Author's Note
Dear Readers,
When I finished the most recent story in this series, Batman 1939: Swimming in the Styx, I promised that it would be my last, and that I would turn my efforts to write original fiction instead. I meant to keep that promise, and my novel is still in-progress (I think it's shaping up nicely). However, it won't be finished anytime soon, and we find ourselves in a global pandemic. I don't have many talents that are socially useful in a pandemic, but I thought I could at least share a distraction (and indulge in an old pastime). As such, I've decided to write another short story set in the Batman 1939 setting.
I believe that historical fiction is an inherently optimistic genre. No matter how grim the subject or miserable the plot, we modern readers know that at least we survive as a species. After all, we're still here to read about it.
With that said, stay safe, and I hope you enjoy.
Batman 1939: Three's Company
Chapter 1: A Night At The Casino
October, 1941.
On Friday nights, the Arabia Casino was the biggest party in Bludhaven. Floor action was always brisk at the Arabia, but the joint really came alive once the fight card finished. All fights in Bludhaven were fixed, but the Arabia paid extra for boxers to finish early. Tonight's main event was a middleweight scrap won by knockout in the third round, leaving the audience plenty of time to try their luck in the casino. It was hardly nine o'clock when hundreds of big spenders spilled out of the auditorium. Soon, every table and slot machine was making dough.
That's when Miss Josie Kipling walked through the door. If the architect of the Arabia Casino had left three notes for its decorators, they would have read "gold", "rhinestones", and "golden rhinestones", and Miss Kipling could have stepped out of the same blueprint. Her hair was as yellow as her dress which was so bedecked in sequins and fake gems it nearly stood unsupported. She left her coat at reception and sauntered idly around the floor, watching roulette wheels spin and dealers show off fancy shuffles. Through her orbits, she kept an eye on the private poker tables at the end of the room where, behind a velvet rope, prideful men competed to lose the largest bankroll and the cigarette haze was top shelf.
Soon, a gentleman at one of these private poker games stood and collected his chips. He declared that he was long on rum and short on luck, burped, then added that he heard there was a magician booked after the fights who might be worth a look. As he stumbled toward a restroom, Miss Kipling approached the attendant guarding the velvet rope. She paid him a wink and a sawbuck and was shown to the vacant seat. She put down her clutch and introduced herself. Her fellow players grumbled; one had been telling a dirty joke but saw her and ended prematurely. The dealer welcomed her and explained the table rules. The minimum bet was one hundred dollars. She ponied up.
Josie Kipling played slowly and poorly for several hands. This confirmed the table's suspicion that she was some dilettante here to spoil their fun. Meanwhile, Miss Kipling was busy glancing over the dealer's shoulder. In the corner behind him was a swinging door under a huge "Employees Only" sign. There were no tables near the door; one had to cross thirty feet of empty floor to reach it, all while watched by two confrontational-looking men in green security blazers who flanked the door. Sometimes staff would pass through carrying bags of chips or cash. Later, they would return empty-handed.
After watching foot traffic for an hour, Miss Kipling decided to change her strategy. Namely, she began to cheat. There are ways to cheat at poker while avoiding notice, building a subtle advantage over hours of play. Miss Kipling used none of these. She won three of the next five pots shamelessly, winning the final two hands with two royal flushes in a row. Then two hands grabbed her arms and yanked her to her feet.
There are few situations where hospitality and pacifism vanish as quickly as when a casino patron is found cheating. Being a lady, Miss Kipling was spared a degree of manhandling; one guard even passed over her clutch, but there was nothing gentle in the way the three mooks in green blazers marched her from the table. In her wake, a pit boss hurried to calm onlookers with vouchers for a steak dinner.
Many in Miss Kipling's predicament would protest, some might throw a tantrum, but she kept her composure. There was even a hint of a grin at the corner of her lips, as if the hand on her elbow was her dance partner and not, in all likelihood, an ex-con whose job performance was measured in limb fractures. Her escorts didn't seem concerned with her lack of concern, and they failed to notice how her little smirk grew as they led her through the door under the huge "Employees Only" sign.
The hallway beyond looked the same as all drab staff areas in big service establishments. Chefs, dealers, janitors, and valets gave them space as they passed. Miss Kipling knew that all cheats caught at the Arabia Casino were taken immediately to the security office for an interview. She knew that the security office was located just beyond a right turn at the next hallway crossing. She knew that if one went straight instead of turning right, the wall nearby had a laundry chute. Miss Kipling did not know whether she would find anything to serve as a distraction before she reached that crossing or whether she would need to introduce manhandling.
Luckily for all of them, when they reached the turn, a maid crossed their path pushing a rolling garment rack full of uniforms. It was not easy to jump in heels and a dress, but Miss Kipling took two steps and vaulted the rack, catching the top pole and kicking her legs over. When she landed on the far side, Miss Kipling rushed to the laundry chute and tried to work the handle. By the time the three security guards pushed their way through the garment rack, they saw the chute open and Miss Kipling's legs kicking in the air as she dived in head-first.
It was a two-story drop to the bottom of the laundry chute. The tight passage sheared half the sequins and gems off Miss Kipling's yellow dress. This was thoroughly unpleasant, but she landed unharmed in a cart full of linens while curses echoed down the chute above. She was alone in a dim room packed with laundry carts and commercial-sized washing machines. Miss Kipling closed its lone door and rolled a heavy cart in front of it, then she tipped another cart against the first, pinning it in place.
Her blonde hair had shaken sideways, so she tore it off. She then slipped out of her dress and removed her shoes. What remained was Selina Kyle: smiling and sequin-free. Under her dress she wore a chic violet bodysuit. Its sleeves and leggings were rolled artery-pressingly high up her biceps and thighs, so she quickly pulled them down. Her short dark hair was messy from its confinement, and she covered it with a tight hood that had been tucked under the dress back. Selina opened her clutch, removed two ballet slippers, brushed the lint from her feet, and put the slippers on. Her golden evening gloves turned inside-out to become black.
Selina took the discarded wig, dress, shoes, and handbag and stuffed them in an active washing machine. About this time, she heard running footsteps outside. Voices starting yelling rude promises through the door. Someone tried the handle. Someone else tried a kick. The frame shuddered, but her barricade held. Twisting and stretching to look herself over, Selina - now Catwoman - decided her transformation was complete.
On the sixth impact, the door knocked the protective carts askew. Casino security crashed into the room, but the woman was nowhere to be seen. The five guards shared a look; there was only one way to hide here. They spread out and started turning over laundry carts. Besides hosting a world-class gaming floor and a performance hall that booked the hottest acts in town, the Arabia Casino was home to five hundred and eighty-six hotel rooms. This required many laundry carts.
Catwoman crept up the laundry chute as quietly as she could. Returning to the casino level meant a twenty foot ascent using a technique rock climbers called chimney climbing. The move wasn't dangerous or complicated, pressing against one wall with her hands and feet and against the other with her back, but it took incredible finesse to perform quietly, especially in a metal chute and especially in gloves and shoes that weren't designed for the job. The move required further finesse when Catwoman heard a dull noise falling towards her, looked up, and was struck in the face by a ball of moist towels.
Catwoman had researched the model of laundry chutes installed in the Arabia Casino before arriving. The confused salesman had demonstrated that it was technically possible to open chute doors from the inside since the latch mechanism was exposed. But neither he nor anyone could guarantee that the hallway would be empty when Catwoman opened one and shimmied out. She made it to her feet when a janitor came whistling around the corner with a mop. They looked at each other. He stopped whistling.
"Hi," she said.
"Dancer?" he asked.
She paused. "Sure."
He pointed over his shoulder. "Down 'da hall. Upstairs. Take a left. 'Nother hall. Tru 'da blue door says 'Dressing Rooms'. Can't miss it, toots."
"Thanks."
The janitor nodded and whistled past. Catwoman peeked into the hallway crossing and checked both ways. There were a few staff in the distance but no green blazers. The security office was around the corner. Its door was open. The room was quiet. She slipped inside.
Security was scarce in these back offices. She hoped her brazen escape would send every guard in shouting distance to chase her downstairs, since there wasn't much to protect up here. After all, the security office wasn't a treasure chest, unless one treasured stale coffee or failed crossword puzzles. But there was one secret exception.
The Arabia Casino had the unusual policy of taking collateral. Gamblers could exchange, say, a pocket watch or wedding band for a stack of chips. However, this was technically a loan, and a gambler might win back their collateral (rare, but possible), so the casino was obligated to keep it handy. The Arabia's vault wasn't an option. Opening it was a slow process by design; they couldn't use it ten times a night for individual trinkets. Instead, Catwoman had learned that the casino kept the daily collateral hidden in the security office for easy access.
Catwoman soon found that her source had a charitable definition of 'hidden'. When she walked in the room, she instantly noticed that a big pinup calendar on the wall was crooked and covered in food fingerprints. She lifted this calendar and found a wall safe. A younger, less shrewd Catwoman would get straight to business cracking the safe, and she would do it well. But the wise Catwoman working tonight knew that some safes didn't lock automatically, and some owners were too stupid to re-spin the lock.
She pulled the handle. The safe clicked open.
Typically, only a few gamblers used collateral, so hiding it in what amounted to a break room must have seemed a small risk. However, a big Friday tended to bring out the compulsives and binge gamblers, and four to eight times more collateral was offered than usual. Inspecting the contents of the safe, Catwoman suspected tonight's multiple was on the upper end of that scale.
The security office had a stack of canvas bags which the casino used to haul chips and money. Catwoman grabbed one and swept a pile of jewelry and other valuables into the bag. She closed the clasp, pulled the strap across her shoulder, and walked out of the room.
Outside was a passing security guard.
Over the past week, Catwoman had tried to commit a map of the Arabia Casino to memory, but it was difficult to recall that map while sprinting. Her original escape plan involved rappelling off the roof with a stashed rope, but that required traveling to the roof which she doubted her pursuers would allow.
As for a new escape plan, security was concentrated on the game floor, which obliged her to stick to these service corridors, and on the entrances, which meant she needed to get creative. As she dodged flying tackles and vaulted food trolleys, she found her creativity wasn't keeping pace. She didn't want to panic, but she also didn't want to be caught stealing in a Bludhaven casino, so her composure was starting to slip.
Then Catwoman noticed a certain stairwell and was struck with the memory of that janitor's directions: one hall, upstairs, left, another hall, blue door, dressing rooms, toots. Her foggy mental map suddenly gleamed with certainty that her wild turns had brought her to the spoken path. And a dressing room sounded like a great spot for some creativity. Catwoman had a nose for that sort of thing.
Earlier.
On Friday nights, the Arabia Casino was the biggest party in Bludhaven. When the guests tired of gaming, they could seek entertainment at its two performance halls. Hall A was the boxing ring. Hall B housed all the other shows. One side of Hall B's backstage was a suite of private dressing rooms for its stars. Like everything in show business, the biggest stars had the best rooms, and tonight's dimmest stars were a two-person magic act called the Magnificent Zataras.
This misfortune would surprise the magic world. Giovanni Zatara had been a touring magician since the turn of the century, topping marquees from Savannah to Singapore. And he had even once been a local. Interrupting a career of otherwise nonstop travel, Giovanni had settled in neighboring Gotham City for half the Roaring Twenties, the peak of his fame, and played the Arabia many times on the Gotham circuit.
But times changed. Today, Giovanni was nearing the end of a decade-long glide into retirement. The wild stunts of his early days were shelved, and he hadn't debuted a new trick in years. The few shows he still performed were masterful, but the spark was gone. They were effortless in every sense. Giovonni Zatara behaved like he had nothing to prove.
The same could not be said of his daughter. Zatanna Zatara had performed at her father's side since she could walk. She started solo performances at fifteen and solo tours at twenty. Since then Zatanna had been climbing the ladder: fifty weeks a year on the road, booking every gig she could land, testing fresh material on little crowds, polishing old favorites for big ones. She was hungry, often literally, stuck in bus stations and rough motels with nothing to offer a picky eater. For all this, Zatanna believed she was finally close to the big leagues. Granted, she had believed that several times before, only to discover yet another league of mediocrities in between. But she had a good feeling this time.
For all her budding celebrity, Zatanna's time on the road had kept her away from the Bludhaven crowd, and her reputation did not precede her. So tonight's rare reunion performance of the Magnificent Zataras - the tired old legend and the minor leaguer home from the boonies - wasn't the casino's idea of a must-see act. That's why they were provided with Hall B's two worst dressing rooms. And Zatanna, the junior partner of the act, was in the worst private dressing room of all.
Zatanna leaned toward her vanity mirror until her nose almost touched. She lifted a metal eyelash curler toward her trembling eye, trying desperately not to blink.
A grouchy voice called behind her. "Hey, Miss Zatara! Excuse me!"
Zatanna poked herself in the eye.
"Ow!"
She cupped a hand over the smarting eye and turned around. "What do you want, Sid? I'm busy."
Sid, a dumpy man in a frumpy suit, stood in her doorway. Sid was the Arabia Casino's stage manager, Sid was a pest.
He took a congested breath. "Got some news. The fights ended early. You and your pops can start your razzle-dazzle early if you like." He coughed. "Or not. Either way."
Zatanna turned back with a huff and blinked experimentally. "Ask my dad, Sid."
"Ah, I tried that. His door's locked, and he won't answer. Figgered he was taking a nap or, well," he shrugged. "I dunno. Figgered I'd ask you."
Zatanna gestured at herself. She wore a dressing gown and curlers in her black hair. "Do I look like I'm ready to go on?"
He scratched himself. "Uhh, I dunno. Didn't want to assume. So do you wanna start early?"
"No, we don't want to start early." Zatanna waved him away. "Now shoo."
"Oh. Okay." He awkwardly left the room.
Zatanna called after him. "And knock next time!"
The worst dressing room in Hall B had a broken door latch and a slight incline. Sometimes this caused the door to swing open on its own. Some people thought this was permission to step inside without asking. Those people were terrible. Zatanna wished she could place a piece of luggage to keep the door closed, but Bludhaven had the most extortionary fire department in America, and if she was caught engaging in any violation of the fire code - even blocking a door - it was grounds for an enormous fine from the casino for "preemptive legal coverage".
But that was show business. At least her dressing room came with a folding screen when she needed to dress. Zatanna had endured worse. As she made another attempt with the eyelash curler, she wondered about her father. He wasn't the type to nap. And a professional like Giovanni Zatara wouldn't just ignore a stage manager, no matter how rude. But Zatanna put these concerns out of her mind and completed her grooming ritual. Then she changed into her stage costume: white shirt, white bowtie, white gloves, yellow vest, black tuxedo jacket, stockings, and the all-important tophat.
Zatanna was dressed and well into her warmups when there was a knock at the door. She was busy working a deck of cards with one hand, shuffling in an accelerating pattern. When she heard the knock, she flicked the deck on her vanity top. The cards landed in a neat semi-circle, ordered by rank and suit. She inspected the deck then responded, "Yeah?"
Sid called through the door. "Hey, Miss Zatara, show's on in ten! Got it?"
"I got it, Sid."
"And the old man's still ain't answering. I'm a little worried."
"Calm down. I'll check on him."
Zatanna palmed the cards off the table and slipped the deck in her tuxedo jacket. She tweaked the angle of her tophat just so, tightened her bowtie, and opened the door. Sid followed her three doors down to Giovanni Zatara's dressing room.
Zatanna knocked on the door. "Daddy?" she called.
There was no response. She could see light through the crack. She waited a moment then knocked again, louder. "Daddy?" Still no response. She tried the knob without success.
Sid shrugged. "Maybe nerves?"
Zatanna shook her head. "He hasn't missed a show in twenty years." She pulled a bit of metal out of her sleeve and crouched near the knob.
Sid looked over her shoulder. "What're you doing?"
Zatanna's face was furrowed in concentration. "Magic." They heard a click.
Sid protested, "Hey!", but Zatanna was already through the door. She gasped. The room was ransacked. His mirror was cracked. Drawers were pulled out of cabinets. Broken props littered the floor. Colored scarves covered the wall lamp, casting a dark rainbow tint on the disorder. And Giovanni Zatara was nowhere to be seen.
Sid coughed and pulled the scarves off the lamp. "Jeez Louise. What a mess."
Zatanna walked circles around the room, muttering, "Oh, God. Oh, God." Then she made for the door. "We need to call the police."
Sid ran a hand through his thinning hair and blew out a breath. "Right, but first I gotta cancel the show. This is a punch in the gut, I tell ya."
She grabbed his tie. "I'll give you a punch in the gut! We need to call the cops first, got it? My dad's been kidnapped! Or something." She gestured around. "Something!"
"Sheesh!" Sid pulled away and straightened his tie. "Miss, I get it. We're all kidnapped from time to time. But I got three hundred paying customers out there who expect to see magic tricks in nine minutes. If they don't see magic tricks in nine minutes, they'll kick a hole in the wall on their way out of the theater. They call that a 'Bludhaven goodbye'. And that's the sober ones."
"Sid!"
"Fine, hold on a moment." Sid looked behind the vanity where an old desk phone had fallen. He put it back on top then lifted the handset.
"Operator, Sid Doyle. Connect me to Security please. I'll hold." He hummed and idly wrapped the cord around his finger. "Max? Hey, it's Sid. Spare a second? What, why? Ooo, a runaway cheat, huh? That does sound exciting." Zatanna glared at him. Sid flinched. "But mine's kinda important too, yeah. Thanks, Max. Look, we have a magic act that's supposed to open in a few minutes, but our magician's missing. Ha, good one! But no, not a joke." Zatanna glared harder at him. Sid held up his hands in apology and added, "Max, we're thinking it's a kidnapping. Uh-huh. No, just a kidnapping. Just one. I know, but the family's getting hysterical. Would you call the Department and ask them to send some detectives over quick? I don't know, make'em think it's a murder. I'll leave that to you, but the sooner the better. Pretend it's top priority. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Dressing room seven. Thanks a million, pal." He gave Zatanna a thumbs-up. "Oh, and Max, send some of our boys to Hall B, m'kay? I'm 'bout to cancel a show. Might get nasty. You take care now."
Sid put down the handset. Zatanna crossed her arms expectantly. "Well?"
Sid gave her a satisfied smile. "Miss Zatara, the Bludhaven Police Department will be on its way momentarily."
Zatanna grit her teeth and growled, "How long?"
"Thirty to fifty minutes."
"You're kidding."
"No, but that reminds me. I'll let the comedians know they can start early."
"Please, Sid, are you absolutely sure there's nothing else the casino can do to look for my dad?"
"Oh, Max will put the word out pretty soon. Mr. Zatara's face is on them posters, so he'll get it squared away."
"Aren't you worried that whatever happened destroyed the room?"
Sid gave her a patient look. "Miss Zatara, I'm guessing you're a little fresh to show business, so believe me: dressing rooms get torn up weekly."
"No they don't."
"They do here."
"Okay, don't you find it crazy that this empty room that only locks from the inside was locked?"
"I assumed it was magician stuff."
"What?"
"You know, when magicians go after their rivals, they have to do it with crafty magician tricks. Smoke and spells." Sid wheezed. "Your pops must have some wizard feud."
"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."
"Nah, I read it in a magazine. Now excuse me. I'd love to answer you questions, but I'm on a tight deadline."
Ignoring Zatanna's dissatisfied glare, Sid turned away and picked up the handset again. "Operator. Get me the shift director, then look up the line for the box office, I'll be asking after them in a minute. Thank you." Sid lowered the handset to his shoulder and rubbed his eyes, muttering. "Need to set up refunds, free drinks, ask the lawyers to get the performance clause ready, then-"
Zatanna's eyebrows shot up. "Wait!" She took two quick steps, grabbed the handset out of Sid's hands, and smacked it down on the receiver. "What was that?"
Sid was annoyed. "Miss, I can't help you right now. Please leave me alone to work."
He reached for the phone again but she held the handset down. "What do you mean about the performance clause?"
"Oh, the performance clause? Sid coughed. "Yep. Since your old man ain't showing, you're both responsible for, mhmm, 'bout one hundred percent of resulting losses plus punitive fees equaling the greater of ten percent of said losses or fifty dollars."
"Losses? You mean all ticket sales?"
"Plus lost concessions and any repairs from new holes in the wall."
Zatanna was already frightened and outraged for her father's safety, but it would be naive to assume there wasn't room in her emotional bowl for more pragmatic fears to trickle in. She took some shallow breaths. "But, but my dad obviously didn't leave on purpose. Look around."
Sid nodded sympathetically. "I agree, but the contract don't much care. I mean, you could take this to court. Not my problem and no hard feelings. But you signed the thing."
Giovanni had never discussed finances with Zatanna. She assumed he had comfortable savings after his long career, but who could say? They never missed shows, so she had never encountered this sort of emergency before. What if this cost him dearly? He was about to retire!
And Zatanna was at the start of her own career: her budget couldn't carry this kind of penalty without some big loans and a lottery ticket. She certainly didn't have a lawyer.
"Stop, stop," Zatanna rubbed her temples. "Hold on. I'll do it."
"Miss, I have to make these calls."
"No, Sid, I'll do the show."
"Miss Zatara, not to suggest your lady tricks aren't something special, but this audience bought their tickets to see a real pro. Ol' Johnny Zatara used to mean something in this town."
"Hey," she wagged a finger at him, "Zatanna Zatara means something in a lot of towns too. Last month I brought the house down in Tulsa."
"They only have one house in Tulsa."
"I'm telling you, I'm good!"
"And I'm telling you-" He wheezed into his sleeve. "Your contract stipulates the people see two magicians. We printed it on all the posters. Maybe if it was just him, we could compromise. But you? No dice. Now kindly get out of the way."
Zatanna fumed. But then she noticed a shape in the corner. The mannequin with her father's tuxedo and hat had been knocked over. "What if the people still see two magicians?"
"Huh?" Sid had reached again for the handset but stopped to watch her with disbelief.
Zatanna lifted the mannequin - a wooden torso and head on a metal stand - and returned the hat to the wooden head. She took a deck of cards from her pocket. "Watch." She slipped her other arm inside the mannequin's tuxedo jacket and pushed her hand out of a sleeve. Then she squeezed the deck so the cards shot rapid-fire into her pretend mannequin-hand. Zatanna dropped her voice into a masculine whisper, "Sir, pick a card." The mannequin tipped forward suggestively and fanned the cards.
"What is this now, a puppet act?"
Zatanna put the cards away. "I hate puppets. Let's call this an illusion."
"Miss-"
"Listen," she said, her voice edging between creative mania and panic, "A lot of team routines use one-magician tricks. The partner either plays the distraction or the victim. A block of wood could do it."
"Miss!-"
"I'll dress up this mannequin. You turn the stage lights down a few notches. When it starts, I'll need to cut the Siamese Curtain of Death, the arrow catch will have a new surprise ending, and heck, he can hide in the water tank the whole second act, that'll set a record, then I just switch a twin horseshoe escape for a regular horseshoe escape." She bowed with the mannequin. "And that's that."
Sid snorted, then coughed, then judged her. "You're actually serious?"
"I'm serious about saving the show."
"I think they'll notice the dummy. And I mean the wooden one."
"I'll make sure the attention stays on me." Drawing on her years in the role of Beautiful Assistant, Zatanna struck a pose. "If we magicians know one thing, it's how distractible folks are."
"No offense to your stagecraft, but someone'll still see pop's face is made from a tree."
"Hmm." Zatanna tapped her chin then saw a decorative pair of comedy and tragedy masks hanging on the wall. She took the tragedy mask and slipped it over the mannequin's head, then slipped the comedy mask over her own. "There."
"Miss Zatara, you look like a fool."
"Just up close. On stage we look mysterious. People like a magician with affectations."
"It doesn't even have legs!" Sid stomped out of the room, pushing past dancers and jugglers from the night's other shows.
Zatanna took off her mask. "Wait, even better." She went into a box and pulled out two handfuls of fat silver pellets, chasing after him.
Sid rolled his eyes as he struggled to keep ahead of her. "And what, pray tell, are those?"
"Flash bombs. We blow a few when we release the doves. But what if we set some off at the start? You know, blind'em a bit."
Meanwhile.
After another frantic minute's sprint, Catwoman saw the promised blue door. There were three guards in hot pursuit, the nearest twelve paces behind her. She caught the handle mid-stride and nimbly slipped inside.
The room was spacious: four rows of vanities, an area for props and costume racks, and a hallway beyond. Three dozen performers in a carnival of outfits gossiped and smoked as they bartered cosmetics. A few looked at her with mild interest. Catwoman dashed into the crowd. Cries of "Hey!" and "My corsage!" followed as she pushed her way through.
The doors flew open again and three guards raced in. "Hey! Anyone see a lady in some weird-looking," the guard hesitated when he saw the performers. "Uh."
Before he was forced to finish his thought, the performers pointed as one to Catwoman who was halfway across the room. Catwoman cursed and pushed harder.
Then she overheard a discussion from the hallway ahead: "-Flash bombs. We blow a few when we release the doves. But what if we set some off at the start? You know, blind'em a bit."
Catwoman entered the hallway and spied a young woman in half a tuxedo carrying a pile of what Catwoman, in her professional expertise, recognized as flash bombs. Without stopping, Catwoman snatched the bombs out of her hands and brushed past her. The surprised woman stuttered, but before she could finish a word, three burly guards pressed past her as well, shoving her to the wall and knocking her hat off.
Catwoman could hear her pursuers closing in. Between the heavy bag over her shoulder and the lack of traction in ballet slippers, it had been a great athletic feat to keep ahead so far. Now her calves were shaking and her ribs hurt with each deep breath. She couldn't sprint much longer. But then Catwoman heard a vast mummering ahead, like a lake of whispers. She knew that noise.
Cradling the pile of flash bombs with one arm, Catwoman plucked two out and tossed them behind her. Even facing away and three steps ahead, the glare blurred Catwoman's vision. Anyone seeing the flash directly wouldn't see anything soon. The thuds of bodies running into doorframes and each other confirmed this.
At the end of the hallway and a turn were the cavernous scaffolding and setpieces of a large backstage. A red velvet stage curtain the size of a tennis court hung before her. The mummering rose in her ears.
Catwoman slowed to a jog and slipped under the curtain. There were no stage lights on, so although the theater was dim, she could faintly see hundreds of figures in the audience. She was about to run off the stage when a loud drum roll began and a spotlight lit in her eyes. Catwoman winced and stumbled.
The crowd grew confused. Someone heckled her, though she couldn't hear the words. Catwoman struggled to blink away the glaze on her vision. But then, very clearly, she heard footsteps and shouts behind the curtain. Forcing herself ahead, she grabbed a handful of flash bombs and made it to the edge of the stage.
"Sorry, folks," she yelled, "Show's over."
With a leap, Catwoman tossed her flash bombs at the audience. Her bombardment lit up the theater. She landed roughly but jogged up the aisle, throwing bombs left and right until her hands were empty. The audience was in pandamonium. Adults screamed like children. The trampling started in seconds, the middle seats shoving to escape. The big crushed the small, the fit smashed the frail, all to make it to the doors. Catwoman was almost trampled a few times, but managed to weave through the worst of the tide.
When the theater doors cracked open, Catwoman spotted a thin line of security in green blazers waiting outside like riot police. But they weren't ready for this riot. At least thirty frightened casino patrons raced out the doors before Catwoman reached the doors, overwhelming the guards and starting a stampede across the gaming floor itself. She saw fancy men and women hiding under tables. Fist fights broke out. Most fleeing theatergoers paused to kick holes in the wall.
In all her time brainstorming escape plans for tonight, Catwoman had never considered leaving by the front doors. And at a brisk walk no less. It was a welcome change of plans.
Later.
Zatanna Zatara nursed a bruised shoulder for the rest of the night. She didn't much mind the pain. That wild lady indirectly responsible for her bruise ended up doing Zatanna two big favors.
First, Bludhaven's police arrived in mere minutes to quell her riot. Once peace was restored, the cops immediately got to work investigating the theft and public disturbance, and Zatanna was able to convince them that her father's disappearance was a strange-enough coincidence that it warranted inspection as well.
Second, the lady scared off her audience, rendering the Magnificent Zataras' obligations to the casino moot. As Sid explained to her with weary amusement, they couldn't violate their performance clause for a show that didn't exist, so neither she nor her father were liable to pay a cent. In fact, the casino would still pay part of their fee just for showing up.
Zatanna found her rapid swings of fortunes tonight exhausting. Her shoulder didn't hurt nearly as much as waiting for the police detectives to finish their inspection. They found her in her dressing room, still in costume, and told her the news. There was evidence of a struggle, and the police would open a missing person case, but they didn't have any leads to a guilty party or his father's current whereabouts. They tried to reassure her that an investigation was just getting started. New leads could easily appear in the next few days. She wasn't reassured.
The lead detective asked where they could contact her, and she shared her room number for the weekend. As the detectives were leaving, Zatanna asked how the door had been locked, since it only locked from the inside, and there was no one inside. They glanced at each other and shrugged.
Since her father's room wasn't a crime scene, Zatanna was free to look around. She only saw her father a few times a year lately, and their schedules almost never allowed them to perform together. She had really looked forward to tonight. Zatanna slouched in her father's chair and sulked.
Idly, she pulled out a deck of cards and started shuffling. Eyes half-closed, she put the deck through its paces: waterfalls, aerials, fans, every sort of cut and flourish - a routine that put most dealers in the building to shame, Zatanna used to calm her nerves. Then her gaze happened to fall across a corner of the room, and the cards scattered to the floor.
Trapped under an overturned cabinet was an old red chest. The angle of the cabinet hid it from sight anywhere else in the room. Leaving her cards on the floor, Zatanna sprung to her feet and lifted the cabinet away. The chest's red paint had faded nearly maroon and much of it was chipped at the corners, exposing mottled brown oak. The sturdy bronze metalwork was in dire need of a polish, but the latch was as tight and solid as ever. Yet Zatanna was fixated on the one new feature of the chest: the lock was missing.
Giovanni Zatara had traveled with that red chest for as long as she could remember. As he raised Zatanna in the ways of the magician, she had been free to dig through his traveling gear and test whatever tools of the trade looked interesting. Indeed, he encouraged it. Zatanna spent countless hours as a little girl playing with trick wands and finding trap doors in iron maidens. The only exception was the red chest. Her father refused to discuss it and forbade her from looking inside.
Of course, when Zatanna learned lockpicking, she tried to open the red chest. She failed, so she practiced harder and tried again and failed. The process repeated until her teenage years when she lost interest. It was the one lock she could never solve. And in her whole childhood, she never once caught her father opening it. Privately, she assumed the lock was broken or he didn't have the key. He probably kept it because it was some heirloom. It probably just held socks.
And now the lock was gone. Zatanna realized her hands were trembling. She stepped away, shutting and locking the dressing room door, then she pulled the red chest under the lamp. The oak was still dense, but the chest seemed much lighter than she remembered.
Finally, Zatanna got on her knees and felt the corners of the lid. She opened the chest.
It was nearly empty. Besides dust and lint, there were a few folded papers scattered on the bottom. All were creased and torn: the chest clearly once carried other contents that sat on these papers for years. Zatanna steadied herself and picked up a paper. It was cheap and yellowed like a telegram. She unfolded the sheet and held it under the light. There was writing from top to bottom in pen, no indents or line breaks, just a big block of words. It wasn't her father's handwriting, and it was in Latin.
Zatanna didn't think her father knew Latin. She certainly didn't. She folded the sheet and put it back, then picked up the next one. This was a page ripped out of a textbook, perhaps on anthropology. Its three paragraphs explained the wedding rituals of a remote tribe in Mexico. It was difficult to read because someone had sketched geometric shapes across the page, mostly random-seeming combinations of circles and triangles. They had used a pencil, and the lead had smeared.
The next sheet was the least damaged. It was creamy to the touch, the kind of parchment used for fancy invitations. It was blank except for a deep red stain in the center. She flinched and quickly put it back.
When Zatanna unfolded the final paper, a business card fell out. It was for a lawyer she didn't recognize with an address in Gotham City. She put the card aside and studied the paper. It was a typed letter on common stock you could buy at the post office. The ink was faded with age. She read it slowly.
...
Dear Mr. Zatara,
Sir, I write to apologize for interrupting you at the train station last week. You've made it clear that you aren't interested in meeting me further, and I was rude to impose. I am very sorry. Rest assured that if you don't wish to see me again, you never will.
With that said, I do dearly wish to learn from you, and I feel compelled to make a final attempt to change your mind. When you declined my monetary offer, I could tell it was a matter of principle, so I won't insult you with another sum. Instead, I offer a gift. If you choose to use it, you owe me nothing. Consider it restitution for my rude behavior.
Before I describe the gift, please do not be alarmed. I mean your family no harm.
Sir, I have discovered that you are in a legal contest with several relatives over custody of your daughter. This contest is going poorly, and you will likely lose. The enclosed business card is for the country's most successful attorney in custody disputes. He will do anything, legal and illegal, to win. He only markets his services to a small circle of wealthy clientele, but if you choose to hire him, I have ensured he will take your case and represent you pro bono.
Again, this is a gift. But if you change your mind about taking a student for the summer, the attorney knows how to contact me.
Sincerely,
John
P.S. Fair warning, he may require you and your daughter to settle in Gotham for several years to take advantage of state custody laws, though I suspect your professional prospects will diminish little if you do. The region has a lively entertainment industry.
...
After reading the letter several times, Zatanna sat motionless on her knees, the paper limp in her hand.
She hadn't thought of John in years. Her father never offered much explanation why he let a stranger apprentice with her that summer. She was too young to question it.
She never knew relatives had tried to take custody of her.
She never knew she had relatives.
Meanwhile.
Selina Kyle didn't begin to relax until she crossed the Conrad Bridge into Gotham City.
Her outfit and loot were in a hidden compartment under the trunk of her car. She had changed into casual clothes in the backseat after parking in an alley a few blocks from the Arabia Casino. She had even changed her license plate. From a practical standpoint she was already in the clear. It didn't matter. Like all true Gothamites, Bludhaven made Selina a little sick. She obeyed the speed limit on the drive out, but that decision was a close-run thing.
Once she was breathing Gotham' City's nice, clean (or at least differently-polluted) air, Selina cracked a wide grin. Tonight had been a very good night. She had always wanted to rob a casino. Admittedly, she had always wanted to rob a casino vault, but there was always next time.
Selina was a savvy thief. She understood that her haul wasn't impressive at face value. Once you accounted for the insider payoffs, the disposable disguise, parking, tips, and blowing hundreds of dollars at poker, the costs started to add up. Not to mention the planning time and the burden of working in Bludhaven. All for a random assortment of mid-market gems and accessories she could find anywhere. Selina wouldn't know the actual numbers until her fence had a look, but her educated guess was that tonight's profit was marginal. She might not break even.
But that wasn't the point.
The point was that the chairman of the Platinum Casino, the second most popular casino in Bludhaven, was paying her considerably more to make the Arabia Casino look bad. She was free to keep whatever she stole, but the value of the loot was immaterial. If the Arabia couldn't return collateral when the original owner won it back, that put the Arabia's management in a legal quagmire. Worse, it cast doubt on the casino's reputation to cover deals, and that was almost as damaging as if she had robbed the vault.
Selina suspected she could pry out a bonus for causing a stampede as well. That wasn't in the plan, but she certainly earned it.
Selina left the loot and her outfit at one of her East End safehouses. She considered going home, but she had too much energy to sleep. She considered getting something to eat, but she wasn't hungry. She considered another robbery, but she was trying to break the habit of committing spontaneous robberies to let off steam from her regular robberies, only because they often backfired.
After some aimless cruising, Selina found herself driving towards Maven's apartment. Maven Lewis was Selina's best friend. They spent more time together than either did with anyone else by a long shot. Maven wasn't quite a night owl like Selina, but she'd patiently entertained her friend's nocturnal habits for years, and Selina knew she would again tonight. They had more than enough to chat about; they hadn't met in three whole days.
As Selina turned into Maven's neighborhood, she heard the sirens before she smelled the smoke. Whatever false hopes that it was some other building died in her mind before she was halfway there. Maven's apartment tower was on fire. When Selina arrived, she could tell the event was nearly over. The upper floors were already a husk. Flames guttered in the lower windows as a ring of fire trucks sprayed them down.
Selina parked and ran faster than she had all night. She saw a makeshift camp near some ambulances: scores of residents wandered in states of undress, many dusted with ash. Firefighters and medics gave aid to the needy. A policeman tried to keep Selina back, but she dodged him and entered the camp. Between the dying fire and the headlights of the emergency vehicles, it was easy to see the faces of the victims. She rushed from family to family, trying to spot Maven in the crowd.
Selina finally found her as she was being loaded in an ambulance. Maven was covered in a blanket up to her chin. She was very pale. A firefighter tried to comfort Selina as the door shut. He said it was just a little smoke inhalation. Her friend would be fine. Then the police caught up and escorted her out. She didn't resist.
The noise of the firetrucks went mute in her mind. She couldn't smell the smoke. It was a chilly October, but Selina was suddenly numb.
