Liquid Cool: The Cyberpunk Detective Series Read online

  There was some big commotion going on outside the front door of the reception-waiting area.

  Did I forget to lock it again?

  I got up and walked to check, but just as I approached, the door swung open and a punk, with his back to me, stood there with a gun. My body jumped as the man was shot once. He yelled out, was a shot a second time, and then his gun dropped from his hand as he began to fall. A third shot rang out, and he crashed to the ground. I had frozen in place, but now my brain engaged and I dove back into my office.

  I heard one or more people running away.

  I lay on the ground watching the dead man on the ground. My eyes were beginning to tear up. My new career was about to be taken away from me before it could even get started.

  Chapter 20: Phishy

  There was no possible way I could wait there. My office was a red-and-blue siren party. I couldn't bare it. Now I had a police jacket. Anyone involved with any kind of crime, even as a victim, got a file. People could do a Net search on my business address and see that someone was killed in my office. Would you go to a detective who had someone killed in his office? I was ruined. No one would care about any good reviews.

  I came back to my place after giving the same statement to police three different times to two different sets of officers. They always did that. Lying people rarely were good enough to keep to the same lie multiple times and to different people, though the professional criminals and psychopaths did so with ease. They let me go my way as they plastered their crime scene tape across the door of my office. I suspected I'd be seeing that Realtor very soon.

  Well, I parked my Pony and then just had to take a walk, clear my head, and calm down. I was out for about thirty minutes when I started back to the main entrance of the Concrete Mama.

  "Hey, can you help me with directions?"

  Someone called out to me as I was just walking up the mega-stairs. I turned to look back and blinked when I heard the first shot. I dove to the hard, wet ground as whoever the man was took two more shots at me before running away.

  I lay there on the ground, gritting my teeth. I was so enraged that if I had the jaw strength I would have crushed my own teeth.

  As GW said, I was a psycho when I got mad. You didn't want to go there with me.

  I was indirectly shot at once and a man was killed. Now, I was shot at--me--in front of my own place.

  It was the fourth place I checked to find him. There was Phishy, chatting it up with his sidewalk johnny friends. I tapped my horn to get his attention. All of them looked up at me, as I slowly landed my Pony down on the ground. I lifted up my hover-car door as Phishy was already running to me with a big smile, but he saw my face and he stopped, and his smile disappeared.

  "What's wrong, Cruz?"

  I was standing and slammed my door shut. I never slammed my car door. I could feel my own fumes of anger radiating from my body. I gestured to him to approach and Phishy did so cautiously.

  "What happened?"

  "What happened is that some stranger got shot to death in my new office. The police yellow-taped the whole thing so I'm out of business before even starting. Then to top off the day and make it even more exciting, someone tried to gun me down right in front of my place."

  "In front of the Concrete Mama?"

  "Yeah."

  "Oh, wow."

  "Oh wow, Phishy? I've never been involved with anything like this before. You know that."

  "I know. I know."

  "I don't do violence. You know that."

  "But you're a detective now, Cruz. You have to expect that sort of thing now."

  "Well there is no now. I'm out of business."

  "No, you're not."

  "What do you mean?"

  "If the cops yellow-tag you, as long as they don't contact you again in 48 hours, then you're in the free and clear."

  "What are you talking about, Phishy?"

  "That's how it works. The cops got 48 hours to escalate the case. If they don't or can't, then you go and rip that yellow tape down and act like nothing happened."

  "The police can prosecute you and send you to jail, Phishy, for ripping it down."

  "But only before the 48 hours."

  "Are you sure, Phishy?"

  "I'm positive, Cruz. I know this stuff. You know that I know this stuff."

  I watched him for a bit, thinking. Yeah, Phishy would know these things.

  "But I'll get a reputation--"

  "Reputation?" Phishy interrupted me. "There are hundreds of shootings in this city every day, Cruz. You won't get no reputation. But...was it a client who got shot in your office?"

  "No, some punk stumbled into my office door and he was armed, too."

  "See what I mean. A street shoot-out that spilled into your office. You won't get no rep for that. But what about the other thing?"

  "Yeah, the other thing. Someone trying to kill me in front of my own place."

  "You know what you need to do."

  "What's that?"

  "Come on, Cruz. You know."

  I did know.

  "There's no way around it, Cruz," Phishy said. "You can be a good detective, but you have to have the tools of the trade. You're not a laborer anymore."

  "Yeah, everyone seems to know that, thanks to a certain person."

  Phishy flashed a smile.

  "Who do I talk to you then?"

  "Leave it to me, Cruz." Phishy's smile was really back.

  "I'm not going to let you rip me off, Phishy."

  "Oh no. I'll take care of you."

  "Where at? I don't want any of this near my place."

  "Your favorite coffee place."

  "The Wet Cabeza?"

  "They have the rental offices on the top floor."

  "Yeah. Okay. How do you know that? Never mind. And no scamming, Phishy. I don't like them, but I know guns."

  "Yeah, I know. You even killed someone when you were five with one."

  I gave him a look.

  "I didn't tell anyone."

  "Like you didn't tell anyone that I was a detective?"

  When I dumped on the cafe that I found GW's sister in, it wasn't that I didn't like cafes. I did, but I liked high-end ones but without the high-end prices. The Wet Cabeza was my favorite and it was one those places that I went to so often that I knew everyone who worked there and the owners. Now that I thought about it, it was ironic that an establishment with such a name had always been my favorite place.

  I arrived and was greeted by the staff, each who I knew on a first name basis. I had a craving for some humble pie, but I resisted. I just had a cup of silk coffee and left it at that while I waited for Phishy.

  Inside, the layout of the place was that of a large open cafe, all booths and barstools at the kitchen counter, with college-kid waiters and waitresses on hover-roller skates.

  Upstairs they had tiny conference rooms for rent. The Wet Cabeza attracted a business clientele, and offering the meeting rooms was a stroke of genius--why should hotels get all that business alone? It meant that there was another reason to keep butts in the seats and the food and drink orders coming all the time.

  It was two days later and it seemed that he was in the same shirt with fishes, but Phishy was never unkempt or smelly. Technically, he wasn't a sidewalk johnny. He just hung with them. He was an operator. My girlfriend called him a slider, but he wasn't sliding through life, he was only sliding from one scheme or scam to the next. But with Phishy it was never too criminal--always small time so if he were caught there never was any real chance of jail time.

  Phishy had a big, block briefcase in each hand and he hopped up the stairs, two at a time, with a big smile. He followed me to the room I reserved and he marched in as I closed the door. I made sure to lock it. Too bad I couldn't remember to do so at my own office.

  "Okay, Phishy, I checked out what you said about the 48 hour yellow-tape and you were right."

  "I told you, Cruz. I know these things."

  Phishy lay the
two briefcases on the small conference table and opened both cases. Guns, guns, and more guns.

  "How much trouble would we get into if the police raided this room this instant?" I asked.

  "None. I'm a licensed gun dealer and none of them are loaded."

  "What? Licensed dealer? I didn't know that. You got a cover for everything."

  "I'm Phishy. That's what I do."

  I looked at the assortment before me, but he stopped me before I could pick one up.

  "I got something special for you."

  "Phishy, I'm in no mood for scammin'."

  "No. Serious. I got some pieces just for you. You're a real detective now and you have to start building a rep."

  "A rep? Am I a criminal?"

  "No, Cruz. Everybody needs a rep. That's how people know if to deal with you or not. And when they do deal with you, how to deal with you."

  "A rep does all that?"

  "Yeah, it does. Here let me show you. I have a pop-gun."

  "Pop-gun?" I said loudly as Phishy pulled out a hidden tray of other guns in one case. "Are we like in kindergarten, Phishy? Pop-guns are what we played with when we were children."

  "Not those pop guns. These are the real thing."

  "I never heard of that before."

  He handed me what looked to be some metal wand attached to some kind fabric piece with velcro.

  "What the heck is this? Phishy, I don't want any kid's toys. I could have been killed."

  "Come on, Cruz. Trust me."

  He took my right arm and before I knew it, the fabric was wrapped around my entire forearm. "You wear long sleeves and jackets all the time, so you'll have the concealment. Okay, let's test it. Just snap your hand think, Pop! Trust me, Cruz. Pop it."

  I flicked my arm out and nothing happened.

  "You're not doing it right, Cruz. You have to be serious. Snap your forearm out as if you can throw your hand like a projectile."

  I did it. Pop!

  The metal wand contraption extended and I could see it was some kind of gun barrel.

  "You pop it and it shoots one round--bullet, sonic, or pulse round. Whichever you like. No one will ever sucker shoot you ever again," he said.

  My mind was changed and I stood there admiring my arm weapon. "A pop gun?"

  "I had it made just for you. I called in real favors, Cruz."

  "Okay, what else you got for me?"

  "This one."

  He lifted the compartment tray of the other briefcase to reveal more guns. He reached in and handed me the sweetest gun I had ever seen. It was a slim, sleek piece of black metal.

  "This, Cruz, is straight from Up-Top."

  "Then how did you get it?"

  He laughed. "Stolen, of course. Well, I didn't but someone did and I'm like fifth in line."

  "You're giving me a stolen piece."

  "Cruz, no one will know. It's untraceable. They have their database and we have ours. No one shares. You know that. Besides, someone who could afford a piece like that probably has a ton of them, probably doesn't even miss it or know it's gone. How does it feel in your hand?"

  I couldn't lie. "Nice balance."

  "See what I mean. That is the weapon of a high class detective. It even comes with a manual."

  "Manual?"

  "It will take you a day to read it. And when you do, you'll be smiling like me."

  "Phishy, how much are these going to cost me?"

  "Wait, I'm not finished."

  He lifted up the gun trays of both briefcases and started pulling out pieces. In a minute, he assembled a shot gun.

  "Cruz, nothing causes some serious fear like the cocking of a shotgun."

  He did so and its mistakable sound was universal and, yes, he was right. You heard that sound and you stopped whatever you were doing to pay attention.

  "All three and you're set," he said. "The pop gun. The omega-gun--"

  "Omega gun? You're making that up, Phishy."

  "It's the gun to end all private guns. That's what it says in the manual. And the shotgun. Now you're ready for the mean streets. And the omega-gun comes with accessories if you want to use its digital features. There's this cool piece that lights up that you wrap around your leg. You'll see."

  "What does that do?"

  "You'll see."

  "Phishy, how much? They say if you have to ask the price, you can't afford it. All this seems like something I could never afford in a million years."

  "Cruz, we're friends. I'll loan you the weapons and I'll get a percentage of each of your cases. That seems fair. I know you're just starting out."

  I grinned and he grinned back.

  "Phishy, Phishy. Always the angle. I amend the offer. Each percentage I give you...what percentage were you thinking?"

  "Uhhh."

  "Be careful, Phishy."

  "Fifty percent."

  "Ten percent of my cases goes toward the total cost of the weapons until and if I ever pay off that bill."

  "Ten percent?"

  "Phishy! I'm sure you're not going to give me the ammo free and being a detective is not exactly a no-cash-needed business. There's lots of upfront costs. Like I have to go back to my office and turn it into a fortress so I never get sucker shot at again. Ten percent is it. We're all going to make out on this deal. I'll even throw in a bonus, if by some miracle I can ever pay it off."

  "Bonus?" Phishy said, smiling. "That sounds good, Cruz. We're like partners now."

  "Yeah, don't remind me. So we're copacetic?"

  "We are, Cruz."

  "Get me the total cost of these guns and don't play. You know I'll check. And then we'll lock down the terms of the bonus now, before anything gets started."

  "That sounds like the plan, Cruz. I told you to trust me. Now you got the tools of the trade like a real high-class detective. Just because we live in a low-life world, doesn't mean we can't be high-class."

  "You were right. I have to admit it without qualification." I reached out my hand to him. Phishy almost didn't know what to do but he shook my hand. "You came through for me, Phishy. I won't forget it."

  Phishy was genuinely moved. "You're welcome, Cruz. I knew I could do it for you."

  Chapter 21: Punch Judy

  Sidewalk johnnies and sallies all had a "turf." For most it was a street, street corner, or alleyway. Many never ventured beyond it. But in a super-city with mega-streets, that was fine.

  I knew Punch Judy would be where she always was--near the lobby of the Concrete Mama--either in the lobby or on the main steps.

  "Hey!" I yelled as I neared her, marching out like some drill sergeant.

  She was sitting up on the steps, smoking, saw me and gave me an eye roll.

  "I got a proposition for you!"

  "Proposition?" That made her stand up, and I could already see the annoyance on her face.

  "I need to hire someone."

  "Oh, the big detective is hiring."

  "I need a secretary."

  "Secretary!" she grabbed the cigarette from her mouth. "You stupid man, and sexist too! Secretary, because I am a woman?"

  I was in front of her now and I just pointed at her face. "I'll remember you said that when I go hire some guy for the job!"

  That shut her the hell up. I spun around and stormed back the way I came like a bull. I was mad, and I'm sure my whole presentation was poor, but I didn't care. I had to find a secretary for the office, because I was not going to leave the office reception area unattended. I need someone who looked nice but was tough and if need be could take down the next unlucky monkey who tried to shoot at me in my own office. I'd be ready this time.

  I had arrived at my office and ripped down all that police crime tape in front of the door. Phishy was right; the city police put it up but never took it down. The community or landlord was supposed to do that. It was a city ordinance of all things.

  My office had the same feel as the entire floor--empty, abandoned, uninviting. I wouldn't come here. It looked like you'd get mugged. I w
ouldn't come to my office. It gave off the same vibe as a morgue. There was a businessman inside of me after all because I was thinking the right thoughts if I planned to do this occupation for real. But only if I could address all the security issues.

  I lay on the floor on my emergency work blanket from my vehicle. Again, contrary to my germophobic tendencies, right next to the tape outline of the man who got himself shot to death in my office. I had learned he was a low-level street punk. Nothing surprising about how he died. What was surprising is that it didn't happen sooner.

  I heard the low knock on the door, then followed by two more. Did I forget to lock the door again? Had I been hypnotized against my will not to secure my own office door?

  From where I lay, I didn't even need to move. It opened and there was Punch Judy.

  Her demeanor was altogether different. In fact, I had never seen Punch Judy look amiable or humble before. She gave me a forced smile and stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She stood there, her eyes darting around, trying to decide what to say,

  "Umm. Do you still have the job?"

  I looked at her from my supine position on the floor, never once answering her.

  "I want the job. I need the job. You caught me off guard. That's why I was rude. More rude than French people normally are. I talked before I used my brains. I want the job. I can't live like how I'm living anymore. I can't get a job at normal places because of my psych profile and criminal record. It's not fair. My record has trapped me. I don't want to be trapped anymore. If you give me the job, I'll do a good job."

  She paused, wanting me to say something, but I didn't.

  "So I'll come back tomorrow and start. My hours will be nine to six. I looked up the hours for other detective offices. That's the normal hours they have. Okay."

  She waited again for me to say something, then opened the door. She stopped.

  "What is the name of the detective agency anyway?"

  "Liquid Cool," I answered.

  "Oh, good. Very cosmopolitan and hip. I would have hated it, a stuffy name, or something stupid like the Cruz Detective Agency. Liquid Cool. Very nice. I start tomorrow at nine AM sharp."