A private eye named Applejack delves into the underworld of Manehattan in search of a missing mare. Intrigue, betrayal, and hardboiled monologues ensue.
Ever since she was a filly, Applejack has lived in Manehattan. And ever since Nightmare Moon took over, she’s had plenty of work as a private eye. When a tall stallion walks into her office and asks her to find his missing fiancé, it seems like just another case. But when a trail of clues and bodies leads her deeper into the darkened heart of the city, Applejack may find herself in over her fedora, and quite literally gambling for her life.
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.
Back in the day, everything on the north side of Brookmare Lane had been just one big tenement, eating up the entire block like some sleeping dragon. Then the dragon woke up one chilly night ten years ago. One unwatched stove was all it took. The next thing anypony knew, the whole block disappeared in a blaze. Before the ashes were even cool, contractors had swooped in, laid claim to the rubble, and built new tenements. If you looked in the right places, you could see the soot on some of the bricks.
167 Brookmare had apparently gotten the short end of that deal. It was all but strangled in its little space, the surrounding buildings pressing and clawing at it. It didn’t help that it was two floors shorter than both of them. No luck for the underdog.
The front door did its best to keep me out, but stubbornness and a strong shoulder always win against stuck hinges. A lone gem lamp hung from the tin ceiling of the lobby, just bright enough to cast shadows on the peeling wallpaper. The carpets were grown into the floor like moss. I swear I could smell the fire in them, too.
Apartment 23 was right where’d you’d expect—on the second floor a little ways from the stairwell. The tarnished brass number stood on top of new paint. I reached up and made two quick knocks. There was no answer, of course, but it was the thought that counted.
I knocked on the door again, this time bending down to look at the keyhole. There wasn’t much to see inside—no movement or sound—but there was an interesting set of marks around it. They were cut into the metal roughly, shining against the worn patina like chicken scratches in fresh dirt.
“Excuse me, can I help you?”
The mare clambering up the steps would’ve had an easier time going down them. She was thick—thick in the neck, thick in the legs, and thick in the face. It was a wonder her paisley dress could keep her contained. Her violet eyes were narrowed beneath her tiny spectacles.
“Ah,” I said, tipping my hat to her, “how do you do, Ma’am?”
“Fine, thank you. Who are you?”
I gave it to her straight. “Name’s Applejack. I’m a P.I.”
“Oh,” she said. Her expression would’ve killed a rat. “Is that what you are?”
I reached inside my coat and pulled out one of my business cards. “That’s the honest truth, yep. I’m guessing you’re the landlady?”
She took the card, gave it one quick look, and stuffed it down the neck of her dress. “Yes, I’m Mellow Hearth. And I’d like to know what business you have here.”
I jerked a hoof at the door. “Just trying to get in touch with Ms. Sugar Beet. Is she around?”
If she had squinted any harder, her eyes would’ve disappeared. “You’re the second pony to come snooping around here after Ms. Beet.”
“Sounds like she’s a popular girl.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t pry.”
“Well, seein’ as she’s apparently not at home, let me ask you this, Ma’am. When was the last time you talked with her?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
I sighed. “Folks in this town used to be so trustin’. Ma’am, I’m afraid it is my business. Apparently she’s gone missing.”
That got a raised eyebrow. “I think I’d notice if one of my tenants just up and disappeared.”
“Did you notice the marks on the keyhole?”
The other eyebrow went up. “What?”
“Looks like the lock was picked,” I said, pointing at the door. “Somepony wanted in, and they weren’t very skilled or patient.”
She approached the door on nervous hooves, as though it might fall on her. She’d have survived, I’m sure. She adjusted her spectacles, frowning at the keyhole.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, straightening up. “It looks no different to me.”
“With all due respect, Ma’am, I know a lockpicker’s marks when I see ‘em. Ms. Beet would have to be real careless or real drunk to miss the keyhole that badly. From what little I know of her, she doesn’t seem the type.”
She turned her frown to me. “No, she’s not.”
“Well then, I’ll ask again, Ma’am. When was the last time you saw her? Have you checked in on her recently?”
I might have seen a hint of softness cross her gaze—just a trickle, like rain from a gutter. “No, I haven’t.”
“Ma’am, I’m just trying to find out if she’s alright. Could you help a mare out? Please?”
Her hard expression washed away. “At least you’re polite. Okay. I’ll have a peek inside.”
“Much obliged, Ma’am.” I started for the door.
She struck out a hoof. “You stay put right there, Missy.”
“You got it, Ma’am.”
She drew a set of keys from somewhere and started pawing through them. It took her a minute to hold each up to the light. I just sat back and waited, wondering where she’d gotten that dress of hers. They didn’t sell them like that anymore. She must have knocked over a museum someplace.
Finally, the lock clicked. I pulled myself off the wall, just as she called out, “Ms. Beet? Are you—”
Her back left hoof trembled as she stepped back from the door. Her eyes were wide, her mouth struggling to form some whispered words. I moved quickly, rounding the doorjamb in a flash, and felt my jaw clench.
On its own, the apartment would’ve been fairly normal, if a bit small. It had everything you needed—a wide bed which ate up most of the space, a little kitchen area with its own round table, cupboards and a large dresser, and a tiny bathroom in the back, just visible through its open door. Of course, that was how it was supposed to be. Instead, the furniture was strewn about, drawers lying against the walls, cupboards flung open, the mattress flipped.
“Oh, my stars.” The landlady finally picked her voice back up. “She’s been kidnapped!”
“Call the police,” I said.
“W-what?”
“Call the police.”
Like a stone rolling down a hill, her thoughts finally gathered speed. “Y-yes. Yes. There’s a telephone down on the corner,” she reminded herself out loud. “I’ll go call the police.” She scurried away like a mother bird that had forgotten to feed her brood.
I was alone. With a deep breath, I crossed the threshold and got to work.
The wardrobe seemed a good place to start. Its skeletal frame stood naked without its drawers, which were upended on the floor in front of it. I pawed among them carefully, flipping them over in turn. They were mostly empty, save a few unmentionables. No sign of the sort of business wear one would expect from an accountant trying to make a good impression.
There was likewise no sign of the lady’s purse, but then, a burglar wouldn’t leave that. The problem, though, was the silverware strewn about in front of the pantry. It wasn’t stellar, but it was genuine, and would fetch at least fifty bits in the right place. That could mean the difference between being fed and being dead in this city.
Even more interesting was the table. It was as messy as the rest of the place, and yet more organized. Papers were piled atop it—papers and envelopes. They’d all been torn open, from the personal letters to the junk mail. Mr. Oak’s signature stood out on a few of them. I checked the dates. The newest was a week old, with more going back several weeks.
At the bottom was buried treasure, an evening paper from five days ago. A definitive date. Scrawled in one of the margins was a message: “10 AM 23 Greenwich Ave.” The writing style looked familiar—it matched the flowing grace of Ms. Beet’s letters—and the address was one I instantly recognized.
Heavy hoofsteps echoed from the hall. Out of time. I hurried over to the door, and made a show of examining the lock again.
“The police are… on their way,” said Mellow Hearth, panting heavily.
“Good. Don’t forget these,” I said, holding up the keyring.
She grabbed hold of it as though the keys were lead. “How could this happen? I never thought…”
“Nopony ever does.” I flipped open my notebook. “If it’s all right, Ma’am, I think it’s time I asked you some questions.”
“A-all right. Shouldn’t we wait for the police, though?”
“Best to get it all while it’s still fresh, Ma’am. Now, I need you to think. When did you last see her?”
“I… I’m not sure exactly. She tended to work odd hours. As far as I could tell, she only ever came back here to sleep.”
“How about rent payments? You do those in person?”
“She left last month’s rent like she always did. This month’s isn’t due for another week. Unless they miss their payments, I leave my tenants alone.”
“So, you just missed her. When you last saw her, did she seem okay? Anything seem to be troubling her?”
“I don’t think so. But… Oh, maybe I missed something.” She stamped a heavy hoof. “I must have missed something.”
“Easy, Ma’am. Don’t bring down the building over this. Has there been anypony around who shouldn’t have?”
She inhaled sharply. “That other stallion! The one with the blue suit. He was nosing around here, just the other day!” Her frown from before returned, this time with more menace. “I knew he was up to no good.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. What was he doing here?”
“I found him lurking around the door here. He said he was Ms. Beet’s boyfriend, but I didn’t believe that for a minute. If he was, he was probably the jealous type. No siree, I wasn’t about to let him hound any of my tenants like that. I all but bucked him out the door.”
“Did he give a reason for his being here?”
“Something about trying to find Ms. Beet because she’d gone…” She trailed off, looking at me as though I’d just lit a massive sign above my head.
I nodded, folding my notebook closed. “Thank you kindly, Ma’am. You’ve been a great help.” I tipped my hat to her, and started for the stairs.
“Wait,” she said, holding out a hoof. “You can’t just walk away now, can you? What about the police?”
I shrugged. “Keep my card handy, and tell ‘em Applejack was here.”
The Three Squares Diner is one of my oldest memories. It’s been on the same corner since I first strolled into Manehattan. Outside, it’s nothing special. The only thing worth noticing is the dinner plate sign on top. Inside, it’s one of the last bastions of decent service in the city. It stands right where Greenwich meets Eighth Avenue, so nopony ever has an excuse to miss it.
It was only around eleven o’clock, but still there were customers. A hawkish stallion in a dark suit sat at one end of the bar, alongside a red-headed mare who seemed more focused on her sandwich than on him. Another stallion, his suit a deep grey, sat opposite them. An empty glass stood wrapped in his hoof. His back was to me, and it looked like he was watching them.
Behind the counter was a stallion of about forty years and four-hundred tales. The lights above lit the entire diner, but still he shone brighter. He had a mane so blond it’d attract moths, and a smile that would blind you if you looked at it wrong. His white suit and cap had never known a single wrinkle, and if he had ever stepped out from behind that counter in the past twenty years, I’d never seen it.
“Well, hello-hello, Miss Applejack!” said White Castle, his voice dry and scratchy like popcorn. “How’s things?”
“Can’t complain. Don’t get paid enough.” I spun myself onto one of the stools. I could see my face in the countertop. “How about you? How’s business?”
He grinned as though I had told a joke. “Oh, you know. Still holding on, mostly thanks to regulars like you.”
“And how’s business?”
“Well, as a matter of fact…” He leaned in close to whisper. “I’ve had some very good luck. Some fella from out west came in, gave me a bottle of gold.”
“And when you opened it, did sunshine spill out?”
“Oh, I haven’t opened it. You don’t just waste Sundown Cider.”
I let out a whistle. “Well, paint me pink and call me a radish. That’s a name I haven’t heard in a good long while. It’s legit?”
“Oh yeah. Vintage, too. Pre-Nightfall by one year. 80-proof. That sort of magic just doesn’t exist this day and age.”
“So, who’d you kill?”
He laughed. “Nopony. Nah, this stallion just came in one night. Had a… an adventurous look about him, like some old pirate captain or something. Striped shirt, bandana, that sort of thing. Said he was starving, so I obliged. Found some collard greens, potatoes, and corn, and fixed him a three-course meal. He was so happy, he gave me the bottle in thanks. Can you imagine? A king’s ransom for some vittles!”
I smiled at him. “White, that story’s got more bull in it than a minotaur.”
“Okay, so maybe my private dealings sometimes net me a bit of treasure. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“If that’s the truth, yep.”
“Well, between you, me, and this counter here, that’s the truth. You know anypony willing to buy some old-world joy, you send ‘em my way.”
“If I knew anypony that rich, you think I’d be in this business?”
He shrugged. “Can’t hurt to cast a wide net. So, what can I get you?”
“The usual will do just fine, thanks.”
“Corn sandwich, celery soda, coming right up. Sure I can’t interest you in an apple?”
I looked at him evenly. “You know what I think of that.”
He shrugged. “Gotta sell ‘em before they go bad. And you know how quickly they go bad.”
“All too well,” I said quietly as he whisked away.
Less than a minute later, he set a plate down in front of me and popped the cap on a bottle. “That’ll be eleven bits.”
I half-grimaced, half-smirked. “Ouch. I thought you said that Sundown was a good deal?”
“They say hijackers got one of the Grain Trains last week. Price of corn just jumped, regardless. Sorry, AJ.”
I dropped a hoof-full of bits onto the counter. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were tryin’ to cut a profit, White. What would the people think?”
“They’d probably think about pitchforks and torches. Or maybe just the forks.”
I didn’t have anything to say to that other than a smile, so I just bit into the sandwich.
“How’s it taste?”
I swallowed. It was sweet, but with a bitter aftertaste. Everything had that sort of taste these days. “Good stuff,” I said. “But then, eleven-bit corn had better be.”
“If I could get it any cheaper, I would.”
“Talk to a smuggler.”
He frowned. “Now, that’s not a joke to be makin’, AJ. I won’t do any good from a jail cell.”
“Sorry.” Reaching over, I took a long pull of soda.
“Besides, those sorts of characters would run me dry before they fed anypony who comes around behind the shop.”
“And how’s that business going?” I asked, though I had a good idea of the answer.
The sheen of his coat seemed to dwindle a bit. “Seems like there’s always more every night. I keep expecting them to get angry when I say I can’t give out any more, but they never do. The hardest part is seeing the new faces. There was a mother and her filly here the other night. She passed everything I gave her on to her little one.” He leaned on the counter heavily. “A child shouldn’t be so happy just to see a can of beans.”
“Do what you can, White. Nopony expects any more.”
“Yeah.” His eyes dropped for a moment. “Yeah, I suppose that’s the hell of it.” His gaze fell back on my half-eaten meal. He shook his head. “Now, don’t let my worries stop you. Eat up.”
I lifted the bottle in toast to him and took another swig. The rest of the sandwich went down easy. “Have I ever told you you’re too good, White?”
He shook his head. “Nah, nah, it’s good folks like you who keep me afloat. You keep bein’ a regular, you hear me, AJ?”
I pushed the empty plate toward him. “You got it. So, has anypony been bothering you at all?”
“Well, at least that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about. The gangs still treat the Three Squares as neutral ground.”
“That’s karma for you. So I imagine you still get meetings from time to time?”
He nodded, a tight smirk on his face. “I figured you weren’t here just for lunch. Who’re you after? It better not be another one of my regulars.”
“You tell me. A mare apparently came by here about a week ago. Magenta coat, rose mane. She was probably with somepony else.”
White Castle planted his elbows on the counter, one hoof pressed to his temple. I could see the receipts shuffling through his brain. “Veggie burger, with…” He slammed his hoof to the countertop. “Pickled beets. Yeah, I remember her well. Strange order for a young mare like that. Had to dig through the whole storeroom to find those beets.”
“You charge her extra for those?”
“I had to. They’re rare preserves.”
“And she could afford them?”
He shook his head. “I doubt it. But her friend could.”
I flipped open my notepad. “So what can you tell me about this ‘friend?’”
“Well, I can tell you he was a pegasus. Had a silver coat, tan mane from what I saw. He kept the rest of him covered with a big old jacket. Glasses, too. He just ordered a coffee.”
“Doesn’t sound like much of a date.”
“They were an odd couple, to be sure. They spent most of their time in here just talking. He was taking a lot of notes, too.” He worked his jaw for a second. “That’s something. I couldn’t believe how fast he was with that pencil of his.”
“How long were they here for?”
“About an hour. I don’t think either of them wanted to stay any longer than that. They both kept looking outside, like they were expecting trouble.”
“Trouble? Here?”
He shrugged. “Even I can’t decide who walks in or out of my place. If somepony brings trouble with them, all I can do is take their order.”
“Did you see where they went after they left?”
“That was the other strange thing. They didn’t leave at the same time. She up and scurried her way south down Eighth all of a sudden. Thought she was a dine-and-dash until he spoke up about the bill. Then he just sat there sipping his coffee and writing in his notebook. Took him about five, maybe ten minutes, and then he paid and went the opposite way.”
I set my pencil down. “And that was that, huh?”
“That was that.” He shrugged. “Does it help, at least?”
Sweeping my notebook back into my coat, I chugged the last of my soda and stood up. “I don’t know yet. But thanks anyway, White.”
He gathered up the bottle and started wiping down the counter. “Anytime, AJ. Oh, and again, if you know anypony who wants to buy some good cider...”
“I’ll be sure to send ‘em right to you. Take care, White.”
A little silver bell rang clean and clear as I opened the front door. Outside, Eighth Avenue was beginning to show signs of the lunch rush. It was the one thing that could still get ponies out into the streets without hesitation. I looked up one way, and down the other.
I settled on south, following in her footsteps. Hard hooves on hard pavement.
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.
The Auburn Hotel was eight stories of old brick and reputation on the south side of Sixth Avenue. It was one of the city’s oldest high-rises, lording over the old street like the citadel of some ancient fortress.
It could’ve been a fortress, for all I cared. It wouldn’t stop me. I shoved through the entrance, past the surprised doorpony, past the flustered bellhop. My hooves hammered up the stairs, beat against the rough carpet of the hall, and all but battered down a particular door.
The voice that answered was muffled, but still carried that rusty squeak. “Who is it?”
“Housekeeping,” I growled. “Look through the peephole.”
A moment passed as I glared up at the door. The slide and deadbolt clicked, and Red Oak stood there, his hoof on the handle.
“Miss Applejack?” he said, frowning. “You’re here at a—”
I took a step forward, planting a hoof on the door. “I told you I would figure every last bit of this out, Mr. Oak. And I’m a mare of my word.” Putting my weight behind my shoulder, I shoved my way in.
He staggered back, all but tripping over his hooves. “M-Miss Applejack! What are you—”
“Sit down!” I barked. “I’ve just been shot at, so I’m not in a good mood.”
His rear hooves hit the edge of a chair, and he fell back into it. “S-shot at? But how—”
“Because you’ve been lying to me, Mr. Oak.” I dropped my voice to the floor, letting it grate against the rug. “Now, I understand if you don’t want to give me the whole story right off the bat, but if you’re going to be sending me into harm’s way, the least you can do is tell me so.”
His head shook like a flag in a stiff wind. “N-no! I didn’t—”
“You didn’t think there’d be guns?” I threw a hoof towards the window. “Welcome to Manehattan, Mr. Oak! Didn’t you hear it’s the nicest city in the world?”
“No! I-I mean, I know—I mean, I knew there was a chance of this sort of thing, b-but I…” He trailed off. His breath came in short, shallow bursts. He swallowed. “Believe me, Ms. Applejack, I had no idea. I told you everything I knew going in. In fact, I—”
“Shut up.”
He shut up.
I leaned in, drilling my gaze into his. “If there’s one thing I will not stand, it’s somepony lying straight to my face. I found some letters in her apartment, Mr. Oak. Your letters. You two were still talking only a week ago.” I let some teeth into my scowl. “Could’ve sworn you said your last contact with her was over a month back.”
He stared back at me, mouth agape and ears flat. His jaw made little up-and-down motions, as though he were trying to nibble his way out.
“So now I’m curious,” I continued. “I want to know what her last letter said. What did she tell you that got you all the way into Manehattan like there was a fire under you? What did she tell you that you ain’t tellin’ me?”
He kept gasping like a fish for a moment, then he blinked once, long and hard. He took a deep breath, meeting my gaze. “She said not to tell anypony.”
I let my teeth show again. “Mr. Oak…”
“It’s the truth, I swear! Here, you want to know what she said? I’ll let her say it.” He reached into his coat, and pulled out an envelope. “This is her last letter, the one that brought me here.”
I snatched it from him and looked it over. It wasn’t a very long or a very good read.
My Darling Oak,
I’m afraid this is going to be my last letter for a while, as I’m going to be very busy. Remember Mr. Craggle’s window? It’s sort of like that. I’ll write you again as soon as I can.
With all my love,
Sugar Beet
Slowly, I lowered the letter. “Mr. Oak, you had better be pullin’ my tail.”
“No, no, I’m not! Let me explain.” He took a step forward and pointed at the text. “There’s a hidden meaning to it. See this part here? Mr. Craggle was this old coot who lived a ways down from my family’s place. When we were foals, Sugar and I managed to break one of his windows playing ball.”
He straightened up, looking at me square in the eye. “We swore we’d never tell a soul we’d gone and broken the window. That’s how I know she’s in trouble. She’s gone and done something that has to be kept secret, kept just between us.” He pawed at the floor. “That’s why I came to you instead of the police, Miss Applejack. I thought… Well, I don’t know what I thought anymore.”
The sound of the city crept into the room. It came in on timid hooves and sat down in one of the nearby chairs.
“And that’s the whole truth?” I said quietly.
He held up a solemn hoof. “That’s the whole truth. I’m truly sorry, Ms. Applejack. If you want to be done with this case and be done with me, I won’t blame you.” He picked a wallet off of the nearby table. “We’ll settle the debt, and that’ll be the end of it.”
I looked at the wallet, then at him. “I’m insulted, Mr. Oak.”
He cringed.
“I’m insulted that you think I’d leave a job unfinished. I’m a better worker than that.”
He looked at me like a bird fresh from its egg, seeing the light for the first time. “You… Are you sure, Ms. Applejack?”
“When I say something, I mean it.” I gave him the edge of a smile. “Besides, I’m really curious now.”
A shaky grin broke out across his face. “Thank you, Ms. Applejack. I… I don’t know what else to say.”
“You can start by telling me everything else you know. I know you’ve got more of her letters. Did she say anything else in them?”
“Well, no. Nothing I thought out of the ordinary.”
“Let’s have a gander at them all the same. I’d bet there’s some clue to be had somewhere.”
He looked away, chewing his lower lip. “You… want to see all of them?”
I raised an eyebrow. “That a problem?”
“W-well, no. But, it’s just, some of her letters are a bit… intimate.”
I stared at him. “There’s this thing we call ‘professional distance’, Mr. Oak. Trust me, she’d need to be quite the poet to move this old heart of mine.”
“Uh… Okay.”
We moved to the room’s lone table, taking our seats on a sofa that had been carved by some stoneworker a thousand years ago. I doffed my hat, setting it down next to the letters as Mr. Oak spread them across the table. I scanned through the dates, picked up the oldest, and started reading. It was typical stuff. She was doing well. Stories from her first day. She wished he was here.
“So why’d she decide to come to Manehattan, anyway?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, shuffling in his seat, “Sugar’s always had her eye on the big city, even when we were foals.”
“Lots of little fillies like to dream big.” I passed the letter to him. “She have a plan for her life here?”
A sad smirk tugged at his lips. “Kind of hard to plan for much in this day and age. But she had enough of a plan. She’d come here, find work and start sending money back home, keeping in touch the whole way. She hopped on the first train out of Budding Spring.”
I picked up the next letter, though I kept my eyes on him. “She wasn’t happy on the farm?”
His ears drooped, just slightly. “She… didn’t live on the plantation. At least, not until we were engaged.”
“And how’d she take to it?”
He shifted his shoulders, hunching them as though a draft had blown in. “Well enough. At least, I think so.” He was quiet for a moment. Something moved behind his eyes. “She just never forgot about going to Manehattan.”
I nodded. “Some fillies dream big.”
My gaze fell to the letter. Her first day at work went well. Names of new ponies she’d met. Still thinking about him.
“So tell me a bit more about her. She’s obviously smart.”
His face brightened. “Oh, yes. Definitely. She’s… brilliant.”
“Strong words, there, Mr. Oak.”
“They’re deserved. She was always top of her class. She cleared business school in only three years.”
“And all that with a little beet for a cutie mark?”
“Like I said, she’s brilliant.”
I nodded again. Next letter. She was sending a bit of money this time. Hoped he was doing well. She thought about him every day, and every night as she lay in bed, the sweaty sheets wrapped around her and…
Professional distance. I passed that one off quickly.
“You said you were shot at, Ms. Applejack?”
I gave him a sideways glance. “Yeah. What of it?”
“Do… Do you have any idea why?”
“The stallion holding the gun said it was nothing personal. It’s just that he’d seen his parents get killed by a freckled mare when he was a colt. He had to take precautions, is all.” I turned to him. He was staring at me, wide-eyed. I smirked. “I haven’t a clue. Looking for one.”
This one was dated around three weeks ago. The firm was crunching numbers for the city government before the election. She was very busy. She’d still make sure her next letter was on time.
“Can I ask you something personal, Ms. Applejack?”
“I won’t stop you, if that’s what you really mean.”
His left ear twitched; he nibbled his lip for a moment. “Why do you do it? This whole private detective thing, I mean.”
“It’s a living.”
“Well, of course. But, there’s plenty of other ways to make a living, right?”
“Like working a plantation?”
He chuckled, once. “Point taken. Still, did you ever consider something else? Why be a detective?”
I let out a slow breath. “Truth is, snooping suits me. It’s not glamorous. It’s not clean. It’s not easy. But it’s mostly honest work, and it pays. That’s good enough for me.”
I took up the next letter. It was shorter than the others. It hardly filled a page.
My Darling Oak,
There’s been some interesting happenings at work. I don’t want to say anything more here except “don’t worry.” Everything’s still as right as rain.
I even met somepony new the other day. His name is Flying Quill. We met over coffee and we’ve sort of become “pen pals”, you might say. If you ever get the chance to come to the city, I’d very much like for you to meet him. He’s a reporter for Halter’s Weekly, and he’s shared a lot of stories about the city with me.
In all honesty, that’s about all I can say concerning the past week. I’ve sent some money along this time. I hope it finds you well, and that you’ll continue to be the bright, upright stallion I know you are. Every time I receive one of your letters, it’s as though the sun is shining again.
With all my love,
Sugar Beet
“This ‘Flying Quill,’” I said, “You know anything else about him?”
He frowned. “No. That’s the reporter she mentioned, right?”
“Yeah.” I passed him the letter. “Any idea why she’d be meeting with a reporter?”
“None at all.”
I picked up the remaining letter. It was postmarked about a week ago.
My Darling Oak,
Remember that pony I talked about in my last letter? I’ve been speaking with him some more, and I may have picked up on a huge opportunity. I can’t say any more, but rest assured it’s something big. I’ll let you know if and when I have something concrete. In the meantime, I’m going to have to keep my talk on this matter brief. He says its better that way.
Anyway, it’s lovely to hear that you’re doing so well. Is the side garden still not coming in proper? It might be because the plants know it’s autumn, even if it doesn’t show it. How they’d muster the smarts for that, I don’t know, but…
The rest was just small talk. I turned back to Oak. “At the start of this one here, she doesn’t name him, even though it’s got to be the same pony.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why would she do that?”
“I don’t know. Is there any hidden meaning to this ‘garden’ business?”
“None that I can tell.”
“And the next letter is her very last?”
“Yes’m.”
I leaned back, my hooves crossed in front of my chest. I glanced at the letters spread over the table, turned them over in my head. They spun and tumbled like a deck of cards thrown against a wall. I picked them up, shuffled them, counted their suits and numbers, looking for a pattern. There were jokers in the deck, somewhere. Wild cards.
“Ms. Applejack?”
I looked at him. “Well, a name’s a lead.” I tossed my hat onto my head. “I’ll let you know if it turns out to be worth anything.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Can’t rightly get you two back together again if I just sit around. There’s still daylight left to burn.” I gave him a quick grin, then made my way to the door and opened it. I was just about to step through when he spoke again.
“Ms. Applejack?”
I turned to look at him, my hoof on the doorknob. “Yeah?”
“I… I just wanted to say thank you again. I think you’re just about the only friend I’ve had in this city. The only friend I’ve had in a long while.”
I looked at him a moment. Then I tipped my hat to him. “Take care, Mr. Oak.” I swung the door closed and made my way down the hall as quickly as I could.
Professional distance. I always leave when the job starts getting personal.
The office was striped just like I left it. The light had no reason to change, after all. The bottle of cider was still on my desk and glinted in the orange glow of the window, the liquid inside deep and bloody. My hooves fell heavy on the floorboards; the one loose board squeaked like I’d woken it from a nap.
I tossed my hat onto the desk and dropped into my chair, pouring a measure of cider into one of the nearby glasses. It went down smooth and tart, but with a lingering bitter taste, same as always. Come to think of it, the stuff was getting old. I’d have to finish it off quickly, before it went bad.
I turned to the window, looking out through the slots in the blinds. Manehattan was there, floating just beyond the pane. All its lights were on now. So many little lights. Too many to count. Unicorns on the walks, horns poking holes in the dark. Earth ponies, donkeys, and mules, grinding their hooves against the concrete and the dirt of the streets. Pegasi and griffons passing above, but never high enough to see the stars.
There would be a couple in the tenements across the way. They’d be settling in around the dinner table about now. He’d talk about work and how he’d tried to get his boss to give him overtime. She’d nod and say she understood. They’d find another way to make it work, even with the empty crib in the next room. He’d swear he’d do whatever it takes.
On the streets a donkey would be begging for his next meal. It might be his last. He’d say he’d do anything for just a mouthful of oats. And when nopony would give him bit or bite, he’d find a knife and prove he was no liar.
Down on the piers they would have seen a hundred ferries today, and four thousand new sets of hooves. Four thousand new hungry mouths. Most would only have what they wore, or what little they could save from their dark, faraway homes. They’d gambled everything coming here, tossed all their chips into the pot; now they just waited for the turn of the cards.
And Manehattan would stand above it all. Manehattan, lighthouse of a million candles. It’d hold out a hoof, prop the door open, sing a sweet word or two, and then canter on its way. A candle doesn’t care about the moths it attracts. It just keeps on burning.
Maybe one day a rain would sweep through the streets and finally douse that flame.
Now, stop that, Applejack. You won’t help anypony thinking like that, least of all yourself. I shook my head and poured myself another glass of the cider. I was just tired, is all. It was late, I was hungry, and I’d been shot at. Yeah, I know it’s petty, but it still shook me up, darn it.
The next gulp of cider was as bitter as the last, and did nothing to quiet my mind; my thoughts ran like they were being chased down a dark alley. They ran past brick walls as white fire exploded around them. They ran past two shadow-eyed unicorns as they tried to kill each other. They ran past bright diners with strange winged ponies in heavy coats and pencils in their mouths. They ran past deserted apartments with all their furniture flying through the air. They ran past a little pink mare who was scared and alone and trapped by the collapsing towers of the city around her, past the blue stallion who reached out to her despite the deep divide that separated them. They ran on until they collided with a mare sitting in an office with her problems and a hundred solutions to them.
I could turn up the name “Flying Quill” in the registry. I could look at the spyglass for any marks to trace it by. I could storm out of the office and go give the city’s rats a description of Sugar Beet and have them look for her. I could play a flute and march those rats out of the city forever. I could just walk away and solve everything.
I could go to sleep.
No. That was one thing I could definitely do without for now. I was too wound up, anyway. Rein in those horses, AJ. Take a break. You’ll feel better.
The newspapers still sat on my desk. I picked one up, held it to the light. Judging by the headline, there’d been a good fight just the other night.
Cotton Twine Steals Debate; Majordomo Trounced!
Last night’s debate ended in a sound victory for Food Commissioner Cotton Twine against his opponent, Judge Majordomo.
Continuing from the previous debate, both candidates presented their arguments on the issue of rising food prices. Mr. Twine noted the fluctuation, but assured all present that his office was doing everything it could to ensure higher returns for the public. Mr. Domo then broached the subject of corruption, especially concerning food shipments from Canterlot. He accused the Commissioner of complacency, at which point Mr. Twine retorted:
“If there is to be a hoof-pointing, sir, let it be pointed at the proper target. Let it be pointed at the hoarders, the hijackers, the criminals who prey on everypony’s well-being in favor of their own. Let it be pointed at the immigrants, who continue to wrest jobs as well as food from deserving Manehattanites, and who continue to swell the ranks of the gangs which now plague our city. Let it be pointed at you, sir, who, lest we forget, have let the leaders of these gangs walk free from your court time and time again. Make as many accusations as you will, but at the end of the day, Mr. Domo, they are but words. Words won’t fill anypony’s stomach, and neither will you.”
The Commissioner's words were met with raucous applause. Mr. Domo failed to make a retort, though he did make a statement following the debate. In it, he denounced Mr. Twine’s accusations, saying that they distract from the real issues at play. He pointed to the rising crime rate as an example.
“Mayor Wood failed to corral this problem, and now it’s only gotten worse. Mr. Twine refuses to acknowledge it, and instead tries to shift the blame. Maybe he needs to spend some time in the courts, learn about what’s really plaguing our city,” he said.
Both Mr. Twine and Mr. Domo will be hosting press conferences as Election Day approaches.
Leave it to the Messenger to provide unbiased coverage. Not a pony in Manehattan could miss the influence of Cotton Twine, Metropolitan Food Commissioner. I didn’t envy him or his position; whether ponies were fed or left to go hungry, he was the one who got the blame. Of course, he also had plenty of power in Manehattan, and there was no shortage of rumors about what he did with that power. Probably paid newspaper editors certain favors.
Majordomo… now he was an interesting case. Lawyer for many years, district judge for the last five, his career seemed to spin on cases from the Lower East Side. There was some truth to what the paper said; a number of those cases had involved the gangs which ruled that part of the city. The big fish in the pond was one “Papa” Greenback.
“Papa.” That little meeting in the carriage. “One of Papa’s, then.”
All right. Now I was thinking about the case again. I pulled the registry and flipped through the pages. There he was—“Flying Quill”, 56 Thirteenth Street, close to Harmony Square. No phone number, but that was no surprise. Bridleway hogged all the wire on the south end. I’d hit him up tomorrow; I still had some ideas of common decency, and few ponies would care to answer questions so late, anyway.
That left one other lead. I pulled the spyglass from my coat, turning it over in my hooves. No special marks, no logos. Fine, custom craftsmanship. You’d need a specialist to build one of these, and it’d be expensive. That narrowed things down a bit.
I turned back to the registry. Glassmakers. There were about a dozen of them in the city. Judging by the names, they were all headed by earth ponies. Except for one: “Auric Aspect - Specialty Lenses, Magically Crafted.” A unicorn glassmaker, with all the magic needed to enchant a night-vision spyglass. What’s more, he was located on Barnyard, near the Lower East Side. Perfect.
A shadow suddenly fell on the book. It crawled in through the frosted glass of the door window, flowing up my desk. Another joined it. Two silhouettes, in the hall. One of them reached up and there was a knock, rattling the pane.
Slowly, quietly, I stood up and crossed to the back wall. I opened the safe there and stowed the spyglass away, just as the knock sounded again. It was hard, each beat perfectly spaced, like how a professional knock should be.
I settled into my chair again, placed my hat on my head, skewed just right. I waited for the next knock.
It came. “Door’s open,” I called.
With a slight creak, it swung open. There were two of them, all right. One was slightly taller than the other, with close-cut tawny hair and the sort of attentive eyes that’d look proper whether he was smiling or frowning. The other was the kind of pony who could just be there and say everything with his level gaze and the professional sweep of his mane. They walked across the threshold with the steady, calm steps that spoke of some experience in narrow streets and back alleys and other places where the light doesn’t like to go. At their waists were holsters, with long-barreled pistols waiting.
They also had badges and uniforms.
“MPD, Officers Coal Felt and Sunny Bonds,” said the tall one, motioning to his partner. “We’d like you to come with us, Miss Applejack.”
I gave a leisurely glance at my watch. I’d forgotten to wind the darn thing again. “Late shift, draggin’ some ornery broad down to the precinct… You guys sure got the short end, didn’t ya?”
He should have been an actor. He had a good face for that. “Please come with us, Miss.”
I straightened to my hooves, stretched them. “Is this really a request, or do you have a reason to bring me in?”
“There are some questions we’d like to ask, on the record.”
“And you can’t ask ‘em here?”
He really should have been an actor. “That’d be off the record, Miss.”
I nodded. “Well, I’m always willing to help Manehattan’s finest.” I stepped between the two of them, smiling. “You brought your own wheels, right? I’ve done enough walking for today. Go on ahead, I’ll lock up.”
I did just that. They stayed with me the whole time, though. And all the way to the precinct, down many dark streets.
The room was small. It had a table, two chairs, and a mirrored window. There was a door, too, but that hardly mattered. It was lit by one of those special government gem lights that only seemed to make the shadows deeper. The table had a nice tone when struck, and the hardwood floor made a deep creak when tapped against. An all-percussion band wasn’t much fun, though, even with me on backup vocals.
I leaned back in the chair, kicking my legs up. My stomach growled; my eyelids started gathering lead weights. More than once, I thought of dropping my hat over my face and simply slipping away. It’d probably get them to come in quicker.
I just wondered whether the good cop or the bad cop would come in first.
When the door finally swung open, it turned out there was only one of them. She was a wide mare, one who could hug you with one limb or break you with it. It was easy for her to look tough, and she knew it. Her coat was hard, sweet caramel, with a dash of salt around her cheeks. She had a pink mane that fell in front of one of her green eyes—always one or the other. In one hoof she carried a mug of steaming coffee, and a file folder in the crook of her foreleg. She wasn’t young, by any means, but she’d always look that way to me, even with the sergeant’s stripes on her uniform.
“Well, hey, Babs. It’s been awhile.” I smiled at her.
She didn’t return it. “Evenin’, Cousin. Let’s have a talk, huh?” She sat down, setting the file off to the side.
“Let’s. You still seein’ that colt from the docks? What was his name? Girder-Something?”
“No, we broke up a couple months ago.”
“Good work, girl. He was all wrong for you.”
“Thanks.” She pushed the mug across the table.
“That coffee for me? You shouldn’t have.”
“Drink up. You’re gonna need it.”
I took the mug in hoof and had a swig. It tasted like a wet paper bag. “Good ol’ police swill. I’ve almost missed it.”
Babs folded her big hooves on the table. “So, you—”
“How’s the sergeant life been treatin’ you?”
She blinked. “It’s been fine.”
“Y’know, it’s alright to show off a little. Making sergeant in five years is something to be proud of.”
Her brows lifted, slightly. Then they settled back into the same stern frown. “Like I was saying, you—”
“I just hope they’re not ridin’ you too hard. Anypony gives you lip, you make sure and bite back, you hear?”
A slight smile appeared under her hard eyes. “So, you keeping busy, AJ?”
I sipped at the coffee. “As busy as I can.”
“You working a case right now?”
“Yeah. It’s nothing too major.”
“Really?” She opened the file. It was full of photographs. “Because I’ve got some things here that say it’s major, all right.”
She pushed a hoof-full of the photos toward me. They showed a small apartment after it had been hit by a tornado. They showed upended chairs, discarded drawers, and clothing littering the floor. Papers scattered like stars in the sky. A life in disarray.
I looked back up at Babs. I kept my expression even.
“The landlady of a tenement over on Brookmare Lane says you showed up there earlier today.” She tapped a hoof on the overturned bed in one of the pictures. “That you told her to open the door on this mess.”
“I might’ve suggested it.”
“Hm.” She slid another picture across the table. “There were scratches around the keyhole. You carrying any lockpicks?”
“Your boys searched me. Am I?”
She let that one slide, but not without a frown. “Did you take anything from the apartment?”
I shook my head. “No, I did not.”
“Did you go into the apartment at all?”
“Shouldn’t that one have come first?”
“Answer the question.”
I shrugged. “I took a step inside, yeah.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“I know better than to disturb a crime scene. I left it just as I found it.”
“So you really didn’t take anything from there?”
“That’s the honest truth.”
She leaned back, resting an elbow on the back of her chair. She pursed her lips and blew her mane out of her face. “All right, then let’s talk about De Prancy Street.”
“It’s a wide road on the East Side with way too many red lights and not enough cops.”
“True, that. So what were you doing there, AJ?”
“Who says I was?”
Her head lolled back, and she looked at me down her nose. “We’ve got a bunch of eyewitnesses who say they saw a firefight there this afternoon. Somepony let off a few rounds inside a carriage. Enchanted rounds. Incendiaries. The kind that’ll char you black from the inside out if they hit. That’s some ugly business, there.”
“You saying I fired those rounds?”
“Did you?”
I looked her square in the eye. “No.”
She blew on her mane again. “Well, the witnesses also claim to have seen a pony in a coat and hat runnin’ from the carriage just as the shooting started.”
“That could’ve been anypony.”
She smirked. It was a look she’d had years of practice with. “And there it is. Your face always scrunches when you’re fibbing, AJ.”
I returned the smirk. “Good to know I’m still an open book.”
“So, let’s read the story together, huh? What were you doing there?”
“Working.”
“On what?”
“My case.”
She swept her free hoof wide. “Any details on that?”
“Nothing that I need to share with the MPD.”
“Things like acting as a courier from Broken Spoke?”
I felt my breath pause, just for a moment. I decided to hold it a bit longer.
“A ‘Ms. Rosestone’ said she ran into you in the Golden Carrot. You were poking into somepony’s cubicle. Ms. ‘Sugar Beet’, was it?”
This time it was my turn to sit back in my chair. I folded my hooves in front of me for good measure.
“Care to explain what that was about?” said Babs.
“Business.”
“What kind of business?”
“My kind.”
She nodded. She tilted her head back in fake thought. “What I don’t get is how you go from a hole-in-the-wall counting house to a shootout in the street.”
I grinned. “Even I’m not sure how that happened.”
“Well, you must’ve bumped into somepony who didn’t want to be bumped. Is that about right?”
“Can’t say.”
“Was somepony casing the joint, maybe? You block their view or somethin’?”
“Keep guessing.”
“What’s so important about this Sugar Beet?”
I blinked, a curious expression settling onto my face. “What does it matter to y’all?
Babs went quiet. Her eyes flicked to the window, once. “So, you gonna share any of this with me or not?”
“No, no, no. Back it up. You’re pretty darn interested in this mare, aren’t you?” I leaned forward, putting my forelegs on the table and staring her in the face, good and close. “Now it’s starting to make sense. Why y’all are all but giving me the third degree. Why they’d send you in. Somepony here’s been trackin’ Sugar Beet for a while, and they’re desperate for info.”
“You can think that.”
“Who made the call to put you in here? How high does this go, Babs?
She shook her head, once and quick. “I can’t answer that.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t. Same as you can’t name your client.”
“No, it ain’t the same.”
“Then let’s be open and honest, AJ. Let’s lay it all out on the table.” She spread her hooves wide. “You said it yourself, there’s a reason I’m in here. Let’s be cousins and help each other out.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I slammed a hoof against the table. “Because until you guys own yourselves you don’t own me. Until y’all can be trusted, all the time, to look for the truth and find it and let the chips fall where they may, until I can trust you, I’ve got a right to listen to my conscience and protect my client as best I can. Until I’m sure you won’t do him more harm than you’ll do the truth good.”
Babs slumped back in her chair; her ears drooped like a scolded kitten’s. “You really think that of me, AJ?” Her voice was tiny and quiet.
I locked gazes with her. I hoped my eyes looked soft. “I think the world of you, Babs.” Turning to the window, I said, “That wasn’t meant for you.”
I took up the mug again and drained the last dregs of coffee. “Is there anything else?”
She glanced at the window, too. “No. No, we’re done here.”
“Thank you kindly.” I pushed off from the table, sliding the seat back with a squeal of wood. The door was unlocked, and opened with the same noise. I stood there a moment.
“Hey,” I said.
She spun to face me. “Yeah, AJ?”
“Next time, don’t let ‘em push you around, Babs. Have ‘em send in the bad cop.”
I straightened my hat and walked out.
Nopony in the 10th Precinct ever slept. Inside its white stone walls and behind its heavy brown doors, there were always cops doing something. There were cops wandering the halls, cops sitting at their desks, young cops chatting together and doing their best to look like it was still work, old cops with mugs full of coffee and eyes that said it still wasn’t enough, cops with ink-stained hooves putting the last of the day’s paperwork to bed, cops clocking in for the night shift, cops escorting surly private detectives out into the main lobby, saying thank you Miss, have a good evening.
I checked out with the watch lieutenant and was a free mare again. He didn’t recognize me. Seemed like nopony did. Maybe if I stood near the photos on the wall long enough, they’d make the connection.
There were a lot of new photos on that wall. A lot of bright new faces, a lot of bright new commendations. Detectives, lieutenants, a few patrol boys, here and there, all of them standing tall for the camera. I looked along the rows and back through the years.
One of them showed a pegasus stallion and an earth pony mare. He had a captain’s bars on his uniform, which was as crisp as it could be without being dangerous, and he held up a shining brass placard to the camera, his eyes squinted tight above his wide grin. The mare also looked sharp, of that there was no doubt. Her cap was held under one foreleg and she stood at perfect attention, looking into the camera with her mouth drawn so straight she might have been choking on the professionalism. Her eyes looked hard, framed by her lightly-colored locks, but if you knew to look, you could see the joy in them. It was her freckles—they crinkled a bit near the corners of her eyes.
She’d had a lot to be happy about, back then.
I spun away from the wall, made my way out through the heavy wood doors. I stood there, wasting a few moments listening to the rattle of carts on the street and hooves on the sidewalk. My watch told me I was up too late, that it was making my head go places it didn’t need to. Home was close. It was time to get there.
I’d made it maybe a dozen steps when the door to the precinct banged open again. I turned to look. Three ponies were hurrying out of the building. Two were patrol cops. The other was a detective.
He was the color of brick and cobblestone, his mane hanging across his neck like rust on a gutter. His coat and hat might as well have been part of his skin. He moved with the stride of a marathon runner, and his face was set in a frown that could light a fire or freeze a criminal solid.
I knew him. More than that, I knew what that look of his meant.
One of the uniforms hitched himself into a patrol wagon while the detective hopped in back with the other, and then they sped away into the dark. They were headed east, probably to somewhere on the far side of town, where none of my business was going on. Or maybe they were headed east toward 56 Thirteenth Street, close to Harmony Square.
Darn it. There I was, getting notions in my head again. One of these days, I’d learn better.
I hailed a cab, gave the driver the address, and told him to sprint.
All the windows on this block had round tops. It was the one stretch on Thirteenth that was like that. This time of night, they lit up the street like glowing tombstones.
I gave the cabbie a big tip; it was the least I could do for how fast he ran here. The whole walk in front of the apartment was choked with ponies. A number of them looked like your average folks, maybe a few reporters. Most were police. They ringed the front stoop like a barnyard fence, keeping the crowd back.
I made my way through them, pushing and nudging and saying “pardon me.”
A uniformed mare held out a hoof as I finally reached the front. “Sorry, Ma’am, but you can’t go in there.”
“Can I ask why?”
“There’s been an incident, Ma’am. I’m afraid I can’t say any more.”
“Well, who can say?”
“Are you a member of the press? A statement will be released at…”
Her words trailed away like dust behind a plow as I spotted a certain stallion stepping out of the apartment. “Hey, Black! Blacky!” I called.
Detective Black Light of the MPD was a pony born to tread the streets. His dark fur blended against the brown stone of the apartment; the worn cloth of his overcoat actually made him easier to see. A dark hat sat upon his reddish hair, casting his eyes into a band of shadow. His eyes were deep blue, almost black, and they were narrowed in a frown as he made his way over. The patrolmare wisely made herself scarce.
“What are you doing here, Applejack?” Black said. His voice was a cobblestone street after a hard rain, coated with the brick dust of a Broncolyn accent.
He hadn’t changed a bit. I found myself smiling. “I’d ask you the same question, but I already know that answer.”
His look was flatter than the sidewalk. “You got me over here. Don’t waste any more of my time, please.”
“You’re still working Equicide, right?”
“You know it’s not good for us to be seen talking, right?”
“That just leaves one question. Who’s dead?”
“You’ll have to deduce that yourself.” He turned away.
“A’right. The vic’s a pegasus. Male. Silver coat, tan mane. His name’s Flying Quill.”
It was a shot in the dark, and it struck home. Black ground to a halt. I couldn’t see his expression, but I heard his sigh. When he turned back, he looked very tired. “I’ll ask again. What are you doing here?”
“Right now, I just want to talk.”
He looked around at the milling crowd, back at the group of police. His jaw clenched, then he leaned in close. “There’s a door in back. Five minutes.” He drew back, taking a deep breath. “Now get the hell out of here!” he thundered so the entire neighborhood could hear.
I looked suitably sheepish as I stepped back. The crowd seemed to take the hint, breaking up and heading away from the scene. It made good cover as I slipped into a back alley and made my way to the rear of the building. Just as Black had said, there was a single door, lit by a lone, swaying gem lamp and nearly hidden between the garbage cans. And just as he said, it opened after five minutes.
He stood in the doorway, a little smirk on his face. “Come on in, partner,” he said.
“Always the gentlecolt, Black.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I gave him a little nudge as I passed by. “You sure this ain’t too much of a risk?” I said.
His hoofsteps fell in with mine. “I’ll take the heat.”
The hallway beyond was dim and noisy. The floorboards creaked with every step, the clop of hooves echoing from somewhere beyond the flickering light of the candles lining the walls. It was a barn apartment, little more than walls and a roof to keep the world out. The wallpaper fell from the walls like the evening edition hot from the presses.
I turned to Black. “So, what’s the story here?”
“Just got the call about half an hour ago. One of the tenants noticed a smell coming from Mr. Quill’s door. Landlord opened it up, and… Well, here we are.”
“You been inside yet?”
“Nope. Which is why I’d appreciate an extra set of eyes.”
“Well, at least I can do that.”
As we neared a corner I heard the sound of somepony being sick. I paused. Black came up alongside me, his expression hard. The sound was given a face a moment later as a young patrol officer came around the corner, his hoof over his mouth and vomit leaking down his sleeve.
“All right, trooper?” said Black.
“Y-yes, sir.” He wiped his lips, breathing heavily.
“Take five.”
“Yes, sir.”
Around the corner, there was a door. Another patrol officer stood near it. His face was scrunched, like he was trying valiantly not to follow his partner’s example. The smell probably had something to do with that. It was pond scum and sewers, it was a griffon’s nest on a hot day, the gums of a dragon’s maw and the scent of a newly-made coffin. And it only got stronger as we got closer.
“We’ll take it from here,” Black said to the officer. “You want to give your pal a hoof?”
He glanced between the two of us. “Much obliged, detectives,” he said, and with a tip of his cap, he all but galloped away.
I waited until he was out of earshot before I said, “Good to know I still look the part.”
“It never leaves.” Black leaned in, looking closely at the keyhole. “Scratches. Lock’s been picked.” With a glance at me, he pushed the door open.
I had flashbacks. First to a tiny apartment on the other side of town, and then to somewhere much, much darker. The place had only two rooms, one main living area and a bath. It was done up in sky tones, with blue walls and a blue sofa, welcoming to a pegasus. There was a desk in the corner with a gleaming black Overtree typewriter placed with care on top. An empty bookshelf sat next to it. Empty, because all its books lay on the floor in front of it. Drawers and papers joined them.
They ringed a single wooden chair in the center of the room. Seated on the chair was a pegasus. He had a tan mane, a ragged curtain that hung in front of his face. A black rime ringed his mouth, hanging from his chin in stringy lines, dripping down onto the silver fur of his chest and the ropes which held him upright. It joined the waterfall already there, flowing from the line drawn across his throat. His wings hung limp at his sides like two broken tree branches, stripped of their leaves by an autumn wind. Their feathers were scattered around the brown lake beneath the chair like some snowy islands. And his eyes stared wide and empty at the doorway, as though expecting company.
From somewhere far away, I noticed that I was standing still on the threshold.
Black noticed it too. He stepped past me. “You take the outside, I take the inside?”
I nodded, quick and shaky. “Yeah. I got it.”
We stepped into the tomb, and I took to the perimeter. There were plenty of papers to paw through. Not a scrap of paper had been left unmoved; somepony had been thorough. I glanced into the bathroom. They’d even ripped open the medicine cabinet. The lid of the toilet tank sat on the floor.
Black stood in front of Quill. Hard eyes against empty ones. “Bruises on his face,” he said. “Round. Sharp edge. Somepony was punching him.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “How big are the marks?”
“Bigger than mine.”
“Hefty. Earth pony?”
“Probably. Could have been a unicorn, though.” He leaned in, to where his nose was almost touching the bloody gash in the pegasus’s throat. “Clean cut, straight through the vessels and the trachea. It would’ve been relatively quiet, especially with the way he was tied down.”
Quiet. With him spasming and jerking against the ropes, choking on his own blood. I turned away, back to the shelves. “Somepony could still have heard.”
“Mm.” Black moved around the chair, examining Quill’s naked wings. “They also ought to have heard all this happening. I ain’t a pegasus, but it must’ve hurt.”
One scream for each feather. I looked among the papers on the floor. He’d certainly kept a lot of notes. None of them looked useful, not now. “What are you thinking?” I said. “One guy, maybe?”
“I’m guessing two, at least. One to work the place over, the other to work him over.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Just like us?”
He chuckled. I don’t know what was funny. “Yeah. Probably just the two. Three would catch too much attention.” Bending his neck down, he traced his snout over the bloody feathers. “What do you know? Some of these are almost untouched.”
“Come again?”
“Some of these are all mangled. Broken shafts, vanes all messed up. But some don’t look like they’ve been touched. Like they just fell out.”
“They don’t just do that.”
“Nope. No, they don’t.” He held a hoof up to Quill’s neck and rotated his wrist back and forth. “Throats don’t cut themselves, either. ‘Specially not like this. Weird angle of attack, plus blood spatter, straight on through… The blade came right in from the side, level with the ground.”
“Like it was floating?”
“Yeah. You’d need a muffling spell to keep things quiet, too.”
I nodded. “Unicorn and earth pony.”
He nodded, too. “So, the earth pony beats him around the face, tears out a few feathers with his teeth, asks him questions in between. When that doesn’t work, the unicorn steps in, starts plucking him one by one. He caves, tells them what they want to know, and the psycho slits his throat.”
“How do you know he told them?”
Black shrugged. “He’d still be alive if he hadn’t given them what they were after.”
“But does he have something for us?” I moved to the desk and looked over the typewriter. No paper in it, and no crumpled pages nearby. The wicker wastebasket was flipped upside-down and empty. I sniffed at the air. It all smelled like ink, but… “No ink ribbons.”
He looked over, frowning. “None at all?”
“Nope.” I glanced among the discarded drawers. “They took the one from the typewriter, too.”
“Okay, so there’s our motive. Hate crime against the press.” He grinned.
My eyes flicked to him, and to the bloody corpse he was standing next to. I didn’t say anything. His grin faltered, breaking down in chunks like a crumbling brick wall. In its place he built another, this one a tired, sad-looking wall whose mortar was missing in places, that had seen too much weather. He opened his mouth to say something.
The door swung open, and a crew of ponies stood in the hallway. One of them had a bulky camera slung across his back. The one in front looked at the scene like a rabbit before a timberwolf.
“Um… Excuse us, detectives,” he said.
“Yeah,” Black said. “It’s gettin’ too crowded in here.” He looked at me, jerking his head toward the door. I followed him out, keeping just behind him as we went out the back door and into the alley again. His face was half-hidden in the shadows beneath the brim of his hat.
He struck a match against his hoof and lit a cigarette. He took a long, deep breath, and let it out in a cloud. It hung there in front of his face, seeping into his eyes, and he blinked and waved it away with a hoof. There was a quiet clop as he set his hoof back on the pavement again. He was a scarecrow, looking straight ahead without flinching. A breeze blew through the alley, causing the light above the door to sway and the shadows to twist and turn before it all fell still again.
“Just like old times, huh?” he said suddenly, grinning an over-wide grin at me.
I looked at him. I might have let some fear into my eyes. “‘Old times’ never looked like that, Black.”
His grin vanished like a snuffed candle. “Yeah.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “Yeah…”
We went back to being quiet. I watched the tracings of smoke curling toward the moon. I could hear the clopping of hooves out on the street. Just one set, echoing down the alley. It was just for a moment, a brief passing, before the background tumult of the city settled in again. A passing ghost, on its way to who knows where.
Black took the cigarette out of his mouth. “So how’s the—” He cut off, his eyes flicking to the hem of my coat for a second. “How’s things?”
I nodded at him. “I’m getting enough sleep. Everything else is as good as it can be.”
“You sure? You’re looking kinda thin.”
“And you’re looking scruffy.” I reached up and swiped the back of my hoof against his chin. “I’m no worse off than anypony else.”
He smirked, taking to his cigarette again. “Good. That’s good to hear.”
“How about you, Black? They treatin’ you all right at the Precinct?”
“Yeah. Keepin’ busy.” He paused, and shook his head. “Not too busy, thankfully.”
“That why you don’t have a partner? Not enough work?”
“Nah, I’m… between partners at the moment.”
“Oh.” I pawed at the ground. “Sorry, I…”
“No, no. Nothing bad happened. He just transferred over to the 13th Precinct. They, uh, they needed a replacement over there.”
I nodded, though that still didn’t help. “And you haven’t got a replacement yet?”
“Turnover’s somethin’ awful.” He chuckled, rolling his eyes and taking another drag. “Can’t think why.” He let a smoky breath out. “So, the story’s pretty obvious. Two ponies, one unicorn, one earthy, come to this guy’s door and knock. He either doesn’t answer, or tells ‘em to beat it. So, they pick the lock. The unicorn casts a muffling spell, the earth pony grabs him, and together they tie him to a chair. They toss his pad looking for somethin’. When they don’t find it, they beat it out of him. Then the unicorn takes a knife to him and that’s all she wrote.” He looked at me. “So, the only question is, ‘What were they after?’ I got a feeling that’s where you come in.”
I shrugged. “There’s a mare I’m trying to find. Her name’s Sugar Beet. She met with him a few days ago in the Three Squares.”
“But they weren’t just lookin’ for good eats.”
“Yeah, from what ol’ White Castle was saying, it was definitely business. What that business was, I’m not sure.”
“Well, a reporter would have to have plenty of dirt. He have some on her, you think?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. She’s new in town. Nothing to blackmail her with. The guys who busted in were lookin’ for something, though. And like you said, they must’ve found it.”
Black tapped some ash from his cigarette. “Silencing job. If they were just after his info, they could’ve taken it and just walked right out.” A frown creased his brow, his voice turning grim. “They had to kill him. Somehow, some way, he knew too much.”
Just like that. Answer the door. Don’t answer it. Same result.
“So,” Black continued, “aside from their meeting, any other connection with this ‘Sugar Beet?’”
“Maybe. Her apartment was tossed, too.”
“He probably talked about her. They figure she has the goods, so they hunt her down.”
I nodded. “Makes sense.”
“So, what do they think she has? Does she even have it?”
“I’ll know when I find her.”
He took a drag on his cigarette. “Well, that doesn’t help me much. Any other leads you can share?”
“I was over on De Prancy earlier. She worked at an accounting office there, and somepony was casing the place. Don’t know who he was, just that he was pale, lanky, and a unicorn. He was watching from a big black carriage, and had somepony else watching him.” I shifted on my hooves. “That other guy was a unicorn, too. Rosy coat, yellow mane, blue aura. Didn’t see his cutie mark, just the pistol he used on me.”
Black’s head snapped around. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. He was a crap shot.”
He kept looking at me for a moment, then went back to his cigarette.
“I don’t know if that helps,” I said.
“Guess I’ll let you know.”
I took a deep breath. I had to ask him. “Black?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s with you? The way you were acting in there, making cracks, talking about it like that… You were never one to stomach violence. How does somepony get so numb to things?”
It took him a second to answer. “I’ve seen worse.”
“Worse?” I stared at him. “Worse, Black?”
He tapped some more ash from his cigarette, watching it tumble to the ground. His eyes stuck to the pavement for a moment, tracing back and forth like he was counting every speck, before he dragged them up again, staring beyond the walls of the alley. Beyond the walls of Manehattan.
“We got a call a while back. Little boarding house over on 25th. Some of the tenants had a disagreement that got ugly or something. We never found out the details. All I know is that I walked into the place and saw the bodies. Three of ‘em. Throats slashed, guts stabbed, just… lying there like… Like…”
“Islands in a red ocean,” I finished for him.
He looked at me. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s about it. So, we started looking over them. Didn’t seem to be any motive. Nopony had any idea where the perp went.”
He frowned, bitter and hard. “But that’s just because the uniforms didn’t do a proper sweep. Turns out the guy had been hiding right upstairs, ‘cause he came down the steps just then, bloody hooves and all. We drew our pieces, but he just stood there, with that blade hovering next to him, and he said to us—” Black snorted, a harsh grin on his face “—‘I bet wrong.’ Then he came at us, and we… we opened up on him.” He took a long pull, and let it out in a shuddering breath. “I don’t know who got the kill shot in. I looked him over, stripped off his coat, and it turns out he… He had a Brand.”
I stared at him.
He looked away. “Press had a field day with that one. Great to have a monster to talk about.”
“I remember the headlines. That case was yours?”
“I didn’t want my name attached. I’m still tryin’ to forget about it.”
“You can’t hide from the truth, Black.” I looked away. “You shouldn’t try.”
“Not everypony’s stubborn like you, AJ. Not everypony just throws everything at their problems and bull-rushes ‘em. Some of us get stuck with the hard questions. And they’re what keep us up at night.” He shook his head, his lower lip curled. “What makes a pony do all that? What makes a pony do that?” He jerked a hoof back toward the door.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
The sounds of city closed in around us again, echoing down the alley.
“So what’ll you do now?” he asked.
That I had an answer to. “Home. Sleep, probably.”
“Trains ain’t runnin’ anymore.”
“Yeah, I’ll just head back to my office and sleep there.”
“Cozy.”
I shrugged. “Gets better after a few dozen times.”
“I could see about getting you a ride, if you—”
“Detective?” called a voice from inside.
Black turned to the door. “Here!”
“Photo boys are done with the scene.”
“All right, I’ll be right up.” He looked back to me.
I smirked. “You’re busy. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
“All right.” He took one last puff of his cigarette, then dropped the butt to the ground. He stared at the wall again. “Hey, AJ?”
“Yeah?”
“You got somepony watchin’ your back on this one?”
“You offering?”
His gaze drifted down to the butt of his cigarette. He stamped out the last few stubborn embers with a foreleg. “Find a partner, if you can. I got a feeling you’re gonna need one.”
“I’ll be careful, Black.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I know you will.” His eyes met mine, and lingered there. His mouth parted, slightly, a few times. He took a breath, and said, “Good night, AJ.” Then his gaze went to the door, and the rest of him followed.
I stood there on the stoop. The breeze was blowing again, and the light was swaying. The shadows danced, then fell still.
There was earth beneath my hooves, I think. Earth that smelled of a fresh rain and fallen leaves. Earth that went on forever. Earth like the end of a long tunnel with no beginning. My head hung low, my legs lifted slowly as I made my way forward to nowhere. The sound of my footfalls changed with every step. Mud. Gravel. Wood. Cobblestone.
I looked up and I was past nowhere. Pillars of light stabbed up into the non-air, burning against the void like a forest aflame. I wandered among them and they towered above me, pressing in on all sides in neatly ordered rows. An orchard of shining trees.
A pink spot of light drifted past me, like cotton in the wind. I could smell it; it was the smell of a pencil being chewed, of silver cufflinks which cost too much and yet they still didn’t leave an impression. I followed the thing, watched it sprout a blue tail, and then it rounded a corner and disappeared from sight. I followed, my hooves pounding, muffling the beat of my heart as I ran and ran.
Except I was no longer running. I was lying on my back, gazing up at the great canvas of the night sky, except the stars were red and the sky was leafy green. Thunder echoed over the hills and the stars started falling and kept falling until there was no ground to fall to and no light in the sky. I fell too, into the sea of red. Drowning.
Something brushed by me. It felt like an undertaker’s desk, or the crank of a printing press. Maybe it was a hundred biting mouths, or a thousand tickling hairs. I swam through it. I swam in no direction at all, except toward a lime-colored island off in the distance. I swam until my lungs burned like they were full of hot coals.
I pulled myself up onto the pale green sand, coughing and hacking. The sand smelled like sour apples. I picked my gaze up from where it lay, probably somewhere deeper than Tartarus. I looked far away, and the horizon turned orange, the red sea heaving beneath it into a crooked mountain. The mountain twisted and dripped, and two emeralds shone down on me, lighting the island like green fire. Something else writhed into being below them: white and red. Teeth and bleeding gums.
There was a scream. It screeched like the sound of iron gates being torn open and marble walls crumbling. It wailed like lightning wrapped in a cloud of silk, like three comets streaking across the sky. There was pain and fear in it. It echoed around my head, scratching marks on the walls of my skull. Where had I heard that voice before? Oh, right.
It was mine.
Rumbling sounded beneath my hooves as the earth tossed and swayed. The sand turned hard, grew a short scalp of deep-green fuzz. Walls rose on all sides, like the walls of a honeycomb. Near one of them, something stood up from the flat expanse. It was a tombstone, as big and square as a barn door and carved with the likeness of some great queen. She held a wilting flower aloft in one hoof, and a staff of lightning in the other. Her eyes were burning ice.
Then it wasn’t a tombstone anymore. It was a thousand-bit cheque that fell to the ground and bled into it and made a thousand bits sprout from the green turf like daisies in spring, like corn in autumn. They waved against a breeze, grew up around my hooves, twinkling and chiming like they were singing some hideous song. I shook my head, squeezed my eyes shut, but it didn’t help. They kept playing their song and whispering of great halls of power and mountains of grain. They stopped, all at once, and I opened my eyes.
There was a castle in the center of the island, its walls made of woven bits. And behind the castle was a figure. It had broad shoulders, close-kept hair. There were others alongside it—a hook-nosed thing to one side and a mountain on the other. The first one did something, and a titanic scythe started waving its way across the plain. It carved sweeping lines in the surface, uprooted the bits from the earth. It crashed through the castle, and whistled straight toward me.
I thrashed, but my hooves were buried in the bits. I bucked my legs out, but not in time. I screamed because it was all I could do.
The scythe cleaved through my head like it was nothing. Because there was nothing. There was just a run-down office in a cheap part of town with an orange mare behind a desk and her head in her hooves. What was she doing there? Sleeping? No, that couldn’t be, because she was awake.
Awake.
I could smell the wood of my desk. Oak and applewood. Familiar, like the frosted glass of the office door. Welcoming, like the feeling of heavy eyelids.
I straightened up as my neck did its best to snap itself. I tilted my head back and forth to loosen the sore muscles, worked my jaw to set it right after being propped against my forelegs for so long. I checked my watch. Eight forty-seven. Who in their right mind made such an ugly-looking time?
Sighing, I sat back in my chair, letting my head flop over the back. It felt good. To think chiropractors got paid for this stuff. What a racket. I closed my eyes, and for a moment, I might have drifted off again.
Something knocked on the window. I turned to look—a face swam just outside the pane. It was pale, had a muddy blond mane. Blood dripped from its mouth. Its eyes stared in at me as though expecting me, right where I was.
I shook my head. No. No, it was just a face, with a brown coat and a messy blonde mane. A young face, attached to a small pegasus body. Standing and stretching my aching neck, I crossed to the window, unlatched it, and slid it open, leaning my head out.
“Heya, AJ,” said Lightning Blink, tossing his mane out of his face.
I smiled like I was dragging a rock on a leash. “Mornin’, Blinks. What’s up?”
“You didn’t come by for your mornin’ paper. I figured you musta been sleepin’ in your office again.” He gave an aerial shrug. Even his flapping wings seemed to. “Couldn’t let you start the day without your news.”
I nodded. “Nopony’s buying your stock, eh?”
“Dang it. No, they ain’t.”
“How much you asking?”
“Three bits,” he grumbled.
“Good boy.” I fished a hoof-full of bits out of my coat and tossed them up high. With a flash and a flip, he caught the lot of them in the little pouch around his neck. A sly grin washed over his face.
“Y’know, I’ve got a few copies of Halter’s Weekly, too…”
I frowned. “We at the end of the week already? I swear I’d never know if it weren’t for the dates on the papers. Sure, I’ll take one of those.”
He passed me two papers, and a few more bits went flying. He caught them in his hooves, looking them over. One of his eyebrows quirked.
“Uh… Three bits for the Messenger, and Halter’s is only four bits. I got twelve here.”
I smiled at him. “You know that little bakery a few blocks up Vineyard from here?”
“Rising Crust’s joint? Yeah, I know it.”
“Do me a favor and grab me a couple of bagels from there. Do it quick, and I might toss a few more your way.”
A grin lit up his face and he snapped a hoof to his brow in salute. “You got it, AJ!” he said, and he took off like a tornado of fuzz and feathers. It was a wonder his cap managed to stay on.
Shutting the window, I took the newspapers to my desk and sat down. For a long while, I just stared at them. My head swayed back and forth like the tide on the East River. I could feel the ropes in my neck twisting tighter. They squeezed my brain like an orange.
Truth be told, I’d gotten lucky; it wasn’t the worst night I’d had. I could handle the surreal—the worst ones were more concrete. Still, it was far from the best, either. I’d gone to sleep hungry. That never helped, and it certainly did me no favors now that I was awake. Heaving a sigh, I ran a hoof through my mane.
Something was missing. Where was my hat? I cast my gaze around, and it caught its hooks near the foot of my chair. Reeling my hat in, I dusted it off and set it carefully on the desk. I looked to the newspapers.
I bought them, might as well read them. I took to the Messenger first. It was pretty much what you’d expect—a few bright spots of news here and there, buried in the mud of the campaign for Mayor. Cotton Twine was still making speeches about providing more food for Manehattan. About cleaning the filth from the streets. About how the city would see a new golden age if it just voted right. Majordomo barely got a word in edgewise. I set the paper aside, taking up the other.
Halter’s Weekly tended to cover whatever the other papers didn’t like to print. Refugees from the mainland starving on the docks. A two-page spread with illustrations of the town of Saddlebred, now abandoned and wrecked by monsters. The ongoing losses of the Grain Trains from raiders in the countryside. Accusations of corruption in Manehattan’s Food Commission. A nice, big cartoon of Cotton Twine as the Statue of Harmony, holding a torch aloft while the masses behind him held their hooves out for food. Subtlety wasn’t Halter’s strong suit. I turned the page.
My thoughts went still as I recognized the face of Flying Quill smiling out at me. Next to him was the headline:
A Sad Farewell
It is with a heavy heart that we must report on the death of one of our own. Flying Quill served Halter’s Weekly for many years, and was a cherished member of our staff. His tireless devotion to this publication and everything it stands for served as an example of the highest order.
Quill was found dead in his apartment yesterday. The exact cause of death is still being determined. The MPD assures us that a statement will be made later, once the preliminary investigation has concluded. Details are sketchy, with…
Nothing about what I’d seen at his apartment. Ol’ Black must have managed a gag order on things. I shuddered. Maybe it was for the best that they stay quiet about that butcher shop.
Something moved at my door. I looked up just as a tall silhouette raised a hoof and knocked fast and loud.
“Come on in,” I called.
The door all but exploded inward. Red Oak stood on the threshold. “Ms. Applejack!” he cried, waving a newspaper. “There’s something you need to see!”
Without a word, I held up the issue of Halter’s.
“Oh.” His face was like a bird that had hit a window. “You’ve read it already?”
“Yep.”
“T-that was him, right? The stallion who met my Sugar Beet?”
“Yep.”
“S-so…” He breathed heavily. “What does that mean? Is she…?”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I said firmly, “just that there’s one less lead out there.”
“What?” He shook his head. “A stallion is dead, Ms. Applejack! Somepony killed him trying to get to Sugar Beet! That means something, all right!”
I took a breath. “Calm down, Mr. Oak.”
“‘Calm down’?” He laughed, biting and bitter. “‘Calm down’?! I hardly slept a wink last night because I couldn’t stop thinking about Sugar Beet. I only managed it because I told myself that you’d handle this whole thing. And what do I find? I find you sitting in here, twiddling your hooves, reading the morning paper! What the hell have you been doing, Ms. Applejack?!”
“Mr. Oak…”
“She’s out there, Ms. Applejack. And she’s either scared senseless or worse, and you’re not doing anything about it!” He slammed his hooves onto my desk; the cider in the nearby bottle tossed like the sea beneath a hurricane.
I locked gazes with him. It was like staring into a timberwolf’s eyes. “Calm. Down.”
Slowly, he did. The fire drained from him. His bared teeth vanished behind their curtain once again, the raging storm of his breathing passing like thunder over the hills. “I… I’m sorry,” he said, quietly laying his hooves back on the floor. He looked away.
I swept the flecks of dirt off my desk. “Mr. Oak, just think for a minute. Flying Quill died days ago. I smelled him, so I know. Sugar Beet’s apartment was tossed not long after, but she wasn’t there when it happened, otherwise there wouldn’t be ponies casing her work. Now, what do you think that means?”
His head gave a little shake. “I don’t know.”
“It means she’s still out there.”
Slowly, he looked back up at me.
“There’s still time,” I continued. “You said she was smart, and I’m startin’ to think the same. She’s buried herself deep. I’m following a cold trail, and so’s everypony else.” I stood up. “But, I do have some leads.”
Crossing to my safe, I spun the combination into the lock and opened it. I reached in and pulled out the spyglass, as well as a bag of bits. I set both of them on my desk.
“This thing here,” I said, holding up the spyglass, “I pulled from that carriage over on De Prancy. It’s easy to trace. I’ve already got a glassmaker nailed down on the Lower East Side. We’ll see if he can be convinced to give up some dirt on his employer.”
“But… that’s just one lead, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Well, what if that turns out to be a dead end?”
“Then I fall back on another plan. I’ll just have to start bucking the apple tree and see what falls out.” I paused, and shook my head. “Somepony is going to know where she is. Somepony has to be hiding her. I figure I just need to get that pony’s attention somehow.”
“And how’re you going to do that?”
There was a knock at the window, causing Oak to jump. I turned to it with a smile. “That kid is so darn punctual, it’s a thing of beauty.” I went and opened the window wide. “Come on in, Blinks.”
He tumbled into the office, stood himself up, and brushed his dusty vest to no effect. “Special delivery for one Ms. Applejack,” he said proudly, holding up a brown paper bag.
“Thank you kindly. Mr. Oak? Meet Lightning Blink. Blinks, this is Red Oak.”
His eyes flicked over Oak. “Heya. Nice suit.”
Oak’s mouth hung open slightly. “Uh… Hello.”
Blink leaned in toward me. “Cold fish, huh?”
“Hush. Now, I told you if you got back quick there’d be more to come, and I’ve got another job for you, if you’re interested.”
He kicked a hoof back and forth against the floor. “I dunno, AJ…” He drew the last word out far longer than he needed to. “I mean, I still got a lot of papers to sell.”
“I’ll make it worth your while.” I nudged the bag of bits on the desk. They clinked happily.
He didn’t say anything, but his eyes had trouble staying away from the bag.
“I’m trying to find somepony for a client. She’s got a pink coat and a rose-colored mane, and her cutie mark is a sugar beet. That’s also her name.”
“Sounds pretty. You try over on Bridleway?”
I let that one slide with a smile. “The deal is this, Blinks. You back me up on this one, and I’ll pay you for the information you turn up. I’m not asking you to dig deep, but I am asking you to go far. Ask around all the usual spots, see if anypony’s noticed anything out of the ordinary.”
“Lotta work for just one colt, even if he’s as quick as me.”
“Well, you can get help, can’t you? What’s it going to take to get your newsie buddies on this case?”
“Hm…” He tapped a hoof against his chin. “Most of the boys on the west end are nice enough. The guys up north are gonna be a real hassle, though. I’m gonna need at least fifty bits to get them all to help.”
“Yeah, that’s about what I figured.” I reached for the sack of bits. “My client is going to have to deal with this as an added expense. ‘Additional investigative fees’, we’ll call it.” My gaze flicked to Oak for a moment—not long, but long enough for his eyes to meet mine. He didn’t object. I counted out fifty of the coins and handed them to Lightning Blink. “There you have it. You come to me with some good info, and you’ll get your commission.”
“Y’know, thinking on it again…” He rolled his eyes as though expecting a halo above his head. “They might need a little more convincing. Maybe you ought to give me another ten bits or so, just in case.”
I nuzzled a hoof into his cap, mussing up his mane. “Don’t you be playin’ games now, boy.”
He batted at my hoof and squirmed out of reach. “Okay, okay! I get it. I’m on the job!” With a flutter of his wings, he zoomed back to the window and hoisted himself up on the sill.
“Oh, and Blinks?” I said.
He braked to a halt, half of him already through the window. “Yeah, AJ?”
“Don’t be flashing that cash to anypony, you hear? Keep it out of sight and out of mind.”
His brow furrowed in understanding. It was the most serious I’d seen him. Then his grin came back. “Yeah, yeah. I got it, Mom. I’ll be fine.” And with a scuffling of hooves and a loose feather, he flew the nest.
I shut the window again. The thing was certainly getting a workout this morning. I turned to Oak.
He raised a brow. “Your own private army, huh?”
I shrugged. “Nah. Just some kids who always appreciate a few extra bits.”
“You don’t worry about them? You were shot at.”
“Don’t remind me. Blinks’ll be fine. He and his friends do their best work in plain sight.”
“If you say so.” He stood like a jay perched on a shivering branch. “You didn’t mention I was your client.”
“Well, you are my client, Mr. Oak. Privacy’s part of the contract. Now, if it’s alright with you, I’m going to have to charge those extra bits as an expense. Sorry to spring that on you.”
“No. No, it’s fine.” He chuckled, once and quick. “‘Additional investigative fees,’ was it?”
“Good to know we’re on the same page.” I picked the bag of bits up and went and stowed it in the safe again. I snatched up the spyglass and stowed that in my coat. “Now, what are you going to do?”
“I… I guess it’s back to the hotel for me. I’ll… just have to have faith in you.” He looked at me evenly, a slight smile on his lips.
I tossed my hat onto my head, pulled the brim into its proper place. “Lucky you came to me, huh? Now, come on. I’ve got to lock up.”
The cabbie was a donkey, with hooves that had met every street in Manehattan and a face that had probably met half of them. His mud-colored fur was graying in places, and the tweed of his jacket was at least ten years past retirement. He was a talker, too. He talked like the sun had just come up that morning.
“...But all that’s not worth a pile of mule dung if they don’t make an effort. Sure, you get some ponies who do try to lend a helpin’ hoof, but most of ‘em couldn’t give two salt licks about their neighbors. Never used to be that way. You used to see all sorts of dinners. Heck, I had a buddy up in Flatiron who did a nice potluck every year. Brought out the whole neighborhood. And every Hearth’s Warming, his family would get all’a that food back and more. Never had to pay a bit for their holiday dinners. Funny how that works. But these days you don’t see that sorta thing. Folk these days just wanna hold onto what they got. They just hold all’a their chips and never throw any into the pot.”
“Gotta have something to bet something,” I said.
“Exactly. That’s what I mean. Maybe if everypony started bein’ a bit more neighborly again, we’d be sittin’ pretty. But then you hear about the state a’ some of these folks, it turns your stomach. You know about that hobo place up in Central Park? Savages, the lot a’ them. What kinda world are we livin’ in, where they let that sorta thing happen?”
I shuffled in my seat. “A dark one, to be sure.”
“True, that. It’s enough to boil my hide. Don’t even get me started on some a’ the neighborhoods further down the Lower East Side.” He let out a whistle. “Some a’ the things I’ve seen there… I’d almost be of a mind to take to City Hall with a sign or somethin’, but I try not to make myself any more of an ass than I already am.”
I smiled. “Thanks for that.”
“Been in this town for fifty years. First time somepony’s said that.”
“Cryin' shame. You’re such a nice ass.”
“Oh.” He sent a crooked smile back at me. “Well, thanks for lookin’, doll.”
Grinning wider, I sat back and let my head loll over the back of the seat. “I take it back. You’re a wise ass.”
I heard him laugh. “The wisest!”
The rest of the trip went by quick. The wheels seemed to prance along the cobblestones.
“Auric Aspect - Lenses and Glasswares.”
It was an odd building, to be sure. If Barnyard Street were an actual barnyard, it would have been the run-down shack that nopony had used in years, but was too much of a hassle to just tear down. It had to be as old as the neighborhood—the chimney in back was certainly ancient enough—it was just one story, which made the modern building next to it seem all the taller. The bricks around the door were covered in cracks and a layer of soot that had to be an inch thick. The windows, though, were clean and clear. I suppose that made perfect sense.
A little bell chimed as I stepped through the door. Inside, it was lit the old-fashioned way, with a few candles hanging from the back wall and a few more scattered around the tables and shelves in the middle of the room. They cast their flickering light on the piles of neatly-organized merchandise. At the far end was a counter and cash register, and a door under which a much brighter light shone.
The floorboards creaked and spat dust beneath my hooves. There were rows upon rows of eyeglasses; shelves packed with wine glasses, colored glass plates, and a few large crystal serving trays; telescopes with padded cases; a small display of various decorative items, sculptures, and the like.
One of them drew my eye. A life-size hummingbird sat perched on a wooden branch, its pure blue feathers flared, as though it were about to leap off and suckle the purple flower which was wrapped around the branch. The little orange sword of its beak was pointed at the cup of the flower, forever reaching but never quite close enough.
The door in back swung open, and in stepped a bespeckled ochre unicorn of about fifty with the leary eyes and tousled mane you’d usually associate with an old chemist, or somepony else who put just a little too much time into their work. He wore a protective smock over a maroon pinstripe vest, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past the elbow. From the look he was sending me, he didn’t see many coat-wearing mares in his shop.
“Can I help you, Miss?” he said, placing a tentative hoof on the counter.
I put a hard face on and let my voice dip low and deep. “You do a lot of good work, Mr. Auric. Gotta wonder why you don’t do it all the time.”
“I-I’m sorry?”
“I get it though, I do. It’s delicatework. Things… break.”
His glasses magnified the movements of his eyes. It made it easy to see them darting back and forth.
“What I don’t get,” I continued, starting toward him, “is how we can pay you for the good work, and yet wind up with junk like this.” I pulled the spyglass from my coat.
Even his magnifying lenses couldn’t keep his eyes from shrinking to pinpricks. He froze in place, his mouth dropping open as he inhaled sharply.
Bingo. “This piece of ‘work’ just cost us a stakeout. Our employer is not pleased.”
He finally found his voice. “N-now, wait just a moment—”
“And I’m sure I don’t need to mention what he’s going to have us do about this betrayal of trust.” I looked around pointedly. “Lot of delicate work in here.”
“Please!” he burst out. “I swear, Mr. Greenback will not be disappointed again!”
And there it was—that name again. Very odd, hearing it in a little glass shop here. I was on the right street now. I’d just need to keep out of the potholes.
“Please,” he said, “let me make it up to him.”
Next step. I kept my expression unfeeling. “He doesn’t care about favors. He cares about results.” I set the spyglass on the counter with a hard thump. “You’re going to take this thing apart and figure out what went wrong. And you’re not going to let the same mistake happen again.”
“Y-yes! Yes, of course!” He snatched the thing up in a pale pink aura. “I’ll do so right away, in fact!” Whirling around, he all but tore the door from its hinges as he fled into the back.
I followed him with a leisurely step and leaned against the doorjamb, crossing my legs and watching. The back room was tiny, made even tinier by all the cupboards and boxes which lined the walls. A single, bright gem light shone down on a workbench across from me, which Auric was busy clearing of loose glass and papers. His horn lit up, and one of the cupboards spewed a clutch of tools into the air, which then floated over to him. He took a seat on the room’s lone stool and set the spyglass on the bench.
“The lenses… appear to be in order,” he said, turning the thing over in his trembling hooves. “No scratches that I can see.”
“There’s more than two lenses, ain’t there?” I said. “Check ‘em all.”
“R-right. Yes.” He clamped a set of pliers around the end of the spyglass, and with his magic, unscrewed the front lens. He picked it up, along with a magnifying glass, and held it to the light. Setting it aside, he did the same with a number of smaller glass circles lifted from the remainder of the device. “There are no faults with any of the lenses,” he announced.
“Hm. Well, that’s weird. You got an idea what else could be the problem?”
“I’ll need to check the energy of the gemstones,” he said more to himself than to me. He leapt from the stool, crossing the room in a flash and rummaging through a pile of tools in the corner. “I-I just need to find my dowsing wand.”
I watched him from my spot at the door like a dog watching squirrels. “Take your time.”
He pulled a device like a doctor’s stethoscope from the pile. He wrapped the two tail ends around his horn, rushed back to the bench, and took the single end to the pulsing gems on the spyglass’s outer surface, one at a time.
“Good… good… good…” he mumbled. “I don’t understand.”
“What’s not to get?”
“There’s…” He gulped. “Nothing wrong. Nothing wrong that I can tell.” He sat as still as a statue in a graveyard, his ears drooping. He didn’t dare turn around.
I let out a sigh. “Nothing, huh? Well, guess that means I got nothing to tell anypony, either. Darn.”
He still didn’t budge. I guess I’d have to make it obvious.
“We’ll just have to keep this a secret between the two of us, huh?”
That got him. His head jerked around. “W-what?”
“I’m going to do you a favor, Mr. Auric. What I suggest you do now is take those components and use ‘em in building a bunch of other spyglasses. Nopony will ever know.”
His jaw hung open. His eyes were doing the scurry again, this time beneath a furrowed brow. It took him a long moment to ask the right question. “Who the hell are you?”
I smiled. “I’m just somepony who’s trying to figure a few things out. I’m doing you another favor by not sayin’ anything else.”
His gaze narrowed. There was a very different look in his eyes now. “Cop?”
I didn’t say anything else.
He shuffled around in his seat, fully facing me. “Well, whoever you are, you’ve got some nerve, springing all of that nonsense on an old pony.”
“Investigative technique. Nothing personal.”
“You might have just asked some questions.”
“A lone mare comes walking in with one of your special spyglasses, and starts asking suspicious questions? Somehow I doubt you’d have answered any of ‘em.”
“Probably not, no.”
“The real question is, are you open to a few right now?”
The glint in his eyes shifted again. His lips twitched before he spoke. “Perhaps I am.”
“Well, thank you kindly, Mr. Auric.” I reached inside my coat, taking out my notepad. “So, what can you tell me about your relationship with this ‘Mr. Greenback?’”
“You mean, aside from what you already know?”
“I’ve made some guesses, nothing more.”
“Well,” he let out a breath. “You know who you stole from, don’t you?”
“Sounds like a bunch of gangsters from the Lower East Side.”
“A rather scary bunch of gangsters, in point of fact.” He cast his gaze to the floor for a moment. “Mr. Greenback only holds onto the slips and the Six Points, but his people go as far as Midtown unopposed.” He looked back up at me, shaking his head. “Not even the griffons from the Rookery can just waltz in any place they want like that.”
“So, he’s based out of the Six Points?”
“Do I look like the kind of pony who would know exactly where they’re at? That’s just what I hear. I don’t ask for every detail.”
“So, how’d you get involved with his lot?”
He looked away again, licking his lips. “A couple of his enforcers came in one day, around two months ago. They dropped a few hints at who they were, made sure I knew I’d be a fool to refuse the business.”
“You normally make night vision scopes?”
“No. No, I didn’t even know a night vision spell until they gave me a few pages copied out of some spellbook. They sent the gems, as well.”
“Sounds like they set you up good and proper.”
“Yes,” he said, slowly. “They did.”
“How much did they pay you, exactly?”
He shuffled his hooves uneasily. “A fair price for this sort of work. Both bit and grain.”
“You ever think about what they could be using these spyglasses of yours for?”
A heavy sigh escaped his lips, his ears drooping. “I lose sleep every night.”
I nodded. “Don’t we all.” I flipped my notepad closed, stuffing it back into my coat. “Well, that’s all I needed to hear, Mr. Auric. Thank you kindly.”
He perked up again. “Really? You’re done, just like that?”
“Yep. Don’t you worry, you won’t be seeing me again.” I turned away from the door, heading back into the main room.
“Well, wait a minute!” he said. I heard his scrambling hooves behind me. “Suppose I up and tell them all about you?”
I looked at him, shrugging. “I can’t stop you. I would appreciate it if you kept this little meeting quiet, though. That’s for your benefit, too. They’ll probably want a replacement for that lost spyglass eventually.” I tilted my head toward the back room. “And hey, you’ve got the spare parts. It’s easy money.”
He glanced back at the doorway. When he looked at me again, his face was that of a Saddle Arabian trader. “I suppose it is.”
I held his gaze for a moment, then started for the front door. My hooves fell still as I spied the hummingbird again. “I meant what I said, earlier,” I said. “You do good work.”
“Hm? Oh, that’s not one of mine. A colleague of mine made that a long time ago. That was during brighter times.” He paused, licked his lips. “In Canterlot.”
I stared at the thing, long and hard. “He ain’t still in Canterlot, is he?”
“No, no. Thank goodness, no. When he moved away, he sold it to me. I don’t know where he went after that. I’ve never been able to sell it in this town.”
“It’s a nice piece.”
“Yes. He put all of himself into it, all for a single customer.” He sighed, a bit of life leaving his eyes and going somewhere far away. “But that was a gamble he lost.”
The sound of carts and hooves on the street outside sounded through the shop once again. I tipped my hat to him.
“Well, Mr. Auric, you have a good day.”
“You too, Miss…” He trailed off. “I suppose I can’t ask for a name one last time?”
I smiled at him. “Have a good day, Mr. Auric.”
The door opened with a ring of the bell, and I walked out without a single glance back. I’d shaken this tree. Now I had another one to buck down on the Lower East Side.
I caught a train heading south from Barnyard. No cabs dared to go into the Six Points.
The shadows were longer here. Deeper. They reached out at the uneven cobblestones, stared out from broken windows, stood at the entrances of alleys like sentries on a wall. Even the moon seemed to shine more dimly here. Blackness ruled these narrow ways.
There were lights, rarely. A candle sputtering in a bent streetlight. A flicker of movement behind the blinds of the overbearing buildings. Colored, pulsing glows from the horns of unicorns crossing the streets. If you looked hard enough, you might even see some light reflected from the eyes of somepony across the way, if only for a moment. Most of the crowd kept their heads low and shoulders hunched. I suppose things felt safer that way. I settled for turning up the collar on my coat.
The Six Points took their name from the intersection of Barb, Muleberry, and Cross. Three streets, as old as Manehattan, all meeting at one spot like the spokes of some great wagon wheel. And like six knife blades, the rows of tenements and flimsy storefronts all stabbed themselves toward the central axle. Looking to the south, you could see the towers of the Financial District lighting the sky with their fiery glow.
I wondered what they saw from those towers, whether they ever looked to this part of town—whether they could even see it through the darkness. Walking its crumbling sidewalks, though, you saw it. You saw it in the stallions leering from alleys with makeshift clubs across their shoulders, in the three skinny colts slumped around a small barrel, sleeping on their arms for comfort and each other for warmth. You heard it in the shouts echoing from the doorway of a ramshackle saloon, in the cough of the old donkey peddling his pile of used goods. You smelled it in the mud of the streets and the masses of bodies which choked them.
If Manehattan had a beating heart, it wasn’t here. The Six Points were its writhing guts.
No friendly faces here. Plenty of faces looking down, though. And plenty of faces watching. I could feel it the moment I stepped down the bend of Muleberry Street. This was the sort of neighborhood where everypony knew everypony, if only so they knew who owed who. Outsiders were easy to spot.
I weaved through the masses of ponies criss-crossing the square. There was a small park at the point where the streets met, just a little triangle of unpaved dirt that somepony had decided to fence off. It was vintage dirt, had been there since the streets were nothing but wagon tracks between rows of houses. I went and stood in the center of it, near an old, dead tree, and looked down each of the streets. A breeze sent litter from a nearby trash heap skipping across the way.
It was a big tree to buck, this neighborhood. I’d have to work my way in from the branches, and there were no shortages there. The bars would be a good place to start. If Mr. Greenback did own this whole neighborhood, his eyes and ears would pick me up sooner or later.
And as long as I was at it, I might as well start with the worst dive I could find. The place across the way, with its battered door and ancient sign, ought to work.
I’d never have stepped into it if not for the job. Floors like the inside of a barn. A mirror too filthy and scarred to hold a reflection. The air thick with musk and a stench that would’ve gagged a roach. A few lamps hung over the bar like wilting tulips. Wilting ponies sat beneath them.
The bartender was well-built for his trade, with a mug on his flank and a face that could peel the lacquer from a countertop. He looked me up and down like a griffon fisher eyeing his catch. “What’s your pleasure, doll?”
“A stallion in a penthouse up by Central Park, but you wouldn’t know him.”
He grinned. “All right, what’s your poison, then?”
“Something soft. You got any cider?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. I’m working.”
“Hm. Must be a nice line of work if you’re here.”
“I wish. I’m kind of looking for another employer, as it happens.”
“And you’re here?”
“Just casting some lines, is all.”
“Here?”
“Here, there, anywhere I can, really.”
He looked at me funny, then went in back. He spent far more time there than it’d usually take to find a single bottle. I looked around, finding plenty of gazes being sent my way. No more than would usually be sent to an outsider. Not yet, anyway.
When he came back, he had a bottle of Hackney in his hoof. Cheap swill. He hammered the edge of the cap against the countertop, and it hissed as it opened.
He slid it across to me. “So, you said you’re looking for employment?”
“Nope, I said I was looking for an employer. I hear he employs a lot of folks around these parts.” I grinned. “Mr. Greenback. You know him?”
He stepped back from the bar. All trace of cheer was buried under his frown. “Are you stupid or something?”
“Somethin’ like that.”
“Well, I suggest you show your dumb face out.”
“Hm… Welcome wears quick around here, huh?”
“I mean it. Get out.”
I swept my open drink into a hoof and carried it out the door. As I crossed the threshold, I glanced back, and saw him talking to a pair of burly stallions at the end of the bar. Their gazes locked onto me as they started getting up.
Keeping a steady pace, I sipped at the bottle and made my way down the street. As I passed the alley next to the bar, the two stallions stepped out of the shadows, corralling me against the corner of the building.
“Well, hey there, little lady,” said one. “Goin’ someplace?”
I stopped, tossing the bottle off to the side. “Wow, you boys work fast. You do that for all the girls?”
“Just the ones who ask too many questions.”
The other guy was busy circling around to my side. I took a few steps into the alley. “Well listen, boys. I didn’t come all this way to talk with the small fries. You point me to your boss, and I’ll be out of your manes.”
He chuckled. “Big words, little mare. It’s very funny.”
“What, are you saying you don’t work for Papa?”
“Oh no, you’re talking to the right gang. And maybe you didn’t hear, but we don’t take kindly to cops around here.”
I braced myself in a steady stance. “Good thing I’m not a cop, then.”
“Oh, yeah? Even better. Means nopony will miss you.”
A shrill whistle blew through the alley, and all three of us turned to look at the source.
Standing there was the a stallion. He was thin, with high cheekbones, and wore a dark suit with thick pinstripes. Perched on his head was a hat of the Haflinger style, which let his pale horn poke out above his forehead. Beneath the brim of the hat, his grey eyes flickered in the shadows.
He lowered his hoof from his mouth, and he said three words in a language I wasn’t familiar with. But I could take a guess at what they meant. So could the other guys, because they backed off.
The gaunt stallion stared at them a moment. Then his horn glowed. A cigarette and lighter floated out of his coat pocket, and he lit up and took a long pull. He kept staring at them. His eyes turned to me, and he reached a hoof up, beckoning toward the street.
I spared a glance at the other two guys. They’d suddenly found the ground to be very interesting. I turned, taking a few cautious steps toward the alley’s entrance. The stallion’s shadow swallowed up my hooves.
“Well, howdy, neighbor,” I said. “Fancy seeing you ‘round these parts.”
He said nothing. His horn glowed, plucking the cigarette from his mouth, and he flicked a few ashes onto the ground. He motioned again.
I followed, stepping past him and out into the flickering lamplight of the street.
“Lucky you just happened to be in the neighborhood, huh?” I looked up at him. His eyes were as hard and unflinching as a pair of stones. “So, am I right in thinking you’re here to escort me to your employer?”
Without a word, he spun on his heel and started walking down the sidewalk. I fell into step alongside him.
“Y’know, I didn’t get the chance to say it, but thanks for yesterday. Don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t shown up.”
He said nothing.
“By the looks of things, you don’t have a scratch on you. So that’s good.”
He took a loud puff of his cigarette, letting the smoke out through his nose.
“That’s the second time I owe you. Thanks, by the way.”
He grumbled something under his breath. I didn’t bother trying to catch it.
“So, where we headed?”
Of course, he didn’t answer that.
We followed Muleberry toward the docks, to where it intersected with the southern end of Bowery. You could hear the trains rumbling in the distance. If you tried hard enough, you could catch a glimpse of the Broncolyn Bridge down the way, past all the crumbling buildings.
The place we came to looked like it might have been something, once. Four stories of brownstone opulence, wide windows—it was probably an old hotel. Its ground floor was done up with all the trappings of one, with a double-door entrance beneath a brass awning and a lighter strip on the front steps where a carpet had once lain. The corners of the building were done up like towers, and on the roof was a large metal dome. Nearly all of its windows were lit; formless shapes moved behind the panes and curtains, flickering and fading and then disappearing altogether. The sign above the awning proclaimed that this was “2222 South.” The sign just above that made it known as “The Four Deuces.”
There were ponies standing watch all around. They probably had some pegasi on the roof too, up out of reach of the streetlights. Couldn’t leave the battlements of your fortress unguarded, after all. We passed them all by with just a glance from my escort.
Inside, it was definitely a hotel. The luggage elevator near the stairs was a dead giveaway. The stairs themselves were carved from rich wood; jade-colored rugs spilled down the steps and across the middle of the room. A few brass sconces shined out from the pine-needle walls, showing off the pocks and torn bits of wallpaper. Smoke and laughter spilled in from the adjoining doorways—lounges, by the looks of them. I caught a glimpse of a group of ponies around a bar, several more playing cards around some tables, and even a few griffons scattered here and there.
We drew to a halt in the middle of the foyer. There were several stallions on the upper balustrade, nearly hidden in the dim light, their eyes shadowed by the brims of their hats. One had his forehoof all-too-casually stuck into the breast of his jacket. All of them were watching us.
A slate-grey stallion in a blue suit was leaning against the banister, smoking a cigarette and doing nothing important. He put it out against the metal of one of his horseshoes before slipping it into his coat pocket, and came at us with a frown.
“Who’s the broad?” he rumbled.
I answered myself. “Name’s Applejack. I’m here to meet Mr. Greenback, apparently.”
He raised an eyebrow at the gaunt pony by my side. It dropped at some unspoken something in the stallion’s gaze. It was a nice trick. I’d have to see about learning it sometime, if I had the face for it.
“I’ll stay with her, you go on up,” he said, letting him by.
My escort climbed the steps, a little slower than the pace he’d set on the way in.
“All right, now you hold still,” he said. “You make any sudden moves, and next thing you know I’ll be pouring you down the drain out back, capice?”
I did as I was told, and he patted his hooves up and down my sleeves and across my chest. Satisfied, he leaned against the railing again, lighting his cigarette anew. “Don’t go nowhere,” he growled.
“Where else is there?” I settled back, listening to the sounds from the side rooms. Pony voices mingled with the scratching, reedy tones of griffons. Clinking glasses and the occasional laugh worked their way through the haze. I tapped a hoof against the floor, cast a glance at the guy. I thought about cracking a joke, even opened my mouth once, but thought better. So I waited.
It took my escort a good ten minutes before he showed up again, his coming heralded by the creak of the steps overhead. His expression, when he came up to us, was as neutral as ever.
“Well?” said the stallion.
The unicorn met his gaze, and jerked his head up the stairs.
“Hmph.“ He snorted, and turned to me. “All right, then. Come on.”
We swapped places, the pair of us going up, and him going down. I spared one last glance as we passed by. He wasn’t looking at me. All he did was light another cigarette and turn away, disappearing into the smoke and noise of the bar.
The heavy hoofsteps of my guard thudded on the old boards of the stairs. At the next landing, we turned and headed down a long hallway, toward the rear of the building. Lines of doors surrounded us, as still and silent as a row of tombs in Neigh Orleans. At the end of the hall was one last door, set behind a wall of muscle.
A deep red minotaur stood in front of the door. He was almost taller than the ceiling would allow, with coal eyes and a face like a lost battle. A patch of fur was missing from his right shoulder, where a long, ragged scar puckered the flesh. Two golden rings hung from his left ear, and they jingled together as he stepped forward, a bell chime amid an earthquake. He kept his hands clasped in front of him, as though he were cradling some dark secret between his palms.
“This is her, then?” he said. His voice was dark molasses.
“Yep,” said my guard.
He turned to me. I was a mouse in front of a grandfather clock. “Well, Miss, you’re very lucky. We don’t get many visitors up here.”
“Somehow, this doesn’t feel much like a visit to me.”
His grin was yellow and cracked. “You’re still in one piece. It’s a visit.”
Something trickled down my neck. I kept my expression even.
“Now, before you see the boss…” He splayed his palms. “Sorry about the hands, Miss. It’s just my job, see?”
“You boys sure like your searches. Do what you have to.”
He nodded, and his hands engulfed my sleeves, squeezing and rolling them tight against my forelegs. He was thorough, sweeping along my collar and around my neck like he was spinning a roulette wheel. Moving to my sides, he patted down across my ribs, then moved to my back legs. He flipped up the hem of my coat, and paused. As his gaze fell on my flank, it stayed there for a long, quiet moment.
“Hey,” I said, “keep your eyes moving, buddy. I ain’t got all night.”
He glanced at me, swallowed, and straightened up again. “Good to go, Miss. Just wait one more moment.”
He wrenched the door open quickly and slipped through, shutting it with barely a click. When he came back, his hands were clasped in that same non-threatening, threatening way. “He—” his gaze flicked to the open door. “He’ll see you now, Miss.”
I nodded, but that was all. Slowly, carefully, I walked into the room. Shame I didn’t have a sword and shield with me. Usually they had those when going into a dragon’s den.
