Tales of the Red Panda: The Crime Cabal (12 page)

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.

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 carrying 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.

“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…”