Who Censored Roger Rabbit? by Gary K. Wolf

did it ever brew great tea! But that’s about all it was good for. It certainly had no value.”
    “Maybe none you know about. It could be very valuable indeed if that two pounds turned out to be solid gold.”
    “Two pounds of solid gold,” said the rabbit. “For my life.” He hefted his two word balloons, one in each paw, but it wasn’t even a close contest. The one with his life in it outweighed the other by more than half. He faced me head on, stood up ramrod straight, and said, “Show me, would you please, the … the … the scene of the crime.”
    I pointed through the kitchen door to the staircase. “You were standing there. Whoever shot you was here in the kitchen. You can see the hole in the wall where the bullet hit. You muttered your last words and fell forward across them onto the banister. That’s where I found you.”
    “I see,” said Roger. He climbed the stairway and stuck a finger into the bullet hole. Then he took a look at the banister. I noticed some dark brown stains at the banister’s base. Dried blood. Roger’s blood. I did my best to spare him the sight of it. “Hey,” I said distracting him. “We’re finished here. Let’s get out.”
    Roger nodded but kept staring at the banister.
    “Look,” I said. “If we want to get this case wrapped up, we’ve got to keep cracking. I’ve got some important stuff for you to do. Important detective stuff.”
    Roger’s head snapped in my direction. “You do? What?”
    “I want you to go to the public library and search through books on film history until you find a photo of the tea-party scene from that Alice in Wonderland movie you were in. I want a photo that clearly shows the teakettle. And something else, too.” I opened my notebook and tore out a slip of paper.
    “Here’s the serial number of the thirty-eight they found in your nightstand. Go down to city hall and check the gun registration records. Determine who owns that gun. While you do that, I’m going to pay a call on Dominick DeGreasy. When you finish, go back to my place. We’ll meet there and compare notes.”
    “Right, chief,” said Roger. He walked down the stairs and out the door.
    With what I thought showed real class, he never once looked back.

Chapter •16•
    “A terrible, terrible thing what that rabbit did to my brother,” said Dominick DeGreasy. I could see why he had let his brother do the talking. Instead of a voice he had a throat-ful of gravel that rattled every word and gave him the tin drum sound you hear in people who lubricate their tonsils with loud talk and cheap gin.
    “You going to run the syndicate alone?” I asked.
    “You bet. Why not?” He pointed straight down at his desk top the way emperors point at their thrones. “Me and my brother built this syndicate together. I know as much about it as he did. Sure, the last few years he handled the business end of it, and I took care of keeping the talent in line. I just need a week or so to pick up the fine points, and I’ll have the place ricking along better than ever.”
    I wished I could find a bookie willing to take a bet on that.
    DeGreasy sat down at his desk. He crossed his size-sixteen gunboats in a maneuver worthy of a naval captain. “I got a firm to run here, Valiant,” he said. He interlocked his hands behind his head. His black morning coat pulled open and gave me a clear view of the howitzer he packed under his armpit. It appeared to be about the same big-bore caliber as the gun that got Roger, but it was hardly an antique pirate pistol. “I got no time to waste on cheap gumshoes. If you came by to line up a pigeon to expense your tab while you rehash this case, forget it. That rabbit killed my brother, no doubt about it. Why should I pay you to nose around, come back, and tell me what I already know?”
    “That’s not why I’m here, to get a client. I already have a client.”
    DeGreasy snorted. “Who?”
    “That’s privileged information. Let’s just say that my