“Hey, you!” Woxman turns to the open door. “You two have no business in here. Bugger off!”
“The Deputy Investigator is right, young lady,” I try to soften the rude response, “Don't you see the police tape? Your Daddy should do his ‘Change for Vets’ at some other place.”
But her Daddy does not want to leave. “Kha-kha-ah” he says and lifts the begging tin with his bandaged hands. The vet knows his rights.
“Everybody must give once a day. It's the First Rule!” The girl says.
“OK, fine,” I reach for my water-tight box.
“Not you, sir! Twice a day – no such Rule! Him!” the girl sticks her dirty finger towards the Deputy Investigator.
“Sorry, I have no small money,” Woxman blushes, “the smallest I have is five bucks.”
What a Scrooge! Is he going to ask the beggar to give three dollars of change?
“Kha-kha-ah!” The legless wheezes and raises his tin a notch higher.
With a sigh, Woxman pulls out a bundle of wet crumpled bills. The generous five-dollar donation leaves the safety of the bundle's rubber band for the cruel world of the begging tin.
“Happy now? Get lost!”
“Kha-kha! Kha-ha-ah!” the vet says. He either says thanks or sends Woxman to some distant place never visited by the Ambassadors of the Politically Correct Republic.
“Thank you so big, Uncle Cop!” The girl flashes a foxy smile, backing the wheelchair away from the police tape. Despite the layer of grime on her face, she is cute. Have I seen her recently? Perhaps, but for sure not with this beggar vet. Can't remember…
***
Once again, I am going to be home after seven. My poor little wife has to cope with all the chores. I am riding my bike in twilight and recollect the day events.
Woxman stood guard at the shack while I went down to Patch-3 to phone Python about the scattered books. Tom was astonished and decided to come at once. About one hour later we met the sweating CSI at the scene. Naturally, this time he could not use the horse and had to push pedals all the way from the Station.
Tom glanced into the hut and whistled. “I tell you that much, gents. Someone was looking for something here. Real hard.”
“I also thought so,” I said, “Can you establish that were they looking for?”
“God knows. Offhand, it must be something small and flat. Something that can be hidden in a book: between the pages or in the spine. Although… It could be pretty much anything you can imagine. Maybe they were just looking for a specific book. Did you touch anything in here?”
“I did,” I admitted, “That book on the floor, about alloys. I was holding it.”
Python gave me a ravenous look. He is going to squash me to death and eat me in one piece, as per the pythons' habit, I thought.
“And that do they do with all these books?” Woxman asked, “To be honest, I don't even understand the titles.”
“About the titles, you are not alone,” Tom said, “I don't understand them too. Not my specialty.”
“Are they about Physics?” I suggested the first thing that came to my mind.
“Not quite,” Tom said, “They look to me like Engineering and Material Science, but very advanced.”
“Very advanced – are you judging by the titles?”
“Not only. These books cover a diverse range of knowledge. For example, at home I keep a little library on criminology, programming and lab procedures. But I only have only two dozen titles. Of these, only three books I use frequently. And with all this, I call myself an expert. But here! At least two hundred volumes, and it looks like all were used a lot. Someone needed all kinds of material properties: specific resistivity, ion polarization, density, compressive strength, you name it. Must be very advanced stuff, what else?”
“Victor Chen works in electronics repairs,” Woxman pointed.
“Not this type of books,” Tom said. “From the stuff the 'tronics guys use - there are only two. See, here: the Microcontrollers Bonanza. Also, I've seen another one somewhere, like a thick catalog, Semiconductor Devices and Integrated Circuits. For an electronics man, this is hardly enough. If Victor has more books about electronics, he surely keeps them at his shop. The rest of the books is some kind of super-technologies.”
“Who in our Slum would need such super-technologies?” I asked.
“Who in the whole United States would need such super-technologies today?” Tom smiled.
“Maybe – the Pentagon?” Woxman asked.
“The Pentagon? I guess,” Tom said.
“What shall we do now?” I asked.
“Good question,” Python scratched his head, “I will change into my coverall and spend few hours talking to my fingerprint kit and my flashlight. I don't see the alternatives. And you gents, it would be very nice if you carefully went around the shack and check every square foot one more time. The probability is thin, but you may stumble on something… unusual. Any more suggestions?”
No suggestions followed. We kept searching until the sunset, nearly nose to the ground, like those bloodhounds. I would not mind working some more, but only Tom had a flashlight.
Woxman kept complaining and grew angry by the minute: for his bad luck, for such a puzzling case, for the absence of clues, for his pants being shit-dirtied once again (“Why did you put them on, man, what was wrong with your kilt?” Tom teased him). The Deputy Investigator cursed our Amerasian Slums. As if his own obamaville at the west outskirts of the stinky Landfill, leached to the roofs with by-products of garbage recycling, was a bloody palace!
***
Tired and hungry, I arrive home. Kate sits in front of the house, stirring something in the pot. I feel intrigued and a bit scared: today it's not her usual Primus, but the rare-occasion coal briquettes. It will be either a major culinary break-through, or a miserable culinary failure.
“Hi, Runner, what's for dinner?” I ask.
“A rabbit stew! With bok choy and potatoes! History in the making! Even Ma approved.”
“Rabbit? Wow! I can't wait for such a luxury.”
“I can't wait too. From down here, it smells so nice. Wash your hands. If you're not ready in three minutes, I'll gulp it all myself.”
I follow the advice, and exactly three minutes later we dine.
“How was your search today?” Kate asks wielding her serving spoon.
“No good. Found nothing,” I mumble through a mouthful of hot stew. The major culinary break-through it is: my wife has surpassed all expectations. Although, I suspect my Mom has something to do with this.
“Can I guess?”
“OK, guess!”
She raises the serving spoon. “OK. My magic spoon is telling me… Telling me… One. This morning, Woxman fell into a ditch. Down to his waist. The local population found it to be exceptionally funny. Two. Somebody came to Chen's shack in the night to look for something. All the books were on the floor. Three. You decided to call Python. Because Woxman had no pants, Wile E Coyote had to ride to the China-Three to make a call. Did I get it right?”
I quietly choke on the rabbit. Almost to death.
“Ouch! Sorry. Want me to whack you on the back?” Kate says overseeing my recovery.
“But… But how did you know?” I finally regain my breath.
“Wrong. You must say: but how did you know, Holmes?”
“Fine! But how did you know, Holmes?”
“Dear Watson, I wrote a monograph on the development of telepathic abilities by eating rabbit stew with bok choy and potatoes…”
“Stop being silly.”
“You should read the monograph, Watson! The rabbit stew does not develop telepathic abilities whatsoever. The best result is obtained by substituting the rabbit with a river rat.”
I choke on the ‘rabbit’ once again. Kate promptly saves me from a terrible death by delivering the promised whack to my back. For a girl of her size, she has a formidable whack. The continuous practice with skateboard works that way.