I grunted. “Doesn’t exactly look like the scourge of the seven seas, Hooke. Just another young punk, and a pansy-looking one at that.”
“That’s precisely what he wants you to believe. Hooke slid across a few more screens. “Here’s an entry from the Wiki on the last days before the Cataclysm. Note the accompanying picture.” He flicked the article to my holoband.
It was the same kid. He stood with a group of street kids in different clothes, but it was clearly the same person: same hair, face and rascally grin.
“That’s impossible. If this is pre-Cataclysm, then this picture was taken at least three hundred years ago.”
Hooke stared at the picture with burning intensity. “That’s what I told myself when I first discovered it. But there’s no mistake, Mr. Trubble. Pan was alive before the Cataclysm. There is no telling how long he lived before this picture was taken. He’s an abomination, some freak of nature that survived the ages and lives here among us, feeding on our naivety and eating our young. Make no mistake, Mr. Trubble. He must be stopped.”
I stood up and placed my Bogart on my head, tilting it just the way I liked it. “Well, word is he’s got a little white bird caged up somewhere. And if that’s true, I guess he will be stopped.”
Hooke continued to stare at the smiling image. “Don’t be so sure, Mr. Trubble. You’ve never faced anyone like this before.”
I paused at the door and grinned. “That’s funny, Hooke. I was just thinking he’s never faced anyone like me before either.”
Neverland was a junkyard of amusement park pieces collected together in a zone of the West Docks the brass didn’t bother patrolling for fear of whizzing slugs and exploding shrapnel. Maxine was equipped with an auto-defense system, but I still felt a bit wary while pulling up in that part of the hood. The Docks were bad enough, but I was deep in the maw of the place where the only police support warranted was a high-powered spotlight so the synthetic coroner could zip up your corpse in a body bag.
Not exactly the kind of place you’d expect to find a bunch of snot-nosed brats. But that’s what waited for me beyond the gates of the Neverland joint. The rides and roller coasters were in full swing, loaded with squealing boys of all ages. Everything was lit up with flashing lights of every color, and fireworks constantly exploded overhead. The place was every kid’s dream come to life: overly loud, overly bright, and completely unsafe.
The park was walled off, so the only entrance was through the main building. The doorway was framed by a gaudy painting of some creepy clown with the door serving as his mouth. A preteen punk with a mane of curly brown hair and baby fat still on his cheeks greeted me with a scowl when I strode over, casually puffing a gasper with my hands in my pockets.
“Hey mister!” The little punk unfolded his chubby arms. “Can’t you read the sign?” He gestured to the battered block letters. “Says no grown ups. So dust off!”
I stood there long enough to show him I wasn’t impressed, and exhaled a cloud of smoke his direction. “What if I don’t?”
Fat Boy didn’t hesitate. He reached behind him and hefted a fully loaded pump-action scattergun. “Then you’ll be full o’ daylight, chump. This is Pan’s place. You better get ghost, or you’ll be one.”
“Oh, that’s clever, kid.” I studied him for a second. His finger was tense on the trigger; his round chin set in a determined scowl. The miniature goon was serious. That’s the problem with kids. They haven’t had time to develop their sense of fear, and that makes them dangerous in a way. The fat little punk would have shot me dead and stuffed his chubby mug with marshmallows afterward without a second thought.
“Listen, kid. I got no kick with Pan. Just wanna chin it up with the mug, is all. Tell you what. You give him my card, and tell him to call me, right?” I nonchalantly handed it to the punk.
He snatched it out of my hand and squinted with his beady little eyes. “The Joker? What kind of gonzo bunk are you selling?”
“Joke’s on you, punk.” I snatched his scattergun with one hand and seized him by the ear with the other, yanking up so he had to stand on his tiptoes.
“Hey… ow! You’re hurting me, mister!” He scrunched up his chubby little face while pawing at my hand. “Stop it! Pan’s gonna be so sore… ”
“Your ear is gonna be real sore. I might just tear it off. I got a collection of ears at the shack that I snatched off of little punk kids like you. Next time you might wanna show respect for your elders. Now punch in the code to the door.”
After he did, I hauled him inside, still clutching his ear. He whimpered, red-faced as I walked him past his peers, who paused with startled stares. Guess they hadn’t seen an adult waltz into their joint before. The place was a haphazard maze of arcade and carnival games, soda bars, dance halls, balconies and bridges. Boys swarmed the joint; chasing one another, playing games, eating junk food, leaping from the stairs, wrestling, and most of all making too much noise. A large banner hung from the ceiling with ‘EVERY TIME YOU BREATHE, A GROWN UP-DIES’ written in big block letters.
“Where’s the Pan?”
“Private room,” the fat kid whined. “Upstairs inna back.”
When I let go, he ran off snuffling and clutching his ear. The other boys parted as I advanced, clearing the way as I strode up the stairs. I didn’t give them a second glance, but their bug-eyed stares followed me as I passed. Throbbing music pulsed from the private lounge in the back. I was pretty sure the door wasn’t locked, but I kicked it in anyway. Bad habits are hard to break.
There were more boys inside the lounge. Some of them jumped at my forceful entrance, but the others just gave me cool glances. It looked like the teen crowd owned the upper sections. They were wannabe slicksters, draped in clownish rags that gave me headache from the amateur style coordination. I kept strolling until I found the mark I was looking for.
Pan shared a cushioned chaise with a sweet, shapely dish that had him by five or six years, but the way she lounged against him made it clear she was his moll. She was a copper-skinned dame with high cheekbones, dark eyes, and inky hair that shimmered well past her shoulders. Her tank top and shorts left a lot of supple skin exposed, including a tattoo of a tiger lily on her right shoulder. Pan looked pretty much exactly like the picture Hooke showed me, right down to his impish smile. He had a Trilby pushed back on his reddish mop, a threadbare green military coat over his black undershirt, and faded khaki pants.
I flung the confiscated scattergun onto the glass table in front of them. The table shattered on impact, scattering drinks and sending glittering shards sliding across the floor. The dame cringed at the explosion, but Pan didn’t even blink.
“Party’s over, kids,” I said. “Best retire to your milk and cookies.”
Instead of being intimidated, the assorted punks gathered around their leader with sullen expressions and hands that strayed toward hidden weapons. Pan smiled as he ran fingers over his dame’s smooth brown legs. “You got a lotta nerve coming onto my turf, mister.”
“It’s Trubble. Mick Trubble.”
His smile slipped. “The Troubleshooter.”
“The very same.”
Pan clapped his hands. “You heard the man. I’m gonna need some private time.” The boys faded away, glaring at me as they exited the room. I gave them my most infuriating grin as they passed. In no time it was just Pan, his moll, and me. I pulled up a beanbag armchair and sat across from him. Pan studied me, weighing with his jade-colored eyes. They were the most mature part of him, gazing with an intensity that belied his youthful features. I could almost believe Hooke’s tale of the boy having lived for ages. Almost.