Bright Lights

"Okay, let's start simple. Where were you on the first of October?."

He leaned forward and looked me in the eye, putting his hooves on the table and connecting them, starting at me over his legs.

"I was sitting outside of Calfram & Bits, feeding the birds."

From my first glance, I can tell that he's not criminal material. He's clean, well dressed. He was brought in around twelve o'clock today for breaking and entering. We struck a deal with him; spill about First and get a reduced sentence, or be charged with twelve counts of equicide and treason. Of course, we don't have that kind of power, but he did fight, and subsequently maim and dismember a couple of police officers during the Trottingham riots. He knows we know, but he doesn't know we can't follow up on that.

He sighs and takes away one part of the leg-bridge which he uses to rub his temples before leaning back and fixing me with a dead-eye stare. "Since you don't seem to enthusiastic about the avians of our fair city, I'll digress. I was casing."

"Robbery?"

"Yeah. Me and four other guys was brought in. Me, I wasn't bringing in the money. I had a rent to pay and food to eat. Problem is, nobody wants to hire you with the police record and all. So there I was, five months after I got busted and swore on my mama's name never to steal again, planning on doing the same thing."

He sighed and I flipped the page with the tip of my hoof.

"Alright. Tell me how it went down, from the beginning." He gave me a half-sneer and a 'heh'.

"It was the C & B's on eighth street, right where Montoon Town meets Midtown. Lower end of the spectrum, but my boss was paying huge for this. He didn't even take the  Cappo's cut, which raised all sorts'a warning flags." He leans in, and even though he wants his dead-eye stare to unnerve me, I see a little glimmer in his eyes. He's excited and nervous at the same time. "Thing is, I knew the place. It's where all them rich and famous go to stash the shit they don't want in the public eye. Drugs, money, kiddie porn. You name it. See, the thing is, C & B's does a little side business where these 'celebrities' and 'prominent social and political figures' pay to keep strongrooms in these vaults. Which they pay monthly to keep from accidentally leaking into the public eye, if you know what I mean. They look like any other box.  You can't tell which is which 'till you bring out the drill and it breaks the drill head.

"Well, strong-boxes are enchanted."

He glares at me, dead-eye stare gone now and replaced by a look of fury.

"You don't think I know that? You don't think I've been running this game long enough to tell what'll buckle with a kick and what'll turn me to stone? Of course they're enchanted. That's why you have a unicorn, me, on every team. Matter of fact, do you know why there's always a pony on a professional team?"

The question throws me off, I look up from furiously writing down notes.

"What do you mean?"

"Ponies have no prehensile tails. No opposable thumbs, no talons, and no super-strength, unless you're counting earthies. The bit-harnesses you Blue Boys use are just plain clunky. They're awkward to use, piss-poor in terms of site-accuracy, and take a crack-team of scientists to operate. Plus, bank-jobs tend to be a quick snatch and grab. Get in the bank, pull on your ski-masks or whatever, get everybody down, get to the back, crack the safes and get out. You can't do that if you walk in with an assault rifle strapped to your hip in broad daylight. It just don't work, and odds are you're going to be taken down before you can even get to the bank." He points to the pistol on my hip. "Birds, Bulls, and Dogs got them fingers, or claws. Either way, it's good enough. You can get a concealed harness under a suit and walk around in noontime traffic and nobody give a damn." He snickers. "Same thing makes them damn fine police."

"What does this have to do with the bank job?"

"Thing is, you need a friendly face. Minotaurs and Griffins are fine, but bring a diamond dog into the equation and shit goes down. It all comes down to a friendly face. The first pony to walk through the door's the first one a teller sees. If they see that pony talking to a diamond dog, they relax. They think you have him under control. Adding to that is the psychological traits exhibited by most unicorns. These of which, is a slightly higher intellect, meticulous nature, and perceptivity. All of which come in handy, mind the pun, when setting up for a Job. All in all; we're the brains of the operation."

He's rambling. I read his case file, thirteen years, over twelve hundred jobs.

"So what made this job different?" I asked, cutting off his stream of consciousness ramblings.  He stopped and simply stared. No poker face, no intimidation.

"We was being sent into steal one of those boxes."