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every window and door
that could not be watched around the clock was bricked over. And those that
remained were each covered by a half-dozen hidden machine gun nests, ready to
pour hot leaden death into any who dared to step across his threshold. Tennutti
only traveled in an armor-plated limousine, and then only when necessary. Such
a moment was now upon him.
    Five hours ago, Morton Nye had disappeared without a trace. Nye had
been the bookkeeper for the Tennutti operation for more than ten years. He was
the only man besides Big Joe himself who could decode the books on the
operation. The only man alive with the knowledge to slam a prison door behind
Joe Tennutti for life. If the law had taken Nye, they couldn’t hold him long.
They’d threaten him, maybe knock him around. They’d done it before and come up
zeroes. Nothing permitted by the law could force Morton Nye to turn pigeon.
    But that wasn’t why Big Joe was worried enough to venture out of the
High-Hat Gentleman’s Club. The cops might not be able to make Nye sing, but the
man in the mask didn’t play fair. He played by his own rules and took no
quarter. The word on the street was he could reach inside a man’s mind and take
what he wanted by force. Some said he wasn’t human. Big Joe had seen too much
to accept that, but he knew that if the Red Panda truly did have some sort of
hypnotic power, then Morton Nye’s loyalty meant nothing. Tennutti’s secrets
would not be safe. He was the only man in the world other than Nye who knew
where the books were kept, and he’d be a fool to put his entire operation into
anyone else’s hands. Even the most trusted of his lieutenants could be expected
to turn to blackmail when they realized that they held Big Joe’s freedom, his
operation, his very life, in their hands.
    It was now a race against time, and Tennutti was already late.
    “Where in the blazes is my driver?” he snapped to no one in particular.
    A half-dozen gorillas snapped to attention and exchanged a series of
hasty looks. When it was clear that none of them had an acceptable answer for
the big man, a thin, rat-faced tough piped up quickly,
    “If he don’t show, Big Joe, I can take you
where you–”
    Tennutti cut the offer short with a growl. “I’m not in the mood to
improvise! What do I pay you mugs for, anyway?”
    Suddenly, to the immense relief of Tennutti’s boys, a cry went up from
near the main doors of the club.
    “Here he is! Hey, boss… he’s here!”
    “‘Bout time, too.” Big Joe spat the words out past the cigar wedged in
his teeth and jammed his hat on his great, sweaty head. “Where have you been?”
    The Tennutti mob was ringed by a circle of vaguely associated gangsters
that frequented the club; they watched intently. They knew Big Joe was angry
about something and were hoping for a free show. A dark-haired man pushed his
way through the crowd to face his boss.
    It was Clyde Darby, his face ash-grey and no hat upon his head, but
otherwise none the worse for wear after his recent rooftop tour. His brow was
beaded with sweat, and he seemed distracted somehow. He came face to face with
Tennutti.
    “Well?” Tennutti screamed, chewing his cigar with rage.
    “…Sorry… Sorry, Big Joe,” Darby stuttered. “I got a little hung up.”
    The words seemed to come slowly, hesitantly. To the High-Hat’s patrons
it simply looked like Darby feared Tennutti’s wrath, as well he might. No one
watching could have known the war Clyde Darby’s own consciousness was losing,
the futile struggle he was engaged in, like a drowning man in his final throws.
Big Joe’s brow furrowed deeply as he met the gaze of his trusted driver.
    “Look at me,” the gang lord said sharply. “You ain’t been drinkin’,
have you? We got work to do.”
    Suddenly, Darby’s face cleared and he relaxed. Colour began to return
to his cheeks. He looked quite like his old self, but in reality, his old self
had finally lost the battle.
    “Naw, Big Joe.