Judy woke up to the distant shrill ringing of an alarm clock somewhere far away above her. As her ears immediately perked upwards at the sound, they brushed past something warm and fuzzy, and she twisted her head around. She had a moment of disorientation before remembering where and how she had fallen asleep what could have only been a few hours ago. She was still partially on Nick's lap, his arm still loosely draped around her shoulder and his tail curled around almost touching her chest.
However, at some point he had sprawled against the sofa in an impressively boneless manner; the way his spine curled with the back of the sofa made it seem as though he was made of rubber. It had been Nick's chin that Judy's ears had brushed against as they stood up, and his head was tilted back, his jaw partially open and his tongue lolling out one side to a truly surprising length, a thin ribbon of drool running past his gleaming teeth and down his neck. His eyes were still closed, but Judy could see his eyelids flicker as he groggily reacted to the alarm clock, his brow moving slowly up and down as his ears twitched.
It was about the single most undignified pose Judy had ever seen, and she could feel a small smile spread across her face as he muttered something that might have been, "Five more minutes."
Judy jumped off the sofa, watching as Nick's tail swished back and forth slowly at her sudden absence. "I'll get the alarm, OK?" she said.
Nick nodded, but otherwise gave no outwards sign of consciousness as she made her way up the stairs to his bedroom. Judy was somewhat surprised that Nick had set an alarm, and while she was grateful that he had apparently heeded her desire to get an early start it was just another one of the pieces that made up the puzzle that was her partner. Judy couldn't help but turn the thought over in her mind as she made her way closer to his room, the house lit up in the soft golden light of dawn. Nick cared about helping her solve the murder of Thomas Carajou; of that she no longer had any doubt. She wasn't nearly as confident about how he felt about her, though.
He had showed her a kindness that was truly remarkable in retrospect after her nightmare, but the question of why was one that she just couldn't answer. Only hours before comforting her, Nick had pulled away suddenly while they had been dancing. He had been very close then, so close that she had felt his warm breath against her face and his peculiarly musky scent had filled her nose. As Judy opened the door to Nick's bedroom, she suddenly lost her train of thought, the question of what he had meant to say before noticing the scratches on her face suddenly irrelevant.
Unlike the other rooms of the house, Nick's bedroom actually still showed the signs that someone had lived there. The scent of Nick was far stronger in the bedroom than it was anywhere else in the house, almost as strong as it was on his own body, but Judy was only dimly aware of the smell as she took in the room. The walls, it was clear, had been absolutely covered in photographs at one point in time, and they still were, to a large extent. The gaps where frames had hung stood out like missing teeth. The same island-themed wallpaper that lined Nick's parlor showed a similar distinct difference in the intensity of the colors where it hadn't faded as much where the pictures had once been displayed.
The master bedroom wasn't too much larger than Nick's room of records, and the bed that was tucked into one corner of the room, near a window covered with dusty curtains that let only a little light in, wasn't as large as she would have guessed. Although Nick had left the bed unmade when he had made his way down the stairs to see why she had cried out, Judy could see that it was covered with a crazy quilt that clashed spectacularly with the wallpaper. The quilt was made out of a stunning variety of fabrics of all different colors and materials, everything from pink silk to midnight blue corduroy, and while there was no discernible pattern or logic to how it had been sewn the craftsmanship on display was incredible. Although Judy's own mother and many of her relatives and the other bunnies in Bunnyburrows quilted, Judy had never seen one so well-made. The quilt was covered with delicate embroidery of birds and flowers done in a variety of colors, each stitch impossibly neat, and Judy found herself wondering if Nick's mother had been the one to make it.
In the opposite corner of the room from the bed, near the door to a large closet, was an armchair that looked identical to the one in the parlor, although somewhat more well-worn. There was a beautiful standing lamp on one side of the chair with an elaborately made shade of iridescent glass, and on the other side was a short table covered with a neat stack of thick books on accounting with brightly colored ribbons of silk serving as bookmarks sticking out here and there. The closet along the wall near the chair exuded the powerful smell of mothballs, and behind the partially-closed door Judy could see the sleeve of a darkly colored suit jacket. Next to the bed was a small, plain nightstand with a hexagonal and vaguely snowflake-shaped doily on top of it. A glass of water, a wallet, a lone key on a ring, and a dusty alarm clock were on top of the doily, the alarm clock ringing so insistently that it was shaking the water in the glass.
Judy quickly shut the alarm clock off, seeing that it was 5:30 in the morning, and then took a closer look at some of the pictures on the walls before leaving the room. Although she obviously couldn't see the pictures that had been taken down, the ones remaining on the walls seemed to say something about Nick. She thought that they might have been taken in Purris, as she didn't recognize any of the buildings and the architecture somehow didn't look like Zootopia. It did look as though the buildings had been the focus of the photographs, not the mammals going about their business in the foreground of the shots. The buildings seemed to be clubs or cafes, tucked between taller and grander buildings, and Judy wondered what photographs Nick had considered important enough to take with him to Podunk and what it said about the ones that had been left behind.
With the alarm silenced, she could hear Nick shifting around downstairs and she pushed her thoughts aside and made her way back down the stairs. Nick was sitting upright on the sofa, stretching his arms wide as he yawned, which exposed every pearly tooth in his mouth. When he saw her, he seemed perfectly alert, although his bright green eyes were half-lidded as usual. "Good morning, Carrots," he said as he finished his yawn, "No more bad dreams?"
"No," Judy said quickly, and it was the truth.
Her sleep had been dreamless, and she felt as though she had to show him her appreciation. "Thank you," she said, looking him in the eye, "I really—"
Nick waved her thanks away, quickly cutting her off. "Don't get soft on me now, Carrots. I thought you prohis had a reputation to maintain."
He smiled, clearly teasing, and Judy thought that he might have been a little embarrassed at her gratitude, although there wasn't anything in his expression that she could have pointed out to support the idea. Maybe it was just what she wanted to see—or what she expected to see—but if he was going to tease, she could give it right back to him. "We do," Judy said, "But what about singers?"
"Singers?" Nick asked, arching one eyebrow in apparent confusion, "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."
Judy approached until she was standing right next to him. Since Nick was sitting on the sofa, they were very nearly on each other's eye level, and she looked him dead in the eye. "I mean," she said, "That if teaching doesn't work out, maybe you can try a career in singing."
"Ah," Nick said, nodding slowly, "You must have been dreaming. A good one, I'm sure, if I was in it and fire wasn't."
He sounded entirely self-satisfied, his tone full of its usual smugness, but Judy again thought that perhaps he was covering embarrassment, and she pushed again before even realizing that the words were coming out. "I'll drag you up on stage when this is all done, if that's what it takes to hear you sing again," she said.
Nick's smile widened. "Only if it's a duet," he said, "When we paint the town red, of course. I have a very nice tux I can dig out. You'll have to get a dress covered in sequins, I think. Something..."
He moved his paws through the air in a vague hourglass shape that left no doubt as to what he was imagining, and Judy could feel her ears flushing at the idea of squeezing into something like the dress that Isabel had worn when they met her. The idea of standing on a stage next to a tuxedo-wearing Nick under the harsh glare of a spotlight in front of a crowd filled her mind, and Judy could feel her heart rate pick up a little at the thought. Nick's smile seemed to widen another degree at his victory, and he stood up briskly. "You can have the shower first," he said, "I'll see if I can scrounge a breakfast out of what I have here. Just try not to use all the hot water. Or..."
He let the word hang in the air for a moment, looking her up and down slowly before continuing. "Or maybe that won't be a problem, hmm?"
Judy blinked, unsure of what he was trying to imply, but let the point go, and went to the boxes of clothes that they had purchased the previous day, digging out something that would be appropriate to wear while Nick sauntered off to the kitchen, cheerfully humming something that Judy didn't recognize.
Judy stepped out of the bathroom after a quick shower, having changed into a plain outfit not unlike the ones she had typically worn into the Bureau office although it had been significantly more expensive. The neckline of Judy's white blouse plunged a bit more than she would have liked, and the skirt had a boldly geometric pattern of white and black lines and shapes rather than the tartan that she had favored, but the ensemble was comfortable enough and hid the worst of the damage to her fur from the fire. Judy had taken especial care to ensure that the scratches on her cheek in particular weren't visible before she left the bathroom, and she made her way to the kitchen.
An odd but not unpleasant smell filled the air, and Nick was standing at the stove top, wearing a plain white apron over his pajamas, cooking something. His ears flicked in Judy's direction as she entered the room, and he turned. "Perfect timing," he said, "This is just about done."
"What is it?" Judy asked, looking at the counter that was next to the stove as she tried to figure it out.
She knew that anything perishable would have long-since gone bad in Nick's house, which meant that the only things he could possibly be cooking with—unless he wanted to give them ptomaine poisoning—were canned goods. Sure enough, there were several empty cans lined up on the counter, but he had peeled the labels off and Judy couldn't tell what had gone into the dish, even when he turned around with the frying pan so she could see his work in progress. It was a strangely grayish and brown mass of ingredients that had been coarsely chopped. "Hash," Nick said simply, turning to continue cooking it, "Potatoes, onions, and carrots."
He shrugged, his back still to her. "I was a bit limited by what I had in cans."
Judy found herself glad that he couldn't see her skeptical expression, as the appearance of the dish didn't exactly inspire confidence. When he deemed it complete a few minutes later, serving it up onto plates alongside mugs of instant coffee, the hash had turned a more even brown. The canned carrots had apparently been old enough to lose most of their natural orange coloration, and the vegetables were crisp on the outside and somewhat mealy on the inside, but the flavor—at least, the flavor that Judy could taste under the salt and whatever else Nick had used for seasoning—wasn't exactly bad. It wasn't exactly good, either, and Judy found herself taking frequent sips at her coffee.
Nick had opened a can of sardines to go along with his portion, and he ate the little salted fish with much more apparent enthusiasm than he did his hash. "If this investigation goes on much longer, I'm going to have to get some groceries," he said, pushing the remains of his cooking around.
Judy was relieved that he was under no illusions as to the quality of his cooking, and she nodded her agreement. "I can take care of the dishes while you get ready," Judy offered.
Nick wiped at his mouth with a napkin before setting it down. "Can you even reach the sink? I don't think I've got a stool," he asked.
Judy glanced over, realizing that he was correct as she looked at the sink in the kitchen. The counters had all been sized for a fox, not a bunny, and were awkwardly tall for her. His dining room table and the chairs around it, at least, weren't overly high, and Judy stood up and gestured at her chair. "I can use this," she said, and Nick shrugged his acceptance.
"Thank you, then," he said, "Much obliged."
With that, he left her to the dishes. Nick, she noted, went upstairs to his room for clothes rather than the boxes of clothes that they had purchased; his apparent disdain for department store clothes was seemingly genuine, and she supposed that since he didn't have to impress Fru-Fru he preferred what he had left behind. There wasn't much to clean up, and in short order Judy was done and left with nothing more to do than sit back down at the table, contemplating her coffee. They had eaten breakfast mostly in silence, and yet she had still enjoyed it. She almost regretted that, as soon as Nick finished cleaning up and getting dressed that they would be out the door, and she remembered suddenly what Nick had asked her right before promising to show her the city once the case was done.
He had asked her if she had ever done anything fun in the city, and at the time she had said that the answer was no. Now, though, as she sat at the dining room table, her coffee going cold in her paws, she realized that she hadn't been right. She had enjoyed something in the city—she had enjoyed her time with Nick.
When Nick emerged from the bathroom, impeccably dressed in a dark, slim suit he had paired with a green silk tie different from the one she had seen him wearing before, Judy thought to ask him about the mammal he knew in the DMV as they made their way to the garage. Nick sighed, fidgeting with his tie. "Look," he said, "You have to keep in mind how many cars the DMV has to keep track of, OK? Gordon's good, but this might not be very fast."
It was the first time Nick had mentioned the name of the mammal that he knew, and Judy dug out the list that they had received from Mr. Otterton, scanning it before finding the only Gordon on the list. "Gordon Acedia?" she asked.
Nick nodded, already opening the garage door. "That's him. He used to be a bootlegger, you know. A real demon on wheels, from what I hear."
Judy paused as she climbed into the Buchatti. "And he works at the DMV?" she asked, somewhat incredulously.
Nick shrugged. "Don't you government employees have good pensions?" he asked, "Maybe he's just hedging his bets."
Judy shook her head. "The pension's not that good," she said, thinking of her own pitiful pay.
With that, she started the car, and any further conversation would have to wait. It didn't take long for Nick to guide her to the DMV, which was in an unassuming building that still managed to put the Bureau of Prohibition office to shame. The Department of Mammal Vehicles was a relatively narrow, but extremely long, building that was an entire city block long in one direction but not even a third of that in the other. There were a number of shops perpendicular to it, from a notary public to a bodega that seemed to specialize in various kinds of leaves. The DMV itself, though, was rather plain and mostly windowless, simply built of brick and two stories tall. After Judy found the nearest street parking and they walked in, Judy was pleased to see that they were early enough that there weren't any lines, although it probably also helped that it was a weekday and most mammals would be either already at their jobs or getting ready to go.
The interior of the building was as bland as the exterior. The lighting was neither bright nor dim, and that middling quality extended to seemingly every aspect of the place. There was a relatively small waiting area with a number of scuffed wooden benches of all different sizes, and a long counter set up like the world's most lackluster bank divided the employees from the waiting area. The DMV employees could stand, like bank tellers, at spaces along the counter with cheaply set up dividers of plain wood just as battered as the benches. The floor was white linoleum, turning gray and dull near the counter where countless feet had walked or stood over the years. At one end of the counter, next to a series of steps so that mammals of just about any height would be able to reach it, there was a machine that had a slip of paper protruding from it under a sign that read "Please take a number and wait for it to be called."
Since there weren't any customers waiting, Judy ignored the ticket dispensing machine and directly approached the lone employee currently at the counter. The bored-looking llama towered over her and Nick. His wool was tangled and somewhat yellowed, which Judy guessed was cigarette smoke due to the powerful smell that seemed to linger around him and his cheap suit. "Excuse me," Judy began politely, "Could we—"
"Do you have a number?" the llama interrupted in a monotone.
Judy looked up at him, not entirely sure if he was being serious. There wasn't a single other mammal waiting their turn, and the llama clearly hadn't been doing anything before they went up to the counter. "I'm sorry," Judy began, "But—"
"Can't help you without a number," the llama interrupted.
Judy looked down at the ticket taker machine, then back at the llama. She sincerely hoped that he wasn't Gordon Acedia, but he had showed absolutely no sign of recognition at Nick's presence. Judy ran to the ticket taker, grabbed a number, and ran back to the llama, slapping the number down on the counter. "Yes, I have a number," Judy said in as even a tone as she could manage.
The llama looked down at the slip of paper, and then back up at Judy. "This number hasn't been called yet," he said, "You're going to have to wait."
Although Nick seemed particularly amused by the llama's obstruction, Judy had enough, and pulled her badge out. "Look," she said, "I'm Agent Hopps, Bureau of Prohibition. I'm here on official Bureau business. Is—"
The llama's expression suddenly changed. He tugged at the collar of his suit, and any trace of boredom was suddenly gone from his voice and expression, and he interrupted Judy yet again. "I don't know anything about any booze, OK? Anyone tell you I got blotto last Friday is a liar, that's God's honest truth."
The llama's voice had gained a whining quality, and the pitch of his voice and the speed at which he spoke only increased. "I really need this job, Miss—I mean, Agent Hopps. I can't get Edisoned, I can't."
His eyes were starting to tear up, and Nick reached over the counter, pulling the llama's own handkerchief from where it had been messily stuffed into the pocket of his suit and offered it to him. The llama took it wordlessly, taking in a deep shuddering breath as he dabbed at his eyes. "We're not here about you," Judy said, trying to muster up some sympathy in her voice for the previously maliciously bureaucratic mammal.
"Really?" the llama asked.
"Really," Nick said.
"Is Gordon Acedia in?"
The llama's face twisted in confusion. "Gordon Acedia?" he asked, "There's no Gordon who works here. Do you mean Priscilla Acedia?"
"Good for Gordon," Nick said quietly, smiling to himself, and then spoke more loudly, "Sure, that's who we meant."
The llama's relief was almost palpable, and he almost stumbled and fell as he opened the gate dividing the area for customers from the area for employees. "She works in the archive room," he said, pointing at a door behind the counter labeled "UNIT RECORD EQUIPMENT ROOM."
"She's definitely in today," the llama said, his words coming out in a babbling rush, "I know she did. Come in, I mean. I saw her come in. Anything else you need you just ask, OK?"
"We just need to talk to her," Nick said, offering the llama his most charming smile.
"Thank you," the llama said, and he looked about ready to collapse in gratitude that they were apparently done with him, "Thank you. I'm really sorry but we've got rules and I've got to—"
Judy looked up at him, and while she made no effort to intimidate him, he instantly fell silent, nervously fumbling with his fingers. "Sorry," he murmured.
"Something to keep in mind for the next mammals who show up. Isn't that right, pal?" Nick asked pleasantly.
The llama nodded so vigorously that his head seemed liable to fall off, and despite herself Judy had to repress a smile as she followed Nick through the door.
The inside of the Unit Record Equipment Room turned out to be what consumed the vast majority of the DMV's footprint. The walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with massive banks of filing cabinets, although the individual drawers were quite a bit narrower than what Judy was used to. The center of the room wasn't empty, either; there were still more filing cabinets, with perhaps two feet of clearance between each one, that stretched off into the distance. Towards the back of the room, there was a small area free of filing cabinets, but the space was taken up by a staircase to the second floor and a machine that Judy couldn't identify. It looked as though it had been built into a massive wooden desk, and it was connected by tangled masses of wires to what looked like tables covered with metal boxes. The desk had an array of dozens of identically-sized dials on a large wooden segment that stood atop the desk's surface, which was mostly empty except for what looked like a complicated press and several small rectangular pieces of paper.
Near the mass of equipment was a much more ordinary-looking desk, which had a typewriter and a mass of paperwork on top of it, along with a few framed photographs and a name plate that identified the sloth behind the desk as Priscilla Acedia. She was typing with both incredible slowness and apparently incredible concentration, because it took a long moment after Judy said, "Excuse me?" for the sloth to look up.
Priscilla's eyes were magnified behind thick tortoiseshell glasses, and the fur atop her head had been sharply styled into a modern bob. She wore a sensible blouse and skirt, and the only ornamentation she wore was a plain gold wedding band. "Yes?" she said slowly as she looked at Judy.
"Hello, Priscilla," Nick said brightly, "It's good to see you again."
Priscilla's head turned so slowly that it was almost agonizing, and her eyes widened in recognition when she saw Nick with equal slowness. "Nick!" she said, "It's... good... to... see... you... too."
Nick leaned over on her desk. "This is Agent Hopps with the Bureau of Prohibition," he said, gesturing at Judy.
As Priscilla's face started working its way into an expression of concern, Nick hastily added, "It's nothing about Gordon. We're trying to find out who owns a car."
Priscilla's face relaxed again. "Certainly..." she said, "I'd... be... glad... to... help... you..."
"It's a 1927 Camellac Series 314 Imperial Sedan," Judy jumped in quickly.
"Find... a... car," Priscilla finished her sentence placidly.
"It's a 1927 Camellac Series 314 Imperial Sedan," Judy repeated.
Priscilla nodded with an agonizing slowness, and then wrote down the words, one painful letter at a time in a neat Palmer script, on a scrap of paper.
"This... will... just... take... a... minute," Priscilla said, standing up slowly and shuffling off towards the banks of filing cabinets.
There were a couple of chairs in front of Priscilla's desk, and Nick sat down, gesturing for Judy to do the same. "Like I said, this might take a while," he said.
Judy reluctantly took a seat and watched as Nick picked up one of the picture frames on the sloth's desk. It was three frames, hinged together, and he showed her the pictures. "Would you look at that," Nick said, "Wonders never cease."
The first picture showed Priscilla and a male sloth sitting in front of the odd desk covered with dials that they were currently only sitting a few feet away from. The middle picture showed Priscilla and the same male sloth on what had to be their wedding day, her in a frilly dress and him in a tuxedo, beaming as they stood in front of a multi-tiered cake. The last picture, though, is what Judy guessed had prompted Nick's reaction. The male sloth was sitting in a car not too dissimilar from Nick's Buchatti, wearing a helmet and a set of goggles. He was also holding aloft an enormous trophy, and Priscilla, wearing a stylishly sheer dress, was leaning over the car with her arms wrapped around his shoulders. "They were the only ones who understood any of this," Nick said, gesturing at the banks of equipment, "But it looks like ol' Gordon's a racecar driver now and a married mammal."
Nick shook his head and chuckled. "I never thought he'd settle down. Or that he'd quit the DMV."
Judy chanced a glance and saw that Priscilla was slowly shuffling back towards them, a box with a bunch of cards with holes punched in them seemingly at random sticking out of it firmly grasped in her claws. "Do you know what all this does?" Judy asked Nick, trying to distract herself.
Nick shrugged. "Some kind of index of everything the DMV has on file," he said, "That machine can read the holes in those cards somehow."
Judy watched as Priscilla carefully—or perhaps she was simply so slow that everything she did was careful—fed the stack of cards into one of the metal boxes sitting atop a table connected to the main desk, and then read the resulting values off the dials. It meant nothing to Judy, but it apparently told Priscilla something, because the sloth trundled off again. "It's faster than looking through all of these ourselves," Nick offered, taking in the rows of filing cabinets with his paws extended.
Judy tried to see the bright side of things, but her foot was already tapping with impatience. Nick noticed her leg bouncing, and turned to Judy. "Just don't make conversation and we'll be fine," he said with a smile, "They are pretty good at this."
Judy sighed. "I hate waiting," she said.
"Really?" Nick asked, "I hadn't noticed."
Judy rolled her eyes at him. "Ha ha," she said with all the sarcasm she could muster.
"Any dream worth having is worth waiting for," Nick said, "Or do you disagree?"
Judy considered her response. The only reason she had become a prohibition agent in the first place was because she was willing to keep working on her dream, despite the additional time it would take, rather than giving up on it. "I can wait," she said at last, "Just... Not forever."
Nick nodded agreeably. "So when would you give up?" he asked.
The automatic response—I won't—was nearly out of her mouth before Judy bit it down, considering the question. If she still hadn't been able to join the Police Academy when she was thirty, would she still keep working towards her dream? What about forty? Or fifty? At what point would she throw in the towel? "I don't know," Judy said.
The vague idea had already started to take shape in her head that maybe, if the police force didn't want her, there were still plenty of other ways she could make the world a better place. The idea was frightening, in its own way, and perhaps Nick saw some of her thoughts on her face, because he gave her a gentle smile. "Well, with luck you'll never have to find out."
Judy was still mulling that thought over when Priscilla finally returned, a slip of paper in her fingers. "There... are... two... 1927... Camellac... Series... 314... Imperial... Sedans... registered... in... the... city."
Judy had spent most of Priscilla's statement desperately wishing that the car model had a shorter name, and she eagerly took the sheet when Priscilla offered it.
Priscilla had given her a piece of paper with two names and addresses recorded on it, underneath a carefully-written header reading "Owners, 1927 Camellac Series 314 Imperial Sedans." Judy recognized the family name of the first name on the paper; Henry Vanderbeaver had to be a member of the wealthy and powerful family of shipping magnates, but the name meant nothing else to her. The second name, though, she immediately knew. There, in Priscilla's neat writing, were the words "Leodore Lionheart."
Author's Notes:
The title of this chapter, "Linger Awhile," comes from a 1923 Paul Whiteman song. I chose it since it works for two different parts of this chapter—Judy's desire to continue to spending time with Nick, and their forced waiting at the DMV.
Crazy quilts are a sort of American folk art, inspired by exhibitions that took place in the late 1800s of English embroidery and Japanese silk-screening and pottery. The embroidery obviously owes its existence to the English inspiration, and the use of irregular pieces of fabric reflects the cracked glaze seen in Japanese pottery. A well-made quilt can last a very long time, and Nick's could easily be more than a decade old.
Nick's bedroom lamp being made out of iridescent glass is a piece that would have been very much in style in the 1920s. Tiffany lamps—lamps manufactured by Louis Comfort Tiffany's design studio with shades handmade out of leaded glass in a variety of patterns, from geometric designs to flowers—were extremely popular among the wealthy at the time, and advancements in glass working techniques meant that beautiful lamps could be made that were reasonably affordable for those who couldn't get a Tiffany lamp. Nick's lamp could actually be a Tiffany lamp, considering his previous wealth, although I think it's understandable that Judy wouldn't recognize this.
Judy's clothes are pretty stylish for the 1920s, when bold geometric prints started seeing increasing use in a variety of facets of life, including clothes. Plunging necklines, of course, have to be thought of in the context of the day; a blouse from 1927 would not be even close to risqué today.
Ptomaine poisoning is an old-fashioned way of referring to food poisoning that's largely fallen out of favor. The word "ptomaine" refers to alkaloids, which were believed to be the method of action by which bacteria in spoiled food caused illness. It's now known that the symptoms of food poisoning are largely caused by the bacteria themselves, not by the alkaloids that they produce as they break food down, which explains why the term has fallen out of scientific usage and is becoming increasingly rare in conversational use.
Canned foods will generally last two to five years before spoiling, although some foods (particularly tomatoes and other foods high in acid) will eat away at the can over time. Hash is probably most popularly known in the form of corned beef hash, a breakfast dish made of canned corned beef, potatoes, onions, and seasoning, which became popular in the years following WWII in the UK due to continued rationing. Indeed, the war had such an impact on the UK's economy that it wasn't until 1954, 9 years after the war ended, that rationing also ended.
However, hash has been made since at least the 18th century, and doesn't necessarily have to include meat, as is the case here. Although I'm a fan of corned beef hash myself, I'm not entirely sure that what Nick cooked up would be particularly palatable even if the ingredients had been fresher.
Nick asked Judy if she had ever done anything for fun in Zootopia back in chapter 19, when the answer was clearly no. That was also when he said that they'd paint the town red once solving the case, which in this chapter he's expanded to require her to wear something slinky and covered in sequins while he wears a tux, possibly with some singing involved.
Flash's name being Gordon Acedia has two references in it. Gordon is a reference to Flash Gordon, a science fiction action hero created in 1934, and "acedia" is a word meaning a state of listlessness, carelessness, or torpor, and is the word that was translated as "sloth" for the deadly sin. Presumably, Flash would pick up his nickname in a few years once the character of Flash Gordon is created. It seems like an appropriate nickname for a racecar driver, too. Although it's not clear what kind of races he participates in from the photo, the history of NASCAR does have a linkage to Prohibition.
Although NASCAR is very much an American phenomenon, and is a form of racing that garners very little interest from other countries, its history is actually pretty fascinating. Its roots come from bootleggers who would modify their cars so that they could dodge the authorities and make deliveries, and they eventually started competing with each other in informal races. NASCAR was formally organized in 1948, and has only grown in popularity since then.
"Edisoned" was 1920s slang for being questioned.
The Palmer Method was a style of handwriting, intended for speed of writing and legibility, that was taught from the 19th through the middle of the 20th century before falling out of favor in the 1950s. It's a particularly nice and simple form of cursive, which can be beautiful in its own right if done well.
Although we think of computers as a pretty modern invention, there were indeed electromechanical computers in the early 20th century, and punch cards were actually invented and used on looms as early as 1725. Unit record machines first saw widespread use in the US following a problem that was realized during the 1880 census. One of the less well-known requirements of the US Constitution is for a census to be performed every 10 years. The census is used, among other things, to apportion how many representatives each state gets in the House of Representatives, so it's very important to get right. Unfortunately, the 1880 census was running against the limits of what could reasonably done by hand; it took eight years to tabulate the results. As the country's population was continuously growing, this presented a real problem for the 1890 census, as it was conceivable that the census could very well take so long to tabulate that the 1900 census would have already occurred before they finished.
The solution was to build unit record machines, and take the census data on punch cards that could be read by a machine, allowing a computer to tabulate the results. The 1890 census thus had its results ready much faster, and interest in unit record machines grew as other governments and private companies saw their value. Following a series of mergers and acquisitions, the Tabulating Machine Company of 1896 became the Computing-Tabulating-Recording Company of 1911, which then became International Business Machines in 1924, a company that still exists as IBM.
Punch cards like the ones described in this chapter could be used to index information, and the cards manipulated by the machine to query the location of a particular file. This has a tremendous advantage over manual search methods, since rather than being limited to how the data is physically arranged, conceivably any attribute can be searched for as though the files were organized that way. Electromechanical computers are tremendously interesting to me, particularly because they show that information technology is much older than the Internet, integrated circuits, or even vacuum tubes.
Henry Vanderbeaver's name is a pun on the Vanderbilts, who were a wealthy family of shipping magnates still powerful in the 1920s.
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