Текст книги "Houston, 2030: With Proper Legwork"

Автор книги: Майк Мак-Кай

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 6 страниц)

We proceed to the Mr. Chen's shack, ducking under the police tape. The key clicks in the lock, the rusty hinges try to voice objection. The stagnant midday air inside smells of dust and mice. No blood smell whatsoever. But, I am not a bloodhound.

‘McWoxman’ stops on his tracks, obviously puzzled. He observes the room from the doorway and finally whispers: “Shit. It looks different.”

“Different?”

“Yes! The books. All the books were on the shelves. Only one was on the table. That one, see? With the green super. I remember it.”

I stick my head into the room. It's seven by nine feet, pretty spacey for our Slum. Two stools, one bed, one table. Besides the green book, on the table: two dirty plates, one pair of chopsticks, and a tea-pot. Exactly as I remember it yesterday. But all the other books are now scattered all over the room.

“It must be Python Tom,” I say. Strange. I am no expert in the CSI magic, but as far as I know, the CSIs just don't throw things like this. Even if it's a full-blown search warrant, and not just a crime scene check. I have executed few search warrants, not as an investigator, but in my usual local cop capacity: standing at the door and intimidating the civilians through my dark sunglasses. No way our Python creates such a mess! I've seen how he goes through each piece at the scene: make a photo, pick up, look, put back, adjust to the exact position. And so on. Professional work, like a human robot.

“No!” Woxman replies, “I was with Tom when he locked the goddamn door… Everything was on the shelves! Why now the books are on the floor? I don't get it,” he carefully steps inside, scrutinizing the mess.

“Interesting. Why do they need so many books?” I pick one from the floor. It's a heavy volume entitled Alloy Crystal Structures and Mechanical Properties. The paper is expensive, dense, white, clearly pre-Meltdown. The year on the front page confirms it: ‘2005’. Formulas, graphs, and lots of black and white photos, something like distant planet landscapes from Sci-Fi movies. This is way above my level, although I am a high-school grad, and with respectable marks.

“Bloody Chinese! Let's put everything back on the shelves, or the brass will rip our sore asses.”

“No, sir, we shouldn't. They may rip our asses all they want, but I don't want to ruin the investigation. We have almost no evidence, remember? To me it looks like someone has been to the shack after you and Python – to make a search of his own. And this someone may leave us some fingerprints, right? We ought to lock the door and give our CSIs a friendly call.” And why, for God sake, I picked the damn Alloy book? Admittedly, I am as much an investigator as… Woxman!

“Yes, you are right,” Woxman agrees. He is clearly not too happy with the developments. We have more and more questions, but still no answers.

“Change for vets? Change for vets?” A high-pitched voice comes in. The same girl with her bandaged beggar father, she parked the wheelchair right under the police tape.

“Hey, you!” Woxman turns to the open door. “You two have no business in here. Bugger off!”

“The Deputy Investigator is right, young lady,” I try to soften the rude response, “Don't you see the police tape? Your Daddy should do his ‘Change for Vets’ at some other place.”

But her Daddy does not want to leave. “Kha-kha-ah” he says and lifts the begging tin with his bandaged hands. The vet knows his rights.

“Everybody must give once a day. It's the First Rule!” The girl says.

“OK, fine,” I reach for my water-tight box.

“Not you, sir! Twice a day – no such Rule! Him!” the girl sticks her dirty finger towards the Deputy Investigator.

“Sorry, I have no small money,” Woxman blushes, “the smallest I have is five bucks.”

What a Scrooge! Is he going to ask the beggar to give three dollars of change?

“Kha-kha-ah!” The legless wheezes and raises his tin a notch higher.

With a sigh, Woxman pulls out a bundle of wet crumpled bills. The generous five-dollar donation leaves the safety of the bundle's rubber band for the cruel world of the begging tin.

“Happy now? Get lost!”

“Kha-kha! Kha-ha-ah!” the vet says. He either says thanks or sends Woxman to some distant place never visited by the Ambassadors of the Politically Correct Republic.

“Thank you so big, Uncle Cop!” The girl flashes a foxy smile, backing the wheelchair away from the police tape. Despite the layer of grime on her face, she is cute. Have I seen her recently? Perhaps, but for sure not with this beggar vet. Can't remember…

***

Once again, I am going to be home after seven. My poor little wife has to cope with all the chores. I am riding my bike in twilight and recollect the day events.

Woxman stood guard at the shack while I went down to Patch-3 to phone Python about the scattered books. Tom was astonished and decided to come at once. About one hour later we met the sweating CSI at the scene. Naturally, this time he could not use the horse and had to push pedals all the way from the Station.

Tom glanced into the hut and whistled. “I tell you that much, gents. Someone was looking for something here. Real hard.”

“I also thought so,” I said, “Can you establish that were they looking for?”

“God knows. Offhand, it must be something small and flat. Something that can be hidden in a book: between the pages or in the spine. Although… It could be pretty much anything you can imagine. Maybe they were just looking for a specific book. Did you touch anything in here?”

“I did,” I admitted, “That book on the floor, about alloys. I was holding it.”

Python gave me a ravenous look. He is going to squash me to death and eat me in one piece, as per the pythons' habit, I thought.

“And that do they do with all these books?” Woxman asked, “To be honest, I don't even understand the titles.”

“About the titles, you are not alone,” Tom said, “I don't understand them too. Not my specialty.”

“Are they about Physics?” I suggested the first thing that came to my mind.

“Not quite,” Tom said, “They look to me like Engineering and Material Science, but very advanced.”

“Very advanced – are you judging by the titles?”

“Not only. These books cover a diverse range of knowledge. For example, at home I keep a little library on criminology, programming and lab procedures. But I only have only two dozen titles. Of these, only three books I use frequently. And with all this, I call myself an expert. But here! At least two hundred volumes, and it looks like all were used a lot. Someone needed all kinds of material properties: specific resistivity, ion polarization, density, compressive strength, you name it. Must be very advanced stuff, what else?”

“Victor Chen works in electronics repairs,” Woxman pointed.

“Not this type of books,” Tom said. “From the stuff the 'tronics guys use – there are only two. See, here: the Microcontrollers Bonanza. Also, I've seen another one somewhere, like a thick catalog, Semiconductor Devices and Integrated Circuits. For an electronics man, this is hardly enough. If Victor has more books about electronics, he surely keeps them at his shop. The rest of the books is some kind of super-technologies.”

“Who in our Slum would need such super-technologies?” I asked.

“Who in the whole United States would need such super-technologies today?” Tom smiled.

“Maybe – the Pentagon?” Woxman asked.

“The Pentagon? I guess,” Tom said.

“What shall we do now?” I asked.

“Good question,” Python scratched his head, “I will change into my coverall and spend few hours talking to my fingerprint kit and my flashlight. I don't see the alternatives. And you gents, it would be very nice if you carefully went around the shack and check every square foot one more time. The probability is thin, but you may stumble on something… unusual. Any more suggestions?”

No suggestions followed. We kept searching until the sunset, nearly nose to the ground, like those bloodhounds. I would not mind working some more, but only Tom had a flashlight.

Woxman kept complaining and grew angry by the minute: for his bad luck, for such a puzzling case, for the absence of clues, for his pants being shit-dirtied once again (“Why did you put them on, man, what was wrong with your kilt?” Tom teased him). The Deputy Investigator cursed our Amerasian Slums. As if his own obamaville at the west outskirts of the stinky Landfill, leached to the roofs with by-products of garbage recycling, was a bloody palace!

***

Tired and hungry, I arrive home. Kate sits in front of the house, stirring something in the pot. I feel intrigued and a bit scared: today it's not her usual Primus, but the rare-occasion coal briquettes. It will be either a major culinary break-through, or a miserable culinary failure.

“Hi, Runner, what's for dinner?” I ask.

“A rabbit stew! With bok choy and potatoes! History in the making! Even Ma approved.”

“Rabbit? Wow! I can't wait for such a luxury.”

“I can't wait too. From down here, it smells so nice. Wash your hands. If you're not ready in three minutes, I'll gulp it all myself.”

I follow the advice, and exactly three minutes later we dine.

“How was your search today?” Kate asks wielding her serving spoon.

“No good. Found nothing,” I mumble through a mouthful of hot stew. The major culinary break-through it is: my wife has surpassed all expectations. Although, I suspect my Mom has something to do with this.

“Can I guess?”

“OK, guess!”

She raises the serving spoon. “OK. My magic spoon is telling me… Telling me… One. This morning, Woxman fell into a ditch. Down to his waist. The local population found it to be exceptionally funny. Two. Somebody came to Chen's shack in the night to look for something. All the books were on the floor. Three. You decided to call Python. Because Woxman had no pants, Wile E Coyote had to ride to the China-Three to make a call. Did I get it right?”

I quietly choke on the rabbit. Almost to death.

“Ouch! Sorry. Want me to whack you on the back?” Kate says overseeing my recovery.

“But… But how did you know?” I finally regain my breath.

“Wrong. You must say: but how did you know, Holmes?”

“Fine! But how did you know, Holmes?”

“Dear Watson, I wrote a monograph on the development of telepathic abilities by eating rabbit stew with bok choy and potatoes…”

“Stop being silly.”

“You should read the monograph, Watson! The rabbit stew does not develop telepathic abilities whatsoever. The best result is obtained by substituting the rabbit with a river rat.”

I choke on the ‘rabbit’ once again. Kate promptly saves me from a terrible death by delivering the promised whack to my back. For a girl of her size, she has a formidable whack. The continuous practice with skateboard works that way.

“OK, I will not torture you any longer. Today I went to the China-Five myself. Spied for half a day and bought this rabbit.”

“No offense. Is it a rabbit? Or a coypu?”

“How do you call it? Co-oypu-u? Texans are funny. Coypu. Must remember. Yes, dear, the stew is a river rat. You must know that our family budget can't support a rabbit-habit. But the rat is perfectly fresh – from your all-agricultural teenager volunteers. Just don't pretend you haven't eaten rats before.”

“No, Runner, nothing wrong the rat-meat. When we moved here, rats were on the menu at least once a week. And not even the river rats. The gray city rats too. But I must admit, your stew tastes nothing like a coypu. My compliments to the chef.”

“Your Mom is a chef. I am not even a sou-chef. A mere scullion.”

“Put me more of your rabbit, scullion… But wait… How come we did not see you in the China Patch?”

“Kha-kha-ah… Twice a day – no such Rule!”

“What did you say? Oh, shit! That beggar! Wait, wait. The guy was not like you. He had knees!”

“Our two Korean pillows fulfilled the role. Two below-knee stumps – two pillows.”

“And where did you get the wheelchair?”

“Went to the local market and asked the military vets to help the Police. Being without legs myself, I didn't even need to do much convincing. In ten minutes the fellow vets provided everything: the uniform, the medals, the sun-glasses. Easy…”

“And the girl who pushed the wheelchair?”

“You didn't recognize her? Good I convinced the little beauty to dress in rags and smear herself with ash.”

“So who is she?”

“Our neighbor. From the Korean-Two. Remember, how I pulled her on our raft? During the hurricane? She kept asking me where her Teddy Bear was.”

“Oh! Right. I even thought: why did she look so familiar?”

“You have natural observation skills, Watson.”

“OK, stop being silly again. Better tell me why you needed all this masquerade. For sure, you unearthed something Python, Woxman and I didn't even look at.”

“Let's do it this way. First, I am going to ask you two or three questions, and then I will tell you my theory.”

“It's a deal, partner.”

“Are we finishing the rabbit stew?”

“Is this your first question?”

“No, this is my proposal.”

I pass Kate my plate.

“OK, my first question. In your search team, you had four adults, is that right?”

“No. I had five. One man left a little earlier, you probably had not seen him.”

“Can you describe these five adults, briefly?”

“You know, the people in the China-Five, I don't know them that well. OK, listen in. Mister Duong-senior. He is the elected Patch Representative, so must help the Police. About sixty-five, but very active little man.”

“Little man?”

“Yeah, he's a shorty. I'm not tall, but he's only to about my shoulder. With thin gray beard like Comrade Ho Chi Minh.”

“I didn't see the man. Was he the one who ran way?”

“He didn't run away. As a Patch Rep, he had a good excuse. A land dispute: someone wanted to re-measure the rice paddies.”

“OK. Comrade Ho Chi Minh we can skip for now. Next?”

“Mister Duong-junior, the Rep's son. About forty years old. Tall and bony.”

“In a straw rain-hat? With little mustache?”

“That's him. The next is Missis Lim, a widow. About thirty or thirty-five, a veggie lady. But the main calling in her life – is to spy on her neighbors. If there is a good gossip to deliver, who cares about the veggies! She would not miss the search for the missing neighbor, not in her life.”

“I've seen her too. She does look like a scandalous person. The others?”

“The last two, I don't know them at all. A young man by the western name of Na-Na-Nathan, he didn't tell me his Chinese name, and I didn't ask.”

“Na-Na-Nathan?”

“Yeah. The guy is shell-shocked, just from the Army. He was in Romania. In Ploiesti, some freaking Ukrainians hit his platoon with Russian 122 mil Grad. So the guy was sent home to recover. I decided to assign the vet to an easy duty, but he was doing fine. Ran no worse than the boys.”

“Some people say shell-shocked is for life. Personally, I'd rather lose my legs. Who was the last person in your search team?”

“Mister Lee. Fifty-five years old, approximately. Solidly built, medium height, gray hair. His shack is next to the Chen's, right across the path.”

“Excellent description. I withdraw my statement about your observation skills. About this Mister Lee, can you tell me some more? Did you come to his shack in the morning?”

“No. Lee came to me. Said: I just learned my neighbor gone missing, Deputy. Would you mind if I help with the search? Strange question: if I mind! Woxman was pissing steam that I hadn't got two hundred volunteers.”

“Do you know what this Mister Lee is doing for living?”

“I believe he is a scrap-catcher. Goes to the 'Fill, buys good finds from the scavengers. Repairs and sells.”

“Does he live alone?”

“I have no idea.”

“After lunch, when you and Woxman went to the Chen's… The shack on the other side of the path was locked.”

“Well, maybe Lee went to see his suppliers at the 'Fill. That's what many scrap-catchers do in the afternoon.”

“OK. The second question. That Mister Lee of yours. By any chance, does he have a Chinese Calligraphy hobby?”

“How the hell would I know?”

“Never mind. I have enough information already. Do you like the rabbit stew?”

“Why do you even ask? This stew is a pinnacle of your cooking career. My Mom must be jealous. Get ready for more ‘just-in-case’ food containers. They will come with double intensity.”

“Ouch! Now I'm in panic! A Category-10 hurricane our little shack will not hold for sure. I must give up cooking.”

“Give up? Hey! You have just started!”

“Just kidding. Coffee?”

“You promised to enlighten me why you went through the China Patches on the wheelchair.”

“Let's sit at the porch. Holmes has to smoke his pipe. How about you, doctor Watson? Brave enough to share a To-Ma-Gochi?”

“Doctor Watson will be smoking his tobacco,” I say, reaching for my box. “Stop teasing me. I know you come up some cool idea.”

But Kate never misses an opportunity to tease me few minutes more. Without saying a word, she gets her bag, crawls through the door, ledges herself comfortably on the second tread of the stair, using the third tread as an arm-rest. Now she slowly, thoughtfully rolls her cigarette. Not until her famous Gunner Mermaid lighter clicks closed she starts talking.

“My dear Watson! Yesterday, we completely ignored the testimony of two key witnesses in our case.” The puff of sweat-smelling smoke dissipates in the cool evening air.

“Who exactly?” I sit at the lower tread and start rolling a cigarette of my own.

“You and Tan, of course.”

“What do you mean: ignored? Tan said there were specks of dried blood at the floor. Python checked the floor with his Luminol. He was confident somebody wiped the blood, right? You concluded that Victor Chen had an accomplice. Right conclusion. Tan saw the blood, and later the blood was gone.”

“That's it! The blood was gone. But instead of the blood something else suddenly appeared in the shack.”

“What?”

“Look carefully,” Kate reaches her bag and draws the cell phone, “This morning, I called Tom and convinced him to send me his first photo of the room. The view from the front door.”

“It's against the procedures. Tom is not supposed to send the scene photos left and right.”

“Ah! Procedures! Python follows those procedures only if he is dead-bored tracing the bootlegged gasoline. Or if he has a whole chicken inside and feels sleepy, as any self-respecting reptile. But if he is hungry and aggressive, he doesn't give shit about the procedures. Cold-blooded reptilian indifference to the Police brass, instructions, and data security, all together! Remember the Sheldon Butcher case?”

“Rumors were that he hacked his way into some Pentagon database.”

“An epic win! In comparison to the freaking Pentagon, the breach this time is not a big deal. I was the one who reported the incident first place, right? If I had two legs, I would be at the crime scene with everybody else and see everything with my own eyes. You'd better look at the screen.”

“Well, I am looking.”

“Is it any different from what you've seen yesterday?”

“No.”

“And if you look closer?”

“Do you take me for an idiot? Besides, there were another one and a half police officers at the scene. I am assuming each trainee for twenty-five percent of a whole policeman. Then the room was checked by Tom. He is a top-notch professional.”

“No offense, Mister Coyote. I just want to make my point very clear. Let me continue.”

“I'm listening.”

“I called Tan at the Beat and forwarded him the same photo.”

“Oh! I completely forgot about our birthday boy. How did he do today?”

“He was fine. Completed a high-profile case of his own. A sow theft at the Vietnamerican Patch.”

“A theft of what?”

“Take it easy. The case is closed. No theft, just a fugitive. After some tough negotiations, the swine decided to return into captivity. Never mind. So I asked Tan the same question: is the photo any different from what you've seen yesterday?”

“And he?”

“He said the same as you: no.”

“It's hardly surprising.”

“So I asked: what about the blood at the floor?”

“Who can see these on a telephone screen?”

“Yeah, he said the same. But I insisted that we looked closer.”

“Well?”

“So he looked some more and said: Kate, you know, on the photo, I see that Chinese scroll. Like a Chinese Calligraphy thing: a proverb, a Confucius saying, or something. I am not sure, but I think when I came to the shack, there was no scroll.”

“Wait, pass me the phone,” I look at the screen once again, “This scroll you are talking about. When Victor and I came to the shack, the scroll was just like on the photo. But today – I don't remember I've seen that thing on the wall!”

“One hundred percent sure the calligraphy has not been on the wall. I haven't endured Woxman's generous five-bucks donation for nothing! Now, try to remember carefully, dear, it's very important. From the wheelchair I can't see the whole room, right? On the floor, on the bed, on the shelves… Perhaps, this scroll is still lying somewhere in the shack?”

“Now I remember clearly. The Chinese scroll was not in the shack today. Sure! The room is not that large. But how did you know that there must be this scroll first place?”

“Please play by the rules. You must say: but how did you know, Holmes?”

“Oh, stop it! Just explain.”

“And here comes my second witness. The second witness! You, my dear Watson!”

“I?”

“You and Victor. You run to the Patch-Five in great hurry. All the way, Victor's sure his father is stubbed to death. You open the door, and: bang! Victor suddenly changes his mind. As if there are fire letters hanging in the air. Victor Chen! Keep your mouth shut! Now, presumably somebody wants to write these fire letters in such way that his Mandarin-literate addressee understands them for sure, but a Korean police officer has no clue. What language should this person use? Arabic? English? Korean?”

“There is a leap of faith, Holmes. You automatically presume that the policeman can't read Mandarin. We have plenty of Chinamericans in the Police Force.”

“One. The fact that you and Tan are both Koreamerican – is common knowledge in the GRS. On the West side, everybody even knows that the Beat clerk is not an Amerasian. Yesterday, two 'Fill scavengers called me by name and offered me a ride. Two. The Chinese wisdom, especially if written in Chinese characters, allows for free translation. No need to write: keep your mouth shut! For a smart addressee, you could write something far less obvious.”

“I'm sure you have already translated the scroll. Did you use the Internet?”

“Much simpler! If your cell phone does not have Chinese installed, how to enter the Chinese characters? And even if you get yourself a Chinese keyboard, I am not that proficient… To make the story short, at the market I found two Chinese dudes and asked them to translate the scroll for me. The first said: ‘Careless words bite like poisonous snakes’.”

“And the second?”

“The second translation was not as poetic. ‘Wrong words get relatives killed.’ But instead of ‘killed’ there could be also ‘destroyed’ or ‘poisoned’. Mandarin is not like Korean or Japanese. In Korean, you have a fifty-fifty mix of phonetic symbols and abstract sino-characters, so the specific meaning is usually more straight-forward.”

“Hey, look who is teaching me Korean! But your version is very nice. Let me summarize. After Tan leaves to call you from China-Three, someone hangs this scroll. At the same time, he or she wipes the blood from the floor. I've paid no attention to the scroll. After all, the Chinese hieroglyphs are too different from Korean. But Victor Chen reads the scroll, understands it correctly, and demands himself the Fifth Amendment.”

“Right! By the way, did he ask for the Fifth?”

“Woxman told me so. Victor even refused the free attorney.”

“Perfect. It all fits in with my deduction. The person who hung the scroll. He or she is either an ethnic Chinese or knows Mandarin as a second-native language. He must be an enthusiast of Chinese Calligraphy, because he decided to use the Chinese proverb as a method of clandestine communication, very clever indeed. He is presumably from the GRS, because he knows that the local policemen are not very strong in Mandarin. Finally, he is well-acquainted with Victor Chan.”

“How is the last one?”

“If you are not sure whether your recipient can not only read, but also correctly understand the Chinese proverb, why take the risk and hang the scroll? And most importantly, this person must live somewhere in the vicinity, very close indeed.”

“To have time to run home and write the scroll?”

“Even if he was not trained in calligraphic writing himself, he could have the scroll with the fitting proverb in his home collection. And if he had to write it from scratch, he also must run home. We are not in ancient China, and the calligraphers don't wander the streets with ink and brushes. Even more to it. Our calligrapher must have the key for the Chen's shack. So, our man is an immediate neighbor, a relative, or a very close friend. Who else would you trust the key from your house?”

“Do you think this man came at night and searched for something hidden in the books?”

“He scattered the books, but he didn't search.”

“Why?”

“He just wanted his scroll back. He knew that one police officer was at the scene before the scroll was placed at the wall. If you just take one thing, it will be obvious. So, he must make a big mess. Breaking stools and crashing plates were not an option – the neighbors could hear. So he scattered the books.”

“But why did he want his scroll back? If not for our Sherlock– -on-skate, Tan would not remember a thing!”

“I don't know why he wanted the scroll. I have no telepathic abilities, despite I'm so full with… What's the name again? Coypu? Most likely, our calligrapher is afraid that somebody may see the scroll later. Let say, someone from the Calligraphy Club. Imagine that some old Chinese man comes to you and says: do you know, Deputy? That scroll in Chen's shack! It looks like Mister Lee wrote it! Only him draws this hieroglyph in such graceful stroke. And so you think to yourself: should I go to the China-Five and talk to Mister Lee one more time?”

“Mister Lee? Is he just an example, or you suspect him of murder?”

“Mister Lee is not a murderer. But after my visit to the Patch-Five, and with all the info you told me this evening, I don't just suspect. I know the murderer identity and the location of the dead body.”

“You – know?”

“One hundred percent. “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” Again from my favorite book.”

“OK, Holmes! Enlighten you dumb Watson!”

“The body is presently with Mister Lee in his shack. And by tomorrow morning it will be in the irrigation ditch.”

“Explain why.”

“Remember, yesterday we had three options how the perps might get rid of the body?”

“Not three. Five! The number four was about some magic mushrooms and hypnosis and the number five was about some little green men with a flying saucer.”

“Stop teasing me. So today I went myself to the China-Five and realized that yesterday I missed the fourth option altogether. In one of the stories, Holmes was telling Watson it's dangerous to make conclusions without knowing all the facts. A mental lock of sorts.”

“And what was your mental lock?”

“I placed myself in the perp's position. What would I do with a dead body if it was in this shack. Our shack, in Korean Patch-One! But there is a huge difference. In our Patch, the paths between the shacks are wide and straight. We are an ‘Obama’ slum, from right after the Meltdown. Back then, they left a lot of space, for the cars. We don't use cars, but the paths are still straight, and you can see everything, end-to-end. But the China-Five was started just three or four years ago, and they knew the cars would not be back. Their paths are narrow and all curved. In some places, even a wheelchair can barely pass.”

“I see what you are saying. So the fourth option is to carry the body to the near-by shack, right?”

“Absolutely. In the Patch like ours that would be totally impossible during the day time, but in the new slums, if you act quickly, chances that the others see you are rather small. Two men can do it easy enough.”

“Why: two men?”

“Mister Lee and Mister Chen. Two men. Of course, I may be wrong. Having three men is also possible. But less likely.”

“So, after all, Victor Chen killed his father?”

“But no! Did I say: Victor Chen killed? Listen… On the second thought, wait! First, make more coffee and bring the brownies. And promise me to wash the pot. I've cooked you rabbit, remember?”

“It's a shameless blackmail! If you continue this way, we must report you to the Police,” I obey and start our Primus.

“Are you washing the pot, Deputy?”

“Yes, ma'am. The Deputy will be washing the pot.”

“Accepted. So it was like this, my dear Watson. Mister Chen– senior comes home and finds there his double.”

I burst into maniacal laughter. The neighbor shack window opens and an old lady sticks her head out in obvious disapproval. The Slum Rule is to keep the things quiet, especially after dark.

“I didn't expect such a prank,” I whisper to Kate while bowing an apology to the neighbor lady. “You've tricked me into the promise to wash the pot in exchange for some science fiction story. Not the type of Sci-Fi I enjoy.”

“I promise, Coyote, there is no prank. Can't you listen to the end before laughing like mad?”

“OK. I am listening to your cheap prank Sci-Fi. Skeptically.”

“Have you seen the titles of the Chen's books, Mister Skeptic?”

“Yes, I have. Python believes they are about some very advanced engineering. And Woxman thinks it's some kind of military technology.”

“Your Woxman is not a total fool. Correct: it's some advanced military technology.”

“I'm telling you once more: he is not my Woxman. Why do you think somebody would jump on developing some advanced military technology in the slums?”

“I'm not saying Chen-senior is working on military technology now. But he could work on it earlier, before the Meltdown. It was something very important. Do you know that the Chinese were constantly looking for their former compatriots, the immigrants and their family members? It was the best way for extracting the military technology intelligence from the USA.”

“Well. And why to have the double? Spy games?”