Liquid Cool: The Cyberpunk Detective Series (23 page)

"Now that intrigues me."

Chapter 35: Trash Boss

Who was the most powerful of them all? One government agency to rule them all. It wasn't transportation, energy, health services, or even the police; it was garbage--Trash services.

One of the reasons I didn't mind the rain, like most people, was because the alternative would be far worse. Imagine this world as a smoky, humid hot-house. We'd all kill ourselves. People forgot that no matter how sophisticated and advanced we thought ourselves to be, any populated city has two things no matter what: people and waste. Waste services was one of the many gray words people created for polite conversation. Wet, smelly, dirty, venal garbage. You could work yourself into a psychosis simply imagining how much garbage flowed through a city of 50 million people on top of each other by the day, hour, or minute. Nasty. If the power ever went out, it wasn't the cessation of food to the markets that terrified me. If we ever had an Extinction Level Event; it would be that no toilets would flush and there'd be no one to pick up the trash. My own borderline clinical germophobia would be unrestrained to a point beyond any ability to manage.

The filth is what I feared, and so did everyone else which was why trashmen were treated with the respect they got. Everyone knew what would happen in mere hours if there were no City Trash and Waste Services. A reporter did an expose and said that the city could survive a few days without food, a week without water; without the Net for about ten days max, because of how many critical systems were manned by nothing than machines. But the absence of trash and waste services would render the super-city unlivable within six hours. I once had to beat myself up to stop thinking about it, because a severe germophobic panic attack had gripped me and I felt my sanity slipping away. I think that was why people truncated their official name from Trash and Waste to just Trash Services.

One thing about being involved, even tangentially, with the hover-car racing scene, as I had been, was that you saw places of the city no one else had seen. Secret thoroughways and back alleys no one ever went, that made you quite aware of the secret underground world of trash. On the main streets, trash was picked up quickly, never being allowed to pile up for too long. In secluded lots and alleys, that was far from being the case, as the many amateur (and illegal) hover-car street races had shown me.

It was at one of these secret, amateur races, a few years back that I met the Surf Brothers. The brothers were also into classic hover-cars so we hit it off and talked for hours about the scene whenever we met up. It was through them that I met their bo
ss,
Mr. Pyle.

I had heard of him before when I was a police intern kid. People didn't just throw garbage in the garbage. At Metro Police Central, I got an earful at one presentation about all the weapons, body parts, and full human bodies thrown into the trash. In fact, Trash Services and the Metro Police worked together on cases far more than anyone could imagine, which was why the Director of Trash Services had a dotted line report to the Chief of Police. If you're a criminal and want to get rid of the evidence, don't throw it in the trash. They'll find it.

I drove out to Nil Point early in the morning. The rain was coming down hard, but I paid it no mind. Rain or no rain, no matter what time of day, hover-car traffic was going to be awful.

Nil Point was where the official offices of Trash Services was located--way out, away from the real main city. It was where all the garbage hover-trucks were always flying to and from. The skies around their building headquarters was thick with their vehicles, almost like swarming bees.

I was surprised that I didn't smell much as I approached the public parking area. What did I expect, open rivers of sewage?

The public parking lot was huge. Trash Headquarters was the center, then a circle around it for government employee parking and the handicapped, then the outer rings for everyone else. There were public hover-shuttles that also buzzed around the parking lot, small pods made for the driver and one or two passengers. They were old, beat-up, and I didn't even want to know the condition of the public seats in the back. I smiled at the driver who hovered near me and waved him off. I pulled down my fedora, pulled up my collar, and buttoned my coat. I was used to walking since I always parked my vehicle away from everyone else, like every owner of a classic vehicle did. The rain was bad, but then, it often was.

I was happy to arrive at the main building if only to get the hell out of the rain. There I saw the metal detector arch with a policeman on either side.

"Oh," I said out loud. "I forgot my papers." I spun around and went back into the rain.

Was this the crap criminals had to go through?

I walked all the way back to my vehicle in the rain, got in, unloaded all my illegal weapons, got out, and trudged all way back through the even heavier downpour to walk back inside. The two police officers were standing there laughing hysterically at me. They weren't stupid.

As I walked to the arch, one of them said, "Sure you got all of them?" They burst out laughing again.

I ignored them and proceeded through. "Can you point me to
Mr.
Pyle's office?" I asked.

"Penthouse floor, of course," one of them answered.

Pyle kne
w he was an important man in the government, everyone knew it, and he made sure that those who didn't, knew it too. I met him only once before hanging out with the Surf Brothers. I didn't like him then; I didn't like him now.

He was one man but had seven full-time secretaries, and though I had made an appointment and was early, I still ended up waiting fifteen minutes past the time. My rule is if I'm late, cancel the appointment on my ass. But if I'm early or on time, I don't expect to be waiting. One of his secretaries led me into his office and I walked in with an obviously annoyed look on my face.

"I hope I'm not inconveniencing your schedule," I said before I reached his desk.

He knew I was irritated, but didn't care as he shook with a vice grip handshake. All trashmen had biceps of steel. "I was on the phone with the Mayor."

I didn't believe him, but I let it go.

"Thanks for taking the time," I said as he gestured to me to take a seat in the very wide and plush chair in front of his desk. He sat, too.

"How can I help you, Mr. Cruz? I understand you're a detective?"

"Well, since my licensing is on the distant horizon, I'm a consultant."

He chuckled and my little admission--government non-compliance--seemed to be an asset in his eyes.

"How can I help, Mr. Cruz, the consultant?" Another man came from behind, rolling up another chair next to me. "Oh, this is my Chief of Staff."

The trash boss needed a chief of staff? That's silly, I thought.

"Mr. Cruz," he greeted me, too.

He sat and opened up a digital notepad with one hand as he held a stylus pen with the other.

"How can I help you, Mr. Cruz?" Trash Boss repeated. "The Surf Brothers told me you've known them for years."

"They have a couple of very nice classic vehicles. I helped restore them. Well,
Mr. Pyle, to get right to it. I need some access to some video tapes." I leaned forward in my chair. "Is this conversation subject to public record?"

"Listen to him," the Trash Boss said to his chief, then turned to me, "You sound like a lawyer. No, it's private. What video are you talking about?"

"Back in the day, when I was a inter
ning for the police in school, I learned a little known fact. In fact, I'd say secret. I learned that your office had a dotted line report to the Chief of Police. Something like that sticks in the mind of a kid. How is it that the trashman is partners with the policeman? I learned that one reason was the fact that your people in the field often come across weapons, contraband, and bodies that are obviously of interest to the police. But the other reason is because all those garbage hover-trucks out there, every last one of them, like every police and fire vehicle, is also a flying camera, and is always recording."

The two men watched me quietly.

"Who told you that?" the chief of staff man asked me. "Because it's not true. Some of the vehicles have surveillance for insurance and safety purposes, but they are not part of some city surveillance network as you seem to be saying."

I glanced at the chief with a look of annoyance and returned my focus to the Trash Boss. "Can you help me out
, Mr. Pyle?" I rea
ched into my pocket and placed a highlighted report on his desk. "It's obvious I can keep a secret. I've already demonstrated that for almost twenty years. I know your people don't even know their vehicles are rigged for public surveillance and I'm not interested in them finding out. With so many of them involved in off-the-record, off-the-books salvage, you'd have a full-scale mutiny. But I'm sure you could get a video to me. The highlight on the report has to do with a woman who had her daughter kidnapped."

The annoying chief of staff said to me, "There's a kidnapping every hour in the city."

I gave him another of my "shut up you" looks, then returned my attention to Trash boss. "What do you say?"

"Mr. Cruz, unfortunately, the information you were given is completely incorrect. My fleet is not rigged for surveillance. The union would have my scalp if we ever did, especially secretly as you're saying. I like my job and want to keep it. What makes this one kidnapping so important, anyway? My Chief of Staff is right; kidnappings happen every day. Think about the consequences of what you're asking even if it were true."

"Yeah, it would be tied up in the courts forever on privacy grounds. I don't care about that. I have a specific range of times and specific areas I'm interested in. I'll sit through all the video myself."

"No such tapes exist, Mr. Cruz."

"Oh, did you hear about the reward being offered? I'll split it with you."

"Sorry, we can't help you."

"Oh, I'm sorry I wasted you
r time, Mr. Pyle. And your Chief of Staff's. Umm. Who's Mr. Dryer?"

The men gave me dirty looks.

"You know exactly who the president of the Trash and Waste Services Union is, Mr. Cruz."

Chapter 36: Just Me

The review from the Corporate Guy was like gold in getting in front of other people in the corporate world. I had PJ print up a ton of intro cards with their reviews prominently displayed on the back. None of them cared about me or my credentials. All that mattered was that I was referred by a fellow corporatist. The review for the Government Guy had the same effect within government circles. I wanted to make sure I established myself as a generalist detective right from the start. The Guy Who Scratched My Vehicle and family was the icing on the cake in telling people I worked for the Average Joe too. I had the business trifecta--corporate, government, and the people.

Clients were fine, but in the end, could they pay me?

When I called PJ into my office, she had her normal Punch Judy swagger that said "whatcha want?" like I often did when I was in my moods. After I tossed her a wad of bills--her bionic hand made sure not to drop it--she couldn't stop smiling.

"How do you know what secretaries earn in salary?"

"I looked up on the Net."

"Are you paying me below market or above market?"

"Above market. Liquid Cool is a classy joint with a reputation."

She stuffed the wad of cash into her bra. I had told Phishy women don't do that in real life.

"I really didn't need to see that," I said.

The rest of the day would be her telling me, or talking to herself--I couldn't tell which, about all the shoes and new dresses and jewelry she was going to buy with her first official paycheck.

For me, I sat behind my desk, leaning back in the chair with my feet on my desk and hands interlaced, cradling the back of my head. I wasn't playing detective; I was one. I had an office, one employee already, slick weapons, the business cards to prove I was real, and clients that paid me with "checks that didn't bounce." As the saying went, Life was good, and even I had a hard time suppressing a smile.

But Wilford G.'s
H
ow to be a Great Detective with 100 Rules
warned me. "The quickest way to go from being a working private eye to being a dead one was being content. Contentment was the devil. It makes you stupid and slow. If you caught yourself smiling, slap yourself. If you're feeling good, get off your butt and go get another client, because you clearly have too much free time. Never forget that the working detective is an endangered species. All kinds of punks want to do bodily violence to you. They want to put you in the morgue meat market. You want contention, go be a monk on Xanadu Pleasure Colony. You want to be a working detective, never smile. There's a lot of grinning dead detectives in the morgue. Keep your hand on the trigger of your favorite piece, and your head always in the game. Be the hero, even if it hurts. Then maybe, possibly, a small chance, you'll live as long as me, with some cash to rub together."