Read Online Tales of the Red Panda: The Android Assassins by Gregg Taylor - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gregg Taylor
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was undeterred. “Come on, you two comedians wouldn't
kill to have a story like this any other day?'
“Sure we would, kiddo,” Jack said, “but it ain't any other day. It's today. There won't be much in
tomorrow's paper that doesn't have the words 'killer robots' in it. This is
good for a paragraph below the shipping schedules. If that.”
“How can you know that?” The kid was a glutton for
punishment, you had to give him that. “You haven't even been in there yet.”
“Because we know what the other story is, junior,” Bailey
snapped. “Unless this explosion comes with free roast beef and dancing girls,
it ain't gonna get much
play. We got a couple of hours left to carve off a slice of the Midnight
Massacre that hasn't been written up six times in the last two days, and I'm
sick and tired of waiting for the department spokesman to put in an
appearance.”
“What's the hold-up?” Jack asked.
“It's probably Winnick ,” Bailey
growled. “He likes to work a big crowd. Makes him feel important. So we wait.”
“I guess so.” Peters' eye was drawn a few yards away where
he saw a familiar face. “Hang on a minute, Paulie ,”
he said, walking away.
“Peters, you get anything, I want it,” Bailey said quietly.
“I'll bet you do, Spanky ,” Jack
said with a grin. “I'll bet you do.”
A dozen long strides carried Jack Peters to the side of a
fresh-faced police constable, standing at attention as if ready to hold back
the rampaging hordes of Toronto newsmen in the unlikely event that they should
appear. There were plenty of police who would talk to Peters before they'd talk
to any other reporter and plenty more that crossed to the other side of the
street when they saw him coming, but Jack reckoned that he had home-court
advantage here. The constable in question was Andy Parker, and like Jack Peters
he held down a second job as an agent of the Red Panda.
“Afternoon, Andy,” Peters said jovially.
Andy Parker said nothing and stared straight ahead.
“Oh-ho,” Peters said, “it's like that, is it? The strong,
silent type?”
Andy Parker said nothing and stared straight ahead.
“Like those British guards, what do they call them?” Peters
asked, lighting a cigarette. “Beefeaters? Is it Beefeaters? Don't they all eat
beef?”
Andy Parker said nothing, but his eyes moved a little. Just enough to allow him to glare at Peters for an instant.
“Come on, Parker, be a pal,” Peters cajoled. “I got places
to go and human tragedy to sensationalize.”
Andy Parker said nothing and stared straight ahead.
“It's Winnick , isn't it? He'll
bust you down to crossing guard if you spoil his show, won't he?”
Parker closed both his eyes just long enough to suggest a
nod.
“Un-huh,” Peters said, disgusted. “He's a little man,
Parker. I hear he wears lifts.”
Parker snorted as he held back a peal of laughter.
“Can you officially deny any knowledge of same?” Peters
grinned. “No? 'Sources within Toronto Police refused to deny reports that
Departmental Spokesman Captain Clarence P. Winnick wears elevator shoes. Or high heels.' It's got a nice ring, don't it?”
Andy Parker's hand moved to rest on his nightstick.
“Un-huh,” Peters said, spotting an officer walking towards
the barricade. “Nice talking to you, Andy,” he said as he moved away.
“Get a four-part exclusive, did we?” Bailey was grinning so
hard the toothpick in his teeth was in grave peril of snapping at any moment.
A little man in a long blue dress uniform stopped on the
other side of the sawhorse and looked scornfully at the tiny group of
reporters. He pulled out a pocket watch and flipped it open, as if unable to
believe his eyes.
“Come on, Captain Winnick ,” Bailey
pleaded, “this is all you're gonna get today. Can we
get on with this, please?”
Winnick frowned and did not
respond directly, but held up a hand as if to silence a crowd. “Gentlemen of
the press,” said Winnick . Bailey nudged Peters
kill to have a story like this any other day?'
“Sure we would, kiddo,” Jack said, “but it ain't any other day. It's today. There won't be much in
tomorrow's paper that doesn't have the words 'killer robots' in it. This is
good for a paragraph below the shipping schedules. If that.”
“How can you know that?” The kid was a glutton for
punishment, you had to give him that. “You haven't even been in there yet.”
“Because we know what the other story is, junior,” Bailey
snapped. “Unless this explosion comes with free roast beef and dancing girls,
it ain't gonna get much
play. We got a couple of hours left to carve off a slice of the Midnight
Massacre that hasn't been written up six times in the last two days, and I'm
sick and tired of waiting for the department spokesman to put in an
appearance.”
“What's the hold-up?” Jack asked.
“It's probably Winnick ,” Bailey
growled. “He likes to work a big crowd. Makes him feel important. So we wait.”
“I guess so.” Peters' eye was drawn a few yards away where
he saw a familiar face. “Hang on a minute, Paulie ,”
he said, walking away.
“Peters, you get anything, I want it,” Bailey said quietly.
“I'll bet you do, Spanky ,” Jack
said with a grin. “I'll bet you do.”
A dozen long strides carried Jack Peters to the side of a
fresh-faced police constable, standing at attention as if ready to hold back
the rampaging hordes of Toronto newsmen in the unlikely event that they should
appear. There were plenty of police who would talk to Peters before they'd talk
to any other reporter and plenty more that crossed to the other side of the
street when they saw him coming, but Jack reckoned that he had home-court
advantage here. The constable in question was Andy Parker, and like Jack Peters
he held down a second job as an agent of the Red Panda.
“Afternoon, Andy,” Peters said jovially.
Andy Parker said nothing and stared straight ahead.
“Oh-ho,” Peters said, “it's like that, is it? The strong,
silent type?”
Andy Parker said nothing and stared straight ahead.
“Like those British guards, what do they call them?” Peters
asked, lighting a cigarette. “Beefeaters? Is it Beefeaters? Don't they all eat
beef?”
Andy Parker said nothing, but his eyes moved a little. Just enough to allow him to glare at Peters for an instant.
“Come on, Parker, be a pal,” Peters cajoled. “I got places
to go and human tragedy to sensationalize.”
Andy Parker said nothing and stared straight ahead.
“It's Winnick , isn't it? He'll
bust you down to crossing guard if you spoil his show, won't he?”
Parker closed both his eyes just long enough to suggest a
nod.
“Un-huh,” Peters said, disgusted. “He's a little man,
Parker. I hear he wears lifts.”
Parker snorted as he held back a peal of laughter.
“Can you officially deny any knowledge of same?” Peters
grinned. “No? 'Sources within Toronto Police refused to deny reports that
Departmental Spokesman Captain Clarence P. Winnick wears elevator shoes. Or high heels.' It's got a nice ring, don't it?”
Andy Parker's hand moved to rest on his nightstick.
“Un-huh,” Peters said, spotting an officer walking towards
the barricade. “Nice talking to you, Andy,” he said as he moved away.
“Get a four-part exclusive, did we?” Bailey was grinning so
hard the toothpick in his teeth was in grave peril of snapping at any moment.
A little man in a long blue dress uniform stopped on the
other side of the sawhorse and looked scornfully at the tiny group of
reporters. He pulled out a pocket watch and flipped it open, as if unable to
believe his eyes.
“Come on, Captain Winnick ,” Bailey
pleaded, “this is all you're gonna get today. Can we
get on with this, please?”
Winnick frowned and did not
respond directly, but held up a hand as if to silence a crowd. “Gentlemen of
the press,” said Winnick . Bailey nudged Peters
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