Chapter Thirty-Six
Savage Sophistication
The streets of Zootopia were still and silent with light rain falling from the sky and a thin wind blowing through the mute air. The wind changed, carrying with it the restrained energy of anticipation.
But one street — one wide street in the Entertainment District — craved for attention. One building stood alive and energized amongst the, otherwise, still and monotone houses, while its sounds of laughter and of chatter filled the craving street outside. Its stuffy heat of crowded mammals brimmed the air; light pollution poured from the large sign written in light bulbs which read 'Music Hall', while below was the 'Tonight's Performance: Mister Memory.'
A silver car pulled slowly down the road, its driver observing the porter, who parted the large glass-wooden doors of the Music Hall for a group of pompous people, who lit-up their cigars and sipped their wine during the excited chatter, likewise, clothed in their dinner jackets and fancy dresses.
The driver of the silver-colored car pulled to a stop on the corner of this wide, gray street. The engine churned, the lights dimmed and then the driver stepped out from within. Pulling his collar up against the drizzle, the black-striped rabbit shoved his paws deep into the pockets, of his tan Ulster coat, and made his way down the street and towards the kindle, noise of Zootopia's Music Hall.
The tan-coated rabbit kept close to the wall, trying to avoid being noticed by the group of larger people, while he made his way to the large doors. He slipped past the group and was just to reach for the knocker when a delicate paw on his shoulder stopped him.
"Hey, sweetie," this feminine voice leaked nearby, making his ear to prick-up. "You're cute. Wanna hook-up later?" The rabbit half-turned. His gaze rose upwards, and he looked into the soft, blue eyes of an especially voluptuous, red vixen. The rabbit's eyes drifted downwards, her sapphires fixed intently upon him, as he took in her shapely form, deep red fur, the black tip of her genitally swishing tail and the polished black claws on her... her paw?
The rabbit's eyes twitched; he twisted from her, tugged his arm away and stepped into the Music Hall through the large glass door that was opened for him by the porter. He undid the buckle of his coat, slipped out of it to reveal his eveningwear beneath and pawed it to the doormammle who hung it upon a low hook. He glanced out of the wooden door and through one of the glass panels, as he adjusted his dark, dinner jacket, to notice the vixen still watching him, her soft, pearly eyes set on him steadily as she sipped from her glass of crimson wine.
He turned his back on her, shaking his head, as he tried to put her off from his mind. He had to resist it, but he was interested. The problem wasn't that she was a fox and he was a rabbit, for he had slept around with a few different species in his time, and this vixen was way more attractive than any fox or rabbit he had seen for quite a while. It wasn't because he was here on a mission that had stopped him, for he had mixed pleasure with business on multiple occasions in the past and had found that both matters were all the more pleasurable for it. So that wasn't the problem, no, what put him off... was the engagement ring on her finger. And an enraged male fox was something which was never worth the trouble of dealing with.
The rabbit chased her away from his mind as he stepped before the large oak door, with brass handles, which led to the main hall, but a gray-patched wolf with a clipboard stepped in his way. "You have a reservation, Sir?" the wolf asked, peering down at him.
The rabbit slipped a paw into his pocket. "Right here."
The wolf took the tiny slip of paper proffered to him and examined it against his reservations list. "Hmm. Well, Jake Smith," he said, pawing the card back, "you'd best get in there. The show's about to start." Mister 'Smith' smiled at the wolf as he walked past, slipping his ticket back into his pocket. Stepping firmly towards the large oak door, 'Smith' reached out both paws and pushed. And as the noise and chatter of a hundred different people filled his ears, he stopped in the doorway to take in his surroundings.
The ceiling of the Music Hall was two-stories high and domed at the top for acoustic reasons. Most of the large hall was taken-up by tables and chairs, with cigar smoke rising from its occupants. The wooden tables were round, and each had five chairs around them. Separating each table from every other, was a half-wall designed to give each table a little privacy, while not blocking the occupants' view from the stage which was on a raised platform at the front.
On the near end of the long, wide hall was a bar setup with numerous drinks, glasses, bar stools and beer taps. And on the far end, a raised platform bordered on the top and sides by a parted, red curtain. On the stage, beneath the light of three different spotlights, was an overweight bear addressing the audience. Next to him, quite quiet and still, was an elderly, gray fox.
"Ladies and gentlememmle," the bear said loudly and with vigor, "with your kind attention and permission, I have the honor of presenting to you, one of the most remarkable mammals in the world."
"How remarkable," called a heckler, "he's sweating!"
"And can you be surprised by that, gentlememmle?" called back the bear instantly, clearly accustomed to dealing with the semi-drunken intellect of the average heckler. "Every day, he commits to memory, fifty new facts, and remembers every one of them. Facts from history, facts from geography..."
The black-striped rabbit paced from the entranceway and to the bar, admitting to himself he was never going to spot his 'contact' in this condition, not with the sheer number of people present, not with the limited information he had and certainly not when all he could see of most of the audience, over the low walls, was the tops of their heads.
"Evening, friend," the barmammle said as the rabbit slipped into an appropriate stool, "care for a cigarette?" Taking it without answering, 'Jake' slapped down the required cash on the counter, his eyes not leaving the audience as he put the tobacco into his mouth and lit it with a silver lighter. He looked about the room, up to the boxes and the stalls, while the bear's introductory speech continued.
"— facts from newspapers and books of science. Millions and millions of them. Think of the strain involved by his prodigious feat!"
"His feet ain't half as big as yours, Cully," a femammle called.
"I am referring to his feat of memory! Test him please, ladies and gentlememmle, ask him your questions, and he will answer you fully and freely. Mister Memory!" The striped rabbit sat forwards on the stool, his ears pricking up attentively. He didn't get a description of his contact, only their species and a call sign: a question they would call out at some point in the evening. If his contact was here, it wouldn't be long before they made themselves known to the rabbit.
The elderly fox stepped forwards and spoke, his voice dry and somewhat nervy, "A question please? Fememmle first."
"Where's my husband been since last Saturday?"
The elderly fox rolled his eyes as the hecklers started shouting answers for him. "On the booze," called one, "In court," called another, "Out with his 'bit'," called a third.
"A serious question, please?"
"Who won the Derby in nineteen eighty-seven?" called a mammle from the back.
"The pre-race favorite, Steve Cauthen, with trainer Henry Cecil. Won at the odds of six to four. Second and third, Paul Eddy and Jeremy Tree. Am I right?"
"Right!"
"Who wins in twenty-twenty?" another mammle called.
"You come back in twenty twenty-one and I'll tell you, sir!"
The striped rabbit started to turn in his seat, starting to doubt if his contact was even here. Then, a mammle from somewhere down the front called out, "How far is Podunk from Bunnyburrow?"
The rabbit spun in his seat. That was the call sign! He scanned the front stalls, trying to spot who had called out, but Mister Memory was interrupted from further engaging with the caller — which the rabbit needed him to do in order to find his contact — as a reporter with a tape recorder shouted out.
"Who won the Cup in twenty-six?"
"Cup?" Memory asked, "Waterloo, football or tea, sir?"
"Football, silly."
"When did Chelsea win it?" called the tipsy badger sat beside Jake at the bar.
"Sixty-three BC, in the presence of the Emperor Nero."
"What causes pip in poultry?" called an elderly mammle wolfhound from the wings.
"Shh!" said his wife, "Don't make yourself so common."
"Well," he muttered to her, "our fowls have got it, haven't they?" The crowds chuckled at hearing this, and at the energy the chuckle created, the room started to grow louder and more rowdy, with general chatter and multiple people calling out at once.
"How many races did Mick the Miller win?"
"How old is my wife?"
"When was Crippen hanged?"
"Who was the last Zootopian heavyweight champion of the world?"
The rabbit started to lose heart, kicking himself that he had missed his opportunity as Mister Memory called out over the noise, "Quiet, please. Quiet! I cannot hear the questions if you're all calling at once." The audience went silent, and then that familiar voice from close to the front called out.
"How far is Podunk from Bunnyburrow?" A sensation like lightning struck the rabbit's mind. There!
"Your Poor Betty who, sir?"
"How far is Podunk from Bunnyburrow?"
"Ah, a fellow fox! You are most welcome, sir." A round of applause emerged from this. The rabbit slipped down from his bar stool, leaving his cigarette in the ashtray as he paced towards the front of the hall. "Podunk, third city of Deerbroke County and capital of the province of Buckthorn. Distance from Bunnyburrow, one thousand, four hundred and twenty-four miles. Am I right, sir?"
"Quite so."
"Next, please."
"How old is my wife?" a mammle from the center called.
"I know, sir, but I never tell a lady's age. Another?"
"What causes pip in poultry?"
The black-striped rabbit came to a stop before a table close to the front of the Music Hall. He looked down at the red fox, mid-twenties, who was sat quite leisurely upon one chair, his arm leaned upon another and his foot propped up on a third. The fox wore a deep-brown suit, which was clearly tailored personally, and sipped from a glass of red while gazing upon the stage.
Jake stepped closer. "Is this seat taken?"
"Not yet," the fox quickly answered without emotion or even a glance. The rabbit sat down upon the chair, the half-wall now concealing him from the rest of the room — except for Mister Memory, who was much too taken-up with answering questions to notice them.
The silence dragged on, both mammals watching the stage, waiting to see who would make the first move. A smartly dressed waiter approached the table and addressed the fox, "Can I offer, Sir, a drink?"
"Not for me, but my friend here will have a Bloody Mary, not too spicy, hold the ice."
"At once, Sir," the waiter acknowledged and walked off.
The rabbit watched the waiter as he retreated. Then he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, well," he snorted dryly, "you have done your homework."
"I like to know who I'm dealing with," the fox returned, swirling the red liquid in his glass.
"So do I," the rabbit replied, turning to the fox, "but as it stands, I don't know a thing about you."
"What did you want to know?"
"We'll start simple: your name."
The fox's eyes rose to meet the rabbit's for the first time. "Willis," he simply answered, offering an auburn paw, "Mick Willis."
"Jake Smith," he said, shaking the red fox's paw.
A smirk grew on the fox's face at hearing the name, and he retracted the physical contact. "So... Smith... you got here at last?"
"Would've been here sooner if you'd given me an address rather than an elaborate riddle to find you with."
"Don't tell me you didn't have fun. I thought you guys lived for cracking codes and breaking puzzles. Besides, I had to see if you had what it took, up here," Willis said with a playful tone, tapping his forehead.
"Well, now that I've passed your test, how about you tell me what it is you want."
The fox rested in his chair as he considered, watching the rabbit with keen interest as he spoke, "Two close friends of mine, Ronnie and Reggie Kray, have organized a... well, shall we say party? Next week at one of the banks in Tundratown. Sadly, it appears that one of the friends they invited to this party, was actually working with the Ministry of Intelligence, because the ZPD was recently informed by the MI-Z that they should consider updating this particular bank's security systems. Now, my friends—"
The fox trailed off and glanced back up to the stage, while the waiter returned to the table with a glass of red liquid on a tray. He set the glass down on the table in front of the rabbit, who picked it up and sniffed at it, cautiously. "On the house, Sir," the waiter noted, "with our compliments." He walked away again, watched by both patrons.
Turning back to Smith, Willis started again, "Now, my friends— the drink isn't poisoned, by the way. My friends have put a lot of time into organizing this little party up at the bank, and so we're hoping they could still go through with it. I, being the good friend I am, did what I could to find out about the new systems, but sadly, to no avail."
"'Now,' I thought, 'since I can't help directly, wouldn't it be nice if I could find someone who works for the MI-Z, one who could snap a couple of photographs of said security system's blueprints for me?' I think you'll agree with me," he added smugly, "but that would be a nice thing to do, wouldn't it?"
"Well," Jake opined, looking down at his drink, "that's an odd sort of thing to ask an agent working for the other side."
"A crooked agent," the fox corrected.
"I'm not crooked," Jake shot with a warning sign of daggers that his eyes were translating.
"If you weren't before: you are now; you're talking to me, ain't ya? Well, making deals with the enemy, that's defecting, sweetheart."
"It's not defecting, it's just... doing what has to be done."
"Yeah... you just keep tellin' yourself that, Stripes. You'll start believing it someday."
"Look, Mister Willis, when I look upon a city such as ours, I see not darkness, but hope. This corruption is but a passing thing, though I cannot cleanse this place alone. Doing this for you is but a necessary evil if it means I might someday be able to rid this city of the foulness hanging over it."
"And predator and prey will live in harmony and sing Kumbaya," the fox jeered, deadpan.
"You laugh. You mock. But some day you and all your kind will be swept like litter from our streets. The forces of good shall prevail. My will shall be done!"
"You're arse ever get jealous?"
"Jealous? My arse? Of what?"
"Of all the shit that just came out of your mouth."
"Mister Willis, I do not—"
"Okay, you want me to spell it out for you? Fine. Tell me if this sounds about right. Naive little hick with good grades and a love of spy thrillers thinks, 'hey, look at me, I'm gonna be a secret agent and rid all evil from the streets of Zootopia!' only to find, woopsy, crime is embedded into every corner of this city, far too much for a single dumb bunny to solve. And that dream of being a double-oh-seven super spy? Double whoopsie! No-one ever takes the 'rabbit spy' seriously and said rabbit ends up spending his days filling out menial paperwork at the Ministry of Intelligence headquarters, never having been given the chance to do real spy work, while lesser mammals are being sent out on top secret assignments all around him."
"And whoopsie number three-sie, without ever having been given the opportunity to prove what a great spy he really is, the truth slowly dawns on our rabbit that he will never be anything else but a glorified secretary, and his determination gradually sinks lower and lower into the mud, 'till our rabbit finally has no choice but to agree to a secret meeting with a mysterious fox from The Firm, who claims he can make all our deluded bunny's dreams of being a real-life spy come true. Am I right?"
The rabbit didn't move, didn't blink, didn't utter a sound.
"And what's more, you don't give a damn about this city or its people. Deep down inside, in the darkest places of your soul, all you really care about is you, your ego, your reputation." The red fox sat forwards slowly, his muzzle splitting into a wide grin as he continued in a soft voice, "So, here's the deal. You wanna be a real spy? You're gonna have to get a few recommendations under your belt. My associates just so happen to have 'influence' over a number of police chiefs, majors, superintendents. The list goes on. These photos are just the start. You keep us posted on what the ZPD and MI-Z are planning, maybe even do a little light sabotage for us, an' I'll get you all the commendations you'd ever need to someday become Agent One."
"You have the authority to ordain this? Don't you need the Kray's permission?"
"They trust my judgment. I'm no pawn."
"And if I decline?"
"Then get practicing your speed typing, 'cause you're about to spend a real long time filling out paperwork."
After a few moments thought, the rabbit slowly tilted his head to one side. "I wasn't too sure of who I was talking to initially, but I think I know now. I've heard a lot of rumors about you. Is it true what they say?"
"Is what true?"
"That you're the only Firm operative who's never pulled a gun?"
"Well, doesn't word get around? Yeah, it's true."
"Are you really that cocky? Or just that stupid?"
The fox's expression turned grim. "I'm just that good."
"Well I'll be blown, it is you, 'the fox with the lightest touch.' You do realize, now I know who you are, what a dumb decision you've made in coming here." The fox grimaced further, to which the rabbit smirked, the roles apparently reversed. "Think about it, foxy, if I singlepawdedly arrest a criminal agent of your caliber, well, that's me on the fast-track to being given real espionage missions anyway. And since you apparently never pull a gun," he added, reaching into an inner pocket, "all I've gotta do is pull—"
Jake froze, the muzzle of a pawgun pressing into the small of his back, and the sound of a voice like soft velvet filling his ears, "Hey, sweetie."
"Oops," the red fox mocked with a forming grin, "didn't see ya there, Hun. Mister Smith, allow me to introduce a very close friend of mine."
"We've met," she mentioned, her mouth slipping close to the rabbit's ear, "haven't we, Hun-bun?"
The rabbit's expression darkened. "You'd have to be insane to shoot me," he breathed, "my contacts—"
"Your contacts don't count for shit against a bullet in the head," Mick cut in with a sudden display of temper, "not even all the king's horses and all the king's memmle could put you back together after that; so unless you've got some kind of pact with the devil, I'd suggest you start being a bit more helpful."
Though his ego hated him for it, the rabbit admitted to himself that the fox held a strong advantage. Moreover, he was offering exactly what he wanted. Taking his paw back from inside his jacket's pocket, the black-striped rabbit put his paws on the table. Behind him, the vixen slipped the silver gun back into her bag.
"You have two options," Mick said, "— well, three technically, but I don't think pulling a gun and getting shot in the head is the best idea for you right now. So there you have it. One, you stand up now and walk outta here. No-one will try to follow you. You'll get home safe and sound. Tomorrow you'll be back filling out paperwork, and the two of us will never meet again. Otherwise..." Mick's paw slipped into his outer breast pocket, from where he took out a small camera which he proffered towards the rabbit. "You do a little 'sight-seeing' for us."
'Jake' turned in his seat and gazed into the soft, blue eyes of the curvaceous vixen sat behind him. She smiled at him, winking. The rabbit turned back and his eyes locked with the tod's glistening, intelligent emeralds. Without a word, he reached out and took the camera, which gave him a humiliating comment of, "Good buck."
"How will I contact you?" Jake asked as he stood.
"I will contact you."
The rabbit nodded, stepping away. "Well, Mister Wilde," he said with coldness, "it was a pleasure doing business with you."
"On the contrary, Mister Savage," Nick replied without turning, "the pleasure, was all mine."
Jack gazed down at the couple, Wilde's arm slipping around the vixen's waist as she moved herself closer. The rabbit turned, slipped the camera into his pocket and paced away. When he reached the outer door, he drew his tan Ulster coat close around him against the rain and slipped into the cold embrace of night.
…
Author's notes:
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Grooms decision thus chosen blind.
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