Liquid Cool: The Cyberpunk Detective Series (6 page)

"That's no way to talk, Punch. Cruz is cool."

"He is not cool."

The men started to laugh.

"Since it's for China Doll, we'll put the word out on the street to find him," one of them said. "Should we bring the 411 to you?"

"No, I don't care."

"We'll get it to China Doll then."

"We like China Doll," another man said.

"No, tell me too, then."

"Why?"

Punch Judy thought for a moment. "I don't know, but I want to know, too. I'll think of a reason later."

"Okay."

The four sidewalk johnnies scuttled away into the drizzling rain. She turned back to walk back up the mega-steps to her sitting spot.

She hated that everyone liked Cruz. But she liked that someone else didn't like Cruz either--Cruz himself.

Part Three

I'm Cruz. Whatcha Want?

Chapter 6: I, Cruz

"I'm Cruz. Whatcha want?" That's how I greeted strangers. Though, I had to admit that it was somewhat of a rude and snarky response, but, hey, I didn't like strangers. I liked my friends, my frenemies, and even my enemies--all of them I knew, but strangers I had no regard for. My girlfriend frequently scolded me on my bad manners, saying that "a stranger is a friend you haven't met yet." I had a far less charitable definition of them. Social scientists predicted that the bigger a city gets, the higher the anti-sociability of its people. There was no bigger city than Metropolis and I was born and raised here, and most of my waking thoughts were about how to get out of here so I wouldn't die here.

My name is Cruz. My first name is unimportant because no one ever calls me by it, not even my parents.

Calling Metropolis a city was like calling me a molecule. True, but what exactly did that even mean? Demographers and assorted eggheads had semi-decided on its official classification--super-city, beating out less popular terms such as omni-city, over-city, and ultra-city. At least everyone agreed that mega-city was inadequate. That's what it was called when it was ten times smaller than it is today. Fifty million people living, breathing, and dying in a rainy super-city in a world of super-skyscrapers.

Metropolis wasn't a bad place, but it wasn't a good one either.

Here I sat in my vehicle with my face almost pressed against the driver's side window, looking out and up at the downpour and watching the rain roll down the glass. Astronomers said it rained diamonds on Jupiter and Saturn. Well, this wasn't there and even the ladies would tire of a constant diamond downpour; probably would cut every living and inanimate thing to shreds, too. This was Metropolis where it was always raining or about to rain. The only seasons were variations of the perpetual rain--light rain, heavy rain, or the storm season. There was one month of a break during the year, which would be fine if the year had only two months; but it had twelve.

People said that the sky was black, but that wasn't true. The dark clouds above that encased the city only pretended uniformity. If you stared at them long enough, they would let you peek through their facade. It was like gray people on the streets--everyone looked the same from afar in their dark slickers, but they all managed individuality somehow. I saw the sky's dark blues, purples, dark greens, mustard yellows, and grays too.

Besides the
pitter-patter
of the rain hitting my vehicle, the only other sounds were from the old monorail line about thirty feet above me--I could hear its hissing rumble every fifteen minutes. I wanted to be left alone to rain-watch and meditate, or whatever I was doing in my head. My vehicle was parked on the ground in an alley and the only people around were the scarce few that walked past the entrance to another alleyway fifteen feet from me. Other than that, there was no one to bother me--no sidewalk johnnies, no troll moles, no passing garbage hover-trucks, and no juvenile delinquents skipping school and looking to do crimes.

My mobile phone had been off since last night. Who knows how many messages I had waiting? But I didn't care. I needed my alone time.

Twenty-four hours, seven days, three-hundred-sixty-five or fifty-two weeks or twelve months. The endlessness of it all.

I had been in a funk for the last few days. It happened every year before, on, around, and after my birthday. I was always especially morose during this time. An evil day invented to force you to take stock of the thing called life. I wouldn't want to be around myself, which is why I segregated myself from friend and foe for as long as possible until the spell passed.

I felt trapped, like a bug in a spider's web. Everybody followed this system of life from the littlest guy shuffling to and from his nine-to-five, all the way to those god-like guys, living above us all, consumed by their own power and fortune. We all had the same basic concerns, but in the end, we all ended up at the same place--meat at the morgue. The masses did a lot in that in-between time to go about life in the rain with style--designer Goodwill wet-wear clothes and colored neon shades--to blot from the mind the fundamental
drudgery of it all. To survive to your ultimate destination, you had to know your place, not upset the order of things. You either worked for the international, multinational megacorps; or you worked for uber-government, the "state," and, though you'd
never get Up-Top, you could retire free-and-clear for your last decade or two of life. It was the unsaid, universal contract that most accepted.

But I had tried to make my futile mark on the cosmos with my contrarian self. I avoided umbrellas--instead I wore my tan fedora. I didn't wear neon shades and I didn't wear dark-colored slickers--instead I wore my favorite tan coat. Everyone had dark colored hover-cars; I drove a bright red, classic Ford Pony. That's what I did to separate myself from the masses--pathetic and pointless, but did it anyway and could do no different.

What the hell have I even accomplished? If I clocked out of life, what exactly would be my legacy? I hated my birthdays. My parents told me I hated it even as a kid, the time you're supposed to be the most optimistic in life, even despite all the sweet birthday cakes and presents from every known relative on the planet. My girlfriend said I needed to stop my annual "morose period." "There are people in the world with no food to eat or born with no eyes or limbs or born mentally retarded. What is your complaint?" she'd say to me. "An innocent kid was shot in the head today and will be brain-dead for the rest of his life, or a women had her kid crushed by a drunk driver in a hover-car," she'd add.

True, I had no serious tragedies to complain about. No great losses. No disabilities. I had all my fingers, toes, limbs, and other natural organs--not a bionic part anywhere. Metropolis hadn't been bad to me.

Everyone simply had to accept it all. I did. But this was an especially bad year of reflection for me, which is why I was here sitting in my red Ford Pony, hiding out on a street I've never been, far from any part of the city I had ever been, so I could just sit, stare at the falling rain, and simmer in my own perennial moroseness and not be bothered by the girlfriend, friends, enemies, frenemies, sidewalk johnnies, hustlers, or any strangers.

The only interruption to the steady rain was the ubiquitous flashing neon and video signs. I paid no attention to the specific ads or messages they were peddling. It was always the same. The corporate ads wanted you to buy something, and the government ads wanted you to do something. The average citizen in a normal day was supposedly bombarded by no less than 50 thousand messages in the city. No wonder people were stupid. All those subliminal messages were taking up all the free space in a person's brain--the universe's ultimate disk hardware.

My hiding spot was one of the few less bombarded parts of the neon jungle. The neon signs, video ads, flashing street lights, flashing beacons for sky traffic, and building side lights should be overwhelming, but we were all born into it--the visual madness. Most even thrived on it. Without the artificial light, all there would be would be the dark, rainy, griminess of city's urban landscape. That's what the colored eyewear that everyone always wore outside was really for--mitigation; being a must-have piece of technology was the after-thought.

I had found a damn good hiding spot. I had set down in the residential alley, in the early morning hours, between two monolith buildings in Silver City--the center of the city's robotic production. I was lucky because such spaces between super-skyscrapers were not by design, but evidence of a building oversight. Buildings pushed up into the dark sky and sprawled out vertically to cover every inch. With people stacked on top of each other, building by building, space was one of the most important commodities. And here I was, lounging around in the unplanned alleyway, the hover-car equivalent of a sidewalk johnny, staring up at the rain. It was a good hiding spot and I planned to use it often.

I saw it. The hover-taxicab descended from at the uppermost part of the alleyway, on the left, about twenty-five feet or so in the air.

"Damn," I said to myself. It was one of Run-Time's.

I chose Silver City because, since it was so automated, there were far less workers here than the rest of the City. Less people meant less public transportation, less hover-cars, and less hover-taxis. But they found me anyway.

The hover-cab started to rise back in the air and did a one-eighty to fly away, back the way it must have come.

The cabbie would call dispatch, and dispatch would call Run-Time. If Run-Time was really looking for someone and you were in Metropolis, consider yourself found, unless you were hiding down in the sewers with water rats, "un-killable" jumbo roaches, and whatever roly-poly isopods were lurking and swimming around in the filth. No one did that. I didn't need to check my mobile. I knew people were looking for me. For a nobody, I sure was treated like a somebody.

All I had to do was push a button to start the engine of my classic Ford Pony.
High-performance, super-charged, advanced nitro-acceleration hydrogen engine. A sleek, bright red muscle-vehicle coupe to make the average person gawk at and the mouths of the genuine hover-car enthusiast and collector hang open.

I had fo
und the shell in a junkyard over fifteen years ago when I was in middle school and it took me a few years to build and restore it, spare part by spare part. I had been upgrading it ever since. No one believed that I found and built such an expensive muscle hover-car from scratch, but it was true and I drove it every day. It was considered a true classic and got me solid offers to part with it almost every week, but you don't sell a classic Ford Pony; it's a purchase for life--like a legacy house. My Pony had been featured (without my permission) in so many hover-car magazines that I lost count.

I coasted out of the alleyway without revving the engine. I wanted no more than a purr out the engine. If "they" were coming for me, I had to make my getaway quietly. That's what I did. Not even turning on my car lights, I flew out of the alley, waited for my chance, and drove into the empty sky lane. I'd stay under the monorail line bridge as long as I could to avoid Run-Time's taxis. Big Brother government had nothing on Run-Time's civilian surveillance of cabbies throughout the city. They were better than any drone army.

I thought to myself that the refrigerator at home was empty so I might as well do some grocery shopping. Yes, I had the upcoming Great first dinner with Dot's folks, which probably was the other contributing factor to my post-birthday blues.

At the time, I had no idea that an operator by the name of Easy Chair Charlie, who had sold me my semi-illegal, nitro-accelerator for my Pony years ago, got himself killed the night before.

Chapter 7: The Good Kosher Man

I felt naked parking my vehicle outside on the regular street without any kind of security. I used a guy from Run-Time's service named Flash so often, some people felt he came with car. But if I wanted to hide out, then that was the price. And "hide" was a laughable word to use with a bright red hover-car in a city where everyone's vehicle was gray, black, some shade of blue, or, to be daring, silver. I draped my Pony with the car cover in the trunk and locked it to the car. At least no one would see its shiny red paint from afar.

This was Woodstock Falls and I gave the street--Graffiti Alley--one more glance in both directions. Despite its name, there wasn't, and never was, a speck of graffiti anywhere, ever. Woodstock Falls was a safe, working-class, multi-ethnic, but mostly Jewish, neighborhood. Like similar working-class neighborhoods, residents and business owners fiercely kept the trash--human and otherwise--away. The reason why was simple--the residents didn't just work here; they lived here. The bottom half of the monolith skyscrapers were the businesses and all above to the top was residential. No hover-car, taxis, or bullet train needed for them. Transportation for them was a simple stroll down the hallway to the elevator capsule.

Graffiti Alley may not have had any graffiti, but it should have. It was secluded and dark, and though it was a main street, had the feel of an out-of-the-way back alley where bad things were supposed to happen. There was never a lot of traffic and the foot traffic was always sparse. I wondered how the businesses were able to stay afloat financially.