by Gregg Taylor
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.
Nine
It was a week later, at nearly half past ten in the morning, when Kit Baxter appeared in the doorway of a well-appointed dining room in a fashionable district of the city. She squinted as she stepped into the broad sunbeam pouring in through the large picture window and made her way towards the table on the far side of the room. There was a time when she could not have helped but realize that most of the house she had grown up in would likely fit inside this opulent room. Even in the homes of the city’s finest families, this would be considered a grand space. In this house, it was unofficially known among the servants as the “breakfast nook,” as it was considered too modest to entertain anyone worth having to dinner.
Not that the current resident of the Mansion entertained much in the family home, but those who had been in the Fenwick family’s service since his parents’ time could only remember and hope. Such a one was Thompson, the butler, who stood near his master’s left shoulder awaiting instructions. It was, of course, already an hour at which any respectable person should have long-ago finished breakfast and begun their day, but Thompson was not one to judge his betters. If the master of the house wished to play at gad-about for a few years, it was the privilege of his position and his birth, and Thompson never thought to disapprove.
He did, however, disapprove of Kit Baxter. He disapproved of her a great deal. The head butler was considered to be the senior position in a household such as this, and servants should know their place. So it had been since Thompson had first entered service, and so it should always be as far as he was concerned. But not only had the master defied tradition by taking on a female chauffeur, but this young woman was scandalously familiar, spoke without being spoken to and seemed to regard Thompson as a nuisance, or worse. He glowered at her from under his great, flowing eyebrows as she sauntered into the dining room without invitation, her driver’s cap still perched upon her head. Perhaps it was the sunbeam in her eyes, but the butler’s gaze seemed to have no effect.
“Mornin’ Boss!” she sang.
Thompson coughed his disapproval.
“Ah, Kit, there you are,” the master of the house said, draining his coffee. “Have you had breakfast?”
Thompson’s cough of disapproval sputtered with surprise. Kit Baxter seemed to catch that at least.
“Ah… yeah, thanks, Boss. I’m fine. Didya sleep all right?”
Thompson’s cough was almost a roar.
“Eventually. I had a little… night table reading.”
“I gathered.”
“You were up early?” Fenwick said, peering at her just over the top of his long-forgotten newspaper, which hid the smile that played around his lips.
“Had a few errands to run. Ready to go whenever you finally get dressed.”
Thompson’s cough was furious.
“Thompso
n,” the master broke in suddenly, “you should really get that cough looked at.”
Thompson was flustered. Persons of a certain class generally respected the conventions of an aside among their servants, particularly when one needed scolding as badly as Miss Baxter did. “Thank you, sir,” he said at last. “I assure you I am quite well.”
“I mean it,” August Fenwick said sternly. “You should have a doctor look at that cough. Right. Now.”
Thompson turned surprised to meet the man’s stern, hawk-like gaze. So much like his father, and so completely different. It was not in Thompson’s nature to disobey.
“Yes, sir. At once, sir,” he said, slinking out of the room.
Kit bounced at the knees, just a little, as the door closed, unable to conceal her delight. The newspaper rose just a little higher to hide the smile behind it.
“Coffee?” he said at last, giving up the unequal task. He stood quickly and turned his back, crossing the room to the silver service.
“Are you getting it yourself?” she sassed. “I didn’t know you could do that.”
“Don’t tell Thompson,” he said. “He’d be scandalized. You didn’t answer my question.”
“I think you’d better go ahead and pour me a cup. A girl’s got to gather her rosebuds while she may.” She bit her lip a little at the possibilities of that allusion. He seemed not to notice.
He handed her a cup of coffee with just exactly the right amount of milk in it. He did that sort of thing every so often, proving without meaning to that he had been paying attention after all. Kit did her best to quash the thought that she may be reading just a little too much into this, and watched him over the rim of her cup. He discarded the smoking jacket that was draped across his form with a single catlike motion and pulled on his day coat. The languid posture of the spoiled millionaire was gone, replaced with the dynamic energy of the Red Panda.
He stormed through the side door in the direction of the library, with his eager partner swept up in his wake.
“You picked up the night’s reports from the contact men?” Fenwick asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
“In fact, I did,” she said, with a quick glance down the hall to make sure they were unobserved. The rest of the staff didn’t seem to have as much trouble as her Boss did in interpreting Kit’s feelings, which was the cause of much mean-spirited speculation; she chose to ignore it in the name of even more outrageous secrets.
He opened the door into the library, and locked it behind them.
“Anything interesting?” he said with an eyebrow arched.
“Agent thirty-three seems to think there’s a protection racket operating on the north side.”
“Thirty-three? Gregor Sampson?” he said, pulling forward three volumes in sequence to reveal a hidden panel beside the bookshelf which concealed an electric switch.
“That’s the one. He’s got good instincts. He says nobody’s talking, but he can tell that everybody’s scared,” she said with a determined set to her face.
“Sampson’s a good man,” he said, pressing the switch in a precise sequence. “Perhaps we should look into this.”
“Geez, Boss. I thought we had these rackets licked.” A panel slid open on the far side of the room to reveal an object that would have deeply confounded poor old Thompson the butler.
“Crime is like a hydra, Kit. Every time we cut off a head, another will spring forth to take its place.”
“Sure, but I thought it might take a little longer for them to rebuild. We’ve been leanin’ awful hard on the organized rackets. I thought we’d taken all the big pieces off the board.”
“Maybe we left more pawns than we thought,” he said gravely as he opened the pneumatic tube that led to their top-secret lair. He paused. “Ladies first,” he said seriously.
“We could squeeze in together,” she said, trying to sound helpful.
“I keep telling you, I’m not sure the tube’s pneumatic actuators could stand the strain.” As far as Kit could tell, he was completely earnest.
“I’m not sure mine could either,” she sighed as she stepped into the tube.
“Wh- wait…,” he said, brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”
The door slid shut with a thunk. He could just hear her voice echoing from inside the tube.
“It means I’ll see you in five minutes. Don’t be late.”
And with a great whoosh, she was gone.
Fenwick waited several minutes to be absolutely sure that she’d have time to clear the landing pad before he arrived, stepped into the tube and launched himself into the blackness.
As he rocketed through the nothingness to the hidden lair deep underground, he frowned to no one in particular. The Flying Squirrel was right. Their campaign against organized crime in the city had preoccupied them for months. Certainly it was worth it to free the citizens of Toronto from the parasitic grasp of the criminal low-lifes who preyed upon those who could least afford it. But there were other fish in the sea. Other investigations, other forces at work upon the city. He had also hoped that bringing down the major gangs and caging the big fish would buy them a longer respite from the mobs. Clearly he had miscalculated, but where?
If there was a gang left untouched by their efforts, it was one that had never registered on their networks of agents and informants before. Perhaps the police would have more information. In any case, if this last gang standing were stepping up their efforts, it meant that he and the Squirrel had failed in one other respect. They had sought to instill in those smaller fish who had escaped their net a deep and abiding fear. The dead certainty that crime did not pay, and that no one was beyond the reach of the hand of justice.
If there was a new protection racket flourishing on the north side, and if other reports from their agents were true, then the little fish had grown bold somehow. They were seizing the opportunity to hit the big-time. A status they should have been terrified of, if all had gone according to plan.
The rising tide of compressed air rose to meet him and slow his approach. The tube hissed as he opened it and stepped into the lair. There was no sign of his partner.
“Kit?” he called as he stepped into the hall.
The door to her changing room opened a few inches, and her head stuck out at an alarming angle.
“With ya in a sec’,” she grinned. “Put a mask on or somethin’ while you wait. I hear they’re terribly comfortable.”
“Thanks, I might do that,” he said, picking up a mask and a set of gauntlets off the rack.
“I forgot to ask about your night-table reading,” she called through the door of the changing room. “Did you figure out what kind of explosive was used?”
“There wasn’t much residue left to test,” he called back. “But it wasn’t like anything I’ve encountered before. It burned hot and clean. Took out the locks and hinges on the vaults at the largest brokerage in the city and did almost no other damage. A finesse job.”
The door to the changing room opened and the Flying Squirrel stepped out, pulling her cowl on as she did. “Finesse and high-explosive aren’t two phrases we usually get in the same sentence.”
“Granted.” He smiled in spite of himself.
“And if they’re good enough to come up with a charge you can’t finger, they’re pretty good. Could be a new player.”
“Could be,” he agreed. “And they got away with three hundred thousand dollars in untraceable securities two nights ago, and neither we nor the police seem able to do much about it.”
“So what do we do?” the Flying Squirrel asked with a grin. “Do we go after the big bad and hope they’re half as tough as they are smart, or do we shut down this protection racket before they get started?”
He was masked now, and pulled his hat on low with red-gauntleted hands.
“C,” he said. “All of the above.”
Ten
In an alley on the south side of St Clair Avenue, a tall, lithe form stirred in the darkness.
It peered out the mouth of the alleyway, the light from the flickering gas lamps sending sporadic tendrils deep into the darkness. The light revealed the watcher to be a young man, perhaps twenty-five, with a stern focus to his eyes and a determined set to his jaw. He was wearing a lightweight brown jacket and plain shirt, a tweed cap pulled down low over a shock of blond hair. He looked like any one of a thousand men of his age might. A casual observer would be hard pressed to remember anything about him. A keener eye would have recognized him in an instant as a man trying to appear nondescript – a moot point to the man in the alley, as he was certain that he was completely unobserved.
The man in the alley was mistaken.
His eyes remained fixed straight ahead on a small grocery store, in which a light still burned. There were few customers left at this hour, and the owner of the shop was already busying himself bringing in his stock.
The man in the alley peered up the avenue. He saw a face he recognized – a hard face with a cruel smile, sauntering along with a determined look in his eyes. Satchel Braun, once a small-timer with Ace Ryder’s mob. The watcher in the alley turned back to the grocery store. It seemed Braun’s most likely destination. The man stepped forward, steeled himself with an intake of breath and stepped out to cross the broad street.
He thought back to the conversation a week earlier that had set him down this path, when he had unexpectedly found himself called into the office of his division Captain, and to his astonishment found himself face to face with the Chief of Police.
“Oh! I’m sorry, Chief O’Mally,” he had said. “I didn’t mean to–”
“Step in, Constable Parker,” the Chief had replied.
“What’s that?”