Tales of the Red Panda: The Android Assassins Page 2

  “Kit Baxter,” he said, “behave yourself.”

  “Yes, Boss,” she smiled, and relaxed a little in her crouch.

  “I thought I told you to wait for me,” he said, trying to sound stern.

  “Am I still here?” the Flying Squirrel grinned, cocking her head to the side.

  He paused and looked away as if to keep himself from smiling, a battle he did not entirely win. “From which I might infer that you did, in fact, wait?” he asked casually.

  “That's my Boss,” she said, rising to stand. “It takes him a while, but he gets there in the end. You didn't expect me to sit on the rooftop and knit, did you?”

  “I suppose not,” the Red Panda agreed, “but Bert was even more apoplectic than usual at the prospect of my paying him a visit. You might have put him right over the edge.” Bert Molloy was an Assistant Coroner – one of the most reluctant members of the fraternity of agents and informants that made up the Red Panda's network. Bert was useful in that he was well-placed, but his nervous disposition meant that dealing with him was always a dance.

  “Did you get the dope on the plane crash like you wanted?” she asked.

  The masked man nodded grimly. “Bert was as good as his word. He pulled a copy of the police file that was submitted for the inquest to go along with his autopsy reports.”

  “One stop shopping for the busy vigilante.” She grinned up at him. She flushed slightly at the single eyebrow that raised above his mask at her joke.

  “A number of people did die in that crash, Squirrel,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Sorry. That is kind of a day at the office for us, though. And if you're stern all the time, people will start to say that the Red Panda is no fun.”

  His brows knit. “I am no fun,” he said. “I am rather famously no fun at all.”

  She leaned in closer to him, just close enough for her heart to skip a beat, which was as close as she ever allowed herself to get. “And I'm the one that knows different, ain't I?” she almost whispered. He seemed flustered again, which pleased her greatly.

  “You're in a strange mood tonight,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “Why not? I've been itchin' for a good fight,” Kit said, making for the edge of the rooftop. “A self-styled supervillain with a corny animal nickname is just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Perhaps,” he said simply, following her.

  She stopped in her tracks. “Well, okay,” she asked. “Why ain't it?”

  He seemed startled. “'Why ain't it' what?” he parroted.

  “I love it when you try and talk rough,” she purred. “I know you pretty well, Boss. You've got something in your teeth about this one. An' we both know you're gonna tell me eventually, so why not now?”

  He smiled almost sheepishly. “I usually wait until I have a general idea of exactly what it is that's bothering me,” he admitted. “If I did all my thinking aloud you'd realize just how much time I spend being wrong.”

  Something flipped in Kit Baxter's stomach. Every so often the Boss let a tidbit slip that gave her the idea that he enjoyed impressing her, and it always made her want to jump up and down a little. But she was determined to keep her cool. “What makes you think I don't already know that?” she asked with what she hoped was a detached air.

  He paused a moment, as if he was lost in thought. “This 'Viper' gave the impression that he was behind a recent string of industrial accidents,” he said at last.

  “Page, Welles and Church?” she asked.

  “Byron Page holds significant railway interests and runs a line of lake freighters,” he began. “Arthur Welles' company is behind many heavy manufacturing interests and Stanley Church is involved in almost every construction project of any size in the city.”

  “Boss!” Kit said with a start. “The Masterson Tower project, the building that collapsed three weeks ago, wasn't Church the name of the company on that one?”

  The Red Panda nodded. “It was ruled an accident at the time,” he said. “I wonder if Page and Welles have suffered similar setbacks.”

  “They probably have,” the Flying Squirrel replied. “Why else would this 'Viper' take credit for them?”

  “Why do so at all?” the Red Panda asked. “Why break the pattern of anonymity? Why announce his intention to strike Bennett Aviation?”

  “Maybe he's full of hot air,” she suggested. “If he takes credit for some legitimate accidents, he makes himself seem like a bigger threat than he is.”

  “I think the passengers of the New York Special would agree the Viper is a big enough threat as he is,” the Red Panda said grimly. “But why? I'd just as soon not wait for him to strike again to find out.”

  “Then we need to find out what the plane crash had in common with the Masterson Building, and the other accidents, if there were any,” Kit said with resolve. “Was there anything good in the files?”

  “I didn't have time to do much more than glance at them,” the Red Panda admitted. “But crashing at takeoff like that meant that the tanks were full of fuel. There was very little left of the aircraft, and even less of the passengers. Unless that in itself is a clue, I don't know what else we have to work with.”

  She looked at him through the gloom. He took it personally when his city was threatened, and treated it as a failure on his part when he could not protect its citizens from creatures like this “Viper”. She wished she could pull a rabbit out of her cowl to put this case on the fast-track, but it looked like they were going to have to start from scratch.

  “Hey,” she brightened, “did I hear that there's a committee being formed to look into this?”

  “Hmm?” he said, snapping from some inner thought. “Yes, I heard something about that. Business leaders trying to work together to protect their interests from the attacks of this 'Viper'. A room of stuffed shirts bullying Chief O'Mally to work faster.”

  “And maybe sharing useful information along the way?” she offered. “Things they might not realize are important because they aren't brilliant young mystery men?”

  “I suppose…” He sounded suspicious.

  “What a shame that we don't know any stuffed shirts of our own that could get into that committee room to gather information for us.” She batted her long eyelashes at him.

  “Like August Fenwick?” he asked with some disgust.

  “The very man,” she beamed.

  “Oh, marvelous,” he sighed.

  Three

  Andy Parker let his fist fly again, hard and fast in a right jab, and then another. He ducked right and brought his left up in a strong hook that jarred his foe a foot to the side. Feeling like the fight was his, he stepped in close and put all of his body weight behind a series of lightning-fast uppercuts that powered into his opponent just above waist level. Finally his arms began to shake and he leaned forward, exhausted. After a moment he raised his head and saw the grinning face of Mac Tully holding the heavy bag for him.

  “You're gonna get an eight-count if you don't get out of that clinch,” Mac said, letting go of the bag.

  Parker puffed and rose, his forehead leaving a trail of sweat on the punching bag as he did so. “Come on, Mac,” he tried to bluster, “if this guy weren't chained to the rafters, there'd be no way he'd still be standing.”

  Mac nodded and spat. “Guess that's right,” he said, his grin spreading still wider. “Of course, he's filled with sawdust and doesn't have any legs, so I don't know what you expect.”

  The two men laughed and stepped away from the bag to get some water. Parker was tall and lean, with fair hair matted down with perspiration and a jaw line that made him look almost as determined as he usually was. He might not have been improving much as a boxer, but he had certainly put some meat on his bones since he had begun working out at this gym. His partner was shorter, but more barrel-chested. Mac Tully could take a lot of lumps without falling down and it had stood him in good stead in more places than just the boxing gym.

  For Parker
and Tully were soldiers in a secret army of justice. Each man was an active field agent in the service of the city's protector, the Red Panda. Secret soldiers in his army, they filled their roles as the Red Panda saw fit: spotters, undercover operatives or men of action; each was ready to do all he could and more to aid their remarkable chief in his quest. They knew one another and a few more of their fellows besides, but they knew for certain that there were many more whom they had never met, in every part of Toronto.

  The open, echoing space in which they stood was famous throughout the city as a training gym for boxers, amateur and professional. It was less well known as a hub from which many of the Red Panda's agents received their orders, and yet it was that as well. The gym's owner, head trainer and unofficial gargoyle was a thick-necked man of more than sixty, with a strong Greek accent and a nose that had been broken more than a few times. Spiro Pappas was his name, and he served as contact man for many of the most trusted agents in the network. It was a second career the older man relished and performed well, but he did not like to have the agents popping in and out of his gymnasium at all hours without explanation. And so most of them, like Mac and Andy, began taking lessons to stay on the old man's good side. Parker liked the arrangement because it gave him an opportunity to associate with some of the men who shared his double life, even if they rarely spoke of such things. Tully just liked to be on hand if anything exciting happened, which it often did.

  The two said nothing for a moment, watching the activity in the ring in the centre of the room. Spiro was hurling instructions excitably which made his natural accent even thicker, to the point that few in the room could have told you which of the two boxers he was instructing. But in this case it was easy to see which occupant of the ring had Spiro's attention. He was a giant of a man, perhaps six-foot-six or six-seven, and without an ounce of extra padding on him. His stripped arms looked not unlike a pair of tree trunks with boxing gloves shoved on the ends of them, and he held them tentatively in front of his face as he circled around the ring.

  “Who's the new kid?” Parker asked, trying not to sound impressed.

  “Spiro's new pet project,” Tully replied with a shake of his head. “Poor guy.”

  Andy grinned in spite of himself. Spiro was determined to have one last kick at the can as a professional manager, and every new protégée he discovered eventually came to regret gaining the old man's confidence. It was hard to argue with the choice this time though, except for one small detail.

  “Is he ever going to throw a punch?” Parker finally asked.

  “Yeah,” Mac nodded, “apparently this is the problem. It's driving Spiro a little bananas.”

  “So I gathered,” Parker said. “I don't think he's speaking English or Greek anymore. I wonder if even he knows what he's saying.”

  “I'm just glad he isn't saying it to me,” Mac said, and the two men laughed again. “Just look at this guy. If he ever let loose and connected, you think Jimmy could stand in there and spar with him?”

  “I'm not sure I know anyone who could,” Parker said and then caught himself.

  “You just thought of somebody, didn't you?” Mac grinned.

  “All right, we know one guy. But he'd need gas grenades and a spunky sidekick to do it.”

  “Again with the sidekick,” Tully said quietly.

  “What does that mean?” Parker said, embarrassed.

  “Not a thing, pal,” the smaller man said without looking away from the ring. “But my old man always said that life's rough enough without chasing something you can't ever catch. Like a girl whose face you've never seen.”

  Andy Parker shook his head and shrugged off his friend's teasing. As far as he was concerned there wasn't a man in the network who didn't carry some sort of torch for the reckless redhead who fought at the side of the man in the mask. There wasn't anything that Parker could do about his feelings, but he preferred them not to be generally known, so he did his best not to react to that kind of kidding any more than any of the others would. It wasn't always easy.

  “So what's his name?” Parker said, as if the new fighter were the only subject of interest to him.

  “Brody,” Mac replied. “Tank Brody.”

  “Tank?” Parker smiled. “What kind of name is Tank supposed to be?”

  “A more impressive one than 'Morris', or at least that's what Spiro reckons.”

  “Geeze.” Parker shook his head. “People and their goofy nicknames.” There was a moment of silence from his friend. Parker glanced over. “And what is 'Mac' short for again?”

  “Eugene,” Mac replied, barely audible.

  “That's funny,” Parker said. “My old man always said that life was tough enough without naming your kid Eugene.”

  Mac took a sudden swing at his friend's head, but there was as little real intent as there was in any of Brody's sparring punches, and the two men laughed again. Finally an old telephone rang behind the desk and Spiro walked away, muttering vile oaths to any who could understand. The two men in the ring exchanged a look and shrugged. The leaner man stepped through the ropes and left and Brody looked around, unsure of what to do next.

  “Come on,” Parker said, “let's go be sociable.”

  A moment later they were standing by the ring as Brody climbed down to floor level, pulling his gloves off as he did so. Parker wasn't one for posturing, but he wasn't easily intimidated either. Even so, he could not help but feel small and delicate next to the would-be boxer's giant form.

  “Hey, Tank!” Mac called cheerfully.

  Brody looked down and smiled warmly. “Oh, hello Mister Tully,” he said in a voice that was deep but gentle.

  Mac shook his head. “Pal, there is not one single soul in all the world who calls me 'Mister Tully', and I'm not sure that you ought to be the first. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, the newsie at the end of the street, they all call me Mac.”

  Parker smiled. Mac had a way about him, something that was hard to define but helped him win people's trust quickly. He'd clearly met Tank Brody once, and once was enough to win over the big man. Tank nodded happily as if this were not the first time he had been admonished by Tully over this.

  “All right, all right,” Brody said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “'Mac' it is then.”

  “How's the training going?” Mac asked with some sympathy in his voice.

  Brody shrugged. “I don't know,” he said. “I think Mister Spiro might be sorry I ever walked in the joint. Or into this town at all. First he wants to work on my footwork, then he gets mad that I'm not punching. Maybe this just ain't my line.” The big man seemed a little dejected.

  “Patience, son,” Mac said. “Rome wasn't built in a day. You've got the goods, and that's what you can teach to some scrawny kid. Speaking of which, I'd like to introduce a friend of mine. This is Andy Parker. Andy, meet Tank Brody.”

  “Glad to know you,” Brody said with a sheepish smile. He clearly wasn't used to being the center of attention and he wasn't sure that he liked it just yet, but he seemed friendly enough. Parker shook his hand and tried not to think about how easily Tank could have crushed his fingers if the big man had a mind to.

  “And you,” Parker said, lowering his voice half an octave without really meaning to. “Mac is right, don't get discouraged. Spiro's a funny sort but he's a good teacher, and you look to be a natural to me.”

  Brody shook his head a little. “I'd like that right enough, Mister Parker,” he said, “but I just don't seem to have a taste for it. Hurting a man for no real reason, that is.”

  “A winner's purse isn't a good reason?” Mac kidded.

  “I guess it ought to be, Mac,” Brody said. “I could use the dough, that's for sure.”

  “Well, don't feel too bad about it, Tank,” Andy said. “I'd like it just fine if more folks out there felt the way that you did.”

  “Sure, but you'd be out of a job, wouldn't you, Andy?” Mac grinned again and then turned to Brody to explain. “Andy's
a police constable.”

  Just for an instant there was a flash of something in Tank Brody's eyes. Andy Parker had been a cop long enough to know it at twenty paces. Most often you saw it when people got a look at the uniform. A mixture of fear and hate, shown in flashes and quickly hidden. It was why so many cops felt that the only men they could really trust were their fellow officers. Brody backed away a step without meaning to and would not meet Andy's gaze again, but Parker had already seen it. Brody didn't like cops and Andy Parker wondered why.

  There was to be no opportunity to follow up, though, as Spiro whistled from behind his desk and gestured towards Parker and Tully with a wave. The two men exchanged a look and moved quickly, with little more by way of goodbye than a chuck on the shoulder as Mac passed Tank.

  Brody watched them go, and then saw Spiro wave at several others around the gym who followed Mac and Andy into the office. Tank looked around. No one else seemed interested, but still, it struck him as odd.

  Brody hurriedly changed into his street clothes, preferring to end the training sessions for the day rather than wait for Spiro to be finished. He appreciated the chance the trainer was taking on him, but Brody wasn't a man who took failure easily and so far it was all he had been able to summon for this cause.

  As he dressed, Tully, Parker and the others from Spiro's office burst forth in a great hurry and began to assemble their gear. Brody tried not to draw attention to himself as he watched them, but he almost jumped visibly when he saw Mac Tully pull a .38 revolver from his bag and slip it into his coat pocket as he prepared to race out the door.

  Tank Brody froze a moment. None of this made sense. Mac Tully didn't strike him as a criminal, and that policeman, Parker, was with him. But still, he could not escape the feeling that something was wrong, and that someone would need help before too much time had passed. He was uncertain if he feared for his new friend Mac or just feared that he might have been wrong about the man, but as the five men burst from the front doors of Spiro's gym moments later, Tank Brody was moving swiftly but silently behind them.