From the Desk of Nicolas P. Wilde, P.I.
The Case of the Bunny Broad
Since I first became a Private Investigator I've had my fair share of unpleasant experiences. I've taken my lumps and dealt a few out, in return. Over the years I've walked these streets I've seen a lot. You can see a lot of the worst the city has to offer in my line of work. You hear stories of terrible things and you meet the mammals that do them. I've met plenty. Some like me. Most don't, but that is neither here nor there. They tolerate me because I am one thing they need: a fox.
Foxes get a bad rap most days, but the assumption that you're a sneaky, clever bastard who'll do anything for money has its advantages. It's good for business. I am especially suited to fitting this stereotype and making it work for me. I know everyone. I have my thumb on the pulse of the city and I know the mammals to talk to when answers are needed. It's a skill and an asset in my line of work. It makes me valuable. It also has given me more than a few of those lumps.
I'll be honest. I'm a phrenologist's dream come true.
Over the course of my career, I've tried to come up with certain rules to follow. Most of them haven't lasted a week. "No drinking on the job" didn't survive my first missing kit case. "No working for the mob" was gone on the second day my doors were open for business. Even "Honesty is your only recourse" only lasted until it was a choice between honesty and certain death. Now, I have a more practical, if mercenary, outlook. I take the cases that come in. I do my part. I walk away.
It sounds cold, but I'm not my clients' parent, a therapist, or a fall guy. I have a job and I get paid. My Three Rules help me make sure I do my job and get paid. These are the guidelines that have stayed tried and true through it all.
Number one, everybody lies.
Number two, make sure the customer signs the Payment Agreement before you do anything for them.
Number three, never take a case from a crying female.
This case was one where I remembered the first rule, barely managed the second and blew off the third. Now, I have a few new funny bumps on my head, a few dollars in my lock box and a My Girl Friday situation.
I am not your girl anything! Is this really how you write your reports?
Carrots, I'm the P.I. You are the secretary. My job is the case. Yours is the typing.
I'll take dictation, but I'm changing the title. I am not "The Bunny Broad."
So, you'll take dictation, will you… OW!
I'll never forget the first time I saw her. I knew she was trouble the moment she walked through my door. It was a nice door. Something straight out of the movies; smoked glass with "Nicolas P. Wilde, Private Investigator" stenciled across it. Simple, elegant. Cliché. Everything that a mammal looking to hire a P.I. wants to see. The predictability lulls them into a sense of familiarity. They know what they're getting. That's why my office is all old, cheap furniture.
A simple wood desk sits across from the door, in front of the windows. Behind it, a hat rack and filing cabinet that have seen better decades stand by the wall. In front of the desk is the classically uncomfortable wooden chair that makes a person want to get out of it as soon as they've sat down. Exactly what a client wants to do, anyway.
A worn sofa sits in the corner with a few pieces of old clothes, a rumpled blanket and a pillow carelessly tossed across it. It creates the illusion that I live there, that I'm down on my luck and I need the work. It makes clients more likely to throw me a bone and less likely to fight my fees.
For my work, I will be paid. A flesh-eating, fire-breathing hell-bitch of a lawyer will see to that. She wrote my Payment Agreement and she knows exactly how to enforce it with the courts. Most clients wouldn't dare cross her for the sake of avoiding having their dirty laundry aired on the public record. The rest would rather face the devil himself than her in a courtroom. I'm pretty sure she could give him lessons on contract law.
I wear a rumpled suit, a grimy white trench coat and a trilby that looks like it was lost in a windstorm before I found it. It creates an image of hard work and bad luck that clients want to see. Now, why they would want to hire me if I look like this is a question I get asked a lot. The answer is simple: my reputation. I get results.
They are rarely the results my clients want, but that isn't my problem. I'm a cold-blooded bastard who'll get the truth, whatever it takes. I will talk to the scum of the city, or highest of high society. I won't waste time or pull punches; not with sources, not with clients. I'll do the dirty work. My appearance says so.
Appearances are everything. That's why I knew she was trouble as soon as her pretty little knuckles pattered on my door. At first, it was hard to hear, thanks to the rain. I'd say it was a dark and stormy night, but it was early afternoon. Also, "stormy" is the normal state of being for the Rainforest District, so the set up loses a lot of its charm.
"Come in."
She was short. Obviously. She was a rabbit. Rabbits are all short, to me. The trouble was she was short, curvy, well-dressed and eyes that felt like a kidney punch when they landed on you. Seriously, those peepers of hers should be registered as deadly weapons.
She'd been crying. Oh, gods… she'd been crying. Sign number one that I should just walk away.
I have a really bad track record with females. Crying females, especially. Call it a carryover from the savage days of prehistory, but when I see a female in tears I can't help but want to help them. It's been the source of a lot of those lumps I mentioned. If it isn't the female herself, it's the father, boyfriend, husband, brother, or some flavor of Ex or stalker that gives them to me. I also wish it was just foxes. We have an understanding to a point. We all have it rough, so we cut members of our family of species a little slack. I only wished I was lucky enough for my interest in females to stop at vixens, but no. I'm an inter-species sucker. Anything from a shrew to an elephant, if it's female and upset, I'm a gonner.
She was female, upset and smaller than me. That's three nails in my coffin. It didn't hurt that she was easy on the eyes. Very easy. She was, in a word…
You say the word "cute" and I'll slap you, Wilde.
Even if it's the correct term?
Yes. You know very well it's insulting to my species and do we have to go into my figure quite so thoroughly? My feminine appeal has no bearing on the case!
It adds context. It also makes better reading.
Excuse me? To whom?
You wanted the details and facts as they happened, Carrots, including my thought process. Remember?
Your investigative methods, yes. Not your opinion of my attractiveness!
Even though that was half the reason I took your case?
What?!
She was, in a word, dishy. For a rabbit, of course. All the right curves in all the right places and not shy about showing them off. It was obvious she was hoping to cloud my judgement with sex appeal. It didn't work. Mostly.
"Mr. Wilde?"
"That's the name on the door, Sweetheart, and I'm the mammal behind the desk."
"You're awfully rude, considering you're speaking to a potential client."
"Mammals don't come to me for manners. They come for answers. Now, you have a problem, I take it, or are you here just to show off that dress?"
She hid her satisfaction at my noticing well enough, but not enough for me to miss it. Every time a pretty girl comes through my door I hope she'll be a good one. My record stands at a solid "lousy" on that tally.
"My boyfriend disappeared. I want you to find him."
"He in trouble?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe means yes, in my line of work. If you want my help, you need to tell me what he's tangled up in, or you can wiggle right back out my door."
As it turned out, she had more of a reason to appear in my office than to show off her tail and the skill of her seamstress. She had a boyfriend who was missing, who just happened to be a cop; a cop who was wanted by Internal Affairs for questioning and had vanished.
"We've been seeing each other for four months now. Then suddenly he was gone and his commanding officer came looking for me."
According to the rabbit her buck's CO was a certain cape buffalo that I'd had the dubious pleasure of meeting once or twice. He'd made a point of looking her up at her place of work and had been none too friendly, or quiet, in demanding she tell him the whereabouts of his missing officer. It wasn't long before the waterworks started and she was dabbing her eyes with a dainty, embroidered handkerchief.
"Did the water works work of the Chief?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"The weeping female routine? It's a classic, but I hardly think Chief Buffalo-butt would fall for it any more than I am. So, what's the real story?"
For a long moment there was nothing but stunned silence from my would be client as the tears dried up. Then the shock wore off and she began to visibly tremble with righteous indignation, or so she'd like me to believe.
"You think my tears are the result of an attempt to… to gain sympathy rather than an honest expression of concern for a mammal I care about? How dare you. I came to you for help, not for sympathy you… you…"
"Just like I think how you're dressed is supposed to distract me from using my brain instead of my beltline. Now, cut the crap and tell me what you want. Theatrics won't get you anything but ignored. Now, whatever it is you aren't telling me? Tell me. Or leave."
Her glare could have split stone. "He's a good mammal and I know he didn't do anything wrong. Which means he's in trouble and needs help."
"Alright. Let's say he's the paragon you claim he is. What makes you think he's in trouble other than big, tall and grumpy showing up?"
"The chief was shouting and seemed extremely angry."
"That's how he is from leaving bed until he returns to it. I'm pretty sure he grinds his teeth in fury while he sleeps. Now, what makes you think your exemplar of virtue is in trouble if he is as pure and perfect as you say he is?"
"Is mockery just part of the service you offer, or do you save that for females in distress?"
"A little is complimentary, but the more my clients try to snow-job me the more they get. Now, I'll lay it all out and hopefully you decide to listen. Whoopsie number one was you trying to distract me. It tells me that you don't want me looking any deeper than the surface, so I know there's more to it. Then, you lied to me. Double whoopsie. If you were serious about knowing nothing, you wouldn't be trying to appeal to my masculinity to get what you want. You'd be more direct and urgent, less weepy. Whoopsie number threesie? Talking about him like he's nothing but good. The more a client talks about how good someone is, the more of a smokescreen it is. So, now I know your boyfriend is a cop, less than squeaky clean, wanted by his superiors and you know what's going on, but you're covering for him. He's a lucky buck. Now, what is the last piece of the puzzle? Why is his absence a bad thing and not just being on duty, or visiting family, or anything perfectly normal?"
"Your reputation is deserved."
"Flattery will get you flirting, but nothing else."
"Donald was very open with me, but he was very cagey in one area. He played poker at a place called Gerome's in Old City, once a week."
"I know it. It's by the Tundratown climate wall."
"That's the one."
"Why is that suspicious?"
"My Donald was bad at cards. He complained about it a lot. He couldn't even beat me at Gin Rummy, but he always came back from Gerome's with winnings."
"What kind of winnings are we talking about?"
"We would have enough to buy a house next month."
That got my attention. Cops don't make much until they make Detective, or Lieutenant, and even then it was a struggle to get a house with property prices as they were. Donny-boy was a beat cop with four years on the force. That told me a lot. It was pretty clear he was on the take and had been probably since he had joined the police in the first place.
Gerome's also rang a bell. It was a known neutral ground for the Families. A lot of black market business went down there and the owners had ties to at least three major crime syndicates. Winnings from poker at Gerome's was code for a lot of things from smuggling to running numbers. Generally, if someone known to frequent that place went missing there was only a matter of time until they showed up in the river, without a pulse. Not that I was about to tell her any of that.
"Alright. Here's what I'll do. I'll check into your case. One day only. If everything is as you say, I'll be able to give you something tomorrow."
"I suppose that's all I can ask for." So saying, she slipped off her chair as I rummaged through my desk drawer for an Agreement. To my surprise, she didn't try to leave. Instead, she headed around my desk with a little more hip in her gait than she had when she arrived. Whatever else could be said about her, the bunny knew how to use her curves. She pulled my eyes back up to her face by clearing her throat. Her grin belonged on a feline. "I'm staying at the Grande Pangolin Arms boarding house on Ficus Avenue. You can reach me there." She handed me a card with her address, leaning far closer than she needed to for the task. The view was certainly nice. Before I could find my voice, she turned and headed for the door. I couldn't help but stare. Her hips and tail were like a hypnotist's watch.
The door was almost closed when I remembered the papers in my paw. I looked at the card reflexively and was rewarded by learning her name. "Miss Hopps!"
"Yes, Mr. Wilde?"
"Before you go, you need to sign this. Just a formality."
She tossed her mark at the bottom of the sheet and was gone moments later. It wasn't until she was gone that I took my first real breath since she arrived.
This, I did not need.
Paying the bills was one thing, but dealing with anyone at Gerome's was asking for trouble. The patrons were a who's-who of the city's underworld. Generally, mammals you only talked to if you had no other choice, or needed something you couldn't get anywhere else. I knew most of them. We were cordial to each other, as enforced by the bartender's Billy club. Some owed me favors. Some I owed favors to. What really put me off was the fact that my tab was due and Joey wasn't about to let that slide another week.
I pulled a few bills from petty cash and headed out. There was no time like the present to get this over with. Besides, business expenses went on the bill. I'd get reimbursed.
I am not paying your outstanding tab at a bar as part of your expenses!
You aren't paying anything, remember?
It's still unethical! Why is aspirin on your expense report?
For the same reason I'm taking some now. Ow!
Expense Report:
Initial Consultation: $10
Daily rate: $20
Expenses incurred:
Food & Drink: Gerome's - $11
Travel: bus fare - $0.10
Medical: preemptive bottle of aspirin - $0.50
Additional fees: N/A
Case Notes & Addenda:
Rule Three was originally "Never take a case where your dick is the only one in favor", but my secretary changed it.
Of course, I changed it! Nothing about your male anatomy should end up in the case files. Especially ones where I am involved.
A female rabbit who's disinterested in male anatomy? Who knew?
I'm not disinterested in males. Just you.
May you always feel that way, Carrots.
I will. Trust me.
Does that mean you'll stop blushing when you help me change the bandages on my back? Ow!
Don't worry, Boss. The fur will grow back. They had to shave the area for the stitches, so what's a few more tufts?
Evil Bunny. Wipe that grin off your face.