Detective Hollywood Ford in: The Great Seed Heist

Who is Clarence Mallardy?

The Jazz Quarter thrummed with a smoky rhythm, the low murmur of voices and the clinking of glasses barely concealing the potent throb of a bass line. Pippin felt a jolt of nervous excitement - he'd never been to a place like this. Beside him, Hali wasn't her usual stern self; a flicker of something almost like nostalgia played around her eyes.

"This joint's seen it all," Hali mumbled, seemingly to herself. She jerked her head at a shadowy corner booth. "If anyone knows anything about Clarence and those seedy corners he loved, it'll be Deacon Blues."

Deacon was more silhouette than duck at first; a hunched figure draped in feathers as rumpled as her worn saxophone case. As they approached, her eyes, rimmed with kohl and age, swept over them. "Well, if it ain't the ace Detective herself," she rasped, her voice a smoky contralto echoing the sax tones wafting from the stage. "And who's this fledgling you've brought along?"

Hali didn't bother with introductions. "Deacon, cut the jazz. We need information about Clarence Mallardy."

Deacon blinked slowly, then took a long drag from a cigarette Pippin hadn't even noticed was there. "Clarence?" She exhaled a plume of smoke. "Ain't heard that name in a long while. Thought he mighta skipped town, figured the heat finally got to him. I've got a couple songs to play then I'll meet you back here. We gotta go backstage to talk about anything like Clarence Mallardy."

The stage lights flickered to life, throwing a sapphire glow across the room. Deacon Blues took center stage, a weathered silhouette against the wash of blue. With a raspy count-off, her backing band, The Anatidae, swung into a sultry blues number. Her melancholic saxophone wailed, a mournful counterpoint to the thrumming bass and the rhythmic tapping of drumsticks.

Lost in the shadows, booths swelled with a curious mix of well-dressed mallards and rumpled ducks in mismatched hats. Whispers mingled with the strains of music. Waiters flitted between tables, balancing trays laden with gleaming cocktails and plates of glistening finger food. The scent of something hot and spicy battled with the smoky tang of countless cigarettes.

Pippin leaned back, caught in the humming spell of the music. It was more than just sound; it felt like it slithered through the air, wrapping around your soul. He glanced at Hali. Her eyes, usually so sharp and focused, were half-lidded, a faraway expression softening her features. The dim lighting painted her worn bottle cap toque with an almost tender glow.

"Clarence," Hali murmured, her voice barely louder than a breath. "Always said he loved this kind of atmosphere. Should have known it would lead him down a dark path."

Pippin watched her, unable to place the emotion in her eyes. Regret? Anger? Or perhaps a sliver of fear, flickering beneath her hardened exterior.

"He always seemed so...in control," Pippin offered hesitantly.

Hali snorted, a short, bitter laugh. "Control is an illusion, kid. Even the smoothest operators can drown when the tide gets too high."

The saxophone solo reached a piercing crescendo, and then faded. Deacon Blues announced their first break, the room buzzing with appreciative applause. The lights dimmed and rose again, casting long, distorted shadows. Deacon made her way towards their booth, saxophone tucked under her arm, gleaming in the faint light. Her eyes swept over Pippin, a hint of curiosity replacing her earlier indifference.

Hali rose from her seat with a stiff nod, her expression back to its usual stoicism. Pippin followed close behind, the weight of the situation pressing down on him.

Deacon led them through a maze of swinging curtains and darkened corridors, the sounds of the club fading behind them. Finally, they reached a small, cluttered room, the air thick with stale cigarette smoke and the musky scent of old perfume. This was Deacon's green room, a haven from the bustling energy of the club.

Sinking into a plush armchair, Deacon gestured for Hali and Pippin to take a seat. "Alright," she began, leaning forward, her eyes glinting in the dim light, "I heard some whispers about Clarence, bits and pieces of stories floating around these parts. No one suspected foul play, just figured he finally cashed in his chips and skipped town." She paused, taking a long drag from a cigarette, the cherry glowing like a tiny ember in the darkness.

"But," she continued, exhaling a plume of smoke, "I got my ear to the ground, and let me tell you, Clarence wasn't exactly a choir boy. He was knee-deep in some shady dealings, the kind that could get your feathers ruffled permanently."

Hali leaned forward, her gaze fixed on Deacon. "What did you hear? Anything specific?" The urgency in her voice was palpable.

Deacon pursed her bill, considering her words for a moment. "There was talk of a shipment. Something big, something Clarence was desperate to get his wings on. Disappeared right around the time it was supposed to arrive. But that's all I got, whispers and rumors."

Disappointment clouded Hali's face, a flicker of frustration in her eyes. Just as she was about to speak, Pippin noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. Hali had risen from her chair and was heading towards the small bathroom tucked away in the corner of the room.

A moment later, Hali emerged, her brow furrowed in confusion. She held out a small, tightly wrapped package, the paper worn and brittle. "I found this in the bathroom," she said, her voice low.

Pippin and Deacon exchanged a surprised look. Hali carefully unwrapped the package, revealing a single, misshapen seed unlike anything Pippin had ever seen. It was a dull brown, pitted with what looked like tiny craters, and it pulsed faintly with an eerie, almost electric glow.

The air in the room crackled with a sudden tension. This strange seed, discovered by chance in a dingy bathroom, a new element in the case, a mystery within a mystery. What secrets does it hold? And what does it have to do with Clarence's disappearance?