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The Fire Triangle
Part Two:
Oxidizer
Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 13)
"So much for the golden future, I can't even start
I've had every promise broken, there's anger in my heart
You don't know what it's like, you don't have a clue
If you did, you'd find yourselves doing the same thing too
Breaking the law, breaking the law
Breaking the law, breaking the law
Breaking the law, breaking the law
Breaking the law, breaking the law
You don't know what it's like!"
Judas Priest – Breaking the Law
"I learned a whole bunch of stuff that day." Conor reached for his can of pop, but didn't open it. Instead, he pressed it against his forehead, as if the temperature in the cabin had just turned uncomfortably warm. Recollecting the incident outside the bike shop seemed to have drained him of all his energy. And yet, he was unable to stop talking. It was as if, in choosing to tell the story, he had pulled his finger out of a dike.
Erin couldn't help wondering why he was acting this way. At that point in his life, he'd been through a whole lot worse. And…he'd played no part in that confrontation. It was Kieran who'd been the target of the unholy trio, not him. All he'd done was watch from the sidelines.
So, why was the memory affecting him so deeply? Well, she'd find out in short order.
"So, what was the first thing you learned?" Vern Rodenberg's whiskers were quivering as he spoke. He, too, seemed to understand how enervating the last few minutes had been for the young silver fox. In fact, he was the one who'd called a refreshment break. However, he was still, first and foremost, an attorney…and no lawyer worth his salt was going to object when a client insisted on talking.
At last cracking his soda, Conor rubbed at the back of his neck for a moment, saying nothing. It made Erin wonder if he'd even heard the question.
But then he said, "I knew The Mister was a scary dude; I'd met the guy face-to-face, after all." He looked away for a second and then back again. "But you should have seen those tayra guys when Kieran told them the big mink was his uncle. They nearly lost control of their vehicle when they bolted; skid marks halfway down the street. And it wasn't just coz Danny shot out their windshield."
"How the heck could you know…?" Erin started to ask, before Mr. Rodenberg silenced her with a wave of his paw. Conor answered the question anyway.
"Coz those tayras weren't only ones with a case of the jitters. When we got back in Danny's car, Kieran was practically begging him not to say anything to The Mister about what happened. Danny finally agreed, but he didn't think it'd do any good, 'Okay, but you know your uncle; he's gonna find out.'"
"How come?" Erin could feel her ears, standing at attention. "I mean…why did Kieran want that incident kept quiet? None of it was his fault."
"Ahhh, that wasn't the problem," Conor fanned a paw while he answered, "It's coz The Mister would have expected him to lay some payback on that mink chick who started it all."
"Yep," Mr Rodenberg concurred from atop the tray table "That's something he'd have done."
"Wha…?" Now it wasn't just the young doe bunny's ears; her nose was twitching, too. "What the heck did SHE do?"
Conor's expression morphed quickly into one of disgust. "How about…she lied that Kieran hit on her," he sniffed derisively, "And yeah, that's what happened. I heard later that she was the kind of girl who gets off on making her boyfriend jealous. Only this time, she picked the wrong patsy. Kieran was willing to let things slide; he figured he'd paid her back enough by sending her guy to the ER—but he knew his uncle wouldn't see it that way."
"Right again, kid," Vern Rodenberg said, with another nod. "THAT sea-mink never let anything slide. If you crossed him, you paid for it; no exceptions." One of his eyebrows lifted higher than the other, "But then, may I assume that girl wasn't herself any relation to The Mister?" He seemed to be implying that if she had been, she'd have gotten a pass.
Conor answered with a shrug that fairly screamed, 'Well, DUH!'
"In that'd been the case, she would have known better than to sic her boyfriend on a member of The Company, much less on Kieran McCrodon. And that brings up another thing I learned that day. Even he had rules to live by. 'I never punch down,' he always used to tell me, meaning he didn't fight weaker opponents—not unless they gave him no choice. Anyways, that's the other reason he was willing to leave that girl-mink alone."
"So…did he?" Erin didn't want to ask, but she just had to know.
And she wasn't going to know; Conor tossed his paws upwards in a helpless gesture.
"To tell you the truth, I got no idea. Kieran never mentioned her again, and I sure as heck wasn't gonna ask him about it."
"And what else did you learn from that fight?" Mr. Rodenberg interjected…quickly, before either young mammal had time to say anything further. He seemed to have had enough of this particular subject.
So did Conor…
"That Wez's bragging about his cousin's fighting skills, wasn't just blowing smoke. My leopard-bud Cutty was maybe the toughest kid I ever knew…but even HE wouldn't have taken on three guys, all by himself. Later on, I learned something else; the thing that made Kieran almost a legend on the street was that he fought with his head as much as with his teeth and claws."
"How do you mean?" Erin asked him, surprising herself with the question. Conor's description of the fight with the tayras had been more than a little off-putting—yet for all that, the subject still fascinated her.
"He'd had those guys pegged the minute they exited their vehicle," the young silver fox told her. "Later, he explained it to me. 'I could see from their shirts that those boys were jocks…and yer average jock is used to playin' by the rules, isn't he? So, if YOU go outside the rules, they don't know how t' deal with it'"
He shook his head in rueful amazement.
"When I heard that, it was like someone hit the light-switch. I must have seen it a hundred times, during the Sunday fights, back at The Point. Every time—and I mean every time—a guy who'd been a jock on the outside went into the ring against a street-kid, he always had to be carried out. Cutty once fought this Tamaraw Buffalo who had a closet full of martial arts trophies back home. He didn't last more than two rounds against my guy."
The corners of his mouth zipped backwards, revealing a feral grin.
"And that leads to something else Kieran taught me. Anytime you're in a fight with a jock, always go for the knee. You put even a little bit of hurt on an athlete's knee and he sees that bajillion-dollar contract he's dreaming of sprouting wings and getting ready to fly away. After that, he won't be so eager to fight you."
"Right again, kid," Mr. Rodenberg nodded sagely from his makeshift chair. For some reason, Erin found it irritating. What was he, Conor's yes-rat? "That sea-mink was one sharp cookie. He knew that last animal was going for a piece—and he knew enough to let his partner handle it."
"Yeah," Conor agreed at once, "And that was also where I found out how Danny got his street name. The gun he used on that windshield was a .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda. He used to carry that bad boy everywhere he went—so after a while, the guys in The Company started calling him The Danaconda. He never let it show, but he hated that name."
"Tell me something else, kid." Mr. Rodenberg was scratching his cheek and looking puzzled, "Do you know WHY he always carried that piece? It's a crummy weapon for everyday use; heavy, bulky, hard to handle, kicks like an elephant, and not all that accurate. I could never figure out what he wanted with a gun like that—and neither could Mr. Big."
"Two reasons." Conor held up a pair of fingers, "First of all, as you pointed out, the Anaconda's a lousy gun for everyday use. So, if a guy can shoot good with one of THOSE things, it's a slam-dunk that he can shoot good with any kind of weapon."
"Which Tipperin could," the grey rat conceded, nodding his understanding. "I once watched him take out five bullseyes in four seconds—with a Desert Eagle .50!"
"Yep, that was Danny," his young client nodded
Erin Hopps nodded as well, but she was noticing something else—she thought. Was it her imagination, or had Conor's voice begun to falter a little bit just now?
"The other reason," he went on, "was intimidation. You stick a cap-gun the size of...a Colt Anaconda…in a someone's face, and you're GONNA get…th-their attention."
Whoa…no, it hadn't been her imagination. Conor's voice had become little more than a dry rasp and now he was shivering as if the temperature in the room had plummeted.
"Hey foxy…are you all right?"
The question seemed to shake him back to reality.
"Yeah, I'm fine, it's just…" his eyes blinked shut and held that way for a second. And then they practically flew open. "I HATE guns, okay? And that was where it started—I know, I KNOW!" he threw up a paw, as if to forestall any interruptions. "Nobody got hurt; the only casualties were a coupla car windows, but still…it scared the livin' snot out of me when Danny opened up with that thing." He swiped the back of his arm across his muzzle. "And everything that's happened with me since has only made me hate guns even more. I want nothing to do with 'em…EVER!"
For a long, awkward moment, nobody spoke. Erin was stunned and even Mr. Rodenberg looked fidgety. Conor, meanwhile, had pulled up into a semi-fetal position, hugging his knees tightly. Whatever that 'everything' was, it was obviously worse than any of the experiences he'd recounted so far…and that was a very high bar to clear.
And…it would be no use trying to get him to talk about it. He'd get there in his own, good time.
Or…probably, he wouldn't.
In any event, there was only one thing for the young doe-bunny to do—try and change the subject.
"And the next thing you learned was how to ride a bicycle, right?"
At first, her words seemed to have no effect on the nearly catatonic young silver fox. But then, with an almost painful slowness, he unwound himself and sat up again, offering a wan smile.
"Yeah…but even with that new bike, it took a while…"
Whoa, thank God for Kieran. Somehow, he managed to talk his Uncle Mister into laying off on me until I was ready.
It seemed to take me forever to learn how to ride that BMX bike. But once I got it dialed in, things came a whole lot easier. When Danny switched me over to a messenger bike, I got it down in no time flat. I fell off exactly once, and never again. Good thing, too, coz only a couple days later, The Mister had me start running messages for him.
That was where I lucked out in another way. The big mink wasn't stupid. He knew that I was not only just a kid, but also the new kid on the block—meaning I knew zippity about how to find my way around Zoo York.
And so, he started me off easy, just having me run messages between Finagles and The Wicked Mink. It was only after I had that down, when he started sending me further and further afield. Meanwhile, Kieran set me up with a smart-phone, equipped with GPS Navigation, and a pair of smart goggles. I was glad to get them; they'd help me out a lot. But, at the same time, I was wary. Even then I knew the risks they posed and I said as much. "What if the cops use it to track me?" I had a new identity by that time, and Danny had briefed me on what to do if the police pulled me over. Even so, I couldn't help worrying. In the back of my mind, being confronted by the cops was my first step on the road back to Granite Point.
Kieran moved quickly to reassure me. "Not that phone boyo, I've made sure of it, meself. Matter o' fact, it can help yer."
"How?" I asked him, and he pointed at the phone with a smirk on his face.
"It's got voice-recognition and AI; if it hears y' say, 'Is there a problem, officer?' it'll send me an alert that yer bein' rousted—and then encrypt itself so's it can't be accessed, except with a code known only t' meself."
Yeah Mr. Rodenberg, it does sound kinda self-defeating, doesn't it? Giving me a cell-phone when the whole purpose of making me a bicycle-courier was to avoid sending messages by phone. But you see, I couldn't call out or send texts on that thing; it was good for incoming stuff only—unless I spoke the magic words. And even without the encryption, there was never anything incriminating on that bad boy. The messages I delivered were carried separately, usually written down. always in code, and always sealed in envelopes. I never knew what they said and knew better than to ask. Or…sometimes, Kieran would give me a thumb-drive to deliver. Needless to say, they were always encrypted.
Not all of the deliveries I made went to wiseguys; a lot of times I'd make drops at this or that legitimate business. I remember one time when Kieran had me deliver a thumb-drive to this electronics repair shop, up in Catstoria. I was supposed to wait while the owner decoded it, and then bring back a reply.
She turned out to be the geekiest looking wolf I've ever seen, pop-bottle glasses, an upper lip that stuck way out over her jawline, and more piercings than a stinkin' dartboard; really skinny, too—and nervous. When she took the thumb-drive off me, she was shaking so bad, I thought she might be going through withdrawal or something.
She was still shaking when she took it to the back. But then, maybe a minute later, I heard a howl so loud, it made the front window shiver, and made this wildebeest passing by stop dead in his tracks. When Wolf-Girl came back out front again, she looked like she'd just scratched off a winning lottery ticket.
"Here," she said, giving me back the thumb drive, and then before I could say thanks, she opened the cash drawer and pulled out a five, "and this is for you."
Needless to say, I wasn't about to turn it down. It was the first money I'd earned since my arrest. The only problem was, what would The Mister say? I decided I'd better clear it with Kieran before I did anything else.
To say that he didn't have a problem with me accepting tips would be a little bit of an understatement.
"Sure y' can, boy. Matter of fact, ye might want to start holdin' yer paw out whenever ye make a drop." And then, like he always did, he curbed his enthusiasm. "Just make sure y' only do it when it's good news ye've delivered. If the animal who gets the message looks scared, or unhappy, or especially angry…then, f' heaven's sake, leave yer paw where 'tis."
Even though I heeded his advice, it didn't always pay off for me. A lot of times, when I held out my paw, all I got was a low four…fingers, not dollars. One time, this llama guy even spit in my pawlm. When I told Kieran about it, he scribbled another note and sent me back again. I dunno what was in that message, but the llama dude apologized so fast, I could barely understand him—and then he gave me five bucks—and another five every time I saw him after that.
What…? Oh yeah, my new identity; I forgot about that. From now on, I was to be known as Sean McCleod.
Nah, I didn't mind; in fact, I was happy. Alan Murphy, don't forget, was the name laid on me by the jerks who ran Granite Point. By tossing that handle, and giving me a new one, Kieran had severed my last connection to that place. He hadn't, but that was how it felt at the time.
And when I say new identity, I mean way more than just a new name; this was where I was first exposed to that sea mink's wicked hacking skillZ...and what a stinkin' genius! He set me up with a fake birth certificate, fake school records, fake health records, a fake social security card, even a fake accident report.
Yeah, that's right and it was pure, stinkin' brilliance; it said that I'd gotten my facial injuries in a car crash with a drunk driver—the same crash in which my parents died; two explanations for the price of one. And not only that—nobody gets more sympathy than the victim of a DUI. That story earned me a lot of dividends, I can tell you. I'll get more into that part, later on.
But when I say those things were fake; yes, they were, but they were NOT forgeries. Every single one of them had been issued by the appropriate agency, courtesy of Kieran's intervention. And like any good hacker, he knew how to mix in just the right amount of truth. F'rinstance, the accident in which I'd supposedly lost my folks actually happened…except the victim was this retired dentist with no living relatives. And, of course, the guy who caused it didn't survive either.
And that was only part of what Kieran did when he created that new me…and it was only the first one. He did it again later—like when I took on the name I got now.
Ye-e-eahhh, you're right Mr. Rodenberg, let's not jump too far ahead here.
Before I go on, I should say one thing, though. I don't want to give the impression that The Mister was running me ragged. Sometimes, okay, I'd be up before dawn and not get done till after midnight. But other times, when I'd go to his office, he'd tell me, "I don't need you today, fox-kid; go do whatever." Whenever he was out of town—which happened a lot—that was my real slack-time. His two brothers weren't nearly as wary of cell phones as he was. They were more than willing to use burners, and trust their nephew Kieran to keep them secure. He and Danny might have a message or two for me to run while the boss was away, but it was nothing like when he was around.
Hrm? No…Kieran's dad was The Mister's cousin, not one of his brothers. He lives over in Dublion; dunno if he's still alive. Same thing with Crazy Wez, only it was his mom, not his dad who was related to the big mink. She went back to her maiden name after she split with Wez's father; that's what he told me, anyway.
What's that Erin? Ahhh, I tried; I tried to hang with the other kids in the neighborhood when I wasn't running messages. I even got into some games of ringolevio.
It never worked out; sooner or later someone would make a remark about my face, and I could never keep hid that it was getting to me. You can guess where it went from there. And besides that, it didn't take long for word to get around that I was working for The Company. When that happened, a lot of the parents decided they didn't want their kids associating with me; a 'bad influence', you know the routine. And it didn't help at all that I was a fox. The thing that really bugged me was…whenever a lot of these moms and dads talked about The Mister, it was like he was some kind of folk hero or something—but they better not catch their kids hanging with his go-fer. Whatever…I didn't have any friends my own age, not a…
HUH?! What the HECK, Snowdrop? Lemme go, ya dumb bunny! Cripes, you're lucky Judy didn't see you hugging me.
And you can stop laughing any time, Mr. Rodenberg!
At first, I spent most of my free time practicing guitar, and/or pestering Kieran to let me have a computer of my own. There were plenty of laptops around, but I was only allowed to use 'em with permission and then only with someone looking over my shoulder. That was no good; I wanted a comp of my own and couldn't understand why I didn't have one. Even then, I knew Kieran could easily set it up with parental controls and monitor my activity. Finally, he sat me down and told me that if it was up to him, I'd already have a computer.
"But it's not up t' me, is it?" he said, "It's up to me Uncle, The Mister." And that was all it took to shut me up. No way was I gonna pester that guy to let me have a comp of my own.
In the meantime, if I had to say what was the biggest difference between my life in The Point and my life with the Company, it was how much better I was eating now. Whenever Danny or Kieran would send out for lunch, they would always ask if I wanted something. Or…when the McCrodons held one of their famous clambakes, they'd always bring me along. Yeah-h-h…as a waiter/busboy/whatever but I'd always get to chow down with the others. And like I said, I had money to buy my own food now, but you know what? The more I earned, the less I needed it. If the parents in the 'hood didn't like me 'cause I was running with The Mister, the local business owners were a different story. More and more, I was finding that I didn't have to pay for stuff. I would go into a bodega to snag a few provisions and the animal behind the counter would wave me off without ringing it up. Same thing with every deli and fast-food joint on the Company's turf. One time, I even got a 100% discount on a pair of flip-flops.
Nope…no one ever got resentful on me. My rule back then was never to push for a freebie, but never to turn one down either. And I never got greedy, never tried to grab off half the store—something Junior liked to do, I found out later. But you understand…I wasn't being fed decently coz of charity or compassion, or whatever. The Mister wanted to make sure I kept my strength up for making his message runs.
As those duties expanded, and I began to know my way around the city, I found that I could save time by making use of the subway for part of the longer runs. I would get on with my bike at one station, get off at another, and then ride it the rest of the way to my drop.
Nah, The Mister didn't mind; just the opposite, in fact. I remember this one time when he gave me a message to deliver to the Air Egypt cargo terminal at Idlewild Airport, the longest run he'd given me so far. When I arrived back at The Wicked Mink after only a couple of hours, he was so triggered, it gave him a nosebleed.
"WHAT THE…? What're you doin' here, fox-punk? I thought I sent you to the airport!"
"I went," I answered quickly, doing a fast draw for my messenger bag, "I saw the guy and here's your answer." My paw was shaking so bad I almost dropped the envelope.
The Mister had his bodyguard take it while he wiped his nose. But when he opened the message and read it, he was like a kid at his first magic show, staring at me wide-eyed, with his mouth hanging open. "Son of a…how'd you do that, kid?"
When I told him, he not only wasn't mad at me, he whooped and clapped his paws together. "Yeah! That's what I like to see, Lefty." He was speaking to the Kodiak bear standing next to him, "Guys who know how to think outside a' the box. C'mere, kid." I went over and he patted me on the cheek, and gave me a twenty…and then gave me the rest of the day off. I was grateful for the cash, but when I got back to Finagles, I went straight to the bathroom and spent the next ten minutes scrubbing my face.
But that was another thing about The Mister. As long as you got the job done, he didn't care how you got it done—provided, of course, that you didn't take any unnecessary risks. It was one of the secrets to his success.
And as long we're on the subject, kind of…The Company was one of those outfits where guys were allowed to run side hustles, provided they kicked up a share of the profits to the boss.
Oh, yeah…that's right, Mr. Rodenberg. Except for one thing—drugs. Dealing in dope was totally forbidden. If the Mister caught you messing with drugs, you didn't get a warning; you got whacked. The one exception was bootleg pharmaceuticals; the Company was heavily into the bootleg pharma racket. But even then, they never dealt in the addictive stuff—no Oxy, or anything like that.
Yep, right again…a lot of the side hustles were totally legitimate. Danny T. owned a transmission repair and a tire dealer, and Kieran had a couple of Game Spot stores. He also did a lot of business online, no surprise there. I didn't know too much about that part though, at least not then. He did all of the heavy cyber stuff in a part of the basement where I wasn't allowed to go, and he never talked about it. But on the day after that airport run, he presented me with a transit pass, good for the rest of the year, and—finally—a laptop computer of my own.
There was a catch, though. I could only have it to keep after he taught me how to use it.
"But I already know how to use a computer," I insisted, citing my experiences with the library comps. It left him completely unmoved.
"I'LL decide when ye're ready, boy." He said, folding his arms to inform me that no further discussion would be permitted.
We started the very next day…and right off the bat, I had to admit, he'd been right not to just let me have that laptop. There was still so much that I had to learn; how to spot scammers, how to spot phishing, how to deal with online trolls, what websites to avoid, and especially—how to know when John Q. Law was monitoring my activities. I remember that there was this one cop in particular he wanted me to watch out for.
"Goes by the online name of LotusFlotr355," he said, looking for a moment like he wanted to punch somebody, "but don't let the name fool ye; the sod's 'arf dragon, 'arf demon—an' ALL business. Been a thorn in me side ever since Pennanti put 'er. on me."
"Who?" I asked. I had never heard that name before.
"Detective Lieutenant Martin Pennanti." Kieran spoke the name with a mixture of bitterness and grudging respect. "He's a fisher; head o' the ZYPD's Organized Crime Strike Force; practically obsessed with takin' down The Company. Me Uncle's like Moby Dick to his Cap'n Ahab. He won't… Oi, what's the joke, then?" he was staring at me with his paws on his ribs
"I'm sorry, it's…" That was all I could manage before I started laughing again. I couldn't help it; the imaged of The Mister as a Great White Whale was just too good.
In the end though, it wasn't funny. If The Company went, I'd go too—straight back to Granite Point. My only reassurance was that while Kieran didn't seem to care much for this Pennanti guy, he was no way afraid of him.
Neither was his uncle; "That jerk's got nothin' and he'll never HAVE nothin'." he always used to say. I always used to wonder how much of that was real, and how much was him just putting on a brave face.
My new laptop didn't come without a price, though. It was shortly afterwards that I was given my first message to take across the river to Mancattan.
It was like entering another world. No kidding, I felt like a character in a video game, dodging traffic, dodging pedestrians, trying to avoid running over any rodents, getting cussed at left and right, to say nothing of all the cops everywhere. The worst part was The Suit-Mammals, especially the younger ones. They treated bike riders like peons and like they were the lords of the manor or something—meaning cyclists were fair game for any kind of prank. One of their favorites was to throw open a cab door when they saw one coming, and try to clothesline them. The cabbies hated when they did that almost as much as the bike-riders, but…tough luck, blue-collar boy. I got money and you don't; maybe I should call your dispatcher, blah, blah, blah…"
Because I was a kid, I got cut a bit more slack than most of the other cyclists. So did the hardcore, professional bike-messengers—but for a different reason. Those dudes were built like tank-destroyers and they didn't take scrap from anybody—and they didn't care WHO you were. Try to smack one of them with a car door, and you'd get zapped with a stun gun—or even hauled out into the street and have the snot beat out of you. I actually saw it happen, on that first day. I didn't breathe easy until I was safely back in Barklyn.
I shouldn't have. No sooner did I cross the river than I took my first pinch.
It happened when I stopped at a bodega to grab a pop before heading back to Finagles. When I walked out again, there was a cop-car parked at the curb and two officers, standing between me and my bike, a deer-buck and a buffalo. One look at their faces said it all; could they have made it any more obvious? I knew right away what I needed to do, and went straight over to where they were waiting, making sure to keep my cell-phone close, so it would hear the magic words.
"Is there a problem, officer?"
"Yeah, kid," the buff answered, pointing at his watch, "It's 11:00 in the AM right now; how come you're not in school?"
I knew how to answer him. After all the times Danny had drilled it into my head, I had BETTER know what to say.
"I'm home-schooled," I said, and that prompted his partner to ask me, then how come I wasn't at home. I had an answer for that one too, I told him I wasn't schooled regular hours.
I'll skip over the rest of our conversation. They grabbed my bike and cell phone, put me in the back of the cruiser and took me to the police station. All the way there, they kept asking me questions, but I just sat still and said nothing. And that wasn't just coz of what I'd been taught. I tuned out on most of what they said; too busy hoping that my 'distress signal' had been received.
It had; when we walked in through the precinct door, we found a two-mammal reception committee, waiting to greet us; Danny Tipperin, and an opossum guy that I think you may know, Mr. Rodenberg, Franklin P. Henschel.
Yeah, I thought so. Ah, he's The Mister's attorney of record, Erin. Or…he was, before the raid went down.
Anyway, as soon as he saw me, Danny got down on one knee and spread his arms, "Come here, son. Are you all right?"
Wha…? Ah, sorry…could have sworn I mentioned it earlier. Yeah, Danny was now officially my legal guardian, and Frank Henschel had the papers to prove it—along with a waiver, signed by a judge of the Barklyn Supreme Court, allowing me to be home-schooled. All of it was bogus of course, but anyone checking the computer records would have seen otherwise; more of Kieran's handiwork.
Not that it mattered—not to the desk sergeant, the watch commander, or especially the officers that brought me in. Their attitude was 'We don't need to see no stinking papers!' And now they turned on my 'stepdad' with a barrage of questions. Why was I out on the street right now? If I was being home-schooled, what time were my classes? What were my study materials?
Yep, you're right Mr. Rodenberg…and that's exactly what Mr. Henschel said; Danny didn't have to answer any of those questions. But then he said something that I thought sounded kind of strange. "Might we discuss this in private, gentlemammals?"
They all went into the back and came out less than five minutes later. Soon as they returned, I was free to go. Danny drove me and my bike back to Finagles and I just couldn't keep from asking. "How'd you get those cops to turn me loose so quick?"
He responded by holding up his paw and rubbing his fingers together. I had no idea what he meant by that, but I didn't push the question any further.
I know now, of course. Those cops hadn't really been looking to bust me; the whole thing was a shakedown.
Yeah…they were pushing for a payoff bunny-girl; you know, a bribe. Look, like anyone can tell you, Zoo York isn't Zootopia…am I right, Mr. Rodenberg? And even the ZYPD has some good cops, like that fisher-guy I mentioned a minute ago.
I was worried that The Mister was gonna be mad at me for coming back late, and without an answer to his message. The cops had taken it off me before putting me in the cruiser, and then, "Whoops, sorry fox-kid…guess we lost it somewhere." On the way to the station, they had read it out loud, demanding that I tell them what it meant. Nice try; I couldn't have told them if I wanted to—those messages were always in code, remember—but that wasn't gonna help me now.
And sure enough, the first words out of The Mister's mouth when I was brought in to see him were. "Where's my reply?"
I started to answer, but then realized something and hesitated for a second
The big mink did not appreciate my THAT, "Hey fox-kid, you deaf or something? I said…"
"The cops took it," I answered quickly, "But I remember what it said." And then I proceeded to recite what I'd heard in the back of that police cruiser. Heh…it's amazing what being scared outta your skull can do to jog your memory—I hoped! Like I said, I'd barely been paying attention to those two cops. And halfway through my recitation, I had to stop and start over so Lefty could write down what I was saying…and then I had to wait while The Mister translated it. Hoo-boy, was that a tense moment; I thought for sure I was headed back to Granite Point.
But when he finished reading and looked up again, he was Mr. Smiley-Face.
"I don't believe it; nice save, fox-kid…and I heard you held up good under questioning, too," And then motioning me over, he presented me with a pair of twenties. And this time—thank God—he didn't pat me on the cheek. "Take tomorrow off."
I should mention here that he hadn't been bothered much about having to make that payoff. Like every other crime boss on the planet, The Mister considered the occasional shakedown as part of the cost of doing business. "It comes with the territory," he always used to say. It was only when someone decided to get greedy that he'd pull out the hardball.
And, though I didn't realize it at the time, I hadn't gotten out of that pinch completely unfazed. Yeah, the cops who'd taken me in had only been looking for a payday…but I was still now officially on the ZYPD's radar.
I found that out on another run, maybe a week later—when I looked over my shoulder and saw a cop-car tailing me. I managed to lose it by ducking through an alleyway too narrow for it to follow. When I told Danny about it, though, he wasn't pleased.
"Never try to ditch the cops, kid; that only tells 'em you got something 'interesting' on you—and it also makes 'em mad."
I listened to his advice. From then on, if I saw a cop-car following me, I just pretended like it wasn't there.
Nobody was taking any chances, though. After my performance in his office, The Mister started having me memorize his messages and deliver them verbally. At first it was only the shorter ones; later on, they got longer. He also decided that since the ZYPD was now aware of me, I had better get some actual schooling. And so, he had Kieran sign me up to take some classes online. I didn't like that one bit, but he wasn't having any of my complaints. "You gotta problem with that, fox-kid? Well, guess what? You're gonna have a whole lot bigger problems if The Mammal finds out that you ain't actually learned anything from being home-schooled. If that happens, I couldn't keep your tail outta Granite Point if I stinkin' wanted to!"
I dunno how much of that was true, but at the time, I cursed him for it. Now, I almost bless the guy…almost.
For the next…honestly, I don't know how long it was, my life settled into a kind of routine. I ran messages, tended the garden, watched that garden get taken out, ran more messages, and did whatever odd job The Mister wanted. Between my assignments, I would study, work out, or practice guitar.
The high point of my week was always Tribute Thursdays, when I'd get tapped to play gofer for whichever band was appearing at Finagles that night. On those evenings, I would bring along one of my guitars and try to wheedle a quick lesson out of whoever was playing lead. Some of these guys were so good, they could have replaced the mammals in the original band.
And it wasn't always tribute bands that came to perform, either. Sometimes a name act would show up to play Finagles. The one I'll always remember is Joe Catriani. He'd been a guitar instructor before he went pro, and was only too happy to give me a few pointers.
Hee, hee—eat yer heart out, bunny-girl!
That was the high-point of my life. The low point was Junior McCrodon…whom I soon began to think of as living proof that somebody up there didn't like me. Every once in a while, when I was about to head out on a message run, he would order me to bring him back this or that item, and never mind how far out of my way it'd take me. And I didn't dare say no to that punk. The one time I tried, he went running to his dad with a lie about how I'd threatened him. For that, I got a smack that nearly sent me to the ER—and I never again objected when he demanded that I bring him something from a message run. He used to razz me about my face all the time, too. And that ice-bucket test he gave me was only the first of many pranks he pulled. The one saving grace was that he got bored really quick with harassing me. Why stick it to some fox-kid, smaller than him, when there were all these big, mean guys around who also didn't dare lay a finger on him? Even his two uncles weren't immune to his shenanigans—nor were any of their kids. In fact, his cousins were his favorite targets. Luckily for them, they weren't around a lot of the time. All of them went to boarding school, and spent most of their summers at camp. I didn't know whether to feel sorry for those guys or jealous of 'em.
In the meantime, my bike messenger skills continued to improve. Eventually some of the animals in The Company began making bets with each other on how long it would take me to get to a certain destination and back. One time, Junior made a bet on me, and then sent me out of my way to make sure he'd win. He never got to collect, though. His old mink canceled the run at the last minute and sent me to a different location. It was across the river in Mancattan again, and by now I'd gotten the hang of that place, with the help of some of the full-time bike messengers. They were a real tight community, and always willing to help when I asked for advice or directions. I picked up a lot of great riding tips from those guys too.
But getting back to the subject of Junior, I want to tell you about The Mister's birthday-bash clambake. This time, he was there and he made a bet with Kieran and a few of the other guys—that I couldn't eat a raw oyster without hurling it up again. If I hadn't wanted to spite that jerk so badly, I don't think I could have pulled it off. I even went double or nothing…and for once, Junior couldn't complain, coz his dad was right there on the sidelines, cheering me on. Kieran was so pleased that ended up giving me half his winnings.
And…would you believe, I eventually learned to like raw oysters? Yep, I can scarf 'em by the half-dozen now.
Nothing lasts forever, though. In that life, you're lucky if it lasts for more than a month. And so, it wasn't long before my somewhat comfortable routine got upended in a big way.
I was heading back from delivering a message to this coffee-house up in Little Yeenmen. It was a one-way gig, no reply needed, so I didn't have to rush my return. I remember that it was a rainy day and I just made the subway entrance when it started to come down. I was lucky too, that with just a single change of trains, I could make it back to the Dumbo District, no sweat.
That was what I thought…
When I got off to switch lines, the lunch hour rush had just ended and the platform was kind of empty. I'd been up late the previous night, working a Tribute Thursday gig and so, I was pretty tired. Otherwise, I might have picked up on the three dudes right away. They were older than me by a couple of years, and all three were members of my species, two reds and a bat-eared fox. When I stepped off the train, they were talking amongst themselves, and it wasn't until later that I realized—the bat-eared kid's ears had been aimed in my direction from the second I stepped onto the platform.
I didn't think anything about them and didn't even notice that when my train arrived, they got on, too. Nor did it catch my attention that when we reached the next station, they all stood up to leave. I did find it odd that instead of exiting through the nearest door…they chose to get off by way of the next one down.
…which took them right past where I was sitting—and also past where I'd hung up my bike.
What happened next went down in the blink of an eye. Without any kind of warning, red-fox one snatched my bike off the hanger and bolted out the door. I jumped up to go after him…only to find his buds there, waiting for me. They body checked me from either side, and threw me back in my seat again. And then they were out the door too. I leaped up again and went flying after them, but when I hit the station platform, they were nowhere to be seen.
That is, until I heard the subway doors close, and turned around to see them back on the train again—with my bike in their paws and making gestures at me as it began to pull away.
Almost at once, I heard a voice behind me. "What happened, son; someone steal your bicycle?"
I turned around, and there was this transit-cop, an older caracal in his late 50s. And yeah, I had been ripped off—but I sure as heck wasn't telling this guy! And besides, where'd he been when I needed him?
"Nah," I fanned a paw, "They're just borrowing it."
I had no idea that I was saying more than I knew. Anyway, I had to reassure Officer Transit Cop two more times before he left me alone. And then as soon as he was gone, I found a pay phone and called Danny. I was so angry; I didn't think even once about getting sent back to The Point.
But you better believe it was on my mind by the time he showed up to get me. I had messed up big time, letting those other foxes get the drop on me—and The Mister wasn't going to like it.
When we got back to Finagles, Danny took me downstairs, gave me a soda, and began grilling about the guys who'd robbed me. What had they been wearing? Did I recognize any of them? How tall were they? Did they say anything? Okay, did any of them have an accent? What about their fur color, describe it in detail. He never once mentioned my Epic Fail, which made me even more anxious.
Finally, he just shook his head. "You really dropped the ball on that one, kid. You know that, right?"
"Yeah." I hung my head, and studied the floor, "I know." And then I just couldn't stand it anymore. "Is The Mister gonna send me back to Granite Point?"
"Well-l-l-l-l," Danny rubbed the back of his neck, looking upwards at the ceiling. And then he looked me in the eye and almost grinned. "He left town right after lunch; I think he's headed down to his beach-house for the weekend." He was talking about his boss's condo in Bulize. I'd never been there but I'd seen pictures; a stinkin' beach palace would be more like it. It wasn't just a vacation home, though; he did a lot of business out of that place. "He won't be back 'til Wednesday, so I should be able to get this handled by then," he said, and then shot a finger at me. "But YOU still need to think about how you messed up…and how you're not gonna do it again, you follow what I'm bringing out?"
Oh yeah…I read him loud and clear.
As things went, it took less than a day for Danny to get the issue settled. The very next morning, when I opened my door, I found him standing there with my bike his paws.
"Here, kid," he said, wheeling it towards me. And then he winked, "And try not to lose it again, huh?"
"I won't," I promised, crossing my heart before taking it. But then, I couldn't help noticing; the chain and the front wheel were both brand new—and there was some kind of dark stain on the saddle, like it had been hit with a paintball and then cleaned off.
And it was giving off a faint, but familiar coppery smell. What had Danny done to those guys? He wouldn't…? Nah, not for stealing a bicycle…No! Way!
It did nothing for my worries when he pulled out his wallet and gave me exactly 43 dollars. Wha…what the heck was that for? And why such a weird amount? Before I could ask, he was already answering me, "Call it an apology from the guys who ripped you off. And now, go get showered and get back here. I gotta message, I need you to run."
He didn't; not really…it was only a make-work thing.
When The Mister got back from Belize he was in an excellent mood. He never said a word about my bike getting stolen. Honestly, I'm not sure if he ever found out. Just the same, his return marked the beginning of what I call my Ugly Time with The Company.
It began a few days later with a knock on my door…which quickly became a pounding after a couple of seconds. When I looked at my watch—yeah, I had one now—I saw that it was Quarter to One. What the FOX?
When I opened the door, Danny was there, with a face like a rubber mask; no expression, completely unreadable.
"The Mister's gotta job for you, kid."
"What, NOW?" I thought, but knew better than to say. And what the heck was going on with Danny? His voice was so toneless, it sounded almost like a robocall.
"You know The Nest, that bake-shop, down by Front and Washington?"
As a matter of fact, I did. It was a tiny little joint, just a hole in the wall, run by these two hedgehogs. I happened to know the place coz their blackberry sour-cream muffins were just the bomb. I had never gotten one for free—those guys never gave out freebies—but I didn't care, they were that yummy.
"Yeah."
"Right." Danny reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. "Here, put these on."
I just stared at them for a second.
"I-I don't…"
"Put…them…ON!" he repeated, in that voice, the one that said shut up and do as you're told. So, I did as I was told, and then he gave me this Shake Shack bag. There were no shakes or bug-burgers in it, though. I'd have smelled 'em if they were there.
"Take this to that bake-shop, and use the tape to stick it to the window…in the corner, not the center. Then light the incense and clear out. Do NOT go back, not for any reason…and get rid of the gloves and the other stuff when you're done, got that?"
"Yeah, okay." I actually didn't get any of it, but I wasn't about to say so.
When I got to the bakery and opened the bag, I found three things inside; a roll of duct-tape, a disposable lighter, and a thing that looked like a can of car-polish, with a stalk of incense sticking up out of the center. I was more confused than ever but I did like Danny said. I taped the can to a corner of the window, lit the incense stick and cleared out. At the first trash can I came to, I pulled off my latex gloves, stuffed them into the Shake Shack bag and tossed it. Then I rode on back to Finagles, eager to hit the sack again.
If I'd looked more closely at that can of 'car wax', I might have noticed that the incense stick was taped to a fuse.
What? Nope…nada; all the way back to the club, I never heard a thing.
I might not have heard anything ever…except the next morning, I was given a message to take to the Naval Cemetery.
Yeah, that's right. It was concealed in a bunch of flowers that I was supposed to leave on one of the graves. I had no idea who it was for, and didn't care. I had the wind in my face, all the way there, and after the first few blocks, I was huffing my lungs out. Twice, I nearly lost that stinkin' bouquet; I couldn't wait to get it dropped and head on back to Finagles. When I finally got where I was going, I had to plant those stupid flowers something like eight inches into the ground to keep them from blowing away. After I finished, I decided to make a little detour and treat myself. Carrying that bag around last night, had given me a serious Jones for a milkshake…and it just so happened there was a Shake Shack nearby, practically right underneath the Mancattan Bridge.
What I hadn't thought of—or maybe I had, in the back of my mind—was that my new route would take me past the bake shop I'd visited last night.
I might have smelled it sooner if I hadn't been riding with the wind at my back—an odor like burnt toast and burning coal. As it was, it didn't hit me until I was practically right on top of the place…and by then I didn't need my nose to tell me what had happened. The cop-cars, and fire-engine pretty much said it all…together with the police barricade and the long, black streaks, rising up the front of the building.
That was just about all I could see. A crowd had gathered behind the barrier, and was pretty much blocking the view. I wanted desperately to know what the fox had gone down here, but knew better than to ask anyone. Just the same, I was silently begging, "Please don't let it be that bake-shop."
But deep in my heart, I knew that it was…and my fears were quickly confirmed when I overheard somebody asking, "What's going on?"
"Somebody firebombed The Nest," another guy answered, "you know, that teeny little bake-shop next to…."
Ouch! Suddenly, I didn't want that shake any more…or any food ever, it felt like.
Instead, I turned to go, forcing myself not to bolt. I had just put a leg over the top bar of my bike when I saw them, the hedgehogs who owned the bakery
They were clinging to each other like shipwreck survivors. And the look on their faces, oh my God! Not sad, or angry, but scared…really scared. There were tears, yeah…but other than that, they were totally terrified. They knew…somehow, they knew it was The Mister who'd ordered their shop burned down.
But it was ME who'd carried it out…I had put that look on their faces. And I don't think you'll be surprised to hear that I didn't sleep too good that night. But the worst part was, I had no idea why I'd been ordered to firebomb that bake shop. And to this day, I still don't know. I think it may have had something to do with Junior, but that's only a hunch, I never had anything solid to go on.
And that was only the first of many sabotage missions I was given. I slashed tires, pitched buckets of sand through store windows, gave door-locks a squirt with Krazy Glue so they wouldn't open—and the Sterno-Bomb I used to take down that bakery wasn't the only one I ever set. Eventually, I learned how to make them myself.
Okay…so now maybe you guys will understand why I started that loan-thing, huh? Like I told you before, Erin…I got a lot to make up for over here. The hedgehogs who owned that bake-shop ended up leaving the neighborhood…and they weren't the only ones.
Most of the time, I had no idea what the mammals I sabotaged had done to make The Company mad at them. In fact, I only found out once.
Did I mention that The Mister owned a house out in The Humptons? Well, one day, he found himself with a new neighbor…this red wolf who ran a private equity firm, and who road to work every day on a vintage motorcycle, something called a Hariel Square Four. That bike was almost as fast as it was loud, and every time he went into the city, it took him right past The Mister's place…do you see where I'm going with this? Wolfy never rode late at night, but since when does a crime boss keep regular hours? Not only that; thanks to some of the meds he was on, the big mink had trouble sleeping to begin with. Twice he sent messages asking his neighbor to keep the noise down, and both times he was ignored.
The third time, he sent me.
For once, I'd seen it coming. This one morning, while I was waiting outside The Mister's office I overheard him ranting about 'that stinkin,' noisy, biker-wolf punk.' When I heard that, I knew it was only a matter of time. And sure enough, the very next day, Danny showed up at my door with another 'special package' for me to deliver. It was small this time, almost tiny; only about the size of a golf-ball and tightly covered in black shrink-wrap. I had no idea what it was and by now, I didn't want to know; I just wanted to get this thing over with.
Now, it so happened that Mr. Red Wolf had a girlfriend who lived in this brownstone flat, over in Cobble Hill, not far from Finagles. On Fridays he'd often spend the night at her place. When he did, he'd leave his motorbike in a parking garage around the corner, a place that advertised itself as being totally secure.
Not against Kieran McCrodon, it wasn't! There was no actual attendant on duty, everything was computerized. I was able to waltz right in, no problem and no security cameras—and I had no trouble finding the guy's motorcycle; he always parked it in the same place. Not only that, he was one of those types who insist on keeping their rides as OEM as possible…meaning it didn't even have a locking gas-cap.
The whole thing was a total cakewalk; unscrew the cap, drop in the package, put the cap back and clear out. I was done in less than a minute.
Nobody ever told me how my 'specials' turned out, and I never asked. And after that thing at the bakery, I always made a point of staying away from the places where I made those drops.
Not exactly, bunny-girl. Yeah, I was sticking my head in the sand—I'm not even gonna try to deny it—but that was also how The Mister wanted things. The less I knew, the less I'd be able to say if the cops ever picked me up.
And I didn't have long to wait before they did.
That ball started rolling about a week later. I had just finished dropping a message with Denis McCrodon at this retro clothing-shop he owned—which was actually a front for a fencing operation, but never mind. It was my last stop of the day, and I was eager to get back to Finagles and my guitars.
No such luck; I was just about to boogie when Denis called me back inside again.
"See that SUV across the street there?" he said, pointing, "the dark blue Furred?"
"Yeah," I said, stifling a growl. So typical of this sea-mink dude; just when you thought he was done with you…
"Good, wait here," he said, and disappeared into the back for a moment, returning with a small plastic disc, about the size of a quarter. For once, I knew exactly what I was looking at, a GPS tracking pad. What I didn't know was, what the heck was I supposed to do with this thing?
I quickly found out.
"Go stick this inside one of that SUV's tail-pipes, and then you can go," he said.
"Tail…pipe?" I repeated, blinking. Normally, I didn't ask questions when given an order, but that seemed like a really stupid place to put a tracking device; those discs didn't play well with heat.
And while we're on the subject of normally…ordinarily, my question would have been good for at least a mention of Granite Point—except Denis McCrodon wasn't his older brother. He just gave me a crinkled smile. "Yeah, that's right…those pipes are fakes, that rig's a stinkin' lightning bug."—Company slang for an electric vehicle—"Go take care of it."
If I hadn't been in such a hurry to get out of there, I might have stopped to wonder…WHY would anyone want to disguise an EV as a regular car? As it was, I had other worries; like the fact that it was occupied. I could make out a figure, sitting behind the wheel, a small-to-mid-size mammal of some kind.
And that was pretty much all I could see. That SUV had tinted windows; I couldn't even tell what species that driver was. Sniffing the air didn't help either; it could have been any one of a dozen different animals.
Aw, foxtrot…this was gonna be trickier than I thought. How was I supposed to…? Wait a minute…that alley across from Denis's place, the one that emptied onto the street about five feet behind that SUV. Yeah, that could work.
I got on my bike and rode to the end of the street, making sure NOT to look at the SUV as I passed. And then pulling around the corner, I doubled back on the next street over and then ducked into the alleyway. Leaving my bike propped against the wall, I dropped to all fours and crept out into the street, trying like heck to stay in my target's blind-spot; no mean feat, since I wasn't sure where it was. All the while, I kept expecting to hear a voice, "Hey, what're you doing there, fox-kid?" but it never came. Long story, short, I stuck the tracker inside that tail-pipe, got back to the alley and got out of there.
I wasn't pleased with myself, or angry, or even relieved, just glad that I could finally call it a day.
No…I couldn't. I hadn't gone more than three blocks when that SUV came barreling out of a side street and screeched to a stop in front of me, blocking my path. No time to run, I watched as the door flew open and the driver got out, more like jumped out.
She was a red panda, wearing jeans and a denim jacket. But what really caught my attention was the thing clipped to her belt, an NYPD Detective's Shield—ohhhh, crike!
I thought for sure I was gonna get busted again, but Ms. Red only reached into a pocket and pulled out the tracking tag I'd planted on her vehicle.
"Here, kid," she said, flipping it at my feet, "Tell Kieran to try harder next time."
And then she got back in her ride and drove away.