Above The City of Baj’Haii, the first of the Three Sister Moons was unveiling herself. Geo-Grange Safaris, private investigator to the Hash Tag Celebrities, was just finishing his decent meal and a drink, while great jazz filled the air of The Doppelgänger’s Epistrophy. No point checking the time, most of the clocks were still stuck at 11:01 a.m. – or they were having an identity crisis. It was about time to chase down the clues.
The private investigator made his way to the bar, and put down his recently acquired postcard. Eyeing the postcard, the bartender directed her four eyes at Geo-Grange.
“You want to know what happened to the dog. The pooch sang the blues and got a gig at The Hemophiliac’s Intersection.”
“Any other tips ?”
“You’re the customer, you should be tipping me.”
“Love to, but my mother said I should save myself.”
“Well remember what they say in Aztech’Haii, fiddle while gnomes burn and nobody gets any Déjà vu.”
“I’ll try to remember that, if I hear it again.”
“You just do that – the next time I tell you.”
Geo-Grange picked up the postcard and left a ten quid’kii for her troubles. There would always be troubles with a case like this, and there was no way of knowing who would be collateral damage, like silver swan feathers in the night sky.
He made his way down Pixie Plenitude towards The Hemophiliac’s Intersection – where the blues hounds go to bleed. Pixie Plenitude was filled with the regular mix of tourists, wannabes, winnebago-toxies, wizards in waiting, the real deal tango fox-trotters, and all the other street life trying to co-exist in the stream. Some of them were his past clients, so they ignored each other – better for business that way. Others knew him by reputation, so they ignored each other – better for future business that way. The rest didn’t know him, and fortunately for them, they also ignored him.
Just before he got to the end of Pixie Plenitude, where The Hemophiliac’s Intersection usually sits on Mondays, Smiling S’Sound-rheim slides up to him with the old Bahlee’Haii .
“Now the ice-fog is clearing and the mantra-mist has lifted, the bright moons will penetrate the billows of damp vapour touching the glory of things beneath the world.”
Geo-Grange looked at S’Soundrheim, the fire frost eyes glittered with yesterday’s shadows.
“Do I hear a waltz, or is it just the time of the cuckoo ? By the way, you should see a barber.”
Smiling S’Sound-rheim took a vermilion tarq cigar from a pocket in his sapphire vest, bit off the end, lighted it with a snap of his fingers, and puffed a cloud of fragrant amber smoke into the air. He looked about before responding.
“Where the blues hounds go to bleed, you will find postcards from the edge. Take this and give it to Evening Primrose.”
He slipped into the flow of the crowd, leaving Geo-Grange holding the bag – made of brown rice paper, very rare. Looking in it, Geo-Grange saw a garnet Neg-lace . Easing the Neg-lace into his pocket, he proceeded down Pixie Plenitude and entered The Hemophiliac’s Intersection – he knew there would be blood on the floor before the night was over.