Batman: Resurrection

By John Jackson Miller

Batman: Resurrection

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Batman: Resurrection is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 DC & WBEI.

BATMAN and all related characters and elements © & ™ DC and Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. WB SHIELD: © & ™ WBEI. (s24)

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Random House Worlds, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

Random House is a registered trademark, and Random House Worlds and colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Miller, John Jackson, author.

Title: Batman: resurrection / John Jackson Miller.

Description: First edition. | New York: Random House Worlds, 2024. | Series: Batman ; 1

Identifiers: LCCN 2024023177 (print) | LCCN 2024023178 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593871904 (hardcover ; acid-free paper) | ISBN 9780593871911 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Batman (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | LCGFT: Superhero fiction. | Detective and mystery fiction. | Novels.

Classification: LCC PS3613.I53858 B38 2024 (print) | LCC PS3613.I53858 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20240531

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2024023177

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2024023178

Ebook ISBN 9780593871911

randomhousebooks.com

Book design by Edwin A. Vazquez, adapted for ebook

ep_prh_7.0a_148618113_c0_r0

Contents

Dedication

Prologue So Much to Do…and So Little Time

Act I: A Living Work of Art

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Act II: Art, Until Someone Dies

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Act III: Those Wonderful Toys

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Act IV: Who Do You Trust?

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Act V: Time to Pay the Check

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Acknowledgments

About the Author

_148618113_

To Tim Burton,

Michael Keaton, Jack Nicholson, Kim Basinger,

Michael Gough, Robert Wuhl, Pat Hingle,

Billy Dee Williams, Sam Hamm, Warren Skaaren,

Benjamin Melniker, Michael Uslan, Danny Elfman,

and all those who inspired me in 1989—

and 2 the memory of Prince

There’s got to be a better way to read a map!

Karlo Babić lowered his map and squinted up at the street sign, barely visible. Someone had knocked out the streetlight—or shot it out. In this neighborhood, there was no telling. The sun was about to set, but nobody in this part of Gotham City ever laid eyes on it after three anyway. The buildings were too tall. Karlo had moved to the city years ago and still had never gotten his bearings. It was worse when he was in a hurry—like now.

Culver and Klebbs. But which way on Klebbs is Culver?

A beer truck whisked past, splashing through water puddled by the afternoon rain. It soaked Karlo and map alike.

Thanks, pal! Angrily, he shook the crumpled sheet. There’s got to be a better way to find an address!

He glimpsed at his watch. Two hours to showtime. He’d have to ask someone. Preferably a cop—but the last time one of those had been in this neighborhood, he was probably riding a horse. And Karlo didn’t think it was smart to ask one when he was headed to make a deal with what could be a—

There! Karlo spotted what he was looking for ahead and threw the map to the ground. One more piece of litter wasn’t going to make a difference here, and time was wasting. He dashed toward the corner.

Culver was barely an alley, in either direction. Another choice—but a simple one. He picked the more dangerous-looking one and hurried down it.

A curly-haired man emerged from a doorway without a door. Where’s the fire?

Karlo stopped cold, and without thinking, took a step back. Someone else might not have. The punk wore a dirty cap and a single earring—was it a tooth, a claw, a white banana? He didn’t appear to be armed. Karlo was taller and bulkier, but he wasn’t wired for violence—not the real kind, anyway. And around here, it was safe to assume this character wasn’t alone.

He wasn’t, though the individual who emerged next from the doorway was even less imposing. A scrawny guy in a neck brace, carrying a gym bag. He saw Karlo and turned immediately to go back inside.

The first punk barked at him. Get back here, Eddie!

Oh! Hearing the name, Karlo reached into his pocket and produced a crumpled sheet of paper. I’m looking for Eddie and—are you Nick?

Guilty, the earring guy said. Once the mawkish Eddie reappeared, Nick sized Karlo up. You don’t look like you’re in the market for what we’ve got. You a cop?

What? Karlo looked around, flustered. No!

Then who sent you?

I called the number. Karlo opened the sheet. There was a flyer—

Nick smiled at Eddie. Y’see? Advertising works.

His injured partner stammered a response. "Yeah. Ad-ad-advertising."

It was the first peep that Karlo had heard from Eddie—and it was drowned out by a loud mechanical clang from somewhere up the street. Eddie nearly jumped out of his shoes in response. His bloodshot eyes darted in one direction, and then another.

Karlo was befuddled. The person he’d spoken to on the phone had specified this meeting place, but Eddie seemed more frightened of the area than he was. Is he all right?

Nick shrugged. Don’t mind him. Somebody put him in the hospital.

Ba-ba-ba— Eddie stammered, almost involuntarily.

Nick spun and clapped his hand over Eddie’s mouth. Don’t say it! We don’t say that word!

Don’t say what? Karlo asked.

Don’t mind him. He hallucinates. Nick gripped Eddie’s scratchy face more tightly. "Now shut up. Shut. Up."

The smaller man squirmed but went silent. But as soon as Nick released him and faced Karlo, Eddie blurted out, Batman!

Where? Nick said, just as jumpy. Realizing no one was about, he let out a deep breath.

Karlo looked from one punk to the other. What, you met Batman? For real?

Nick calmed down. Yeah. Attacked us both—cops tried to get us on armed robbery, but they couldn’t hold us.

Karlo found that hard to believe. He’d assumed Batman was just another stunt to sell newspapers. Nobody had ever taken a picture of him. But it didn’t matter. Karlo looked down at the gym bag. He reached toward it. Is that it? I need it bad!

Nick waved him off. Hold on. Gonna need to see some cash here.

Karlo started to go for his wallet—only to flinch. I’m…not sure.

Relax, Nick said. We ain’t gonna steal your money. We don’t do that no more.

No, no more, Eddie said. We’re honest bus— He spent another ten seconds on the word businessmen, long enough to drive Nick to distraction.

Give me that, Nick said, yanking the gym bag away from his partner. He pivoted toward a garbage can that still had its lid. That served as a makeshift counter as he unzipped the bag. Take a look at the merch. But if you say no, we’ve got a dozen other buyers.

Karlo stepped over and looked inside. He couldn’t believe it. This is the good stuff?

You bet.

Karlo reached inside and pulled out one container after another, squinting at them in the waning light. Lipstick tubes. Boxes of mustache and hair dye. Blusher compacts. This is amazing. What did you do, clean out a perfume counter?

Eddie squeaked a response. No! He moved forward, trying to appeal to Karlo. We didn’t take nothin’.

Quiet! Nick shoved Eddie away before looking back at Karlo and the goods. "What’s it to you how we got it? What’s important is where we got it. Every bit of it is imported."

From out of state is good, Karlo thought. Out of the country is better.

One week ago, a crazed character called The Joker had started tainting consumer products with something bad—Smylex, he’d called it—and it did things to people. Karlo didn’t understand how it worked; he was years past his last science class and he did lousy in those anyway. Whatever it was caused seizures accompanied by uncontrollable laughter, before freezing facial muscles into a smiling rictus at the moment of death.

Karlo hadn’t been watching when a broadcaster had died on air from exposure, but neither good taste nor respect for their lost colleague had prevented Action News from rerunning the footage again and again. It had sent Gothamites into a full-fledged panic. But where others were searching for answers during Gotham’s shopping nightmare, to use the term a beleaguered newscaster had used just an hour ago, Karlo was simply searching for cosmetics that could be trusted.

And he wasn’t sure about these. He looked at one item after another. A lot of it was unlabeled. Safe stuff’s impossible to get. How did you—?

We got it from a guy who knows a guy, Nick replied. Dude said he had a truck in from Central City.

That was reasonably far away, Karlo thought. Selling makeup isn’t illegal. Why did you ask if I was a cop?

Again with the questions! Nick yanked the bag back and closed it.

Eddie piped up. "It’s not sto-sto-stolen. Don’t tell the Bat!"

Nick whipped off his cap and struck Eddie with it. I told you to stop saying that! He put his hat back on and glared at Karlo. We’re on the straight and narrow now. Do you want any of this stuff or not?

Karlo looked at his watch. Time was running out—and he decided it didn’t much matter whether the goods were stolen. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out his wallet. How much for all of it?

Nick sneered. All of it? You can’t afford— He stopped when Karlo opened the wallet, revealing a lot of cash. Nick brightened. "And you thought we robbed somebody!"

It’s not mine. I’m buying for someone else. How much?

Nick smiled at a quivering Eddie before looking back. Let me see. He reached unthreateningly for Karlo’s wallet and counted. Yeah, all this should cover it.

That’s crazy!

It’s a seller’s market, pal.

Karlo thought for a moment—and looked at the darkening shadows in the street. Leave me a twenty.

Nick thought about it—and plucked a twenty out to put in Karlo’s hand. As Karlo eagerly leaned over to grab for the bag, Nick chucked an empty wallet into it. Guess the wife needs her eyeshadow, he said. But you ain’t gonna take her someplace nice on a twenty.

I’m not married, Karlo said, rising. I need it to get a cab—if I can find one. He turned and ran for the street. There was still time.

—

Night had fallen when Karlo’s cab turned onto Theatre Row. He’d first seen the broad avenue with its colorful lights back in an old movie, one where everyone that set foot on it burst into song. On Theatre Row, it’s the place to go…

And go he had. Karlo had harbored the acting bug forever, and he knew he had the chops. He’d quit a good job driving an airport shuttle bus to pursue his calling. But Theatre Row had not been kind to his dreams. Not being able to sing or dance wasn’t fatal. His face was. He didn’t have the right look, or so the casting directors always said. We don’t have a Frankenstein’s monster role, as one had uncharitably put it.

At the same time, his general good nature kept him out of playing the heavies. Oh, he knew he could—he was broad-shouldered, with a prominent brow that gave him a scowl that could scare children. But didn’t Gotham City have enough bad guys in real life?

Instead, he’d survived by being malleable—by fitting himself into whatever role the troupe needed him for. He ran lines with other actors, mended costumes, did makeup, built sets, handed out playbills, cleaned toilets—anything, just to appear in crowd scenes. He would learn the lines of the more difficult actors, on the mere chance he might get asked to understudy. He never went on, but he liked the feeling of being close to the stage.

He watched all the famous venues approach—and then recede as the cab passed them by. Their lights were still on, but many of the shows were dark, having paused in response to The Joker’s poisoning wave. Half of going to live theatre was being seen going to live theatre, and that meant getting dolled up. The hardy few seeking entertainment now had to visit Theatre Row’s side street, which housed venues too defiant—or too desperate—to close.

Like the Capra.

There was no better name for a movie theatre—except that wasn’t what it was. The dilapidated venue hosted stage productions, and Karlo had heard it wasn’t named for the film director at all. The cabbie glanced out the window at it as the taxi came to a stop. You’re early for the show. Or there just ain’t nobody here.

Actually, I’m late. Karlo paid the driver and fought his usual impulse to wait for change. Thanks. Gotta go!

He hurried past the marquee that he’d gotten to know too well. He’d stood on a rickety ladder the day before to put up the movable letters. They read:

The Goat’s Town Players Present

Tolliver Kingston in

Th3 T3mp3st

The Capra and its repertory company put on the classics not out of devotion or pretension, but necessity: the Bard didn’t charge rights fees. It said something about the star—and the state of the theatre company—that his name got the only spare E they had.

That had been one of his many demands. The bag Karlo carried was another. He rounded the corner and made for the stage door. He entered, bag in hand, and looked around. Several of his colleagues milled about, helping each other to get ready. "Tolliver! I’ve got it! Tolliver!"

Finally! From the far end of the hall, a man wearing a turquoise cape festooned with golden stars pushed his way through the crowd to face Karlo. "I’ve been waiting for you all day. And I’ve told you again and again, it’s Mister Kingston to you!"

Yes, Mister Kingston.

Tolliver Kingston wasn’t that much older than Karlo, but the gulf between them was wide. With his firm jaw and wide, expressive eyes, the man wearing Prospero’s magic cloak had the right look, if not much else. He’d been a recurring soap-opera villain, but his most recent onscreen death had come as a surprise to him—and his agent. Karlo surmised that they’d finally had enough of his attitude. It had brought the actor east to Gotham City, where he had found his exile lasting a lot longer than he’d expected.

And Kingston had used every opportunity to take it all out on Karlo.

You’re a dreadful slowpoke! Curtain’s in thirty minutes. What else can go wrong?

Something else went wrong? Karlo was afraid to ask. Did I do it?

It’s that fool Milford.

Karlo released a breath. Our Caliban.

Not tonight. He’s at home. He used some breath spray and now he thinks he’s been poisoned by Smylex.

Oh, no! Karlo liked Milford. Is he all right?

He’s delusional. Milford’s breath is already a biological weapon. Kingston looked down at the bag. Is that it?

I got everything, just like you asked. It’s all imported.

Karlo unzipped the bag, and Kingston looked inside. He eyed Karlo. You’re sure?

Karlo didn’t know what to say. I paid enough for it.

No change?

He shrank. It cost everything you gave me.

Kingston groaned—and rubbed the bridge of his nose. I don’t have a choice. These lines are back. And have you seen my eyes? I’m not getting good sleep.

Tolliver— Karlo stopped, correcting himself. Mister Kingston, I wouldn’t worry. People are here for your performance. They all understand what’s going on. We’re about the only show open! If you went on without—

What are you talking about? Kingston grabbed Karlo by the shirt and yelled into his face. "They say they’ll understand—but all they’ll remember is Tolliver Kingston looking like something the cat dragged in. And then I’ll be doing skits for seniors in the activity room. He released Karlo with a shove. I might as well go out there naked."

Karlo wanted to say that Gotham City had suffered enough—but decided he’d never get to say anything else.

Kingston looked at the bag again. People vouched for this?

People did. Karlo inhaled. What weight an endorsement from Nick and Eddie was worth, he hesitated to say.

You swear it’s safe?

Karlo shrugged. I can’t do that. I mean, I haven’t tested it, but—

Kingston grabbed him by the collar again. Carlin, that’s wonderful!

Karlo was too stunned to correct him. What?

"Milford’s out. His understudy’s that skinny kid—no Caliban. But you could do it!"

Me? Karlo got excited. He was an actor, after all. I know the role. I go over it with Milford.

I’ve heard you. You’ll do it! He pushed the bag into Karlo’s hands. You’d better get ready.

Karlo looked down at the supplies, not understanding. For me?

You can’t be Caliban looking like that.

But don’t you want your stuff out of here? We both appear in the second scene.

That’s why you need to get ready fast. You’ll test the makeup first—and then you bring it to me.

Karlo realized what Kingston was asking—and had the nerve to say something. You want me to be your guinea pig?

"An actor, Caliban. Kingston put his arm around Karlo’s shoulder and guided him down the hallway. Besides, there’s nothing to worry about. That ridiculous harlequin on TV—it’s all a publicity stunt."

Then why did you send me to—

Do you want to argue or act? Because I’ll tell the director to go with the kid. Do we understand each other, Karlo?

Karlo nodded, as astounded by the opportunity as the sound of his correct name.

"Splendid. Now, I’ve got a wig to fit. At least nobody’s panicking about those!" Kingston stormed into his dressing room and slammed the door behind him.

Karlo turned and hurried into the changing room Milford always used. He wanted to think Kingston was doing something nice for him, to make up for months of miserable treatment. But of course, there was a catch. Yet—

—even so, it might work out. Karlo approached the mirrored table and used his arm to sweep all the existing, now-suspect supplies off into a garbage can. He threw the bag onto the table and began unloading its contents.

The first thing he saw was that the wallet in the bag wasn’t his. Nick had made a switch. It stung that Karlo’s ID was gone, but that was the only damage. If Nick had a thing for credit cards, he was going to be awfully disappointed.

Fifteen minutes to curtain, came a voice from the corridor. You don’t want to disappoint the brave souls who left the house looking like hell. Fifteen minutes!

Karlo stopped what he was doing and rushed to the door. Outside, a white-haired stagehand stood clutching a clipboard. Don’t forget to announce me! Karlo said.

"Announce you? You?"

As Caliban!

Oh, yeah. Mister Big Star told me. The old man removed the pencil from behind his ear. What’s your name?

I’ve only been here for twelve years! He rolled his eyes. Karlo Babić!

"Bah-beesh? The stagehand frowned. What kind of name is that?"

Croatian.

What’s it mean?

Karlo shrank. Old woman. He immediately thought better of it and stopped the stagehand from writing. Wait! No, don’t put that down.

He remembered all the great actors of old, and the names on the posters on his walls at home. A brainstorm struck. Use my stage name.

A white eyebrow went up. "You have a stage name?"

"Just use it. Basil Karlo."

Basil. Like the leaf?

Like the guy who played Sherlock Holmes!

"Gotcha. First name, a detective. Last name, the fink in The Godfather."

Karlo with a ‘K’!

Fine, fine. The stagehand started to write. You sure you don’t want to go for the full ‘Karloff’? You’ve got the look for—

From down the hall, Kingston bellowed. What’s keeping that idiot?

The stagehand smirked. I think your co-star is calling for you.

Just a few minutes, Mister Kingston! Karlo hurried back into the dressing room and slammed the door shut.

Karlo removed his shirt. He wasn’t in the kind of shape he wanted to be, but he knew he could make a better misanthrope than the understudy. Having made Milford up many times, he knew what to do. The large container of foundation he’d bought would serve for skin paint, with shadow and rouge applied to give him a look that was perfectly macabre.

His mind wasn’t on the powders and creams he was applying, but rather what would complete the effect: his performance. He went over his lines as he dabbed and rubbed. He hissed, This island’s mine, by Sycorax, my mother, which thou tak’st from me!

How poetic—how Shakespearean—life was. Prospero had come to Caliban’s island and bound him to his will, and Kingston had done the same to Karlo. But in a strange way, another figure in face paint, The Joker, had given him his big chance to show the world who he was, and what he could do.

All the charms of Sycorax—toads, beetles…

He found himself breathing hard. He tried to remember the lines.

Toads, beetles, bats…

Bats. The way the little punk had said bat was funny. Karlo hadn’t dared laugh at him. Now he felt a smile coming—and a good laugh, well-delayed.

But he didn’t laugh. His eyes went wide, and he looked at his face in the mirror. He didn’t recognize what he saw. His cheeks, where he’d rubbed the coloring, were misshapen. Arched, angular.

His first thought was that the lights were failing again.

His next was that he’d gotten it, the laughing sickness.

But he wasn’t making a sound. And as he pushed at his cheeks, he was able to make his tensed-up muscles relax. Only they didn’t stop there. They sagged, becoming jowls. His skin burned—and pawing at it only added to the pain. He grabbed his head in agony, only to find his hair coming out in clumps.

Karlo stood, knocking the chair over behind him. He tried to scream, but all that emerged from his misshapen mouth was a horrid gurgle. The world spun. And as he started to fall, a single confused thought intruded on his agony:

Why didn’t it make me laugh?

Chapter 1

You gotta love the dead, Alexander Knox had said many times. They don’t eat much, and they never bug their neighbors.

No one lasted long on the police beat if they went squirrelly when seeing a dead body. You couldn’t cover crime without encountering a victim—or twelve, as once happened to Knox during one of Carl Grissom’s infamous wars. The mobster’s lieutenant, Jack Napier, had likely done some of the killing that night; both of them were corpses themselves now. Grissom went the usual way for his kind, while Napier had gone crackers and plunged off the tallest cathedral in creation.

Knox had missed his chance to see Napier’s body that night, now nearly six months ago. Injured in the rampage, he had instead seen it in the hospital on the front page of his own Gotham Globe: The Joker, cracked like an egg, smiling up from the imprint he’d made in the pavement. The publication of the grisly image had provoked surprisingly little controversy. The people of Gotham City needed to see that the one who’d brought them such terror was gone for good.

But for Knox, it’d been all bad. Vicki Vale hadn’t taken that picture—she was definitely preoccupied at the time—and someone else had gotten the byline on the story of the century. His story, of Gotham City’s greed, of The Joker’s diabolical plan, of Batman’s incredible response. Back on his feet and on the beat, Knox had watched as someone else got nominated for his prize, all his legwork for naught. It wasn’t long before he was dealing with dead bodies again.

Only tonight, the corpse was a building.

The Capra was dead, having closed months earlier as another casualty of the Smylex panic. Ambulance lights had heralded The Tempest’s opening night, driving away the last remaining customers the ailing theatre had. The last play Shakespeare wrote without a partner turned out to be the final act for the Capra. The members of its company had gone their separate ways, but the corpse remained: a rundown building nobody could determine the ownership of. People had been fighting over the body ever since.

The Stantons, the Wallaces, and the Shrecks had sought the site for development, which brought out the usual people protesting that a piece of Gotham City’s history was at risk. Knox doubted that any of the daytime picketers had ever set foot in the firetrap when it was open.

But while the Capra was dead, it wasn’t deserted—not tonight.

Tipped off that people had gone inside, Knox had found the back door jimmied open. He entered the theatre, moving cautiously through halls that had been without power for weeks. But someone had some juice, if the hard-pounding music he was hearing was any indication. He followed the sound to where light flickered through a stage access door. Is the show back on?

He tested the stairs leading behind the stage. They looked creaky, but with the music blaring he figured no one would notice. Ascending, he saw that wooden scenery from the ill-fated final performance still stood on set, with Prospero’s Island stenciled on the back. He found a small seam in the facade and crept up to peek through it.

Somebody’s having a clambake. A beach party was raging on the island set. A bonfire burned in a large metal garbage can; next to it was a huge boombox. Wild partiers danced around them while clutching glass bottles. Some they smashed against the stage floor; others, they hurled over the seats in the once-great hall. The great size of the auditorium had so far kept it from filling with smoke; if the Capra ever had fire alarms, they weren’t going off.

Knox gently put his hands against the scenery to steady himself as he looked more closely through the opening. There were close to a dozen adults, he figured, several wearing party masks. No—clown masks. There had been a run on those at novelty shops since The Joker’s demise, and they’d become the disguise of choice for the city’s more impressionable lowlifes. But these characters’ mischief seemed limited to vandalism, fire code violations, and bad taste in music.

On top of everything else, he noticed a strange gassy smell. Wherever it was coming from, this seemed like a good place not to be. Knox was about to sneak away when a loud voice bellowed through the hall, audible over the music. Knock it off!

The dancers looked off to stage left. A hulking brute stomped into view, carrying a canvas bag. He tromped up to the boombox and switched it off. That’s when Knox saw what was on the bald newcomer’s face: black sunglasses, worn in a dark building in the middle of the night—and a giant black mustache that looked like it belonged on a cousin of Yosemite Sam.

Knox silently mouthed his name: Lawrence!

As The Joker, Napier had co-opted members of Grissom’s gang—as well as varied remnants of the other outfits he’d taken over. He’d also hired out, bringing in a cadre of assassins trained in special weapons and martial arts. Lawrence was just good old-fashioned muscle—and someone who had improbably survived the night of The Joker’s parade of terror in spite of his own foolishness. The Lucky Lunkhead, Knox had called him.

Based on the damage in the belfry of Gotham Cathedral and where Lawrence had been found, the police had surmised that the bruiser had attempted to jump Batman only to smash through the floor. He was fortunate there was another floor underneath to land on. Gothic architecture hadn’t been as kind to one of his cohorts. The rough landing had knocked Lawrence for a loop, and he’d wound up in traction—and then prison. Which is where he’d been, until a botched transfer the week before.

Lawrence’s presence at the Capra took this misdemeanor mayhem to another level, Knox thought. He fumbled for his recorder. He’d never heard Lawrence speak—he hadn’t said a word in his arraignment. But the bruiser’s voice boomed loud and deep as he shouted at the revelers.

Quit screwing around! Lawrence dropped the bag he was carrying onto the stage with a thunderous bang. Inebriated hooligans stood motionless as he approached. He loomed over one of them and seized his bottle. Who brought the hooch?

The drunken clown-face quivered. We—we found it!

Found it?

Behind the concession stand. The opening night that never happened. Clowny shrugged. Hey, man, no sense letting it go to waste!

Idiot! Lawrence struck the guy hard with the back of his hand. You’re supposed to waste the building!

Why? Knox wanted to ask. And even more than that: For whom? Startled into motion, he accidentally pushed against the scenery too hard—only to see the display start to tip forward. He grabbed at nothing, unable to prevent the plywood forest from crashing onto the stage in front of him.

Knox froze as all eyes turned in his direction. The reporter grinned sheepishly. How ya doin’?

Get him! Lawrence shouted.

Knox turned to run—only to trip over an electrical line. He lost his recorder as he fell. Scrambling to recover it proved a mistake, costing him valuable moments. No sooner did he return it to his overcoat pocket than the vandals were upon him.

Another command from Lawrence. Into the light!

The masked partiers dragged Knox to center stage, before the trash-can bonfire. The lone female among the punks shouted into his face. Come to see a show? It’s canceled!

"He’s canceled, said one of the two partiers holding him from behind. He’s a cop!"

Guys, guys. Relax, Knox said. I’m not a cop.

Bull! The woman yanked at the tie beneath his overcoat. Dressed like this, what are you?

Health department. I thought this was Perluigi’s Pizza. Knox strained against his captors. I’ll just be heading there now.

You’re staying! Lawrence yelled.

Knox shrank. I’m staying. Wisecracking had been his way out of a jam since his schoolyard days. It usually didn’t work then, either.

Frisk him, Lawrence ordered. If he wasn’t in charge before, he was now.

The woman fished through Knox’s opened overcoat and found his recorder. She held it up like she’d never seen one before. Where’d you get this?

I can get you a rate on one, Knox said.

It’s mine.

That’s what I meant. It’s yours. Happy birthday. He watched as she fiddled with it. Don’t eat the battery.

The sight of the recorder rang a bell for Lawrence. You’re that reporter. Knox.

And you are Lawrence. There was no sense pretending now, Knox thought; they’d seen each other in a court appearance. You’re looking better. I’m sure it’s nice to be out and about. But I thought you’d be anywhere but here. Chicago, Metropolis.

Lawrence got into his face and snarled. "This is my town."

Yeah, I guess you still have library books checked out here.

Lawrence stepped back, and Knox breathed marginally easier. Woof. Fish for dinner!

The tough turned and went back for the bag he’d dropped. Did he see any of you without your masks on?

Naw, we kept them on like you said, replied the guy Lawrence had smacked. I mean, except when we took a drink. His mask was only halfway on.

With a swift move, Lawrence grabbed the guy by the neck. He positioned the mask properly. Knox spoke quickly. I didn’t see any faces, honest.

The woman pointed at Lawrence. "You saw him!"

"No, I thought he was Lawrence Welk. I forgot my glasses. He glanced at Lawrence. His are nice, though. Are those designer?"

Lawrence shoved the bag into the hands of the clown he’d chastised. Pass those out, fool.

If Lawrence thinks someone’s an idiot, Knox thought, the world’s in trouble.

Knox watched as what looked like clubs were distributed. Only when Lawrence approached the fire with one did Knox notice the large knot of fabric wrapped around one end. Lawrence shoved the wrapped end into the fire to light it. Others followed his lead, and soon everyone besides the two goons holding Knox had makeshift torches aflame.

Lawrence pointed toward the rest of the house, more visible in the light. Tell me you did the job.

Before you got here, the woman replied. We doused the seats down here and in the boxes.

That’s when Knox noticed them for the first time: empty fuel cans in the aisles. His heart sank. Waste the building wasn’t about trashing it. They’re gonna burn the theatre down!

He saw Lawrence staring at him. Look, I told you, I can’t identify anyone. And if anyone asks, I saw you board a flight to Bolivia.

Shut up. I’m thinking.

Take your time.

It soon became clear to Knox that Lawrence wasn’t used to making decisions any more complicated than spicy or mild. Maybe the torches would all burn out, and indecision could save his skin. It was