Liquid Cool

by Austin Dragon

  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—plotting 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.

  “I’d pick that card up and read it, if I were you,” I said to them.

  They stood there and watched me for a moment. One of them finally picked it up, read it, and showed it to the lead punk, the only one wearing a bandana on his head.

  He grinned. The punks turned and disappeared into the shadows.

  I stayed away from the real mean streets of the city, so no weapon was necessary. And I wasn’t into anything that would ever make the mean streets ever want to reach out and touch me. For the rest of the city, I had a business card for every dark, dank corner I might find myself in, to keep the human vermin away. As long as the human vermin could read, I was fine.

  FREE CITY BUILDING didn’t have elevator capsules—they had elevators. I only had to go to the fortieth floor, but it took forever. Matters were not helped by the elevator car being some damp, moldy, semi-dark tomb. I purposely did not look at the floor. I didn’t want to vomit at what I might see.

  “My name’s Cruz, ma’am.”

  The woman, who answered the door, peered at me through a screen partition. She was average size, in a one-piece flannel dress with orange hair.

  “How did you get here, wearing that hat?” she asked. “And you still have all ten fingers and toes. The ground floor punks let you get up here with that hat?”

  “I’m wearing a classic fedora, ma’am, not a hat.”

  “Well, listen to the booshy talk. I suppose you don’t drive a hovercar.”

  “I don’t. I drive a classic Ford Pony. A Pony is not a hovercar; it’s a vehicle.”

  The woman burst out laughing. “Okay, Mr. Cruz. You got a sense of humor, so you’re okay.”

  “Are you Mrs. Easy Chair Charlie?”

  “Oh, God no. I’m her sister. Ethel!!!”

  The woman’s scream was like someone stabbing me in the eardrums with an ice pick.

  “What?” I heard a woman’s voice scream from within the residence.

  “It’s Mr. Cruz!”

  “Let him in, then! And who is Mr. Cruz?”

  The sister opened the screen door, and I walked past her and her invisible cloud of cheap perfume. My eyes were always scanning my surroundings, whether inside or outdoors. However, I never got that far as my eyes instantly locked on the trio of gremlins before me—three dirty kids in diapers. Nothing struck horror in my heart like the sight of a dirty kid in a diaper, because it meant the diaper was dirty, too. What was a diaper, but strapping an unflushed toilet to your body for the day? I don’t use public toilets—ever. All I could see in my mind’s eye was the image of some dirty kid in a dirty diaper ripping it off and flinging it at people; people like me. Suddenly, I had an uncontrollable urge to dive out the nearest window.

  “What’s wrong with you?” the sister asked. “You look like someone kicked you in the stomach.”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “I know our humble residence isn’t what you booshy-class are accustomed to, but it’s home sweet home to us.”

  “Mrs…?

  “Call me, Sister. Everyone around here does.”

  “Sister, I’ve been many things, but booshy has never been one of them.”

  “What part of the city do you stay at?”

  “Rabbit City.”

  The woman broke out in an “A-ha!” She moved to the three kids. “Where the booshy playboys live.”

  That was a first for me that someone considered Rabbit City upscale.

  “How did you get up here without getting mugged?”

  I turned to the new voice. “Mrs. Easy Chair Charlie?”

  “Mrs. Easy is fine. Yeah. How did you get up here without a scratch? Did you have some kind of police escort?”

  The other woman was a slightly, older version, also in a dark-patterned flannel dress with yellow hair. She walked to me.

  “It was a trick I learned when I interned for Police Central as a kid.”

  She stopped walking to me. “Police Central? You worked for the cops? As a kid? How? You a cop?”

  “I’m not a policeman.”

  “Listen to the booshy playboy,” Sister interjected. “Cop! Only booshy say ‘police’.”

  “How’d you get to be a kid copper?”

  “I’m not a cop. I said: I interned with the cops as a kid.”

  “Interned? What’s that?”

  “In school. Kids go to businesses and hang for a day for extra-credit for class.”

  “And you went to the cops?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “I’m a contrarian.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I do the opposite of what other people usually do.”

  “That’s for sure,” Mrs. Easy said. “What are you then, if no
t a cop?”

  “I’m just a laborer guy who restores classic hovercars…”

  “Vehicles, you mean,” Sister interrupted.

  “… on the side. Not a cop.”

  “Policeman,” Sister interjected.

  “Considering the circumstances of your husband’s death, I probably shouldn’t have—”

  “Keep your undershorts on, Mr. Cruz. I’m not about to break down sobbing. Go on with your story. How’d you get up here without a scratch from the ground floor punks?”

  “Especially with that hat!”

  “Fedora,” I corrected Sister, and she laughed. “When I interned for the cops, I had to go into a shady part of the city, and the captain, at the time, wrote on the back of his business card: ‘Cruz is my friend. See that nothing happens to him, or you will NOT be my friend, and I will come visiting to show you how much you’re NOT my friend.’ He told me to throw it at the leader of the local street punk gang. It worked, and I’ve been using the trick ever since.”

  “Who did you get to write on a business card for you this time?”

  “Someone, here in Free City, whose good graces I know they would want to remain on the right side of. The leader of a much bigger Free City gang than them.”

  “And why would he write you such a business card message?”

  “I restore hovercars. I restored his racing hovercar for him.”

  “Mr. Cruz, that’s a stupid story. Even if it were true, it would only work with brainy criminal class criminals. The animal criminal class would shoot you, even if it means they’d get shot, too. They don’t think, they react. What were you packing? I know you stuck a gun in their face. They really are a bunch of cowards. Everyone knows it.”

  “You caught me, Mrs. Easy. I just flashed the big gun in my jacket.”

  “I knew it. Wait! You didn’t bring your gun up in my place?”

  “I left it in my vehicle with my bodyguard.”

  I suddenly felt a presence behind me and there was the sister scanning me from neck to leg with a pole metal detector. “He’s clean,” she said.

  Smack!

  I jumped at the sound and glanced at the three kids. The smallest one with only a couple of teeth in his mouth was holding a large fly swatter in his hand. He cut the air with it and laughed. He found his mark and slammed the swatter down on the floor. His—I think it was a he—two siblings pranced about in a fit of unrestrained laughter, flapping their arms, then one after another, jumped on top of the fly swatter with their bare, dirty feet. “Dead!” “Dead!” Was it too late for me to dive out the window?

  “Have a seat, Mr. Cruz, the detective,” she said.

  Every chair and couch was covered in garbage—toys, clothes, magazines, and papers.

  “Sit anywhere. Just throw it on the floor.”

  I was uncomfortable doing so, but I did. I couldn’t believe Easy Chair Charlie lived here, and this was his wife. Easy always presented himself as a class act, and there was nothing classy about this place; I saw a fly buzzing around in the apartment home.

  “Wait a minute. Why did you call me a detective?”

  “Isn’t that what you’re doing? Detecting?”

  “Yeah, but what made you call me that?”

  “Your associate.”

  “My associate?”

  “Mr. Cruz, did you really believe I’d let a strange man come up to my place, with my sister, little nieces, and nephew. Are you crazy? Your associate called ahead and told us you were coming. If he didn’t call, you’d still be outside a closed, triple-dead-bolted, electrified door.”

  “Is the first initial of this associate, Phishy?”

  She laughed and her sister appeared and stood behind her, laughing too.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Cruz. He said you were undercover.”

  I did my best to contain my annoyance. Run-Time and Fat Nat hired me to be discreet, and Phishy was going to have the whole world thinking I was some kind of real detective. All I needed was a Metropolis bureaucrat calling to ask me why I’m going around calling myself a detective, when I’m not licensed, and my designated occupation is “LABORER.”

  “As long as he told you that.”

  “And he said my husband was friend of yours.”

  “Yeah. Well, he got a few rare items for my custom vehicle. He was a solid operator. I expected to do business with him for a long time.”

  “I’m sure a lot of people did. What are your questions then, Mr. Cruz? The police have bothered me a half dozen times with their questions, so I guess one more time won’t hurt.”

  “Do you believe the story? That Easy went psycho and then went on a shooting rampage with the world and the police?”

  “Yeah, I do,” she answered quickly. “You seemed surprised, Mr. Cruz.”

  “I am.”

  “People go psycho all the time. Why not him? He was a human, like the rest of us. But in his case, he’d have an added incentive to go psycho.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We never had any children, Easy and I, but he could see I wanted that and a better life. Everything he did was to get me to that better life. I know what people say about Free City. No one talks worse about it than my sister and me. Stuck here for all the years we’ve been. It’s no place to live, and certainly no place to raise children. It’s worse than a dump. Easy, with his work lifestyle, felt no different. But it was all for me. He loved us. That’s why he went psycho. There was no other way for us to escape.” She obviously could see my confusion. “You must be new at the detective business, Mr. Cruz. Two words. Life insurance, Mr. Cruz. I’m the sole beneficiary of his life insurance. Suicide disqualifies someone, but not suicide-by-cop. Me, my sister, and the kids are getting out of here as soon as the check comes and clears the bank, which is what my late husband intended.”

  “We won’t be booshy, like you, Mr. Cruz, but we’ll be doing okay,” Sister added.

  Chapter 13

  China Doll

  I WATCHED FLASH FLY away into the rainy sky as I sat in my Pony.

  Wow, I thought. I suck at this detective thing.

  Dot’s pretty face looked up at me from my video-phone.

  “They were happy,” she said. “Never did I hear there was any trouble on the domestic front.”

  Mrs. Easy was also a client of Eye Candy—probably for more years than I was a client of Mr. Easy Chair Charlie.

  “You’re really going all out with this detective thing,” she said, smiling. “Yes, that slider Phishy told me you’re a detective, but said you’re undercover. I think it’s cool. It shows real initiative on your part.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You should do it for real.”

  “I don’t have the money to get a detective license.”

  “Then save for it and work under-the-table, like everyone else does, until you do.”

  “I’m not sure I’m suited for it.”

  “Why not? You hate inside-office work. You hate cubicles. You hate 9-to-7 jobs. You hate same-thing-everyday jobs. Detective work would be the opposite of all that.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? Cruz, you’re always complaining about being just a laborer and now you have your chance to be more than that, do something cool, and you’re making excuses.”

  “No, it’s not that. I’ll try it.”

  “That’s all I’m saying. Try it out and see.”

  “I just don’t know how good I’ll be.”

  “You say that after one day? What’s wrong with you? What do you think my skills were like after one day, my first day on the job? Was Run-Time a mogul after one day?”

  “Okay, okay. I didn’t mean that.”

  “Cruz, don’t flake out on this. An opportunity is sitting in your lap, like a baby. Don’t throw the baby out the hovercar window.” (Now she’s talking about babies.)

  “That’s an image.”

  “Imagine if I could tell my parents you were a bona fide detective!�
�

  “Please don’t do that.”

  I suddenly had images of her parents, dressed like gangsters, machine-gunning me in a dark alley.

  “I’m going to hold you to it, Cruz. Go be a detective. I don’t want to see you moping around or complaining anymore.”

  “Yes, dear. I’ll go be a detective.”

  I didn’t tell her that my glory days as a detective lasted for a sum total of one day. My case fizzled out before I even got started. I thought I was being all sophisticated in Fat Nat’s office, worrying about uber-gangsters and cyber ninjas—all to be felled by the great, grand conspiracy of whole life premium insurance.

  Chapter 14

  Run-Time

  IT WAS THE IRISH VP guy, this time, who escorted me into Run-Time’s office.

  There I sat, giving Run-Time the rundown of the case that was never to be. From here, I would head over to Fat Nat and company.

  “I have to admit that it was quite exciting, all of it.”

  Run-Time was smiling at me. “You believe the wife?”

  “I checked in with Dot. She personally does the wife’s beauty stuff.”

  Run-Time laughed out loud. “Beauty stuff? You’re going to marry her, so I’d advise you use more precise language than that.”

  “You know I’ll be ready. Well, Dot said there was nothing out of the ordinary with the wife. She never said anything that would make anyone believe she was distressed about anything. Quite the opposite, actually.”

  Run-Time nodded. “Then Fat Nat and I got our money’s worth.”

  “Run-Time, I can’t take all that money for just a few city stops in the Pony.”

  “Cruz, the money is yours. I’m satisfied. Nat’s satisfied. What do you plan to do now?”

  “I’m not sure. I have a few construction gigs coming up and a big car restoration job at the end of the month.”

  “You can still do those. What do you plan to do career-wise?”

  “I don’t know a thing about being a detective.”

  “What’s to know? It was like asking me what’s to know about being a company CEO. You do it and you do it long enough, you become it. And it would seem you already have a head start on the promotion front.”