//------------------------------//
// Chapter One 
// Story: All In - An Applejack Noir 
// by Belligerent Sock 
//------------------------------//

	The streetlights on Vineyard still used candles, and that meant slow traffic. Nopony was willing to move too fast in the gloom between the lamps. It was just one of those old habits that folks still clung to, something to remind them of when the sun shone, and the moon wasn’t staring down on them all the time. Nopony had any illusions, though.
The day would be long and dark, like it always was. Manehattan shuffled on.
It would’ve been a crisp autumn morning, if that had still mattered after thirteen years. Distant Wood was stepping down as mayor, the Westside neighborhoods had just been gentrified, and the Flankees were riding high on a seven-season streak and would soon face a stunning upset. Manehattan was still the beacon it always was, drawing from all walks of life and paving its streets with them.
I was with about a dozen other ponies, all making our way to wherever the sidewalk would take us. Above, the city’s buildings blinked the sleep from their glowing eyes. Carriages and carts banged and swayed along the cracked cobblestones, their drivers carrying lanterns in their teeth. Some of them were taking produce to market. Seemed like there were fewer of those every day.
On the corner was a little pegasus colt. His coat was brown and his mane was blonde, both matted and frayed in places. He wore a threadbare wool jacket and a beaten beret. A stack of newspapers sat next to him, which he loudly advertised. Behind him, his shadow cast itself on the wall, twice the size he was.
I stopped next to him, crossing my hooves and leaning on the nearby streetlight. “What’s the headline this morning, Blinks?”
Lightning Blink tossed his mane out of his eyes, a smirk yanking at the side of his face. “Heya, AJ. It’s a good one. S’all about the new mayor.”
“That’s a headline, alright. Especially since elections ain’t for another month.”
“Way the Messenger tells it, Cotton Twine might as well of won already.”
“Really? Well, now I gotta know.”
He held out a little pouch hung around his neck. “Five bits.”
I chuckled. “It was three bits yesterday.”
“Times change. I gotta eat, y’know.”
“You gotta keep your regular customers, too, y’know.”
“Sorry, but it ain’t up to me. They raised the price a’ these things. I still gotta make a profit.”
“So, suppose I head back down the street to pick up my paper? Pretty sure I heard another newsie offering ‘em for three.”
He looked away, just for a moment. “You musta heard wrong.”
“Come on, Blinks. You don’t need to lie to me, and you ought to know better than to try. Besides, what’s going to give you more business?”
The shadow on the wall shrank a little as he shuffled back a step. “Okay, okay. Three bits is all.”
“That’s the way.” I dumped six bits into his pouch. “I’ll take two.”
His teeth shone in the lamplight. “Thanks, AJ.”
I stuffed the papers into my coat pocket, and with a tip of my hat, I was off again. When I was a block away, I heard him calling out, offering papers for four bits.
 



 
I keep my office on the west corner of Vineyard and Ploughshare in a little four-story simply called the Bramley Building. On paper, it probably looked like a decent idea. The outside is all rough red stone, and a set of steps leads up from the street and to the building’s dual entrances—that’s where the problems come in. The architect had the bright idea to make Bramley a duplex, but must have forgot that splitting the place in two wouldn’t give much room to either half.
I walked through the left door and into a hall narrow enough to choke a sheep. Flickering candles lit the foyer, just like always. Same splintered floors, same threadbare rugs, same thirsty plants in their cheap pots. Everything was in its proper place, save the stallion eyeing the numbers on the wall.
He was tall and young, thin for an earth pony. He wore a bright blue suit that clashed with his own blue coat and was too large for him. His eyes, half-hidden beneath his tangled brown bangs, had the squinting look of somepony who’d never quite gotten used to the night. They darted over the names on the wall like birds after seed. On his flank was a trio of green acorns, still attached to their bough.
I strolled up to him as casually as possible. “You look lost, friend.”
He jumped as though one of the potted plants had spoken. “E-excuse me?” His voice had a mild squeak, like a rusted water pump.
“Who you looking for?”
“Uh… Applejack. The private investigator.” He smiled shakily. “I must be in the wrong building, though. I can’t seem to find him anywhere.”
I stole a glance at the board and chuckled. “That’s ‘cause she’s not on there. She and the landlord... Well, this is his way of saying ‘Pay the rent.’”
Apparently he’d gotten hung up on the first part. “You said ‘she’?”
“Yeah, Applejack’s a mare. Ornery, too. Not the type you small-talk with.”
“I see,” he said blindly. “Does she still work here?”
“Yup. Her office is on the third floor. C’mon, I’ll show you.”
He looked as though I’d just offered to fly him there. “Well, thank you kindly, Miss.”
We started up the stairs and they creaked an uninterested tune at our passing. As we reached the first landing, he added some lyrics to the melody.
“So, I didn’t quite catch your name, Miss…”
“I didn’t catch yours either.”
“Oh, uh… My name’s Oak. Red Oak.”
“You’re not from around here, are you, Mr. Oak?”
“N-no. I’m not.”
“Figured as much. Nopony in this city tries to do business before eight.”
“Does that include Applejack?”
“Oh, you betcha. Heck, she usually doesn’t show up until at least noon.”
“Why so late?”
“Must be hard crawling out of a cider bottle every morning.”
“She drinks?”
“By the distillery. Smokes like a chimney, too.”
“I… see.”
“Don’t pay it any mind. She’s a private eye. Kinda comes with the territory.”
We reached the third floor and made our way to the very rear of the building. At the end of the hall, a lone window cast a patch of orange onto the frosted glass of the door marked “315”. Just below that, in flaking black paint, were the words, “Applejack – Investigations.” Directly across from it was a bench that only looked more uncomfortable the closer you got.
“That bench is for her clients. Go ahead and settle in if you want to wait.”
He did so. “Thank you again, Miss.”
“Don’t mention it.” Without another word, I strode up to the door, unlocked it, and stepped through. I shut it again without even looking back.
First impressions are everything. Tossing the newspapers onto my desk, I got to work quickly—adjusted the blinds so they striped the place just right, pulled a half-drunk bottle of cider from a drawer and set it in plain sight, tossed my coat across the back of my chair—and settled in, kicking my legs up. Making sure my hat was set at the perfect angle, I folded my forehooves behind my head and waited.
“Well, you coming in or not?” I called.
He opened the door with all the ferocity of a stray breeze. “Do you play games with all your prospective clients?” he said.
“Just the ones who look like they can take it. Want a drink?” I waved away the look he was giving me. “No, no, it’s soft cider. I don’t go in for that sort of thing.”
“No, thank you. I’m still debating whether I should just leave or not.”
“You opened the door. Might as well have a seat on this side of it.” I motioned to the chair across the desk.
He sighed the way sewer workers do when they clock in, but he took his seat nonetheless.
“Let’s start again.” I held out a hoof. “How do you do, Mr. Oak? Pleasure makin’ your acquaintance. I’m Applejack.”
“Charmed,” he said flatly, giving my hoof one quick shake.
“So, what can I do you for?”
“First, can you drop the act, please?”
“Act?”
“Yes. The tough-mare act you’re trying to pull here. I’ve seen movies, too, you know.”
I shrugged. “We shook hooves, Mr. Oak. Now I’m all business. No games, no lies, no nothin’. You’ve got my word on that.”
“Forgive me if I think you’re still not being truthful.”
I stared at him for a moment. “Mr. Oak, take a look around you. We ain’t sitting in a fancy office with a secretary and a big front door and a dozen city counselors paying for it all. You can’t make much money at this trade if you’re honest.” I spread my hooves wide. “But honest is what I am. What you see here is what you get. One mare, her wits, and her rough skin. Is that good enough?”
He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “It’ll have to be. I’m trying to find somepony.”
“Forty bits a day, plus expenses.”
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s my goin’ rate for a location job. You won’t find cheaper.” I smirked. “And that is the honest truth.”
“Right.” He stretched the word out as though testing its strength. “Anyway, I’m trying to find somepony. My fiancé, in fact.”
I swung my hooves down, taking out a notepad. “All right,” I said around the pencil, “let’s take this from the top. Who are you, Mr. Oak? What’s your story?”
He looked away for a moment before answering. “Well, you had me pegged earlier. I’m from a little town called Budding Spring. East of Canterlot. My family’s owned a plantation there for generations.”
“Just out of curiosity, what do you grow there?”
“Ground crops, mostly. Potatoes, carrots, things like that.”
“Night can’t be doing you any favors.”
“We’ve managed well enough. As well as anypony in this day and age.”
“My sympathies.”
He smiled, as though he’d heard that one too many times already. “Thank you. We’re one of the last holdouts. We still make do with the government fertilizers, but we’re pretty much the only ones left who can afford them.” He shook his head. “Enough about my problems. This is about Sugar Beet.”
“That’s your fiancé?”
“Yes’m.”
“Details. Race? Hair? Eyes?”
“Earth pony, like me. Magenta coat. Uh, dark rose mane. Green eyes.”
“What’s her cutie mark?”
“Same as her name.”
Quaint. Jotting it all down, I motioned for him to continue.
“We were engaged about six months ago. We’ve been planning on moving to the city for a while now. Sugar had gotten a job with the Golden Carrot. They’re an accounting firm. She’s always been good with numbers. She’s been sending me letters every week.”
“Do you have those letters?”
“Right here.” He reached into his coat and produced a bunch of envelopes.
I took one of them and examined the handwriting. Cute, flowing—the sort of style one would expect from a unicorn. For an earth pony, it would take a lot of practice. The return address read “167 Brookmare Ln., Apt. 23”.
“I assume you’ve gone to this place?”
“Yes. There was no answer when I knocked. And I knocked quite a bit.”
“Did you talk to the landlord?”
“I… well, she wasn’t very helpful.”
“You did go into the place, though?”
“No, uh, the landlady wouldn’t let me in. She seemed to think I was suspicious.”
I hid my smirk by looking at the envelopes again. “The last of these is dated nearly a month ago.”
“Yes, when she went a week without sending a letter, I didn’t think anything of it. But after the second, I started to wonder. She’s always been punctual.”
“Any ideas about why she missed her due date?”
“A lot. She might’ve been kidnapped. She might have been hurt. I-I haven’t thought to check the hospitals. What if she fell under a train or—”
“You don’t worry about her being unfaithful?”
He went quiet, looking at me like a wounded timberwolf—somewhere between hurt and furious. “She wouldn’t do that to me.”
I nodded. “One last question, then. Why not go to the police? They’ve got a whole bureau for missing ponies.”
“I tried. They haven’t done anything.”
I set the pencil down. “Tell me about that.”
“What’s to tell? They filed my request away with all the rest and told me it would take time.”
The notebook still sat on my desk. “Okay, Mr. Oak. Like I said, forty bits a day, plus expenses. If that works for you, we’ll have ourselves a case.”
“Thank you, Miss Applejack. I—”
“Don’t thank me just yet. I’ll need an advance on the first day’s wages. Twenty bits is all.”
“Ah, right.”
I made up a receipt for him and had him sign it, making note of the address he gave. It was a room at the Auburn Hotel, off of Sixth Avenue.  We shook hooves one last time, and he bid me farewell, heading for the door.
I let him open it before I said: “Mr. Oak. One last thing.”
“Yes?”
“You’ve got my promise. I’ll figure all this out. Every last bit.”
He paused, his hoof still on the doorknob. That shaky smile broke across his face. “Thank you again, Miss. Good day.”
Then he turned and quickly shut the door behind him. His hooves scraped along the corridor fast and light, like a mouse scurrying across the farmhouse floors when it knows the cat is after it. It’s choking on the scraps stuffed into its cheeks, its heart pounding, but still it runs, hoping the cat won’t smell it. If it can get just a little farther, it might make it into the crawl space and disappear forever.
Unlike the cat, though, I’d given him fair warning. Tossing my coat on, I got to work.