CHAPTER FOUR

"Whatchoo talkin about, Wilkins?"

"That's not funny."

"Yes, Sergeant."

Another day. Yakko sighed and rifled through a stack of papers about as tall as . . . well, as tall as their good ol' water tower back in Burbank. Though they'd never lived in the thing — it was nothing more than a set piece, a brilliant idea for the backdrop of a cartoon — he missed it. Once a year they would always sneak past Ralph and spend the night in the tower to celebrate their show. It was always less fun than they'd expected; there was something dank and unpleasant about a windowless metal shell half-full of water (as Dot would say, go fig).

He wondered if they still went up there without him.

"Warner?"

He blinked, coming back to himself and the busy, confused office. His desk phone was ringing, and the sound reminded him of his sister's shrieks when she got really worked up about something (usually her cuteness). "Yes, Sergeant?"

"Please answer that goddamn phone. It's not helping this headache."

A wide, slightly lascivious grin stole across his face, and before he could stop himself he said, "Did someone have a wild night?" Before she could reply — or come out of her office and throw him through a wall — he snatched up the phone and said, "Scotia Police Department, Officer Warner speaking."

"Yakko?" The voice was achingly familiar, its accent — grown stronger in time rather than faded — one he could now only hear every day by crossing an ocean and subjecting himself to various culinary tortures like blood pudding. "This is Yakko, right?"

"Why, hello —" He stopped himself before saying "nurse." He'd faced two years of stony silence from his siblings, and now was not the time for age-old greetings and private jokes. "Hi, Wakko."

"Hi." Yakko had spent enough years with his little brother to know when he was nervous, and though the Liverpool-accented voice didn't stammer or waver, he could tell that Wakko was very anxious about something. That something definitely wasn't just a phone call to his big bro, either. The seconds stretched on, and Yakko wondered whether Rita was watching him not doing any work. He picked up a piece of paper and began making little scratch-marks on it, hoping that looked enough like working to get him off the hook. To the phone he said, "So . . ." And that was all he could think of. So you finally realized that you let the past two birthdays go by without so much as a phone call. That the Justin Bieber album I sent you this Christmas was more than a stupid joke or act of revenge; it was a cry for attention that would have impressed Dot with its shamelessness — that is, if she hadn't been trying so hard not to pay attention. That you, not her, were my last hope for keeping our family together, because you've always been the softer one. That you, not her, are the one I'm disappointed in.

That you, not her, are the one I miss the most.

Not that that was exactly true. He missed Dot's quasi-destructive tenacity, her cleverness when it came to causing mayhem, and the way she acted all cuddly and lovable to butter him up before delivering some really unsavory news. But Wakko was sweeter, more pensive, and above all a guy. There was a serious lack of friends to be had in the middle of nowhere, and despite the fact that he was coming up on twenty-six, he had a strange aversion to girls as just friends. Wakko had always been the same way, and so while Dot was off making pals with everyone in a thirty-mile radius (provided that they weren't as cute as she was), he and his brother would sit in the corner, laughing and talking and making really offensive jokes and overall ensuring that they would never have friends, ever.

And look where that had left him. He was listening to time spiral away into nothingness while his middle sibling struggled to articulate exactly why he'd chosen, after all this time, to try and resurrect a friendship that Yakko himself had almost pronounced dead.

"Dot's in jail."

The blood drained from his face, all long-winded and depressing introspection forgotten. "She . . . she's what?" he demanded, though he'd heard Wakko perfectly the first time — why else would it feel like he was going into cardiac arrest? "How?"

"She got drunk and punched a cop."

Yakko winced, pitying the poor officer that had been on the receiving end of that punch. This was why he never drank. "Why don't you just bail her out? It's an offense, sure, but not too serious. It can't be that expensive."

There was another silence. He heard Wakko take a deep breath before saying, "We can't really afford it. So —"

"You want me to mail you money." He kept his voice flat, making sure that there was no quaver in it that could be mistaken for disappointment. So much for rekindling their bond.

"Actually, I want you to come home."

"What?"

"I thought maybe you could . . . talk some sense into her? Let her know that she can't go around punching cops." His voice dropped even lower, and Yakko couldn't quite make out his words.

"Wakko, I have no idea what the hell you're saying."

More silence. Yakko had a feeling he wouldn't like this. "Well, it's just that she hit a cop, right? And you're a cop." He took a deep breath like there was more, but apparently he'd said all he wanted to — or all he had the courage to.

"Let me make sure I'm hearing this right. You want me to fly across the country and bail Dot out of jail so that she can get it right this time and punch me in the face?" He sat back and, after making sure that Rita was fully absorbed in her headache, rested his feet on the desk. "Man, you know how to make an offer sound appealing. Have you considered becoming a salesman?"

Wakko didn't seem to appreciate the sarcasm. Fine; Yakko didn't appreciate the suggestion. "Will you come?"

He barked out a laugh, the sound making Rita cringe. "Despite its obvious allure, I'll have to think about it," he said. "I mean, there's a lot to do here, and I don't know if I can get off work." He heard a long sigh, like his brother was giving up, and was surprised at how much that hurt. He started to say more but was greeted by a long dial tone.

Sitting back in his chair, he ordered himself not to feel bad. Wakko never uses an unnecessary word, he told himself. He used to hang up without saying goodbye all the time. And sure, he's getting better at talking, but old habits die hard. Don't worry about it. You are totally in the right.

"In the right," he repeated in a whisper. "Absolutely, totally in the right."

His mind — which had taken on a personality of its own, like it was making up for the fact that he had no one to talk to anymore — chuckled, a mocking sound that was far too familiar for comfort. Very good. You can't feel bad about growing up, and you definitely can't feel bad about becoming a cop. Not that it matters, but you haven't had to arrest too many toons, have you?

That was true, though the few he'd had to deal with up in New York were not very friendly. The first time, he'd brought in a wiry little bird, and the stupid thing had nearly clawed his eyes out. He hadn't slept at all that night. It was the first time he'd realized exactly what most toons saw him as: a traitor. It wouldn't have been so bad if there were more like him, but with such a high human percentage this far east and such a universal hatred for the profession, he was the only cartoon on the force.

"Warner."

He pulled his legs down so fast that his chair tipped back. It would have dumped him onto the floor if he hadn't stretched his arms about six inches longer so that he could snatch the edge of the desk and right himself. Some of the other officers who had trickled in over the past half hour gave him a look that was half-awe and half-amusement, but Rita Wilkins wasn't the type to be surprised. She raised her eyebrows and gave him an effective glare. Hunching his shoulders and ducking his head, he said, "Yes, Sarge?"

"That was a personal call, I assume?"

He nodded.

"Took what, twenty minutes?"

"I'll punch out the time, Rita."

She put her hands on her hips and stared him down. "You haven't taken a single day of vacation in the last two years, you know that? Not even on your birthday." Yakko had no idea how to reply to that, so he just waited for her to continue. "That call sounded pretty nasty. You all right?"

He batted his eyes at her like one of the few starlets he'd convinced to go out with him used to. "Mrs. Wilkins, are you trying to flirt with me?"

"Shut up and come with me." She led him into her office, closing the door for the first time all day. Yakko managed to bite back another comment ("Are you sure this is entirely appropriate?") and took the seat she offered him. She sighed, as if she knew what he was thinking, and said, "So what happened?"

He widened his eyes, going for the Patented Disney Innocence look. "Whatchoo talkin about . . . ah, boss?"

"I know these are personal matters and I have no right to interfere, so I won't ask for the details. However, something is wrong with you, and if it affects your work I need to know what it is."

Torn between two things he couldn't say but was dying to — "There are lots of things wrong with me, but the main one is fleas" and "I knew you cared!" — Yakko was left with only the truth. "That was my brother."

"Wakko, right?" When she saw his shocked expression, she laughed. "We had to look into your history before hiring you. Your family has quite the criminal record, and two names showed up right next to yours in all your . . . legal transgressions." Taking another moment to enjoy his bafflement, she added, "So what about the other one?"

"Dot? Ahhhhhh . . . she's not on the best terms with me. Neither of them are, but if there was an 'I hate Yakko Club,' she'd be the president and Waks — I mean Wakko — would be the guy who stands in the back and never adds his name to the sign-up sheet."

She nodded. "Nice image."

"I minored in English." Despite the professional, almost curt tone of the conversation, he couldn't hide a smile as he spoke. He'd loved those courses more than anything else his college had to offer. and sometimes he couldn't help but wonder whether he could have gotten hired as a teacher.

He thought he would have liked it.

"So he wants you to come home, and she wants you to stay the hell away."

His eyes narrowed. "You weren't listening to me, were you?"

Rita chose not to answer that question. "So what are you going to do?" she asked.

He shrugged, surprised at how easily she had pulled the truth out of him — hence her extraordinary popularity when it came to "interviews" (known in layman's terms as interrogations), he supposed. "I don't know. I was thinking about mulling that one over with a keg of Miller Lite."

"You don't drink."

His mouth dropped open; since he was too stunned to control his toon instincts, his jaw fell all the way to his knees and his tongue was jarred by the impact enough to unroll onto the floor. When he realized what had happened, he set his mouth in place hastily. "Jesus, Sarge, do you have a guy follow me around, too, or just bug my house and tap my phones?"

She held up her hands, palms out. "I'm just observant, Warner. You're getting paranoid, and that is a sign of mental disturbance. And that" — she scribbled something on the paper in front of her and ripped it out of its notebook — "is grounds for a temporary dismissal." When he began to object, she held her hands up again. "Just for a little while, and your job will be waiting here when you return. But for the next six months, I suggest that you take a vacation. Maybe go see some old friends or relatives." A sneaky smile spread across her face as she said, "I hear California is beautiful this time of year."

"It's beautiful every time of year," he said with a sigh, climbing to his feet. "I can't get you to change your mind?"

"Sorry, Officer, but you're deemed mentally unstable due to personal strife. I'll just get Paul to make up an official copy of this." She waved the paper at him. "In the meantime, you ought to pack up your desk, because it is a disaster."

Yakko wanted to argue — well, he always wanted to argue, but this time he thought he had a good reason — and decided it wasn't worth it. Surely Rita was breaking some rule, but in a force this small, who really cared?

Besides, maybe she was right. There was always that to consider with a keg of . . . lemonade. Or iced tea. Or something equally dull.

As he was leaving, Mrs. Wilkins called, "Oh, and Warner?"

"Yeah?" He paused with one hand on the doorknob and the other stuffed in his pocket, his head cocked to the side in a way that was distinctly canine (leaving Rita to wonder whether he really was a dog).

She smirked. "Miller Lite tastes like piss."

A/N: And this is where drama segues into angst. I hope it's tolerable, or at least understandable. Caramel Cheescake is wonderful as a beta, and I have no idea if Miller Lite actually tastes like piss or not. You tell me.