Batman 6 - The Dark Knight by Dennis O'Neil Page A

locals called it—had gone from being the home-away-from-home of visiting dignitaries to a single-occupancy hotel frequented mostly by dreary individuals who did not want to be seen any more than was necessary.
    But it did have metal detectors, and some of the burly men lounging in the lobby had bulges under their jackets. The Chechen and another man moved through the detector under the impassive gazes of two Chinese with pistols shoved into their belts.
    The Chechen turned to the man beside him. “You Gambol? From east side?”
    “Yeah,” Gambol replied. They went to a shadowy flight of stairs and trudged up to a kitchen on the second floor.
    Inside, there was a small table, its surface scratched and discolored. Around it sat an ethnically mixed array of middle-aged men, most of them wearing expensive suits. Two Chinese, who could have been twins of the pair at the metal detector, brought in a television set, put it on the table, plugged it in.
    “The hell is this?” Gambol demanded.
    The television screen flickered, brightened, then everyone was staring at the face of Mr. Lau. Several of the men around the table rose from their chairs, muttering complaints.
    “Gentlemen, please,” Lau said, his voice pitched low, barely audible. The men who had risen resumed sitting, and Lau continued: “As you’re all aware, one of our deposits was stolen. A relatively small amount—68 million.”
    “Who stupid enough to steal from us?” the Chechen yelled.
    “I’m told the man who arranged the heist calls himself the Joker.”
    “What the hell is that ?”
    Sal Maroni, who had been sitting with a surly expression on his face, said, “Two-bit whack job wears a cheap suit and makeup. He’s not the problem—he’s a nobody. The problem is our money being tracked by the cops.”
    Lau said, “Thanks to Mr. Maroni’s well-placed sources, we know that police have indeed identified our banks using marked bills and are planning to seize your funds today.”
    Everyone in the room began to shout.
    The Chechen’s voice was loudest: “You promise safe, clean money launder.”
    Lau waited for the noise to abate. Then he said, “With the investigation ongoing, none of you can risk hanging on to your own proceeds. And since the enthusiastic new DA has put all my competitors out of business, I am your only option.”
    “So what are you proposing?” Maroni asked.
    “Moving all deposits to one secure location. Not a bank.”
    “Where, then?”
    “Obviously, no one can know but me. If the police were to gain leverage over one of you, everyone’s money would be at stake.”
    “What will stop them from getting to you?” the Chechen demanded.
    “As the money is moved, I go to Hong Kong. Far from Dent’s jurisdiction. And the Chinese will not extradite one of their own.”
    It started as a giggle and grew to a chuckle, then the Joker stepped from an adjoining room, his laughter becoming a shriek.
    He stopped laughing, and said, “I thought I told the bad jokes.”
    “Give me one reason I shouldn’t have my boy here”—Gambol indicated a bodyguard with a jerk of his thumb—“pull your head off.”
    The Joker took a freshly sharpened pencil from his hip pocket and placed it, eraser down, on the table. “How about a magic trick?” he asked brightly. “I’ll make this pencil disappear.”
    Maroni’s thug lunged. The Joker sidestepped, gripped the back of the thug’s head, and slammed it down onto the pencil. The thug’s body went limp and slid to the floor.
    The pencil was gone.
    “Magic,” the Joker declared. “And by the way, the suit wasn’t cheap. You should know. You bought it.”
    “Sit,” the Chechen said to the Joker. “I wanna hear deal.”
    “A year ago, these cops and lawyers wouldn’t dare cross any of you,” the Joker said. “What happened? Did your balls drop off? See, a guy like me—”
    “A freak,” Maroni said.
    The Joker ignored him and continued, “A guy like me . . . I know why