Calvin Quills was in the office of his superior, Dr. Hobbes. The good doctor had called him to his office for some unknown reason. Calvin was nervous by nature, but Dr. Hobbes was a rather easygoing and fun mammal who set his nerves at ease. It also helped that he happened to be Calvin's best friend. Still, Calvin could not help but be a tad anxious, as he had no idea why Dr. Hobbes had asked for him. Then he saw the report Dr. Hobbes had in his hand and it all became clear.

It was not technically a part of Dr. Hobbes job to read reports- he was the head of the Forensics- but he was sort of the de facto leader to the records department, forensics, and various other small departments in the precinct and enjoyed helping out each section. Plus, the reports provided him with entertainment. Or rather, one officer's reports in particular were entertaining.

"Haha! Calvin! Good to see you." The doctor said, his voice genuine and inviting.

"Hello, Hobbes. What are you reading?" Asked the porcupine, gesturing at the document his friend was holding.

A large and excited smile appeared on the doctor's face. "I'm glad you asked, Calvin! This is the latest report submitted by our dear Nick Wilde."

"Is it one for the Chief?" Calvin asked as he rose from his chair, expecting Dr. Hobbes to tell him to take it to the Chief.

"Oh no, no. Not this time, Calvin. I'm holding onto this one. I'm not sure Officer Wilde would keep his job after this one. I called you in here for a much different reason." Dr. Hobbes said.

"What's the reason?" Calvin asked. He thought he knew what the reason was, but he knew his friend loved to surprise.

"I'm going to read you this report! I enjoyed it quite a bit." Hobbes said, beaming at his young friend. "It seems Officer Wilde has a flair for writing."

"What do you mean?"

"I could tell you, but I'd much rather let this report do it." Hobbes said. "Ahem."

With that, Dr. Hobbes began to dictate the most recent report of Officer Wilde to his young friend.

From time to time I occasionally did my job. When I wasn't too busy playing cards or ordering another whiskey highball, I did my job. It wasn't easy and it wasn't clean. Digging through dumpsters, working long hours, and spending even longer waiting just in the hopes I might be able to snap a picture of some sleaze-bag walking out of his mistress's apartment. It was a job, though, and here in Zootopia, that's worth a hell of a lot.

She came into my office with a job.

She was tall and pliantly slender, and had that angularity unique to antelopes. Her legs were long, and her hooves were narrow and small. She was dressed in black- looked like she'd just come from a wake. Could have, for all I knew. She wore a black cap to match. Her hair curled from underneath in long blonde locks. She wasn't young.

She was confident once. Now though, you could see the wrinkles all over her skin and the tired look in her eyes. She held herself tall, but all the posturing in the world couldn't hide the pain she was feeling. Grief, isolation, terror, despair, desperation- it's clearer on her face than that cheap red paint she smeared all over her lips.

But I didn't need to see her to know that. I knew that when I heard the door opening. No one comes to me because they want the best. They come to me because there isn't anywhere else. There isn't anybody else.

She was a grieving widow. Married for twenty years. Her husband had fallen into business with shady characters, not out of want, of course, but out of necessity. He'd done it for the family. Then he'd been strong armed into something his sensibilities just couldn't allow. Then he was dead. Found by a working wife who came home to him face down on the rug, coloring the carpet a new shade of maroon. Their bedroom safe had been emptied out, their life savings gone along with him.

Her story was the same one everyone told when they walked through my door. The actors in her's just played their parts a little bit differently.

The police couldn't help her. No evidence. She was completely alone. Standing with a husband turned criminal didn't make you a lot friends, even less when the criminals didn't like you either. She heard about me through a friend of a friend. Someone had told her I got results. A satisfied past client, or maybe an unsatisfied one. It didn't matter.

She wanted me to find who did her husband in and get her savings back. She went on about how she wanted the killers punished, they always do, but needed the money too. It's about the money. It's always about the money, no matter how much they talk about justice and drone on about revenge. They'd all trade their family in for a promise of security and a little cash.

She made me an offer of cash she didn't have. A promise of a portion of what she lost. It wasn't much, in fact, it was nothing but an I.O.U. from someone who just had the ground ripped out from under them. Anyone with self-respect would've turned down that job. Hell, anyone with sense would've turned it down. That's probably why I took it.

A job is a job, and this job was mine.

"He wrote a hardboiled detective story as a report." Calvin stated amusedly.

"Wonderful, isn't he?" Hobbes asked rhetorically.

She didn't have much to go on. All her husband left in the way of a clue was a cold body and a matchbook from some dusted up club downtown. I knew it. It was a glorified brothel. Music, dancers, and drinks. A great place for every lowlife and their brother to go. It was the kind of place where you went for the drinks and stayed for the dancers. Except the drinks were spiked and the dancers stripped you of every last dime.

Her life had been turned upside down when she saw his body. She called the police or one of the neighbors who heard her screaming did. They gave the same old song and dance. They found the clue pointing to the club. They ran into a dead end there. That wasn't a surprise. The law was as limiting as it was fair. It was limiting for P.I.s too, but I've never let that get in my way.

All she knew about her beau's business partners was a single name. "Donny." She thought it might've been connected to the club somehow. Even if it was, if you threw in a pen in a club like that, chances were you'd hit at least ten scuzzies named Donny. Not that I'd tell her that. Clients never did like to hear me talk too much. Especially when it was bad news. My sunny disposition just couldn't win them over.

She was different in that way. Couldn't seem to get enough of me. Wanted to know my thoughts on every detail of the case. She seemed to forget there wasn't a case yet. All she had was a single name bordering on useless and a disheveled and smarmy P.I. who had broken down the borders of useless a long time ago.

She wasn't too thrilled when I told her my thoughts.

She slunk out quick after that. I'm guessing the charming interior design of my office just wasn't up to her standards. Matted carpet that popped up a gust of dust particles if it's looked at funny and painted walls that peel like they were doused with gasoline, lit on fire, then put out with lemon juice just didn't tickle her fancy.

That's how I got the case.

It was four in the afternoon, and as much as I loved the thought of standing outside a closed nightclub and freezing to death, I settled on waiting for business hours. Unfortunately, I couldn't wait in a bar otherwise I might not make it all the way to nightclub. That only left me to go home or stay in my office. Cold and alone at home seemed better, since it meant not waiting for my office to collapse on top of me.

Home was home. A one room apartment with about as much collective charm as a mole shoved in a meat grinder. The part-time landlord was even better. I say part time because the other part was spent dealing out drugs. There was only one accidental death in the complex so far this month due to suicide. The guy committed suicide via three bullets to the back of the head. Common method around here. Coincidentally, he had been trying to start his own little operation in the building.

The area wasn't much better. Gangs on the streets and a few much too loud escort services nearby. Well, maybe that's unfair. At least someone was enjoying themselves in this sinkhole. Still, not a good place to be a P.I., a cop, or anyone remotely connected to law enforcement. It probably says a lot about what a wash-up these people think I am then, if I'm still breathing. Home was rusty, degrading, and dead.

Home had a bed though, and damn if I don't love a bed.

The club was a dump on the outside. It was just one of those places someone looked at from the outside, frowned at, and moved away from. Course, the thing about criminals and their clubs is they don't like to advertise everything. So, while it looked like a dinky shithole in a city neighborhood best known for its high rate of arson, it had a bit more flair on the inside.

The good thing about looking like trash is that only the people who know better are going to dig deeper. Everyone else passes by without a second thought or a hint and the place stays exclusive. It gets to stay something that caters to only the most elite scum-suckers in town. A real family joint.

The bad thing about running a club like that is you can't post a bouncer outside. That just draws attention and raises the question, "Why have a guard in front of trashed up warehouse?" Most people think illegal drug trade before they think illegal jazz club. Which meant there couldn't be a bouncer. No bouncer meant people like me can walk in. Tough break. Not for me so much, but definitely for them.

The place was about as high end as they got. That isn't saying much, though. There isn't a ton of competition in the illegal jazz club business here. This is Zootopia, where crime syndicates prefer country music to smooth jazz. Kind of puts the flicks they show in theaters into perspective when you're sitting across the table from Don Fluff, a gun trained on you, two tigers standing menacingly behind you, and all you can hear is a song about blue jeans. It's real distracting when you're trying to bargain for your life.

Not that I'd know, of course.

This particular club was owned by Richard Ramone. He was the biggest dealer in catnip and escorts on the East Side. ZPD and the DEA had been after him for years, but he was as wily and slippery as they come. It helped he had an army of lawyers at his beck and call. It even earned him a nickname around the city after he avoided arrest for the 8th consecutive time. They called him something like Slick Richard, except they preferred to use the short version of Richard.

The club was something. I'd never gotten the chance to look until I walked in that night.

"Is he the main character in this, or is the main character some unnamed detective?" Calvin asked suddenly.

Dr. Hobbes' nose twitched and he scrunched his eyes at the paper. "Actually, I don't know. I just assumed he was supposed to be the main character. The detective is almost as snarky as he is."

"Every hardboiled detective is snarky. It creates moments of levity in an otherwise dark story and also drives home the fact that the detective is deeply damaged." Calvin said sharply.

"I didn't realize you were a fan of the genre, Calvin." Dr. Hobbes said, eyebrows raised in slight amusement.

Calvin leaned back in his chair, only now feeling a slight twinge of embarrassment. "I'm not really a fan, per se, but I did really like The Maltese Falcon when I was young."

"You're twenty, Calvin."

"Young-er."

"Right."

"Just read the story, Hobbes." Calvin said irritatedly to his friend.

"Fine, fine. Don't get snappy with me. I'm still your boss." Hobbes said back.

"No you aren't. We're in different departments."

"De facto boss." Hobbes said, emphasizing each word.

"That, quite literally, means nothing." Calvin said, mockingly emphasizing each word in a crude imitation of his friend.

Hobbes stared at his friend for a moment. He thought about taking the teasing further, but was dissuaded by the raised quills of the porcupine. As fun as it was to mess with the young mammal, it was less fun to have sharp quills ripped from your stomach, head, and chest. "I'm going to continue reading now."

The interior of the club was of a size and capacity that wasn't expected looking at it from the outside. The walls were lined with thick velvet curtains and drapes, presenting the illusion of refinement. They were stifling in a way, like those great pieces of fabric that hung heavily at opera houses and seemed like they could bring the whole building down with their weight.

Ole' Boss Slick hadn't skimped out on the wood either. Real mahogany lined the ground, that beautiful and resounding echo tapped out every time my foot came down on it. It shined too. The floor shined in a glorified crime hovel. Someone took care of those floors daily. That was the only way there could be a sparkle like that to the aged wood.

The stage was elevated like any good stage should be. The performers were good, but I never was a fan of jazz. No one was listening to the music though, not when those dancers were up on stage. Real pretty gals. And guys. Slick liked to keep things diverse. I always did prefer my murdering, drug dealing psychopaths to be progressive.

The dancers and the music didn't hold a candle to the real attraction, though. It was long, wide, and packed with everything a fox like me could've asked for. A word I'd use for it would be majestic. Magnificent through and through. The creme de la creme, the great thing, the cream of the crop, the "whatever superlative that can be imagined."

That was the best damned bar I'd ever seen.

Everything from the legal to the not so legal sat on those shelves. I could've lived at a bar like that. I could've died there shortly after the alcohol poisoning kicked in, too. Luckily for me, bars are some of the best tactical positions when you're looking for information. Bartenders in shady joints hear a lot, know a lot of people, and no one ever minds telling them things.

Of course, eventually every bartender learns a little too much and that's why they have more replacements ready than an actor. It's a special bond between a mammal and their bartender, but the bond between a mammal and their ill gotten goods is much stronger. Old Slick Rick circumvented this problem by making sure his bartender was as dirty and criminal as he was.

That makes the bartender a great source of information. Unfortunately, smart criminals hate giving up information. The only issue was getting it out of them. Which meant I'd have to turn up the charm, talk to the bastard, and stay sober. Three things I shouldn't have to do when I get to a bar. I needed the bartender to tell me about this mysterious "Donny."

It also didn't help that the bartender made me as soon as I sat down. Turns out she was a gal named Darla, and I'd helped put her brother away for a string of robberies on the Upper West Side. She apparently held a grudge about that, because the next thing I know I'm being shoved against the counter by two goons in black suits. I didn't even get to order a drink.

I figured they just throw me out, because shooting a P.I., even in a criminal establishment, is just messy. What I didn't figure on was Darla being a family friend of Slick who wanted me to face him and "admit my crimes." Apparently she had forgotten that time her brother burned down an orphanage to cover his getaway. I'd say my crimes paled a bit in comparison, but what do I know?

Turns out the big boss was watching the dancers from a booth he had. Yeah, the guy installed a second story booth in his jazz club so he could watch the show. I could see why they called him Slick…Richard. Real classy elevating yourself above everyone like that. It's a wonder what he was compensating for.

The goons were about as gentle with me as a lego was against exposed skin. In other words, they weren't. Nor were they very nice. One held me under the armpit, which chafed my skin. He was not sympathetic when I asked him to stop, either. Really, the hospitality there was just subpar. It's as if they'd never had guests before.

"Is he seriously being snarky about his own story?" Calvin asked with slight disbelief.

"I do believe he is." Hobbes answered, nodding his slightly.

Calvin bit his lower lip before speaking. "I want to make fun of all the cliches and sentence fragments, but I feel like he might be too self aware to call him on his obvious faults in writing."

That sounds familiar.

Hobbes nodded along as Calvin gave his examination of Nick's writing. In reality he hadn't been paying attention. He was partaking in a skill most people would refer to as pseudolistening. "Hmm. Yes. Let's continue on then."

Slick's booth was as extravagant as one could expect. The tacky and heavy velvet cloths that lined the walls and the stage made a reappearance here, except the fabric was much lighter. The curtains were currently pulled together for the sake of privacy. If Big Boss Slick was anything like me, he liked to beat on his captive private investigators in private.

He had real cushioned seats in his booth, no surprise, and a dining table to match. If someone had added a bed and a bathroom it would've been a decent living space. Better than my apartment, anyways. Old Slick had me put sat down in a chair in front of him. The chair was far away from the rest that were in the room, and instead of facing the stage it faced towards Slick. It was the timeout chair, I guess.

Slick Richard, real name Richard Cairo, was a brown furred mammal and quite tall. All bears were tall. He kept his coat in pristine condition by the looks of it. It was glossy and smoothed down. There wasn't a tuft anywhere that was out of place or that went against the grain. It was uncomfortable to look at, as if nature had never intended for a mammal's coat to look so…uniform. He himself was barrel-bellied and large, due to years of a sedentary lifestyle giving orders to others.

He wore a black coat, narrowly cut and tight around his shoulders, which fell down to his hips in a flared style to compensate for the layer of fat that bears tended to accumulate around their waists. His trousers were wide at the hips and loose all the way down, no doubt to make them more comfortable for the thick bear. They tightened near his ankles, just above his patent leather shoes. His shoes were real leather. I just hoped he didn't have a mistress looking for a fox skin jacket.

He had those narrow and shrewd eyes so common to bears, except his had an aggression to them I'd seen before. It's one I'd learned to avoid. It was that instinct that a lot of mammals had tried to shed or repress over the years, but that some embraced whole heartedly. That primal feeling was clear in his blue eyes. Richard Cairo was a mammal who wasn't afraid to kill.

One of his goons leaned over to whisper something to him. No doubt it was about his newest guest. His voice was as heavy as he was, and the deep timbre sounded like it had been drug across gravel when he spoke. "Darla says you're a P.I. What are you doing here?"

Too bad for me, I've never quite known when to keep my mouth shut. "I've been looking to move, thought I'd scout things out here. The location is much nicer than my neighborhood. The scenery is great. The only downside is the neighbors. I heard they can be downright criminal."

Apparently Slick wasn't one for jokes, judging by the deep growl that came from his throat when I said that. He bared his teeth and claws and made a gesture towards me, which had his goons walking towards me. I can only assume I was in for a big bear hug. That, or a ritualistic evisceration as Slick sacrificed me to the god of outdated and tacky jazz clubs.

Fortunately I bluffed about having a partner working with me in the club. That got Slick to call his goons off while he reevaluated the situation. He had a scrunched up look on his face, like thinking was a new concept to him and he was trying to figure out how to do it. Not a good look for him.

He managed to string a few words together in response though, so I'll give him that. "I see. Where is your partner?"

Now, I'm not an expert in interrogation, but the safe bet there seemed to be to play the lie harder. "He's waiting on standby, Slick. If he doesn't hear from me in a couple hours, then he's going to take pictures of this place straight to ZPD headquarters. From what I hear they've been looking for any excuse to nab you. That also means they'd search this place. Who knows what they'd find hidden here?"

Slick Richard was a persona. He was an angry mobster who threw his weight around and made a name for himself in the Zootopian underworld. No one messed with him except for the most powerful crime bosses, and even then, those crime bosses didn't like to interfere with one another's business too much. Wars were expensive. So Slick the boss controlled the East Side and would kill anyone who so much annoyed him.

Richard Cairo, on the other hand, was a businessman. Businessman know how to haggle, and they know when to make a trade. So right then, he knew it was the time to talk back and see if he couldn't catch my bluff, or find out where my supposed partner was waiting. Or so I hoped.

He took the bait. "Alright then, fox. How's this? You tell me where your partner is and I won't rip you apart limb from limb."

He was a real sweet talker that one- knew the way to my heart just like that. I was pretty attached to my limbs. Somehow I managed to keep my head and reply. I told him I wanted a guy named Donny who'd been in involved in a home invasion. Supposedly frequented this club. Amazingly, the crime boss didn't buy that a P.I. was just in his club to find some lowlife committing B&Es. Fancy that.

Whether he believed me or not wasn't too important. He still had to be careful. One of his goons had disappeared, probably to look for my partner. Good luck finding a guy who didn't exist. Slick kept me with him, trying to get information out of me about my partner. I shut that down quick as I could, telling him if I just got a lead on Donny I'd be out of the place fast.

Surprisingly, the king of the East Side wasn't too thrilled that a charming, snarky, and ruggedly handsome P.I. was blackmailing him for information. I imagine he'd be even less thrilled if he found out there wasn't actually any blackmail. He gave the usual bout of threats that powerful people do when they feel backed into a corner.

For a second I wasn't sure if he wasn't just going to take his chances with my mysterious partner and get rid of me. I was a good liar, but Richard Cairo hadn't gotten this far by being a bad judge of character. It could've gone either way on this one. It could've been he end of Private Investigator Rick Wylde if She hadn't stepped in.

She was grey from head to toe, bare a twinge of black at the top of her ears. She stood with an attitude that spoke of self-assuredness and confidence. Her eyes were amethyst. Not a strong blue, a not a weak purple or indigo, but pure amethyst. She was small, but something about the way she held herself made me think that she was tough. She seemed like someone who could handle herself.

She wore a red slit dress, the slit running up the length of her leg. From what could be seen, she seemed well muscled- not the wispy slender things Cairo usually kept around. Funnily, she wasn't trying to flaunt herself off ostentatiously, but just seemed genuinely comfortable in the garment. Nothing about her screamed "hired floozy" that Cairo so often preferred. She was something else entirely. She was a complete and utter mystery. I love a good mystery.

I hadn't seen her at first, but now that I had, I couldn't keep my eyes off of her. She was a rabbit, but not like other bunnies I'd met. She moved with a purpose, a fluidity in every step as she sauntered over to Cairo. She hopped up onto the arm of his chair, a certain agility present in her jump that made me think she had been an athlete. She leaned over him, a paw firmly planted on his shoulder as she whispered something into his ear.

Just like that, Richard Cairo, Slick Dick, the King of the East Side, backed off. He told me he was going to let me go. Said that he would ask around about Donny for me. The crime boss was going to help me.

That's how I first became aware of Miss Lewdy Topps.

End of Part 1, Original Story by Nick Wilde

"Oh. Oh, wow." Calvin said as Dr. Hobbes finished. "I wonder who Lewdy Topps is based on?"

Dr. Hobbes smirked at the young mammal. "Yes, quite a mystery where he took inspiration for that character from. The sarcastic detective Rick Wylde is also quite the mystery. I suppose we'll have to wait for Part 2 if we want to learn more about these unique characters."

Calvin smiled back at his friend. "I'd say I'm shocked he wrote something like this, but somehow I'm not."

"The real surprising thing is he'd have the chief read this." Hobbes said. "He's the one mammal Bogo wants to get rid of more than anyone else."

Mr. Quills scrunched his eyebrows up at Hobbes. "I thought he could pretty much get away with anything."

The good doctor hummed thoughtfully, then said, "Well, usually yes, but even with those unorthodox reports he's still technically reporting on what happened. This is completely fictitious."

"Ah." Calvin replied back simply. "That does seem much more likely to get him fired."

"Yes, and we would not want that. If you come across the next part of Officer Wilde's 'original' story, make sure it comes to my desk and not the Chief's. This will be our little secret." Dr. Hobbes told him.

"Are you saying that because you want to protect Officer Wilde, or because you're actually interested in reading the next part, Hobbes?" Calvin asked, a clear hint of mirth in his voice as he stared appraisingly at the older mammal.

Hobbes coughed. "Oh shush, Calvin. You can't act like you weren't as entertained as I was."

A russet-furred vulpine sat at a desk, writing furiously. He scribbled line after line down in a small report file, stopping occasionally to think about what should come next. His pen tapped against the desk as his mind raced. Across from him sat a grey furred bunny, staring at him as if he were mad.

"Nick, what could you possibly be writing?" Judy finally asked slightly concerned.

Nick startled and looked up from the page he had been working on, staring at Judy as if this were the first time he was seeing her. "What? Oh. I'm just working on the case report from our last arrest."

Judy eyed the fox suspiciously. Her amethyst eyes were narrowed and examining him. "I finished my report two hours ago. What could be taking you two hours to write a simple report? You're usually finished before I am, lazy fox."

"Maybe I just want to put more effort into this one." Nick said. "I'm really trying to improve myself and be a good, model police officer, Carrots. Is that so hard to believe?"

"Nick. Let's be realistic here. What are you actually doing?"

"Fine. I'm writing part 2." Nick said, rolling his eyes.

Judy's nose twitched in confusion. "Part 2 of what?"


AN: This chapter was a little different then the previous nine. There were less jokes and I relied more on the situation itself being funny. The next chapter will be a normal chapter. Then either the chapter after that or the one following that one will finish up this little story. This is the closest any of you will ever see me to writing a plot driven story. The idea of a noir/detective story ala Sin City was suggested by reader SilentPony. This chapter would not have been possible without them or our brave sponsors at PBS. Thanks for reading!