PLATYPUS POLICE SQUAD HEADQUARTERS, 6:10 P.M.
The squirrel fidgeted in his seat. The chair wasn’t designed to be comfortable. It wasn’t even built for his size—his head barely made it to the top of the table. The room was dark, the only light cast by a single lamp that hung down from the ceiling over the table. It was quiet—except for the sound of a ticking clock.
A door hinge squeaked. In walked Detectives O’Malley and Cooper.
“So . . . whoever you are,” said O’Malley.
The squirrel did not look up.
“You think you’re pretty clever, withholding your name,” O’Malley continued. “But we have ways of making you talk. And once we run your paw prints through the system, I’m willing to bet we’ll be able to ID you. Even though you’re nothing more than a punk kid, I don’t think this is your first time in a police station.”
The squirrel did not look up.
“What I particularly want to know,” said O’Malley, getting right in the squirrel’s face, “is what you’ve been up to this past week. Specifically, where were you two nights ago . . . and yesterday evening?”
The squirrel leaned on his fist and mumbled something.
“What was that, punk?” said O’Malley. “I couldn’t HEAR you.”
“Like I’m gonna tell you,” sneered the squirrel.
A loud popping sound made both O’Malley and the squirrel look up. It was Cooper, cracking her knuckles. As though she was getting ready to mean business with her fists. She eyed the suspect with a glare of steel. “There are ways to make you talk,” she said in a voice of deadly calm. “And most of them aren’t pretty.”
“Not another word, A.J.!” shouted an all-too-familiar voice as the interrogation-room door burst open with a bang. It was Doug Raskin, Kalamazoo City’s most notorious lawyer.
“Why should he start now?” asked Cooper cuttingly. “Glad you’re here, Raskin. Maybe you can persuade your client to open his mouth.”
“He has nothing to say!” said Raskin. “Your case has more holes than a fishing net! How dare you throw your boomerangs around at Nutter’s Nuts Factory and then haul an innocent worker away?” He put a protective wing around the squirrel. “Come on. We’re getting out of here. And I’m going to file an enormous lawsuit against the Platypus Police Squad.”
O’Malley recovered quickly from this surprise. “Raskin, maybe you can tell me how a factory worker can afford a high-priced lawyer like you? I bet he doesn’t make enough in a year to cover the down payment on the new car you drove into our lot.”
Raskin glared and pulled the squirrel’s chair back. “You leave my car out of this,” he said fiercely.
But O’Malley wasn’t going to be sidetracked. “Are you going to tell us who really hired you?”
“I hired Mr. Raskin,” said a furious voice. In walked a squirrel with wild gray hair and a mustache. He was tall—well, tall for a squirrel—and wore goggles and a lab coat.
“Professor Nutter, I don’t know what you’re doing here, but this is official police business,” said O’Malley.
“Professor Nutter? That is a made-up character! I am Jacob Nutter! The president of Nutter’s Nuts Factory! How dare you arrest my grandson!”
Plazinski was hot on Nutter’s heels, his angry vein popping way out on his forehead.
Hoo boy. O’Malley had to pull himself together. Nervously, he tucked in that part of his shirt that always popped out and stood up straight. In spite of the tense situation, he gave a nervous laugh. He couldn’t believe how much the real Mr. Nutter looked a whole lot like the crazy cartoon mascot.
Plazinski glared at the detective. “There is nothing funny going on here, O’Malley. You better have a dang good explanation as to why you arrested A. J. Nutter.”
“Um . . . the perpetrator . . . I mean, the suspect here . . .” He indicated A.J., who had replaced his sullen expression with a smirk. “He was acting quite shifty when we saw him at the factory. We kept catching him staring at us. So, naturally, we began to watch him as well. We are charged with trying to find the criminal who twice made an attempt on the life of Frank Pandini. And after we were tipped off that Pandini had canceled a big contract with your factory . . . we thought there might be a motive. So we were investigating. And your grandson’s behavior was beyond suspicious.”
“Who told you that Pandini canceled a contract with us?” said Mr. Nutter. “That is privileged information. And in any case, there’s a big difference between being upset at a business deal falling through and ordering an attack on someone!”
“Besides,” said Raskin, “didn’t I see on TV that the assailants were reportedly flying squirrels?” He indicated A.J.’s skinny little squirrel arms. “Look for yourself! This kid can’t glide!”
“Yeah,” said A.J., “and I ain’t never worked a catering job in my life, neither.”
Plazinski had heard enough. “Please accept our apologies, Mr. Nutter. A.J., you are free to go. I can promise you that both of these detectives will be reprimanded.”
Raskin and Mr. Nutter lifted A.J. from his chair by the elbows and hustled him out of the room. “Ta-ta!” said Raskin over his shoulder.
As soon as they left, Plazinski laced into O’Malley and Cooper. “What were you thinking, arresting someone without a shred of evidence? And of all people, the grandson of one of the most prominent people in town! Have you lost your minds?”
“We had ample cause,” said Cooper. “I saw A.J. pull a move that put a small child’s life at risk. The kid might have drowned in peanut butter!”
O’Malley glanced gratefully at his partner. “Besides,” he added, “we found out that the perp we are looking for was only disguised as a flying squirrel. Zengo hit the assailant in the wing with a boomerang at KCU and nothing happened. He was wearing fake gliders.”
Plazinski was not convinced. “Even so, that doesn’t prove that anyone at Nutter’s Nuts was involved. What other leads do you have?”
O’Malley and Cooper looked at each other. “That was our only lead, Sergeant,” said O’Malley.
“Well, you better get another one, quick!” said Plazinski. “This case is going nowhere, and we’re all going to be sent back to walking the beat if there’s another attempt on Pandini.” He stalked off to his office, probably to throw a few things.
O’Malley turned to his partner. “Thanks for having my back there, Cooper.”
“You know, I thought you were making a big mistake, going after that little squirt in the factory . . .” said Cooper.
“I know, but—” said O’Malley.
Cooper cut him off. “What I’m saying is, I thought you were wrong at the time, but I don’t anymore. A.J. said that he’s never had a catering job in his life. How did he know that the squirrel who attacked Pandini at his penthouse was dressed as a member of the catering staff? Nobody knew about that except for the few people who were there.”
“That’s right,” said O’Malley, relieved and excited that Cooper was with him on this one. “That kid knows something. I feel it in my bones.”
“I’d be willing to bet someone at Nutter’s Nuts is behind these attacks.”
O’Malley pondered the situation. There was no way they could get back inside the factory to dig up more information. But there must be some other angle.
“We need to talk to Zengo,” he said.
PANDINI CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS, 7:15 A.M.
Zengo’s day with Pandini started early. He monitored the tycoon’s endless morning phone meetings, marveling at the way in which Pandini could go from one call to another without missing a beat. Zengo was exhausted just watching.
Following Pandini around was even more tiring. The tycoon liked to visit each of his business enterprises every day, and he had campaign stops to make too. And everywhere the panda went, the press was sure to go. They hounded him relentlessly. Pandini dealt with each rude intrusion with his usual combination of charm and misdirection. But they swarmed him like sharks, always hungry
for more.
Finally, it was obvious that Pandini had had enough. He winked at Zengo as they entered his club Bamboo, not yet open for the day. Once behind the main door, Pandini locked it. “Come with me,” he said. “We’re going out the back way. And we’re going to visit an old friend of mine.”
Pandini seemed to have cars and drivers at his command. One was waiting for them at the back door of the club. They hopped inside. Carpy was at the wheel. “To Frank’s!” said Pandini.
Zengo thought they’d be heading to the nearest hot dog stand. But instead, they went way down to the oldest part of town, to the original Frank’s Franks. It was a proud local institution—a little battered and beat, but as much a part of Kalamazoo City as Town Hall or Founder’s Rock, and the original model for the Frank’s Franks stands that had popped up around town.
Here, they went in the back way and entered the kitchen. There was an old-timer manning the grill. He looked up and beamed. “Howdy, Frank!” said Pandini. “How are the dogs rolling?”
Zengo was astounded. He had no idea there was still an actual Frank at Frank’s. He was looking at a living legend.
“Hey there, Mr. Pandini!” said Frank.
“Now, now, please call me Frank, Frank!” said Pandini. He proudly gestured around the grill station and glanced at Zengo. “Isn’t this place the best?” He took a big sniff. “Just smell those frankfurters!”
Zengo had to admit the dogs at the original Frank’s Franks did smell pretty fantastic. Even though it was only mid-morning, he felt his stomach growl.
Frank looked at Zengo. He could spot a customer at a hundred paces. “How about if I fix you up a footlong with extra onions?” he said.
Zengo started to protest. He hadn’t eaten an actual meat hot dog since he was a kid. But he could see that Frank would not be denied. Zengo accepted the juicy concoction with both hands. Before he knew it, he had swallowed half of it. “This is . . . delicious!” he said, his mouth full.
Pandini said, “Another satisfied customer.”
Frank beamed.
“You know, when I bought this business, I wasn’t just trying to find another way to make a buck,” said Pandini to Zengo. “I’ve been coming here my whole life. Nobody, but nobody, delivers a hot dog like Frank. I wanted to give him the chance to share his genius with a bigger audience. This here’s the original operation—and it’s the place where we take all the Frank’s Franks cooks to learn hot dog making from a master.”
“Mr. Pandini saved my bacon a few years back,” said Frank to Zengo. “I was about to go out of business. I had started to think people just didn’t like hot dogs anymore.”
“Nonsense!” said Pandini. “They just needed to be greeted by the irresistible smell of Frank’s Franks, no matter where they were in the city!”
While they were talking, Zengo had been trying to eat the second half of his hot dog as slowly as possible. It was the best thing he had ever put into his mouth, and he never wanted it to end. No wonder O’Malley was so crazy for this place. “That was incredible,” he said to Frank, who smiled and handed him another. Why not? He’d be sure to eat an extra-healthy dinner.
With a fond farewell, Pandini and Zengo left Frank’s Franks and headed back to Bamboo. Once more, they went in the back door and outfoxed the ravenous reporters. Up in Pandini’s office they found a flustered Irving Myers.
“Take a look at this new ad from McGovern,” he said. He clicked the remote and a flat-screen television lowered from the ceiling.
Patrick McGovern appeared before the Kalamazoo City skyline. “We live in a great city,” said McGovern. “A great city filled with great people—and great businesses. There is nothing more important than keeping the businesses in this city humming. As mayor, I promise to do that for you. A good economy makes a great city.”
The scene changed. Now McGovern was standing in front of Nutter’s Nut Factory at closing time, hundreds of squirrels streaming out. “Nutter’s Nuts is one of the most important pieces in Kalamazoo City’s economy. It is a flagship employer in our fair city, and has been for years. My mother, Alice, raised me on her own on her Nutter’s Nuts salary. And what do you think Frank Pandini Jr. would like to do with this important enterprise?” The scene shifted again. Through clever use of computer graphics, the factory appeared closed, shuttered, out of business.
“That’s right, fellow citizens. Frank Pandini wants to drive this fine company out of business and put all its hard workers on the bread line. And once that happens, all the small companies will follow suit—if the workers are on the street, how will the shoemaker make a living? The corner grocery? The barbershop? I promise you, that will never happen on my watch. In my administration we will do everything we can to keep Kalamazoo City strong and its businesses growing.
“A vote for me, Patrick McGovern, is a vote for a great future for Kalamazoo City!”
Irving Myers clicked off the television and started walking around in a nervous circle. Pandini just kept shaking his head back and forth.
Zengo was furious. “This is so unfair! You’re trying to keep schools and restaurants safe for kids with nut allergies! And how can McGovern claim that you don’t care about small businesses! Look at what you’ve done for Frank’s Franks!”
Pandini smiled sadly and sighed. “He’s just trying to win an election. I hope I never have to stoop so low myself.”
Myers was gnawing on his fist. “The average KC citizen will eat this ad up. We have to absolutely nail the debate tonight. The polls are rocky as it is. If you don’t come through with a definite win, we’re sunk.”
“I was going to talk to you about that debate,” said Zengo. “I’m a little worried about us letting Pandini step out in front of the public again after what’s gone on the past few days. Especially since we have no idea who is behind this threat.”
Myers circled back to face Zengo. “That is what you are supposed to be taking care of—Pandini’s safety. Why don’t you actually do your job and leave the campaign decisions to us!”
Zengo started to fire back himself, but Pandini put up a hand. “Irving is right, Rick,” he said. “We’ve got to see this through.” He turned to Myers. “And I don’t want you to worry about the polls. We’ll be fine.”
Myers was not comforted. “Maybe you aren’t going to worry about the numbers, but I am!” he said. “And I’d like to take some time right now to go over strategy.”
Pandini sat down at his desk and motioned for Myers to take a seat. Myers looked around at Zengo. “Alone—okay, chief?”
Chief. They were treating him just like the people down at the station. He looked to Pandini, but he just shrugged at Zengo and said, “Why don’t you take a break for a bit, Rick?”
Zengo eyed Myers with suspicion. What was his game plan? Did he have more than just his reputation at stake in this election? Reluctantly, he stepped outside.
Just as he did, his phone vibrated. It was O’Malley. Just what he needed—someone else who always treated him like a kid.
“Hey,” said Zengo. “What do you want?”
“To see you, sooner rather than later,” said O’Malley. “We thought we had a hot lead on the case. We even arrested a suspect—A. J. Nutter, Jacob Nutter’s grandson. Plazinski made us release him—lack of evidence—but we think there’s a thread here worth pulling. Can you meet up?”
“As it happens, I do have some free time,” said Zengo, more than a little curious.
They made a plan to meet at Mulligan’s, just down the street from Bamboo. Probably not a coincidence that it was O’Malley’s favorite greasy spoon.
MULLIGAN’S RESTAURANT, 4:10 P.M.
Zengo got there first and sat in the back-corner booth at Mulligan’s restaurant, hidden behind a menu. Mulligan’s was a dimly lit dump with no frills, but great food. It wasn’t crowded just yet, but it soon would be. This was a popular spot for cops to meet up after work.
Zengo was eager to hear the story of the arrest of A. J. Nutter. But
he figured that kid was just the tip of the iceberg. Pandini had plenty of enemies in and around Kalamazoo City. Whatever A.J.’s involvement, he wasn’t working alone. Zengo wondered why O’Malley was so eager to meet with him face-to-face. Did he genuinely need his help? Or did he maybe want to share a pile of Mulligan’s famous onion rings with his old partner?
“Hey, look who it is,” said a familiar voice. “Pandini’s babysitter.”
“Is it nap time?” said another.
Zengo looked up into the faces of Diaz and Lucinni. They were both grinning like idiots. Not surprising—they are idiots, thought Zengo.
“Hi, guys,” he said, with a weary flap of his webbed fingers.
The door banged open and O’Malley came in, followed by Cooper.
“Fancy meeting you guys here,” said Diaz.
“What is this?” asked Lucinni as he looked directly at Cooper. “A tea party?”
“Yeah,” said Diaz. “Where’s your tiara?”
Diaz and Lucinni laughed and smacked their webbed hands together in a high five.
Cooper stepped up to Lucinni and drew herself up to her full height, which still left quite a gap between the top of her head and the bottom of his bill. “Don’t you have something better to do than mess with your fellow officers in the middle of a workday? Do I need to report you to the sergeant?”
Lucinni scowled at her. “You need to lighten up, little lady. And you need to get that chip off your shoulder.” He made a move as though he was going to flick a real chip off her shoulder. But Cooper was far too quick for him. In one swift motion she took Lucinni down to the ground.
“And by the way, you knucklehead, I don’t drink tea.” She turned to Diaz. “And my partner left his tiara in the car.” She released Lucinni and sat back down. The big oaf of a detective brought himself to his knees and caught his breath.
“Geez, it was just a joke!” he said, rubbing his wrists.
“Wasn’t funny,” said Cooper, standing up and dusting herself off. “Try me again when you’ve worked up a decent routine.”
Last Panda Standing Page 7