Joe

The police cart pulled up outside of Mannix. Czeslaw stepped out of the vehicle and onto the street. Broken bottles and strange puddles littered the sidewalks amid the disarray of desiccated leaves and what he hoped weren't used stim needles. He stepped around the obstacles and into the shop.

Mannix was the sort of place he'd never go to in his civilian life, if he could help it. It was a filthy, unsanitary bodega that was the only oasis in an otherwise wasteland of a food desert. It also did wire transfers, sold lottery tickets, and if the curtain at the back of the store was any indication, did illegal mods.

"Watch my back," Czeslaw subvocalized to his PARD. A bearded man with dirty dreadlocks stuffed under a baseball cap stood there waiting for him. He was wearing an eyepatch over one of his eyes, and Czeslaw briefly thought he resembled Odin, but a hobo-Odin. The shop reeked of stale bread, dry and long-roasted hot dogs, burnt coffee, body odor, and industrial antiseptic. "Good morning," he said to the man. "I'm Officer Czelsaw. Somebody called in a burglary?"

The man nodded. "Yeah," he said. He stepped out from behind the counter. As he stepped away from the counter, a metal shutter slid down, completely encasing the unattended cash register, cigarettes, and scratch-offs behind an impenetrable metal shield. Some gearheads milling by the beer cooler were momentarily broken out of their trances to look at what made the noise, but after realizing it was nothing, went back to their private nirvanas, staring off into space. A spidercam crawled across the ceiling, splitting its attention between the gearheads and Czeslaw.

She shopkeeper led Czeslaw to the corner of the store. The grimy floor and wall of the shop was interrupted by a rectangle of clean where something once large and wide once sat. It was about as tall as Czeslaw, and about twice as wide. He looked back to the shopkeeper. "Somebody stole your ice machine?" he said.

The shopkeeper nodded. "It was gone when I got in this morning."

Czeslaw pointed to the spidercam as it skittered across the ceiling. "Did your camera catch anything?" The spidercam lowered from the ceiling and lighted on the shopkeeper's shoulder.

The shopkeeper shooed the spidercam away from his shoulder. It scurried back up the wall and found a good place to observe the gearheads. "I found that thing writhing on the floor when I got in, just before I saw the missing ice machine."

Czeslaw crouched by the clean outline. He noted that the wall was originally white, and the floor was originally an ugly shade of green. He wasn't sure if it was improved or not by the layer of grease and grime that had stained the rest of the floor. "Was there anything of value in the machine?" he asked.

The shopkeeper shrugged. "Ice," he said. "I guess some people value frozen water. That's why I sell it." He looked at the outline of the missing machine. "Or, sold it."

"Anything else?" Czeslaw said, wondering if the holes in the wall were from mounting bolts or bullet holes. His PARD scanned the area while he talked. He saw signatures of trace chemicals lingering in the air and on the floor and wall around where the machine had once been. He skimmed the list.

"Like what?" asked the shopkeeper. His voice was starting to sound a little defensive.

Czeslaw looked at him. "Like, illegal eye mods," he said. "The ones you're supposed to keep cold until installed." He pointed to his head. "My PARD here's detecting R-999X. Do you have any idea why it's detecting a black-market refrigerant?" He took a step toward the shopkeeper. "Especially as it's a little overkill for an ice machine."

"M-maybe my customers like really cold ice," said the shopkeeper. He stood his ground. "Are you trying to shake me down?"

Czeslaw laughed. "No," he said. "I'm just a bit surprised." He pointed to the curtain in the back. "We all know that this is a front for an illegal mod-shop. Now, I want you to tell me why you think it's worth the taxpayer's money for me to protect and serve a lowlife like you who's making his money by actively breaking the law."

The shopkeeper scowled. "You've got nothing on me," he said. "I'd like your badge number so I can file a formal complaint to your boss."

Before Czeslaw could respond, another man ran into the shop. He had an orange-red mohawk and several face tattoos, some of which were glowing. He held a dirty handkerchief over one of his eyes. "Yo, Shanks," he said, not seeing Czeslaw standing there. "This new eye's giving me a splitting headach--" He trailed off when he saw the shopkeeper glaring at him. He stopped, turned, and saw Czeslaw. "I mean, do you have any aspirin, good shopkeeper?" He gave a weak chuckle.

Shanks looked from the streetpunk to Czeslaw. "Yeah," he said. "I admit, we run some mods. You can't throw a rock in this part of town without hitting a place that does that or something like it. And, yeah, that cooler did find a use as a storage for mods as well as the leftover organs we replace. And I'll have you know," he said, his face turning red, "that most of those organs find their way to people who are missing eyes and ears and lungs and whatever else anybody pays me to cut out and replace. You go to an official mod shop," he said (making finger quotes when he said "official"), "and all those replaced parts become pigfeed." He stepped right up to Czeslaw. "You tell me, who's the real criminal?"

"And I'm sure you do that out of the kindness of your own heart," said Czeslaw.

Shanks shrugged. "Hey, I got me and mine to feed. But, look, you take me down, and someone else will just take my place. I'm filling a gap in the market, and nothing, not you, not your boss, not even any of the megacorps, can put a stop to that." He took a breath and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

Czeslaw sighed. He looked at the grungy store, the clientele, the streetpunk with the stained handkerchief against his eyes. "Look," he said. "Do you want me to do a full investigation of this theft, and possibly find other stuff in the process, and then put your economic theory to the test, or do you just want to go through your insurance and get yourself a new ice machine?"

Shanks narrowed his eyes. "You looking for a kickback, Coleslaw?"

"No," said Czeslaw, holding himself back from correcting the pronunciation of his name. "I'm just looking to get out of here."

Shanks considered this. He coughed into his hand. "You make a good point, detective."

"Officer," Czeslaw corrected.

"Whatever," said Shanks. He laughed. "Look, you gotta do yours, and I gotta do mine. I'll see if my policy covers theft. But they might ask for a police report. Can I at least get your cooperation in getting something that looks halfway legitimate?"

Czeslaw nodded. "I'll have my PARD send you something. It'll include my badge number if you still want to complain to my boss." He laughed. The spidercam skittered across the floor, running past his foot. "In the meantime," he said, "I suggest you enhance your security system."

"Thanks," said Shanks.

"After all, we gotta do ours." He tipped his hat to Shanks and the streetpunk before making his way out of the store. He stepped out into the stale morning air, and the first thing he noticed was that the police cart was gone. "Can you page another?" he asked his PARD.

"I will put in the request," said the PARD. "But I suggest we start walking. Follow the arrow, and I will try to navigate us through the safest route."

"Great," said Czeslaw. He saw an arrow floating in his vision. He made his way in that direction, stepping over the pools and puddles and piles of rubbish that littered his path. "What's your take on what happened?"

"The freezer was large," said his PARD. "It would have required a small team or a large individual to move. The scene was not pristine, so there were not any noticeable tracks to follow. However, the lack of scrapes on the floor indicate that the machine was carried instead of dragged."

"Is any of that going into the report?"

"Is has already been written and sent," said the PARD. After a pause, it spoke again. "Do you think that what you did back there was right? You knew he was breaking the law, but you let him off the hook."

"Just between the two of us, PARD," said Czeslaw, "he was right. What does it fix shutting down the shop of some guy installing black market mods into streetpunks? The shop goes away, taking away a place for people to get food nearby, without having to ride a bus all afternoon. Then moms can't get fresh milk and bread for their kids, and those kids grow up to be criminals, and it all leads down a spiral of crime. Shanks is living by the sword, for sure, but I don't think it's in anybody's best interest to take that sword away, especially with everybody else around him being just as armed."

"Your logic will take some time to process, but I am beginning to understand."

"Let's not include that in the report," Czeslaw said.

"Very well," said the PARD. "There is a cart coming. I will direct you to the rendez-vous."

"You're a real pal," said Czeslaw.

"Thank you," said the PARD. "But I have one question."

"What's that?"

"Why do the people not just order the food to be delivered directly to them?"

Czeslaw shrugged. "Not everybody can afford that, I guess. Shanks' mod racket probably helps subsidize the other things he sells. You know how it is."

"Not entirely," said the PARD. "But I am beginning to understand."

Czeslaw found his way to the rendez-vous and waited there for the next cart. A man stood on the corner holding a cardboard sign. It said, "NOT ENOUGH SUN, TOO MUCH BULL!" He tried not to make eye contact. "Mithraists," he muttered under his breath before getting into the cart.