FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Chapter 19

We don't head up to the suspended office immediately. Jackie insists that we first stop off at the bar. At first I expect it's because he wants to top himself off, get a little in him like he did at the Aries. To my surprise, he instead gains the attention of the bartender and points an extended index finger upwards, towards the bar. The large, well-built stallion gives an accommodating smile and retrieves a familiar phone from beneath the counter.

After that, we wait. I lean back against the bar and watch as the stage is set up for another live performance by the house band while Jackie sits on the edge of his stool. My mind contemplates Sam Plainswalker, my thoughts wondering about her, about Jackie. Nobody looks at somebody else the way she did unless she felt something, at least at some point. In the relative calm between songs, I even think of asking Jackie about her. Then I begin to doubt myself.

What would I even ask? Did he date her? If he did, I don't think it would be unreasonable to assume things fell apart. But, the way she looked at him hooks my mind to that train of thought. A pang of emotion shudders through my jaw, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder if I'm jealous of her for it, an imaginary relationship. So I haphazardly shove the thoughts away entirely. Honestly, I don't think Jackie would want me to dredge up something like that, imaginary or not. I'm not sure if that's within my rights to ask. I also don't want to open up old wounds.

With the way I've been lately, I'll probably turn him completely off, and I'll be left feeling stupid, my hoof in my mouth again and Jackie pushed just a little further away. So, I decide to find something else to focus on. The stallion attracts my attention, mixing drinks and flexing his muscles. The way he leans across the counter entices, beckoning me to buy something just to keep the eye candy there. His chest is huge, so are his arms. And his eyes, they're bright and pretty. But, not as pretty as the icy blues Jackie has.

Ugh, Jane, Jesus. And yet my eyes flicker over to my friend, who rolls his shoulder. I wonder again if he's in pain. The stallion, who stands just opposite me behind the bar, glances over and smiles before turning away, leaving me with my awkward thoughts. It think he saw me look to my friend and assumed we were together. I close my eyes and decide to just be quiet. I thought the storm inside my head had gone away. Apparently not.

It's only a few minutes later when the stallion taps his fingers onto the bar top and nods to Jackie. As he slips off his stool, Jackie beckons me to follow and leads me towards a staircase ascending into darkness. Inside, the walls are same fruity colors as the main floor, and the stairs themselves alternate every color of the rainbow. Sconces are mounted every five steps, ornate brass ones out of a foreign manor or castle.

Paintings hang here and there, some featuring bigger names. They're all surreal. Splashes of oil on canvas, drawings of oblong, esoteric shapes that vaguely resemble faces, and a few portraits done in cubist, modernist, or just plain weird styles. As we near the top of the steps, Jackie's pace slows to a stop and I almost bump into him. When I look up, he glances back at me and raises his brow.

"Are you ok?" he asks, confused.

"I--," I stutter.

The truth is, I don't know. That mental storm that I had following the arrest has turned into a hurricane. Because when I look at my friend, I don't know what I see anymore. Many of my thoughts are just happy to have a friend, to have someone to confide in. But others say something different, things that even I think are inappropriate. What could I possibly tell him? Nothing. Not until I have time to parse it all. I just need to focus on the here and now.

"Processing everything I've seen," I tell him, which isn't exactly a lie. "Trying to figure out where Catwright would have come, who he would have spoken to. I didn't get anything out of the wait staff and the patrons were mum on my side too. Who is this beast we're going to see now?"

Jackie doesn't immediately reply. Instead, he mounts the last few steps and approaches the door leading inside. It's a bright redwood carved with intricate swirling flowers, seeds, and plants. The knob and lock are similarly elegant, made of fine, shiny bronze and pocked with tiny decorative details that must feel good to touch. Whoever this animal is, he has good taste, even if the rest of his club is gaudy, loud, and modern.

I follow him and pause when he steps over to the wall and leans back against it. From inside, the sound of arguing voices can be heard. While our arrival may have been phoned upstairs, it sounds like business has yet to be concluded. And we're going to wait all the while. Jackie pulls the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and squeezes it nearly shut, popping a single cigarette from within. But he doesn't put it between his lips just yet.

"His name is Sander Pounce," Jackie explains, looking to me. "He's a couple of years older than me, but we went to the same school. Odd bird, to say the least. Fancies himself a dandy, and better than the common predator street trash. Just, uh, wait until he introduces himself first."

"Why?" I question, crossing my arms and watching a smirk spread across his muzzle.

"Because he changes his name every time I see him," Jackie replies and lets a single chuckle slip between his lips. "First it was Claws, when that was the popular club name. Then came Black Spot. I think he wanted to be called Serval when Sitka started to do pop music, but that was years ago. Don't know what he's going by these days."

"Sounds like an interesting guy," I comment truthfully.

Jackie chuckles, "Yeah, that's one way to put it. Try not to stare at anything, and watch what you say. He's going to open his big lips and say some of the craziest shit you've ever heard uttered from a single beast. The less you react, the better. And--"

Jackie is cut off when the door slams open. A tall, thin jackal with a deep, black coat steps from within, carrying a black briefcase. He shouts something harshly over his shoulder that I can't quite make out and, with purpose, begins marching towards where we've congregated at the top of the steps. Seeing that he'll bowl me over if he gets the chance, I sidle against the wall with Jackie and watch as the canine strides by. The black and fine white pin-striped suit shines in the light as he descends the stairs forcefully. As he turns the corner, he glances up at us, the case rattling. HIs gaze surveys us with suspicion, but not aggression. Before I can decipher any message, he disappears.

"Well, I guess you'll just see for yourself," Jackie finishes his thought.

I guess so. Jackie steps from the wall and holds out his arm to allow me to enter first, which I graciously accept. As soon as we're inside, I see that Jackie wasn't bullshitting. My hooves sink into thick shag carpeting the color of serene forest leaves. All around, light bounces in cool blues, warm pinks, and natural flame to create a soothing, welcoming environment. A very dim one, too. But at the same time, it's perky, inviting, and fun.

While the room isn't very large, maybe thirty-five by twenty-five, it's utilized very well. My first thought is, as I begin to take everything in, to do as Jackie instructed and not stare. But, Jesus, that's hard. On the right is a round, hooded, chrome fireplace set away from the wall flanked on both sides by a loveseat and fainting couch. Their rouge red upholstery is hidden by many brightly colored decorative pillows scattered about. A white and blue rug is thrown beneath the couch, its pattern an odd zig-zag. To the far right corner is a dining room set with a few half-finished glasses of wine set upon it.

To my immediate left is a small bar and display cabinet, matching the one downstairs. The far corner on that side of the room is occupied by a very ornate, modern glass-and-metal desk directed towards a television set in the opposite corner that is almost hidden by the bar. The left wall is covered with paintings, floor-to-ceiling, at odd angles, shapes, and sizes. Most are too strange to even comprehend, let alone describe. My first guess would be portraits and maybe some melting objects. I guess that's supposed to be modern. To me, it just looks like noise. Visual noise.

Lastly, at the very center is a seemingly out of place marble fountain featuring naked cherubs with their sheepish faces pissing into the basins below. It looks like very thin wine flows from them. Maybe it's just colored water. I'm hoping it is. But nothing compares to what really makes this room special: the far wall. It's not a wall at all, but a vast, floor-to-ceiling one-way mirror. That's why the lights are dimmed.

A thin figure stands at the very center, peering out and down. He wears a very tight black suit that features almost imperceptible shiny spots that glimmer when the light catches them. It makes him look like he has a jaguar's rosettes. His arms are crossed, but I can see him holding the receiver to a bright yellow telephone that sits on a lone, single-legged end table a few feet from him. His fur is tinged in blues, yellows, and reds, even pinks, especially around his ears and on top of his head.

He is a serval, like Jackie said: thin, tall for his species, but shorter than both of us. It's likely he's heard our arrival but hasn't acknowledged it yet. Instead, his eyes are aimed somewhere beyond the glass, down on the dancefloor. From here, I can hear him sigh loudly. Then he tilts his head. The hand not grasping the handset reaches up and draws a few circles on the glass with the index finger in wide, drowsy loops.

"Yes, that's the one," he says into the phone, his voice breathy and almost feminine, "he's got a sort of--mmm--je ne sais quoi? Invite him up. A few paintings and I could make him a superstar, yes?"

Jackie steps inwards and approaches the bar tentatively, closing the door behind him. The noise from outside cuts off, leading me to believe the room is sound proof. Instinctively, I follow, my eyes still pinned on our host, who has yet to even turn in our direction. To be honest, I'm still trying to mentally process everything. His office is a clash of colors, shapes, and angles that I can't absorb at one length. Yet, visually it's sort of pleasing. His office is a sensory smorgasbord.

While I can hear a record player coming from somewhere in the room, making a 'tick-tick' sound as the needle circles the center after having been complete, I can't focus on what I hear. My nose is too overloaded. It smells like a thousand different scents in here. Colognes, perfumes, food, drink, all clash together in olfactory cacophony. And the overriding scent is thick, strong musk. Heavy, male, and goddamn alluring. It grabs me by the face and by the pants, demanding attention.

"Yes, I know," the cat continues talking, still focused on the phone, "hold him down there for about fifteen minutes. An old friend has come to visit. And he's brought a new face, too." He pauses and then giggles. "Yes, I know!"

Another pause, followed by a low chuckle. It sounds like he's sharing in some inside joke.

"Jane," Jackie beckons.

Turning, I see that he's leaning against the bar. But he hasn't drawn himself up a drink. He hasn't even touched the several glimmering bottles displayed proudly before him, begging to be cracked open. Instead, his eyes beckon me over. Then he cocks his head and I try to crawl out of the mental hole this room has tossed me into. Finding something to focus on seems to lessen the effects of the pheromones swirling around me.

"Take a look at this," he continues, his nose turning towards the bar.

I look to where he points, just beyond where his elbow rests upon the white counter corner. There's a brass tray on which several spots of white powder have been strewn. Immediately making the connection, I withdraw the jewelry box from my pocket and then crack to open to compare. But as I hold them beside one another, I remember the small pile in the box has an odd, bluish tinge to it. I double check to make sure none of lights from the sconces, the ceiling light, even the damned chandelier hanging at the center, is casting that hue.

But none are.

"It looks like Nip," Jackie continues. "Is it what we found at the apartment?"

"No, this is different," I reply. "It's too thin and it's too white." Plus, I don't smell anything. "If this is Nip, it's not the kind that Catwright had on him."

"Oh, you're naughty!" the cat exclaims from behind us. "Well, hold him there and keep him entertained. Offer him whatever he wants. I'll call you when I'm ready. Ciao!"

The phone is abruptly dropped onto the hook with a loud clash as I simultaneously snap the box shut. Jackie turns his attention around to our host. I do so as well, just as the thin, gold-and-black cat points his gleaming yellow eyes in our direction. His face is thin, gaunt, and his whiskers are moussed into an odd, curled smile around his nose. It can't feel good, if his whiskers are as sensitive as I think. I didn't even realize whiskers could be manipulated like that.

"I'm so surprised to see you again, Mr. Quartz," the cat states grandly, sweeping his arms up in a welcoming, grandiose manner. "You fell off the radar like a plane hitting the water. I hear whispers, of course, you know me, and not good ones, either. But here you are, same as always: dirty clothes, your shoulder wrapped up, and your face covered in nicks. My, my, what games have you been playing?"

Jackie stifles an awkward chuckle surveys the bar from the corner of his eye covered with nearly empty bottles of liquor and liqueurs. I bet a large part of him wishes he would've poured himself a drink beforehand. I think it's too late now. Instead, he straightens some of the fur over the stitches around his face and tries to tidy himself up self-consciously, not that I think he needs it.

"Well, I'm surprised to be here myself," Jackie replies, leaning back onto the bar behind him, trying not to meet our host's gaze. "And I've been playing the same game as you: try not to get killed. I see nothing's changed in your little corner of paradise, save for the music and the décor."

"Oh, never," the cat replies with a wave of his hand. "You don't change perfection, it just gets better."

The cat pads forward gracefully, his hands laced together in front of his torso. The collar around his neck blinks green, contrasting against the blacks, silvers, and pinks of his clothing. He's wearing a ruffled shirt, like a blouse, colored a shade of pink I can only describe as salmon. Beneath the suit, he wears a matching waistcoat, with silver gleaming zebra stripes instead of jaguar rosettes. I notice a set of small, round glasses that hugs the bridge of his nose, almost indiscernible.

"So tell me, what brings you back to the Neon Circus?" the cat asks, his tone unusually friendly for people who know Jackie. "Don't tell me you've finally stopped moping about and wish to return to the stage. It's been years now; I assure you everyone's long forgotten. Besides, you always have an open invitation here, darling."

He crosses the center of the room, walking to the far side of the fountain, and approaches us with a sharp, coy smile on his muzzle. His fur glimmers just as much as the metallic spots on his suit, and while he does acknowledge me, his eyes seem transfixed on Jackie. I watch him and wonder how he does it. He always manages to cut through a lot of the bullshit I deal with.

Not that it's always been as easy. Of the people I've met who know Jackie, this is the first one who not only has been friendly, but forthcoming as well. I'm not sure if I count Sam, because I think she's playing a whole different game. Jackie, on the other hand, just comes off as fumbling, uncomfortable. That's unusual for him, at least in my two days of experience. It makes me smile, sympathizing with him.

"No, no, it's nothing like that," Jackie replies, trying to mirror the warmth coming from our host. "Not that I wouldn't mind getting back to show business, but you know I wouldn't work here. I'm a little old fashioned to be performing at a place like this. But, I am here on business. I was thinking that maybe you could--"

"Oh, work, work, little puppy, that's all you ever talk about," the cat jibes playfully. "Come here, what way is this to greet an old friend?"

The cat throws his arms up and Jackie embraces him about the back, huffing a sigh at being cut off. And while Jackie's hug is friendly, if but awkward and clunky, the cat's is much more cordial and intimate. His hands explore downwards, causing Jackie to emit an uncomfortable groan. The look on Jackie's face, a mixture of resignation and displeasure, combined with those sounds makes me giggle. When they break their hug, Jackie turns towards me with a half-hidden grimace, visibly relieved that the close contact is over. It is only now that our host truly looks at me, his lips a knowing smirk. Jackie's eyes just beg me for silence, which I obligingly provide.

"This is my partner on this job, Jane Brooks," Jackie introduces with a wave. "Jane, this is an old friend--"

"Calico," our host interjects hastily and presents an outstretched hand. "Charmed to meet you. It's not often that I meet such a pretty doe, even if her clothes do her no justice."

I shake his hand warmly and he places his free hand atop of mine. As he does so, he steps close and tilts his head upwards so as to put his nose as close to my ear as possible.

"Don't let him go, honey," he whispers after a chortle, "you've no idea what you've found."

"W-what?" I ask him, my ears and tail twitching.

He doesn't answer. Instead, Calico steps back and smiles at me, his eyes narrowing, communicating a secret I'm unable to decipher. And he doesn't give me the time to ask, his lithe form swinging about. He slowly meanders across the room, his hands primping at the color-tinged fur around his tufted cheeks and tall ears. Jackie tails him, his paws swiping the floor and leaving a wake in the carpeting. My eyes continue wandering about the plethora of intrigue within this room.

"So what do you find yourself doing these days, Jackie Quartz?" Calico inquires without turning his head. "They say you don't even hang around the old haunts. Don't tell me your little adventure into the spotlight has left you wanting, hmm?"

"No, Calico," Jackie replies, saying that name with awkward unfamiliarity. "No club will take me anymore, and you know why. Besides, I have a good business going. I'm a private investigator. It's enough."

Calico scoffs.

"Hmm, yes, nothing like digging through somebody's garbage and taking lewd pictures to dazzle the senses and satisfy the soul," Calico observes sharply before adding, "although, I've done worse!"

Calico takes a seat on the fainting couch beside the freestanding fireplace. He lifts his legs up and lounges, his tail curling around his waist while his right arm rests on the back. Jackie stands behind the loveseat, perching his forearms on top of it. Meanwhile, I glance over an artist's easel in the far right corner with a canvas situated upon it. The oil is still wet, glistening. It must have been laid down recently. I'm assuming the subject is a beast, with two eyes and a nose barely discernable. It's possible it's that jackal. Beyond that, it's indistinguishable from a kitchen spill.

"Well, I might be on to bigger things soon enough," Jackie says. "Which leads us to why we're here."

"Yes, why are you here?" Calico asks, propping his head upon his outstretched arm. "Two and half years, I've not seen hide nor hair of you. Now you wander into my club, unannounced, with a very pretty, hmm, friend. What's changed?"

"The stakes," Jackie states flatly and points his nose in my direction.

I slowly rejoin Jackie upon hearing the interview commence. My police equipment begins to tug in my pocket as I myself mentally suit up. It feels good, familiar, to finally be back in action. It's at least friendly territory, mentally. Jackie patiently waits as I approach and Calico turns an interested eye in my direction. I still don't know what to make of this guy. He's odd, but friendly. I could describe him as too friendly, if such a thing exists.

"There was a leopard here last night," I explain to him. "Dressed to conceal. Trench coat, full suit, a hat to cover his face. Do you remember seeing someone like this? Maybe acting a little weird?"

"A little weird?" Calico asks before tutting, his eyes turning towards me coyly. "Honey, I live in weird; I thrive on it. And while something like that would stand out, animals like that come and go every day. What makes this one any different?"

"Most of the animals that come here don't lose their minds afterwards," Jackie chimes in, supporting me.

Calico blinks at Jackie, shocked, and then stares at me, his lips parted, demanding an explanation. I dig the box out from my jacket's pocket once more and narrow the space between Calico and I. As I produce the item, Calico's eyes train on it, filled with interest, his ears standing at attention. And as I open the box up, his whiskers twitch and his legs swing over the side of the couch. Lounging about is no longer appropriate.

"We think he bought this here," I inform him. "We think it's Nip. But whatever it is, the leopard consumed it. And shortly thereafter, he snapped and murdered the girl he was with."

"Oh, Jesus," Calico whispers under his breath, his voice no longer breathy, relaxed.

"The taxi he took picked him up here. So, buying it here would make sense. And I know the club is no stranger to peddling drugs," Jackie adds. "It is a disco after all. Your disco."

Calico studies the drug for a second and then sighs. He leans back into the fainting couch and looks to us wanting. He knows what we're asking. I merely think he's pondering his response. I can all but visualize the thoughts swirling about beneath his rainbow-tinted fur. I close the jewelry box and tuck it away for safe keeping and then draw my jacket tightly around my form. I'm hoping he doesn't give us a runaround. We're working against the clock.

"What is it you want from me?" Calico asks, arriving at the point. "I don't control the drugs that flow through this place, I just take my cut and keep the peace. Even if I did know, why are you interested? This doesn't sound like the job for a PI."

"The leopard that lost his mind was the one that became homicidal, killed his prey girlfriend," I tell him flatly. "And it's not his job, not really."

My eyes flash over to Jackie for a moment, over my shoulder, quietly asking what information Calico should be privy to. Jackie doesn't respond, though his eyes do meet mine for a brief moment. Maybe I see a hint of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, but that might just be my imagination. So I return my gaze to our host.

"I'm a detective with the New Haven Police Department," I confidently tell Calico.

"A cop?" Calico exclaims, astonished, his eyes flashing from me to Jackie and back again. "You're helping the NHPD? Jackie, my, my, that's quite unlike you. What's brought about this act of charity?"

Before Jackie chimes in, I try to explain. "Jackie was there when we found the leopard. He helped us track him down. But I don't think that was the end of this story. When we found the cat, he was cowering, hiding himself away. He knew what was happening to him, but couldn't convey the reason before he regressed. Had Jackie not been there, I don't know what would've happened."

His visage is a mixture of incredulity and shock, even with my explanation. I'm not sure if it's the fact that I'm a cop or the whole situation. The serval appears perplexed. However, it seems his interest has been piqued. He looks to Jackie with a sly, fun-loving smile.

"It seems a very interesting bind you've gotten yourself into, clever coyote," Calico finally says with a smile. "Though, this wouldn't the first, and I doubt it'll be the last, interesting situation you've found yourself in. But the police? How delicious. I thought your father taught you better. Or maybe you like being put in cuffs, hmm?"

Calico giggles at the insinuation and Jackie just scoffs, shaking his head. I smirk a little bit, even though my stomach feels odd at the thoughts running between my ears.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But, I have fur in this game," Jackie replies and steps around the loveseat and rolls his injured shoulder, rubbing it with his hand. "Maybe a little more than I'd like. And she's helping me as much as I am her. I've accepted a contract from a wolf missing her husband. We think he might be the next victim. If you can point us to the beast who sold these drugs, we might be able to get there before it happens."

Calico watches Jackie approach, his curled whiskers flexing downwards. But as Jackie stands shoulder to shoulder with me, he can no longer meet our gaze. Slowly, he reaches up and takes the set of small spectacles from his nose as he considers Jackie's point and our request. As he wipes them on his waistcoat, he exhales loudly and slides from the seat. He slips by me and pads around to the wide window, his ears folded back and his tail hanging solemnly. Maybe he doesn't know what to say.

In the background, that spinning record player softly keeps time. The trickling of the fountain and the dull thud of music fill the void around us. Casually, I follow him and see what he does: his club. Down below, bodies splash against each other to the beat of the music, heavy on the bass and thumping in time with the swirling lights. Sam and the house band are on stage again. Soon, I'm standing close enough to the window to almost feel the heat flowing through the glass; the heat of three hundred happy animals mixing together, carefree. It's like an oasis in a dark desert. I look to Calico and wonder if that's how he visualizes it.

"Miss Brooks, I want to help you, I do," Calico admits, his eyes fluttering to me every few syllables. "You seem capable, determined, and very pretty, even for a cop. If you're a detective, you must be new, darling. The jackal who passed you on his way out? He's taking the weekly payment to the drop off point for your fellows to retrieve. They take a cut; the beasts in blue leave me alone. That's the deal. And if I open the door for you, I risk everything, with both sides. A successful predator business owner? Especially one like me? They'd ruin me with glee."

Cops taking a cut? I look to him with surprise. He smirks, intuiting that the thought never occurred to me, but it melts away like ice in the sun. He crosses his arms and heaves a strained sigh, his attention returning to his club. I guess it shouldn't come as a shock to me, that things happen here while the police turn a blind eye. We've been fighting that battle for as long as police and crime existed in the world. But to see it so close, the ugly little cracks. It's a smack in the face. Maybe Mrs. Wolfowitz was onto something, at least inadvertently. Another problem for another day. Let's try and handle one at a time.

"And you must understand mine," I reply, trying to be gentle, understanding. "If those drugs are being distributed elsewhere, maybe city-wide, the murders, the deaths, won't stop. And even more innocent predators will spend the rest of their lives in padded cell, raving mad at best, or left to die at worst. But we have a chance to stop it, to find an explanation. I understand what you're risking here. Even though I don't approve of the drugs, I do understand what you're protecting. It's beautiful. But how many lives is it worth? How many more prey must be killed by predators? How many more predators must die?"

Calico's eyes flutter with those questions, which I tried to pose as inoffensively as possible. His chest heaves for a moment and he crosses his arms to cover it up. As his brow rises, he gazes longingly at the animals dancing, drinking, and romancing freely and without inhibitions below. He's considering his options. I hope I haven't offended him. Suddenly he smiles.

"You know, I've done a lot of crazy things in my life," Calico says offhandedly, giggling and cocking his head. "It's hard being a predator in this city, to find one's fortune. Before I opened this club, I worked a number of fun, strange places, for a pittance, of course. I worked as a manager at a little bar down near Poney Island for a couple of years. Then I found gainful employment at a knothouse uptown. Mmm, that was a fun one. But nothing ever compared to having my own place, watching the club grow and thrive. A predator-owned club in a historically prey-only neighborhood? You can imagine my pride. So much joy, carefree excitement, open, free love. Success against all odds. That's something I hope you can appreciate."

Calico looks to me worriedly and then turns back towards the window, a curled hand resting beneath his chin. He pauses for the longest time, his eyes reflecting the flashing, alternating lights in the club below. I can just make out the beat through the sound-proofed glass, bumping and thumping away. Finally, Calico exhales, tilting his head forward and squeezing the bridge of his nose. His shoulders straighten and his eyes open with renewed conviction, or silent resignation. Seeing this, I try to make one last ditch effort.

"I know it's a lot to risk--"

Calico cuts me off with wave of his hand before I can get any further.

"It is Nip. It's called Blue Fairy, from the color. Predators don't buy anything else here. I don't allow the kind of dangerous downers through the door that float around in lesser clubs. I have my reputation to think of. Only one beast sells it here, too. And, funnily enough, the pusher is somebody you're quite familiar with, Jackie. He's graduated from stealing car radios," Calico then says without looking around. "Eddie Winter."

Jackie groans and shakes his head. Ecstasy courses through at my success, my tail flagging and my grin reaching ear to ear. A sudden rush of relief floods through my mind, cooling my heart.

"Where is he?" Jackie asks quietly behind us.

"He works every night in the same place," Calico says and points through the glass, down to the left, "the private rooms. You'll find him there."