Tales of the Red Panda: The Crime Cabal

by Gregg Taylor

  “Spend money? Make money? Will you tell me what blowing the last decent gambling joint left in the city halfway to Hades makes us? Aside from the future revenues lost, the resources–”

  “Four more of my top of the line undead footsoldiers,” Zombie intoned. “A small price to pay.”

  “Our footsoldiers,” Chaos reminded her.

  “Of course,” she smiled coldly. “And we lost exactly no future revenue, Malcolm, child. The Red Panda would have seen to that. Our plan–”

  “Your plan?” Malcolm saw red. “This qualifies as a plan? At what point did you become authorized to spend a million dollars without approval?”

  “You know what your trouble is, Malcolm?” Chaos said with his disarming smile. “You’ve got no imagination. You put this little Cabal together, but when it comes right down to it, you’ve got no idea what to do with it. You’re just another punk at heart.”

  “Why, you little–!” Malcolm’s men stepped forward.

  Professor Zombie clicked her fingers and five giant zombie soldiers lumbered from the shadows and stood there, menacing. The gangsters stepped back and lowered their guns.

  “Every single one of you came from one gang or another,” Chaos continued, “and you all did business the same way. You kept your heads down, you greased the right palms and you hoped the man in the mask would go after the other guy. Well, guess what, you roving band of geniuses… there is no other guy! The Red Panda is going to come after us again and again and again! None of you were able to stand against him before. We took a great chance to be rid of him once and for all, it’s true. And for all anyone knows, it might have succeeded!”

  “They didn’t pull his body out of the wreckage. Or the Squirrel’s,” Malcolm growled.

  “Fine… maybe he crawled away to die. Maybe he’s crippled. And maybe he’s hale and healthy and chasing his little rodent friend around a settee even as we speak. We took the fight to him last night, my friends. On a scale that no one has ever reached before. Even if he lives, he now knows that he faces an enemy as determined and strong as he! He now knows the consequences of opposing the Crime Cabal!”

  “It’s time for you all to decide what kind of organization you want to have,” Professor Zombie said, looking at the now questioning group of hoods. “Do you want to do business the old way, with the old results? If so, we’ll leave. You don’t need us to help you go to prison. Or do you all have everything a little better than you used to?”

  “She’s right,” called a voice from the crowd. Malcolm whipped around. It was Hook Henderson stepping forward.

  “I don’t know about you lot, but I’d rather have a couple of those big creepy… things… of theirs backing me up than anybody else. They’re super-strong, they fight to the death… we can always make more, and we don’t have to pay ‘em off!”

  There were calls of agreement throughout the crowd.

  “What’s more… if we get rid of them,” Henderson continued, “we got nothin’ we didn’t have before. And didn’t the masked freaks beat us all like that?”

  More voices called their agreement. Malcolm felt sweat beading on the back of his neck.

  “I don’t know about the rest of you,” Henderson was winding up the crowd like a union rally, “but I’m for tryin’ new things. Things just crazy enough to work. We can settle down and run this town like a business once we’ve taken care of the Red Panda and the Flyin’ Squirrel! Until then, I say the crazier, the better!”

  “Very well said, Mister Henderson!” Kid Chaos clapped, smiling smugly at Malcolm as the crowd roared their assent. Malcolm’s lip twisted in rage and he turned on his heels, two of his trusted five leaving with him.

  Amid the handshakes and new assignments that followed, Zombie leaned in to speak quietly to Chaos.

  “He’s a wounded dog now. There’s no telling what he’ll do,” she said.

  “Leave everything to me, my most dear lady.” Kid Chaos beamed angelically and made his way quickly over to where Hook Henderson was standing.

  “A very opportune moment you chose to speak up, Mister Henderson,” Kid Chaos smiled. “That could have been… awkward.”

  Henderson nodded. “What you two say makes a lot of sense,” he said. “I was just trying to help.”

  “And you did,” Chaos said, putting his arm around Henderson’s shoulder, “you did indeed. This organization is going places, Henderson. And you’re going places in it. We just need you to do one more little thing…”

  Nineteen

  It was early evening before a certain casually, yet elegantly dressed ne’er-do-well appeared at the business end of the great pneumatic tube. He stepped out somewhat gingerly, as though his head had not appreciated the trip quite as much as it generally did, but he was determined not to show it.

  Kit Baxter’s head popped around the corner. Her cowl was down around her shoulders, and the goggles were absent, but she was otherwise togged and ready for action. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Should you be here?” she said carefully.

  He looked at her a little sternly, as if he were looking over the rims of glasses that he did not, in fact, have. “Miss Baxter, while I appreciate you lugging my unconscious form out of that inferno–”

  “–you’re all through being babied now?” she finished his thought with a sheepish grin.

  “In a nutshell.” He stepped out into the hall and walked with her into the Crime Lab.

  “Can I use the same line on you the next time you’re playing mother hen with me?” she said, noting that she did not need to hurry as much to keep pace with his strides.

  “No,” he smiled.

  “Does that seem entirely fair?” she said, her chin jutting out at the injustice.

  “No. What do we know?”

  “Sampson made contact. He spent the night dodging bullets with a certain Police Constable who had no particular reason to be there last night.”

  “Parker? Again?” The Red Panda looked cross. “Why would a uniformed police officer be working solo on an investigation of this importance?”

  “There are cases and there are cases,” she said, pulling herself up to sit on the workbench beside him. She caught her reflection in his eyes and found herself wondering again if she seemed too eager. She wasn’t accustomed to having to try this hard to make her intentions clear, but he just didn’t seem to be getting it.

  “If you’re checking my pupils to see if they’re dilated, they aren’t. I’m fine.”

  “What’s that?” she said, pulled very suddenly back to reality. “Right. Pupils. No concussion. Well, you can’t blame a girl for checking. Where was I?”

  “There are cases and there are cases, or something equally cryptic,” he said, feeling a little guilty for giving her a hard time so soon after she had saved his life again.

  “Right,” she said. “That was a little turn of phrase Parker used while showing off. Sampson thinks he isn’t after this new gang at all.”

  The Red Panda frowned. “Then why would he…” He paused a moment. “…He’s after us, isn’t he?”

  “Right first try.”

  “Chief O’Mally sent one little patrolman after us?” he said in disbelief. “I don’t know whether to feel relieved or insulted.”

  Kit smiled coyly. “He could just be a fan, you know. Keen to help and so forth.”

  “You think?” he asked.

  “Such things have been known,” she said, locking eyes with him. No night-vision lenses to protect him this time.

  He held her look a moment. “I think I have all the help I could ever need in that line.”

  He turned his head away, beaten by her stare at last, but Kit would never know it. At that same instant she felt her cheeks grow hot and turned away to hide the rush of colour she knew was coming.

  She slipped her feet to the floor and retreated a few steps. “So where do we go from here? Sampson says Parker picked up his real name, and recognized him as Grant. I sent a newsie ‘round to cut Parker loose
and ordered Sampson to a safe house for the duration. His contact man said he wasn’t too happy about it.”

  The Red Panda nodded. “You did exactly what I would have done. If Sampson’s identity has been compromised, he’s in danger, and he presents a danger to our entire network. He’s got to lie low for awhile, like it or not.”

  “What about Parker? You could just erase his memory.”

  “I could. But we’d need to know more about what his mission is and who he’s reported to already. If he isn’t acting alone, the information will have spread farther by now than hypnosis can cure. If he is… well, we’ll know that too.” The Red Panda was suddenly grave. “But whatever Parker’s motivations are, we don’t have time to deal with him right now. People’s lives hang in the balance. People we have sworn to protect. This ‘new gang’ is much more than just that. We need to find out who they are and put an end to them, before more innocent people suffer.”

  “Yes, Boss.” Kit tried not to purr, but his boy scout stuff really made her weak in the knees.

  “It’s been two days, does Peters have anything for us yet?”

  “Not much to report, beyond the fact that there’s nothing to report. The cops have clamped down hard on the St Clair explosion, even more so after last night. Petey says one of his boys on the force whispered that what’s left of the bombs have the cops and fire department completely buffaloed. He’s leaning hard for a copy of the working report, but it’s hard for him to explain why since he couldn’t print any of it anyway, and he can’t exactly tell the boys in blue that it’s for little ol’ us.”

  “Point taken. If only Chief O’Mally were less–”

  “–of a pig-headed mule?” she offered.

  “You’re still sore about the time he put a death warrant out on me,” the Red Panda grinned.

  “I’m still sore that he put it out on you an’ not on me,” she said, her nose twisted up in disgust.

  “What about the autopsy reports on our John Does from St Clair?” he said, opening the wardrobe and pulling out one of a dozen identical grey suits.

  “Dead end there too, Boss. The Coroner threw out all of the autopsy reports. Petey doesn’t know why and nobody’s talkin’.”

  The Red Panda blinked. “Wait. He threw out… everything?”

  “Yep. Ordered fresh pathology on both our playmates and the mad bomber. Now, with a fresh batch of corpses from last night, there’s no telling how long it’ll take,” she shrugged a little.

  “Three autopsies, thrown out…” His brow was knit, but a smile played around his face. “…What would make a Coroner behave like that in the middle of an investigation?”

  Kit seemed lost. “You think he’s maybe on the take?”

  “Bribing a medical examiner? I’ve never heard of such a thing… but it’s probably more reasonable than my other thought.”

  “What was it?” Kit said, and then when it became clear he didn’t mean to say, she stomped her foot. “Darn it! I love to watch those wheels work, and now I’ve gone and spoiled it.”

  “Let’s just say I’d rather not say this one out loud until I have something more than wild hunches and a splitting headache.”

  “Swell. Except we ain’t havin’ a lot of luck comin’ up with leads,” she sighed. “And I don’t know about you, but I’d just as soon not wait for these jokers to come up with another trap. The only way this ends good is if it ends quick.”

  “What are you thinking?” he said, picking up his mask and gauntlets from the table.

  “I’m thinkin’ that John Law’s got more goods than we do, but they’ve got no clue what to do with ‘em.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “I’m also thinkin’ that I’m sick and tired of askin’ politely. I say we stick our paws in the cookie jar.”

  He smiled, “It’s a pretty heavily guarded cookie jar.”

  “You should see Ma Baxter with a wooden spoon. The woman is deadly.”

  “I’m sure.” He headed for the door.

  “Where ya goin’?” she called.

  “To suit up. And no backtalk. I’m fine.”

  “Yes, Boss. Where do we hit first?”

  “I think we should pay a little visit to an old friend, don’t you?”

  She sighed. “Poor old Bert. He was probably having such a nice day too.”

  “We’ve given him a little space lately, in deference to his nervous disposition. But the man is an agent. He took an oath. And we need all the help we can get.”

  She grinned and pulled her cowl up. “Looks like the Assistant Coroner has a date with the Red Panda!”

  Twenty

  Malcolm sat alone in his spacious command office, deep within the bunker of the Crime Cabal. This office was designed to be impervious to attack. A fortress within a fortress. From the earliest planning stages of this bunker’s construction, when he was still the chief lieutenant for the Sclareli family, Malcolm had always envisioned this sanctum as an oasis – a private enclave where the elite men of crime might feel themselves truly secure, totally shielded from fear of attack and thus completely free.

  Now it was his prison.

  He was deep under the city, beneath a vacant lot, in a headquarters few knew existed. Two steel doors and a sixty-foot tunnel separated the fortress from the outside world. An armed camp of gangsters he could no longer trust stood between him and those doors. How many sided with him and how many with his former partners, he could not say. But it only took one.

  Two men had been strong enough in his camp to leave the confrontation at his side. Simon and Len. On his orders, Len had left to summon more support from outside. More former members of the Sclareli mob, if any could be found. That was ten hours ago, and Malcolm had to admit he had no idea if the man was truly coming back, if he was successful in his quest or indeed even if he had been allowed to leave. Had the roles been reversed, Malcolm would never have let his enemy out of his sight.

  Simon had left the office to sound out the feelings of the men. Those once loyal to Sclareli must surely feel a sense of obedience to Malcolm. Even those who had formerly been members of rival factions must feel some gratitude to Malcolm for re-organizing, for including them, for giving them another chance to rule the city.

  Mustn’t they?

  Three hours after Simon had left the sanctuary of Malcolm’s office with no sign of his return, Malcolm was forced to concede that perhaps they did not. He still held the belief that most of the men would rather deal with someone they could trust. Someone who did business as they always had, as their fathers had. Someone who understood that even crime had certain rules. A code of conduct. But if even a handful were loyal to the mad fools that he himself had recruited… If only a few were ready to do the bidding of Kid Chaos and Professor Zombie, a bloodbath would follow.

  He gripped the .45 he had been holding for hours. Hard. If he could hold this office… maintain at least a semblance of command…

  He choked a little at how hollow his own words sounded, even to himself. The office was bullet-proof. It was fire-proof. It had a ventilation system separate from the rest of the bunker. Even Chaos’ bombs could not penetrate the door. But he was cut off, and there could be little doubt that he was in hiding.

  Still, in this hour of darkness, he could not accept his own fault, could not accept the truth that all criminals must learn in the end.

  One by one, the organized rackets in the city had fallen before the daring of an unpredictable new foe. One that could not be bought like the law, or intimidated like the people. An enemy that could not be defended against by the normal rules of gang warfare because territory and tribute were not among their goals. These self-appointed guardians of justice, whatever that meant… they sought nothing less than the outright destruction of the crime that preyed upon a desperate city. At any cost.

  And what a cost it had been. In the months since they turned their full attention to organized crime, mobs that had stood the test of time had been wiped out. Everyth
ing Malcolm had known had been pulled down around him. He had felt in his heart that it would take something more than he could give to end this reign of terror. These super-criminals had given the Red Panda such trouble with their own small gangs and bizarre plots that surely twinning their creativity to his organizational genius, and the last, best hopes the underworld had to offer – surely that would bring destruction to his enemies.

  And yet here he sat. Alone.

  He began to panic, just a little. There was a tightness in his chest suddenly. He coughed once as he struggled to compose himself. His knuckles were white with the effort as he recovered his veneer of control. He breathed deeply and calmly. There must be some way out of this.

  There must be some way out.

  If he could only make that tunnel. If only, somehow, he could hit the bright light that burned around the clock in Fong’s Laundromat. Then he’d make them pay for casting him aside. If he could only have the chance, he’d sing to the cops, to O’Mally, even to the Red Panda himself. Malcolm laughed at the thought, lost for a moment in the sheer fantasy. It never occurred to him that these same thoughts, this same giddiness had passed over hundreds of men as the treacherous net of his fellow gangsters closed in on him. That these same thoughts had come to men whom he had betrayed and ordered killed before they could act on their last desperate plots. All he could think of was the final revenge he would have if he could only one more time taste the sweet air of freedom…

  Sweet… air…

  Something was wrong. Malcolm coughed again. The air was heavy and had a sweet aftertaste. It burned a little, though he hadn’t noticed it at first. He couldn’t say how long it had been like that. Had it just begun, or had he been sitting in it, oblivious, like a frog in a slowly boiling pot?

  He staggered to his feet. Of course! The ventilation system. It was separate from the rest of the bunker, but if they got to the control centre and knew what they were doing, they could gas him where he stood and not affect the rest of the building.