FSE

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Chapter 18

The dispatch agent that answers my call is supremely helpful. She even patches me through to the driver who took Catwright to Savannah's apartment that night. From the way he described the fare, it wasn't abnormal. He picked up the leopard at an address just outside of Happy Town on Fern Street, west of Prideway outside Little Palermo, an address I diligently write down. He says the only thing that stood out was the way he was dressed, heavy for such a hot night.

He tells me, though, that maybe he just didn't understand modern fashion, wondering if he was simply getting too old. The only other thing that struck him was that the cat was acting jumpy, as if he was expecting an axe to fall. Then he paid in cash. I thank him for his time and provide him with the precinct's contact information as well as my name in case he thinks of anything else before hanging up. I'm just happy my lead proved fruitful.

Jackie's, though, weren't. He tells me he called four different animals he knows and they all either told them they haven't heard anything or gave him misery before hanging up. He does admit, though, that those who denied anything had an odd tone of voice. He's relieved that the taxi company provided a good link, even if it's a short one. When I tell him the address, though, he becomes tense and says next to nothing as we return to my car and hit the streets. I don't bother asking, it's only a few minutes away anyways, even with the traffic, which is unusually heavy.

It becomes plainly obvious why when I round the corner onto Fern Street. Traffic is always bad in the city on a Saturday night, but the closer we get to this address, the thicker it gets, and the more animals we see thronging along the sidewalks. Not just prey, but predators as well. They're dressed to impress, for a night on the town. What's more is that they're intermingling without looking at the other twice.

The males of all sizes wear sequin and metallic-material covered jumpers, loosely fitting around their forms. Or they wear unbuttoned blouses, wide-bottomed trousers, and large hats decorated with zigzag, line, or spotted patterns. Their partners wear breezy dresses in bright oranges, blues, yellows, and reds. Large, gaudy jewelry hangs from necks and wrists, or is attached to ears in golds and silvers. There are dancers, revelers, and partiers of every shape and size, and I mean that quite literally.

They're all lined up, by the dozens, to get into a club, a large, fantastically decorated building that also happens to be the address Catwright was picked up from. Yes, he was picked up from a discotheque. While the rest of the street appears unassuming, with the only other storefront open for business a single-room movie theater playing The Life of Lyon that came out last week, the club is booming, bright, magnificent.

It has to have at once been a narrow warehouse at some point, painted an eggshell white on the outside. Lights cover the entire façade, displaying a dancing pair of giraffes on one side and a smiling, kissing lion on the other in shifting, moving, brilliant neon tubing. Can-lights illuminate the building along the base and a long, rainbow-colored canopy juts from the entrance in front, currently guarded by a thin cheetah armed with a clipboard in a tight, torn, black shirt.

With everything that's going on, visually, it's somehow difficult to see the name: The Neon Circus. It's drawn above on the face of the building in splashing, well-illuminated colors that cover the entire spectrum of the rainbow. And music pumps from inside. Even through closed windows, with car lengths between us as we cruise by the front, I can hear the music pounding heavily the four-on-the-floor beat popular in disco tunes.

I watch the front go by, searching for a parking spot, and see Jackie survey the building with distaste and dislike. He hates disco and it just happens that we're going to a disco. A bit of me laughs inside, a little pleasure from his pain. But I choke back any mocking words, no matter how playful they sound to me, as I watch the throngs of animals crowding the portcullis pouring bodies inside. I've never been huge on crowds, though work never bothered me. And I'd like not to give Jackie any ammunition for later if I, well, freak out.

The parking lot around the side is filled to the brim, but I manage to snag a spot near the emergency exit just as a brand new Lionheart is vacating the joint, painted a sultry, sparkly purple with chrome rims. As I kill the engine, I open the door and then follow Jackie around to the front. A couple of revelers pass us by, humming and laughing, hanging on each other about the neck. We give them a wide berth and enter the group of animals milling about, waiting for entry. Jackie walks very confidently.

"You know this place?" I ask Jackie.

"Unfortunately," he replies cryptically, trying to avoid being shouldered by a rhino in a caped jumpsuit, "the owner is somebody from the old neighborhood. An odd creature, to be sure. If Jacob Catwright came here, he must've had a swinging time. There isn't a lack of drugs being pushed, traded, and offered in here. Gonna be a tough time to find the source."

"That would explain why he was dressed so heavily," I reply, sticking close to him. "Maybe he was scared of buying drugs for the first time. Though, you would think he'd stand out in a place like this dressed that way. Kind of counterproductive, don't you think?"

"That's what I'm hoping for," Jackie replies. "Odd people are hard to forget."

Apparently that's true even of Jackie. The bouncer, if I could call him one, immediately recognizes him as we push our way to the front of the line twenty bodies deep and smiles. The thin cheetah, dressed skimpily, with what clothes that he does wear showing off his form, waves us forward. He relates something to Jackie, leaning his black nose and spotted muzzle into Jackie's ear.

Whatever he says, however, I can't discern, but it must be good since the cheetah opens the door and beckons us into the wall of sound that pours from within without further delay. At first, I feel stuck, dreading the prospect of the wall-to-wall bodies inside, but as Jackie steps forward, I follow him out of habit. We walk down a narrow aisle wrapped on both sides by bright lights, carpeted wall coverings, and loitering clubbers. It funnels us forward to the main room, which I enter with confidence I quickly misplace.

A loud, lively version of Boogie Oogie Oogie pounds from every corner of the room, though the words sound waterlogged, warped. It comes from a band that stands on a wide, white-glass stage raised about two feet above the dancefloor directly across the center floor. The dancefloor is a wide, undulating glass river of segmented panes of various shapes and sizes wrapping around the stage. Each tile is individually illuminated in bright, neon blues, yellows, greens, and reds. It dominates the room, packed with bodies small and large.

To my right, a series of risers lift into the darkness, concealing low, round bean-bag seats surrounding tables with hookahs perched upon them. Shapes of hidden animals lounge in them, sucking at their smoke-filled snakes, laughing and flirting. To my left is a more familiar seating section reaching from the edge of the dancefloor all the way the front wall, small tables covered with cloths and decorated with candles and flowers.

A bar, wide and colorful, fills most of the left wall, flanked on both sides by a dark doorway leading to staircases that disappear into shadow, leading high up to a large booth above. It most likely is used by management, shaped like an old art deco travel trailer and a warehouse foreman's booth had a kid, to spy on the patrons. Maybe this used to be a factory. The last thing that fills this busy, crowded disco is a set of hidden rooms to the back left, their doorways covered with beaded curtains for semi-privacy. That must be where those high on coke or Nip go to feel each other up.

And between everything, waiters and waitresses walk, dressed in skin-tight suits or in almost nothing at all. At first I'm taken aback, but seeing some well-built males wearing only tiny shorts is at least a bit exciting, even on the predators. They walk around with smiles on their faces, their hands wrapped around chrome trays piled high with beer, liquor, and fruity mixed drinks.

Everything is focused around one place: the dancefloor. The whole building is packed to the max with figures big and small, and they gyrate to the tune being blasted from the speakers. They stomp, bump, grind, and laugh as the colors shift with each note, glistening and flashing with every guitar strum and vocal pitch change.

The band that plays at the back is a mix of predator and prey. Female goat lead singer, male giraffe on bass, a fat pig on the drums, but the one that stands out is the guitar: a pure white, female coyote. She wears a torn up t-shirt with a leather jacket draped over it just above a pair of cut jeans through which her fur protrudes. Very punk to be playing disco. As we pass by the mouth of the hallway leading in, I swear she furtively observes us.

It's too hard to tell with this many people, though. Soon the bodies press up around me, making me feel hot, claustrophobic, something I haven't felt in a long time. It makes no sense in a city as big as this. When a hand grabs my shoulder, I reflexively reach for the gun stuck deep in my jacket pocket. But I cool off when I see Jackie lean over.

"I'm gonna go chat up some familiar faces," he tells me. "If you wanna come up, you're welcome to, but maybe we'd cover more ground separately?"

"Yeah, of course," I reply, mentally laying out a game plan. "I'm sure somebody here had to have seen Catwright. A big cat dressed in an overcoat and suit? That has to be memorable. I'll canvas this side of the room, maybe hit the bartender up. If Zan at the Aries could see everything, I bet it's the same here. I'll meet you there, then."

Jackie nods confidently and then steps back. I look away, my mind still churning over my own plan, and when I turn back to tell him to be safe, he's gone. And suddenly I'm alone in a vast ocean of dancing animals. Backing up, I push my way through the crowd to my left, almost bowling over some poor otter in a lime green suit. I don't stop to apologize, I keep moving quicker, pushing my way past bodies until I crack the surface and gasp for breath upon entering the open.

Ok, so, maybe I'm not fantastic in crowds. Getting the night shifts sort of helped me avoid the situation. I take a brief second or two to recompose myself, adjusting my jacket and brushing off my fur with a steady hand. Patrons and wait staff pass by me without even a second glance, for which I'm grateful. Following a topless stallion with a golden tray, I decide to question some of them before proceeding to the animals seated around the tables, romancing.

Unfortunately, the wait staff is unhelpful, though not by design. Most of them weren't working at the time, and if they were, they say they see a lot of animals come and go, so one weirdo doesn't stand out to them. They say the definition of 'weird' here is very, very loose. What's worse is, when I move onto the customers, I find even less useful information. I think they can just smell the cop on me.

I can't tell whether it's in the way I walk, the way I talk, or just the way I hold myself, but these animals button at the lips when I near them. I don't get any farther than asking them if they were here last night or the night prior before they begin to obfuscate or bullshit. Then again, a lot of them just look high, or drunk, so it's hard to tell. When I do ask them about Catwright, about the drugs, they just ask me if I'm holding, if I want to get high and fool around. Yeah, definitely strung out of their minds.

I guess I can't put away three years of police experience, even when I'm not even wearing any of the uniform. So, after questioning a few couples, I resign myself to the fact that I'm not getting anything from them. Walking to the railing that prevents patrons from falling into the entrance hallway, I peer over the side and watch the couples mingle in the recessed hookah lounges.

I've noticed a lot of interspecies couples here. And not just prey-prey, predator-predator, but prey and predator, holding hands, cuddling, kissing one another in full display of the public. One of the tables I questioned was a thin lioness with her antelope boyfriend. Both showed no shame when I asked them if they'd seen Catwright, if they knew what drugs he could've bought. For the first time, it doesn't weird me out. In fact, I find it kind of nice, in its own weird way. These animals are, well, brave.

I spot Jackie from here, standing next to one of the lounges, smiling and laughing. A couple of canine ladies smile up at him, charmed by his good looks and quick tongue. It makes me wish I were with him. Even the males that lounge nearby are interested in what he has to say. He's in his element here, while I feel like dead weight. I sigh into the railing and decide to make my way towards him, braving the crowds below. As I step down, the music changes, the live band wrapping up and a DJ coming on to spin some records. A pumping, extended version of Le Freak begins to play and the crowd cheers and claps.

As I'm rounding the bottom of the risers, a body bumps into me. Something cold hits the back of my jacket and I swing round just in time to see a large snow leopard trying to balance a blue drink in a martini glass. He steps back to make sure no more splashes onto me and his face displays a mixture of surprise and regret, his collar blinking green around his neck, barely visible under the thick, luxurious fur he sports.

"I'm so sorry!" he cries out over the music. "I didn't see you coming down the stairs!"

"Oh, no, no, it's my fault!" I insist in turn. "I was so focused on getting by, I--"

"It's just vodka and schnapps, it'll come right out!" he interjects, waving one of his paws. "Here, let's wipe it down so it doesn't stain!"

He produces a handkerchief from the pocket of the avocado green with red pinstripe shirt he wears entirely unbuttoned and offers it to me. I gingerly take it and wipe it over my shoulder where the drink has spilled. The cat is much taller than I, with finely combed fur. His eyes are a dull yellow, like butter, and he smiles like he's had too much to drink as it is. While his eyes seem alert, his ears point to two and nine.

"My name's Art Snowridge! You don't look like you come to these places a lot! Just come from work or something?" he says, his tail swaying awkwardly to his left. "You look a little lost. Are you here with someone?"

"No, I'm not lost, I'm just looking for, uh . . ."

A lead? No, I'm looking for Jackie. I cross my arms and look gently over my shoulder, towards the crowd behind me. I can't see him, not from where I stand. I'm assuming he's still over there, but Jesus Capybara do I wish he was here. Not that this cat seems like he's a bad person, I just, I'm not sure what I'm doing talking to him. What am I doing?

"Well, I'm here, you found me, why don't you come dance?" he suggests when my voice trails off.

"No, I shouldn't, I'm not a dancer. And I'm sort of busy . . ."

He doesn't seem hurt when I look back, in fact he just smiles, displaying those sharp teeth again. I think he chuckles, but I can't hear it over the music. His chest heaves though the open shirt, tucked into rouge-red pants, just a shade lighter than my car. I'm starting to get this feeling, this tingle in my spine, that's saying I don't know what I'm doing. That I'm embarrassing myself; that I shouldn't be talking to him.

"Why not? Everyone's having a fun time!" the cat says smoothly, stepping forward gently. "And we all have an open mind, right? It's not like we can be square in a place like this."

He reaches forward and touches the upper side of my arm, in a sensual, too-friendly manner. I gasp slightly and slip away from his paw pads. Jesus, he's hitting on me! I can't do that, I'm not into that! And with all these animals around? What's he thinking? Looking upwards, he appears hurt but not deterred. His tail falls slightly behind him and he looks around at the lights, the dancefloor. His hand reaches back and curls upwards as he shrugs.

"Hey, we're all just trying to be friendly, right?" he asks, still flustered.

"Friendly, sure, but I'm not that interested in dancing," I finally tell him. "I don't swing that way."

"Oh, come on! It's 1979! We don't have to live by our parents' rules," he insists, stumbling forward a touch. "It's New Haven, honey, the city that never sleeps, of drink and fun!"

Then he laughs, his shoulders heaving. He's high. A few animals push by us, standing in the middle of the wooden floor between the lighted dancefloor and the bar area. He takes another step forward, then a quick sip from his drink. While he doesn't reach forward, I can tell he's going to make another attempt. My one hand feels my gun in my pocket while my other waits to intercept. I'm not taking this.

"And apparently that includes being drunk and unable to take a hint!" I yell out at him. "Why don't you fuck off?"

"Hey!" a voice yells out before either he or I can make another move.

Looking to my right, I see a familiar figure. With a white hand reaching up, a white coyote with black-tipped ears in raggedy, well-worn clothes has appeared beside us. The hand grasps my shoulder and begins to lead me away, past her form. Without hesitation or argument, I follow, just thankful to have an out. I begin to relax. She turns her bright, amber eyes towards the snow leopard, who seems more alert now that his quarry is leaving.

"Go find somebody else to put your dick in, snow cat!" she hollers commandingly. "Not all of us are ready for that!"

The cat giggles, suggesting he takes no offense and then downs the rest of his drink. I think he says something like, "your loss" under his breath. Then I watch him turn and stumble away, back into the risers with a clumsy smile on his muzzle. Soon, he disappears into the sea of bodies and I start to forget he ever existed. The hand continues to lead me away from the dancefloor, in the direction of the bar where the noise is lessened and the lights just flicker in the corner of my eyes.

My newfound friend takes me down the plain white steps and towards the back of the room. With the crowds farther off, I don't feel as stressed or as tense as I was directly next to the dancefloor. When my shoulders loosen, that's when she lets free her hand and turns towards me. Her tail whips about in an angry manner and her left hand rests at her hip. Those eyes, surrounded by black mascara, measure me with a mixture of displeasure and surprise.

"Uhm, thanks for saving me back there," I tell her as her eyes run over me in a distrusting manner. "I don't know why he got the predo vibe off of me. I don't really know what happened, I'm usually a little more in control than that . . ."

The female coyote doesn't say anything. As my voice trails off, her bright, amber eyes turn up towards me as if she's weighed me and has found me lacking. Her arms cross over her chest, her leather jacket crinkling and jingling with metal studs. Those black lips stretch back into a slight frown while her eyes narrow with silent accusation. Every bit of black, from her clothes, to her makeup, to the tips of her ears makes her pure, arctic white fur stand out that much more.

Truthfully, she makes me think of what I thought Anne looked like: white fur, thin, long muzzle and pretty, very pretty. But this one seems not to share my imaginary figment's personality. She's neither sultry nor seductive. She does, though, seem strong, independent, and fearless. And something tells me she thinks I'm completely the opposite. Most punks feel that way about everyone not in the movement. What punk gets caught dead in a disco, let alone performing at one?

"You must be the new one," she says and twitches her ears.

"What?" I ask, surprised.

"I saw you come in with him," she explains and glances towards the crowd, "with Jackie."

"Oh, uh, yeah," I reply, taken aback by her observation, surprised to run into somebody who knows my friend, "I'm working with him on an investigation. Maybe you could help us."

She pads forward, letting her arms fall from her chest. Her gaze works me over with a fine-toothed comb. I just now notice that the fur on top of her head is spiked up, tipped with black and blue coloring. I also get a very distinct scent in my nose, like the mixture of kerosene and alcohol. The coyote rings around me, smacking her lips. At first I think that she's sizing me up, that she intends to eat me herself. Then I think she's sizing me up because she doesn't like me, or trust me. I don't fully understand.

"Investigation, huh?" she asks.

I follow her with my eyes, and begin to feel nervous. The tranquilizer gun weighs in my pocket, beckoning to me. Twisting my head around to the other side, I watch as she only now meets my gaze and then walks back towards the wall to lounge again. She leans on the wall and then her visage, once hard and distrustful, begins to soften.

"I'm sorry," she says after sighing loudly. "I haven't seen Jackie in so long. Seeing him being personable raised some suspicion. Seeing him here with somebody else, I didn't know how to react, but, you seem normal enough. He lives a life like a shut-in these days, I thought the only thing that would get him out is, umm, well, never mind. My name's Sam, Sam Plainswalker."

She offers her hand. For a long time, I merely look at it, feeling a mixture of confusion and distrust on my own part. But, I don't get the distrustful vibe in my stomach like I did with the cat. In fact, seeing how soft her features are and how bright and vibrant her eyes shine, I grasp her hand and try to greet her as a friend, or at least someone I don't have to worry about.

"I'm Jane Brooks," I tell her.

"Jane Brooks?" she asks. "That's a pretty name for a pretty doe. And what do you do, Jane Brooks? You don't seem like the private investigator type. And I doubt you're here for the scene."

"Well, looks can be deceiving," I tell her, feeling a bit of a cold tingle go down the back of my neck. "I, uh, do a lot of things--" Don't tell her you're a cop, stupid. "--but, I've split a contract with Jackie for a case. What about you? You look like a punk rocker. What is someone like you doing in a place like this?"

The coyote laughs, smiling before looking towards the ground. Her collar blinks brightly under her neck, covered in pins and buttons, which I'm not entirely sure is either legal or wise. Honestly, though, my first thought is how she's able to play without being shocked. Lead guitar is a very active, stressful role. If getting too excited about your dream sets it off, Sam probably needs to be very careful.

"I work here per diem," she says, her tail hanging still behind her. "Thursdays pays for rent, Friday pays for all my expenses, and Saturday? Well, Saturday gets me whatever I want. The rest of the week is for my real band: The Young Curs. Not all of us are the seersucker and dress shirt-wearing relics like Jackie, living to experience a time that never really existed in the first place. How do you know Jackie, by the way?"

"I could ask the same of you," I shoot back, though trying not to be hostile, merely interested in who I'm conversing with.

"Fair enough. We grew up together," she explains after a chuckle, visibly enjoying herself while she rubs her ears with her right hand, "I still live around the corner from him. Every once in a while I'll go over to his place, just to make sure he hasn't decided to waste away again. Our families knew each other, we even had most of the same classes, too. So, I guess I consider him a friend."

"Well, that's good," I tell her, feeling a bit relieved, "I do, too. It's why I'm here, helping him."

"You know him long?" she asks me, before I can say anything else. "Or is this just business?"

"Well, it's business, but, I'm trying to be friendly with him. I haven't known him that long," I tell her.

"Good. Quartz needs friends, something to keep him from imploding in on himself like a star. If you stick around, that'll be a first. He usually drives everyone away with his neediness," Sam says with a chuckle that seems more awkward than humorous.

I try to chuckle as well, but, the music begins to hang heavily upon my shoulders and I find myself unable to sustain it for more than a second. The silence that follows feels unnatural and for a second, I study her features. This pang reaches up from the bottom of my heart and before I can stop myself, my mouth opens up.

"It's funny. When I saw you, I actually thought you were someone else."

"Like who?"

"Anne," I admit to her.

I then watch as her expression slowly shifts from friendly to uncomfortable. Her ears turn back and she looks away, rubbing the back of her neck. The song fades away and is quickly replaced by a lyric-less version of You Should Be Dancing, which causes some commotion, though only enough to twist my ears. Sam chuckles and looks back to me, obviously feeling awkward.

"Y-yeah, I wish," she then stutters. "So, what are you here for again?"

Apparently, I've hit a nerve, one that's enough to make her want to drop the topic entirely. Very interesting, even if it makes me think of a thousand more questions to follow up with. But, then I remember that we are here for a reason. Glancing over my shoulder, I look at the crowd splashing up against each other, like I were somehow going to be able to catch a glimpse of Jackie through it. When I don't though, I decide to move on. Sam is the only lead I've gotten so far.

"I'm looking for somebody who sold a particular beast drugs," I say, looking back to her, "last night. You said you work here three days this week? Maybe you saw him."

"Yeah, I was here last night," she says, crossing her arms again. "What'd he look like?"

"He's a spotted leopard," I tell her, lifting my hand up to indicate his height, "about yea high, wide as a truck, wearing a trench coat and hat over a cheap suit. He came in here to buy this."

I pull the ring box from my pocket. Sam leans away from the wall and approaches. When she sees the little blue jewelry box, she smiles, as if I'm pulling her leg. But when I open it, revealing the white powder within, her smile fades away and her nose curls. She looks up to me when she's done and then inhales a deep, cleansing breath.

"Looks like Nip," she says, confirming what both I and Jackie had suspected, "that doesn't exactly narrow it down. There are a lot of predators holding and selling at a place like this. Prey, too. You'd have a better chance of trying to find a particular sheep in a flock. The dress sounds like it'd stick out, but, I'd say two thousand bodies move through here a night. If he was here, I don't remember him."

"Do you know somebody who would?" I ask her.

As I put away the ring box, I see her shake her head slowly. Then she rubs the back of her neck, the pins and buttons on her collar jingling slightly.

"Well, there's someone who would know for sure," she says and points her eyes to my left.

I follow them over and look at the bar. A thick stallion stands behind it, dressed in disembodied cuffs and a matching white collar. He's wiping out a glass and smiling at some very pretty beasts perched before him, feeding him tips and ogling his chest. Then I realize that her nose isn't directed at him and instead upwards. The lights from the dancefloor reflect off of the shined walls and glass, making me wonder what's hidden within.

"The owner?" I ask, returning my eyes to her.

"Yeah," she says, "he sees all, knows all. At least here in Oz. I swear he spends his time standing at that privacy window staring down at all the bodies, picking out the ones he likes. If he didn't see anything, no one did."

"Jane!"

Twirling my head around, I see Jackie slip from the crowd. He descends lightly the pearl-white stairs leading into the non-dancing section near the bar. His face is friendly, covered with a tranquil smile. That is, until he sees who it is I'm talking to. I'm not trying to say he begins to frown or segues to anger, but he seems surprised, brow raised and ears turned down. The fur on the side of his head near his ears is tinged with pink, suggesting his suitors have been whispering sweet nothings into them.

That thought makes a hot feeling leap from the pit of my stomach, but, it's overridden by the relief of seeing a familiar face here, especially after being hit on by a predator. Jackie steps up next to me, burying his left hand into his pocket while the other swings free. His eyes are planted on me as he approaches, but then looks up to the other coyote. Sam studies him with tender eyes, her ears relaxing as her tail twitches.

"Jane, already? Hmm," Sam asks coyly, knowingly glancing in my direction.

When I don't answer, she just chuckles sultrily, suavely, her personality switching.

"Hi, Jackie," she greets her old friend warmly and steps away from the wall.

"Hey, Sam," he replies, his voice dissimilarly cool, "I didn't know you were playing here. Seems like an odd choice for a punk. Do you let your spiked collar-wearing friends catch you here?"

"We all have to pay our bills, blue eyes," she says and rubs the side of her neck. "It doesn't look like you've forgotten that since you're still doing the private investigator thing."

She crosses the small space between us and runs her gaze over Jackie's clothing like she hasn't seen him in ages. From what I've gleaned from her comments, it might be. The way she walks is odd, considering the girl I just met. She swings her shoulders and swishes her tail about as she walks. Her hands aren't balled up angrily, either.

"Yeah, I guess we do," Jackie mumbles vaguely and looks to me, "And I don't mind doing what I do."

"You know, it's probably been long enough," Sam continues, stopping just a few steps shy from him. "I bet you'd be able to find some gigs again. Of course, the cat always has his hand out for you here, too."

"I'll kill myself before I play here again, Sam," Jackie tells her, and she smirks. "I see you've met my partner. You been helping her out?"

"With what I can. I know about as much as anyone else here, 'cept one. Pointed her up to the big cat himself," Sam explains and steps towards Jackie.

Sam reaches out and runs her hand across the front of his shirt, over his pecs, all the while looking at him with a mixture of longing and accustomed warmth that strikes me oddly, making a lot of questions spring forth. It also seems to dredge up an odd, hot, prickly feeling inside my chest. My tail swats about. Jackie, on the other hand, looks to her distantly, anxiously, as if he is either unused to having any sort of affection or doesn't want it from her. That's something I can relate to.

"Well, I think my job's done here, yeah?" she asks and steps by him. "We should catch up soon. I haven't seen you in forever. I'll be around sometime, since you're out being sociable again. I like this one. Don't be a stranger."

She then flicks his nose with the tip of her tail and walks back towards the dancefloor, towards the stage where some of her bandmates are beginning to line up again. Jackie watches her go and then lets out a solid breath. When his icy blue eyes peer around to me, I look away, not wanting to push the issue or make him sweat any more than he already is.

"So . . . what did you find?" I ask him, wanting to redirect.

"Absolutely nothing," Jackie replies with a relieved sigh. "Nobody saw anything. Most were high and only had eyes for each other. I was actually coming to collect you after I hit a wall. As much as I hate it, we're going to have to go see the other animal from the neighborhood I know here."

Jackie turns and strides towards the bar. I pause to watch Sam go. As she mounts the stage, her eyes turn back and watch Jackie as he walks. Her brow squeezes together under that black-tinged fur. Then they slide around and look to me sadly. Before she looks away, she does try to smile, but, I can tell it's fake. If there's anyone who knows what a fake smile is, it's me. Then she's gone, out of sight behind stage. And the only thing that's left are even more questions. That and odd feelings I can add to the list of ones I've experienced recently and don't understand. That list seems to be getting very long.