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PHISHY.
Metropolis was not overflowing with life; it was choking on it. Water wasn't a precious commodity here—it was a curse, alternating between always raining or about to rain. It was space that was sacred. People were stacked on top of one another in flashing super-skyscrapers that reached into the dark skies. Hover vehicles buzzed around; jetpackers zipped around; drones gyrated around, all in the airspace above the crowds. The only real open public space was the sidewalks. That was where the spontaneous action happened daily and not from the average masses of automaton-like city citizens, that passed through, going about life. The sidewalks had the real action from the people, who made it the center of their universe.
However, sidewalk life had its problems, too. It was the "real hustle"—scamming and scheming for cash—that created the problem. Homelessness had been eradicated long ago, like polio and cancer; housing was mandatory for all, even for those without a legacy. But sidewalk johnnies were like the weeds you heard about that ruined a man's plush green lawn in the old days. Hanging around, watching trouble, causing trouble, hustling, looking for a hustle, but doing little of anything meaningful. They congregated, watched, chatted it up, sat around, smoked, joked, disappeared to the johns when needed, or disappeared to their sleep shack for a few hours—and repeat. At least, they were harmless. Like a piece of litter—step around it and ignore.
Dope daddies were different, perpetually pushing their "product" on an eager clientele of dope fiends itching for their daily fixes—only the rain was more persistent. Nowadays, the fiends were appropriately called dope roaches. That's what they were: come out to feed (their fix) and disappear back into the darkness. Dope daddies had it down to a science, and for every one of them the cops sent to prison camp, any one of their lookouts, street corner chiefs, low-level pavement pushers, or runners, would readily step up to take their place. An endless cycle of street drug life. The only way to dry up the illegal drug swamp was to get rid of the addicts. The only way to get rid of the addicts was to...get rid of people. But the cops did what they could to maintain, at least, an ordered chaos.
Then there were the in-between situations. Street hustlers, front street freddies, like Phishy. A little non-narcotic running here, a bit of courier work there, whatever scam he could get into to bring in some extra cash. Nothing illegal enough to get him a solid prison stint, but always at the level where if he got caught, he'd get no more than a mere misdemeanor situation—pay the fine and be on his way, not even a blot on the record. Cops and courts couldn't be bothered with street hustlers working non-violent, low money scams. In a vile world, you had to set your priorities properly.
Phishy always wore a dark colored vest and pants, but underneath was always some off-white colored, long-sleeve shirt extravaganza with colored fish all over it. He had a street name to maintain. He strutted down the street, side-stepping the sidewalk johnnies and sallies, saying hello to friends, slapping a high or low five as he went along.
"Yo, Phishy," the food truck guy called to him.
It was Dog Man. Only hovergarbage trucks were more ubiquitous than hoverfood trucks. In Metropolis, you didn't have to go out in the rain on a food-run if you didn't want to; the food would come to you. But most hoverfood trucks staked out their turf either in the air or on the ground.
Dog Man had the perfect corner, with six lanes of pedestrian traffic on the ground, and the same above him in the air. His hovertruck never flew anywhere anymore; it was a permanent fixture on the corner, open twenty-fours a day. Man! He could make a damn good hot dog. His food truck "owned" this street. In other words, he paid a wad of cash to the city to get exclusivity for his main truck here and two more at the other end of two more streets.
"What's up, Dog?" Phishy asked as he neared the truck. The aroma was like a drug itself.
"Do you know where Cruz is, Phishy?"
"What? Why you askin' me?"
"It's not me," Dog said. "Run-Time has the all points out for him."
"I haven't seen him since Wednesday."
"Well, if you see him, call Run-Time. Maybe you can get some cash out of it."
"Hardly." Phishy frowned. "You have to be a customer to get anything from Run-Time. Otherwise, he's as cheap as the Scrooge on Christmas Eve."
"Meaning you tried to scam him, and it didn't go well."
"I try to scam everybody, even my friends. If I didn't, that would be like discriminating."
"If you say so, Phishy. How about a dog?"
"Oh man, Dog Man. You're worse than the dope daddies. You're selling the wiener version of hard narcotics out of this food truck. I get fat, I can't fit into my clothes, and I don't earn enough to get an all new wardrobe."
"Half a dog won't put any fat on them bones. You can skip the sauces."
"You can't have a dog without the sauces, and a beverage to wash it down. That would be just plain wrong." Phishy pointed at him. "Half a dog with my favorite sauce, spicy hot, beverage, and that's it. Put it on my tab."
Dog Man started to get his hot dog. "Phishy, I don't know why you keep using that line. You have no tab with me or anyone else. Pull that cash out that I know you have, and I don't want any wet or dirty bills."
"I told you, I try to scam even my friends." Phishy reached into his vest pocket for his cash.
He could feel his mobile phone vibrate on his belt. He grabbed it.
"Phishy, Phishy, Phishy," he answered.
"Why do you do that?" the voice said. "Are you like two years old?"
"Yo, China Doll."
"Don't 'yo' me. Where's Cruz?"
"Why is everyone asking me about Cruz? I haven't seen him since last Wednesday. Do you have everybody looking for him?"
"Yeah."
"What'd he do?"
"No one can find him."
"Men need their alone time, too. Leave him alone. He'll show up when he shows up."
"I know you know where he is."
"I haven't seen him since last Wednesday. But if I do, I'll tell him he found a great hiding place and keep hiding there."
"Don't make me come down there, Phishy. Tell him he better not even think of not making dinner today. He knows how important it is."
"Dinner?"
"Yeah."
"Can I come in his place? I'll be hungry again."
"Uh...no."
"Why you got to be like that, China Doll? Phishies need food too."
"I'll save some goldfish food for you, then. You know what you have to do. Use those street skills of yours and find him."
"You got Run-Time looking for him. Now me. Did you call the police and national guard?"
"I don't need them. That's what I got people for."
"Do I get a few bills if I find him?"
"No, but you can have the goldfish food. Bye, Phishy."
"Bye, China Doll."
Phishy returned the mobile to his belt. "See how I'm treated, Dog Man."
His mouth watered at the sight of the hot dog on a petite plate in Dog Man's hand.
"You got something for me, Phishy."
"Oh yeah. I was distracted."
Phishy reached back into his vest pocket for his cash. He revealed a bill. "Here doggy-doggy." He slapped the bill down on the food truck service counter.
"I'll assume you're talking about the half hot dog." Dog Man buttered on Phishy's spicy sauce and then handed him the plate. He made change quickly and before Phishy could speak, said, "Beverage coming up." He grabbed a cup, hit the dispenser for ice, and then another for beer. "Know what I'm going to say now?"
Phishy had the entire half dog already stuffed into his mouth. "You're going to give me the other half for free."
"Don't forget about Cruz," Dog Man said. "You get distracted easy. So where is he? If everybody is calling you, then you know where he is."
Phishy kept chewing. "I'm still thinking about it. I'm a man who reacts to incentives."
"Phishy, don't make that girlfriend of his come down here and stomp you into the pavement."