Liquid Cool: The Cyberpunk Detective Series (13 page)

But pretending to be a detective was not a wise life choice. I had already been looking at Labor statistics. It was categorized by government as a law enforcement occupation. It didn't have the highest percentage of deaths like cops and firemen, but it was close. It did have the leading percentage, by a huge margin, of arrest and incarceration. One of those jobs most likely to make you a jailbird. Dot didn't know these stats and I wasn't about to tell her.

I wondered if my fixation on the whole detective thing was because for too long I had nothing at all to fixate on. Idle people got excited at the most mundane. I was a laborer after all, a gig-worker. No permanent job, just odd job to odd job. I hated it, complained about it, but accepted it because I did nothing to change my situation. Millions of us sat around in our legacy housing all day and I was one of them. We were our version of the leisure class but when you're rich it's acceptable; when you're not, it's pathetic. Aimless was aimless to me no matter how much or how little cash you had in the bank. I never saw social class; I saw people who had purpose. That's why Phishy didn't annoy me and Punch Judy did. He had purpose with his crazy self and she didn't. I didn't like her, really, because she was kind of like me.

But I had to get serious. Being a detective was to be a one-time deal. I had no money for a license, no office, and, honestly, the job was dangerous. I couldn't play games--I was getting married; assuming my future parents-in-law didn't off me before then.

Yet, here I was, in the public library on
40 Winks Street.
There were three of them left in the City. In the comfort of your own home, you could download any content you wanted to your digital book reader, but frankly, who had the time for that. There were a gazillion books out there in cyberspace. Being a librarian was actually a serious profession with value; they had advanced degrees in data mining, sifting, and record compiling. Libraries sifted through all the data garbage, the clutter, the trojan horse X-rated material, and sub-standard nonsense to present you with what you actually typed into your search and gave you the best of the best. Yes, libraries were also a major hang-out for the sidewalk johnnies, but they were clean and quiet. Here, I was reading book after book on...the private investigation industry.

There were only a few main categories. The first was the procedural detective books. They went into quite a lot of detail about surveillance, stake-outs, skip tracing, computer-tapping, hard drive cloning, etc. Most of it was either very dry or commonsense and I could see why the books didn't sell.

The second category was the best sellers--the Hollywood-style, super detectives. These "true" stories were of gun battles with crime lords, beating up cops, sleeping with clients, secret consultative work with Up-Top multinationals, more gun battles. Entertaining, but all stupid. None of it real.

The book I found myself glued to was not the 1,000 page tomes of the first category or the 400 page page-turners of the second, but this 60 page book titled,
How to be a Great Detective with 100 Rules
. It was written by a guy who had been a private eye for 70 plus years. In fact, he died only a few years ago at the age of 92 and had worked right up until the end. The book was brilliant. I had read it five times already and was reading it again. The rules seemed basic but his one paragraph explanation of each one were packed with real insight and his own folksy, street-wise expertise. He was the
real McCoy--not an
y fake movie-land detective. You could just tell by how he communicated. He must have led an amazing life. To live 92 years in Metropolis--the things he saw and experienced. It's too bad he didn't write a compilation of his life through his cases.

I put the book down on the floor, sat there, and sighed. It was the only book I checked out from the library. Here I was sitting alone in my legacy residence, reading the accounts of a man who lived a real life, a long life and quite content with it. I knew that because he kept at it until he died at 92. Nothing stopped him
--the mean streets, the meaner streets, uber-government agencies, mega-corporations. He did his thing.

He had a metal heart, but back then if you had heart disease in your genetic history, the doctors would automatically replace your regular heart with an artificial one to be on the safe side. He had bionic hips and fingers--a fall down some stairs had caused the former; a nasty habit of smoking nasty cigarettes caused the latter. But again, he did his thing, his way.

I wished I had
met Mr. Wilford G., the 92-year-old private eye. He lived and had a lot less than I had. What was my excuse then
?

"Who is it from?"

I had received the video-call first thing in the morning and listened to the man on the other end. I had heard what he said; it was that I couldn't believe what he said. An anonymous person was making a full office with a reception and waiting area available to me free of charge. The catch was that I would never know who the anonymous patron was.

I drove down to the business district of Buzz Town just before the lunch hour
to meet the Realtor man. It wasn't Peacock Hills or Paisley Parish, but
it wasn't Free City either
. Buzz Town was n
ot the best of areas, but it wasn't the worst--it was one of those in-between places, like Rabbit City where I lived.

I met him on the 100th floor of the tower on Circuit Circle--some people called it the Circuit; others, the Circle. The Realtor definitely seemed like an Eye Candy client. Not a piece of clothing or hair out of place. Nice suit, matching slicker, nice boots, horn-rimmed glasses. He watched me as I toured the empty office space. The office was very spacious, in fact, and was as large as the combination reception area and waiting area outside its doors.

"I asked, who's this from?" I repeated.

"The landlord is adamant about remaining anonymous, and it's futile to continue asking. My firm takes such requests extremely seriously. The only question is: do you want it?"

"I'm not accustomed to accepting gifts without knowing who the gift giver is."

"I suspect you'll get over it."

I looked around again. Was this all a dream? I had been having an internal battle within myself about the whole "detective thing." First, I wanted to punch Phishy for spreading rumors. Now, I found myself searching the Net for all the requirements to be a licensed private investigator in the City. The cost of the license fees were outrageous and far beyond my means, but I was also searching for ways to legally scam my way into it, like calling myself a "consultant" rather than a "detective."

"This is quite a lot to take in all at once."

"I suspect you'll get over that, too. If you take the offer, I can have you sign the paperwork right here and you'll have the keys in hand as I leave."

I walked to look at the reception-waiting area again.

"Is it a yes?" he asked.

"I could go down to the City and look up who the office belongs to."

"And you would see that my firm is listed as the landlord by proxy."

"Free?"

"You would be responsible for utilities and any furniture, of course."

"What are the terms? Is this a lifetime thing?"

"Hardly, but it is a legacy space and the landlord-of-record would need to give you at least a 90-day notice for you to vacate. That's more than generous."

Who could it be? I asked myself. Run-Time wouldn't be anonymous. Dot didn't have this kind of money. Who?

"How old is the legacy?"

"Three hundred years."

A mortgage paid off over 300 years ago and exempt from any government taxes ever since.

"Yeah, I'll do it."

"Good." The Realtor lifted up his briefcase and opened it.

We used the briefcase as a desk as he had me "sign my life away" on a stack of documents.

"Do you know who the landlord-of-record is?"

"I do." He pointed to another line for me to sign my signature.

"They're not criminals are they?"

"Do you know many criminals, Mr. Cruz?"

"I don't."

"Then it would be unlikely that my client is one. Please don't over-think this, Mr. Cruz. Someone gave you access to free office space for an indefinite period. Based on your surprise from our initial video-call, it is a person who is, at least
tangentially,
acquainted with your affairs. Based on the fact that you're not a person of financial means, you can infer that the gesture is a benevolent one. If I were you, I'd count my blessings, furnish it, and start my business. I would not think about the who ever again. Last signature here, please."

He pointed and I signed on the last dotted line of the last page of the documents. The Realtor took the pen and the documents from me, then returned them to the briefcase. He reached into his jacket pocket and then handed me a folded document and a set of keys.

"Your signed business tenant authorization and three sets of keys. Your official copies of the documents you signed will be delivered tomorrow."

"You knew I was going to accept the offer?"

"Why wouldn't you? The keys are copy-prohibited. If you need new keys, then you have to get a whole new door system. Very expensive."

"Tell him, thank you."

The Realtor smiled. "I never indicated what gender my client is, Mr. Cruz, but nice try."

He left me in the office space out the way we came in. I stood there in the main office, still in a daze.

I had a business office!

It was only the next day. I lay on the floor on my back thinking about all the potential names I had come up with for my soon-to-be-real, one-man detective agency. I had gotten the emergency work blanket from my vehicle's trunk before, which was for use if I ever broke down and needed to do work on the Pony--which would never happen, but that's why it was an emergency work blanket. I lay on it on the floor, which was littered with crumbled wads of paper. This is what I had been doing for the last three hours. The only sound for the longest time was the rain against the tall windows and then I heard it.

The door opened and I sat up quickly, looking into the reception area. I realized that the door must have been unlocked all this time, which was completely out-of-character for me. I was the OCD guy who checked the front door to make sure it was locked five separate times before I went bed. Who could it be? Did the Realtor guy return? Was it some street punk? Two people appeared at my open office door.

It was him!
The guy who scratched my vehicle!

When you were kids in elementary school, stepping on and scuffing a man's pair of kicks (sneakers) was a fighting offense. But boys grew out of that childishness. They grew to be men where scratching their hover-car was a fighting offense.

That was easily five years ago, but I had not forgotten his face. Though I never expected to see his ugly mug ever again in my life. I remember the day he scratched my vehicle almost like it was yesterday.

There were people who drive and then there were drivers. For us real drivers, there was no such thing as an accident that wasn't your fault. It was the core of the defense driving mindset. You must anticipate any contingency, and if a bad thing happened, the blame resided with you. But I had safely parked my vehicle and was just about to turn it over to my mobile security guy--actually, it was Flash--and go about my day.

This maniac came out of nowhere, going against traffic, dove, turned in a semi-circle, hovering above the road, dipping closer to the ground, and stopped by scratching my car and slamming into concrete parking stall divider.

My mouth hung open in shock.

The guy got out and surveyed the damage to his car, but could care less about what he had done to mine. My spotless, perfect, immaculate, heavenly red Ford Pony was gouged by a deep blue-gray scratch straight through to the metal. My eyes were bulging up in rage.

"Get over here!" I yelled. "You scratched my vehicle!"

The guy was on his mobile and completely ignored me, carrying on a conversation.

I looked at Flash, who probably saw the growing agitation in my face.

"Just call your insurance and get away from me, you
plonker,"
he said to me.

I lost any bit of composure remaining and ran at the guy. I was going to punch him, push him, whatever. As I neared him, he happened to turn and dropped his mobile to the ground to brace for my attack. Suddenly, someone grabbed me from behind--it was Flash.

"He's not worth it," Flash said to me. "No, Mr. Cruz. You can't assault him. He'd be able to call the cops and they'd haul you away."

"You scratched my vehicle!" I yelled again.

"So what!" he yelled back.

"You're going to pay every dime it takes to fix it!"

"All it needs is a paint job with a spray can!"

I went ballistic and Flash really had to hold me back.

"It's a classic hover-vehicle and they're going to have to strip off all the paint and redo it paint coat by paint coat--fifty at least. You don't touch-up a classic hover-car with a spray can!"