Seventeen dollars and thirty-eight cents, he thought disgustedly, then chastised himself for allowing the distraction. Halfway down a rope dangling from the side of the city’s largest skyscraper was probably not the smartest place to inventory the contents of the safe he had just robbed. 

He shook his head to clear it, tall ears helicoptering briefly with the motion, then re-centered his attention on the task at hand: getting off this building as quickly as possible, before someone discovered the bypassed alarm and called the police. Fortunately he had gravity working in his favor, so regulating his speed was his biggest concern. His rope ended a few meters above the ground, close enough that the final jump would be manageable but far enough up that it would not catch anyone’s attention. If he built up enough speed that his descending device couldn’t bring him to a stop in time, the final three meters of his descent would be abrupt, to say the least.

Smooth as silk, his dynamic rope whispered through the lightweight titanium descender, as cool evening air breezed through his fur. At its maximum safe speed it would finish its task in a little over two minutes, so he relaxed a little and looked at the city sprawling beneath him. It was then that tiny blinking pinpricks of red and blue caught his eye. He’d been listening for sirens, but that had been a mistake. Police units on a callout like this would have been instructed to make a silent response, but any unit exceeding the speed limit was mandated to use their strobes. So luckily, he still got his warning. By looking at reflections in the glass of the buildings around himself, he could effectively see through the one he descended, and what he could see were black-and-whites responding from at least three different stations; some of them were close enough to be waiting for him when he hit terra firma. Guess they had found the tampered alarm faster than he had thought.

Making a snap decision, he halted his descent, bouncing on the taut rope as he came to a stop. He needed to get back inside the building as quickly as possible. He’d watched more than his share of movies where someone at the end of a rope kicked off a building and built up enough momentum to shatter the glass. Sadly, that wasn’t something that happened in real life, especially when you were as far down the rope as he currently was. He had no mechanical advantage on his side. But the building was fairly old…

He quickly twisted around and pulled his hammer from his backpack. Instead of using it to shatter the window, which would leave a huge mess below and telegraph his location to the police, he used the pick end to pry gently at one corner of a window frame. Back when this building was constructed, building code required them to have windows that opened in case of fire, and at this height, if he were lucky, perhaps someone wouldn’t have felt the need to lock a window after letting in a little fresh air.

The first window he tried was bolted shut, but the second swung open a few inches after a bit of gentle prying. Voila! He celebrated, silently pulling his way into the dark office. Suspended as he was from a long rope, this was more difficult than you might imagine. He gave the end of the rope a flick and it began the process of retracting itself into the base station he’d anchored to the roof. He had no doubts that the police eventually would find it, but by that time, he’d be long gone.

He quietly closed the window behind him and quickly made his way to the central hallway. Along the way, he passed a number of desks with interesting baubles on them, but he already had what he’d come for and nothing tempted him. He did, however, snag a few Starlight mints from a crystal bowl on the receptionist’s desk. You never could tell when fresh breath might come in handy, after all.

By his estimation, the local gendarmes should not be far away. He cautiously opened the door to the fire stairs and stilled his breathing. From many floors below his position he heard multiple pairs of hard-soled, orthopedic shoes clattering up the non-skid treads, and he knew that whatever he was going to do, he’d have to do it fast. He closed the fire stair door and retraced his steps down the hallway.

All of the doors he’d passed had a number plate fixed to the left of the doorframe, about eighteen inches above the height of the doorknob. All of the doors but one. As quiet as a proverbial mouse, he ran back to the unmarked utility closet, pulled out a cleaning cart and threw his backpack into the attached trash bin. He pulled a few pawsful of paper towels from a roll, wadded them up and tossed them in afterwards. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he shoved his fingers down his throat and vomited the remains of a truly exquisite porterhouse steak onto the towels.

Smacking his maw in disgust as he closed the lid, he quickly pushed the cart back to the office from which he’d just emerged. He hadn’t locked the door behind himself, so getting back inside was a piece of cake. There’s always one thin-furred person in an office, he thought, as he scanned the dozen or so cubicles that occupied the space. Sure enough, on the other side of the room, he spied a button-down granny sweater draped across the back of an office chair. Pulling it across his shoulders and slipping his arms in the sleeves, he marveled at his luck. The owner must be elephantine, however, because he was practically swimming in yards of knitted pink and blue stripes that hung to his knees.

The coat rack by the door provided a long-forgotten scarf and an old pair of galoshes that were also bit too large, though he was in no position to complain. He hopped into the knee-high rubbers and wrapped the scarf around his head like a babushka; the ensemble was complete.

Hunching over slightly, he shuffled the cart to the middle of the hall and was busily vacuuming the floor by the time the first of the policemen barreled through the fire door. “Put your hands above your head!” he yelled, pointing his gun like an accusing finger.

The “cleaning lady” responded by wailing piteously and pulling her pastel housedress close about her suddenly-narrowed shoulders. “Don’t shoot me,” she pleaded, cowering as an assault victim would to cover her naked form. The ruse worked, even though she was probably wearing more layers of clothing than the cop. Not for the first time, she said a silent prayer of thanks to the acting coach who so many years ago taught her the power of dedication to one’s character, and the imperative to believe it yourself without question. “Please, sir,” ‘she’ begged, keeping her eyes securely locked on the gray carpet at the lawman’s feet, “don’t hurt me!”

Sensing that the kernel of suspicion within the other man had not yet been extinguished, she tucked her shivering tail between her legs and unsteadily lowered herself to the carpet in an excessive display of submission. One gnarled hand struggled to hold itself aloft as she sank to the ground on trembling footpaws, the other arm struggling to keep her thin covering closed across her imagined bare, sagging breasts.

The melodramatic display and the rush of emotions those actions triggered in the large sapiens man all but forced the cop to holster his weapon and rush to the victim’s side. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the policeman apologized, as he helped her up off the ground. “There’s a burglar on the loose in the building. Are you okay?”

She brushed a genuine tear out of her eye and sniffled softly as she turned off the vacuum cleaner’s obnoxious whine. “A burglar!” she croaked, her muzzle quivering in fear. “How frightening!  But the police are here, so I feel safer.” She straightened her spine a bit and managed to smile weakly through her imagined terror. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

The spell his act had cast was rapidly wearing off. Ignoring the “help” as so many do, the cop reached up to the mic attached to his epaulet and squeezed the button with his thumb. “Richey here. I thought I had something here on twenty-three but it was just the cleaning lady. She’s clear.” He dropped the microphone without receiving a reply and began looking over the cleaning cart, his eye settling on the forty-gallon trash bag in the bin attached to its frame. Perhaps suspecting that the cleaning crew might have collected a discarded clue - one that might crack this case wide open and propel him to the top of the ranks - he pulled at the corner of the lid to inspect the contents. A glance at - and a whiff of - the contents made him back away with an involuntary dry heave.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the housekeeper melodically apologized for the vomit-riddled trash bag, wringing her hands in agitation, “those boys in the ad agency down the hall must have landed a big account or something, because they had a big party that they left for me to clean up. It made me pull on the yellow gloves, that’s for sure.”

“Jesus, that’s toxic waste,” Richey said, to no one in particular. He pushed a fist to his lips and virtually ran back into the stairwell.

Alone again, and feeling more than a little self-satisfied, he chuckled and restarted the vacuum. It would take the police at least a couple of hours to determine that there was no sign of break-in and that nothing appeared missing, so he might as well finish “his” cleaning. He saw more policemen from time to time over the next few hours, but Officer Richey’s endorsement gave him the cachet of an actual janitorial worker, and as such they did not even feel obligated to acknowledge his presence, much less converse with him. After the Keystone Cops left, it was a trivial matter to pull his backpack out of the trash and toss the bag into the dumpster on his way out.

 Immediately after boarding the late-night bus he pulled off the boots and scarf (which he would leave on the bus) and compressed the sweater (which he’d mail back to its rightful owner) into his backpack, transforming into just another of the faceless night-riders. None of the other passengers had any idea that they were sharing a ride with the famed Wolfie Steel. He liked it that way.

Rousing myself from my reverie planning my next novel about my exploits, I glanced around the dim interior of the public transport. I’m finding that being a newly-minted billionaire isn’t always pleasant. Other varii often recognize me from half a block away, but they just politely tip their hats or nod as they pass. My long-standing reputation in the community affords me a modicum of respect and the privacy that goes with it. Sapiens people, on the other paw, often feel that they have some right to my attention just because they think they know how much I’m worth, and once they get rolling there’s no way to shrug them off delicately, especially since I don’t make it a habit to travel with bodyguards. I’m thankful that, dressed as I am tonight, and being out of my usual context, the chances that I’ll be recognized are vanishingly small.

I step off the bus a few blocks from my office, outside the door of a pub I know quite well. They serve a respectable bangers & mash, which I usually make a point to enjoy whenever I am in town for business. It is almost - ALMOST - like mom’s. Tonight though, I feel cheated out of my steak. Licking my muzzle in anticipation, I instinctively duck my head as I enter so the tips of my ears don’t hit the door frame. In spite of the late hour, they seem to be turning a brisk trade.

“Evening, Dicky,” the ermine greeter calls out, using the nickname that only they use. I’ve been here often enough that they figured out my identity years ago, and they gave me the pseudonym as a courtesy to protect my privacy. “You waitin’ on friends, or will you be takin’ a one-top tonight?”

I smile warmly. “Evening, Jackie. A one-top will be fine.” She leads me to a high table in a remote corner of the pub where I might enjoy some small amount of privacy, and after settling in I pull the night’s spoils out of my backpack, pour it out of a black velvet bag and spread it neatly across the table. It totals exactly seventeen dollars and thirty-seven cents, and after a rigorous search of the backpack turns up no stray penny, I have no choice but to acknowledge that in the heat of my escape I must have made a tiny clerical error.

Error or not, the money I’ve liberated from the safe was a miniscule amount of cash. The coins look brand new but are certainly not rare, and the insignificant amount is insufficient to justify my client’s considerable cost to engage my services. They would not even cover the cost of the excellent steak dinner I was currently tucking into. Nonetheless, I’ve had eccentric clients before, and I know from first-hand experience that their desires and motives can be unpredictable, to say the least.

In this case, my client’s wishes, called out in their contract, had called for the “removal from site, entire contents of one Fichet-Bauche vault,” deliberately not specifying precisely how I was to remove said contents; only that the removal be expeditious and discreet. Now I wonder what trouble I may have bought myself.  Surely the man in the expensive suit who’d employed me would expect a much greater return on his investment than seventeen dollars and thirty-seven cents. Jewels, perhaps? Prototype technology? Information damaging to the city’s crime families?  Not remotely having anything like that to show for his fee, would the man in the suit assume that I have withheld the goods for myself?

Over another satisfying muzzlefuI of tender beef, I quietly berate myself for taking unnecessary chances with my life, my business, and even my own freedom. The mysterious terms of the contract had attracted me like a moth to a flame. The money…not so much, and the danger even less; the real draw had been the chance to test my mettle against that damned French safe. It was almost, I now realize too late, as if they had worded the contract specifically to attract me. 

What sort of mess have I gotten myself into? My mentor and dearest friend, Raphael, would never have taken such a vague assignment, but he’s been dead for over a year now. And with misty eyes, I realize that his tempering influence is waning. Any good investigator needs a partner to tamp down his irrational impulses, to act as a stabilizing force in business and in life; each man a rudder to keep the other on-keel. Raphael’s sudden death has denied me his calm, sage influence and I guess it’s beginning to show. In the past few months I’ve taken more chances than were prudent, and have taken them more frequently and with greater gusto, as if to spit in the face of Fate, to prove that I am still alive and invincible.

What would Raphael think of that? “It’s time to buckle down and be responsible,” I can hear him growl. “No more Ferraris, no more trysts in Monaco or yacht races across the damned Mediterranean sea.” Then I hear him chuckle, “If you can’t do it alone, Wolfie my boy, find yourself another rudd, you mangy mutt.”

I swallow around a lump in my throat, my ears pinned to my skull, then jump as the burner phone in my breast pocket vibrates, alerting me to an incoming message from my client. “Entering the pub now.” And here I thought consideration for the social graces was a lost art! The message gives me time to rinse my muzzle with a quick swish of iced tea and make sure there are no stray bits of food between my teeth before conducting business. I force my ears up and politely forward, pop a starlight mint, and I hold out a handpaw to the figure that approaches my table. “Good evening, Mr. Smith.”

“Mr. Steel,” Mr. Smith intones, shaking my proffered handpaw with his smaller, but surprisingly strong sapiens hand. “I take it things went according to plan tonight?”

“Smooth as silk,” I say. “The goods are secure, as requested, but…” I hesitate for a moment, uncertain how best to proceed. “I need to warn you that what I retrieved does not appear to be complete.”

For the first time since I first laid eyes on him, my client appears unsettled. “What do you mean? Incomplete? How?”

I lower my voice so that no one further away than the rim of our table could hear me. “I have no idea what you were expecting, but the entire contents of that safe amounted to a very small quantity of hard, domestic currency. Less than eighteen dollars worth of common bills and coins.”

The expression on the other man’s face eases, and he is once again all business. “Actually, that’s about what we expected you’d find.” He checks the display on his phone. “I’m sorry to be rushed, but I have an early day tomorrow.”

“I understand completely,” I say evenly, in spite of my piqued curiosity. I produce the small, velvet bag from my backpack and place it on the table near me, as my employer smoothly reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a crisp, white, number ten envelope. He places it on the table before pushing it toward me. I cannot help but observe the flash of a pistol butt as the fabric opens and closes. “S&W 38?” I offer knowingly, as I push the bag toward him. “It’s a good, reliable weapon. You weren’t thinking about using it on me, were you, Agent Smith?” I chuckle through a tight smile, my right hand dropping below the table to my own pocket.

“Never!” my companion deadpans, though his eyebrows jump up at the title I use. He palms the velvet bag as if appraising its weight. “Too much paperwork, if I did.”

On impulse I reach forward and put a handpaw near his other hand, careful not to touch him. “I hope you’re at liberty to say because curiosity is killing me. What makes the contents of that bag so valuable?”

The agent looks pensive for a moment before relaxing. “It’s going to be in the news tomorrow anyway so I guess it’s no big secret. Did you look at those coins?”

“I did,” I admit. “I could tell they were genuine US currency. I’ve seen enough counterfeits to know they aren’t fake. They haven’t been widely circulated, and they were all struck by different mints over the past few years.”

The agent quirks a brow. “Impressive. You’re an uncommonly observant fellow.” He loosens the bag’s drawstring and spills a few coins onto the tabletop. “You have a coin of your own?”

I pull a quarter out of my pocket for comparison and set it next to the clean, shiny, new quarter he pushes toward me. They seem, to my eye, identical, save for the year and the mint mark.

“Now turn them over,” he instructs.

I put a claw under each coin, gently flipping them. Then I flip the shiny coin over several times and realization dawns on me. Finally, I feel vindicated that my hard work and planning have been worth the effort. “Thank you,” I say, after a moment. “I understand now.” I push the shiny quarter back across the table.

“Can you explain it to me?” the agent asks slowly, an expectant gleam in his eyes.

Is he testing me?

“These coins are all mis-strikes of various types,” I explain, as I give the others on the table a more thorough examination. “This quarter, for example, has a double obverse - double heads - which isn’t all that rare, but… Yes. Look here,” I say, pointing to the top of the shiny quarter with the tip of my steak knife. “Notice the halos around the letters? This quarter also has a double strike on the reverse side! A coin with either error would be worth something, but with both errors? And uncirculated?” I shake my head in disbelief. “That would be worth…quite a lot.”

I consider the number of coins I’ve collected from the safe. “I’m assuming the other coins in that bag are similar. But that stretches credulity, doesn’t it? Are the bills the same way?”

The agent nods, but gives no further hints.

I’ve been pounding the pavement long enough. I don’t need hints. “The US mint is not in the habit of making mistakes, especially in that quantity.” I fix the agent with a knowing stare. “Someone on the inside is intentionally making flawed coins, then smuggling them out to sell to unsuspecting collectors.”

“Someone is doing exactly that,” the agent says, looking at me incredulously. “Congratulations. It took you about fifteen seconds to figure out what it took our boys two years to work out,” he says blandly.

“You probably only had a single coin to work with,” I say, generously, taking a measured swig of my iced tea, which tastes terrible around the mint, but nonetheless has the desired theatrical effect. My tail thumps once against the chair leg as I swirl the glass in my paw absently. “You didn't have all the evidence laid out in front of you, like I do.” I then give him my final analysis. “It wouldn’t take many of these coins hitting the market before the entire numismatic industry would destabilize.”

Now that I see my compensation matches the gravity of the situation, I feel myself relax. This situation finally makes sense.

The agent gathers the coins back into the velvet bag. “It seems it’s true what they say about you, Mr. Steel. You’re good. Very good.” He looks up from the coins pointedly. “We’re always looking for the best men in their fields. How would you feel about taking a permanent position with the Agency?”

“I don’t know, Agent Smith,” I say, honestly, “I’ve never really considered it.

“Think about it,” the agent suggests, tossing his card on the table. “Good night, Mr. Steel.”

As I finish dinner, I turn the card over and over in my handpaw. Though my Rolodex of industry contacts is fairly extensive, I’ve never heard of the Agency recruiting someone like this. While I enjoy the freedom of independent work and I love not having a boss breathing down my neck, spending a few years with the Agency could work wonders fleshing out my resource list. It is not an offer to discard lightly, so I pocket the card.

Exiting the restaurant I am pleased to see that the weather has cleared, and the clouds obscuring the waning moon have all but evaporated in the evening chill. Celebrating my good fortune, I decide to walk the few blocks back to my brownstone flat. The cool night air is refreshing, clearing my mind and energizing me even at this late hour.

Halfway home I pass through an area where the street light crew doesn’t bother replacing dead bulbs anymore. It’s an unsavory neighborhood, but I walk the streets with confidence. I grew up in an area much like this, where the cars were domestic, the houses were plain, and the general mood could be termed, “institutional neglect.” It makes me all the more thankful that someone like Raphael had seen beyond the grime rubbed into my fur, to notice the willing and agile intellect that lived beneath. If it were not for him taking a chance on me, I don’t know where I would be now, though I do know I would not have even a fraction of the wealth he left me in his will. And he had done so with but one condition; that I keep helping people in need, and fighting the good fight, paying it forward when I can. I miss him so.

The sound of running footsteps stop me in mid-stride, at the opening of a garbage alley between a pub and a curry shop. Judging by the noises, the pursuers have caught their prey and are currently pummeling him. My newfound commitment to personal safety begs me to pass them by, but my promise to Raphael to help the underdog compels me otherwise. “Hey there,” I call, sprinting toward the fray, “Stop that!”

As I draw closer, the light of the moon illuminates the menacing forms of three full-grown sapiens men surrounding a young lupine lad on the ground. The acrid smell of fear and alcohol assaults my sensitive nose. “Three against one isn’t cricket, boys,” I warn.

“And who the fuck do you think you are?” the largest man drunkenly slurs.

My name and reputation would mean little to these men, who I have no doubt came into the furry side of town looking for a little action. I could easily wipe the floor with all of them, especially in their reduced state, but the evening has been going so well that I hate to sully it.

Thinking quickly, I pull the business card out of my pocket and hold it out so they can see the star and shield emblem embossed into the thick paper. “Agent Don Smith, with the Agency,” I state flatly.

Now that I can see them more clearly, the three men are young, probably no more than college age. Like most inexperienced sapiens they would be hard-pressed to judge my age, so I played that to my advantage. “You boys don’t really want to be in this part of town, do you?” I growl, suggestively. “They water the drinks down after midnight anyway.”

“This little bastard’s a cheat!” one of the others accuses. “He lost at cards and ran away with our money!”

“Yeah!” the third one adds, impotently. “A cheat!”

With all the confidence of a lifelong alpha, I stride between them and pick up their victim by grabbing fistsful of the other fur’s coat, very careful not to pinch or pull at the hair beneath. To the dullards, in their drunken state however, it would appear as if an authority figure were on their side. “A cheat, huh?” Imperceptibly, I give the thin shoulders under the coat a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll take care of him. It’s late - you boys get back home.”

“Don’t worry,” I whisper a quick reassurance to the shivering form beneath the cloth, as we scurry down the alley and make for the corner with all the speed of our four-legged brethren. “You’re safe now.”

Behind us, the most sober man in the group realizes that in the tumult, they hadn’t recouped their lost cash. “Hey!” he yells, about to protest.

But by then, we might as well be miles ahead. Ignoring the sapiens completely, I pull out my phone and speak loudly into it as if it were a radio microphone. “Four delta thirty, I have a drunk and disorderly, please respond.” For effect, I touch my ear as if receiving a reply. “Roger. ETA five minutes.” By the time we turn the corner, I look back to see the drunk boys slinking their way back to the subway terminal, convinced that they were the luckiest men on the planet to have so narrowly avoided a night in jail.

I put a fatherly arm around the youth and help him along the sidewalk. “Where do you live, son?”

The boy shakes his head, ears splaying, tail flagging. “Um. I’m sort of between places right now. Thanks for your help, but you can leave me anywhere. Right now, one sidewalk’s pretty much the same as another.

“Do you have a family? Anyone I can call?”

“No,” the boy says, tiredly. “They died in a car wreck a few years back. I’ve been making it on my own since then.”

At that, I stop, gently holding the boy at arm’s length. I regard his grimy fur as he fixes me with a look of streetwise suspicion. I feel like I am holding a rare bird that might fly away at any moment. “What happened back there?” I ask, gently. “What did you do to piss them off like that?”

“They’re liars,” the youth protests, his ruff rising, tail straight and still. “They lost fair and square, and then they wanted their money back.”

“Why didn’t you just give it to them?”

“Those tossers?” the lad sneers, never breaking my gaze, his ears straight forward. “No way! I may not have much, but I have my pride.”

I look into the lad’s eyes, and I can’t help but see myself reflected back. I could swear that somewhere behind us, I can hear an approving chuckle as I pat the lad’s shoulder and slowly begin my story, tail swishing behind me. “A man named Raphael once made me an offer when I was in a bad spot, and I would like to make the same offer to you…”