Chapter 5
Dr. Justice and Lady T meet up at the Heaven Scent coffee shop and she explains the case over chicken fried steak and eggs.
“And then mmmmffff, crunch slurp, crunch, crunch,” she says through forkfuls of the luscious breaded steak and country gravy. After she finishes her meal she looks up at Dr. Justice and says, “Well. …”
“I haven’t understood a damn thing you just said. Try it again, without the food in your mouth,” he says with a laugh.
Once explained they rush out to meet with Vicki. They park the Justice Cycle (a 50-year-old white Vespa with a red RX crudely painted on the side) and the Truth Machine (the Honda scooter) in the lobby of the Greenhouse and make their way up to Room 432.
Outside the night has begun and the trash heaps in alleys all across the city are pushed aside as the homeless emerge to roam the emptying streets. Gang members drug business gets into full swing as the working stiffs look for a snort, toke or tar to make the day’s iniquities float away.
As they approach the door, they both notice that the light fixture is broken. Not necessarily a strange thing in this dilapidated building. To think a child was being raised here.
Lady Truth reaches out and knocks on the door and it falls inward with a thud. This is bad. LT’s hand cannon begins to whine as it powers up. Dr. Justice hits the light switch and wishes he hadn’t.
Vicki is sitting on the couch. Well, most of her is. Her body has been dressed in a tight red dress, which goes well with the blood splattered like paint on the room’s off-white walls. Her hands are placed primly in her lap and her legs are crossed as though she is a proper lady waiting for her suitor.
Her head is staring at them from the coffee table in front of the couch, deliberately placed so it would greet whoever opened the door. Her glazed, dead eyes stare intensely at nothing. She will never stare at anything ever again.
The corners of her mouth are sliced to the edges of her ears and her lips are sliced away to expose her teeth in a demon’s smile.
The signs of her struggle and murder are everywhere. Chairs flipped, a TV lies broken on the floor and the little kitchenette is in ruins.
On the wall behind her painted in her blood is a nice little note: “A whore is a whore even if she don’t fuck no more.”
The doctor and Lady Truth stand for a moment in the doorway. Then Dr. Justice inhales sharply.
“Oh my God,” he says in a whisper. “This is a clusterfuck.”
Lady Truth leans over and pukes up her chicken fried steak and the couple meals she had before that for good measure.
“We need to search the room,” Dr. Justice says in a matter of fact tone. “Find out who did this.”
“I know who did this,” Lady Truth says in a breathy voice, heavy with emotion. “I can see him everywhere here. It’s Rob Slash.”
“Sheeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiittttttt,” Dr. Justice says.
Together, they turn the room over, searching every drawer, closet, nook and cranny. The only thing they can find is her wallet hidden in a hole in the mattress. In the wallet is a California Identification Card with the address to the Greenhouse on it in the name of Vicki Valerie. And in a side pocket is a key.
The number on one side of the key handle is 420 and imprinted in the center of the other side are the words Union Station.
Outside, the two can hear sirens. Their time is up and they need to leave before the cops get there and lock them away for questioning.
“C’mon, we’re going out the window,” Dr. Justice says.
“Wait, what about the scooters?” Lady Truth says.
“Too late, they’re probably already in the lobby. This room faces the alley, so if we go out the window we still have a chance to get away.”
Dr. Justice pushes up the window with his robotic hand, breaking through generations of paint that has sealed it shut. He hooks two fingers of his right hand around the sill and pushes them into the wall and slides through the window.
He calls for Lady T and she crawls through the window and down the doctor, and puts her arms around his neck to hold on. Dr. Justice activates the cellular metal mesh of his fingers and they elongate out lowering the two heroes to the alley below.
Unfortunately, the cellular metal can only stretch for about three floors, leaving the two about 15 feet short of the ground. But luckily, the wall into which Dr. Justice had pushed his fingers was old and weak.
It rips away in a large chunk with the doctor’s fingers still inside. The two fall the last 15 feet onto the hard concrete. They were down and free. Above them they could here the police shouting.
They must have reached the room.
Chapter 6
Dr. Justice and Lady Truth start booking it.
They reach the end of the alley at the back of the building and Lady T turns left as Dr. J turns right.
“This way,” she yells. “I’m tracking Slashes. They went this way.”
The doctor puts on the brakes and about faces and runs after the mane of black and purple hair as it dashes down the street.
She stops after about 100 yards and lets the heavily breathing Doctor Justice catch up.
“He got into a car here,” she says with a slight pant. “He’s got the girl with him.”
“How can you tell?” Dr Justice wheezes.
“I didn’t say this before, but I can sort of see her too. She comes through faintly, but I can see her.” Lady Truth says.
“Is she a clone?” the doctor questions.
“I don’t think so, it’s different. I shouldn’t see her, but I do,” she says. “I don’t know.”
At that she takes off running again and the doctor rushes along behind her. It’s probably not a bad idea to keep moving, he thinks. The police are going to start searching the neighborhood soon enough and we need to get gone, fast.
About a half mile later, they reach a freeway on-ramp and it’s clear where the car headed.
“If only we had our bikes,” Lady T says.
“Which way are they going?” Dr. Justice says.
“East,” she says.
The doctor takes a deep breath to calm himself and wipes at the sweat on his forehead. He can feel the sweat weighing down his bouncy bouncy hair. The run has awoken his body and his mind. Now that he’s clear of the carnage, he can finally think.
He pulls out the key and he knows where they went.
“They are on their way to Union Station,” he says. “We need a yellow cab.”
Lady Truth wipes a little light perspiration from her brow and look at him with a skeptical glance.
“Babe, we are in the GETTT TOE. There ain’t no yellow cabs here. These people rely on the big blue cabs from the MTA,” she laughs and points towards a bus dropping off passengers across the street.
They hurry across the street and find with a couple transfers they’ll be at Union Station in about 20 minutes. Not bad. They swipe their bus passes and are on their way.
“Being poor finally pays off,” Lady Truth says with a sigh as they walk towards the back of the bus, past the usual circus of freaks, old people and the working class. “I’m never without my bus pass.”
They take seats towards the back and spread out a little. It’s past rush hour and the night is beginning to really settle in, so the bus is starting to empty out.
Dr. Justice chuckles in agreement. “Mine’s free from the state, along with my lavish mental ward accommodations.”
“Lucky,” LT says with a slight smile. She begins to clean her eclectic clothing as best she can. She managed to keep most of the blood and her own vomit off of her clothes, but there are still small spots.
The doctor wasn’t quite so lucky, on the green scrubs top there is a sizeable dot of blood. Well at least he’s wearing the appropriate outfit for blood, Lady Truth thinks.
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