“OK, sir. That thing in your hand?”

“I picked it from the floor. The ragtoo.”

“All right. Just put it on that coffeetable, nice and easy, and step back.”

Perhaps, I should haveasked 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 thebloodied rag, hesitates, and suddenly drops the rag onto the tableas if it's a poisonous spider.

“Would you like some water?” I ask.

“Please.”

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

The jug beak rattles against the glass. Theman empties the glass with a single gulp and then pours wateragain.

“Excellent. Now take a seat.”

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

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

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

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

“You could knock on anydoor in the China-Patch Three and ask somebody to call Police foryou,” while saying so, I look into my phone and touch my husband'snumber from the frequent calls list. Instead of the prescribedSheriff star, the screen pops up a face of the Looney Tunes Wile E Coyote, withthree little pink hearts circling above his head. Kim is very goodat hacking the Police-issued phones.

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

He is right. Once you start running, yourhormones kick in, and you can't think clearly. Back in March, I wasa bit like this myself. Now, after my Cruise, I am way morephilosophical.

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

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

“Ouch! What happened?”

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

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

Three minutes later thedoor rattles and my dear Deputy Kim storms in, ready to establishOrder through Law and dispense Justice withMercy[1].Or without. Whichever is available today? He stops on his tracksobserving the peaceful Beat settings. I am not under attack, afterall.

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

“OK, Mister Coyote. Forstarters, please collect the weapon,” I reach to the lower drawerand pass my husband two evidence bags. The Chinaman makes adouble-take at Kim, probably imagining some American Indianheritage. Deputy Coyote. Surely, he has expected anAmerasian surname.Although, in the Houston slums one never knows: the ethnicboundaries are shuttered, and my happy marriage is just oneexample.

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 totell him that. He has been in the Police way longer than I. Kimcarefully maneuvers the evidence in, and now thegut-driver and the ragare secured.

“Mister Chen, please tell us briefly whatyou 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 makesa 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. Totake an early off. At half past three.” His phrases are short, buthe speaks perfect English. If Kim pays attention, he can do thesame posh British accent – the remnants of his few years in aprivate school.

Interesting, whichparticular China our Chinaman is from? By the sound of it, he isnot from the Mainland, and probably not from Hong Kong. And not aRussian Chinese from Siberia either – those are typically tallerand speak with strange R-s and H-es. Taiwanese roots? Right! Hepronounces his surname as ‘Chen’. If he was from Hong Kong, hewould say ‘Chan’. Although, he can be also a Malaysian orSingaporean Chinese. Well, but the Singaporeans say ‘Tan’ insteadof ‘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 thenails cut short. The Singaporean Chinese often leave long nail atthe pinky. The skin on both index fingers is not burnt. Usestweezers and a board holder? This suggests a Taiwamerican or Japamerican-run repair shop. Theyare so professional and neat – with a fancy special tool foreverything. Looking at the man's 'flops, they are old, but notbeaten-up. He has no bike. Dropping one at home to run for over amile? Hard to imagine. So his shop is not very far from his home… AMalaysian Chinese, working in a Taiwanese shop? Not improbable, butunlikely.

“Are youTaiwamerican, MisterChen?” I suddenly ask.

Darn! I have to learn not to pop myconclusions like this.

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

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 fulllogic chain in front of the strangers. Nobody likes if a girl cansee right through you, especially if this girl is fromPolice.

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

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

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

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

“And you are not comingwith us, Deputy?” the Taiwamericanlooks at me. Do I want to go? Sure! But I firmlybelong to the office-only category. What do I suppose to do? Pullout my machine gun? Dispense Lawful Order and Merciful Justice inspeedy 7.62-millimeter servings?

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

“Clerk? But… Your uniform?”

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

I reach with my right handto the desk corner and push my office chair sideways. The tiredchair wheels make squeaking noise on the floor tiles. The chairrolls into the narrow passage between the desks. Watch this,Mr. Taiwamerican!The man's lower jaw drops, but his eyes open three times theirnatural size. Excellent facelift, almost like in Japanese Manga.Sadly, the effect cannot be preserved for long, or I can make heapsof money as a plastic surgeon. With those who don't know, I achievesuch effect almost every time. Since my Cruise, there is almostnothing below by buttocks, so the body ends flush with the seatsurface. I smile to Mr Chen apologetically: and you thought Ididn't stand up from my chair because I am so rude?

The man manages a rubber smile and a shynod, accepting my silent apology. He looks straight at me, surelysurprised, but not disgusted. Not a bad reaction. If only everybodyreact like this! The majority starts mumbling stupid comments andexcuses. Poor thing. So bad. Sorry, I didn't realize I was talkingto a cripple. Hey, I have no legs, but I am not a cripple! Andsometimes – even worse. They look through you, as if you don'texist. Frankly, I prefer if people ask right away why I have nolegs. But the quiet understanding nod is also great. The UnitedStates are at war, shit happens. The girl is a legless veteran, sowhat? Being legless is not a piece of cake, but not the freakingend-of-life, by any means.