À Bon Chat, Bon Rat

CAT-TALES ÀÀ BBON CCHAT,, BBON RRAT CAT-TALES ÀÀ BBON CCHAT,, BBON RRAT By Chris Dee COPYRIGHT © 2011, CHRIS DEE ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. BATMAN, CATWOMAN, GOTHAM CITY, ET AL CREATED BY BOB KANE, PROPERTY OF DC ENTERTAINMENT, USED WITHOUT PERMISSION catwoman-cattales.com facebook.com/cattales.by.chris.dee ISBN: 978-1544223360 À BON CHAT, BON RAT At one time, the public Bruce Wayne practically made a career of globetrotting. He never used the word vacation. That term implied a respite from work, like the weekend. A vacation was something for those funny little people who worked for a living. Since the playboy did not work, he did not vacation. He drifted, like Fitzgerald socialites, to places where polo was played and people were rich together. It was convenient for Bruce Wayne to be in Gstaad or Mykonos or St. Thomas when Batman was pulling a heavy schedule. It was camouflage in the same way the women were camouflage. On those occasions when he did go to some jet set playground in person, he picked up local beauties to be photographed with. He did not bring his Gotham arm candy with him. Both the travel and the women were something that looked like pleasure to the outside world, but were, for Bruce, just another facet of his work. Bruce the playboy might not work, but Batman most certainly did. Even so, he never felt the need for a vacation, not until Alfred tricked him into taking one. The effect was dramatic. It was years before he considered that the sudden release from the nightly pressures of his work, coupled with the idyllic change of scene, might have played a role in his decision to tell Catwoman his identity. He had to wonder if he was unusually susceptible to the effects of that release from having waited so long to do it. Once he and Selina became a couple, one of the first shocks was the change she brought to Bruce Wayne’s social life. That first winter together attending the endless whirl of parties, balls, and galas in the weeks before Christmas, to suddenly find himself with a partner who shared his perspective on the world. Selina thought like he did: it would be a crisis if the guest of honor was trapped in her embassy by rebel guerillas, not that she was trapped at the buffet with Gerald Knaff after saying Mrs. Knaff needs therapy more than another round of botox. Years had passed since that first rush of discovery, but Bruce was still struck when he found himself revisiting one of those old playboy experiences now that Selina was in his life. This trip, for example. It was not globetrotting for Bat-camouflage, but it was the kind of travel-intensive schedule he’d often maintained in the early days. Three cities in Asia and five in Europe in less than two weeks. Yet with Selina along, it was all strangely different. Not completely different. Tokyo was still Tokyo. He’d wanted to see Tadao Toda while he was there, sit in on a class at Nippon Budōkan, and have sushi at Sukiyabashi Jiro. But for all the sameness, it was strangely and wonderfully different. Selina had enough sword training to revere Toda as much as Bruce did. She could sit in on the class legitimately, not as a rich man’s plaything, and her presence did not disgrace him. Later, when she sat down to what many believe to be the best sushi in the world, well, Selina experienced pleasure like few people in the Cat-Tales world. She knew how to savor, and watching her make the most of whatever delights life brought her way was contagious and arousing. It’s what made the trip to Cartier so unique. The last city of the Wayne Tech tour was Paris, and Bruce had dangled the carrot of shopping when he asked her to come with him. He had given her jewelry before, of course, but never like this. Never walking into the store together. It was something he had done before with the bimbos, women whose aim was to guess how many diamonds they could get away with or how big a stone. Maybe Selina was different because she could “get away with” literally any piece in the store without any help from him—and, in fact, despite his best efforts to stop her. She had no agenda when she looked over the pieces in a case. She simply chose what she liked, which had more to do with cut and color, the design and artistry of a piece, rather than its price tag. Bruce could see it as her eyes flickered around a case. She was drawn to clean lines, square cut stones and invisible mounts. Platinum or white gold over yellow. And the contrast between dark colors and light. She would linger over dark sapphires or the deepest, darkest emeralds set against white diamonds, while her eye passed over a dozen brighter pieces worth more than the sapphires and less than the emeralds. When she tried something on, it was like watching her savor dessert at d’Annunzio’s. The bimbos just took in their reflection, contemplating all that money wrapped around their necks or dangling from their ears. They looked at themselves in the jewelry more than the jewels themselves—which was the point, Bruce supposed, but something about it always seemed a little perverse to him. Selina, on the other hand, looked at herself in a necklace, then at something beyond, within her reflection. Bruce imagined she was picturing herself owning it. Then came the little glow, that spark of delight, and her focus shifted back at the mirror—and at him standing behind her. He could see the link in her mind… Because the item came from him? Or was it something else? Something more private. He couldn’t guess what ‘it’ was exactly, but he had a hunch it was connected to Batman. She decided finally on a pair of earrings—emeralds, which brought out her eyes beautifully—and she asked, naturally, to have her initial engraved very discreetly on the back. The salesman was confused, of course. Mademoiselle and Monsieur both spoke excellent French, but he was afraid there must be a misunderstanding. On the back, it would never be seen. Selina gave a magnificent portrayal of a she-fop as she explained that the world might not see it, but she would know it was there. Bruce smiled his approval: he would have suggested it himself if Selina hadn’t. Engraving meant they couldn’t take the earrings with them now. They would have to pick them up tomorrow—which meant Catwoman could return and take them tonight. Return she did. Batman had taken up a position over the Ministère de la Justice, located conveniently between their hotel and Cartier’s front door. He saw Catwoman climb out their window and to the roof, take the long route around Place Vendôme, redirecting the traffic cameras as she went. Finally she reached Cartier, made short work of their rooftop system, and disappeared inside. He’d give her four minutes to reach the vault and another five to crack it. If he timed this right, he should be able to catch her red-handed… 2 À Bon Chat, Bon Rat Tom Blake did not consider himself a homicidal maniac. He would kill things that were put on the Earth to be killed as a testament to man’s dominance of his world: a rhino, an elephant, a giraffe or wildebeest, creatures whose very size and power challenged men like him to prove their own size and power through conquest. He saw himself a Hemmingway born by mistake into the age of Stephenie Meyer, a hard- living, hard-drinking Man among mice, a Great White Hunter in a world of video safaris shared on Facebook, COPY THIS MESSAGE IN YOUR PROFILE TO PROTEST IVORY POACHERS IN KENIA! (misspelled, naturally) But he wasn’t a killer. He was in the high security wing at Arkham, but he wasn’t insane. He was just born out of his time. He never seriously considered choking the life out of another human being (except Batman, who didn’t count). He never considered caging a human being (except Batman) and letting them loose in a deserted wood for the ultimate hunt that pulp writers dubbed The Deadliest Game. Okay technically he had considered hunting Robin, Nightwing and Green Arrow as well as Batman, and he’d had a rather spicy hunt dream one time involving Cheshire, but on the whole, caging, hunting, and killing people wasn’t his thing. And he certainly never considered taking that torchiere in Dr. Bartholomew’s office, removing the metal tube, sharpening it into a spear, and ramming it repeatedly into somebody’s chest with a force to break through their rib cage and pound their heart into hamburger. Not until now. Best high EVER. Paris with Bruce. The most scrumptious earrings, ever so slightly evocative of the sapphire and diamond ones I left the night of that first rooftop kiss at Cartier, without being so similar that they leave uncomfy associations. After all, the Bat and Cat of that night blew it. They’re long gone, and I don’t want their memory tainting my beautiful gift from Bruce. But now, after Paris with Bruce, Cartier with Bruce, it’s Paris with Batman. Cartier Paris with Batman. The best high ever. Getting to steal those purrfectly wonderful earrings right out from under his— Stomach.

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