I flashed my Enforcer Badge.

"We don't serve your kind here," the bar ruffian told me, his three eyes glaring. 

"You don't have a choice, Trog," I said.

"Hey, how'd you know my name?"

I merely smiled.  "Two barium beers," I said. 

"Two?" 

Apparently he hadn't noticed my companion, a black standard poodle of good size.  I motioned.

"What the-  No way.  That kind I can't serve."

"You'll serve him," I ordered. 

"But a dog-" 

"Bring the drinks over to that empty corner table.  And get another ruffian to cover for you.  We've got a little talking to do."

"You can't-"

"Oh," I interrupted, "and bring Steve's brew in a bowl.  He has trouble with mugs." 

The bar ruffian was grumbling out both of his mouths when he joined us a minute later.  "I could get into trouble for this."

 "Put the bowl on the floor, Trog," I said.  "And sit down."

He grumbled even more, but did as told, and Steve started slurping.
 
"Now what were you saying?" I asked.  "Oh yes, something about getting into trouble."  I grinned.  "You're already in trouble.  Trafficking of defective droids, robotic robbery runs, manhandling murders-"

"W-What?  You can't pin any of that stuff on me."

"Wrong.  I already have.  With Steve's help."

"You kidding me?  What could a dog-"

"You'd be surprised what a dog can sniff out."

Steve lifted his head, foam dripping from his mouth as he gave Trog an exhibition of his talents in crotch sniffing. 

"Eee!" Trog yelped, and I quickly regained Steve's attention by refilling his bowl from my own untouched mug. 

"The syndicate you work for has targeted a slew of life forms," I told Trog.  "Including Enforcers," I added grimly. 
  
"I don't know what you're talking about." 

"Last month - one of us infiltrated the syndicate.  Our agent fed us lots of information on the group's workings. . . 'til you killed him."

Trog didn't blink an eye, though I noticed the middle one widen a little.  "You're nuts."

This agent," I continued, "had close cropped, black curly hair.  Loved beer.  Name was Steve."

"Steve?"  Trog's glance went back to the poodle.   

"Now you get it," I said.
 
Trog passed forked tongues over chapped lips.  "No way," he whispered.  
 
"Modern medicine is an amazing thing," I said.  "You killed Steve's body, but not his spirit or soul, or his love of beer.  You're going down, Trog."

"You got nothin'."

"That's not what the syndicate will think when we pull you in."

"No.  You can't.  I-  What the hell!"

Steve had lifted his leg and pissed all over the bar ruffian's leg. 
   
I grinned.  "Yep, looks like you're a marked man.     You won't even come back as a dog."   

Trog tucked his head into his shell, finally stuck it out again to blink at Steve and me.  "Okay.  Get me into protective custody -- and away from him.  I'll spit out every fact I know."