Houston, 2030: With Proper Legwork.
Mike McKay
Text copyright © Mike McKay 2013-2014
Cover illustration copyright © Mike McKay 2014
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Some scenes contain strong language, drug references, and violence. They may not be appropriate for younger readers.
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, ma'am, 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, that will be one mile and a half. Most Chinamericans live 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 that within that blood-soaked rag there is 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 the 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 them, 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…