Houston, 2030: With Proper Legwork

Houston, 2030: With Proper Legwork.

  Mike McKay

  Text copyright © Mike McKay 2013-2014

  Cover illustration copyright © Mike McKay 2014

  The right of Mike McKay to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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  Katherine Bowen, Records Clerk, Former Mermaid.

  Sorting papers in the comfy Police office surely beats sorting garbage at the sun-scorched, stinky Landfill. But on Friday afternoon even the office work can drive you absolute nuts. My cell phone just threw another digit at the screen: ‘4:42’. Eighteen minutes of suffering to go.

  I pull yet another old incident report from the pile and read through the header. Perhaps, Deputy Tan should take some handwriting classes. This wonderful Calligraphy Club, in the Chinamerican slums! Besides the Chinese writing, they teach English letters to immigrants. Can they also teach some English letters to the natives, why not?

  OK, what do we have? Another night disturbance: neighbors complained. Wild youngsters had their wild party before going to the Army, nothing special. The address, jotted in Tan's terrible shorthand, is practically unreadable. I contemplate if this report can wait till Monday. Perhaps, I can call it a day and have a little walk? A puff of Grass will be nice too. Let's play the USS Enterprise a little. Scotty, damage assessment, if you would?

  Damage assessment, aye-aye! My brave starship engineer scrutinizes his control panels and flips few switches. All systems nominal, Capt'n. The left foot reported no faults today. Although, for the last two hours… Our Boredom Shields have been running at one hundred and eight percent of the recommended maximum. I must inform you they are presently red-hot. This jury-rigging won't last for long, ma'am. Shut 'em off, Scotty. The last thing I want is an explosion. Aye, Capt'n, shutting off. Thank you, Scotty. But keep 'em on stand-by. Likely, we have to repel yet another attack.

  Suddenly, the Beat door opens. A Chinamerican, in his mid-twenties, totally out of breath. He puffs and coughs, holding on the door frame. Sweat is dripping from his face onto his camo T-shirt and cut-below-knee pants. His flip-flops are not on his feet but under his arm. He was running, top speed, and for considerable distance, at least a mile. No, must be one mile and a half. Most Chinamericans dwell on the south side. His 'flops have traces of white chalk. Must be Patch-5, then. Only Patch-5 has this white stuff around. And what do we have in the left hand? Ouch, there is something, which looks like… like a blood-soaked rag!

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Yeah… Yeah, officer,” he replies, gasping for oxygen. Hot and sticky evening air does not help at all.

  “What happened?” I don't lift my butt out of the chair. Getting out of my comfy office chair for visitors? For me, too much trouble.

  “My father,” he steps into the Beat office, and now I see within the blood-soaked rag – a weapon: a long quarter-inch Phillips screw driver, converted into a deadly stiletto. A gut-driver, that's what the Houston gangs call those. I suppress an urge to reach into my bag and grab the knife. For few seconds, I wish I have a gun. Being in one room with a disturbed man holding a bloodied gut-driver is not very comfortable.

  “Your father…”

  “My father,” he recovers his breath a little and now he can talk, “My father – is dead, ma'am.”

  Oops! Exactly what you want on Friday evening. Now you may open those Boredom Shields, Scotty. Do the proper maintenance. We won't need this equipment for long while.

  “At your residence, sir?”

  “Yes. In our shack.”

  “Your address?”

  He mumbles the address. Indeed, the south-east side, Patch-5, about one and a half mile away. I have guessed it right! My face shows no emotions (I hope), but within – I am smiling. I love to guess it right!

  “What's your name, sir?”

  “Chen Dong Cheng. You may call me Victor Chen. If you prefer an American name.”

  Sure he must be ‘Victor’. I understand a word or two in Mandarin. ‘Dong Cheng’ is for ‘Oriental Winner’. Or ‘Victorious East’, whichever suits you more.

  “And your father's name, Mister Chen?”

  “Chen Te-Sheng.”

  I run my finger over a cheat-sheet. As many other inexperienced Police officers, I have the radio codes list taped to the desk surface. Ah, the heck with it! The codes are irrelevant. Besides, they keep telling us to drop this traditional code talk. Even the radio comms are encrypted, and I am using a cell phone.

  “GRS-Three, proceed,” the phone replies. The operator's identification number simultaneously pops up at the little screen. Another oops!

  “Good afternoon, Dispatch One-Niner. Bowen here, from the Beat office. I have a reported stubbing. Potential homicide.”

  “Oh, that's you, Katy, my dear! Got it: reported stubbing, one fatality, suspected homicide,” the Dispatch operator motherly tones are almost embarrassing. I have talked to her only on the phone, have never seen her face, and don't even know her real name. I imagine Dispatch One-Niner to be an old African-American lady, your typical Granny from the old Looney Tunes, only with dark skin. Just the opposite, the granny has seen my face many times and knows that I am an Afro. Every time a Police-issued cell phone reaches Dispatch, the caller's photo automatically pops up at the operator's screen. In my case, this must be my personnel file photo, from the Navy. Perhaps, the Dispatch Granny is happy to look after her little Afro grand-niece, so cute and neat in that Navy Dress Uniform. What if she knows, I suddenly realize.

  I tell the operator the names and the address, trying to be neither indifferent nor too welcoming. The right code suddenly jumps into my mind: AMA – Asian Male, Adult.

  “OK, sweetie. The Chinamerican Patch-Five,” the One-Niner confirms, “I will 10-5 your Station, 10-18. Do you want me to text GRS-One and GRS-Two?”

  I glance at my code table. 10-5 is for ‘relay to,’ 10-18 is for ‘urgent’.

  “GRS-Two, please. Could you text Tan to ride straight to the address? I will 10-21 GRS-One myself.” Ten-twenty-one-GRS-One. Police poetry. When you don't need 'em, the damn codes pop up by themselves: 10-21 is for ‘phone call.’ Why don't we use the normal language? Just say: ‘I call Kim myself.’ The comms are secure, and even if not – we are talking nothing confidential. Hey, we are in the Twenty-First damn Century, and the year is 2030, and not 1950!

  “Perfect. And pass my regards to your dear husband, sweetie. Oh, he is such a nice boy! 10-3.” The phone clicks off.

  Sweetie! Nice boy! Four months ago, I had some hopes: apparently, the Koreans don't change surnames in marriage. But the phone operators knew of our wedding instantly. So difficult to keep your personal life away from the Dispatch! But still, do they know, or not? The standard personnel form surely has to say something about my Purple Heart…

  The Chinaman has recovered his breath and returned the 'flops to his feet. Now the man looks deflated. His adrenaline rush is over.

  “OK, sir. That thing in your hand?”

  “I picked it from the floor. The rag too.”

  “All right. Just put it on that coffee table, nice and easy, and step back.” />
  Perhaps, I should have asked him to do this before calling the Dispatch. How stupid of me. Well, anyway. He obeys sheepishly, placing the gut-driver on the glass table top. Then, he steps back, makes a move to wipe his hands with the bloodied rag, hesitates, and suddenly drops the rag onto the table as if it's a poisonous spider.

  “Would you like some water?” I ask.

  “Please.”

  “Help yourself,” I point to the jug and glasses at the other desk, “this one is from a well and boiled. Safe.”

  The jug beak rattles against the glass. The man empties the glass with a single gulp and then pours water again.

  “Excellent. Now take a seat.”

  “Thank you, ma'am.” He seats, barely touching the chair.

  “Why did you run to the Beat, anyway? You should have called 911 instead.”

  “We've got no phones. In our place the reception is crappy.”

  Understatement, I think. Since the last hurricane, in the Chinamerican Patches Four and Five the reception has been not just ‘crappy’, but simply non-existent.

  “You could knock on any door in the China-Patch Three and ask somebody to call Police for you,” while saying so, I look into my phone and touch my husband's number from the frequent calls list. Instead of the prescribed Sheriff star, the screen pops up a face of the Looney Tunes Wile E. Coyote, with three little pink hearts circling above his head. Kim is very good at hacking Police-issued phones.

  “I don't know, ma'am. I just didn't think of it.”

  He is right. Once you start running, your hormones kick in, and you can't think clearly. Back in March, I was a bit like this myself. Now, after my Cruise, I am way more philosophical.

  “Hi, Road Runner,” the phone says in Kim's voice, “I am almost there. Seven minutes, max. Decided what to buy for a present?”

  “The present has to wait, unfortunately. Tan is on his way to China-Patch Five. Happy bloody birthday, Deputy,” I reply.

  “Ouch! What happened?”

  “Stubbing. Possible homicide. Mister Victor Chen is with me at the Beat.”

  “I'll be right there…” he sounds exceptionally worried. Well, he is always worried about his little wife. As if I can't defend myself.

  Three minutes later the door rattles and my dear Deputy Kim storms in, ready to establish Order through Law and dispense Justice with Mercy [1]. Or without. Whichever is available today? He stops on his tracks observing the peaceful Beat settings. I am not under attack, after all.

  “Wile E. Coyote, reporting on-duty, ma'am,” he says, hopelessly trying to hide that he has been pedaling his bike like mad.

  “OK, Mister Coyote. For starters, please collect the weapon,” I reach to the lower drawer and pass my husband two evidence bags. The Chinaman makes a double-take at Kim, probably imagining some American Indian heritage. Deputy Coyote. Surely, he has expected an Amerasian surname. Although, in the Houston slums one never knows: the ethnic boundaries are shuttered, and my happy marriage is just one example.

  Kim points at the coffee table: “these?”

  “Yep. Please be careful: it's a bio-hazard. Besides, there is still slim hope for prints.”

  I don't really need to tell him that. He has been in the Police way longer than I. Kim carefully maneuvers the evidence in, and now the gut-driver and the rag are secured.

  “Mister Chen, please tell us briefly what you saw,” I inquire meanwhile.

  “Came home as usual. Friday is a short day. My father is on the bed. Blood… And this – on the floor,” he makes a weak motion towards the evidence bags in Kim's hand.

  “You said: as usual. What time was it?”

  “Four-fifteen, approximately. I work at the 'tronics repair. The second Friday of the month – it's my turn. To take an early off. At half past three.” His phrases are short, but he speaks perfect English. If Kim pays attention, he can do the same posh British accent – the remnants of his few years in a private school.

  Interesting, which particular China our Chinaman is from? By the sound of it, he is not from the Mainland, and probably not from Hong Kong. And not a Russian Chinese from Siberia either – those are typically taller and speak with strange R-s and H-es. Taiwanese roots? Right! He pronounces his surname as ‘Chen’. If he was from Hong Kong, he would say ‘Chan’. Although, he can be also a Malaysian or Singaporean Chinese. Well, but the Singaporeans say ‘Tan’ instead of ‘Chan’. No, it's not true either. The Singaporeans also have ‘Chen’, but it's a totally different hieroglyph. Inconclusive. Well-developed cheek bones… My dear Watson, that's a stereotype. Oh, but he says he is an electronics repairman! Let see. All the nails cut short. The Singaporean Chinese often leave long nail at the pinky. The skin on both index fingers is not burnt. Uses tweezers and a board holder? This suggests a Taiwamerican or Japamerican-run repair shop. They are so professional and neat – with a fancy special tool for everything. Looking at the man's 'flops, they are old, but not beaten-up. He has no bike. Dropping one at home to run for over a mile? Hard to imagine. So his shop is not very far from his home… A Malaysian Chinese, working in a Taiwanese shop? Not improbable, but unlikely.

  “Are you Taiwamerican, Mister Chen?” I suddenly ask.

  Darn! I have to learn not to pop my conclusions like this.

  “Yes, we came from Taiwan. But – how did you know?”

  Oops! I am right again! Behind the Taiwamerican's back, my husband nods and smiles. By now, he is well-accustomed to my ‘Sherlock Holmes deductions.’ Sometimes later, he will surely beg me to explain him the trick. But not now. I have learned quite well not to disclose the full logic chain in front of the strangers. Nobody likes if a girl can see right through you, especially if this girl is from Police.

  “Oh, it was a lucky guess, Mister Chen. Based on your accent, nothing special. One friend of mine, he has the same. And he's from Taiwan. Or – from Hong Kong? Not sure.”

  The man nods. Now he is sure the Police Afro girl has no idea about the Chinese. Phew!

  “Should we take a written statement here or let the Station guys do it?” Kim asks.

  “I think you'd better take Mister Chen to his shack and wait for the Station guys,” I reply, “it's a mile and a half walk. You will be there probably at the same time as the Emergency Response.”

  “And you are not coming with us, Deputy?” the Taiwamerican looks at me. Do I want to go? Sure! But I firmly belong to the office-only category. What do I suppose to do? Pull out my machine gun? Dispense Lawful Order and Merciful Justice in speedy 7.62-millimeter servings?

  “I am not a Deputy, Mister Chen: a mere Records Clerk, plus a Beat secretary of sorts.”

  “Clerk? But… Your uniform?”

  “This is the Navy uniform. Second-hand, if you are wondering.”

  I reach with my right hand to the desk corner and push my office chair sideways. The tired chair wheels make squeaking noise on the floor tiles. The chair rolls into the narrow passage between the desks. Watch this, Mr. Taiwamerican! The man's lower jaw drops, but his eyes open three times their natural size. Excellent facelift, almost like in Japanese Manga. Sadly, the effect cannot be preserved for long, or I can make heaps of money as a plastic surgeon. With those who don't know, I achieve such effect almost every time. Since my Cruise, there is almost nothing below by buttocks, so the body ends flush with the seat surface. I smile to Mr. Chen apologetically: and you thought I didn't stand up from my chair because I am so rude?

  The man manages a rubber smile and a shy nod, accepting my silent apology. He looks straight at me, surely surprised, but not disgusted. Not a bad reaction. If only everybody react like this! The majority starts mumbling stupid comments and excuses. Poor thing. So bad. Sorry, I didn't realize I was talking to a cripple. Hey, I have no legs, but I am not a cripple! And sometimes – even worse. They look through you, as if you don't exist. Frankly, I prefer if people a
sk right away why I have no legs. But the quiet understanding nod is also great. The United States are at war, shit happens. The girl is a legless veteran, so what? Being legless is not a piece of cake, but not the freaking end-of-life, by any means.

  “Let's go, Mister Chen,” Kim interrupts the silence. By the way, he is one of those few: brave enough to ask me about my missing legs right away. And after he received a direct answer, he accepted me for a whole person.

  “Sure, Deputy,” Mr. Chen says. Then turns to me: “Have a nice evening, ma'am.”

  I nod back and smile. What a stupid idea – making show of myself. ‘Are you Taiwamerican, Mister Chen?’, followed by my chair-riding, eye-opening demonstration. He lost his Dad! Even if he himself killed the old man, still must show some mercy.