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  “That’s a scary thought. No man wants to spend time with the future mother-in-law. That’s why he’s disappeared.”

  “It’s not funny. You know how he gets after any birthday of his. All morose and anti-social. Where could be?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “I’m at work, and I can’t go looking for him, but put the word out for me.”

  “You want him to call or stop by?”

  “Call is fine. No—stop by. If he’s not here by two, he can just meet me there.”

  “I’ll get him there. Not very many places for him to hide. My man, Cruz, is a creature of habit.”

  “If he even thinks of standing me up, he’ll have another crazy female after him.”

  “That’s a thought. I’ll check with her, too.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s crazy, but she may have seen him.”

  “She’s a sidewalk sally mental case.”

  “I’ll get him there.”

  “‘Kay.”

  “See ya.”

  “Bye.”

  Chapter 3

  China Doll

  CHINA DOLL.

  She closed the video-phone receiver on her end and walked out of the break room with its psychedelic, flowery wallpaper; her hand brushed aside the multi-colored hanging beads over the doorway.

  She was the consummate fashionista with every piece of clothing, every accessory, and every piece of jewelry being the trendiest and the most stylish. Leaving all that aside, they made her look “film quality.” Today, she was adorned in a luminescent halter top under a glossy leather jacket, a sapphire blue pearl belt wrapped around her waist, black skin-tight pants, and topped off with black heels, adorned with faux-diamond glitter. Her hair was tied back, with the ponytail carefully resting on one shoulder, always a colored neck scarf—today in basic black—and her makeup was always perfect and never overdone. Every finger had a colored ring, and each wrist had multiple bracelets.

  Eye Candy Image Salon was always packed with customers from the time it opened until its late night closing. Women came from every corner of Metropolis to be made to look like movie stars with its “fashion police” of makeup artists, hairdressers, manicurists, pedicurists, skincare techs, tattoo artists, wardrobe stylists, and even dressers to assemble their wardrobe, if needed. The establishment was owned by Prima Donna, the Matron Queen of Metropolis fashion, who still had the magic touch after so many decades and personally tended to their oldest and highest-tipping clients.

  China Doll was Prima’s number one and was boss in her absence. Like every other fashionista employee, she wasn’t some by-the-hour laborer. This was a coveted and highly competitive career, and everyone who worked in the parlor had advanced degrees in beauty and skincare, fashion and style arts, health, and nutrition.

  The interior of Eye Candy was designed like a beehive design, and every section was visible, due to its transparent walls, to every other section, except the break room, full body baths, and the bathrooms. Eye Candy was nothing but carefully coordinated chaos—women sitting on chairs getting their hair and makeup done in one section, their nails and toenails in another, facials in another, tattoos in another (always temporary to change according to current fashion trends), skincare consultations in another, and style analysis wardrobing in yet another section.

  China Doll walked back into the spacious waiting lobby, filled with eager clients, and looked at the counter computer screen for the next name.

  “Mrs. Fancy, come on down and get that cougar self in my chair.”

  An elderly woman with platinum blonde hair and dressed in a shimmering navy dress hopped up from the waiting chair, smiling. “I’m ready, China.”

  “No, Mrs. Fancy. You’ll be ready when we’re done with you, apply your fave au courant perfume, and top it off with a splash of glitter.”

  She went by China Doll, but women who knew her called her China; men called her Doll. Only her family and Cruz called her by her real name—Dot.

  She led Mrs. Fancy past her busy colleagues, working on their customers in the large hive hairdressing section. Busy at work were Cyan, who had a million outfits, but all were the same color of cyan; Pinkie, one of the newer girls, known for her bright pink hair; Goat Girl, another new girl, known for the large ring hanging from her nose septum; and Lipps, who had quite the set of augmented lips. Then there was the boss herself, Prima Donna, decked out in an amazing white and black outfit.

  Mrs. Fancy, as a client for over twenty-five years, knew the routine and climbed into the styling chair.

  “Found him?” Cyan asked China Doll.

  “I have my people on it.”

  Cyan and the other stylists laughed or smiled.

  “Your people?”

  “Yeah, my people. I have that kind of juice.”

  “Listen to her,” Pinkie said.

  “So, how did that boyfriend of yours get away without your people seeing him?” Cyan asked.

  “He’s playin’ games. The key to tracking Cruz is tracking his hovercar. Find the hovercar, find the man.”

  “How hard can that be, then? He rides that bright red Pony of his that you can see five miles away, even in the fog and rain.”

  “He can’t get away. We’re having dinner with my parents.”

  The girls began to laugh.

  “What?” China asked.

  “That explains it,” Cyan said.

  “Want to see how fast a man can run?” Prima Donna chimed in. “Tell him he has to have a meal with his future parents-in-law. All you’ll see is a dust cloud, streaking through the water on the ground. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Fancy?”

  “That’s how it was with all four of my husbands,” she said and everyone laughed.

  “That’s how it was with all five of mine,” Prima said, getting more laughs.

  “That’s not Cruz. He’s different.”

  “Where is he, then?” Cyan asked.

  “Maybe he’s getting styled up like Mrs. Fancy.”

  “Oooh. Going to a competitor,” Pinkie said. “That’s not copacetic.”

  “No, he wouldn’t do that. He’s one of those men, who thinks he can do a decent job himself with his clippers, scissors, and a hand mirror. My people will find him. He can’t hide.”

  “Hey, what about our meeting tonight?” Goat Girl asked.

  “The meeting goes on as planned. China has a life outside of politicking,” Prima said.

  “Politicking?” Mrs. Fancy asked.

  “Yeah, we’re organizing the world against them evil, job-stealing robots,” Goat Girl answered.

  “It’s disgusting what the world has become. How could anyone allow a robot to style their hair or do a manicure? It’s unnatural,” Mrs. Fancy said. “I’m not talking to any walking toaster for fashion advice.”

  “You tell ‘em, Mrs. Fancy,” Goat Girl said.

  “I wish everyone was as human-centric as you, Mrs. Fancy,” Prima said.

  “They want the robots to steal all our jobs,” China said.

  “Can they really do that?” asked another seated female customer. “Who’s going to allow a robot scissor-hands near their head? Not me.”

  “Oh, it’s bad,” Goat Girl said. “They got them non-humanoid robots—those helmet-heads and finger-suckers.”

  The women laughed.

  “Oh my, what are those?” Mrs. Fancy asked.

  “Goat Girl already named them,” Pinkie said.

  Prima answered, “You put the ‘helmet-head’ on. That’s what the robot looks like, and it can cut and style your head in ten seconds.”

  “If it doesn’t lobotomize you, first,” Pinkie added.

  “That’s what I’m saying. And the finger-suckers can cut your fingernails and paint them in five seconds. Or your toes, so they say. Robot hands with no fingers, just holes.”

  “Imagine putting your digits in those nasty holes.”

  The women laughed again.

  “That i
s so gross, Goat Girl.”

  “That’s the Brave New World,” Prima continued. “A world where the humans have no jobs.”

  “So what about tonight?” Goat Girl asked. “The meeting.”

  “We’re meeting,” Prima answered.

  “What are you all doing?” another customer asked.

  “We’re organizing all the hair stylists, manicurists, pedicurists, skin techs, nutri-techs, tattoo artists, fashion consultants, and fashion stylists into a union,” China replied. “We’re not going to allow robots to steal our jobs.”

  “Who’s behind all this?” Mrs. Fancy asked.

  “The two-headed snake. The suck-your-wallet-dry megacorps and our tax-payer funded suck-your-paycheck-dry uber-governments,” Prima answers. “We won’t let them get away with their schemes on our watch.”

  “That’s right,” Goat Girl said. “Hell no on our watch.”

  “Sounds exciting,” Mrs. Fancy said. “Are you going to have supporters?”

  “Oh yes, Mrs. Fancy. We’re going to need tons. You won’t have to be a fashionista or even a client to join and support our union.”

  “All you have to be is human,” Goat Girl interjected.

  “Well, I think I’m human.” Mrs. Fancy said, laughing. “Well, China? Am I human or a well-kept android?”

  “You’re the real deal, Mrs. Fancy. One-hundred percent, grade-A human.”

  “China!” one of the stylists from the back room called out. “Vid-phone.”

  China Doll looked at her and yelled, “Is it Cruz?”

  “Nah, it’s one of Run-Time’s guys.”

  China looked at the women. “My people.” She looked back at the new stylist. “Tell them to tell you the facts. I’m with a client.”

  The young woman disappeared through the bead curtains to the break room.

  “Oh China, you can take the call if you need to,” Mrs. Fancy said.

  “But I have people, Mrs. Fancy.”

  The new stylist came out from the back room and walked to them. “He asked if you know a guy named Phishy?” she said.

  “Yeah, I know Phishy. That’s one of Cruz’s frenemies. Why?”

  “He knows where Cruz is at.”

  “How would he know that?”

  The young woman shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll phone that slider when I have Mrs. Fancy settled in nicely under the hair dryer. How would Phishy know where Cruz is?”

  “Here Phishy, Phishy,” Cyan joked.

  Prima glanced at China. “You put the word out, and they got back to you fast.”

  “Well, he’s not on the other end of my mobile or standing in front of me, yet,” China Doll said. “We shall see.”

  Chapter 4

  Phishy

  PHISHY.

  Metropolis was not overflowing with life; it was choking on it. Water wasn’t a precious commodity here—it was a curse, alternating between always raining or about to rain. It was space that was sacred. People were stacked on top of one another in flashing super-skyscrapers that reached into the dark skies. Hover vehicles buzzed around; jetpackers zipped around; drones gyrated around, all in the airspace above the crowds. The only real open public space was the sidewalks. That was where the spontaneous action happened daily and not from the average masses of automaton-like city citizens, that passed through, going about life. The sidewalks had the real action from the people, who made it the center of their universe.

  However, sidewalk life had its problems, too. It was the “real hustle”—scamming and scheming for cash—that created the problem. Homelessness had been eradicated long ago, like polio and cancer; housing was mandatory for all, even for those without a legacy. But sidewalk johnnies were like the weeds you heard about that ruined a man’s plush green lawn in the old days. Hanging around, watching trouble, causing trouble, hustling, looking for a hustle, but doing little of anything meaningful. They congregated, watched, chatted it up, sat around, smoked, joked, disappeared to the johns when needed, or disappeared to their sleep shack for a few hours—and repeat. At least, they were harmless. Like a piece of litter—step around it and ignore.

  Dope daddies were different, perpetually pushing their “product” on an eager clientele of dope fiends itching for their daily fixes—only the rain was more persistent. Nowadays, the fiends were appropriately called dope roaches. That’s what they were: come out to feed (their fix) and disappear back into the darkness. Dope daddies had it down to a science, and for every one of them the cops sent to prison camp, any one of their lookouts, street corner chiefs, low-level pavement pushers, or runners, would readily step up to take their place. An endless cycle of street drug life. The only way to dry up the illegal drug swamp was to get rid of the addicts. The only way to get rid of the addicts was to…get rid of people. But the cops did what they could to maintain, at least, an ordered chaos.

  Then there were the in-between situations. Street hustlers, front street freddies, like Phishy. A little non-narcotic running here, a bit of courier work there, whatever scam he could get into to bring in some extra cash. Nothing illegal enough to get him a solid prison stint, but always at the level where if he got caught, he’d get no more than a mere misdemeanor situation—pay the fine and be on his way, not even a blot on the record. Cops and courts couldn’t be bothered with street hustlers working non-violent, low money scams. In a vile world, you had to set your priorities properly.

  Phishy always wore a dark colored vest and pants, but underneath was always some off-white colored, long-sleeve shirt extravaganza with colored fish all over it. He had a street name to maintain. He strutted down the street, side-stepping the sidewalk johnnies and sallies, saying hello to friends, slapping a high or low five as he went along.

  “Yo, Phishy,” the food truck guy called to him.

  It was Dog Man. Only hovergarbage trucks were more ubiquitous than hoverfood trucks. In Metropolis, you didn’t have to go out in the rain on a food-run if you didn’t want to; the food would come to you. But most hoverfood trucks staked out their turf either in the air or on the ground.

  Dog Man had the perfect corner, with six lanes of pedestrian traffic on the ground, and the same above him in the air. His hovertruck never flew anywhere anymore; it was a permanent fixture on the corner, open twenty-fours a day. Man! He could make a damn good hot dog. His food truck “owned” this street. In other words, he paid a wad of cash to the city to get exclusivity for his main truck here and two more at the other end of two more streets.

  “What’s up, Dog?” Phishy asked as he neared the truck. The aroma was like a drug itself.

  “Do you know where Cruz is, Phishy?”

  “What? Why you askin’ me?”

  “It’s not me,” Dog said. “Run-Time has the all points out for him.”

  “I haven’t seen him since Wednesday.”

  “Well, if you see him, call Run-Time. Maybe you can get some cash out of it.”

  “Hardly.” Phishy frowned. “You have to be a customer to get anything from Run-Time. Otherwise, he’s as cheap as the Scrooge on Christmas Eve.”

  “Meaning you tried to scam him, and it didn’t go well.”

  “I try to scam everybody, even my friends. If I didn’t, that would be like discriminating.”

  “If you say so, Phishy. How about a dog?”

  “Oh man, Dog Man. You’re worse than the dope daddies. You’re selling the wiener version of hard narcotics out of this food truck. I get fat, I can’t fit into my clothes, and I don’t earn enough to get an all new wardrobe.”

  “Half a dog won’t put any fat on them bones. You can skip the sauces.”

  “You can’t have a dog without the sauces, and a beverage to wash it down. That would be just plain wrong.” Phishy pointed at him. “Half a dog with my favorite sauce, spicy hot, beverage, and that’s it. Put it on my tab.”

  Dog Man started to get his hot dog. “Phishy, I don’t know why you keep using that line. You h
ave no tab with me or anyone else. Pull that cash out that I know you have, and I don’t want any wet or dirty bills.”

  “I told you, I try to scam even my friends.” Phishy reached into his vest pocket for his cash.

  He could feel his mobile phone vibrate on his belt. He grabbed it.

  “Phishy, Phishy, Phishy,” he answered.

  “Why do you do that?” the voice said. “Are you like two years old?”

  “Yo, China Doll.”

  “Don’t ‘yo’ me. Where’s Cruz?”

  “Why is everyone asking me about Cruz? I haven’t seen him since last Wednesday. Do you have everybody looking for him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “No one can find him.”

  “Men need their alone time, too. Leave him alone. He’ll show up when he shows up.”

  “I know you know where he is.”

  “I haven’t seen him since last Wednesday. But if I do, I’ll tell him he found a great hiding place and keep hiding there.”

  “Don’t make me come down there, Phishy. Tell him he better not even think of not making dinner today. He knows how important it is.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I come in his place? I’ll be hungry again.”

  “Uh…no.”

  “Why you got to be like that, China Doll? Phishies need food too.”

  “I’ll save some goldfish food for you, then. You know what you have to do. Use those street skills of yours and find him.”

  “You got Run-Time looking for him. Now me. Did you call the police and national guard?”

  “I don’t need them. That’s what I got people for.”

  “Do I get a few bills if I find him?”

  “No, but you can have the goldfish food. Bye, Phishy.”

  “Bye, China Doll.”

  Phishy returned the mobile to his belt. “See how I’m treated, Dog Man.”

  His mouth watered at the sight of the hot dog on a petite plate in Dog Man’s hand.

  “You got something for me, Phishy.”

  “Oh yeah. I was distracted.”

  Phishy reached back into his vest pocket for his cash. He revealed a bill. “Here doggy-doggy.” He slapped the bill down on the food truck service counter.