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Batman 1939: Three's Company

Chapter 2: Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot

On Saturday morning, just before dawn, Alfred Pennyworth was startled out of bed by a loud crack of shattering wood. His mind already flitted on the hazy edge of sleep since the screams started minutes ago, so he was primed to react when a new clamor upstairs sounded like furniture hit with a bat. Alfred pulled on his slippers and raced from his room, navigating by touch in the dark October twilight as miserable echoes haunted the old house. As he climbed the grand staircase, the screams grew bracingly clear, and he pulled at the railing to climb faster, holding his nightgown above his ankles.

Alfred knew these were fear screams, not pain screams nor grief screams: he was an expert, though the distinction mattered little. He entered the master bedroom and stopped to catch his breath. A window cast a square of dim blue light across the bed at the end of the room. In this dim, Alfred saw a writhing form. Strong limbs beat the mattress and hugged themselves like an infant's. The screams paused only for gasps of air.

Alfred hurried to the bedside and turned on the lamp. "Bruce! Wake up, lad. It's just a dream." On the bed, Bruce Wayne continued to flail his arms. He had torn a flap of fabric out of his own pajama shirt, ripping off buttons. Worse, there was a chunk missing from the wooden headboard. Alfred eyed this damage with mild shock, but he continued his soothing mantra. "Bruce, it's just a dream. Just a dream, Bruce."

Alfred dared not step closer, but his voice and the bright lamp soon took effect. Bruce's wild flailing settled to fidgets as his eyes blinked open. For just a moment, Alfred saw nothing but misery and confusion in those eyes. Then, like a hypnotist's trick, the look vanished. Bruce faced him with an expression of calm control. "Good morning, Alfred." He sat up and looked around at the scattered sheets. "I'm sorry for disturbing you."

Alfred sighed and rested his hand on the wall. "That's no trouble, Master Bruce. No trouble at all."

Bruce noticed half his bare chest was visible through the torn pajama shirt and grunted. While he inspected the shirt, Alfred nodded slightly towards the headboard. Bruce turned to follow his gaze and saw a hole the size of the saucer near the top of the sturdy wood, with cracks bending outward around the hole. He looked at his fists and saw wood chips sticking to his left hand.

"That bad?"

Alfred offered a little shrug. "Not your best."

Bruce brushed off the wood chips and saw his knuckles were unharmed. He rose from the bed. "Sorry."

"Think nothing of it."

Bruce stripped off his ruined shirt and pulled a new shirt out of a dresser. "You go back to sleep, Alfred. I'll be fine."

"Thank you, sir, but we might as well make an early start of it. Daybreak's just arriving."

"Mmm." Bruce pulled on the shirt. "Please make a note to replace the headboard. But see if rubber is an option."

"Of course, sir."

"Otherwise, let's remove the headboard entirely, and I'll pull the bed further from the wall." Bruce went to a small desk and began writing on a memo pad. "Since we're both up, do you mind starting breakfast?"

"Not at all." Alfred headed for the door, but he stopped at the threshold as he watched Bruce writing. "Do you need me to take dictation first, sir?"

Bruce glanced up but didn't stop writing. "No, that's fine. I decided recently that I should put my nightmares to good use."

Alfred pursed his lips and pondered this. Finally, he asked, "May I ask how, sir?"

"Thought experiments. Threat scenarios. Contingency planning. Most are too illogical to be much use, I'm afraid, but this one tonight shows promise. If you care to listen, I'll tell you about it."

Alfred recalled the misery in Bruce's dreaming eyes and shuddered at the thought, but he steeled himself with a stiff nod. Perhaps discussion would be therapeutic for the boy. "Certainly, Master Bruce. I'm eager to hear it."

Bruce gave Alfred a hint of a grin and followed him out of the room, still writing as he walked. "The dream didn't have much narrative, but it was a world where everyone had one eye."

"One eye?"

"But not like a cyclops. Every face still had two sockets, see, but one was empty."

Alfred suppressed a wince. "That sounds very frightening."

"I saw many strangers but also many familiar faces. Sometimes they talked to me. I remember that was disquieting."

"Surely."

As the pair descended the grand staircase, the gray light of a cloudy morning crept into the windows and colored the main hall of stately Wayne Manor. Bruce flipped a page on the memo pad and continued writing.

"But here's the interesting detail. Soon, I saw people fighting, and the winner of a struggle would pluck out the eye of the loser and add it to their own face." Alfred's stomach flipped, but he remained silent. Bruce didn't notice. "This was happening everywhere. The victors with new binocular vision lived comfortably. Their blind victims fell to squalor, becoming slaves or outcasts. And the shrinking group of the one-eyed fought more and more desperately to join the former class and avoid the latter. Usually they fought each other; sometimes they ganged-up and fought the two-eyed. Now obviously, eyes can't be socketed like this in real life, but I remember the victims still seemed to react with as much pain as you might expect."

They entered the kitchen. Alfred pulled ingredients from the Frigidaire and ignited the oven. "Forgive me, Bruce, but how is this of practical use?"

"Well, take the premise at face value. What are the realistic consequences on such a world? If we inhabited that world, what must we do to survive? What might we do to improve the general condition? I doubt this particular tragedy will ever happen, but it keeps the mind nimble in case of other surprises." Bruce let out a grim chuckle. "I've been surprised far too often this year."

Alfred was cracking eggs over a pan. "And how might that nightmare keep you nimble?"

"In this case, I've thought about what sort of equilibrium humanity would quickly reach. Contrary to the dream, I strongly doubt there would be such widespread violence to steal a second eye. People are risk-averse, and total blindness is far more consequential than any advantage of having two eyes. Now, you might think there would still be bandits trying to ambush for a second eye, or even a free market to purchase one fairly. But once society came to its senses, I suspect its first act would be to outlaw having two eyes like any other contraband. It would be the easiest crime to detect.

"But from a tactical standpoint, there may be serious threats from even small gangs of the two-eyed. With their huge advantage in depth perception, they would be much more proficient with firearms, plus most other weapons for that matter. I anticipate the necessity of legally-regulated two-eyed for law enforcement, not to mention critical sight-reliant roles like pilots and surveyors. Some spare eyes could be recovered from two-eyed criminals and perhaps corpses, but any further demand poses a great dilemma. Would we provide them by lottery? A single-buyer market? It wouldn't be pleasant, which leads us to broader speculation in how to organize an economy in this situation. For instance, how common must automotive accidents become before modern America stops using cars? Tenfold? Thirtyfold-"

Alfred dropped a plate under Bruce. "I implore you, sir, have mercy and eat something."

Bruce paused mid-thought. He closed his mouth, sat, and picked up a fork.


Miles from Wayne Manor, the Gordon household began to wake. The man of the house Sergeant James Gordon felt the gentle tickle of dawn's early light across his face and promptly pulled a pillow over it. He was too sleepy to realize this was Mrs. Gordon's pillow. She promptly kicked him and pulled it back. Sergeant Gordon groveled for forgiveness with a noise that started in his stomach and ended in his sinuses. She responded with a ladylike grunt and turned away.

Gordon blinked at the ceiling. It was Saturday. He wasn't on call today. He smiled.

Then he heard a faint scratching from the bathroom across the hall. Gordon's smile fell to a puzzled line. He would have heard footsteps if his kids were awake. The Gordons' apartment was on the twelfth floor, so an intruder seemed unlikely. Maybe it was a bird?

Gordon slipped out of bed. His wife immediately stole his pillow and the rest of their blanket. He lifted his glasses from the nightstand and pulled a revolver out of the holster hanging from his coat rack. He checked the drum: six rounds. He cocked the hammer. Clad in old briefs and not a stitch more, Gordon eased open his bedroom door.

Across the hall, the bathroom door was open. He saw a young woman halfway through his bathroom window. As they made eye contact, she held up her hands with an embarrassed smile. She urgently raised a finger to her lips, pleading with him. Meanwhile, and without looking, she smoothly lifted her back leg through the window and closed the frame with her elbow.

Gordon was just tired enough that he didn't shout at this surprise. Instead he dumbly watched the stranger enter with his weapon trained on her heart. She kept her hands raised and stayed by the window. Gordon spared a glance at his wife, then took two steps to enter the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

He faced the woman, gun arm steady. She looked rough. He sensed this was a rare state of affairs. She wore her pants and wool jacket like she stepped out of a fashion catalog, but the knees were scuffed with brick dust. She had an obnoxious glow of health like a tennis star, but her eyes were redder than most drunks he booked: she hadn't slept all night. Her hair was coiffed yet matted with sweat. She smelled like smoke.

If she had any misgivings about being alone in a room with a man in his underwear pointing a gun at her, she seemed nonchalant about it.

Mightily annoyed, Gordon whispered, "Can I help you?"

She whispered back in a hoarse voice, "Are you Detective Gordon?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "Sergeant."

"I need to call Batman."

Gordon was only modestly surprised. "What makes you think I can do that?"

"Come on," she hissed, "I'm a friend."

"A friend."

"Yes."

"Of Batman."

"Yes!"

"Jim!" Gordon's wife called from the bedroom. "Are you talking to yourself?"

Gordon gave the stranger a warning glare and called back, "Yes, dear. Sorry."

"And close the window. I feel a draft."

Sergeant Gordon answered, "Okay."

His wife made no response. He heard her roll over in bed.

The stranger had kept perfectly still, but when she had his full attention again, she slowly mouthed the words, "Fort Morrison."

Sergeant Gordon squinted at her. Slightly lowering the revolver, he walked over and whispered in her ear, "Across the street. Five minutes." He nodded at the window. The young woman silently exited the way she came, closing the window behind her.

Gordon watched her leave. He considered that, for the first time, Batman seemed like the sensible one. At least when the Dark Knight appeared outside his twelfth-floor apartment, he used the wall with a fire escape.


Meanwhile at stately Wayne Manor.

After breakfast on the second Saturday of every month, Batman retired to his Cave's library to read trade and academic journals. His loyal butler Alfred fetched the publications a few days earlier from the post office and brought them straight downstairs (nothing intellectual was allowed in the Manor proper). Once Batman started this ritual, he finished the entire pile in one long sitting. It was efficient, but he also looked forward to a few hours of peaceful contemplation; it was one of his favorite responsibilities.

Batman liked to study at 700 words per minute. This was hardly his top speed, but technical lessons were easier to remember at a relaxed pace, and some journals weren't written in English.

Batman subscribed to all nine major journals of crime research. These journals averaged 28,000 words per issue, and Batman read each of them cover to cover without pause. He waited seventy seconds between journals to rest his eyes and reflect. Batman corresponded under an alias with many of the criminologists, penologists, and police instructors who submitted to these journals, and he mentally drafted letters to them as he read. He had even co-authored a few papers.

Batman also subscribed to 57 non-crimefighting journals. These rarely featured useful articles: a review of forensic reagents in a chemistry journal or new rules for prosecutors in a legal journal. Most were duds. These journals averaged 250 words of worthy content per issue, and Batman could determine an issue's worth in about five seconds.

Nearly half of Batman's subscriptions were published monthly. The other half published quarterly: different schedules ensured about one third of the quarterlies delivered every month.

Considering these factors, Batman expected his monthly reading to last four hours and twenty-six minutes, just in time for a late lunch. He kept to this plan with excellent regularity: last year's margin of error was five minutes. This was crucial to ensure a productive afternoon and evening.

He was three pages into his first journal when the phone rang.

The most recent upgrade to the Cave was a connection to the red phone, Batman's secret line of contact to his crime-fighting collaborator Sergeant James Gordon. The original red phone was in the Manor's study, activated by a button hidden inside a bust of Shakespere. However, there had been too many occasions where poor Alfred was obliged to mimic the Caped Crusader when the genuine article was merely downstairs.

Batman put down his journal and sped to the phone. "Sergeant Gordon?"

Miles away, Sergeant Gordon stood at a phone booth near his apartment building. He wore boots and an overcoat and little else. The young woman stood behind him, rubbing her arms.

Gordon took a final look around then muttered into the receiver, "Batman, listen, some lady just woke me up asking to talk to you."

"Hhm?" Batman's thoughts raced with troubling possibilities. "Who?"

"Hold on," Gordon turned around, "What's your name, anyway?"

The woman hesitated, keenly aware that she was talking to a cop. "Tell him it's … Cat."

"Fine." Gordon spoke into the receiver, "She says her name's Catherine."

"Did-"

The young woman huffed and grabbed the handset out of Gordon's hands. "Batman, it's me."

"You-" Batman knew the voice: Selina Kyle. Dammed memories spilled over and flooded his mind. "... Catwoman."

"Yeah, it's been a while."

Batman was quiet for a moment. "Why do you want to talk to me?"

Selina let out an empty laugh. "Wow, warm welcome. Glad to hear from you, too."

Batman said nothing.

Selina cleared her throat. "I'm not calling because of … this isn't about us, okay?"

Behind her, Gordon's eyes widened. Batman remained silent.

Selina's voice grew more hoarse. "I have a close friend. She's in trouble. There was a fire, and she just got out of the hospital, and I was just so," she took a deep breath, "She needs your help, Batman. That's what I'm calling about. A good, decent person needs your help. Please."

More silence. Finally Batman said, "What do you expect me to do?"

Selina glanced over her shoulder. "Can we just meet? I'd rather explain in person. If you have any trust in me at all, trust me that you'd be doing a good thing. You'd be saving someone. In fact, you'd be helping a lot of people."

More silence.

Selina hunched forward as her tone grew adamant. "Just tell me what you want. Money? Favors? Just tell me what it's-."

Batman cut in, "I don't want anything from you." Her heart sank, but he continued, "I'll be there in an hour. Tell me where you need me."

Selina sagged against the phone booth in relief. She brought the handset back to her ear and shared an address. Batman grunted and hung up.

As Selina stepped out of the booth, Gordon pointed at her. "You owe me a nickel."

She gave him a tired smile and shook his hand with both of hers. "Thanks, Sergeant Gordon."

When Selina let go, Gordon felt something in his hand. It was a twenty dollar bill. As she walked away, he called after her, "Catherine! Whatever's going on, you should tell the police about this. We can help you."

Selina looked over her shoulder. Her puffy eyes sparkled in sincere amusement. She snorted. "No."


An hour later.

Selina Kyle sat on a bench outside a line of storefronts in a quiet neighborhood of the East End. Most shops were closed for the weekend, and the narrow lane was blocked to vehicle traffic.

Despite the circumstances, she idly wondered whether Batman would come in his usual attire, cape and all. She had never heard of him appearing in daylight. Did he have a day-suit? Maybe a different color scheme?

"Catwoman."

Selina stood and turned. Batman stood on the sidewalk with his arms crossed, same gray and blue suit, blank white eyes, cape and all. A man walked out of a store nearby, saw them, and went back in.

"Hi," she said.

He nodded slightly.

She nodded back. "Thanks. I didn't have the chance to say that on the phone. So thanks."

"Where's your friend in need?"

"Inside. Come with me."

She led him down an alley to the side entrance of the nearest building. The sign read "Nine Lives Cat Sanctuary." Selina opened the door, ringing a little bell. The room inside had hundreds of cages and pens filled with cats. At the sound of the bell, scores of cats starting mewing and meowing: a deafening wave of cat noises.

As the noise died down, a teenage girl in gloves and an apron appeared from behind a pillar. She waved. "Howdy Selina. Who's your pal?"

Batman looked at her. Selina patted him on the shoulder. "Hi Holly, this is Batman."

Holly rolled her eyes. "Uh-huh. Lil' early for Halloween, Mister."

Batman said nothing.

Selina said, "We're here to check on Maven, Holly."

"She was sleeping last I looked."

"Thanks. I'll be busy for a few days. Can you hold down the fort?"

"Don't I always?"

"Attagirl."

"Bye Selina. Bye Mister." Holly lifted a striped tabby cat out of a cage and carried it down a line of crates. "Is Timmy Tompkins going to be a good boy and let Mommy give him a bath? Cause if he doesn't, Mommy will be very upset!"

Batman picked up a clipboard near the front desk. "You fund a shelter for two hundred and nineteen cats?"

Selina smiled proudly. "And another across town. Strays are a serious problem, and the city isn't doing anything about it."

"Okay."

"Do you have any idea how many cats are out on the streets in Gotham?"

"Haven't given it much thought."

"Well I have."

"Clearly."

"Don't give me that look. Fine, yes, I like cats. Don't you like bats?"

"Bats terrify me."

She shook her head. "It's always something else with you."

Selina and Batman entered a staircase at the rear of the room. At the top of the stars was a door. Selina knocked. "Mave? Are you up? I brought a guest."

A raspy woman's voice responded from inside, "Sure, sure. Come on in."

Selina gestured for Batman to stay back then opened the door. Inside was a cozy attic apartment. A woman around Selina's age with a red ponytail and glasses sat in a rocking chair with a quilt on her lap. She was reading a paperback with a brawny cowboy on the cover.

Selina walked over and gave her a hug. "Maven, how are you feeling?"

Maven coughed at the hug. When she finally spoke, her voice was very soft. "Geez, probably better than you, 'Lina. You need some sleep."

"I'll sleep when we get to the bottom of this."

"Where's your guest? Don't tell me it's another doctor."

"For all I know, he is a doctor, but that's not why we're here. Batman?"

"Did you just s-ooooohhhhhhh." Maven stared glassy-eyed as Batman walked into the room.

Selina gestured to both of them in turn. "Batman, this is my friend Maven Lewis. Maven, this is my," Selina paused as they looked at each other, "this is Batman."

Maven whispered, "He's so tall."

Batman said nothing.

Selina continued, "Batman, thanks again for coming. I'm sure you were terribly busy with, uh, some important life-and-death thing."

Batman remembered his stack of unread trade journals with a pang of regret. "Yes. It was critically important."

"And we also have something important. Maven, feel free to interrupt if I miss anything."

Maven was busy staring at Batman. "Huh?"

"Maven lived at the Lisbon Building on Adams Street. I use the past-tense because it burned down last night. Nine of her neighbors died, but Maven was rescued by firefighters in the nick of time. She still had some smoke inhalation though. I went to visit her apartment last night and saw her leaving in an ambulance. I stayed with her at the hospital where they kept her for observation until early this morning. When they released her, I brought her here then went to find you."

Batman asked, "Why?"

"We think it's arson. Someone burned down the Lisbon."

"Why do you think that?"

Selina glanced at Maven who nodded. Selina said, "Maven is an accountant."

Maven softly added, "I do her taxes."

"She does a lot of people's taxes. Some are bad people."

Batman asked, "Such as?"

"Such as Hector, Vincenzo, and Paulie Bertinelli."

Maven shrugged. "I started with Hector before he made it big with that racket at the dog tracks. Right after he drowned Jimmy Nails. He liked my work and recommended me to his brothers. And seven of their friends."

Batman glared at her. "And you took their business?"

Maven shrunk lower and stared at the floor. "I needed the money. My biggest customer used to be Jimmy Nails."

Selina gave a Batman a sharp look. "Batman, we're here to help Maven. Right?"

Batman reduced his glare. "You file taxes for three soldiers and probably several associates of the Bertinelli crime family. You believe that's related to the fire at your building?"

Selina and Maven shared a look. Maven looked away with a guilty expression. "Well…"

Selina interrupted, "That's one possibility. She also does taxes for Garfield Lynns."

Batman was rarely at a loss for words, but he paused before reacting in as calm a voice as he could manage. "Garfield Lynns, the Firefly? The most prolific arsonist of the 20th century? That Garfield Lynns?"

Maven answered even more softly, "Yes."

Frustration began to leak into Batman's tone. "He's been in prison for four years. Why does he need a tax preparer? He doesn't have an income."

Maven tilted her head. "You'd be surprised."

"Is there a reason you mentioned him second?"

"He is in prison."

"How did you meet him?"

"He did some insurance fraud for the Maronis. The typical grapevine."

"Do you have any clients who aren't felons?"

Maven shrugged defensively. "Hey, you know how it is. Once you stumble into a professional niche, it's hard to start from scratch again."

Selina cut in. "Batman, Maven's not doing anything illegal. It's really just taxes. You wouldn't yell at her if she cut their hair, would you?"

"So you suspect Maven's connection to these criminals caused someone to burn down her building?"

Selina nodded. "Mm-hmm."

"Has any of them criticized your job performance or accused you of foul play?"

Maven shook her head firmly. "Not at all. Hector sent me a ham last year."

"Did you keep any paperwork at your apartment?"

"No, I rent an office the next street over. I do all my business there."

"Do you know whether any of your clients have conflicts with other criminals who might target you?"

"I really don't know. It's not something they'd tell me about."

Selina stepped in. "Batman, you and I have a closer ear to this world than she does. You know the Families have been on edge ever since Falcone disappeared a couple months ago and the cops plugged what's-his-name Bertinelli near the border."

"Arturo."

"Right. The bosses are putting on a good show, but something ugly is brewing behind the scenes. Especially with the Bertinellis."

"I know," conceded Batman.

"Well, I don't believe in coincidences. Last night, before I followed Maven to the hospital, I asked the fire captain whether they thought it was arson. He said they'd do a regular inspection once the fire was out, but it would be hard to judge given the size of the place."

Batman made a reluctant noise. "He's right. Arson is difficult to prove, let alone trace. Isolated cases are rarely prosecuted without a witness or a confession."

"And that's why I went straight to the World's Greatest Detective."

"I didn't pick that label."

She leaned toward him knowingly. "But it fits, doesn't it?"

Batman grunted.

Selina continued, "After I asked my question to the fire captain, he asked me if I had any reason to believe it was arson. I played dumb and told him I was just curious, but it made me realize another reason to come to you." She looked down at Maven. "Her tax work is a matter of public record, but no investigator is going to make that connection unless we point it out to them. If we do, even though it's just a theory, word will get out and soon she'll be in the papers. I really don't want that. Her clients expect a certain anonymity, know what I mean? The last thing Maven needs is to draw attention to herself, especially if she was being targeted. You," she poked Batman in the arm, "know how to keep quiet."

Batman stared at Maven in silence. After several seconds, she started to tremble. Finally, he looked back to Selina. "Fire crews will be covering the ruins for the rest of the day. I'll inspect the property tonight. By tomorrow I'll need a list of all her neighbors as well as all tax returns she filed in the last two years for criminals. Minus yourself."

Selina didn't hesitate. "Fine, and I'm coming with you tonight."

"Fine, but your friend's right. First you need sleep."


Earlier.

First thing Saturday morning, Zatanna Zatara took a bus into Gotham City. It was a brisk October in Gotham, and Zatanna kept her hands in her coat. One hand permanently held the business card she found in her father's red chest. The card's contents were also copied on a scrap of paper in her purse, and they were etched in her memory regardless, but she felt compelled to clutch the card like a life preserver.

Before she left her hotel, Zatanna had asked the concierge for a Gotham City phone book. She pulled the card from her pocket just long enough to confirm what she already knew. The card was for Franklin Wash, Esq., of the law firm of Harry, Hound & Wash. Their offices were located at 311 Monroe Avenue, Deck 5, Gotham City, GO, 10004. Zatanna flipped through the huge book until she found a listing for Harry Hound Wash. The address was correct: they were still in business. She gave a little cheer, then pulled the card out again and kissed it.

Travel in Gotham was as Byzantine as ever, but Zantanna had lived there as a teenager and knew her way around. She stepped off the bus at Old South Station and entered a bakery for a light breakfast. Still wiping pastry crumbs from her chin, Zatanna took the station's famous 9-story escalator to the upper mezzanine and boarded an elevated streetcar heading downtown. Gotham wasn't the only city with building entrances at multiple levels, but it certainly had the most of them. Some neighborhoods were so tall and dense that every building had several entrances, and spidery layers of roads, tracks, and footpaths knitted them together. Thus the unique deck number in Gotham City postal addresses. Harry, Hound & Wash was on Deck 5 on the nice end of Monroe Avenue. Lots of fancy law firms. Not her stomping grounds, but it would be easy to get around. Deck 5 meant a good view with plenty of natural light. That prime real estate would be served by conspicuous elevators and lots of signs. In less-nice parts of Gotham City, the elevators were obscure and unlabeled. Then there were streets with only staircases, and Zatanna had heard tales of rough neighborhoods connected exclusively by rope ladders, and if the locals needed to drop one or two decks in a hurry, they jumped.

The streetcar raced downtown in twenty minutes. It descended to Deck 3 for its Monroe Avenue stop, only a few blocks from her destination. Zatanna stepped off the streetcar onto an enormous metal deck that hung between four skyscrapers. There were benches and potted trees around. It was nearly empty on a Saturday, but there was still a thin crowd of professionals looking busy. Zatanna started walking. Suddenly the entire deck was covered in a deep shadow. Startled, Zatanna looked up to see a low-flying blimp cross overhead. A sign on its flank advertised, "Sure Shoe Polish - Look Sure-Footed!™"

Zatanna shook her head; Gotham's obsession with airships had developed long after she left. By chance, she hadn't experienced a close encounter with one on her few visits since then, though she had heard the jokes. Indeed, the locals nearby rolled their eyes and chucked as they passed. Zatanna grumbled. She wondered what else was new.

Fortunately, there were no other surprises in the rest of her path. It was a simple walk and an elevator ride to 311 Monroe Avenue, Deck 5. She entered the fine doors into an elegant wood-paneled lobby. A sign over the reception desk read, "HARRY HOUND WASH". The receptionist was a bored matron smoking a cigarette. She looked Zatanna up and down doubtfully and asked, "May we help you?"

Zatanna walked to the desk and took out the old business card. "Hi! Yes. Wow, I'm so glad you're open on Saturday. I really should've called ahead to make sure, but you wouldn't believe what happened to me last night. I hardly have my head on straight." She laughed nervously.

The receptionist tapped her cigarette over an ashtray. "Mm. Glad to be of service, young lady. Now where is your-"

Zatanna nodded bashfully. "Right, sorry. I don't have an appointment. Is that a problem? I'm trying to find Franklin Wash." Zatanna held out her business card. "It's old, but your sign makes me think he's still a partner here."

The receptionist peered at the card. "As a matter of fact-"

"See, my father used to be a client of Mr. Wash."

"But-"

"Or at least I think he was."

"I don't think-"

"I found this odd letter in my father's, uh, records. The letter said Mr. Wash was a real sharp attorney who could help him keep custody of me."

The receptionist gave up. "Hm."

"This was back when I was just a girl, of course. But do you know the crazy part?"

"No."

"I didn't know anyone had ever sued for custody. I wasn't taken to any lawyers or courtrooms, nothing like that. But the crazy part is I didn't know I had any family! Daddy raised me on his own, see. He never mentioned anyone. Not on his side, certainly not on my mother's. Never knew her. And now? Well, now, I don't know what to think. The world's topsy-turvy. Have you ever felt that way?"

"I doubt it."

"I mean how," Zatanna's voice hitched, but she swallowed fast, "How could he do that to me? And why?"

"Have you asked him?"

"No!" Zatanna paced to one of the lobby's seats where she deposited herself. "He disappeared last night. I was hoping Mr. Wash can - well - I'm not sure what I hoped, to be perfectly honest." Zatanna looked at the ceiling and rubbed her eyes. "I feel silly just saying that. I guess I'm hoping Daddy's disappearance has something to do with this mystery family I apparently have, though I can't even convince myself there's a connection. But I have to do something! And logic or not, this seems as good a clue as any. And even if it doesn't help find him, family is important for its own sake, right? Imagine if I had some aunts and uncles. Oo, and cousins. That'd be nice. I always wanted cousins. So I thought maybe Mr. Wash knows where to find them, since they apparently tried to find me. Do you think he'd still have records like that? Lawyers keep records like that, right?"

"I'm afraid you've-"

"Come at the wrong time. Sure. I understand. Mr. Wash is busy. If it's no bother to you, I'll wait here to see if he can spare a minute today. I've got nothing else to do."

"I suppose-"

"And thank you so much, by the way. I'm Zatanna. What's your name, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Doris."

"Doris. Nice to meet you. Gosh, nice to meet anyone. It's so good to talk about this; I felt like I was about to burst. I travel a lot, you see. I guess I don't have a lot of close friends, if we're being honest. Just no time. But it's so important to have someone you can share with, don't you think? I miss that."

"Mm-hmm." Below the reception counter, Doris was reading a paperback with a brawny cowboy on the cover.

"Not that I've ever had many people to confide in. Occasionally we'd hire on to do a run of shows with a circus. I'm a magician, by the way."

"Mm."

"And I was always jealous of the circus kids. At least they had big groups they traveled with. Sure, I made friends in school, but I was only in school a few years. Not until I settled here. Actually … huh." Zatanna blinked in realization. "He might have been my first."

The phrasing caught Doris' attention. She glanced up from her book. "Mm?"

"Wow, what a sad irony. That letter I mentioned? Convincing my father to meet Mr. Wash? It was written by a boy who wanted to learn magic from my father."

"He was your first?"

"He was my first friend."

"Hm."

"One day, out of nowhere, my father tells me we're moving to Gotham City permanently. I had never lived in one place longer than three months. Then this boy shows up to my afternoon lessons. His name was John. I was twelve then. He was a little older, I'd say fourteen or fifteen, though I never knew for sure." Zatanna chuckled. "He really scared me at first. He always looked like he had been fighting: bandaged fingers, bruised lips and eyes. Once he showed up with a wad of gauze in his mouth. Couldn't talk at all that day. Not that he ever talked much. He was so serious. Early on he barely said a word to me. Maybe that's why he was scary. But in time we-"

The lobby door opened. Doris ground her cigarette and held up a finger for Zatanna to pause. A finely-dressed woman walking a poodle entered. "Doris, dear! Appointment for Frankie-poo."

Doris stood and smiled. "Welcome, Mrs. Sanders. Go right on through."
"Oh, lovely. Come along, Frankie." The woman guided the poddle across the lobby to the concealed hallway behind.

Zatanna watched them curiously. When they were gone, she asked, "Does one of the partners do, um, pet law? Is that a kind of law?"

Doris was already sitting and lighting another cigarette. "Young lady, I'm sure I don't know."

Zatanna was taken back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you on the spot. I just assumed since you see lawyers every day-"

"I don't see lawyers every day."

"You don't?"

Doris took a drag on her new cigarette. "Zatanna, right?"

"Yes."

"Zatanna, this isn't a law firm."

"It looks like a law firm."

"And you look well-adjusted."

"Excuse me?"

"Harry Hound Wash is a pet salon. We bathe and groom animals. Mostly dogs. Get it?"

Zatanna stared at Doris, then stood and looked toward the concealed hallway, then at the sign above the reception desk. She blushed. "But my card said there's a lawyer at this address."

"Oh, it's true this property used to be a law firm. They sold out eight or ten years ago, well before my time. The story I heard was the buyers were looking to open a pet salon in the area and made an offer when they realized they could save on sign renovations by removing the commas and ampersands."

"You didn't say anything!"

"You didn't let me."

"But 'Harry Hound Wash' is spelled wrong. 'Hairy' has an 'i'."

"Customers don't seem to mind."

"Isn't this location a bit upscale for a pet salon?"

Doris sighed. "Zatanna, the pets of the rich live more pampered lives than you or I ever will. The people walking through this door would sell an orphanage to a coal mine before they let their schnauzer chip a nail." She took a drag on her cigarette. "But I digress. You were saying something? Some rough, mysterious older boy you fancied?"

Zatanna's blush deepened. "I didn't say I fancied him. Who calls it 'fancied', anyway?"

"Mm. Well, you're welcome to keep waiting if you wish, but there's no Mr. Wash here, so you might be waiting for quite a spell."

Zatanna rubbed her forehead. "Can you tell me anything about the law firm that was here? Maybe a forwarding address?"

"Sorry, I simply don't know. If you come back Monday, our office manager might have that written down somewhere."

"I see. Thanks anyway." Head bent low, Zatanna headed for the exit.

Doris called after her. "Best of luck with your father and all that."


One advantage of being a traveling performer was a knack for finding strangers with bad information. Zatanna couldn't count the number of times she'd shown up in a new town with half a day to track down a theater owner she'd never met. It just took pluck, tenacity, and a good grounding in who to ask for directions.

Gotham City was a far bigger town than most, but this was more than offset by Zatanna having actually lived there.

In order to find Franklin Wash, Zatanna first tried another phone book at a nearby phone booth. It listed eleven residents by the name. Instead of bothering them all, Zatanna visited an office of the Gotham City Visitor Bureau. These were commonplace and famously helpful: city leaders believed tourists in Gotham needed all the help they could get. Zatanna asked an aide if they had any sort of registry of the city's lawyers. She figured Wash no longer worked at his old firm; it wouldn't show up in the phone books if the remaining partners changed the name. The aide confessed that the Visitor Bureau wouldn't have a registry like that, but he upheld the Bureau's reputation when he remembered they had a number for the bar association.

Exactly one employee in the whole Gotham Bar Association was working on Saturday, but he was willing to check their records on the Visitor Bureau's behalf. They said Franklin Wash retired from the legal profession three years ago. They still had his mailing address. Zatanna didn't recognize the street. After the call ended, the Bureau aide remarked that the GBA wasn't supposed to share contact information, especially for a retired attorney, but the staff was lazy about those rules. As a former Gothamite, Zatanna wasn't surprised.

Eighty minutes later, Zatanna reached the illicitly-obtained address. It was nine blocks from the nearest bus stop, and Gotham loved bus stops. Zatanna walked past manicured emerald lawns as far as the eye could see. The house of Franklin Wash was a small mansion, one of the nicest residences in a suburb of very nice residences in the fields on the edge of city limits. These were the homes of peak professionals, the very best lawyers and surgeons. A few might be millionaires. Zatanna had never met a millionaire before. Looking at these houses, she found the idea intimidating.

Nonetheless, Zatanna walked up the fieldstone path to Wash's door and knocked three times. After a minute, the door opened and a handsome older man leaned out.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Hello," Zatanna said, trying to keep her nerves out of her voice "I'm looking for Franklin Wash."

"You're looking at him."

"Mr. Wash, my name is Zatanna Zatara. I believe you helped my father Giovanni Zatara with my custody case a long time ago. I know this is abrupt, but if it's not too much trouble, I was hoping you would answer a few questions."

Franklin Wash let out a long sigh. One thought occupied his mind.

Bruce Wayne is going to kill me.