by Mike McKay
“I was afraid it… It was Joe who killed Mel and Nick. Last week, my brothers and I slept here, at the 'Fill. Spending the night at the 'Fill is ‘ab-so-lutely prohibited.’ ‘Ab-so-lutely,’ it's their special word. The guards, I mean. You have to pay fifty bucks instead of five to get here. And if Joe is after us or not- I don't know. He doesn't want me to be his hooker, that's for sure. He himself said: all my girls are top-class. I don't keep any ugly ones. Am I… Am I really so ugly?”
“Just the opposite, Jasmine. You're very pretty, trust me on this. Joe has wrong standards. He doesn't understand the human beauty. He's not a human himself, that's why… Now that I told you Nick and Mel were not killed by Joe, – are you going to return home? Sleeping here at the 'Fill is, in fact, not good for you. ‘Absolutely’ or ‘not absolutely’.”
“I'm still afraid. Joe doesn't want me, but he can do some crap… bad thing, I mean – for Millie and Bertie. I'm thinking, we should sleep here for a while. Safer, right?”
It would be so nice at this point to make a manly face, stick out your square chin and say: “I'll be back!” Mark fantasized. His imagination drew how he, together with Sergeant Investigator Zuiko, bursts into the lair of Joe Vo, clutching an ‘Uzi’ sub-machine gun in each hand, how the spent cartridges fly in all directions, and Vo's ‘boys’ get peppered with neat red bullet holes. How Joe wets his pants. And how Sarge, with an audible crunch, expertly breaks Joe's neck vertebrae… For some incomprehensible reason, in the imagination, Joe was sitting behind a huge computer screen, as a typical villain in some spy thriller movie from the last century. Finally, Mark would come back to the dam, slightly wounded and a bit tired, and would say calmly: “You may go home, Jasmine. Joe has no time for you. He has other worries now. Some trouble… with his neck…” But Mark was a mere FBI agent, not an action hero. And it was a prosaic 2030, not one of the Schwarzenegger-Wallace-Eastwood 1980-s. The ‘Uzi’ one could borrow at the Station Chief's office, but strictly one per person, and with the proper approval (which Benito Ferelli seldom gave, considering the ammunition shortages.) Then, the borrower had to account for every spent cartridge. The Police had a sad joke that any officer should always leave the last cartridge for him or herself. After finishing the operation – shoot yourself in the head, and there would be no problems. Much faster and way more enjoyable than to fill all the paperwork.
“OK, Jasmine, I have a plan. I'll call one person here, at the 'Fill. Have you studied any Chemistry?”
“Nope. I've only four grades. Income-platted. I mean: I didn't finish the last two months. It's no good, right?”
“Never mind.” Mark got up and dialed a mobile of Frederick Stolz. His friend answered on the fourth ring.
“How's our Samantha?” Mark asked after the greetings.
“Perfectly fine. Mike was right: she does understand Chemistry,” Fred's voice crackled in the speaker, “alas, there are some gaps. With our school program, what do you expect? But we can fix those rather quickly.”
“May I ask you for a favor, Fred?”
“For you, Mark, – anything!”
“At your plant – is where a place to sleep? Three kids, for a couple of weeks? Consider it to be under the FBI. Witnesses Protection.” That's how we do the Witness Protection nowadays, Mark said to himself. The FBI had no budget for it anymore, so they had to improvise.
“In the ‘office.’ Only – no particular comforts. The ‘office’ is a much glorified name. You may call it anything, the shack remains a shack. But sure, they can sleep in there. The night watchman should be happy. He will send them to fetch water, look after the boiler, and all.”
“Well, then, twenty minutes from now, we will be at your place. Please, do not be scared. I will be a bit… dirty. It looks as if I was digging garbage at the 'Fill, all day long. Ever read from Conan Doyle, how Sherlock Holmes was able to transform into anyone?”
Chapter 17
Mark decided not to go back to the Station. Initially, he wanted to wash himself at the synthetic gasoline plant, but discovered that the water there was not any better than in the landfill pond. He opted for the safer option, and came to the bank of the West Canal, few hundred yards from their own backyard. Lucky enough, it was raining. He would not need to explain his wet clothes to Mary, and would not need to apologize to the neighbors for abusing their water supply.
There was a long standing controversy, if the water in the West Canal could be used for drinking. Some pointed out that the canal originated from the Sheldon Reservoir, and thus should be considered safe enough, if only all the other neighbors upstream would not wash themselves and laundry their clothes in it. The others insisted that hence for the most there was no other way, some soap should be allowed in the canal, and for the drinking water everybody would have to go to a community well or even all the way to the Sheldon-Res. In Mark's family, they preferred the latter, and the canal water was only for watering the veggies. Even the shower water they used was from the Reservoir. Good that they had Mike's trike and enough hands to do the daily water run.
Shivering under the drizzle, Mark undressed to his underpants and tried to wash the mud from his clothes. The canal water smelt of cheap soap and dirty latrine. Soon later, the distinct landfill odor had joined the bouquet, and almost made Mark throwing up. The landfill mud was fatty and sticky and refused to dissolve in the water. After washing off the mud from his clothes and shoes the best he could, Mark tried to wash himself. Granted, he would need a shower at home to feel more or less clean. Unfortunately, the home shower would not be any warmer than this, Mark thought. The day had been cloudy from the morning, and the water in the barrel had no chance to catch any sun.
At least, the day was not totally useless, Mark contemplated, while scrubbing the mud. Despite the advice from the Washington, he found the girl. Jasmine and her brothers did not need to sleep at the 'Fill anymore. Perhaps, Jasmine would even find herself a slightly better job. Frederick Stolz was very impressed with her practical knowledge of plastics, even if she did not know any Chemistry. Mark made a reasonable progress on the investigation too. He did not like if any questions remained unanswered. Now all the information fit into the picture, and the last crime scene contained no further mysteries. Apart of the mystery of the serial killer identity, Mark reminded himself.
With a bit of luck, Alex could deal with that Joe Vo gang. Not by the ‘Uzi’ guns, as in Mark's vivid imagination. No, it would be too perfect for a solution. Even during the golden pre-Meltdown times, the Police and the FBI could not (or rather would not) eliminate the organized crime. Their best hope was to keep the gangsters under tight control, a fine dynamic balance. How Alex once put it, a classical ballet of sorts. This guy in black would be the villain. And this handsome young man in white – a hero. They would jump, and turn, and spin, and even wave carton swords. And the villain would eventually hit the stage in agony, under the triumphant sounds of the brass from the orchestra. But then, at the very end, the villain in black and the hero in white would appear hand-in-hand in front of the public, bowing, in the row of the other dancers, – to enjoy their well-deserved standing ovation from the spectators down below and all around.
“And now imagine,” Alex said back then, “instead of the carton sword the white hero pulls the real one. And chops the villain – for real. With the blood all over the stage, and the head flying to the spectators in the parterre. Or the black villain, instead of one of those triple pirouettes, makes a for-real Karate kick, and the white hero is carried away with the permanent brain damage. There would be no standing ovation. As the matter of fact, most of the spectators would be totally disappointed with the show. You should not violate the rules of the art! The Police, and the Mafia can happily co-exist. Like those heroes and villains on the stage. And deliver the perfect show: day in and day out. What we really want to fight, and from both sides, are the unorganized crime and the unorganized militia. In my ballet example, it would be like some members of the public, after getting f
ew shots of Cognac too many during the intermission, climb onto the stage and try to dance alongside with the pros. No-o-o, we don't want any of those bozos around!”
Mark phoned Alex, explained that Jasmine Hobson was found, and told the Sergeant briefly about her story. The Bear was positive he could fix the issue.
“No problem,” he explained Mark, “now we have all the information we need. If pulling info out of Joe Vo is next to impossible, giving him the right hints is easy. It's a matter of right conversation strategy.”
“What strategy?” Mark asked.
“Simple. I will give Joe a friendly call. First, we will talk a bit about the weather. It is unusually wet for the April, isn't it? Then, we will talk hobbies. I will boast about my brand-new gas torch. I kid you not: it can be set for any temperature, from 600 to 1300 degrees! An excellent thing to have in your garage. Recommended! Then, I will tell Joe, he is fifty-five already and should pay close attention to his health. With all his smoking and drinking, he should seriously consider the regular proctologic exams, I would say.”
“All this sounds peaceful enough.”
“Absolutely. Then, we will start talking the running business, and I will ‘leak’ Vo the FBI finally got a good grip on the Butcher case. He will show no interest, of course, but he will listen. He was keen enough to send Lien to the funerals, after all. OK, I will tell Vo that we've learned the dead girl has been an illegal hooker, that she is from the GRS, and we are closely watching the three remaining kids from her family. They are our primary witnesses for the Sheldon Butcher case, I say. If something happens to those kids at all, I say, I will find whoever did it. And give this person a free gas-proctologic exam!”
“Gas-proctologic?”
“Yeah. It's almost like the normal proctologic exam, only with the gas torch. As the history goes, the original version of this delicate medical procedure was developed in Russia, back in the nineties. The Police used it for speedy cracking of the computer encryption passwords, and the Mafia – for convenient money transfers: from one secret Swiss bank account to another. Or was it the opposite way around? Only, the technology was inferior, and they utilized electric soldering irons. Barbarians!”
Mark shivered. You would never guess if the Bear described the real things or imaginary. “OK. To this, I am sure, Joe will listen.”
“I am sure like Hell, he will. And not even because of the gas torch. For starters, Joe surely made enough money on Amelia alone, and hopefully would prefer to keep his ass intact instead of going after the Hobson boys. Secondly, he doesn't want to be associated with the Butcher in any way. Bad for his business. Finally, I believe, I personally have some good publicity around the local gangs. Especially after the last thing. That was not one of the Joe's ‘boys,’ but such news always spread fast…”
“Wow! You did shoot that poor bustard in the foot, after all?”
Alex chuckled and repeated word-to-word what he told the judge: “I have no recollection, Your Honor. And I did not touch this gun. Honestly, I believe no good policeman should do such a thing, Your Honor. That would be a total disgrace for the whole Police Force…” Then, he chuckled again: “strictly between us, partner, that idiot shot himself. Bloody macho! The cartridge is in the chamber, the safety is off. And the faulty catch! Wanted to show me how proficient he was with the gun, ha! But humbly, who am I to spoil him his story? He will lose his face…”
Mark had no doubts that Alex was perfectly capable to deliver the message to Joe Vo, so the remaining Hobsons would be safe. The classic ballet – all by the rules of the art! Unfortunately, with the Civilization falling apart, the methods on both sides were getting less and less civilized. All these gruesome ‘nose jobs,’ and ‘beauty spas,’ and now the ‘gas-proctologic exams!’ How cool it was, when the only bad thing was to send somebody to ‘sleep with the fishes.’
There had been another major achievement today, Mark smiled to himself. Besides the investigation business, Mark managed to check on Samantha's new place of work! He promised himself so many times to visit Fred's synthetic gasoline plant to see what exactly Mike had been doing for these three years. But somehow, he never had time for it! He imagined the job was a bit like a mad scientist lab and dealt with some nasty chemicals. However, Mike came home happy, every Saturday – with a little bundle of cash in his pocket, and his clothes were reasonably clean and did not look and did not smell as bad as the ones of the 'Fill scavengers. Frankly, Mark was afraid to go. It was not like he mistrusted Frederick's judgment, but he kept hearing all these horror stories about the garbage recycling workshops, and their total disregard to safety.
Now, after his visit, Mark was assured the place was OK. Admittedly, it was a bit of shock at first. When he and Jasmine came to the plant, the laborers were loading scrap plastic into one of the bombs, while Fred and Samantha were draining yellow synthetic gasoline from another. The sweet smell of gas fumes filled the muddy yard. Mark's eyes instantly became watery, and he sneezed several times. For the personal protection, Samantha and Frederick had heavily scratched plastic goggles. Their noses were pinched with clothes line clips, and in their mouths both had corrugated plastic pipes. On the opposite side, the pipes were attached to the same large-diameter PVC sewage pipe running up and onto the roof of the plant shack. It looked like some sick science-fiction movie.
“Step back,” Frederick ordered, momentarily pulling his pipe from the mouth. Because of the clip on his nose, he sounded funny. He put the pipe back in and took a deep breath preparing for the next sentence. “This will only take another minute or two.”
The gasoline stopped dripping from the drain pipe, and Fred shut off the valve. He took one more deep breath from his pipe, plugged the end with a plastic cap and let the pipe go. “OK, all clear. Have to re-load this one, and we are done for today,” he told Mark, removing the goggles and the clothes line clip.
Mark pulled the air through his nose. The gas fumes almost dissipated. “What are these pipes, Fred?”
“Arne's invention. We call them ‘snorkels’,” Frederick explained, “we used to have respirators, but the filters eventually become pretty wasted. It's difficult to get good phenol filters nowadays.”
From behind Frederick's back, Samantha reassured her father: “it's OK, Dad! The ‘snorkel’ air is perfect! No fumes at all!” She still had the clip on her nose and the pipe in her mouth, tightening the jerrycan lids. Exactly as Frederick did before, she pulled the pipe out to shout a sentence, and then would stick the pipe back for the next breath of the clean air.
Jasmine was also impressed with the invention. “Wow, it's so cool! In the smelter shops, they had nothing like this. And in the paper shop too. Bertie and Millie, they always had red eyes and runny nose. From working with gee-paw-claw-reete!”
Frederick smiled. “Working with what, again?”
“Gee-paw-claw-reete, sir. Like a bleach. For making the re-circled paper white again.”
“Oh, that's sodium hypochlorite! You must be the girl who needs a place to stay for a little while?”
Mark nodded. “Jasmine. She is the one, her brothers, Albert and Milton, will be coming later. Jasmine, this is Mister Stolz.”
Frederick extended his hand for a shake. “How do you do, Jasmine? Apparently, your knowledge of Chemistry rivals some of my other workers! How did you remember it all: gee-paw-claw…?”
Samantha finished with the jerrycan lids, plugged and dropped her ‘snorkel,’ removed the clip, shifted her goggles over the forehead, and approached the trio. “Sammy, have you tested the potash weight yet?” Frederick asked.
“Yes, Mister Stolz. The titration is already done. I just need to do the calculations. Five minutes, tops.”
Only at this point Mark mentioned that his daughter was working barefoot. Behind the jerrycans, he could not see her feet. “What the hell happened to the rubber boots, Samantha?” he asked.
“Ah… the boots?” She made a worried glance. The working rubber boots, she ‘inherit
ed’ yesterday from Mike, were still secured under the seat of the cargo trike, exactly as Samantha fixed them in the morning.
“Samantha, you promised me to have them on. This morning, remember?”
Samantha employed her standard evasion tactic. She smiled, looked at her feet, as if she just realized she forgot to put her sandals on, and wiggled her toes in the thick black mud. “But Dad! It was raining all night and all morning! The mud is so-o-o soft today! And slippery. Without sandals – it's way better!” She always had a suitable excuse. If it was raining, the ground would be ‘so-o-o soft,’ if it was sunny, it would be ‘so-o-o warm,’ and in the winter it would be ‘so-o-o cool.’ If the pavement looked clean (and no pavement was really ‘clean’ since the Meltdown) it would be ‘squeaky-clean.’ And if the road was dirty, it words would be either: ‘such a nice dust’ or ‘such a nice mud in my toes,’ depending on weather. And always enjoyable! Like, Dad, why had you never tried it yourself?
