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

the due diligence,” Fox said.
    Lau nodded and entered the elevator. Fox watched the doors close and turned to where a lawyer named Coleman Reese was waiting.
    “Sir, I know Mr. Wayne’s not interested in how his trust fund gets replenished,” Reese said. “But frankly, it’s embarrassing.”
    The two men began walking down the corridor.
    “You worry about the diligence, Mr. Reese,” Fox said. “I’ll worry about Bruce Wayne.”
    “It’s done. The numbers are solid.”
    “Do it again. Wouldn’t want the trust fund to run out, would we?”
    Fox reentered the boardroom, where Bruce Wayne was now standing, gazing out the window.
    “Another long night?” Fox asked.
    Wayne turned, nodded, then smiled.
    “This joint venture was your idea, and the consultants love it,” Fox said. “But I’m not convinced. L.S.I.’s grown 8 percent annually, like clockwork. They must have a revenue stream that’s off the books. Maybe even illegal.”
    “Okay,” Bruce said. “Cancel the deal.”
    “You already knew?”
    “I needed a closer look at the books.”
    “Anything else you can trouble me for?”
    “Well . . . I do need a new suit.”
    Fox scrutinized his boss. “Three buttons is a little nineties.”
    “I’m not talking about fashion, Mr. Fox, so much as function.”
    Wayne took some large sheets of blue paper from an attaché case and spread them on the table. For the next few minutes, Fox examined the diagrams on them. Then he said, “You want to be able to turn your head.”
    “It would sure make backing out of the driveway easier,” Bruce said, smiling.
    “I’ll see what I can do. I trust you don’t need the new gear tonight.”
    “No, Mr. Fox, tonight I have a date with a ballerina.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

    T he Ocelot was Gotham’s newest dining sensation. It was possible to spend a middle-class worker’s monthly salary on a meal for six, if one went a little heavy on the wine. The food was spectacular; a fusion of French, Thai and, incredibly, St. Louis barbecue. It should have been ghastly; instead, it was delicious. But it wasn’t the cuisine that drew most of its clientele to the Ocelot; it was the chance to be seen, and to let the world know that money was no object.
    Rachel Dawes and Harvey Dent allowed themselves to be seated at a table in the center of the cavernous room. As they waited for menus, Dent looked around and frowned.
    “It took three weeks to get a reservation, and I had to tell them I worked for the government.”
    Rachel raised her eyebrows. “Really?”
    “This city’s health inspector’s not afraid to pull strings.”
    Rachel smiled, and half stood to look over Dent’s shoulder at Bruce Wayne, who was entering accompanied by a beautiful woman. Wayne shooed away the maîtred’ and strode to Dent’s table.
    “Rachel!” Bruce said. “Fancy that.”
    “Yes, Bruce. Fancy that.”
    Bruce nodded to the woman standing next to him. “Rachel, this is Natascha. Natascha, Rachel.”
    In a pronounced Russian accent, Natascha said, “Hello.”
    Dent looked up at Bruce. “The famous Bruce Wayne. Rachel’s told me everything about you.”
    “I certainly hope not.”
    Rachel said, “Bruce, this is Harvey Dent.”
    “Let’s put a couple of tables together,” Bruce suggested.
    “Will they let us do that?” Dent asked.
    “They should! I own the place.”
    “For how long?” Rachel asked. “Let me guess, about three weeks?”
    Bruce stared at his shoes. “How’d you know?”
    Rachel turned her gaze to Natascha. “Aren’t you . . .”
    “Prima ballerina for the Moscow Ballet,” Bruce prolaimed.
    “Harvey’s taking me next week,” Rachel said.
    “You’re into ballet, Harvey?” Bruce asked.
    “No,” Rachel said. “He knows I am.”
    Bruce motioned to the maîtred’ and whispered in his ear. A minute later, two busboys carried an extra table from the kitchen area and placed it next to Dent’s.
    “Let me order for everyone,” Bruce said.
    It was almost