5 word challenge: wild creatures

I don't like it, Andy Finston thought to himself.  He stood in the steamy mid-day sun of early July in Philadelphia, pretending to watch as two giraffes loped exhaustedly across their small dirty imitation of the savannah.  Finston was surrounded by the usual zoo crowd of mewling babies, barely controllable toddlers, cataleptic parents and teenage boys calculating around which corner to cop a feel. 

Finston was accustomed to setting the agenda.  So the sudden call from Mr. Nickles had rattled him.  One o'clock.  In front of the giraffes at the zoo.  Bring lots of cash.  Click.  Finston had a vague sense of unease, but no real options.  He had spent months cultivating Nickles, just so this moment would occur.  The moment when Andrew Finston made his bones as more than just a beat reporter for the Daily Chronicle.  He would open the box, and all of Philadelphia's dirty little secrets would fly out.  Nickles was the key.

It was now a quarter past one.  Finston sighed as he raised the disposable camera, and took another meaningless picture.  Did you bring the money?  A sharp rasp of a whisper from the right side.  Finston nodded without looking.  Walk over to the peacock walk.  There's a path into the bushes used by employees to the right side.  Meet me there in ten minutes.

Finston waited five minutes, and then strolled over to the peacock walk.  He doffed his Phillies cap, wiped his brow with his sleeve, and replaced the cap.  God, it's hotter than hell.  There, off to the right, he saw a faded dusty track over a lawn, down a slight incline.  It settled into the bushes.  This was a quiet back area of the zoo, used mostly to skirt the exhibits on the way out.  The few peacocks Finston could see bedraggedly stood silent, with feathers furled.  

Time to make the big time, thought Finston.  He looked around and, seeing no one, strode purposefully down the lawn and through the gap in the bushes.  There was a set of stairs, bordered by rusted railings, leading down to a concrete landing festooned with dumpsters.  Mr Nickles was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.  Jesus, Nickles, what's with the cloak and dagger crap?, asked Finston.  Nickles stood quietly, his hands in his pockets.

As Finston started down the stairs, he was shoved from behind.  His momentum carried him to Nickles's feet.  He tried to stand, but the man behind him slipped a loop over his head, and began to pull, jerking him onto his back.  Nickles watched as Finston gasped and struggled, and then finally went limp.

Sorry, Andy.  You were too close.  Nickles looked at the killer.  He has cash.  Stuff it in his mouth and throw him in a dumpster.  The killer laughed softly.  When the body was found, it would look as if Finston was a dirty reporter who crossed the mob.  Very good, deputy mayor Nickles.  Elegant.