I heard one or more people running away.
I lay on the ground, watching the dead man on the ground. My eyes were tearing up. My new career was about to be taken away from me, before it could even get started.
Chapter 20
Phishy
THERE WAS NO POSSIBLE way I could wait there. My office was a red-and-blue siren party. I couldn't bear it. Now I had a police jacket. Anyone involved with any crime, even as a victim, got a file. People could do a Net search on my business address and see that someone was killed in my office. Would you go to a detective who had someone killed in his office? I was ruined. No one would care about any good reviews.
I went back to my place after giving the same statement to police three times to two different sets of officers. They always did that. Lying people rarely were good enough to keep to the same lie multiple times and to different people, though the professional criminals and psychopaths did so with ease. They let me go my way as they plastered their crime scene tape across the door of my office. I suspected I'd be seeing that Realtor very soon.
Well, I parked my Pony and then just had to take a walk, clear my head, and calm down. I was out for about thirty minutes when I started back to the main entrance of the Concrete Mama.
"Hey, can you help me with directions?"
Someone called out to me as I was walking up the mega-stairs. I turned to look back and blinked when I heard the first shot. I dove to the hard, wet ground as whoever the man was took two more shots at me before running away.
I lay there on the ground, gritting my teeth. I was so enraged that if I had the jaw strength, I would have crushed my own teeth.
As GW said, I was a psycho when I got mad. You didn't want to go there with me. I was indirectly shot at once, and a man was killed. Now, I was shot at—me—in front of my own place.
It was the fourth place I checked to find him. There was Phishy, chatting it up with his sidewalk johnny friends. I tapped my horn to get his attention. All of them looked up at me, as I slowly landed my Pony on the ground. I lifted up my hovercar door as Phishy was already running to me with a big smile, but he saw my face, and he stopped; his smile disappeared.
"What's wrong, Cruz?"
I was standing and slammed my door shut. I never slammed my car door. I could feel my own fumes of anger radiating from my body. I gestured to him to approach and Phishy did so cautiously.
"What happened?"
"What happened is that some stranger got shot to death in my new office. The police yellow-taped the whole thing, so I'm out of business before even starting. Then to top off the day and make it even more exciting, someone tried to gun me down right in front of my place."
"In front of the Concrete Mama?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, wow."
"Oh wow, Phishy? I've never been involved with anything like this before. You know that."
"I know. I know."
"I don't do violence. You know that."
"But you're a detective now, Cruz. You have to expect that sort of thing, now."
"Well, there is no now. I'm out of business."
"No, you're not."
"What do you mean?"
"If the cops yellow-tag you, as long as they don't contact you again in 48 hours, then you're in the free and clear."
"What are you talking about, Phishy?"
"That's how it works. The cops got 48 hours to escalate the case. If they don't or can't, then you can rip down that yellow tape and act like nothing happened."
"The police can prosecute you and send you to jail, Phishy, for ripping it down."
"But only before the 48 hours."
"Are you sure, Phishy?"
"I'm positive, Cruz. I know this stuff. You know that I know this stuff."
I watched him, thinking. Yeah, Phishy would know these things.
"But I'll get a reputation—"
"Reputation?" Phishy interrupted me. "There are hundreds of shootings in this city every day, Cruz. You won't get no reputation. But...was it a client who got shot in your office?"
"No, some punk stumbled into my office door, and he was armed, too."
"See what I mean. A street shootout that spilled into your office. You won't get no rep for that. But what about the other thing?"
"Yeah, the other thing. Someone trying to kill me in front of my own place."
"You know what you need to do."
"What's that?"
"Come on, Cruz. You know."
I knew.
"There's no way around it, Cruz," Phishy said. "You can be a good detective, but you have to have the tools of the trade. You're not a laborer anymore."
"Yeah, everyone seems to know that, thanks to a certain person."
Phishy flashed a smile.
"Who do I talk to, then?"
"Leave it to me, Cruz." Phishy's smile was really back.
"I'm not going to let you rip me off, Phishy."
"Oh no. I'll take care of you."
"Where? I don't want any of this near my place."
"Your favorite coffee place."
"The Wet Cabeza?"
"They have the rental offices on the top floor."
"Yeah. Okay. How do you know that? Never mind. And no scamming, Phishy. I don't like them, but I know guns."
"Yeah, I know. You even killed someone when you were five with one."
I gave him a look.
"I didn't tell anyone."
"Like you didn't tell anyone that I was a detective?"
When I dumped on the cafe I found GW's sister in, it wasn't that I didn't like cafes. I did, but I liked high-end ones, without the high-end prices. The Wet Cabeza was my favorite, and it was one those places I went so often that I knew everyone who worked there and the owners.
I arrived and was greeted by the staff, who I knew on a first name basis. I had a craving for some humble pie, but I resisted. I just had a cup of silk coffee and left it at that while I waited for Phishy.
Inside, the layout of the place was a large, open cafe, all booths and barstools at the kitchen counter, with college-kid waiters and waitresses on hoverroller skates.
Upstairs, they had tiny conference rooms for rent. The Wet Cabeza attracted a business clientele, and offering the meeting rooms was a stroke of genius—why should hotels get all that business? It meant there was another reason to keep butts in the seats and the food and drink orders coming all the time.
It was two days later, and it seemed that he was in the same shirt with fishes, but Phishy was never unkempt or smelly. Technically, he wasn't a sidewalk johnny. He just hung with them. He was an operator. My girlfriend called him a slider, but he wasn't sliding through life; he was only sliding from one scheme or scam to the next. But with Phishy it was never too criminal—always small time, so if he were caught there no real chance of jail time.
Phishy had a big, block briefcase in each hand, and he hopped up the stairs, two at a time, with a big smile. He followed me to the room I reserved, and he marched in as I closed the door. I locked it. Too bad I couldn't remember to do so at my own office.
"Okay, Phishy, I checked out what you said about the 48-hour yellow-tape, and you were right."
"I told you, Cruz. I know these things."
Phishy put the two briefcases on the small conference table and opened both cases. Guns, guns, and more guns.
"How much trouble would we get into if the police raided this room this instant?" I asked.
"None. I'm a licensed gun dealer and none are loaded."
"What? Licensed dealer? I didn't know that. You got a cover for everything."
"I'm Phishy. That's what I do."
I looked at the assortment before me, but he stopped me before I could pick one up.
"I got something special for you."
"Phishy, I'm in no mood for scammin'."
"No. Serious. I got some pieces just for you. You're a real detective now, and you have to start building a rep."
"A rep? Am I a crimin
al?"
"No, Cruz. Everybody needs a rep. That's how people know if to deal with you or not. And when they do deal with you, how to deal with you."
"A rep does all that?"
"Yeah, it does. Here let me show you. I have a pop-gun."
"Pop-gun?" I said loudly as Phishy pulled out a hidden tray of other guns in one case. "Are we like in kindergarten, Phishy? Pop-guns are what we played with when we were children."
"Not those pop-guns. These are the real thing."
"I never heard of that before."
He handed me what looked to be a metal wand attached to some kind of fabric piece with Velcro.
"What the heck is this? Phishy, I don't want kid's toys. I could have been killed."
"Come on, Cruz. Trust me."
He took my right arm, and before I knew it, the fabric was wrapped around my entire forearm. "You wear long sleeves and jackets all the time, so you'll have the concealment. Okay, let's test it. Just snap your wrist. Pop! Trust me, Cruz. Pop it."
I flicked my arm out and nothing happened.
"You're not doing it right, Cruz. You have to be serious. Snap your forearm out as if you can throw your hand like a projectile."
I did it. Pop!
The metal wand contraption extended, and I could see it was some kind of gun barrel.
"You pop it, and it shoots one round—bullet, sonic, or pulse round. Whichever you like. No one will ever sucker shoot you ever again," he said.
My mind was changed, and I stood there admiring my arm weapon. "A pop gun?"
"I had it made just for you. I called in real favors, Cruz."
"Okay, what else you got for me?"
"This one."
He lifted the compartment tray of the other briefcase to reveal more guns. He reached in and handed me the sweetest gun I had ever seen. It was a slim, sleek piece of black metal.
"This, Cruz, is straight from Up-Top."
"Then how did you get it?"
He laughed. "Stolen, of course. Well, I didn't, but someone did, and I'm like fifth in line."
"You're giving me a stolen piece."
"Cruz, no one will know. It's untraceable. They have their database, and we have ours. No one shares. You know that. Besides, someone who could afford a piece like that probably has a ton of them; probably doesn't even miss it or know it's gone. How does it feel in your hand?"
I couldn't lie. "Nice balance."
"See what I mean. That is the weapon of a high-class detective. It even comes with a manual."
"Manual?"
"It will take you a day to read it. And when you do, you'll be smiling, like me."
"Phishy, how much are these going to cost me?"
"Wait, I'm not finished."
He lifted up the gun trays of both briefcases and started pulling out pieces. In a minute, he assembled a shotgun.
"Cruz, nothing causes some serious fear like the cocking of a shotgun."
He did so, and its unmistakable sound was universal and, yes, he was right. You heard that sound, and you stopped whatever you were doing to pay attention.
"All three, and you're set," he said. "The pop gun. The omega-gun—"
"Omega gun? You're making that up, Phishy."
"It's the gun to end all private guns. That's what it says in the manual. And the shotgun. Now you're ready for the mean streets. And the omega-gun comes with accessories if you want to use its digital features. There's this cool piece that lights up that you wrap around your leg. You'll see."
"What does that do?"
"You'll see."
"Phishy, how much? They say, if you have to ask the price, you can't afford it. All this seems like something I could never afford in a million years."
"Cruz, we're friends. I'll loan you the weapons, and I'll get a percentage of each of your cases. That seems fair. I know you're just starting out."
I grinned, and he grinned back.
"Phishy, Phishy. Always the angle. I amend the offer. Each percentage I give you...what percentage were you thinking?"
"Uhhh."
"Be careful, Phishy."
"Fifty percent."
"Ten percent of my cases goes toward the total cost of the weapons until, and if, I ever pay off that bill."
"Ten percent?"
"Phishy! I'm sure you won't give me the ammo free, and being a detective is not exactly a no-cash-needed business. There's lots of upfront costs. Like I have to go back to my office and turn it into a fortress, so I never get sucker shot at again. Ten percent is it. We're all going to make out on this deal. I'll even throw in a bonus, if by some miracle I can ever pay it off."
"Bonus?" Phishy said, smiling. "That sounds good, Cruz. We're like partners now."
"Yeah, don't remind me. So we're good?"
"We are, Cruz."
"Get me the total cost of these guns and don't play. You know I'll check. And then we'll lock down the terms of the bonus, now, before anything gets started."
"That sounds like the plan, Cruz. I told you to trust me. Now you got the tools of the trade, like a real high-class detective. Just because we live in a low-life world, doesn't mean we can't be high-class."
"You were right. I have to admit it without qualification." I reached out my hand to him. Phishy almost didn't know what to do, but he shook my hand. "You came through for me, Phishy. I won't forget it."
Phishy was genuinely moved. "You're welcome, Cruz. I knew I could do it for you."
Chapter 21
Punch Judy
SIDEWALK JOHNNIES AND sallies all had a "turf." For most, it was a street, street corner, or alleyway. Many never ventured beyond it. But in a supercity with mega-streets, that was fine.
I knew Punch Judy would be where she always was—near the lobby of the Concrete Mama—either in the lobby or on the main steps.
"Hey!" I yelled as I neared her, marching out like a drill sergeant.
She was sitting on the steps, smoking, saw me and gave me an eye roll.
"I got a proposition for you!"
"Proposition?" That made her stand up, and I could already see the annoyance on her face.
"I need to hire someone."
"Oh, the big detective is hiring."
"I need a secretary."
"Secretary!" she grabbed the cigarette from her mouth. "You stupid man, and sexist, too! Secretary, because I am a woman?"
I was in front of her now, and I just pointed at her face. "I'll remember you said that when I go hire some guy for the job!"
That shut her the hell up. I spun around and stormed back the way I came like a bull. I was mad, and I'm sure my whole presentation was poor, but I didn't care. I had to find a secretary for the office, because I was not about to leave the office reception area unattended. I needed someone who looked nice, but was tough and, if need be, could take down the next unlucky monkey who tried to shoot at me in my own office. I'd be ready this time.
I had arrived at my office and ripped down all that police crime tape in front of the door. Phishy was right; the city police put it up, but never took it down. The community or landlord was supposed to do that. It was a city ordinance of all things.
My office had the same feel as the entire floor—empty, abandoned, uninviting. I wouldn't come here. It looked like you'd get mugged. I wouldn't come to my office. It gave off the same vibe as a morgue. There was a businessman inside of me, after all, because I was thinking the right thoughts if I planned to do this occupation for real. But only if I could address all the security issues.
I lay on the floor on my emergency work blanket from my vehicle. Again, contrary to my germophobic tendencies, right next to the tape outline of the man who got himself shot to death in my office. I had learned he was a low-level street punk. Nothing surprising about how he died. What was surprising was that it didn't happen sooner.
I heard the low knock on the door, followed by two more. Did I forget to lock the door again? Had I been hypnotized against my will not to secure my own office door?
>
From where I lay, I didn't even need to move. It opened, and there was Punch Judy.
Her demeanor was altogether different. I had never seen Punch Judy look amiable or humble before. She gave me a forced smile and stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She stood there, her eyes darting around, trying to decide what to say,
"Umm. Do you still have the job?"
I looked at her from my supine position on the floor, never once answering her.
"I want the job. I need the job. You caught me off guard. That's why I was rude. More rude than French people normally are. I talked before I used my brains. I want the job. I can't live the way I'm living anymore. I can't get a job at normal places because of my psych profile and criminal record. It's not fair. My record has trapped me. I don't want to be trapped anymore. If you give me the job, I'll do a good job."
She paused, wanting me to say something, but I didn't.
"So I'll come back tomorrow and start. My hours will be nine to six. I looked up the hours for other detective offices. That's the normal hours they have. Okay."
She waited again for me to say something, then opened the door. She stopped.
"What is the name of the detective agency, anyway?"
"Liquid Cool," I answered.
"Oh, good. Very cosmopolitan and hip. I would have hated a stuffy name, or something stupid, like the Cruz Detective Agency. Liquid Cool. Very nice. I start tomorrow at nine AM sharp."
She left and closed the door.
I had a secretary. A secretary with two bionic arms that could punch a three-hundred-pound man through the wall, which she apparently did on more than one occasion, hence her psych record. Hence, her nickname, Punch Judy, rather than just Judy. Unauthorized activities as a cyborg will make you unemployable faster than being outed as a carrier of the Asian flu.
Let someone try to sucker shoot me in my own office, now. We'd be ready for them.
Chapter 22
China Doll
"I'VE KILLED PEOPLE with these boots!" was what I heard as I came out of the elevator. It's was Dot's voice, and I knew it was the tone of a highly pissed off China Doll. I didn't need to be a detective to figure out why.
Liquid Cool (Liquid Cool, Book 1) Page 11