“You know I had to try, Mick,” Johnny said. “That’s one mean set of wheels.”
“You don’t have to tell me, kid. I’m the one driving her.” I showed him what I meant when I squealed off, leaving him in my dust.
I didn’t even bother looking for the Pan kid. Chances were he’d catch wind of my scent and get ghost before I ever clapped peeps on him. Leaders of street gangs don’t get to be king of the mountain without some sort of survival skills, and that meant staying clear of the law. But before they ever reach that status they’re bound to have had a few brushes with the brass, so I paid a visit to the locale parole office to see what I could scare up on the leader of the Lost Boys.
“Petey is his first name.” James Hooke gazed at me with unblinking eyes from behind his large, polished oak desk. Probies tend to be a scruffy, disheveled lot, but Hooke was dressed to the nines in pinstriped glad rags that befitted a mobster. Not a strand was out of place in his wavy mane of jet-black hair that fell to his shoulders, and his thick, slightly curled mustaches were neatly clipped and oiled. His dark eyes were almost as cold as his attitude, and he spoke his overeducated contempt with an accent I figured was British.
“His last name is unknown. Street moniker is Pan, probably a nod to the way he diddles his Lost Boys off the street like Pan playing his pipes.”
“Shouldn’t he have called himself the Pied Piper, then?” I asked behind a jaw-cracking yawn.
Hooke frowned as if I offended him. “The mythological Pan played the pipes as well, you know.”
I didn’t, but I figured Hooke to be one of those highbrow types that thought their useless trivia knowledge gave them some kind of certification to be right all the time.
He studied me over steepled fingers. “What is your interest in Petey, Mr.…?”
“Trubble. Mick Trubble. I’m heading up a case where young Petey is a person of interest, is all.”
Hooke’s eyes narrowed. “You’re no detective, or I’d have heard of you. You’re a Troubleshooter, then?”
I leaned back in my chair with my most insulting grin. “Guilty as charged. Guess this is the part where you tell me to go hang myself.”
Hooke smirked and casually reached under his desk. His eyes widened when I pulled the Mean Ol’ Broad faster than he could raise his arm.
“No need to get gonzo here, Mack.” I aimed the muzzle directly at his well-groomed mug. “But if you wanna squirt metal, you better believe the Broad here is hot and ready for that kind of action.”
Hooke slowly raised his hand, showing the two rocks glasses clutched between his fingers. “I was actually going to congratulate you, Mr. Trubble. If you don’t mind putting away your heater, that is. I’ve been waiting a bloody long time for someone to finally take it to the Pan.”
I felt a tiny stab of guilt when I slipped the Broad back in her holster. “Sorry. Force of habit. So, what’s your beef with the Pan kid?”
Hooke filled the glasses with the Captain’s rum from the bottle on his desk, and pushed one my way. “The ‘Pan kid’, as you so eloquently put it, has had history with yours truly for quite some time. I’m not really his parole officer, you know.”
I tapped the holoband on my wrist, opening up the three-dimensional screen with Hooke’s probate dossier. “That’s not what it says on the file.”
“The file was filed under my name upon request. Although Petey is assigned to my office, the truth is he’s never had the notion to show up for his appointments. But I was his arresting officer some time ago. In fact, I was a captain in the 27th precinct.”
I downed the rum. “The West Docks. Nice to see you survived the experience.”
Hooke grimaced. “Not the nicest of our districts, true. But I guess that’s why I worked that beat. I was never comfortable in the more sterile parts of town. The Uppers? Pure bollocks. Too much red tape and legal maneuvering, not to mention the ruthless politicking. At least in the streets they hate you honest.”
I nodded and helped myself to another shot of Hooke’s booze. “I can understand that notion. I try to keep my feet on the ground myself, away from all the floaters and synoids.”
Hooke’s mouth tightened under his thick mustache. “You know, it’s terribly bad form to pour a drink from another man’s bottle.”
I paused with the glass halfway raised. “What, you want I should pour it back?”
Hooke’s frown deepened. “No. I’d rather you had not done so in the first place. It’s too late to correct your rudeness now. Enjoy the rum, Mr. Trubble.”
I did. It was pretty darb booze, after all. Not the cheap swill you usually find in copper’s desk drawers.
Shimmers of light glinted from Hooke’s multiple gem-encrusted rings as he drummed the desktop with his fingers. “Now if you’re done pirating my drink, I’ll tell you about ‘young’ Petey. He’s a savage.”
“What, not some charismatic street kid with a heart of gold?”
Hooke leaned forward so fast he almost tipped over the bottle. “A savage, I tell you. Don’t be fooled by his boyish looks and his natural charm. He’s a killer. A soulless assassin with no notion of remorse or conscience. Beware, Mr. Trubble. By no means take Pan lightly.”
I reached in my inside pocket for my deck of smokes. “Mind if I light one?”
“Actually I do.” Hooke narrowed his eyes. “Secondhand smoke is particularly potent, you know. Not to mention how the stench gets into one’s clothing and skin.”
I sighed, returning the deck to my pocket. “All right, let’s cut to the chase then. I need a visual on Pan and his whereabouts. I’d prefer not to go onto his turf, so I need a spot outside the Gardens where he might pop up.”
“There’s an abandoned amusement park that’s been turned into a night club in the Docks,” Hooke said. “More of a day care center, actually. The name of it is Neverland. Pan will be there when he’s not at the Gardens. But be careful. Neverland is as much his turf as the Gardens is.”
“You’ve had a few tangles with him, I take it?”
Hooke held up his left hand. I heard the gears whir quietly underneath the synthetic flesh of his fingers as he gestured.
“When I was on the force I tried to shut down his operation a few times. The closer I got, the more vicious Pan became. The last time I was fortunate to lose only my hand. My superiors believed I’d become obsessed with the case. I was demoted and eventually entirely shut down. As a lowly parole officer I’m unable to pursue any charges against Pan. It took all of my connections to even have his file transferred to my office. It’s pure duff, of course. Pan thumbs his nose at every convention, considering himself untouchable and above any legal or moral edict. He’ll never willingly step into an office of the law.”
I took a hard look at Hooke. His eyes were practically dilated, and beads of perspiration had broken out on his brow. “You seem to be pretty fixated on this kid, Hooke. What’s the deal? I’ve ran across a few tough punks, but the bottom line is he’s still just a kid.”
Hooke stared at me a moment, never blinking. “Just a kid,” he said finally. “Just a kid, you say. Let me show you what this ‘kid’ truly is.”
He tapped his desk, and a thin console emerged from the desktop. Hooke slid across the screens until he found a good picture of Pan. He flicked it from the console to my holoband so I could view it closely.
The boy that smiled from the holographic image couldn’t have been older than fifteen. His unruly mop of hair flickered between orange and red like shades of flame, and his eyes were green as emerald chips. He had an impish face — high cheekbones, a narrow, freckle-dusted nose, large eyes and a thin slash of a mouth turned up in an insolent grin.