“Cruz eats with chopsticks all the time, Ma,” Dot said.
Mrs. Wan gave her a questioning look, but after a combination of grunts and gestures from Dot, she understood. I lifted the chopsticks and smiled at the house matron. Mrs. Wan did not smile back.
Dot was the savior of the evening. She spoke to them in Chinese, then to me, and translated for all. After a while, it was almost fun as I never had to “talk” to the folks. The food was exceptional. I had Chinese food plenty of times before, and it was never bad, but this was gourmet eating. I already made a note to get the recipes from Dot.
Then, darkness fell upon the land.
“I’ll be right back,” Dot said. “Little girls’ room for me.”
I watched China Doll walk off and disappear around the corner. I felt the knot in my stomach. My eyes turned to her parents. They hated me. I could see it in their eyes. The father’s gaze was a glare. The mother had a snarling frown as she watched me. She leaned forward.
“You are a bum,” she said and I was taken aback. “A bum! Why don’t you go away? We will never permit our daughter to marry a bum. What are you? A Laborer.” The woman knew how to hit below the belt. “That’s your occupational title on your ID card. We know all about you. What is that, but a bum? You have no prospects, no job, no career, no future. You offer nothing to our daughter, because you are nothing. We will not permit our daughter to become nothing. Throw away all her hard work, her advanced degrees, her potential, her promising future as a businesswoman, leader, and role model for our community on a bum like you.” She pointed her finger at me. “I will poison your food, you bum. You don’t go away and leave our daughter be, we’ll get you.”
The father leaned forward my way and said, “We’ll cut you. Cut, cut.”
“Poison,” the mother repeated. “I spit on your burrito!”
The flush from the bathroom reverberated throughout the house. Dot appeared smiling and looked at me. Obviously, her intention for leaving me alone with her parents was far different than the hell that had transpired.
“We should eat in the living room, and you can see the funny Chinese language TV my parents watch,” she said.
I glanced at them—the mother had a slight smile on her face.
“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?”
&nb
sp; 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.
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