DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 9: “Possible, But Unlikely”
“Open up, Lobby.”
“Go home, Mox. You’re drunk.”
“What has that got to do with anything?” Moxley said, leaning on the intercom switch. The corridor in which he stood was intentionally dank. Lobby removed light cells as fast as the building owner could replace them.
“The two statements are unrelated. I’m telling you to go home and also observing the fact that you’re drunk. There was no value judgment implied.”
“Open the door or I’ll put a bullet through it.”
There was a pause. Finally: “Give me a minute.”
When the door slid open, Moxley nearly fell through the opening. He stumbled, caught himself, and braced both hands on the back of a sofa that had spent more time outside than in. The door slid shut and locked behind him. Lobby had already returned to the kitchen.
“You weren’t kidding,” said Mox.
“I told you,” said Lobby. His head was wreathed in steam from the metal cauldron on the stovetop.
“Soup?” asked Mox. He watched a large beetle creep from underneath the sofa to the shelter of an empty coffee cup on the floor.
“Explosives,” said Lobby.
Mox eyed him. “Say again?”
“Relax,” said Lobby. “It’s Dryex. As long as I keep it hydrated it’s perfectly safe.”
“Something I should know about?” Moxley asked. He looked around for a place to sit. The room spun quietly around him. He thought about risking the couch and then decided against it. Lobby’s was a pit at the best of times, but it was worse than Mox had seen it in a while. That meant Lobby was working on a project of some kind. “You should have this place sprayed, Lobby.”
“I have a system,” said the younger man. Lobby was all angles and scruff, gaunt to the point of malnutrition, wearing a hooded sweatshirt that was two sizes two big over a shirt and pants that were each one size too small. His feet were bare and stained black from the garbage-strewn floor his apartment. Lobby’s place had carpet, or so the legend went. Nobody had seen it. “What do you want, Moxley?”
“I need some help,” said Mox.
“Not a surprise,” said Lobby. He continued to stir the Dryex with a large wooden spoon. The mixture was viscous and gray. “You only visit me when you want help.”
“You told me not to come around.”
“You come anyway.”
“That’s fair,” said Mox. “You got anything to drink? I’m fading over here.”
“Beers in the coolerator,” said Lobby, jerking his chin stubble at the ceiling-high unit next to the stove.
“No thanks,” said Mox. “I’ve seen what you keep in there.”
“Bottle of vodka under the couch,” said Lobby, shrugging.
Moxley thought about reaching under the sofa and rejected that idea, too. he shoved the toe of his shoe underneath and fished around until something clinked. He was rewarded with the promised bottle of vodka, which was sticky to the touch. He picked it up, uncapped it, and wiped the mouth of the bottle clean with the lining of his overcoat. The vodka was cheap, but not the cheapest. He took a long pull and grimaced.
“That’s practically nail polish remover,” he said.
“You can buy next time,” said Lobby, stirring. “What do you want, Mox? You know I don’t like company.”
“Make up your mind, Lob,” said Moxley. “You complain I don’t visit and then you tell me you hate visitors. You make an appointment with me and then tell me to go home.”
“A foolish consistency,” said Lobby.
Mox let that go past. “I need government inspection files,” he said. “Specifically any case files drawn by Inspector Raymond Neiring over, let’s say, the last month.” He paused to swallow more vodka. “There’s been some tampering in the network by a fellow inspector. I tried to get him to give them up, but that’s a burned bridge. He may even have tried to bury them deeper because of it. Might complicate things.”
Lobby snorted. “Amateurs always make it easier to find stuff, not harder,” he said. “And the government network’s not a problem.”
“You can do it?”
“I could,” said Lobby. “Now tell me why I’m going to. Be convincing, Mox.”
“Think of it is a favor rooted in our years of friendship,” said Moxley.
“We’re not friends.”
“Then think of it as an opportunity to make some money,” said Mox.
“You don’t have any,” said Lobby.
Moxley sighed. “Fine,” he said. “I guess you’ll just have to pass on this opportunity to prove yet again how smart you are.”
“Now you’re talking my language,” said Lobby. “I can get you your files. Don’t bug me about it. I’ll call you when I’m ready. Not before.”
Moxley looked around. “Lob,” he said. “Where do you keep your rig?”
“Trade secret,” said Lobby. “They can’t find my terminal, they can’t find my secrets. Now go away, Moxley. I’m over-quota for drunken not-friends.”
Moxley gestured with the vodka. “I’m taking the bottle,” he said.
“I would be disappointed in you if you didn’t,” said Lobby.
* * *
The waffle house door bore a plastic seal that said it had been closed by order of the Hongkongtown Health Syndicate. There were several Human Services warning tags as well. Moxley ducked under the tape with some difficulty, huffing and awkward, before finding his favorite booth and settling into it. A squat serving robot rolled up to his table. How a robot with wheels for “legs” could manage to look like it was limping, Moxley didn’t know.
“By order of the Hongkongtown Health Syndicate, I am legally required to inform you that we have been shut down for public health code violations,” said the robot. The recording was stilted and deliberately off-putting.
“I’ll take my usual,” said Mox.
“By order of the Hongkongtown Health Syndicate, I am—”
“Save it for the tourists,” said Moxley. He patted his own pockets and then took his hat off, placing the hat upside down on the table. “I, uh, need to put it on my tab again.”
The machine clicked and whirred. Finally, in a voice that was anything but a robot’s, it said, “You’re credit’s no good here, Detective. I’ll get your food.”
“Hey,” said Moxley. “Hang on a minute.” He looked left, then right. There was no one else in the place. “How bad?”
“Human Services took two more last week,” said the machine. “We’re not sure where.”
“I’ll ask around,” said Moxley. “Maybe somebody knows.”
“It’s possible,” said the machine. “But unlikely. I’ll get your food.” It rolled away, swaying back and forth as it made for the kitchen.
Moxley found his pack of vapor tubes. There were only two left. He did not have the money to buy more. He thumbed one of these and put it in his mouth.
Sure, he could quit. It was possible.
But unlikely.