//------------------------------// // Chapter 7: Manehattan Noir // Story: Overture // by Dusk Quill //------------------------------// The city of Manehattan remained the same as he remembered it. The massive labyrinth of gray concrete sprawled along the northeastern coast of Equestria like an urban fortress. Millions of lights shattered the night, keeping the darkness at bay whilst simultaneously casting long shadows across the alleys and streets. Pegasi flew haphazardly through the air. Carriages and carts bustled through the busy streets amongst throngs of boisterous ponies. The city was as much a living thing as every individual creature that called it home. Bentgrass stepped out of the train, his hooves clopping against the station platform as he avoided getting swept away in the surging crowds of the metropolis rushing to and fro right before his eyes. He stepped to the side, his height permitting him to survey the crowd with relative ease. The atmosphere of the city closed in around him already, making him feel as isolated as a lone island in a monsoon of chaos. “Special Agent Bentgrass?” At the call of his name, Bentgrass turned to eye a shorter stallion standing beside him. The lithe Earth pony wore a simple brown coat, and had either been so fast or so subtle that he hadn’t noticed his approach. He nodded his head and replied, “That’s me.” “Detective Lightning Flash, Manehattan Police, Special Investigations,” the pony introduced himself with a brief salute. “Captain Fleethoof called ahead and let us know you were heading our way.” “You’re running the investigations on the Manehattan syndicates?” asked Bentgrass. Lightning Flash flinched, then motioned with a flick of his head and walked down the platform with Bentgrass. “You don’t want to be saying that too loud around the city. The uptown areas of Manehattan aren’t as connected to the Mob as the lower districts are, and we try to keep it that way. We’re trying our best to keep a lid on it all, but you never know who’s listening…” “But…?” Bentgrass urged on. “…But with the recent bust of one of their capos and their warehouse, the syndicate’s been riled into a frenzy. We’ve been getting reports of violent assaults and gunfire in the streets in the southern districts all day. I think they’re trying to run us into the ground. Their way at getting back at us, I suppose.” Bentgrass stared straight ahead, his face expressionless as ever as he took in the situation around Manehattan. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to pick fights with ponies bigger than you?” “Har har,” Lightning deadpanned with a roll of his eyes. “The Mob has been getting too powerful in the past few years. Somepony has to do it. It might as well be me.” The two ponies stepped out onto the street. A police carriage sat in wait on the curb. Two ponies in black uniforms were harnessed in at the front, their muscles flexing against the taut straps as they waited to take off. Lightning Flash and Bentgrass climbed inside and the carriage pulled away from the curb, rolling down the wide city streets. Bright orange light from the street lamps filtered down around them, casting the entire cityscape in a warm glow. “Captain Fleethoof said you were following up some sort of investigation in Thatchholm.” Lightning Flash glanced over across the seat at Bentgrass. The agent was staring idly out the window at every pony they passed. “You think the syndicate here has some sort of ties to whatever’s going on out there?” “I think it’s the exact same syndicate.” “Come again?” Bentgrass cast a sideways glance at his police liaison. “If the crime families out here are linked with our suspect in Thatchholm, I’ll have all the probable cause I need to search his residence and find what I’m looking for.” “You sound confident that this pony is your guy.” “There’s only one way to find out.” Lightning Flash nodded his head. “Let me bring you up to speed then…” “Where are we going?” Bentgrass asked as soon as the pony had drifted off. “That’s what I meant by ‘bring you up to speed’.” Lightning Flash chuckled, then let the laugh die when Bentgrass remained stolid as stone. “We’re going to the precinct that serves the southernmost district and inner harbor areas. It’s our HQ for the war against organized crime here, and also where the Special Investigation Unit is based. Everything you’ll need is there. “The family running the crime syndicate in Manehattan is the Sarcidano family. They’re ruthless, cunning, and professionals at what they do. Trafficking, fraud, blackmail, murder… You name the crime and they’ve made it an art. Hell, by now they’ve either executed or muscled the other crime families out of the city. They are loyal to one another to a fault. Believe me when I say they’d rather get gunned down in the streets than flip on one of their own. These are the creatures we’re dealing with.” “Sounds like my type of crowd,” murmured Bentgrass. Something ran through his mind. His brow knitted together as he turned back to Lightning Flash. “You said ‘creatures’ and not ‘ponies’.” “That’s because the Sarcidano syndicate doesn’t discriminate. They’re sort of like the criminal version of equal opportunity employers.” Lightning Flash opened a bulky folder on the seat and began tossing out photographs of a motley crew of creatures, each one looking meaner than the last. “Ponies, horses, zebras, griffons, diamond dogs… If you name it, they’ve got ’em.” Bentgrass flipped through a few of the photographs, memorizing each distinctive face. “They’re a regular UN of felons.” “It’s part of what makes them so dangerous. You never know who’s on their side until you’ve got the barrel of a gun pressed to your head.” With a heavy exhale, Bentgrass gathered up the photos and placed them neatly back inside the file. “They won’t be a problem. What else are we dealing with?” “The Sarcidano family is run by three key players: Adamo, the Earth pony book-keeper behind their money deals, Angelo, the pegasus that runs with the ‘soldiers’ in their more violent crimes, and Incanto, the unicorn who used to handle all their smuggling and trafficking until we busted him. You’ve probably seen him in the papers.” Lightning Flash pulled out three photographs as he rattled off the names, passing them over to Bentgrass to study. The agent’s eyes traced over every minute detail of the three ponies’ physiology, noting the distinctive scar on the pegasus’ cheek and the Earth pony’s cutie mark. “Adamo and Angelo are our two big contenders still at large. Adamo is probably the pony you’re looking for though. If there were any dealings with anypony, he would know about it. Maybe even have records of it too.” “Physical evidence for his own insurance,” noted Bentgrass, a spark igniting in his eyes while he added, “and our benefit.” “So how do you know Captain Fleethoof again?” “We’ve worked together in the past,” he explained, continuing to flip through the three photographs again and again. “Division Six provides his team with intel and he provides us with physical support. You seem quite familiar with him yourself.” “I used to be part of his team,” Lightning Flash explained, staring out the window as the memories played before his eyes with the passing lights. “Why did you quit?” Lightning Flash hesitated, prompting Bentgrass to ask again. “What made you leave Skyfall to become a detective?” “Difference in ideology… I stayed on with the Guard for a year after I left Skyfall, but when my enlistment ran up, I opted out of continuing my service. The MPD lets me work with the community a lot more hooves-on than the Guard did. I feel like I’m making more of a difference fighting organized crime with them than I did as a desk sergeant.” Bentgrass dipped his head a little, his eyes glazing over as he lost himself to distant thoughts. “Understandable.” “How about you? You serve?” “Is it that obvious?” “You have that air of a soldier about you,” Flash noted. “A kind of sense of scumbag entitlement.” He nodded. “I was for a time.” “Is that where you got the eye? Lost your normal one? Transplant, maybe?” “Something like that…” Lightning Flash turned away from the window, looking over at the agent and asked, “What made you jump ship?” He didn’t answer, instead remaining silent for a time with his lips shut tight. The carriage swerved to the right and slowed to a stop. Bentgrass glanced out the window, eyeballing the large gray stone structure they had parked outside of. The emblem of the Manehattan Police Department sat ostentatiously above a set of glass doors with a big metal sign designating the building as a precinct. Bentgrass was already opening the door and climbing out of the carriage before Lightning Flash even announced they had arrived. The southern district of the city was a far cry from uptown. The acrid smell of smoke, rust, and ripe garbage clung tight to the air like a cheap air freshener from hell. The buildings were all in various states of decay, stained with moss and crumbling around the foundation. Glancing down the street, Bentgrass counted four boarded up windows. To say the southern district of Manehattan was suffering from the effects of crime would have been a gross understatement. He scowled as he observed his surroundings. Only a hoofful of ponies walked the streets as opposed to the hundreds scurrying by back up town, not to his surprise. He would have thought the Sarcidanos would have kept their part of the city in better conditions. It looked more like they were trying to ward off any unwanted visitors instead. “Quite a sight, huh?” Lightning Flash said, walking up past the stony agent. “Come on in. I’ll show you to the team, we’ll get you set up, and we’ll hit the streets ASAP.” “Good.” Bentgrass gave a curt nod and trotted up the cracking stone steps of the precinct. “The faster we catch these malefactors, the sooner I can find the answers I need.” Bentgrass stepped into the blinding light of the precinct’s lobby and was greeted by the sight of dozens of uniformed ponies rushing about, all talking in loud voices amongst themselves. Papers and files were traded and pinned to cork boards covering the walls. Maps had been laid out with marker lines running all over them. Photographs were hung on the wall, several covered by big red Xs. Over to the side, a group of ponies were throwing on kits of armor, suiting up for battle. Justice in progress… The sight brought a trace of a smile to Bentgrass’ lips. “Right this way, Special Agent.” At his beck, Bentgrass followed Lightning Flash through the chaotic lobby into one of the side offices. The letters plastered to the frosted glass door labeled the room as the Special Investigations Unit. The room was crafted of plain gray drywall with white tiled floors. A trio of cheap-looking metal desks sat in an unorganized fashion around the office, two of them occupied with other ponies. They glanced up when Lightning and Bentgrass walked in, then returned to the paperwork smothering their desks without so much as a word in greeting. “The others are gearing up for the raid tonight. We’re hitting another of their warehouses we’ve been staking out,” he explained, leading Bentgrass over to a pair of whiteboards propped up against the back wall. Photographs of locations were taped to the smooth surface with notes and times written around each of them. “This is where we could use your help. You want to get to the Sarcidano roster and we want to get the ponies that keep it. Consider it a quid pro quo partnership.” Bentgrass made a soft sound of acknowledgement, his contrasting eyes reading over the scribblings on the boards with haste. “What is it you need me to do precisely?” “The Sarcidanos have a hidden club down by the harbor. We believe they’re using it to run all of their high-end deals out of it, along with an underground gambling ring.” “You believe?” Bentgrass eyed Lightning Flash warily. “You don’t have any proof?” “We know they’ve got something there, but the illegal dealings is all speculation. We’ve never been able to get a pony inside. Over the past few months, we’ve busted every other building they’ve owned, but came up empty-hoofed. This is the last place they could have moved it to.” “So why do you need me?” asked Bentgrass. Lightning Flash paused, licking his dry lips before saying, “Months of failed attempts to catch them have exposed us to the Sarcidanos. They know what our key players look like and can sniff out one of our cops in a heartbeat. You’re a brand new face in a cheap suit. You could pass for anypony.” Bentgrass gave an indignant snort. “This suit cost more than your precinct’s renovations did. I trust you have a plan?” “You slip in, convince the Sarcidanos with whatever lie you like best, then see if they lead you to anything useful,” Lightning Flash said, motioning with his head back towards the squad room. “The SWAT team will be standing by to begin the raid as soon as you confirm anything legit and get out. It’s a win-win.” “And if they see through my cover…?” he asked, raising a brow curiously. “Then I hope you can run fast. But try to be better than that.” “I am. I was curious if you had a contingency plan that didn’t involve me getting shot in the head.” Lightning Flash chuckled under his breath. “Just do your thing, Special Agent. Get whatever you need and get out of there. Pull whatever tricks you have to, just make sure you nail them and then leave the rest to us.” “Fair enough. Do make sure your team is ready when I am.” Bentgrass gave a sideways glance to the detective. “Now, where am I going?” A foghorn bellowed in the darkness that swallowed up the harbor, the melancholy sound rumbling through the air. The gentle lapping of the ocean’s waves against the old wooden docks that ran the length of the Manehattan Bay, the water invisible in the inky blackness of the starless night. Specks of light seemed to float in the air in the middle of nowhere; lanterns hung from the wayward ships to mark their presence in the water. The musty smell of mildew and salt mixed with the scents of smoke from the city. It stung the inside of Bentgrass’ nostrils as he trotted along the wharves at his own gait. The Sarcidanos had picked the perfect spot for hiding away from unwanted attention. Nopony would voluntarily come this way. It was difficult for Bentgrass to navigate the labyrinth of winding, gloomy streets with only the sparse streetlights to illuminate the way. Every road seemed to blend into an identical street, stretching on endlessly in a hazy, yellow-tinted world like some sort of nightmare world. Shadows crept around every red brick wall, crawling like pitch-black creatures from every alley and crevice. A dog barked in the night somewhere off in the distance, breaking the uneasy silence around the harbor. It was the epitome of a bad noir movie and he was the star of the show. Lightning Flash’s directions had been very specific. The last thing the detective had wanted was to lose his undercover in the backstreets of Manehattan’s underbelly. The building itself sat just off the main thoroughfare of the harbor and looked exactly like every other run-down warehouse and tenement house in the area. A flickering light swung from a cable over a single steel door marked simply with the numbered address. Bentgrass looked over the dilapidated building a couple times, making sure he was, in fact, at the right place. Much to his personal chagrin, he was. He stepped up the short concrete steps and rapped against the metal door seven times, following the code Lightning Flash had instructed him to do to the letter. He waited, and waited. Nothing happened for the longest moment. Bentgrass double-checked the number on the door again and surveyed the surrounding area. All of the buildings were blacked out. Nopony had lived here in some time. The broken and boarded up windows didn’t bode well either. Just as he was about to knock again, he heard a latch release on the other side of the door. The slot in the door opened, revealing nothing but darkness inside. Even still, Bentgrass could feel the electric tension run through him that came with the sixth sense of knowing somepony was watching him. “Whadda ya want?” a gruff voice asked from the other side of the door. “I think you know what I want,” Bentgrass’ cool voice purred calmly. There was a moment of hesitation from the other side. “Sailors shouldn’t go digging for buried treasure…” Bentgrass rolled his eyes. “Then pirates shouldn’t mark their maps.” He recited the password like he had been meant to know it. It was so corny it made the agent flinch inward. Everything stayed still for a few long seconds. Then the latch slid shut and Bentgrass heard a series of heavy locks release. It was apparent the Sarcidanos did not go wanting for security. The door crept open, permitting him access into the dark building. Bentgrass eyed the emptiness with caution, feeling the hairs stand up on the back of his neck as he took that first slow step inside. No sooner was he past the threshold, the door slammed shut behind him with an ear-splitting bang. He heard the locks snap back into place, and then a bright light blinded him. Somepony had turned the lights on, illuminating the ramshackle interior. The pallid walls of concrete and cinder block were cracking and crumbling, and the wood floor beneath his feet was stained and popping up against the nails holding them in place. The lingering smell of cigarette smoke clung to the rancid air. “Who are you?” Bentgrass turned around, coming face to face with a hefty-looking griffon easily twice his size. The griffon looked the pony over twice, sizing him up. “My name is Sure Bet. I’m a stockbroker,” Bentgrass lied, saying his words with practiced conviction and a phony accent that put too much emphasis on all the wrong syllables. He had played this part before. His role was the only thing keeping him from painful discovery. But this was far from his first walk in this park. “Word on the street is this is the place I can find a little… after hours investing.” The griffon’s eyes narrowed and he crossed his talons, his bulky muscles flexing beneath the downy feathers. “I ain’t never seen youse around these parts before.” “I’m from Fillydelphia, in case my accent didn’t give that away to a brilliant fellow like yourself.” He saw a glimmer of recognition in the griffon’s eyes as he placed his southern accent with a location. One of the key rules with deception: always include some truth in the details, Bentgrass recited in his head. The griffon nodded and motioned with his head over to the closet. He stepped over to it, Bentgrass following shortly behind. The griffon pulled the doors open to reveal a hidden elevator platform. The rusty metal didn’t encourage any trust in the mechanism, but he was too far in to back out now. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Wall Street,” the griffon spoke with a snide inflection, a phony smile on his face as he pulled the lever. Bentgrass felt the elevator shudder and heard a generator hum to life. Ever so slowly, the platform began to descend down into the floor until he was enveloped in the dark shaft. So that’s why the place looked abandoned… Very clever, Sarcidanos… Very clever… It was only a short trip down to the bottom of the shaft. Warm light poured into his eyes and music flooded his ears when the platform reached its destination, a metal gate barring him from exiting. A pony scurried to open the gate and ushered Bentgrass out, letting the agent get a good look around. It looked as if he had stepped out into an entire underground cabaret club. Chandeliers hung overhead, lighting every corner of the expansive room. Plush red carpet covered the floor and the concrete walls above had been replaced by fine wood paneling. It reminded him of the Clydesdale Manor’s charm. Card tables were set up as far as the eye could see. Creatures of all kinds milled about between them, gambling and laughing as they downed drink after drink. A stage was set up against the far wall and was exhibiting a variety of mares dressed in alluring saddles and other attire dancing across it for the entertainment of the patrons. “Name?” Bentgrass looked over at the pony that had let him out of the elevator. He was levitating a clipboard and quill, giving him an impatient stare. “Sure Bet.” “Occupation?” “Stock broker.” “Got an ID, Mr. Bet?” Bentgrass gave the pony his best deadpan expression. “What kind of idiot would take his identification to an establishment such as this?” The pony pursed his lips, tapping his quill against the clipboard. “Fair enough, I s’pose. Weapon?” “What makes you think I have one?” The pony gave a scoff. “Everypony down ‘ere brings a gun.” He motioned to Bentgrass’ jacket with his quill. “Go on, open it up. I gotta check ya.” Turning his eyes away from the bouncer, Bentgrass unbuttoned his jacket and opened it up. The pony eyed the gleaming black pistol in a holster beneath his shoulder and whistled. “That a custom?” Bentgrass nodded his head in response, and the pony whistled again. “She’s a beaut. Bet she cost ya a pretty bit.” “I’m good at what I do,” remarked Bentgrass. His impassive demeanor seemed to put the bouncer off. “It’s almost a cryin’ shame I’m gonna have ta confiscate it from ya.” In a flash, Bentgrass had his eyes back on the pony’s, locking gazes with him. The bouncer froze, his hoof held in midair as he reached for the gun. Bentgrass saw the shock run through the pony’s eyes, taken aback by the intensity in his stare and by his striking bat-like eye. He smirked, letting the thrill of terror run through the pony a moment before looking away again and removing his gun, placing it with delicate care in the bouncer’s hoof. As much as he perished the thought of relinquishing his firearm, he was in no position to jeopardize his cover. He had to play by their rules now. “Thank you, sir. I’ll take good care o’ her, don’tcha worry.” “If I find one smudge, I’ll be speaking to Mister Sarcidano personally.” Though his threat held no real weight, the rough edge to Bentgrass’ voice was enough to drain the color from the pony’s face. He gave a meek smile, carrying the weapon with his magic into another room like it was a fine piece of jewelry. Left to his own devices, Bentgrass wandered down into the crowd, surveying every face he passed and taking in every detail around him. Most of the clientele were too engrossed in their betting or the mares on stage to pay any attention to anything other than their own vices. He liked that. It permitted him to slip by most without any notice. Working his way over to the octagonal bar in the center of the room, Bentgrass slid into one of the plush seats at the counter beside a pair of well-dressed stallions and a group of raucous diamond dogs going through their winnings like greedy foals over new toys. He flagged the bartender over with a tip of his head. “A port, if you’d be so kind.” The bartender levitated a bottle and glass over to Bentgrass, pouring a generous helping of the liquor into it. Bentgrass lifted the glass with a practiced swirl, inhaling the aroma of the amber liquid, then set it down again. “Now try pouring me a glass of the Coltheita port instead of this tap water. Third shelf, eighth bottle from the left. I do have taste buds, after all.” The bartender gave Bentgrass a venomous look as he exchanged the drinks out. “Let me know if I can getcha anythin’ else.” “Adamo Sarcidano would be nice.” The bartender froze with his back turned to Bentgrass. He watched the pony’s shoulders visibly tense up as he set to work at cleaning glasses behind the bar. “What makes you think I can help you out with that?” “You? I don’t,” said Bentgrass with a shake of his head and another swallow of his drink. He let out a contented sigh as he felt the familiar burn wash down his throat. “But the two goons sitting beside me eavesdropping can.” Sure enough, the two suited ponies were glancing over their shoulders, eyeing Bentgrass with heavy suspicion. One of them rose to his hooves and moved to the other side of him. Bentgrass became acutely aware of the pony’s presence looming behind him as he sipped down his drink, even before the pony clopped a hoof down hard on his shoulder. “Talk like that can getcha hurt ‘round these parts, mistah,” the pony muttered, his words drowning under a thick Manehattan accent that butchered the Equestrian language alive. Bentgrass didn’t respond. “What sorta business you got with Mistah Sarcidano anyways?” “That’s between me and him.” Bentgrass lifted his drink, only to have the pony’s hoof catch his and subsequently slam the glass back down to the bar. He took a deep breath to maintain his calm composure. As much as he relished the idea, he couldn’t break this fine gentlecolt’s hoof. “It’s between you and me now, buddy,” the pony growled. “Gimme a reason to not slam your teeth into the bar and haul your sorry ass outta here right now.” “Go find Mister Sarcidano please.” He turned his steely gaze up to the ponies on either side of him. He watched as they flinched away from his eyes. “Tell him a friend of Mister Clydesdale is here to see him on urgent business.” The two ponies exchanged glances with one another. The air jolted with electricity around him while Bentgrass waited for somepony to make a move. His hoof hidden beneath the bar tensed up as he planned out how he would have to fight his way out of the club if it came down to it. After some moments of silent communication between the two, the pony patted Bentgrass’ shoulder with a hoof before trotting off into the crowd. “Don’t get too comfortable, pretty boy…” the pony seated next to him said. Bentgrass maintained his silent demeanor as he waited. He glanced at the pony beside him out of the corner of his eye. The pony was watching him like a hawk, his eyes never straying and scarcely blinking. Everypony connected to the Sarcidano family looked jumpy and on edge, obviously shaken up by the pressure the police were putting on them. After some time had passed, the other pony returned, a sour grimace on his face. He leaned down and whispered something in his partner’s ear. Bentgrass tipped his head to the side, catching the glimmer of acknowledgement in the stallion’s eyes. “Our apologies, mistah,” the pony apologized, brushing off the shoulder of Bentgrass’ jacket. “Mistah Sarcidano would be happy to meet ya.” Bentgrass followed the two ponies across the crowded floor to the far side of the room with an artificial smile. A towering hulk of a diamond dog in a fine-pressed suit blocked the way, stepping aside only once they approached. He pushed on a segment of the wall. Bentgrass watched with admiration as the wall swung inward; a hidden door disguised as the wall revealing a hallway. The guard held the door open, and Bentgrass followed his escorts into the narrow hall. Small lights sat recessed into the ceiling, casting thin cones of yellowish light down the corridor. A single door was the only other way out of the hall, sitting at the other end. A gilded letter ’S’ sat mounted on the wood. Bentgrass needed no context to figure out what it stood for. One of the ponies gave a couple hard knocks against the door and waited until it swung inward, allowing them entrance. With his senses alert and guard up, Bentgrass stepped through the portal. The room was an office, adorned in the same fashion as the rest of the club had been with dark wood furnishings and dim lights. It was uncomfortably warm, a combination from the lack of ventilation and the half dozen ponies occupying the space, and the air held traces of tobacco. Bentgrass took the opportunity to observe his surroundings. Including the two ponies he had walked in with, there were six ponies in suits standing guard around the perimeter of the room, each with a stoic, dour expression. Seated behind a polished desk was an Earth pony. He recognized Adamo Sarcidano from the grainy photographs in Lightning Flash’s case files. Adamo glanced up from whatever he was reading and eyeballed Bentgrass for a moment before waving a hoof to a leather chair opposite him. He didn’t say a word and looked as disinterested as Bentgrass tried to play.   Keeping to his alternate persona, Bentgrass obliged in as mild-mannered a way as he could manage. Adamo closed the cover on the book he had been reading, the soft thump it made seeming like a rumble of thunder in the otherwise silent room. A noisy clock ticked somewhere in the room, almost matching his pulse. The cliché noir aspect persisted in great humor. “Do you know why I let you in here?” Adamo asked, his voice thick with a rough Manehattan accent. Bentgrass rolled his shoulders in a shrug, keeping his eyes turned downward, pretending to be the innocuous liaison he was supposed to be. “Because I said please?” Adamo smirked and shook his head. “Funny guy. Nah, that ain’t why. I let you in here ‘cause my colts tell me you’re in town on business for a good friend o’ mine. That true?” “Yes, Mister Sarcidano. I’m here on behalf of Mister Clydesdale.” “Yeah, I heard… You know, Danny and I go back a ways. I know him like he’s my own brother.” Adamo leaned across the desk, his body creeping forward until it met the edge. He folded his hooves in front of his face. The smirk he wore melted into a suspicions scowl. “That’s why I know it’s strange for Danny to be sendin’ somepony else to be doin’ his business for him.” Bentgrass’ expression didn’t flinch in the least. Adamo scrutinized the pallid pony’s stony countenance. He made no attempt to hide his distrust of him. He was not off to a good start. “Tell me again why you’re here.” “My name is Sure Bet, Mister Sarcidano. I work for Mister Clydesdale’s estate, as his investment agent.” Bentgrass’ lies spilled from his skillful tongue like honey. “…But you know that’s not true. What is true is that Mister Clydesdale asked me to seek you out for a personal matter.” Adamo lifted a brow and cocked his head to the side. “Personal matter, huh?” “Yes. Mister Clydesdale would like all records of any business he’s had with your… organization.” Adamo tensed up in his chair. Bentgrass heard two ponies behind him shift their stances, more than likely reaching for their weapons at their employer’s distress. He didn’t dare turn around to check; ignorance was bliss. His gaze remained locked with Adamo’s, unwavering and unyielding. “Is that so?” asked Adamo, leaning back in the plush chair. He tapped his hooves together as he thought on the matter, pouting his lips out and making a wet smacking sound with them. “That’s a very strange favor. What would he be needin’ those for?” “Mister Clydesdale told me not to discuss that matter with anypony.” “I ain’t anypony, pal,” Adamo said, a dark edge adding a gruff tone to his voice and emphasizing his impatience. “If there’s one pony in this world you’d better spill your guts to, it’s me, or else the next time anypony sees that smug face o’ yours, they’ll be fishin’ it out the harbor. Now talk.” Bentgrass hesitated, his mouth hung open as if caught between an obligation and his own personal safety. He was conflicted and concerned. He sold the part like a pro. “…Mister Clydesdale has recently come under scrutiny by the RIS. He’s afraid that your little war with the Manehattan Police Department will reveal something in one of their investigations that will link back to him. He doesn’t want any loose ends to strengthen a case against you or himself.” A tense quiet settled over the room. Adamo’s eyes flickered downward, glassy and distant as his mind raced back and forth. Bentgrass hid the self-satisfied smirk at his own performance. He knew that he had caused enough reasonable doubt in Sarcidano’s mind to make him re-evaluate his position. His brain would be busy putting two and two together on its own and giving him an answer that didn’t exist. Adamo would fill in the rest himself. Adamo looked up after a moment. “That’s why you’re here and not Danny, huh?” “Correct,” said Bentgrass with a curt nod. He was nibbling at the bait on the hook. “He believes the RIS has his house under constant surveillance. That’s why he sent an investment agent in his place. It doesn’t look suspicious for a wealthy bureaucrat to be scouting stocks and businesses in Manehattan. If he came himself, you’d both have the RIS and the MPD on your backs.” “And we definitely don’t need no feds on our flanks…” Adamo grumbled under his breath, giving short nods of his head in agreement. “That sure sounds like Danny. Always thinkin’ three steps ahead… But how do I know you’re not havin’ me on?” He knew this was coming. All professional criminals always ran on gestures of good faith. “The Manehattan Police are preparing for a raid right now. They’re going to hit one of your warehouses tonight. I know this because Mister Clydesdale knows this. He wanted me to relay this to you, but a delay in my train schedule got me here later than anticipated. They’re narrowing down your hideaways, Mister Sarcidano. Mister Clydesdale can’t have that.” Adamo looked over and motioned to one of his bodyguards. He whispered something in the stallion’s ear, and then the pony took off running out of the room. Adamo settled his gaze back on Bentgrass. “That’s certainly good o’ Danny to be lookin’ out for us," he said, pausing for a moment to think before adding, “but how do I know you ain’t workin’ for the cops and just tellin’ me what I wanna hear?” Bentgrass heard the subdued click of a pistol cocking somewhere behind him. He wasn’t just skating anymore. He was dancing on thin ice. “You don’t. But would I still be sitting here if I wasn’t speaking some truth, or would I be floating face down in the bay by now?” Adamo’s eyes narrowed as he stared down the pony seated opposite of him. He puckered his lips tight together into a fine line, his eyes darting back and forth across the assorted knick-knacks situated around his desk as he mulled over the situation. “…All right. What does he need exactly?” “Any and all physical records that have his name, his address, his bank accounts, or any sort of connection back to him or his estate. He’ll hold them in his care until things settle down here on the home front and then return them to you at his discretion.” “Is it really a good idea to be movin’ this sorta stuff into his house if he’s under fed investigation too?” Adamo questioned, a subtle nervousness in his voice. “Mister Clydesdale is convinced the RIS has no evidence against him,” Bentgrass reassured the mob leader, feeding on his emotional tells. “You, however, have an entire city’s law enforcement hammering down on you. He merely wishes to cover his back and yours. You of all ponies should know Mister Clydesdale leaves nothing to chance.” Adamo gave a hard laugh. “Ain’t that the truth… Okay, Sure Bet. Gimme a day. I’ll getcha everythin’ you need.” Bentgrass furrowed his eyebrows. He didn’t have them here? The records must have been stored at another location. “You keep your records off-site?” he asked. “Is that safe?” Adamo gave a hearty guffaw. “Don’tcha worry one bit. We’ve got a special place for things like that. Now where are ya stayin’ so I know where to send my colts to pick you up tomorrow?” “I’m staying at the Mareaton Hotel. Have your associates call for me from the front desk. I’ll be ready whenever you are.” Both stallions stood up, Adamo offering his hoof across the desk. Bentgrass shook it with his own and tipped his head with a smile. “We’ll be seeing you tomorrow then, Mister Bet.” “Have a good evening, Mister Sarcidano.” And with that, Adamo’s bodyguards escorted Bentgrass back out into the club proper and out to the elevator. He retrieved his weapon from the nervous bouncer again and headed back up to the dank streets of Manehattan. The air outside was much cooler than the stuffy atmosphere of the cabaret club. But none of that mattered. Lightning Flash’s information had been right. Adamo’s hideout was exactly where they thought it would be, the seeds of fear and doubt had been planted, and he was well on his way to getting cold, hard evidence against Dandridge—evidence he could nail him to the wall. He could only hope his partner was having as productive a night as he was. Unable to keep from smiling to himself, Bentgrass whistled an airy tune as he made his way along the harbor back the way he came. He had to hurry though. It would only be right to let Lightning Flash his little band of heroes would be encountering some heavier firepower.