Houston, 2030

by Mike McKay

  “The total lump-sum compensation of one million seven… Same number, pumpkin, mil-seven-fifty… Will be payable in four separate installments over eight-year period, each installment not exceeding four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in total. Please note that the permanent disability compensation payments are considered a taxable income, and as such are subject of the tax deduction at the moment of payment… Ouch… It says, pumpkin: are considered a taxable income, and as such are subject of the tax deduction at the moment of payment… They will tax it.”

  “Goddammit! First they give you peanuts, and then – send a tax man after you!” William was outraged. As always while he felt uncomfortable, he tried to reach for his empty right eye socket with his left arm stump, and as always missed it by about an inch. In the remnants of his left eye, few teardrops glittered. Clarice hugged her husband from behind and wiped his eye sockets with the palm of her hand.

  “Calm down, pumpkin. Tax, or no tax? Does it matter? Good news, we get some cash before the baby comes out, right? Why are you so crazy about this ‘compensation?’ We are making enough in the Salvation Way, right?”

  Right: ‘making enough’, Mark thought. The damn ‘Social Optimum’ again; perfectly optimal optimum: enough not to go hungry.

  “How much would be the tax bracket, Dad?” William asked, trying to control his emotions.

  “For four hundred and fifty K? Twenty percent. Would be going to twenty-two if above five hundred, which is why they chop it in the installments every two years. Still, you will get three hundred and sixty grand in hand. Not too bad, considering…”

  “OK, then. I guess it's fair. Everybody got to pay tax, after all,” William agreed. “Read on Ris. Did they say how we extract all this cash out of the system?”

  “OK, pumpkin. Right here… You must collect the first installment payment at the Department of Veterans Affairs Houston office, located at 2700, Post Oak Boulevard, Houston, Texas. The collection has to be made in person, with a valid photo ID document… Oh, shit! It means we have to go all the way to the Post Oak? There is no motor-bus anymore, and an omnibus takes seven damn hours one way. A two-day trip!”

  “For three hundred and sixty grand, it's surely worth the visit,” Mike pointed out, “I can take a day off work and give you a ride on my tricycle. Better yet, we can borrow a two-seater bike, and Billy and I will go. You, Rissy, in no shape now to pedal all the way to the down-town, and will not be much use for safekeeping the cash either. I think, on the bike, we can make it in one day. Staying in the downtown through the night, especially with the cash in the pocket, could be a bit risky, or so they say…”

  Clarice nodded. “You have a plan for everything, Mickey. You are so practical! Billy and me – no place near. All theoretical. By the way, I liked the ride this morning. And the collection was pretty darn good. And we even came to the Arcade! I am thinking: we should do the Beaumont Loop at least once a week. Can you give us a ride once a week on your trike, can't you?”

  “Weren't you tired, honey?” William asked.

  “A little. But – never mind. They say: walking is good for the heart,” Clarice said.

  Mark chuckled. The next, she would be telling us that riding the Merry-Go-Rounds must be good for pregnant.

  “OK, we can think about this later. Read on.”

  “Oh, OK. What are their working hours? The collection has to be made in person, with a valid photo ID document, not… What?”

  “What?”

  “…Not earlier than Wednesday, the fifth of July 2033…”

  “Two thousand thirty what?”

  “Look here. Thirty-three!”

  “I can't ‘look!’ Read it again!” William ejected.

  “You must collect the first installment payment at the Office of Army Veterans' Affairs, 2700, Post Oak Boulevard, Houston, Texas. The collection has to be made in person, with a valid photo ID document, not earlier than Wednesday, the fifth of July 2033. The dates of further installments' provisions will be advised to you upon the initial installment collection…”

  “What a joke!” William exploded. “Waited for nine goddamn months to get this shitty paper, now have to wait for another three years? It must be a typo… Can you read again?”

  “I read it twice already! It says: ‘the fifth of July, 2033.’ Besides, it says it's Wednesday! This year, the Independence is on Friday, so the fifth must be Saturday. It's not 2030, for sure.”

  “This means, Rissy, you are going to deliver your new baby without this bundle of cash in your naughty hands,” Mike giggled, “no punch intended, but with your efficiency, you and Billy have plenty of time to pup out another two, or even three, before the Pentagon gets your first payment in-order!”

  “Never mind: nothing gained, nothing lost,” Mark said philosophically, “the good news, you two will have enough cash to send little Davy to school. He will be five in 2033. Bigger kids – higher costs.”

  “Is there anything else?” William asked. He sounded deflated.

  “Yeah… The office working hours is from eight thirty AM to four thirty PM, five days per week. If you have any questions please do not hesitate to contact us at… here is the telephone number and the e-mail. Veteran dot Compensation at US Army dot Gov. Looks like a help-desk, nothing personal. We wish you all the best in the new life as a war-time amputee veteran. Sincerely, Lieutenant-Colonel such-and-such. Signature, date… That's all, pumpkin.” She was also almost at the verge of crying now. Clarice had talked so much about re-decorating their room prior to the baby birth, and a lot of plans had been hanging on the expected compensation payment.

  William made a careful swipe with his armless torso and touched Clarice. Then he moved his face along her body, until he located her lips. They started kissing, Clarice wrapping her arms around her husband's shoulders.

  “All the best in the new life as a war-time amputee veteran, ah?” William joked, momentarily separating from her lips. “Even the veterans with most severe injuries can live happy and fulfilling lives and become useful members of the society. What a style! Right on! How about we go to bed now, honey? I can show you how to live happy and fulfilling life. And some useful member too!”

  Chapter 9

  The next morning, Mark was to check the potential victims' addresses in the Mesa Drive Slum. The Deputy in-charge of this beat was a Norwamerican named Lisbet, or in already Americanized style, Liz Holstad. It was quite unusual to see a woman in the Beat Deputy role, but Liz herself was rather an unusual woman. Mark was above-average height, but was shorter than her by good two inches. In addition to being tall, she also boasted enormous biceps, which would envy even many men. Liz had a hobby of collecting black belts – in all kinds of Asian martial arts practiced around Houston.

  The area they had to check today was a bit more civilized than the slums north of the Garret Road. There were more or less suitable paved roads, and all the streets were named and mapped by GPS. Mark hoped they would be able to visit all seven addresses from the database before noon. Despite the presence of pavements, the dwellings both sides of Mesa Drive were a slum in the full sense of the word. Prior to the Meltdown, the area was populated mainly by Mexamericans or low-income Caucasians. The McCarty Road Landfill was not far, and the housing here was not prestigious. The older houses were mostly wooden one-story, – the type they carried partially assembled on a semi-trailer and mounted over concrete posts. During the time since the Meltdown, the space between the original houses was filled with workshops, sheds, tents, and shacks, which the locals rented out to the landfill workers. The population density was enormous: while before the Meltdown there were hardly three thousand, now the area had at least twenty thousand inhabitants. Sewage systems here died ten or so years ago, so the people converted the storm drains along the streets into open sewers. The stench was as bad as the appearance. The soil on the former lawns was covered with spent oil and other pollutants and compacted to a concrete-like hardness. Vegetable beds or trees were nowhere in
sight, and only patches of withered grass here and there made the entire vegetation.

  “How do you like our beautiful neighborhood?” Liz inquired, browsing through the list of addresses, which Mark gave her, “this family – I believe I know. They have a disabled man, but older, and not one-legged. Ah! At number five we do have a very interesting family! If no objections, – we start with this one. It is very close.”

  She perched on her bike and rolled briskly along the heavily potholed street. Mark followed. Less than half a mile away, they dismounted in front of a one-story house. The house pediment looked like brick, but closer examination revealed a chipboard wall, covered on the outside with brick-textured decorative panels. On both sides of the house, there were ramshackle sheds. Along the mandatory gutter-sewer, rusted hulls of partially disassembled cars piled up, in which a dozen or so barefooted and semi-naked toddlers were playing under a watch of three or four poorly dressed women.

  “I hope, the girls are not asleep yet,” commented Liz, confidently banging her man-like fist on the flimsy door of the house. “Open up! Police!” She knocked a couple more times before the door opened. A middle-aged Caucasian woman, wrapped in a tattered blanket, was inside. On her neck, the standard prostitute identification tag was openly displayed. Apparently, under the blanket she was naked.

  “Oh, it's you, Lizzie,” the woman yawned, “you have nothing to do but wake us up every other day?”

  “This officer is from the FBI,” Liz explained, while Mark produced his badge.

  “What: now the FBI is after us? We're all legal, no probs! The licenses are all paid, the medicals done, and we don't push any drugs. And if you are about my Betsy? As I told you, Liz: she is taking no money from the guests. No money at all! She'll be fourteen in November, right? So I will buy her a collar, and everything will be proper. We don't want any trouble with the law, you hear?”

  “I have nothing on you – for now. The FBI Agent needs to ask you few questions, that's all.”

  “Oh, well… Please come in. I'll wake up my daughters,” she pointed to the sofa in the smallish sitting room next to the front door and shuffled down the dark corridor to the back of the house.

  “Did I promise you an interesting little family?” Liz whispered to Mark, “full swing! The house is a well-known brothel. The mother, they call her Maman, like goddamn French, is a reputed prostitute, and all four daughters – too! The youngest, however, is still underage, but surely ready-to-go. Waiting for her fourteenth birthday, so her Maman can buy her a dog-tag. What a wonderful birthday present!”

  The house inhabitants appeared in the doorway. The mother was still wrapped in the blanket, only adding a pair of well-worn slippers to her wardrobe. Two girls wore torn nightgowns. One of the gowns had no right strap, exposing the girl's well-formed breast, and she was obviously not at all shy about it. The family in general did not suffer from too much shyness. The clothing of the third girl consisted of short Denim cut-offs, while the fourth was just wearing a bath towel – over her shoulder. Three girls had the prostitute ID tags, and only the girl in shorts, the aforementioned Betsy – was yet without it.

  “Good morning, ladies!” Liz said, “it will not take long. Special Agent Pendergrass from the FBI will ask a few questions, and – you can go back to sleep.”

  “Well, ask your questions, then,” the Maman generously allowed, sinking into a chair. “We are always willing to help our Police.”

  Three girls sat on a shabby carpet, while Betsy propped herself in the door opening, graceful toeing the frame with her bare foot. Mark was taken aback a little, and did not know where to start. He heard about families where the parents sold children sex, but in his line of work he did not deal with such stuff too often. It took him few seconds to compose himself. Then, he pulled out the victims' photographs and handed them to the mother.

  “Have you ever seen these two persons?”

  “Nope, sir. First time I see them,” the woman said, briefly glancing at the faces, and passing the photos to her daughters. The girls scrutinized the pictures a little longer. The one of Nick Hobson was discarded with no comments, but upon the look on the female victim's photo the girl with a torn gown strap said suddenly: “I think I saw this slit-eye somewhere. Don't ask the name – I have no bloody idea. But I am pretty sure she works on the other side of the Mesa. Although, I don't think she's registered. Illegal. What are you – catching them, or something?”

  “Is there anything else you may remember?” Mark asked with hope.

  “Nope. We are working from home. Private business. And these brats – they work for a pimp! We don't mess with those. No gain, just bloody trouble…”

  “Well, this is better than nothing. Thanks for your help on this one.”

  “You're welcome. If anything, please come again. Only better – after lunch. We just got rid of the clients. Time to sleep…”

  When they came out into the fresh air, Mark felt relieved. “Phew! And how many like these are in your beat?”

  “Plenty,” Liz replied. “The 'Fill is next door, that's why. Young men are making good money, but feeling a bit… lonely. So plenty of girls are providing services to the lonely men – whatever way they can. These Hobsons here are not too bad. The Maman didn't lie: they pay for the licenses on-time, go to the doctor, and don't push ‘Ice.’ At least for this I should be thankful: they don't give me as much of a headache as some others. The only problem is the youngest, that Betsy. She's a talented girl, by the way. Was a good student… Why the hell she suddenly decided to become a hooker? Apparently: like father like son, or rather: like mother like daughter… OK, let's push on. Address number three in your list – it's just around the corner.”

  They jumped on the bikes again, and five minutes later were at the gates of a workshop, sandwiched between two shabby houses. The front wall was made of old tires. As in the previous place, the space along the open sewer was occupied by rusty car frames. Instead of a playground, these vehicles served for a residence: in each of the six broken vans lived a family. Due to the absence of any better spot, the kids were playing right in the sewer.

  “Knock, knock! Anybody home?” Liz shouted into the workshop gates. Out came a man of about thirty, in a grease-smeared coverall and tire sandals.

  “Broken down, Deputy?” the man asked, scrutinizing the bikes. “The law-enforcing agencies have a discount with us!”

  “No, the bikes are all-right,” Liz said apologetically. “Are you Mike Hobson? Like in Mike Hobson's Mechanics and Welding?”

  “Sure I am, ma'am,” the man nodded, now looking at the bikes with some regret. From the depths of the back yard, the other workshop personnel emerged: a man in his early twenties, also in a dirty coverall, but with no sandals, and two teenagers, dressed just in shorts and extensively smeared with black grease. Mark flashed his badge and pulled out the same photos.

  “Do you know these two?”

  One of the teenagers tried to reach for a photo, but the young man slapped the boy's hand.

  “Where are you going, greasy fingers? Look, don't touch.”

  After looking at the photographs, all four shook their heads.

  “Excuse us, officers, can't help,” the workshop owner shrugged. “But if you need something welded – come only here! You may ask anyone: Mike Hobson has the best arc welding this side of the 'Fill. Our generator always starts, and we never short of gas, not like some competition. Oh, did I tell you the Police have a discount?”

  “Not much for two addresses,” Liz commented after they left the workshop.

  “It's only in the TV re-runs the FBI work looks so cool,” Mark said. “Car chasing and gun fights. But in reality – the job is pretty much like this. An address, after an address, after an address. Tons and tons of leg work, but not much excitement.”

  “Well, we can forget the car chases now – such stuff is surely in the past. But you joined the FBI before the Meltdown, right?” Liz asked.

  “Sure. Since 2006.”<
br />
  “Did you fire weapons often back then?”