by M T McGuire
Chapter 40
The Pan was wearing a new disguise when he left the Parrot – he was now a distinguished member of Ning Dang Po’s business community. After the old man’s departure he had gone to Gladys and Ada and explained, indirectly, about the Resistance. He had skirted delicately around the subject of why they were looking for him, but after the Grongles’ visit to the Parrot the previous week he suspected his landladies already knew. They had a selection of clothing left by long-departed lodgers, among which was a pinstripe suit. It smelled of mothballs but it was tailor made, albeit for somebody else, with a bright blue lining. The pinstripe was blue, too, instead of white. Its previous occupant had been roughly the same size and shape as The Pan so it fitted reasonably well. They’d also found an aluminium briefcase to go with it. What he hadn’t told them, of course, was that he was hoping this new disguise would fool not only the Resistance but also their friend, the old man.
Ada said he looked a veritable eminence grise – whatever that was – while Gladys assured him he looked like a company director and warned him against the dangers of ‘sticking out like a sore thumb’ and being mugged on his way home, since Turnadot Street, where the Parrot and Screwdriver was situated, was a notoriously insalubrious quarter of the city.
The two Resistance heavies from the previous night were waiting for him outside the Parrot but failed to penetrate his new disguise. Perhaps the confident upright, middle-aged walk helped, or the change of moustache and hair colouring from white to a darker grey. The Pan nodded at them.
“Morning, gentlemen,” he said, his mood lightning as he walked away, still unrecognised and more to the point, unmolested. By the time he’d arrived at Big Merv’s place he felt positively buoyant.
Big Merv owned a nightclub called ‘The Big Thing’. True to gangland form, the door was staffed by large gentlemen whose necks were wider than the tops of their heads, and inside, a bevy of scantily clad ladies strolled, sat or sometimes danced provocatively about the place, looking ‘decorative’. The Big Thing was the equivalent of a sixteen-year-old’s really cool bedroom – only for older gentlemen. ‘Look at my pad with my stolen road signs, my fantastic spangly decor, sound-to-light system, home brew under the bed, up-to-the-minute gaming console and cool posters,’ has been supplanted by; ‘Don’t look at my stolen goods, look at my pad with my fantastic spangly ladies, sound-to-light system and fruit machines. Then drink some of my exotic cocktails and forget you saw anything, anyway, except the ladies, of course, because I’d like you to come and spend some more money here, again.’
The ladies – and Big Merv – were well protected, not only by the no-neck bouncers but also by a complicated set of security protocols. For The Pan, these centred around the amount of grovelling required to persuade whatever Neanderthal was on duty to actually allow him in. A small square peephole in the middle of the door opened abruptly in reply to his knock. Framed in the square were two eyes, the beginnings of a broken nose and possibly a hairline, although it was difficult to tell because it was all shaved off.
“Yes?” said a deep bass voice.
“Mr Rogers to see Mr Big,” said The Pan, noticing to his dismay that this morning’s doorman was a newbie.
“Mr Rogers is an old man, you’re not. Now hop it,” came the reply.
Ah yes, the new disguise. There was a protocol for this, The Pan remembered.
“Sorry, I forgot. Please tell Mr Big that Mr Rogers has moved away and that Mr Marchant, his replacement, is here to see him.”
“Mr Big isn’t expecting anyone this morning.” The steel peephole slid shut. No change from usual then. Why he had to ritually humiliate himself like this every time he couldn’t begin to fathom. He could imagine the conversation as one peanut-head handed over to another and briefed them on intimidating him. Not that he needed intimidating of course; he was a coward after all and you can’t scare somebody who is already frightened. Never mind. He knocked a second time and once again the small steel window slid back.
“I told you—” the gorilla behind it started.
“I’m Mr Rogers,” said a voice, “I do, indeed, have to move away and this is, indeed, my replacement, Mr Marchant.” The Pan had seen who it was behind him, but something made him turn round anyway. “Your dedication to your job is commendable,” the old man was telling the doorman. “I will make sure I inform Mr Big of your diligence when we see him.”
There was a long silence while the bouncer appeared to be concentrating.
“He means he’s going to tell Big Merv that you work hard and are thorough,” said The Pan, and noticing the bouncer’s continuing blank expression, added, “he’ll tell the Big Man you’re good at your job.”
“Uh-huh,” said the bouncer slowly. The Pan took advantage of the few minutes it would take for him to grasp the new situation and open the door, and rounded on the old man.
“What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing here?” He knew, positively knew he hadn’t been followed. Not on foot anyway. Perhaps the old man had contacts who could follow him over the roofs.
“Strengthening your resolve.”
“Railroading me more like! You said we had three months!”
“We do—three months to plan, not three months to bring the subject up. These things take time to arrange.”
“If we had three years to plan this heist it would still be death on a stick,” said The Pan. “Anyway,” he added, thinking about the scantily clad ladies inside the building, “this is no place for the likes of you!”
“I think it’s rather nice—I like a pretty lady.”
“Now you’re taking the mick. How in Arnold’s name did you find me?”
“I’d have thought that would have been abundantly clear. You know, for a bright lad you are remarkably slow on the uptake.”
The general gist was insulting but The Pan noted ‘bright lad’ was a compliment.
“Oh, thank you.” He flashed a sarcastic smile. As if the Resistance and the uniqueness of eyes in the back of his head weren’t enough to contend with, he had spent the entire night awake – developing mauve blood in the process – and now this. Putting this ludicrous heist to Big Merv was scary enough, without having to worry about being needled by some annoying old giffer into the bargain.
Despite being a ‘bright lad’ The Pan knew he wasn’t as bright as the old man, mainly because of the old boy’s tendency to treat him like an imbecile. It wasn’t out of spite or unpleasantness, it was merely the habitual condescension of a person used to living in a world where everyone else was several orders of magnitude less shrewd than him. He treated The Pan the way his father had – and there was another man who was several orders of magnitude cleverer than most of his colleagues. The old man clearly thought The Pan was bright – which was flattering – but the wrong kind of smart – which was not – and worse, not smart enough.
The most galling thing was that even though the old man was cocky, irritating, creative with the truth and happened to be blackmailing and railroading him into certain death, The Pan couldn’t help liking him. It was like dealing with an older, wiser smarter version of himself, or at least, the bits he liked. Even so, Big Merv’s reaction was going to be a picture when the two of them walked into his office together.
“Why haven’t you slept?” the old boy went on, “you look terrible!”
Arnold’s hair! He knew how to be annoying alright. The Pan shut all four eyes and counted to ten.
“I’d have thought that would have been abundantly clear! You know, for a bright man, you really are slow on the uptake,” he said mimicking the old man’s earlier statement. “Guess what,” he went on. “I would have liked to have got some sleep last night. I was very tired but I couldn’t drop off. I can’t think why but I seemed to be worried about something!”
The old man took a deep breath, and was about to make a lengthy reply when the door opened.
“Mr Big will see you now,” said the bouncer.
“Mr Big is aware that
both of us are here to see him, isn’t he?” said The Pan.
The bouncer nodded. Phew, that was a relief then, he’d get thumped over the lunacy of the plan but at least he would only be surprising Big Merv once, not twice – or was that twice, not thrice? The Pan thanked him and they made their way inside.
The Big Ms, Merv’s ‘decorative, erotic dance troupe’ stopped practising and moved, giggling, to one side of the sprung maple dance floor. Big Merv called them ‘the girls’, but The Pan reckoned most of them were on the shady side of forty.
“Morning, ladies. Don’t mind us,” said the old man as they made their way to the other side of the room where the stairs to Big Merv’s office were. “I say!” he added in one of those stage whispers that is actually louder than talking at normal volume, “some of them are almost my age.”
“Shut up. They’ll hear you,” snapped The Pan, and he followed, shaking his head and muttering.
As they walked into Big Merv’s office, the first thing he noticed was the set of plans laid out on the table. The title across the top sheet was written in Grongolian, not that he needed it translated, of course, he could already guess what the plans were. Once again, he felt strangely detached, as if he were sitting on the outside of his life, merely watching as it slid out of control. How could he have been taken in by that congenial air of innocence? How could he, the best getaway man in K’Barth, allow himself to be so completely stitched up by this old giffer? How could he have not realised that the blighted old codger was bound to go and put the idea to The Big Thing, himself?
Chapter 41
“You took your time, you little scrote,” Big Merv told The Pan, his antennae waving in irritation, “your friend here wants us to undertake the most daring bank heist ever!” The Pan noted, gloomily, how his eyes were shining. Doubtless the old man’s moronic idea appealed to his vanity. Big Merv had a dangerous bent towards flashiness and ostentation.
“He’s not my friend,” said The Pan shortly, “and it’s a suicide mission.”
“Oh dear.” The sense of innocent hurt and confusion emanating from the old man was touching and in The Pan’s view, completely unscrupulous. “As I understood it, you had a different view when we spoke the other day.”
“Yeh,” said Big Merv. He jerked his thumb in the old man’s direction, “He says you told him you’d walk the driving.”
“No,” said The Pan patiently, “I never said I’d drive and I told him it was a suicide mission too.”
“But you agreed to do it,” said the old man feebly. The Pan shook his head, speechless. The cheek of the old get!
“No, I agreed to talk to Big Merv, which is what I came here to do today,” said The Pan flatly. Big Merv was glaring at him. It was a weighing-up kind of glare, as in amount of concrete required and size of box. “Merv—sir—you’re not serious are you?” he finally managed to gasp, “you don’t actually believe robbing the Bank of Grongolia, in Grongolia, itself, would ever be a piece of cake?”
Everyone turned to the old man. His face was the picture of septuagenarian innocence. The Pan, on the other hand, wore an expression of controlled panic. He knew what would be happening. Big Merv would be realising that he had seen that expression before, on the faces of people who were saying ‘I would never grass on you’ a few hours after doing so.
“Maybe,” said Big Merv. “I hear you was boasting down the pub.”
“And you believe that?” asked The Pan. “Are you mad?”
“He can tell me things only you, me and the boys here were witness to. He can talk about them like he was there.”
“He did that to me too,” retorted The Pan. “It doesn’t mean he was. It isn’t real. Look at him!” He gestured to the old man who was wearing even more yellow than on the previous occasion they’d met, “He’s a Nimmist! You’ve heard the rumours, he’s reading your mind or something.”
All three Mervinettes simultaneously turned their heads and stared at The Pan, their leather coats creaking in unison.
“He’s reading your mind,” growled Big Merv, “not mine.”
“It doesn’t matter whose mind it is does it? It’s not normal and it gives him an unfair advantage!”
The silence in the room was absolute and the air heavy with unspoken accusations. The other three Mervinettes were like that – but The Pan could see he had got them thinking. There were all those rumours about the Secret Order of the Most Holy Ninja Nimmists, after all.
“Arnold above! Please, listen to me for a moment. I know I’m an idiot, I know I’m a liar but I never, NEVER boasted to him in the pub. I’ve been blacklisted for five whole years now, and you of all people know that if I was really that crass I’d have been dead on day two.”
“Hmph.” A curt nod. Big Merv began to look thoughtful instead of angry. His antennae tied themselves in a knot and The Pan wondered if he was beginning to get through to him, at last. Maybe he should just tell the truth and throw himself on Big Merv’s protection. Yes, that’s what he’d do.
“Please, you have to believe me. I don’t know how he found me but this is some kind of upper echelon Nimmist mind game. He knows where I live and if I don’t help him make you go to Grongolia and rob the state bank he’s going to give my address to the Resistance.”
Big Merv folded his arms and gave the old man a long appraising stare. The Pan had been a member of the gang long enough to know that, although Big Merv was scary, with his size and temperament, he could spot the difference between honesty and lies and he would listen to people if he thought they were telling the truth.
“That right?” Big Merv asked the old man quietly, checking for a reaction.
“I’m afraid it is,” the old boy was embarrassed, positively sheepish, which, in The Pan’s view, was a good thing. But he was also calm and relaxed and patently unafraid, while Big Merv was beginning to give off an aura of barely controlled rage.
“That makes things different,” said Big Merv, “first I don’t take kindly to blackmail, see? Second, I can believe you’re a Nimmist, you’d have to be to go poncing about in that lot without getting arrested, an’ that would make you pure as the driven snow wouldn’t it? Right? But you lied to me and now I find out you’ve been blackmailing one of my prize assets. Nimmist or not, mister, I have a problem with that. It’s not a trustworthy way to behave. What if I change my mind? What if I decide this job’s too dangerous and that I’m going to protect my asset—I repeat, MY asset—by dumping you in the river?”
“My dear chap,” said the old man, “first of all, I can see you are a Thing of honour and principle! As such we both know you don’t have it in you to murder a man of the cloth. And second, as I am sure you will appreciate, unless I were very unwise I would never have come here uninsured, would I?”
Big Merv was thoughtful.
“Maybe, but you’re gonna have to be very well insured to get out of this one, mate.”
“I believe I am. I have proof—concrete proof, you understand—that you commit bank robberies,” replied the old boy, evenly, as he handed over a brown envelope, “I imagine you wouldn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands and of course, it goes without saying, this is not the only copy.”
The Pan watched Big Merv open the envelope and shuffle through the papers and photographs it contained. For all his frustration and panic, he had to admit that, behind the amiable elderly buffer facade, the old boy was a razor-sharp, not to mention ruthless, operator. He felt a twinge of envy. He knew he could never be that cool-headed.
“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” said the old man as he took another envelope from the inside pocket of his coat. Was that genuine regret in his voice, The Pan wondered? No. Not after what he’d just done. It had to be acting. “I see you have already made a start; a man on the inside has furnished me with some information which could be of use: guard rotas, security codes, camera locations and the like.” He held it out.
“How do I know if I can trust you?” asked Big Merv.
&nbs
p; “You don’t,” said the old man, true to form, “but I don’t think you have much choice do you? For what it’s worth, we understand your services won’t come cheap. Name your price.”
There it was again, thought The Pan. ‘We.’
“I don’t want yer money,” snapped Big Merv. He spoke calmly but he was shaking with suppressed rage.
“Then shall we make it one million?”
“One million what?” growled Big Merv. The Pan could see he was still livid because his antennae stuck straight up from the top of his head.
“Well now, since they are a little more stable than K’Barthan Zloty, I suggest Grongolian dollars. Would one million Grongolian dollars be sufficient?” asked the old man.
Big Merv said nothing.
“Each?”
Arnold’s Y-fronts! One million Grongolian dollars. That was almost more money than The Pan could imagine.
Big Merv nodded.
“Alright, we’ll do it,” he said sullenly, “we’ll do this robbery for four million Grongolian.” He swung round and glared at The Pan: “And as for you,” he strode over to him, shouting, “you stupid, snivelling—” Without warning, he punched him in the face. The Pan saw the fist approaching his nose but didn’t have time to duck before it hit home. The impact tumbled him backwards over a chair and the pain erupted like a firework. He hit the floor, sprawled on his back and clamped his hand over his face, rolling onto all fours. Big Merv stepped smartly round the chair and pulled him to his feet.
“That’s for getting us into this!”
The Pan had had enough.
“Now who’s the stupid one?” he said nasally as he clamped his handkerchief to his bleeding nose, “thumping the assets you’re supposed to be protecting.” Big Merv let go of him.
“I’m sorry, mate. I was out of order, but I couldn’t bring myself to punch that old relic,” he said, glaring at the old man. It hadn’t been a hard punch; The Pan’s nose was already beginning to stop bleeding, and although it was bruised and swollen it didn’t feel broken. He peeked gingerly at the contents of his handkerchief. It was blue. Not red, not purple, but pure blue. Biro ink. He contained Biro ink. He had to be cracking up, there was no way this could be real.