writer's note----near the first part of this chunk, Clark uses the word expose, with an accent mark over the second "e". that doesn't translate here, so....just imagine it there!
oh, and one other thing....the last scene in this chunk is dedicated to all the estrogen on this bulletin board.
Bruce Wayne walked slowly past him, eyes on the floor, almost as if he was
unaware of any other presence in the room. Clark held his tongue, knowing the other
man understood what was happening beneath the truthful cover of a feature interview.
He was curious as to how he would approach it. That, and frankly, his own mind had just
drained blank.
Wayne paused, finally glancing in his general direction. "This is a series on
Gotham's founders, right? With the perspective of two hundred years, Wayne
Enterprises is a little young--"
Oh, no, you don't. Clark pulled off his glasses. "Look, I don't mean to interrupt, but that's a nice
getaway car you've got there." His voice was quick and conversational, the way it
always was when he was frustrated. He had anticipated anything but this. "Look, we've
both got the same secret!" he insisted, wrenching the other man's attention. "You don't
think I'm--"
Wayne's head snapped around, the lips parted in surprise. Clark took a breath to
speak again, but instead Wayne turned his head toward the office doors. "Lock." Clark
detected the sound of three internal steel bolts simultaneously locking into place.
Clark tried again. "Look, I'm not here to do some--"
Wayne shook his head, effectively cutting him off again. He retreated to the desk
and touched an inset control, revealing a concealed keypad. "End voice transmission.
Authorization kappa, rho, pi, tau, rho, alpha."
"K, R, P, T, R, A," Clark repeated the letters after a moment. "Let me guess.
Representing Chiroptera?" Reporter's instinct made him push past the stumbled
beginning of the meeting, hoping to pull it together into something more frank.
But it was as if Wayne hadn't heard him. His jaw was still hanging, and he looked
startled, close to panic yet. Clark could see muscles twitching across his forehead. He
leaned back up against the desk, covering his mouth with his hands.
Clark took a deliberate breath. "I'm not here to do an expose," he said clearly,
replacing his glasses and spreading his free hand in a gesture of honesty. "Our paths
cross here because of an interview, but I also thought we should . . .talk."
Slowly Wayne's hands lowered. "I read your work!" he breathed, still staring at
Clark in bewildered shock. "I get copies of the Daily Planet . . . I see the name Clark
Kent . . ."
"Look why did you cancel?" Clark asked.
"What?"
"The interview. Why'd you cancel on me?"
"Hell of a question," Wayne returned, still incredulous.
"You didn't expect me not to come," Clark said, pitching it questioningly.
"I don't know what I expected," came the slow answer. "I certainly didn't expect
what I saw last night."
"Well, if it makes you feel any safer, the feeling's certainly mutual," Clark said
with sincerity, looking him up and down. "I'd never even heard of you," he added, more
to himself. "I hope that doesn't sound arrogant. I owe you my life."
"You were dead. You were in cardiac arrest," Wayne said, still staring at him
with a mixture of curiosity and fear. "And you wonder why I cancelled."
"Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated," Clark recited in return,
spreading his arms as if to say
ta-da.
Wayne snorted in disbelief, pulling off his glasses. "Exaggerated," he repeated,
rubbing his face. "Ten minutes after you had no pulse, you pulled me out of a building."
"It was about ninety percent adrenalin. It was a complex and potentially deadly
situation involving Lex Luthor. If you'd been about twenty feet farther southwest in the
pile, I don't think I could have done it, under the circumstances."
"You'll pardon me if I can't quickly be so matter-of-fact about this," the other
man answered weakly, voice slightly muffled from behind his hands.
"I didn't mean to frighten you. I think I have half of an idea as to what's at stake,
here, and so do you." He watched as the other man walked around the desk and sat
down slowly in the chair, holding his head in his hands. "I don't think we're going to hurt
each other," Clark added. "Just maybe . . . stare curiously at each other," he finished
with frank puzzlement.
"I certainly stared last night," Wayne said, almost under his breath. Then his
head came up, looking intently at him. "Last night I operated under the assumption that
. . ."
" . . .Lois? . . ." Clark guessed.
" . . .doesn't know," Wayne finished the tag-team sentence, looking at Clark for
confirmation.
"Thank you," Clark said sincerely. "She doesn't know. As far as I can tell, she
didn't know why I was out cold."
"And you're . . . fine . . . now?"
Clark shrugged, hoping he wasn't displaying nonchalance that he didn't feel about
the situation. "Yeah." He paused a beat, then gestured vaguely. "How's the knee?" he
asked in afterthought.
For a moment all he got was puzzlement, then the other man lowered his gaze,
rubbing his temples. "Thirty-one, and I need a knee replacement," came the small,
wearied voice.
"If I injured it when I pulled you out, I really didn't--"
"No, no," he answered, waving a hand dismissively. "It's chronic." He hesitated
then, looking across the office. "Over there," he said, getting to his feet and leaving the
desk. There was a beautiful antique sofa across the office, one that Clark estimated to
be from the 1880s, and an armchair from roughly the same period. Wayne took the
armchair and Clark settled gingerly on the sofa--the needlework tapestry appeared to be
original.
"Why did I cancel," he repeated slowly. "As security said, you were a hostage. It
wouldn't have been proper to insist on an interview with someone who went through
last night's situation."
Clark smiled, raising an eyebrow. "Respectfully, Mr. Wayne, look who's talking."
For a moment he got confusion in response, then the other man looked away
quickly, covering his mouth with a hand. Clark wasn't sure that the move hid a smile,
and he noticed there was a fine tremor of the hands. After a moment the other man was
looking back at him intently. "Excuse me if I sound like a broken record," he began
frankly. "I want to see if I understand this. Your name is Clark Kent." Clark nodded
patiently. "You are, in fact, a reporter, and you work for the Daily Planet in Metropolis."
Another nod. "And you're also . . .?"
The bewilderment and confusion in the last words actually made Clark grin,
somewhat to his own curiosity. "I would call it something I do. This evolved over some
time," he explained, still smiling. "Superman is how I use my abilities to help people.
My name, my career, sense of self--this isn't a cover, it's real."
"People have speculated . . ."
Clark nodded, sobering. "I know, and truthfully, it makes me nervous. I can't
control that, though. One plus to last night for me was that no one actually saw
Superman. They only saw . . .well, me," he finished bluntly. "Clark Kent." He watched
as Wayne left his chair, restlessly walking over to the windows in the office, the
panoramic view of the bay clearly not on his mind.
"That was unexpected, extraordinary information," he finally said. "I run it . . .
what I saw, the memory of what I saw, over and over in my head, and I wonder if I saw
correctly, reached the correct conclusions, if I handled the situation properly," he said
softly, still looking out at the bay. "I've seen life and death before, I've had people's lives
in my hands, and this . . . somehow seemed bigger, the magnitude, the implications . . ."
he shook his head, slowly coming back over to the chairs.
"I think we both have the unique perspective to understand how to treat this,
though," Clark said, watching the other man carefully. "Like I said, I don't think we're
going to hurt each other." It was early, but from what he was getting of Wayne's
thought content, it seemed this hadn't been a dangerous compromise of life information
for Clark.
The last words seemed to trigger another subject for Wayne. "I'm not used to
this," he started awkwardly, looking down at him. "I'm not used to someone . . .saving
my life. I'm not used to needing it," he emphasized. "But . . .I owe you my life," he said,
repeating Clark's earlier words. "It never entered my mind that Superman would
effectively appear in Gotham, or that I would need him to pull me out of a demolished
building."
"I didn't expect last night's hostage situation to be broken up by the very person
I was scheduled to interview the next morning," Clark returned with a slight smile. "I
guess what I'm saying is, once again, Mr. Wayne, look who's talking."
The other man shook his head dismissively. "Call me Bruce," he corrected,
returning to the armchair and settling with a sigh. "Please, please forgive the juvenile
comments . . ."
"That reminds me," Clark said with sudden awareness, snapping his fingers. "I
don't suppose you have--"
"Kryptonite?" Bruce guessed, and nodded. "I've got it."
"What happened with it?"
"I passed it out to Gordon--police commissioner, Jim Gordon. He passed it on to
an officer that both he and I trust, and I picked it up from that officer later. Neither of
them knew what they were handling. After Gordon was convinced that it wasn't part of
the investigation, he let it go. What do you want done with it?"
Clark took a deep breath. "I don't know. I haven't figured that out yet. Where is
it right now?"
"It's back at the c--at home. At my home."
A sudden gleam lit Clark's eyes. "At the what?" he repeated carefully. Bruce's
gaze flicked back to him, then darted away, and Clark swore he saw a slight blush.
"At--at the cave," came the small, quick answer.
"Cave?" Clark repeated, fascinated. "Where is it?"
But Bruce was shaking his head, waving it off, uneasy. "It's . . . it's nothing.
Nowhere," he answered dismissively, voice still small and quick. Then his eyes flicked
back. "What did you do?" he asked deliberately. "That building--that was--"
"It was nothing I haven't done before," Clark interrupted, a little impatient,
wanting to get back to his question. Then, quickly, "No, I don't mean to sound off-
hand--"
"No, that's alright," Bruce interrupted, an almost wistful look on his face. "For
you it probably was off hand," he murmured. "I've got some colleagues. . . they're in
Metropolis, and the things they've said--"
"--have probably been exaggerated," Clark finished for him.
"They weren't if you did what it seems like you did," Bruce said in quiet awe.
"That was fifteen stories and the middle walls went first."
"That's what I was going to ask you," Clark came back quickly, straightening.
"What happened after you went back in? What made that building go?"
Bruce's gaze went unfocused for a few moments. "A mistake. That was my
mistake. I though I had Luthor figured out. I didn't have him as suicidal. Borderline
homicidal, yes--"
"Borderline?" Clark interrupted, disbelieving.
"Yes. He has goals, but they're materialistic. He will kill to get what he wants,
but what he's after is money and power, mainly. If he was a killer first and foremost, he
wouldn't have put the obstacles of money and time in the way. He also wouldn't have
settled in one spot and let the authorities know. For him, killing is a means to an end,
something he'll do if he has to. It's not his goal."
"You sound like you've got him psychoanalyzed."
Bruce shrugged, suddenly off hand compared to the focus he'd just shown. "I
thought I had him, yes . . ."
"Where did suicide come into it?"
"He set the charges off. Magnesium shavings he was detonating through timed
charges. I tried to reason him out of the building before it went, but he . . . had other
plans."
"To bury you?"
"No," Bruce said, and Clark found himself holding back a smile at the thoughtful
innocence. "I think he wasn't counting on anything catching up to him this far from
Metro."
"How did you know all this? Did the police bug the building?"
Bruce nodded. "I bugged it."
"Why?" Clark was intrigued by the distant, dry manner, and almost wondered if
Wayne fully grasped the implications of the perilous events that had had all Gotham on edge.
Instead, he seemed to approach this as one would chess, as pure theory.
"I needed to get inside his brain, find out what was on his mind, how far he would
go. I still don't think suicide was part of his plan. Right before I stopped listening and
broke in, he said something about wanting a nice grave there. I don't know entirely
what he meant by that, but . . ." He shrugged. "I guess we all found out," he finished
quietly.
Clark shook his head. He paused a moment, not wanting to get on to what was
probably a morbid subject for both of them. "Lois is pretty confused," he started
matter-of-factly. "I think she's bound and determined to hunt up everything she can on
Batman."
"Is she alright?" Bruce slipped in. "Those wrists were pretty bad . . ."
"Well, it's first degree tenderness, but other than that, she's doing okay."
"Did she tell you what happened, what she went through?" Bruce asked carefully,
almost timidly.
Clark shook his head. "Just generally, not in detail yet. She will, I think, in her
own time. She said she needed time to think about it."
Bruce nodded, gaze lowering to his hands. After a moment, a slow smile eased
over his face. "Tell her that--no, you can't," he stopped, correcting himself. "She'll
wonder where you got this from."
"Got what?"
He shook his head, as if deciding against it, and his gaze idly traced a bookshelf.
"She did some things . . . well, she didn't do anything unwise. She just never gave up."
He hesitated, then seemed to switch gears. "How do you do it?" he asked again, with a
slight smile and narrowed eyes. "You do absolutely nothing to hide it . . ."
"What do you mean?" Clark asked, not quite following.
"Well, who you are. Or what you do," Bruce said, gesturing indirectly at him.
"You wear nothing like a . . . a--"
"A mask?" Clark finished with a smile. With a flourish he took off his glasses.
"There's my mask."
There was a sudden flash of white teeth and then the other man laughed. For
someone who didn't seem to experience nearly enough humor in his life, he had a
pleasant laugh, and it was then that Clark decided he liked the man.
"I guess people don't know to look under their noses for Superman. They don't
expect plain wrapping paper."
"Or glasses."
"Or glasses," Clark repeated, replacing them, still smiling. Then, "What about
you? I mean, are--is that the reason you wear--"
Bruce shook his head, another sudden smile. "No. It's a slight correction, little bit
far-sighted."
"What do you do at night? Go without?"
He nodded. "They're mostly just for reading."
"Good night vision? Or echo location?"
"Little bit of both. Sometimes," he added quickly.
"There's something I gotta know." Clark sat back, as though settling himself for a
long story. "Why bats?"
There was a subtle but thorough shift in the other man's face, and his gaze
dropped to his hands. Clark got the distinct feeling he'd hit a sore spot. "Look, if you
don't want to--" He broke off as Bruce was shaking his head. Clark recognized the off-
to-the-side gaze as that of someone who wanted to answer, but just didn't know how, so
he waited. He'd seen every time Bruce Wayne was squeezed into how he'd co-opted
aspects of his animal familiar, he'd looked decidedly uneasy.
"Chiroptera," Bruce said in a low voice, as if the one word explained everything.
Clark cocked his head. "Meaning . . .?" he prompted.
Bruce nodded briefly to the desk. "The letters, the combination."
Clark nodded, catching the connection. "Beta alpha tau a little too obvious, huh?"
He got a quick glance that passed for a yes. "Why?" he repeated, referring back to his
first question.
He watched carefully as it seemed like the other man was going through a
winding, complicated connection of thoughts. Finally, in the same tone of voice he'd
mentioned the cave, he said, "Little things. They stick in your mind." He shifted
uneasily, not looking at Clark. Whether it was reporter's experience or simply his own
talent for observation, it looked to Clark like Bruce Wayne was showing shyness--or,
more than shyness, embarrassment. This struck Clark as odd, and even irritated him a
little. In the past few years, Metropolis had seen a few embarrassing and even
dangerous variations on a theme by Superman, but this did not describe what was going
on in Gotham. He had no way of knowing if Wayne was comparing himself to these, or if
he was even aware of them. The fact remained, though, that Batman was a legitimate
force to be reckoned with, and the man behind the mask was looking sheepish in front of
him. Sinking some reporter's hooks in seemed not only appropriate but necessary.
"Little things," Clark said slowly. "Well, this little thing is stuck in your mind, and
you've been doing it for almost ten years."
"It," Bruce repeated with an air of amused frustration. "Is there a name for
this?" he asked rhetorically.
A thought path flashed through Clark's head. It was a lot closer than he thought,
and he went for it. With what he hoped was a casual shrug, he said, "You're a crime
fighter."
"I'm not a crime fighter."
"You're not?" Clark said, balancing it so it came out somewhere between a
question and a statement.
"No. Killers."
"Killers? That's a kind of a tall order. Where does a bat come into this?"
It wasn't the words, it was the tone of voice that would make the difference. This
man was too canny to fall into a yawning pit--the trap had to be small, but sharp. And
Clark had injected just the right amount of confusion and a small touch of condescension.
The bait was swallowed. Wayne's body seemed to coil up, though he didn't move
an inch, and the area around his eyes and mouth tightened. "I do what I can," he said.
Even the voice made it through. Clark was dead certain he was no longer sitting across
from Bruce Wayne.
"You know, that's the first forthright answer I've gotten out of you."
"What?" There was a wavering uncertainty, two people flickering behind one
pair of eyes.
"Look, maybe I'm wrong, but I think I'm hearing embarrassment, here. I went
through everything there is on you in the West Municipal Library last night--and I do
mean everything," Clark emphasized, "--and I couldn't find a chink in the armor. I don't
care how you do what you do--you've saved thousands of lives. There's no place for
embarrassment in this."
Bruce stared at him, a little bit of bewilderment breaking through the cold snap in
his eyes, but Clark didn't particularly care--for a moment he'd gotten a flare of raw, sub-
zero, professional pride, and he could always refer back to that. "What I'm saying is
everyone's got a style. If you think I'm laughing behind your back, you're dead wrong."
As an afterthought, he added, "Come to think of it, I've had people sneak a laugh at me."
That cleaned out the last of the chill. Bruce let out a breath of disbelief. "What?
You're kidding--"
"No," Clark said easily, smiling. "They get a kick out of the red and blue. I don't
care, though," he said, shrugging, and a little soft, unabashed pride lit his eyes. "It was
my mother. She made it for me." He paused a moment, deciding to check on the mask.
"So, who's your tailor?"
"Necessity."
"How's that?"
"I need the armor. I get shot at. Gangs, thugs . . .police . . ."
"Police? Why would police target you?"
"Some of the police don't like Batman because they think he makes them seem
inadequate. They should be handling these things, and here's their commissioner calling
in a freelancer. If it's GCPD, Gordon will discipline them, but the sheriff department is
looser, as are the state." He hesitated, then continued. "There's also the problem that
Batman doesn't have . . . a very good image. Gordon's got one of his top under-covers
into Red Mace, a gang we believe is covering the west side for cocaine. They're offering
two million in cash for whoever can drag in Batman's body, so pot-shots are not
uncommon. All of this combines to make my immediate environment . . ." He paused,
searching for the right words. "Let's just say you need to be careful when, where, and
how you make contact with Batman. There have been problems," he said, showing some
regret. "Where do you pin the blame if someone aims for me and hits another target
instead?"
"Not on you," Clark interrupted, not without sympathy. "For my part, I can say
that I've learned that I cannot control everything in my environment, and I can't be
responsible for everything, no matter how hard I may try to be. If I start thinking like
that, quite frankly, I'm either going to hit burnout or a nervous breakdown. I'd like to
respectfully suggest that this applies to you as well."
Bruce was nodding. "Understood, but unfortunately, only you and I share this
lesson. The people of Gotham have come to fear Batman, or at least be very wary of
him. Where he is, there's trouble."
"And they must also see him as the place where trouble ends," Clark pressed. "I
don't care whether it's a bat phobia or even poor aim--they surely have to see who's
been breaking up the intractable hostage situations, taking down the mob bosses,
scattering the gangs--"
A bitter laugh interrupted him. "There
is no end to it, certainly not around
Batman. There's a continuation. He's the same as the things he fights. He just took a
different path."
Clark leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. "You lost me. Are you saying
Batman's evil, that he's just the most successful part of the street level in-fighting?"
Bruce shifted in the chair, frowning. "Well, how much do you know about criminal
psychology?" he began. Clark noticed he was no longer embarrassed to talk about his
alter ego, but he still only had fleeting eye contact while doing so. "Pain, either emotional
or physical, and an unstable mind are what causes trouble in Gotham. You're familiar
with Harvey Dent?" Clark nodded, recalling what he'd read. "He wasn't exactly a
typical case, but he shows all the classic traits. He was disfigured by the acid, and
wanted to make someone pay . . ." Bruce frowned again, trailing off. "Well, no, that was
a different case. He wanted to get me personally. Or Batman, rather." After a moment,
the thoughtful look on his face darkened. "To tell you the truth, there's none of them I
want to talk about." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Harvey Dent, Edward Nygma,
Oswald Cobblepot, Sel--" He caught himself, frowning again. "Catwoman. And . . ." He
touched the last finger, resigned, not saying a name.
"You mean Jack Napier?"
Bruce nodded, wordless.
"Three hundred and forty-three is a frightening number," Clark agreed grimly.
"Forty-five."
"Huh?" Clark looked up, and blinked. The black look on Bruce's face made him
unrecognizable as a thirty-one year old. "The paper said forty-three . . ."
"Forty-five," Bruce repeated. "My parents."
A chill slipped through Clark. "I'm sorry."
Bruce sighed deeply, as if trying to expel the subject and get on to the next one.
"What I'm saying is this is born of pain. Someone sees society in general as the cause of
their pain and helplessness. The trauma might be strong enough to wrench their mind.
Right and wrong didn't seem to apply to their fate, so that gives them the right to wield
the same power over someone else. I've just described the five people who've given
Gotham the most trouble. And it's Batman, too."
"The obvious difference being . . .?"
"The way I responded to it. It's easier to destroy than to create, and the other
five took that easier way out. I don't have the time and energy to create, but I didn't
want to add to the destruction. I made a third choice, the attempted prevention of
destruction, and took it."
All Clark could do was give a low whistle and sit back. He was rapidly coming to
the conclusion that the only things they had in common were relative anonymity and
effectiveness. Their motivations, methods, targets . . . everything Clark could think of
was different, wildly different.
"Another problem is that Batman seems to attract these things, unfortunately,"
Bruce was saying. "He's seen as the benchmark, the one people can aim for, to try to
take down. The more he does, the more they focus on him, and getting a murderer riled
up can be unpredictable. There's always a danger that innocent people might get caught
in the fray."
"Is that why the channel six reporter was taking such a twisted view of it?" Clark
asked. Bruce looked puzzled, and he explained, "That reporter last night, right before
you left--"
Bruce winced. "Don't remind me."
"Sorry. That was just so idiotic of her to present it that way, though. How do
you--"
But Bruce was waving it off. "I get that all the time--that's nothing. I shouldn't
have taken the bait, though. That's what I'd like to forget."
"With that kind of bait? She was all wet!"
"Why worry about it?"
"Look--" Clark began, aroused, searching for the words. "Look, maybe it's
because I'm part of the media. I'm a reporter, and she was committing a cardinal sin.
E-O-F. Error of fact."
"An opinion," Bruce slipped in, surprisingly gently. "She was voicing an opinion."
"A wrong opinion!"
"That's your opinion," came the smiling answer.
"Well, it's yours as well. You told her where she could put it."
Bruce frowned. "Aren't you supposed to be interviewing me on something about
Gotham's founders?"
Clark froze for a moment, the picture of indecision as a radically different subject
was brought up. The official reason for his presence here flooded back into his mind.
"Oh! Man, I completely forgot . . ."
"I think I can understand that . . ."
"Um . . . how much time do we have?"
Bruce checked his watch, still smiling. "We have about fifteen minutes, and NASA
wants to talk to me."
Part of Clark's mind registered the words, and found them to be egotistical.
NASA wants to talk to me? he thought. But then he remembered who he was sitting
across from: Bruce Wayne, billionaire, head of a company that was known world-wide
for its cutting-edge technology. And he also remembered the schedule he and Lois were
on, and how it had been convoluted because of the hostage situation.
"Oh, that's not nearly enough," he moaned softly. "Perry isn't going to like this.
We're gonna need a follow-up . . ." He trailed off, frustrated. No one could fault them for
going off track. At the same time, though, he couldn't very well explain why he'd fallen
behind schedule.
Well, gee,sir, it's like this. I'm Superman, and I ran across someone who is to Gotham what Iam to Metropolis. Yeah! And it's actually Bruce Wayne! So we got off track in the interview and had to schedule more time, and-- "What's the problem?"
Clark opened his eyes. "Our editor, Perry White. He really wanted to get you
into this series, and he won't like it if it isn't thorough . . ."
"Listen--we can schedule more time--"
Clark shook his head. "Can't. With the hostage situation, we're way behind as it
is, and Lois and I will . . . "
"What?"
Reluctantly, Clark finished it. "We presented a budget, both time and money, and
we're over it already. But they have to give us a break . . ." He trailed off again, seeing
the look on Bruce's face.
"Budget? For what? The hotel?"
Clark nodded. "We couldn't find a--"
"Wait a minute. You didn't get the message?"
"What message?"
"Being taken hostage is a hell of a way to be introduced to Gotham. I can't help
with the time, but as for the hotel, stay as long as you need to. It's on the house."
Clark let out a short laugh. "Thanks! How did you do that?"
"Easy. I own the thing."
* * *
Shomari Anderson let loose a lilting, multi-measure wolf whistle once she was
sure the object of her attentions wouldn't hear her frank comment. She kept her eyes
on the tall, attractive man until he left the lobby. "We really didn't spot him."
"Oh, come on, you're all right here," the husky security man returned in a
friendly voice, spreading his hands to indicate the entire sixty-foot long front receiving
desk. "He must have come by here."
"I'm willing to admit he may have passed this desk." Leshia Powers, the
assistant manager for reception, unashamedly pushed the man to one side as she
reached across him to retrieve a roll file. "We just didn't spot him."
"Didn't spot him . . ."
"Hey, Keith, it gets busy up here. We had three tours today," Leshia said frankly.
"I don't mean to brush it off--I realize it could have been serious, especially considering
where he was headed," she said, a finger pointing straight up to indicate the visitor's
destination.
"Well, the lookout call came from twenty-seven, anyway," Keith said.
"You want my opinion?" Leshia asked, facing him directly. "I honestly don't
think he came by here."
"Really?"
Leshia gave Keith her best frankly condescending stare. "There is estrogen at
this desk. We would've sensed that!" There was muffled laughter from the four or five
people at the desk.
"If that's the gene pool in Metropolis, I'd like swimming lessons, please," Caron
Robbins said quietly.
"He is good looking," Shomari agreed, still staring at the triple-wide revolving
door even though the visitor was long out of sight.
"Good looking? You call that good looking?" Leshia repeated, jerking a thumb
over her shoulder. "I call Mr. Wayne good looking. I call that--cardiac arrest!"
"I thought you were married!"
Leshia stared at Keith a moment, then hurriedly took off her wedding ring and
tossed it on the desk. "What husband?" She smiled cheerfully, retrieving her ring and
taking the roll file with her as she retreated through a doorway for a moment. "Mind
over matter, Keith," she called from the hallway, out of sight. "If he don't mind, the
hubby don't matter."
