A PERFECT PLAY I keep a piece of jade beside my blotter. To anyone else, it’s just another piece of desk tchotchke, but to me, it’s a memory—my personal reminder that nothing is perfect in this world, especially not around here. Wyrd City, Maryland is your typical 21st-century American city, a proverbial melting pot of modern technology and ancient magic. It’s also home to elves, trolls, mermaids, and dozens of other species, including humans like me: Steve Knight, Private Eye. A year ago, two letters sat where the jade sits now. The first was a not-so-gentle reminder from my landlord about overdue rent, which made me glad for the second. It told me in perfect copperplate handwriting that I could cure my money woes by recovering some lost property for one “Madame Chloris Silbermann née Green.” That’s how she signed it, and that’s how I knew she was ongeshtopt. Cha-ching! Her letter didn’t tell me much else, just that a car would pick me up at nine AM sharp. The clock on the wall said it was already five of, so I tapped my knuckles twice on the edge of my desk for luck and headed down to the sidewalk. The car in question was a town car the color of old money and decorated with so much chrome you could see your reflection from last week in it. The hood ornament was a couched sphinx with her wings lifted on the breeze. A chauffeur jumped out wearing a smaragdine jacket and matching cap that failed to cover his red hair. As he ran around the back of the car to open the suicide door to the rear compartment for me, I opened the passenger door and slid into the front seat. He ran back around again and sat down beside me. “You’re not one for decorum, are you?” he asked cautiously. “No,” I said bluntly. “And the last time I jumped in the backseat of a town car, it ended with a troll threatening to break my arm.” “Sounds like a whopper of a yarn. Care to share?”
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