Tales of the Red Panda: The Crime Cabal

by Gregg Taylor

  “I was knocked silly by two ogres, remember?”

  “Ah, yes,” she said. “I thought there was something.”

  “What do we know that we didn’t yesterday?” he said between spoonfuls of the much-maligned soup.

  “Beans all. Once Doc Carlson said you were out of the woods, I started going through the papers I cleaned out of the offices while you were playing Boy Distraction.”

  “Or in this case, Boy Punching-bag,” he said, wincing at another shooting pain from his ribs.

  “As you say. They were phonies.”

  His brows furrowed. “What were phonies?”

  “The records. The papers. They look good, but they’re nonsense. All of ‘em.”

  He held the spoon in mid-air as he wrestled with this. “Are they in code?”

  “You’re spilling,” she deadpanned. “And they’re not in code, they’re gibberish. Back to front. The ledgers, the papers, all of ‘em.”

  “They re-opened the gambling room at the Golden Goose less than a week ago, and they’ve already cooked up a phony set of books?” he said in disbelief.

  “They re-opened it a week ago and they closed it last night. In kind of a grand fashion. The whole place was wired.”

  “Wired? Bugged wired?” he said with a shake of his head.

  “Kaboom wired,” she replied. “They blew the whole place to kingdom come. Remote detonator with a timer backup. Eat your soup.”

  “What are you saying?” He wondered if he was having trouble following this.

  “Eat your soup,” she insisted, “and I’ll sum it up. Someone re-opened the gambling room at the Golden Goose at no small expense. It would have taken maybe a hundred grand just to re-outfit the joint and make it look pretty.”

  “At least,” he agreed.

  She arched an eyebrow that dared him to stop eating again. “They also would have had to buy off or muscle out the legitimate owners of the club. In either case, nobody’s seen them for a couple of weeks, so they’re probably in the lake somewhere.”

  He nodded, but continued eating.

  “They made this place all nice and fancy, put the word out on the street, filled it up with rich swells and started raking it in. They laid out a lot of coin, and put even more in the hands of the cashiers to run the place. But they wired the place nine ways from Sunday. And it wasn’t a small ‘boom’ either. They blew up the building and started a fire that wrecked half the block. This after they filled the offices with files an’ papers that don’t mean a thing.”

  “Well,” he said at last, “why put real records in a place you intend to blow up at the first sign of trouble?”

  “Why put any records in a place you intend to blow up at the first sign of trouble?” she countered.

  “It’s an interesting point,” he admitted.

  “An’ that’s not all, Boss. You should’ve seen the safe they had laid in. Brand new an’ fancy as all get out. Took me almost five minutes to crack.”

  He gave a low whistle. Any safe that took his partner that long to get past would be expensive indeed.

  “Well might you whistle,” she smiled, “but when I got it open, that’s all that was inside.” She pointed to her left at a not-at-all unimpressive pile of cash on the table.

  He raised an eyebrow. “How much?”

  “Seventy-six thousand, three hundred and twelve.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s all. Just about the bare minimum you could run an operation like that on, but not a quarter of what you’d expect to find.”

  He smiled. “You carried that and me?”

  She flushed. “There wasn’t time to pull the satchel from the harness. Besides, that’ll feed a lot of orphans, even if it won’t break the bank for these creeps.”

  “It is still quite bit to lose if your intention was to blow it to smithereens,” he frowned.

  “It doesn’t play any other way, Boss. The phony records, the safe… They knew our playbook backwards. They wanted to keep me busy while they sent the goon squad out to deal with you. And then keep us there ‘til they could bring the house down with us in it. This was the most expensive bushwhack in history.”

  “And we might infer that we were right to assume a connection with the outfit behind the protection rackets. Their wrecking crews were… similarly impressive.”

  “Human dump trucks you mean. Yeah, I noticed that.”

  “And they not only shrug off bullets, they seem to be invulnerable to hypnosis,” he said, perturbed. “Not only were they not fooled by my mental projection, they didn’t even seem to see it.”

  She frowned. “They didn’t seem that bright. Besides, the Ventrilloquator worked just fine. Doesn’t that seem funny?”

  He shrugged. “The Ventrilloquator actually does throw your voice. My hypnotic projections just trick the higher brain functions into ignoring what their senses are saying.”

  “So what are we dealing with here?” she said, running her fingers through her hair in an unconscious effort to mend her cowl-head.

  “Some kind of automaton,” he guessed, “or…”

  A toothy grin spread across her face. “I love it when you trail off like that. It usually means a crazy scheme is coming.”

  “I might just be crazy for thinking this, Kit. We need to go see Jack Peters.” He rose suddenly to his feet, looking only slightly unsteady on his pins in doing so.

  “No siree,” she protested. “No crime-fighting for you just yet, buster. I’m taking you home. I’ll call Petey from the lair, and try again to get hold of Sampson.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Try again to what?”

  Seventeen

  Andy Parker awoke with a start in a place he couldn’t remember seeing before, and hoped to never see again. It looked like some kind of warehouse, but it had definitely seen better days. The morning sun streamed in through the great gaps between the slats in the walls, forming brilliant shafts of light in the thick layer of dust that hung in the air. It gave an oddly grand feeling to a building that was little more than a shack filled with crates.

  It took Parker a moment to realize that he had been paying so much attention to the light, he had failed to notice the man in the shadows.

  “Good morning,” said Gregor Sampson condescendingly.

  Parker reached hastily for his .38 and found it gone.

  “Looking for this?” Sampson asked casually, holding Parker’s weapon aloft by the barrel. “Sorry to help myself, but you were awful handy with it last night.”

  Parker blinked his eyes hard as the aftermath of the inferno at the Golden Goose came flooding back to him – of the men who had hunted them as they ran, of being led on a route so circuitous, through alleys, back streets and sewer tunnels, that Parker never knew where he was or where he was going. He remembered that he and the man in the shadows had finally made a stand. They had hit at least three of their pursuers before the rest disappeared. And then they had run further and deeper into the night before going to ground. It couldn’t have ended more than a few hours ago.

  Parker’s eyes adjusted to the shadows his new friend was in. Sampson’s .45 was drawn, but not pointed directly at Parker, or held particularly aggressively. The man was taking no chances, but Parker did not feel himself in danger.

  “I thought we’d have a little chat, you and I,” Sampson began.

  “On what subject?” Parker was cool.

  “On the subject of free advice, my young friend. But let’s start with your name.” Sampson’s gaze was firm.

  “Peter. Peter Colt,” Parker lied.

  “And here we begin the free advice, Constable Andy Parker,” Sampson said smugly. “Never give a false name to someone who’s had time to search your pockets. And never carry identification when you’re working undercover. Especially if it says that you’re a cop. And while we’re on the subject, if you’re working undercover, try to learn something about whatever you’re posing as. That was some of the worst waitering I’ve seen in
my entire life. Every hood in the place had you pegged ten minutes before they moved on you. The room exploding actually increased your odds of survival.” Sampson watched the young policeman intently for any sign of anger, or anything that might betray him. He was impressed to see nothing of the kind.

  “Well, thanks for that, stranger. It’s true I didn’t get up early to rifle through your pockets, and the early bird gets the worm, I suppose. Of course, since I heard her call you both Sampson and Gregor, and it really doesn’t work the other way around, I’m going to call you Gregor Sampson and be glad for the extra few minutes of sleep.”

  “I also got your gun,” Sampson pointed out with a small smile.

  “Ah.” Parker had to concede the point. “There is that. How do you know her?”

  “Her who?” said Sampson, never taking his eyes off Parker.

  “Don’t be cute,” Parker snapped. “The Flying Squirrel knew your name. She asked you to help her with ‘The Boss’. You’re in the Red Panda’s gang, aren’t you?”

  Sampson snorted audibly. “Gang? It’s not exactly a gang.”

  “Then what exactly is it?” Parker jumped right in. When Sampson did not reply immediately he added, “You’re probably wishing you said ‘I don’t know what you mean’ right about now, aren’t you?”

  “Probably,” Sampson smiled. “But I still have both guns, so I don’t really care either.”

  Parker tensed. “I thought it wasn’t a gang.”

  “Well,” Sampson said casually, “there are gangs and there are gangs. Let’s talk about you, Parker. What makes a fresh-faced police constable with zero undercover experience and no backup, blunder into an incredibly dangerous situation like that? You can’t possibly be working on this case.”

  “There are cases and there are cases,” Parker smiled.

  “Oh, so it’s like that, is it? What is it, Junior? Bucking for promotion? Figured the Golden Goose was too obvious a target for the Red Panda to pass up?”

  “It was, wasn’t it?

  “Sure, kid. But don’t get too full of yourself. Sometimes he walks into traps just to see what they look like from the inside.”

  “Interesting. Why don’t we talk about you, Sampson? You plainly work for the Red Panda. Come down to headquarters and come clean. Tell us who he is and what he wants.”

  “What he wants? Doesn’t he make it pretty obvious? The same thing as you!”

  “I don’t hide behind a mask, Sampson.”

  “You don’t do as good a job as he does either,” Sampson snorted.

  “Maybe not. Of course, I don’t have a staff like his. You’re pretty house-proud of your undercover skills, aren’t you? You also answer the description of a con-man named Grant. What are you, his spy inside the rackets?”

  “So you don’t think he’s involved in the rackets, then?”

  “I’ve got a job to do, Sampson,” Parker said through gritted teeth.

  “Me too,” Sampson said casually, and tossed Parker his .38. “I’ve gotta make a phone call. Sit tight.”

  “Sit tight?” Parker was incredulous. “Why should I?”

  “Because,” Sampson was walking away, “your leg is handcuffed to the floor.”

  Parker looked down and groaned. It was true. He raised the revolver.

  “Sampson!” he called. “Get back here!”

  Gregor Sampson did not look back.

  “Kid,” he said, “I left one bullet in that gun, in case our playmates from last night are still around, or some rats find you while I’m out. Now, you can waste it shooting me in the back, but since I’m all the way over here, explain to me how that gets you out of those cuffs.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  Eighteen

  Within the heart of downtown, there stood an inordinately busy Chinese laundromat. The owner, Mister Fong, was a canny man, wise in the ways of the world. He had long recognized that, for all the talk of opportunity in the New World, the deck was stacked against him and his countrymen. A society that prided itself on fair play and freedom presented little of either to members of his race. Most of his fellow Chinese were as well aware of these inequities as Fong was, but chose to bear this burden quietly and with dignity. They worked hard and each successive generation hoped that things would be better for their children as a result. Fong was a less patient man.

  But he was also not prepared to take unacceptable risks. Just as Toronto society presented many barriers to men of Chinese descent, the law was also much harder on those of his race that stepped beyond their bounds. Oddly, only the underworld seemed prepared to treat each man equally, each according to his worth. To that end, Fong had taken steps to make himself worthy of such respect, while minimizing the risk to himself and his family.

  When Fong had bought the building fifteen years earlier, it was with a keen eye to its versatility. It was in a heavy-traffic area, bordering on three distinct districts, and was close to several main thoroughfares. All of these points made it appealing for a family-run laundry business. It also had three separate entrances, no two of which could be observed from the same vantage point. The previous owner had closed two off, concentrating on the busiest street. Fong had immediately opened the other two entrances for business, and placed bright signs over each door. It had cost him some expense and valuable space inside, and had brought in little new business, but over the years it had paid him much, much more than his honest labor ever could.

  It made Fong’s Laundromat an ideal place for some who might wish their comings and goings to remain unobserved or to lose a police tail, a service Fong was only too happy to provide at a monthly rate. Persons wishing to make a quick disappearing act simply came to the counter and gave this month’s code-word, which got them a phony laundry bundle and no questions asked as they quickly made their way out a different door.

  For years, this arrangement had worked very well. So well, in fact, that the Sclareli mob had reached a further arrangement with Mister Fong. They owned the warehouse across the street, though to the casual observer it appeared abandoned. They had wished to make it a headquarters for their smuggling operation and, with Fong’s permission, a tunnel had been dug. Day and night gangsters would enter Fong’s shop carrying phony laundry bundles. Each was ushered behind the counter, through a trapdoor, into the tunnel and across the street. Anyone watching the building would assume that they had left by one of the other exits. Later they would leave with another bundle under their arms, and no one was the wiser.

  In the end, after five years of use, the building had been raided and had burned in the process. All that stood there now was a vacant lot. But beneath the ground, the foundation of the old building had been restored and secured. The tunnel was still in working order, and thanks to a renewed agreement with Mister Fong, it once again served as the secret entrance for men of crime to hide their base. The fortified basement of the old warehouse now served as the underground bunker of the Crime Cabal!

  The tunnel was the only entrance, and in addition to the hidden trapdoor, there were two reinforced steel doors along its length. There were no windows, and the air vents were carefully hidden and could be switched off from a master control inside the fortress. Malcolm had planned carefully at every stage to have the perfect, Panda-proof headquarters, an underground castle from which he would rule the city. That had been his dream. The reality had proved rather more challenging.

  Malcolm threw open the great doors of the room his new partners had commandeered for their laboratory. He had five of his most trusted men with him. Simon, on the end, carried a Thompson, and the others had automatics bulging under their coats. A small crowd of the Crime Cabal’s worthies followed behind to watch the fun. Professor Zombie did not look up as Malcolm stormed in.

  “What do you want?” she asked in as dismissive and disinterested manner as she could.

  “Where’s the other one?” Malcolm fumed. “Where is that lunatic, Kid Chaos?”

  Chaos walked slowly into view carryi
ng the workings of one of his firebombs very gingerly.

  “Malcolm, old fellow,” the little man beamed through his lab goggles, “has it ever occurred to you that it might not be a brilliant idea to stomp and startle people who work with dangerous chemicals or high explosives? There’s only so much air in here… one false move with this little beauty and those of us that didn’t cook instantly would suffocate in seconds.” He moved to set the bomb workings down on the table and suddenly sneezed, sending the parts flying to the floor and scattering gangsters in an instant.

  Chaos laughed himself hoarse at their reaction. Even Professor Zombie could not resist a smile. Kid Chaos shook his head and picked up a broom and dustpan from the corner.

  “Sorry,” he said, “bad joke, but I couldn’t resist.” He broke up laughing again at the look on Malcolm’s face.

  “Stop laughing, you idiot!” Malcolm shouted.

  “Then please stop being so funny!” Chaos chuckled as he swept up the bits of the device he had been working on. “Oh, stop hiding behind things, you big, brave gangsters. If you haven’t figured out by now that it was a dud, you’re not even bright enough for zombie-work. No offense, my dear.”

  “None taken,” the dour Professor said as she snapped her gloves off. “What is it, Malcolm? Can’t you see that we have work to do?”

  The crowd of toughs looked on in amazement. None of them had ever heard anyone dare to speak to Mister Malcolm like that. Malcolm raised himself to his considerable height.

  “You blew up the Golden Goose!” Malcolm sputtered with rage.

  “Thank you, we actually were aware of that,” Professor Zombie said without expression.

  “Do you have any idea how many bombs I wired into that dump?” Chaos picked up the thread. “How could something like that escape my notice?”

  “Do you know what that cost us?” Malcolm’s men were fingering their weapons now. It would not be long before the order came.

  “You have to spend money to make money, Malcolm.” Professor Zombie strode forward, the crowd of toughs falling back in apprehension as she did.