[Phonoho]

Synopsis: Set in the DC Universe, where bats are becoming a problem, for everyone.

Batman:
111 Starlet Ave.

For a Saturday night, it was quiet at Lila’s New Yorker. Public works had kept the winter streets clear of snows, but could do little to tame the frigid easterlies coming in off the bay. Its frozen winds howled through the after hours streets, avenging angels, bent on chasing the errant indoors and keeping even the criminal element at bay. A warm place was the best place to be, and on a cold Saturday night, the best place to be in Gotham was Lila's.

Of course, Dic Tricksey was there, auditioning the club’s new piano. Jo-Dee had shown up, nodding at me as Chic handed his sax, Spider, from behind the bar. I could hear Milf on brushes, but didn’t see him. He must be backstage, with a hangover.

The sounds were smooth and electric; they swirled and whispered in designer fabrics on flesh, a dancer’s gown in motion as she moves. It was good to hear those sounds so clearly over the usual din of chatted seduction and laughter. Yes, it was quiet tonight, but warming up quickly.

The unofficial starting point on Gotham’s celebrated pub crawl, Lila’s was located one block off the city’s main downtown avenue, just across the street from Gleason’s 5 Star Grill. It was a bright spot on the radar of Hollywood’s social elite, where any night of the week, especially weekends, patrons at Lila’s represented a who’s who of Gotham and national celebrity, a status helped along, in no small part, by me, Jack Naste. Lila, the club’s owner, was my wife and co-host of my syndicated radio talk show, Jack Naste’s Last Hour. I aired my first show from this very building, 23 years ago. The station has since relocated to the hills above Arkham, but I still do an annual remote broadcast from here on the anniversary of our first show, which was coming up next weekend. The club had expanded and I was here scouting the equipment set-up for the station crew. My wife was still there finishing up her segment for tomorrow.

A breath of icy wind blew in from the entry. I waited for the coat check before looking up from my notes.
She was tall and striking, even in flats and dim light, with serious features and close, playfully cropped hair. Her casual business suit, with its razor sharp lines, did little to conceal her studied gait as she glided across room to the bar. Most women only get that with heels.
On the chair next to her she placed a small, leather bound portfolio with her Coach bag on top. The bar chairs were tall, but she didn’t even use the rail; she simply side-stepped into the seat. Another leggy model, I guess, looking for a break.
Chic leaned in, offering an ear as she ordered a drink. I tried to get back to my notes but, moments later, caught myself looking up to see what she had ordered.

Champagne. Was she celebrating? A date?

Chic slid her credit card back to her across the bar, leaning in with a pat on her hand. I watched his mouth move to utter that same phrase I’d witnessed pass his lips so many times before.

“It’s been taken care of.”

I started to call him over to get the details, but just then, as the model was putting away her plastic, the leather folder slid off the chair, sending a stack of 8x10 glossy photos to fan out across the floor. I rushed over to help retrieve them. As we kneeled together in apology to gather up the photos, our knees bumped and I smelled her heady perfume, heard the whispering tug of fabrics across her toned skin. The warmth rose as we stood and I caught a glimpse of one of the photos: a monochromatic image of something dark and gothic, a statuesque form in black, poised against a city skyline, tensed as if for action. When I handed her the photos I had collected, her long, perfect fingers brushed mine, sending through me an electric chill which ended somewhere south of my Armani label.

She could be charmed, I thought. Lila would like this one.

“Thank you, so much,” she said in a buttery voice that reminded me of matinees and Art Deco. She settled onto her chair, sliding the photos back into the portfolio and zipping it tightly.

“No problem,” is all I could muster, my heart still racing as I elbowed up to the bar, grasping for a line, something to say, anything to prolong the exquisite agony aroused by her proximity. Unaware, she offered no relief as she continued.

“It’s a photo project. I’m a photographer,” she offered with an apologetic dip of her lovely head.

Ah, a former model.

“Gargoyles?” I asked. There, humor always works.

She knitted her manicured brows and peered at me quizzically. “No, bats,” she said, as if I should have known.

“Bats?” I echoed, not making the connection, my own radar still apparently jammed.

She rolled her eyes girlishly, banishing the seductive image somewhat. “Stirred up by the new construction?” She waited for my Man-brain to complete another squeaky revolution before she went on, “I’m a wildlife photographer. I’ve been trying to locate the source of a bat colony here in the city.”

Hmmm, a blonde Elvira. Some good S and M value in that. Lila would be pleased.

While she sipped her champagne I glanced at Chic, who winked to acknowledge his attention to my game. He knew the plays and often called the game himself. This time, however, he was on the sidelines.

Tricksey, by now, was well satisfied with the caliber of the new piano; he broke into a hustling little number called Shoeshine Bus, which lured several couples onto the dancefloor in their socked feet.

“So, have you found any? Bats?” I asked to keep her talking. A dry mouth needs refreshment, and well moistened lips speak frankly.

“No, not yet,” she said, as if it mattered not at all, “but I did get shots of something else.” She drained her glass and pushed it across the bar for another. Chic had brought out a bottle from our private stock. I shot him a warning glance as he poured.

“The Bat-man?” I asked, so smooth and sarcastic, to get her dander up and her blood moving.

She threw a quick, conspirative glance over her shoulder at Chic, a dramatic gesture that reminded me of some RKO Pictures starlet. “Thermo-graphic images,” she said after a moment, “I caught him on the ledge of Wayne Tower.” Her voice had dropped a breath to the near whisper of shared secrets and conspiracy. “I have stills and video footage - three nights worth.”

She must have mistaken my expression for disbelief as my mind shifted gears away from the seduction. From that point on, she had my full, undivided attention. She leaned forward. “I watched him dive off that ledge and return there an hour later.” I smelled her perfume again, but by this time my lusts had subsided, giving rise to other, more potent desires.

“Have you shown the pictures to anyone?” I asked, desperately hoping she had not. This kind of interview could keep the station's national ratings up for the next 5 years. It could even flush him out of hiding. Damn! WGTH: The Station that outed the Batman!

“Yeah, a police sergeant. Gordon, I think his name was.” She seemed less intent now. “He thinks there’s nothing in the pictures, that the video footage is too inexpert to be reliable.” A fleeting look crossed her sculpted features. Self doubt? Desperation? Perfect.

“So, he didn’t keep the pictures?” I hoped, attempting to display only mild interest at this point, at least until I knew that she still possessed all the photos and video.

“Oh, I gave him all the prints and video,” she said, smiling, “but I uploaded everything to my computer the night before.”

Struggling to contain my excitement, I attempted to change tack. “What next? The Gotham Times? CNN?”

She sipped at her glass, there in her catbird seat, and looked at me coyly, “I met a guy last night who thinks he can get me a feature in the Times. I’m meeting him here.” She looked at her watch. 9:32. Still early. Most patrons used the rear entrance after dark. The lower lounge near the stage was filling up, but it was still quiet here in the upper bar.

Maintaining my composure, I stood and she offered me her hand, which, I should have noticed had my mind not been racing so, was elegantly cool, but with a firm, assured grip. “Well, it was so nice to meet you and good luck in your endeavors,” I said, “I can’t wait to read the article, Miss…?”

“Oh! I’m sorry. Vale. Vicki Vale. Thank you for the help.” She flashed me a final, radiant smile, then offered her glass to Chic for a refill, who shot me a palms-up, glance as I headed toward the Men’s room.

Once inside, I dialed the station number on my cell phone. My wife picked up on the second ring.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” I said, savoring the news.

“Well, what’s up? I’m almost done.” She sounded annoyed, probably just tired.

Wincing, I plunged on, “We need to scrap the write up for the anniversary show; I’ve got….”

“What? Are you nuts? The campaign is in full swing and Dent’s interview is already scheduled. The round table thing? Your idea, remember?”

One…two…three…, “I’ve got pictures of the Batman,” I paused, letting that sink in. "And thermo-nuclear-whatchamacallit video.”

She said nothing for a moment. “You’re full of shit, Jack,” finally.

“The photographer is here now,” I said, spoon-feeding her, slowly. "And she has the pics with her.”

Another moment of silence, then, “She? I told you to wait for me.”

“I was waiting, but this came up,” I said, relishing each thrilling second of my triumph. “Are you coming?”

“Keep her there. Don’t let her leave.” Oh, the lustful savage, she is!

“She’s waiting for someone, it seems,” but I knew her answer before it came.

“Get her drunk. Get him drunk, too, just keep them there. Chic knows the game. I’m on my way.”

They say that pride goeth before a fall, but how can one prove that to be true, and with absolute certainty, without first becoming an example himself? This was a thought that occurred to me only later, after I returned to the bar and discovered Ms. Vale missing and Chic, staring stupidly at me from behind the bottles.

“She left,” he said, simply.

“What?” not quite understanding. This couldn’t be…

“With her date. Just a minute ago, with Mr. Wayne.” He looked sheepish, as if I might fire him, though only my wife could do that.

“Who?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.

“Bruce Wayne, sir.”
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Author's note: This could use more body text. I seem to have devolved into dialogue torward the end. I'll be filling in here and there.