The Bat and the Jester

Chapter Three

Young billionaire Bruce Wayne sat in his corner office at Wayne Tower, the tallest and most modern skyscraper to grace Gotham City's skyline. Once his father's office, it was massive, with black marble tile and floor to ceiling windows that made it seem as if you could walk right into the blue sky beyond. His desk was nothing more than a four inch thick piece of oval-shaped glass, supported by two black marble pillars that hid the power and data cords that attached to the desk's only two adornments: a large touchscreen computer terminal and a phone. The chair upon which he sat was black pillowed leather, set into an almost egg-shaped frame that was supported by a single, stationary spire which allowed the chair to move back and forth in much the same way a seat would in a car. Besides the glass window-walls behind him, the walls leading to the inner office area were also transparent, and while elegant they often caused the young businessman to feel as if he were in a fishbowl... or cage.

As for the tower itself, it had been constructed by his grandfather in the early seventies, under much dispute from the city leaders and other businesses as they feared that an eighty-story mirrored-glass tower wouldn't fit with the city's older, gothic and art-deco style buildings. But the council eventually relented, and Wayne Tower began to draw business from all over the state.

From a business point of view, the day had been productive. Wayne Enterprises was a conglomerate that oversaw multiple divisions and various holdings, and today Bruce signed off on the contracts that would expand some overseas operations involving drilling and construction. He had grown accustomed to his nightly patrols and surviving off little sleep, but the mental exhaustion of being a 27 year-old CEO was sometimes harder than being the Bat. It was nearly three o'clock, and he was ready to return to the mansion and grab a quick powernap before his nightly patrol. As he was about to stand, the intercom button on his phone lit up.

"Mr. Wayne?" His assistant, Beverly, who had served both his father and grandfather, spoke in her elderly yet pleasant voice. "There is a Vicky Vale on line one for you."

Bruce was suddenly struck with conflicting emotions. Vicky Vale was young, beautiful, intelligent, and a talented reporter. Indeed, in an age where printed newspapers across the country were falling to their internet rivals, Ms. Vale was credited with not only allowing the paper to survive, but thrive. But on his emotional flip-side, the kiss he'd shared with Harleen was burned into his soul. He stared at the blinking green light, took a deep breath, and picked up the receiver. "Vicky! To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Bruce! Well, after our lunch date the other day, I thought I'd hear from you sooner. After waiting the mandatory five days, I decided to call." Her answer seemed light-hearted, but there was a touch of poison in her sarcasm.

"Ouch... yeah, sorry. I would lie and blame it all on business, but a relentless reporter like you would see right through me."

"I see how it is... a new girl every night. So when does the rotation swing back around to me?"

"I can assure you that isn't what is happening," he joked while only half-lying. "I haven't seen anybody since our lunch date."

"How about dinner tonight? My treat."

It had been three days since his roof-top rendezvous, and he was becoming worried; not only about Harleen's well-being, but also if Joker had drawn her back into his clutches. "Vicky, please forgive me, but I have been on the phone with Japan and Dubai all day and I want nothing more than a glass of brandy and a nap. Raincheck?"

"Fine. But don't think I will wait forever, Mr. Wayne. And don't have your secretary call me; you have my number." Her tone was still pleasant, albeit slightly aggravated.