Judy had expected the fox to drag his heels, but through the thin walls of the shack she could hear him packing. If she hadn't been able to see that the only door and windows that the shack had were on the front, she might have expected him to try to give her the slip, but at nearly the ten minute mark Wilde had re-emerged, a bulging carpet bag slung over his arm. Judy couldn't help but stare at him, though, because the transformation that had begun when he dropped his fake accent was complete.

Wilde was wearing a slim gray suit, buttoned high with narrow lapels. His striped red and blue tie matched the red hatband of his straw boater, which he put on his head as he left the shack. Wilde gave the hat a flick with a single finger to set it at a jaunty angle and then looked down at her, a small smile playing across his muzzle, and Judy saw him as how he must have been when he had still been Mr. Big's accountant—insufferably smug and polished, as though he somehow had the advantage. He must have noticed her surprise at the change in his appearance, because his smile widened a degree. "Sorry, Carrots," he said, "Bank's closed."

Judy resisted the urge to roll her eyes—as though she would ever kiss a fox—and replied incredulously, "You wasted time changing?"

Nick fussed with the knot of his tie as he followed her to the truck. "I wouldn't say I wasted it," he said, "I can't go back to the city looking like a rube."

He paused, and then looked her up and down with a clinical air. "One of us has to dress the part."

"There's nothing wrong with how I dress," she said, and she was certain that Nick was simply trying to goad her.

Judy had made a brief stop at her apartment to wash the scent of alcohol out of her fur and freshen up before catching the train, and had used the opportunity to change into a plain white blouse and tartan skirt, which was miles more practical than the sheer dress she had worn to the club and still went with the cloche hat. She may not have looked like a society lady but all things considered she didn't think he had any grounds to criticize her. "For a little country bunny, maybe," he replied, smirking, "Aren't Prohis supposed to wear suits?"

"If I looked like a Prohibition Agent I wouldn't be a very good agent," Judy replied.

He seemed to accept that answer and followed her the rest of the way to the borrowed truck.

"I'm not sure I can trust you to take me for a ride," Wilde remarked as he gingerly placed his carpet bag in the bed of the truck.

Considering that the owner of the truck was the sheriff, Judy wasn't sure what it was usually used for, but the bed was filthy and caked with dirt.

"Get in," Judy said firmly, pointing to the passenger side door of the cab, "If you do what I say, I promise I'll keep you safe."

"Well, that puts my mind at ease," Nick said, but he did get in and sit down.

Nick watched with a somewhat bemused air as Judy went about the preparations to start the truck. Her paws went through the process of pulling the choke, retarding the ignition timing, and setting the throttle with the ease of long practice. When she went to the crank, she could hear in her head, as she always could, the warning one of her older sisters had given her about how to hold the handle so that it wouldn't break any bones if the engine backfired. Mercifully, despite how battered and rusty the truck was, the engine must have been in fine order because it started with a single turn of the crank. Wilde was quiet for the entire drive from his shack back to the sheriff's office to drop off the truck; Judy might have enjoyed the silence if she hadn't gotten the distinct feeling that the fox was taking the opportunity to size her up in a frankly predatory manner. She wondered what thoughts were going through his head, and was rather glad when they had dropped the truck off and walked to the train station.

The stationmaster at the Podunk train station was, like most of the residents of the town, a pig. The fat of his round face nearly forced his eyes shut, and his rumpled velvet uniform, which looked rather threadbare at its seams, had a brownish stain down the front. He was reading a newspaper and appeared rather put out when Judy distracted him to buy tickets, which took almost all of the money she had left to her name. Once again, Judy hoped that the Bureau would reimburse her expenses, or things would be extremely lean until her next payday. The stationmaster had accepted her money with a considerable lack of enthusiasm, and had only grunted in response to her cheerful greeting. He hadn't spoken any words at all throughout the transaction, in fact, although after he had given her two one-way tickets to Zootopia and picked his newspaper back up she could have sworn that he muttered, "Good riddance," under his breath.

If Nick had heard it, as she was sure that if the pig had said something it was directed at the fox, he didn't seem to react. Judy planned to spend the time until the train arrived reviewing the information that she did have with her reluctant partner, but before she could pull him to a bench far away from the other mammals waiting for the train his attention was caught by something else.

"Mr. Wilcox!" a high voice called from one of the corners of the station, "Mr. Wilcox!"

The mammal speaking was a wolf cub who couldn't have been much more than seven or eight years old, although he was only about a head shorter than Judy. Over his mottled brown and gray fur he wore a pair of overalls that were much too short, and he didn't have a shirt. The cub was sitting on the floor of the station, with a small wooden box and a cup to his left and a cardboard sign to his right. The sign had three lines in a cramped and somewhat childish scrawl, the middle line far larger than the other two:

Hooves•Claws•Shoes

SHINED

-5¢-

"Milton," Nick replied warmly as he walked over to the cub, Judy following curiously, "How's business?"

"Not so good," Milton replied, his ears drooping despondently.

Judy wasn't particularly surprised; the train station was, as it had been when she arrived, almost completely deserted. The only other mammals she could see besides the stationmaster still thumbing through a newspaper and a porter loitering by the tracks smoking a cigarette were a traveling salesmammal, his sample case on the bench next to him, and a mother and her six piglets all dressed in Sunday best that looked as though the mother had sewn the clothes herself. The station had been designed, perhaps optimistically, for many more mammals, and there were nearly a dozen unoccupied benches. "Say," the wolf asked, tilting his head to one side as he looked up at Wilde and took in his clothes and carpet bag with a puzzled look on his face, "What're you doing here, Mr. Wilcox? Are you taking a trip?"

Wilde gave Judy a brief glance, "Oh, I've got some business in Zootopia with Ms. Carrots here," he said vaguely.

The wolf gave Judy a curious look; she guessed he probably hadn't seen many, if any, bunnies before. Perhaps the wolf had caught some of the annoyance that must have shown at Wilde's continued refusal to use her name, or perhaps he had caught something from Wilde's tone that she had missed, because his lip started trembling and he ran forward, wrapping his arms around Nick's leg.

"You'll come back though, right?" the little wolf asked, and Judy could hear the quaver of tears in his voice as he hugged Nick's leg tightly, "You're the best teacher I ever had."

"I sure hope so, pal," Nick said, bending over to soothingly pat the wolf's back while looking over his head and into Judy's eyes.

She blinked. A knot of guilt had formed in her stomach that she didn't seem to be able to shake, no matter how much she told herself not to feel sympathy for him. Because he's a fox? a voice that sounded like her father's asked inside her head. She dismissed it; Wilde was a criminal, after all, it had nothing to do with his species. He had worked for Zootopia's most notorious gangster for five years, and in those five years every crime that Mr. Big had carried out or ordered—every robbery, every murder, every beating—was because the fox hadn't given up the shrew sooner. She also had no doubt that Wilde had only turned on his boss to save his own miserable tail, and as far as she was concerned it didn't matter if he had become an upstanding citizen while under government protection, it was his duty to help stop the wave of gang murders. Judy had meant it when she said that she would protect him, and she had been lying when she had threatened to send him to a mining town, which she didn't have the authority or ability to do any more than she could have sent him to the moon. Still, the uneasy feeling that she was doing something wrong refused to dissipate, and she was relieved for the distraction that Nick provided when he pulled himself out of the sobbing wolf cub's embrace.

Once his paws were free, Nick took out a dime. "What do you say you give me a shine while I wait?"

Milton's teary eyes widened. "You sure, Mr. Wilcox?"

"Pos-i-lutely," the fox drawled, giving the wolf the coin, "Just don't spend it all in one place."

The wolf gave a watery laugh, his tail starting to wag as he opened his wooden box and pulled out his tools of the trade to shine the claws of Wilde's feet. "No chance, Mr. Wilcox," he said, "I've got to save up."

"What are you saving up for?" Judy asked.

"I'm gonna go to flight school and be an even better pilot than Lindboargh!" the cub said proudly, drawing himself up to his full height and puffing out his narrow chest, "I'm gonna fly around the world, just me!"

Judy beamed at the cub's words. "I'm sure you will," she said, "You can do anything you set your mind to."

It was the belief that she held most fervently, that anyone really could become anything that they wanted. It was something that she had to believe, because to admit otherwise would be to give in to everyone who said it was impossible for a bunny to become a police officer. She didn't consider herself to have failed at her dream; it was just taking longer than she had thought it would. The deal that Bogo had offered burned bright in her mind; becoming a police officer was almost within her grasp and she would not let anything, not even an uncooperative fox, stop her.

Nick gave Judy a thoughtful look, but he addressed his remark to Milton. "Just remember," he advised, "Pilots aren't the only ones who need math."

The wolf laughed, but did not look up from his work. "You say everyone needs math."

Nick nodded sagely. "It's true."

Judy didn't want to speak about the case in front of the little wolf, so she pulled files out of her briefcase and started reviewing them herself while waiting for Milton to finish. Unfortunately, the cub seemed dedicated to giving Wilde's claws the greatest shine that a fox had ever experienced. She couldn't guess if it was because he wanted to feel as though he had earned the five cent tip that Wilde had provided or if the wolf simply wanted to drag out his conversation with the fox, but they spent nearly half an hour chatting. Milton was enthusiastically updating Nick on all of the goings-on around town, which Judy suspected that he already knew; Nick kept his responses short and frequently asked Milton to elaborate, all while giving Judy the occasional smug look. Milton took so long doing Wilde's claws, which she had to admit he really had shined to a mirror gloss, that the train pulled into the station only moments after he finished.

The train was mostly empty, which wasn't too surprising considering the time of day and how empty the Podunk train station had been. Although Judy had paid for third-class tickets, she was still able to find a completely empty compartment that, while lacking any sort of glamour, would do perfectly for getting down to business.

"Did you know Thomas Carajou?" she asked Nick directly.

The fox, who had turned to look out the window to watch as Podunk vanished from view, turned to look at her, his gaze half-lidded. "I knew him well enough to avoid him," he said without enthusiasm, "They called him Crazy for a reason."

Judy pulled a notepad and a pencil out of her briefcase. "Who would want him dead?"

"You mean, besides everyone who ever spoke to him?"

The fox seemed to be getting some kind of perverse pleasure out of being as unhelpful as possible.

"That's—" Judy started, before cutting herself off.

She looked down at her notepad, over the notes made in her meticulously neat writing, before starting over. "Look, the sooner you start helping me, the sooner you can go back to Podunk."

Wilde gave her a withering look. "Is that so?" he asked, "The government promised that if I gave up Big and kept my nose clean, they'd never bother me again. Look where that got me."

He waved his paws to capture the train car. It was built to a scale slightly larger than either bunny or fox, but room was about the only comfort it had. The wooden body of the car creaked and groaned with the train's motion, and the seats weren't even upholstered. "On a suicide mission to the city."

Judy swallowed another pang of guilt and chose her next words carefully. "Mr. Big might still be running things from his cell."

It was the truth, as far as she knew. It did seem at least possible that the little shrew was still in contact with his old gang, but Wilde seemed unimpressed. "I suppose I need to get him in, what, double prison? When does this end, rabbit?"

"One week," she said, "I promise you, whether we catch Carajou's murderer in a week or not, I'll— I'll take you back to Podunk myself."

She said it with all the sincerity that she could muster, meaning every word. Wilde sighed, but seemed to grudgingly accept her promise. "Carajou didn't have any friends. Just a list of enemies as long as your ears. What else do you have?"

Judy could work with grudging help, and her own enthusiasm kindled, spent the next three hours going over all the details that she did have, starting with all of the murders she had been able to pull files for and the murder of Carajou, although she left out the details of her own arrest, noting only the names of the officers who had shown up and gone along with Mr. Quill's interests. Heavens only knew what Nick would have gotten out of that one, but once she was finished going over the details he had stroked his muzzle thoughtfully, leaning against the hard and scratched back of the seat.

She waited impatiently as he seemed to consider something, her foot tapping out a rhythm that might have made the train car shake, although it was impossible to tell with the train already in motion. At last, he spoke. "What were they serving in the Thief of the Night?"

"I don't know," she admitted.

Judy's only experience with alcohol, before it had been made illegal, was knowing what beer and wine looked and smelled like. "It was clear."

Nick rolled his eyes. "Don't they teach you Prohis anything?" he asked, apparently rhetorically because he continued, "No one bothers to run gin or vodka across the border, so it must have been made by moonshiners. That's the way Quill was running the club when he was paying protection money to the Zootopia Outfit."

Judy realized where he was going with his train of thought. "So he might be using the same source still," she said.

She frowned. "How does that help?"

Nick gave her a wide smile. "It means that it's business as usual for Mr. Quill," he said, "The Thief of the Night isn't the only club that he owns. It's not even his favorite; he barely goes there."

Judy's heart leaped in excitement. The prickly club owner hadn't seemed surprised by the murder. Perhaps his reaction really had been annoyance at the impact that the murder had on the club's business, but perhaps he knew more than he let on. Certainly he was worth talking to, even if the police thought that he wasn't. "So where does he like to spend his time?"

"La Porte Verte," Nick said, the syllables flowing off his tongue with a grace that Judy supposed was due to his time in Purris, "I'll take you there tomorrow."

"No," Judy said, doing the mental math.

The train would arrive back in Zootopia around nine in the evening, which would probably give them plenty of time to visit the club. "You'll take me there tonight."

La Porte Verte was located in the single nicest neighborhood that Judy had ever visited in Zootopia's city center. The buildings were mostly tall and proud, but even the shorter ones were immaculately kept. There was no garbage on the sidewalks and the few mammals that they passed were all well-dressed. The streets were mostly quiet, but the few cars that passed were all high-end luxury models, including two Camellacs and a brand new LaSow. The restaurants and storefronts all looked like they were far and away outside what Judy could afford, and La Porte Verte looked like it belonged in that company.

The club was set in a magnificent stone building with ivy tastefully climbing up the walls, and the narrow strip of land between the sidewalk and the building had been artfully cultivated with spectacularly blooming plants. The door of the club was absolutely massive; four bunnies abreast would have been able to walk through it without their elbows touching, and it was at least twice as tall as Judy was. The door was evenly painted a brilliant green that showed no signs of drips or cracks, and the thick planks that made it up were interrupted only by a sliding peephole and an enormous brass knocker set in the middle of the door; there was no doorknob or keyhole visible. Next to the door, illuminated by a small electric light, was a metal plaque that had turned verdigris, on which were neatly inscribed the following words:

LA PORTE VERTE CLUB

MEMBERS ONLY

Nick seized the knocker, having to stretch a little to reach it, and rapped out a single long knock, two short knocks, another long knock, one short knock, and after a brief pause two more short knocks. The pattern sounded vaguely familiar to Judy's ear, but before she had the chance to think about where she might have heard it before, the peephole slid open, and a pair of furious brown eyes glared out from inside the club. "Members only," the mammal on the other side of the door snapped, in a deep and raspy voice, "Scram."

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?" Nick asked, taking off his hat and holding it beseechingly in his paws as he looked up into the eyes of the mammal on the other side of the door.

The eyes, which were the only visible part of the mammal through the peephole, widened in surprise. "Wilde? I heard you was dead!"

Nick gave a little sniff and rolled his hat back onto his head in a single smooth motion. "The reports of my death, so on and so forth," he said, spinning a paw in a vague gesture, "Can you let us in, Leroy?"

Leroy's eyes narrowed suspiciously down at Judy. "Hold up, Wilde. Who's the bunny?"

Nick turned and looked down at Judy, favoring her with a grin that struck her as uncomfortably toothy. "Oh, her?" he said, jerking a thumb in Judy's direction as he turned back to face Leroy, "She's a Prohi."

Author's Notes: The title of this chapter, "Waiting for a Train," comes from a Jimmie Rodgers country song from 1928, in what is the first (but not last) instance of me picking a song from after 1927. It's got a very distinctive yodeling bridge that I love the sound of. Give it a listen!

The clothes that Nick is described as wearing are true to 1920s fashion, but would be somewhat out of date by 1927. He would have been at the height of fashion in 1925, but he wouldn't have had the ability or a reason to keep his wardrobe up to date for the two years he spent in Podunk. As this story takes place in the summer of 1927, a straw boater was the kind of hat that would be appropriate for the season; felt hats were a winter fashion, and in many parts of the US there was a certain date at which men were supposed to switch hats. In 1922, there was actually an eight day riot in Manhattan called the Straw Hat Riot that started with men having their straw hats removed and stomped because they were wearing them after they were supposed to have switched to felt hats and escalated into roaming gangs administering beatings on the basis of hats.

"Bank's closed," is 1920s slang that means that there won't be any kissing or making out; it would be more typically said by a woman, but Nick is very clearly teasing Judy by choosing to interpret her surprise as admiration for his looks.

Taking someone for a ride is used as a euphemism today to mean to cheat them, but in the 1920s it was a euphemism for taking someone someplace remote to kill them, which is the second meaning that Nick's going for.

"Posilutely" is a portmanteau of "positive" and "absolutely" and was real 1920s slang. I figure that, while shoes are relatively uncommon in the world of Zootopia, mammals are probably still vain enough to get their hooves or claws shined, which I suppose would be rather like a pedicure. Lindboargh is a pun on Charles Lindbergh, the American aviator who became the first person to fly from North American to mainland Europe non-stop on May 21, 1927. Lindbergh was pretty much completely unknown prior to making his crossing, but his success catapulted him to international fame and fortune; he was a household name and anyone who had any dream of being a pilot would certainly be familiar with him. Incidentally, the first pilot to fly around the world solo (albeit with many stops) was Wiley Post in 1933. It wouldn't be until 1949 that an airplane (Lucky Lady II, a B-50 Superfortress) circled the world nonstop, albeit with in-air refueling. The Rutan Voyager in 1986 became the first airplane to circle the world nonstop without in-air refueling.

The steps that Judy takes to start the truck are true to a real Model T. Unlike modern cars, where you can simply turn a key in the ignition (or just hit a button if you've got push button start), the procedure for starting a Model T requires setting the ignition timing and throttle, engaging the choke to set a rich fuel/air mixture, and manually cranking the engine. When cranking the engine, it is important to hold the handle properly, with your thumb under the handle instead of over it as feels natural; it means that your hand will be thrown away from the crank instead of getting caught by it if it backfires, which could easily break bones. Driving a Model T is also quite a bit different from driving a modern car, but I won't get into that now; it's enough that Judy's experience with a farm truck is sufficient to allow her to drive any Model T.

"La Porte Verte" is French for "the Green Door," which is why the door to the club is green. Considering that Nick spent three years abroad, his ability to pronounce it properly shouldn't be a surprise.

As previously mentioned, Camellac is a pun on Cadillac. New for this chapter is LaSow, a pun on the luxury carmaker LaSalle, which no longer exists. LaSalle was new to the market in 1927, and the cars were under the General Motors umbrella, the same as Cadillac. The Great Depression killed the brand's ability to build prestige, and with buyers greatly preferring the cachet of Cadillac, GM shuttered the division in 1940.

The pattern that Nick knocks on the door to the club is "Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits." The musical flourish was used since at least 1899, and has been used as an identifying knock as well as in a number of songs as the last notes. Nick starts, but does not finish, the quote attributed to Mark Twain, "The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated."

As always, I appreciate all feedback, positive or negative. Thanks for reading!