The Historic Conquests of Nicholas Wilde
Chapter 4
The fan moves so slowly. Nick can feel the encroaching summer heat claw away at his skin, even inside his room. Outside is the offending sun, hanging in the mid-afternoon sky. Nick gets up to look out his window. No one. No sound.
He turns and leaves his room. On the other side of the door, he discovers an oddly pristine living room. The ottoman is aligned with the couch. The end tables have squared mats, and one of them has a lamp which Nick can't seem to recall. The TV is off, and recently dusted as well. A single, neat stack of mail is on the countertop underneath the phone.
Nick leaves the house. Claire is there, in the driver's seat of Finnick's van.
"Get in! I've got to show you this," she calls.
Nick complies, jumping into the passenger seat. They're off.
Scenery passes, but the only thing in focus is her. He can't understand her. His eyes look for some answer in a million little white furs, in green eyes, in anything of hers. He has to ask her, but the words elude him, sucked away by a dry throat.
That's when he hears it. A gunshot. Quieter than he'd imagined, almost as if the sound was piped through a tiny speaker. The store. He turns; it's right there. Zenmart. He begs her to stop, but now the radio is on. His voice is drowning in the beat. Another gunshot.
He jumps out of the car and begins running to the store. At first, he's fast, but his legs begin to drag. Is the concrete melting in the heat? He screams as he pulls against the weight of his feet, trying in vain to drag them from the ground. It's no use. He's fallen.
"Be a good one, son."
Nick closes his eyes. He won't look. He knows what he'll see.
"Please. I love you."
—
Nick shot up from his bed. Heaving, he drew his paw to his bare chest fluff. Above him, the fan spun at its regular beat. There was a faint light dripping through dark clouds outside, casting his disorganized room in a twilight glow. Life seemed like a still.
He took one breath, then another. Just as he was starting to calm down, he heard it again: A recorded gunshot. It was coming from his bathroom. The second. He jumped out of his bed and ran to the door. Shoving it open, he discovered a shirtless Claire holding his cellphone. Her head snapped to him.
"Be a good one, son," the phone played. "Please. I—"
He snatched the cell from her hand, snapping it shut as he did.
"That doesn't belong to you," Nick said between breaths.
He expected her to produce some sort of witty retort to point out the irony in his statement.
Instead, she hung her head. "I'm sorry."
Nick tucked the phone into his pocket.
"It's fine," he said. "Why were you even looking at my phone?"
"You got a call."
"And you answered it?" Nick asked.
"Is that not a thing normal mammals do?" She asked with uncertainty.
"No, no it's not," Nick sighed, "so who was it?"
"A cop calling himself Sgt. Bogo wanted to remind you of a settlement meeting in a week."
Nick rubbed his eyes with one paw. "Oh, that. Wonderful."
"What'd you do?" she asked.
"I may have elbowed him in the family jewels."
"The what?" She cocked her head.
He looked at her. "His nuts."
"Ah." She nodded.
He walked back to his bed and sat, placing his head in his paws. After a few seconds, Claire followed and stopped in front of him.
"I might be able to help you with that," she said.
Lifting his head, he spoke, "I don't want your money."
"It's not a handout; it's a job offer. That sergeant you elbowed is a shooting star; they figure in ten to fifteen years he'll be a shoo-in for Chief of Police. Well, my father's hosting a little soiree this weekend and he wants someone with your… 'qualifications' to assist him. This sergeant will also be there," she explained.
Nick's head perked up.
"How does this help me?" He asked.
"Well, he likes to drink a lot. Especially champagne; he's a sucker for the good stuff, and my father buys it by the caseload for events like this. You can probably use that to get something done. If that doesn't work, my father will definitely pay you for your help. Maybe that would be enough for the settlement."
"Why would your father hire a pred anyway?"
"I don't know. He just told me to bring home the first silver-tongued undesirable I could find." She grinned.
Nick smirked. "Well, you may have outdone yourself."
Before either of them could continue, Nick's cell rang. He tore his attention from her to pick it up.
"Hello, this is Nick," he answered.
"Hey Slick, you know who it is. I'm gonna be outside your house in five minutes; we gotta sell the stuff you swiped."
"Alright. I'll be ready. Seeya then."
"Seeya."
The call died with an electronic click as Nick shut the phone.
"Alright, I've gotta do some stuff today. Will you be able to get back to your car fine?" Nick asked her.
"Yeah, I'll be fine. I will see you later, right?" she asked in turn.
"An undesirable, such as myself, doesn't have much else to do." Nick smirked, eliciting a little chuckle from her.
"Alright, Mr. Wilde. Take care."
It didn't take her very long to gather up all her belongings and disappear. He sighed before attending to his own matters. He changed into a fresh shirt and a pair shorts, keeping the tie. It would have to do — Nick heard the popping of Finnick's van already.
Jumping out of his room, he did a quick scan for his mother. She wasn't on the couch, and she wasn't in her room. The only trace of her was an empty wine bottle on the nightstand in the master bedroom. A crude honk from outside reminded him not to afford it much thought. He hurried out the front door, spinning around once to lock it before hopping into the van.
As Nick strapped himself in, Finnick turned towards him. When the door slammed shut, Finnick's nose twitched and his eyes went wide. A smug smile spread across his face.
"Nick, you're nasty." Finnick shook his head, barely able to contain a chuckle.
"Oh come on, you don't have time to wait for me to get ready, but you have time for this?" Nick said in mock chagrin.
"Well, I knew about the gazelle, but a rabbit too? Damn, Slick." Finnick didn't bother to stop his laughter this time.
"No, no, it wasn't like that with her. We actually just kind of talked. She stayed over, but we didn't do anything like that."
Finnick became less animated; his expression sobered. "Wait, you're taking this seriously? Nick, I've seen this movie. This is a bad idea."
"No, it's that rabbit from lun—"
"It's her?!" Finnick's collar turned yellow; he was almost screaming. "Nick, that doesn't make it any better. You need to end this shit. Families like hers are just government approved mafioso types. If some random asshole doesn't kill you for preyphilia, her daddy definitely will. This isn't a joke." Finnick snapped his paw in front of Nick. "Do you hear me?"
Nick looked away.
"And here," Finnick threw a small spray-can in Nick's lap, "some musk mask. You may smell like a fennec but it's a helluva lot easier to explain than the way you smell right now."
Nick took it into his paws, rolling it over for a cursory examination. After a few seconds, he unbuttoned his shirt and sprayed himself. When Finnick seemed pleased, Nick returned the can, and the two of them took off.
—
The van sputtered along through tight corridors of traffic. They had gone into the most urban part of the Meadowlands, where wall-to-wall multi-storied buildings dominated the world outside Nick's window. With clouds overhead and steam rising from drains below, the whole scene was covered in a dreary semi-fog far more suited to a swamp than a meadow. A few drops of rain streaked the windshield.
"You know, every time it rains, the city saves millions of dollars because they don't have to water the rainforest?" Nick puffed, fogging the window.
Finnick nodded, but his eyes remained fixed ahead. Between his scowl and his flattened ears, Nick could tell Finnick was still fuming. He hadn't even bothered to turn on the music.
Nick sighed. "Listen, I'll stop talking to her, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?"
The van came to a halt at a red light. Turning to face Nick, Finnick's expression broke.
"Yeah, that's what I wanted to hear."
The music resumed, the light turned green, and they lurched into motion.
"So how are we selling this stuff?" Nick asked.
"I got a guy in Tundratown who deals with Kozlov," Finnick said.
"I thought you weren't a fan of the mafioso-types?"
"Only the ones that aren't on our side."
Nick shrugged and looked back out the window. When Finnick took the ramp onto the elevated highway, the cityscape became visible. They were in the Old Meadowlands now, where the tips of skyscrapers and hi-rise apartments defined the horizon above the fog.
One feature dominated them all: a large mountain range that formed the barrier between the Meadowlands and Tundratown. Etched all along its slope were roads, ledges, and houses. On the steeper parts of the mountain, dozens of strips of office windows contoured the rock face. The foothills below were organically designed houses and small apartments; the homes of the Meadowlands' elite. The whole Tundratown-Meadowlands Mountain Complex housed hundreds of businesses and millions of mammals.
As they closed in on the tunnel, Nick began to understand the scope of the thing. They were on an eight-lane freeway. The massive roman arch, which formed the entrance, had four lanes of extra space on each side. The highway itself stood five stories off the actual floor; dozens of pipes and a few train tracks spilled out of the space below.
The van finally entered the tunnel, but it felt more like they were driving through a mall. Massive lamps hung from the vaulted marble ceiling, illuminating the elegant columns that held it up. In the space between the highway and the ceiling, there were two frontage roads, carved into the walls behind the columns. Little shops lined the far sides, and a variety of overpasses bridged the two roads above.
The air grew colder as they drove on. About halfway through, the coloring and style of the buildings changed. Their facades became shades of white and blue, and icicles hung from any available surface. Finnick had to shut the windows and turn on the heat.
Nick expected them to follow the freeway out, but Finnick decided to take the last interior exit. It took them under an arch and up to the frontage road. Ahead, Nick could see the tunnel exit and the blizzard on the other side. The van pushed through the curtain of snow. The highway below continued forwards, but their road turned to hug the side of the mountainside. While they drove, Nick looked out over Tundratown. Only the caps of the buildings could be seen; the ground was buried in a haze of snow and smoke.
As they drove, one building stood out amongst the rest. It was a large, icy shard that curved to hang over the road. A small crack ran down the thing, culminating in an opening at the base which served as the entrance. Above the set of double doors hung a plate reading Kozlov's Place.
Shutting off the car, the duo donned their jackets and jumped down to the crunch of snow. Little white puffs of breath followed them as they circled behind the van. The doors swung open, and after Nick grabbed his box of last night's spoils, they swung closed again.
Finnick led Nick to the entrance. After struggling with the sticking door, it gave way and the two of them set foot into the building. It was only slightly warmer inside, but between their jackets and fur, it was enough to be considered warm.
The interior appeared to be a bar. A long counter with plenty of patrons spanned the left side of the room, and the right had a line of booths. A small stairway led up to a mezzanine with larger dining tables that overlooked the ground floor. Beneath the mezzanine was a set of similar dining tables, and a pair of kitchen doors on the back wall.
Those doors were their destination, and Finnick walked Nick through with no problem. Inside, a number of chefs shuffled around stainless kitchenware, preparing the meals of waiting customers. The pair of foxes skirted around the edge of the kitchen and to a table where a polar bear with glasses sat.
There was a set of boxes beneath the table, and the bear himself was counting a bundle of cash when the two of them jumped onto a chair in his view.
"Tupov, my man," Finnick began, "we got some goods for you."
Tupov looked up and set the cash to the side.
"Show me what you have." He motioned for them to hand over the box.
Nick obliged, pushing it across. Tupov took out a magnifying glass and examined the items one by one. When he finished, he put the looking glass down and leaned onto the table.
"Overall worth about 1400. I give you 350."
"$350?!" Nick blurted out.
Finnick shoved an elbow into Nick. "Shut up."
"But that's only 25%!" Nick said.
Before Finnick could reply, a pair of large white paws came to rest on Nick's shoulders.
"That's Kozlov, isn't it?" Nick's ears flattened as he asked.
Finnick nodded.
"Your math skills and powers of deduction are equally impressive, fox." A deep Russian accent washed over him.
"Mr. Kozlov, I'm so sorry for my friend's big, dumb mouth. He won't be opening it again." Finnick stared at Nick.
Kozlov chuckled and removed his paws.
"All is well, friends. Tupov," Kozlov looked to his lieutenant, "give Finnick his payment. Now, you, what's your name?" Kozlov looked at Nick.
"Nick," he responded.
"Ah, Nick. Your colleague has spoken highly of you, though he may not be the type to admit it. Why don't we take a walk while he receives payment?" Kozlov asked through a toothy grin.
Nick looked towards Finnick, unsure.
"He's cool, Nick," Finnick said with a nod.
Nick got up, hoping Finnick's word was true. As Kozlov led him towards an old looking metal frame elevator, Finnick called over, "Don't break this one, Boss. He's actually kind of useful."
Kozlov let out a hearty laugh as the elevator doors squeaked closed. Nick stood next to the immense bear, painfully aware of a five-foot size deficit. The elevator ascended past one floor before entering a wood-framed rocky shaft. In twenty seconds, the world opened up again as they arrived at a new floor. The elevator stopped, and Kozlov opened the gate for Nick.
Lush ornate carpeting spread across the ground, decorated with a pattern of white interlocking rings on a dark grey background. To his left, the wall was nothing but glass, overlooking Tundratown. To his right, bookshelves had been carved into the stone and populated with a variety of texts. In the center of the stone bookshelves was a fireplace with a desk sitting several feet in front of it. The rest of the walls were made of rich brown wood.
Kozlov led Nick to a door in the center of the glass. It opened to a balcony with a fantastic view of the city. The top of every skyscraper and the outline of the district walls could be made out for miles.
"Do you see this, Nick?" Kozlov asked, not expecting an answer.
"I was here when this city was just a dream. 1946. The war was won. The economy was booming. This great country had solidified its place as a world power, and its greatest mammals desired a throne. So, they decided to build this city to host the 1955 World's Fair in what was promised to be the grandest display of our country's achievement.
"The city of Zootopia was to be a monument, dedicated to our greatness. It's not what it used to be, but you can still see it in the downtowns of the original districts. The grand marble arches of the Tundra-Meadowlands Mountain Complex. The organic architecture of the Shard Skyscrapers. The sheer mass of the Rainforest District's multi-leveled canopy. The unprecedented level of size integration in downtown. This was a legacy of greatness.
"But mammals forget that 'greatness' does not mean the greatness of all. No, Nick, it is only the greatness of the few that gets to see the light of day. This greatness must either be purchased or achieved through sheer force of will.
"When my mother and I came here, we did not have the money to buy greatness. I did things, things that I was not proud of. I worked for twenty years, making friends, allies, and enemies. By the end of that twenty years, I found my friends were good enough, my allies were strong enough, and my enemies were loathsome enough to put me in a position to start something of my own. That is what makes greatness, Nick: your relations.
"And that is why you get twenty-five percent. You are not just selling something; you are making a friend. You could go out there and look for some pawn shop to give you more money. It may take some time to find an owner who will not kick you out or call the cops, but at the end of the day, the guy behind that counter doesn't care as long as he makes a buck. He won't do anything for you, but I will."
Kozlov produced a folder from his jacket, handing it to Nick.
"Police Report. Precinct 3, Meadowlands District 16. 28 August 2000," Kozlov said.
Nick's paw hesitated, hovering over the edge of the folder. His breath made tiny white clouds in the air as he put off the inevitable. Flipping it open, Nick's gaze immediately locked onto a single photograph of a red fox in a pool of blood. He averted his eyes, breathed, and looked at the rest of the document.
"They have a suspect on tape, but no warrant for arrest?" Nick couldn't believe it.
"Apparently, the officer you assaulted is influential and none too pleased with you." Kozlov shrugged.
All at once, Nick's body felt cold, almost numb. It was as if his jacket and fur had disappeared. He was left only with the wind, the snow, and an almost imperceptible tick as his collar light switched to yellow.
"This is why you come to the court of Kozlov, Nick. Money is only money, but favors are priceless." He let the last word hang in the air before continuing.
"The more you come to me, the more I will do to find out about this suspect. That is, if that's what you want. If you're not a man of vengeance, I can always find you some other information, hook you up with some of Zootopia's finest numbing agents, or perhaps find you a wanting vixen." Kozlov chuckled.
"Thanks." Nick stared into nothing, unsure of what else to say.
"And before you go," Kozlov took out a manila envelope, "give this to Finnick."
—
Nick sat behind a warped wooden office desk with a paw cupping a glass of amber liquid. His collar cast his neck fur in a yellow glow. A small lamp illuminated his black paws and the glass they handled. Opposite him was a grey and white bunny in a police uniform, short enough that her face caught the light from his desk. A streak of lightning temporarily lit the room through a small window, revealing sagging rafters defunct filing cabinets.
"So, this is how you met Kozlov?" she asked.
Nick drew the glass up to his maw, taking a sip.
"Yeah," his collar blinked, "this is where it all went to hell."