No one cares about the races.

Strike that: No one at his table cares about the races.

The clubhouse is full of Gotham society people eagerly watching, and betting, on the horses below. Millions of dollars and reputations are thundering around the track, churning up dirt and dashing hopes, but the group around Bruce Wayne is more interested in the excellent drinks and the chance to see, be seen, and gossip.

It's deliberate, of course. Three beautiful women and a few spilled glasses – a few requests from the management to keep voices down – are every bit as effective a disguise as a matte-black mask and a cape.

He pays token attention to the action on the track. He's paying token attention to the women, too, particularly since two of them aren't even his guests. Mostly he's thinking about the sick boy.

Why an alley in the East End? Body dumps are usually in the harbor. Unless the boy was wandering around, lost, and just collapsed… Only yards away from where Batman was sitting on an all-night stakeout. No; he doesn't trust that.

"You're not listening, are you?" the woman to his right says, with a pout that probably is supposed to be sexy and instead comes off like a sulking teenager. That's the downside to models, he's found – lots of drama.

"Of course he's not. You look like you're about to fall asleep, Bruce," the woman to his left chides, playful.

"Well, I had a late night, Ronnie." He gives Veronica Vreeland an easy smile and signals for a new bottle of champagne. It's a bit of a desperation move. If the model drinks enough, maybe she'll stop sulking and fall asleep. She'll certainly be in no shape to take this "date" beyond the track.

"Anything the good people of Gotham need to worry about?" the woman next to Veronica asks. He can't remember the woman's name; she came as Veronica's guest, and he hadn't been listening when Ronnie – uninvited, but it works for his cover – joined him and the pouting model.

Cindy, maybe? Candy? It bothers him that he doesn't know. Bruce Wayne, the public façade, forgetting a woman's name… that's all right, that's to be expected. Part of the act. Actually forgetting is a different story. It's a lapse. A sign his attention is gravely slipping. He needs to focus.

Whatever her name is, her tone is light, to match theirs, but her eyes have a sharp glint. Gossip hunger.

He makes a show of frowning in concentration – maybe confusion. "I don't think so... How far out are international waters?"

Veronica laughs and her friend looks thrilled with the tidbit. He can't wait to see what that one sentence evolves into.

The jockeys and horses line up at the starting gate. Bets are placed. No one at his table cares. The model snatches the fresh champagne bottle from the hapless server, pours a glass, and knocks it back.

"Oh, Bruce," Veronica says, swatting at his arm. "He's been like this forever," she confides to her friend.

Apparently, a year of buying hotels and stealing away with Russian ballerinas has made Veronica forget that she refused to dance with him at her cotillion because he was Such a boring prick.

Theatricality, again. It surprises him, sometimes, how easy misdirection is. Out of everyone who knew him during his childhood and adolescence, only Rachel –

Stop.

Don't go on.

Carefully, he shuts that raw and gaping thought away, in the same walled-off corner of his mind that holds his parents. Now is not the time.

His phone rings and he answers it with a jovial, "Lucius! You're missing the races. Where are you?"

Lucius is somewhere with no need for pretense. "Finally using some of my sick days, Mr. Wayne, that's where. Here's the rundown: Leslie hasn't a clue as to what it is. Antibiotics had no effect. Preliminary bloodwork showed trace chemicals present, so it could be some kind of poison. She's trying to flush his system now. He hasn't improved, but he hasn't gotten any worse."

Bruce makes general noises of agreement, then playacts some more: "I don't remember anything about a meeting today. Did you reschedule?"

The model is still pouting. Veronica and her friend (Carlie?) are talking about something else, and the subject matter makes him listen with half an ear. "…robbed again, can you believe it?"

"I took more blood samples. Hopefully we can isolate the toxin and develop a treatment. There are some abnormalities, so it may take a while."

Veronica. "Again? Oh, how awful! And I heard from Melissa that his wife got caught with the pool boy at their place in the Hamptons, you know. Such a cliché."

"Sounds great, Lucius, thanks. You're sure you can't make it?"

Katie. (Is that it?) "Oh, I know. But they took everything. All his jewelry, his coin collection…"

"Careful not to lose too much money, Mr. Wayne," Lucius says drily.

"Well, I'm not trying to choose the wrong horses," he says with a laugh. He is, of course.

Lucius snorts and hangs up. Bruce hangs up, too, and turns his full attention to the women.

"I heard that the cops think they gained access from the roof," Veronica's friend says, eyes sparkling at the caliber of gossip.

"Now, who does that sound like?" Veronica says, heavily sarcastic. "Bruce, you should take a look at your security. After all, that Joker freak –" She wrinkles her nose in disdain "- broke in with no trouble. And now that Batman's turned out to be just as psychotic as everyone thought…"

Her friend looks surprised. "You think it's Batman?"

Veronica makes a well, obviously gesture. "He killed those mobsters and those officers, didn't he? Why wouldn't he rob people's houses?"

"I heard he was a robot," Bruce says, just for the hell of it.

He takes a sip of his drink and grins at the discussion that starts.