3

I took a few random jogs. The trench coat, broad-brimmed hat, and large sunglasses matched me move for move. A tail.

I picked up my pace, turned a corner, and ducked into a doorway.

Seconds later my tail came around the corner after me.

I let him get three paces past, then jumped him, grabbing his arm. I twisted it behind his back and slammed him against the nearest wall.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” I hissed, applying some persuasive pressure.

“I was only curious about how a real detective operates,” read my tail’s balloon. “I just thought I’d tag along. Kind of observe from a distance. I’m sorry if I fouled up your modus operandi.”

I released my grip, and snatched away the broad-brimmed hat, exposing a set of carefully accordioned eighteen-inch ears.

“Look,” I told the rabbit, honing the hat against his concave chest, “when I have something worthwhile to report, I get in touch. Otherwise you stay away from me. Clear?”

The rabbit smoothed out his ears. However, the left one sprang back into a tight clump giving his head the lopsided appearance of a half-straightened paper clip. “Yes, I understand.” He fiddled with his ear, fiddled with his sunglasses, fiddled with the buttons on his trench coat, until finally he ran out of externals and began to fiddle with his soul. “My entire life I’ve wanted to be a detective.”

Sure. Him and ten million others. Toon mystery strips suckered them into believing that knights-errant always won. Yeah, maybe Rip Kirby bats a thousand. But I consider it great if I go one for ten. “Forget it,” I said. “Besides, I’m not so sure how much longer I’m going to stay on this case.” I reported my conversation with the DeGreasys, adding that they’d suggested him as poster boy for the Failing Mental Health Society.

He took it in stride. “I never said they put in writing that bit about me getting my own strip,” he countered. “They made the offer verbally, and Rocco repeated it several times since.”

“Anybody besides you ever hear him?”

“Sure. He said it once at a photo session in front of Baby Herman and Carol Masters, my photographer. Just ask them. They’ll remember. As for my being crazy, yes, I see a psychiatrist, but so do half the Toons in the business. That hardly qualifies me as a full-blown looney.”

“I don’t know,” I said, figuring to cut it off here. “The whole mess sounds like a job for a lawyer.”

“Please,” the rabbit begged. “Stick with it. I’ll double your fee.”

Such persuasive words. “All right. You double my fee, and I stay on your case.” I turned and walked away. The rabbit plopped his hat into the chasm between his ears and bounded after me, hopping so fast that his word balloons whipped across the top of his head, snapped loose with sharp pings at the base of his neck, and bounced off across the sidewalk. “Let me help you,” he said when he caught up with me. “It would mean a great deal to me. Please.”

“No way,” I stated flatly. “I work alone. Always have, always will.” Call me rude, but I say what I mean. If people want sympathy, let them see a priest.

At least he got the message. He did an abrupt about face and shambled away.