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 - A Zootopia Fanfiction
Prologue - Escape From Zoo York
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Chapter 3
In fact, Dylan Yeats wasn't all that much older than Nick Wilde had been the night he tried to join the Junior Ranger Scouts-two, maybe three years older at most. It made the guitar lying across his lap looks almost comically large; hard to believe that he was the animal playing so well only a few seconds ago.
Dylan was also a silver fox, not a species in its own right, but a color phase of the red fox. Like his red-furred cousins, he had deep-black legs and forearms, but at the point any similarity between Dylan Yeats and a red fox was purely coincidental; his underside, tail, ears and muzzle were all the same obsidian hue as his points; the rest of his fur was a bright gloss gray with black undercurrents, (giving his coat the appearance of dark silver, hence the name of his color scheme.)
But the young fox's most striking feature was his eyes. Silver foxes usually have dark brown eyes but his were yellow-amber in color, (actually the most common eye-color for a red fox.) Set against the blackness of his face however, they appeared to glow like twin furnace vents. It was a distinguishing characteristic to say the least-and it explained the pair of mirrored, wraparound sunglasses, nestled in the envelope beneath Kieran McCrodon's arm.
He had been outfitted for the occasion with a fresh, green-on-blue plaid shirt, a collarless, dark-blue undershirt, a denim jacket, and a clean, but well-worn pair of dungarees. No chains or rings adorned his furson...only a nondescript wristwatch.
In short, Dylan was dressed not to impress, but to blend in...no small feat since he was anything but your standard, run-of-the-mill adolescent fox.
Take the room where he lived for example; it looked nothing like the typical dwelling of a boy his age. One wall consisted entirely of bookshelves...half of which were stacked, not with young adult fiction as one might expect, but with much more esoteric material, Alexander Dumouse, Robert Louis Stevenison, and H. Rider Hoggard to name just three. The works of J.K. Growling were nowhere to be seen, but those of J.R.R. Molekein were all prominently on display.
And these were only the fictional volumes; the books occupying the other shelves were even more out of step with their owner's age; four rows of TEXTBOOKS, books on math, science, engineering, and several works of history. All of them were dog-eared and two were out or date, but they were schoolbooks nonetheless
On the other paw, the shelves lining the opposite wall were stacked with items much more consistent with a grade school kid, computer-gaming DVDs, a few action figures, an RC drone and assorted other knickknacks. The far end of the room was occupied by an impressive looking desktop computer, (courtesy of Kieran, and upon which the young fox was still only halfway proficient.) Next to this was a pair of small amplifiers, a pedalboard, and two guitar stands, one of them empty the other occupied by an acoustic six. The wall above was pasted with an assortment of posters showing several different rock guitarists, not thrashers or headbangers but 'real players' as the young fox always referred to them, David Gilmare, Jeff Buck, George Hareson, and most prominently on display, an obscure but amazing folk-rock guitarist named Richard Tomcat.
The space was neat but not compulsively neat. As with any young mammal's room, a few things were out of place, but nothing had been left strewn on the floor, and the wastebasket had also been recently emptied.
"Sorry, didn't hear you guys." The young fox apologized, closing the laptop on the bed beside him and rolling up the headphone cords. "What's going on?"
By way of answer, Danny Tipperin held up the backpack, saying simply, "It's time."
Dylan responded by raising an eyebrow and tilting his head to one side.
"Wha...? How come, Danny? My flight doesn't leave 'til later on tonight."
"The Mister's orders." The swift fox answered, setting the backpack down on the bed, "He wants you out of here before the meeting starts; says we don't need the distraction...or something like that."
Beside him, Kieran was sniggering. On Dylan's other side, a black duffle-bag was also lying on the bed-packed, loaded, and zipped. The kid might not have been expecting this, but you better believe he was ready for it.
But then the sea-mink coughed into a fist and looked away. He knew the REAL reason Dylan was being sent away early...and what was going to happen to him upon his return.
Fortunately-or perhaps not so fortunately-the young fox didn't seem to notice. He hopped off the bed, asking, "What's this sit-down for anyway?"
His question caused Danny to turn even more shamefaced that Kieran; luckily for him Dylan had already turned to put his electric axe back on its rightful stand.
When he turned around again, his paws were lifted.
"Wait, yeah, I know...I don't NEED to know. Sorry, sorry...just forget I asked, okay."
"No sweat, kid." Danny answered taking a seat on the bed beside the young fox. He looked over at Kieran, "Druid?" and the sea-mink passed him the envelope. Danny opened it and began to transfer the contents to Dylan. The first thing he removed was a red-and-white neck-placard reading, 'UNACCOMPANIED MINOR' with all the pertinent information written below.
"You'll want to save puttin' that on until you get to the Airport' the swift fox told him, tapping it with a finger, "But be sure you have it on BEFORE you hit the MSA checkpoint."
"Right," Dylan nodded earnestly, reminding Danny forcefully that he was just a kid. Danny shook it off and proceeded to pass over the rest of the items, plane tickets, debit card, cash, ID card, etc. So far every item had been met with a simple nod. But then the swift-fox removed a small plastic bottle from the envelope, containing what look like six clear-glass capsules. Half of them were red...but the others were all a deep, sapphire blue, the unmistakable color of a certain poisonous flower.
When Dylan saw them, he shied back slightly, holding up a paw as if shielding his eyes from a piercing light.
"I-I don't want that stuff, Danny."
Before Danny could come down on him, Kieran quickly intervened.
"I know ye don't, boyo." He told the young fox, not unkindly, "But I'd think yer'd want even less NOT to have 'em in case there's trouble."
It was an unanswerable argument, and Dylan didn't try. Reluctantly-very reluctantly-he took the bottle from Danny, handling it as gingerly as though the contents were nitroglycerine, and slipped it into a side-pocket of the backpack.
"You've got the pipe with you, kid?" the swift-fox asked him, taking over again. As long as they were on the subject of possible trouble, he might as well bring this up now.
"Got it right here." The silver fox said. He unzipped the duffle bag and pulled out what looked like a narrow steel flashlight. When he pressed the button however, instead of lighting up, the opposite end sprang outward, creating a telescoping baton.
Danny nodded, and decided to throw in a warning. "Whatever you do, don't bring that thing on the plane with you, kid; it in your checked luggage."
"Oh, I know that, Danny." Dylan answered, with an off-paw shrug. He compressed the baton back into a flashlight and returned it to the duffle.
"Just making sure," The swift fox nodded a second time, and then removed the last two items from the Manila envelope, a state-of-the-art cell phone and some gee-gaws strung together on a silver neck-chain, an Irish Harp, a Welsh Dragon, and small, odd looking key; its edge straight rather than serrated and perforated with holes like a section of Swiss cheese. He draped it over the young fox's neck and held up the cell, powering it on.
"Okay kid," Danny's voice had turned stony and solemn, "Let's go over it one last time. Soon as you land and clear the airport, what's your next move?
Dylan recited the answer as if delivering a school report; it made Kieran want to go find his uncle and punch his lights out, BLAST that sod!
"I take the metro to the central train-station, and find locker 125-D, and before I go for it, I check to make sure it's not being watched, and neither am I."
"Right," said Danny, and then passed the cell-and the ball-to Kieran.
"All right, an' then what, boyo?" the sea-mink asked.
"I enter the third number on the speed-dial and press the 'pound' key," Dylan enunciated his words as if to make certain they were understood, "that'll freeze up all the security cameras." He held up the weird looking key, "Then I open up the locker and look for another backpack inside."
"Right so far," Kieran told him with a short nod and then pointed to the backpack, still on the bed, "It'll be a bigger rucksack n' that one but nothing yer shouldn't be able to handle." (He said this as if forcing himself to believe it.)
"Gotcha," Dylan answered and then continued with his recitation, "Then I switch the packs over, and lock up, but first I make sure to remove the name-tag from the pack I'm leaving and clip it the one I'm picking up; it's got a trace chip inside. Then I dial that same number again and hit the 'star' key to re-start the security cameras. Then I just head back to the airport and come home."
He leaned back against the bed railing, looking from Kieran to Danny.
Neither one was able to meet his eyes; (it was his last line that did it.) Danny covered it by crossing his arms and looking serious.
"All right, now one more time, what happens if there's any kind of trouble?"
Dylan answered by taking the cell phone fromKieran and holding it aloft. "Anyone tries to rip me off or otherwise mess with me, I hit 'em fast and run for it. Then as soon as I'm far enough away to make the move I take my cell and punch in the first number on speed dial. And if I have to leave my other stuff, I do it."
"Right," said Kieran offering him thumbs up. "Now when ye dial that number yer won't need to say anything, we'll know it's you, and we'll know yer in trouble...and we'll get you some help." Exactly what kind of help he didn't say, instead telling the young fox, "There'll be a recorded message as well; it'll tell yer where to go an' what to do. Just follow the instructions and sit tight. You'll be safe until the cavalry arrives."
"Gotcha." the young fox said again. He began to stow the cell, but then Danny reached out and took him by the wrist.
"Not so fast, kid. That's only what happens if someone tries to ROB you; what's the procedure in case you get pinched?"
Dylan grimaced and took out the phone again. Danny wanted to grimace too; he didn't like having to get harsh with the kid, even when it was called for-but better that than Dylan found himself in jackpot with no way out.
"I-I punch the second number on the speed-dial list," he said, "the one for Mister Rodenberg's office."
Danny folded his arms. "And what IS that number?"
When the young fox didn't answer him right away, his manner became even more severe.
"You need to know that number, kid. First thing the cops are likely to do if they take you down is grab your cell away from you. So look it up and write it down...right now! And then have it memorized by the time your plane touches down, okay?"
"Okay," Dylan answered him while hastily pulling a pen from another pocket.
No sooner did the young fox finally get his new cell put away than Kieran's phone commenced to play a short refrain by the Dropkick Furries.
"The boyyyys are back
The boyyyys are back
The boyyyys are back..."
The sea-mink answered in a clipped, no-nonsense voice.
"Yes, Mr. McCrodon? Aye sir," His eyes shifted towards Dylan for a second, "He's all ready to go, sir. We were just 'bout to..."
His words were cut off by a short wince...and then he offered the phone to Dylan, holding it out like a lit stick of dynamite.
"He wants t' speak to you, kid."
The young fox took the phone with an almost lazy expression on his face.
"Yes, Mr. McCrodon?" His voice was even more cool and precise than the Druid's had been a second ago.
The Mister's voice, by contrast, was like gravel dropped on sheet-metal
"Awrite kid, this is it, yer first big job for The Company. Make good on it, and I'll make it worth your while." He paused for a second, and when he spoke again, it was in the 'little-TOO-quiet' voice that everyone around him had learned to dread. "Mess up...and don't forget, I only need one phone-call to send your bushy little tail right back to Granite Point."
"I get it Mr. McCrodon, I won't mess up." The young fox answered him in voice betraying not a hint of emotion...but Danny could see that his tail was frizzing and shivering like divining rod.
"Mister threatened him with The Point, I bet," he muttered, throwing a sidelong glance at Kieran, who must have seen it too.
"Everyone's got their Kryptonite." The sea-mink answered, offering an enigmatic shrug.
Then Dylan was offering the phone back to Kieran, who regarded him for a second before placing it against his cheek. Even with that momentary lapse of the tail, he couldn't believe how calm the kid had sounded just now.
And now he began speaking in that same, neat, no-frills manner.
"Yes . Right sir, good idea. I'll get right on it. Yes sir. Bye sir."
"What is it?" Danny asked as the sea-mink returned the phone to its holster.
Kieran answered by holding up the lap-top bag.
"Another change o' plans, boyo. Now he wants to have this for himself during the meet."
Danny's eyes widened and his ears shot up and pointed at each other.
"Right where those guys can take it out! Is he...?
But Kieran was already raising a paw.
"Easy, boyo, he knows what he's doin' this time. He plans to have me out of sight during the meet, riding shotgun in the boiler room. That way, if anythin' goes wrong upstairs, I can run the data dump off Brenda an' have it done before anyone can get to me."
Danny halted his tirade, and then nodded both quietly and approvingly.
"Okay, yeah, that's better. Matter of fact, it's a lot better."
He glanced quickly over at Dylan. The kid was standing mute and stone faced, not even looking at him. From hard experience, the silver fox knew when not to listen..
"Let's go." He said finally, and the three of them exited the room.
Dylan had just finished locking up when Danny lifted his muzzle-suddenly, as if he'd just caught an unexpected scent.
"What is it then, Daniel?" Kieran asked.
Danny pointed to the laptop case.
"I just thought of something, Druid. Can you set up the data-dump so it'll happen automatically if our 'friends' take out the laptop?"
"Aye, it's that I can," the sea mink answered with a surprised look on his face-one that morphed quickly to chagrin, "Good idea, Danny-boy...and why didn't I think of it, eh?"
"Hey, I may not know one whole lot about computers," The swift fox grinned. "But you better believe I know tactics and...wha-what?"
Kieran had stopped, frozen in his tracks and was staring ahead, wide eyed...and then his frame began to shiver and his neck fur was standing up like hedgehog quills.
Danny followed his partner's gaze-and immediately felt his own fur starting to spike.
Twenty paces down the corridor, the door to the boiler room was standing wide open.
Kieran chirred and almost spat.
"Bloody...I thought I'd locked 'er."
"You did, I saw you." The swift fox answered and then the two of them dropped to all fours and rushed for the door with Dylan following close behind.
The first one to reach it was Kieran. All at once his lips pulled back, exposing his fangs.
"Oi, an' just what the Divvil d'yer think YOU'RE doin'?" he demanded, standing up rapidly and snarling.
A split-second later Danny was crowding past him through the doorway, and then HIS fangs were showing.
At the far end of the compartment, Jimmy Jr. was sitting at a computer console...but not just any computer console; Big Brenda. Had it been anyone else in the gang, Kieran would have been all over him ten seconds ago.
Unfortunately for the sea-mink, James McCrodon Jr. WASN'T anyone else...and even more unfortunately, he knew it.
"Hey, get lost, jerks...you don't bare your fangs at me!"
"And YOU don't come in here!" Danny snarled. Right now, he didn't care WHO this spoiled punk's father was.
Neither did his partner.
"And yer especially don't' come in here and get on THAT computer!" Kieran hissed, nearly beside himself with rage, "How'd you get the passwords anyways, goin' through yer Daddy's wallet again?"
"Bite my tail!" the younger sea-mink growled, and Kieran knew that was how he'd gotten them.
"What are you doin' on there anyways?" he demanded. Jimmy answered by giving him the 'red-eye'.
"Prolly trying to crack the code for Feral's Duty...AGAIN!" A smart, new voice had just joined the discussion, "And good luck with that, analog-boy!"
Jimmy turned in his chair and stabbed a finger at Dylan.
"Mind your own business, snot-face!"
The silver fox raised his palms and backed away...but mockingly, as if to say, 'Oooooo, I'm SO scared.'
Something about his manner pulled a tripwire inside of Junior and the sea-mink turned instantly whiny and petulant. He pointed at Dylan again, but this time with a shaky finger.
"How come HE'S allowed in here, huh? How come he gets to play on the computers and I don't?"
He was all but stamping his feet in frustration.
Kieran's voice turned crisp and even as he ticked off the reasons on his fingers.
"Number one, Dylan mostly knows what he's doin' on a computer; you don't. Number two, he never comes in here t' play...it's either to work or t' LEARN, d'yer understand? And number three," He drew himself up to his full height, "NO one's allowed to touch that computer except for meself and yer da. And don't pretend yer don't know that, Junior. You were right there in the office when he gave the order." He bared his teeth again, open-mouthed this time, "Now get yer tail out of that chair before I haul yer out by the ears."
Jimmy exited the chair, but instead of looking scared, he appeared almost gleeful.
"Ohhhh, just WAIT 'til I tell my dad what you said; now you're really gonna get it!"
"Not when The Mister finds out you were messing with Big Brenda." Danny Tipperin growled, coming to his partner's aid, "He won't look the other way for someone ignoring his direct orders...not even you."
Jimmy Jr. just laughed scornfully.
"Only if my dad believes you," He sneered. "Go ahead, tell him I was on this comp...tell him I did this." He turned and began typing rapidly on the keyboard.
"STOP!" Kieran shrieked. Jimmy did, but then his smug expression doubled in intensity.
"Tell him jerks, go ahead. I'll deny everything and it's your word against mine." He leaned towards them, baring all HIS teeth. "And you know my dad...he's a SUCKER for anything I tell him."
He settled back with folded arms and a superior expression ...but then his face fell earthward when his own voice echoed back at him.
"Only if my dad believes you."
Jimmy Jr. turned; they all did. It was coming from one of the workstations. And there on the screen was James McCrodon Jr. in all his glory...planted before the 'forbidden' computer with that greasy smirk on his face.
Another console came to life, and the solo became a duet.
"Go ahead, tell him I was on this comp...tell I did this." .
Then a third computer booted up, and the duet became a trio.
Off-screen, Kieran could be heard crying, "STOP!" (Though the sea-mink wasn't visible, the voice was unmistakably his.)
Now the trio became a quartet:
"Tell him, jerks."
And then a quintet:
"Go ahead, I'll deny everything and it's your word against mine."
And then every workstation in the room was recalling Jimmy's little sermonette.
"And you know my dad...he's a SUCKER for anything I tell him."
Almost immediately the playback repeated itself.
Junior cast his eyes wildly about the room, until finally they settled on Dylan Yeats-leaning against a desk with legs crossed and arms folded, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.
The sea-mink's scream was like a rake on a chalkboard, "Why you, dirty...!" He charged headlong at the silver fox with his claws bared...and was instantly brought up short when Dylan raised an index finger over the nearest keyboard.
"Nuh-UH, Jimmy...or the next monitor that gets this is the big-screen over the dance floor." Now it was his turn to show his fangs, "Which means it won't be just your dad who sees it; so will all the other guys...including your uncles."
Jimmy took a step backwards, and then a step forwards.
"Y-You wouldn't dare." He croaked, "My father would break you in half!"
Dylan just looked at him, unflinching, not moving a muscle
"Then that's what's gonna happen." He shrugged
"But not before something happens t' you, Junior." Kieran moved in quickly to offer his support. The fox-kid had held up great so far, but everyone knew what was coming next-Granite Point.
He said, "Mebbe Dylan'll end up on ice if he shows that to yer father with most of the gang watchin'. Huh, probably he will. But don't think you'll just walk away from it either; when your Da hears you callin' him a sucker...Oooo, I wouldn't want to be in YOUR fur."
At the end of the room, Dylan smirked and pointed with two fingers at the image of Jimmy Jr. on a monitor screen.
"It's called, 'leverage', babe."
"Uh, door's over here, Junior." Danny was gesturing towards the opening while making a point of standing aside, "Don't let it flail your tail on the way out."
Jimmy looked from one mammal to the other with tears of outrage flecking his eyes.
Then he repeated his earlier threat.
"Just wait....jusssst wait, you'll be sorry."
He spun around and thrust a quivering finger at Dylan. "Especially YOU...You're gonna end up..."
But just then the young sea-mink seemed to catch hold of himself-and then he was all but flying out the door.
Danny hit the button to close it, and then he, Dylan, and Kieran all shared a laugh, while the sea-mink tousled the top of the young fox's head...but it was a weary rather than a triumphant celebration.
Junior wasn't done with them yet.
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On the dance floor upstairs, the right side of the conference table was filling up rapidly; so far it was Company members only-and none of them were any too pleased with the accommodations.
"What the heck is THIS mess?" an angry, white tiger named Bryan 'Dicer' Burns demanded, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "I'd rather sit on rocks than this stupid excuse for a chair."
"Hey, at least you didn't get splinters in your tail." A sea-mink in an expensive overcoat groused, turning to glare at his younger brother, "When you gonna tell us what this is all about, huh, MISTER McCrodon?" He spat out the word 'Mister' like 'jerkface.'
"Yeah, what Denis said," His other brother Gerry growled. He nodded in support of his sibling, and then waved a paw toward the empty side of the table. "And when's the other side supposed to get here, huh?"
"And who the heck are they anyway?" It was Denis again, "I got better things to do than sit here and play 'Where's Walrus?'"
This complaint was met by a rumble of concurrence from the others.
The Mister rapped on the table with his blackthorn stick, signaling for his bodyguards to move closer. "Awright, cool yer jets."
The hubbub subsided but not completely. A month, perhaps even a week ago, they would have shut up like moths, but not anymore; now, with every passing day the gang's discontent was becoming ever stronger and more vocal-and their boss couldn't help but notice.
But then little had ever gotten past this sea-mink; James 'The Mister' McCrodon was practically a legend in the annals of organized crime.
In his youth, before he'd broken bad, he had been the Captain of a commercial fishing boat, the Selkie, out of New Bedfurred Mousachussetts. At the end of one particularly bad season, when it looked as if he might lose her, James McCrodon had been presented with the proverbial offer you can't refuse, a cool 50 Grand to smuggle a load of small arms across the ocean for the ZRA.
It was only after the delivery had come off (without a hitch) that McCrodon learned three things he hadn't known before agreeing to take the job.
First, the animal behind the venture had been none other than the notorious Pawston gangster James 'Whitey' Bullgoar, Second, the Selkie had been one of two boats the mobster had chartered for the venture-and the first one, the Volehalla had been intercepted in mid-ocean by Interpaw.
The third was that Bullgoar wanted to meet him, he'd been highly impressed by the sea-mink's acumen, and wanted to hire him on a full-time basis.
McCrodon soon found himself in charge of all the Pawston Gangster's weapons smuggling operations. When Bullgoar was forced to abandon the rackets and go on the lamb, the sea-mink decided to strike out on his own, moving south to Zoo York City to set up operations.
No one expected him to last out the year.
It didn't work out like that, not at all; James McCrodon's rise to the top was nothing short of meteoric, within four years of his arrival in Zoo York, he had survived a gang war, three indictments-and he'd stopped counting the number of assassination attempts at six. By the end of year number five, he was the undisputed king of the east coast arms traders. He was not only tough and smart, but also brilliantly innovative, the first gangster to go digital, employing a team of hackers that allowed him to obtain end-user certificates and flyover rights where there none were to be had for any of his rivals. In this he was so successful he began selling the service to other weapons cartels, (but only to offshore entities, never to anyone who might cut into his own operations.)
Soon, he was branching out into other areas of criminal activity, online gambling, bootleg pharmaceuticals, bid rigging, shylocking, extortion, (both online and off,) plus a number of legitimate enterprises with Finagles as the crown jewel.
But his bread and butter was always arms trading, the racket he never forgot had put him where he was today.
He had also never forgotten the Cardinal rule he'd learned from working with Bullgoar, get yourself in bed with the law; make yourself a source of information on other crooks and the coppers will look the other way for just about anything else you get up to.
McCrodon not only heeded that advice, he actually went Bullgoar one better. As an arms trader, he was privy to the inside dirt on several terrorist organizations-and nobody in the underworld cared if you snitched out THOSE guys.
It all came out fantastically; after ten years in business, The Mister McCrodon was riding high, he had never spent more than 90 days behind bars, and owned a house in the Lambtons, a yacht in St. Martens, and even a castle in County Kildeere. He was a legend, a genius; that was what conventional wisdom said about him.
That was also then and this was now. Now his sterling reputation in the milieu had acquired several layers of tarnish.
It had begun in numerous, subtle ways. When McCrodon first become successful, he'd been more than happen to delegate authority and give his underlings free rein. ("I don't care how you get it done as long as ya get it done.) Soon, however, his soldiers had found him looking over their shoulders at every turn and countermanding their orders on an almost regular basis, until ultimately he was second guessing every decision and micromanaging every operation.
He even started bringing a gong with him to board meetings; if anyone came up with an idea or made suggestion he didn't like, he'd whack it with a mallet and that was your signal to shut up and not say anything more.
(After a while, his underlings began to notice that many of The Mister's favorite schemes were ones that he'd previously gonged-except now they were his ideas.)
With that change, there had also come a shift in his management style. In the beginning, The Mister had led by example...now he ruled by leverage. "I never trust nobody I can't destroy with one phone call," had quickly become his creed.
And all that had been before he'd gotten sick Since then, he'd become suspicious practically to the point of a paranoia. Every disagreement with him was an act of disloyalty, every action taken without consulting him was an attempt to undermine his authority. More and more the decisions he made were based on heated emotion rather than cold calculation. It showed not only in his relationship with his soldiers but also with his contacts in law enforcement and the intelligence community-who soon began holding him at arms' length, and refusing to answer his messages. Only a few years previously, he had nearly followed Bullgoar into fugitive status, avoiding a RICO conviction only by the skin of his teeth. It had been the closest The Mister had ever come to a guilty verdict on a major offense...and had served only to further convince the sea-mink of his own invulnerable status.
And that wasn't even mentioning the way he let that punk kid of his James Jr. get away with EVERYTHING. There was a running joke within The Company; when the Mister finally kicked off, Junior would have about a 48 hour head-start, "coz that's how long it'll take to settle who gets the privilege of icing him."
The gag never got a laugh, only a knowing nod.
But as much as the other gang members might have come to despise their boss, they still preferred him to civil war. Denis and Gerry might be on friendly terms at the moment, but everyone knew that when their brother was gone, all that was going to change and in a big way; each of them was convinced that he-and only he-was the rightful successor to The Mister, and both were prepared to shed blood in pursuit of that quest.
And so, however grudgingly, James McCrodon Senior continued to be tolerated as boss of the Company.
Now he turned sideways, to the brown bear on his right, holding his paw to his face with a cupping motion. The bear stepped up and put an oxygen mask over the sea-mink's fat muzzle. After two long hits, McCrodon waved away the bodyguard with an irritable paw.
Then he looked down the table at his brothers
"You'll have yer answers soon as our 'friends' get here. Meantime...take an even strain."
"Yeah, okay...but where's the rest of OUR guys?" a hulking musk-ox named 'Muggs' Marsten was asking, unsatisfied. He gestured towards a pair of empty chairs. "Where's Kieran...and the Danaconda? I saw Tipperin's car outside just now; how come he ain't here yet?"
"And where the heck is Zeke?" Dicey Burns also queried.
The Mister took another dose of O2 before answering, "Zinneman's watchin' the back and Kieran and Tipperin are busy getting that diamond shipment outta here. They'll join us soon as they're done." (A half-truth only.)
"Yeah, about that shipment," his brother Denis asked mellowing a little, "What kinda score are we lookin' at here?"
"Little less than $200 Grand," the Mister answered, more than happy for the change of subject.
At the opposite end of the table Sammy M'kwaaz a fossa in oversized spectacles let out a low, descending whistle.
"Hrmmm, not bad Mistah McCrodon, that's at least $50 K more than we could have got in Furrida."
"We wouldn't have got NOTHIN' in Furrida for these stones," Denis McCrodon wryly corrected him, "I think you get my meaning."
Taking no offense, the fossa just nodded.
"Aye...and it's about time, yeah? Seriously, I was beginning to think we'd nevah move those rocks."
"You sure we can trust these guys?" queried Joey Mercer, a black bear seated two chairs away from Gerry.
The Mister's reply was both cool and matter-of-fact.
"They know us, and they know our reputation. They won't pull no double cross."
The bear nodded but then raised an eyebrow, "And they're really willing to unload...?"
His boss cut him off by rapping the table again. "How many times I gotta say it? Yeah!"
"Okay, maybe we can trust the buyers," Muggs the musk ox was speaking up again, "but what about this? The word on the grapevine says the Red Pig has a piece of that joint."
The Mister blinked as if he hadn't quite heard him right and then he tilted his head back and laughed; a caustic guffaw that ended in choking cough and a hasty application of the oxygen mask. When his bodyguard took it away again, he waved an airy paw, "I don't worry myself what that loudmouth jerk thinks...and anyway, it's his own fault. If he hadn't got so greedy, those guys wouldn't NEED to do business with us."
The Musk Ox chuckled and raised his hooves in a gesture of, 'no further questions'...but he was clearly not happy with this bit of news.
A moment of silence followed while the Mister treated himself to a few more whiffs of oxygen, looking thoughtfully over his lieutenants as he inhaled the life-saving gas. Now...while they're in a good mood? (They weren't, but he couldn't see it.) Yes, he finally decided, now would be a good time.
He returned the mask to the bear, saying, "I don't wanna drop all the reasons for this meet just yet...not until everyone's here, but lemme give yas a taste at least."
Every ear at the table rose upwards; every eye became instantly alert.
"For the longest time, what has been our dream?" the Mister asked, and then answered his own question, "To take The Company legit, to become respectable. And now, thanks to an incredible piece of luck, we finally got the chance to make that wish upon a star come true."
He allowed himself a dramatic pause before continuing.
"Everybody here has heard me say it, 'Never trust a guy you can't destroy with a single phone call.' And now, coz of a chance discovery by my nephew Kieran, we've got THAT kinda leverage on none other than one of the biggest private security outfits on the planet."
Several guys gasped, a couple applauded, and Dicey the tiger even roared.
The Mister allowed the din to subside and then indulged in a little self-puffery.
"Now, I coulda handled this in one of two ways. In return for keeping what we got to ourselves, I could have demanded a payoff, like usual, or I could have 'asked' for a favor...but then I got a better idea."
He paused for effect and then dropped it.
"A partnership...a partnership between the Company and the corporation I just mentioned. They need weapons; we got 'em. And I plan for us to become their numero uno supplier." He tapped the table with a finger again. "And that's the main reason for this sit-down, to hash out that deal."
Settling back in his wheelchair, the Mister smiled around the table at his soldiers-as if in blissful expectation of the accolades that must surely follow such a brilliant coup.
They were not forthcoming. While the reaction from the others was almost universally positive, it was also decidedly muted.
The reason why was quickly expressed by The Mister's younger brother Gerry.
"You sure about this?" he asked, drumming on the table with uneasy fingers, "I mean, you just said yourself they're the biggest private security outfit..."
"ONE of the biggest," The Mister interrupted him, causing the younger sea mink to come halfway out of his seat.
"Biggest...one of the biggest, it don't matter! What matters is this: This wouldn't be the same outfit that stonewalled you on Crazy Wez would it?"
"Darn right they are," McCrodon growled, doubling down, "Icing on the cake!"
"The Company on ice you mean!" Now Denis McCrodon was on his feet-and also in high dudgeon. "You think you're gonna put the screws to THOSE guys? That ain't just playing with fire, its messin' with nukes." He pointed towards The Mister with an iron finger, "How much you worth, huh Mister McCrodon? Heck, how much is the whole darn COMPANY worth? A hundred, two hundred million, tops? And you think you can stick it to an outfit worth that much in billions at least-even after how they brushed us off like fleas?" He shook his head at the table, and then fired an even more withering look at his brother, "Cripes, you got any idea how much leverage you're dealing with here?"
"Not as much as I got on THEM," The Mister snarled, refusing to back down, "Enough to destroy this suit and his company a hundred times over." His lip curled upwards in a superior snarl. "That's right, a suit...a soft-pawed little suit who ain't dealin' with no boardroom types now. And don't forget what SPECIES he is." He jabbed a finger downwards, towards the catacombs beneath Finagle's Dance Club. "Even as we talk here, my nephew Kieran is finishing the set-up. With the touch of a button, this suit and his entire organization is toast."
An awkward silence filled the dance floor as the pair of sea-mink tried to stare each other down-while the rest of the gang threw uneasy glances with one another. Most of them agreed with Denis, but none dared say so.
Meanwhile the tension across the table continued to build-and then it shattered abruptly, as Muggs Marsten's chair shattered beneath his weight.
Furiously waving off any assistance, the Musk Ox picked himself up again, blowing an angry note through his nostrils.
"M-whoa, whose bright idea was this...Junior again?"
The use of his son's name in that tone of voice drew an instant, angry glare from The Mister.
Muggs didn't see it, but Gerry McCrodon did and moved quickly to change the subject.
"Saaaay," he said, waving at the empty seat beside The Mister, "Speaking of Junior...where the heck is he?"
His query had the desired effect; The Mister's eyebrows performed a quick set of pull-ups and he looked to his left and right with a puzzled expression. Yeah...where the heck WAS his boy?
But Muggs apparently didn't know a lifeline when he saw it.
"Who cares as long as that punk's not here!" He said, and then his eyes widened and his hoof was flying up to his mouth. At the same time, all the gang members sitting closest to the musk ox began to hurriedly move away from him. There was only ONE thing you could say to The Mister that was worse than calling him by name...and this fool had just said it.
The sea-mink raised a pair of fingers, beckoning to his bodyguards...
And at that moment the kitchen-door crashed open and Zeke Zinneman came rushing onto the dance floor; frazzled fur and eyes as big as eight-balls.
"Cah..." he wheezed, as he hurried towards the conference table, nearly tripping and falling at least twice, "Cahhh."
And then he was on his knees before the Mister's wheelchair, panting and out of breath, a supplicant seeking absolution.
"Cah..." he rasped, halfway choking and clutching at the chair's left side like drowning mammal grabbing at a chunk of driftwood, "Cahhh..."
The Mister promptly smacked him on the cheek, but not hard; in different circumstances, it could almost have been mistaken for a gesture of affection.
"For crying out loud Zeke, take a deep one and calm the heck down."
The bear nodded a sheepish face and then inhaled deeply.
The Mister gave him another second, and then tapped him on the bridge of his nose. "Awrite, now what the heck's goin' on?"
The bear's answer came in an explosive air-burst.
"COPS!"