“They’re all assholes,” Jen replied. She was dressed to entice, all slutted out in a micro-miniskirt, midriff-baring halter top, and high heels. Her makeup was about as subtle as a porn film. The guy with the fist was hardly the first jerk to take the bait.

Selina conceded the point.

“Okay, the assholes who hit.”

Jen had already been hit enough in her young life. She had been a runaway, living on the streets when Selina had first taken her under her wing. They had gone through a lot together, doing what they had to in order to survive. Selina just wished Jen showed better sense sometimes.

“I don’t know what he’s so upset about.” Jen pulled a handful of bills from the wallet. “He only had sixty bucks here.”

“Probably the watch,” Selina guessed.

“Watch?”

Selina held out her wrist. A brand-new Rolex gleamed against her bare arm. Smirking, she peeled it off and gave it to Jen.

“Don’t wait up for me,” she said.

A silver Lamborghini was parked in the shadows across from the converted townhouse. Although slightly out of place in this low-rent district, the deluxe sports car only attracted a few curious glances. It wasn’t uncommon for the upper classes to go slumming in Old Town, looking for drugs and other illicit diversions. Like the yuppie who had just followed a young girl into the apartment building, only to storm out in a rage minutes later.

Looks like he didn’t get what he wanted.

Bruce crouched inside the automobile. A hand-held tracking device informed him that his mother’s pearls were just across the street. He was weighing his next move when Selina Kyle emerged from the townhouse and hailed a cab. She looked as if she was dressed for a fancy date, or a party. The pearls hung elegantly upon her neck.

He had to admit that she wore them well.

He gave the cab a slight head start before pulling away from the curb. The tracker beeped on the dashboard.

Let’s see where she’s going with those pearls, he thought.

The cab dropped her off in front of the Gotham Museum of Art, where some sort of lavish celebration was being held. Spotlights splashed across the museum’s graceful neoclassical façade as limos disgorged elegant men and women in formal attire. Throngs of paparazzi lined the red carpet, snapping shots for tomorrow’s society columns and websites. Flashes went off incessantly, practically blinding the arriving guests. Bruce couldn’t help wishing that Selina Kyle had chosen a somewhat less public venue for her night on the town.

Good thing I put on a decent suit tonight, he mused.

He pulled up to the curb and turned the Lamborghini over to a valet, who appeared suitably impressed by the sweet ride. Gritting his teeth in anticipation of the attention he was about to receive, Bruce removed his cane from the back seat.

“Look at that,” a paparazzo chortled nearby. “Another rich stiff too out of shape to climb out of his sports car.”