The rain hammered down on the old tin roof like an avalanche before it gurgled down a broken gutter. It turned the view through the tinted window surrealistic and poignant, like a nightscape by a mad but talented painter. A deep sigh, the stench of cheap cigars and cheaper whiskey is almost enough to gag me. But I'm used to it. I have, in fact, smelled worse. Lies and doublespeak have their own fetid odor, burns out all your senses. There are those that call this place a wonder. All I can wonder is what they were drinking and if it was available wholesale. For now, I've gotta settle for another glass of thinly disguised paint thinner pretending to be vodka, hoping to finally get even with the brain cells that thought working this place was a good idea. This city was like a burned-out streetwalker, a pretty coat of paint covering sin and despair.
I call it a dump, but those who don't know the place call it Canterlot.
I'm a Prince among men, you know. Literally. Got a birth certificate that says so hanging on the wall next to my private dick's license, right across the scarred desk I salvaged from a dump. The name's a gift from Mom, the only one I'll ever get. These hang with the only pictures I have of my parents, right next to the fancy sodium electric lamp that casts a bourbon amber glow through the office. One more hour, and a can of beans, then I close up shop for the night. Hanging on the chair are the tools of my trade, beat up and older than I am, but still working, like I'll have to till I finally get my long overdue dirt nap. A camera, state of the art in it's day, fine Germainey-made lenses still sharp, which I use for most of my shooting. Handy on the other side of the desk from it hangs a war trophy, a fancy Braytish break-top revolver from the Great War. It's what I use when people shoot back. It's Dad's, and when we meet in Tartarus, the old man expects either for it to go to a legit grand-kid or be handed back over. He was funny that way. Whole family was. See, they were rich enough to be eccentric and get away with it. Proof of that is a copy of a letter responding to my recent kidnapping and ransom from my favorite aunt. Her reply is a dozen cheerful words to the effect of, "... And we don't want him back, thank you." Did I mention she's my favorite aunt? That's cause she's my *only* aunt.
Wish the rest of my life was funny, but things just don't work that way. I polish off the canned beans and stand up, popping my back and easing the pistol into the holster under my jacket. The camera can stay here till Monday. It's right after I put my hat on and reach for the lamp's pull cord that my office door creaks open, and 'she' walks in. Just as I thought, this city's gotta give me trouble just as I was planning a long meeting with the partners over at Pillow and Mattress, my favorite place.
Trouble had long, long lavender hair, and curves that shamed the Canterlot Switchback road into thinking it was a drag strip. Trouble was well-accessorized, with tasteful jewelry, classy gloves and subtle makeup. She also had a dripping umbrella and a deep blue dress so short it wouldn't have been allowed unsupervised on any rides at the public fair. Those big lavender eyes just dared a stallion to fall in, and he'd do it in a heartbeat, knowing he'd never hit bottom. Yes, this was trouble with a capital 'T' , a mare-shaped magnet for every catastrophe to hit Canterlot for the past thousand years.
"Mister Blueblood?", she pleaded, her voice smooth as silk, her subtle upper class accent marking her as one of the elite, unmistakable. "My name is Twilight Sparkle, and I need your help!"
Where's the capital 'T'? Wouldn't you know it would be in her first name...
Let's explain a little something here. I wasn't always eating beans and waiting for trouble. Years ago, I was as bad as my aunt, if not worse. At least she has the excuse of old age. Nope, my destiny was shafted when I began finding the stuff she'd hid from me. Seems I had a talent for knowing where to go, like a compass rose, and where'd I go? You guessed it in one.
Trouble.
Lots of young colts get in trouble, sure. I got into the kind that caused my family to send me to a military school. Then, due to even more trouble, I had to serve time. I was given a choice - a year in jail, or four in Her Majesty's military. Thinking I was clever, I took the enlistment. Sometimes I wonder if that was the right choice. What did I do? Never mind, it doesn't matter now. Let's say I got off easy, and the ponies it hurt might yet forgive me on the day they get a cold snap in Tartarus.
Well, I couldn't suppress my talent, but this was after the Great War, and there were only so many potatoes a private can possibly peel. And so, eventually, even I finished my tour. Figured my talent had to be good for something, yeah? So, I went ahead and enrolled in the police academy. Problem was, I could find things. Like stolen property, people of interest, and the bank account the police commissioner laundered his Mob bribes through. Didn't manage to collapse the whole house of cards though. Did get a beautiful shiner, couple of broken ribs and a collapsed lung, so there was my great attempt at being noble. Was still in the cast when I was suspended, based on 'performance issues'. Yeah, the other stallions found that one hilarious too.
So what's a broke ex-cop do with their life? Can't speak for the others in that boat, but I packed up and hauled myself back to Canterlot. Acing the private eye exam was a cinch, and I didn't have to worry about who my boss was any more. Dad loaned me his pistol, said the old folks home wouldn't let him keep it. I sometimes wonder why. Actually, knowing Dad, it's best not to ask. Although it's unlikely, I want to go out like the old goat and die peacefully in my sleep - not screaming like everyone else in his car.
Problem with a talent for finding things is lots of folks want those things to stay lost. Especially if whatever is lost has value to someone. And, of course, if someone's finally gotten to the point they need my help, then the value of the item in question skyrockets. Doesn't take much for it to be worth a lot more than me, these days.
"You need me to find what?"
Ms. Sparkle poured her slinky self into the chair opposite my side of the desk, causing the slit in her skirt to ride up enough for me to see the tops of her long stockings, and she had to know it. "It's true. Six critical pieces of Equestria's history, priceless artifacts, have gone missing. Worse, it's a cold trail, and it's ancient. I tried to track them down, but the archives and records of Canterlot just don't have the information. It's left me no options but to seek outside help. It's urgent I find them, Mister Blueblood. And quickly."
Why does trouble always have to be this way? Every case is as urgent as the old line about giving candy to Nightmare Moon before she eats you up. I'm no foal, haven't been one for a long time, and here Miss Sparkle thinks I'm Daring-Do, the archaeologist. Still, I get a feeling, a familiar, sick one. See, the way my talent works is simple. I get a feeling, if I think hard enough, about where something is. Client comes in and asks me where something is, odds are I can find it. Also lets me know if a case is bogus, or if there's nothing to be found. Lets me cherry pick cases to get results. Results get me more clients. Unless they don't like where the results go. That usually gets me bruises. Right now, thinking about these items, these Elements of Harmony, my special talent seems useless. Oh if I sensed nothing, I'd say it. No, it was weird, like I was being pulled in a half dozen directions at once. The headache made me even more eager for that nightcap and sweet, sweet sleep. Could I blow her off? Not in that dress. Damn it...
"Rush jobs cost more. Treasure hunts and other long term jobs need retainer and expenses. I have to know where this is going. Finding valuables that just disappear into a private collection afterwards doesn't benefit me much. Especially if they are important." I offered her an easy out, expecting her to take it, watching her keenly.
She clasped her hooves together, a nervous pout on her face for a few seconds as she thought about my offer, leaning forward and causing the dress to cling to her frame like a second skin for a moment. Finally, with a look of resignation, I got ready for her to either try a sob story or leave in a huff.
"That can be arranged. You'll be bankrolled by the Royal Archives. I need the best for this, Mister Blueblood."
Trouble, in spades.
Author's Note
Well, a few different roles, and way too many long nights working alone with just instant coffee.
Opinions? Comments? Snide remarks?
Also, spellchecker. I should use it. No more posting from my phone...
