main entrance. The area in front of the casino was just as busy, just as hectic, as the inside. Many Rolls taxis were coming and going. Some were carrying celebrities traveling with large entourages and dozens of pieces of luggage; others were full of models and model wannabes. But everyone they saw was well dressed—and absolutely dry.
They made their way through the crowd, finally locating the attendant in charge of retrieving guests’ cars. They tried to explain that a car had been reserved for them, a Maserati. But the man did not speak English.
They used sign language to urge him to call over a nearby coworker. This man understood some English. Batman showed him the gold key. The man then asked them in a thick accent: “Which color Maserati would you prefer?”
“Any color is good,” Batman told him hurriedly.
“Convertible or hardtop?” the coworker asked. “It’s a bit hot today, but it might rain, so…”
But Batman cut him off by growling: “Whatever—just get us a car!”
Chastened, the man ran off, returning a minute later with a solid gold Maserati GranTurismo Stradale hardtop. It looked like a car from twenty years in the future.
But then … another problem.
Batman started to climb into the driver’s seat, but stopped. He could fly a helicopter with one hand—but how was he going to drive this ultraexpensive car? He had to shift with his right hand, meaning he’d have to steer with his mechanical hook? It wasn’t going to work.
Yet the thought of Twitch driving the $250,000 beauty was downright scary. It was just not in his skill set.
But they had no other choice.
“I guess I go shotgun,” Batman said. He’d been high as a kite—still intoxicated on life itself—until the guy went off the balcony. Now his buzz was long gone.
Twitch happily switched places and jumped behind the wheel. He took off with a screech, startling everyone huddled around the casino’s main entrance. Some even hit the ground.
No surprise, Twitch was a maniac behind the wheel. Batman was soon holding on for his life as they rocketed through the narrow, winding streets of Monte Carlo. The noise, the faces, everything started going by in a blur.
“How the fuck do people race on these streets?” Batman cried out.
“You should try it in Shanghai,” Twitch yelled back, laughing crazily.
Batman finally got his shit together and began navigating. He got Twitch going around the immense block that housed the Grand Maison Casino. The disinformant had disappeared to the rear of the casino’s concourse, heading west. So, they had to go west too.
This necessitated a right onto Avenue des Beaux-Arts and then a very sharp left onto Avenue Albert I. They made both turns and stayed in one piece—and then, almost immediately, Batman spotted their quarry.
He was walking on Avenue Albert I, hurrying away from the casino grounds, trying to look inconspicuous, though he was still dripping wet.
“There’s the asshole—right there!” Batman yelled, pointing.
But Twitch was driving so fast down Avenue Albert I, that by the time he heard Batman, he’d completely overshot the man.
Batman yelled for him to stop and turn around, but Twitch just wound up spinning the sports car in a triplet of screeching 360-degree turns.
Even in a place where Maseratis were common, this display attracted a lot of attention. The soaking wet man saw it all and ducked down the nearest alley.
Twitch finally got the car under control. They sped off toward JFK Drive hoping to catch the dripping man on the other side of Regent Square. By the time they made their way through the traffic, though, there was no sign of him.
They drove up and down De La Costa Boulevard and then D’Ostende Avenue, but still no luck.
Then Batman got an idea.
He told Twitch to stop. They pulled over to the side of Boulevard de Suisse and just waited.
Monte Carlo was more like a small town than a city. There just weren’t many places a soaking wet man could go. So, what would happen if they stayed still, just another Maserati parked along the curb, and waited?
They sat there for two minutes, engine idling, handguns on their laps. Then, sure enough, they spotted their prey again.
He’d popped out of an alley three short blocks away and began walking west again, this time toward Avenue Saint-Laurent. Twitch jammed the Maserati in gear, hit the gas and resumed their pursuit. But after fighting traffic and blasting the horn all the way up the Escalier des Fleurs they were stopped by a line of policemen cordoning