Enemies & Allies by Kevin J. Anderson Page A

vision of Gotham City. Tonight we can make our mark on the world—a mark that begins with a dollar sign.”
    “Bruce, dear, you have more money than all of us combined,” purred Selina Kyle, dusky, lithe, and beautiful as she came up behind him as if to take possession. “For the cost of this party, you could have made a substantial donation of your own.”
    Bruce lifted his glass to salute the beautiful socialite. “I intend to do both, Miss Kyle. After you all make your donations, Wayne Enterprises will match the total, dollar for dollar. So if you’d like to make me dig deep into my pockets, then dig deeply into yours.”
    A squawking chortle emanated from a dapper, rotund man, whom Bruce instantly recognized as Oswald Cobblepot. “At that rate, he’ll fund a cure for polio in a single night.”
    “Don’t worry, Mr. Cobblepot, I’m sure we can find other worthy causes.” Bruce bowed slightly. “All of you, please enjoy yourselves.”
    Alfred ran the manor household and serving staff like a militia. No tray of hors d’oeuvres was allowed to circulate half-empty; glasses of wine and champagne always had to be filled. Cuban cigars and Turkish cigarettes were offered in ornate silver cases.
    Bruce worked his way through clusters of the rich and famous, shaking hands, trying not to spend too much time with any one person or group. Selina Kyle slipped her arm through his and walked along smoothly beside him. Her well-trained society voice carried perfectly. “We really should see each other more often, dear. You know, we are absolutely perfect for each other.” She rolled her r ’s as she talked. He had never been able to place her accent precisely.
    Despite the temptation, he expertly cut her out of his sphere and slid into another clutch of the well-to-do, pleading an important bit of business with the city treasurer (though he had met the man only once). Selina accepted the brush-off with a flirtatious smile and a promise that they would talk again soon.
    The conversations generally had nothing to do with polio, extending well beyond the concerns of Gotham City. Bruce repeatedly heard the excited buzz about the so-called Superman from Metropolis. Gotham police commissioner Loeb, a corrupt man at the top of a blue pyramid of corrupt officers, delighted in talking about strangeness in another city rather than the problems of his own. He lost no opportunity to make disparaging comments about the inept Metropolis police.
    “But Gotham has its own costumed maniac.” Cobblepot chomped down on his ebony cigarette holder. “Maybe the Batman has alien superpowers, too, eh, Commissioner? That would explain why your men can never catch him.” He let out a nasal snicker.
    Loeb’s face darkened. “Superman’s a hero, saves children from burning buildings in broad daylight. The Batman slinks around at night, evades arrest, and assaults on-duty officers. He’s nothing but another criminal. We have twenty-nine pending charges against him, and that’s just for starters. He’s Gotham’s number-one most wanted.”
    Cobblepot took a long draw, then tapped a stem of ash into a silver tray as he let out his birdlike laugh again. “You’re just upset, Commissioner, because you can’t make the Batman pay you a bribe.”
    Loeb bristled. “I will not be insulted by a petty gangster in an ill-fitting top hat and tails!”
    Now it was Cobblepot’s turn to take umbrage. He screwed a monocle into his eye to inspect the commissioner as though he were an interesting specimen. “I am a respectable nightclub owner, sir.”
    “Respectable!”
    “And what is your opinion on the Batman, Mr. Wayne?” said an unmistakable breathy voice. Bruce turned from Cobblepot and Loeb to see that Marilyn Monroe had shown up, accompanied by her new husband, playwright Arthur Miller.
    “He baffles me, Miss Monroe. Why should the Batman spend his nights lurking in alley shadows when he could be at a cocktail party instead?” His flippant