A quick glance at a public phone book was all it took to find Golden Carrot, LLC: 77 De Prancy Street. I waved down a cab and headed east.
It was a long ride. We drove down the length of Eighth Avenue, past the rows of brownstones with their dark windows, through the narrow canyon of Blücher Street, where the awnings of nightclubs reached out to claw at the curb, past the grocer’s on the corner with its bare shelves and broken windows, past the beams and rivets of the High Line as a train rumbled by overhead and its smokestack took an inky brush to the moon. We drove across the rainbow of Bridleway, all done up in glowing gems and wires and waving to the bustling crowds from every angle, and into the Bowery, where the streets shone redder than any apple.
The cabbie dropped me at the corner of De Prancy. I paid him several bits, and he mumbled a thank-you before he and his carriage rattled away over the cobblestones, the glow of his lantern fading like the flicker of a firefly.
De Prancy was a discount street. Discount clothing stores, discount food, and plenty of discount housing. Seemed like every other building was a flophouse. Not a wall went without an advertisement for some too-good bargain, even the ones out of the reach of the streetlamps. There were a couple banners hung between the buildings. One read: “Cotton Twine for Mayor – Safety, Jobs, Food – Outfitters Club”. The ponies walking the streets didn’t bother glancing at any of it. The street told its story just fine without the extra words.
The Golden Carrot looked like it was trying its best not to look like the rest of the neighborhood. It was just as old as any of the other buildings, had just as many posters, but the big, shiny, professional sign above the door said somepony had delusions of grandeur. Even from this side of the street, it was plain to see.
And then there was the carriage.
It was an old carriage—big, black, and with just a hint of brass trim on the front. Vintage. The sort of coupe you’d have seen rolling the streets back when gem lamps were the newest, brightest thing in Equestria. On this street and in front of a post office, it stood out like coal on a fresh tablecloth.
Who was I to judge, though? Maybe some big money liked to send his mail the low folks did. There were plenty of crazy ponies in this world.
I couldn’t shake the feeling, though. I kept an eye on it as I passed by. The windows were dark, their curtains drawn. Strange.
I might have left it at that. I might have saved myself a lot of trouble. I might have kept walking without a care in the world and just done the job I was sent to do. But danged if I can’t help it when I get some notion stuck in my head. I ducked into the post office.
Of course, the first thing I found inside was a line at least a dozen ponies long. There was always a line. I took note of the pony at the tail end—an elderly blue mare in a frilled bonnet—and made my way off to the side. A few more ponies were writing on envelopes or checking their boxes, and didn’t even glance at me as I slid in among them.
I made myself look busy with an envelope and watched the line dwindle. Then I got out my notepad and started scribbling mindlessly. Then I took to rolling the pencil back and forth. Ms. Blue Bonnet finally found her way out the door, and I hadn’t seen anypony enter or leave the carriage. Stranger and stranger.
An idea sprouted in my head. I took a sheet of paper, folded it and slipped it into the envelope, then stuffed it into my coat pocket. A quick canter across the street, and I was in front of the Golden Carrot.
I glanced back. Sure enough, you could see the entrance clear as day from that carriage. I pulled the door open.
They didn’t bother with a proper foyer. That’s not what they were about. Instead they had a line of certificates on the wall, a few benches and magazines, and an open door to the offices that made sure you could see everypony hard at work. Ponies in business suits scribbled at desks or bustled between the walls of cubicles. A beehive with square honeycombs.
Nopony stopped me as I wandered in among them. I hunted among the desks and noted the nameplates. I got a few curious stares, a few of which stuck. Maybe they’d never seen a mare wear her hat indoors. Finally, in the back corner, I found her. “Sugar Beet, CPA”, written as large as the company would allow. With a quick glance around, I started snooping.
Either she was the type who’d harp on dirt for being filthy, or somepony had already cleaned off her desk. No papers, no files, not even a coffee mug. I bent down, pulling open one of the drawers. There were some folders inside, but otherwise they were empty. The rest were like that, too. I pulled the binders on the shelf—maybe I’d get lucky and find something hidden—but there was nothing there but accounting tables. Less than useless.
With a sigh, I stepped out of the cubicle. It had been worth a shot, but it was still a shot in the dark. I’d have to ask around.
“Can I help you, Miss?”
I jumped. Standing there was a statue of a mare. Grey coat, grey mane—if it wasn’t for the maroon business suit she wore, I’d have thought her an office sculpture come to life. Behind her pointed spectacles, her pale eyes stared at me, small and hard.
‘Well, I—” I coughed, “—Ah don’ rightly know, Ma’am. I’ve been tryin’ to find Ms. Sugar Beet, but I jus’ can’t seem to. This here’s her space, right?”
“And what do you need her for?”
“I got a letter for ‘er.” I held up the envelope, keeping the front to myself. “Just galloped all the way from Broken Spoke to deliver it. I’d really appreciate it if you could help a mare out.”
Her expression softened from stone to mahogany. “Well, I’m sorry to say, Ms. Beet has not been in to work for nearly a week. Nopony is sure where she is.”
I chewed my lip a bit. “That’s a cryin’ shame for me, Ma’am. Did she leave any note of where she went?”
It was very quick, but she rolled her eyes. “As I’ve said, no one knows. I can take the letter for you, though.”
“Thank ya kindly, Ma’am, but I was told to hoof-deliver it to ‘er. It’d be right bad form fer me not to follow instructions.”
“Yes, we wouldn’t want that. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you out.”
“Thank ya kindly again, Ma’am, but I know the way.” I stepped past her, heading for the main entrance. “Oh, but before I go, I don’t s’pose ya know a good spot to eat ‘round these parts? I’m plum famished.”
You could balance a plate on the level stare she gave me. “You might try Spiacevole’s. It’s three blocks south of here. They’d probably cater to your tastes.”
The dive on Division and Orchard. How nice. “Sounds right fancy. Thank ya again, Ma’am.”
No point in hanging around any longer. I quickly made my way to the lobby, feeling her gaze on my back the whole way. As I reached the front door, I glanced out the window, and sure enough, the carriage was still there. I took the envelope out of my coat and stepped back out onto the street.
I stood there for a moment, glancing around like a cautious courier ought to, then made a show of stuffing the envelope back into my pocket. I set off around the corner as quick as I could without being obvious.
It didn’t take him long. I was only about halfway down the next street when I noticed him, a constant silhouette among the strangers on the walk. He knew how to keep his distance. I took a few turns here and there—nothing so serious that I’d lose him, but enough to make him think I was trying to. Just a naive mouse in a cat’s sights.
Up ahead was a small park. A lone tree stood in the center of it, its leaves hanging limp in the glare of the surrounding lamps. Three benches took up guard around it, the last faithful knights of an old regent. The shadows beneath the seats were deep and dark. Perfect.
Casually, I wandered up to one of them and sat down. A slight breeze rustled through the leaves above and sent a few tumbling to the earth. The park was already littered with them. They huddled in the corners of the fences, shivering against the wind.
I glanced around, made a show of checking my watch. He was still out there, I knew. Still watching. I pulled the letter from my jacket and slipped it into the shadows beneath the bench. Then I glanced around again, stood up, and made my way down the street, making sure to pause at the corner and watch the park for a while. I almost laughed. It was fun being an amateur.
He was good enough not to fall for it. I gave him a few minutes, then I slipped away. I looped around the block and took up a spot on the opposite side of the park, hunkering down in the black between lampposts. A minute later, and he finally showed up.
He wasn’t exactly skinny, but he had the lean sort of look that let you see his high cheekbones and the apple of his throat. Pale and gaunt—just the right sort of intimidating without being obvious, like a switchblade knife. He had a dark suit with thick pinstripes, and wore a lean hat of the Haflinger style, which let his horn poke out above his forehead.
He walked with his head low and his shoulders hunched, but maybe that was just how he always walked. His steps were quick and stilted, as though his hooves didn’t like being on the ground for long. He wandered up to the bench and took a seat, just some business pony out for a stroll. There was a flicker of amber as his horn flared, and a cigarette and lighter floated out of his pocket. He sat there a moment, smoking and watching the streets.
The letter glowed and floated up from under the bench. He held it up to the light, turning it over in front of his face, and then he quietly slipped it back away. Then he stood up and walked across the street, spit his cigarette into the gutter, and ducked into a darkened alley. I barely caught a glimmer of his eyes before he settled in. If I hadn’t seen him wander into the shadows, I’d have never known he was there.
He was still as gullible as a donkey after five o’clock, though. I hustled back to De Prancy.
The carriage hadn’t moved. This time, I walked up to it slow and quiet. The curtains were still drawn, the interior still dark. Carefully, I reached up and pulled the handle. It wasn’t locked, so I swung it open all at once.
Empty. Just a nice set of cushy seats, and a few things tossed about on them. I climbed inside, shutting the door behind me. There was a newspaper on the floor of the cab, which looked like it had been well-read already. A leggy mare gazed up with soft eyes from the cover of a magazine on the seat. That had definitely been well-read.
Next to that was a spyglass.
It looked like your everyday telescope, except for the green lenses and the softly pulsing gems studding its length. Lifting it to my eye, I saw the whole world in emerald. The streetlights outside became miniature suns, the shadows between buildings vanished like somepony had peeled them from the walls. I turned to the door of the Golden Carrot, and I could read the sign as plain as if day had suddenly returned. I lowered the scope, looking it over again.
This wasn’t something you just happened across. You’d need a lot of bits or a lot of influence to afford one of these. I glanced around at the rich wood of the coach’s interior. It made a lot of sense.
Lamplight spilled into the cab as the door opened.
“Freeze,” said a deep voice. “Stay right where you are.”
Since I was already playing the part of a chunk of ice, that was all too easy. The cab swayed as a set of heavy hooves clomped on the wood of the interior. Then everything fell back into shadow as the door shut again.
“Turn around nice and slow. Let’s have ourselves a little chat, all right?”
My eyes flicked to the spyglass. It was heavy enough. The door handle was within reach.
A pale blue glow lit up the interior, and something made a metallic click. “Turn around. Nice and slow.”
Stomp that idea into the dirt, then. I did as I was told and turned around.
The light from his horn did terrible things to his face, which might have been handsome, otherwise. Rose-colored, chiseled—it was the sort of face you’d see on posters over on Bridleway when they needed more rich mares in the audience. The cut of his blond mane was like that, too, though why he bothered with that in his current line of work, I could only guess.
The thing strapped to his hoof said everything. It was a small device, easily concealed. It had a long, narrow barrel which jutted out past his fetlock, a small set of sights attached to it. I could see the bulge of the clip through his sleeve, could see the system of gears that kept it from arming itself until it was ready, which it was. If he flicked his wrist the right way, there’d be a flash, a bang, and I’d be lying dead on the floor.
Most ponies would have started panicking at the mere sight of it. Unfortunately, I knew better.
“Who are you working for?” he said.
I shrugged, and answered truthfully. “I’m afraid I can’t say. Contracts and all that.”
“Tell you what, Freckles, you get three strikes. I’ll call that one a ball. Now, think real hard about what you’re gonna say next. Who are you working for?”
I said nothing.
“Swing and a miss. Strike one.”
“I’m just doing what you told me, and thinking hard.”
He sneered. “One of Papa’s, then. You always come with smart mouths. Fine. Next question. Why you looking for her?”
“I’m getting paid to.”
“But what’s the reason?”
“I don’t ask a whole lot of questions. They usually don’t go anywhere.”
“Strike two. Swing again.”
“Even I’m not really sure. My employer doesn’t tell, I don’t ask. It’s just part of the job.”
“Oh, so you’re one of those ‘professionals’, then. Should’ve guessed. Only somepony with a big head walks around like you do.”
“Or somepony who’s gotten used to little meetings like this. Just so we’re clear, you’re far from the worst I’ve seen.”
“Yeah, and I bet you’ve seen lots.”
“Mmhmm. Ever been to Canterlot?”
His eyes widened; his weapon drifted from its mark, just slightly. “Who the hell—”
There was a click, and the door swung open again. We both looked. The skinny guy was standing there, and he seemed as surprised as us.
“Son of a—!” The big guy swung around, and I threw open the door and ran for it.
I heard the first bang just as my hooves hit the pavement. I was about halfway across the street when the second rang out and something whipped past my ear and smacked into the sidewalk. A star of white flame erupted from the concrete, scorching it black. Somepony screamed. Everypony ran for cover.
More bangs echoed against the buildings; flashes lit their windows. I pumped my legs for all they were worth, diving headlong into an alley. I leapt over trash cans and over a low fence, past a stallion looking out his back door in fright. I ran and ran, until I ran out of alley to run through. Rounding the corner, I pressed myself into the shadows and waited.
The thunderstorm in my chest kept rumbling. It took a long while for that to fade. I heard police sirens wailing in the distance. Gradually, even those fell silent. I looked myself over. A few cuts and scrapes, but otherwise I was fine. There was a weight in my pocket. I placed a hoof against it and felt the curve of the spyglass.
So, now I was a thief. Great. I flicked my ears about. No sound of pursuit, no sound at all save the noise of the city. It seemed like even that was breathing a sigh of relief. I’d gotten away clean.
That just left one piece of dirty business, then. Straightening my hat, I set off for the next train downtown.