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Chapter: 8

The Aries sign rises bright through the night, it's red and yellow neon tubing cutting through the darkness: A-R-I-E-S, hung vertically, flashing and then lighting up sequentially. Below it, a movie theater-like board lists the upcoming attractions: the 17th: Jerry Vole, the 21st: Ray Snarles, the 28th: Marten Gaye. The only thing listed for tonight is open mic night.

I pull into a recently vacated spot directly across the street from the front entrance and kill the engine. By now I have no idea how to get into that place in such a way that will convince those within to cooperate with us. Half of me wants to just do my job, go in as a police officer, and accomplish what needs to be accomplished.

And probably fail.

I sigh and admit, "Ok. I've racked my brain, but I've got nothing. This is your area of expertise. So, how do we do this?"

Quartz lowers his head as if he didn't really hear me. My ears lay back, but I try to calm myself back down.

"If we're going to ever finish this, meaning you'll be able to walk away a free animal, we need to make this work," I remind him.

"Say 'I need your help'," he replies with a cough.

"What?" I ask him, disbelievingly.

What is he on about now?

"Say 'I need your help'," he repeats. "You're very good at police duties, Officer. But this is a situation that calls for a different set of skills. You don't trust me, fine. But, for Jesus's sake, trust me enough to let me do what I do best, OK?"

He turns and looks to me for a brief second before looking away. I sigh loudly, briefly rubbing my forehead from the frustration. Well, if I go at this head-on, I won't get anywhere. Just give it to him, then. He might be right anyways.

"Ok, yes, I need your help," I concede flatly after a long pause.

"Fine," he replies, "good enough."

I sigh again, wishing I didn't have to play these games. He turns to face me in the seats and wipes his face off quickly.

"Ok, first thing's first: uncuff me," he suddenly instructs.

"What?!" I exclaim, surprised. "No, there's no way I'm going to uncuff you. You'll bolt!"

"To where? Off to be hunted down and executed for a crime I didn't commit? No fucking thanks. So, if you want to get this lead, you'll uncuff me. Remember, finding this guy is for your protection as much as it is mine," he then says, throwing my own words back in my face.

I grumble loudly, not appreciating the attitude. But I comply, if only begrudgingly. When the cuff falls from his wrist, he rubs his fur and sighs with some relief. I remove the other cuff from my own wrist and then hang them onto my belt.

"Next thing you gotta do: ditch the belt," he says matter-of-factly.

"Ok, uncuffing you is one thing, but I am not leaving my equipment belt behind when we go in there," I argue loudly. "We'll be completely unprotected!"

"Oh, and that reminds me, you gotta leave your badge, too," he continues to order. "Anything that lets these people know that you're a cop has to stay behind. You're lucky you have a jacket that isn't police-branded or I'd advise you to leave your shirt behind, too."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" I demand of him through clenched teeth.

But before he can respond, or solely so he doesn't have to, he's already opened the door and stepped out into the rain outside. His collar throws off sparks as each raindrop touches the unit, completing a circuit that isn't supposed to be. The collar to his overcoat is quickly turned up against the elements. Then I watch through the rain-streaked window as my charge marches across the wide avenue into the darkness.

"Son of a bitch," I say through taut lips.

The belt is easy enough to undo, but hard to just toss aside. Somehow I find the strength to do it, though, laying it down gently in the center of the bench seating. The badge, though, I find almost impossible to take off. I don't find the strength to do that. I won't be forced to throw away my entire identity for some crap like this.

No, I shove it into one of my breast pockets and then zipper up my jacket. After I lock the car, I make a mad dash for the dry patch beneath the sign hanging from the street façade of the building. Quartz stands waiting. I'm thankful he didn't think to run, but he's at least right that doing so would most likely be suicide. While he's unsavory, I've never accused him of lacking intelligence. By the time I reach him, my tawny brown fur glistens with raindrops, and the patches of white around my chin and chest are almost translucent.

He chuckles as I drip onto the relatively dry sidewalk. I give him a 'shut up' stare and he turns to hold the door open for me.

"Ladies first," he says sarcastically, though not mean-spiritedly.

"Oh, ha-ha, what a gentleman," I jab in turn.

Once inside the door, everything goes black. Heavy R&B music bumps from somewhere up ahead, muffled by closed doors and thick, sound-proof wall coverings. After a few long moments of adjustment, light begins to trickle from small, intricate treble clef windows set into a set of doors down the hall. The light that comes through is filtered blue and red, respectively, from the colored glass.

Quartz moves around on my left, towards the door and gently opens the one while glancing back towards me. The music pours out like a torrent of water, heavy bass lines pockmarked with the occasional slap vibrate the wooden floors under my hooves. A singing guitar pierces above, beckoning all those within listening distance to enter. Finally, a small drum set completes the smooth, club-style music piece.

"Come on," Quartz says, cocking his head.

He then disappears through the door, with me following soon after. A bit of unease hangs at the bottom of my stomach. Being unarmed, being unable to flash my badge in order to get myself out of a jam, that's frightening. I give my badge a squeeze for reassurance. I'm not even completely convinced doing this is legal, or at least not against ZPD protocol. Maybe I'm just not thrilled with following Quartz and not having it the other way around.

The moment I'm on the other side of that door that feeling goes from moderate unease to a screaming siren. My tail tucks far down the back of my black pants. Eyes rest on me from every corner of this dark, smoke-filled theater house, glistening with the reflections from the house lights hung high above. Predators of every stripe and color turn to look at the interloper, at the prey, that has entered their midst.

I do my best to try to hold myself unlike a cop. But that's hard. For over two years, that's been my identity. And it's been my dream and my life for so much longer. So hiding it, let alone casting it away, is an exercise in futility. I think the appearance of police is so strong that these animals can just smell it. It's like a powder keg, the only thing left is a spark.

I step down a set of wide, sloping risers that allow rows of red leather-clad booths to sit recessed into the floor, stadium-style. They wrap around the far back of the theater, curving so that they are all facing towards a large, now underutilized stage at the very back. At the very bottom of the steps, where the dark red carpeting comes to an abrupt end, is a wood-floored dancefloor.

The entire building is filled to bursting with animals. While a majority are predators, I do notice a few prey here and there who seem just as dangerous as their fanged companions. Seductively-dressed waitresses carrying silver trays of glasses or boxes filled with cigarettes and cigars step by me without really seeing me. Couples dressed in their Friday bests cuddle around the candle-lit centerpieces at their tables. All of this is almost impossible to see through the constant presence of tobacco smoke. And maybe smoke that isn't tobacco.

A group of large cats stare me down as I pass them by, slouching in their seats as a canine of undiscernible breed bends over to present them their drinks. A group of large wolves watch me go by, dressed in some of the finest suits I've ever seen. They appear to only be interested in some new development, as opposed to being offended by my mere presence. They make me think mobsters by the way they hold and dress themselves.

Once I reach the bottom, I follow the carpeting off to the left, where a long, arching bar fills up a dark recess on the side of the theater. Red-shaded lights hung from the bar ceiling illuminate the area only enough to see who you're talking to and what you're drinking. Quartz has already sat himself down on one of the plush, red-and-black upholstered stools.

He makes little time trying to bring as much attention to himself as possible. Quartz bangs a clenched fist onto the countertop, which is only barely audible above the band playing mere yards away. The bartender, a wildebeest dressed in a tight black-and-white button-down shirt covered with a vest and smooth pin-striped pants, turns to look down to his new clientele.

Before he makes his way down the bar, he retrieves the receiver to a black phone beneath the counter and speaks several words into it before returning it to its cradle. Then he begins to, seemingly begrudgingly, make his way down to the far opposite end of the bar where Quartz has decided we will sit. As he approaches, still seating myself, the way this guy walks makes me want to flash my badge now and call this a raid.

Quartz seems to sense it and shoots me a look to try to calm me down, maybe even to warn me. After fondling my badge, I put my arms up onto the counter and wait. I'm sure he'll screw this up, and then we'll do it my way.

"Jackie goddamn Quartz," the wildebeest hisses as the band winds down, "I thought we told you to stay the hell away from this place. I thought Gino made that very bloody clear."

"Pump the brakes there, Zan, I'm not here to socialize," Quartz says, leaning forward. "I'm here on business."

Snorting, the bartender doesn't seem impressed. Up on the stage, the band brings their song to a close to moderate applause. They then announce a break and the low roar of chatter rears up from the audience behind us. Glancing as they step down from the stage, I see that they're a mixture of pred and prey, which is interesting. What's more interesting is the black, grand piano shining in the house lights near the back of the stage. It seems out of place here.

"Screw your business, you conniving coyote," Zan spits. "You're not supposed to be here. Get out. Now!"

The wildebeest pounds a fist down hard into the wooden bar, making the whole thing vibrate. Full glasses of booze and beer down the counter chitter and clatter in the sudden silence. Quartz doesn't seem deterred, though my heart beats in my chest from both worry and the need to end this argument. The coyote shoots me a look to keep calm before smiling up at his aggressor. And, so, giving him at least an ounce of trust, I say nothing.

"Zan, Zan, Zan, baby, you gotta keep going to those classes," Quartz mockingly says. "Besides, if you throw us out, the next people asking these questions will have little silver badges and matching guns."

"You're talking out your arse. The hell do you know about the cops?" Zan demands, obviously undeterred.

"Well, I know they're looking for a brutal murderer, and I know he liked to frequent this place," Quartz says, giving his chin a scratch. "It only a matter of time before two and two are put together by the boys in blue and a warrant is drawn up. But, hey, if I figure this out before that happens, I'm sure it'll avoid some awkward questions for you and the boss."

Zan leans back away from the bar, considering the implications. His anger doesn't seem quelled, though he at least seems to slow it down for the interim. After a loud snort, he crosses his arms. I guess that means we're not being thrown out. That's sort of a relief, though my heart still pounds from the tension. The coyote pulls a five from his pocket and lays it gently on the bar for the bartender to take.

"Wild Fox, two fingers, straight," he says. "And get the lady a Palmer."

Zan doesn't take the money up. Instead, he leans forward and pulls a half-full bottle of whiskey from under the bar and fills a highball. The liquid wobbles when the glass makes contact with the bar. Then he pulls a hose and begins to fill a tall glass with lemonade and iced tea. He places it in front of me and then inserts, uncharacteristically gently, a straw.

"What do you want, Jackie?" Zan demands. "And who is this? Is she a cop?"

"Who? Hooves? She's nobody, Zan, someone I doubt you'll ever see again. Just think of her as my partner in crime," he says with a shrug. "Don't worry your pretty, little head."

Hooves? Partner in crime?! I fume at that, but keep quiet, I want to give him a chance to succeed, or hang himself. And I definitely appreciate being called 'Hooves', as if I can be boiled down to one defining trait. But, fine, he wanted me to do it his way, we're doing it his way. He's got to know what he's doing, right?

"And all we need to be on our way is an address," Quartz continues. "Just rake your brain, small as it is, and come up with it and we'll slip away. Gino will never even know we were here."

Zan leans onto the bar again, considering his options. His eyes turn towards the phone that he picked up before serving us. It sits silently, though I think he expects it to ring at any moment. When it doesn't ring, Zan grumbles and then looks up to us with only slightly less annoyance and disdain than before.

"Show him," Quartz orders.

I frown at being ordered around by him, but comply. This is actually going a lot smoother than I had thought it would. A little bit of me is sort of impressed. I fish the print-off of Joffer's driver's license and slide it across the bar. Zan takes it up and then pulls a small set of glasses from his pants pockets. He studies the picture for a bit, his face not revealing what he's thinking. After a few moments, he snorts onto it and then puts it back onto the bar counter. The glasses disappear back into the pocket they materialized from.

"He's familiar, at least," Zan says. "He comes in at odd hours of the day with white boxes and colorfully wrapped bundles. I think he works as some sort of delivery driver or courier or something. He seems clean, like he's always just come from somewhere important. Maybe somewhere Downtown?"

"Do you know where he lives?" I ask, feeling confident enough to speak.

Zan snorts and pulls at the goatee on the end of his chin.

"I don't know exactly," he says, his tone sounding honest. "I can ask some of the girls. He never sat at the bar, so I never spoke to him. Joffer, huh? Didn't know his name until now, honest enough. Give me a minute, I'll ask around."

Zan steps away from the counter and walks over to the telephone under the bar. After he picks it up, he turns his entire body away, so as to not allow us to try to read his lips. Quartz takes a slug from his drink while I don't even touch mine. I can't believe he's drinking. Then again, he's not a cop, and therefore not on duty. I guess a sip couldn't hurt. It's not like mine is alcoholic. Very respectful of the coyote, or maybe just cheap.

I'm actually glad I didn't say anything. Quartz has proven he can handle himself, which I'm sort of surprised by. I guess that trust was something well worth the cost. Thinking back, a pang of regret hits me, for treating him the way I have. But I feel it was fair enough at the time, and I'm hoping I won't be disappointed anytime soon.

"This is going well," I admit to him after I take a sip, halfway emptying the glass. "I'm actually kind of impressed. If you were somebody else, I'd assume you were on the force."

"If I were prey, you mean. So, not bad for a predator, then?" He asks with a smile.

"No. No, not bad at all," I tell him. "Maybe I was wrong to distrust you. You have history here, I take it?"

"A lot of it. Too much of it," he says with a frown. "None I'd care to share, though."

I don't press the point, not that I have the time to. The bartender nods his head a couple of times and then hangs up the phone. Then he lumbers back to where we're seated. He still hasn't taken that five dollar bill that Quartz laid on the countertop. In fact, he's done his best to ignore it completely, as if accepting it were a message in and of itself.

"The girls say they don't know the guy personally," he says. "They just know he works all over the place, for some service, PadEx or Paw Tracks or something like that. Seems highly on the down low, if you catch my drift, though I don't know why. I remember him wearing a typical uniform. Though they're sure he lives back in Happy Town. Are you satisfied?"

"No, not yet," Quartz says. "We need to know where he lives. We need a physical address."

The bartender snorts again, becoming annoyed with our presence. It's beginning to look like we're reaching the end of our rope. But, unlike before, I try to keep calm. This isn't my rodeo, and jumping at shadows only makes animals suspicious. Plus, I want to see how the coyote handles it.

"Has he delivered anything here?" Quartz asks. "Maybe there's some records?"

Zan shrugs, his arms now crossed, displayed the length and girth of his biceps.

"Wouldn't know, not my department," he replies, now trying to be as unhelpful as possible. "The only thing I handle is the stocking of this bar. If you want to know that, call upstairs. I doubt they'd appreciate me trying to track down your murderer."

Quartz doesn't immediately reply. In fact, it looks like the wind has been taken out from under his wings. To this, Zan seems satisfied and gives a grin. The coyote doesn't seem to give up, though, sucking down the remainder of his drink. It seems like we're going to have to press a little harder. And I know just the thing to do it, too.

"Show him something else," Quartz says.

I'm way ahead of him. It's actually a bit odd how police-like his methods are, albeit rough and unstructured. The photo slides from my pocket and lays gently on the countertop. When I turn it around, Zan looks down to it, but doesn't lean in to really study it. It's the one of Savannah's body, mutilated, as Joffer stands over it.

"That's his victim," Quartz begins. "A gazelle, who we think he may have met here. I'm sure the rest of your clientele would _love_to find out one of them was torn to ribbons after coming here."

"She was mutilated when he became homicidal," I add, feeling emboldened by his success here. "He tore her into pieces, possibly even started to eat at her corpse. We don't know why he did it, or how he went mad. All we know is that he did this in cold blood, and is now roaming the streets."

I don't actually think he started to eat her corpse. But I doubt Jackie really thinks they met here. So, I guess what he doesn't know won't hurt him, right? Intrigued, Zan leans forward and picks up the photo in disbelief. This time he doesn't put on his glasses, being able to see the blown-up 8x10 without any assistance. At first he glances over it suspiciously. But after a few seconds, that suspicion melts away into surprise. Then it becomes horror.

"And the only person who knows where he lives is in this building," Quartz says. "I'd tell the girls what you've seen, you never know who might be next. Could be one of them. And, hey, if you have to call upstairs, do it. And you tell him this is what you saw."

He puts the photo down onto the bar and then snorts, once again weighing his options, this time sans the anger. He comes to his decision in a much quicker fashion with that information. Turning, he walks to the other end of the bar and picks the phone up again. Leaning onto the counter, he talks into it almost loud enough for us to hear. Then he waits, his head nodding away as somebody chatters on the other side.

And then the phone is hung up again, unceremoniously.

"Don't make me regret this," he says when he reaches us.

He takes a napkin from under the bar and begins to scribble onto it. After about ten seconds, he pushes it towards Quartz, who picks it up. He nods and folds it, pressing it down into his pocket. Then he looks back up.

"Thanks for your time," he says. "And thanks for the drink. Send Gino my regards."

"Just get the hell out," Zan mumbles, now just worried.

Zan snorts again and commands us to leave with his eyes. Quartz spins on his stool and slides down onto the floor. I follow him, after giving Zan a final cursory glance. He looks to me with only slightly less disapproval than he does the coyote. Then, I turn and begin to follow him out. When I catch up to him on the stairs, he seems physically drained.

"I'm impressed," I tell him. "I'm actually really impressed. You make me think you're a cop by another name. What's more, you actually pulled through. Who's Gino?"

"An old boss," Quartz says after an exhausted sigh. "Somebody who's hatred of me burns like the surface of a thousand suns. But we got what we came for, and without a fight. I'm also glad you kept your cool. Very savvy the way you finally started to join in. Here you go, as promised."

He pulls the napkin out and hands it to me. Looking over it, I recognize the address and put it away. It's not too incredibly far from here, but it's in exactly the place I don't exactly want to go. Especially at this time of night, too. But, it's our job. Well, my job; it's my job to. Soon enough, we're back on the street, with the best lead I've had all night. Maybe this will be all over soon enough.