People from out of town tell me that Fillydelphia stinks, especially in the afternoon. I wouldn't know; I was born and raised here, and while the stench of piss, booze, rotten food, burning paper, leaky sewage pipes and unwashed ponies isn't exactly pleasant, you learn to deal with it. On a muggy afternoon like this one, though, with the sky overcast and the breeze too weak to get through the maze of old buildings, it can get bad enough to make even me gag.

I almost instantly regretted bringing my coat, but the Weather Union had promised a hell of a storm tonight, whenever they got around to it. Their strike had only ended a few weeks ago, and they claimed that they were still getting back into the swing of things. Yeah, right. Ask any pegasus in town; the Union knew they had the city council over the barrel now, and they were milking the hell out of it.

Freaking politics.

The Horn and Feather was close to the opposite edge of town and I wasn't looking forward to the walk, but since I hadn't pushed Miss Calla for an advance, I couldn't exactly spring for a carriage. Besides, I had a stop to make on the way.

Downtown Fillydelphia is home to the main F.P.D. headquarters, an old, flat building squatting amidst crumbling apartments and failed businesses. It hasn't been painted in years, except to cover graffiti from particularly cheeky gangs, but the simple fact that all the windows and doors are intact makes it the prettiest piece of architecture in sight. As usual, several police wagons were parked outside in the main lot, and a city-mandated ten freet from the front doors, a few uniformed cops were standing around grumbling about the heat while smoking. Geniuses.

"Buck, Chase," I said, nodding at them as I passed. They gave me a distrustful stare with only the slightest of nods. I kept my eyes focused on the doors in front of me, and slipped in unmolested.

The interior of F.P.D. headquarters matches the exterior, though it's a little cleaner and paint has been applied within the last decade or so. The floors are a simple white tile, chipped and cracked in most places from the thousands of hooves that have tread its surface, and the walls are some sort of brownish carpetting that couldn't have possibly ever been in style. The main lobby is mostly a waiting room, with chairs that weren't designed for pony comfort and a small play area with an assortment of ancient toys, most of them missing important parts. A counter lines the space between two hallways; one leads to the holding cells, the other to the barnyard where the cops do their deskwork.

Behind the counter set a very pretty filly, with a tan coat and pink mane. She glared at me with a sort of tired, resigned malice from behind a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles.

"Cammy," I said, throwing her my most dashing grin. It didn't seem to have much effect.

"Looky," she replied, her voice heavy with apathetic dread. We have history.

"You don't get to call me that anymore, Cammy," I said with childish petulence.

She rolled her eyes. "Then you don't get to call me Cammy, Looky. Just tell me what you want."

"A second chance, Camellia!" I said with a theatrical sigh, raising my hoof to my forehead. "Let us forgive past grievances, and embrace our true, destined love!"

She sighed and hid her eyes behind her hoof. "Are you seriously just here to annoy me?"

"I have this thing with fillies who cheat on their very special someponies," I replied, with just a bit of viciousness. "Just can't help picking on them."

Cammy said nothing and just glared at me.

"I need to know if some high-hoof named Silver Coin's been picked up in the last couple of days."

She arched an eyebrow. "Silver Coin? The railroad magnate?"

I shrugged. "Sure, I guess?"

"You're looking for him, and you don't even know who he is?"

I shrugged again, getting a little annoyed and embarassed. "His fiance hired me to find him."

"You are the worst private eye."

I glared at her. "So, no, he hasn't been picked up."

"Correct."

"Thanks, Cammy," I said, turning sidelong. "I'll let you get back to your adultery. Work! I mean work."

She gave an angry snort and turned back to her paperwork. "You are such a child, Glass."

I didn't bother responding; she was right, and I knew it. Some ponies deal with heartbreak by moping around, or getting angry, or writing bad poetry; I just turn into an asshole.

Still, that was one lead followed. Whatever Silver Coin was doing, it hadn't landed him in the clink. The next logical stop was the hospital.

Healing Hooves Hospital was the biggest in Fillydelphia, and located just a few blocks from the F.D.P. H.Q. Those blocks made a difference, however; just a few streets down the road, and life started returning to the city. There were small novelty shops that had managed to survive and even prosper in this town, a few hole-in-the-wall restaraunts that only locals knew about, and even a small park that only served as a drug trade flea market during the night.

I made my way across the park, dodging a small pack of young ponies who were chasing an annoyed-looking squirrel, and up the steps to the hospital proper. Inside, it was all white floors and pale, pastel walls. A fountain gurgled in the center of the waiting room, and several more young ponies were gathered around it, hooves on the rim, staring in fascination at the brightly colored fish zipping about inside it.

The mare behind the counter was matronly and plump, her gray mane pulled up into a bun on which her uniform's hat perched precariously. She greeted me with a quick, genuine, but tired smile. "Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?"

I dipped my mouth into my overcoat and produced my identification, a small card with an official stamp listing me as a licensed private detective. "I'm just wondering, ma'am, if a stallion named Silver Coin has checked in here."

She looked surprised, and I began to get the feeling that I really should have heard of this pony before now. "Silver Coin? Why, no, sir! Surely the media would be swarming us if he had!" She gasped, and leaned forward like an eager conspirator. "Why, has something happened to him?"

I bit my card and tucked it back into my coat. "Thanks for your information, ma'am."

"Has he been in some accident?" she pressed, her voice an urgent whisper. "Is he missing? Did they get him?"

I paused. "They?"

She looked quickly around her, and then leaned forward to whisper in my ear. "Hadn't you heard? Silver Coin was leading the fight against the Weather Union's strike! He gave a speech calling them all sorts of terrible things...blackmailers, brigands, barbarians...lots of 'b' words. Don't you read the news?"

I turned a little red. "Just, you know, parts of it." Freaking politics.

I hustled out of the hospital at a trot, thinking furiously. Clearly, this Silver Coin was a bigger name in the city than I had assumed, and not just another rich pony with delusions of grandeur. I needed to learn more about him before I started asking questions, if only so I wouldn't seem like such a clueless idiot.

I needed somepony who knew the local bigwigs, who kept up with their goings-on, and who could tell me everything I might need to know about Silver Coin and the enemies he had made on his way to the top. Fortunately, I knew just the stallion.