Tales of the Red Panda: The Crime Cabal (6 page)

“I have a vague recollection of that,” she smirked.

“Well, these sensors detect the unconscious muscular movement in the
throat associated with specific thoughts, and use them as a guide to target
your voice.”

“Target my voice?” She was genuinely puzzled now.

“Yes.” He seemed not to have noticed at first. “The Ventrilloquator
throws your voice. Didn’t I mention that?”

“Sometimes, if you start a story at the beginning, then do the middle
and then the end…,” she said like a patient schoolmarm speaking to a small,
dull child.

“Do you want it or not?” he deadpanned.

“How does it work?”

“Well, it’ll take some tweaking to tune it to your own muscular
signature. I’ve been testing it on myself.” He seemed apologetic for some
reason. “But once you’re used to it, it should be second nature. And completely
hands-free. We’ll sew it into the bottom of your cowl, so the mask holds it up
against your throat under the chin.”

His hands reached up towards her and held the thin membrane against her
neck. His fingertips brushed up against her throat. She swallowed hard.

“Now,” he said, oblivious, “think about your voice coming from that
filing cabinet to your right.”

“What?” Kit said, still flustered. “I
can’t–”

“You don’t have to
do
anything. Just
think
about it, and
talk normally. The device will detect the slight muscular effort and direct the
sound accordingly.”

Kit blinked a little as she watched him sitting there with a grin of
expectation on his face. She tried very hard to think of anything
other
than grabbing him by the ears and
kissing him.

“Now say something,” he said.

“I don’t know what to say.”

They both blinked in amazement. Her voice had come right out of his
mouth!

“That was a little strange.” He seemed cross with himself. “The
settings must be all wrong.”

“Wait, Boss, let me try again.” She closed her eyes and tried much
harder to think of something other than grabbing him by the ears and kissing
him. She peeked quickly at the filing cabinet to her right.

“Hey! Lemme outta this filing cabinet!” came Kit’s voice from the
cabinet’s third drawer, complete with muffled echo.

“Boss! That’s amazing!” she cried, her momentary lapse quite forgotten.

He beamed with pride. “Use it sparingly until I can get the settings
refined. Go grab your cowl and I’ll get this fitted in.”

“Then what?” she buzzed excitedly.

“Then we hit the town.”

The Mayor sat quietly and gazed out the window as he waited for Chief
O’Mally to calm down. Often, the sight of His Honor staring gravely into the
middle distance was enough to rein O’Mally in. The mayor noted with some
chagrin that this policy seemed to be growing less and less effective with
every passing day. The Mayor tried to conduct himself in political matters with
the dignity and reserve he had learned in his previous profession as an
undertaker. He provided an island of calm reserve in a turbulent sea of
emotion, just as he always had. It was a policy that had served him well in
both occupations. Few of his officials’ emotional outbursts were more extreme
than the grief of the recently bereaved. But for Chief O’Mally, it was quite a
different matter where the Red Panda was concerned.

A glance at the clock confirmed that the Chief had passed the
seven-minute mark of this morning’s tirade, and showed no sign of slowing down.
At last, the Mayor broke his stoic silence.

“For heaven’s sake, O’Mally, is all this really necessary?”

O’Mally wheeled around from the trench he had been wearing in the
carpet of the Mayor’s office. He seemed slightly startled, as if he had quite
forgotten that someone else was there.

“Necessary? Just look at this headline!”

O’Mally dropped a copy of the
Chronicle
on His Honor’s desk. “Terrific Twosome Thwart Train Terror!” blazed the
headline above a slightly out-of-focus photograph of a man’s back, which
witnesses claimed belonged to the Red Panda, and beside a portrait of two women
smiling broadly for the press.

“Train terror indeed! They caught a purse snatcher on the station
platform!” O’Mally grunted indignantly, jabbing his meaty index finger into the
newspaper.

“Do you have some objection to the purse snatcher being caught?”
countered the Mayor, an eyebrow arched as if ready to pick a fight.

O’Mally gaped for a moment. The Mayor’s office had always officially
backed him up on all matters pertaining to the application of law and order.
The possibility of a sea change brewing had simply never occurred to him.

“With all due respect, Mister Mayor, that is hardly the point.”

“Isn’t it?” The Mayor rose from his seat. He was a full four inches
shorter than O’Mally, but he strode away from the Chief, rather than confront
him directly, making his way to the window and forcing the Chief to speak to
his back. “No one is questioning the dedication or the efficacy of your police
force, O’Mally. But they cannot be everywhere. And there is simply no denying
that these masked heroes–”

“Vigilantes,” the Chief corrected sharply.

“There is no denying,” the Mayor pressed on, ignoring the interruption,
“that they have done immense good in the public interest. Their recent campaign
against organized crime–”

“–has cleared the way for him and that partner of his to take
over the rackets themselves,” O’Mally growled.

The Mayor turned sharply back to O’Mally. “And have you the slightest
scrap of evidence to support that allegation?”

“Allegation?” the Chief said, his cheeks reddening. “Do I have to
remind you this is an outlaw we’re discussing?”

“An outlaw who is entitled to the same presumption of innocence as any
other citizen, Chief O’Mally.”

There was a bewildered pause that the Chief finally broke with a shake
of his head. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t keep track of these things; is this an
election year?”

Now it was the Mayor’s turn to bristle. “What are you suggesting,
O’Mally?”

“I am suggesting that tying your political fortunes to the public’s
adoration of this madman is a feat of lunacy. They’ll build him a statue for
saving an old lady’s purse, but they’ll scream for his head when he finally
crosses the line and kills someone, and then where will you be?”

A small sneer crossed the Mayor’s face. “Don’t try and give me a
politician’s answer, O’Mally. You don’t care about my electoral fate one way or
another. You resent that he makes your police force look bad.”

The two men were almost nose to nose now.

“I resent that these masked menaces are applauded for using methods
that my police force would be tarred and feathered for approaching, yes. Why
wouldn’t I?”

“Then you admit that the Red Panda’s goals are in support of law and
order, just as yours are?” said the Mayor triumphantly.

“I admit nothing of the kind,” thundered the Chief. “Unless the agents
of justice are answerable to the legal system, the courts and the people, what
they offer is just another form of lawlessness. And you might appreciate it
today, but if you don’t like it tomorrow, exactly what do you propose to do
about it?” There was a pause while the Mayor considered this. He drew back, and
lowered his tone of voice.

“Well, it’s a very popular form of lawlessness, O’Mally. And you might
do worse than to remember that.”

O’Mally sighed. He could only fight battles on so many fronts at once.
“What is it you would have me do, Mister Mayor?”

The Mayor sat back behind his desk, exasperated. “No one is asking you
to endorse the Red Panda’s activities, O’Mally, but if you could just be less
outspoken against him. Every time you tear a strip off him in public, I get a
dozen calls asking me if I support your stance. You put me in a position of
taking a very unpopular stand, or displaying a public lack of confidence in
your office.”

“I ask again, Mister Mayor, what would you have me
do
? Put him on the payroll? We don’t even know who he is for
heaven’s sake!”

“So find out if you must, O’Mally,” the Mayor shot back. “Learn his
identity and then if he does cross the line… if he does become a public menace,
you and your men will be able to bring him to swift justice. But learn it
quietly, and no one ever need know.”

O’Mally stroked his well-trimmed mustache at the thought. “I have your
support for this plan?”

The Mayor looked sternly at his Chief of Police over the rims of his
glasses. “Up to the moment that anyone asks me about it, Chief. Anyone at all.
So keep this quiet.”

O’Mally gave a curt nod of his head and left the Mayor’s office before
His Honor could see the smile playing about his lips. As far as O’Mally was
concerned, the Red Panda had crossed the line the moment he took the law into
his own hands. The public may love their man of mystery, but when faced by the
man behind the mask and forced to recognize his true motivations, they’d change
their tune quickly enough. But the Mayor was right, this had to be done
quietly, and the press seemed to have spies in every department at Police
Headquarters. This would require extraordinary measures. But O’Mally was
certain of one thing: the Red Panda’s days were numbered. Of that he had no
doubt.

“The Red Panda’s days are numbered!” boomed the voice from the darkened
stage. The echo played around the walls, revealing the room to be large and
open. The murmur of voices in the room beyond stilled quickly as the speaker
stepped into a small pool of half-light. The murmur began anew as the assembled
men scattered in the darkened space recognized the speaker. He was less
immaculate than had once been his custom, and bore a long scar running the
length of his face, but it was unmistakably Malcolm, formerly the right-hand
man of the Sclareli crime family.

Once, that position alone would have cowed the thugs assembled in the
darkness. But now that Vic Sclareli had joined his uncle Tony in a federal pen,
along with most of the surviving members of his gang, there were derisive
snorts at this bold statement. Malcolm called to a lieutenant on the catwalk
above.

“Simon. A little light on the subject, if you please.”

A thin voice protested from above, “But Mister Malcolm, the
heat–”

“You let me worry about the police, Simon. You just worry about me,”
Malcolm clipped angrily. It would be impossible for him to impose discipline on
the loose assembly in the darkness beyond if he were contradicted by his own
men.

“Yes sir,” the voice called, and with a clunk, the lights sputtered and
buzzed back to life, revealing a crowd of fifty thugs in the great hall of the
High-Hat Club.

It had only been two weeks since the capture of Big Joe Tennutti, but
they had not been kind to the once-opulent Club. Little was left intact following
the police raids and subsequent searches. Tables were smashed and overturned,
and the long bar had been broken apart by police sledgehammers, supposedly
searching for hidden panels. The club had been seized, boarded up and put on
the market at once. But even with the dearth of gangland leaders left at large,
few in the city would have dared to purchase and occupy the former stronghold.

Scroungers had been the next wave through, stripping anything portable
that might have value, however slight. There weren’t more than a half dozen
working lights left in the place, and they only remained because they were far
out of reach. But it was enough to illuminate the crowd of low-level soldiers
and unaffiliated goons.

Malcolm smiled. He had been an underworld leader for too long not to
have accepted the one great truth of the criminal class: they were cowards to a
man. Even now, he felt sure they would scarcely dare to defy him openly in the
light. The impatient rhubarb faded at once, and Malcolm continued.

“There was a time,” he said with a mock-gentle tone, “when there was
more than enough to go around in this city. When independent operations could
compete, stay strong and still make a pretty penny. Those days are, for the
moment, behind us.”

Another murmur rose from the crowd. Malcolm ignored it.

“Just look around you. Can anyone here see more than half a dozen men
he counted among his allies a year ago?”

There was silence in the hall.

“We kept our independence, our own interests, our old grudges. We kept
working to take each other out of the game like there wasn’t something new at
our heels. The Red Panda exploited those rivalries and used them to destroy us.
Those of us who are left must stand together, or we won’t stand at all!”
Malcolm was hitting his stride now. “One city, one gang, and profit enough for
all!”

“What about the Golden Claw?” called a voice from the hall.

A murmur ran through the crowd. Malcolm looked up in anger to see that
the call had come from “Hook” Henderson, once a soldier for the underworld
queen who had taken the name “Golden Claw.” Henderson strode forward into the
open space before the stage, addressing the crowd of hoods and the man on the
stage equally.

“You all remember the Claw. She tied all the rackets in town under one
big operation. The gangs she didn’t take over outright all paid her tribute to
keep their operations running. Even the Sclareli mob,” Henderson said with a
sneer towards the stage. “It was the biggest, the most organized mob this
city’s ever seen–”

“Even if you do say so yourself,” Malcolm interjected wryly, to the
amusement of some in the crowd.

“Laugh it up if you want, Mister Malcolm. But in her day, when the
Golden Claw said jump, you jumped. Just like every Man-Jack here. And where is
she now?” Hook Henderson called to the crowd. “In a federal pen, that’s where.
An’ word is she’ll grow old an’ die there, all because of the man in the mask.
If the Golden Claw’s outfit couldn’t stand up to the Red Panda, what chance
does this bunch have?”

The crowd was becoming agitated. They obviously agreed with Henderson.
Malcolm would have to do something unexpected.

“Mister Henderson is right,” he called. The crowd fell silent, baffled.
“The Golden Claw built the best organization I’ve ever seen in a lifetime in
the rackets. But those do-gooders took her down, because she was trying to run
the whole city, without ever taking care of the masked man and his girlfriend.
That’s why this group will succeed where everyone else has failed. Because
before we take care of business, we’ll take care of the Red Panda!”

There was an excited buzz throughout the crowd. Everyone was clearly in
agreement, but it didn’t seem possible.

“He ain’t human!” called a voice.

“I pumped five shots into him once, an’ he didn’t go down,” cried
another.

“Him? What about
her
?” said a
third voice. “He’s tough, but she’s just
mean
.”

There was a general murmur of agreement.

“Oh no!” came a mocking voice from the stage right wings. “Save us all
from the big bad Panda. And don’t make us fight the little girl in the squirrel
suit. Oh boo-hoo…” The voice dissolved into a burble of laughter as the speaker
stepped from the shadows and onto the stage.

“Who the hell is that?” called a voice from the end of the hall.

There was an excited buzz, which was quickly drowned out by the drawing
and cocking of firearms.

“Oooooh, mercy. You’re all tough as nails now, aren’t you?” said the
small man with a wicked grin and a pleasingly round face. “You could pull those
triggers right now I suppose. But that would probably knock my little thumb off
this detonator!”

The little man whipped forth a bright green apparatus with a large red
button at the top, which he held down with the thumb of his right hand. He
began to giggle as he watched the faces of the assembled mobsters. “You see, the
whole room is wired. I can bring this entire place down on top of you. Nobody
double crosses Kid Chaos!”

The reaction was immediate.

“Kid Chaos?”

“What, that nut job with the bombs?”

“I thought he was dead.”

“I heard he was in the psycho ward.”

“You were both right!” said the little man, beaming with delight at his
own fame. “But I got better!” and he exploded again into laughter.

Malcolm stepped in to grab back the reins. “Since our new associate has
taken the liberty of introducing himself–”

“New associate?” came a voice from the hall. “That maniac?”

“As you say. Not only must we set aside old grievances, old ways and
unite into one super-mob if we are to have a hope of defeating the Red Panda,
but we must also look for new blood, new ideas.”

A buzz of disbelief ran through the hall. Malcolm ignored it.

“The sheer audacity of Kid Chaos’ work makes him a force to be reckoned
with, as does the fact that he has tangled with the man in the mask again and
again, and somehow keeps coming back for more.”

The little man smiled shyly. “Truly, I am a wonder,” he said, and began
quietly disarming his own explosive device.

“Indeed,” Malcolm continued, his voice stern, “what he has lacked is
proper support and effective long-term planning. He has no sense of the delicate
art of wringing every last dollar from the city.”

“And you want us to join up with this freak?” It was Henderson again.

“No, Mister Henderson, Kid Chaos is joining us! His creativity makes
him a valuable member of our team. All of us, working together for a common
goal, can eliminate the Red Panda and the Flying Squirrel, and with no outside
rivals, we can bleed this city dry!”

The tone of the murmur had changed. Malcolm was clearly persuading
them. Still, one voice bleated its dissent.

“But Mister Malcolm,” Henderson began, “there’s one thing you haven’t
thought of.”

“And what is that?” Malcolm glared from the stage.

“Foot soldiers. It’s true that you got all the makings of a swell
organization here – a lotta sharp guys, career types. But there ain’t a lotta
gorillas left to do the dirty work. You got a few here, and I can think of six
or eight more, but if you’re gonna bring the whole city to heel, we’re gonna
need a lot more muscle.”

“I think this is where I come in,” a hard voice sang from the wings. A
woman’s voice. The assembled crowd of hoods buzzed once more as a dark-haired
woman strode forth from the shadows, a long, deep-green cloak billowing as she
moved, and clinging to her ample yet shapely form. She might have been as old
as forty, though something in her face defied such analysis.

“Gentlemen,” Malcolm said with a pleased sneer, “you all know Professor
Zombie.”

The effect on the room was immediate. Every man in the crowd took two
quick steps back without realizing they had done so. Had the devil himself
walked onto the stage, they might have taken as many as three.

Malcolm continued, “Scientist, visionary, mistress of the necromantic
arts. Her scientific analysis of ancient voodoo magic allows her to leech away
the higher powers of life, leaving only a shell behind to do her bidding. She
has created a small army of these zombies for the very purpose Mister Henderson
outlined.”

“They may not be terribly bright,” the woman interrupted, “but they’re
very determined and unquestionably loyal. Their pain threshold is off the
charts, their strength twice that of a normal man, and best of all… they don’t
ask for a cut of the take.”

The crowd was convinced. Now she was speaking their language. Malcolm
stepped into centre stage, his arms raised above his head in triumph.

“Gentlemen, I give you… The Crime Cabal!” he roared to thunderous
applause.