The deck was shuffled, and the first 5 cards were drawn: King of Clubs, 5 of Spades, Ace of Diamonds, 2 of Diamonds, 4 of Clubs. By mixing the card descriptions with a little editing and some additional text, the first Shuffle detective story was pieced together...
There's an old man sitting at table on sidewalk in front of the store—is he selling something? If so, what? Very hard to tell—but I've been lusting after these guitars for weeks. A woman brays something about “shooting her load” and next thing I know I end up in a photograph with her band. The photographer solicits a “cheese” but gets a healthy round of “fuck you”s instead. To me it’s obvious that I’m being hustled into this picture to distract from the goings-on on the shop. One of the guitars is missing—just beneath is a locked gate. Why can’t I gain entry? What are they not telling me? Never has felony been so musical. The reflection gives it away.
I hate my life. Even more so today, because the Crate is missing. I believe the crime scene is compromised now. From inside the boarded-up building there's a faint scratching on the roll-gate and then a harsh growl—"DANGER!" But it only gets worse; the voice whispers to me that two pendants are also missing. Clearly the work of the Syndicate. I attempt to question the jewelry shopkeeper, but he plays dumb. The newsstand owner won’t talk unless I buy a paper. Where have the jewels gone?
I should know; I live across the street and wait for the bus here on the mornings I’m not running late.
I always feel a sense of elation at finding simple things, and something tells me this plan is working...but what's the connection between the missing guitar, the crate and two pendants? Their relationship is still unclear. What I see in here is not really grounds for anything but revulsion. A couple argues in front, but can’t decide which closed doors they need. The Syndicate has stooped to the cynical depths of using children to run the presses for its insidiously brilliant PR campaign, as if their murderous image could be whitewashed by bathing it in the relative purity of childhood, as if by speaking “may your thoughts always be deeper than your pockets” through a puerile mouthpiece they could cover up the tactics that are making everyone’s pockets so shallow in the first place.
Lovely green colors—shades of envy and I sense a ripening desire for revenge. The Syndicate's work threatens me at every turn. They left a maple seedling here, as they always do…but this one only has 3 tiny leaves on it, as opposed to the usual 4—what could this mean? Across the street, right next to Cha-Cha’s House of Ill Repute, a man in a red jacket waits for the phone to ring. The spectacular name of the neighboring house is obviously a foil for the more sinister goings-on behind the green door. I asked some stoolies that were roosting in the area about the green door and what might be behind it—they maintained that it did not exist.
But just now there's a small child wearing two sparkling pendants peeking out from behind the green door. Before I can catch her she slips away, running through the side streets toward the guitar shop.
