by Nas Hedron
The building is painted an odd shade of taupe. It’s flanked on the left by the entrance to a small Asian mall called Gold Stream Village and on the right by a sliding garage-style door of corrugated metal. The sign above the door still proclaims that it’s something called Actual Size, but a small, hand-lettered sign on the door announces that this is the St. Christopher Mission. I enter and a small set of chimes ring above my head, betraying my presence. The interior is much like Cal’s mission, although the decor is distinctly Chinese. There are several banners with hànzì characters stretching across them, red being the predominant color, and there are even gold accents on the framed pictures of Jesus and Mary, although I’m sure they’re just paint rather than real gold leaf.
Nothing happens for a moment, then an old man emerges from a back room. He is wizened and dressed in a black one-piece frock-like outfit that puts me in mind of monks.
“Father Wen?” I ask.
“Yes. You are Gat Burroughs?”
His English is like that of many people in Chinatown. It’s unaccented, but still slightly awkward, as though speaking it is a kind of concession to me. Given China’s isolation Wen was undoubtedly born here, but many people in Chinatown grow up speaking Chinese almost exclusively, so their English is still odd to a native-speaker’s ear.
“Yes. I believe Pastor Hearn was in touch with you.”
He nods.
“Yes, yes. I sent word to Chen through one of the others, but I don’t know if he’ll come. He doesn’t like police, especially gwai lo.”
Gwai lo, the foreign devil, the white man. Once upon a time it was a real curse, although lately people use it in a friendlier manner. In this case I suspect it isn’t friendly. “I may be gwai lo, but I’m not the police,” I say, trying to clarify, but Father Wen waves a hand as if this is of no importance. “To Chen you are the same. Police, not police. You are an authority, you are housed. To him you are the enemy.”
“I try not to be anyone’s enemy,” I say, somewhat lamely.
“Your intentions aren’t very important, we will see if he comes. I welcome you though. Please, come and have tea with me.”
I follow him into his small, windowless office, where a pot of tea has already been prepared. He sits behind an oak desk and pours for me first, gesturing to a chair on the other side of the desk, then pours his own cup. Beside us is a bookcase that reaches to the ceiling, full of theological works and, oddly, many scientific ones as well. Behind him are rows of scuffed grey institutional filing cabinets, the kind that wouldn’t look out of place in a school office, or for that matter a military base. The room doesn’t have enough space for everything in it, and I have a vaguely confined feeling—Forces training has short-circuited any possible claustrophobia. At one end of the desk a small holo plays a recording of a recent papal Mass. The holo unit is antiquated and the image is a little blurred, so that each figure seems to trail a ghost of itself. I’m reminded of an ancient painting by Francis Bacon, the so-called “screaming pope.”
“You were attacked, Pastor Hearn says,” Wen comments mildly.
“Yes, by men pretending to be homeless. I have no desire to bother the real homeless, Father. I’m just trying to find these men. They killed a number of innocent people while they were trying to kill me.”
He sips his tea, makes a face, then puts the cup down. I think the California-grown tea disappoints him. He looks old enough to remember when one could buy tea from China or Japan. Or get tea grown in India or Sri Lanka without paying a year’s wages for a 500 gram packet.
“Yes, I know the incident, though I didn’t know you were involved or what it was about. Just near here. Very sad. Very violent. Jesus cries.”
“Jesus wept,” I correct him, but he shakes his head slightly.
“I am aware of the idiom, Mr. Burroughs, but I don’t put Jesus in the past tense.”
I feel a little foolish and try to get past the moment.
“It was, as you say, very violent and terribly sad. I’m trying to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“And serve your client.”
“And serve my client, but they amount to the same thing at the moment.”
We drink some more second-rate tea, but are interrupted by the sound of the chimes. Wen looks a little surprised.
“Perhaps Chen has come after all. I will see. You remain here.”
I wait, drinking my tea, while Wen goes to the front room to see who has arrived. A moment later he returns accompanied by another Chinese man. The visitor appears to be about forty and very fit, with long grey-streaked hair combed back over his shoulders. In one ear he wears an earring made from a Chinese coin, old by the looks of it, with a hole in the center. He has on a battered brown leather jacket with a hard, bare chest underneath it and, to my surprise, Forces-issue khaki pants. I stand up to greet him.
“Mister Burroughs, this is Chen.”
“Mr. Chen,” I say, holding out my hand.
“Chen will do,” he answers abruptly, ignoring my offer to shake. I drop my hand.
“Okay, Chen then. I’m glad you agreed to meet with me.”
He answers by spitting on the floor, although his expression remains benign, or perhaps just intentionally opaque.
“I am here only because Pastor Hearn asked for me. He is a good man, very thoughtful. You? I just see you around the neighborhood. Who knows what you are?”
“Pastor Hearn is a friend of mine, or he was some time ago.”
“In the Forces.”
“Yes, in the Forces.”
“I was once in the Forces too, you know. These pants,” he looks down and gestures at them with his hand, “I hate them, but they’re durable so I keep them.”
“I’m not a fan of the Forces myself. It was an unpleasant experience.”
He says something under his breath that sounds like choe-bee, drawing the word out, and Father Wen looks away.
“Yes, pissing on the poor can be unpleasant,” he says sarcastically. “Killing them, burning their homes.”
I don’t like the direction this is heading and decide that a little confrontation may be the only way to take control of the situation. I step forward until I’m inches from Chen’s face.
“It’s more than unpleasant. You know it if you were there. I have guilt, I have nightmares, but I can’t undo the past. All I can do is try to do the right thing now. If that doesn’t meet your high standards, fuck you.”
Chen laughs quietly.
“Okay, you have my attention. What do you want?”
“From what I’ve been told you know a lot about what goes on around here.”
He shrugs noncommittally.
“I was attacked in front of my office on Jung Jing Road. Three men posing as homeless. I thought you might know something about them.”
“Sure,” he says affably. He leans against the doorway. “White men, well-fed, obviously not real homeless. They were around for a day or so.”
“Can you tell me anything about them? What they looked like? What they did?”
“All of them were tall, all in perfect health. Good teeth, good posture, no bone degeneration. Good hair, so good diet, vitamins. Other than the fact that they didn’t look homeless there was nothing particularly distinctive about them. One had blond hair, the other two dark. All with short hair. Very muscular and their demeanor was very pushy. They were bullies.”
“How were they bullies?”
“They demanded cigarettes from people. Cigarettes are very valuable for us, like money. If people said no they would laugh and take the cigarettes anyway. They pushed some of the girls around, trying to get sex. They had guns, so no one argued with them.”
“These people were stealing and threatening and no one reported them?”
Chen makes a face and glances at Wen, who looks down, apparently uncomfortable. Chen faces me again.
“Report? Who the hell to? To the police? For them we don’t even exist, except when they think we’ve committe
d a crime.”
“They don’t respond?”
This time Chen laughs loudly.
“Respond, he says,” directing his comment to Wen. “Respond. They don’t give a fuck, Mr. Burroughs. You know what they call us, right? Krill. Small, abundant, unimportant, and preyed upon by others. They don’t even show up. Theft, murder, rape. . . it doesn’t matter. We have to look out for ourselves. No one else is going to protect us.”
“Okay,” I say, hoping to change tack a little, “so how did you look after yourselves? These guys were bullying you, what did you do?”
“I talked with them.”
“You talked?”
“Yes, I talked. I explained that they were three men. Then I explained that I had at least five-hundred men who would attack them if I gave the order, even if they knew some of them would die. With such numbers, even their guns wouldn’t matter. They stopped.”
“Didn’t you wonder what they were doing here? Why they were pretending to be homeless? Why they were carrying guns?”
“Personally, I didn’t care. Obviously they were after someone who was not one of us. Some housed person,” he says, pronouncing the word like an obscenity. “That is not my concern.”
“They wanted to kill someone,” I say, unable to hide my anger at his cavalier manner.
“Yes, you. With no disrespect, so what? You don’t know this city at all, do you? You think it is your world, the housed, the wealthy, the privileged. Do you even see the homeless when you pass them on the street? Do you ever stop to think about their lives, their world? Do you do anything to help them? There is a whole world that is invisible to you and the only reason it’s invisible is that you would rather not see it, it makes you uncomfortable. So why should we care about you?”
I want to respond angrily, but he’s right.
“Okay Chen, I’m guilty, all right? I ignore the homeless. I try to pretend they’re not there. It makes me uncomfortable to see them or to think about them.”
“About us,” he corrects me.
“Fine, about you. But I’m trying to save lives here. We’re all human, even the housed.”
“You are human, obviously. The question is, are we? And if we are not, if we aren’t treated as human beings, why should we give you the courtesy?”
“Okay,” I say, “fine. I won’t argue with you. It’s unfair, it’s even cruel. Still, people have died and more could die yet, even homeless. If you can help me, I might be able to prevent it.”
Chen looks into the middle distance for a moment, as though considering what I’ve said. Then he looks back at me, full eye contact, no flinching. His gaze is very intense.
“The only reason I talk to you is Pastor Hearn. The only reason. I don’t care if you live or die, but the Pastor does see us, he does know our world, and he does help us. For that reason only I will tell you something that might help you.”
“Thank you,” I say, not knowing what else is appropriate.
“They were vat boys.”
“Shells? How do you know?”
“You’re a shell yourself, Mr. Burroughs, like me. Don’t you usually know one when you see one? Too perfect, too healthy, too at ease, too strong, too confident. They weren’t just healthy, the way housed people are healthy, they were ultra. Definitely shells.”
“Thank you Chen. I appreciate your information.”
“If you really appreciate it, you should make a donation.”
I take out some money from my pocket and start peeling off bills, holding them toward him.
“Not to me,” he says, as though I’m stupid, “to Father Wen, to the mission, to Pastor Hearn. Stop being blind for a moment and see our world. If you do, you might even want to give something.”
“I will,” I promise.
“Big words. Heard that song before. I know this neighborhood, you know. I know where you live and where you work, and I don’t like being lied to.”
“I can imagine.”
That brings a large grin.
“You haven’t got enough imagination for what I can do,” he says, and turns to leave.
“Chen,” I call out after him.
He stops and turns back to me in the doorway of the office.
“What?” he asks curtly, and I ask him the question that’s been bothering me since I saw his pants.
“You were in the Forces, you could have a pension, education credits, help getting a job. Why are you homeless?”
He advances on me and this time he is the one who presses his face close to mine. His eyes are angry, furious.
“Do you think I want anything the Forces would give me?” he asks, angry. “Do you think I would take one penny from them?”
He calms himself and straightens his jacket.
“For my part, Mr. Burroughs, I like to see the world as it is, including the poor and the homeless. I joined the Forces, like so many others, because I felt I had no choice, no other job, but then I learned what they were about: crushing us. Using the poor and the desperate who can’t find a job to beat the rest of the poor into submission. When I realized what the Forces really were, I went AWOL. Technically, I’m still subject to Court Martial. I wouldn’t take anything the Forces would give me, but they wouldn’t give me anything anyway. I am a criminal, Mr. Burroughs. I prefer it that way.”
And with that, he leaves.
Twelve: A Plan of Last Resort
I call Felon as I head back to Cloud City, activating my kaikki by voice command.
“Fellows, L.A.P.D.”
“It's Gat,” I say, forcing myself to sound friendly. I need him, after all. On the other hand, in my heart of hearts, part of me would rather cut my own guts out and try to eat them before I died.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“I’ve got news on our UIF.”
“Been out there playing detective?”
“I am a detective, got a license and everything.”
“No shit? So what’s the news?”
“We’re looking for shells.”
“How do you figure?”
“Trust me, it’s my life.”
He mulls it over for a moment.
“Well, that’ll cut down the I.D. time. I’ll have the techs compare the DNA scrape to the shells on file. Shouldn’t take long. I’ll call you back.”
By the time I’m winding up the final stretch of road to Cloud City, my kaikki chirps and Dave’s badge number and the L.A.P.D. logo appear in the upper right corner of my visor.
“Gat here Dave. What’s up.”
“The dead UIF is no longer UI.”
“Praise God.”
“And pass the ammunition,” he says, completing the phrase and laughing. It’s making me a little sick, buttering him up with this Forces chatter, but he’s got what I need.
“You want to ride along while I track it down?”
I want nothing less than to spend time with him, but I need information and I don’t want him screwing things up—I want to be there to supervise.
“Sure. You got the vat?”
“Oh yeah, DNA traces back to an outfit called Body Work Inc.”
“Where should I meet you?”
I’m almost at Cloud City now, slowing the bike.
“I gotta do a few things. Whyn’t you meet me there?” He rattles off the address, knowing full well that my Forces training will ensure that I remember it.
“Okay. Is an hour all right?”
“Sure, sure, whatever. They’re not going anywhere.”
“Sooner, Dave,” I say, not meaning it.
“See you in the zone,” he says, hanging up. The drop zone. Still a trooper after all these years.
I don’t even bother entering the grounds of Cloud City, just turn the bike around and head out. The address that Felon’s given me is north of Pacific Palisades, near the waterfront. Vat outfits need a lot of water for their operations and ocean water’s just fine once you desalinate it and filter it about a thousand times.
The b
uilding sits, squat and low, spread over acres of rocky land. The driveway approaches from the east side of the building and opens into a small parking lot with about ten cars in it. The plant is huge, but if it’s like most vats it’s largely automated, so there won’t be a large staff. Yellow brick walls stretch north and south in an unbroken line for hundreds of meters. Dead center is a pair of doors and over that is a small sign: Body Work Inc.
No doubt they have a corporate office downtown for the clients—the kind of place that’s redecorated by a different brand name artist every six months just to stay chic—with demonstration tanks, plush carpeting, and a gorgeous receptionist. Out here is the business end; there’s no need to get elaborate.
I sit on my bike and research the company while I wait for Felon to arrive, translucent data streaming down the inside of my visor. Body Work Inc., I discover, has been operational for over twenty-five years. They look very clean. A few minor Code violations have showed up during inspections, but any vat has those, mostly inadvertent. The company’s publicly traded, so it has an obligation to publish its financial reports, making it an unlikely criminal enterprise. It would be very hard to hide any illicit profits.
The president and CEO is Lester DeLong, a biochemist and one of the pioneers of shell technology. He started out at General Genomics, where he worked his way up to VP operations. In his spare time he worked on the notion of shell farming, his hobby. When he’d nailed the details he handled it responsibly, telling the board of directors about his extracurricular work and requesting that he be allowed to start up a branch operation on a test-case basis for a year. If it paid off, he’d run the branch and take a bonus in General Genomics stock that would put him into the richest percentile in Cali. If it went bust, as most predicted it would, he’d return to his old duties, no hard feelings. It was a bit of a gamble for General, but DeLong had the credentials and had worked up an impressive presentation, not just scientific stuff, but a whole business plan. It seems DeLong had an entrepreneurial side, he just hadn’t chosen to show it until then. If worse came to worst, General could always claim the loss on their taxes.