Tales of the Red Panda: The Crime Cabal (4 page)

They each wrapped a loop around their wrists and depressed a small
catch on their Grapples. The ropes retracted quickly, pulling the guns and
their operators up into the night at great speed.

“I don’t know,” said the Red Panda as they rose out of Dan Tyler’s
sight. “Sometimes you just have stop and smell the roses.”

Tyler could still hear them laughing as the
policemen arrived.

An hour later, the Red Panda stood on a high ledge and stared down into
a black void, his brow knitted in concentration. Normally, the experimental
lenses he had fitted into his mask would cut through the darkness, but a heavy
fog had rolled in over downtown, rendering the streets below invisible even to
his eyes. He frowned. Perhaps he could work out a secondary function. Perhaps
one that would detect temperature fluctuations, like the radiant heat of a
human body. Something to work on when he had the time. He smiled grimly at the
thought. One thing he had not been overburdened with since he launched his war
on crime was excessive amounts of spare time.

To his right, hanging almost over his shoulder, was a jutting gargoyle
in the shape of a pouncing lion. Wrapped around the lion’s neck was a thick
loop of heavy wire, within which there hung a strange device, like a miniature
winch. The Red Panda looked at it from the corner of his eye. He had checked it
twice, and was determined not to check it again. He stared down, out into the
blackness, looking for any sign, any signal, any movement. Nothing. Another
half minute passed. He glanced at the winch. Maybe he could check it one more
time.

From far below he heard a muffled cry of surprise, suddenly cut short.
That would be the Flying Squirrel, making her dramatic entrance. There was a
moment of silence, followed by what might have been a large object, like a
body, upsetting some trash cans at great velocity. A smirk began to play about
his face, but was quickly erased by the ringing of two pistol shots, echoing up
the steel canyons to his ears.

Instantly his hand reached for his Grapple Gun. It was already poised
to fire at the rooftop across the street when he paused, his finger tight upon
the trigger. She’d be upset if he came riding to the rescue. She hated to be
upstaged. And he knew she sometimes felt that he didn’t trust her abilities. It
wasn’t true, but he undermined that argument if he didn’t wait. He stood,
frozen, his ears straining to hear any clue over the drone of the city. At last
he could just make out the sound of a Grapple Gun firing. The echoes playing between
the buildings made it impossible to guess where it was fired from, but she knew
where he was waiting.

He didn’t have long to wait. A split second later he could just make
out the form of a bolt, stripped of its grapple, emerging from the fog at tremendous
velocity, trailing a thin cable behind. A red-gloved hand snapped out and
caught it in mid-air. He smiled. He hadn’t even had to move his feet, her
targeting was so precise. Not bad for a shot in the dark.

The hands moved quickly. He detached the cable and fed it through the
winch hanging around the gargoyle’s neck. He fitted a small container of
compressed gas to a nozzle built into the winch, turned a safety valve and
flipped a toggle beside it. The mechanism within the device fired with explosive
force and spun the cable through the winch at rocket-powered speed. He turned
to watch the cable playing up from the darkness below. Over the grinding of the
gears he could clearly hear a sound that brought a smile to his face. It was a
man’s cowardly shriek, almost hysterical with fear.

All at once the screaming man rolled up from the looming fog bank
below, racing feet first into the sky. He bit his lip to keep from laughing.
She had hog-tied their quarry by the ankles. If there was anything worse than dangling
over downtown, it was doing it upside-down. And hitching a ride into the sky,
balanced atop the soles of the terrified gangster’s feet as she held the rope
in one hand, was the Flying Squirrel, looking just as pleased as punch. She
sang loudly and tunelessly at the sight of the approaching rooftop, and at the
last moment threw herself backwards into the open expanse between the
buildings.

She arched her back and rolled, firing her Static Shoes to propel her
still higher and away from the building, and with a smooth motion born of long
practice, unfurled the gliding membranes on her costume, rolling up and over
through the air.

He tried not to watch her as she looped down to him in lazy circles.
The winch had pulled its cargo to the very top, and the Red Panda smoothly
detached the spent gas canister, slipping it back into the folds of his long
coat.

She landed atop the gargoyle just above him and settled down into a
crouch, like an animal ready to pounce. He glanced up quickly. She was beaming
her broad, slightly crazed smile in every direction.

“Hi,” she said, with a casualness that neither of them quite believed.

“Hello,” he said, with a concentration on his task that neither of them
quite believed either. He pulled the cable taut and pressed the final switch on
the winch. The cable was instantly welded in a tight loop around the gargoyle,
cutting the bulk of the cord free with the winch, which he returned to his
pocket.

He looked up. She hadn’t moved. Nor had the smile.

“Didja miss me?” she grinned, still racing with adrenaline.

“I was starting to feel decidedly stood up,” he said casually.

“Me?” she said, lowering her chin a little and locking eyes with him.
“Never.”

A very small pause hung in the air. Neither of them moved. She did this
from time to time, and he could never quite decide if she was teasing him or
just watching for a reaction. He could also never quite decide just what
reaction she was watching for and just what she might do if she ever saw it. In
any case, getting into a staring contest with a man whose night-vision
mask-lenses made his eyes appear completely blank was generally not a winning
proposition. Her cheeks flushed brightly under her cowl and she turned away,
just a little.

The momentary spell broken, and both masked heroes became aware of a
sputtering, gasping sound not three feet away. Their guest had stopped
screaming when his skyward progress had halted, but he was clearly still
incoherent with fear. He spun slowly, counterclockwise, high above the streets
he had so recently been strutting down. His eyes were wide and staring. The
small bleating sounds that spilled from his lips could not be described as
words, but their meaning was clear. He was begging for mercy.

His spinning slowed and finally stopped.

“Clyde Darby,” the man in the mask intoned, all levity now forgotten.
“Your many sins have caught up with you at last. The time has come to settle
your account.”

Darby’s gurglings became higher in pitch. He began to sputter. Here was
something he feared more than the sixteen-story drop to the pavement below.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Darby,” the Red Panda
said gravely.

Behind him, the girl on the gargoyle grinned a vicious smile.

“Please choose the hard way,” she said sweetly.

Clyde Darby began to sob.

The High-Hat Gentleman’s Club might very well have been the most
ironically named venue operating in the city limits. Once, more than three
years ago now, it had operated under a fine old name and catered to the city’s
elite. But hard times were hard times, and when the club was beset by financial
trouble after the stock market collapse, its members were too preoccupied with
their own losses to ride to the rescue. The building had been briefly
shuttered, and then sold by the bankruptcy court to a company which was known
throughout the city as a blind for Big Joe Tennutti.

But knowing such a thing and proving it were two very different
matters, and despite the howls of protest from the Mayor’s office and the
Citizen’s Committee for Public Decency, the old standard was torn down and the
flickering neon top hat that now graced the building’s edifice was erected.
Officially, the High-Hat was a private club, with a membership every bit as
exclusive as the Club Macaw. But to gain admission, one only needed to be a
well-placed racketeer or gangster. Since the change of ownership, the High-Hat
had been regarded as neutral ground – a place free from the
life-and-death rivalries of gangland. Business might be discussed, but only in
civil terms, which for the criminal scum who frequented the High-Hat had meant
only that no weapons were allowed.

Those days of mock civility were over now. Those who remained atop the
food chain of Toronto’s underworld knew that they could never let their guard
down, and that they would never be truly safe. But as long as Big Joe held the
High-Hat, there was still one place they could retreat to and plan their vile
strategies, hunted though they might be. The nightclub was as wild as any could
be, for the police had long known that it was death to set foot on the grounds.
Tennutti’s reputation held the High-Hat as an oasis of sorts, for the moment.
An island against the rising tide of justice that threatened to sweep away all
that a generation of criminals had built.

Tennutti had watched as the new self-proclaimed protectors of the city
had eliminated his competition one by one. Indeed, in the early going, he had
profited greatly from the elimination of his rivals, and for his own part he
was careful not to provoke the wrath of the masked marvels directly.

Big Joe Tennutti was an old hand at this game, and the mere mention of
his name carried with it such dread that few would dare to cross him. As a
result, his operation was not as freshly steeped in blood as others which had
only recently clawed their way up. Tennutti controlled the rackets in the city
core, and many other gangsters who considered themselves independent paid him
tribute for the right to operate. Illegal scam or legitimate business, everyone
paid Tennutti eventually. But since he never took everything, he was able to
flatter himself that he was generous. And since he rarely had to enforce his
rule with violence, he spoke as if he were a man of peace.

But in his heart, he knew the truth: to rule through fear was as great
an act of violence as any committed by those up-and-comers who paid him
tribute. Every piece of the profit of honest labor that he took from those who
needed it was equal parts theft and murder. He knew that a reckoning would
come. And he was ready.

The High-Hat had long been secured by force. Now, every window and door
that could not be watched around the clock was bricked over. And those that
remained were each covered by a half-dozen hidden machine gun nests, ready to
pour hot leaden death into any who dared to step across his threshold. Tennutti
only traveled in an armor-plated limousine, and then only when necessary. Such
a moment was now upon him.

Five hours ago, Morton Nye had disappeared without a trace. Nye had
been the bookkeeper for the Tennutti operation for more than ten years. He was
the only man besides Big Joe himself who could decode the books on the
operation. The only man alive with the knowledge to slam a prison door behind
Joe Tennutti for life. If the law had taken Nye, they couldn’t hold him long.
They’d threaten him, maybe knock him around. They’d done it before and come up
zeroes. Nothing permitted by the law could force Morton Nye to turn pigeon.

But that wasn’t why Big Joe was worried enough to venture out of the
High-Hat Gentleman’s Club. The cops might not be able to make Nye sing, but the
man in the mask didn’t play fair. He played by his own rules and took no
quarter. The word on the street was he could reach inside a man’s mind and take
what he wanted by force. Some said he wasn’t human. Big Joe had seen too much
to accept that, but he knew that if the Red Panda truly did have some sort of
hypnotic power, then Morton Nye’s loyalty meant nothing. Tennutti’s secrets
would not be safe. He was the only man in the world other than Nye who knew
where the books were kept, and he’d be a fool to put his entire operation into
anyone else’s hands. Even the most trusted of his lieutenants could be expected
to turn to blackmail when they realized that they held Big Joe’s freedom, his
operation, his very life, in their hands.

It was now a race against time, and Tennutti was already late.

“Where in the blazes is my driver?” he snapped to no one in particular.

A half-dozen gorillas snapped to attention and exchanged a series of
hasty looks. When it was clear that none of them had an acceptable answer for
the big man, a thin, rat-faced tough piped up quickly,

“If he don’t show, Big Joe, I can take you
where you–”

Tennutti cut the offer short with a growl. “I’m not in the mood to
improvise! What do I pay you mugs for, anyway?”

Suddenly, to the immense relief of Tennutti’s boys, a cry went up from
near the main doors of the club.

“Here he is! Hey, boss… he’s here!”

“‘Bout time, too.” Big Joe spat the words out past the cigar wedged in
his teeth and jammed his hat on his great, sweaty head. “Where have you been?”

The Tennutti mob was ringed by a circle of vaguely associated gangsters
that frequented the club; they watched intently. They knew Big Joe was angry
about something and were hoping for a free show. A dark-haired man pushed his
way through the crowd to face his boss.

It was Clyde Darby, his face ash-grey and no hat upon his head, but
otherwise none the worse for wear after his recent rooftop tour. His brow was
beaded with sweat, and he seemed distracted somehow. He came face to face with
Tennutti.

“Well?” Tennutti screamed, chewing his cigar with rage.

“…Sorry… Sorry, Big Joe,” Darby stuttered. “I got a little hung up.”

The words seemed to come slowly, hesitantly. To the High-Hat’s patrons
it simply looked like Darby feared Tennutti’s wrath, as well he might. No one
watching could have known the war Clyde Darby’s own consciousness was losing,
the futile struggle he was engaged in, like a drowning man in his final throws.
Big Joe’s brow furrowed deeply as he met the gaze of his trusted driver.

“Look at me,” the gang lord said sharply. “You ain’t been drinkin’,
have you? We got work to do.”

Suddenly, Darby’s face cleared and he relaxed. Colour began to return
to his cheeks. He looked quite like his old self, but in reality, his old self
had finally lost the battle.

“Naw, Big Joe. I’m fine, I swear. Where we headed?” he said with a
smile.

Tennutti held his lieutenant’s gaze for a moment longer.

“I’ll tell you in the car. Let’s move.” He looked back at Darby. “Where’s
your hat at anyway?”

Darby’s hand reached up and touched his head by reflex. For a split
second, a vision flashed before his eyes of his old hat falling from his head
and drifting away as he stared down into an endless black abyss. The moment
passed with a shiver.

“I dunno,” was all he replied.

A moment later, Darby and Tennutti entered the High-Hat’s underground
garage under the gaze of a dozen armed guards. As was Tennutti’s custom, his
driver entered the car first, while Big Joe remained a discreet distance away.
Darby pressed the starter and the car roared to life. In this armed camp, there
was little chance of the vehicle being booby-trapped, but Tennutti was a man
who preferred safe to sorry.

The armor-plated limousine purred like a kitten. Tennutti stepped into
the back, closed the door and the car roared away into the night.

Tennutti leaned forward and growled the address into the limousine’s
speaking tube. Through the bulletproof glass that separated him from even his
driver, Tennutti could see Clyde Darby nod his understanding. Big Joe settled
back into the deep leather seat and lit a fresh cigar. Soon the books would be
back in his hands and the Red Panda could do what he liked to Morton Nye, for
all the good it would do him. As soon as he had those books…

Tennutti’s eyes settled on the seat next to him and he bit through his
cigar in surprise. Sitting next to him in the back of his limousine were the
very books and ledgers he was on his way to recover. A complete record of
rackets, money laundering, hidden accounts, legitimate businesses – a
career retrospective of brutal crime and intimidation packaged up neatly for
the prosecutors.

Big Joe stammered in shock. He yelled for Darby, not thinking to use
the speaking tube. There was, atop the pile, a thin green ledger Tennutti did
not recognize. He tore it open and saw the fine, spindly hand of his trusted
bookkeeper, detailing in full the keys needed to interpret the code in which
the books were written, together with a full confession for the role that Nye
had played in the crimes.

Big Joe gaped wild-eyed at the ledger in his hand. He turned quickly to
the last page of the book. There, staring back at him, written in a bold hand
were the words
Courtesy of the Red Panda!
And underneath, a second hand had added the postscript
–And the Flying Squirrel xoxo.

Joe Tennutti snarled with rage. Why would those masked freaks have done
this? Why gather up this pile of evidence and then leave it to be discovered in
his own car? Were they simply trying to prove that they could get to him? Did
they expect to be paid off for their trouble? And how did they even get into
his car? In the armed camp that was the High-Hat Club, the only person who
could open the doors of the limousine with impunity was…

…His driver, Clyde Darby.

Tennutti looked up with a start and realized that his car was far off
its planned route. Darby was headed somewhere else, driving calmly,
unconcerned.

“Darby!” Tennutti screamed, pounding on the soundproof glass. “Darby!”

Big Joe quickly realized his folly and pulled the speaking tube from
its hanger. But before he could even open his mouth to fill the tube with
expletives, he heard a strange hissing sound coming back at him. Gas! The
sealed rear chamber of the limousine was filling with a translucent white gas
that had started to flow through the tube from the front of the car. Tennutti’s
head swam. His arms flailed for the handle to open the door, the window…
anything to clear the air and give him time to escape, but neither would budge.
Tennutti felt himself slumping forward… forward… down…

An hour later, two uniformed police officers were walking towards their
prowl car, preparing to leave for an evening patrol, when they made a most
unexpected discovery. There, in the division garage, they found Big Joe
Tennutti unconscious in the back of his limousine, beside the most damning pile
of evidence anyone could recall. And in the front seat, his driver still sat
quietly, a peaceful smile upon his face, and no hat upon his head.