Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.
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The Fire Triangle
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Part Two:
Oxidizer
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And a Happy Saint Padraig's Day to ye's all.
In honor of the occasion...
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Chapter 8: Everything You Know is Wrong(Part 1)
Tuesday, 09:47 ZST: ZPD Precinct 1, Savanna Central, City of Zootopia
"I won't say I've NEVER seen Bogo that ticked off," Lieutenant Perry 'Spike' Redding stirred creamer into his coffee and took a short sip, "But it was easily in the top ten; I'm just glad it wasn't me he was mad at."
On the other side of the roan antelope's desk, Detective Judy Hopps nodded and took a taste of her own coffee. Her new boss looked haggard and weary and it was no surprise. As the head of the ZPD Juvenile Division, the events of the past weekend-the ZAPA and Savanna Central riots-were clearly within his concern; the vast majority of participants, in both uprisings, had been under the age of 18.
Between the two, Lieutenant Redding was in a situation unlike anything else he'd ever had to face-or that any ZPD cop had ever had to face, truth be told.
And as if that wasn't enough, last night, a free-for-all had erupted in the Canal District. When Judy had arrived for work, it had been the talk of Precinct-1-and nobody had seemed to know any details, not even Benjamin Clawhauser, who was usually up on everything.
...Although he did have at least one interesting tidbit to impart.
"They say the Lewis kid was in that boat everybody was chasing-but nobody knows for sure, since it got away."
"..Again!" Judy had thought, but had not said. Dangit, that silver-fox kid was as slippery as an eel dipped in WD-40.
The next thing the plus-sized cheetah told her had made her ears stand up and set her nose to twitching. "We'll probably know more when the meeting's over."
"Meeting...what meeting?" the doe-bunny had asked him, thumping her foot. You didn't need to be a police detective to guess which topic they were discussing-and dangit, why hadn't she been notified?
It was Clawhauser who'd provided the answer; simply put, it was above her pay-grade. "Awww sorry Detective, but it's Precinct Captains and Division Chiefs only." He'd glanced nervously behind a shoulder and leaned out over the desktop, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper, "I-I'm not sure you'd want to be in there, anyway. Chief's not in the best of moods right now."
As he often did, the plus-size cheetah had understated the case by several degrees. In the words of Spike Redding, Bogo had been 'mad enough to eat piano wire.'
Redding had spoken those words with a wink and a smile-something he could afford to do, since most of Bogo's wrath had been directed elsewhere. The animal catching the worst of it had been Captain Judson 'Jud' Cody, the Furrida Panther who headed up the ZPD's Waterways Division.
"As if anyone didn't know that was coming." The roan antelope was saying, "Two jet-skis totaled, and a patrol boat with a $2K repair bill." He took another sip of his coffee. "And did you know that's the third wave-runner we've had blow up on us? Yep, nobody got hurt the first two times, thank God, but last night we almost had an officer killed. Bogo almost went ballistic when he heard; he never liked the idea of putting 'motorbike cops on the water'-his words-and now he's ordered every single one of our jet-skis beached until further notice."
Judy raised her coffee mug in concurrence. "And knowing him, that 'further notice' probably won't come until the Climate Wall converts to running on steam power." Chief Bogo was never less compromising than when it came to the safety of his officers.
"I heard that," Redding nodded, returning the gesture. It made Judy glad she'd been transferred here. Her new supervisor was both tough and streetwise, but at the same time, had a genuine rapport with the officers working under him.
But now, the doe-bunny figured, this was as good a time as any to start asking some pertinent questions.
And she knew exactly where to begin.
"Sir, if I may...how do we know the Lewis boy was on that boat we were chasing?" Since parting company with Benjamin Clawhauser, she'd heard it at least three times, and from three different officers-none of whom had seemed to know where the information had come from.
Spike Redding, on the other paw....
"Confidential Informant," the roan antelope told her, looking oddly frustrated, "and don't ask me who-coz I don't got a clue. Ever since we got hit by that cyberattack, everything 'round here's been on a strict, need-to-know basis." He scratched thoughtfully at a horn, "If I had to take a guess though, I'd say it was probably one of the Deguellos. Ain't nobody knows how to work a snitch like Serena's boys."
'Serena' was his good friend, Lieutenant Serena Leonard, the lioness who headed up the ZPD's anti-gang unit. As such, the privateers fell under her authority.
But it was something else the roan antelope said that drew the bulk of the doe bunny's attention.
"Wait, what...the Deguellos? What do they have to do with any of this?"
Redding stared at her for a second, and then sighed and shook his head.
"Ahhh, don't the Chief know there's such a thing as keepin' the lid on too tight? Ohhhh-kay, here's how it all went down."
For the next 90 minutes, the roan antelope gave her a recap of the previous night's events, with Judy interrupting occasionally, either to ask a question or make an observation.
"Wait, what...the Lewis boy said he might die if he didn't get to a doctor? Sweet cheez n' crackers, I didn't hurt him that bad."
"Could be he took some more hits later on." The Lieutenant conjectured, shrugging, "In the middle of that riot-I mean the big one, night before last-just 'bout anything could've happened." He drained his coffee cup and set it aside. "That's one thing you'll find, workin' Juvie, Detective Hopps; kids get hurt for the darndest things."
"Right," the doe bunny nodded, finishing her own coffee. "You think the Lewis boy might have participated in that riot?"
"You tell me, Detective," Redding answered with another shrug, "you're the one who knows that fox-kid."
Yes, she did...but on reflection, Judy remembered something else.
"Mmmm, eee-yes, but only to try and stop it; don't forget, he's the one who killed that cyberattack...and no, I'm not defending him." The change of expression on her Lieutenant's face had not escaped her. "But I still don't understand why the heck the Deguellos were after him."
"Yeah, that," Spike drummed a disgusted hoof on his desktop. "Someone posted a message online, sayin' there's a $50K reward out for that fox-kid."
"WHAT?" Judy's nose was twitching and her foot was thumping.
"I know, right?" the roan antelope replied, throwing up his hooves, "But that's what happened and the Deguellos fell for it like a ton of bricks; so did the Chaungs." His expression turned caustic. "None of their guys that we pulled in are saying diddly about last night-as ya'll can probably imagine-except to blame each other for the property damage and whatnot. Typical privateers...or that's what Serena tells me."
"What about that...nurse," Judy almost said 'bunny', "the one who treated the Lewis boy, has she said anything?"
Redding threw up another hoof and then slapped it against his thigh.
"She might...if we could find her. Bogo thinks either the kid or the Deguellos may have threatened her to keep quiet. In any case, she hasn't turned up yet."
Judy felt her ears rise once again. Menacing someone who'd helped him? That didn't sound like Conor at all, at least not the one she knew.
"How about the one that sent you to the ER?" her inner voice rejoined smartly. All right, yes, but still...
"Hm, all right...the Deguellos, yeah-but what the heck could the Lewis boy have used to threaten her?"
By way of response, Spike Redding lifted a hoof in the direction of his office window...and the carnage beyond that had once been Savanna Central Plaza. It was a simple but effective gesture...and one for which the doe-bunny had no immediate response.
Over the course of the next few minutes, she kept her thoughts to herself. It wasn't until the Lieutenant got to the part where the ZPD had become involved, that she finally made bold to speak.
"How the heck did Captain Cody know where to set that trap?" It was a fair question; if you threw in the Muddy Swamp, there were more miles of shoreline in the Canal District than in all the rest of Zootopia put together.
Once again, Spike Redding had the answer she was looking for.
"That left hoof channel-the one they blocked off-it's a shortcut that leads straight to Zootopia Sound. And we knew they were headin' for Outback Island, so..."
"Huh? Where'd we get that from?" The interruption was out before Judy could stop herself. Fortunately, the Lieutenant took it in stride.
"No idea, but I'm guessing it was that CI again."
What had really set Bogo off was the exit Captain Cody had left open from the lagoon where he'd set his ambush-not so much the error itself as his lame attempt to excuse it.
"'It's not like we left it unguarded!' Whoa, can ya'll believe he said that to Chief Bogo? I was ready to dive under my seat when I heard. "
"Then where's our SUSPECT?" the big Cape buffalo had bellowed, shooting up out of his chair like a rocket shell. The fireworks that followed had topped anything the Chaungs had been lobbing at Conor and his friends.
And on the subject of those friends, it brought Judy to her next question.
"Who were those other kids in the boat with the Lewis boy? Do we know?"
The response was yet another head-shake from the antelope.
"No idea-leastways, I don't have one; either the CI didn't say or else Bogo just plain decided not to tell us."
Judy's nose began to twitch again.
"What about the officers on the police-boats chasing him? Didn't they get a look at who else was on board?"
The Lieutenant's eyes turned upwards and to the right.
"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But noooo, when that getaway boat hit restaurant row, all the animals on the dining terraces started pitching their food at it; made a complete mess out of that bad boy-and everyone on board. By the time our guys got close enough for a good look, they couldn't even tell what SPECIES those kids were-much less make any kind of a positive ID. Heck they're not even sure if it was three kids or four kids they was chasing."
"G'ohhh!" Judy groaned and slapped her knee, remembering the old police adage: 'The only thing worse than an unhelpful citizen...is a helpful citizen.'
And now it was time to ask the question she'd been both saving-and dreading.
"How many...uh, hurt?" She couldn't quite bring herself to ask if anyone had been killed
The answer came like a weight lifted off her shoulders.
"That's the lucky part, Detective," the roan antelope told her, "none seriously, not even the officer whose jet-ski blew up on him; just a few minor burns is all. A few of the Chaungs and Deguellos got busted up pretty good, but nothing life threatening, and anyway, that came mostly from them beatin' up on each other." He sat back in his chair and folded his hooves; a gesture reminiscent of Chief Bogo. "Heck, all things considered, there wasn't even that much property damage-'cept for a bunch of the privateers' boats, and I cry no tears for those fools."
While Judy might have tended to agree with his assessment, those hadn't been the only boats taken out in last night's running battle.
"What about...? Look, I know about our pursuit boat getting grounded and that one jet-ski blowing up...but didn't you say that both of them were write-offs?"
"Yeah, I did," the Lieutenant replied, leaning forward again with a grim expression. "Second officer got ambushed by some kids, over in the Muddy Swamp; dumped a cargo net over her and made her crash into a bridge." He sighed and shook his head, "Coulda warned her if I'd a' known; the homies down the Muddy don't like the po-lice. Myself, I never send anyone into that neighborhood without at least two extra officers for backup."
"Is she all right?" the doe-bunny asked, concerned. It was probably an unnecessary question, but she couldn't help herself.
"She's okay...'cept for a bruised knee and a bruised ego," Redding shook his head in disgust, "Her jet-ski though, that's another story. By the time we got to that bad boy, it'd been stripped like a corn-cob. They even drained all the oil outta the crankcase. And then they sank what was left in the mud. Roy Digger, from over the ZPD dockyard, says that what-all we recovered, we couldn't sell to a junk dealer."
"Ouch!" Judy winced and looked away with her foot thumping. She had visited the Muddy Swamp all of three times since joining the ZPD-but that had been enough. The Lieutenant was right; the Big Muddy was no place for a cop flying solo.
And from there, the roan antelope proceeded to bring her up to speed on the current state of the investigation.
"We've got officers checking out every hospital, clinic, and urgent care facility on Outback Island; so far, nothing...at least as of that meeting last hour. We're searching all the boatyards too, though I don't hold out much hope on that front. Did I mention that there weren't no markings on that getaway boat? Nope, no registration numbers, no decal, no nothing. And those Super V8's may be fast, but they ain't all that big, especially one that's the right size for a fox. A boat that small's pretty easy to hide...or it would be if it was a car anyway. As for me, I got all my mammals checking with their snitches; see if any of them know anything." He picked up a pen and dropped it like a microphone. "Honestly though, I expect even less outta them than from the boatyards; most of our informants been dodging us ever since the big riot-and the few that we were able to get hold of pulled Schultzes on us, I mean every last one."
Judy didn't know whether to snicker or groan. She was familiar with the expression; it was a favorite around the ZPD-taken from a character on the old network TV show, Hoggan's Heroes. "I see nu-THING, I know nu-THING!"
And it didn't surprise her, not in the least. In the wake of those riots, they'd be lucky to find any kids willing to cooperate...or rather, crazy enough to cooperate with the law. With tensions running at an all-time high, God help any police snitch who got found out by his homies. Small wonder that Chief Bogo was keeping the name of last night's CI tightly under wraps.
On the other paw, things had at least quieted down a little since the 'Battle of Savanna Central,' as the kids were allegedly calling it. Except for that boat chase through the Canal District, last night had been relatively uneventful.
And yet...somehow Judy knew that it wasn't over-not yet, and not by a long shot.
And she wasn't the only one who thought so. From the moment she'd set foot inside the precinct, she had felt it in the air, a sensation not unlike the experience of standing beneath a high tension wire. Even before she'd heard about the boat chase, she had sensed it. And when she'd looked around the Precinct 1 lobby, every single officer she'd seen had looked like...
Oops, Lieutenant Redding was speaking to her again.
"Anyway, Detective...here's what I got for you," he was folding his hooves on the desktop, "Now that the Guilford kid's a murder suspect, his case belongs to the Mammalcide Division. They've asked for your assistance in taking down that punk, and I agreed to lend them your services."
For perhaps nine tenths of a second, Judy stared at him-and then her paw went slapping into the base of her neck. Had she really just heard...?
"Me, sir?" Being assigned to the Mammalcide Division was every officer's Holy Grail; for a rookie detective like her it was practically unheard of. Granted, it would only be a temporary post, but even so...
"Yep, you," Perry leaned across his desk, looking mildly surprised, "And why not? You know that 'yote-kid almost as good as you know Lewis kid; you're the one, busted him, remember?"
Judy stifled a wince. D'ohhh, yes she had, and how could she have forgotten?
"And not only that, Detective Hopps," the roan antelope was saying, "he's from your home turf, too. If this was Juvie Division's investigation, I'd want you in on it myself." He waved a hoof in a throwaway gesture, then turned and consulted his workstation. "But anyway...the lead detective on the Guilford investigation is...Ohhh-kay, Detective Sergeant Margaret Drescu." he turned and looked at Judy, nodding his approval, "I worked with her once or twice, she's good." And then his face split open in a sardonic smirk. "If I know Mags, though-that's what everyone calls her-she twisted 'bout a hundred arms to get this case."
"Why's that, sir?" the doe-bunny asked, unable to keep her nose from twitching.
"She's a lynx," The Lieutenant answered simply, as if that was all she needed to know.
As a matter of fact, it was; the Zaqir boy had been a sand cat and Mac Cannon was a bobcat-a brother feline as well as a brother officer. Ohhhh yes...say no more, she understood Detective Drescu's reasoning perfectly.
"Mags should be in her office right about now," the Lieutenant informed her by way of dismissal. "If not, just ask around Mammalcide, and they'll tell you where to find her."
"Yes, sir," the doe bunny answered, easing off of her chair and sliding carefully down to the floor; her injuries were healing nicely, but she wasn't quite there just yet. Her caution did not escape Spike Redding's notice, and he came quickly around his desk to open the door for her-but not before offering a wry comment. "Just do me one favor though, 'kay Detective? Don't go jumping out no planes this time."
Judy had actually jumped onto that airplane but knew better than to correct her Lieutenant...and accurate or not, it was a merited warning; no reckless moves, bunny-cop.
"I won't sir," she promised, offering what she hoped was a sincere smile.
And then he opened the door and she made her exit.
Bay Ridge, Barklyn, Zoo York City, 14:08 EST
The Wicked Mink Pub and Grill...
It was a name guaranteed to conjure up your stereotypical waterfront dive. Dark wood, dim lighting, a surly barkeep, floors that got cleaned only when the health inspectors were due to make a call, and dingy windows, covered by wrought iron grates-the better to keep rowdy patrons from being pitched through them. If there was a jukebox, it was likely to be loaded with oldies, and probably broken anyway.
In point of fact, from the outside, the Wicked Mink could have passed for an ordinary storefront, done up in a uniform dull gray.
What was behind the entrance, however, gave an immediate lie to both images.
The pub's interior was light and airy, with a vaulted ceiling, high enough to accommodate a giraffe. The walls were stone rather than wood, the ornately carved, hardwood bar had reportedly once graced a real, live Irish monastery, and the windows were covered in stained glass rather than iron grilles. There was no jukebox to be seen, but a sign near the entrance cheerfully proclaimed 'Live Music on Weekends.' There were pool tables of varying sizes in the back, upon which only one type of billiards could be played, that quintessential Anglo-Irish game, Snooker. Brass fittings were everywhere to be seen, including a solid brass spittoon, planted with Irish Mint to prevent it from being employed for its original, intended purpose.
All in all, The Wicked Mink Pub was a cheerful spot; packed and humming every evening.
And yet...and yet...
The artwork decorating the bar-room's cathedral-high ceiling painting offered no images of grace and heavenly hosts. Rather it depicted a host of rowdy mustelids, lined up along the edge of the artwork and raining kegs and barrels on the patrons below.
And then there was the pulpit...
A real, genuine, octagonal pulpit; carved from a single piece of oak and varnished to the color of old honey. It had been brought over from the same monastery that had provided the long bar, and now it floated above the room like a watchtower. Stretched across the stairs leading up to it was a thick, velvet rope, with a 'Staff Only' sign hanging from it. Any patron attempting to negotiate this barrier was politely dissuaded from doing so. If they persisted, they were less than politely invited to leave the premises.
No one ever said why but all of the regulars knew the reason; that pulpit had once been the exclusive domain of the notorious arms-merchant, James 'The Mister' McCrodon-at least until he became too ill to ascend the stairs. Even today, it was kept off limits in his memory.
At this moment, in the twilight period between lunchtime and happy hour, the place was relatively empty, except for a cadre of die-hard regulars. As the name of the pub implied, most of them were mustelids; ferrets, badgers, martens, otters, one or two Duke Weaselton types, and of course, the ubiquitous mink. All of them were locals, all of them knew each other, and all of them were insular by nature.
Thus it was no surprise that the red-fox coming in through the door had every eye in the place trained on him from the moment he crossed the threshold.
He was chewing a wad of gum as he entered, and when he stopped to spit it into the wastebasket near the end of the bar, the hostility meter went up a tick; he'd better not do that and then just stroll back out again. This was a pub, not a garbage dump.
The fox appeared to take no notice, making straight for a booth near the midpoint of the room and seating himself without ceremony. He was dressed rather simply, but a little bit strangely, a green-print Hawaiian shirt and chocolate brown slacks. It wasn't anything you wouldn't see a local wearing, but what was up with that tie? Who the heck wears a tie on a muggy day like this? Wall-Street types yeah, but not with a shirt like that one; whoever this animal was, he wasn't a Zoo Yorker, and definitely not from Barklyn.
But while the patrons were giving the newcomer plenty of attention, the attitude of the wait-staff appeared to have trended in the opposite direction. A good fifteen minutes later, no server had yet appeared at his table. The fox didn't look as if he cared, one way or the other...or rather he seemed too lost in his thoughts to care.
The actual truth was something else; Nick Wilde might be a stranger to Zoo York City, but he was no stranger to the street. Sooner or later, he knew, the locals' curiosity would overcome their suspicions. Had the Wicked Mink catered to felines rather than mustelids, it probably would have happened already.
Finally, after perhaps another ten minutes, a thickset waitress, a badger, came waddling in his direction.
"Hi there hon, what can I get you?" The smile on her face was so artificial; it might have been applied with a magic marker. She also hadn't bothered to bring a menu. No matter; Nick had made sure to get his homework done before even thinking about setting foot in this place.
"Fish and Chips...and a pint of Blue Head Blueberry, please."
"Coming right up," the badger replied, her manner softening somewhat as she jotted a note in her book. This fox might not be dressed like a local-but he sure knew how to order like one.
But then he lowered his voice to front pew level. "By the way...is Estvan anywhere around here today?"
At once the waitress frosted over again. "I-I-I'm not sure," she said, "I can check if you like."
...Meaning, yes he was, but no-she wasn't going to send him to Nick's table unless HE agreed to it.
Again, the fox just went with the flow. Either Estvan would show up or he wouldn't...in which case, he would simply move on to Plan 'B'.
Given how long it had taken for her to show up at his table, Nick was a little surprised by how quickly the waitress returned with his food...although he probably shouldn't have been. The sooner he finished eating, the sooner they'd be rid of him. And there was another, subtler reason for the prompt service; his fish arrived still sizzling from the fryer; likely hot enough to burn his tongue right out of his mouth if he tucked straight into it. It didn't matter; he had come here for information, not lunch...although he had to admit that his meal smelled delicious.
He settled back to let it cool and took a sip of his blueberry ale-which was also quite good-mentally reviewing the briefing Martin Pennanti had given him over bagels and schmear, earlier that morning.
Back in the day when 'Mister' McCrodon had held court here, the Wicked Mink had sometimes been closed to all outsiders for the occasion.
One of the few exceptions to that rule had been a street performer known simply as Estvan, a favorite of not only The Mister, but the rest of his gang as well. During their gatherings here, he was often invited to provide the entertainment.
"You might say he was The Company's unofficial court jester." Pennanti had informed him with a smirk. "And he's good at what he does Nicky, real jack-of-all trades. He can juggle, mime, tell jokes, perform magic tricks; he's got a great living statue routine. The thing he's best known for, though, is what he calls his bag-cycle act. Nah, don't ask; I don't wanna spoil it. It's something you gotta see for yourself."
There'd been few other tidbits about Estvan, however, that the fisher had been more than willing to impart.
"He's a chatty guy, Nick; the kind that keeps going like a merry-go-round once he starts talking. Not about The Mister or the Company of course; even he knows enough to keep it zipped where those guys are concerned. Or that is, he used to; now that those bums are all either doing life or done with their lives, he just might be willing to open up a little. You see there's this one other thing about him; something we didn't learn until after the, uh, 'raid-that-shall-not-be-talked-about.'"
"What's that?" Nick had asked him, fascinated.
In response, a sardonic smile creased Pennanti's muzzle.
"Estvan never liked performing for The Mister all that much; after a while he even learned to hate it."
"Cheapskate?" the fox had asked, raising an ear-and Pennanti had shaken his head.
"Nahhh, that sea-mink was a lotta things-but tightfisted wasn't one of 'em. Our guy always got a decent payout from the Company whenever he played The Wicked Mink. No, it was The Mister's snot-nosed kid, Junior...again. Anytime Estvan showed up at The Mink and found that punk waiting for him, he knew he was in for a rough time; nothing but non-stop harassment...and if you don't like it, take it up with my dad."
"Right..." Nick had nodded unsurprised, and from there his host had gone on to more pertinent issues.
"Your kid, Conor-or Sean, as he was known back then-used to work as The Mister's private, one-fox, bicycle messenger service. He picked up and delivered messages at The Mink all the time; I saw him there myself, once or twice. So, it's a pretty safe bet that Estvan spotted him a few times, too. With a little luck he might even have gotten a look at the kid after he had his face fixed, though that's probably a long shot. Annnnd there's one other thing about the guy that I almost forgot to mention..."
Yes, there was, but it could wait; Nick's fish and chips were finally cool enough to enjoy...and mmmm, they tasted every bit as good as they smelled.
He had managed about three bites when a shadow appeared over the table-not the elusive Estvan, but the badger waitress again.
"Compliments of the house," she said, smiling sweet venom at the fox and setting a plate in front of him. Nick took one look at it and immediately lost his appetite. Laid out on the platter was a trio of oysters on the half shell.
Raw oysters...ewwww! To him they looked like miniature versions of the face-hugger creature from the movie Alien. From every nearby table and the bar, he could hear animals sniggering and whispering. Oh, they were just having a grand old time at his expense.
Nick spent the next half minute debating his next course of action. His first instinct was to scarf one of the oysters quickly, before his brain had time to realize what he'd done. All well and good, but what if he hurled it back up again? In that case he'd lose more face than if he'd been unable to eat it at all. Agggh, grrrrr...and coming here had been HIS idea...
Wait, what the heck was that? It sounded like... bagpipes?
He wasn't the only one who heard it; everyone in the pub had stopped what they were doing and were gazing towards the entrance with looks of keen anticipation.
The piper came briskly through the door a moment later, clad in a plain kilt, and a Darth Vader helmet. Slung beneath his arm were the bagpipes, upon which he was belting out a lusty rendition of the Star Wars Imperial March.
He was riding a unicycle.
For the next few minutes he went rolling around the pub, much to the delight of the patrons, all of whom applauded, and several of whom dropped bills into the satchel worn around his waist. After one more circuit, he pulled to a halt in front of Nick's table booth, releasing a whoosh of flame from each of the three big pipes-and triggering an angry rebuke from the grison behind the bar.
"Dangit Estvan, how many times you gotta be told? NOT inside the pub!"
"Sorry Michael," Darth Vader replied, in a brogue as thick as clotted Irish cream, "Get a bit carried away, Oi do, now an' again." He turned to address Nick, "So...as Oi unnerstand it, ye're lookin' me?" It was more of a statement than a question.
"That's right," the fox replied warily, "If you're Estvan."
"Aye, it's that Oi am," the newcomer replied, laying aside his pipes and cycle, and pulling off his helmet.
Underneath was the other reason Martin Pennanti had recommended him; he was a fellow member of Nick's species...although not of the same hue, or even close to it. His fur was a light pearl-gray in color; the phase known as a platinum fox. Nick would have been surprised if he hadn't been forewarned; he had heard about these foxes but had never actually met one, face to face.
Nor had he ever met a fox dressed quite like this one, a ruby-red shirt with billowing sleeves, a frilled collar and frilled cuffs, topped off with a lime green vest. He would have looked perfectly at home as a minstrel in a mythical faerie-land.
Meanwhile, his saffron-yellow eyes had fallen upon the platter of oysters.
"Wellll, if yer not goin' t' be havin' 'em yerself...."
And without waiting for an answer, he scooped up them up one by one, slurping them down in quick succession.
"Waste not; want not, Oi always says," he declared, patting his midsection contentedly, "Hudaleigh!"
Nick had no idea what that meant, but if Estvan's intention had been to put him off his stride, he had badly miscalculated. With those...things off the table, maybe now he'd be able to enjoy his fish and chips.
But first, he had business to discuss...and if he knew what was good for him, he'd better skip the small talk and get right down to cases.
"Okay," he said, pulling out his cell phone, and laying it on the table-top. On the screen Conor's picture was showing, this time with the color of his eyes clearly visible. "I'm here, looking for my nephew, Conor....Conor Lewis is his full name. He ran away from home last week, and may have come back to Zoo York. My sister tells me he used to hang around The Wicked Mink, back in the day. Being as you were kind of a regular yourself back then, she figured you might be the one to talk to. Have you seen this boy around the neighborhood, anytime in the last couple of weeks?"
Regarding Nick curiously for a second, Estvan sighed and pulled the phone towards him.
...And immediately pushed it back.
"Sorry boyo, don't know this lad...an' in any case, Oi 'aven't seen anyone like that 'round here."
Nick heard him, but was paying more attention to his fellow vulpine's eyes, which were rolling upwards and to the left, and also to his tail, which was more than a little frizzed
He had recognized Conor...and it was no surprise that he wasn't willing to talk about it. Nick knew the attitude all too well; the mammals of Mr. Big's home turf were equally close-mouthed with strangers.
But then one of Estvan's eyebrows lifted higher than the other, and a tilted grin spread across his muzzle. "'Ere, now...that silver fox boy don't look t' be more 'n thirteen year if, 'e's a day."
Spoken loudly enough for the entire room to hear...and it had exactly the effect the platinum fox intended. At once the barkeep came barreling into conversation.
"Hey bub, we DON'T allow minors in here! What're you up to, huh? Trying to make us lose our license or sump'n?" He was looking at Nick as if the fox had been trying to pull a fast one-which, in a sense, he had.
Hastily grabbing his phone back, Nick pressed a button and watched the picture disappear.
"When's this so-called nephew o' yours s'posed to have been comin' in 'ere, anyways." It was Estvan again, skeptical, but at the same time curious.
"About three years ago," Nick answered him-and at once the atmosphere in the pub became as chilly as a produce locker. Everyone, it seemed, was regarding him with spiked fur and exposed fangs.
...None more balefully than the platinum fox in the jester's outfit.
"Oi...them's MISTER days yer talkin', boyo." He drew himself up to his full height, neck-fur spiking and fangs showing. "Right then...Oi think Oi've got nothin' more to say to ye's." And then he angled his muzzle in the direction of the door, lowering his voice to a menacing purr. "An' if Oi was youse boyo, Oi'd be fergettin' bout me lunch an' git to high-tailin' it out the door...'fore Oi got meself hurt."
As if to underscore these words, the biggest honey-badger Nick had ever seen had appeared out of nowhere behind Estvan-probably the bouncer-and the grison barkeep was also hovering in the background. Their unspoken message was as clear as distilled water; he could either leave The Mink right now...or else leave face first.
Not quite...
"But 'fore ye say g'bye..." Estvan eyes narrowed impishly, "Oi don't believe I caught yer name." And then he stepped aside, offering a full view of the hulking honey-badger.
Nick was sorely tempted to respond with the old chestnut, "I don't believe I dropped it," but had better things to do than spend the next six months in a wheelchair. It didn't matter in any case, because right then, another voice spoke up.
"His name's Nick Wilde. He's a police detective outta Zootopia...so you might wanna think twice about watchoo thinkin', okay Crusher? He may not be a Zoo York cop...but he's still a cop, ¿entiéndeme?"
All eyes turned towards the entrance, where a kinkajou in a guayabera shirt and snap-brim hat was leaning against the frame with his legs crossed.
And just to make certain that no one would mistake him for anything else; he had a thick gold chain, hanging loosely around his neck-at the end of which dangled the unmistakable badge of a ZYPD police detective.
Whoa, and Nick thought he had gotten a hostile response when he came in here. If looks could kill, the ones the newcomer was getting would have had everyone in The Wicked Mink looking at 25-to-life in Viomax.
...including HIM! Agggh, grrr, Nick was practically livid-and the reason was obvious; just where the heck did this jerk get off, barging in and blowing the whistle on his investigation?
He said nothing at first, preferring to let the barkeep have first dibs.
"Hey, what's the matter, Pipsqueak?" The grison snarled, folding his bulging arms and regarding the kinkajou-cop as if he'd just crawled out of the sewer, "Ah, 'scuse me, I mean Pepe. What's up, not enough kids stealing candy from bodegas in The Heights to keep you busy?"
"Nahhh, they know better than to pull that stuff when I'm around," the newcomer replied, fanning a paw and refusing to take the bait. But then his features darkened like a thunder-cloud, "Anyway, my business is with him, not you." He was pointing a rigid finger at Nick...and in response Estvan and the others backed off with smirks and raised paws, as if to say, 'In that case...have fun.'
A brief nod, and then the kinkajou came strolling over to Nick's booth with a big smile on his face.
...But not a friendly one.
"Hola, mi zorro," he declared, sticking out a paw. "Detective first grade Alejandro Guerrero, Zoo York PD."
Nick only stared at the paw as if he had never seen one before...or maybe as if he wanted to bite it off at the wrist.
They remained like that for several seconds, before Detective Guerrero withdrew the gesture and shrugged it off. At the same time every ounce of forced geniality drained away from his face.
"Hokay, if that's how you wanna do it, I can play hardball, too." He laid an elbow on the tabletop, leaning in close and showing a fang. "Watchoo think you're doing in here, huh Wilde? You were told the Finagles thing got nothing to do with you!"
"What?!" Nick was halfway out of his seat with a spiking neck, "What the heck are you talking about? This place isn't even in the same neighborhood! And it's Detective Wilde, if you don't mind."
Clearly the kinkajou did mind, but was not about to be distracted by trivialities.
"Don't gimme that, Detective!" he hissed. "Here you are in The Mister's favorite daytime hangout...showing THAT picture around again." Behind him, the waitress was passing out bowls of popcorn.
"Well, DUH!" the red fox snarled right back, "According to what I heard, he sent out his diamond shipments from Finagles, but THIS is where he..."
That was as far as he got before Guerrero brought his fist down on the tabletop. "You wanna lie to me zorro, okay, but don't insult my intelligence...OR the ZYPD's intelligence unit. We know watchoo been up to these last coupla days-and who you been hangin' out with. Yeah we know all about you hooking up with ex-cop Martin Pennanti." He shook his head, looking almost disappointed. "Not the smartest move on the chessboard, Detective; you ticked off a lotta mammals downtown when you started workin' with that jerk."
"Penannti...WHO?" The fox replied, spreading his arms as if preparing to be patted down for weapons. "I don't remember coming in with anyone...do you SEE anyone else in here with me?"
The kinkajou appeared not to have heard him.
"We could live with that, maybe-'cept you ain't been askin' nobody about no diamond mule...only about this fox-kid, used to run errands for The Mister."
Nick's paw slapped into his face. "Oh, for crying out, Detective, that's exactly who I think WAS the Mister's Diamond courier."
Guerrero's paws went straight to his hips.
"For the last time estupido...you think we don't know what you really been trying to find out? Here, lemme save you the trouble. Sean McLeod is NOT the same silver-fox kid whose picture you been showing around! How many animals you shown it to, huh? An' how many said, 'Yeah, that's the McLeod kid?'" He slapped his paws against each other. None, zero, nada...an' you wanna know why? Coz he's DEAD, thass why-killed in a street fight with the Stalniy Volki. So he wasn't smuggling no diamonds, and he's not gonna be able to tell you about that...or anything else. So, either start doing the job you said you came here to do...or else get your tail back to Zootopia right NOW!"
"Or...you'll...what?" Nick was out of the booth and almost toe-to-toe with the kinkajou.
"Me...nothing," Guerrero was almost purring with satisfaction, "but the Commish? He's halfway ready to have you packed up in a crate and shipped back to Zootopia on a slow, stinkin' freight train...an' when he hears you been nosin' around the Mink..."
"Fine," Nick's ears were back and his neck-fur was spiking, "then he can hear it from me...and right NOW!"
"Wha...? What!" The kinkajou was staring as if he'd just produced a lit stick of dynamite, "You serious, zorro?"
"Darn right I am," The red fox snarled, lips rippling as he spoke. "I've been bending over backwards to get along with you guys ever since I got here..."
"Yeah, hanging with Martin Pennanti," Guerroro sniffed in contempt, "Thass a REAL good way to make friends with the cops in Zoo York, mi zorro."
All right, that was it; Nick threw up his paws in exasperation.
"Well, what the heck else was I supposed to do? None of your animals were going to help me. The first time I visited One Police Plaza, I almost got arrested for impersonating a cop-and then your boss called my boss and accused ME of creating a scene." He snarled and stamped his foot. "I've had just about enough of this, so let's him and me have it out...right now, once and for all."
"Holy Madre," Pepe Guerrero was shaking his head as if he'd just awakened from a nightmare, "You know what, Wilde? You ain't just dumb, you're stinkin' loco. There's only two ways anyone gets in to see Commissioner Waghorn; if he sends for you, or if you got an appointment."
"Then I'll make my OWN appointment," The fox shot back, this time showing both fangs.
And without waiting for a reply, he went storming off in the direction of the bar, at the same time snatching a pair of bills from his wallet.
"I wouldn't want to get arrested for defrauding an innkeeper," he sneered, speaking to Pepe Guerrero, and then turning his attention to the grison-barkeep, he slapped the money down on the bar. "There, will that be enough to cover my order?"
The long-necked mustelid only waved his paw in contempt.
"Keep it, fox....just get your tail out of here." Nick took back the money, but wasn't quite done, literally slam-dunking a coin into the tip jar; a single, miserable penny. "Never let it be said, I don't appreciate such fine service," he growled, his voice oozing with vinegar. And then turned and laid for the door, at the same time beckoning to Detective Guerrero. "Okay, let's go."
"Your funeral, Wilde," the kinkajou muttered wearily, hurrying to catch up.
Behind them, Estvan had struck up 'Taps' on his bagpipes.
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Author's Note:
The character of Estvan belongs to E.O Costello. In his original incarnation, he's actually a gray fox, but I changed him up a little to make him more compatible with Nick.
His musical act comes from a real person, a chap known as the Unipiper. You can learn more about him by googling his name
And finally, my apologies for being late with this post; I've been in the process of moving to a new computer this past week.