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SIDEWALK JOHNNIES AND sallies all had a "turf." For most, it was a street, street corner, or alleyway. Many never ventured beyond it. But in a supercity with mega-streets, that was fine.
I knew Punch Judy would be where she always was—near the lobby of the Concrete Mama—either in the lobby or on the main steps.
"Hey!" I yelled as I neared her, marching out like a drill sergeant.
She was sitting on the steps, smoking, saw me and gave me an eye roll.
"I got a proposition for you!"
"Proposition?" That made her stand up, and I could already see the annoyance on her face.
"I need to hire someone."
"Oh, the big detective is hiring."
"I need a secretary."
"Secretary!" she grabbed the cigarette from her mouth. "You stupid man, and sexist, too! Secretary, because I am a woman?"
I was in front of her now, and I just pointed at her face. "I'll remember you said that when I go hire some guy for the job!"
That shut her the hell up. I spun around and stormed back the way I came like a bull. I was mad, and I'm sure my whole presentation was poor, but I didn't care. I had to find a secretary for the office, because I was not about to leave the office reception area unattended. I needed someone who looked nice, but was tough and, if need be, could take down the next unlucky monkey who tried to shoot at me in my own office. I'd be ready this time.
I had arrived at my office and ripped down all that police crime tape in front of the door. Phishy was right; the city police put it up, but never took it down. The community or landlord was supposed to do that. It was a city ordinance of all things.
My office had the same feel as the entire floor—empty, abandoned, uninviting. I wouldn't come here. It looked like you'd get mugged. I wouldn't come to my office. It gave off the same vibe as a morgue. There was a businessman inside of me, after all, because I was thinking the right thoughts if I planned to do this occupation for real. But only if I could address all the security issues.
I lay on the floor on my emergency work blanket from my vehicle. Again, contrary to my germophobic tendencies, right next to the tape outline of the man who got himself shot to death in my office. I had learned he was a low-level street punk. Nothing surprising about how he died. What was surprising was that it didn't happen sooner.
I heard the low knock on the door, followed by two more. Did I forget to lock the door again? Had I been hypnotized against my will not to secure my own office door?
From where I lay, I didn't even need to move. It opened, and there was Punch Judy.
Her demeanor was altogether different. I had never seen Punch Judy look amiable or humble before. She gave me a forced smile and stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She stood there, her eyes darting around, trying to decide what to say,
"Umm. Do you still have the job?"
I looked at her from my supine position on the floor, never once answering her.
"I want the job. I need the job. You caught me off guard. That's why I was rude. More rude than French people normally are. I talked before I used my brains. I want the job. I can't live the way I'm living anymore. I can't get a job at normal places because of my psych profile and criminal record. It's not fair. My record has trapped me. I don't want to be trapped anymore. If you give me the job, I'll do a good job."
She paused, wanting me to say something, but I didn't.
"So I'll come back tomorrow and start. My hours will be nine to six. I looked up the hours for other detective offices. That's the normal hours they have. Okay."
She waited again for me to say something, then opened the door. She stopped.
"What is the name of the detective agency, anyway?"
"Liquid Cool," I answered.
"Oh, good. Very cosmopolitan and hip. I would have hated a stuffy name, or something stupid, like the Cruz Detective Agency. Liquid Cool. Very nice. I start tomorrow at nine AM sharp."
She left and closed the door.
I had a secretary. A secretary with two bionic arms that could punch a three-hundred-pound man through the wall, which she apparently did on more than one occasion, hence her psych record. Hence, her nickname, Punch Judy, rather than just Judy. Unauthorized activities as a cyborg will make you unemployable faster than being outed as a carrier of the Asian flu.
Let someone try to sucker shoot me in my own office, now. We'd be ready for them.