Houston, 2030

by Mike McKay

  Yeah, ‘full of money,’ Mark thought. An average adult rag-picker would make about three hundred, maximum three hundred and fifty, a day. How much would it be in the pre-Meltdown dollars? Two dollars and eighty cents! Back then, this sum would hardly buy a single beer. The good news, now the booze was relatively cheaper. Thirty bucks for a glass of local beer, forty- for a shot of a moonshine. The former contained various substitutes instead of barley, was unfiltered, and frequently went sour; the latter would be a certified poison, but all these minor issues would not prevent the landfill workers spending their daily wages in the endless saloons strategically positioned along the highway.

  “No need to walk the whole ten miles,” Mike proposed a solution, “in the morning, I can take you three to the cemetery on my trike. You will attend the funerals, then walk back slowly. This will be still quite a distance, although.”

  “Excellent!” Clarice clapped her hands, “so are we going?”

  “Mike needs to be at the plant before seven. If I understand you right, you propose to wake up at five tomorrow?” William disagreed. “And what the hell will we be doing at the empty cemetery between seven and ten?”

  “I know! That is not a problem,” Clarice said, “instead of the cemetery, Mike will drop us at the Day-Pay. Right? It works from six till nine. After nine, we have plenty of time to get to the cemetery, it's not far at all.”

  “The Day-Pay is not a good place to shake your bucket,” Mike commented, “I pass it every morning and see how many vets are hanging around there. And – the workers do not have much to donate anyway. They are sitting at the Day-Pay because they have no job, remember?”

  Clarice kissed her husband in the ear. “Pumpkin, we must go. Frankly, I am pretty bored doing our market every day. Please, please, please… Besides, our Davy has not been to the Beaumont Highway yet.”

  She said ‘the Beaumont Highway’ as if talking of the Disneyland or the Six Flags Over Texas, Mark thought. Of course, she meant that little arcade! There were even a Merry-Go-Round, and Bumper Cars. The owner had to run his own electric generator at the back, but despite the expensive gas was still turning an excellent profit. Kids were kids. Even the grown-up-and-pregnant kids, like Clarice.

  Before the Meltdown, life had way more fun. Mark and Mary did not like sitting at home on the weekends. They took William and Michael to all kinds of entertainment places (their daughters and the youngest son, Patrick, – were born after the Meltdown, and missed practically all of it.) The NASA Space Center, 35 miles. The Museum District, 20. The Schlitterbanh water park in Galveston, 50 miles. Or even the huge, famous Schlitterbanh in the New Braunfels, and all the attractions in San-Antonio, 190 miles away! Driving fifty miles was quite comfortable, save for the usual ‘Are we there yet?’ moaning from the back seat. And even two hundred miles weekend trip, with a motel stay overnight, was not too difficult. The magic of effortless travel, performed by almost every adult American with a car and a tank-full of gas! Now the plan for Davy's exciting day trip was as following: ride a cargo trike to the landfill, hang around the noisy labor market and attend a boring funeral ceremony for some unknown man and woman (the latter would have some excitement although – a rifle salute and a free lunch.) Then, walk with a blind amputee beggar father from saloon to saloon and from bar to bar, until Mom points out: look, Davy, THE ARCADE! No doubts, they would get tickets for the Merry-Go-Round. The little boy would wait for their turn in a long line, excited. Then, he would cling to the back of a fiberglass pony, doing loop after loop, watching thousands of color lights, enjoying the ride. All three and a half minutes of it!

  “OK, honey, pull my uniform out. Get the bloody medal, too,” William agreed: “the real pity, I am going to miss The Fugitive re-run on the SRTV tonight. With Harrison Ford and Tommy Lee Jones! I like that part, when the Deputy Gerard blows off the man's head and says: I don't bargain…”

  “You have seen it approximately two hundred times, pumpkin,” Clarice kissed her husband again, now in the lips.

  “Not in my brand-new twenty-twenty vision, honey,” William disagreed, returning the kiss. He laughed to his own joke. The ‘twenty-twenty’ referred to William's vision after his return from the Dumpster. He claimed that his damaged left eye had a twenty-twenty vision: twenty-by-twenty pixels, to be exact. Point-zero-zero-zero-four megapixel! He came up with this joke around the Halloween last year, when he just started collecting for the Salvation Way. “One dude at the market,” William explained, “he is a bit of a technology history geek. He told me, the first TV, about one hundred years ago, had only thirty lines! There was such a mechanical thingy, the Nipkow disk, they called it. And the image was strictly black-and-white. Then, we started counting how many lines I have in my left eye. Well, the result was about twenty. Not as good as the first TV, but the image is in full color. Point-zero-zero-zero-four megapixel is not too much, sure. But still better than the NLP, the full zero, right?”

  There was a little delay. Once they started snogging, Clarice could not physically stop for at least five minutes. Finally, the young woman unwrapped herself from her husband and stumbled upstairs to prepare the clothes. The preparations took all evening. Mike and the younger kids made an extra water run and filled all empty jerrycans, so they would not need to do it in the morning. To press her best dress and William's uniform, Clarice went to borrow an iron from Mrs. Kong, their cul-de-sac neighbor. Electric irons were not in use anymore, – they consumed too much power, and the house batteries would be wasted too quickly. The Mrs. Kong's iron was a subject of her special pride, and was modified as per the latest technology: with a perforated metal box under the handle. One would have to make a fire, wait until it burns through, and then place the smoldering coals into the box. Ironing was an art in itself. It got to be done quickly and without setting clothes and house on fire. On a normal day, most people would not bother with such a complex task, and ironed clothing was reserved just for special occasions…

  Mark, Mike, William, Clarice and little Davy departed home at six: Mark on his bike and the others on Mike's cargo tricycle. For a mile or so, Mike was puffing on pedals, trying to keep up with Mark, but finally gave up and told Mark to ride on. Mark turned to the C.E.King Parkway, and continued to the Station. He and Kim spent another morning checking the database hits for Hobsons, this time – on the west side of the Garret Road Slum. Mark's phone rang at a little past one – their ‘TV volunteer’ had brought her funerals' video. Mark pedaled back to the Station as fast as he could, – the address search today was as fruitless as the one yesterday, and he held some, perhaps unnecessary high, hopes for the video.

  At the Station, Tom introduced Mark to their volunteer agent – a girl about sixteen. She was dressed as a typical rag-picker: barefoot, in military pants, ragged T-shirt, and with wide-brimmed straw hat. Her ears were pierced in no less than ten places, with an impressive collection of different style earrings. Over the neck, she had a necklace made of colorful Lego bricks, with matching Lego bracelet on her left wrist and Lego anklet on her right ankle. An elaborate tattoo started at the girl's neck and ended up on her right cheek. The tattoo depicted a strange hybrid: half-Hydra, half-plant, with snake heads growing next to leaves and flowers. One of the Hydra heads on the cheek was not yet fully punched-in, just a black contour and a diamond-shaped eye. A basket with landfill tools completed the outfit. She had a hook with four-foot wooden handle for pulling apart heaps of junk, a spear-like probe with a long nail for the tip – for collecting paper and plastic scraps, and a pair of ‘skis’ – yard-long wooden planks with flip-flop like straps attached to the top. Such planks helped to walk over the unstable garbage with less risk of falling through.

  “Alice is our neighbor,” Tom explained, “I thought she would be a perfect candidate. Currently between the jobs, and goes to the Day-Pay in the morning, so nothing conspicuous. Understands the camera basics too…”

  “Nice meeting you, Alice. Are you really a rag-picker, or is it a make-believe f
or today?” Mark asked shaking the girl's hand.

  “Real, sir,” she answered. Her handshake was fast, confident, and firm, almost macho-style. “Have been around the 'Fill for a couple of years.”

  They proceeded to the meeting room and inserted the camera's memory stick into Tom's laptop. “We forced the camera to higher ISO and one over two hundred exposure, so each frame is as sharp as possible,” Tom explained. The video on the wall LCD panel started rolling.

  “I came forty minutes before the service, as Tom told me,” Alice explained. “Here comes the local competition,” she pointed to the screen. There was another young woman with a hand camera, preparing to roll the footage. “She asked me why the heck I am filming on her territory. I lied that I volunteered for the Salvation Way…” They thought about this. Mr. Todd was informed, and if asked he would confirm he ordered Alice a short video for the charity promotion.

  After a brief interruption, the camera started showing people arriving for the service. Exactly as Mark agreed with Mr. Todd, there were no photos of victims in front of the chapel. They set the slightly doctored postmortem shots inside, next to the closed coffins. If somebody wanted to attend the service just for the purpose of learning the identity of the dead, he or she would have to pass through the front doors.

  “Here I am pretending I am not filming,” Alice commented. Filming continuously would be unusually suspicious. The TV stations would seldom require anything longer than ten minutes of footage, why to waste batteries? As instructed, Alice held the camera at the shoulder level without looking at the screen, and once in a while would lower it, as if making a pause, but would actually keep the recording rolling at all time.

  The grave diggers appeared first, readily recognized by their somewhat dirty pants' knees and footwear. Then, there were eight men in Salvationists' uniforms: a five-strong music band and three volunteers with rifles. All of them were vets, but most had their artificial legs hidden under the uniform slacks. Only two men had an obvious handicap: the band drummer was missing his right hand, and had a drumstick attached to the stump by duct tape, and one of the guards with rifles wore a pirate peg-leg instead of more cosmetic prosthesis. The band lined up at the entrance and started playing some version of funeral music. After filming outside for a little while, Alice walked inside the chapel and took position close to the coffins sat on a tiny stage. The entire hall, with neat rows of benches, and the entrance door were perfectly framed.

  “You are pretty good with the camera, Alice,” Alan commented. “You are probably wasting your talent at the McCarty.”

  “If anybody would pay me any money for making videos, I would not be looking for day jobs at the 'Fill,” Alice smiled, pointing at the screen. “Anyway, watch the main crowd arriving…”

  The chapel hall was quickly filling with people. Most in attendance were either Salvation Way volunteers or war vets, who were looking forward to the promised charity luncheon. Mark saw William, Clarice, and little Davy entering. William's uniform, which used to be three sizes larger than needed, now was re-tailored by Clarice and fitted perfectly. His freshly cleaned Purple Heart was shiny, and even his black silk ribbon over the empty eye socket looked as a military decoration of sorts. Mark mentioned how Clarice was showing William direction by pulling his empty sleeve at the right moments, while Davy was walking next to his father, proudly holding the second empty sleeve.

  “This young lady does not fit the profile…” Natalie suddenly fingered the screen. There was an Amerasian woman in her mid-twenties, alone. She was dressed in crimson tunic, quite unfitting for the funerals. The woman moved forward to the stage and had a good look at the victims' photographs. Then, as if she could not decide if to leave immediately or wait, she wandered around the chapel and finally sat at the last bench, close to the entrance.

  “Look at her neck scarf,” Alan pointed, “I can bet my last cup of real coffee she is hiding her dog-collar under it. I can't lose, unless someone ever tried to cut her throat, but the latter is unlikely.”

  The procedure for sex worker registration was reasonably cruel. After filling a computer form and paying the license fee, the prostitutes were photographed, fingerprinted, sampled for sexually transmitted diseases and finally ‘dog-tagged.’ A short length of steel cable would be wrapped around the neck, and the ends swaged with a special wireless ID tag. By design, it was not conveniently removable; cutting the cable with a hacksaw or otherwise tempering with the device or cable automatically invalidated the license. While the hookers were ‘at work,’ they were also required by law to show the tag to any customer, although such rule was not strictly enforced, so most would place a scarf or some other fashion accessory over it.

  “Already on it,” Natalie said reversing the video to select a point good enough for the facial recognition, “I also think she is a registered SSP. This would be typical, if a pimp sent one of his pass girls to check on the stiffs.”

  Natalie stopped the video at the proper frame and pressed the screenshot button. After sending an e-mail to herself, she ran to her desk to start the face recognition software.

  The rest continued through the video. The usual funeral stuff: a prayer, the priest making a short speech, the coffins being lifted and carried out of the chapel, the procession to the fresh grave, one more speech – this time by Mr. Todd, another prayer, and finally – three rifle firings: the military honors to the departed Engineer and his ‘girlfriend.’ Alice was diligent to point the camera to every face and make a close shot. The woman in crimson tunic joined the procession, but quietly left right after the coffins had been put in the grave. The video ended with the shots from the charity luncheon. A mobile charity kitchen was delivered by volunteers on two cargo tricycles. The menu was the Salvation Way's standard: a thick rice soup with veggies and a hint of chicken. For the funerals, a keg of local beer had been added. Everybody sat with their bowls on the grass alongside the chapel. Following the CSI's instructions, Alice once again took time to walk along the path and have close-shot pictures of all the people participating in the ceremony. Mark saw Clarice, with little Davy on her laps. Juggling between three spoons, she somehow managed to feed helpless William, feed Davy and eat herself at the same time. The one-armed drummer consumed his soup next to them. From time to time, he would pick up a glass with opaque home-brewed beer to William's lips.

  The video had ended, and they thanked Alice for the great work. Unfortunately, the FBI would not be able to pay for it, – the budgets were strictly limited. Mark and the CSIs chipped in their own money to give the young rag-picker a small award. Two hundred dollars would be a bit less than what she could make for a day at the landfill, but still a fair pay for the half-day of work. Tom also promised to take the girl for lunch in the near future. By the time Alice left, Natalie had the face search result. She came to the meeting room and put a fresh print-out on the table.

  “We have a positive hit, gents! Jennifer, or Jen Lien, born in 2006. Her juvenile criminal record – as long as my arm. She tried all the usual: street drug pushing, petty burglary, underage prostitution, illegal pregnancy termination, you name it. Back in 2025, right after the new SSP laws were passed, she was careless enough to get herself caught with a client, who gave her up, written statement and all. Considering the criminal record, she had to pay a fine and register or go to jail for a long while. She selected the former. According to our intel, she since has been a pass girl for a pimp named Joe Vo. That Vo is a smart cookie, apparently. Will be difficult to make him talk…”

  The ‘pass girl’ referred to a gaping legislation hole, frequently exploited by pimps. A pimp would be registered and have several registered hookers under him. Each hooker in turn would be controlling several unregistered prostitutes. Once the client made contact with the pimp, one of the registered prostitutes would go with the client and try to figure out if the client was an undercover cop. Picking up a registered SSP was strictly legal, so neither pimp nor the hooker could be charged. If the client ch
ecked out, the pass girl then would bring him ‘home’ to have a ‘quick sex’ (almost always as quick as one short kiss) and receive the agreed sum of money. Before leaving, she would introduce the client to her ‘friend,’ who was in fact an illegal prostitute. The client would stay behind and ‘continue.’ He would never pass any money to the ‘friend,’ so it would be technically not a sex trade. The pass girl would later share part of the generous pay she received for a quick kiss with the unregistered girl who did all the ‘work.’ This money exchange was almost impossible to prove, so the Police was quite helpless against the scheme. Their only hope was if the illegal hooker was underage or if she could be tricked into giving a statement against the legal hooker and the pimp. Even then, the pimp would more often than not get away free, while the pass girl would pay a small fine, immediately refunded by her pimp, no big loss here.