John Barnes - Directive 51

“A normal day for Cameron Nguyen-Peters.”

“And a good thing, too. But if we’re going to talk about that kind of stuff, let’s do it securely.” He pulled his AllVoice from the outside breast pocket of his jacket and requested a security-cleared limo. “It won’t take any longer to get home, the driver’ll handle my wheelchair better than a cabbie, and in the limo we can talk about anything in the world.”

“Anything?”

Lenny waggled an eyebrow. “You were thinking of talking dirty?”

“ You start!”

He snorted. “I may take you up on that. But entirely aside from your being an interesting human being and nearly identical to my idea of beautiful, you said some things I’d like to pick your brain about.”

“Well,” Heather said, “like Woody Allen said, my brain is my second favorite organ.” She risked resting a hand on his shoulder.

He stretched and rolled his neck; he definitely seemed to like it. Well, it has been a while, he’s the only date that’s been any fun in the last couple years, intelligence is sexy, and any guy that thinks I’m beautiful, that’s a major plus right there.

As she helped to move his wheelchair into the limo, he said, “You’ve done this before.”

“My dad, for the last twenty years,” Heather explained. “His spinal cord was severed when an idiot drunk kid broadsided his Harley. It was a blind curve, and between his bike and an all-death-metal musical diet, Dad couldn’t have heard the drunk coming if he’d come with a brass band.”

Lenny laughed. “My mom has a Pod Twenty-One with all the country music ever recorded on it. I guess we can never fix our parents, can we?”

“I’m not sure I’d want to, but you’re right, we sure can’t.” The limo pulled away from the curb. “Actually, I really want to give the old guy a call now that I’ve talked about him. It won’t take long—do you mind?”

“I wish I could call my mother, but if I woke her up at midnight she’d put me in an orange crate and leave me at a foundlings’ home.”

“Aren’t you a little old for that, Lenny?”

“No one’s ever too old where their mother is involved.”

“Pbbbt. You set me up for that one. Okay, I’ll just be a minute.”

Her father picked up on the first ring. “Hey, there, little cop-chick.”

“Been following the news, Dad?”

“Naw, just worked my way up to Level Seventeen in DoomAge, been off in virtual ever since they canceled the Series. Can you believe they did that?”

“Actually, yeah, I can believe they did it. So you haven’t heard about Daybreak?”

“I think you have to be Level Twenty for that.”

“Seriously, Dad. Just for a sec.” She explained it briefly, embarrassed, in front of Lenny, to have to explain it the way she would to a distractible nine-year-old, but that was sort of what her big fuzzy dad was in every way except the physical. “So clean out the motors and electrics on your wheelchair with ammonia, and plan to do that more than once a day, and disinfect your tires. Like they say, this is not a drill.”

“Fuckin’ towelheads. And hippies.”

She refrained from pointing out that her father wore his hair down to his floating ribs with a beard that went beyond it and looked like he had dressed by rolling in a bin of denim and leather scraps. His comeback was inevitably that he’d voted for every Republican since Reagan, so whatever he was, it wasn’t a hippie.

“Just take care, okay, Dad? And if the chair starts to act up, take it down to the VA before it goes dead on you. I don’t want you stranded.”

“Okay, your old man will look after himself, Ms. Cop-chickie. Job going okay otherwise?”

“Yep.”

“Gonna bust the assholes that did it?”

“Working on it.”

“That’s my girl.”

She rung off and shook her head. “I hope that’s enough to keep him out of trouble. He’s not really all that old, but you know what guys like him tend to say, it’s not the years, it’s the mileage, and he’s really piled it on.”

“Where’s he live?”

“San Diego. He’s about five blocks from a VA facility, and they supply and support his power chair, so as long as they have parts and power, he can keep rolling. As long as he doesn’t get all stubborn and think he can fix it himself.”

“Well, at least he doesn’t have to worry about the heat going out,” Lenny pointed out.

“Yeah. Hey, you know, we’ve been out more times than I can count—”

“Seven. Good thing you’re the street cop and I’m the analyst.”

“Pbbt. I was about to say, ‘And I don’t know much about your family.’ That was going to be an invitation to talk about yourself. Serve you right if I only talked business.”

“Oh, no, you’re not getting out of it that easily.” Lenny told her about how, once he was on his own, Mom Plekhanov had gone back to school to become a special-needs teacher; then Lenny heard about life as a six-foot red-haired girl on the suburban edge of East LA. Then she discovered Lenny could be very funny on the subject of having been a Two-Million-Dollar Baby, despite the obvious fact that he had spent his first eight years of life in constant pain. Then he pointed out, “Whoops. We’re about two blocks from your place and we haven’t talked one bit of business yet. What would the taxpayers say?”

She barely thought for an instant. “I don’t know if it’s practical for you, but you could come up to my place, I’ve got a fridge full of leftovers we can eat while we talk, if you want, and then I can give you a ride home—there’s a lift on my car for when Dad visits, it’d be easy—or if it’s too late, you can crash out in my guest bedroom like a gentleman.”

“Assuming I am one.”

“Or trying to fool me into thinking you are.” I’m smiling too much. But then so is he.

“Works for me,” he said. “Definitely works for me.”

The limo driver had no apparent reaction to the change of destinations. Not reacting is probably a job requirement, Heather decided.

At her apartment, she introduced the cats: “The Siamese is Fuss. He’ll periodically yowl like death on steroids about nothing, and now and then he’ll get the rips and run all over the apartment, for reasons that probably make sense to him . He’s hardly ever affectionate with strangers, but once—”

Fuss sniffed at Lenny’s foot with cross-eyed concentration for a moment, leaped into his lap, curled up, and purred like an unmufflered lawn mower.

“Except, of course, I can always be wrong about him. The big lazy wad of fur that waddled in over there is a crossbred Persian and dust bunny, and I call him Feathers. He moves whenever he imagines there’s a possibility of something to eat. The only reason he appears to be alive is that he has a vivid imagination.”

“That’s funny,” Lenny said, “based on the things you always say about your social life, I was expecting about thirty cats.”

“That’s for after I retire. I’m working my way up gradually. Now, how do you prefer to transfer from wheelchair to couch, assuming Fuss ever lets go of you?”

“I’m comfortable in the wheelchair.”

“Yeah, but if I’m going to sit next to you and put the moves on you, I need you on the couch.”

“Oh, well, in that case, if we can just move the coffee table to give me a clear space, and perhaps persuade His Nibs here to relocate—”

“We’ll start with the easy one,” Heather said, scooping the ReadPod, Converse hi-tops, pizza box, and Nestle’s Wine-4-1 box off the coffee table and in one swoop to the kitchen. Classy way to make a good impression, she thought. Oh, well, at least I didn’t have a bra lying on it like I did all last week. She lifted the coffee table over the back of the couch and set it behind.