' fly.
Vicki twisted the X-ray device into its original form and handed it back to Chase, who took it cautiously from her hand. He, too, had believed her lie that she could influence the whims of Salvatore Maroni, and tried to make sure he didn't so much as touch her. Another gust of wind billowed through the alley; Vicki noticed that Chase was still shivering, more from cold than fear.
"Where'd you sleep last night?" Vicki inquired, softening her voice as best she could.
"Over there." Chase pointed to a stoop twenty feet away, where a tiny fort of cardboard boxes had been dismantled by the wind. The conversation reached an uncomfortable plateau. Vicki would have liked nothing more than to kidnap this child, drop him off at a homeless shelter, and feel confident that he'd be adopted by June Cleaver, or at the very least, Shirley Partridge, but that wasn't going to happen, and Vicki couldn't devote any time to a street child when her own life was as shambled as it was right now.
"Mind if I take a picture, kid?" she asked, holding up her camera. An enormous grin spread over Chase's face and he held the X-ray device up to his eye, posing as if he were James Bond. Without knowing if she'd give Gellar this tip or not, if she'd submit the photo to Barnes, or if she really wanted to get this little boy involved in a city-wide mystery, Vicki snapped the shot.
She removed the denim jacket she had on and held it out to Chase. It wasn't very warm, but it was large enough to house Chase comfortably for a few years, and it wasn't noticeably feminine. If possible, his eyes widened even more, his grin sliding off his face, but he still took the jacket.
"Why are you-"
"Karma," Vicki said, rubbing her arms as goose bumps spring up all over. She startled, embarrassed, and folded her arms over her chest as she felt her nipples hardening from the intense chill. "I just beat up a twelve-year-old. I have to get back universal good will somehow."
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It's been a hard day's night/And I been workin' like a dog/It's been a hard day's night/I should be sleepin' like a-
"Vale."
"Vicki? It's Constance. I need to know what you're wearing."
"Blue jeans, yellow tee, knit cap-"
"No, to Bruce Wayne's birthday party, the biggest social event of the next three months."
"Blue jeans, yellow tee, cowboy hat…"
"Seriously!"
"I don't know. I'm only gonna be there for the food."
"Go for nice, attractive; not cheap or tacky. It doesn't need to be designer or anything, off the rack is fine if pressed, but this isn't junior prom. We need to blend, so go for subtle, too."
"Nothing really disguises my camera."
"We should complement each other. I'll be wearing floor-length forest green, so you should get something dark blue or even something light, like yellow…"
"We'll be a daisy?"
"I mean all of this. Don't be flippant about my advice; the 'kept' women of Gotham can be harsh critics. I need to stay in their good graces."
"You rag on them every week in your column."
"Not the point. Anyway, if Wayne's behavior is any indication, I'll have a brand new focus for my column this year."
"… Huh?"
"You weren't exaggerating; he is quite the playboy. He showed up the other day at a dinner for Mr. Earle at the Archibald Hotel with a couple of trashy European supermodels who jumped in the fountains. When the maître'd told him to leave, he just bought the hotel and dove in himself. Ah, can you imagine?"
"Vividly."
"And then for the past two days, he's been MIA. Just gone; he missed Mildred Peerston's charity gala, even though she held it in his parents' honor. I tried to get a hold of him for a comment or some background information, but his butler keeps stonewalling me with excuses about a spelunking vacation."
"That's nice."
"Are you even listening?"
"Gotta go. Good-bye, Constance…"
"Nothing hemmed above mid-thigh, tacky, feathery, patterned, ruffled, tasseled, or pastel!"
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"Detective?" Vicki glanced at her watch. Only 11:13. Barbara had promised to be back at midnight, with no mention as to whether Jim would be coming home or not. He was supposed to be working 24/7 on the Falcone case.
"Vicki, I think we're a little past formalities," Gordon said, tossing his coat by the closet door. "You guard my children, I keep you out of trouble; call me Jim."
Barbara was out tonight. A friend of hers who worked as an administrative assistant at Gotham University was getting married and was holding her "Marti-Margi-Pedi" bachelorette party tonight.
After poking around several more Batman-sighting spots, Gellar'd still had nowhere near as many facts as she needed for a feature story, even after two days of interviewing the tenement inhabitants. Later, Vicki again defrosted herself again in the janitorial closet where she ate lunch and finished up her work. That evening, she hopped in a cab, and, just as she had arrived on Jim and Barbara's stoop, she'd had to field a call from Constance, who was sputtering some nonsense about the Wayne birthday assignment.
Vicki had scraped up just enough money to afford her electricity payment for the month, and now she'd have to use up some of the rest for a dress. Good-bye, microwave burritos… She was so desperate for money that she was still babysitting the Gordon children whenever she could.
The Wayne party was her double-edged sword. On one hand, Vicki hadn't done the math, but she was pretty sure it was already costing her more to attend the party than she was going to be paid for doing so. She hated receiving such a frivolous assignment, one that could have been taken care of by an intern and a disposable camera. On the other hand, though Vicki was loathe to admit it, she needed to be friends with Constance; and there would be certain perks to the evening…
Every time she thought about seeing Bruce Wayne again, her skin warmed as if it were glowing and she had to flex her fingertips just to keep from pitching a fit of excitement. She couldn't help but hope that maybe he'd take a second from his Eurotrash supermodels to flirt with a comparatively frumpy Times photog.
So here she was, sprawled on Barbara's couch after an evening of babysitting, pretending to skim an issue of The Daily Gotham, thinking about Bruce Wayne.
Gawd, I'm pathetic…
"Falcone is out," Jim muttered, his voice almost too quiet for Vicki to hear.
"WHAT?" Vicki exclaimed in a high pitched voice, springing up from the couch. Jim popped the cap off of a bottle of a beer and slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, gulping it down as if it were a canteen of water in the Sahara.
"That hack doctor from Arkham had him transferred to the secure wing and put on suicide watch," he continued bitterly. Vicki flung aside the campus newspaper and took a seat next to him. "They're prepping him for an insanity defense. Can't punish someone who's being 'treated.'"
"There's no cure for being a greedy, rotten bastard," Vicki responded, trying to sooth her voice, which had become several pitches and decibels too high.
"Argue that in court," Jim said. "I got the news just before I clocked out for the night. I should've stayed and done… something…" He took another depressed swig, praying for Barbara to come home soon and assure him that there wasn't anything he could have done.
"But… he doesn't even have a history of mental illness," Vicki said, searching her memory for articles on Falcone, for any hint she might have sensed on the day she met him. "Does he?"
"We can have a court-approved psychologist examine him, but…" He trailed off again and turned to Vicki, hunched over the table like he was discussing this matter with a partner or a colleague down at the station. Vicki took a fraction of a second to be flattered by his lack of restraint. "You're the psych major. How likely is that, insanity out of the blue? Is it possible that being caught triggered something in him?"
"Extreme mental duress can make a lot of things possible," she replied. "Falcone was exhibiting some disorientation at the scene, but no behavior that would indicate sudden psychopathology or Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder…" Vicki stopped cold when she realized what Jim was alluding to. He knew a lot more about extreme mental duress, about criminals and about normal proceedings than she did. That wasn't his question. "You think the Batman did this?"
Jim took another swig of his beer in affirmative reply.
"Falcone seemed fine at the scene," Vicki insisted, "He must be faking, or something happened in booking, or-"
"Whose side are you on," Jim retorted, causing Vicki to snap up in her seat. A moment of pregnant silence ensued, wherein the only sound was Jim draining the last of his beer. "I didn't mean to get defensive," he continued softly, "but I booked him. Nothing happened; he was disoriented, like you saw, then angry. Nothing insane."
"Any developments on Batman," Vicki asked, ignoring the momentary awkwardness. "Stuff you've kept from the press?"
"Official orders are to arrest the vigilante known as Batman on sight. I assume you heard about the task force assembled to catch him?" Vicki nodded; Julian had lobbied for the assignment and chattered her ear off when he didn't get it. "Vicki…" Jim leaned forward and gazed at Vicki eye-to-eye, his stare boring holes into her skull. Her eyes flickered downwards, unable to stand the taut tension as he made his intentions clear. "If we continue this conversation, you have to swear to me you'll use discretion."
"… Quid pro quo."
"Excuse me?"
Vicki decided that if Detective Gordon could be this forthcoming with her about such sensitive subject matter, then it was only right that she extend him the same courtesy. She grabbed her purse off the couch and rifled through it, pulling out her camera. She flipped through a few images until she found the right one. It was the picture she'd taken of Chase posing with his present from Batman. She tried to speak; the air caught in her throat as she watched Jim's eyebrows knit together as he studied the picture, reminding her of her own father.
"Three nights ago, Batman was spotted near the Narrows tenement that burnt down," Vicki breathed, hushing her voice to a near whisper, as though someone was listening over her shoulder. "This kid said Batman was hanging off the wall and gave him this expensive piece of espionage equipment."
"What is it?" asked Jim, his eyes flickering between Vicki and the scrawny child in the picture, an echo of his own sweet son.
"Some kind of X-ray device," Vicki told him, "I wasn't sure."
"Do you have it," Jim inquired, letting the camera slip from his hands in unrest. Vicki took the camera from him; she pressed the 'off' button, fidgeting with her hands. Now that she was in a position to help the authorities, she was condemning her decision to spare Chase's new toy from the spotlight. Without taking her eyes off the table, Vicki shook her head, several locks of her golden hair falling into her eyes. "It's not even going to print, is it," Jim stated. Vicki couldn't tell if he was disappointed or angry or relieved.
She chipped at the polish on her thumbnail. When he didn't say anything, she resolved that it was safe to speak again.
"What was the Batman was looking for, anyway? Everybody knows where Falcone's distributors are-"
"You do?" Jim asked incredulously.
"Mazzala and Gellar both have street sources that say Falcone's main distributors are located in the south neighborhoods of Endsbury and they deal from there."
"Jesus…" Jim rubbed his eyes, cringing at the thought of his children's long-time babysitter interviewing dealers and having 'sources.' "The answer to your question is that he was looking for the second half of Falcone's drug shipment."
"Huh?"
"Falcone split the shipment," Jim explained, tossing his beer bottle into the trash. It crashed in and clattered around as he got up to grab another from the fridge. "His henchmen confirm that the half we have in custody was headed to Endsbury, but no one knows where the other half is. Falcone didn't talk, and he certainly won't talk now." He sat down and set the beer in front of himself, fiddling with the cap. "The Batman found it."
"He must be with law enforcement," Vicki mused. "Anyone else with that kind of information would have too much to lose from messing with the Mob."
"He's not just messing with the Mob," Jim corrected her; "he's taking them on. He's a crusader, pure vigilante."
"Did he write you a letter or is this just your gut instinct?"
Jim didn't say anything. Vicki bit her lip, wondering if her comment was too catty. It wasn't meant like that, but Vicki hated not knowing things. She just hated it. Couldn't stand it. Being reminded every single day that she had a front-row seat to perhaps the greatest mystery of Gotham's entire history unfolding made her a little bitter. She'd been musing on it for so long; whether he was criminal, what was his motive, how he flew, and why a bat, of all mascots?
"He's not with law enforcement," Jim commented after a moment. "But you're on the right track; he's got a source in Gotham PD."
Who? was the first thought that came to Vicki's mind, until she considered that Jim probably didn't know. It was just plausible conjecture; but he sounded so certain…
"I… told Batman where Falcone was… on the night he was busted…" Jim admitted, his words trickling out uneasily.
Vicki's mouth dropped open in awe. Jim let go of the beer he'd been fidgeting with and went to stand by the window, leaning on the sill. He was fighting back a bit of inner turmoil; telling a journalist that you were assisting Gotham's most-wanted vigilante was like loading yourself into the guillotine and offering to release the blade. Vicki, for her part, didn't say anything. She was overcome with complete and utter speechlessness, trying to wrap her head around Jim's secret.
"You've seen him up close," she gasped at length, once she had enough mental clarity to string together a sentence. "Spoken to him?"
"He popped up the other night, on that railing," Jim said, pointing out the window toward the wooden steps that snaked around his building. Vicki jumped up to follow his gaze. "He's the one who noticed the split shipment. I told him who was in Falcone's pocket, and it's been radio-silence ever since. MIA for two days now."
It was all Vicki could do not to spring outside the door and investigate every inch of the landing where Batman had perched. She knew she wouldn't find anything; two days left a scene pretty cold, especially for a meticulous vigilante.
"Holy fucking shit," Vicki whispered in a half-squeal. Jim rolled his eyes and sat down again, debating the second beer in front of him.
"His down-time is giving the Mob a chance to round up Falcone's other businesses," he ruminated. "Money laundering, prostitution, et cetera. Now we'll be distracted by trying to keep Falcone where we can prosecute him. Even if we do manage to convict him, the Mob will have recouped by then."
Vicki glanced at her watch. 11: 25. Jim needed Barbara home now; Vicki had no idea what to say to comfort the ultra-pessimistic detective. She could only think of more depressing and random facts swirling around the current events of Gotham.
D.A. Carl Finch had missed his dinner with Mazzala and word was that the Missing Persons unit was kicking into gear to find him. Bruce Wayne had withdrawn from the public eye for a spelunking vacation. A known Mob brothel had shut down and relocated in the midst of Falcone's arrest. A robbery at St. Swithun's Catholic Church had gone awry; two clown-masked thieves had been shot down by the guy who got away with the donations.
The shit was hitting the fan.
"I… I think this Bat guy has a plan," Vicki began, sitting back down at the table. "And if he sought help from the cleanest cop in the Gotham police force, he deserves the benefit of the doubt."
"You flatter me," Jim insisted, unwilling to let Vicki's praise go to his head. He leaned forward on his elbows, his face in his hands. The table creaked beneath him. "How were the kids tonight?" he asked, his voice muffled through his fingers. The none-too-subtle subject change was not lost on Vicki.
"Jimmy threw a car at my head." It was Jim's turn to look stunned and speechless. "He was aiming for his train tracks," Vicki giggled, the blustered and bewildered look on Jim's face priceless. He had fish eyes. "It was totally my fault."
"I was gonna say," Jim said, rubbing his temples, "Babs is usually more violent."
"It's cause you call her Babs. She has to compensate somehow."
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"YOU WHORE!"
This was a statement that Hannah the Happy Hooker was used to hearing; and yet, hearing it from the vicious blonde three doors down at seven o'clock in the morning down just seemed to inflame her enough to make a jump for the blonde's head. The blonde ducked out of her reach, bumping into the green-suited delivery guy behind her.
"Sir, these flowers are for her," Vicki seethed, flinging a finger at the annoyed prostitute, who was struggling to regain her balance after she tripped over the chunky neon-blue stilettos strapped to her feet. "She is the streetwalker who fucked the president of Gotham's Lunatic Stalker Society, and therefore she is the one who should be getting these flowers!"
"Ma'am, I tol' ya before," the delivery man sighed, shifting around the cargo in his wobbling arms, "the order says '97 Orchard Street, Apartment 416, Reatton'. Is that not your apartment?"
"I told you," Hannah interrupted, giving Vicki time to reconsider various ways the delivery man could be wrong. "You know this happened last week, too," she told the delivery guy, "I get up to read the paper and girl's pushed all these dead roses all over my front door like some creeper." She leaned provocatively against the doorway next to Vicki, running her acrylic nails through her fat, bronze curls. The delivery guy shot her a nervous smile, but began to buckle under the weight of his shipment.
"Ma'am, I really need to put the rest of these in there," he insisted, "they're the last ones."
"That's all you got," Hannah scoffed, "Girl, what're you complainin' about?" Vicki jerked her head towards the interior of her apartment and her shoulders sank as she took in the unrecognizable clutter. Hannah gasped when she glimpsed the true horror.
Vicki's apartment was completely bedecked with bright-yellow daffodils. Bouquets spilled over her ratty old couch, vases crowded her bookcase and coffee table, baskets were bunched all over her floor, wreaths hung from every hook and doorknob, and a foot-tall pile of corsages and boutonnieres had been arranged on her kitchen counter. Enormous golden petals concealed any recognizable hint of her living space. Only a five-foot portion of the doorway was still accessible, and that was ruined when the delivery guy knocked Vicki aside to set the final two baskets down.
"Do I have to sign anything?" Vicki groaned, bumping her head on the doorway purposefully, trying to knock the sleepiness out of her eyes. She'd awoken to harsh knocks on her door, answering without first covering her immodest pajama ensemble. A barrage of the damned yellow flowers had greeted her.
"Actually, I got one more thing for you, ma'am-"
"You said that was the last of it!"
"It's small, promise," he assured her, backing away with a measure of real fear in his eyes. He skittered down the stairs before Vicki could complain again, bumping into Vicki's landlord as he went.
"Papa, I need help…" Vicki begged, gesturing to her apartment. Corey "Papa" Papakonstatinou, the landlord, limped toward her with a bewildered expression on his face. His leg had been injured in an accident when he was younger, but his family had been unable to pay for the surgery, so he was forced to drag his leg whenever he walked.
"Look like somebody got a crush on you," Papa said, sticking his head into her apartment to sniff at the fragrant blooms. He chortled a little. "Eros is changing his game a little, I see."
"Papa, Blondie here is convinced the delivery guy got his order mixed up," Hannah provided, "and she keeps blamin' it on me."
"Because lots of creepy guys fixate on hookers," Vicki insisted shrilly, "Gary Ridgeway, Vincent Johnson, Aaron Serkis, Jack the Ripper!" Vicki failed to mention that all those men were serial killers who murdered prostitutes. And none of them had given their victims flowers.
"The 'Sunday Morning Slasher'?" Papa gasped, flabbergasted at Vicki's shameful willingness to invoke the name of Gotham's most prolific serial killer, Aaron Serkis. "Vick, what's wrong with flowers?" he questioned gently, shrugging his shoulders. It seemed like a small thing to get Vick so riled up. Papa peeked back into the apartment; all right, not small, but indeed harmless. He stepped in between Hannah and Vicki to create a barrier, and was about to pat Vicki on the back when she stepped away.
"It's creepy when I don't know who it is," she said, leaning against the stair railing. "None of this makes any sense…"
"Maybe its Bruce Wayne," Hannah interjected sardonically, not knowing that this was the first possibility Vicki had considered. Nobody else in Gotham had this kind of money, Mob bosses aside; but Bruce, flirt that he was, would have given her a card or something to remember him by. He was an obvious egomaniac and would want his gift acknowledged. Besides, he had all the supermodels he could want. Why court Vicki?
Although Vicki very much wanted it to be Wayne, she had resigned herself to consider other possible candidates. She could think of only one, yet Dr. Crane didn't seem like the kind of guy to send flowers, dead or alive, playing cards or none.
She startled when the delivery guy reappeared at her arm with a long white box in his hands. It was tied with a gleaming purple ribbon and dented at the corners.
"Last item, ma'am," he explained, offering it to Vicki, who bitterly snatched it away from him. "Y'know, my boss said nobody's ever bought out our entire inventory before. Thought that'd please a girl."
"Do you have a receipt?" Vicki queried hopefully.
"Boss said the guy paid in cash," the delivery guy said, backing away. Being a flower delivery guy, he'd had to bear the brunt of a lot of irate lovers, so he could calculate arm range very fast; but Vicki made no move to channel her anger at him. She was more interested in her gift.
"Didn't that seem suspicious?" she grumbled under her breath, picking at the ribbon. It was a dumb question; half of Gotham used cash payments in their daily life, even for such large transactions. She pushed away the ribbon and tore open the box to find a lonely Joker card. Twirling the card in her fingers, Vicki glimpsed a flash of untidy scrawl on the back side.
"What's it say?" Papa asked. The delivery guy, the landlord, and the hooker all crowded around Vicki, their curiosity piqued. She cleared her throat and read the cryptic scrawl aloud.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Sugar is sweet
And so are you
But the roses have wilted
The violets are dead
The sugar is lumpy
And so is your head
-J
