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Chapter 12:

Strange is right. The lady that called is in hysterics when Jackie calls back. She claims she's seen shadows snooping around, says that feels like she's being followed. Strange cars circle the block and her phone rings at all hours of the day and night, only to hang up when she answers. Jackie tries to calm her down, but she won't buy it. She wants to meet, before late tonight, before something happens to her and she disappears or goes mad, too.

"Like the others."

That strikes me, that she thinks she'll go mad. Half a dozen or more predators have lost their marbles in the last couple of weeks without much of an explanation, three becoming killers. Word coming through the grapevine at work guesses it to being a mixture of it being a hot summer, an election year, and the after effects of a dwindling economy. The captain definitely wants to toss it up to that, especially when I offered him the arrest I did. There have been no official statements, though. Sure, the mayor has blamed predators phasing back into madness, but that's hardly an explanation.

I know there was this brutal one up in the Rainforest District a couple of days ago. A black jaguar pulled apart a couple of bodies, including one they found in his house. The response was swift and brutal, but they got their mammal. I'm not sure what they did with him after that. Probably took him back to the same holding pen Joffer has ended up in. It was recent enough that I didn't get to read the report, just heard about it on the news, so I don't even know who made the arrest.

Despite being in his condition, Jackie begins to suit up to go to work. I can't muster the strength to try to stop him, even feigning concern for his injuries, because if I were him, I'd be doing the same thing. Duty calls, I suppose. He puts on that watch of his, snapping it onto his left wrist. Then he goes to clean up his fur in the small powder room just inside his apartment, across the main entrance from the piano.

"Take me with you," I argue as I stand in the doorway to the powder room, my hands moving around passionately. "You can't go to work alone like this. Just an hour ago, I was picking you up from the sidewalk. If you were to get into any trouble, I don't know how you would survive. Plus, I think there's something bigger going on here. I don't have all the pieces right now, but something just isn't right. And I think I might get some answers if I come along. And, hey, I've got all the skills to back you up! I've got--"

"Hey, hey, calm down, Officer," Jackie cuts me off with a smile while not looking away from the smudge-covered mirror. "You can come."

I'm stunned into silence, if only for a moment. Jackie chuckles and brushes out the matted fur around his face and neck. Then he splashes some water up, dampening his gray and white fur. Then he shakes his head to throw the water off.

"You'd just let me come?" I ask, incredulously.

"Oh, Hooves, I don't think I'm 'letting' you do anything," Jackie says and smiles into the mirror to check his teeth. "You were going to come regardless of what I wanted. I can see it in your eyes. Plus, your ears standing straight up and that tail giving a salute tell me you won't let this drop."

Suddenly realizing how I look, my ears drop and my lips purse. But he is right. I wasn't going to let this drop. My nose has picked up on something that my brain just couldn't ignore. At least I don't have to cut a deal with Jackie like I do with almost everyone I work with at the precinct. My tail begins to relax when that thought strikes me: I don't have to bargain with him.

"Yeah, yeah, I was," I tell him, discombobulated as I let go of the argument coursing through my mind. "Anyways, what do we have to do?"

Without that argument, I'm at a loss. Not only as to what to say, but what to think. Jackie gives his reflection a wink and then turns towards me. Backing out, I watch him cross the room to where his old suit jacket is thrown on the couch. His fingers rifle through the pockets and he begins to transfer their contents into his new clothes.

"Well, first of all, you need to change," He tells me. "When somebody calls and says that they aren't going to the police for a reason, it's probably best if you don't show up in uniform."

I gaze down at the clothing I'm wearing and realize that I never changed while I was at work. Then again, I usually don't in the morning. My uniform getting dirty isn't something out of place, but I'm covered in a lot of the same blood, dirt, and sorrow that came with last night's escapades as Jackie's old clothes were. It probably wouldn't hurt to stop off at home, or back at the precinct to get the clothes in my locker. I'm not sure which option is less palatable.

"And I wouldn't mind getting something to eat," Jackie continues. "The address the customer gave me is here in Happy Town, but only just inside it near the riverfront. I don't know about you, but I haven't eaten in a while, and my fridge is empty. Plus, I'm not a hundred percent sure I could feed you."

"Because you're a carnivore?" I ask him, though not mean-spiritedly.

"No, because that fridge is emptier than Dawn Bellwether's promises. And besides, I'm an omnivore, like all canines. And my favorite foods happen to be the pastries my mother used to make," Jackie corrects, taking the final things from his pocket. "Does that bother you, me eating meat?"

He saunters towards me, his brass knuckles and stiletto knife in his cupped palm. My teeth grind seeing them, but I hold my tongue. No, your use of illegal weaponry, that bothers me. But, I guess he has to have tools of the trade as well, even if they're not exactly 'legal', so I try to relax. Jackie seems to notice my disapproving look and quickly puts them away, into his back pocket.

"A coyote does have to have his tricks," he says with a nervous chuckle.

I smirk and roll my eyes.

"No, it doesn't bother me," I answer his previous question. "I know how the world works; I'm not one of the delusional types. Deer mostly stick to grains, fruits, and vegetables, anyways. We'll stop off somewhere I know on the way. It's across the street from where I live, so it'll be quick. I'll treat."

"Oh, ugh, Hooves, you don't have to--"

"No, no, I do," I insist. "Just think of it as a thank you, for everything,"

Jackie just sort of smiles, looking down at me with a face announcing that he doesn't know exactly what to say. So, like what I'd do, he avoids the topic.

"Great, then we'll drive to the customer's house afterwards," Jackie awkwardly says and walks towards the front door. "I guess you're driving again, unless you want me to."

I shake my head. Driving, I do not mind. My apartment is on the edge of eastern Downtown just below City Park, in a neighborhood called the Canyonlands. Deer can survive pretty much anywhere, but I'd rather keep out of the hot biomes across the river due to their skin-melting heat, the Rainforest District and the Marshlands for their humidity, and Tundratown because of how unnaturally cold it is. Even though I trained for them at academy, I won't go home to a biome I can't stand. Finally, I stick out of Happy Town for the reason most prey do: an innate fear, which I'm not proud to admit I have.

After Jackie's done primping himself like the captain, we drive through the outskirts of the financial district Downtown in my car. Jackie picks the radio, since he's riding shotgun. The station he picks plays a mixture of Rat Pack music and older R&B, which I'm no longer surprised by after seeing those records at his place. I don't mind it because it's familiar to me, but Jackie really likes it. When I ask, he says it was his parents' favorite, his father having met his mother at a dance hall after the war. Then he let his talent flourish from there.

"We had all kinds of familiar faces in the barbershop," Jackie says, with enthusiasm I don't recognize on him. "Sam Clawe, before he was murdered, Nat King-Cheetah before he died, Marten Gaye, you already know Persano was in, but so was Jerry Vole, and Horn Martin. My father was the one who styled everyone, and I mean everyone, and I was there every day. We don't have the same gathering places that prey do, so we hang out where we can. And the barbershop, well, that was our neighborhood's watering hole. And everybody came to Quartz's."

I give him a smile in the rearview mirror, not looking away from the road. But I can see those eyes, brighter than I've ever seen them. He's watching the cheery Saturday pass us by with genuine joy. Enough so that his collar blinks yellow, warning him to calm himself, he's getting too excited. I've never seen him so open before, it's almost like flicking a switch. Who knew the key to his honesty was music?

"Did you learn the piano in your dad's barbershop?" I ask him.

"Yeah I did; and to sing, too," Jackie replies. "Dad played the saxophone, even wanted me to follow in his footsteps. But I didn't want to have my mouth obstructed. Jerry Vole says he has velvety pipes, but he's nothing compared to me. And my father, he played his horn better than Howlin' Wolf, but never got half the fame. Ain't that a shame? But he was happy, working his shop, and mom was too, even though she had to work as a nurse to keep everything afloat. They were always happy animals."

That, I can attest to. In all of the photos, his parents were always beaming. And none of their smiles were ever false, they were genuinely happy animals. A barber and a nurse living in a fenced off portion of a bigoted city finding happiness sounds like the plot to a terrible romance novel. It just makes me wonder why he seems so sad later in life, and why he's such a miserable mammal now.

"Yeah, they seemed like it in all their pictures," I reply. "Your mom worked as a nurse?"

"Oh, yeah, most of her life," Jackie says cheerily. "During the war, she worked for the WAC abroad. My father always said that while the army brought them together, it was music that kept them from parting."

"What happened to your folks?" I ask as we round the corner. "I saw pictures of them all over the place in your apartment. They seem like great animals."

And just like that, that switch flicks again and it's gone. That look of boundless joy begins to recede on itself and Jackie leans on the door, staring out the window. His collar blinks green, then yellow, as his mood shifts, swinging like a pendulum dangerously between happy and sorrowful. He tugs at his collar and then swallows hard.

"Dad, ugh, died a couple years back," he replies solemnly. "Mom moved up to the Meadowlands with her sister, into an area they could afford together. They were considering going out the Burrows, or maybe upstate, but nothing ever materialized. I don't--I don't see her too often."

"I'm--I'm sorry," I tell him quietly.

He gives me slight smile and a shrug, as if what I said wasn't my fault, but, there's no repairing what I just inadvertently did. His collar blinks green again, and I say nothing. The music, at this volume, now feels out of place. But I let it play, a piece of me hoping that the happy-go-lucky coyote will come back. As I pull the car to a stop in front of my apartment, I turn the radio down.

Jackie looks out the window and up to the top of the very tall building I call my home. Like his home, it's nice, quaint, but obviously not luxurious in any regard. The neighbors are loud, they smoke like chimneys, and I can't enjoy the balcony that overlooks the center court because of their brats. But the rent is cheap, there aren't any bedbugs, and I'm far away from my own folks, too. Plus, it's a fifteen minute drive from work. What more could a girl ask for?

"Snazzy place," Jackie surveys, his tone only mildly sarcastic.

"You can come up if you want to," I offer him, cracking the door.

"No, ugh, I think I'll wait," Jackie replies. "I've got the radio,"

"Ok," I say, unsure.

I close the door and go towards the front entrance, the radio playing up a little bit behind me. Marten Gaye hums one of his more famous songs Mercy Mercy Me, with Jackie's voice just barely audible from inside my car. All the way up to my apartment, I'm mentally beating my head against the wall. This is why you don't have friends, Jane, because you're a goddamned idiot! Because after all this time, you still don't know how to talk to other animals.

My father would but tutting away, shaking his head in disapproval as much as shame. Daughter of a lawyer and a doctor, who wants to be a detective, and she is as tactful as a monster truck. Then again, he'd be pissed off I was giving one of them the time of day. When I arrive at my apartment, I slip in while listening to the noises coming from all around: the same cries, arguments, and entertainment I heard at Savannah's building.

To say I dislike my place is an overstatement, but to say I like it would be a lie. It's a cramped, one bedroom with a kitchen that I can't walk through if someone else is in it, a single full bathroom, and never enough storage space. Not that the kitchen situation has ever arisen, I don't have any other people over either. The living room makes up the largest part, and even that feels tiny. I try to keep it as clutter-free as possible, and the light blue, green, and white walls make it at least feel cozy. And other than my simple furniture, I do no decorations. I guess I just never really wanted to, or felt the need to. I spend all of my time at work anyways.

A little bit of me thought that living in the city like this would mean I'd be surrounded by other people all the time, that finding solitude would be impossible. But, I found it to be just the opposite. It's wall-to-wall animals outside, and yet I feel just as isolated as I did when I lived up with my folks. Not that I would choose living with them over here. It costs more here, but only in money. Living at home would cost me emotionally, at a price I can't afford.

So, I try to put all of my time into work, so I'm not at home surrounded by barren walls and cheap furniture I bought on a whim. I wonder why I invited Jackie up, I wouldn't exactly have anything to show him, or for anything for him to do. Maybe it was just a nice thought, be friendly, right? Maybe so I can take my hooves out of my mouth and seem normal. Having friends over is normal right? Is Jackie a friend? I guess so. What else would he be?

The only thing that stands out is the answering machine just inside the front door. I'm sure it has over a dozen messages, but I walk by it without even listening to them. Unlike Jackie, I'm not dependent on having people reach out to me all the time. If work wants to reach me, they know when I'll be in, which tends to be always. I'm sure a bunch of them are from home, which is hard to think about. The sound of my phone ringing endlessly should be a familiar tone to my mother, who is the only one who feigns interest.

So I just go into my bedroom, the one with the blank walls and single, unopened window. I change out my sullied uniform, desperate to be laundered, for a more tasteful set of street clothing: light green shirt and matching green pants, with a light brown coat to go over it that hangs down below my waist. Wearing this, nobody would suspect I'm a cop.

Maybe think I'm a model for the fall line at Mousey's, but not a cop.

Despite the disguise, I decide that it might be prudent to take my badge and tranquilizer revolver, freshly reloaded, of course, and maybe my radio as well. Of course my collar key and cuff keys come with me, for just in case. With the jacket that hangs around my form, I'm able to hide everything inside. Jackie might be upset with me taking that risk, but I think it's a risk worth taking. One has saved his life before, after all. Well, after he saved mine.

Before I leave my apartment completely, I pass by my own answering machine inside the door again, but this time I pause to look at the little digital number flashing '13' on the display. A little bit of me contemplates whether or not to hit the 'play' button, but I already know what I'm going to hear. Half will be work.

One or two will be my mother, pretending she cares enough to reach out to ask me how I'm doing. What she really wants to ask is if I've found a buck yet, if I'm ready to come home and stop 'playing police officer'. None will be my father, though my mother insists that he does love me. He loves me, but not enough to even bother to call. So I just ignore it, slamming my door and locking it tightly before wading back through the hallway that smells strongly of cheap cigarettes.

When I return, I find Jackie leaning on the hood of my car and I begin to feel a bit happier. The window on the passenger side is rolled down and music is playing from inside. He's just finishing up a Bucky, the short end hanging from his fingertips. He makes sure not to let any of the smoke near my car, which is considerate of him. As I hop off of the stoop, he tosses the butt and the moment of truth happens.

He doesn't notice a thing, though he does give a scoff at my clothes. He says I look like an escaped J.C. Puma mannequin. Relieved that he doesn't immediately perceive my ruse, I jibe him back, saying that he looks like he crashed his time machine and can't get back to 1963. He just crosses his legs and gives a little bow, as if mocking my insult, those cream-colored pants contrasting nicely with the dark grays and whites of his legs, and smiles.

When he asks where we're going to eat, I point across the street, up and over the top of my rolling rouge boat. He looks to it with only fleeting judgement and nods his head. Happy that we can finally get something to eat, my own stomach rumbling beneath my freshly laundered clothing, I round the nose of my car and hop inside to pull the keys. But, as I'm rolling up the window, I listen to the music on the station Jackie picked. Marten Gaye sings softly, admonishingly, as the sun begins to hang low along the wide boulevard.

It's the final verse from _Inner City Blues_that covers crime and policing. It's a song I've probably heard a dozen times, if not more. But I think this is the first time that I actually register those words. And it makes me feel odd, tight inside. As if he's reaching through the radio and grabbing me, blaming me, for all the ills he's airing.

And I look to Jackie, who waits just outside, and feel a bit of guilt well up within me. But when he asks what's wrong as I shut the door and lock it, I just shake my head. I apologized for what I did, right? I shouldn't feel bad anymore. But the words are poignant, and they cut. I can't get my mind to turn off, leave work where work belongs. I just don't know. The feeling only dissipates as we make our way across the street.