The rookie caught one. Some stallion on the thirteenth floor couldn't bear to go on, and skipped the elevator. On a normal day, this would have been an honest hour's work, and we could tip some bottles.
But who am I kidding? There aren't many normal days left, these days.
"Where's the body?" I asked.
"See, that's the thing," he griped, making fancy gestures. "There ain't none. Just this chalk outline. Whaddaya think happened?"
A voice rang out from the mouth of the alley, saying, "The boss wanted us to keep things rated E." It was Brass Ankle, enforcer in the Manehattanite mafia - North side, that is. "But between you and me, Tracer Bullet, I was never good at keeping things family friendly." He and the goons at his flanks had beaters on hoof, and the butt of a repeater stuck out of Brass' jacket.
The rookie was scared. Well, maybe it was time to introduce them all to the veteran. He was very close to my heart - down and to the left, to be specific. He may not have looked the meanest, and he might have had a habit of starting arguments, but he was just as good at finishing them, too.
By the time the ringing in my ears died down, we'd been out of there a while. Didn't seem like anypony was following us. And that was okay by me. Easier to light matches when you weren't running for your life.
"What the hay just happened," the rookie gasped. He was too exhausted to use a question mark. "We just - you just-"
"We survived," I told him, and gave him a spear, lit it as he took a puff. "That's good enough in this town."
"Is that what happens?" he asked. "Is that how this goes down? How do you do it, Tracer?"
I took a long draw of spearmint. It was cold, like the night air, and the smoke blew away quick. "A day at a time, rookie..."
The title hung above us.
"A day at a time."