Peruvian Mafia

“Alright, who are you?” I asked the man holding the rabbit. The barrel of his gun was aimed at my chest. If I were more optimistic, I’d say it was aimed at my own glock so that if we shot, the bullets would collide with each other, no one would be hurt, and we could all go home happy.

In reality, though, he’d probably hit my arm. Or the redhead behind me. Or maybe the bathroom mirror beside us.

“Who do you think? The Peruvian mafia.”

“You’re the Peruvian mafia?”

“I am.”

“Small mafia. And you don’t sound particularly Peruvian.”

“We’re a ninja mafia.”

“A ninja mafia. From Peru.”

“It’s possible.”

“But unlikely. And kind of racist, whitey.”

“Fair point. But I’ve got Hoppers.”

“Hoppers!” Chad shrieked behind me.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“A job fo – ”

“It looks like you have one,” I interrupted.

“If you’d let me finish?” I nodded. “A job for my friend.”

“And in return?”

He took his weapon off me and pointed it at the rabbit. “I don’t kill the bunny.”

“Chad?”

“Hoppers!”

“Chad, will you give this gentleman’s friend a job?” I said, the exasperation wrapping around my voice with an annoyed little bow.

“Yes, of course!”

I looked back to the man with the rabbit.

“Good,” he said. “Once José has the job, I’ll give you back the rabbit.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Just a question: who put you up to this?”

“No one. José and I were having a drink. He complained. So I formed the Peruvian mafia. Bringing justice to the world, and all that.”

“You know there are human rights commissions and such that can do the same thing? And that don’t put rabbits at risk?”

“Yeah. But this is more effective.”

“By which you mean, you got to pretend you’re a Mafioso?”

“Pretend? Lady, I am a Mafioso. We got what we wanted, didn’t we?”

I had to concede that point. “All right. Send José in to Chad’s office tomorrow, and the job will be his. Return Hoppers – alive – by midnight the next day, and all this never happened.”

“Deal,” the Mafioso said.

“Nice doing business with you.”

“Business doing ple – ”

“Don’t finish that,” I said, pointing Lucille a little more threateningly.

He nodded, then skirted around Chad and I, making his way downstairs while facing us – which was an impressive feat – and out the door.

“There you go kid, Hoppers will be back to you in two days.” I slipped Lucille back in my purse and turned just in time for the kid the throw his arms around me.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he cried. Finally he let go, wiping his tears away, and said, “Now, about my guinea pig.”

Oh, hell.

Uninvited Guests

Chad opened the patio door, and we were back inside the townhouse. Or town mansion. Whatever you want to call it. We were inside, is what I’m trying to say.

He showed me to Hoppers’ cage, which was little used. There was dust on the bars, and a few fossilized turds inside. Nothing to point to a rabbit, or to a kidnapper. No notes.

“This is where little Hoppers lived for the first three weeks,” Chad said, tears drenching his little red eyelashes. “After that, he just wanted to live free, and he did. I never thought my actions would impact him.”

“Few people do,” I said, for lack anything else to fill the silence.

“His favourite place to hang out was over here, on the couch with me,” he pointed to a sagged-in depression, the one spot on the leather couch that was used all the time by a kid and his rabbit. I got close and saw a few turds mashed between the cushion and the arm.

“Where did Hoppers go when scared?” I asked.

“Usually upstairs. I made him a little house out of cardboard.”

“Lead the way.”

We walked to the main foyer, and up the grand staircase. No turds, thankfully; I guess the cleaning staff got the most obvious ones, at least. I wasn’t sure how a rabbit could navigate the staircase, it being polished wood. I felt like it would be too slippery for an animal. I was having a hard enough time in shoes. But I also don’t know much about the traction of rabbit paws, so maybe it’s not an issue. I made a note to look it up back at the office.

We reached the top of the staircase, and Chad was just about to lead me toward Hoppers’ safehouse when I heard a click in the first room off the landing. I grabbed the kid’s sleeve, then held a finger up to my lips and retrieved Lucille from my purse. I cocked her as quietly as possible, then threw open the door and pointed.

Inside, a pale man with a pedo-stache held a small rabbit in one hand, and pointed a gun at me with the other.

“Drop it,” we said, simultaneously. He smiled, I shrugged, and we both kept pointing.

Behind me, Chad shrieked, “Hoppers!”

Rabbit’s Foot

There wasn’t much to speak of in the garden. Some grass, overgrown. A few shrubs around the fence in need of water. A lone tree in the center with a rabbit foot hanging from the lowest branch.

Well, that’s interesting.

The redhead showing me around ran over to it, already wailing at the injury to little Hoppers. For a kid in university, he sure isn’t adult about these things.

He brought the rabbit foot over to me. Either the kidnappers had gone to a lot of trouble to hack off the foot, stuff it, and attach a keychain to it, or this was not Hoppers’ foot.

“What colour was your rabbit, kid?”

“Can you stop calling me kid?” the kid said through his tears. “I’m 19.”

“Then what’s your name?”

“Chad.”

“Okay, Chad, what colour was Hoppers?”

“He was dark grey.”

“And what colour is this foot?”

“White.”

“So using simple logic we can deduce that…” I waited while the gerbil of Chad’s mind put a tentative foot on the wheel, then slowly pulled his fat little body up and started a leisurely stroll.

“They dyed Hoppers’ fur?”

Jesus. “Nope. This is one of those fake little rabbit’s feet you can buy at trinket shops. Not Hoppers. Hoppers is probably fine. Hoppers is probably just hiding. But who’s trying to scare you with this?”

“I told you, it’s the Peruvian mafia!”

Right. A thing that probably doesn’t even exist. “Do you have a specific name of someone?”

“…No.”

“I didn’t think so. Where do you normally keep Hoppers?”

“Inside. I let him roam free in the house.”

“Great, let’s go back in and take a look around.”

Creative Juices

I followed the racist little Ginger back to his house. If he was paying me to find Hoppers the rabbit, I might as well take a look at the scene of the crime. Who knows, maybe there will be a clue. Or Hoppers will be hanging out in the bushes. Or the kid will try to make a move on me, in which case I’ll blow his head off with the happy little glock I keep in my purse. No one ever expects Lucille.

We arrived at his three-story Victorian rental house. It looked like a frat boy’s dream, all rich parents and paid cleaners, because Gingy here wouldn’t pretty it up, and didn’t have the mental acuity to set the trash cans out.

He led me in the front door with that nervous look that either said, “I’m not sure what state this place will be in,” or “I’m going to try to take advantage of you, even though I hired you to find my rabbit”. Either way, I keep my hand on Lucille.

The inside was spotless; you can actually see a shine on the banisters. It even had fucking banisters.

“This is it,” the oaf said.

“Great. This where Hoppers disappeared from?”

“No, he was out back last I saw. But that was two days ago.”

The thing probably ran in front of a car and got all waffled.

“Lead the way.”

“Sure. Hey, you wanna come upstairs for a minute?”

I got my pistol-whipping hand ready. “Listen you little tampon. I’m here to help you find the rabbit. Don’t be a dick, or I’ll beat the shit out of you, take your money, and shoot Hoppers if I ever find him. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“Well let me make it extra clear. No more passes at me. I get that you’re a sex-starved little freshman with Mommy issues and a missing bunny, and I’m the first female contact you’ve had in months.” Not to mention that I’m fucking gorgeous, if I do say so myself. “But make another pass at me, and you’ll regret it more than an elephant trainer after burrito night.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good boy. Show me the garden.”

I even surprised myself with that metaphor. Sexist assholes get my creative juices flowing, I guess. Boy do they flow a lot.

Hoppers the Rabbit

“So what’s the case?” I asked the kid.

“Huh? Case? I don’t have a case.” He looked at me with the spaced-out eyes of someone who enjoys hourly recreational drug use and sweet beats, regardless of what those beats are.

“You came into my office, you handed me money. Asked if I was accepting clients. For the amount you gave me, I said yes. But you haven’t told me what you want.”

“Oh, right, that.” This little ginger was cute but stupid. And because he was a client, I wouldn’t call him Ginger until I was finished. I wanted the final payment, after all.

“Okay then, Carrots, what do you want? Or was that cash just a nice donation? Tips or get the fuck out.”

“Okay, okay.” That seemed to focus his eyes a little. “It’s my rabbit. He’s disappeared.”

“A rabbit?” Who am I, Jim Carrey? “You want me to find a rabbit?”

“Yeah. Hoppers means a lot to me, okay? And I think his disappearance is indicative of a larger plot against me.”

Okay, the kid can use the word indicative. Either a first year philosophy student who just learned the word, or he actually has some brains. Even if they’re as sharp as a crayon. I can understand that. We were all young once. But I need my mind these days, and I wish he would get to the point. “Out with it, you’re on the clock, Matchstick.”

“So Hoppers is gone. And before Hoppers, my guinea pig, Minipork, disappeared. And a few months ago, I think I pissed off the Peruvian mafia.”

“How?” I don’t think there is a Peruvian mafia, but I’ve been wrong on similar assumptions before.

“We didn’t let a Hispanic student into my frat house.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s Hispanic.”

So you’re dumb and racist? I may have reached the end of this job. “This’ll cost you extra, kid.”

“Look, just find Hoppers and get the PM off my tail. My estate will pay you whatever it costs.”

There it is; suddenly I’m back on the clock, but now I have to pull double duty. Rabbit tracking I’ve done before, but deprogramming ingrained racist mentalities is a much tougher gig. All in a days’ work for Carmel Bishop, P.I., I guess. I swung my feet of the desk and stood. The kid looked surprised as I smoothed down my skirt.

This might be a few days’ work, actually.