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Jeff Reed has a boring life as an accountant. He likes it that way. Leave it for other forces in Cannon Shoals to step in and upset his routine...

This story takes place at the same time as "Friend of the Devil," and explains some of the things that happens in that story. More cards are being added to the house, with ominous implications. We see Lisa Rourke again, and also a brand-new character with more reason to be optimistic. For now. Thanks to Spudz for auditing the paperwork to get this in by deadline..

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

---

"Stickin' with the Union" cycle:

1. One More for the Road
2. Small-Town Lies
3. Friend of the Devil
4. Consequences
5. Favors

---

"Consequences," by Rob Baird

---

Two men, one in a suit and one in overalls, faced each other across a clean glass desk, and neither of them could believe the conversation they were having. "Another hundred thousand dollars?" the man in the suit asked, as though he couldn't believe his ears.

His name was Jeff Reed, and from the moment the other man -- Arby, everyone called him -- walked in the door he'd been certain he knew where the conversation was going to go. We need to talk about our contract, Arby had said.

Jeff had been certain that this was the prelude to trying to get out of the contract, the way so many others had. The businesses in town had been quickly losing their need for professional accountants; they no longer had the money.

Jeff had assumed that Arby was merely the latest casualty. As an accountant, he was intimately tuned to the town's struggles. It was a unique sort of perspective -- the quiet mongrel dog, out of place in his business suit, knew Cannon Shoals better than its mayor did. He was, for example, one of the few to know Arby Riley's name.

It was typed in all capital letters on the contract in question. RYUNG BAE RILEY, it said. OWNER, KYDONIA QUICKSTOP FULL SERVICE -- practically an institution, dating back to the last of the good old days. Arby caught Jeff looking over the paperwork, and stammered a response to his bewildered question. "Er -- yes. Yes, that's right."

Jeff opened a manila envelope, and quickly scanned the summary sheet on the top of a stack of papers. "I don't mean to be obtuse, Mr. Riley. Can you say that again?"

"I believe we would need your help if we are in fact in a different bracket, and that's not covered in our existing contract. I want you to know that now, in case there is anything I need to do."

Jeff took a deep breath, and flipped idly through some of the other documents. "Most of the time when people come in asking to change their contract, it's because they don't need our services anymore."

Arby cracked a smile. "It isn't a problem, is it?"

It certainly wasn't a problem. Kydonia Quickstop was one of two gas stations remaining in Cannon Shoals; it distinguished itself by being the only one big enough to park a truck in. When Jeff started working at what was now Collins and Reed, back in 1996, the station had made plenty of money.

Then the factories started winding down, and eventually closing altogether -- like the big lumber mill finally had, two years before. Back then, Jeff Reed figured he had nothing to look forward to but a long series of conversations as folks came to talk about bankruptcy, instead of taking care of their taxes.

The independent grocer's. Two auto detailers. Benny's workshop, which had been one of the first on the Oregon Coast with a laser cutter. Green Thumb Garden Supply. The movie theater, and Tommy Mercado's video store for that matter. Sports Shack.

And then, at what might have been the town's lowest point, the Oak Valley mill reopened. That small miracle was starting to ripple: he'd heard from a friend that Benny's son had driven to Astoria to check out a CNC machine for sale. And Gary Pierce had his electrical supply coop looking at a full-time employee. And Riley's Quickstop was selling a thousand gallons of fuel a week over what they'd been expecting.

Jeff promised Arby that he'd look into the contract and see what it might cost to add a couple more services. The akita left behind a stack of receipts whose numbers bore mute, optimistic witness to the town's renaissance.

Not what he was expecting -- even though there were other hints, for the observant. Doug Collins went all out for the Fourth of July fireworks display, and he was in a position to know whether it was worth it. After all, he ran Collins and Reed.

He worked from his home office these days, most of the time. Jeff felt that it was important to keep up appearances; he still wore a suit and tie, and he kept regular hours so that nobody would see the door shuttered in the day. And so that Doug could stop by, from time to time, which he did late that afternoon.

Doug also wore suits -- and a constant, big grin out of proportion to the raccoon's short stature. "Jeff! You're still here! Tell me something good!"

"Oregon State's got a new coach. I'm optimistic."

"You'd have to be, wouldn't you?"

"Zero and nine in the Pac-12, you mean?" Jeff laughed. "Nowhere to go but up. Speaking of going up, how was Ashland?"

"Too hot, like always. Carol gave me one of those cameras, though, you know? Those Pro ones?"

"You're a professional photographer, now?"

Chuckling, Doug slid out of his blazer and hung it up; it made him look casual, but no more relaxed -- a simple impossibility for the genial raccoon. "I wish. No, the little ones. Pro something. ProView? CamPro? GoPro, that's it. I put it up under the wing."

"Cool!"

"Sally said it's like I have a black box." Doug's pride and joy, apart from Collins and Reed, was his tiny, vintage airplane -- an Aeronca C-2 he called Siuslaw Sal after his wife.

"There's some confidence for you, huh?"

"Airplanes are just gliders that got lucky. And gliders are just kites with delusions of grandeur," Doug told him. "One of these days, you'll get the bug." Doug still believed that Jeff would take up flying twenty years after learning how much it terrified the dog. He was a perpetual optimist in a town that didn't tend to reward them.

"I doubt it; I'm up on my vaccines. Hey, actual good news, though? Look at this. New contract for Arby Riley." He held it up so that Doug could snag it on the way to his own desk.

The raccoon dropped his round body into the chair, began to recline, and then straightened with a startled bark. "Huh. You don't normally make typos, Jeff."

"Not a typo."

"Four hundred grand?"

"Every week in June, their receipts were over three thousand dollars more than the same time last year." Enough, as the akita had understood, to change the station's tax rate. "They think we should help them get ready."

"I agree." Doug scanned the rest of the contract quickly, and whistled. "Have them come in to talk to us, though. We'll see if we can work out something better -- they're old clients, after all."

"Sure thing."

"I had a call with McDaniel this morning, too." The raccoon set the paperwork on his desk and finally got around to leaning back in his chair. "Two more on the payroll, can you believe it? They're part-timers, but even still."

"Feels good, yeah."

Doug grinned. "We should be thinking about that, huh? Sally got on my case for taking that call on a day off. But the work has to be done..."

"Yep. Better than having no work."

"If the power bill doesn't lie, you've been in here 'til, what, seven every night? Are you doing okay?"

"Handling it, sure, Doug." It was closer to nine when he usually left, but there wasn't any point in bringing it up to the raccoon. Both of them were overworked: he got emails from Doug at four or five in the morning, sometimes.

"If you're not careful, you're gonna get yourself in trouble."

"I'll be fine. You're the one who needs a black box, Doug."

The raccoon let out one of his trademark, goofy laughs. "Dog work ethic, huh? This isn't why I made you partner." And then he stopped, momentarily serious. "I do appreciate it. But seriously, Jeff. Watch out. You're on all the time."

Jeff waved the complaint off. Doug gave him an equal stake in the firm back when they were heading into the lean times, as a reward for sticking around and a promise that things would get better. They both knew that.

And they both knew that he'd earned it anyway. "Do something for me as a favor, then, okay? Knock off early and go do something fun. When's the last time you caught up with your friends?"

"I don't know. A bit."

"Yeah. It's six thirty, Jeff. Get outta here, scamp."

"I'm not your kid, Doug," he reminded the raccoon.

"That's why I can tell you to go to a bar. Trust me, it'll recharge you."

"Need to finish up Riggs' --"

"I'll do it. Get out."

The mutt surrendered, canine work ethic or no, with a chuckle that hinted at the futility of arguing. "Fine, Doug."

"I'll call Mills to make sure you showed up."

"Fine, Doug." He had to chuckle again at the intensity of his coworker's stare. "I know you mean it, don't worry."

He appreciated their relationship: Doug's heart was in the right place, as usual. It meant coming in early the next morning, that was all. And it might be worth it to relax a little. He is right. I don't do enough of that.

Through happenstance, the dog had come to adopt Annie's as his regular haunt. The dive bar mostly catered to fishermen, and had a reputation for their tendency to never drink so little they remembered it the next day. Or ever. It was an unlikely place to find a nebbish, ungainly dog in a business suit.

If that had ever mattered, the time was long past. Shelley Mills, who'd taken over the place from Annie herself, raised her paw in fond greeting to him. "Hey, Jeff. Having fun? It's been a few weeks -- you keeping those pencils sharp?"

"Of course," he told the lioness. "How's business?"

"Haven't thrown anybody out since June."

"Not bad!"

"Just 'cause she has me do it," he heard a grumbling voice from down the bar. The voice belonged to Clint Kendrick, a jet-black, perpetually angry wolf who was another regular at the bar. "So she doesn't have to count it."

"Lieutenant Kendrick does have his uses," Shelley admitted, smiling. "What are you having, fancy-pants?"

"Beer's fine, I guess." He didn't drink often, but it was always beer -- taking a chance on the rest of the dive's inventory was a fool's errand.

"Get over here," Clint ordered gruffly, as soon as the beer arrived. He hadn't even had the chance to take a drink.

"What if I don't want to?"

"I'll get out my badge, that's what," he growled.

It was the sort of relationship that might've endured since grade school -- Clint a tall, strong wolf and Jeff a patchy-colored mixed breed who had gone from awkwardly skinny to carrying a bit of a paunch with no real pause in between.

But they hadn't actually known each other in school: Clint was six years younger than the bookish dog, practically of a different generation. It was only that the town was too small for anything but intimacy. Everyone knew Clint, and everyone knew Jeff.

He got up, and so did Clint. "What do you want?"

"Known damn well," the wolf grunted, and jerked his head behind him. "And you better put up a goddamn fight this time."

"Lieutenant," Shel called to him. The lioness wasn't much for that kind of language. "Come on."

His dark ears twitched. "Sorry. Anyway. Fight," Kendrick repeated, and thumped his beer down on the edge of the pool table to go get the cues.

"Are you putting anything on it?" Jeff felt compelled to ask.

"I look like a chump? Of course I'm puttin' something on it. Next round."

"Oh, fine."

"Thought so." Clint racked the balls, narrowed his eyes, and broke aggressively -- it was a good few seconds before everything stopped moving.

None of them pocketed. "I hope you're better with your revolver," Jeff said.

"Glock," was Clint's curt and esoteric answer.

The table at Annie's did not really warrant a great deal of caution; it gave every impression that it had not been resurfaced since the Nixon years, and in terms of stability it gave Clint Kendrick a good run for his money.

Jeff pocketed two balls anyway, and then a third, before fouling. His opponent observed this with a faint scowl that told nobody anything; he always scowled. "Just settin' you up," he said.

"I know, I know." He watched the wolf start to line up a shot quietly before Clint started stalking about for a better position and it became clear he was going to be taking his time. "How are things at the station?"

"Great. Quiet. No riots."

"No OT."

"Don't need it." He finally took his turn, and his eyes blazed as they narrowed on their target -- practically willing it to tumble into the pocket. At last it did: "Shit's for younger guys, you know? I make enough to get by. Ain't -- nice, you see that?"

"Nice," Jeff agreed, although the shot probably amounted to random chance. But a ball was a ball. "You aren't what?"

"Married. That eats it up, too. Chief tried to give me some extra work earlier. But fuck that, you know?" They were far enough from the bar that Shelley Mills couldn't hear. "Rather be not working than working, any old day. Gave it to one of the kids who actually wants the time."

"Like you just gave me a turn?"

Clint grumbled and stepped back. "Pretty much."

"You're lucky to be hourly. The four is mine, by the way." Jeff squinted, did some figuring in his head, and then discarded the calculations as irrelevant. He made it anyway. Blind luck. "Doug and me are working twelve hour days, the last few weeks. Everybody's making too much money."

"'Specially Doug. Somethin' bout that name, huh? Him and Galvan." Dougal Galvan owned the credit union.

"It's not quite the same name. But close enough." The dog sighed as the cue-ball went wild. "Unlike that."

"Good one."

"Somebody told me they learned from Brittany that Vic's looking for a new hire, too; is that right?"

"Hold up." Clint wanted to make a shot first. His problem, in pool as in many things, was a lack of subtlety -- he knocked the eleven-ball into its pocket, but with so much force that it took a solid with it. "Aw, god damn it. Yeah, yeah. Fuckin' Brit. Ugh."

"Maybe your sister had the right idea, learning a trade." Jeff was careful not to tease Clint too much -- everyone heard rumors about the wolf's temper -- but as long as he had a glass of beer in his paw...

And sure enough, he just shrugged. "Don't need all the grease. Good for Vic, though. Works Brit too much anyhow."

Victor Gowen's garage served as one more notice of the town's increasing activity, and plenty of folks in Cannon Shoals wouldn't mind getting their paws dirty. "Not just Gowen. Stachs, Pierce, McDaniel, Wilson -- did you even hear about that?"

"Eh?"

Jeff was down to the eight-ball. He gestured at a corner pocket, and went back to talking. "Somebody from out east -- Chicago, I think? -- was looking to buy an old storefront on State."

Cannon Shoals had lost a lot of real estate, over the years, to outsiders. Not foreigners, although they might as well have been -- yuppies looking to snap up second houses in the 'quaint' little town or 'investing' in what they saw as cheap land.

He missed his shot, and let Clint have a go to continue with the story. "Wilson Glassworks actually outbid them for it. The place is going to stay local. How about that?"

"Not bad." Clint knocked the cue ball over the table, and glowered at Jeff until the mutt went to fetch it for him. "Opposite at the mill, I heard."

The dog nodded. Martin-Barlow was a big company, with their own accounting department, but the millworker's union owned property, too. Or, as Clint apparently knew, they had owned it -- they'd sold it to a consortium that was actually foreign, earlier in the year.

"Tough luck for the Martin-Blow-me's, eh?" Clint asked.

Jeff pocketed the eight-ball on his next shot. "And the cops, apparently."

He liked Annie's, more than the shabby dive bar warranted. Not that he went often; he didn't necessarily care for things like that. But when he did, they accepted him. Despite his job, Cannon Shoals accepted him as one of their own. Doug was right: it did refresh him.

The next day he wound up back in his world of spreadsheets and forms. That had a nice, comforting routine. He could slip his earbuds in, put on some uptempo classical music, and let all the numbers fall into place.

He missed the sound of the door opening, and of footsteps; it wasn't until a shadow fell across the desk that Jeff looked up to find himself...

Well. Staring, although at first it was unintentional. Across from him was a vixen, and she seemed to be playing that up a bit. She was wearing a polo shirt from the IGA, but the shirt was -- generously -- half a size small, and he doubted she was bending over entirely on accident. "Hi," she said, levelly, over the 3rd movement of Jean Sibelius's Fifth carrying on in his ear.

He switched the music off. "Can I help you?"

"You're an accountant, right?"

"Yes. Who are --"

"Not just personal accounting? Business?"

"Yes, ma'am. Who --"

"For Gary Pierce?"

"Uh. Client confidentiality prevents --"

"Aw, shut up. I'm letting you stare, aren't I? Gary Pierce?"

Jeff did his best to look away from her chest -- he told himself it had only been to check her IGA nametag -- and meet her clear green eyes. "Collins and Reed represents a number of businesses in Cannon Shoals, ma'am. Can I see some identification, or... or... anything, really?"

The vixen rolled her eyes and huffed, shaking her head quickly. "I'm Lisa. You're Jeffrey Reed, yeah?"

"Just 'Jeff.' Do you work for Mr. Pierce?"

"My sister does. She said you handle payroll."

The dog fidgeted, toying with his glasses. The intruder was extremely insistent, and he didn't yet understand why. "If there is a problem with that, it should be directed to Mr. Pierce."

"What about the Martin-Barlow union up at Oak Valley. Bob Dean's crew. Do you handle their accounting?"

Jeff took a deep breath. "If you don't have a subpoena, I can't really answer questions like this. You've come in here without making an appointment, and --"

She snapped her muzzle audibly to cut him off. "Stop trying to grow a pair."

"It's just that this is not appropriate -- any part of this. I don't know what you want, I don't think I can give it to you anyway... I've got a lot of work to do, and I'd like to get back to it."

Lisa -- he still didn't know her last name -- started to roll her eyes again. Then she held up her paws, fingers spread. "Okay. Sorry, Jeff. I'm just -- I'm in a mood, alright? We got off to a bad start."

"Okay..."

She sat down, still without an invitation, and reached across the desk to take his paws. "I'm trying to help my sister out, that's all. She's run into some problems."

The dog's sense of routine had been completely shattered, and nothing was becoming any more clear. "Uh... with Mr. Pierce?"

"Do you know my sister?"

"No."

Lisa nodded, and squeezed one of his paws. "She's a teenager. She makes some bad decisions. She doesn't always realize they're bad decisions, either. So let's say your kid sister decided to hook up with some complete asshole."

He tried to ignore the warmth of her grasp, though he didn't bother to pull away -- something told Jeff she wouldn't let him, anyway. "This isn't an accounting question..."

"But what if she did. You'd want to help, right?"

"I don't have a sister."

Lisa smiled patiently. "But what if you did, and what if she hooked up with somebody. You'd want to help her, right?"

"Hooked up -- you mean -- as in, drugs?"

"No, as in -- Jesus. No. As in hooking up. Fucking. Come on, Jeff." She shook her head to clear the frustration, and put the smile back on. "So I need to bail her out. Unfortunately, this guy works for Robert Dean. Dean's gonna protect his own, just like you or me. Right?"

"I have no idea why you're here," he admitted, hoping that honesty would be rewarded in kind. "None of this makes sense."

Lisa released her hold and gave a sharp sigh. "Not much for subtlety, eh?"

"I'm an accountant," Jeff pointed out. "It helps when things are clear."

"Fine. I need leverage over Bobby Dean. You have it. I know you have it. They've made some kind of deals -- drugs, smuggling; I don't know. But I'm not stupid, Jeff. Why do you think I'm here? Follow the money."

On the one hand, pieces were falling into place; on the other, they didn't seem to be very logical ones. Why does she care about the mill's accounting_? What does that have to do with her sister fooling around with some older guy?_ "You think I have some kind of dirt on the mill? And I'd tell you, instead of the authorities?"

"The union. Not the mill. Just the union."

"I would still talk to the authorities -- if I knew anything like that."

She chewed her bottom lip, her eyes slowly darkening as she considered his answer. "There has to be something. Has to be. Like, you talk about the authorities -- I saw the cops were down at the warehouse yesterday when I drove past. C'mon, that's not suspicious?"

"This has nothing to do with accounting," he insisted, with as much strength as he could muster. "Please. Miss Lisa. I really have to ask you to leave."

When he put his paw on the handset of his phone, she finally took the hint, and left with an irritated huff. The whole thing had been a bizarre waste of his time; it took a full cup of coffee and most of another symphony before he could get his thoughts all the way back to his work.

His mood settled by evening, thanks to a lack of any other interruptions. Remembering Doug's admonitions, he made a point of leaving early -- just a few minutes before eight. There was time enough left in the day for a quiet drive home, and a leisurely dinner, and a pleasant hour or two catching up on television.

Except that it didn't look like anything was going to be quiet, leisurely, or pleasant. Jeff had his suspicions about the figure leaning in shadow against the wall even before she stepped forward. It was the vixen from earlier. Lisa. She gestured to his sedan. "Get in. Let's talk."

"Can it wait?"

"In."

He thumbed the keyfob to unlock the doors and slid into the driver's seat. As he began to draw the seatbelt across his chest, Lisa reached out to stop him.

"Not going anywhere yet. I said I wanted to talk to you, Jeff. About earlier."

"But there's nothing to talk about. Miss, I'm sorry, but this isn't any of my business. It doesn't have anything to do with accounting. Or with... well, with any of our work here."

She lifted her paw placatingly. "I know. So let's not talk about work."

And he had no problems with conversation, but he was tired and hungry and a little perturbed by the second interruption to his day. He had half a mind to just tell her to go away... but, perhaps sensing that, the paw lowered, and she patted his thigh lightly.

"So: my sister, Jeff. Our parents have never been able to control her. I haven't, either. She's young and headstrong. And you know... you know, teenagers and their hormones..."

"I guess. I was a teenager, too."

"I know." Lisa patted him again, and scratched him very, very gently with her claws. "So was I. The biggest problem with teenagers, even smart ones like my sister, is they don't understand consequences. You do, though, right? I know I promised I didn't want to talk about your work -- but there must be lots of consequences there..."

"Yes. There are. And many of them are legal consequences, which is why I don't want to talk about it. They can be very serious."

Lisa nodded, so firmly that it almost seemed exaggerated. Like she didn't think of it as serious at all. "And with those hormones, and no sense of consequences, she went and let herself get seduced by this guy -- Harlan Crow. You know the Crows?"

"I don't know the Crows." Was it his imagination, or was her paw starting to wander? It seemed like it, but he didn't want to look in case that came off as inappropriate, somehow.

"Not good people. Trailer trash people. Had it out for us Rourkes for a long time. Harlan should not have anything to do with my sister. Would you agree with that? You'd agree a grown man shouldn't be chasing high school students, right?"

"Yes?" He would also have agreed that it wasn't especially decent to start putting your paw on a dog you'd just met, but Jeff was coming to understand that Lisa's standards for decency were highly dependent on context.

"When I complained, the police just dragged their heels. Stubborn as mules, those guys -- almost as stubborn as you were. You know?" She canted her head and smiled, but it wasn't a reassuring smile and it didn't seem like a joke.

He now understood what had happened, though -- he thought. Lisa was taking matters into her own hands on behalf of her sister. And she seemed to need his help. "I'm certain that's really... difficult. But it's not any of my business."

"I got stonewalled," she carried on, as if he hadn't said anything at all. "Cops say they're working on it, but my sister, you know... she doesn't want to help them. No sense of consequences. And Bobby Dean..."

Lisa was definitely wandering. Her paw had started to stroke him, slowly, with the same cadence as her story. Jeff swallowed as quietly as he could. Robert Dean, as Lisa said, was responsible for the unionized employees at the Martin-Barlow mill. Sometimes he came to talk to Jeff, because the dingo also served as treasurer. But not often. They weren't friends. Weren't --

The vixen's fingers squeezed the top of his thigh, teasing the fur under his slacks. "He's no help either," she finished. Like it was the only information he really needed.

"That's why you... right, why you asked about leverage?"

"Yes."

"I, um." He paused to gather his thoughts. "I'm not sure where you think this is going, but..."

"Oh, I think it's fairly clear where it's going. I think you know that, too. You have something I want, and I have something I, uh -- well, looking at you, I'm guessing you don't get a whole lot of." Once again, she smiled, and once again it didn't seem like much of a joke. "So I'm willing to offer you a trade. Off the books."

"I, uh... I'd really be more comfortable if we didn't."

She was staring at him. Smirking. "Shh. Right now you keep being stubborn, so why don't you shut up? Yeah. Let me do the talking," she said. "All you need to do is nod. Harlan Crow is a piece of shit. Do you understand me?"

He nodded.

Lisa smiled wider. Her voice softened. "All of them are. They're all worthless. Do you understand that?" When he didn't answer, she leaned a few inches closer. "Do you understand, Jeff?"

Finally, he nodded again.

"I'm going to get back at them. I don't want you to do anything illegal. I just want you to be... hmm... smart. I said my sister doesn't see that there are consequences. No... no cause and effect. But you do, right?"

That was easier to answer. Another nod.

"So a consequence might be that you have a little chat with me. Nothing work-related. Just friend-to-friend. A friendly chat about Bobby. That's the effect. Now, as to the cause..."

The vixen's soft, warm paw shifted deliberately a few inches over. She was right over his crotch, and when she squeezed him again it met with resistance much less yielding than the mongrel's fur.

She hadn't fastened her seatbelt either. Smoothly, fluidly, she slid closer, leaning in to hiss her whisper into his ear. "You get it? Just nod."

Quite the disruption to his routine. Not something that happened often. Or ever. Not how accounting worked. Not how Jeff's life worked. Not how any logic worked either, but then she was palming him, stroking a telling and undeniable bulge, leaving him shivering with the sensation already and what else could he do but nod?

Satisfied, she slid the metal clasp of his pants apart, and slid the zipper down with a metallic snick that Jeff's helpless gasp neatly covered. "Nice boxers. Silk, huh, pup?" They were. He tried to dress nicely, like his mother had always wanted.

Long time ago, that. It was a weird memory to come back to him, hearing his mom say that clothes made the man and how she'd ironed his dad's shirts before he went to the office, just a random desk job, just working as a draftsman for a machine shop, but he always looked good and now insistent, delicate fingers were carefully pulling his boxers down and the vixen was fondling him and he groaned.

"You like that, huh? Haven't seen you with nobody. Strange. You with a job and all." Her fingers pumped along his sheath, sticking to the short, soft fur and not the bare flesh her coaxing drew forth. "Try to make it worthwhile..."

No, not everybody in Cannon Shoals had a job -- and few paid as well as Jeff's. But he had his mom's gangly coonhound legs and none of her delicate bearing, and his dad's oversized shepherd ears but none of his build. Patchwork fur. His belly that bulged in a little pot he'd never been able to quite banish. His glasses. Couldn't see more than a few feet if he wasn't wearing his glasses.

With or without them, he'd never seen what was happening before. Never even imagined it. A gorgeous vixen, stroking his stiff erection with a sly, knowing smile going ever wider on her muzzle. The smile hinted that she knew he didn't attract such attention under normal circumstances. That she had all the power over him.

He thought she was going to stop and make him say something. He was fighting to build up the strength to resist. And so the dog was helpless, completely unprepared, when instead she glanced around the dark parking lot and dropped her head down. A shock trembled through him -- first of anticipation and then of ecstasy as a silken heat wrapped around the tip of his member.

Thoughts arrived quickly, each colliding with the last. This is what it feels like? and then oh, god that feels good and more of it, please, a little more. His hips lifted, instinctually. The vixen pushed him down again with her paw -- but took the cue anyhow.

Her muzzle sank down, over him, sliding the last few inches in until her nose had pushed into the wiry fur of his crotch. He felt her sucking on him, slashing a liquid, rippling ribbon of pleasure through his mind. And when only the tip was left in that wet, lewd kiss, she lowered herself once more and he shuddered and whined with the sensation.

Jeff looked down to watch -- like he almost couldn't believe it, couldn't believe it was really happening. And yet: Lisa's head bobbed and rocked; he couldn't see his crotch in the darkness, couldn't see his shaft sliding between her lips, but a throbbing pressure built and rose higher and higher in perfect time to her rhythm.

The pressure was familiar from enough times on his own, and a couple of rather less fulfilling encounters. Familiar -- but not even close. Not even close to the way the vixen felt as she slurped and stroked him quickly in her muzzle. Smooth, slippery warmth shifted and slid over him, caressing him from all angles.

Her slick, soft tongue drew a last wet, sloppy, line of velvet-textured heat along the dog's twitching member and he felt the pressing need to resist even though he knew it was too late. She started to take him in again and he bucked jerkily up to meet her before going stock-still.

Jeff heard himself whimper and didn't care -- the only thing that mattered was the tense energy of release pulsing through him to splash in messy streaks against the vixen's tongue. Lisa suckled hard on him as he desperately pumped his load, compressing the pleasure into something short and white-hot in its intensity.

It left him panting heavily, his mind in a fuzzy haze. Little aftershocks sent twinges through his tingling nerves. Lisa opened the car door and leaned out; he heard her spit a few times, grumbling, before she straightened up and pulled it back shut.

"Happy?"

Her tone was a little accusing, considering whose idea it had been. He was a little too drained to protest. "Really... uh, yeah, really good..."

"Great. Now let's make sure it was worth our time, right?" She made a face, and dabbed at her muzzle with her thumb. "Get your pants back on."

He had to be careful -- every touch to his oversensitive shaft, even accidental, brought a twinge of uncomfortable stimulation. Slowly, with his passenger staring all the while, he dressed himself. "Alright..."

"So. About Bobby Dean."

"What do you want to know?"

"Bad stuff. Anything. He's not a good guy -- I know people say that. It's not true. He's an asshole, like most of his damn union, and he doesn't care about anyone who isn't in that little clique. Since I'm not, as far as he's concerned I can go to hell."

"I don't know what you're looking for," he told the vixen. "Not because I don't want to help you, but I really don't know."

"Something isn't right. It's a fucking union, Jeff. They've gotta be doing something criminal."

The dog shook his head. "This isn't the 1970s, Miss Rourke. Bobby's no Jimmy Hoffa. With all the new laws, and the federal investigations, it's pretty difficult to keep anything concealed. It's also a fairly small union, with limited assets and only one full-timer on the payroll."

"Bobby."

"Yeah."

She bunched one of her paws up into a fist. "What about the money?"

"What money? The dues still get collected in cash. They report it, they deposit it in the credit union -- never a dollar over. They pay rent for using a couple of the warehouses they sold, which their dues cover, and that's it."

"Nothing sketchy."

Of course, they all heard rumors about things that went on at the mill -- but those things were incredibly boring. The last he'd heard was about a few tons of protected old-growth conveniently toppling in a windstorm, just when it helped them make quota.

That had nothing to do with accounting, and in Jeff's experience Robert Dean was not the kind of man to fool around with money. He was more likely to attach an invoice for the free fortune cookies when he ordered takeout from Great Wall Kitchen to feed the boys at the mill -- just in case cookies needed to be declared to the IRS.

And there was no sign of anything unseemly. "You've seen the way he dresses, Miss Rourke. If they were running drugs or anything like that, he's certainly not profiting."

"I have to be able to get to him. He won't give up Harlan otherwise."

"If you said that your sister doesn't have a problem --"

"It's not about her! I mean -- it is about her, but it's not just about her. It's about us, okay? I can't have a Crow acting like that. I'm getting him, and if that means Dean -- what about the warehouse? Why were the cops there?"

Jeff hadn't heard anything about any cops, probably because it was just gossip. "Again, not an accounting issue. They sold the warehouse, used the money to pay for some environmental impact statements, and rent part of it for their own use -- it's much cheaper than paying for all the space. Those deals are..." He caught himself before he revealed too much.

But not before Lisa picked up on it. Her head tilted. "They're what?"

"It's not the sort of thing I should -- disclose," he gasped the last word, because her paw had returned -- drawing a sharp, teasing line up his thigh. "I... uh. They're by the book, okay?"

"Really?"

"I've seen them."

Lisa drew her paw back, looking disappointed. "What about off the books?"

He blinked, trying desperately to recover. "I already covered that back in the office. If I knew about illegal activity, why would I tell you?"

"Good point." She slumped back in the chair. "You're also the kind of dweeb who actually would go to the authorities. Ugh."

"Sorry for being honest?"

Lisa held up her left paw, and flipped him off without looking at him. "You know you still owe me. What are you going to do about it? Any idea?"

"No."

"Me either. What about Bob's kids, then? Let's start there. Rusty or something... he works at some auto plant, right?"

Jeff had found himself thrust into a vendetta with no idea of the stakes, the background, or even the cast of characters. Somehow he doubted Lisa would accept the explanation that he only knew Dean in the first place because he was responsible for the union treasury. "Maybe?"

"Britni? I think that's her name. What about her?"

"Brit Kendrick? The wolf who works at Gowen's motors?"

Lisa shot him a frustrated look. "How the fuck would Dean have a wolf for a kid? You realize two people can have the same first name, right? I think it's 'Britni.' Spelled like white trash. Any dirt?"

"I don't even know her name. It's a big town, Miss Rourke."

"No it's not," she snapped. "Fine -- oh! Fuck, I know what! I heard his kid daughter started watching houses and babysitting after she got fired from the Sports Shack."

In all probability, Lisa meant that she'd lost her job when the whole store closed. But who was he to question her? "Maybe so?"

"She's gotta report that, right? If she's getting paid in cash, she still has to report it to the tax guys, right? Otherwise it's illegal. I saw that on TV, somebody didn't write down their income and got busted by the IRA."

There were multiple levels of misconceptions and mistakes in what she'd said, and Jeff knew that he could only tackle so many at once. "Yes, self-employment income needs to be reported to the IR_S_, and taxes paid on it. If it's her primary occupation and not something she does for fun, she should file a report along with her 1040, as well as any deductions, although to be honest I imagine she'd also qualify for EIC. And technically speaking, I --"

"Did she?"

"I don't know. I don't file many personal taxes, Miss Rourke."

"But if she didn't, she could be in a lot of trouble, right?"

In the most literal sense, the dog should have been on solid ground when discussing his profession, but given Lisa's dubious sincerity... "Are you suggesting that you could use the threat of a tax audit of Mr. Dean's daughter to blackmail him?"

"Not when you say it like that. But it would be a lot of trouble, right?"

"If you're asking me as an accountant..." He shrugged. But now that she was asking a factual question, he wondered if a factual answer might be enough to get rid of her. "It depends, but probably not, unless there was a substantial change in her tax liability as a result. Fines might be assessed anyway; if they were uncontested it wouldn't surprise me if they were as much as a few hundred dollars."

"That's it?"

"You asked."

"What if you wrote a letter to Dean calling his daughter out on it?"

"That would be unethical in so many different ways I would need more paperwork just to explain myself to him afterwards. I could brief you on the Schedule C reporting requirements and you could ask him yourself to --"

She flopped back angrily. "Great. What am I supposed to do, Jeff?"

"I'm sorry I can't be more help, Miss Rourke. It sounds like you're in a difficult position, but this is... if you want my honest opinion as a professional, it sounds more like the start of a barfight than a lawsuit."

"I liked you better when I could just spit you back out."

"Sorry." He was apologizing a lot, all things considered. Lisa stayed silent, and irritated, rather than acknowledge it. "Maybe you can settle things up with your sister on your own and leave me out of --"

"No."

"No?"

Without looking at him, and without losing her frown, she reached out and jerked the seatbelt down roughly. "Here's what we're doing. You're going to Linc's. The Lincoln Street Roadhouse."

"Why?"

"Because you owe me," the vixen said. "You still owe me. And the least you can do is get me some information."

Warily, Jeff buckled his belt and pushed the Audi's starter. "Okay?"

"A lot of the Oak Valley guys hang out at that place. I'm not exactly welcome, but you? Whatever, they'll just think you're with a collections agency. Find Harlan Crow. He'll be there -- this late at night, he almost always is. Find out from him what that son of a bitch Dean offered."

"Why will he tell me?"

"Because he'll be bragging about it."

Lisa ordered him to park on the next block over, to avoid drawing any attention. And, although he was a little worried about her perfume hanging around, she would not get out of the car.

"So make this quick, if you want to get home," she told him. "Just figure out what's Dean giving him. Don't tell that fuck anything about me. Or the warehouse. Got it?"

"Yes. Fine."

"Do a good job, and maybe there'll be a reward in it for you."

Something had definitely upset his routine. He wished he'd been able to get rid of the vixen earlier. At least, he wished he'd been more forceful in telling her to leave the office. Maybe then she wouldn't have felt so bold about trying to get anything out of him now.

And although she had accurately assessed his lack of success, relationshipwise, he wasn't necessarily interested in more of her rewards. That was only likely to lead to further... consequences, as she put it. Do this, get out, talk to her, and make her go away. You'll be even.

No heads turned when he entered, giving him the opportunity for a lengthy first impression of the establishment. It wasn't nearly as loud as Annie's, and the patrons seemed different, too. Fewer of them seemed to view getting drunk as a mission, rather than an inevitable side effect.

A wolf was manning the bar -- old, like Shelley Mills was, but a hell of a lot less surly. He said his name was Leo Mazzi, guessed that Jeff worked at Collins and Reed, and asked no further questions except for what he wanted to drink.

The dog looked around him, taking in the various conversations, but his target was already plainly obvious. The bony fox dressed in a torn t-shirt and slouching in his seat could only be Harlan Crow. He was talking to someone else, a well-used brown bear who, like Harlan, had obviously missed a few thirty thousand mile tuneups.

"... and it ain't, anyway. But hey. Guys like us..."

"Kinda brought it on yourself," the bear said.

Harlan sighed. "Said that six times already, Kev."

"True six times."

The fox grunted. "Fine."

"Just put it behind ya. Sam gets it. Nobody on this Earth but hasn't made a couple mistakes, anyhow."

He grunted again, and let a swig of beer serve as his first, nonverbal answer. "Tell that to Kayla. Ain't gonna shut up about that soon, believe me. Christ, like I married a fuckin' priest all the sudden."

"But you won't be married to Sam."

Harlan Crow chuckled. His next drink appeared to be taken in better spirits. "That's some good news. No fuckin' union, either. No fuckin' whiteface."

"Dean's not bad." Kev said it gently, like he was smoothing over a rough spot. "Could be worse, with what happened."

"I know, I know."

He didn't sound happy about it. Lisa must've been right about a deal between him and Dean, Jeff realized. I guess he's upset his friend had to take action against him. It explained the bitterness in his voice, anyway.

Harlan had finally noticed the dog watching him. "What do you want?"

"Uh. Oh, well..."

Kev turned to see. "Another guy in a suit for you, Harlan? Shit, man, you don't catch a break."

"What'd I tell ya? S'okay. I got it." He waited for the bear to excuse himself, and Jeff to take the vacated seat. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Jeff Reed. I work down at Collins and Reed."

"Repo man?"

"Er, no."

"Lawyer?"

Jeff shook his head. "No, no. But you're Harlan, right? Harlan Crow?"

Harlan crossed his bony arms. "Yeah?"

Get it over with. She said he'll want to brag about it. Just get it over with and you can leave. "Sorry. I was just... I mean. I overheard you and your friend. Also, I, ah. I heard about what happened." There was no easy angle -- or Jeff wasn't good at finding it -- to get what Lisa wanted. He cursed himself internally for being so awkward. "That's all."

"Yeah?" the fox repeated, asking the question with a sharp edge. "And what's your hot fuckin' take?"

The dog, who had on occasion talked down some of the most tenacious bureaucrats in the IRS, knew immediately that he was in over his head. "Um. Well. It wasn't great, I... uh..."

Harlan rolled his eyes -- ironically, Jeff thought, in the exact same way Lisa had. "Nice. Some random prick rolls up to open his dumb-ass pencil-pushin' mouth? Well, fuck you. You think I ain't already heard I fucked up? Think I don't know it?"

He stayed silent.

"Good. Fuck off, then."

You have no idea how much I want to, he thought. But Lisa isn't going to be happy if I don't come back to her with something. This overwhelmed his desire to end the conversation. To retreat. To leave the bar altogether for something more pleasant, like tax preparation. "That isn't what I meant. I meant the... way you were treated?"

"You mean like losin' my job 'cause that cunt Rourke wanted to get back at me? Or you mean like gettin' the shit beat outta me while the cops fuckin' ignored it?" He held up his right arm; part of it was loosely bandaged. "Got thrown out of a car. Found some broken glass."

"Oh. Oof. I'm sorry."

"Sure."

"It looks painful. I am sorry."

"Even if ya are -- which I doubt -- don't fuckin' matter. Know all y'all are secretly thinkin' like I deserved it, so who the fuck cares what happens to me. And... well..."

"Well?"

"I kinda do. Not all of it, shit, ain't like it wasn't that bitch's idea in the first place. Ain't like it's somethin' either of us'd regret if it wasn't her cunt sister stickin' her nose in."

That it wasn't 'all' his fault explained why his friend Bob Dean was able to go easy on the fox, too. "But part of it was."

"Yeah. But I already know what I'm going to do," he went on. The fox downed half of his remaining beer in a loud, grumbling swallow. Rather than putting the glass back down he kept it aloft and, after a second thought, finished the rest. "So fuck it."

"What are you going to do?"

"Lawyer called. Fuckin' prick. Big city asshole." He shrugged, and tilted his glass back to lap at a few of the dregs rather than ordering a new one already. "Whatever. He gave me an out."

"Oh."

"Said I don't have to go to jail. Won't get nothin' awful on my record."

"Oh," Jeff said again. "And the mill?"

"Man, fuck that place. Shit. Already know Bob has it out for me. I'll find something else. I did before. Kev knows somebody at a shop in Newport."

Another of the customers, a tawny feline with thick muscles and scars threaded over most of his paws from long years of hard work, leaned into their space. "Kev knows e'rybody," he slurred, and thumped the fox's shoulder. "You'll make it okay, Crow."

"Thanks, Joe." Harlan rolled his eyes, and elbowed the cat away. "Fuckin' whiteface. Goddamn mill." He slid his glass over the counter for Leo Mazzi to refill, and in the pause before his drink was refreshed Jeff saw his head cock slightly. "Why the fuck you care?"

"Huh?"

"What's got you so interested? Ain't you a fuckin' banker?"

"Uh. Well, an accountant. CPA."

The fox shrugged, and took his beer back. "Okay. Anyway, some kinda Jew stuff or another, right? What do you give a fuck about the mill?"

Jeff blinked, and tried to think of a way to phrase his explanation. "Uh. Well, I mean, I don't, exactly, Mr. Crow. I was just -- I mean, I was talking to -- uh. That is, I heard. I --"

"Who? Who were you talking to? Dean?"

"No. He -- I mean, I know him, that's all. Of him. Know of him."

Harlan took a gulp from his beer. "Lisa, then. You know, some bitch of a fox, actin' like she ain't just another dumb cunt with a part-time job at a fuckin' grocery store? Her?"

"Um."

"Sent you here?"

Jeff coughed. He felt much more out of his element than he ever had at Annie's. "Uh. Well."

He was expecting Harlan to finally explode. A snarl, or a bitter oath. Rather than anger, the fox curled his lip in an ugly sneer. "Ain't that a surprise? What'd she want?"

"To, uh. To talk. She came asking about some warehouse, and then it kept going." He wasn't supposed to have mentioned anything of the sort, but in the heat of the moment honesty took over. "I don't really know much about the history between you two, though, Mr. Crow, and -- oh, look, um, I know it isn't any of my business."

Harlan's laugh was ugly, too -- coarse, and perfectly matched to his grin. "Why ain't it? Shit, she makes it all part of everybody's business. But the warehouse... the warehouse... hey. Joe!"

The fox spun around to face the drunk cat as he shouted to get his attention -- fast enough that Joe startled, sloshing some of his beer onto the counter. "Damnit... friggin'... ugh. What's up?"

"Kydonia. Ain't you said the cops went down there?"

"Yeah." Joe dabbed at the spilled beer with the sleeve of his jacket. "Lookit what you --"

"Ain't you said they didn't find nothin'?"

"Leo did," Joe protested.

Leo Mazzi was already headed over, tossing a paper towel down over the puddle of beer. "Russ said it was a random inspection, because of -- oh, whatever, it was dumb government stuff. Because they're selling stuff across state borders, I think? Bunch of used auto parts. He said Bobby was steamed 'cause it was a waste of his time."

"Yeah," Harlan agreed. But he was obviously still thinking, and when Joe and Leo were no longer paying attention he turned back to Jeff. "Wasn't random. I called it in."

"Huh. I think Lisa assumed it was something else..." And, as she'd said, Harlan had Bobby Dean's protection. That part didn't quite add up. Why would he have done something to jeopardize that relationship?

"If she's askin'," the fox muttered, thinking aloud. "Means there was somethin' goin' on. She's tryin' to save that dumb fuck's ass. You know it --" He shook his head in a violent jerk. "That bitch hates me."

He'd already more than gathered this, and the suspicion that the feeling was mutual. "I noticed that, Mr. Crow."

"An' her sister, I mean -- like, shit. Yeah. Whatever, I fucked up. But she don't care about her sister -- think Jenna minded? Fuck, of course a girl like that don't mind. Just happy to get some attention."

From time to time -- fairly often, honestly -- Jeff ran into errors and anomalies in the documents he was given. Figures were misattributed, or misfiled, or miscalculated. Nothing to do with malice, just honest mistakes; that was why they paid a professional.

It was his job to be able to untangle the mess and make sure the forms were filed and stamped and submitted properly. The dog believed that he was pretty good at that, where formulas and paperwork was concerned. But people?

This was beyond him. "She did say that she had to do it because her sister wouldn't... but... I don't see what you think is going on. What is going on, Mr. Crow?"

For the first time, Harlan took a slower, more thoughtful drink. "Lisa thinks this is how she's gonna do me. She protects that dog, and he fucks me over. So there is somethin' goin' on at that warehouse..."

"I don't think that --"

Harlan was on a roll, and ignoring all obstacles in his path. "She thinks I got too close. She goes to you, she takes care of stuff for him, and -- she offer you anything, mutt? Pay ya? Do ya a favor?"

Jeff swept his big, ungainly ears back. "Well. Yes. Actually. But it wasn't for... it wasn't about the warehouse. Except..."

"Yeah?"

"All I did was inform her that, per my code of ethics, I couldn't really disclose much about the books. She didn't like that. She, um... in the end, she told me to go here and ask you if you got a deal. But she told me not to mention the warehouse. Actually. I don't know why."

The fox snorted, and then chuckled; muffled by the glass, his laugh was dark and slightly sinister. "Because she didn't want me to know."

"But you and Bobby are friends, anyway. She told me that."

Again, he laughed. "She wanted you to tell me that, I'm sure. She knows it ain't true. Those two are old friends. He always sticks up for that dumb cunt -- this whole thing -- fuck, this whole thing is their goddamn plan. That means..."

His eyes had an odd, manic glint, and they flicked and jerked about as he silently pieced together whatever conclusion was forming. Jeff wasn't sure if he wanted to pry, but curiosity was getting the better of him. "It means?"

"Means that deal is also bullshit. He's gonna tell me he's got my best interests at heart -- tell me if I keep my muzzle shut he'll help me out. Because those two -- they must be into something together. That -- that's why he had me stay away from the parts shop -- figured I'd talk to Jenna... learn somethin' about Lisa and him -- can't be an affair, his dick don't work -- but money, maybe? Jenna said she can't afford college -- gotta be he's..."

A few more conjectures followed; none of them were entirely well-reasoned. Jeff had the sense that he was observing a conspiracy being proved in the eye of its beholder beyond a shadow of a doubt, and with geometric logic. "I don't know that this all makes sense..."

Most of his beer was unfinished, but with a final halfhearted pull Harlan set it back on the bar and tossed a ten-dollar bill next to it. "See ya. Leo -- Leo, keep the change. If Russ or Bob show their fuckin' muzzles in here, you tell 'em I had enough."

"Sure, Harlan."

"Tell 'em I ain't playin'."

"Sure, Harlan," Leo repeated.

His scowl replaced by a jaw set in its certainty, Harlan stomped off for the exit. Jeff followed his departure without knowing, exactly, what he was watching. "Is he... always like that?"

Leo shrugged. "Yeah. He'll get over it tomorrow."

"And see reason?"

"Harlan? Not likely. He isn't the 'reasoning' type." Leo Mazzi tossed his towel back over his shoulder and folded the money he'd been left in his pocket for later. "Oh, well. Have I seen you around, man? You're not a regular."

"It isn't where I generally go, no. I guess you probably know how that kind of thing happens... my friends started going to Annie's, and that's where I wound up."

"That's a different crowd, for sure," Leo said. "Not a Three Sheets guy?"

Three Sheets was more upscale; more of a tourist joint, like the Chain and Capstan pub. Not the kind of establishment locals frequented, particularly if they didn't want to interact with outsiders. "No," Jeff answered. It was where he would've looked less out of place, that was all.

Lincoln Street Roadhouse was for the factory guys, the shift workers who wanted a place to hang out and not have to think about the job for a bit. A place with Zevon and Springsteen on the old jukebox, and halfway decent lighting.

Not like Three Sheets and its cocktails. Certainly not like Annie's, where fishermen came back and blew half their paycheck on rounds and woke up the next afternoon in an alley, or the middle of the Siuslaw forest. Or jail; that happened often enough.

But if learning that Jeff was one of the Annie's crowd surprised Leo, he got over it quickly and nodded to the dog. "You fit in where you fit in, I guess. You need another beer?"

"I'm alright, thanks."

Two nights spent at a bar in one week was two more than normal. What with Harlan gone, he didn't have a reason to stay beyond drinking a few glasses of water and waiting until he thought the alcohol was out of his system.

At last he could no longer put off returning to his car to deal with Lisa and hope his answers were satisfying enough. Back outside, taking in the air of a typically cool Cannon Shoals night, he tugged his jacket straight and composed himself.

His car was empty; he could see that even before he got to it. Guess I took too long? He wasn't exactly unhappy about not having to talk to her. Just in case, though, he did his due diligence and looked up and down the block.

But there was no sign of her. No sign of much life at all, except for one man on the other side of the street, looking at something in the back of his SUV beneath the raised tailgate. When the lights of Jeff's Audi came on, the man looked up and called over. "Your car?"

"Yes."

He left the SUV open, folded up what he'd been reading, and ambled across the street. Jeff thought he recognized the tiger, although it was hard to say for certain. He had the kind of classy button-down shirt that wasn't very common in Cannon Shoals, and his car looked new; he was probably a tourist.

He'd been looking at a map, judging by what was in his paws. "Do you need some directions?"

"Just figuring out whether it's worth trying to get to Lincoln City tonight."

Definitely a tourist. His accent was hard to place, but clearly foreign. "Depends on how tired you are. It isn't all that far."

"No. I try to be practical, though. And I was waiting -- sorry to bother you, but do you know a fox lady, perhaps? Someone was hanging around your car."

"Did she say her name was Lisa Rourke?"

The tiger paused, and at first Jeff thought he hadn't enunciated properly. "No. No, she didn't say her name. She was wearing... rather striking clothing, and smoking a cigarette. She wouldn't really talk to me, but she was looking at your car, and she tried to get in when she thought I wasn't watching. I didn't know if something was up. I stayed here until she left."

"Striking clothing? Like a work polo shirt and denim shorts?"

The tiger nodded. "You do know her, then?"

"Yes. But don't worry -- you did me a favor." He tried to laugh it off, but it was an inside joke and the tiger was an outsider. "Thanks for looking out. It's been a long night, trust me."

"Hopefully, none of it involved dealing with your friend?"

"She's not a friend. You'd be surprised what kind of trouble gets stirred up in a town of under two thousand people. Ah, well -- thanks. Again."

"No problem."

"Jeff," the dog said, holding out his paw for the tiger to shake.

"Nice to meet you." He let go, and looked behind him to his SUV. "It's a long night for me, too."

"Are you heading to Lincoln City for work or pleasure?"

"Work. Always work. I visit clients out here... there's a meeting in the morning I have to get to, one way or the other."

Jeff gave him a sympathetic nod. "Must be a lot of travel."

"Too much. But one must be practical about that, too, sometimes. I guess I should head off."

"Drive safe," the dog told him. "Good luck with the meeting."

The other man grinned. "Thanks. Good luck staying out of trouble, Mr. Reed."

It wasn't until Jeff was back in his car, finger on the starter, that he thought of something odd in what the tiger said. It was meant fondly, of course. And he'd smiled, too. It was only...

Only that trouble wasn't anything he'd needed luck with avoiding before.