9:05 am, October 22, 1953
Factory District, Detroit, Michigan

"And still, I have a message for those brave youths, who even now work to cleanse our streets of the Jews, Negroes and drunkards! One day, not far from now, the world will again be under the control of the proud original species, that which God put on this earth to command all others! And on that day, all will be smothered by the mighty snowstorm and the earth will be perfect and pure, as it was at the dawn of time!"

Blacksad walked past the small crowd that had gathered around the screaming speaker of the local Arctic Nation chapter, a fox whose warped words and twisted ideals perfectly mirrored the feelings of so many in America. Arctic Nation was synonymous with the Ku Klux Klan, Aryan Nations, Original Purity and all the other groups that advocated for the subjugation or extermination of the lesser species by their natural superiors. This was a message that had been preached since long before he was born, a message that those of pure blood and descended from the so-called "original species" had the duty and divine right to subjugate those who weren't, and put out of society's misery those who resisted their will. Like they could truly claim such pure descent!

It was a message that made targets of society's "degenerates," one he'd heard his entire life and eventually learned to ignore, but it still made his blood boil. Such intolerance was intolerable. The Armed Forces may have been integrated by Congressional act—no doubt a black eye to that white pride—but the minority species were still barred from many public areas and denied many civil services. They were expected to give up their seats on public transportation, made to live in substandard homes and paid only a fraction their white counterparts received for the same work.

"A little cold, that speech," said a voice from behind him. John turned to see the weasel who had been peering at his notes earlier, and a snarl appeared on his muzzle. He turned to face the weasel fully and held up a finger in the fashion any person used when miffed, but the weasel continued before he could speak. "Easy, friend. Wouldn't you rather warm up with a drink instead of a fight?"

John had to admit that the weasel—Weekly, if he recalled correctly—had him on that point. He'd seen more than his share of blood and beatings in his career, even been on the receiving end of a few, and come to appreciate and now preferred words over weapons. There had been many times when he'd wished he could have reasoned with criminals he'd killed in the line of duty, but who were far beyond reason or even common sense.

Friends. Why not? After all, both of us were strangers in a strange land—him less than me—and what better way to begin exploring it than going in side by side?

Barry's Diner was a quaint little place near the old industrial district, a spot of sparkling beauty next to an ugly gash of neglect and despair. Just past the buildings on the other side of the street one could see the sprawling smokestacks of the factory that had churned out fighters by the dozens every month during the war. Back then, it had been alive with the noise and smell of metal and machinery; now it sits silent and empty, a decaying reminder of a time when almost no one was out of work.

I ordered a big bourbon milkshake for Weekly and a club soda for myself before sitting us down at a booth.

"The Line is about to explode," Weekly said grimly, alternately shifting his gaze from the ice cream float to Blacksad and back again. "On the one side, you've got those colorless fades who think happiness can only be found in the Santa's workshop, a bunch of thugs calling themselves the Black Claws on the other, and they're all insane to boot." He clamped his lips around the straw in his milkshake and took a long suck, and John smiled in amusement at how far the weasel had to stretch his neck to reach it. Weekly released the straw a few seconds later and made an appreciative sound as he licked his lips. "This bourbon milkshake is delicious! Want a taste?"

"No, thanks," Blacksad said with a gracious smile. "I don't care for milk."

"So, you're not a journalist then, I take it?" Weekly asked.

"No." Blacksad shook his head as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, stuck it in his mouth and lighting it. "In fact, I'm a geometric surveyor."

"Seriously, man," the weasel pressed on. "From those notes you were taking earlier, I'd think you were a cop or something."

He'd hit the nail on the head with that observation, but I wasn't about to tell him so. As a private investigator, it's my sworn duty to keep as many innocents as possible out of the line of fire.

While we talked, the white fox who'd been screaming out his twisted message in the plaza and two of his henchmen—a bulldog and a ferret—stepped through the door. These white supremacist types take more pleasure than is their share in demeaning the colored citizens of the city while harassing the business owners who allow them into their establishments. It's starting to get out of control; at some point there's going to be an altercation that one or both parties aren't going to walk away from.

The fox took a seat on one of the stools at the bar while the other two approached an old magpie who was standing at the small slot machine near the door. I'd been hearing the musical dings and chimes ever since we'd walked in, and thought I recognized the magpie when I glanced at him. He looked as though he'd seen more than his share of pain and violence in his time and he wore a set of US Army Air Corps coveralls, suggesting that he was a veteran of the war in Europe. But Arctic Nation didn't care; he was colored, so he was a target.

"You got a death wish, Cotten?" the bulldog sneered. "We tell you a thousand times, and a thousand times you make the same mistake." He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at a sign behind him that proclaimed in big, bold letters this establishment was off limits to the colored population. "Can't you read, you crazy old bird?"

The magpie, Cotten, heaved a sigh. "Boys, you know perfectly well that I am old and senile, completely incapable of catching half a glimpse of your immaculate white pelts." The bulldog and ferret laughed raucously, one of their tactics of demeaning and harassment. "Besides, I don't bother nobody. With a bit of luck, I'll win enough here to wing myself to Vegas so you won't have to worry about me ever again."

While the bulldog continued laughing, the ferret sauntered over to the booth where Weekly and Blacksad's sat. "And you two. Can't you read either?"

Weekly cringed and tried to sink into his seat, but Blacksad assumed a relaxed posture that calmly and clearly proclaimed that he owned this seat for as long as he sat in it. "Oh, come now," he said with a languidly confident smile. "Isn't this good enough right here?"

The ferret threw his head back and let out a single laugh. "You hear that, boys? We got us a tough guy!" He leaned back down on the table and poked a finger in Blacksad's face. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't take the black off of you in pieces."

The big cat shrugged. "I don't think it would stop you," he said. "Though I could hardly make a decent manteau…" He rose to his full height, looking down on the ferret eight inches below him. "…from such a tiny pelt."

The ferret's eyes flashed with rage. "You dare insult your natural superior!?" He reached inside his suit and whipped out a bludgeon. "I'll show you!"

At the bar, the fox pointed to the diner's waiter and said, "You there. Go fetch Chief Karup." The rotund seal nodded and quickly set himself to his task, and the fox ducked just as the ferret came sailing over his head and into the racks of neatly stacked glasses and flavored syrup bottles behind the bar, knocking it over and destroying most of its contents.


Not twenty minutes later, Weekly and I stood across the desk from Hans Karup, chief of the Detroit Metropolitan Police Department. The big white bear stared at us, trying to appear impartial as his duty demanded, but the disdain in his eyes and tone in his voice betrayed his true feelings. Although his countenance and the photos on his desk suggested an upstanding, family-oriented man who was a respected community leader with a shining reputation, if one knew where to look and cared to look for them, his true colors were made clear.

This man, at another time in a secret life, was a member of Arctic Nation—possibly even a leading member of the local chapter. And that meant his opinions and beliefs were reflected in the department as a whole, opinions and beliefs that either ignored or made targets of any hapless colored citizens they deemed problematic. And Arctic Nation didn't have a reputation for leniency or mercy when it came to removing problems.

"Punks like you don't respect a thing," Chief Karup growled. The big white bear sat behind his desk, glaring at the cat and weasel across from him. It wasn't hard to tell that he had no love lost for colored folks. Then again, he wasn't exactly going out of his way to hide it. "Whether it be the law, private property or moral values—wherever you go, disorder and anarchy follow."

"Your daughter is quite pretty," Weekly stated as he looked at one of the photos on Karup's desk.

Karup snatched it out of the weasel's paws and returned it to its place. "And nothing annoys a lawman such as myself more than a dirty anarchist."

But the police chief's rough words and reserve of demeaning names didn't faze Blacksad in the least. Being an investigator, he also had a working knowledge of how the law worked. He was also a combat veteran of the last two years of the war in Europe and had been there throughout the Korean conflict, and stood at soldier's attention. He put on a calm smile and raised an eyebrow. "The law can be interpreted in many ways, you know."

"Quite true," Karup agreed, standing and pointing a finger at the cat. "I myself prefer its interpretation through the Old Testament. Perhaps you've heard of it: 'An eye for an eye'? Today, we are few, those of us who remember and carry the wishes of the men who founded this country." He pointed to a sword on the wall behind him and demanded, "Do you know who this saber belonged to?"

Blacksad maintained his calm expression as he said, "I'd imagine General Lee, though I never knew him personally." Then, simply because he couldn't resist, "A worthy symbol for the defenders of lost causes."

"It seems the chief can't decide what to defend, though," Weekly added, picking up and looking at the same picture that Karup had snatched away from him. "One could say he owes his job to Oldsmill, who doesn't even have anything left to lose."

Karup let out a low, menacing snarl as he plucked the picture from the weasel's grasp again. "Well, color me surprised," he said. "I wouldn't expect one like you to know anything of history."

"I've always thought it essential to learn from the mistakes of our predecessors," Blacksad said, neutralizing the chief's insult.

Just then, another officer poked his head through the door. "Wife's here, Chief," he reported.

"Thank you, Joe," Karup answered before he turned back to Blacksad. "In that case, cat, learn their lessons well. Such as, 'don't play with fire.' As you might have noticed, you two aren't welcome on the Line."

Blacksad put two fingers on his forehead in a mock salute, a subtle but meaningful insult to one like Karup. "I'll keep that in mind," he said as he and Weekly left. Out in the hallway, a passing diva with blonde hair and white fur caught his and Weekly's eye. Blacksad thought he recognized her but decided to keep it to himself, while Weekly just had to go and let out a catcall.

The cat facepalmed in hopeless embarrassment.