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The Fire Triangle

Part Two:

Oxidizer

Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 12)

"Welcome to the jungle, it gets worse here every day
You learn to live like an animal in the jungle where we play
If you got hunger for what you see, you'll take it eventually
You can have everything you want but you better not take it from me

In the jungle, welcome to the jungle
Watch it bring it to your n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n knees, yeah eeh yes
I wanna watch you bleed!"

Guns n' Roses – Welcome to the Jungle

No one would ever mistake Vern Rodenberg and Erin Hopps for a pair of kindred spirits…

But never had the differences between them been outlined in such stark contrast as they were right now.

"This must be how Christine felt," the young doe bunny was thinking, "when she pulled the mask off of Eric, the Phantom."

It was an apt analogy, she thought. At the time of his escape from Granite Point, Conor hadn't cared much for his face either. Not only that; he was a Phantom of sorts himself, the animal the ZPD had been pursuing for… Okay, she didn't know how long the police had been after that silver fox kid. True, they'd thought him to be only the elusive loan-shark's errand-boy but still… Believing that once they had him in custody, he would lead them to The Phantom, the city authorities had spared practically no effort in trying to bust him. When Erin had first heard of it, she'd thought it was total overkill—even then, before she'd learned the truth.

But now, she wasn't nearly so certain. With every word he spoke, Conor was revealing himself to be even more of a menace to society than the authorities had initially thought.

It wasn't what he'd done to Wez McCrodon that was chilling her blood to ice-water; it was the look on his face while he'd recounted the story. Sweet cheez n' crackers, he'd practically dined out on his description of the betrayal—setting his partner up and then knocking him down like a skittle pin.

…And then leaving him to a fate worse than death.

Yes, it was true; Conor had said it himself. 'I'll die before I go back to The Point.' There was indeed a monster lurking behind that mask.

And yet…and yet…

It wasn't as if Charcoal Boy hadn't warned her. 'You're not going to like this…or me,' he'd said. He hadn't wanted even to remember his final moments with Crazy Wez; much less recollect them. The truth of the matter was, he didn't seem to care for that part of himself either—much as he might want to deny it.

And, let's be honest…if it hadn't been for her coaxing, Conor would have never owned up to the betrayal of his partner.

No, she took that back; it wasn't only her coaxing that had made him fess up. Mr. Rodenberg's threat to wash his paws of the young silver fox had played at least as big a part, maybe bigger.

Mr. Rodenberg…Vernon J. Rodenberg, Attorney at Law…

His thoughts on the matter were entirely unequivocal. In the course of his life, the grey rat had witnessed treacheries that made the double-cross of Wez McCrodon look like a party game—and that had been before he'd set up his practice as attorney-to-the-underworld. "Life's tough; deal with it;" his creed then, and still his creed today.

Ironically enough, it was precisely because of his experience as a mob lawyer that Rodenberg was aware of something else—the real reason The Mister's associates had been so eager to keep his nephew out of The Company. Had he wished, he could have summed it up in two names—Sammy 'The Bull' Gravano, and Mickey Featherstoat.

Once upon a time, those two had been their respective gang's Crazy Wez characters, the psycho whose name was enough to strike fear into the hearts of even the toughest hoods—and prompt deadbeats to cough up what they owed right NOW. Gravano had served as John Gatto's much-feared underboss, while Featherstoat had been chief enforcer to the dreaded Jimmy Coonan, overlord of the Westies gang. In that capacity, they'd each excelled…except for one, tiny, little hitch.

Both of their bosses had ended up doing life without parole, and it had been Gravano and Featherstoat's testimony that put them there—along with numerous other members of their crime families. And, as Conor had said only moments ago, "No one had even the slightest doubt; Wez was gonna spill everything he knew about the escape plan, once The Mammal got hold of him."

Exactly! If The Mister hadn't understood the risks of bringing a loose cannon into his organization, his lieutenants had sure as heck seen the danger; it had been practically staring them in the face. And rather than just sit still and wait for the ax to fall, they had decided to do something about it.

At the end of the day, his client had been nothing more than a minor player in that drama, however passionately he might have performed his role. And the most impressive thing, from Rodenberg's point of view, was that the kid had managed to figure it out for himself. This really was a clever young fox.

Even so, there was still one question that had yet to be answered. WHY had the state of Zoo Jersey gone to such lengths to railroad a boy of absolutely no significance?

Yes, Rodenberg believed that now—and now he also understood the reason why Conor had insisted on telling his tale from the beginning. It was the only way to dispel any doubts as to the veracity of his story—a story that was about to venture into uncharted territory.

Lacing his fingers together, the grey rat settled back into his chair, watching his client carefully

And listening even more carefully…

They tossed me into this basement storeroom and left me there for three days. There was no water, no toilet and, goes without saying, no food. It wasn't as bad as it sounds though. I had access to the light switch, and the temperature down there was almost pleasant.

After I'd been in there for a couple hours, Danny showed up with a bucket and some toilet paper, and a while after that, he came back with a soda and two slices of pizza. Maybe an hour after that, Kieran came by with a mattress for me to sleep on, and a blanket.

But the best thing about that storeroom was…I managed to hook up with an old friend while I was in there.

You see…the storeroom where they put me wasn't just four bare walls, like The Hole back in Granite Point. It was an actual STORE-room; they had all kinds of stuff stashed in there. Extra chairs, a few St. Patrick's Day decorations, a box of laptops—none of which would power up—an amplifier that looked as if it had been used as a goal for street hockey, and all sorts of other junk.

What kind of other…? Like this pair of flat-panel TVs I found, with spiderwebs for screens, and this big, old storage trunk with a busted-up lid and nothing inside. And that's not even talking about all the cardboard boxes they had stored in that place; must have been about a hundred of 'em. Most of those bad boys looked ready to fall apart and had labels so faded, you couldn't tell what was inside without opening them. I even found an old boom-box, but without any batteries, and that storeroom had exactly zero electrical outlets. I was so ticked off I almost trashed it. I didn't though, I just tossed it aside.

Every time Danny and/or Kieran showed up, with food, or a soda, or whatever, they would always tell me not to touch anything. Yeah, right…like you're ever gonna get a bored fox-kid to pay attention to THAT rule. "I won't," I'd always say—and then as soon as they were gone, I'd start rummaging through whichever box caught my attention. Meh, total waste of time; most were full of paperwork, and none of 'em had anything interesting and/or useful inside.

But then…

I don't know what made me look behind those two particular cartons—I didn't even try to open them—but what I found back there was a pair of long flat cases, and a thicker one with an unmistakable shape—an acoustic guitar. When I opened it, I found an Ovation-Six, still strung and surprisingly still in tune, though it didn't matter diddly to me at the time. I hadn't played guitar since before my road trip with Jimmy Sanchez…and I wasn't sure if I could even remember how. In any case, I didn't have time to find out, coz right then I heard footsteps coming down the hallway. Uh-oh, I better get these things put back before…

Too late, the door swung open and there was Kieran, with a white bag in one paw and a big old can of iced-tea in the other.

"Here boy," he said, holding out the bag out like a peace offering, "Some fish an' chips from the Wicked Mink. Should just be cool enough 'bout now to…Oi, what's this ye got there, then?"

Ohhhh, snap! Now I was gonna get it, a smack upside the head, or at the very least, I could say goodbye to my dinner. And it smelled so yummy, too.

But Kieran only brushed past me, leaving the eats behind him as he went.

"Well, I'll be," he said, picking up the Ovation and turning it over in his paws. For some reason, it gave me a Pawstars vibe. "It is, it's one of Paddy's old guitars! Thought fer sure, they'd been tossed."

I felt my ears go up. "They?" I had only seen one instrument.

"Aye," Kieran waved a paw at the pair of rectangular cases, "There's a couple o' 'lectrics in…Ah, eat yer fish boy, before it get cold." He was looking at me with an annoyed expression, "But first, go shut th' door, would ye?"

Yeah…he'd left the door open, and no…I didn't even think about trying to make a break for it. Somehow, I knew I'd never be able to pull it off and then things'd be a whole lot worse for me.

Besides, where the heck would I go?

So…I did as I was told; I went over and closed the door, and then moved on to scarfing my fish and chips. Even now, it was almost too hot to enjoy. While I ate, Kieran explained to me about the guitars I'd found.

They had originally been the property of Paddy McCoul, a European Badger who'd once driven trucks for The Company and played guitar on his days off.

"He was never able to keep a gig for long, poor sod." Kieran told me, using my interest as cover to steal one of my chips, "As ye might imagine, workin' fer The Mister comes with rather irregular hours." He looked over at the guitar cases again, shaking his head and sounding almost regretful, "He'd 'ave done better t' 'ave bagged the guitar and stuck to' drivin'. Decent player, but never good enough t' make a livin' at it—couldn't sing worth a tinker's cuss, either."

"What happened to him?" I asked, grabbing the last of the chips before he could get to them. He looked hurt for a second—but not because of me.

"Died in jail, year before last," he heaved the words like a sigh, "Poor bloke had few too many one night; caused a car crash, and then tried t' run from it. Didn't make it more n' two blocks before he was caught." He sighed again, more of a grumble this time. "No one was killed, but several folks ended up in hospital…one of whom turned out t' be the daughter of himself, the Lieutenant Governor. Needless t' say, Paddy wasn't getting off with rehab an' a suspended license after something like that, 'specially with a couple o' priors for burglary under 'is belt." He shook his head again, this time looking like he'd just found a hair in his soup. "Silly idiot; hung himself in his cell the night before his trial."

"Didn't your uncle offer to help?" I asked; wasn't that how crime syndicates operated?

Yeah, I see the look on your face there, Mr. Rodenberg. And you're right, but little did I know back then.

"Nope," he said, and then explained. "Paddy worked fer the Company, but he wasn't with The Company, if ye know what I mean. And so, his problems were HIS problems."

"Right," I nodded, pretending to understand. I didn't; in fact, that piece of news spooked me big time.

Why? Coz at the end of the day, I was even less of an actual member of The Company than Paddy McCoul had been. And that did not bode well for what The Mister might decide to do with me.

I don't know if Kieran caught wind of my anxiety or not… No, I take that back, he prolly did. Whatever…he dropped the subject like a hot rock.

"Anyways, let's see what we've got in here, then," he said, picking up the nearest of the two electric guitar cases.

When he opened it, I had no idea what I was looking at…except that this bad boy was a lovely piece of work, jet-black neck, wine-red body and what looked like a brass pickguard. Kieran seemed to recognize it, though.

"Hunh, well there's 'is Strat," he said, although he was wrong. It was actually a Stratocatter knockoff from an outfit called Levinson-Blade. The other case contained an axe neither one of us recognized; a Beastman D'ambrosio, in dark turquoise with a deep red pickguard. To give you an idea of how familiar I was with electric guitars back then, I remember asking, "What the heck did he need two of them for?"

Kieran didn't answer, he just looked at me.

I couldn't tell a single-coil from a humbucker in those days, but you didn't have to be Jeff Buck to understand that neither one of those bad boys was playable. Kinda hard to manage, with three busted strings on one and none at all on the other. And anyway, like I said, the amp that went with them was toast and there was nowhere to plug it in.

Not that I cared very much…I had more important things to worry about right then—like what was going to happen to me? I hadn't given it a whole lot of consideration during my escape; it would have been a major distraction.

But now, I couldn't help thinking about it. And thinking, unfortunately, was all I could manage; at the moment, my train of thought didn't go all the way to my mouth. I wanted sooo bad to ask Kieran if he had any ideas about what his uncle might decide to do with me, but try as I might, I couldn't make the words come. Later on, I realized he prolly would have just dodged the question, but at the time I was like totally frustrated with myself.

My feelings must have shown on my face, coz on the way out, Kieran told me not to worry, everything was going to be all right…which was about as comforting as a doctor promising to, "...do everything I can."

After he left, it took me maybe half a minute to get bored out of my skull. Dangit, why wasn't there at least a deck of cards in here?

Yeah, Erin…I know. After all the time I spent in The Hole, back at Granite Point, I should have been able to handle that storeroom, no sweat. I dunno, maybe it was the anxiety of waiting or something; for all I knew, I might not be getting out of there alive.

No…not this time. I'd spent maybe ten minutes in The Mister's presence, but it had been all I'd needed to be aware of something. That big jerk was perfectly capable of giving the order to have me whacked, never mind that I was just a kid. Ask Mr. Rodenberg, he knew the guy. What do you think, Counselor; am I being over dramatic here?

There Erin, you see? I was a hundred percent right to be worried.

Anyway, with nothing better to do, I went over and grabbed the acoustic again, and began noodling around on it. I didn't have a pick, so I used my finger claws …which I still do, by the way. After just messing with that bad boy for a while, I tried picking out a few of the tunes that I knew. I didn't know if I could manage it; I could barely remember even having taken guitar lessons, much less what I'd learned from any of them. But I tried it just the same—and wonder of wonders, it turned out to be easier than I expected. Not a cakewalk; I mean, I couldn't get all the way through even one of those songs. It was all just licks and fragments. I kept at it for maybe an hour or two, and then set the six aside and prepared to go to sleep.

I never made it. Just as I was starting to drift off, I saw the ceiling shudder, and heard a thump of music, coming from somewhere above me. It was a song I recognized, Misty Mountain Hop, by Led Zeppelion…and it wasn't a recording, I was hearing it live. Not the original guys of course, but a darn good facsimile, a tribute band by the name of Black Dog Heaven. They had come to Finagles as part of a regular feature at the club, Tribute Thursdays. I didn't know any of that right then though…all I knew was that there was no way I was getting any sleep with all that racket going on overhead.

So…what else could I do? I snagged the acoustic again and tried to play along. I had never played by ear before, but…whoa, I was actually good at this. Not super-good; it wasn't 'til about halfway into their set that I was able to get all the way through one of their numbers. The very first rocker I ever played, from start to finish, was while I was down in that basement, "Over the Hills and Far Away." I did okay, but not great—and to this day, I've never been completely satisfied with how I play it. To do that tune right, you need a twelve-string, and I'm still not dialed in on that bad boy…not yet.

Wha…? Yeah, I am getting a little off track again. Sorry, Mr. Rodenberg. But there was one other thing that happened while I was waiting for The Mister's verdict. As a matter of fact, it went down the very next morning.

Black Dog Heaven didn't knock off until either way late, or way early in the morning, and so I didn't either. It was around about 8 AM I think; I still didn't have a watch, when someone started pounding on my door and I heard this really deep voice, "This is your wake-up call; prepare to DIE!"

I jumped up and did as I was told, but at the same time, I was more confused than scared. Who the heck was out there? I hadn't heard that voice before, though I was pretty sure it was another sea-mink; I could smell his musk coming in under the doorway.

And…whoever he was, his voice wasn't naturally that deep. You know how you can always tell when some mammals are faking it? That was this guy, whoever he was…and he proved it with the next thing he said.

"Outta that bed kid…right now, you hear me? Now! Now! NOW!"

What the FOX? I was already on my feet…and now he sounded about as much like a mob guy as a piccolo sounds like a tuba. Seriously, his voice was higher in pitch than Crazy Wez had sounded whenever he got screaming mad. Honestly…for a second, I was wondering if it wasn't a girl out there in the hallways.

"Get over to the door, punk. Now, turn and face the wall!"

All right, this jerk was beginning to make me mad. Seriously. I came that close to instructing him in the proper use of a red-hot poker. But then I remembered something. To look at Danny T, you would have taken him for a third-string stockbroker.

…And that would have been a major mistake; pound for pound, Danny was one of the most dangerous mammals in the Five Burrows. That was what I'd heard anyway.

So…maybe the animal outside my door was a lot more lethal than he sounded.

With that in mind, I did as he said—and immediately started sneezing my brains out. Did I mention how dusty the walls in that storeroom were? Outside the door, I could hear my visitor making little squeaking noises, like somebody rubbing a balloon. Okay, now I was back to being irritated again. That was exactly the way Crazy Wez had sounded when he was trying not to laugh.

After another couple seconds, I heard the door-bolt thrown back and felt a rush of air as it whipped open.

The next thing I heard was that really deep voice again, "Last for you, fox-kid!"

All right, he'd finally managed to scare me a little, but before I could even begin to process it, this big load of ice-water was pitched over me—we're talking water, with ice in it. Whoa, I'd never fox-screamed so loud; some of it got under my tail, and…

Oh, NOW look who's trying not to laugh, Snowdrop.

Anyway, when I turned around, I saw…yep, it was a sea-mink all right, same age as Wez, but pop-eyed and way more skinny. And…what the FOX? He was dressed like something out of that old Weird Al Yakovic video, 'Tacky'—a bright orange shirt with these lime green pants…and he was laughing so hard he could barely stand. "Nobody expects the McCrodon ice-quisition!"

I screamed again and launched myself straight at him. That is, I tried to. Halfway there I stepped on a piece of ice, and my feet went out from under me. Mr. Giggle-Mink just loved that; when he slammed the door and locked it, he was almost in hysterics.

Yep, you're right Mr. Rodenberg…it was my first encounter with James McCrodon, Jr., or just plain Junior, most of the guys called him—along with a few other names I'm not gonna repeat out loud. And, oh yeah…it was a very lucky thing that I wasn't able to get to him. I found that out when Danny came by a few minutes later.

"Sorry kid, there's nothing I can do," he said, offering me a pawkerchief, so I could at least dry my face. "Junior McCrodon's, the Mister's only son. And so, as far as his dad is concerned, he can do no wrong. You follow what I'm bringing out?" He shook his head in disgust. "You're just gonna have to eat it, same as the rest of us." As he said this, I could see his tail frizzing and his ears laying back. Then and there, I knew what he meant by 'the rest of us.' Junior was one of those privileged punks who treats everyone like his plaything…knowing Daddy will kick their tails if they object. It only made me hate the little jerk even more—until I remembered something.

"Uhm…" I felt a lump drop down my throat, "Am…I gonna get in trouble for going after him? I swear, if I'd known who he was…"

"Ah I wouldn't worry about that, kid." Danny smiled and gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You'll be okay, as long as you didn't get a paw on him." He stopped, and I saw his ears rise up. "You…didn't get a paw on him, right?" He had his head tilted sideways and was giving me the eye.

"Never came close, I swear!" I said, raising a paw for emphasis. What I didn't bother to mention was that I would have been all over that punk if I hadn't slipped on that chunk of ice…something for which I was now seriously grateful.

"Good," Danny nodded, and then added, kind of strangely, "Good thing it was you instead of Wez; he'd have torn Junior's head off his shoulders for something like that."

Huh, what now? Wez couldn't have made it to the door any quicker than I had; what the heck?

But then I noticed that Danny's eyes were angling over towards a box in the corner—and that he had raised his voice just ever so slightly when he'd spoken.

Ohhh-kay, now I got it; either he or Kieran must have planted it on one of their earlier visits…and he'd known without asking that I hadn't come anywhere close to laying my mitts on Junior. So, that was why he'd shown up so quickly after the little jerk drenched me with that ice-water.

Once I knew that, I knew right away where to go with it.

"Nahhh," I said, fanning a paw. "That's not how Wez rolls. He would have pretended to shine it on, acted like it was no big deal—'Ahhh, that was nothing compared to what got done to me in The Point…blah, blah, blah.' Heck, knowing him, he might have even tried to make friends with Jimmy Junior. And then, as soon as that other kid's guard was down…BOOM!"

I knew, or at least I hoped, that when this conversation was played back for the Mister, he'd believe what he was hearing. Everything I'd said was 100% accurate, no filler and no additives. That was exactly what Wez would have done if it'd been him instead of me that got the ice-bucket test—and he'd also have had an escape hatch ready. He'd lay his payback on Junior and be long gone by the time dear ol' dad found out. That kid was crazy, but he wasn't stupid.

But, getting back to the story; the rest of my time in that storeroom was spent eating, sleeping, and playing around on that acoustic six. To my considerable surprise, I not only got the hang back fairly quick, pretty soon, I was playing better than ever. Heck I was better now than if I'd kept up with my lessons all this time. Ahhh, if only my old music teacher could hear me now. Wha…what was his name again?

Yeah Erin, I remember it now…Mr. Jones. But even though that's a pretty common name, I couldn't remember it then to save my life.

On the third day, when Danny came to see me, he didn't bring any food or drink. And that was when I knew…it was time.

"The Mister?" I asked

"Yep," he answered, nodding, "Let's go, kid."

I was actually more relieved than anything else—though not for any reason you might think. Nobody had ever shown up to empty my waste bucket, or even given me permission to empty it myself. By the time Danny showed up to take me to The Mister, I didn't know which was worse…the flies or the stink.

Even so, I couldn't help asking him, "Do you have any idea…?"

"Nope," he answered, cutting me off…but he didn't look away. That told me, he really didn't have a clue as to what his boss had planned for me.

But I had an idea; in fact, I had two of them. First of all, why would The Mister have Danny bring me to see him, if he was planning to off me? If that had been the case, I'd have been toast the second the door opened. No yelling, no screaming, no anger …just bang-bang, no silver-fox kid.

Second of all, Danny and Kieran had done at least as much to put the shaft to Crazy Wez as I had—prolly more. If their boss had somehow figured out what really happened to him, then for sure he'd have figured out the part they'd played. In that case, he would have had them slapped around before moving on to me. Yeah, but the swift fox taking me to see him didn't have even a single strand of fur out of place. That told me his boss was still in the dark about what had gone down between me and Crazy Wez.

I must have said that to myself a hundred times before we even got to the stairs—and I didn't believe a word of it. After all the other stuff I'd got wrong in the past few days, why should I start nailing it now?

This time Danny didn't bring me up to The Mister's Office. Instead, he took me out though a side door to the parking lot and a cherry condition 1970 Dodge Super Bee in, what else, yellow and black. As I'm sure you know Mr, Rodenberg, he had a major liking for muscle cars.

From there, he drove me to this place called The Wicked Mink, a name I knew but couldn't quite wrap my brain around. Oh yeah, that was where the fish and chips Kieran brought me had come from. But now I saw that it was a pub, and I also saw the sign on the front-entrance door, 'No Minors.' Oh-kay, we weren't gonna stop here—I thought.

Yes…and no; Danny wasn't gonna bring me in through the front—but that was hardly the only way inside the place. He drove around to the back, and we went in through the kitchen entrance.

And that was as far as we got. At the doorway to the barroom, we found ourselves blocked by a grison with a rough-cut leather apron and rolled up shirt-sleeves.

"Sorry Tipperin, can't let ya in there," he said, folding his arms.

Danny answered by folding his ears backwards, and then waved a paw at me.

"I was told to bring the kid here by…"

"I know," the grison interrupted, cutting him off, "He told ME not to admit you until he gives the word, okay?

"Ohhh-kay," Danny half grumbled, half sighed. Here was The Mister playing Big Boss again. A quick search of the kitchen produced a couple of rickety, metal chairs, and we settled down to wait.

We didn't have to wait for very long; no sooner did our tails touch the seats than this big, blocky, Kodiak bear came lumbering into the kitchen. He was at least six times Danny's size, but from the way he behaved, you would have thought HE was the smaller of the two.

"He'll see yas now, Danbo," he said, offering a deferential dip of his muzzle, "Good luck in there."

Danny said nothing to this, only got up and smoothed down his jacket. While he did this, the bear was giving me an appraising once-over.

"Jeez," he finally said, shaking his head with a toothy grimace. "I heard Granite Point was rough for a juvie joint, but…wow." And then, he turned and beckoned with a pair of fingers.

When we got inside the barroom, the first thing I saw was what I thought was a gray fox, though he was actually platinum-phase red. I think I can be forgiven for making that mistake, though —since he was dressed a brightly colored jester's costume, and wheeling around the room on a unicycle

…playing the old Mott the Hippo tune All The Young Dudes on a set of bagpipes!

I didn't have time to enjoy the spectacle. Almost immediately a familiar, coarse voice called out from the far end of the room. "Awrite Estvan, clear out, I got business to attend to over here."

At once the music faded to a forlorn squeak, and then Uni-Fox was pedaling quickly for the exit.

With him no longer blocking the view, I was able to see, taking up the furthest part of the barroom, a slightly elevated section of floor. It was occupied by an elliptical table that looked to be about the size of a backyard swimming pool. This, in turn, was occupied by a motley collection of species, many of them apex preds and more than few of them looking tipsy, even though it wasn't even lunchtime yet. I couldn't see The Mister, but I knew he was there; there was no mistaking that scent of his.

"I got Tipperin and the kid here." The bear who'd brought us called out, raising his voice to be heard over the din at the table.

"'Kay, bring 'em here," that same, slightly ragged voice replied, and we were ushered around to the far side of the gathering.

As befit his rank and station, The Mister was seated at the center of the table, nestled in a high-backed chair, that would have only needed some gold trim to pass for a throne.

It was the younger sea-mink next to him that drew most of my attention, though; the same scrawny punk who'd given me the ice-bucket test the other day. The minute I saw him, I averted my eyes. What can I say, it was either that, or give him a look that his dad was NOT going to appreciate. Yeah, fine…but how the heck was I supposed to avoid looking at him when Dad ordered me to come closer?

Thank God, that problem solved itself. Clapping his kid on the arm, The Mister. told him, "Why don't you go take a walk, son?"

Whoa, Junior didn't like that one bit. "But daaaaad…" he started to protest, and I saw two of the other guys rolling their eyes. As I was soon to discover, he got that a lot…but only when his father couldn't see.

Anyway, The Mister said nothing to this, only scowled and pointed sternly at the exit. Junior got the hint but gave me a dirty look as he passed me—like the whole thing was my fault or something. I didn't have time to care right then—coz now was the make-or-break moment for me.

"C'mere kid," the Mister said, beckoning me over with waggling fingers. The expression on his face was neither benign, nor malignant; matter of fact, I couldn't tell what the heck was on his mind.

I took a deep breath and an even deeper swallow and then went to him on shuffling feet. "Here it comes," I remember thinking.

After looking me over for a second, The Mister folded his meaty arms and drew himself up in his chair. When he did that, I couldn't help noticing that he looked way better than he had the other night.

And then, finally, he delivered the verdict. "Okay…so my nephew really did chicken out on that escape." He turned and hawked into a nearby spittoon, as if to show his contempt, "Too scared of heights to go through with it; who knew? And then he goes and has a stinkin' breakdown." He seemed to be talking mostly to himself, "All right, that's it; he had his chance." With that, he clapped the arms of his chair and then waved a paw, as if dismissing Wez from his presence, once and for all.

And then, he focused on me again. "But now, what am I gonna do with you, fox-kid? You're not blood, you're not even species…"

Ohhhh, foxtrot! I was gonna get kicked out on my own after all…and then what was I supposed to…?

"…but, from what I hear, you got a lotta heart—and a lotta smarts. So, here's the deal; you can stay with us, but you're gonna have to earn your keep. Whatever, whenever, however, and wherever you're given an order, you follow it and you don't ask no questions—ever." He finished up with a raised eyebrow. "Okay?"

"Okay," I said.

Wha…why did I…?

Because, Snowdrop, that was absolutely an offer you can't refuse. If I'd answered 'thanks, but no thanks,' I would have been put out on the street—in a strange city, with no money, no friends, no place to stay—and wanted by John Q. Law for breaking out of jail, and who knew what else.

And speaking of jail, like it or not, I owed that guy; I would never have made it out of Granite Point if his boys hadn't been there to help me—and it was a slam-dunk that the only way to keep from going back there would be with their continued support.

And there was only one way I was gonna get that support…as The Mister made clear with the very next words he spoke. "But listen very carefully, fox kid…coz I'm only gonna say this once." He paused and leveled a finger, "You mess up on me even once—even one single time—and you'll be back in Granite Point so fast, you'll catch cold from the breeze." He paused and scratched behind an ear, loosening a small tuft of fur. And then, looking satisfied with his decision, he sat back and waved a paw in Danny's direction. "Okay fox-kid, that about covers it for now. Tipperin, take him back to The Club."

Ya know…that blubberball jerk told me a lotta lies in the time that I knew him, but that, for sure, was one of the biggest. 'I'm only gonna say this once?' Ha! Try once every ten, stinkin' minutes, practically every time I saw him after that. He knew what he was doing though; threatening me with The Point never failed to make me fall in line. Seriously…if he so much as mentioned Granite Point when I was in his presence, that was all it took; 'Yes-sir, No-Sir, Whatever-You-Say-Sir.' Right up until the day he died, he was laying that place on me.

After stopping for lunch on the way back to Finagles, Danny brought me down to the storeroom again—but this time he didn't lock me in. Now, at least, I could empty that danged waste bucket—thank God. I wasn't gonna be staying there for long, though. The next morning, I was put to work, cleaning and preparing another, smaller room for myself. This one was empty, but it was like a stinkin' dust-bowl in there; took me a whole day just to get the floor clean. When that was done, Kieran helped me transfer the mattress from the storeroom, and then brought me a table and a chair; both of them beat-up, but solid. Best of all, he let me bring the three guitars I'd found, along with a pedalboard stashed behind the busted amplifier. I also snagged that boom box, but it turned out to be broken. Anyway, that was pretty much it for now…but I'd be adding more stuff later. In the meantime, welcome to Home, sweet Home.

Nah, Erin, I didn't mind. Foxes are denning species, and this was still way better than my cell back at The Point. It was cool in the summer, warm in the winter, and they never locked me in. And right down the hall was this bathroom with a shower. It was set up for a bigger species than mine—I had to jump up to reach the faucet handles—but there was always decent water-pressure and, even better, plenty of hot water. Meanwhile, upstairs in the club and practically right over my head, was this break-room with a fridge, stove, oven, and microwave. I had to share this with the Finagles staff…but they were only around from maybe an hour before the club opened, until closing time. The rest of the day, I had it pretty much all to myself.

Yeah Erin, you're right…that break room wasn't gonna do me much good if I didn't have any food to prepare. Eventually, though, I was able to score a few groceries. I was a servant, not a slave, y'see; I earned some while I was with The Company. I'll get into more about that later.

Anyway…two days later, Danny took me out back to this garden plot in the yard behind Finagles. Then he handed me this thing like a big, bent, rusty metal fork and said, "Take care of those weeds, kid," and left me to my work.

Heh…yeah, I thought you'd relate to that, bunny-girl…

Uhhh, that's what the Hopps kids have to do when they mess up, Mr. Rodenberg. They get sent out to pull weeds. But, as I quickly found out, that gardening gig wasn't just a one-off thing. Tending that bad boy was now officially my job. I wasn't thrilled, but I could live with it…mainly coz it was a fairly small patch of ground, about as big as a couple of large-mammal parking spaces. It was where they grew some of the veggies and the herbs and stuff for the kitchen.

Yeah, that's right. When I was first with the Company, Finagles had a restaurant attached to it. Didn't last, though; eventually the Mister decided it wasn't making enough money, and closed it down. And he then used the extra space to expand the stage and put in some extra seating. From then on, his place was a straight-up dance-club and part-time concert venue. It still had a kitchen but smaller than before. The only stuff they served now was snacks and bar-food, nothing you could call a main course.

Needless to say, when the restaurant went, so did the garden…but by then I had plenty of other stuff to do.

It started a couple of days later, when Kieran picked me up in his Rovian and drove me out to The Humptons and this private beach. I remember that it was surrounded by this really high chain-link fence, and had a locked gate with a 'No Trespassing—Members Only' sign on it. No big deal for Kieran though; a quick swipe of a keycard, and we walked through, no problem.

On the other side of the dunes, we found The Mister and his brothers, together with their families, gathered around a big, steaming pit in the sand, covered with a canvas tarp. I later learned that clambakes weren't allowed on this beach, but since when was anyone going to tell these guys what they could and couldn't do?

I think the thing that most surprised me was the size of the McCrodon clan. Holy foxtrot, I'd had no idea that their family was so big. I counted at least thirty animals on that beach, every single one of 'em a sea-mink; no other species present except for me. I know that's gonna sound like chump-changed to a bunny Erin—but unless you're talking otters, mustelids almost never cluster in such large groups.

At the moment of my arrival, they were passing the time by swapping stories and slurping raw oysters—something that seriously turned my stomach the first time I saw it. That was another thing I was about to discover about the McCrodons, although I should have already known. Being sea-mink, they had a weakness for shellfish and crustaceans. They adored mussels and steamer-clams, couldn't get enough of scallops and shrimp, and were especially fond of lobster—something that was going to have serious consequences for me later on.

And then there were the oysters, or as Kieran liked to call them, Sea-Mink Kryptonite. Seriously, you could have tiled a roof with all the leftover shells on that beach. The McCrodons loved fresh oysters so much, they used to eat them for movie snacks. I saw them do it.

Anyway, when I looked around, I was gratified to see no sign of Junior anywhere. I didn't find out why until the drive back to Finagles. He'd been excluded from the gathering for 'borrowing' his dad's Hump-Vee—without even a learner's permit—and then returning it, late the next morning, covered in mud and with nothing but fumes in the tank. Even his old mink wasn't gonna stand for something like that; he took his kid's cell phone away and grounded him for the rest of the week.

I was even more pleased to discover that, despite his son's transgression, The Mister was in a particularly buoyant mood on this fine, Long Island evening. Laughing and joking with the members of his family, he was as jolly as old St. Nick. To give you an idea, for once, he didn't keep me waiting, motioning me over as soon as he spotted me. Not only that, it was one of the few times I talked to him when he didn't bring up The Point.

"Hey kid," he said, and then belched, "I wanna ask you something." He had obviously downed a few shots by then.

"Yes, Mr. McCrodon?" I answered, making sure to keep my gaze lowered.

Before continuing with his line of questioning, he reached over and snagged a bottle stuck in the sand beside his beach chair—which looked ready to collapse at any second—and took a short, hard swig. And then wiping his mouth with the back of his paw, he gave me a penetrating look.

"You know how to ride a bike…right, kid?"

What, was he kidding? How was an orphan fox-kid, with no money, supposed to get his paws on a bicycle, and/or learn to ride one?

That was the answer I would have given—except for two things. A. His question hadn't really been a question, and B. The way Kieran was grimacing at me, out the side of his face. Nope...if I knew what was good for me, I'd had better reply in the affirmative.

…which I did. "Yeah, sure, Mr. McCrodon, no problem."

"Good, good," he said. And then, noticing he was surrounded by a sea of inquisitive faces, he smiled and explained.

"This fox-kid's gonna be my new messenger-boy," he declared, clapping his paws together as if to seal the deal. If I'd been standing closer, I think he'd have clapped me on the shoulder. As it was, I wanted to slap myself straight into the middle of next week. WHY had I listened to Kieran and told him yes? Granite Point, here I come!

I wasn't the only one present who didn't feel happy about the idea. More than a few of the other family members were giving Mister McCrodon some seriously dubious looks.

He ignored them all.

"Kieran? Where's…? Oh, there y'are. Tomorrow morning, I want this kid set up with a messenger bike. Have Tipperin handle it."

"Aye, sir." His nephew answered with a quick, deferential nod. If he was bothered by the order, he was managing to keep it hidden. "But first…may I suggest that y'allow me to create a new identity for this boy? Also…we should put the word out on the street, an' with our contacts uptown—the kid's workin' fer us and not t' be bothered while makin' his rounds."

"Yeah, good idea," his uncle answered, with a short, curt nod. "Take care of it, nephew. Oh…!" He seemed to get an idea of his own, right then. "Now that I think of it, some jerk bean-counter's liable to start askin' why he ain't in school. Get that fixed too, while you're at it."

"Consider it done, Mr. McCrodon," Kieran answered, offering another bob of his head. And then laying a paw on my shoulder, he told me. "C'mon, boy."

"Wha…? All at once, his uncle was sitting up in his chair…while his eyebrows were standing up, "Hey, where you think you're going, huh?"

"Well, I…" Caught off guard by the question, Keiran was momentarily tongue-tangled. "I-I was just goin' to take this boy back t'…"

The Mister laughed and waved him off. "Ahhh, don't be silly; the provisions is almost done and we got plenty to go around. Go and grab yourself a chair, nephew. You too, fox-kid"

Much as I hate to admit it, I had a pretty decent time at that party—even though I was left mostly on my own. Nobody spoke to me except for Kieran…and he spent most of his time talking to this cute girl mink. I didn't think much of it at the time, I was too busy chowing down. The eats were excellent, and like The Mister had said, there was plenty to go around. It was one of the few times I knew him when he straight-up told the truth. Still, as much as I was enjoying myself, I had to wonder; what the heck was he being so generous for? Later on, I found out the reason—he'd made a particularly good score, earlier that day—but at the time I just told myself to shut up and eat. This was not only the best feed I'd had since the day of my arrest, it was maybe my best feed, EVER!

There was a price to pay for that luau, though. After all those months of Juvie cuisine, my body wasn't ready for a seafood slam. I found that out the hard way maybe an hour after I got back to Finagles…when King Neptune showed up to take his revenge. I stopped counting at six the number of times I had to run for the toilet…and I was supposed to have my first bike-riding lesson in the morning!

I stopped counting at eight, the number of times I fell off that thing. And every time I did, Danny would make me get back on and do it again.

Yeah, Erin…I'm surprised you didn't ask me that earlier. Like just about every other mob boss on the planet, The Mister wanted nothing to do with phones, especially cell-phones—even though he had a tech-wiz like Kieran working for him.

Uh-huh, you understand it, Mr. Rodenberg. There must be something like a zillion mob guys doing time coz of something they said on the phone—or on line. And the only way around that problem—from The Mister's point of view—was to send and receive information the old-fashioned way; in furson. That was where I was supposed to come in…running messages back and forth for him on a bicycle. Except the way things were working out, it looked like I wasn't going anywhere, except straight back to Granite Point.

Enter Kieran… The next day, when he showed up to help, it took him all of two seconds to spot the problem.

"Oi, y'can't just start the boy off on a messenger-bike, mate. Put 'im on somethin' a little easier t' begin with, and let him work his way up from there."

Danny wasn't at all pleased by this. "In case you didn't notice, Druid…"

"Don't call me that in front of the kid!"

"Sorry," his bud shrugged, and then pointed at his watch, "But like I said, we're on the clock over here. The Mister wants the kid ready to start work by the end of the week."

Kieran looked thoughtful for a second, and then pursed his lips and nodded.

"Tell yer what, boyo. You show the boy how to ride and let me deal with me uncle. I'll get yer the time y' need, no worries."

"How you gonna do that, huh?" Danny's head was tilted sideways, and his paws were on his hips.

Kieran answered with a wink and a toothy grin. Like I said before, foxes have nothing on mustelids when it comes to looking sly.

"Don't ferget now, Danny-Boy, the kid can't go nowheres 'til he's got his new identity…an' I can always say that the State o' Zoo Jersey's puttin' the screws to the ZYPD to find 'im and send him back right now. Matter of fact, I wouldn't be s'prised if that happens on its own."

The corners of Danny's mouth stretched back, almost to his ears.

"Yeah-h-h-h, reeeeeally," he said, drawing out the words like taffy, "Honestly, I wonder why it hasn't happened already."

With that problem settled—sort of—we drove in Danny's Super Bee to this outdoor bicycle dealer, over by the Barklyn Navy Yard, a real makeshift operation; Kieran called it a guerilla bike shop.

No, I'm serious. It was nothing more than a bunch of used rides, hung up on this chain-link fence in an empty lot, with an old parking-lot booth for a sales office. Some of the bikes looked like junkyard rejects, while others were practically brand new. All sales were strictly cash, and it would not have surprised me to learn that at least some of the merch was stolen. It was run by a pair of ocelots, one of them smaller and younger than the other, obviously sisters.

"Help you, sir?" the older one asked in a Latino accent, barely glancing up from the magazine she was reading.

It was Kieran who answered her, laying a paw on my shoulder, "Need a BMX bike that'll fit this boy, here. Have y' got one sitting about, then?"

"Huhm, let me see," she said, looking me over—and averting her eyes when she got to my face. To cover her awkwardness, she turned quickly to her sister, "Monica…go and get the Beastern we took in last month, ju know the one."

"Si, Clarita." She answered and went scurrying up the fence to the second row. She came back with a BMX bike in pure white, even the seat and the handle-bars.

Or, that is to say, it might have been white, once upon a time. Not anymore, though; now it looked like it had been ridden through either an oil slick or an inkwell. It was not a deal-breaker, though. The chain, pedals, gears and tires were all in great shape, and when I tried it on for size, the fit was excellent, not perfect but still excellent, and anyway…this was only supposed to be my training bike.

Danny could have afforded that bad boy a hundred times over, but he still insisted on haggling. Eventually he was able to talk the girls into shaving five bucks off of the asking price.

But then, just as he finished putting my new ride in his car-trunk, this Catillac Escalade came swerving around the corner and drifted to a halt, blocking in the Super-Bee so it couldn't pull away from the curb. In a blinding-fast move, Kieran shoved me to the ground and I watched Danny T's paw dive into his jacket.

At the same time, the Catty's doors flew open and these three big tayras got out. In response, Danny's paw came out of his jacket again—with nothing in it. As he later explained to me. "I could tell right aways those jerks were amateurs, easy targets, right out in the open, and none of 'em were packing."

Yeah Erin; tayras are another mustelid species, about the same size as a fisher—or a sea-mink. And these three did not look like happy campers, especially the one in the middle. As they got closer, I saw that they were wearing the same green and yellow t-shirts, identifying them as members of something called Palo Duro Boxing and Fitness. When they walked, they seemed to be trying not to swagger.

Almost immediately it became obvious that they were targeting Kieran. While the animal in the center kept a straight and steady course in his direction, the other two fanned out on either side of him. Needless to say, I was not thrilled by what I was seeing; the dudes who'd jumped me back at The Johnstone Campus had done pretty much the same thing. Without even thinking about it, I knew my tail was frizzing. But when I happened to glance at Danny again, I saw that his fur was completely relaxed. What the FOX? I reached over and tugged on his pant leg.

"Aren't you gonna help or anything?"

"Nah," he folded his arms, and leaned back against a fender, nodding in the tayras' direction, "Those punks got themselves into this—let THEM get out of it."

As if on cue, they stopped in their tracks and I saw the leader jab a finger in Kieran's direction.

"YOU!"

He just stood there, arms hanging at his side, "Aye, wha'd'yer want then?" His voice was soft, without a trace of fear. In fact, he sounded almost bored.

The middle tayra took another step and drew himself up to his full height. He was bigger than Kieran but not by much. "You think you can come on to MY girl, an' get away with it minky-boy, HUH?"

"What, then?" Now, finally, Kieran took a step backwards, but NOT because he was afraid. Rather he seemed genuinely perplexed by the situation. "What girl y'talkin 'bout, then?"

"Don' play pendejo, jerk." It was one of the main guy's companions. "Ju tried to put the moves on her at that beach party, the other night."

Oh, for the love of… I groaned and I heard Danny do the same. Put the moves on her? All Kieran had done was talk to that girl…and then she'd left the party with her girlfriends; I knew coz they'd walked right past me on the way out. I started to say something, but felt Danny's clamp his paw around my muzzle. "Don't bother kid," he said, "they won't listen anyway."

Kieran seemed to know that too—because he didn't even try to deny it. "Oi, YOUR girl was she?" he asked, tilting his head to the side, "Well, now…I don't recall seein' 'Property Of…' stamped anywheres on 'er." His eyes narrowed and his voice became almost a purr. "An' believe me boyo, if it'd been there, Oi'd have seen it."

Spark? Meet powderkeg. The tayra screamed, something I won't repeat, and launched himself at Kieran, ready to lay him out with a double fisted skull-crusher.

He never connected. Stepping out of the way as easily as if he was dodging a vacuum-cleaner, Kieran spun on his heel and slammed an elbow into the guy's ribs, sending him into sideways sprawl. And then leaping on top of the dude, he wrapped himself around tayra-boy like an octopus, and poked a thumb into the corner of his eye. I didn't see what happened next, too fast for me to follow, but when Kieran let go of the dude, he was holding a paw to his face and screaming.

But then he screamed, "Get him!"

His buds came in at Kieran from both directions, but he was already on all fours and on the move, going first for the animal on his left. The guy came at him with his claws and fangs bared, but he deflected it with a forearm swipe, and then pitched himself over the top of his opponent and into a liquid roll. Swirling into a crouch, he struck out with the speed of a rattlesnake. clamping his jaws around the tayra-two's hamstrings and biting down hard. The guy screamed and I saw blood—and then he was limping backwards, waving his paws in a pleading gesture.

That was enough for tayra number three. He turned and went running for his car, wanting to be anywhere but here.

Or…that's what I thought was happening—until I heard Kieran yell. "Danny…!"

"I'm on it!"

What the HECK, now? I had no idea what was going on here. I found out real sweet quick when a blast went off next to me that felt like it was gonna rip my skull apart. At the same time, the Catty's windshield disintegrated into a million glass beads, along with the rear window. When I looked up again, I saw that Danny had a gun in his paw—a BIG gun, like something you'd see an apex predator carrying instead of a swift-fox. And…he was handling it as easily as if it were a toy squirt-gun. I also noticed that he was rolling a toothpick in his mouth.

And then I heard him growl. "Toss it out, punk…or the next one sends your head to Pawkeepsie!"

I remember thinking, "Toss…what out?" And got an answer right away, when a sawed-off shotgun came skittering out from behind the Catillac and across the asphalt. Before I even had time to blink, Kieran had hold of it.

"'Kay…now get your tail out here!" Danny snarled again, while Kieran kept his buds covered. Tayra-three came out on his knees with his paws raised

That was when the leader finally broke. "You don't fight FAIR!" Sheesh, he was almost sobbing.

Kieran eyed him for a second and then smirked, "In a street fight, boyo, what's fair is what the bloke who's winning says is fair." He went over and leaned in close, lowering his voice to a hiss, "An' guess what? YOU'RE not winning."

He stepped back, and that was when a stench hit my nose, making me glad I hadn't eaten lunch yet. Tayra-one had lost control of his musk glands…and maybe his guts by the smell of it.

"Awwww, Jeez," Danny groaned, wrinkling his muzzle; he'd caught it too. "Quit bein' such a baby, willya? You're not gonna lose that eye. Any halfway decent ER doc can put it back in, no problem."

"Just th' same," Kieran chimed in, "I think ye'd do well t' get y'self t' hospital quick as y' can." His lips pulled back, revealing his fangs. "An' when y' do, ye'd be very well advised not t' mention me or me partner t' any of the doctors or staff...or especially t' any cops that might want t' know what happened to ye's." He nodded in Danny's direction. "Oh, and bye th' bye…that'd be Danny Tipperin over there and I'm Kieran McCrodon."

At the mention of that name, all three of his antagonists' eyes got big as sunflowers.

"M-M-McCrodon?" It was the guy he'd hamstrung, "A-As in…?"

"Aye, The Mister's me uncle," Kieran answered cheerily, and then cocked his head to the side again. "Din't ye know?"

Obviously, they hadn't, or none of this would've happened. But they didn't have time to think about it, because just then, Danny raised his gun like a starter's pistol.

"That's right…and now you punks got ten seconds to clear the fox outta here. One…Two…"

They were gone by the count of seven.