The year is 1928. Jacq LeBleu receives a mysterious package from a mob boss. Can he defeat the Big Cheese Gang and deliver it successfully?

Today’s story is “Making A Delivery” by Thomas “Faux” Steele. Writing across many genres, Faux’s work has been published in numerous anthologies including the Leo Award-winning The Electric Sewer by Thurston Howl Publications. You can find more of his work on FurAffinity.

Today’s story will be read for you by Rob MacWolf — werewolf hitch-hiker.

You’re listening to The Voice of Dog. I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

and Today’s story is

“Making A Delivery”

by Thomas “Faux” Steele.

Writing across many genres,

Faux’s work has been published in numerous anthologies

including the Leo Award-winning

The Electric Sewer

by Thurston Howl Publications.

You can find more of his work on FurAffinity.

Please enjoy “Making A Delivery”

by Thomas “Faux” Steele

The Roaring Twenties were in full bloom at the Black Ferret Bar.

The atmosphere was jovial, bankers trading stock tips with lawyers who returned the favor with news of the latest decisions from the Court of Appeals.

Inspecteur Jacques

Fiacre LeBleu leaned back, taking it all in.

He was a fresh arrival in America,

having come over from Paris via transatlantic zeppelin the day before as part of a foreign exchange program.

He still wasn’t quite used to the weight of the NYPD shield tucked inside his canvas trench coat. “What

can I get you, cake-eater?”

The bartender was a slender ermine in a slinky, ankle-length dress, a tiara studded with green paste gems sitting heavy on her brow.

She wiped down a martini glass with a bar rag that looked like it was last washed when Georges Clemenceau was Prime Minister.

“You look like the type who’d enjoy a French 75.” “I’ll

have some wine. Give me the best red you have.”

Jacq drummed his claws on the butcher block counter as the ermine grabbed a bottle from under the bar.

Though he was hardly more than one-hundred sixty centimeters tall,

Jacq carried himself with the nobility of the ancien régime,

the dark plumage above his beak trimmed in the military style.

His cane leaned against the bar,

necessitated by an injury he’d suffered during

the Great War. “I can’t promise it’s good.”

The ermine deposited a chipped glass in front of him. Jacq leaned in and took a deep inhale as he gave it a brief swirl,

a strong aroma of raisins rising up to his external nares.

Well-aware of the new American fad called “Prohibition,” Jacq knew that he wouldn’t exactly be getting the finest Bordeaux.

“Scratch that. I’m pretty sure that wine is as bad as it gets.” “I’ll

toast to the Kaiser’s health then.”

With a grimace, Jacq slammed the wine back in a single gulp.

It was sickly-sweet—disgustingly so—forcing him to struggle not to vomit as he retched.

After a brief struggle with his gag reflex, the wine mercifully trickled down his gullet.

“Mon Dieu!” “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The ermine grimaced.

“Might I suggest the French 75 a second time?” “That

reprehensible excuse for wine makes cooking sherry look luxurious by comparison.”

Jacq ruffled his feathers

and laid a silver dollar next to the glass. “I’ll take you up on that suggestion.” “You

got it. Give me just a second, buster.”

The bartender scurried away to serve another of the many creatures clamoring for a serving of eau de vie. Jacq fiddled with his ring, a hefty piece he’d fashioned from an old five-franc coin in the trenches of Verdun.

He couldn’t wait to wet his

beak with a long draw of liquor.

Judging by the raucous crowd around him—including several police officers he recognized

—Prohibition was not long for this world. “You’re

not from around here, are ya?”

An imposing wolf with a rectangular body

placed a paw on Jaq’s shoulder,

digging his claws into his jacket.

The wolf was well over two meters tall, with several furless patches on his muzzle

giving him a frightening, battle-scarred appearance. A neat gray suit and gold triskelion tie pin signaled to Jacq that he was dealing

with the Cosa Nostra.

“Youze lookin’ like a stool-pigeon to me, little bird. Why don’t you come with me, nice and easy now? The manager wants to talk witcha.”

“I am but a stranger in a strange land, Monsieur.”

Jacq spoke with a heavy French accent,

the words flowing off his tongue like silken crêpe batter.

His expression remained neutral as the wolf’s hot breath tousled the feathers on the back of his neck.

“I am not here to disrupt the operations of this fine drinking establishment. I am merely

a humble traveler

in need of refreshment.

refreshment.” “Didn’t ya hear me the first time, bird brain?”

The wolf brusquely shoved Jacq to dislodge him from his perch atop the barstool. As Jacq

dug his claws into the counter to steady himself,

the force of his jacket flapping about dislodged his shield.

Clink. Their gaze met on the floor as the metal danced about on the tile

like a cub’s toy. “Oops.

“Oops.” It came to rest with a high-pitched ring,

NYPD insignia visible to all onlookers.

The roar of conversation immediately dropped down to a whisper

as Jacq’s hand darted down to wrap around his cane.

It was a formidable-looking instrument, a hand-carved length of elder

wood with a hooked handle

cast in the shape of an outstretched wing. “I’ll just

see myself out,”

Jacq said, as he hopped off the stool.

“Apologies for the commotion, Monsieur.

Monsieur.” “Youze ain’t going nowheres.”

The wolf was joined by a tiger

with biceps the size of Jacq’s thighs.

The tiger cracked his knuckles as the wolf straightened his tie.

“We don’t take too kindly to coppers around here, do we Vinny?” “No,

we don’t.” The tiger extended his claws.

They were large as steak knives, with silver and gold inlay running their full length. “Let’s get ‘em.” “There’s no need to descend to fisticuffs. I’m sure we can talk this out.” Jacq held his beak high despite being dwarfed by the apex predators.

His impeccably-tailored gray suit was free of the slightest crease, a crisp blue linen square tucked into his breast pocket

adding a pop of color to his ensemble.

He retrieved a pack of his favorite

cigarettes—Gauloises

—and stuck one into his beak as he stared them both down.

“Tread carefully. He who sows the wind shall reap the tempest.” The

wolf drew his fist back, winding up for a right hook.

Employing the superior reaction time of an avian, Jacq twirled his cane like a circus showman before lashing it against the wolf’s knee with tremendous force.

Letting out a howl that curled Jacq’s feathers, he dropped like a sack of potatoes.

The tiger’s courage seemed to fade

as Jacq rested one hand on his cane, the other bringing a match to the tip of his

cigarette. “That looked painful. I suggest you let me leave before you suffer the same fate.” Wheels

turned in the tiger’s head as Jacq straightened his back and bent his knees.

Cigarette smoldering in his beak as smoke

bellowed from his nostrils like a coastal fog,

the blue jay was totally in his element.

As the tiger pivoted to throw a punch,

he leaped backward onto the bar,

sweeping his feathered arms downward for maximum lift.

“C’est fini, mon ami! I have the high ground.” “Youze

really startin’ to make a nuisance of yourself!”

As the tiger started to climb up to his level, Jacq flipped his cane around and used the handle

to fire a pint glass at the tiger.

Having grown up playing viciously competitive games of croquet,

Jacq was an expert in accelerating small objects to high velocities.

The glass hit the tiger square in the chest and detonated,

knocking him backward

as the dull brown liquid stained his shirt. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean!”

Moving with avian swiftness, Jacq dodged the tiger’s deadly claws as he

returned fire with half-full barware.

The tiger took on the appearance of a bystander to a dye factory explosion as a variety of drinks drenched him.

Though he slashed at Jacq with wild abandon,

he remained stubbornly out of range. “From where I stand, you’re the one ruining an otherwise pleasant evening!” “I’m

gonna put you in an

iron lung!” As the tiger attempted to leap up onto the counter,

Jacq pitched a hefty ceramic beer stein at him

with the power of Burleigh Grimes.

It smacked him dead center in the forehead with a wet thud.

Tottering about with stars in his eyes, the tiger raised a paw

as if to compliment Jacq on his aim before

collapsing backward onto the floor. Jacq

took a deep breath to regain his composure

as he hopped down.

All eyes in the half-empty speakeasy were

locked on him.

Leaning heavily on the cane as his knee creaked beneath him, he carefully straightened his pinstriped tie as his eye

settled on an abandoned drink.

As his claws wrapped around the glass, a sharp “heh

-hem” caught his attention. “That’s

enough excitement for tonight.

Go back to your drinks.”

A ferret enveloped in a cloud of acrid cigar smoke had suddenly appeared next to Jacq,

his iridescent gold tie the only detail

the blue jay could make out. “Are you

interested in making a little dough tonight, LeBleu?

I’ll ignore what you just did to my boys if you’re willing to cut a deal.” “My

reputation precedes me.”

Jacq cocked his head as the bartender brought him a perspiring glass filled with neon pink liquid.

Taking a cautious sip, Jacq realized the concoction bore a striking resemblance to

the flavor profile of radiator fluid.

“What do you have in mind?” “I

have a little proposition for you.”

The distinctive ping of gold caught Jacq’s interest as the ferret dropped a pawful of twenty-dollar double eagles on the counter

as if they were low-value casino chips.

Jacq’s eyes lit up.

The princely sum was more than he made in several months. “It’s simple, really. I need you to deliver a package for me.” “Isn’t

this a bit overkill? I’m sure any newsboy could handle a simple delivery for a fraction of my price.” Jacq tapped the vulpine Lady Liberty’s muzzle with his index claw as he plucked a coin off the counter. “I am not one to turn down easy money, but I strive to obey the law

in my personal affairs. I have a certain code of honor,

something I’m sure you understand.” “You’re a straight shooter. I can respect that.”

The ferret nervously fiddled with the gold signet ring that adorned his pinky finger.

“It ain’t nothin’ illegal.

The contents are rather personal, if you catch my drift,

and they have to be delivered tonight. Capiche?” “I understand.” While Jacq had gotten out of the courier business, he had spent the long summers of his childhood running his mother’s pies to customers throughout Saint-Émilion.

He was sure the skills were transferrable.

“Bring out the package for my inspection, if you would.” “I’m

gonna be honest witcha LeBleu. I’m in a heck of a position here.

You’d really be doing me a favor.”

Jacq nodded as he slid

the weighty pile of gold into the inner pocket of his jacket,

basal pleasure radiating through his cheeks at the thought of having obtained so many shiny objects.

He carefully buttoned everything up tight as the ferret snapped his fingers.

“It’s already wrapped up nice and snug for you.

All you have to do is make the drop and scram.”

The wolf appeared with a silver cloche in one paw,

the other holding a frozen beefsteak against his knee.

He glared at Jacq as he set it on the bar with a loud clang before tugging the lid off to reveal a rectangular box

covered in gilt silver wrapping paper.

There were no markings on it to tip Jacq off as to its contents.

Sealed with a piece of blue string knotted into a simple bow, it seemed innocuous enough.

Jacq gave it his standard brief pre-delivery inspection, turning it over in his hands

and giving it a quick shake.

The contents were packed tight enough that nothing rattled around. “C’est bon.” “Then take this to the corner of Mulberry and Hester,”

said the ferret. “You’ll see a brownstone with

a triskelion on the gate. Ask for Giovanni,

the doorman, once you arrive.

Get it there before midnight or you’ll be in a heck of a pickle with Luca here.”

Jacq rolled his eyes as the wolf growled menacingly.

“There’s no need for concern.”

Jacq stood up, carefully tucking the package inside the largest pocket of his trench coat.

He took one last puff on his cigarette before

extinguishing it in

a chipped porcelain ashtray.

“Inspecteur LeBleu always sees an assignment

through.” “Good. We’ll be watching.”

Jacq turned his head over his shoulder, but the ferret had already faded into the crowd. After finishing his drink, the blue jay turned up his collar and headed out into the shabby bookstore

that served as a front for the speakeasy.

A watchful lynx sat behind the counter,

flipping through a dog-eared Agatha Christie novel.

He seemed far more focused on the pedestrians outside than the exploits of Hercule Poirot. Though

the moon was dim, cast-iron luminaires kept the streets lit

with warm orange light.

Jacq paused on the sidewalk to get his bearings as he unfolded a tourist map. As he held it up to his beak to examine the small-print street names, the intensifying roar of a straight-eight engine caught his attention. Jacq threw himself backwards as a black luxury sedan hopped the curb

and stopped where he’d been standing just a second ago. “Watch

where you’re going, you maniac!”

Jacq dusted himself off as the doors flew open.

A brown rat in a pinstriped suit stepped out of the driver’s seat.

Jacq recognized him from the wanted posters as Eddie

“The Gouda” Olsen, the head of the Big Cheese Gang.

Jacq frowned as his hand darted to grab his trusty Modèle 1892 revolver from the shoulder holster

where it usually resided. “Hand

over the dough, little bird.

We know youze carrying a few large on our turf, and we want a slice!”

Jacq quickly ducked into an alleyway, squatting down behind a pair of garbage

cans. Bits of brick stung Jacq’s cheeks as the rat-a-tat of bullets from a Tommy gun filled the air above him.

“Toss it out on the sidewalk and walk away.

We don’t wanna pluck your

feathers!” “I’ll make you

a deal. You go away, and I don’t throw you all in Rikers to cool off!”

Jacq returned fire,

emptying the revolver’s cylinder into the windshield of the idling car.

“I may not have a pizza on me,

but I’m happy to serve up a lead appetizer!”

As the rats leapt for cover, Jacq sprinted across the street toward a squat building lit up with thousands of multicolored bulbs.

The marquee proudly announced that the Orpheum Dance Palace featured the finest taxi dancers in all of New York,

all for a dime a thrall. Jacq ducked inside, figuring he could buy himself some breathing room by hiding in the midst of the evening crowd. The

lobby was cramped,

the low ceiling and walls lined with posters doing nothing to abate Jacq’s claustrophobia.

A cheetah in a fitted waist-length jacket

and band collar occupied a booth at the center, vibrating with energy. He poured himself another steaming cup of coffee from a Thermos as

Jacq approached. With a friendly nod of acknowledgment, he slid the cashier a shiny silver dime in exchange for a crisp

paper ticket. “Enjoy the dance,”

the cheetah said, giving him a flirtatious wink as Jacq ducked through the entrance.

The interior’s high ceiling gave it a palatial feel,

the massive mural of Terpsichore

—festive lyre in hand

—painted above the dance floor

reminding Jacq of the finest palaces of Vienna.

It was surrounded by smaller murals of nymphs and satyrs performing rustic dances.

The walls were decorated with geometric forms with outlines gilded in twenty-four karat gold. Enormous crystal chandeliers cast electric light on the dancers below. Jacq

blended in perfectly.

The patrons came from all walks of life, ranging from high-class businessmen with neckties half-askew

to vibrant young bluejackets with dance moves fresh from Pacific naval postings.

It was easy to spot

the taxi dancers, all dressed to the nines with gentlemen in black tie and ladies in the finest winter fashions from Fifth Avenue designers. “Hey

there, little bird.”

A snow leopard in a crisply-pressed tuxedo playfully brushed Jacq’s shoulder

as the song drew to a close.

He had an air of refined power about him,

like a sledgehammer crafted from sterling silver.

His eyes were the color of a Kashmir sapphire.

‘Would you care for a dance? It’s only a dime.” “Please,

Monsieur.” Jacq appreciated the snow leopard’s directness.

He carefully plucked the ticket from Jacq’s claws and neatly tore it in half.

After tucking the other half behind Jacq’s pocket square, he clasped his scaly fingers in his fluffy paws,

enveloping them like a pair of luxurious mittens.

By a happy accident, the snow leopard had placed himself between Jacq and the entrance.

He blocked Gouda’s line of sight as he slithered into the room. There

was a pause in the music as the patrons switched partners or

headed to the cheetah to purchase additional dance tickets.

As they waited, Jacq gave the snow leopard a

casual sniff. His scent was pleasant, a melody of florals that gave him the feeling of being wrapped in warm towels.

Jacq resisted the urge to stroke his fingers through the snow leopard’s luxurious cheek ruffs as an announcer

—a handsome fox in a bow tie

—climbed up onto the stage. The

announcer cleared his throat.

Behind him, there was a shuffling of papers as the orchestra changed scores.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a special treat for you tonight.

The Orpheum Dance Palace is proud to present Johnny Stellar and his GoodTime Band

for the Texaco Ethyl Power Hour.” The fox flashed a gorgeous smile as the conductor raised his baton.

“Please enjoy the debut of their new tune, ‘The

Circus Swing.’”

There was a brief round of applause before a clarinet began to scream in the altissimo register and a thumping bassline kicked off the orchestra.

The conductor—a distant relation of Benny Goodman

—swung his baton with frenetic energy, flipping rapidly through the score book.

The snow leopard led the dance, his experienced paws guiding Jacq around the floor.

He moved with gusto,

perfectly attuned to the swung beats. “Try

to keep up,” the snow leopard said with a teasing smirk.

Jacq faced him, the pair swinging their arms as they took two steps forward, two steps back,

light on their feet with the energy of the music urging them onward.

The tempo moved along with blazing intensity as the brass section shook the cathedral-like ceiling.

Surrounded by hundreds of other pairs of every gender and species moving to the same rhythm, Jacq caught only a brief glance of the civet in a rhinestone-studded dress and feather boa

that stepped up to the microphone.

Dance, dance, my friends we’re all clowns And the circus is burning down

So let’s dance, dance in blazing light

Shake those tails all through the night

The singer’s husky voice poured into the chrome of the ribbon microphone,

top-end speakers radiating her voice into the crowd.

Nothing got one’s blood pounding like dancing to impress a stranger. The snow leopard’s piercing blue eyes were locked on Jacq as he whirled the blue jay around the dance floor,

their movements perfectly synchronized.

Dance, dance all your cares away

Don’t feel too tempted by dismay

So let’s dance, dance and never stop

Around the flaming circus top “Enjoying

yourself?”

the snow leopard asked while lifting the bird off the ground for a brief moment.

The trombonist slammed his slide with gusto

while the piano player’s fingers raced across the keyboard. Sharing a grin,

the pair shared a grin as they captured a prime position in the center of the action. “Of course.” Jacq caught Gouda out of the corner of his eye scanning the dancers from a vantage point atop a table piled high with libations in twinkling crystal glasses.

While Jacq was fairly sure he would only have time for a single dance, the undercurrent of danger in the air made it all the more enjoyable. “It’s not often I have a dance partner of such caliber as yourself.” “It’s

not often I have the pleasure to

dance with a Frenchman.”

Finally, with a petite flourish from the clarinetist, the music came to a close.

A great commotion came over the dance floor as the scramble for fresh partners began.

“That was quite exhilarating.”

The snow leopard grinned, flashing his pearly white canines.

“Consider the next dance on the house.” “I’ll have to take an IOU on that dance.” Jacq

gave the snow leopard a graceful bow.

Before he had time to rise up,

the snow leopard slid a piece of paper up Jacq’s sleeve.

“Will you be working later tonight?” “I

get off at two.”

Jacq couldn’t see Gouda, but his detective senses told him that the rat was closing in on him. He didn’t have much time to spare

for chit-chat. “Ask the ticket seller for Archie, if you don’t see me.” “This

dance was but an amuse-bouche.

You’ve left me hungry for

more. I’ll catch you later, Archie.” With a flick of his tail feathers, Jacq ducked out a fire exit.

A refreshingly chill breeze ruffled his feathers as he hobbled down the sidewalk.

Keeping his head down to blend in with the haggard denizens returning home from the second shift.

Jacq took furtive glances toward the street behind him

as he tried to evade the Gouda’s notice. The

blue jay leaned against a battered metal pole as he waited for the traffic light to change.

He used the brief lull to check over the piece of paper.

It was a coupon for a free dance,

with a small heart scribbled in the corner in red ink.

Jacq chuckled and tucked it somewhere safe before turning his attention back to his surroundings.

Neon signs lit up the skyline, hawking cigarettes, coffee,

and a thousand other new products of the post-war boom.

Even at this hour the streets were choked with traffic,

filling the air with a thick, chemical smog.

Jacq narrowed his eyes as he caught a glimpse of the rat some distance away,

nut-brown fur blending into the muted color palette of the crowd.

The light changed and the crowd swept him forward like a boat in relentless current.

Jacq kept moving forward, biding his time until the crowd began to thin out.

Once he could no longer rely on his fellow pedestrians for cover,

the blue jay tossed a nickel onto the counter of a newsstand

and grabbed the evening edition of the Times. He flipped it open, burying his beak in a story about corruption in President Harding’s administration. Once

he’d reached the middle of the block, Jacq ducked into the doorway of a brownstone.

He scanned the passersby over top of the newspaper, Gouda’s gaze sliding right over him as he strolled past.

As soon as Jacq figured the rat was a comfortable distance away, he neatly folded the paper

and tucked it under his arm just-in-case.

He checked his wristwatch and confirmed that he still had plenty of time to deliver the package before midnight. “Didja really think you could give us the slip that easily?”

A mouse in a threadbare suit with several hastily-applied patches on the elbows and knees

leveled a rust-pitted revolver at Jacq.

His breath smelled like cheap coffee and stale donuts.

“Youze not getting away that easy, bird brain.

Drop your gat and kick it over, nice and easy.”

Not a moment later, the rest of the Big Cheese Gang rolled up,

their motorcar now sans windshield.

They climbed out and assembled as Gouda jogged up, panting and red-faced.

Jacq complied, gingerly setting his revolver on the concrete and sending it their way.

He grimaced, beak closed tight, as the burl wood grip scraped across the shoddily-laid concrete. “Now,

hand over that

package,” Gouda said while glaring at Jacq.

While he estimated he might be able to take the rodents in a straight fight, criminals rarely fought fairly.

This situation would require a triumph of intellect. “And make it snappy.

We ain’t got all night.” “Of course.” Jacq reached into his jacket and retrieved a single gold coin and his pack of cigarettes.

He held the coin by its edge, allowing its luster to entrance the rats.

“But first, I’d like to offer my

congratulations. It seems I’ve been taken down by an expert team.

Let me give the best tracker among you this coin with my sincere compliments.”

“I’ll be taking that gold.”

Gouda held out his paw expectantly.

“Whaddya think you’re doin’? I found him, not you.” The mouse slapped Gouda’s paw down as he puffed up his chest.

Jacq thought he looked more ridiculous than intimidating.

“That gold is mine, Gouda.

You’re acting like a total thirstbucket,

you know that?” “Hey.

I’m the one that pointed out that bird.

bird.” A black rat weighty enough that the sedan’s springs creaked as he stepped out from the passenger seat gestured at both of them. Jacq took a deep draw on his cigarette as he watched them start to squabble.

The tip glowed like a tiny ruby.

“I need a new Tommy gun, bub, and you’re not getting

in the way of that!” Jacq

casually tossed the coin on the pavement and crossed his arms.

“Please, gentleman, there’s no need to fight.

I’m sure you can all settle this little dispute with words, right?” “I

don’t need no stinkin’ words to prove I’m tougher than all of you!”

The black rat cracked his knuckles before tackling Gouda.

Hostile scowls were exchanged for a moment before the Big Cheese Gang descended into a cartoonish brawl.

Casually whistling “La Marseillaise” as he strolled away, Jacq grabbed his revolver

and tucked it back

where it belonged. After

more blocks than he cared to walk—having failed to spot a single cab available for hire

—he reached a well-maintained brownstone townhouse on the corner of Hester Street.

A cast iron gate bore a golden triskelion engraved on its elaborate lock.

Pushing it aside,

Jacq ascended the stairs.

“Mon Dieu…” The knocker was grotesque,

a Gorgon’s head rendered in such exquisite detail

Jacq felt his muscles turn to stone.

As the blue jay froze, contemplating his next move,

the door flew open.

A ferret of unusual height and musculature grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and lifted him off the doormat.

“Whaddya think you’re doin’ coming round this here at this hour?” Jacq sighed. He was beginning to tire of this assignment.

“Better start squakin’, bird.” “I

have a package tucked inside my coat.

I was told to ask for Giovanni when I arrived here.”

Jacq peeked over the ferret’s shoulder.

The interior was richly decorated with parquet flooring

and deep blue wallpaper.

A seventeenth century Flemish tapestry

adorned the wall opposite the wide staircase.

“Could you unhand me, please?

I prefer being airborne under my own power.” “Grazie,

Giovanni. You can let the bird down.”

An elderly ferret with gold-filled eyeglasses peered curiously at

him. Her tawny fur had turned platinum, with only a few patches of brown remaining around her mask.

Though her eyes were clouded with cataracts,

a sharp wit was evident in her smile. “A package, you say?

It’s awfully late for a delivery.” “I am not the Pony Express.”

Giovanni brusquely dropped Jacq onto the doormat.

He dusted himself off,

adjusting his collar before

pulling the package out.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed a pleasant melody

as it struck twelve.

“Someone desperately wanted this delivery made before midnight,

and I have never broken a promise.” “Just

in time.” With fingers gnarled with rheumatism, the ferret struggled

to undo the string.

Giovanni flicked open a switchblade.

With a deft cut, the string drifted lazily down to the floor,

the wrapping paper following a moment later.

Inside laid a bouquet of flawless white lilies bound

with artificial silk. Bringing them close to her muzzle, the ferret took a deep whiff.

Wordlessly, Giovanni disappeared into the parlor.

“These take me back to the old country.

My son sent you, didn’t he?” “Of

course.” Giovanni returned with a crystal vase filled with water.

The ferret slipped the lilies inside and then

set them in a place of honor on a circular mahogany table inlaid with an ivory crucifix.

“I was beginning to worry

that he’d forgotten La Festa della Mamma

this year. Do you have a name, kind delivery man?”

“LeBleu. Jacques LeBleu, à votre service.”

Jacq gave her a crisp military salute. “Would

you like to come in for some coffee, Signore LeBleu?” The ferret waved her paw towards the parlor.

“I can have Giovanni make you a cup of espresso. It’s

a brick out there.” Jacq

sighed. “Could I take it to go? I’m sure I would have a most delightful conversation with you, Madam,

but I promised I would meet someone tonight.

The dance hall closes at two, and I wouldn’t want to miss him.” “I

understand. I was a young jill once, you know.”

The ferret pressed a small enameled tin

into Jacq’s hand as Giovanni returned with a steaming Bakelite

cup. “Please, take a little sustenance for your journey. No one leaves Signora Civello’s home with an empty stomach.” “Merci

beaucoup. Enjoy the flowers, Madam.”

Jacq gave her a polite nod before he headed out into the refreshing night air.

He took a sip of the steaming coffee as he stood on the stoop,

savoring the atmosphere of Gotham.

Then, with a spring in his step, he set off back toward the Orpheum Dance Palace. “Gah!”

After two steps,

Jacq felt pain shoot up his inner

thigh. While his spirit was willing, his body had less to give.

Resting a hand on his cane, he took a deep breath of the cool night air.

Jacq twiddled one of the gold coins between his fingers as he stuffed his beak with sweet,

licorice-flavored cookies.

All he wanted to do was dance his cares away with Archie, and with twenty dollars, he could do it to his heart’s content. Jacq

supposed making a delivery wasn’t a half-bad way to spend an evening. END It was a dark and stormy night, and this is 16pts Arial with no indents so it’s easy for Khaki to read…

This was “Making A Delivery”

by Thomas “Faux” Steele,

read for you by Khaki, your

faithful fireside companion.

You can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog,

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to The Voice of Dog.