Houston, 2030: With ProperLegwork.

Mike McKay

Text copyright © Mike McKay2013-2014

Cover illustration copyright © MikeMcKay 2014

Smashwords Edition LicenseNotes

The right of Mike McKay to beidentified as the author of this work has been asserted inaccordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,1988.

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Some scenes contain stronglanguage, drug references, and violence. They may not beappropriate for younger readers.

Katherine Bowen, Records Clerk, FormerMermaid.

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

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

OK, what do we have? Another nightdisturbance: neighbors complained. Wild youngsters had their wildparty before going to the Army, nothing special. The address,jotted in Tan's terrible shorthand, is practically unreadable. Icontemplate if this report can wait till Monday. Perhaps, I cancall it a day and have a little walk? A puff of Grass will be nicetoo. Let's play the USS Enterprise a little. Scotty, damageassessment, if you would?

Damage assessment, aye-aye! My bravestarship engineer scrutinizes his control panels and flips fewswitches. All systems nominal, Capt'n. The left foot reported nofaults today. Although, for the last two hours… Our Boredom Shieldshave been running at one hundred and eight percent of therecommended 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 torepel yet another attack.

Suddenly, the Beat dooropens. A Chinamerican, in his mid-twenties, totally out of breath. He puffs andcoughs, holding on the door frame. Sweat is dripping from his faceonto his camo T-shirt and cut-below-knee pants. His flip-flops arenot on his feet but under his arm. He was running, top speed, andfor considerable distance, at least a mile. No, that will be onemile and a half. Most Chinamericanslive on the south side. His 'flops have traces ofwhite chalk. Must be Patch-5, then. Only Patch-5 has this whitestuff around. And what do we have in the left hand? Ouch, there issomething which looks like… like a blood-soaked rag.

“Can I help you, sir?”

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

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

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

“Your father…”

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

Oops! Exactly what you want on Fridayevening. Now you may open those Boredom Shields, Scotty. Do theproper maintenance. We won't need this equipment for longwhile.

“At your residence, sir?”

“Yes. In our shack.”

“Your address?”

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

“What's your name, sir?”

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

Sure he must be ‘Victor’. I understand aword 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 manyother inexperienced Police officers, I have the radio codes listtaped to the desk surface. Ah, the heck with it. The codes areirrelevant. Besides, they keep telling us to drop this traditionalcode talk. Even the radio comms are encrypted, and I am using acell phone.

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

“Good afternoon, Dispatch One-Niner. Bowenhere, from the Beat office. I have a reported stubbing. Potentialhomicide.”

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

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

“OK, sweetie. TheChinamerican Patch-Five,” the One-Niner confirms, “I will 10-5 yourStation, 10-18. Do you want me to text GRS-One andGRS-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 ridestraight 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.’ Whydon't we use the normal language? Just say: ‘I call Kim myself.’The comms are secure, and even if not – we are talking nothingconfidential. Hey, we are in the Twenty-First damn Century, and theyear is 2030, and not 1950!

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

Sweetie! Nice boy! Fourmonths ago, I had some hopes: apparently, the Koreans don't changesurnames in marriage. But the phone operators knew of our weddinginstantly. So difficult to keep your personal life away from theDispatch! But still, do they know, or not? The standard personnelform surely has to say something about my Purple Heart…

The Chinaman has recovered his breath andreturned the 'flops to his feet. Now the man looks deflated. Hisadrenaline rush is over.