The Mysterious Case of Betty Blue (10 page)

“
I really am sorry about
that.”

“
Yeah, well. I guess. You
don’t look the type.”

Scott couldn’t help but smile. Sluggo
was referring to the fact that Scott had inadvertently patted him
on the bum while trying to negotiate a way through the frenzy of
drug-fueled whirling dervishes, several hundred or even a thousand
of them between him and the exit to the park.

Betty was right there in his
ear.

“
George. You’re right
there. Say thank you to the nice man.”

“
Okay, Bud, here we
are…this is the gate. These guys—” Presumably he was referring to
security, of which even raves had some, as tickets and alcohol were
sold and things could get rowdy sometimes. “These guys will take
care of you, okay, Mister?”

“
My name is George. Thank
you ever so much—” He stuck out a hand but the other guy
didn't take it.

That's life, eh?

“
Yeah, whatever. I’m
Sluggo. And stop grabbing people’s asses. That sort of thing will
get you in trouble someday.”

Scott grinned. Something poked him in
the chest and he figured that was just Sluggo’s way of saying
goodbye.

There were people right there, he
could hear them talking.

“
Excuse me. I’m a blind
man and I’ve lost my cane—”

“
Oh, dear! Yes, sir, what
can we do for you?" Again, someone took him by the upper
arm.

He sensed he was the centre of
attention, out there on the fringes of the insanity, where the
music was a little more bearable in terms of volume and somebody
had to stay sober, or relatively sober in order to justify their
wages…as opposed to merely partying with the rest of them. That’s
not to say they weren’t dancing, or just grooving to the music a
little, because for some reason Scott rather had the impression
they were.

He smelled several different kinds of
dope too.

“
Just point me to the
door, my good fellow.”

“
Actually, I am a
trans-gendered individual.”

Scott grinned in
appreciation.

“
See—I knew that. I just wanted to hear you
talk.”

The small crowd out there laughed and
made a few comments which they both ignored as best they
could.

“
All right, sir, we’re
just going to take your hand. The exit is right this
way.”

“
Thank you.”

“
Can I call someone for
you, sir?”

“
I believe I have a taxi
coming.”

Betty was right there.

“
Union City Cab, Car
Eighteen. The number’s on the door.”

Scott relayed the information as
confidently as he could.

“
All right, sir, we’ll
just stay with you until it arrives.”

There was a crowd outside the gates as
well, which served as something of a distraction to his
benefactors.

This was a good thing. They answered
questions from youthful voices pretty good-naturedly and their
attention was elsewhere.

All Scott wanted was to hear the sound
of a car arriving.

“
It’s got to be right on
you, Scott.”

He lifted a wrist and pretended to
check a non-existent wristwatch.

“
Where is that pesky
fellow?”

No one laughed, or even noticed,
judging by the response.

“
Ah. Here we are.” The
hand squeezed his arm and led him forwards.

“
Is that number eighteen?
Someone else might have called for a cab.”

“
No, this is yours, sir.
Have a pleasant evening.” The security guard opened the car door
and helped him find his way in. “We hope you enjoyed the
music.”

Scott paused on the brink of slamming
the door closed.

“
May I ask you a personal
question?”

“
Sure.”

“
What…what do you plan to
be?” It was obscure, but the guard knew what he meant.

“
I hope to be a girl
someday. Have a pleasant evening, sir.”

It was absolutely deadpan and pretty
darned perfect as well.

“
Ah. Well. Good luck and
all that sort of thing.” He paused again. “Who’s your
friend?”

“
Dave.” This was a new
voice, one even deeper than the first guard.

“
Dave? How come you never
said anything before?” It was weak stuff, but presumably, he was
drunk, stoned and just being silly.

He sensed the tolerant looks they
exchanged, how he knew that was pure cliché of course.

“
Dave’s the strong silent
type. Anyhow, thank you.”

“
Thank you, too.” Scott
closed the door.

Yeah, good luck with that,
Buddy.

"Hi, I’m Melvin, your friendly
neighbourhood Union City Cab driver. Where would you like to go,
sir or Ma’am?" The car's voice sounded like someone had poked holes
in the speakers with a piece of wire or a knitting needle or
something. "It's a pleasant evening, isn't it?"

Betty was right there in his ear, and
she had an answer for that one, too.

***

Inspector MacBride was at home, in bed,
with his wife sitting upright, propped up by pillows, reading
beside him. He was just in that fuzzy, cottony-soft state where he
was convinced that sleep was indeed possible, this in spite of
fifteen cups of coffee over the course of the day, and a flaming
row with the eldest son on the inspector’s arrival home from work.
Lately his legs ached. The only time he noticed it was when he got
into bed. It took a couple of minutes and then it was
there.

It was the end of a long day and he’d
earned his rest, and it was right about then that the telephone
buzzed.

It was on her side of the
bed.

“
Shit. Honey.”

Inspector MacBride opened his eyes,
sighed deeply and rolled over.

“
Oh.”

He took the phone.

Argh.

He was used to such calls, never
welcome but usually important.

“
Yes.
MacBride.”

“
Dave Parsons. Eighth
Precinct.”

“
Yes?” Gene MacBride
struggled with his one free arm to sit up in the bed.

He snapped on the bedside light on his
side and reached for his pen and note-pad.

Parsons. 8th.

“
We’ve got a funny one
here. Assault in a park. Victims say it was a blind man—and a
robot.”

“
Uh-huh.”

“
A robot with long, sexy
legs.”

“
Ha.”

They were getting all kinds of crank
reports on this one.

“
Yeah, well, eh. I just
thought you’d like to know.”

Up until now it was mostly just
sightings. Crackpot sightings.

An assault. He liked it.

“
So what happened? I mean,
allegedly?” That was a rough neighbourhood down there.

Parsons laughed.

“
Yeah, I hear you, man.”
The voice, a man Gene had never met, although he might know the
face to see it, went on. “Apparently these three punks were
innocently minding their own business—which in my humble opinion,
involves petty drug sales, petty theft, assault, petty extortion if
there is such a thing, not above the odd dope-fueled date-rape,
making bad porn and grand theft auto. Gang-bangers, anyway, you get
the picture. But they say they were jumped by a blind man and a
robot, who beat them up pretty bad. Oh, yeah. All for no reason at
all.”

“
Really? How
bad?”

“
Broken collar-bone,
broken humerus, broken wrist, fingers, two victims there, a broken
orbit over the left eye, broken cheekbone, broken jaw, broken
noses, two, ah, fat lips, black eyes, cuts, scrapes, abrasions
and contusions—the one guy says, ‘she’s real strong, almost
strangled me to death’…it goes on, mostly nonsense about how they
weren't doing nothing to provoke it.”

“
Wait a minute, wait a
minute…how many victims?”

“
Three, sir. Apparently
the blind guy can fight too. They say he’s like fucking Bruce
Lee—sorry, sir, that’s a direct quote from one of our, ah,
victims…sir.”

Parsons went on.

“
This is straight from
street intelligence. They had to find a doctor and like the fools
they are, they went straight to the nearest emerg and started
making a lot of noise.”

He digested that thought. A blind man
and a robot with long, sexy legs, beating up three hard-cases for
no reason.

Street intelligence.

A smart citizen with big ears and an
ongoing account with Crime Shoppers.

Drop a dime and earn a ten.

But that was the story.

Yeah, sure they did. I'll just bet they
did.

If nothing else, it was unusual. And
the victims couldn’t help but talk about it, of course.

That was their turf and they ruled it.
They'd be going around making a lot of loud talk now, wouldn't
they?

Not.

They’d be a laughing stock.

“
Where did this happen,
exactly?”

“
A park across from a
subway station. The incident happened earlier this evening. It was
around eleven o’clock, a little after, maybe.”

“
Okay. Any
leads?”

“
I can ask around. You
probably don’t remember me, but you did me a favour a couple years
back.”

“
Well, I sure owe you one
now.” Such promises were easily enough made, and kept surprisingly
often.

Otherwise you would be a fool to make
them.

“
Other than that, it’s
worth checking out. It’s an interesting problem, you know? But they
swear up and down it was a robot. I can have a couple of my people
ask around. We’ll roll all the recordings from the immediate
vicinity.”

As far as MacBride was concerned, this
was his only real lead in some days, and that made Parsons his best
friend of the moment. He also seemed willing to do a little
work.

“
Thank you, I would
appreciate that very much. Where are you again?”

“
Patrol Sergeant Parsons.
Eighth Precinct.”

“
Give me a call,
okay?”

“
Yes, sir. Good night,
sir.”

“
Good night,
Sergeant.”

Gene thoughtfully hung up the phone. It
wasn’t like he didn’t have a hundred cases ongoing and a thousand
more unsolved if he cared to think about it.

Which he didn’t at this exact moment in
time. But this one was just a little bit different.

That made all the difference in the
world sometimes.

‘…
she’s real strong…almost
strangled me to death.’

Gene MacBride bit his lip.

Hmn.

Interesting.

Chapter Eight

Gene was barely at his desk. As a
youth, he had never been a morning person, but as a mature man he
saw the necessity. That’s what he tried to tell himself. His grey
eyes watered at the sight of his desk, plastered with notes and
reminders all over the place.

Lately he felt tired a lot of the
time, and he really couldn’t account for it. He’d be lucky if a
doctor could find anything wrong with him; an odd thought but
entirely apropos to the day and the mood. Another rainy day in the
city; and idle hands were the devil’s tools. There had already been
a few calls, and most of the team was out investigating this dead
body in an alley or that other dead body in a car…three dead bodies
in a hotel room…the desk phone buzzed.

“
Hello?”

“
Inspector
MacBride?”

“
Yes.” The voice seemed
oddly familiar, and yet he couldn’t quite place it.

The readout on the phone told him this
was Parsons from the 8th.

Oh, yes.

His pulse quickened.

“
So.”

“
Yes.
Inspector—”

“
Call me Gene.” Parsons
wouldn’t have called him back unless he had something
real.

“
Yes, sir.”

MacBride almost laughed but didn’t. It
was helpful, though. Today might actually hold some promise. That
one came out of nowhere.

“
Anyway, we have some
sightings on record. Can I send them over?”

“
Sure.”

“
Okey-dokey—it’s in your
inbox.”

MacBride touched the icon. His
internal memos popped up and he saw the Parsons one right at the
top. Touching another inset icon, he brought Sergeant Parsons up on
screen, seeing a thin, ascetic face, with a scar on the upper lip
giving it some strong character-indices.

The file name was clean and
sensible.