Rock Bottom, P.I.

First thing I notice in the room is the smell of fresh donuts coming in through the window from the eatin' joint just down the way. Place is called Donut Joe's. He's a decent pony. Willin' ta lend an open ear or set your coffee down and let ya be, if that's your preference. Me, I enjoy my morning brews. Always take 'em dark and bitter, just like my nights. Donuts I take with sprinkles. I ain't got a comparison f' that.

 

Normally I enjoy this scent when I am at Mr. Joe's, not when I'm at my office. That's cause most of my window was lyin' round the floor in bits 'n pieces. Even discountin' the smell, which did its best t' raise the quality of the room, the papers, open drawers, and general messitude of the place woulda been key info.

 

"Miss Cane," I call out.

 

My loyal - well, loyal s' long as a paycheck is comin' in - assistant walks through the door, stoppin' a sec t' gasp at the mess. Candy Cane, that's her name. Deft little filly, least when it comes t' business. Not the strongest horseshoe on a hoof when it comes t' other things, you get what I mean?

 

My names Rock. Rock Bottom. I'm a detective in Manehattan, and my day just started.

So I ask Miss Cane if she knows anything about this disorganized rearrangement of most 'f my furniture and personal-type possessions currently residin' around the room, some of them in multiple places 't once.

 

"Miss Cane, was it like this when you opened up th' office?"

 

"Gee Rock, dunno. Yeh know yeh tol' me nevah t'look in yeh office 'cept when yeh're 'ere."

 

She's right. I did say that. Many times. With quite unmistakable emphasis.

 

"Maybe they was lookin' f' something, Rock."

 

I turn to her. "Like what?"

 

"Like maybe the landlord figured yeh're stashin' a bag 'a bits 'round here and was lookin' f' ya to pay up!"

 

"Why would the landlord break his own w- "

 

"Ain't been paid inna week, Rock!" she interrupts, accenting the last syllables with a feisty little hoof-bump to my chest.

 

"Miss Cane, you know the job's been - "

 

"A *week*, Rock!" and she strolls back t' the front desk in a huff.

 

With a sigh, I brush some bits of glass off m' desk chair and plop my flank down on it.

 

Despite the disarray, when I'm actually starin' down at that familiar old oak desk (a hand-me down from ol' gramps, that crusty tree-kicker), it doesn't take long to notice somethin' peculiar enough t' stand out.

 

Someone's left a sorta callin-card 'neath the papers. I take my hoof and slip it out. Ain't got nothin' but one phrase printed 'pon it.

 

[YOU NEED A VACATION, ROCK], it says.

I keep tappin' the card, wonderin' what kinda lowlife meant t' leave this thing here, not t' mention takin' it upon 'imself t' do some creative reorganization. I need a vacation? Damn right, but vacations mean no jobs, no jobs mean no bills, no bills mean no bits... I think y' can figure out that line of thought. Despite Miss Cane's protestations, there *are* a few associates who're gonna do more than stomp around with a looka frustration if I don't manage t' scrounge up some payments soon.

 

I lean over, grab th' card between my teeth. Maybe the ever-affable Miss Cane knows a thing're two.

 

Door's half-open. Never rests fully open or closed 'less its locked. Not that any lock seems t'have prevented this most recent fiasco. I trot on through and approach the secretary's desk.

 

I drop the card down on th' desk. Miss Cane decides I ain't been called out enough just yet - deliberately ignores the lil' scrip as it plops down. Doesn't land in *her* coffee. Wouldn't want t' take things too far. Difficult as she can be, Miss Cane does some damn good work when she has the... motivation.

 

I clear my throat. She doesn't respond.

 

"Miss Cane," I say clearly.

 

"Yes, *boss*?" she turns those two pretty lil' teal eyes my way, daring me to utter one iota of remark 'bout her attitude as she gives the word the biggest dose o' sarcasm it feels possible to exude.

 

I pause, wondering a moment just how much time she spends stylin' that mane o' hers every day. Never a hair out of place, seems like.

 

"This card, Miss Cane," I continue, and she spares it a glance, taking in the words. "You got any idea who left it here?"

 

"A vacation, *boss*, really? Yeh ain't bringin' in bits as it is and yeh think yeh're 'bout to take time off?"

 

"I just need to know who -"

 

"I tol' yeh already I don't go in the office! Weren't in any position t' know who dropped it off!"

 

Right. Stupid of me. I grab the card again and beat a hasty retreat back.

I tuck th' card inside th' pocket of my jacket for the time being. Not much to go on as far as that goes - no watermark or anything else to get a lead off of.

 

Might be a clue in th' office itself, I think, striding back in there. Might be someone left a mark or print whilst breakin' in.

 

Glass strewn all about the floor, the desk, just 'bout everywhere. Most of it covered in turn by papers I had up til recently so very carefully organized via the management process o' slamming them in the closest drawer.

 

Window pane. Busted from outside in, clearly. Ground floor location, so... wouldn't take no pegasus or levitatin' type unicorn t' bust through, just a strong kick t' th' middle. Now, I know many've ya might think that'd just as quick alert th' neighbors, but... this parta town's pretty much deserted late at night; times that a down-on-his-luck P.I. ain't sleepin' atop his office couch. Just happened that I spent a night 't home, f' once.

 

Not much presents itself in the area o' clues...

 

Wait.

 

Jus' under th' desk.

 

Inkpot. Got knocked off in the fracas. Toppled half-over. Seems t've made a lil' puddle. And... one print. Partial. There on one of the spilled papers nearby. Guy must've knocked the pot over, gotten a hoof in it, left a print while stumbling. Doesn't seem to be any others. Would've had t' hop outta here. Why not take the paper along? Strange. I bend down, take a closer look at it.

 

It's on one of my old eviction notices. Landlord loves sending those down time and again... grease the wheel, so to speak.

 

Inks dried by now. Partial print's better than nothing, but... gonna be hard to match up. Worth saving, at least.

I finish up examinin' th' room. Doesn't seem t' be anythin' else here, 'least without callin' in a friend to look at it with magic. Can't afford the payment right now.

 

Could be somethin's outside. There's an open window leadin' straight to my new point of interest, 'course, but climbin' 'cross the jagged remnants leaves as much appeal as startin' the day without a good brew. Not happening.

 

I pass back out the door of the office. I catch Miss Cane glancin' up t' see what I'm up to, but she's quick to avert her eyes and go back to...go back to... somethin'. To be honest, I'm not sure what she's up to most times. Think she might have business on the sly. I try not to intrude. She pays me the same favor. We all got our lil' secrets.

 

Air's a bit cloudy out here as I pass 'round the corner of the building to look at the window from the side alley. There's maybe eight, nine feet between my window and the next building over. Plenty of room to navigate and line up a solid hind kick.

 

Ground's full of gravel. Not gonna find a decent print here.

 

I look around, but... there's no print, no dropped cigar... no easily-discernable callin' card beyond what got left on m' desk. I ain't got much t' go on, but when it comes to prints, well, I don't know a guy, but I do know a guy that knows a guy, or is bound to.

 

I stick m' head back through the front door long 'nough to bark down at Candy.

 

"Headin' out," I call. She doesn't look up. I gotta little bag hidden behind one o' the potted plants nearby. Got a few bits in it. Emergency stash.

 

Head down the road. Old neighborhood's lookin' run down. Not much money in this part o' Manehattan anymore. All the bigmanes partyin' it up in the new digs up town, or the really bigmanes dug up their roots t' head t' Canterlot. Leaves much of this place t' degrade, you could say.

 

The scent that first struck me as I hit th' office air grows stronger this way - Donut Joe's is just down th' line. Hasn't been but an hour since I was here, but I gotta have a certain supply where I'm headed.

 

"Back so soon, Rocky?" says Joe. One of the few individuals in which I am like t' forgive th' improper usage of m' name.

 

"Coffee, Joe. Make it a large and leave out the extras," I say, slappin' one bit from the bag down on the counter.

 

"Right up," he replies.

 

Few minutes later, I'm walkin' down the road again. Turn a few corners here and there, and...

 

There he is. My "informant" slash "procurer". Calls himself "Huggy Bear", but I take it that ain't his Celestia-given name. Whatever it really is, he ain't offered it up.

 

He perks up straightaway when I come into view.

 

"Well well, Mista Rock it is! Come to pay your pal Huggy a visit?"

"Business, Huggy Bear, business," I say.

 

"Well that's a damn shame Mista Rock. You know Miss Jewel's been hopin' you'd come round for a friendly drink." He chuckles as he says it. "What kinda 'business' you need from your pal Huggy Bear?"

 

"Jobs, first off. Know of any?"

 

He shakes his head, coal-black mane rustlin' in th' air. "S'all quiet, Rock. Not much happenin'. Seems a bit unusual, y'know? Word on the street... more of a whisper lately. Got no jobs, brother."

 

Pisspot. How 'm I supposed to pay the bills if even Huggy Bear's tapped? Well, item the second.

 

"Shoe-makers, Huggy. You know some?"

 

"Might be possible I know a fella in the business. You lookin' for some shiny new duds? Or maybe a silvery lil' present for Miss Cane, eh?" Making a face somewhere between a leer and a laugh.

 

I pull the eviction notice out of my jacket pocket. He raises an eyebrow, then focuses his unicorn magic to levitate the paper in front of us both. "I need someone who can get the make and model of this print, if possible."

 

"Seems like you need a place t' live, too, bro."

 

"It's an old notice," I grumble.

 

"I think I can put you in touch..."

Huggy gives me a friendly bump as I part ways, the eviction notice tucked into my pocket and a name tucked into my head. As pressing as the matter of the wrecked office and the strange card is, taking a vacation still ain't in the picture, not with the angry mob of collectors liable to start showin' up any day now. I gotta find a job or a case to take.

 

It's not for any matchmaking that Huggy brought up Miss Jewel. The guy is always sendin' business her way - usually just rubes, but for those in the know, Miss Jewel's more than just a pretty gem t' look at.

 

She's got a bar right on the edge of the ol' town, straddlin' the line between the ol' money and the ol' worries. Good place to be, given the other straddlin' that goes on inside. Bar or not, I do my drinkin' when my only company is the whiskey, so I only drop by for news.

 

"The Diamond Dozen" the sign outside reads.

It's still early mornin', so only the night workers and the near-hopeless are like t' be in the place as I push open the old oak doors. Smell of old cigars, old booze, and new perfume all assault me at once. Drawn shades keep out the morning sun, giving the place a dusky appearance. I look towards the open bar in the middle - I can see Miss Jewel, radiant as ever and apparently freshly-showered, tending to a scrawny and rather scruffy-lookin' lad perched at the counter. She's got 'er back to me.

 

I get just a foot inside the place when some young dame, lookin' like a mare just outta school, comes simpering to my side and breathin' almost in my ear.

 

"Hey there, champ." She's tryin' to sound sultry as all get-out, but she can't be more than a month on the job, and the sweet syrup in her voice ain't learned the dark flavor of the business yet. "What's a fine stallion like y- "

 

"Not today, sweetheart," I say, shouldering past her as she stays behind, looking a bit flustered.

 

"Jewel," I call out.

 

Miss Jewel turns, and, well, beams over at me. Known the gal for years; always seems mighty happy t' see me show up, though a friendly hug's the most we've shared and a bit of chat's the most that's passed between us. She's wearin' a fine silk number all tossed up with lil' red or blue gems.

 

"Rock," she smiles, and I'd swear the Diamond Dozen could be the name of her pearly whites if only they'd had that crystal-pony sheen to 'em. "Here to hit the hay? I heard Miss Charity passin' out a little hello."

 

"Not today, Miss Jewel. Was hopin' for a bit of information."

 

"Well, then," she clicks her tongue 'gainst the roof of her mouth. "How about a drink then, handsome?"

 

"Whiskey."

 

She pours a glass for me, throws in a lil' straw (leavin' out the umbrella usual to more fanciful-like drinks), then does the same for herself. With a nod, we start to sippin'. Ol' Hill whiskey. Burns like fire goin' down.

 

"So, uh." As experienced as I usually am, this place always throw me a bit off-key, and Jewel knows it, given the merry twinkle in her eyes she can't but help show off. "How's business?" I hate small talk, but I gotta be mindin' manners here, or I'm like to have a dozen fillies frownin' down at me. Even a grown man's like to wilt under that sorta power.

 

"The Hay business, Rock?" She grins. "It's always good. How 'bout yourself?" She pours another double for the both of us.

 

"Why I came by, actually - "

 

"What a pity."

 

" - you know of any tasks, ranging from monumental to sink-in-the-hole easy, need doin' round here? And don't go tellin' me it's been quiet, I already heard that from Huggy..."

 

"But it has been, Rock. I mean, I hear things..."

 

"What sorta things?"

 

She shrugs. "Like, maybe somepony's put the word out in the alleys they're hirin' anything and anyone with four good hoofs to put to work. That's about all the detail I know, though."

 

That gives me pause. "Hiring up all the street jockeys, huh?" To what purpose, I don't ask aloud. "So no job, then."

 

"I didn't... look, Rock." And all of a sudden, she's lookin' terribly concerned. "C'mere." And she passes out the lil' swinging bar door and hustles me off to a quiet table in the corner.

 

"You look unhappy, Jewel," I point out.

 

"Rock, it's..."

 

I wait for her to speak. I do have *some* ability when it comes to interactin' with others in a respectful-type manner.

 

She takes a breath. "One of my girls, Clara Belle..."

She just about chokes on whatever she's tryin' t' stammer out, and my heart does a rare lil' dip in sympathy, so I place a hoof 'bout her shoulder, tryin' t' pat it ever so gently without mishandlin' the silk dress. She gives an appreciative smile through some growin' wetness 'round the eyes.

 

"Clara Belle... she's been showin' up to work lately with... with bruises."

 

I just about get pissed at the sound of that, and I can only figure Jewel's just as righteously angry. The mare may be pretty as a gem, but a diamond's some of the damned hardest material around.

 

"Did she say what from?" I ask, tryin' t' muffle the bitter fury with a neutral-soundin' voice.

 

"You know I don't stand for it here, and Buster," referrin' to the nighttime bouncer, "takes care of anypony goin' too far... but it wasn't happenin' here. She wouldn't say what from, and I couldn't get it out of her. Even went so far as to threaten to fire the filly, but she turned out to be stubborn as a mule... not surprising, given what the, ah, gentlecolts tended to ask for..."

 

"And now?" I press.

 

"She hasn't shown up the last two nights. Rock, I even offered to let her stay in my place! I'm worried that... something's gone too far."

"So you want me to - " I start.

 

"Find her, yes. I sent someone to her place to knock, but... there was no answer. I just want to know she's okay."

 

I nod sympathetically, but toughen up a bit before speaking up again. "As far as payment - "

 

"Of course. The usual."

 

I shuffle a bit. "I could use an advance, Jewel. Miss Cane's moanin' and groanin'..."

 

"Well, I hear plenty of that," she grins. That mare... she'll turn any remark around and swat it back at your playfully. She's still tinged with a bit of sadness, though, so I let it slide right past. She hops off the seating couch and saunters closer to me, bending down to place the tiniest little peck of a kiss on my cheek. "I'll go get you half," she whispers, and heads back to the bar, her striking green tail swishing back and forth past... I take a last gulp from what remains of my drink.

 

For a second, I think I see the scrawny guy at the far end of the bar lookin' at me, but at this distance, it's hard t' tell. Jewel comes back after just a moment, adding a healthy little bag of bits to my collection.

 

"1406 Cherry Lane," she remarks. "Apartment 5B."

 

I wish her good day and head outta the place, down to Clara's residence.

Cherry Lane's not far off, though it's on the rough side of town still. Going back to the main roads would be a waste'a time; might as well take the lesser-known, to outsiders, at least, alleyways and back-paths.

 

Just like Huggy Bear said, things seem damned quiet. Normally ya couldn't pass two streets down here without crossin' paths with street thugs or malcontents, but it's like th' whole place has been swept clean. Eerie.

 

Ain't gone far, though, when I hear a clop, clop that ain't my own hooves striking the pavement. Bonus part of being an Equestrian - hard as hell to sneak up on a wary fella like m'self. 'Course, that advantage becomes a distinct DISadvantage when a P.I.'s tryin' to get some honest snoopery taken care of...

 

I don't give mention that I'm aware just yet, though. Keep takin' the turns as they come.

 

I make one more, though, and quick as can be duck into an overhead doorway. Make m'self scarce - the closeness of the buildings and the angle of the sun leaves it fairly obscured. Gonna see who comes trotting past.

 

What the sun? It's that scrawny colt from Jewel's bar.

 

He gets just enough notice of my rapid closing in from behind him to turn his head and start to gasp before I slam into him and crush him with a big *oomph* against the opposin' brick wall.

 

"You got a deal you're lookin' to make, kid? Like a tattoo set of hoofprints 'crossed your chest from a t'ed off private eye?"

 

To my complete and utter surprise, the guy takes the threat in stride, even goin' so far as to laugh once he catches the wind what got knocked outta him.

 

"You love a good joke?" I say, tryin' t' regain control. "I'm 'bout to make sure your face makes everyone laugh."

 

That's when I feel the tap on my flank. With a sinking feeling, I glance behind me to see three of the roughest, scraggliest thugs this city can shit out lurking there, having apparently followed this bait.

 

I let the scrawny one go, and he stumbles back, nearly falling down.