But she didn't need their avoidance. She needed their help—anything would do. Carol was in a city of fifty million people, but it felt like she was a tiny star in the vastness of space with nothing visually around her. The neon jungle blinked and pulsated as it always did, but the emptiness remained.
Carol was not an athletic woman, but in her mindless run through the same street over and over, around and around, there was never a hit of exhaustion in her face. She ran down the adjacent street then up the adjacent street, then back and through....
Ahh!" Carol ran through the streets as if she were being chased. "Where is she? Where is he? I must find him! Give me back my daughter! Give me back my daughter!"
Into Alien Alley she went.
She was worse than a sidewalk sally. They, at least, had some semblance of purpose. Carol had the entrance to Alien Alley staked out and had endlessly wandered around it before her running began. She looked like she hadn't slept or bathed in days; her eyeliner was a combination of dripping and caked-on. Her clothes were the same ones from that fateful day when her daughter was taken.
The police had descended on the Alley like a full battalion in some ancient battlefield, but found nothing. It would be a week or two before normal business returned. In the meantime, during the day there was a smattering of people, and at night, it was a ghost town—except for Carol.
She would stop suddenly from time to time and stare at the crowds, staring right into the faces of the crowd. Gray people. The society had so many phrases for things. The masses in their often gray and black outerwear were called gray people. What's wrong with "the masses?" Why do new words need to be made up for the old words? How many synonyms can a thing have? Carol asked all these questions as she stood and stared.
Most people ignored her. Many more didn't even notice her to begin with. Occasionally, a few would remove their visually-enhanced shades to stare back at her with curiosity or contempt with their natural eyes, or bionic ones.
The rain began again as Carol stood in the middle of street like a statue, blinding her. She couldn't move. In her mind, she could not go away. She had to remain and keep a vigil on Alien Alley. She had to keep watch for the Red Rabbit. It had to be her, and Carol would not leave until she got her daughter back.
She lifted her head up into the rain and was going to scream again as she had done many times before. But Carol fainted to the ground. It was all too much for her.
The Fence stood with his thumbs gripping under the armpits of his bright purple vest, his flowing slicker over it. The man wore no hat. He had bleached-blond hair, but his men—four of them—all wore flapper hats covering their ears. They stood, leaning against the side wall of the burger joint. The smell of fresh cooking beef was becoming unbearable. The long line was solid proof of the quality of their food.
One of the men looked at the Fence with watering eyes. "I'll be quick," he said.
"How? Look at the line. Business first, and then we'll eat after."
"Your treat?"
"My treat."
The men were all smiles.
One of the men pointed into the distance. "The sticky-fingers crew," he said.
Three kids approached—the one in the middle seemed to be the boss, and he immediately recognized the Fence. The kids had tattoos on their arms and necks from what could be seen.
"Why are we meeting here?" the kid asked. The three of them looked around at the line of people and the busyness of the street.
"It's a public place, isn't it?" the Fence responded.
"Yeah, but—"
"But nothing. What do you have for us?"
The kids were clearly nervous.
"This is weird," the lead kid said. "Everyone can see us."
"Exactly."
"My advice to you three jokers," said one of Fence's men, "is do all your business in public. The only thing worse than someone smelling undercover cops is smelling diaper-wearing newbies. You meet in private and someone'll put two taps in your forehead, all of you. Take your lives and take your stuff. You better get wise if you want to play in the crime world. I should charge you for that advice."
The kids were not amused and glared at him.
"Come on, let's get on with it," the Fence said them. "What do you have for me?"
One of the kids reached into his bubble coat pocket, pulled out something wrapped in cloth, and handed it to him. The Fence took it and, with his other hand, put on his special inspection glasses.
"Help me!"
Fence and his men, the kids, and everyone on the streets turned to see the woman come out of the crowd. The criminals froze as the woman ran towards them.
"It's a set-up!" one of the kids yelled and angrily looked at Fence. The boy reached into his jacket for something.
One of Fence's men punched the boy in the face, sending the boy crashing to the wet pavement and his pulse pistol dropping to the ground.
Fence wrapped the item up and threw it back at the lead kid. "Take it and go!"
The kid grabbed it and looked at his partners. One picked him up from the ground, the other grabbed his weapon, and the three ran.
The woman kept yelling as she approached Fence and his men. One of his bodyguards pulled his weapon from his jacket, but Fence smacked his arm.
"You want the cops to kill us, stupid!"
Carol was the center of attention to everyone queued in front of the Burger Joint and the crowds on the street. She stopped her advance and walked slowly to Fence alone. She grabbed his shoulders and he could see the utter desperation in her face.
"Please help me. The police can't find her—my daughter. The Red Rabbit has her. My daughter is all I have. You're a criminal. You can help me. Help me find my daughter. I'll pay anything."
"Fence, let's get out of here!" one of his men yelled.
"Red Rabbit?" Fence turned to his men.
"We can't get involved," another of his men said.
"You know this Red Rabbit?"
"Yeah, Red Rabbit with the red pills. He killed the White Rabbit with the blue pills and took his clients. Let's go," his man pleaded.
"And?"
"Fence, let it alone. We can't get involved. We're small-time. We can't mess around in this."
"I have an idea."
"Fence, we can't get involved. What's wrong with you?"
"We're not."
"Fence."
"It's a mother. Don't any of you lowlifes have mothers?"
"Yeah, mine tried to knife me when I was seven," said one of his men.
"Mine shot my father and tried to shoot my brother and me too," said the other.
"Why am I even talking to you two? Where's the nearest public phone?"
The sound of crows started low, but then began to increase in volume. Flash had two minutes to get out of bed and switch off the alarm before the crowing sounds would start blaring loud enough to shake the room. He rolled out of the bed, literally, to his feet and, without looking, switched off the alarm clock on the side stand. Then he lowered his head and fell back asleep standing up.
Seven minutes later another alarm went off on the opposite side of the bedroom. His head rose just a bit, his eyes squinted, and like some form of zombie, he shuffled across the room to do the same there—turn the damn thing off. His head was about to lower again, when robotic arms descended from the ceilings and drew open the shades to let the natural light into the bedroom. The window magnified the light beams so it looked far brighter outside than it actually was.
Their five-room legacy apartment was on the fifth floor of their complex. The bedroom was far too big for two people, especially as scarcely furnished as it was, with the master bed, side tables, and a couple of couches. No mega-TV on the wall, as was common—they kept that in the family room, and the dresser and standing mirrors were in their dual walk-in closet that, despite all space taken by their ever expanding wardrobe, was still big enough to be categorized as another room.
"Rise and shine! Rise and shine!
Rise and shine!"
Flash turned his head and saw the robot standing right next to him, a stupid smile on its metal face, holding out a cup of silk coffee to him. Flash stood in his orange A-shirt and orange-striped black shorts. His robot stood next to him in its purple A-shirt and powder blue striped black shorts.
"Good morning, Master Flash." The humanoid robot was a basic model—over-sized, multi-jointed hands; full swivel socket shoulders, elbows, hips, and knees; rectangular chest, upside-down triangular area under its shorts; and striated, tubular arms and legs. Lots of product design went into the face, but Flash always thought, for all the money and time that went into the machine, it was surprising that all they could come up with was faux-facial muscles that could contort its mouth into a stupid grin, round anime eyes, and a simple ridged nose. He and his friends could make better when they were kids back in kindergarten, without a multimillion dollar budget, only the art crap they could get from the corner general convenience store.
He grunted something and grabbed the cup of coffee from the robot. The robot went back into the apartment home to begin its chores as Flash drank down the coffee and stared out the window. Flash was a light-skinned Black man with a ponytail and the attempt of a goatee.
"Another damn day in this dump." He suddenly yelled out, "Honey, get out of bed!"
His wife stirred beneath the layers of faux-leopard skin blankets. The only thing visible was her tanned toes with bright yellow nail polish sticking out from the bottom.
An hour later was the last, but most important, pre-work chore. Bundle the kids off to school and the wife off to work. He stood with his family at the metro stop. The platform was brimming with rush-hour passengers waiting for the monorail. He made the usual small talk with his family, though none of it was phony. This was quality time as much as the evening family dinner was.
His wife had the same complexion as him, but she wore part of her hair in front of her shoulder and part behind it. Under her gray slicker was her orange, designer Good Will clothes to match her orange-painted finger and toenails. His son was a mini-him and his daughter was a mini-version of his wife—fourteen and twelve, respectively. The daughter dressed just like her mom, but her color of the day was dark blue. His son had the makings of being another mogul like Flash's boss—he had his own style, dressed in a dark suit and tie with a white shirt.
The whistle sounded, and people moved closer to the edge of the platform as they heard the hiss of the coming monorail. Wife and kids instinctively put on their blue eyewear. He kissed his kids on their foreheads and wife on the lips, then held them together as they also moved closer to the platform's edge.
The monorail may have looked futuristic in its day, but now it was just a "gray tubular sardine can" to shovel passengers into. The city's solution to graffiti bandits was to spray paint the entire thing at the end of the night so the lines of cars were uniform in their sickly gray color come morning. The doors opened and the people piled in. Some ran in to the closest open seats, others preferred to stand and grab the handholds dangling from the ceiling. His family got in; his wife raised her hand to grab the closest handhold, and the kids raised their arms to hold onto her. Flash stepped back out of the monorail. There were three successive audible warnings and then the doors slid shut. He waved, and they waved back as the monorail sped away on its track lines.
It took him only five minutes to exit the metro stop, climbing up the long stairs—only fools and tourists attempted to take the public elevators where muggings were a daily occurrence. In a city of this size, there was no possible way the police could be everywhere, but it was getting better.
His was a public transportation family, but he put food on the table by shuttling those around the city who preferred or had the money to avoid it. Flash had been a taxi driver for Let It Ride Enterprises for the last ten years.
He absolutely loved his job.
Metropolis sky lanes were always chaotic. Row above row of hovercraft traffic. Public transportation was supposed to eliminate the hovercar, much like computers were supposed to eliminate paper. In both cases, the opposite was the reality. Only the wealthy, or at least the middle-class, were supposed to be able to even afford a basic model hovercraft, but annual sales were so brisk that the government slapped a surcharge tax on it, like they did with every other successful product or service.
Large hovercraft, like trucks and tankers, were in the bottommost virtual lanes. Buses and RV hovercraft were in the lanes above them. All personal and commercial hovercars were in the main virtual lanes above both. Hoverbikers (who everyone hated) zipped around wherever they wanted.
"It's amazing more of you don't get run down!" Flash yelled at the helmeted driver in a plastic slicker, who descended from the sky on a hot pink hoverbike and cut him off. It disappeared around another vehicle ahead.
He sped up again and kept one eye on the road as he pushed a few buttons on his dashboard computer.
"Where am I picking up my first fare for the day?" he said to himself.
Lights around his dashboard computer flashed yellow.
"Fare!"
He looked in all his side and rearview windows as he signaled and dived.
Dispatch called in new fares, but anyone on the street could take their mobile, point, and manually laser-signal a passing cab for pick-up.
He descended, mainly watching his dashboard computer monitor to stay on the approved virtual path, but glanced frequently out the window at the hovercraft traffic he passed.
He leveled his hovertaxicab with the ground and drove up slowly. With the push of a button on the driver door panel, the driver's side window rolled down. His nose instantly picked up the beautiful organic burger smell, and he almost forgot why he was on the ground. He saw a man standing at a public phone booth, waving to him.
He rolled up his window and sped up, then stopped. The passenger door opened. Another man appeared from nowhere and pushed a woman into the car.
"Hey, what's going on?" Flash asked.
The second man didn't get in but closed the door. Flash watched both men run away.
"What the heck!" He looked at the woman sitting in the back with her clear plastic head scarf and gray slicker coat. "Are you all right, ma'am? Did those men hurt you? Do you need the police?"
"I need to find my daughter!" she said. "He took my daughter!"
"What? Those men took your daughter?" Flash grabbed the handset from his dashboard computer without looking. "Dispatch, I have an emergency!"
There were some industries that hated the cops. Others were neutral. Most welcomed them. Rank-and-file taxicab drivers loved the police. The hovertaxi industry considered themselves to be a sister industry, as they too were out on the streets, often alone. And when those streets got mean, the beat cops were the ones to turn to and the ones to defend your life—besides your hidden weapon under the seat. Cops and taxicab drivers were the industries who got shot at (and killed) the most. When taxicab drivers congregated for lunch, they always did so near a parked police car. When cops needed to get one of their own home from the local police bar, the taxi service would have cabs waiting to do so, gratis.
Flash had been quietly talking to the two beat cops a few yards away from his cab for about ten minutes. The two policemen were in standard silver-and-black uniform with the word "PEACE" emblazoned on their chest and back. They all, occasionally, glanced back at the woman sitting in the cab.
"What should I do?" Flash asked.
The two police officers glanced at the woman in his cab.
"Take her home," one of them said.
"Officer, do you really believe she's going to stay there?"
"That's all there is to do. The officers assigned are working the case hard. No one wants to see a missing child."
"But she feels the force isn't working the case," Flash said.
"No. They're working the murders, sexual assaults, carjackings, hijackings, home invasions, arsons, assaults with a deadly weapon, suicide-
homicide—"
"I get the picture."
Flash looked back at the woman again with a very sad face. He couldn't imagine him and his wife in the same situation. The thought of one of their children taken by some street criminal made him shiver.
"We hate the picture too, but we can only do what we can do."
A light sprinkle began to fall again. Flash looked up into the sky and instinctively lifted up his collar around his neck.
"I'll take the woman home." He began to walk to his cab and stopped. "What's her name?" He turned to them.
"Carol Num," the other officer answered.
"Thanks, Officers."
Flash got back into his cab. He sat for a moment in his driver's seat quietly.
"I bet my daughter is already dead."
Flash looked up to see her in his rearview mirror. "Don't say that."
"The police are going to show up at my house to tell me they found her corpse. That's why I can't go home. Waiting means I'm waiting for them to come tell me she's dead. I can't do that. I won't. I stay out here on the streets and there's hope. Even if there really isn't."
"I'm a parent too," Flash spoke up. "You do what you need to do to find her, make them find her. My wife and I would do the same thing."
"Life's always easier when you have help. I wish my husband were here, but the dumb blockhead had to go get himself run down by a garbage truck when Lutty was only two years old. He was always clumsy, but I married him anyway."
"Carol, where do want me to take you?"
"What is Alien Alley? It must be a bad place for bad people to be there to do bad things."
"Bad people are everywhere. Any taxi driver will tell you that. They can get anywhere like roaches. But Alien Alley is nothing. I've never heard of trouble there before. It's one of those in-between streets, between the good streets and the bad streets. People go through it, not to it."
These Mean Streets, Darkly (The Liquid Cool Prequel) Page 3
