Liquid Cool: The Cyberpunk Detective Series (7 page)

I wondered that about every business, except one. Good Kosher.

The only reason to go to Graffiti Alley was The Good Kosher Market. After all these years, I couldn't tell you the name of any other business on the street. Good Kosher took up the entire length of the street and that's saying a lot since streets were gi-normous in Metropolis. Food came in three categories--processed (practically everything sold on the market), organic (supposedly the "healthier" alternative"), and natural--or, as I would say, "straight from the dirt." I never shopped anywhere else. I didn't eat processed and felt the whole "organic" thing was nothing but a scam (by the unholy coupling of government and mega-corps) to overcharge people for food. I only ate natural food and Mr. Watts and his seven sons had been serving nothing else for more than a century. It was like many generational businesses. I was a devoted customer and member of its select clientele for the last twelve.

Graffiti Alley may have been practically empty, but inside Good Kosher was packed. I always felt people were teleported into the store by Scotty's grandson, because my words when entering was always, "where did all these people come from?"

Inside it looked like an underground football stadium with neon rows of product. People zipped around on hover-carts of all sizes. In traditional markets, the products came to you. Here, you got your own stuff. Other than the hover-carts, there really wasn't any machination of any kind, which was rare for any modern store. But it was a "natural" market, so the presence of robots might clash with the store's image. The sons, however, did wear mech-gloves with store inventory displays on the wrist area, and the hand section was telescopic to pull down things from the top shelves without ever having to get a ladder. The gloves probably had a million other uses like a swiss-army knife.

I grabbed a small hover-cart near the entrance, sat in the small single seat, and began my spree. The other thing that made the store so popular was precisely because nothing ever changed--fruits and vegetables were on aisle 20, juices and milk products on aisle 15, teas and coffees on aisle 16, meats on 5 and 6, etc. No one needed to ask where anything was because everyone already knew. Good Kosher was not into anything gimmicky or faddish. Mr. Watts would say, "Nothing gets on my shelves that hasn't been in the general market and people have been eating for at least a thousand years." Funny, but true.

"I'm glad to see you continue to eat good food, young man," he said to me as I leaned on the main counter, opposite him. "More young people need to embrace that. The human body is a machine and it always needs the best power to be put into it. I'm glad to see your hover-car enthusiasm has shown you the way to live a long life. Good fuel; car lasts forever. Good foods; human body lasts a little less than that."

I nodded. "My favorite power station for my Pony. Good Kosher for me."

"I see a question on your tongue. Mr. Cruz."

Mr. Watts knew me too well. "Is it customary to get a future mother-in-law something? Like flowers?" I asked.

When you are a fixture of a neighborhood for so long, own such a popular business for so long, employ the same workers and cater to the same clientele, it doesn't take long for everyone to start feeling like you truly are some kind of family. Every family had a sage--the wise, ol' uncle or wise, ol' grandmother. Mr. Watts was our sage. You did your shopping first, one of his seven sons rung up the order at the cash register, and then you spent however long chatting it up with the Good Kosher Man himself.

I didn't know how old Mr. Watts was, but he had to be in his late fifties at least, but there was nothing old about him. He had a full beard and mustache with the hair graying at the temple and the edges of his beard. Like his sons, the uniform was a khaki jump suit with a fully-equipped utility belt, beaded necklaces around the neck, and a pointed Chinese bamboo hat to protect from the constant exposure of the artificial daylight lamps, which all its indoor natural plant life was dependent on. The skin techs at Eye Candy, where Dot worked, would be proud. He probably had the rare hats shipped directly from the Southeast Asia territories back when they were affordable. No rice paddies here, but Good Kosher had its own interior gardens in the back and off-limits to customers, growing a wide variety of roses, tulips, and other flowers. Watts and sons would go back into that room, with its steady rain mist falling, and handpick bouquets for customers. Good Kosher was a secret flower shop too and no one had better--if you wanted real ones and not synthetic "garbage" that everyone else sold that could survive a nuclear blast along with the rodents of the city.

"Mothers-in-law don't get flowers, even if you like them. And even if they did, they surely wouldn't qualify being a future one. The future doesn't exist--there is only the present."

"Are you sure?" I asked, as one of his sons finished ringing up my order and I handed him my cash card. "It's very important I get on their good side."

Mr. Watts made some kind of laughing sound. "They? So it's both the mother and father in-law. I don't envy you. First dinner?"

"Yeah."

"Dress nice and arrive before the arrival time. That's all you can do. Don't talk unless asked a question, even from the girlfriend. Just look cool."

I laughed. "I always look cool."

"Yes, you're a natural. But remember, they'll be watching you like a hawk."

"I'll be as nervous as spaceman flying through a meteor shower. Well, as long as there are no best practices for a thing like this."

"Be yourself," Mr. Watts said. "Don't think about. You think about it and you'll get nervous. Think about something else."

"Like?"

Mr. Watts stopped and gave me a smirk. "Something appropriate."

I returned the smirk.

"Think about the next modifications to that inappropriately red hover-car of yours."

"Inappropriate?"

"I still say that vehicle is a police magnet."

"I never speed."

He shot me a look.

"On residential streets," I added.

Mr. Watts smiled. "What time is your date with the parents-in-law?"

I took out my vest pocket watch and looked at the digital display. He could hear me sigh.

"As I suspected. You've been stalling for time. You're not going to be dressed well and ahead of time if you're standing here in my store. Exit, stage right, immediately, Mr. Cruz. Assistance with your bags to your vehicle is complimentary."

He gestured and two of his sons were standing next to me, grinning.

"But, but I don't want to go," I said.

Chapter 8: The Wans

Sometimes government passed a law that so radically changed the societal landscape that no one could remember what it was like before it. The landmark Jarvis Laws created what was now called Legacy Housing and did more to make the world we lived in than anything even the Founders did. It democratized the power of home ownership for everybody--like the modern mobile phone altered communication and media forever. Once a mortgage was paid off, it could be passed on to family and descendants forever. The politics and legal battles became which descendants would get it next, but the ancient real estate market disappeared with the dinosaurs and Dodo birds. Housing for the rich, poor, and everyone in-between was essentially free. But nothing ever turned out to be as it was intended in this world.

Elysian Heights was definitely "booshy." The wealthy, bourgeoisie, upper-class of the down-here. The mega-apartment complexes, triple and quadruple the size of a football stadium, were two hundred-story plus into the sky. Each tower was like its own country, with its own dictatorial semi-autonomous residential government, its own para-military security force, and its own pleasure world. The only other place people coveted more was Up-Top.

This is the world my girlfriend, China Doll, came from. However, she worked in the Bohemian zone, was at home with working-class regulars like me. Few knew she was born and raised in Elysian Heights, and fewer would believe it.

The rain was stinging, which I considered an omen of this "special" day. Visibility was bad and I drove my Pony up to the main checkpoint entrance to the towers. A six-foot-five, musclebound guard walked up to my driver's window to take my ID card, while a second one watched me from the guard shack--but it was no "shack." The guard found my name on his clipboard display and handed back my ID card. The massive metal gate began to lower and I watched the signal post off to the side. When it changed from red to green, I drove forward.

The interior streets were huge, but completely empty. They were nothing more than the space between these mega complexes--no people, hover-vehicles, or even plant life existed. All life that mattered was in the towers. I drove slowly, never going over the speed limit, and then flew into the open visitor garage for the China Towers. You would never see a sidewalk johnny here.

I felt like a man marching to his execution as I took the parking elevator capsules up. When buildings are made this massive, elevators are designed more like autonomous, computer-controlled rocket ships. There's no other way to get up and down fast enough; cables would inevitably snap no matter how well made. Imagine the sorry sad-sack "pioneers" in the old days being aboard an old-style elevator with cables unraveling and breaking when you're coming down from the 180th floor. Would you scream yourself to death before your elevator car crashed to become one with Terra Firma? I realized that thinking about elevator deaths was probably not the wisest activity while standing on an elevator now passing the 130th floor.

As I shuffled down the hallways that were better suited for vehicle traffic because they were so wide, I took out my pocket watch. I was 31 minutes early. Now if that didn't set me on the right foot with girlfriend and future parents' in-law, then nothing would. I stood at the door and looked at the door knocker in the center and then at the door bell on the side. This must be a psychological test; I was certain of it. Pick the wrong one and I would be forever tainted in their eyes.

I lifted the door knocker and struck the door twice, and rang the doorbell--at the same time!

The door swung open and there was Dot. I looked at her and she looked at me. She was dressed in a modern blue and white kimono-style dress.
I wore my same tan outfit as always, with a white shirt and dark vest, but wore a matching blue and white tie that Dot had bought me and told me to wear, and now I knew why. I guess she figured her parents would say, "Aww, how cute. They even match when they dress." As if it were that easy to win over the parents-in-law.

I could see she was at war within her own head whether to be mad at me for hiding or glad that I showed up early.

"Oh, no, was it a lunch date with the parents and I'm late? I mixed it up then. I thought it was a dinner date and came early to impress you."

She held back a smile, then it appeared, then it turned to a frown. "You are so skating on thin ice right now. I'll decide your fate after your performance tonight."

"As long as the three of you don't gang up on me. You know how fragile I am around my birthday."

"I don't want to hear it. I had an all-points bulletin out on you. Run-Time, and even Phishy and that sidewalk sally psycho in your building looking for you."

"Dot! Who dat!" A voice rang out in broken English from within the residence.

"Ma!" Dot yelled back, startling me, followed by a string of Chinese.

She pulled me inside and closed the door. It was my first time inside the Wan residence and my head was already scanning around.

"Shoes at the door and off with the hat," she said to me and then continued speaking in Chinese to her parents.

I pulled off the slip-on boots and bent down to set them neatly against the wall near the door. My body seemed to sink an inch into the thick white carpet. Dot was barefoot, her toenails painted black with a sparking faux-diamond in the center of each toe. I noticed it was the same with her fingernails. How do women do that?

I hated to take off my hat. It either stayed on or it stayed off. I was not into switching back-and-forth. "I'll just keep it with me," I said to her, holding it in my left hand.

"Just don't set it on the dinner table."

"I'll throw it on this nice, fluffy carpet of yours."

"Let's meet my Ma and Dad."

Everything about the place was palatial--the hallway, t
he living room and kitchen.

Dot was actually the splitting image of her father, only female, of course. Mr. Wan was dressed in an almost glowing white shirt with what looked to be various animals embroidered around the collar and the sleeves. Mrs. Wan was in black pants, but was wearing a beautiful electric blue top. She was shorter than Dot, with shoulder length hair.

What I noticed immediately was that they were smiling before they looked at me and were not smiling now as they watched me.

"These are my parents."

The only Chinese I knew, courtesy of my Berlitz car computer, was how to say "hello." I did so, twice-- "
Nín hǎo"
--
but no response from the parents.