“Joseph Zion, Private Eye.” I fumble through my wallet, passing by the business cards in Ogham runes and the ones in Malachim, before discovering to my great surprise that I still had some English ones.
I produce it with a flourish, but the search had lasted minutes, and the effect was more-or-less completely lost.
I'm not the kind of Private Eye you call to spy on your cheating husband. No, any fool can do that. It just requires skill, tenacity, and a bladder of steel. I'm missing at least two of those, you can take your pick.
No, where normal P.I.s might carry a notebook, I eschew this in favour of a tarot deck. While phone taps and tiny microphones might be common amongst other detectives, I am more likely to be found using two yoghurt pots and a piece of string – but no normal yoghurt pots! Never in the history of dairy products have containers been so endowed with arcane sigils.
I consider producing them for inspection, but decline. Some things were not meant for mere mortals to know of.
Anyway, my point. Husband cheating on you? Call the others. Satan cheating on you with a coven of bewitched poultry? I'm your man.