The Tip

     Soarin arrived alone at familiar white house with red trimmings. For a few brief seconds, he paused to gaze at it and dwell in the few good memories that the house caused to arise. Breaking out of his stupor, he sauntered up to the door and pounded his hoof onto it. Instead of the polite three knocks that anypony else would do, he continued past seven and didn't stop.

     A shout came from within the house. Soarin couldn't make out the words, but he guessed that it said, "I'm coming."

     He stood impatiently at the door as the house's occupant undid the locks. The pony opened the door, revealing itself to be an older stallion.

     "Hi Dad."

     "Soarin." the stallion sighed.

     After a few seconds of silent shifting, Soarin spoke up again. "You didn't tell me that you moved back to the old house."

     "You didn't tell me that you moved away." he countered.

     "That was different."

     "Was it?"

     "Yeah. I was helping my mom through her divorce."

     Ice Storm rolled his eyes. "Nice to see you too, son."

     "Can I come in?"

     His father stared at him for a moment before backing up. "No." He grabbed a cap off of the nearby countertop and trotted past Soarin.

     "I was on my way out to lunch. You can come with me if you don't bring this death trap on wheels." He nudged the motorcycle as he walked past it.

     Soarin looked reluctant at first, but joined his father in the old, tan truck. He sat in the passenger seat, propping his back hooves on the dashboard.

This is going to be a long ride.

     "When I was still back at the department, there were two things that absolutely despised. Private investigators and psychics. Congratulations, son. You just hit the disappointment exacta."

     Ice Storm and Soarin sat in a quaint restaurant. The walls were beige in color and the floors and ceiling were a dark wood. A thin cloth hung over their table, which looked much like what you would use at a picnic with its plaid pattern on red stripes.

     A mare wearing a maroon apron trotted up to the table with scarlet mitts on her wings. With surprising ease, she slid the white plates of food in front of their owners. Soarin had a daisy sandwich with a side of hayfries, and Ice Storm with a platter of celery stalks, carrots, apple slices, and pickles with ranch.

     "Thanks." Soarin said with a polite nod to the waitress.

     "Thank you."

     After she left, Soarin retorted, "It sorta happened by accident. I would rather not be tossed in the nearest jail cell."

     "So tell me, what are you going to do when you get caught? Move outta town again?"

     "Simple, I won't get caught." He held a straight face.

     "Soarin, this will end the same way as everything else does. In three months, you're going to be on a danky bus to Whinnyapolis because you found your calling as a weather guy."

     "It's not gonna be like that this time. Have you even been listening to me? I finally found a way to use this gift that you bestowed me. You should be thrilled! Your the one who made me this way." Ice Storm hardened his gaze. "I'm good at this."

     "Oh. Oh. I see. If your so good at it, then what are you doing knocking at my door?"

     "You think I came here for help." Soarin expressing became blank as he mulled the words over. "Okay. There wasn't a random drop." he pointed out.

     "I'm not going to be a part of this." Ice Storm began to lift himself up off the seat.

     "Come on! Would you hear me out for once?"

     With an annoyed sigh, he plopped back down in his seat. "Fine. No ransom drop. So what? Big deal."

     "So six days? Absolutely nothing? Not even a demand?" Soarin questioned him, leaning forward on the scratchy tablecloth.

     "I does happen. More than you think. It's not unprecedented. They use that method to create panic in the family."

     "Yeah, I know. But not this guy. This guy wanted it done quickly. I know that." Soarin insisted.

     "Then you must have missed something. You've been driving that motorcycle across the country, working your bungee cord jumping expeditions. You've gone soft. It happens."

     "I'm not soft. I'm sharper than I've ever been before."

     "Close your eyes."

     Soarin began to chuckle. "No way. I'm not seven."

     "Close your eyes. Any longer and I will think you're cheating." Ice Storm said determinedly.

I can't believe that I'm about to do this.

     He slowly shut his eyes, taking on the boredest expression he could muster.

     After a quick scan of the room, the older stallion thought of a question. "How many hats are in the room?"

     Soarin's mouth opened and he threw out his forehooves.

     "What?! No?! No. Look. This was a fun little game, when I was--"

     "This isn't a game Soarin. It's to sharpen your skills. I repeat, how many hats are in the room?"

     Soarin shut his eyes again, withholding an indignant sigh. Before starting, he mentioned that he wasn't going to count the one in his father's pocket.

     With a wing tip to his temple, he thought back to when he looked over the room when they walked in. He briefly saw a picture of a fishing hat flash into his mind, along with with a bright yellow cap on the drunk guy sitting on the floor.

     Squinting his closed eyes, he thought back further. He saw saw two other caps. One with the logo "Workhorse Foundations" and the other one had a illustration of a mustache with the words, "free rides".

     Right as the brief vision passed, another took its place. It was another cap with a mare's purple locks pulled out the back. Shifting to the stallion in front of her, the vision showed that he wore a cap as well.

     "Nylon fishing hat on the loner in the corner." Soarin quickly spewed out, pointing to his general vicinity which he did to the other ones as well.

     "Foam cap on the kid who is too young to know that they were lame when they came out and that they're lame now. Both truckers. Once from a company I've never heard of and the other featuring free mustache rides. I'm fairly certain that I won't take him up on that offer." Soarin declared, now pointing to his father.

     "Prench girl. Ponytail pulled out the back. Unfortunately, she's married. And then our friendly bartender wearing the official hat of the restaurant. Six hats."

     "And?"

     "That's it."

     "Sorry, pal. There are seven hats, not six. Can't help ya. You missed something."

     "I didn't miss anything." Soarin replied with his eyes still shut.

     "There are seven hats, Soarin."

     "Were." Soarin opened his eyes, finally letting his emeralds irises into view. "Before I closed my eyes. Cowboy hat walked out when I was ridiculing mustache rides."

     Ice Storm optically searched the room. Not spotting the hat, he saw that Soarin was indeed, correct.

     "C'mon, I heard her boots."

     His father allowed a smirk to form on his face. "Alright. Close enough."

     "Close enough? I nailed it."

     "Yeah, but you changed the rules. But hey, if it makes you happy." Ice Storm stood up and grabbed his jacket. He trotted away from the table to the clear double doors at the front of the restaurant. Soarin stood up and quickly caught up to him.

     "I did not change the rules. What I did was nail it and you know it."

     "Soarin, if you you want my advice, go out and get yourself a real job, grow up. In the meantime, go ahead and ask yourself who your trusting in this case that you probably shouldn't. Cause obviously, you're overlooking somepony. Thanks for lunch." Ice Storm tossed him the receipt. The total plus tax was 33 bits. His sandwich was only 14 bits. Soarin looked back at him in confusion, but he continued on out the doors.

I guess that's why he bought one of the most expensive dishes on the menu.