“How can I help, Mr. Cruz, the consultant?” Another man came from behind, rolling up another chair next to me. “This is my Chief of Staff.”
The trash boss needed a chief of staff? That’s silly, I thought.
“Mr. Cruz,” he greeted me, too.
He sat and opened up a digital notepad with one hand as he held a stylus pen with the other.
“How can I help you, Mr. Cruz?” Trash Boss repeated. “The Surf Brothers told me you’ve known them for years.”
“They have a couple of very nice classic vehicles. I helped restore them. Well, Mr. Pyle, to get right to it, I need access to some video tapes.” I leaned forward in my chair. “Is this conversation subject to public record?”
“Listen to him,” the Trash Boss said to his chief and then turned to me. “You sound like a lawyer. No, it’s private. What video are you talking about?”
“Back in the day, when I was interning for the police in school, I learned a little known fact. I’d say secret. I learned that your office had a dotted line report to the Chief of Police. Something like that sticks in the mind of a kid. How is it that the trashman is partners with the policeman? I learned that one reason was that your people in the field often come across weapons, contraband, and bodies obviously of interest to the police. But the other reason is because all those garbage hovertrucks out there, every last one, like every police and fire vehicle, is also a flying camera and is always recording.”
The two men watched me quietly.
“Who told you that?” the chief of staff man asked me. “Because it’s not true. Some vehicles have surveillance for insurance and safety purposes, but they are not part of some city surveillance network as you seem to be saying.”
I glanced at the chief with a look of annoyance and returned my focus to the Trash Boss. “Can you help me out, Mr. Pyle?” I reached into my pocket and placed a highlighted report on his desk. “It’s obvious I can keep a secret. I’ve already demonstrated that for almost twenty years. I know your people don’t even know their vehicles are rigged for public surveillance, and I’m not interested in them finding out. With so many involved in off-the-record, off-the-books salvage, you’d have a full-scale mutiny. But I’m sure you could get a video to me. The highlight on the report has to do with a woman, who had her daughter kidnapped.”
The annoying chief of staff said, “There’s a kidnapping every hour in the city.”
I gave him another of my “shut up” looks, then returned my attention to Trash boss. “What do you say?”
“Mr. Cruz, unfortunately, the information you were given is completely incorrect. My fleet is not rigged for surveillance. The union would have my scalp if we ever did, especially secretly, as you’re suggesting. I like my job and want to keep it. What makes this one kidnapping so important, anyway? My Chief of Staff is right; kidnappings happen every day. Think about the consequences of what you’re asking, even if it were true.”
“Yeah, it would be tied up in the courts forever on privacy grounds. I don’t care about that. I have a specific range of times and specific areas I’m interested in. I’ll sit through all the video myself.”
“No such tapes exist, Mr. Cruz.”
“Oh, did you hear about the reward being offered? I’ll split it with you.”
“Sorry, we can’t help you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry I wasted your time, Mr. Pyle. And your chief of staff. Umm. Who’s Mr. Dyer?”
The men gave me dirty looks.
“You know exactly who the president of the Trash and Waste Services Union is, Mr. Cruz.”
Chapter 36
Just Me
THE REVIEW FROM THE Corporate Guy was like gold in getting in front of other people in the corporate world. I had PJ print a ton of intro cards with their reviews prominently displayed on the back. None of them cared about me or my credentials. All that mattered was that I was referred by a fellow corporatist. The review for the Government Guy had the same effect within government circles. I wanted to make sure I established myself as a generalist detective, right from the start. The Guy Who Scratched My Vehicle and family were the icing on the cake in telling people I worked for the Average Joe too. I had the business trifecta—corporate, government, and the people.
Clients were fine, but in the end, could they pay me?
When I called PJ into my office, she had her normal Punch Judy swagger that said “whatcha want?” like I often did when I was in my moods. After I tossed her a wad of bills—her bionic hand made sure not to drop it—she couldn’t stop smiling.
“How do you know what secretaries earn in salary?”
“I looked it up on the Net.”
“Are you paying me below market or above market?”
“Above market. Liquid Cool is a classy joint with a reputation.”
She stuffed the wad of cash into her bra. I had told Phishy women don’t do that in real life.
“I really didn’t need to see that,” I said.
The rest of the day would be her telling me, or talking to herself—I couldn’t tell which, about all the shoes and new dresses and jewelry she was going to buy with her first official paycheck.
For me, I sat behind my desk, leaning back in the chair with my feet on my desk and hands interlaced, cradling the back of my head. I wasn’t playing detective; I was one. I had an office, one employee, slick weapons, the business cards to prove I was real, and clients that paid me with checks that didn’t bounce. As the saying went, Life was good, and even I had a hard time suppressing a smile.
But Wilford G.‘s How to be a Great Detective with 100 Rules warned me. “The quickest way to go from being a working private eye to being a dead one was being content. Contentment was the devil. It makes you stupid and slow. If you caught yourself smiling, slap yourself. If you’re feeling good, get off your butt and go get another client, because you clearly have too much free time. Never forget that the working detective is an endangered species. A wide variety of punks want to do bodily violence to you. They want to put you in the morgue meat market. You want contentment? Go be a monk on Xanadu Pleasure Colony. You want to be a working detective, never smile. There’re a lot of grinning dead detectives in the morgue. Keep your hand on the trigger of your favorite piece, and your head always in the game. Be the hero, even if it hurts. Then maybe, possibly, a small chance, you’ll live as long as me, with some cash to rub together.”
I think that’s what endeared me to Wilford G. immediately. He embraced the word, hero. He said forget all that anti-hero, psycho-babble, fake suave crap. Never buy into that “fight the System,” “fight the Man,” “fight the Power” nonsense. Stay away from the politics, leave the cosmic brooding behind, and stay away from the negative, victim mentality stuff. “A true detective cannot and can never be a victim. We fight the odds, the system, and bad guys. That’s why we get hired.” “People want a champion in their corner.” “The societal scientist, Isaac Asimov, invented three laws for the robot that we still use today. I have three laws for the modern urban detective. What is your number one?
“If ‘helping people’ or some like phrase isn’t Number One, then get out now. If you’re in this racket for anything else, then you have no chance. You’re going to have to do a lot of bad to do good, and it better be bad things against bad people. If your motives are not pure to begin with, then forget it. You’re either a criminal or about to become one—you’re one of the bad guys. Close my damn book! My book is for good guys.”
I remember, I laughed out loud when I read that. The other thing he said that stuck with me was his answer to why he was a detective for so long. “Why? Because it’s an adventure, and danger is the price of admission, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.” The passage calmed me down after my first sucker shooter at my place.
I had all the ingredients necessary to make it as a private investigator in this crazy supercity of Metropolis. As I heard the launch control say so often, prior to any manned sp
ace flight, “All systems were a go.” Figuratively speaking, it was up to me to make sure my rocket ship didn’t get blown up in space, crash into a star, or get sucked into a black hole. Wilford G. had many sayings, and I had mine. “Being a detective ain’t no joke.”
Waiting for me at my place was a ton of files, courtesy of Compstat Connie, all from the night Easy Chair Charlie got himself killed. I would leave PJ in charge of the office for two weeks, have Phishy look in on her and do some associated errands for me, and give Dot some away-time (since I was still technically in the “doghouse” with her after the shooting the man out of the window incident), while I locked myself in the “box” at my place, clad in boxers alone. I wouldn’t emerge from the Concrete Mama until I assimilated every bit of that data with my OCD self.
The next time this office saw me would be for the real beginning of the Liquid Cool Detective Agency.
PART EIGHT
Formerly Known as The Easy Chair Charlie Case
Chapter 37
Phishy
TWO WEEKS AGO, IT BEGAN. I parked my Pony, went up to my place, and locked the door behind me. But before I did all that, I had to do one thing with a former-frenemy before I walked through the door to see another former-frenemy. Before I entered my Box, there were two words I had to say:
“Shoot me,” I said.
Phishy had a pained expression on his face. There were many nooks and crannies in Metropolis one could find to do bad things in. We were in an above-ground, unused aqueduct. I stood at one end and Phishy was three yards away facing me.
“Cruz, this is the craziest thing you’ve ever done. You’re supposed to avoid getting shot.”
“I’m subconsciously scared of getting shot.”
“What’s wrong with that? All normal people are. I’m scared of getting shot.”
“You don’t understand. When I was a kid and we were playing dumb soccer on the field, I was the goalie, and I was really good. I stopped everything that came at me. But one day, one of the bigger boys kicked the ball so hard, purposely below the waistline. The ball almost hit me in the nuts. From that day forward, I was useless. Every kick from anyone I imagined was going to hit me in the nuts. I had to stop being goalie. I was scared, and everyone knew it. I was defeated by my mind, not the actual thing. Big boy had found my Achilles heel, and mentally, I could never get around it.
“But I’m not a kid anymore. You defeat your fears by tackling them head-on. Scared of heights? Go skydiving. Scared of deep water? Become a scuba diver. I can’t be a detective if I am afraid of getting shot and get all wobbly in the knees at the possibility,” I said.
“But fear keeps you from being shot.”
“Phishy, I’ve already been shot at three times in less than a month of being a detective. What do you imagine will happen in the years to come? I can’t be afraid. Fear and reflexes will keep me from getting killed, but I can’t be paralyzed by the fear of getting shot. The only way to overcome my fear is…to get shot. After that, my mind will be at ease. It will say, ‘self, I’m not afraid of getting shot. Because I already have.’”
“Cruz, that’s some pretty bad logic to me.”
“I know my OCD mind, and it makes perfect sense. Phishy, you’re not killing me, I’m wearing a vest!”
“Bulletproof vests are not force fields. You’re going to hurt bad and the blast will…why are you doing this now?”
“Phishy, don’t shoot me in the face! Keep the red laser-sight where it’s supposed to be!”
“What ever happened to your Box?”
“It starts tomorrow. Two weeks locked in my place. Recovering from the pain will also help me focus my mind when I assimilate all the data I need.”
“You’ll be black and blue.”
“That’ll heal.”
“It’ll knock the wind out of your lungs.”
“My lungs will suck it all back in. We’re not in outer space.”
I braced my body in my nice coat and hat. I looked around and realized if this put me on my back, I’d be in the water and muck of this tunnel. My germophobic self wouldn’t allow me to put any piece of my clothing on ever again, no matter how many times they were dry-cleaned.
“Wait.” I had the emergency work blanket and spread it out behind where I was standing. But then, I realized I had no clue where I’d fall back. It was possible I would fall to one knee or fall forward. “Damn!” My trunk blanket was already on the muck. I was over-thinking again. Well, I was overdue for some shopping, I thought, as I walked back to where I was standing.
“Phishy, let’s get on with it.”
“Are you really, really sure?”
“No, but it’s the best way I can think of.”
“Getting shot isn’t fun.”
“I already know that, Phishy; let’s go.”
“Okay. On a count of three. One. Two. Three.”
Phishy shot me with the shotgun center mass in my chest. All I remember was the pain, as if a hovercar crashed into my chest and sent me flying back. I can’t remember if I cried out like a girl, but then most people would cry out like a girl, male or female, with a blast of pain like that.
I remembered smiling though, because with my fear of getting shot being taken away (by being shot), when I walked back into my Liquid Cool office in two weeks, I would be ready to be one badass detective.
Chapter 38
Punch Judy
WHEN I WALKED BACK into my offices fifteen days later, I didn’t quite know what to expect. Half a month was a long time for the principal of a new business to be absent. They say when you start a new company you’re a slave to it for at least ten years, no time off and no vacations. Maybe so, but I did what I had to.
The door was open, and there was Punch Judy with her arms folded with a smile.
“Well, look what came in from the rain,” she said. “Is that a new hat?”
“New hat, new coat,” I answered.
“When you get new things they’re supposed to be different than the old ones.”
“I like the colors I had. All I needed was some modifications.”
I felt different, and it was more than the new clothes. PJ could manage the office without me for a while. I was impressed.
“You look rested, too,” she said. “Was that the first time you ever slept? Did you ever leave your place?”
“Not even once. Defeats the purpose of the Box.”
“Box? What is the Box? You locked yourself in your place for two weeks like a house mouse. All these fancy phrases and concepts for simple things. So when I sat on the steps of our building, was I in the Box?”
“No. You were sidewalk sallying it. The Box is doing something specific without anyone to bother you.”
“What did you do in your box?”
“Planned out my destiny to be the greatest detective in Metropolis.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” PJ proclaimed. “You need to go into the Box more often. You are too negative most of the time. People don’t like to hire negative people. Keep talking like that, and you’ll have all the clients. Speaking of clients, when am I getting more money?”
“Before all that, what suspicious people were around the office?”
“No one.”
“No one?”
“Just that stupid man, Phishy. Why do you associate with him? He kept coming by and tried to get into your office, but I wasn’t allowing that.”
“As I knew you would do.”
“He kept trying to tell me he was your partner, the stupid man. The liar.”
“He’s another employee, but on retainer.”
“Good. I know who to call when we need lunch pick-up.”
“Like that shotgun you have under your desk? Phishy.”
“So he’s a criminal.”
“Says my felon employee. So no one came up here besides Phishy in two weeks?”
“No one.”
“Well…good.”
“When you look at your messages on you
r desk, the ones on the top are the ones you call first.”
“Why is that?”
“They’re the easiest to solve. So quick money.”
“Why do you need money? What were you doing when you were sidewalk sallying it, living on the gov’s dime?”
“That was then, and I took no money from the government. All my side money came from the dividends of my accident settlement, which you know about.”
“Dividend and legacy, baby.”
“Just like you.”
“No cash nest egg for me. All side-gigs.”
“But now we have real jobs.”
“That’s the rumor. I question your definition of an easy case.”
“Easy. Quick to solve. Quick to pay. Quick to pay me.”
“Which means, they’re either not worth my time or super-dangerous, but I’ll look at them. While I look at the messages, I want you to research everything on a Detective Box.”
“All this box talk. Who’s he?”
“Someone I plan to visit when I go back out in 30 minutes. All the good, bad, and ugly on him.”
“Is he going to be a paying client?”
“He may lead me to some leads for an existing client.”
“You have clients, now? I thought you solved all of them.”
“Detective Box,” I repeated as I walked to my office.
PJ ran to her desk and shook her mobile computer to activate it, then her bionic fingers typed faster than the speed of light.
I walked to my office and opened the door. It was a bit musty, but everything was as I’d left it. And, the window that sucker shooter thug fell out of to become one with the surface was still boarded up by steel. How long would it take to fix and how much more money was I going to have to spend to do it? I simply put the whole thing out of my mind.
“What’s been going on?” I asked as I took off my tan slicker and draped it over my main desk.
“The phones were nonstop,” she said. “You have a serious backlog. I have all the calls ready for you.” PJ was holding her electronic notepad, scrolling down her messages on the display. “So you better get to it. I need to get paid again.”
Liquid Cool Page 17
