Liquid Cool (Liquid Cool, Book 1)

by Austin Dragon

  "You seem very sure of that," Run-Time said.

  "I knew him."

  Fat Nat and G glanced at each other.

  I answered the question before they could even ask. "I was a client of his." I looked at Fat Nat. "You're in the classic smoking business; I'm in the classic hovercar business. Sometimes, you have to be able to get things that aren't available on the local legit market or through regular channels. Someone like Easy Chair Charlie was the guy to get those things for you." I could see Fat Nat nod. "He got me a few hard-to-find and semi-technically-illegal things for my vehicle. Again, nothing hardcore criminal. He was an operator, not a mad gunman. He also was a family man."

  G nodded and pointed as if my words were hanging in the air. "Exactly," he said. "A family man. He would never do such a thing."

  "But he did," I said. "Or that's what the papers said happened, because that's what the police say happened. What do you say happened?"

  I didn't know what to make of these two men staring at me without answering a simple question.

  "Am I missing something?" I turned to Run-Time. "You want to hire me to poke around to do what? What is it that you're saying happened that's different from what the papers and the cops are saying?"

  "It's nothing mysterious," Run-Time replied calmly. "If he did do what they said, completely contradictory to his nature and good sense, then why? That's what we want you to find out. That's all."

  Run-Time placed an envelope on the top of his desk.

  "Kick around for a few days and see what you come up with," Run-Time said. "You'll be our detective."

  "Is this how they pay detectives? Wad of cash in an envelope?" I asked.

  "That's how we're doing it," he continued. "I have a lot of interests with the City, including the police, so I don't want my name anywhere near this. Fat Nat, the same. People got shot up and killed on this thing, so there is also public opinion to contend with. Pro-criminal businesses don't tend to do too well in this city. Fat Nat and I could get hurt bad, business-wise, if any investigation, no matter how logical, were to get back to us. That's why I told Fat Nat you were our man. I wouldn't trust this to anyone else."

  I leaned forward and took the envelope. "I appreciate that," I said. "I know how important your business is to you. Okay, I'll poke around. No one will ever know anything. It's not like I'm a real detective."

  I could see Fat Nat and G glance at each other.

  "For this though, you are," Run-Time said.

  "Of course." I realized I shouldn't have added my little commentary at the end. "I'll get started. Should I contact you or Fat Nat?"

  "Me," Fat Nat answered.

  "I'm only the matchmaker between parties on this one," Run-Time said. "Whenever I can help a friend, I will. And if that help can be provided by another friend, even better."

  I stood and the two men shook my hand again. I could see they weren't particularly thrilled at my involvement. Run-Time's female VP returned to the office—I hadn't even noticed she'd disappeared—to escort me to the elevator capsule.

  When I left Run-Time's, I hopped into my Pony and went straight to Joe Blows on Sweet Street in Old Harlem. I double-parked on the street and waited until I saw the hovercar appear in the sky, flying into the emporium's parking structure. I not only knew what Fat Nat looked like, but what his hovercar looked like, too.

  "Cruz," I said to the front door girls.

  "Cruz?" one of them asked.

  "Yeah. Tell Fat Nat that Cruz is here to see him. He'll take the meeting."

  One of the three girls disappeared from the front desk to go into the back.

  "Looks new," I said.

  "Oh yeah," the girl said as she raised her cybernetic hand. "I lost my hand in the shootout. I get fitted for the skin next week."

  "Congratulations."

  "Why, thank you," she said with a smile.

  The third girl returned.

  She led me to the smoking rooms, and I immediately saw Fat Nat, G, and several other men playing cards, puffing on fat cigars.

  "Mr. Cruz," Fat Nat greeted. "You're fast. I'll give you that."

  "Can we speak in private?"

  Fat Nat was amused by my request and looked at his comrades at the table. "Sure, Mr. Cruz." He looked at the girl. "And you can go back to the front and back to work."

  The girl gave him a "whatever" face and walked back the way she came as Fat Nat threw his hand down on the table, delicately held his cigar with a gloved hand, and rose from his seat. "Follow me, Mr. Cruz."

  As I followed him, I noticed we were not alone. G and every one of the other men were following like we were little kids following the teacher to the playground. He led us down a long, dark winding hallway to a single door. Fat Nat pushed it open. "After you, Mr. Cruz." I walked into the cluttered office and his merry men filed in.

  "What's this about, Mr. Cruz?" Fat Nat said as he sat on the sole desk in the office as his friends stood on either side of him with arms folded. "Not enough money?"

  "No, Mr. Nat, I am not here for more money. I'm here for you to level with me before I get started. I came here as a courtesy to you, to talk to you as a man, privately. But since you want to include the Seven Dwarves here, then let's include them. What didn't you tell me at Run-Time's? What was Easy Chair Charlie into that you didn't tell me or Run-Time? What? It would be one thing if you were someplace else and heard about it, but you were here. Your place was shot to hell, and you even had a few customers killed, but the first thing out of you was to say he didn't do it or it was a set-up. The Metropolis Police Department shoots the gunman who shot your place to hell and you side with the gunman and not them. What are you holding back?"

  Fat Nat's face had changed different shades of red in my tirade and was now a ball of nervous sweat. He looked at his friends who had turned their folded-arm death-stare to him, not me.

  "Uh, guys, can you give me and Mr. Cruz a minute."

  The looks on their faces were priceless. G opened the door as the other men filed back out, and he closed the door. The three of us were left in the room. It was when G locked the door that I said to myself, "This can't be good."

  "What was Easy Chair Charlie into that you didn't tell us?" I repeated.

  Fat Nat was standing now and had picked up a newspaper from the desk to fan himself. After he composed himself and his normal skin color had returned to his face, the Italian sat back on the desk.

  "He said he was working on something. In fact, he was close to wrapping it up."

  "What something?"

  "He said he'd get enough money from the deal to buy his way Up-Top."

  I stared at him, then glanced at G. To buy one's way off-surface into the paradisaical Up-Top regions was everyone's dream, even my own.

  "Such a thing is only possible for the uber-rich or the uber-criminal. Not even Run-Time is rich enough to buy his way to Up-Top," I said. "Mr. Nat, what are we talking about here?"

  "It was a set-up," G added. "One moment he was sitting at our booth enjoying the smokes, then he got a call on his mobile and had to leave. Then all hell broke out."

  "Why didn't you say that to the police? Or tell that story to the press?"

  "Why?" Nat asked. "Five cops were put in the morgue, one was paralyzed, and another had his pecker shot off. This is a police-friendly establishment. Joe Blows has always been. I'm going to suggest that police purposely set up and gunned down my friend? Not if I want to stay in business."

  "Mr. Nat, police are body-cammed up the wazoo, every one of them, from the time their foot steps out of their station or hovercruiser, and the body-cams are not monitored by the police department, but the Police Watch Commission. That's an independent, civilian body, not government."

  "How do you know so much about this?" G asked. "Run-Time told us you never were arrested or had any negative involvement with the police."

  "I interned at Police Central when I was kid in high school."

  "Interned? I never ever heard of any kid i
nterning at the police station."

  "I was weird. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  "We're not stupid. He couldn't have been set-up, because the Police Watch watches the Police Department," Fat Nat said. "So you say."

  "But Easy Chair Charlie wouldn't get up from a table after he bought a couple boxes of high-quality Havanas, take a simple call on his mobile, and then instantly turn into a gun-crazy maniac and starting shooting at everyone in the place and the cops," G said.

  "Where did he get the weapon from?" I asked.

  G pointed at me. "Exactly."

  "We got a Puerto Rican and two Italians in the room. What are we saying?"

  "That this is some serious crap," Fat Nat said.

  "I'm a one-time detective here. I'm just a laborer, and I'm not cut out for anything dangerous. The most dangerous thing I'll do is race a hovercar at three hundred miles an hour. That's it. None of us are little boys. Easy Chair Charlie never bragged. If he said he was going to come into that kind of money, then he was coming into that kind of money. He wasn't part of the uber-rich, so we're talking about hardcore criminality to get that kind of cash. I'm not tangling with any Cosa Nostra, Triads, or ninjas."

  "Neither are we," Fat Nat added. "Why do you think we went to Run-Time in stealth mode?

  "Okay, this is what I'll do. Only because Easy Chair Charlie was a righteous guy and he didn't deserve to go out like that. I'm going to discreetly inquire around and find out if this is something to pursue, meaning turn it over to trustworthy authorities—Run-Time knows them all. Or, we drop this, like Superman dropping a nasty chunk of Kryptonite, and never look back. There are the streets; then there are the mean streets. I don't go near the mean streets. I'm supposed to be getting married. The worst trouble I want in life is my psycho parents-in-law."

  "We hear you," Fat Nat said.

  "That's the plan. I'll find out what we're dealing with. And let's not even call it a case, and I'm not even a detective. I'm just a guy asking questions."

  The men nodded.

  "That's the plan," Fat Nat said.

  "The plan." Mr. G pointed at me. "Yes."

  "Sorry about jumping to wrong conclusions, Mr. Cruz."

  "Forget about it, Mr. Nat. It happens to all of us. I got what I needed and we're all agreed. I can get started."

  Chapter 11

  Phishy

  I GOT FAT NAT TO PROMISE me to come clean with Run-Time and tell him the whole story with Easy Chair Charlie. I knew Run-Time would want to keep even further away from this whole situation than before. But the worst we could do was keep him in the dark about something this politically explosive; he'd never do that to us. Friendships are hard enough to come by in this city, so never blow one intentionally.

  Since I was never a criminal myself and didn't associate with them, I had to find the next closest thing. That would be my frenemy, Phishy. He was the only friend-enemy that I tolerated and still spoke to. I didn't know why I tolerated him, but it definitely wasn't because of his assortment of colored shirts with fishes on them.

  I guess it was because he also had an aversion to the hardcore criminal world, every bit as strong as mine, but he maintained a knowledge of the players and, more importantly, he kept his ear to the streets. Anything worth knowing or not knowing, Phishy would know about it or who to go to find out.

  "Easy Chair Charlie?" I asked.

  Phishy was still spinning around on the sidewalk, doing his chicken dance. This was how he greeted me, with some dance jig. I waited until he had sufficiently amused and tired himself out. There was no point in yelling at him to get serious. Phishy had to be Phishy first, before his brain could interact with others.

  "Who ended up finding you?" he asked me, standing at attention with a big smile.

  "No one found me. I managed to get to China Doll's all on my own without any of you."

  "She had everybody looking for you. I put my sidewalk johnny brigade on it. With Run-Time's people in the air and mine on the ground, we would have found you for sure. Your hiding places are getting better, though. You have to be commended for hiding so long with that bright red hovercar of yours. Are you switching cars? I bet that's how you're doing it."

  "Easy Chair Charlie, Phishy."

  "What about him?"

  "What was he into?"

  "You know what he was into. You were a client of his."

  "Besides that."

  "There was no besides that with Easy."

  "Surely, you heard how he died."

  "Surely, I did."

  "And? You really believe Easy Chair Charlie spontaneously went psycho and shot up his second home, Joe Blows, and go bullet-to-bullet with the cops?"

  Phishy started scratching his head. "How would I know? It happens all the time. You read about it all the time in the news. Maybe, Easy was smoking something else besides his fancy cigars."

  "There's nothing on the street about him? No gossip or rumors?"

  "Like what?"

  "If I knew, I wouldn't be asking you."

  "What do you think Easy was into?"

  "Well, this was a waste of time," I said to myself.

  "I can ask around if you want."

  "No, I don't want you to do that. You go around asking questions, then it gets out that someone is going around asking questions."

  "Sorry, I couldn't help you out, Cruz. If I had heard of anything, I would tell you. I'll tell you the first thing I hear, without asking questions."

  I nodded, but I could see Phishy was genuinely unhappy he couldn't help me.

  "Do you know anything about his wife?" I asked.

  Phishy laughed and shook his head. "What's this about, Cruz? Are you like some kind of detective?"

  "Detective? Why do you say that?"

  "Asking me questions. You're going to ask his wife questions. What's a guy who restores hovercars and does odd job work asking questions for?"

  "I've decided to become a curious person. Phishy, don't be telling anybody about my business."

  "If you become a detective, can I be like your paid confidential informant?"

  "I am not a detective! Don't be starting any rumors. I'm serious, Phishy."

  "I won't be telling anybody about your business." I could see Phishy's little rat-brain racing around in his head, thinking about whatever schemes and scams he was formulating.

  "Bye, Phishy."

  I turned around and walked back to my Pony.

  "I'll keep an ear out," he said, following right behind me.

  "I'm sure," I said as I opened my car door quickly and got in, trying to keep as much of the falling rain from the vehicle as possible.

  I closed the door. Phishy just stood there waving as my vehicle rose up, up into the sky traffic.

  Damn. I had asked him about Easy Chair Charlie's wife, but he didn't answer. That was the other thing about Phishy—his scatterbrained tendencies were contagious. You had to focus to keep him focused. It didn't matter.

  It wouldn't take me long to get there, and I'd find out for myself.

  Chapter 12

  Mrs. Easy Chair Charlie

  I LIVED IN RABBIT CITY, and it was far from being a working-class or upscale neighborhood, but it wasn't the dumps. Free City was the dumps. A sea of super-slender towers with each level a family residence. It was government housing for the unlucky five percent of the population without legacies. This was the best the government could do for only five percent of the population.

  I sat in my Pony in the rain, waiting. It wasn't long before my guy descended from the sky by jetpack. Flash was the guy I used most of the time, when I called Run-Time's Let It Ride for mobile car security. He was a light-skinned Black guy, with a ponytail and a small goatee. Flash was friendly, reliable, and he took his job seriously, whether driving a hovercab or, in this case, car-sitting security. I was not about to leave my Pony unattended and unguarded in Free City. I was sure a thousand boosters were watching me through binoculars and telescopes at that very instant—plo
tting a try at stealing or trashing my Pony.

  "Cruz," he greeted, wearing a yellow jumpsuit over his suit clothes and blue eyewear.

  "Hey Flash," I said as I got out my car. "Not sure how long I'll be."

  "It's fine."

  "And be careful."

  "Don't worry, Mr. Cruz. I know Free City well."

  He pulled down the zipper of his jumpsuit to show his dual shoulder holsters with guns.

  I had been to Free City a few times for some hovercar restoration jobs and once did an unpermitted (yeah, that means illegal) street race through it. It was during the day, so it was okay. The night would have been very, very different—in other words, I wouldn't be here.

  Free City didn't have sidewalk johnnies and sallies loitering around. Free City had street punks. They weren't gangs, per se, though they were into all the criminal activities that real gangs were involved in. They were bored delinquents, who staked out sections of sidewalk, waiting for victims. They never bothered residents—they were residents too—they waited for strangers. People like me.

  As I neared the tower Easy Chair Charlie's wife was in, I saw a few of them watching me. They were just kids in chia-pet bubble-coats and wearing flapper hats, all with silver shades on. They looked like round gorillas with fighter pilot heads. The buildings had plenty of neon lights and signs, but punks and criminals always found those pockets of darkness to hide in.

  The silver-shaded punks came out of their shadowy corners and walked directly towards me down the gray asphalt path.

  "Hello, Mister. Can we help you find your way? We're always eager to be the good citizen," one of them said in a sarcastic tone.

  Another had his hand in his jacket. He could be bluffing, but bravery was unwise in places like this, especially if you were unarmed.

  I flicked a business card right in his face. The punk stopped in his tracks and they let it fall to the ground.