The Fire Triangle -- Part II, Oxidizer

The Fire Triangle: Book II - Chapter 45

Guerrero only fanned a palm. "Ahhh, don' worry 'bout it, Jefe, I got it covered."

The fisher was not impressed.

"Yeah, yeah...the last time you said that, you nearly got your head blown off." He thrust a finger in the direction of Pepe's ride. "Take-a-hike!"

"Hokay, hokayyy, I'm outta here," Guerrero waved his paws in surrender, "But ju know, Martino; you really gotta start laying off the espresso..."

"GO!"

It was at that moment Nick Wilde decided he liked this kinkajou. He would really like to get Pepe's story sometime, but business before pleasure.

After the kinkajou was gone, of course; "I heard what you said, Marty. So...we're getting some good intel?"

At once the grin returned to the fisher's face.

"C'mon in and hear for yourself," he said, gesturing towards the interior of the van.

Inside, they found a tree kangaroo seated before a console table occupied by a laptop, a reel-to-reel tape recorder, a small mixing board, and several pieces of electronic gear that Nick could not identify. As they entered, the marsupial made no acknowledgement of their presence, not even so much as angling his head in their direction. Instead, he continued to concentrate on whatever he was hearing over the headset affixed to his ears.

"And the guy on the surveillance setup here is Art Borrea," Pennanti informed Nick cheerfully, adding in a dead-on Chico Marx, "He-a good listener, but he no speak."

That got the tree kangaroo's attention; he regarded the fisher sourly for a moment, and then went back to his listening.

Nick too was in a serious mood.

"Can we hear?" he asked, trying not to sound anxious.

Art Borrea said nothing, only moved the cursor on his laptop screen and clicked. At once they heard the lilting voice of Estvan, coming from a pair of speakers mounted high up in the right and left corner of the cargo-bay.

"...that may be Rosemary, but it still don't explain why the divvil that boy'd come back here, of all places."

"Maybe he figured with The Company outta the way, everything'd be hunky dory." The waitress replied. She was answered by a voice that Nick didn't recognize.

"She's got a point there, bub; it's been what, three years now?"

"And these days, the cops don't want t' know about The Mister no more." It was a deep, guttural voice, probably the bouncer.

The mention of that name sent the Wicked Mink crew into a reminiscence of the raid that had taken out Finagles-and The Company-once and for all. It was a discussion in which Martin Pennanti's name featured prominently...and not in an admiring fashion; references to the fisher's low character and unsavory habits abounded. Nick counted at least three times that the word 'traitor' came up in context with his name; as if by his dogged pursuit of the McCrodons-a family of sea-mink and therefore his fellow mustelids-he had committed an abject betrayal.

For his part, Pennanti remained unmoved; he'd probably been called a lot worse in his day...although he did choose that moment to opt for a change of topic.

"So...where'd you plant the bugs, Nick?"

The fox was only too happy to inform him

"Hid the first one in a wad of gum that I spit into the trash. The second one was in a 'penny' I put in the tip jar.

"Nice work," Pennanti nodded approvingly. By that method Nick had planted a listening device at either end of the bar, able to cover the entire length of the room