"Actually, though this is some of the best Chinese food I've ever eaten in my life, I have to get ready for a new job interview early in the morning."
"You didn't tell me that," Dot said.
"I wanted to surprise you, but...don't let that spoil the evening. This was great. It was nice meeting you, Mr. and Mrs. Wan. I have to turn in early."
"Take some food home with you," Dot said. "I insist."
"Okay."
"I should walk you down, too."
I laughed. "Going from here to the parking lot is like taking a shuttle to the moon. Stay. Don't worry about me."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm positive. Home-cooked meals and family time. You stay."
I didn't even notice the Wans were gone from the dinner table. Dot disappeared into the kitchen again, and there was that rapid-fire Chinese again. She returned with a brown paper bag. I peeked inside.
"Lunch and dinner for at least a few days," I said as I took the bag. "Maybe you can buy them those language tapes, so they can learn English. I'm sure they'd love to say things to me in English."
Dot half-laughed. "I've tried; believe me; I've tried. They're too stubborn."
I looked up, and there were the Wans again, watching me. Dot's back was turned to them, and they glared at me, but when Dot looked back at them, they quickly reverted to sweet, ol' impostors.
Dot walked me to the main door. "Job interview?"
"I'll tell you all about it at lunch tomorrow. Keep your fingers crossed." We stopped at the door. "Good night, Mr. and Mrs. Wan." I waved at them. I could act too.
"I'm going to walk you down."
It was pointless to try to dissuade her.
She did all the talking as we descended in the elevator capsule. My mind was elsewhere. I realized again that matrimony with Dot was a package deal. I get her, and I get them. The burrito crack was to tell me that they had snooped into every crevasse of my life, a full, dive-deep background check on me. I had eaten a burrito once, and it almost killed me. A friend (who ceased to be one after the incident) had spiked it with something I was allergic to, and I spent a month in the hospital. But that was when I was like nine. My future Mother Dearest wanted me to know they really did know everything about me. What must have really galled them was there was nothing to find. No felonies, no misdemeanors, not even an arrest, unlike ninety percent of the world. Most of their booshy Elysian tower-mates probably couldn't boast the same.
Half a comedian's jokes were about evil mothers-in-law, but I had to be lucky and get a real evil one, and an evil father-in-law as a special bonus. They couldn't get me by exposing some hidden, dark, criminal past to Dot, so they had to resort to the last refuge left to them—naked violence. Moms would poison me, and Pops would cut me. How could Dot be fooled by their innocent, old-country, sweetness persona? Nobody gets to an upper-level palatial apartment home in Elysian Heights by being anything other than a bastard. Marriage to Dot could be a very complicated matter in terms of my continued existence among the living. It would be such irony to avoid every street gang, government thug, and corporate knuckle-buster out there, only to be offed by your future parents-in-law. It's happened before.
We exited the elevator capsule, and the building parking bay was lined with black-suit-white-shirt-and-tie uniformed car attendants. There were on duty twenty-four-seven. No need for Run-Time's mobile car security here. Elysian Heights had its own, and they were armed, too.
"You didn't have to walk me all the way down," I said.
"I wanted to," she said.
"Hello, Ms. China Doll," one of the car attendants greeted.
"Hello, Guy. Keep sending me customers to the shop, and we'll keep making you look nice for the ladies."
He laughed. "They say I'm like an Up-Top Don Juan guy, Ms. China Doll."
Dot took my car keys from him and pressed the front door button. I realized that the valet already had my Pony waiting; obviously, the elevators had video surveillance too. She held the door open as I got in. She leaned over and gave me a kiss, but I knew it was a prelude to something else.
"What?"
"If I were to ask you something about my parents, you'd tell me the truth wouldn't you?"
"Of course, truthfulness is the foundation of any good, lasting relationship."
"Can my parents speak English?"
I looked at her for a moment.
"Not a word," I answered.
Chapter 9
Run-Time
I PLANNED TO DROP BY my favorite late night eatery, but instead, I just drove the city. I did it occasionally during those times when the Metropolis that never sleeps was at least taking a nap and there wasn't as much hovercar traffic in the sky. It wasn't raining, so I had my moon-roof open to feel the cool breeze zipping by at over a hundred miles an hour in the fast lane. My Pony needed its exercise, too.
It got back to Rabbit City after six o'clock in the morning. This was home. I stayed at the Concrete Mama. Rather than pull into my residential complex, I parked in front of the building with the moon-roof still open. I had picked up a quick, early-morning breakfast snack and sat in the car, munching a churro and drinking my sweet tea.
The hoverlimo that descended from the sky was unmistakable, even before seeing the neon "Let It Ride Enterprises" letters on both sides of the vehicle. It landed, and Mr. Run-Time, himself, exited and, instinctively knowing I was watching, waved.
"I heard that Dot had the cavalry looking for me," I said to him with the driver's side window rolled down and Run-Time half-leaning in.
"And then some. I thought at some point she'd call the police and Feds on you, too."
"That's what I heard."
"You must have found a good hiding place."
"One that I plan to use in the future."
Run-Time laughed. "I have a few myself, so I know how important they are for your alone time."
I nodded as I downed the last of my sweet tea.
"And you got to meet the future parents-in-law."
"I did." I said it with a hint of displeasure.
"What happened?"
"Are the Wans criminal bosses?"
He laughed again. "Dot's parents? If megacorp execs qualify as criminal bosses. They're bean-counters. That's how they made their fortune. Why? What happened?"
"Nothing." I sighed loudly. "All I want out of life is to get ahead and be content with what I've accomplished. All I can say at this stage of my life is that I'm a laborer. That's my listed occupation—laborer. That was my listed occupation when I was in high school, so I've accomplished nothing."
"Cruz, why would you say that?"
"Because it's true. I've been so principled. I wouldn't work for the government or some multinational, sitting in some cubicle. Yeah, and all my friends who did are managers and supervisors, and I sit in my little red vehicle as a laborer. When do I get my break? How long do I have to wait for my one break? I'm getting so tired."
"Cruz, everybody is struggling. Don't be fooled. You want to be them, and they want to be you. Everyone always thinks the grass is greener on the other side. Be patient. Your ticket will come.
"I know it looks nice on my company biography. The 'Run-Time rags-to-riches' story. I didn't drop out of middle school at eleven to begin my path of self-made millionaire. I dropped out, because I realized it was all pointless. Stay in and get good grades and amount to not much, like my father and so many others. Turn to crime like my uncle, and so many others, and end up dead or in jail. Those were my choices, I asked myself. Who makes up these rules? They say you have to be able to figuratively bend a spoon with your mind to make it in Metropolis. Says who? I said there was no spoon. I said the system is rigged, but not by the powerful. It's rigged by the powerless, trapped within it. The power to be either the powerless or the powerful is and has always been in my hands alone. I knew the cards the cosmos had dealt me from birth. This was my path in life, but was it my true destiny? No. That's exactly why I seized the opportunities
I did. Because I knew what the future was, so why not make a different one? There's not a single, solitary thing to lose.
"Cruz, keep your nose clean as you always have, and your ticket will come. That much I can promise you. Don't mess it up now. You have too many years invested. You and I both have seen what happens to those who went for the quick-fix or supposed-sure thing, instead of being patient."
I always liked talking to Run-Time. He was a born motivational coach and life counselor. It's why we were friends for all these years. He talked the talk, and he exuded positivity. That's what I needed. I was too much of a glass-half-empty kind of guy. I needed to surround myself with the Run-Times and Dots of the world to pull myself out of the mind gutter.
"Yeah," I agreed soberly. "It's hard to be patient when everyone is passing you by. An endless rat-race, but I'm not getting anywhere."
"You got solid legacy housing, an amazing girlfriend, and a classic car that everyone wants. The housing and the car are just things, but don't discount Dot in your life. You got a lot more going for you in life than you're acknowledging. Here's the thing, Cruz. Just because people are passing you by, doesn't mean they'll finish the race. Just because they're passing you by doesn't mean they're going anywhere. Just remain Cruz, the cool cat that you are, and your ticket will come."
THE CONCRETE MAMA WAS a piece of work—architecturally speaking. It was like a chunk of granite set down on Earth from space. It was a no-frills monolith tower of legacy housing. If there was ever a planetary shockwave from a nuclear blast or an asteroid crash, you could bet the Concrete Mama would still be standing. It was ugly, but it would be here until the end of time in its ugliness. It was also my home for fifteen years.
My legacy housing was willed to me from my maternal grandparents. My parents had their own, so it was passed to me. Those of us who lived in the Concrete Mama were not rich and we weren't the working-class. We were just legacy babies—laborers. We had free housing for life, made a meager living to cover any other incidentals, and nothing more. I hated it here, but free is free.
Unlike modern buildings, you couldn't take the parking elevators directly to your floor. You had to go up to the lobby first and then take the elevator capsules to your floor. The lobby was a cesspool of sidewalk johnnies and looky-lous, all minding your business. I despised it. I exited the parking elevators and walked to the residential elevators as fast as I could, ignoring everyone.
I waited, as I always did, in a huff. The lobby was always a madhouse. Strangers all over the place, watching you, looking to see what you were carrying, and staring at anyone with you, if there was anyone with you. The indignity of it all. Lobby scum. It was like an episode of the Island of Doctor Moreau with animal people crawling around, hopping around, chasing their own tails, and sniffing each other's private parts.
"Did that girl of yours find you?"
I turned and it was Punch Judy. I almost didn't answer her.
"She did."
"Tell her not to call me! I am not your personal secretary!"
The elevator arrived, and I got in and pushed the button to force-close the doors. Punch Judy got mad and proceeded to curse at me in French.
The other thing I hated was that I was halfway up in the building. If I had been even one more floor up, I'd be in the premium section, where the apartments were double the size and almost as good as the penthouse levels. C'est la vie, as Punch Judy would say. Such was my unlucky life.
The hallways were always dimly lit, but I never felt uneasy walking to my place. I reached my suite—apartment 9732. With a sigh of relief, I pulled out my key, fastened by a chain to my belt, and unlocked my deadbolt. Immediately, a blast of air and mist enveloped me to eradicate all those external germs (more on that later). I was home now.
I LAY ON MY BED WITH my right forearm on my forehead. I thought about what Run-Time had said. He was right, of course. You create your own destiny by altering your own perception of things. Maybe, I did over-exaggerate a bit earlier. Besides Punch Judy, there was only three other sidewalk johnnies in the main lobby, and the only sniffing they were doing was from the cigarettes they were smoking. I chose to view the situation as negative, so it was. I always got a little soft before I fell asleep, and it always took me awhile to do that. It was the sounds of pouring rain from my side table radio that always helped me sleep best. The Concrete Mama's walls were so thick that, even if there was a hurricane force rainstorm outside, you wouldn't hear a thing. That's why I had the sounds radio. The rain could always lull me to sleep. Unlike most of the population, I didn't hate it. I hated the lack of sun, but not the rain.
"Capitalize," I heard Run-Time's voice in my mind. "Capitalize on your opportunities, or someone else will."
I guess it was better to focus on a friend's life advice, rather than the fact my future parents-in-law threatened to kill me by poison or knife-attack at the dinner table. But to me opportunities were like the elusive electric butterfly in a video game. You see it, but you can never get to it. It's the programmer's demented idea of a joke. Like the story of Prometheus. Eat all that heavenly food in the temple you want, only a flock of cannibalistic harpies will rip your guts out with their claws afterward. Only a lucky few can ever really capture the real opportunities. This was Metropolis, not fantasy land. Fairy tales are as rare in this city as a full day of direct sunlight.
"Yeah?"
I had answered the phone, with the video off, and was talking, but my conscious mind had not yet engaged. My eyes were still closed and I could have been dreaming, actually.
"Cruz," Run-Time's voice continued. "I need a favor."
"Yeah."
"I need someone to kick around a bit and do some investigating."
"Investigating?"
"Technically, anyone can do it, but I want a third party. Someone reliable with street smarts, who can do things discreetly. I thought of you. You're not on any gigs now, right?"
"Yeah."
"Come on down to the office tomorrow morning."
"Yeah."
"And Cruz."
"Yeah?"
"Take a look at the newspapers before you come in. The story about an Easy Chair Charlie and his ill-advised shootout with the police."
"Yeah."
I was a true vocabulary virtuoso when I was half asleep.
The electric roller coaster of life was about to snatch me.
PART FOUR
A Case or Not?
Chapter 10
Fat Nat
RUN-TIME'S BUSINESS empire, Let It Ride Enterprises, took up most of its monolith tower in the trendy, but wealthy, Peacock Hills on Electric Boulevard. There were the business districts of "old" money, and there were the "new" money business districts, like Peacock Hills. There wasn't a president or CEO of any business on this street over the age of 45.
Let It Ride's clientele was always treated like royalty, whether they were a foreign dignitary or celebrity, or some working stiff who paid for no more than a simple hovertaxi ride from one end of the block to the other. But I was more than clientele today; I was expected by Founder, President, CEO, and COO, Mr. Run-Time, himself.
He had three VPs, and it was the Lebanese female one who escorted me from the lobby after I greeted the reception staff—I was on a first name basis with all three receptionists—straight to the Man's office.
Run-Time greeted me with a handshake and a hug as he did with all his friends. It was always as if it were the first time he ever met you, but that was part of his charm. He only wore slim fit business suits, the expensive kind, with slim ties, along with his trademark flat cap. He had suits to match every color of the natural and synthetic rainbow. Yesterday, when he came to see me, he was in greens; today, it was powder blue.
He led me to his huge ivory desk, exquisite in every possible way. The female VP had already moved a third chair to the front of the executive desk, next to the two other men who were already seated. I recognized them as soon as I was led into the office. Fat Nat of
Joe Blows Smoking Emporium was the bigger man. I wasn't a smoker myself, but if you were part of the classic hovercar restoration or racing scene, you would have set foot in his place. Fat Nat was not fat at all, but I guess, Musclebound Nat didn't sound so good. With him was one of his buddies, who I had also seen before, Big G, but you called him G. He actually was fat and had the man-boobs to match. The men stood.
"Fat Nat," I said as I shook his hand. "Mr. G." I shook his hand.
We all took our seats.
"I've seen you before," Fat Nat said.
"Yeah," I answered. "Been to Joe Blows quite a few times. I'm into the hovercar restoration scene, and I've done some racing, just for kicks."
Fat Nat nodded with satisfaction.
"Cruz, did you have a chance to read the news?" Run-Time asked.
I leaned forward in my chair. "Easy Chair Charlie is dead?"
"Shot dead by cops," G said. "Well, shot dead in a shootout with cops."
Fat Nat looked at Run-Time. "I don't mean to be disrespectful, but what can a hovercar hobbyist and some-time sky-racer help us with? We need someone serious on this."
I chose not to be offended. "I may not be as serious as a heart attack, but I've been known to exhibit my share of seriousness."
"Cruz, here, can check around for us," Run-Time defended.
"Why can't it be one of your guys?" Fat Nat asked.
"For the exact same reason you don't want one of your guys involved," Run-Time answered. "None of us can have our names directly connected."
G added, "We need a fall-guy to give us plausible deniability."
"It's not like that," Run-Time interjected. "We need a trusted third-party to poke around discreetly."
"Poke around can mean a lot of things," Fat Nat said. "I still don't know why him?"
"Easy Chair Charlie, a mad gunman?" I looked at the men. "Impossible. Easy Chair Charlie was no gun-toting street gangster. He was a numbers guy. I heard he also got into the acquisition business, too, but nothing hardcore criminal. And a shootout with police? Impossible. He wasn't stupid or crazy."
Liquid Cool (Liquid Cool, Book 1) Page 6
