To Play the Fool
Chapter Nine
Thank goodness my mother demanded I get a plan with unlimited texting. For the last week and a half, this feature has been a life saver. I was starting to love it as much as she does.
Most of my hearing had come back. There was still a little bit of ringing in my left ear, but I could usually ignore it. I was even starting to answer phone calls even though I missed half the conversation. Old habits die hard.
Since I was no use to Mr. Wayne, I stayed at home until I could hear well enough to carry on an intelligible conversation. He was fine with this because he was busy enough trying to get Wayne Tower repaired as quickly as possible. I attended three funerals for the three people killed in the blast: two security guards, and a businesswoman. I thought they would appreciate my presence even if I couldn't hear or communicate. I also made a recording of the proceedings so I could listen later.
It was on one of these vacation days that I received a letter in my mailbox. I recognized the paper and the handwriting immediately. Thick, expensive paper for both the envelope and the letter, and the ink was from a fountain pen. Marks from the post office were curiously absent, as was a return address. The only thing on the front was "Jenny Harkness" and my apartment building's address. The letter was placed on top of my usual pile of junk mail, not inside the folded stack with the rest of my postcards, meaning it was placed on top. I checked the back of the mailbox where the mailman usually gets in. The lock had a few faint scratches where someone picked the lock and found my mail with my name, and left the letter there.
This is bad.
"You have to tell the police!" Imogen exclaimed, waving her scissors in my face.
"No, I can't. This isn't evidence of any criminal activity, and it's can't even be construed as a threat. What am I supposed to tell them?"
"That he sent a bomb to your office and now he's gloating about it. Of course it's a threat, Jenny! He's practically telling you he knows where you live and he can come kill you any time."
"Cobblepot wouldn't do that."
"No. He'd send another bomb instead."
"The only thing the police can charge him with is breaking into my mailbox to give me an invitation, and you know how tough the Post Office is on those sorts of criminals. He'll be locked up for years."
"They got Al Capone on a tax evasion charge."
"This is true, but going through my mail isn't nearly as severe. Trust me, Imogen. I've thought about this every which way. I need to go."
"Go where?" Imogen's client asked, thoroughly annoyed. Imogen got back to working on her layers and bangs.
"The Iceberg Lounge. Ever heard of it?" I asked.
"Sure. Who hasn't? Anybody who's anybody knows about the Lounge," she scoffed.
"What can you tell me about it?"
"Only that it's super-exclusive. The only way you know you're someone is this town is if you make it through the doors of the Iceberg Lounge."
"So you've never been in," I concluded. The client gasped in offence, but I ignored her and continued talking to Imogen. "That's why I have go. The police are never going to have this kind of a chance."
"And what happens if something goes wrong?"
"Well, you know where I'll be tomorrow night at nine. If you don't hear from me, be a dear, report me missing and testify at his trial, will you? Thanks."
I called the number on the back of the card to RSVP. I also needed a place to park downtown. Parking downtown is worse than the invention of reality TV and chewing on tin foil, as I found out the hard way a year ago. I figured that if Cobblepot was giving me a VIP pass, then he could save a parking spot for me. I was overjoyed when someone other than Cobblepot answered the phone. "Iceberg Lounge. This is Kevin," said a young man on the other end.
"Kevin. This is Jenny Harkness. I just got my invitation, and I was wondering if you could do me a favor."
"Ms. … Ms. Harkness?" His voice was suddenly full of fear. "What can I do for you?"
"I need a place to park tomorrow. Do you think you could reserve me a place?"
"Mr. Cobblepot has offered to pick you up in his personal limousine."
"Sorry, Kevin, that just won't do. I need to drive there or I can't go at all." His pause was unnecessarily long. "Kevin? Are you still there?"
"I apologize, but all of our reserved parking is taken." I sensed a bit of hope in that sentence.
"Kevin, what's wrong? What are you afraid of?"
It took him another few moments to whisper an answer. "You don't want to come."
"I don't? Why not?"
"They're going to kill you."
"That's why I need my car. Help me out here, Kevin."
He took a deep breath and replied professionally. "There is an underground parking lot on the south side of the building. Just show the parking attendants your pass."
"Thank you so much, Kevin."
Step one done. Step two, finding a dress. My least favorite part. Really, why do people keep thinking it's a good idea to invite me to parties? It isn't. It really isn't. Luckily, I had a cocktail dress left over from a winter formal a couple years ago. That was an … awkward blind date. My dress was white, with spaghetti-straps, an empire waist and a blue underskirt that ended at my knees. It was simple, easy to get on, and would probably let me run away should the need arise. Also, it was my favorite dress I've ever had.
Step two done. Step three, make sure Cobblepot would be blamed if I went missing for any reason. I've got at least one person who knows where I'll be, copies of the invitation from Cobblepot locked in my desk along with a letter explaining everything, and a note for the police should they search my apartment. I am ready.
I took very little with me that night. Just a medium length trench coat and a small clutch. They would most likely search me, so I didn't bother trying to arm myself. Not that there are many places to hide things in a cocktail dress. I straightened my hair, parted it on the side, and wore a black headband. I didn't need to call in Imogen and go all fancy for Cobblepot. She was refusing to take part in this anyway, calling it idiotic nonsense that would get me killed. I was hoping to avoid that last part.
There was a long line outside the building and three beefy security guards keeping them out. I recognized a few of them from Mr. Wayne's party. Even the elite of Gotham had to wait. Exclusive indeed. Almost absurdly so. I wonder if Bruce Wayne would even be allowed inside. I circled the block once to kill some time and definitely not because I missed the turn the first time, then pulled into the parking area.
I was stopped by an incredibly large man in a tuxedo, ex-marine, and signaled to roll down my window. I did so and flashed my invitation. "Mr. Cobblepot is expecting me," I told him. He moved a saddle-horse roadblock aside for me and let me park. There were maybe ten spots, and six had already been taken. There was one, however, labeled 'Jenny Harkness' on a temporary placard.
Instead of taking the back door into the VIP suite, I circled around to the front door and walked straight up to the bouncers. Several people jeered at me, a middle-class citizen, for trying to get in ahead of them. I handed them my invitation, and they compared it to the list and my driver's license. "Go on in, Ms. Harkness," one told me. The crowd gave a groan of disappointment as I stepped inside. They were in a better position than I was, ironically.
The Iceberg Lounge was surprisingly was darkened, but cozy, with plenty of tables and alcoves for private conversations and an area for a dance floor. The band was an incredibly talented one that switched between Jazz and soft contemporary choices effortlessly. There was an impressively well stocked bar with the most expensive booze I have ever encountered. The entire place was themed around ice. Nearly everything was made out of glass or colored blue. The waiters and waitresses wore blue and white suits with bow ties. In the room next to this one, I heard a splash of water, and not a small one, so I turned my coat over to the ushers at coat-check and went to investigate.
The next room was far more brightly lit and completely bare except for the railing. It was made of glass with metal on the edges of the panels, and went in a large circle and took up most of the room. It was nearly freezing in here, but no one seemed to mind. They were all watching whatever was in the ring. I was confused as to what they would be interested in, when a sea lion jumped into the air and landed with a splash down below. I had to see this for myself. The pool below was filled with ice, penguins, and two sea lions - one lounging on the ice, one swimming in the water. I couldn't help but laugh when I saw the penguins playing. I highly doubted this was legal, though. No wonder this place was so popular.
"Jenny?" said a gentleman on the far side of the room. It was James Carroll, dressed to the nines. He looked as surprised to see me as I was, but he was more excited and came around to see me. "I'm so happy to see you again! I realized when I dropped you off that I forgot to ask for your number."
I thought I had avoided this the last time we met, and he was one who liked to cut to the chase. I briefly pondered whether or not I should play deaf, but decided it couldn't hurt if I just gave it to him. "How have you been, James?" I said as I wrote my number down on a napkin.
"Just great. You know, I was thinking about you the other day. I've been following you in the paper."
"That's not creepy."
He chuckled a bit at that. "I can't believe someone would send a bomb to your office. Do you know who sent it?"
"I'm not really supposed to discuss the case right now. Forming theories before you have all the facts screws everything up, so I try not to speculate." Not that I needed to. I had all the facts, plus some.
"I see. So I guess you can't tell me what it was like saving all those lives."
"No." I absentmindedly watch a penguin take a spinning dive into the pool. "It didn't feel like I had. I thought it was my fault, that I had hurt all those people in the office. It was like I had stepped through a rabbit hole into another world." I sighed and regained my emotions. "Why am I telling you this? I didn't even tell Imogen. Sorry, I don't mean to be a killjoy."
"How about I buy you a drink?"
"Thanks, but alcohol is the last thing I need right now." I'm a terrible lightweight, and I needed all my senses tonight when I dealt with Oswald Cobblepot.
"I'm sure they've got soft drinks. Or water."
"You're sweet, but I'll have to take a rain check. I'm meeting someone tonight and he's expecting me soon."
James' face fell and he barely suppressed a scowl. "Who? A friend?"
"Not really. More like a business acquaintance. Well, I'm glad I got to see you tonight, James." I kissed his cheek and left the room, leaving him completely stunned. Yes, he's smitten with me. No, I don't feel guilty using that to exploit him.
In the other room, it wasn't hard to find the entrance to the VIP Lounge. On the other side of the room, one of the ushers stood at a podium with a short list. When someone was on it, he would remove the red velvet rope and let them go down the stairs. More often than not, they were turned away. In fact, they turned away Bruce Wayne – the Bruce Wayne – and his girlfriend. "That is so unfair," Star grumbled.
"Not having much luck?" I teased as I approached them.
"Star thought they would let us in if we told them it was her birthday," Mr. Wayne explained.
"They called your bluff, I see. Well, you probably wouldn't have liked the company anyway."
"I'm surprised to see you here, Jenny," Star said. "I didn't think this was your sort of thing."
"It's not," I admitted, "but it's always good to give new things a try. Why not a nightclub?"
"So what's the verdict?" said Mr. Wayne.
"Surprisingly enjoyable. Have you seen the penguins yet?"
"They have penguins?" said an amazed Star. "Everything's better with penguins. Bruce, let's go see the penguins! This is the best unbirthday ever!" Star grabbed her boyfriend's arm and practically dragged him away. I waved to my boss as he stumbled backwards helplessly.
"They make a cute couple," I told the usher at the podium as I handed him my invitation.
"I didn't notice," he replied. There was an affirmative beep on his computer and he removed the rope for me. "Welcome to the Arctic Circle, Ms. Harkness. Mr. Cobblepot is waiting inside."
"Thank you, Kevin." I stepped past him onto the first step. This was where I could still go back. I looked back at Star and Mr. Wayne who were completely oblivious of the monster down below. As much as I wanted to escape with them, I knew I could not. I took another step. Then another, straight down into the underbelly.
"Bruce, did you see that?" said Star.
"See what?" His attention was still on the sea lions.
"Jenny. She looked terrified, just for a second."
He immediately sobered up and looked for his secretary. "Of what?"
"I don't know, but she looked scared right before she went downstairs."
"She said she doesn't do night clubs."
"Nervous is one thing. That was terror."
"But there's nothing to be afraid of here." If only he wasn't lying. The only reason he had come tonight was because he thought he might be able to do a little investigating.
"Bruce. She found a bomb in your office, and not once did you say if she even looked afraid. Whatever's going on is something only she can detect, and it scares her more than that bomb. She knows she's walking into a trap."
"Then we need to call the police."
"I'll call the police. You go see if you can find her."
The two of them split up, Star to the limo outside to call 911, and Bruce presumably to the Arctic Circle. Instead, he found a side door to a secluded back alley.
"Jenny! I'm so glad you could make it!" said Oswald Cobblepot in a voice that resembled Santa Clause. "Please, sit down." He offered me a chair at a two person table in the center of the small, chilly room. There was a candle and a plain white envelope on the table. There were five other people in the room: three men in blazers smoking cigars and playing poker, an Asian woman using a sizable knife to clean her nails, and another woman with long, incredibly curly white hair, cleaning a gun at a table with a poodle sitting beside her. There was some soft music coming from speakers in the walls. Our conversation would not be overheard by anyone except by everyone in this room. I set my purse down on the table and sat at the offered seat. "Can I get you anything to drink?" he asked. This room had its own private bar as well.
"No, thank you, Mr. Cobblepot –"
"Just call me Oswald. We're not proper folk here."
"Mr. Cobblepot. Why am I here?" I didn't want to stay here any longer than I had to.
"I don't know. You're the one who came. You tell me." When I wouldn't answer, he sat down across from me. "I'm in the market for new recruits."
"Then you're looking in the wrong place."
"I know people, Jenny. They can be broken down into a couple basic groups. There are the do-gooders who are incorruptible. They can't be bought, bullied, or persuaded from their golden path – usually police officers, vigilantes like Batman, and mothers. Doesn't matter what you tell them, they will always do what's right. Even if you threaten them, they won't do anything wrong. Then there are those who have price tags attached. They don't have set standards, and they'll do anything for the right price. Usually, it's money."
At that, he subtly pushed the envelope towards me.
"Or it could be power, a loved one held hostage, threats of jail-time – doesn't matter. They're self-centered, self-serving, always looking out for number one and extremely easy to manipulate. They're usually found in public office or selling drugs. They come a dime a dozen."
"Is that who they are?" I asked, indicating the others in the room. "Easy to pay off?"
"No. They're in the third group. They're smart, talented, and clever. These kinds of people are often mistaken for people in the first group. They won't do anything for the paycheck. And if they do get paid for a service, they won't do it for the money. They need something to do, something that challenges and excites them. Those are the people I want. You are clever – too clever for a simple job at Wayne Enterprises. I'm offering you something better."
"What, exactly?"
"I've recently lost a large part of my crew in an unfortunate incident with the police at American National Bank. This is after my home was broken into and nearly destroyed. I need someone who can collect rumors and turn them into credible evidence, something I'm sure you're already doing."
"You want me collect blackmail. I'm sorry, Mr. Cobblepot, but my answer is no."
"You may say that now, but you're bored, Jenny. At some point, you'll realize you need more to do than Bruce Wayne's dirty laundry. You're already starting to feel it. That's why you came tonight. You could have ignored my invitation easily, but you needed to do something dangerous. Maybe you thought you could catch me doing something illegal. Maybe you thought you could have some fun. Either way, you're bored."
I let his words sink into me and I carefully considered his proposal. There was just one problem with this whole thing. "Do you know Sherlock Holmes?"
"Sure I do. Who doesn't?"
"No, you don't. Few people actually do. Sherlock Holmes is someone everyone knows of, but they've never actually read the books. There's this one story called "The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton." A client, a debutante, hires Mr. Holmes to get some letters back from this man before her wedding. He is demanding 7000 pounds or he publishes them in the paper and her engagement is ruined. And you know he'll do it because he's done it several times before and ruined plenty of people. Of the 50 or so murderers Mr. Holmes has put away, Charles Augustus Milverton is by far the worst man in London he has ever had to deal with. Mr. Holmes tries to forcefully convince him to give the letters back or take only 2000 pounds, but it does no good. So, Mr. Holmes disguises himself as a plumber and works for Milverton. He befriends a servant, and proposes to her so he can learn about the layout of the house and so she will tie up the guard dog.
"As soon as he learns the location of his blackmail, he and Dr. Watson break in when he's supposed to be asleep. They manage to find his safe full of sensitive papers and Mr. Holmes cracks it open. However, they realize he's operating outside his schedule. He's actually awake and comes to wait for someone in his study. He thinks it's a maid that works for the Countess d'Albert, coming to deliver some incriminating letters. Milverton is wrong. She is actually a widow, whose life was ruined by Milverton. With nothing left to lose, she shoots him several times, grinds her heel in his dead face, and leaves. Mr. Holmes knew she was going to kill him, but he held Dr. Watson back from protecting Milverton, since this was justice that the courts of England couldn't comprehend. They let her get away. But instead of running away with just his client's letters, Mr. Holmes takes everything out of Milverton's safe and throws it into the fire. Again and again, he fills his arms with the papers and throws them into the fire until the safe is empty. By the time they get out of there, the alarm has been sounded, and they barely make an escape.
"Charles Augustus Milverton was by no means a stupid man looking for money. They payoff was part of the game. He got just as much out of bleeding the nobility of London as he did humiliating them publicly and ruining them completely. But Sherlock Holmes is a far more clever man. Should he ever turn to crime, he would be a force to be reckoned with. He does get bored just as easily as I do, but in this line of work, he can talk about whatever he does freely and brag about it, except, of course, for a bit of minor burglary. And there's never a shortage of crime. You see, Mr. Cobblepot, I do not intend to become Charles Augustus Milverton, doing the same thing over and over. That's just going to get boring. My sister thoroughly believes that I am descended from Sherlock Holmes himself, or at least Mr. Holmes incarnate. I'm not going to disappoint her by stooping to … this. My answer is no. It doesn't matter how bored I get, it will always be no because I've got better things to keep me occupied. Good night, Mr. Cobblepot." I put my purse over my shoulder and stood to leave.
"Burned everything in his safe, huh?" said Cobblepot. "That's kind of funny, because somebody broke into my house a couple weeks ago."
The men playing poker had stopped their game and were approaching me, backing me into the table. "What does this have to do with me?"
"They cracked my safe and burned everything I had on everyone."
"Seriously?"
The woman with the poodle had calmly gotten up and joined the men. All of a sudden, she lashed one hand out and jabbed me in the throat. My trachea snapped shut and I fell down at once, mostly in shock. My mouth gaped open, desperate to get in some air, but very little was coming. While I was trying with all my might to inhale, two of the men picked me up by my arms, pulled me to my feet, and dragged me towards a door.
The other woman opened the door to the private parking lot and led the other two men out to the back alley. I tried dragging my feet, or at least making it difficult for them to pull me along, but they were built like bricks and my resistance was nothing compared to their strength. I gave up on the notion of screaming moments before. I was lucky to even be breathing at this point. I didn't know what was going to happen, but I knew for a fact that I would not die in an alley, no matter what.
They stopped behind a dumpster, and she pulled the gun from the shoulder holster of the man on my right. It took her a second to unlock the safety and cock it. "Dump her at the docks," she told them as she aimed the gun at my head. I wanted to close my eyes and pretend none of this was happening, but if I was going to die, she was going to look me in the eye. By the looks of her, she wouldn't have felt much guilt anyway.
Suddenly, a figure appeared from the shadows. Just as she was about to pull the trigger, the newcomer grabbed her gun with one hand, and threw the other elbow into her face. Another blow to her abdomen sent her reeling. The other two men immediately dropped me to engage the stranger and assist their companion.
While I was coughing up a storm on the ground trying to get my breath back, the fight raged on behind me. My savior had a bit of a temper. There was no mercy in the beat-down offered. The three of them should have been enough to take down an army, but this one person was putting up such a fight that they were constantly being thrown down on the ground and hurled into the walls. I heard fingers snapping, and I know I saw the figure break the woman's arm just by twisting it.
It wasn't until the stranger was standing over the last man and punching him repeatedly in the face with bone-crunching blows that I knew the fight had to end. "Stop it!" I gasped. "You're going to … going to kill him!" Only when I pulled the stranger away with a weak grip did the pummeling stop.
I thought for sure that a dark figure in a seedy alley in Gotham City saving a girl from getting murdered by a psychotic loon's posse in the middle of the night had to be Batman. After all, that's what he does. But the size was wrong. And I knew that red-and-black suit too well. It couldn't be, but it had to be.
"Jackie?"