Love Letters from the Skeleton Kingdom of the Moon - Part 3

The wind pushed the rain at a steady angle, washing all the East-facing walls in the city. Cable had turned his collar up, and his black fedora kept him as comfortable as someone out in the weather could argue himself to be. The envelope, secured in his trenchcoat's breast pocket, was warm against his heart in a way that it was tempting to find pleasant. Cable's mind was disciplined, though, and he kept himself mentally wary. His attention was constantly divided between his investigation and his sole piece of evidence. It's soft resistance to his movement, its constant heat, his mind evaluated them endlessly for any change. Letters from the dead could not be trusted.
First Cable had talked to all the zombies in the city, but they were no help as usual. He had then moved on to his contacts at the Post Office's secret black market, but again his leads had come up dry. Now he walked through the emotionless streets, going over his scant information and only breaking mental pace to glance at the few pedestrians who passed him on their way to somewhere indoors.
The sound of a guitar hummed across the top of Cable's consciousness. The jangly pluck and strum of strings was distant, but distinct. In the rain it was impossible to tell the direction. The detective ducked under an awning and listened to the unexpected music. It was pleasant, in a strange sort of way. The notes were blurred, but the cadence had an offbeat charm. Cable pulled out a damp, folded magazine from his pocket and held it up in one hand like a waiter's tray.
Cable had once heard of the practice of "Bibliomancy", in which parties interested in the day's events would turn to a random page in the bible for insight. Cable did not believe in the bible, but he did believe in the stars. Therefore, everywhere he went he carried an issue of Entertainment Weekly, and he consulted it on occasions where he required guidance. A gust of wind blew open the tabloid to roughly the center. Cable took the magazine in both hands properly, and looked at the article. It was a music interview.
"How do you feel about where you are in your career," the author's print asked in bold font, "and how things are going? I know you’re out playing bars and small clubs, and it’s a return to where you started. Where are you hoping that leads?"
The country singer being questioned was circumspect. "It’s kinda just coming back around. Making a run through and hopefully coming back out the other side again." Cable nodded, knowingly. Squaring his jaw, he refolded the Weekly and returned it to his pocket. Turning on his heel, he headed back towards the Russle Hotel that disaffectionately housed his office.
The music grew slowly but steadily louder as Cable purposefully strode. The strange, looping rhythm was eerie, halfway predictable but always twisting out from under expectations. The rain beat an endless staccato on the brim of Cable's hat, confusing the melody in the ear.
Rounding the final city block, Cable could see a sitting figure halfway down the street. In the concrete corner next to the stairs which led up to the wood and glass double doors of the hotel there was a man playing his guitar in the rain.

- J