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Chapter 11:

"Here, just-just let me down here," Jackie directs.

He moans as he slides down onto the couch cushion, the whole piece of off-blue furniture seeming to depress underneath his weight. I sigh, glad to no longer have to support him, and rub my shoulder from the workout. But I smile; just happy that I'm able to get him home safely, even though he fought me the entire time. Why, I'm not entirely sure.

When we left the hospital, he didn't want me to drive him home. He loudly proclaimed that he was fine, that he would take the el-train or something, even if his clothes were ruined by blood and claws. That changed quickly when he took a nose dive onto the sidewalk after becoming lightheaded. The pills, he claimed, were to blame for it, not losing a lot of blood nor not eating anything in 24 hours.

Then when we get to his apartment, above a little shop that, while well-kept, seems to have been disused for many years, he doesn't want me to come inside. At least he seemed to put up less of an argument this time, claiming he doesn't want to be seen with a cop coming up into his house, especially with the neighborhood he lives in.

Yes, he lives in Happy Town. Though, for his credit, he does manage to live in a pretty nice part of it. The brownstones of lower Downtown give way to the brick and stone low-rises of what was supposed to be Highland Terrace. And with that divide, the businesses segue from high end retail and fine dining to chain stores, mom-and-pop shops, and decaying diners. While many businesses here remain empty, I see no boarded up buildings, burned out cars, or heaps of garbage like the waterfront.

What I also notice is a good mixture of pred and prey walking the streets. Wolves, large cats, raccoons, and other characters I still look twice at rub shoulders with long-necked giraffes, horned ungulates, and even white-woolen sheep. With the cost of living rising in the nicer neighborhoods, and not every family willing to move out into the Burrows, Happy Town has become a low-cost option, it seems.

The last argument arose when I was just barely through the doorway, though it was hardly an argument. He said he didn't need my help going into his own house, even up the flight of steps. I should be with my friends, he said, or at least go home to get the rest I've earned. I just waved it off, saying that a citizen in need required my assistance, and even if I'm going to become a detective, it's still my sworn duty to help. I amended my statement to specifically include predators like him. Jackie just grumbles.

The business on the first floor looks like it was once a barber's shop. The windows are dark and dirty, and the sign above is covered by a large drop cloth. So the only way I can be sure is by the grime-covered barber's pole that sits motionlessly above the door. Jackie lives above it, behind a door off to the very left of the façade of the building. Below a 'closed' sign on the frosted-glass window reads, in very fine-stenciled lettering, 'J. Quartz, Detective Agency'.

On the second floor, I steered him through a stereotypical pulp detective's office, complete with wooden desk, rotating corkboard, a wall of filing cabinets, and a constantly-revolving ceiling fan. On the other side is the main room to the apartment, where I stand now. Not wanting to go to a bedroom, he has me walk him to the couch, where he now lays with his arms up over his head.

"Thanks, Hooves," Jackie says genuinely.

I smile at the nickname, now feeling a bit honored by it, "You're welcome. You didn't need to fight me all the way here, though. I'm just trying to help you."

He mumbles and moves one of his sleeved arms from over his eyes, revealing his face. Even with the stitches and the night we've both been through, he looks good. The fur has covered up most of his wounds and, despite the state of his clothing, he doesn't seem bad off. His tail wraps around his body and covers him like a makeshift blanket while his one leg hangs precariously from off the couch.

"I know," he replies. "You can probably take your leave now, Jane. I won't hold you up any longer. It's been a pretty long twenty four hours for the both of us and I bet you want to go celebrate now. I mean, you have my card if anything happens . . ."

Jackie then recovers his face with his arm, those piercing blue eyes disappearing behind the sleeve of a suit which, without his overcoat, seems too big for him. I smack my lips, looking down over my slender frame. Behind my back, I can feel my tail give an unsure switch. Light-colored wood flooring sprawls across this room, the same as in the office. It comes to a halt where it transitions into linoleum in an open kitchen area at the back of the apartment.

"Not exactly," I tell him, sheepishly. "I'll probably just go home and laze about in my apartment, hoping to avoid the noise coming from across the hall, or the cigarette smoke next door. And hope the twenty or so messages on my answering machine delete themselves."

His eyes reappear as he shifts about on the couch a little, not exactly sitting up, though his legs do descend towards the floor.

"Not a lot of friends, huh?" He asks quietly.

"That's putting it lightly," I reply while giving the back of my neck a rub.

"I can understand not making a lot of office friends, if Detective Asshat and Officer Douche Canoe are any indication. But, you surely have childhood friends, or school buddies, right?" He inquires as gently as he's able to.

I give a noncommittal shrug before looking away from him and to the large room around us. The living room, or whatever this is, consists of the couch Jackie lounges on, as well as a small coffee table at my knees, an older-looking TV, some small sideboards, or buffets as my mother would call them, and a very large piano. It's an upright, of course, though the wood is a deep, dark-colored kind that I can't name.

Behind the couch, across a small open area that serves as a hallway, are three doors that lead off to unknown rooms. But between the wider spaced ones is a console radio and record player. Its sides are stacked with albums, 45s, even some older gramophone records. From here I can't tell what exactly each is, but, they seem older, and I recognize some of the colors. A lot of jazz, big band, early rock and roll. No punk, no disco, no metal. That sort of surprises me, I didn't take Jackie for such an old soul. Or maybe I'm just not very observant. What else have I missed?

The kitchen is small, and only includes the necessities. It's older, heavily worn, but well loved. Everything is well cleaned and clear of clutter. The refrigerator hums away to itself peacefully. In the back left corner is a small dining area where four chairs ring a wooden table, covered in decorative things that obviously haven't been moved in a decade. It makes me think of my mother. Well, that, and the small curtains hanging above the window behind the sink. The other thing I notice about this room is that it has a lot of pictures for somebody who lives alone. I'm not sure if he's sentimental or what.

"Hey, I'm not trying to offend you, here," He says when I don't respond.

I sigh.

"I know. Most of my friends drifted away when I got my job," I tell him. "But, that's pretty normal, right?"

"Sure, but, don't you have anybody?" Jackie asks, now sitting up a bit more.

I just shrug again and shake my head. Oh, sure, I have my folks, but, there's a reason I moved into the city proper and out of the Meadowlands. I should probably talk to my brother, but, well, that's a can of worms all on its own. I guess I've been so work-driven over the past couple of years, and school-driven before that, that I let my social life vanish. Not that I feel bad about it, there wasn't much of one to lose. It's just more of a fact of life. This is the first 'weekend' I've had off in a long time, and, honestly, I don't know what to do with it. Well, other than get stuck with my thoughts.

"Yeah, I guess it is. Well, I mean, I guess you can stay here for a bit," Jackie says sheepishly. "I have to change. Make yourself at home."

Jackie rises up onto his paws, shakily at first, and then squeezes by me to go to a room at the front of the apartment. When he's closed the door shut behind him, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding in. I haven't been this nervous in so long. Jesus Capybara, I haven't done anything but work in so long. It must be obvious. It is to me.

"What about you, do you have a lot of company over?" I ask him, loud enough to hear through the closed door.

I begin to move about the room, wanting to get a closer look at some of the photos, of which he seems to have too many. Along the back wall, between two closed doors, is a set of photos that hang from faded wallpaper. They're family photos, of Jackie's family. One is just of him, maybe around the age of ten or twelve. Like Joffer, he isn't wearing a collar in this one and seems relatively happy.

The next one down is a family photo of him at the same age, with his mother and father. His father is a large coyote, slightly bigger than what Jackie is now, and much broader at the shoulders. His fur is colored the same as his son's. He even has the same piercing blue eyes. The only difference is he's missing a chunk of one of his ears. Jackie's mother is a petite coyote, with delicate lines, and a slender form. Her eyes are a dull green and her smile is mischievous and alluring.

The last photo is, like Joffer's, another family photo. But, unlike Joffer's, Jackie's father is still in this one. Jackie himself is older, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and has his collar on. While he doesn't seem unhappy, his look is one of anxiety, of forced happiness. But his parents still seem happy, his father beaming in a new suit, his mother in a bright green dress. No girls, though. I'm assuming he's single.

"Not really," Jackie replies, a thud coming from the room. "Outside of my customers, I don't have people into my flat often."

"Then I must be really special," I say and waltz around to look at the photos on the piano.

"Oh, insanely special. Cops don't willingly come to this part of town. So having one that wants to be around, well, that's one for the records," Jackie says, only half sarcastically. "Last night was probably the first time an operation happened that close to the water. But, I suppose what happened was an unusual occurrence. Not every day that you have to take down some animal gone nuts."

"Yeah," I reply, standing tall to look at the photos.

They're not of the family this time. Well, at least, they don't include Jackie. His mom and dad are in them, they're out some place familiar, dancing. It must be pretty old, they're not wearing collars, and they're dressed to impress. The last of the large-framed ones, on the very right, is of a stallion that I recognize, but can't name. He's in a tailored suit, and he's in a barber's shop shaking Jackie's father's hand.

I take the photo down and look to his face as closely as I can. He must be some sort of entertainer, and a famous one at that for me to notice. But his face just isn't ringing a bell. If he's a musician, I'm more pop-oriented. While I give her a lot of crap, I like Gazelle. I don't mind LABBA, though most of their stuff is too saccharine for my taste. And when I was younger, I liked the Beagles, and the Birdees, though I'm not proud of that. I bet I still have some of their 45s, somewhere.

Glancing over, I see an end table right inside the door leading into his apartment. It has an answering machine on it, as well as a small lamp and a place for a photo. The little drawer makes me wonder if Jackie has a picture that he hid away. That just reminds me of the murder and I begin to think again, about work, about a case that's closed now.

"About last night?" I shout out, unable to slow my mind.

"Yeah?" He responds.

"Do you get the feeling we're missing something?" I ask him. "Like we put together a table and we've got screws left over, even though you're sure you followed the instructions?"

The door clicks open and Jackie stands in the doorway. He's wearing a pair of nice, off-white slacks held up with a black belt. A deep blue button-up covers his torso, the arms rolled up past his elbows, which he's securing now. Even through the shirt, the bandages over his shoulder are visible due to their bulk. His tail swishes between his legs, swiping at the floor.

Compared to him, I must look like a mess. Police issued black pants, equipment belt, off-blue shirt, old tan college jacket, new golden badge, sure, but, I bet my fur is in a state.

"Didn't consider it, Jane," he says calmly, buttoning up the remainder of his wide-collared shirt that almost shows off his shock collar. "I don't really think like a cop. So the way I look at it is we have the photos, the customer's got them, and then we were paid. The job is complete."

"Then why don't I feel like it is?" I push at him. "I know we did everything we were supposed to, and City Hall and my captain gave their victory speeches. But something doesn't sit well with me."

"We got the guy, Jane, what more is there to it?" Jackie asks.

"I don't know, but there has to be," I reply, looking up at him, my mind racing over my captain's response to my questions earlier today. "Don't you think about 'why' or 'how'? Why did he go nuts? How did it happen? Is he sick? Is he deranged? Why kill someone he loved? Why go home?"

"Not really," he says with a chuckle. "I guess it's not really my job to. That's for the customer to figure out. I just provide the evidence."

That almost sums up how police officers work. We don't ask why anything is happening, we just do our jobs. Like the captain said, 'apprehend, not prosecute'. Maybe as a detective, that'll change. I look up just as he pads towards me, seeing that I've been looking at the pictures around his house. Half of me expects him to be upset by me snooping around his apartment, but he just turns the frame to get a good look at the photo inside.

"I'm sorry, I was just looking and--"

"No, that's fine," he says. "Honestly, Hooves, you know nothing about me. Probably about as much as I know about you. I trusted you enough to make that deal. I trusted you enough to fight off a psycho. So, looking around my place should be fine. That's Frank Persano with my dad."

The name finally clicks and I exclaim, "Ol' Blue Eyes?"

"Yeah," Jackie replies. "My dad said this was the best moment of his life, when Frank Persano, his idol and my namesake, walked the three blocks from the fence to my father's barber shop to get a style. That was in 1959, just before the fences came down. Twenty years, now. They say he was the one that brought them down, too, despite being a horse. Just sang 'em away."

He lets free the frame and turns to walk back towards the couch. His paws seem surer under him now and he strides about with ease. But I can tell he's still lightheaded. He couldn't have eaten since I found him yesterday. When he reaches the couch, he falls over the arm and lies, sinking into its form, with his tail and gray paws sticking out at me. Then he lets out a loud sigh, like he hasn't been able to sit down in ages.

I place the photo back into the dust-free spot from whence it came. Then my fingers drift down to the keys and touch a few of them. The white is made from some material I'm not familiar with; bone, possibly. They strike hard and loud, perfectly in-tune, which surprises me.

"Do you play?" I ask, curiously.

"Oh yeah," he replies. "That's my instrument. Did you know every coyote has a song?"

"'Every coyote has a song?' No, I don't think I've ever heard that before," I reply, incredulously.

"Well, sure," Jackie says, rolling over on the couch to look at me. "Foxes scream for a mate. Ever hear a fox find his true love? It's adorable, they yell each other's names. Wolves howl to find their mates, to find community, to find one another, even if animals think they're dumb. But coyotes don't group, we're solitary, and we often come from big, wide, empty nowhere places where music carries. So we sing. And every coyote has his song."

"What's yours?" I ask him.

He just chuckles.

"We don't work like that, Hooves. We sing for our loves and only our loves," he replies and splays out onto the couch. "Plus, I don't have the band for it. I don't know, maybe you'll hear it one day. Start guessing. How do deer find mates?"

Touching the keys again, I make a tinkling noise and hum at the question.

"I wouldn't know," I say quietly.

"What?"

"I said your answering machine is blinking," I redirect.

"Oh, ugh, go ahead and give it a press, then," he replies.

Stepping back, I do just that. The little black button on the wood-grained box depresses under my finger. Through a plastic window on top, a little tape begins to spin, allowing the light alerting me to a new message to turn off just a moment later. It gives an odd little squeal, like mine does, before clicking once again.

"You've reached the J. Quartz Detective Agency. I am not in the office at the moment and am currently working on an important case. If you would like to engage my service, please leave a message after the tone," Jackie's voice reads out solemnly.

A loud tone beeps and then there comes the sound of somebody fumbling with a phone.

"Hello? Oh, hello, my name is Diana Fangmeyer. My husband, he--he disappeared three days ago," a female pants into the phone. "I think he's gotten himself into something he doesn't understand. I can't go to the police, I don't know what they know. I called three other people who turned me down before I found your ad. You're my final hope. If you don't help me, I fear the worst. Please, please, call me, my number is--"

"Well, isn't that strange," Jackie says from the couch.