CHAPTER TWO – “THE FORT LAUDERDALE CHAMBER of COMMERCE”

The digital clock reads 0950 when Norlin sets down another rambling letter, inspects himself in C-Squad's rust-stained mirror, straightens his tie, then dons his Departmental blazer that has reposed, peacefully, behind the locked, middle door of C-Squad's old five-door tin locker since before Jatesmas. Closing the door behind him, he traverses noisy corridors past holding cells, sweatrooms and a grim regiment of assembling prisoners, each in light green scrubs bearing the letters L.C. On the sub-sub-basement elevator door, a dialog balloon spouts from butterflies... emblem of the Trouble Factory, licensed subsidiary of Papillon Digital Artworks, proclaiming: "We court Trouble so that you don't have to! Preserving Health, Security and Property". Ascending five floors... sub-basement, basement, ground, first and second... he enters an atrium, off which radiate innumerable Police corridors, like spokes on a wheel. The locked, numbered doors differ from sub-sub-basement holding cells in that there are no portholes, only small, brown placards... he passes 2170, 2172... enters 2176 without knocking. (There is no Room 2174.) It's only two minutes to ten hundred hours, but the brass has already gathered for Monday's Departmental meeting. Norlin receives no acknowledgement - Germany Smith merely nodding at the empty chair beside his at a long, elliptical table that narrows at its base, like an inverted exclamation point. Opposite them, Clem Clarke, Chief of Detectives, riffles through documents (a plain, dark blue eyepatch over his missing right orb). His factotum, Sgt. Chester Aspid, sighs and fidgets. Also present are Patrols Chief John Crum, jittery Clive Snipe, from Compliance, Wire Chief Raymond Angeniuex and some uniformed officers with long faces and sensible shoes. At the foot of the table (beneath an ominously rodentine poster: "Eliminate Moles!") sits a stranger... thin and sharp-featured in a yellow suit and hat. Smith turns to Norlin, whispering...

"I said five to ten, you keb. Captain owes his job to Max Bend; I needn't tell you... they were like brothers, almost. If it were up to me, you wouldn't just be buried down in C-Squad; you'd be off the force. But, since he wanted you here, I'm only following orders..."

As the digital clock flickers to 1000 hours, Norlin's glance roams towards a plain white box at the center of the table. A door sweeps open and Captain Modesty enters, with two Lieutenants... Kruppe and Bister... following, deferential as vassals holding up the robes of a medieval prince. The Captain removes his hat, tosses it on the table, and his vassals take their seats at his right and left. The Captain glares up and down the table... lingering perhaps a second too long on Norlin... then speaks, still standing.

"We've a full plate, so I'll dispense with formalities - happy, sloppy New Year, all you kebs, and Jatesday comin' up, wherever the kebbin' politicians end up moving it to. Hope Santa was better to you than the City! OK, your summaries for the past week... John?"

John Crum is a dark, world-weary man with greying hair - holding four inches and forty pounds over any other, his is, easily, the largest presence in the room.

"We're turning Automatic Slim - boys finally persuaded him to come over, so to speak. There's been persistent allegations that illegal sausage salesmen operating out of the Southeast Quadrant are using public electricity. Unfortunately, Clive, we've had a few more incidents on the Hamorite Strip - our john and donna decoys keep busting each other and now, as the kebbin' world saw, New Years' Eve, on the Jade, blood has been spilled..."

Compliance Officer Snipe massages his forehead... the Captain interrupting before he can comment...

"Any progress on that robbery at the Third-Fifth bank? Or those others?"

"We're still investigating, sir..."

He gives a defeated shrug and Captain Modesty scowls.

"Clem?"

The half-blind Chief of Detectives is a rarity, a genuine native Baratarian with family in the swamp predating the K-ball by many generations. "Lahk John says, an ongoing process. As ais our problem with bodies dumped 'roun' the Telco property, by the South Node. There ais some good news, though..."

"Good news is always welcomed..."

"Our analysts conclude that thar's no prob’le connection between the bank jobs and the Telco murders."

"And this is good news... how?"

The Chief of Detectives squirms. "Well, although thar's been a degree of organization to both... and, of course, most victims have links to organized crihm... if they are not related, then... well... the degree of organizational organization that we face would not be as significant as if they wahr. That ais... well..."

There is a protruding blood vessel snaking from Captain Modesty's right eye, almost to the ear. It throbs... red, almost purplish...

"More of Triple-J's reactionary intuitivism? I see. Raymond?"

Angeniuex is a scrawny, wizened little wizard in a scientist's white coat and big, goggly glasses.

"Our MAU-surveillance hasn't yet borne fruit regarding Third-Fifth, either, sorry to say. The mastermind's either a genius, or incredibly naive. And lucky... well, that would go without saying. Third in a month, you know... in each case a single gunman, face disguised, directing bank personnel to bring cash to a location off-premises. A dumpster, municipal toolbox, under a bench... that's the one we got lucky on..."

While the Wire Chief speaks, the eyes of several officers wander to the ominous white box; eventually, Sgt. Aspid pokes it open, revealing a quantity of plain, gray donuts... remarkable only for their squareness, even square holes. Only after he has taken up and bitten into one is the box passed round. Norlin, following Germany Smith's lead, chooses the nearest, noticing the placard beneath ("Compliments of the Ice Cream Foundation"), breaks the donut into quarters, and chews thoughtfully, finding it artificially-sweetened (as mandated by law) and predictably bitter.

The vein on Modesty's temple throbs menacingly as he watches his men distracted by the gratuity. "Bister! Kruppe! Bring us some dekaffa... plenty o' deeka, heh heh! Germany?"

Chief Smith speaks cautiously, bringing his Captain down to a level place.

"Of course the robberies are our priority, also... the usual sources coming up dry on this one. M.O. has the makings of revealing a new player in town, not the mutes or Zeuts. Then there's another black-market piss gang and, of course, the nostalgia killer..."

"That keb leavin' big band jazzcubes at the scenes of his crimes?" Modesty's fists grip the edge of the table, bracing himself.

"That one!"

"Jates-hatin’ Elvis-hatin' kebs! There was a time, and not so long ago, when criminals were, at least predictable, their crimes of gain or passion making sense. Almos' makes me wish King Jack was back and running his rackets on the Strip. Well now, gentlemen, let me introduce Henry Hat, who is on loan from the Solar Commission. As a consequence of these inexplicable... unacceptable... crimes, I have authorized him to work interdepartmentally, to have access to all open cases, and to consult on any of your individual investigations. Even C-Squad..."

Hearty laughter rattles forth from all except Norlin - who, taking further notice of the thin loaner-cop, perceives a great, gaping hole in the sole of one of his dangling yellow shoes through which a stocking of some yellow fabric is perceived...

"Henry?"

"I look forward to working with Baratarian Police on these crimes," Henry Hat promises, in a modulated voice as might issue from a genial automaton, "to shine the light of the law on these nestations of darkness." And his head tilts upwards, expectantly, hands folding daintily in his yellow lap.

"Well, we thank you, too! Henry will see to the coordination of the various departments, beginning with your debriefing of Automatic Slim this afternoon, John, at..."

"Fifteen hundred hours."

"Right. Smith, I want Intelligence jostling donnas, mutes, youth gangs... those Zeutrons in particular... anything else suspicious or new besides, of course, the Chinese market. Corporal Norlin, I specifically want you to review everything that passes over your desk... even what goes into Drawer Twenty One!... and write memos to that effect. The Council's given Compliance fex about citizens who monitor investigations and claim that their input's being ignored... nut cases, but tell that to the Courts of Flux and Flow! We suspect that they've planted another mole in the Department, right, Clive?"

"That's how it seems, Captain!"

"As if you'd say anything different." Captain Modesty raises two fingers to his temple, presses, sighs. "I want Intelligence briefing you before you question Slim, John, I specifically want at least two questions related to C-Squad on the list. From your frequent flyers, Norlin, at least one from somebody who has a history of giving us a hard time, and one other... just so's Compliance won't get drawn into any charges of favoritism, favoring them as take their beefs to Compliance, or as don't. I meant that in a manner of speaking, Clive... we all know consumption of bovine flesh and by-products is illegal, unless prescribed by a medical doctor. Meanwhile, Norlin, take Henry here out on your morning consultations, show 'im a good time, heh heh..."

Without waiting for permission, Henry Hat rises, facing the Captain eyeball to eyeball. "If you will... I am obliged to notify my superiors." He tips his yellow fedora, and departs... leaving his donut untouched, Captain Modesty open-mouthed and the Chiefs of the Trouble Factory with widening, if perplexed, smiles.

"Kebbin' Suncop!" Germany finally remarks.

Norlin stares down at the remaining half of the gray donut, tasteless as a JatesBar, breaks it and lifts half of the half to his lips. Though something about its texture strikes him as not quite right, he continues chewing slowly and with studied deliberation. Quiet as a rodent, Dr. Skark has entered with his entourage, the Blue Man and the Gray Man (twins or, more likely, clones - named as much for their complexion as for their suits)... wheeling their bent-wheeled tray of tiny paper cups and hypodermic needles.

"One further, small matter..." Captain Modesty beams, "...especially when in democratic societies, as ours, it is imperative that police and, especially, police administration be treated no differently than the rest of the society that they regulate. I need not remind you... Barataria's War on Substance remains Departmental priority numero uno and, further on the path to individual and national perfection, Dr. Skark will take urine samples from each of us, and, afterwards, issue an HRI-approved performance serum to all who feel in need of it... Doctor?

Skark's a weasel of a doctor, or - with his low brow and thick, black hair (even on palms and throat) Norlin ponders, as he chews - is there monkey DNA in there? Skark pulls blue latex gloves over these hairy hands as the Trouble Factory brass exhale, unhappily... Ray Angenieux's whisper to Crum overheard by Norlin...

"Private cops at HRI and even kebbin' Man Ray get to take Police Serum, now..."

"You know the drill." Dr. Skark attempts to mimic the confidential, soothing tones of a family physician from another century... drawn from pre-k'ball movies and television, for there are few places short of the Trouble Factory so unpleasantly clinical as Baratarian clinics... and fails, horribly, for the ill-concealed anticipation. "Pull down your zip and urinate into the paper cup... I'll want specimens sequentially, so that Departmental videotapes... (and then, like an indifferent actor, playing an indifferent role, he glances upwards to the battery of surveillance cameras with a loathsome smirk) ...can sort out any questions and resolve discrepancies."

"As Commander, leading his troops into battle," Captain Modesty volunteers, "I request that you begin with me, Doctor.

Norlin ponders the remaining third of the funny donut again - crumbs glistening in the flickering light of 2176 as Captain Modesty, affording every subordinate a glimpse of his wholly insubordinate penis, spatters urine into the paper chalice held up by the Gray Man to a servile, perfunctory chorus of 'oohs' and 'ahhs'. As the Blue Man milks Germany Smith, Norlin breaks off a few crumbs, wraps them in a napkin and places them in a pocket before the Gray Man approaches with another paper cup...

"Hurry up, Norlin, haven't got all day. You nervous? Nothing we ain't seen before, you know, absolutely nothing down there, heh heh! You nervous? Sneaking smokes down there in C-Squad? Bit into a DevilBar last night?"

"Chocolate's not illegal… yet..." Norlin feels a compulsion to point out, "...so long as it doesn't contain refined sugar."

"That'll change after Jatesday," the Gray Man replies in his toneless, gray voice, "...tho' it is a Departmental violation, been so since the first of the year. Hurry up! Think you can jerk off all morning down in that damp little cave, then not pay the price when the piper comes to call? Little dose of Police Serum set you right..."

Norlin, handing his cup over, waves off the proffered needle...

"Not for me, thank you..."

"Sure? This is the good fex, only for brass. Guy like you won't get many opportunities..."

"I'm sure..."

Lt. Bister, duly milked, sidles past Norlin and raps the base of his skull with his middle finger... augmented by a heavy, silver ring with the embedded opal scimitar of a Jatesist Imam, 29th Degree.

"Ain't bein' a team player, Norlin. Cap'n likes team players..."

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