Houston, 2030 Page 15

  “Once a week. Sometimes – every other day.”

  “Really? The Police service was probably much more dangerous than now…”

  “Oh, it's not what I mean! We only shot at the firing range. It was a rule in the FBI back then. The younger agents had to practice with their handguns at least once a week. After the Meltdown, the big bosses decided we need to save the ammo. And so the firearms' practice was reduced to once every three months. Then – once a year. And then – they said: sorry, no more. Now I clean my piece and think: the poor thing is twenty-three years old. She fired her last round nine years ago. If I need to use her against a perp, she may even blow the barrel, or misfire…”

  “In the Police – the same story. Half a year ago, I tried to fire my ‘TASER’ into a robber. Imagine, I am alone and there are three of them! I thought: if I electrocute one, the other two must reconsider, right? So, all by the rules, I pull the ‘TASER’ and shout: you three, on the ground! I'll tase you! But they were drunk – naturally, did not care shit! Well, here we go. I press the trigger. Pop! The electrode piece comes out, slo-o-owly… And falls under my feet! Good, I did not step on it, or it would electrocute me… So I threw the damn ‘TASER’ away. Had to use my baton.”

  “Well, I am sure you managed. And with flying colors,” Mark smiled, admiring the policewoman strong arms.

  “What else could I do? Myself, just got one good blow. To the ribs. Hurt like hell! But only once… And all the other hits were from me – to them. One of these robbers, I dislocated his shoulder. Had to drag him to a doc after the fight. By that time, he already sobered up a bit – started saying his thanks, even tried to give me his silver chain for a present!”

  Mark imagined Liz working her baton over the intoxicated robbers. Surely, she could do the proper policing without any electric gun nonsense!

  “We have arrived,” Liz announced. “The address number two from your list.”

  This family lived in an old school motor-bus pinned between two dilapidated wooden houses. The bus-house was equipped with some degree of comfort. The rear emergency exit served now for the dwelling's main door, and on this side of the bus a small wooden deck was constructed. A bridge, made from two logs, span over the open sewer. Several plastic boxes with stunted flowers lined the short path from the bridge to the deck. At the deck, in a rocking chair, sat the master of the house, a man of about seventy-five. In his left hand he held a glass of home-made beer, while the right sleeve of his home gown was empty, neatly tucked and secured with a pin. On the table next to his chair, a portable media player was showing something, powered by a solar panel in front of the deck.

  “Mister James Hobson, sir?” Liz inquired.

  “Speaking, ma'am,” the man replied, slowly rising from his chair, “how can I help you?”

  “Mark Pendergrass, the FBI,” the Special Agent introduced himself, “do you mind if I show you a couple of photos?”

  “No objections whatsoever,” the man placed his beer glass on the table and paused his player. Mark pulled out the photos and gave them to one-armed man.

  “No, never seen them around. These are the two… murdered in the woods a couple of days ago, right? I saw it on the news…”

  “Right… You, sir, do you live here alone?”

  “No, why alone? My wife, two sons and two daughters-in-law. And eight grandchildren! It is getting pretty noisy here in the afternoon. The family is a bit too big for the bus. See?” He pointed to a sign attached to the deck post. It was the school bus STOP sign, but now it read: ‘STOP Have you washed your hands and feet?’

  “But in the morning, could not be better,” the man continued, “my wife runs a little stall at the market, kids – at school, and the rest of the family – at the 'Fill. I am like that little boy in the Home Alone movie. Enjoying the quiet! And the home beer too. Unlike Home Alone boy, I am – almost a grown-up. Talking of which, how about some home beer? Please do not refuse – I will not even listen! My beer is very special – a secret recipe!”

  “Only if a little, Mister Hobson. We are on-duty, after all,” Mark agreed.

  The owner quickly ducked into his bus and returned within half a minute with two empty mugs in hand. Having placed the mugs on the table, he reached for a plastic bottle, twisted the cap and poured some of the content into the mugs and into his own glass. “Please help yourself, officers!”

  Mark took the mug. The beer was surprisingly good, with some unusual fruit and ginger aftertaste. “Wow, great beer, sir!”

  “My own production! The secret is actually simple. Ginger and lemon-grass, nothing special. It's all about the water,” Mr. Hobson smiled, “my sons know one remaining water well – perfectly clean and not too far. The rain water is no good for making beer, and the local wells… around the 'Fill… – I personally would not drink from these, even if I was dying from dehydration. Even the Sheldon-Res water is not as good as it used to be.” This was true – because of the constant digging at the McCarty Road, the quality of drinking water had been degrading slowly, even in the areas several miles away from the landfill.

  “I see. If you don't mind the question, sir, which country were you deployed to?” Mark pointed at the home owner's empty sleeve.

  “I was deployed to the Citibank for all my time.”

  “Of what city, sir? Houston?” Liz misunderstood.

  The owner laughed. “You are probably too young to remember it, Deputy. There used to be a bank called the Citibank, or the Citigroup, to be precise. Founded in 1812, and ‘un-founded’ in 2013. Exactly two hundred years! As for my missing arm, everyone is asking. For some reason, people think 'cause I am one-armed, I served in the Army. Actually, I had cancer. Osteosarcoma. The doctors took my arm away and pumped me with some nasty chemicals for a whole year, but I can't complain – alive and kicking for almost thirty years since. Before the Meltdown, the medicine was somewhat more certain, see. Now, if one is diagnosed with this type of cancer – should start dressing up for the funerals, pronto…”

  “On TV, they said the other day the frequency of cancer cases was decreasing recently,” Mark said.

  “Maybe. Maybe,” the man shook his head, “it is quite possible. Many people don't live long enough to have a full-blown cancer. If you die of an avian flu or get yourself shot in Mexico – the cancer would not be one of your worries.”

  Mark finished his beer and returned the empty mug to the table. “Thanks for the beer, sir, but we need to move on. On today's list, we are not even half-way through. Thank you so much, sir, for all your trouble, really appreciate it.”

  “Oh, officer, what trouble? All pleasure is mine. Nice to talk to someone. Enjoying the quiet is good, but could be a bit boring too. My movies – I watched them hundred times each…”

  “Three addresses done, another four to go,” Liz said. “Number one – it's a bit far. We should first swing by to the numbers six and four, and then – ride to the first and the seventh.”

  “As you prefer,” Mark agreed, “it's your beat.”

  They pedaled for about half an hour and ended at the address number six. The family apparently lived in a shed, attached to a wooden house, but neither the Hobsons nor the landlords were there. The street was unusually deserted, save for a bunch of toddlers playing in the road dust at the intersection, and a paraplegic vet in a wheelchair watching them from the shade. Just in case, Mark presented the photos to the vet, but he only shook his head. At the number four, too, nobody was home, but here they managed to obtain a bit more information. A little soap factory was located in the immediate vicinity, emanating its ‘aroma’ all over the street.

  A fat woman in rubberized apron, constantly stirring something in the tank, examined photos and said: “No, definitely not the neighbor. She is an Asian type, Vietnamerican, I think, but not like the lady on your photo… About thirty. A single mom with two children. The husband was killed in action. In Libya… or in Saudi, not sure. In one of those places, across the ocean, anyway… And no
one in the neighborhood, who looks like your shots, sir.”

  “Are you quite sure?” Mark asked just in case.

  “Definitely. I'm here at the evaporation tanks day and night. You can't just walk away, or the stuff will burn! Oh, if you want to see the Hobsons, come around in the evening. Half past six, seven, I would say. I saw they went to the Day-Pay in the morning, but hence they are not back yet, must have found a job. At least – for today.”

  The finally got some luck at the address number seven. A corrugated iron hangar was a bit detached from the slum dwellings, and was standing thirty yards away from the former storm water reservoir, now half-filled with nauseating black sewage. This was the place which collected the open gutters' refuse from all the neighborhoods north-west of the McCarty Road Landfill. Upon the hangar wall, a proud inscription read: ‘SIMPSON & KAUFMAN. Sewage Removal, Fuel, Fertilizers.’

  Mark was a bit surprised the Armed Forces' Career Office database had an address of a sewage processing plant. “Strange, Liz? The AFCO database has an industrial building address. Unusual, isn't it?”

  “Not really,” Liz replied. “Lately, it became fairly common in our slum that the low-income migrant workers live at the place of work. Besides, this particular enterprise – it's a bit… How to say it? Special. Once you start working as a sewer man, – you are like a leper! Very few landlords would want you for a tenant, so most of the workers end up just living in here, next to their beloved crap…”

  One of the two intrepid entrepreneurs, Mr. Kaufman, met Mark and Liz at the door of his office container.

  “Hobson? Yes, we do have such. And not even one. It's a whole-family contract. Come, I'll bring you to see them. Only – please kindly watch under your feet. The stuff we've got here – you know…” He sat down on a bench next to the container door, kicked off his tire flip-flops and inserted feet into high rubber boots.

  They followed the master to the vast yard. Here, the work was in full swing: the black sewer refuse was delivered in hand-pulled two-wheeled barrels and dumped into the reservoir. On the other side, the workers formed the excrement into fertilizer bricks and laid them out to dry in the sun.

  “When the weather is dry, the sewers don't flow by themselves,” Mr. Kaufman explained the process. “If no rain, we send the barrels to scoop the stuff and deliver it here. It's a big business! On some days, we have up to twenty-two crews working! They also can empty your back-yard latrine. The latter, of course, for a moderate fee. Want to know how much stuff we collect every day? Seven hundred cubic feet! We treat it here and convert it into a fertilizer. It's a great stuff for plants! And perfectly harmless, – whatever some paranoids say! Recently we started another product line: fuel bricks. Do you know the dried manure burns almost as good as coal?”

  “Yeah, I've seen these around,” Mark nodded without much enthusiasm. He remembered the family of the barefoot cobbler in the Garret Road Slum. Although, that woman was probably burning an ‘unprocessed’ dried dung. Mary and Clarice had tried the novelty fuel bricks on several occasions, but decided not to use them anymore. Despite being significantly cheaper than firewood or coal, the manure was not quite as practical. It generated suffocating smoke, and did not burn as long. As for the fertilizer bricks, perhaps they were good for plants, but not always good for humans. The horror stories had been circulating about entire families getting very ill or even dying after using such ‘perfectly harmless’ fertilizers.

  “Let see, if Hobsons are back,” Mr. Kaufman looked around the busy yard, “oh, you are in luck – they are here.” He pointed to one of the refuse barrels in line to be emptied, “Joe and Jenny Hobson. And two kids – whatever the hell their names are. Hey, Joe – this is after your ass. From the FBI!”

  A man of thirty put aside his scoop on long wooden handle, removed his rubber gloves and approached Mark and Liz. The other three family members followed: a short woman and two girls, about the age of Mark's Pamela and Patrick. Joe Hobson was in heavy Army pants, a rubber apron over his naked torso, and rubber boots. The woman and the girls, apparently due to the shortage of the rubber boots, worked in regular tire flip-flops. As far as Mark could see, in this fine enterprise the rubber boots had been a luxury exception rather than a mandatory safety rule. Roughly half of the male workers and only few women had them. The rest of the personnel, including the numerous children, walked around the yard in sandals and flip-flops, while few threaded in black slime barefoot. The girls' clothes, as well as their hands, were smeared with the refuse. No wonder the local landlords were not too keen having these workers renting rooms on their property!

  “Mark Pendergrass, the FBI,” Mark pulled his badge.

  “How do you do, Mister Pendergrass. Joe Hobson. My wife Jenny. The girls: Nona and Bess. The handshakes are not offered in here.”

  “Your daughters are not in school, Mister Hobson?”

  “Which one would accept them, anyway? As soon as the teachers learn what me wife and me self do for living, they say: sorry, no vacancy…”

  “OK, never mind. It was an off-topic question: I am from the FBI, not from the Child Labor Control. Could you look at a couple of photos for me?” Mark produced the photos and held it for Joe to look upon.

  “No probs, sir. No, I haven't seen 'em before. Why, sir, you ask just us and not the others?”

  “We are just checking all the families with surname Hobson. Looking for the relatives of this man on the photo.”

  “Wait, I have not seen 'em me self, but… Mister Kaufman, sir! Could you come here, please?”

  “Yes, Mister Hobson?”

  “Remember, a week and a half ago, you asked me if we have any relatives in Houston? I said: we don't have any relatives here, sir?”

  “Well, yes! Why I asked? A young man popped up in the office. Said: I am looking for a job. His surname was Hobson! And the given name?” he rubbed his forehead, “Nick, he said, if I remember it right. I thought: a relative to our Joe? May I look at your pictures, sir?”

  He scrutinized the pictures and tapped fat finger at the Nick Hobson's photo. “This was him, exactly. I said: do you understand what kind of work we do here? And he said: I can do anything. Anything? Good man! We talked about the pay. He agreed to our conditions. Well, I said, no problem, we'll prepare a contract, you may sign and start from Monday. Only: you should buy yourself a pair of rubber boots. The stuff we've got here – you know… We have safety rules! Personal protective equipment and such. The rubber boots are mandatory.”

  “Really mandatory?” Mark asked ironically. Just few seconds ago a team of teenage boys passed behind Mr. Kaufman's back pushing a cart full with manure. Out of six team members, only two were shod, and not in the ‘mandatory’ rubber boots either but in the usual tire sandals.

  Mr. Kaufman glanced at the flip-flops on the feet of Mrs. Hobson and her daughters and corrected his statement: “You may work in rubber sandals too, but need to be careful… Anyway, about that Nick Hobson… As I told him about the boots, he said: sorry, I forgot to inform you. I have – a prosthetic leg. So I said: why do you waste my time, darling? We have tried hiring vets before. Nothing but trouble, no good. You may slip, and whack! Head first into the stuff! And this will be the end of you as we know it. Or your leg stumpy gets infected, something like this. And after it, I will get all the trouble, yes? Even the ones with two healthy legs can barely work here. I am really sorry, I said, but I can't employ a vet. He quickly said goodbye and left. Well, it's for his own good. The stuff we've got here – you know…”

  “When was this exactly, do you remember?”

  “Just a moment…” he rubbed his forehead again. “The sixteenth! Tuesday. We work here seven days a week. But on Saturday – my partner is on duty. And then I am – on Sunday. On Monday, I usually take a day off – for the Sunday. Yes, it was positively on Tuesday.”

  “So you say, on Tuesday, the sixteenth of April? And at what time this Hobson came here?”

  “Around noon. Eleven or eleven t
hirty…”

  “Now, Liz, you understand how the FBI work looks like,” Mark commented after they said goodbye to the sewer men. “Number one, we learned that the male victim was looking for work around these slums only ten days ago, or seven days before the murder. And he was ready to accept any job, even at the sewage processing plant. Taken together, this makes us conclude Nick Hobson came to Houston very recently – less than a month, I'd say. Number two, the hookers told us that the female victim is likely an illegal prostitute, working on this side of the Mesa Drive. But the latter – still pure probability, not a fact.”