Liquid Cool (Liquid Cool, Book 1)

by Austin Dragon

  Two men exited and stopped.

  "Mr. Cruz," one of them said. "We hear you're asking a lot of questions around town. We should talk. Detective to detective."

  Chapter 16

  Detective Friendly

  "WHAT FLOOR DID YOU just come from?" I asked angrily. "Were you snooping around my place?"

  "We were on floor 87, waiting for you, just like your woman said," the man said.

  "She's not my woman," I said.

  "I am not this stupid man's woman," Punch Judy yelled.

  "Yeah, whatever. You two behave like husband and wife. Mr. Cruz, are we going to talk or what?"

  "Sure, let's step into my office."

  For me to use an umbrella was a major event in itself. I never used umbrellas. With my tan fedora on my head and my tan retro-jacket on my body, I could weather most of the rain Metropolis threw at me. But then, there were storms like these. I stood under one umbrella, and the two men stood under their own separate ones.

  "Why are you here?" I asked.

  "To compare notes among fellow detectives," the man answered. "We were hired by one of the men's families killed in the shootout."

  "Why would you need to talk to me?"

  "Motive, Mr. Cruz. It's an open question as to whether it was this Easy Chair Charlie or the cops who killed our client family's loved one. The cops had a righteous motive, of course, but we need to know all about this guy. Is your investigation ongoing? If it is, we'll wait on ours. We told the family we'd consult with the cops and any other parties on the case, meaning any other detectives on the case. There's like twenty of us, all together."

  "I didn't know it would be so many."

  "When it gets kicked to the civil courts, there'll be tenfold that in lawyers."

  "I believe it. Well, I wish I could have saved you a trip. My case is closed. We're all satisfied that it was nothing more than suicide-by-cop."

  "He went gun crazy?"

  "That's it. I actually wrapped up the case before I arrived."

  "Okay, then. That's what we found to be indicated, too, and the same with all the other detectives on the case. Well, thank you, Mr. Cruz, for the help. Hopefully, in the future, we can return the favor."

  "No problem. You have a business card?"

  The man patted his suit jacket with one hand as the other held the glowing umbrella handle with the other. "Left them in the damn hovercar. Look me up. I'm in the Yellow Pages. Bar is the name."

  "Okay. Maybe, one day, I will."

  "Thanks again, Mr. Cruz. I'm sure you won't mind my colleague and me getting out of this hurricane storm."

  I waved at them with a smile as the men waved back and, looking both ways for any traffic, disappeared into the rain.

  Chapter 17

  Flash

  FAT NAT MARCHED THROUGH Joe Blows with a single purpose.

  "Stop admiring that!" he yelled at the waitress, Tab, now fitted with the skin for her new bionic arm, surrounded by the other waitresses.

  They scattered as he walked past them and out the main entrance to a hovering taxicab. He leaned into the open passenger door.

  "I didn't call for no taxi," he said.

  The driver, Flash, held a mobile phone with the video screen illuminated. "I know," he said and faced the tiny screen to Nat's face.

  "Hey, Mr. Nat," I said to him.

  "Mr. Cruz." Fat Nat was genuinely surprised.

  "I just wanted to let you know I'm not finished with my discreet poking around on the matter we're both familiar with."

  "Why would you be doing that?" he asked.

  "When two plus two comes out five then you have to wonder what the hell is going on. Maybe nothing, maybe a whole lot of something. I'll poke around some more until I'm satisfied; otherwise, I won't be able to sleep. I need to be able to sleep nights."

  "The unscratchable itch," Fat Nat said.

  "The unscratchable itch," I repeated.

  Fat Nat nodded and gave me a thumbs up. "I won't say a word to no one."

  "Next time you see me, it will be either to tell you the last chapter of the book is over, or we're only getting to chapter two."

  PART FIVE

  The Case of the Guy Who Scratched My Vehicle

  Chapter 18

  The Guy Who Scratched My Vehicle

  MY POPS ALWAYS TOLD me the more you pretend to be a thing, the more you become that thing and realize you're not pretending anymore. He used the word "pretend," instead of his more favorite phrase, "work so hard you bleed." No one wanted to hear the "work hard and you'll make it" mantra. Metropolis was stacked to the sky with people working hard, but would never make it.

  But pretending to be a detective was not a wise life choice. I had already been looking at Labor statistics. It was categorized by government as a law enforcement occupation. It didn't have the highest percentage of deaths, like cops and firemen, but it was close. It had the leading percentage, by a huge margin, of arrest and incarceration. One of those jobs most likely to make you a jailbird. Dot didn't know these stats and I wasn't about to tell her.

  I wondered if my fixation on the whole detective thing was because, for too long, I had nothing at all to fixate on. Idle people got excited at the most mundane. I was a laborer, a gig-worker. No permanent job, just odd job to odd job. I hated it, complained about it, but accepted it, because I did nothing to change my situation. Millions of us sat around in our legacy housing all day, and I was one of them. We were our version of the leisure class, but when you're rich it's acceptable; when you're not, it's pathetic. Aimless was aimless no matter how much or how little cash you had in the bank. I never saw social class; I saw people who had purpose. That's why Phishy didn't annoy me and Punch Judy did. He had purpose with his crazy self, and she didn't. I didn't like her, really, because she was kind of like me.

  But I had to get serious. Being a detective was to be a one-time deal. I had no money for a license, no office, and honestly, the job was dangerous. I couldn't play games—I was getting married, assuming my future parents-in-law didn't off me before then.

  Yet, here I was, in the public library on 40 Winks Street. There were three left in the City. In the comfort of your own home, you could download any content you wanted to your digital book reader, but frankly, who had time for that. There were a gazillion books out there in cyberspace. Being a librarian was actually a serious profession with value; they had advanced degrees in data mining, sifting, and record compiling. Libraries sifted through all the data garbage, the clutter, the Trojan horse X-rated material, and sub-standard nonsense to present you with what you typed into your search and gave you the best of the best. Yes, libraries were also a major hang-out for the sidewalk johnnies, but they were clean and quiet. Here, I was reading book after book on...the private investigation industry.

  There were only a few main categories. The first was the procedural detective books. They went into quite a lot of detail about surveillance, stake-outs, skip tracing, computer-tapping, hard drive cloning, etc. Most of it was very dry or commonsense and I could see why the books didn't sell.

  The second category was the best sellers—the Hollywood-style, super detectives. These "true" stories were of gun battles with crime lords, beating up cops, sleeping with clients, secret consultative work with Up-Top multinationals, more gun battles. Entertaining, but all stupid. None of it real.

  The book I found myself glued to was not the 1,000 page tomes of the first category or the 400 page page-turners of the second, but this 60-page book titled, How to be a Great Detective with 100 Rules. It was written by a guy, who had been a private eye for 70 plus years. In fact, he died only a few years ago at the age of 92 and had worked right up until the end. The book was brilliant. I had read it five times already and was reading it again. The rules seemed basic, but his one paragraph explanation of each was packed with real insight and his own folksy, street-wise expertise. He was the real McCoy—not any fake movie-land detective. You could tell by the way he communicated. He mu
st have led an amazing life. To live 92 years in Metropolis—the things he saw and experienced. It's too bad he didn't write a compilation of his life through his cases.

  I put the book on the floor, sat there, and sighed. It was the only book I checked out from the library. Here, I was sitting alone in my legacy residence, reading the accounts of a man who lived a real life, a long life and was quite content with it. I knew that, because he kept at it until he died. Nothing stopped him—the mean streets, the meaner streets, uber-government agencies, megacorporations. He did his thing.

  He had a metal heart, but back then, if you had heart disease in your genetic history, the doctors would automatically replace your regular heart with an artificial one to be on the safe side. He had bionic hips and fingers—a fall down stairs had caused the former; a nasty habit of smoking nasty cigarettes caused the latter. But again, he did his thing, his way.

  I wished I had met Mr. Wilford G., the 92-year-old private eye. He lived and had a lot less than I had. What was my excuse then?

  "Who's it from?"

  I had received the video-call first thing in the morning and listened to the man on the other end. I had heard what he said; I couldn't believe what he said. An anonymous person was making a full office, with a reception and waiting area, available to me free of charge. The catch was that I would never know who the anonymous patron was.

  I drove to the business district of Buzz Town just before the lunch hour to meet the Realtor man. It wasn't Peacock Hills or Paisley Parish, but it wasn't Free City either. Buzz Town was not the best of areas, but it wasn't the worst—it was one of those in-between places, like Rabbit City, where I lived.

  I met him on the 100th floor of the tower on Circuit Circle—some people called it the Circuit; others, the Circle. The Realtor definitely seemed like an Eye Candy client. Not a piece of clothing or hair out of place. Nice suit, matching slicker, nice boots, horn-rimmed glasses. He watched me as I toured the empty office space. The office was very spacious and was as large as the combination reception area and waiting area outside its doors.

  "I asked, who's this from?" I repeated.

  "The landlord is adamant about remaining anonymous, and it's futile to continue asking. My firm takes such requests extremely seriously. The only question is: Do you want it?"

  "I'm not accustomed to accepting gifts without knowing who the gift giver is."

  "I suspect you'll get over it."

  I looked around again. Was this all a dream? I had been having an internal battle within myself about the whole "detective thing." First, I wanted to punch Phishy for spreading rumors. Now, I searched the Net for all the requirements to be a licensed private investigator in the City. The cost of the license fees was outrageous and far beyond my means, but I was also searching for ways to legally scam my way into it, like calling myself a "consultant," rather than a "detective."

  "This is quite a lot to take in all at once."

  "I suspect you'll get over that, too. If you take the offer, I can have you sign the paperwork, right here, and you'll have the keys in hand as I leave."

  I walked to look at the reception-waiting area again.

  "Is it a yes?" he asked.

  "I could go down to the City and look up who the office belongs to."

  "And you would see that my firm is listed as the landlord by proxy."

  "Free?"

  "You would be responsible for utilities and any furniture, of course."

  "What are the terms? Is this a lifetime thing?"

  "Hardly, but it is a legacy space and the landlord-of-record would need to give you at least 90-days' notice for you to vacate. That's more than generous."

  Who could it be? I asked myself. Run-Time wouldn't be anonymous. Dot didn't have this kind of money. Who?

  "How old is the legacy?"

  "Three hundred years."

  A mortgage paid off over 300 years ago and exempt from any government taxes ever since.

  "Yeah, I'll do it."

  "Good." The Realtor lifted his briefcase and opened it.

  We used the briefcase as a desk as he had me "sign my life away" on a stack of documents.

  "Do you know who the landlord-of-record is?"

  "I do." He pointed to another line for me to sign my signature.

  "They're not criminals are they?"

  "Do you know many criminals, Mr. Cruz?"

  "I don't."

  "Then it would be unlikely that my client is one. Please don't over-think this, Mr. Cruz. Someone gave you access to free office space for an indefinite period. Based on your surprise from our initial video-call, it is a person who is, at least tangentially, acquainted with your affairs. Since you're not a person of financial means, you can infer that the gesture is a benevolent one. If I were you, I'd count my blessings, furnish it, and start my business. I would not think about the who ever again. Last signature here, please."

  He pointed, and I signed on the last dotted line of the last page of the documents. The Realtor took the pen and the documents from me, then returned them to the briefcase. He reached into his jacket pocket and then handed me a folded document and a set of keys.

  "Your signed business tenant authorization and three sets of keys. Your official copies of the documents you signed will be delivered tomorrow."

  "You knew I was going to accept the offer?"

  "Why wouldn't you? The keys are copy-prohibited. If you need new keys, then you have to get a whole new door system. Very expensive."

  "Tell him, thank you."

  The Realtor smiled. "I never indicated what gender my client is, Mr. Cruz, but nice try."

  He left me in the office space, walking out the way we came in. I stood in the main office, still in a daze.

  I had a business office!

  It was only the next day. I lay on the floor on my back, thinking about all the potential names I had come up with for my soon-to-be-real, one-man detective agency. I had gotten the emergency work blanket from my vehicle's trunk, which was for use if I ever broke down and needed to do work on the Pony—which would never happen, but that's why it was an emergency work blanket. I lay on it on the floor, which was littered with crumbled wads of paper. I had been doing this for the last three hours. The only sound for the longest time was the rain against the tall windows, and then I heard it.

  The door opened, and I sat up quickly, looking into the reception area. I realized the door must have been unlocked all this time, which was completely out-of-character for me. I was the OCD guy, who checked the front door to make sure it was locked five separate times before I went bed. Who could it be? Did the Realtor guy return? Was it some street punk? Two people appeared at my open office door.

  It was him! The guy who scratched my vehicle!

  When you were kids in elementary school, stepping on and scuffing a man's pair of kicks (sneakers) was a fighting offense. But boys grew out of that childishness. They grew to be men, when scratching their hovercar was a fighting offense.

  That was easily five years ago, but I had not forgotten his face. Though I never expected to see his ugly mug ever again in my life, I remember the day he scratched my vehicle, almost like it was yesterday.

  There were people who drive and then there were drivers. For us real drivers, there was no such thing as an accident that wasn't your fault. It was the core of the defensive driving mindset. You must anticipate any contingency, and if a bad thing happened, the blame resided with you. But I had safely parked my vehicle and was just about to turn it over to my mobile security guy—actually, it was Flash—and go about my day.

  This maniac came out of nowhere, going against traffic, dove, turned in a semi-circle, hovering above the road, dipping closer to the ground and stopped, scratching my car and slamming into a concrete parking stall divider.

  My mouth hung open in shock.

  The guy got out and surveyed the damage to his car, but could not care less about what he had done to mine. My spotless, perfect, immaculate, heavenly red F
ord Pony was gouged by a deep blue-gray scratch straight through to the metal. My eyes were bulging with rage.

  "Get over here!" I yelled. "You scratched my vehicle!"

  The guy was on his mobile and completely ignored me, carrying on a conversation.

  I looked at Flash, who probably saw the growing agitation in my face.

  "Just call your insurance and get away from me, you plonker," he said.

  I lost any bit of composure remaining and ran at the guy. I was going to punch him, push him, whatever. As I neared him, he turned and dropped his mobile to the ground to brace for my attack. Suddenly, someone grabbed me from behind—it was Flash.

  "He's not worth it," Flash said. "No, Mr. Cruz. You can't assault him. He'd be able to call the cops, and they'd haul you away."

  "You scratched my vehicle!" I yelled again.

  "So what!" he yelled back.

  "You're going to pay every dime it takes to fix it!"

  "All it needs is a paint job with a spray can!"

  I went ballistic, and Flash really had to hold me back.

  "It's a classic hovervehicle, and they're going to have to strip off all the paint and redo it paint coat by paint coat—fifty at least. You don't touch-up a classic hovercar with a spray can!"

  "Screw you! My insurance is not paying for that. Get a spray can from the local market. One coat. I may even have a can in the trunk for you."

  I desperately tried to reach for his face and claw it off, but Flash restrained me.

  "You touch me, and I'll sue you and take that pile of junk from you!"

  My head was throbbing; I was so enraged. It took Flash fifteen minutes, at least, to calm me down but I did, eventually.

  His insurance paid, but it was a bargain basement one. All I got was ten percent of the damages. I sued him in small claims court. He never showed up, and I won my judgment, but the clerk said good luck getting him to pay. There would be an arrest warrant filed, but no police would ever act on it with murderers, rapists, and gang members to deal with.