Judy is relieved when she sees the stars. She'd calmed down considerably since the ladder fiasco, and takes the chance to watch the night sky twinkle overhead. It reminds her of being on her family's farm. Catching a break from the rain, she takes the opportunity to wring out her ears, wincing as she grips them with torn paws. She exhales in satisfaction at the gush of water as it dribbles onto the roof, joining the depleting puddles that drip into the warehouse of criminals and gang members.
If Judy had walked by the building now, she might have thought it to be an ill-placed social event. They talk about menial things—openings of new bars, obnoxious neighbors, little league soccer. Jovial howls and laughter echo through the room as more species arrive. The smell of chicken wings, pizza, and beer wafts into the air, seeping through the holes of the roof. Purrsia looks on in stark confusion as a rabbit hops across the room carrying two wolf-portioned bags of flaked seaweed, setting them down on a snack table.
"Aren't these people worried about the blackout?" Purrsia whispers.
Judy is surprised by her question. Patrols with the snow leopard are always filled with silence and rejected attempts to dig deeper into her personality. Purrsia usually speaks in nods, grunts and pointed fingers that infuriate the rabbit with their childishness. Satisfaction and hope glimmers inside her at the snow leopard's curiosity.
"People don't fuck with family members of mobs or gangs, especially during something like this—pretty much considered taboo in criminal etiquette to take advantage of people in widespread panic.
"You remember when Duke Cromwel's wife was murdered?" she asks, voice low.
Purrsia nods, thinking back to when she was a cub. She'd heard about the murder over the television, too young to understand the importance.
"There was an arsonist in Little Rodentia at the time. His name was Alistair Norman. He was young—seventeen—and what the psychologists liked to call an "ambitious lighter." He liked to make fires. Big ones, two or three at a time. But he was smart about it—went to out of the way places. Abandoned buildings and warehouses, mainly. Turns out that some of the warehouses he burned weren't as abandoned as he thought."
Memories of news clips flash in Purrsia's mind. Bird's eye views of burning buildings, smoke curling off in tiny, threatening puffs as rodent firefighters sprayed water with teardrop sized hoses. She remembers her parent's reaction to what was found inside after the flames had be extinguished. Judy continues.
"Drugs, black market goods, weapons—a lot of things that people didn't expect the head of 'ArchDuke's Toys and Games' to be holding. But that wasn't it.
"While Duke was out 'taking care of business,' a couple of weasels from Southside Claw thought it would be a good time to express their displeasure with the drug taxes Duke enforced in their area. They broke into his house—smashed it with sledgehammers. Smashed his wife, too."
Judy flips onto her stomach, peering through the pinhole, mumbling into the soaked cardboard.
"The leader of Southside Claw and his crew were excommunicated from council meetings until they turned in the two weasels. It took three days to find them. Their bodies were found in the Nocturnal Pits, along with Alistair Norman. The leader of Southside Claw had to pay a massive fine to Duke that was settled by the council. He had no say in the matter, and even after the fine was paid he and his group were shunned until they dismantled two years later. That's why people don't stir up trouble."
The snow leopard contemplates, her ears swiveling at the words that filter into the rafters.
"So most of the people down there 'get along' pretty well?" she asks, and Judy snorts.
"Hell no." she answers.
Judy scoots away from the eyehole, motioning for Purrsia to look inside. The snow leopard crouches over, laying on her side as she peers into the warehouse.
"Look in the right paw corner. See the otters?"
Purrsia nods, spotting a gang of tough looking sea and river otters who seem to be quarantined into the corner of the room. With their arms crossed and frowns covering their furry faces, Purrsia thinks they look more like shunned children rather than hardened gang members. They mutter among each other, refusing to acknowledge the other gangs.
"Those are the SkwidBoyz. They don't have a lot of members, but their boss controls most of the ships that pass through the River Complex. Two weeks ago, he tried to put a higher tax on goods that the other gangs were using his boats to transport through the river. A few gangs tried to muscle their way through—said that they didn't think they should have to pay that much to 'use a couple of glorified motorboats.' SkwidBoyz didn't take that too well, and now they have an embargo in place until the other gangs pay up."
Purrsia nods, soaking in the politics that crowds the room alongside the gangsters. She begins to see how it moves them, communicates through them, controls them—an invisible presence that fills their lungs, runs through their bloodstreams, deposits in their brains, and slips from their lips. She sees their mannerisms—tail flicks, ear swivels that aren't what they seem to be. Conspiratorial whispers that hide behind protective paws.
"So," Purrsia says, "what are their bosses doing while they're all here?"
Judy waves her paw, gesturing towards all of Zootopia.
"They're sitting at home, waiting for their goons to call in and say it's safe."
Purssia raises an eyebrow.
"But they've been down there for almost an hour."
Judy nods.
"Nothing makes a mob boss or gang leader happier when your crew is taking 'extra precautions' before you arrive—most of the higher-ups are pretty paranoid, but the guys down there? They just want to have a little fun before things get serious again."
A comfortable pause settle between the two.
"So," Purrsia says, "back to waiting?"
It takes another hour for the first one to show up. Two muscled felines in black prowl past the double doors, scanning the crowd before nodding behind them. A hush falls over the room as a young, thin lion enters. He is short for his species. His suit shifts loosely on his frame as he gangles over the wet floor, briefcase swinging heavily at his side. His mane is slicked back, amplifying the wideness of his forehead. Flinching at the lights, he raises a paw to shield his eyes, accidentally knocking off his glasses. Bobbling, he lets out a strangled cry as they tumble to the floor with a delicate crash. Judy almost feels bad for the lanky cub as his tail spazzes, coiling and uncoiling like a nervous snake when he bends to retrieve his glasses. The lion rushes to one of the seats at the series of tables in the center of the room. Purssia guffaws as the dorkish young man. It's laughable. The kid can't be older than seventeen.
"What's junior doing here?" she asks.
Judy motions for Purrsia to keep her voice down.
"Learning." she whispers.
Before Purrsia can question, a massive presence enters the room. A lion, larger than Purrsia's ever seen, stalks past the warehouse doors.
"Jesus," breathes Purrsia.
Ronald Oleus Rockwell is an ocean of ruthless muscles. Tides of sinew ebb and flow underneath the deep blue of his suit. Raw power rolls through in him in rogue waves, clashing against the shores of his neck and shoulders. His mane bursts from his head like a sinister sun. Confident and calm, he strolls through the crowd until he stands in the center like a gladiator. A guttural growl rumbles through the room as he takes a seat next to his son, who focuses intensely on the briefcase in front of him. It is both pitiful and intimidating. Ronald Jr. cowers under the intruding presence of his father and the crowd around him. He flicks his paws over the metal clips on the briefcase, pulling out the contents. A note pad and a pen. He scribbles uncomfortably on the paper.
"Why is Ronald senior giving his son the cold shoulder?" asks Purrsia.
"For the past two months, Ronald senior's been including his son in the weekly meetings—getting his paws wet. He wants to start while he's young, just like his dad did to him. Jr.'s smart, but he needs to learn how to keep his composure among the other gang leaders. They treat him as a separate entity from his father even though they both represent ROR. You'll see later tonight."
The rest of the leaders come quickly after Ron and his son, followed by their bodyguards. Men and women with cruel and radical forms of protection. Rhinos that wield steel pipes and brass knuckles, wolves with razor sharp teeth guards that glint in the light when they talk, mice that hide in a coat pocket with needles dipped in vicious neurological poisons—endless varieties of lethality. Pleasantries are exchanged strictly by mouth.
Judy eyes a particular polar bear as he lumbers through the crowd, sitting between a warthog and a gazelle who shift their chairs to accommodate for his mass. His seat groans under his weight. The polar bear turns his head towards the ceiling, and even though Judy is certain that he cannot see her, she nods from behind the cardboard cover. I see you, Victor, she thinks, good luck.
Surveying the room, Judy looks for new faces, remembering Victor's message. Uncle John's new girlfriend. Whoever it was, they would be female—but Judy recognizes all of the people in the crowd. She pulls out the burner phone again, sending Victor a text.
You: New girlfriend not coming?
She watches Victor calmly pull out his phone amidst the roaming gang members.
Grandpa: Don't know, thought she would be here tonight.
You: Do the other family members know about her?
Grandpa: No.
Judy frowns, and before she cans send another text, an old grey wolf with a gnarled muzzle stands, and the warehouse is reduced to mumbles and whispers. He sweeps the crowd, his snout pointing like a deformed, accusatory arrow. He waits until the room is silent, then smiles.
"First of all, I would like to welcome you all to my humble abode."
Most of the laughter is out of respect.
"And secondly," he says, turning towards Judy's informant, "how is the health of our beloved Mr. Bigs?"
Judy holds her breath as he prepares to lie. Victor shakes his head, hanging a deep frown from his face. He rumbles his reply.
"He is… stable at the moment."
Many of the older mammals tilt their heads down in sadness while the younger ones remain level. The wolf allows for the silence to continue for a few seconds before clapping his paws together.
"Let's get started then, shall we? First order of business comes from the Rainforest District, I believe."
A zebra nods, taking his chance to stand, tapping his hoof against the table. He speaks in code.
"Recently, I've come across a nasty weed problem that's been running rampant in my garden. At first it was just a few little ones, but it turns out that the roots run deeper than I thought. Needless to say, the first gardeners that I hired weren't prepared to deal with something like this. If any of you have contact info for a pair of high quality gardeners, it would be much appreciated. Thank you."
A koala on the opposite nods towards him, and the two share brief eye contact.
The next to speak is a plump brown tapir with large hoop earrings. More eyes follow her than the zebra. She hefts herself onto the table, straining to lift her legs, long nose wriggling like a bloated maggot. She stalks forward, then stops at the edge of her table.
"To those of you who still wish to sell your products on Niche Zone streets, my law still stands; nobody is allowed to sell between Fourth and Fur."
Outcry ripples throughout the room—hooves and fists pound over the tables.
"You told us you would reconsider!" yells a squirrel.
"I did," the tapir says, "and found the idea of selling 'product' next to a school too risky. The potential for a deal gone wrong—for some stupid kid to wind up dead—isn't something I'm about to take responsibility for, not to mention the unwanted attention we would get if something like that happened. Do I need to remind you that one of our own council members attends the school that you plan to sell your products by? Have you considered his opinions on the matter?"
The tapir directs her gaze at junior. He seems to collapse underneath the eyes of the council as they wait for him to speak. Judy tries to mentally warn him. Come on junior. Don't do it. I know you're smarter than this—better than this.
"Um, I'd be okay if the others moved their products near my… school. The kids there are smart—they know not to get into that stuff."
The tapir is not impressed
"Eloquently put, Ronald, but are you aware of the effects trafficking has on a neighborhood?" she asks.
Ronald coughs into his paw.
"No, I'm not."
"Well, the first thing that changes, Mr. Rockwell, is the influx of junkies and crackheads that flock to new selling grounds. The nooks and crannies begin fill up—fast—until there's no other place for them to hide. That's when they start to walk the streets, forced out of their holes like cockroaches. They beg on the streets for money so they can get another fix, and when they can't get enough through begging, they'll get it through violence. It may take a few months or a year, but the people who were there before will slowly recognize that their neighborhood is going to shit, and the ones rich enough will move. And can you guess who buys the house in a neighborhood like that?"
Ronald shakes his head. He is crumbling.
"Nobody, is the answer. And when nobody buys those houses, who do you think takes advantage of the new space?" she asks. Ronald stares at the floor through the table, defeated.
"Junkies. More and more begin pour in, and the supply can't keep up with demand. People get angry and desperate—violence increases.
"So tell me, junior, are you going to 'be okay' when one of your classmates is found murdered, their body stuffed into a trashcan or dumpster, all for a few dollars?"
Junior shakes his head, thinking of the lioness that sits behind him in AP calculus.
"No. I suppose I wouldn't be okay with that." he mumbles.
Ronald senior clenches his paws in front of him, refusing to look at his son. The tapir takes her seat amidst the silence and awkward coughing—her destruction complete.
The meeting continues like this. Gang leaders go back and forth over taxes and territories or requesting aid in certain sectors with shipments and deals until they get to the SquidBoyz. Their leader, a scarred sea otter, stands up in his seat. He holds himself well, defiant against the hateful glares of the Rainforest District and River Complex organizations. The otter spreads his arms before beginning his speech.
"I don't ask for much—," he starts.
"Bullshit," says a panda, and the bovine two seats down from him snorts, "your tax hike is absurd!"
Some of the henchmen surrounding the table are vocal in their agreement, and the wolf raises his paws to quiet before the otter continues.
"I don't ask for much—my request is simple, but until my crew and I are acknowledged in this request, I will not lift the embargo I have on the River Complex."
The panda's face contorts with rage, and for a moment the white fur of his head is tinged red.
"But the gangs affected the most by this are from Bamboo Quarter and the Rainforest District! Your ships are our main form of transportation—the River Complex runs between both sectors. Our sectors are the two that are affected by this the most!" Spittle flies from his mouth like sparks.
The otter furrows his brow, bobbing his head as he steps onto the table.
"Surely what I ask does not strain your budget." he says.
To Judy's surprise, junior raises his voice.
"True, but what concerns me more about your tax plan is how it affects you."
This time, he holds under the pressure, taking a deep breath before ripping off a piece of paper from his notepad, passing it to the leader sitting next to him. The otter growls.
"The hell do you know about any of this?"
Junior clicks his pen once before sitting up straighter, firing back at the otter.
"Not much, but I do know basic math. What I'm passing around are two equations that compare the SquidBoyz total income from last year and this year with their new tax plan. I think you'll find the difference to be surprising."
The otter stomps across the table, ripping the sheet from between the hooves of a boar. He scans over the page before quickly crumpling it, tossing it over his shoulder.
"Where the fuck did you get this information?" he asks, his body shaking with livid energy. Junior folds his paws in front of him.
"I didn't 'get it' from anywhere. Like I said, it's an equation—a formula. I got it from the statistics class my school had me take for business and management when I was a freshman. Of course, I had to factor in other variables, but that wasn't much of an issue."
The otter simmers as junior explains.
"While this doesn't seem like anything that would particularly put strain on any of the larger gangs, it still makes me curious as to what you plan on doing with an extra two and a half million dollars. That's a lot of money for someone like you. Do you owe someone money, David? If that's true, I'm sure that one of the others can offer you—"
David splutters, infuriated.
"You don't have the right to call me that you little shit."
Ronald senior places a paw on his son's shoulder, and David smothers his fury as the giant cat speaks.
"David, our policy in these meetings is to treat one another with respect. If you think that you cannot manage this rule, then I will have to ask you to leave."
David clenches his jaw tight, challenging the lion for a brave second before returning to his seat. The other leaders stare at David, ready to pounce on him, each with their own grievance or complaint with the new evidence. Purrsia watches them, fascinated by the community of criminals.
"God, they're like a soap opera." she says, and Judy stifles a laugh.
"Yeah, the meetings aren't usually this heated, but it can get a little tense sometimes. Nothing too major ever happens, though."
As the gang leaders prepare their questions for David, the doors shriek open. All eyes turn as something enters the warehouse. Gasps of disbelief and horror circulate with the newcomer's entrance, and Judy sees Victor briefly flick his gaze towards the ceiling again. This is it, she thinks, uncle John's new girlfriend.
She shambles into the warehouse, and both Judy and Purrsia catch their breath. Hundreds of pounds of muscle and fat seem to melt off her squat body. Hard, black, leathery skin pinches over her neck, hanging in small flaps that shake as she moves. Each monumental step sends her claws raking over the cement, catching on the uneven surface as her tail drags behind her. Deep in her skull, ancient eyes struggle to grasp the image before her, and instead she resorts to her forked tongue that slithers out of her face like a snake, tasting fear and anxiety. A giant, gaping grin splits her maw, revealing the mangled, fleshy insides of her mouth. Blood soaks the treacherous, jagged teeth that sit patiently in her jaws. The komodo dragon flicks her tongue again before speaking.
"Sorry I'm late," she rasps, "but I got a little hungry on the way here."