"If 'helping people' or some like phrase isn't Number One, then get out now. If you're in this racket for anything else, then you have no chance. You're going to have to do a lot of bad to do good, and it better be bad things against bad people. If your motives are not pure to begin with, then forget it. You're either a criminal or about to become one—you're one of the bad guys. Close my damn book! My book is for good guys."
I remember, I laughed out loud when I read that. The other thing he said that stuck with me was his answer to why he was a detective for so long. "Why? Because it's an adventure, and danger is the price of admission, and I wouldn't have it any other way." The passage calmed me down after my first sucker shooter at my place.
I had all the ingredients necessary to make it as a private investigator in this crazy supercity of Metropolis. As I heard the launch control say so often, prior to any manned space flight, "All systems were a go." Figuratively speaking, it was up to me to make sure my rocket ship didn't get blown up in space, crash into a star, or get sucked into a black hole. Wilford G. had many sayings, and I had mine. "Being a detective ain't no joke."
Waiting for me at my place was a ton of files, courtesy of Compstat Connie, all from the night Easy Chair Charlie got himself killed. I would leave PJ in charge of the office for two weeks, have Phishy look in on her and do some associated errands for me, and give Dot some away-time (since I was still technically in the "doghouse" with her after the shooting the man out of the window incident), while I locked myself in the "box" at my place, clad in boxers alone. I wouldn't emerge from the Concrete Mama until I assimilated every bit of that data with my OCD self.
The next time this office saw me would be for the real beginning of the Liquid Cool Detective Agency.
PART EIGHT
Formerly Known as The Easy Chair Charlie Case
Chapter 37
Phishy
TWO WEEKS AGO, IT BEGAN. I parked my Pony, went up to my place, and locked the door behind me. But before I did all that, I had to do one thing with a former-frenemy before I walked through the door to see another former-frenemy. Before I entered my Box, there were two words I had to say:
"Shoot me," I said.
Phishy had a pained expression on his face. There were many nooks and crannies in Metropolis one could find to do bad things in. We were in an above-ground, unused aqueduct. I stood at one end and Phishy was three yards away facing me.
"Cruz, this is the craziest thing you've ever done. You're supposed to avoid getting shot."
"I'm subconsciously scared of getting shot."
"What's wrong with that? All normal people are. I'm scared of getting shot."
"You don't understand. When I was a kid and we were playing dumb soccer on the field, I was the goalie, and I was really good. I stopped everything that came at me. But one day, one of the bigger boys kicked the ball so hard, purposely below the waistline. The ball almost hit me in the nuts. From that day forward, I was useless. Every kick from anyone I imagined was going to hit me in the nuts. I had to stop being goalie. I was scared, and everyone knew it. I was defeated by my mind, not the actual thing. Big boy had found my Achilles heel, and mentally, I could never get around it.
"But I'm not a kid anymore. You defeat your fears by tackling them head-on. Scared of heights? Go skydiving. Scared of deep water? Become a scuba diver. I can't be a detective if I am afraid of getting shot and get all wobbly in the knees at the possibility," I said.
"But fear keeps you from being shot."
"Phishy, I've already been shot at three times in less than a month of being a detective. What do you imagine will happen in the years to come? I can't be afraid. Fear and reflexes will keep me from getting killed, but I can't be paralyzed by the fear of getting shot. The only way to overcome my fear is...to get shot. After that, my mind will be at ease. It will say, 'self, I'm not afraid of getting shot. Because I already have.'"
"Cruz, that's some pretty bad logic to me."
"I know my OCD mind, and it makes perfect sense. Phishy, you're not killing me, I'm wearing a vest!"
"Bulletproof vests are not force fields. You're going to hurt bad and the blast will...why are you doing this now?"
"Phishy, don't shoot me in the face! Keep the red laser-sight where it's supposed to be!"
"What ever happened to your Box?"
"It starts tomorrow. Two weeks locked in my place. Recovering from the pain will also help me focus my mind when I assimilate all the data I need."
"You'll be black and blue."
"That'll heal."
"It'll knock the wind out of your lungs."
"My lungs will suck it all back in. We're not in outer space."
I braced my body in my nice coat and hat. I looked around and realized if this put me on my back, I'd be in the water and muck of this tunnel. My germophobic self wouldn't allow me to put any piece of my clothing on ever again, no matter how many times they were dry-cleaned.
"Wait." I had the emergency work blanket and spread it out behind where I was standing. But then, I realized I had no clue where I'd fall back. It was possible I would fall to one knee or fall forward. "Damn!" My trunk blanket was already on the muck. I was over-thinking again. Well, I was overdue for some shopping, I thought, as I walked back to where I was standing.
"Phishy, let's get on with it."
"Are you really, really sure?"
"No, but it's the best way I can think of."
"Getting shot isn't fun."
"I already know that, Phishy; let's go."
"Okay. On a count of three. One. Two. Three."
Phishy shot me with the shotgun center mass in my chest. All I remember was the pain, as if a hovercar crashed into my chest and sent me flying back. I can't remember if I cried out like a girl, but then most people would cry out like a girl, male or female, with a blast of pain like that.
I remembered smiling though, because with my fear of getting shot being taken away (by being shot), when I walked back into my Liquid Cool office in two weeks, I would be ready to be one badass detective.
Chapter 38
Punch Judy
WHEN I WALKED BACK into my offices fifteen days later, I didn't quite know what to expect. Half a month was a long time for the principal of a new business to be absent. They say when you start a new company you're a slave to it for at least ten years, no time off and no vacations. Maybe so, but I did what I had to.
The door was open, and there was Punch Judy with her arms folded with a smile.
"Well, look what came in from the rain," she said. "Is that a new hat?"
"New hat, new coat," I answered.
"When you get new things they're supposed to be different than the old ones."
"I like the colors I had. All I needed was some modifications."
I felt different, and it was more than the new clothes. PJ could manage the office without me for a while. I was impressed.
"You look rested, too," she said. "Was that the first time you ever slept? Did you ever leave your place?"
"Not even once. Defeats the purpose of the Box."
"Box? What is the Box? You locked yourself in your place for two weeks like a house mouse. All these fancy phrases and concepts for simple things. So when I sat on the steps of our building, was I in the Box?"
"No. You were sidewalk sallying it. The Box is doing something specific without anyone to bother you."
"What did you do in your box?"
"Planned out my destiny to be the greatest detective in Metropolis."
"That's what I like to hear," PJ proclaimed. "You need to go into the Box more often. You are too negative most of the time. People don't like to hire negative people. Keep talking like that, and you'll have all the clients. Speaking of clients, when am I getting more money?"
"Before all that, what suspicious people were around the office?"
"No one."
"No one?"
"Just that stupid man, Phishy. Why do you associate with him? He kept co
ming by and tried to get into your office, but I wasn't allowing that."
"As I knew you would do."
"He kept trying to tell me he was your partner, the stupid man. The liar."
"He's another employee, but on retainer."
"Good. I know who to call when we need lunch pick-up."
"Like that shotgun you have under your desk? Phishy."
"So he's a criminal."
"Says my felon employee. So no one came up here besides Phishy in two weeks?"
"No one."
"Well...good."
"When you look at your messages on your desk, the ones on the top are the ones you call first."
"Why is that?"
"They're the easiest to solve. So quick money."
"Why do you need money? What were you doing when you were sidewalk sallying it, living on the gov's dime?"
"That was then, and I took no money from the government. All my side money came from the dividends of my accident settlement, which you know about."
"Dividend and legacy, baby."
"Just like you."
"No cash nest egg for me. All side-gigs."
"But now we have real jobs."
"That's the rumor. I question your definition of an easy case."
"Easy. Quick to solve. Quick to pay. Quick to pay me."
"Which means, they're either not worth my time or super-dangerous, but I'll look at them. While I look at the messages, I want you to research everything on a Detective Box."
"All this box talk. Who's he?"
"Someone I plan to visit when I go back out in 30 minutes. All the good, bad, and ugly on him."
"Is he going to be a paying client?"
"He may lead me to some leads for an existing client."
"You have clients, now? I thought you solved all of them."
"Detective Box," I repeated as I walked to my office.
PJ ran to her desk and shook her mobile computer to activate it, then her bionic fingers typed faster than the speed of light.
I walked to my office and opened the door. It was a bit musty, but everything was as I'd left it. And, the window that sucker shooter thug fell out of to become one with the surface was still boarded up by steel. How long would it take to fix and how much more money was I going to have to spend to do it? I simply put the whole thing out of my mind.
"What's been going on?" I asked as I took off my tan slicker and draped it over my main desk.
"The phones were nonstop," she said. "You have a serious backlog. I have all the calls ready for you." PJ was holding her electronic notepad, scrolling down her messages on the display. "So you better get to it. I need to get paid again."
"You sure no one was snooping around?"
"You expected snoopers?"
"I did."
"Well, I didn't see any or funny looking people, except for Phishy. Besides him, I saw no one else not supposed to be in the building."
When I was hiding out, post-my birthday, I told no one, not even Dot. So everybody was looking for me. This time, when I exiled myself to the "Box," I told everyone. I was in a working retreat in my place, and no one was to call or come by, ever, not even if an asteroid was coming to blow up the planet.
I stopped what I was doing and walked back out into the reception-waiting area. PJ was busy again with her interior design.
"Is there anything remaining from the paint that was here two weeks ago?"
I tossed some new hovercar and racing magazines on the lobby table. All the fashion mags might make men think they weren't welcome. A grinning PJ said, "No."
I smirked and walked back into my office.
"Oh, you can't throw your wet coat on your desk like that," she yelled at me. "I'll order a coat rack. One of those germ-killing, anti-body odor, fabric drying ones."
"I'm not sure how to respond to that, since my coat doesn't stink."
"That's why you need this coat rack, so your new coat doesn't become stinky. You can't have clients seeing you without a proper coat rack. They'll think you're cheap and won't hire you. Did I tell you I have all your messages organized and prioritized, so you can start making calls?"
"And you need to get paid."
"Good, you were listening to me."
"Detective Friendly," I said, looking at him on my video-phone. "I didn't think I'd be hearing from you again."
"We detectives have to stick together, you know. I rang for you a couple of times and your secretary said you were away for two weeks. Glad you're back. I wanted to check in and see if you heard anything new on the Easy Chair Charlie case."
"No, why?"
"You know how legal stuff can be. You want to make sure all loose ends are tied up or the whole legal stuff can take forever. My firm doesn't get paid until the case, criminally and civilly, is closed."
"Is that so?"
"You'll soon find that out if you're getting into the biz."
"Well, I was done with the Charlie case like four weeks ago. You're the only one who has brought it up since then. Should I be looking into it again?"
"No, no, no. Forget I called. I only wanted to check in."
"How did you know I was back?"
"I didn't. It's a Monday, so I took a chance."
"Okay."
"Thanks for taking my call."
"Don't mention it."
I hung up the video-phone.
"PJ!"
"He called every Monday you were gone."
"Why? What did he say?"
"He wanted to know if I knew where you were."
"And?"
"I told him you were out of town."
"He's obviously watching the offices."
"Why do you say that? He's called every Monday."
"No detective does what he does. Checking in with me. Keeping tabs on me is what he's doing."
"Why?"
"Tell me about Box. What did your research show?"
"How do you find these people? Box is a scumbag. How can he have a detective license with his record? What do you want with him? He does work for bad people."
"Then, I'll be going to visit Mr. Box."
"What about the messages?"
"I'll make calls from the road. If it's promising, I'll call you, and you can have them come into the office."
"Okay, because we need some paying clients in here. I need my money."
"You weren't getting money before."
"I wasn't employed before. When you are employed, you get money. I'm French. We like to shop, so get the paying clients, so you can pay me. But don't get shot before you do it."
Chapter 39
China Doll
THERE WERE POCKETS in the city that had vortexes—that's what everyone called them. Wherever the rain came down between two heat vents, these spiraling circles of water would be created that were fun to look at. Kids loved to run through them, pretending to pass through dimensions or time, like in sci-fi movies.
Well, there was one right in front of Eye Candy. I came through the vortex with my new tan coat flapping, my new tan fedora pulled down just right on my head, and I could see Dot and the ladies had already seen me. Damn, I knew I looked cool. I opened the door and stepped inside. Dot, her boss Prima Donna, and her fellow fashionistas were standing there, like a pack, grinning at me.
The real reason for my swagger was the post-Phishy-shooting-me perception exercise, which was a secret I'd take to the grave, when it came to Dot. I felt that my chest was made out of steel. Though, I wished I had a darker complexion like Run-Time or the Good Kosher Man, because that area of my chest was still red and tender, but that was easy enough to hide.
"Well, look at you," Prima said. "We were starting to wonder if you had gone off-world and left your fiancée behind."
"I knew where he was," Dot interjected. "So you're finished with the box?" she asked me.
"I'm finished," I answered.
"And?"
"And nothing. Other than...tonight is date night."
The wom
en laughed.
"Date night?" Dot asked incredulously. "You lock yourself up in your place for over two weeks, show up at my job trying to look suave, and now it's date night all of a sudden."
"Well...yeah," I answered. "The hovercab is waiting."
Prima glanced at Dot.
"He's got spunk, China," Goat Girl said, half-laughing. "Gotta give him that."
"China Doll, you are excused for date night," Prima said to Dot.
"Are you sure? Because I'm not sure I'm sure."
"She's sure," I said. "Guess where we're going?" It wasn't just the ladies, but all the customers within earshot wanted to know. "The Booty Shaker."
Dot let out a yell, jumped up, and ran to the back room.
"Why doesn't my man take me to classy dance joints?" Pinkie asked aloud.
"I don't know," Cyan answered. "Mine doesn't either. I'm thinking we got the wrong kind of man. Hey, Cruz, you got any male friends of the hetero persuasion, like you, and single? Pinkie and I need to trade up."
"Me too," Goat Girl added.
"I'll put the word out," I said.
Dot reappeared with her purse, which, as always, matched her outfit exactly. "Let's go," she said to me.
Getting a hovertaxi was like playing Russian roulette. You never knew what you'd get. Would you get a driver who knew the city and would get you where you wanted fast? Would you get a scammer, who'd take the longest possible way to charge you absolutely the most he could get away with? Would you get the idiot newbie, who had no clue where he was going? Dot and I got none of that; we got the rudest bum possible.
Why didn't I call Run-Time? One of my corporate clients (who paid his bill promptly) had an uncle. The uncle owned this hovercab company, and it was part of my arrangement to get a good review and more referrals. So here, Dot and I were—the first and last time.
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