Dysfunctional
Synopsis and Sample Chapter
Dysfunctional
Synopsis and Sample Chapter
Officer Richard Berry has a problem. Not only has a smuggling ring for robotic transistors (that would enable robotic terrorism) set up shop in his district, but a fellow officer has turned up dead. So now Berry must infiltrate the neighborhood posing as an immature dysfunctional robot – a robot that looks and acts very much like a human child – to find the culprits. But who knew that in this disguise he would meet Dannielle Lawrence, the woman of his dreams? And his nightmares.
CHAPTER ONE
"Ya know, if we do this, it’s gonna make me come up dead, too," said Richard Berry, ashen disgust evident in every feature of his face. His squared jaw was set and his teeth were gritting as he spoke, making his words seem more like growls than actual language. Slamming his fist down on the file-littered desk, he continued, "I don’t believe that I’m even considering going in as a dysfunctional. Just how do I do that? How do I convince people that I’m an immature dysfunctional robot? I’m good at undercover, but this is truly pushin’ it, people.” Shaking his head, Berry's eyes bore imaginary holes in the drab pale green walls of the squad room. (Would the government ever get away from that sickly green?)
The other two officers in the room remained silent, looking at walls covered with certificates, trash cans filled with the debris of the day, people scuttling about – seeking any distraction that would keep their eyes from Berry’s pained demeanor. Berry knew that his colleagues did not have plausible suggestions; and that they all were feeling the pain of loss of a fellow officer and a close friend. Nothing could change that. The three drew little life from each other, nor the depressing windowless room.
They looked, too, at the robo-cops (a name taken loosely from a twentieth century science fiction movie) who littered the administrative areas of the squad room. Technology, moving more quickly each day, had provided the police department with the ideal solution to the high cost of running a top-notch law enforcement community. And each year, the robotic administrative personnel became more and more human-like in appearance and behavior. It was commonplace to find varied intelligence and complexity levels of these robotic helpers in administrative positions throughout the world these days, leaving the rest of the population the ability to upgrade high-level skills and talent to a more profitable scale. But in the police department, the robots were not varied in model levels. They were top of the line. Nothing antiquated here. Complex, realistic – you couldn’t tell them apart from the officers on duty except for the slow pulse flashes coming from their name tags and the drab kaki uniforms they wore.
Therefore, (and here’s where Berry felt the true rub), none of the officers had a clear understanding of just how a dysfunctional robot – an older, less sophisticated, abandoned or damaged model – would behave. So how did one successfully take on that personality in an undercover capacity? Where was the time to study and research?
The dim overhead florescent lights grew brighter and then resumed their dingy overcast as a surge of power, again, assaulted the room. With all the talk and money centering around the upgrades of functional artificial robots – or FARs as the media had labeled them – Berry was irritated that the lights in their closet-like offices couldn’t even remain full power. The surges played havoc with the computer systems, as well. He snorted softly. They could build interactive humanistic robots but they couldn’t devise a way to keep the lights on. It was maddening that electricity was at such a premium these days.
The Substance Squad – or SS as it was affectionately labeled by the illegal drug lords --was located in the basement of the ancient Headquarters building, and was a frequent victim of building power failures and surges. Just another daily hassle and another reminder of the pitfalls of local government career ladders. Of course, there was a good reason for their banishment to the recesses of the old building – and for being at the bottom of the move list when the new building was finally completed. The upper echelon of brass, meandering through their systematic days and lounging on the top floors talking with senators and governors and movie stars, did not care to witness the day-to-day operations of officers wearing unorthodox clothing, and unkempt appearances. They cared not that one had to fit in with the masses for the kind of work they accomplished. And though few officers in the squad really emerged from the depths as shabby as accused, management still declared that everyone in this particular section displayed images harmful to first floor public relations.
Additionally, there was strong consensus that members of the SS held particularly bad attitudes when dealing with formal police procedure. They were often being investigated by Internal Affairs for this media-reported misconduct or that. For comic relief, and at the squad’s expense, fellow officers had even been known to secretly pin up swastikas on their bulletin boards or hallway doors to further spark internal discord – something that made their Lieutenant furious because of his Jewish heritage. Regardless of who or what was behind the squad’s reputation, a chance could not be taken by the upper ranks that this unit would be considered part of the norm in the public or media eye. This was an election year.
Lieutenant George Webster, Berry's tall and lanky supervisor, leaned heavily on his desk, obviously thinking of the four teams of men he controlled throughout the county. A tear fell from under his wire-rimmed glasses, and he wiped it away with a quick jerk as he watched Berry internalize the fury over the outcome of this latest assignment. Berry knew that his thoughts were with the dead officer.
Webster had offen said that Scott Terrance had been one of the best men he’d ever worked with in the past fifteen years. Finding him dead in the Sunshine Lake was eating away at his composure. Berry could tell that the Lieutenant’s insides swirled, nausea being the least of the distraught condition. Just leaving the grieving relatives, his character had been shattered and doubts regarding his own expertise in management were echoing from his eyes. The worst thing, though, was Webster’s nagging feeling that the operation in which he had lost this valuable man had been sabotaged.
Officers Richard Berry and Benjamin Dusk continued to labor over maps, paperwork, and empty coffee cups. They, too, were justifiably upset. They had been in the, already legendary, backup car the day Scott died.
As the operation in the field had progressed, without warning, the transmitter taped to Scott Terrance's inner thigh and hidden by baggy trousers had stopped broadcasting. Though an inconvenience, the lack of transmission did not seem too disastrous. Worse had happened during this type of sting. The officers still had the car Scott had been pushed into within visual, and they could see his movements through the rear windshield. All was okay.
Then, out of nowhere it seemed, a lunch truck, shining silver in the bright sunshine, swerved in front of backup police car. Happening in seconds, the vehicle carrying a deadly chemical that could change the future of mature robotics was gone. Along with Scott Terrance.
Berry and Dusk felt responsible for the mishap. Sitting through the "not your fault, nothing you could've done" lecture had not diminished the anguish or the ache for revenge swelling in their hearts. So now, they poured over the data that had been collected in the long previous months, searching for answers, but finding only questions. And more reasons for retaliation.
The investigation had initially begun six months earlier, when a trusted informant –loosely speaking because how could an informant really be trusted? -- contacted Lieutenant Webster with information about regular shipments of illegal experimental robotic transistors and chemicals coming into the country by cabin cruiser. The informant was in dire need of cash and frequently sold reliable information for hefty sums -- often raised from an officer's own pocket.
The cruiser in question had conveniently disappeared before U. S. Customs could track it down. Customs agents scrambled, but too late – overworked by the continued threats of terror, that were swamping their work schedules with calls of contraband running ran the gamet on the scale of homeland security. They couldn’t act on every single one in Code One fashion. It was pick and choose; and let the locals handle the fallout. The Substance Squad, understanding the issues, happily took over and found that the cruiser was registered to a fictitious company and address, and was never seen at the same dock twice, or by the right people. The cruiser's occupants cleverly eluded officials on a regular basis.
With heavy television press spouting waves of police corruption throughout the county, there were, naturally, strong rumors that the boat was obtaining Customs' or police assistance. The Baldwin County Police Department could not substantiate these accusations so dismissed this line of thinking. It just wasn’t true. People would talk about anything to pull their minds from global terrorism – even if that thinking centered on the small percentages of corruption in the law enforcement community. They’d seen it all before.
What the investigators were really concerned about was the location of the stronghold for the smuggled merchandise and any robotic equipment that might be recipient of chemical enhancements or transistors. Everything else would fall into place later, were they to find that elusive location. And tips told them that the safe-house for the contraband was somewhere right within their County limits.
Scott Terrance, friend and fellow officer, had labored in the streets with the criminal and robotic traffic for months, until he finally stumbled onto a lead encompassing a large shipment of French art treasures. He almost passed it by because the articles in question were very unusual commodities to be smuggling and not part of his squad’s mission. But a hunch made him conduct a cursory investigation. If nothing else, he could pass the information on to his general assignment cohorts.
But Scott’s hunch paid off after a time. Under the pretense of buying one of the pieces, he managed to gain access to an elite group of collectors who were bidding on the art and who had received such pieces from France during an earlier transaction. After extensive research and study, Scott was able to gain the confidence of the collectors. A casual comment to the group voicing a need for the purchase of a particular chemical that would change the behavior stats for a robot in his possession, and Scott was put in touch with several of their own contacts, though low in priority within their line of communication and suppliers.
Later, through much effort, he was given access to one of the top suppliers (so he thought) to discuss the purchase of an incoming experimental transistor that would turn an accepted functional artificial robot – a FAR -- into a participant criminal in the still raging drug wars -‑ market value, three million dollars plus.
From various meetings and surveillances, the Substance Squad had narrowed the stronghold down to the area bordering "Combat Park" which was centered in the business district of the county. Many drug buys were routinely thwarted there, and several familiar faces committing any number of other crimes, reinforced Baldwin Park's reputation and nickname. These days, where there were big drug buys, there were transistors and chemicals for FARs. Combat Park was infamous for such activity even though it was known to the masses as an area where technology did not grow and prosper.
Familiarity of the community was not without its drawbacks, however. Though the park covered a large area, the populace knew the local residents and those frequenting its combat zone. A stranger could not just ramble in without being noticed and evaluated. It took months of smiling at the neighborhood's society to fit into the low-life aura that the park had recently begun to showcase. Scott Terrance put in the time.
Eventually the buy was set up, Scott was wired for sound, Officers Berry and Dusk were assigned as monitors in an unmarked police car, and Lieutenant Webster maintained emergency radio contact at headquarters.
The rest was pitiful history. The car under surveillance had disappeared before reinforcements were ever called, and the other squads staking out the area saw nothing. Furious at the turn of events and their part in the disaster, Berry and Dusk decided, without even conferring with one another, that this was to be a personal vendetta.
Unprofessional? Yes. Unrealistic? Maybe. Regardless, someone would pay for Scott Terrance's death. Not just someone ‑‑ the one responsible would suffer. They would make sure of that.
The air was still thick with silence and squeaking floorboards from above as the officers wondered when their new building would be ready. The one with a new air filtration system. The one with solid flooring and white walls. The one that the county had been promising for nearly six years. Lieutenant Webster cleared his throat loudly, dislodging their thoughts of office luxury and then sighed.
"I understand your feelings," he said finally, closing the file and dropping it into the pending basket on his desk. "But Berry, Dusk, I really have to caution you on this. We need to go by the book and stay above board." He paced now, pushing unconsciously at the glasses on his nose. "I know there's a lot of bureaucratic crap floating around. But we gotta follow regulations. We don’t want the usual media extravaganza."
He stopped and stared hard at the two young officers. Berry knew instinctively what he was thinking. Warning them was well and good, but Webster also knew that if he didn't work with them on this case -‑ if he pulled rank -‑ they would proceed alone, without his guidance. Without his involvement. And without regard to their careers or his. He couldn't risk another foul‑up; or worse, another death.
Webster trusted Berry and Dusk as he had Terrance, though he often counseled them that they were still immature in the ways of robotics and its connections to substance surveillance. They'd only been on the force for five years; but their attitudes refreshed Webster because they had not yet soured. They had not yet begun to see themselves as the abusive and hated law enforcers often depicted by the press. There was no fear in doing their jobs and serving the people. They cared. A comfort of late in the police department.
Berry and Dusk sifted through the garbage in their days -- the false accusations, bad press, and the sporadic hot-dogger antics that often gave all police officers negative reputations -- and instead of bitterness, they came up with precious ideals. Berry just shrugged off Webster’s questioning of why or how they were able to do this when so many others on the squads came away from their days cold and threatening. Berry and Dusk had weathered the same bad breaks and pressures the other officers contended with on a daily basis (and often times worse), but still came out functional with renewed spirits.
Webster always reminded them of his friend and associate, Lieutenant Sam Carlson, who lived the life of functionality and renewed spirit. He’d often thought that the practicality Sam showed the world was a negative trait – too much of a good thing. But not always. And those sentiments correctly expressed his feelings for Dusk and Berry.
Webster continued to pace the floor. "Berry, Dusk," he said thoughtfully, "I'm gonna keep you on this case ‑‑ against my better judgment, I might add. Internal Affairs wants their grimy hooks in, but I'm gonna hold 'em off. For a while, anyway. Who knows where the pressure's gonna come from on this. You know the old saying, 'It all rolls downhill!'" He stopped and adjusted his "Make My Day Punk" tee-shirt into his neatly pressed jeans.
"I think you should know, though, I feel something strange about this thing. I just can't put my finger on it. Maybe I'm wrong; but just in case, let's keep the reports to me only. I don't want anyone here knowing what we're doing. I'll make up some dandy-handy story to feed to the others."
He paused, picked up a pen and began tapping it nervously on the edge of Berry's desk. "I think, as short on time as we are, we still have to go into that neighborhood as members of the community like Dusk suggests. And that'll be tough. What do you think?"
Dusk ran his fingers through his light hair and sighed -- weary from all the paperwork and grief. Nodding, he bit his lower lip and whispered to himself, “I need a cold shower to wake up.” Then to the others, “No doubt about it. But we need a cover that's quickly established; a person who is seen every day and everywhere, but is always overlooked." He raised his eyebrows and shot a knowing look at his partner. "Think about it, Rick. When we were back walking the beat, he was so visible that he was invisible."
Berry sat for a moment thinking, then shrugged his shoulders. Visible, invisible! What did it matter? The situation would be impossible to salvage now.
"Right," replied Berry with a tired look of resignation. He smiled when he saw Webster's puzzled look and explained, "Tony Dee, the dysfunctional artificial robot – a DAR. He lived on the streets on our old beat. He was a good ‘bot – dysfunctional sure, and an immature, too, but kind and friendly, always in the way, but always there -‑ like a fixture. Once people got used to him, no one even saw him. He had a short or something on the motherboard; and the transistor to fix it cost too much. At least, that’s what the locals said. So he couldn’t go the steps from child to adult functional. He had kid mentality and couldn’t learn. He could pad around town, in and out of stores, peoples lives, just go anywhere. Do odd jobs. And nobody noticed him. Nobody wanted to. Guess they were afraid he'd rub off on 'em or something."
Webster looked thoughtful. "What you're suggesting is that one of you pose as a DAR – a dysfunctional -- blend into the community and hopefully get a new line on any new developments." He digested the proposal. "Then what? A DAR can't make a transistor buy."
"That's not really the problem right now, is it?" Dusk answered. "We need to find the right people first. Then, after we know which direction we're headed, we can plan. Maybe we won't have to set it up like the last time. And truthfully, Lieutenant, it's really the only chance we have right now. Everything's gone pretty much in the toilet. The town is tight."
Berry stood now and moved about the room, its other inhabitants showing mounting interest. "Again. Let me get this straight. You want me to go in undercover as some childish dysfunctional robot who can’t step to mature because of transistor issues. And I repeat, are you people crazy? How will I even do that? How can I manage that minimal eye blink thing that sets them apart physically?” He sat down hard on his chair, knocking over a ragged Styrofoam coffee cup he’d been chewing the edges on. “Just how’s this supposed to work?” Kicking his legs up on the edge of the desk, he added, “Oh, and by the way – on the record – I think this is a bad idea and I don’t want to do it. I’m gonna come up dead.”
Dusk ignored him and remained animated. Pacing and talking with his hands, he mapped the strategy. “Your ‘bot could be stuck at . . . say, the intelligence of . . . maybe five or six . . . that’ll make it easy for you to act stupid . . .” Berry scowled as Dusk continued, “and I can be the disinterested owner who won’t shell out money to fix you. Or maybe you can’t be fixed or something. I’ll have to think about that. It'll be easy. And there's no real preparation to worry about! We just do it! What do ya say, Lieutenant? Give it a shot?"
“No,” replied Berry, “This is just wrong.”
Webster sat in silence for a moment, racking his brain in vain for a more plausible solution. But finally, he relented. "Guess it's the only match in town for now. And it’s not a bad plan exactly."
“Yes it is,” replied Berry.
Berry could tell, though, that Webster agreed with him about the sketchy plan, but was not able to offer an alternative. “I hope you boys can pull it off before the boys upstairs eat me for lunch.”
Berry snorted and said just under his breath, “I already feel like I am the lunch.”
Still, the group planned.
* * *
Precinct Three was its usual tempest of unrestrained activity. A variety of criminal characters waited in line to be processed by a thin fingerprint technician whose white sleeves were covered with black finger marks – they’d not got the replacement digital computerized ordered some weeks ago and going backwards was not something easily done when it came to fingerprinting. The desk officer, trying to eat a cold-cut sandwich, was listening impatiently to a screaming woman on the telephone, as he attempted to enter a tag number into a seemingly complex computer system which was rarely in full working condition. The officer kissed the computer lightly, knowing that a little loving care assisted its operation with more regularity than any other technique; then reached for a napkin to wipe the mayonnaise off the machine's screen and offer a nasty finger gesture to the phone receiver as an applicable sign to the woman on the other side. It was one of those days.
While waiting for roll call, where oncoming patrolmen would receive an update of the crimes, precautions, and assignments of the day, several officers were arguing probabilities of an upcoming baseball game, increasing the noise level steadily. The police radio blared out call after call in a surprisingly sweet, though monotone female voice.
The comfortable lunacy was interrupted, however, as the Captain raged into the squad room, tomato red from the neck up. "Somebody get that ass, Carlson, in my office right now!"
Lieutenant Sam Carlson, patrol Shift Two's supervisor, was standing by a soda machine, just out of the Captain's vision. He was accustomed to Captain Donahue's poor humor, bad temper and ignorant style, but hurried to the office nonetheless. There was little sense getting the man's dander up further and possibly loosing an upcoming two-week vacation.
Donahue was a nasty man, filled with abrupt cynicism and an ongoing ruthless character. Worthless, too, as far as Carlson could determine. How Donahue had secured the position of Captain before him, Carlson could not understand. The man followed policy only when it suited him, and didn't care whose butt he slapped to save his own fat one. Not a very popular trait to Donahue's inferiors, as he referred to the lower ranking officers serving beneath him. About forty pounds overweight and balding rapidly, Donahue had a foul temperament and a definite lack of professional conduct. No one liked him. No one respected him. He stayed in charge, though – the top echelon knowing a good cover man and brown-noser when they came across one. He seemed to get the job done – somehow.
Carlson, an exact opposite, was seen as the ideal policeman. His men loved him and followed his every command without question or doubt, knowing that Carlson has earned the loyalty they so reluctantly gave. He was the first to respond to a serious call, not sending his men and women into a situation in which he, himself, would not go. He was in shape, proud, and a credit to the department and himself. His supervisors tended to be uncomfortable with Carlson’s loyalty to those beneath him – they thought that management came first. A problem when one was a true supervisor.
Carlson tapped on the Captain's door, and waited for the customary grunt acknowledging his presence before proceeding into the cigar-fumed room. Donahue's desk was littered with papers and the remnants of a half‑eaten lunch. Carlson wrinkled his nose in disgust and squinted. The blinds were shut against the sunshine and the light from the desktop lamp was filtered yellow through the smoke-stained white lampshade.
The two men faced each other for a few seconds savoring equal distaste. Then Donahue grunted again and sat heavily down in his squeaky arm chair. He blew air out his nose as he looked at Carlson again.
Donahue held an equitable view of Carlson, with the word "Pansy" coming to his mind at every meeting. He felt quite sure that the man had never stepped outside his bride-white reputation even once. A real pansy. And any waster who touted the successes of the Hail Hitler SS had to be a few floors short on the old elevator shaft. And the cologne he wore was disgusting.
Not affected by the stale smell of cigars, Donahue glared at Carlson. "Damn, I hate that smell!" It conjured up pictures of dead trees or wilted roses, and Donahue hated roses -- wilted or otherwise, and trees were none too popular, either. The cologne in question was advertised as having a manly, sexy scent, but as far as Donahue was concerned, somebody had made a serious mistake in the PR department on that one! Roses and trees! Bah! Pansy stuff.
His own wife had given him nearly a million bottles of the trash, or so it seemed. To make him more desirable, she had said. Hell, she'd kiss a watermelon, if it wore cologne. He had dumped it all down the toilet. Every last puking bottle.
And here was Carlson who practically bathed in the stuff. Lord, the man really made him sick with his pansy attitudes, his loyal men, and that putrid smell. Business was at hand, however, so he tried to hold his breath and overcome his distaste.
"Okay, Carlson! What the hell’s goin' on in my Precinct? Why aren't you telling me the things I need to know to keep our heads above Internal Affairs? They’re nip-nip-nipping at my damn heels again."
Carlson waited for Donahue to finish the reprimand, not having any idea what the old man was spouting off about.
"Do ya hear me, man? What's goin' on?" Donahue’s face became even redder.
"If you give me the details, Captain, I may be able to advise you on the problem. As it is, I'm at a loss as to what you want to know." Carlson remained calm, knowing that this was the only way to deal with Donahue. Any other demeanor could make the man more rabid than he already was; and if he weren’t careful, an entire day could be ruined over the heated words of an imbecile.
Donahue threw up his hands. “Are you as stupid as you look? Do I have to lay out the details for you, jackass?” He plopped forward in his chair and added under his breath, “It’s gonna take hours to get that morbid cologne stench out of my office.”
Sam Carlson merely raised his eyebrows, crossed his arms and waited.
"Well, Lieutenant Carlson, while you and your kindergarten coppers were taking your afternoon snoozes in "Combat Park," a body of one of our robot freaks downstairs washed up on the sunny, sandy shores of Sunshine Lake! Stabbed and trying to backstroke face down! In my Precinct! Hear that Carlson? And it's all hush. Explain that one." Donahue was up and leaning across his desk now with his face close to the Lieutenant's, his anger evident. "Ya know how I heard? Do you know? That female-excuse-for-a-cop-Winters up in Records was playing footsie with some clerk in the Detective Squad and he told her. A clerk! Do you know how this makes me look?"
Donahue paused for a breath and to wipe the sweat from his forehead with a dirty napkin. "I tell ya one thing, it makes you look like the fool you are, that's for sure! I want the facts, Carlson! I want to know every little tidbit that the detectives and the freaks in the basement have, why it's being hushed up and what their next move's gonna be! Before the media gets a drift of it. Now get out!"
He dropped back down in the chair, forcing another loud screeching sound from the seat. "And Carlson, you keep your mouth shut, too. Report only to me."
Carlson walked out without a word, noticeably shaken. This was serious and he was sick at the thought that another one of his men was dead. Who was it and why hadn't he heard about it? It must have just happened. What, indeed, was going on? For once, Donahue was right, even if his priorities were mixed up.
Carlson shook his head. But imagine, a fellow officer is dead and the Captain worries about how he looks. Donahue was a first-class justification for garbage. Carlson had always thought every person had some attribute, and it disturbed him to be wrong.
He would have to talk to his friend in the Substance Squad, George Webster. He would know the story.
* * *
The floors of the rambling old house in a finer section of Chelsea, better known as the "neighborhood" creaked with age and probably termite damage. Dannielle Lawrence, sitting demurely at the old fashioned kitchen table, looked about her surroundings in agitation. Such an old house!
Her attention returned to the fat piece of chocolate cake before her, and she unconsciously wished she didn't have to cram sweets into her mouth every time she felt low. But who was she kidding? This was downright depression! Just what else can go wrong?
"Damn!" she reprimanded herself. "Don't even think that! Every time I think something like that, something worse happens!"
The last couple of months had been pure misery for Dannielle. Things were going along just fine until the stock market crash. The next thing she knew, her hard-earned savings were gone, and with it the opportunity to fix up the old house she’d bought from her Aunt’s estate. So, here she was. The house had been in the family for fifty years or so, and her aunt had lived in it for at least thirty of those years before dying the prior Spring. Lord, it was big, though! For a long time she hadn't understood why her Aunt hadn't just sold it and moved to a small condo.
But now with everyone gone, she understood. The house held memories ‑‑ good ones. To sell it might mean forgetting, and Dannielle didn't want to forget any more than her Aunt had wanted to. Time held a special place in this house. A calmer time. A time before technology.
She left her cake momentarily to walk slowly through the house, sliding her hand lovingly along the cherry floral wallpaper and dark paneling. Memories of tea and tiny sandwiches intruded on Dannielle's thoughts. She had been such a boisterous little girl back then, spilling the tea – which was really red fruit punch -- and staining the worn beige tapestry-like carpet. Yes, the stain could still be faintly seen.
There were two small bedrooms on the first floor and three more on the second. The kitchen, however, was the warmest room in the house, large and brightly painted. A beautiful turn of the century bay window nearly covered one wall. She could remember sitting on a fluffy cushion and peering out of that window onto the newly mowed lawn as a child. The yard was also big and the swing, made from an old tire, still swung lazily in the breeze, though not used for years. No one had tire swings these days; and most kids didn’t even know what the contraption was used for. The two‑car garage sat near the house but not connected, desperately needing a fresh coat of paint. She grimaced at that.
All of it was hers now; but even with the memories, it was still lonely. True, her best friend, Constance Sanders, had moved in with Dannielle two weeks after her Aunt Nettie had died; but their schedules were so erratic, they barely saw each other. Connie was a doctor's assistant at the neighborhood's only medical facility; and Dannielle's own hours at the institution had been less than desirable. Of course, that wouldn't be a problem any longer.
Dannielle returned to her cake, picking at it and trying hard to hold back the tears that had threatened all morning. She had been fired today from the State institution where she had worked as a special disabilities teacher. Laboring primarily with young children harboring certain mental difficulties, Dannielle had found a way to fit into a decaying, technology-filled society without ignoring her principles that said that the old ways were better than the new. She found the kids so gratifying; and really helped some that, in other circumstances, might have lived their lives as social outcasts.
Dannielle had a fantastic reputation with the children and had been told countless times that the institution could not operate successfully without her. The next time she heard that line, she'd make a mental note to file it under "Lakefront View of Mars Landscape."
There had been a particular child ‑‑ a little boy ‑‑ who had a serious blockage problem in his brain, preventing him from progressing beyond a preschool level. He was loving, affectionate, kind – so adorable that she had to fight the mother instinct that tried to kick in over that of the teacher! He really had the desire to learn. The child was ten years old and wanted a life of his own so very desperately. Dannielle had attained significant results with him, using a new teaching method that she, herself, had researched and developed for the mentally deficient. She had been happy with his progress; and the boy was in constant wonder at the new life around him.
Then a problem surfaced. It seemed that this child, for some bureaucratic reason, had lost his State benefits; and his parents were not willing to pay to keep him in the specialized group at the institution. Instead, he was to be placed with retarded youngsters who had no hope of regaining any form of meaningful lifestyle. Dannielle had been furious and had uncharacteristically argued with the parents, who were found to be quite wealthy after all, just unwilling to share the wealth with a mildly disabled son. The parents pulled a lot of strings, and before she knew it, Dannielle found herself sitting in the parking lot ‑‑ jobless.
She tried to look on the bright side. At least now she could sit down and write the thesis about her new teaching method. There was enough money from Aunt Nettie's inheritance to support her for a short while. But she needed to look to the future soon. Upkeep on an old house would probably be tremendous.
As she finally finished off her cake, Connie barreled in from the back porch. "What in the world are you doing home at these banking hours?"
"Don't ask," Dannielle answered, getting up and slinging her plastic dish into the sink as though it were a frisbee. "I got fired today, and I'm in the process of putting on ten unneeded and unwanted pounds worth of chocolate cake to celebrate depression."
"Listen, pretty, petite, blue-eyed, blonde-haired skinny minny! Ten pounds will never hurt you. You make me sick with the weight worrying! You’re practically anorexic." Connie plopped down and leaned a stern chin on her folded arms. "I can't believe it about your job, though," she said, now slicing herself a piece of cake. "Depression is contagious when sweets are involved. Tell me what happened. Leave nothing out. And always remember: This, too, shall pass."
Dannielle told her the story while Connie shook her head in amazement.
"I'm worried, Connie! Ya know what they say! Bad things always happen in threes. First the stock market with my savings, then my job . . . Hope I don't get run over by a truck!"
"Don't even joke about something like that," Connie scolded. "You're just a pessimist."
“I am not." Dannielle's attempt at defense was as weak as her voice.
"Well then, get off your butt an' write your paper, and make a million dollars off that! Then I can quit my job." After gulping some milk, she added, “You know your method really is good enough to make you money.”
"Yeah." Dannielle was unenthused. "Think I'll go down to the business district for an ice cream at Nelson's Candy and Soda. Wanna come?"
"Not on your life," Connie snapped instantly. "Nelson's is too close to that bar where Loco CoCo is! Dirty ol’ pervert! Uhhh!” She fought a shiver. “Not goin' anywhere near that place. Bring me something back."
"Okay." She didn't try to persuade Connie, even though she would’ve liked the company. CoCo was a dirty old man, and had made an indecent advance towards Connie a month or so back. What Connie was even doing in that bar in the first place was beyond Dannielle.
She glanced at Connie with appreciation. Connie was too gorgeous for her own good. Tall and curvy with a dazzling smile and coal black hair; the men came in droves. She sighed, not recognizing the allure of her own shoulder-length wheat-colored hair, sweet smile, and cute frame.
Leaving the house, Dannielle slid silently into her car and pulled from the driveway onto a narrow side street on the north side of the neighborhood. The area was filled mostly with retirees from the business district; and, at times, it seemed that time stood still there. That was okay, though. Relaxing. She liked that. No hustle and bustle of technology panting down a girl’s neck, trying to force her into the next century. A woman could get a lot of thinking done in the neighborhood. Of course, the quiet also added to depression in times of desperation. She sighed again. Life was what you made of it. Great cliché. Dannielle drove on listlessly, wondering just what she'd made of her's thus far.
Nelson's Candy and Soda Shop was on the south side, but still only a five minute drive ‑‑ not counting the time lost by stopping at countless traffic lights. As she pulled up in front of the soda shop, she was witness to a terrible commotion. A man was being bodily thrown out of CoCo's Bar. As he lay on the sidewalk, nearly in the street, four men poured out from inside the bar and began throwing ice cubes from their drinking glasses at him. They sneered and hooted at their prey.
Taking a closer look at the abused man, Dannielle could see him crying and sobbing uncontrollably in what resembled an epileptic seizure. She had seen this behavior before at the institution, and acted before thinking. Jumping out of the car, she ran to the sobbing man, being struck by several ice cubes in the process.
"What is wrong with you people?" she screamed, using her arms to ward off the ice cubes. "Are you all crazy? Leave him alone or I'll call the police!"
Anger assaulted all her senses and her nostrils flared as she used her own body to protect the crying man. By this time, he was clinging to her, obviously quite frightened. The men from the bar, finally growing bored with their folly, waved in disgust at Dannielle, muttering rude remarks about do-gooders. “Stupid woman,” one man yelled. “It’s only a DAR. A stupid dysfunctional. Get a dog.”
Looking back now at the cowering man, Dannielle reconsidered her first impression. He was not retarded. She could tell by the minimal eye blink – he was a robot. Her face twitched, her brain recoiled slightly at the knowledge that aside from the slight lack of blinking, she couldn’t tell he wasn’t a real man. Tears still rolled down his cheeks and his sobbing was childlike. She allowed him to cling to her, not knowing why, but nonetheless feeling sympathetic. After all, she routinely talked to her plants, the infernal ringing telephone, the television when a heroine stupidly went down into the basement where the killer lurked . . . Why should this man – robot – any different? And why was she thinking about this? Still she frowned as she assisted him to his feet and then to her car. She really did not like – nor trust – technology these days.
He was strange to her. She didn’t know a great deal about robotics – didn’t want to -- or the fast-paced technology movement that put these contraptions of convenience into society’s everyday life. She could barely make her computer save documents without retraining it to her voice each time. Damn computer had a mind of its own!
Dannielle had no time for technology – not when children were hurting from mental issues. Why couldn’t technology help with that in a more timely manner? Who cared that these new robot people could do everything a servant, or partner, or friend, or dog, or even lover could do for one’s psyche and personal gratification if programmed right? Society created its own evils.
And now the world was fighting over transistors that would make the robot people more susceptible to weaponry and control. And strange chemicals that could not only assist in robotic makeup of these artificial people, but could also be used by terrorists to release disease through them. A whole revolution of terrorism. Like they needed more of that! It was all very predictable. Didn’t anyone look at history? Or read science fiction? Nature always goes awry. Always. Without fail.
She glanced at the man — robot. The men at the bar had called him a dysfunctional. A DAR – dysfunctional artificial robot. That meant, if she remembered correctly, that this robot was stuck in an immature mode due to programming or parts gone amok or something weird like that. Rather than repair it, someone had left it to its own devises much like abandoning a stray animal. If it was, indeed, a DAR, that meant that it was truly frightened and childlike. It might not even understand that it was not a real man. She caught her mind thinking it and not he and gave herself a mental slap. How unfeeling was that? She cringed, not know what she should be thinking or feeling about this close contact with technology.
She noticed that the man's eyes seemed to be darting everywhere, seeing every movement around him. For an instant, Dannielle thought she saw determination and intelligence in those eyes; but she must have been mistaken. As he looked back to her finally, she saw fear, and she swallowed the tinge of prejudice against technology and attempted to console him. It was not his fault he was in this predicament.
"Calm down now. It's all over." Dannielle patted his arm as he leaned against the car. His sobbing changed to wispy breathing. "Can you tell me your name?" she asked, wondering if he even had a name or merely a number as some.
"Richard." He stared at his feet.
"Okay, Richard, do you live around here? Do you have an owner?" she asked.
He appeared disoriented; and as he looked around him, she took a moment to study him. His dark hair, ruffled by the warm breeze, fell softly across his forehead emphasizing the lightness of his sea‑green eyes. About thirty or so, he was easily the most physically attractive man she had ever seen. Lord, they were getting good at this robot stuff! Such a shame. God displayed his wrath in such sad ways – and scientists obviously had too much time on their hands. Here was a handsome man who was nothing more than a machine. A child machine, at that.
"I don't know where I live," he said starting to sob again.
"Now, now, that's okay. Everything's going to be fine. Richard, my name is Dannielle, and I live close by. Would you like to come to my house for a while so we can sort this out? Maybe I can call someone for you or something like that."
"Benny said never to go with strangers. They could throw stones."
She frowned. Stones? People throw stones at him? "Who is Benny? Your owner?"
"Benny is . . . Benny; and he said no rides and no pretty gifts."
"Richard, I can't just leave you here. How about if I call a nice policeman and he'll find Benny for you? Okay?"
"No!" he said in a frightened voice. "No way! I'll go home with you. I don't like cops! They don’t like me. I’ve been hit with a stick, you know. I'll go with you. It's still okay to, isn't it?"
"Yes, yes, it's okay,” she said with hesitation in her voice. This was an object. A robot. Not a person. It was difficult to remember that. “Come, get in the car."
Dannielle bit her lip as she helped him into the car. She didn't know what else to do. He seemed like a nice kid ‑‑ that is, machine kid in the sorta kinda body of a thirty year old man. Geesh! But this was the craziest thing she had ever done. He had been taught not to go with strangers and he was ignoring that lesson – thanks to her. She had been taught never to pick up strangers, and she, too, was ignoring the lesson. Machine or man. Technology can sure be a pain in the ass, she thought.
She smiled, though, when she thought of Connie, always chiding her about crusading for the underdog. Well, here she went again. Dysfunctionals were certainly underdogs these days.
The ride was quiet. He sat so close to the passenger's door, she was concerned he might open the door accidentally and fall out.
Further, Dannielle was having morbid thoughts now. This was insane. Suppose he short circuited and turned into a homicidal maniac? She shook her head to dislodge the thought. He couldn't be. These things didn’t do that. That was what the whole war on terrorism these days was about – the transistors to make them criminals. This one was definitely damaged.
She swallowed hard and sighed. But suppose he was just acting and waiting for the right moment to rob her? She frowned at the road in front of her. She didn’t have anything! No. Couldn't happen. Well, it could, but not to her. And he wasn’t acting, because he had that minimal eye blink thing going on. Nothing is going to happen. Hmmmmmm, she thought, famous last words.
Gosh, this wasn't like bringing home a stray kitten, though. This was a robot! This was someone’s property! Maybe she should drive him straight to the police station and just not worry about it further. She glanced at him again. He looked so pathetic, sitting so quietly. Maybe he’s thinking that I’m a pervert! After all, I’m the one giving the ride! Dannielle frowned trying to picture herself as a pervert in someone else’s eyes. The image wouldn’t focus.
A light sweat broke out on her brow and she shook her head, trying to expel the more outrageous thoughts. By this time, she was pulling the car into her driveway. Dannielle got out, went around the car to help Richard, and motioned for him to follow her up the back porch stairs leading to the kitchen.
"Connie, it's me! I'm home!" Dannielle yelled as she walked inside. She turned to Richard and spoke quietly, "Connie lives with me. We'll see if we can find Benny for you."
Connie called in from the living room, "What did you bring me? This evil little devil in my head hopes it’s caramel and banana fudge swirl!" She peeked into the kitchen and blurted out a sharp laugh, bringing her hand to her mouth as if to hold in any more laughing. "Danny! When I said, 'Bring me something,' I meant ice cream! Although, I must say your taste buds are improving!” She laughed in disbelief. “But a robot? I thought you hated all that new hum drum technology. Your computer’s gonna be completely jealous!"
"Enough, Connie. This is Richard." Dannielle was standing behind him, and was able to point to her head with a motion that suggested to Connie that there was a mental problem. "Richard," she said warmly, "would you like a piece of chocolate cake?"
He frowned and then looked at his feet again.
Connie watched as Dannielle cut him a piece of cake and placed it on a plate at the table. Richard sat down.
"You eat your cake, and we'll be right back," Dannielle told Richard, and dragged Connie out of the kitchen.
“They don’t eat, ya know,” Connie said to Dannielle.
* * * *
Officer Richard Berry sat in Dannielle Lawrence's kitchen looking steadily at the chocolate cake before him. It looked good and he wanted it. Unfortunately, he couldn’t eat it. That would be a sure giveaway that he was not what he appeared. He pushed the hunger pangs away, allowing his mind to race with the implications of his current situation. He wasn't at all sure he had done the right thing in coming home with the young woman. His first thought at the bar when he saw her come to his rescue, was that he needed an ally in the neighborhood badly, and she would do nicely. Especially since she’d been the only nice person he’d encountered thus far.
The original plan, made so hastily back at Headquarters, had not progressed as easily as he had originally hoped. The people of the neighborhood had been cruel to him, treating him like vermin. He wondered briefly if the DARs life at his old beat was like this. He'd not understood robotic abuse before this assignment. It paralled some of the abuse issues of decades past for the homeless and mentally deficient who had been forced for one reason or another to live on the streets.
The two officers had still not found a place to live in the neighborhood, either; no one being willing to open their doors to a dysfunctional artificial robot, regardless of how well behaved or harmless he appeared. Even the low-class apartment complex on the west bank of Sunshine Lake where the body of their fellow officer, Scott Terrance, had washed up, turned them away. The reason had been a financial one to prevent a possible discrimination suit, but both Dusk and Berry had recognized the refusal for what it was.
It was dangerous to roam the neighborhood streets each day while not actually living there. Before long, someone would want to know why a DAR was being bussed to the locale everyday.
Berry’s thoughts returned to Dannielle. He hated the thought of using this pretty young woman; but just maybe, she could be the connection he needed. It was possible she could put in a word down in the business district with a friend or relative, and get them a place to stay. After all, she was a member of the community. He was not. Of course, there was no way he could tell her who he really was. A slip of the tongue, no matter how innocent, could get him or Dusk the same swimming lessons that Terrance bought. No thanks. He shook his head. Be careful, he thought to himself.
Still, he disliked deceiving her. She was so . . . something. Cute – yes that was it. There was chemistry for him; and there hadn't been the right chemistry between him and any woman for some time now. Wouldn't it be his unadulterated luck to meet someone now -- in this terrible situation – who he could really respond to? He had been on the force nearly five years, and in all that time, he had not found one really warm, responsive woman able to meet his needs. Of course, being a cop was a handicap more often than not when dealing with women.
He usually got one of two reactions when he met someone new. After the lady found whether he was married, how old he was, and what his birth sign was (usually in that order); she would ask what he did for a living. When told, one type would back away very quickly, as if he had an infectious disease. This really made Berry angry. It was beyond him why women didn't take to him when they learned of his profession. After all, who did they call when in trouble? Certainly not the lawyer or doctor they hoped he'd be.
The other kind of woman was probably worse. This type would lean close and exclaim, "Oh, really?" and expect all the gory details of his profession to stream forth ‑‑ a policeman's groupie. All he wanted was a nice, stable relationship with a sweet, intelligent lady. He guessed that this was too much to ask.
After all this time, it sure was nice to feel the exciting desire billowing inside when looking at Dannielle – except for the situation. Berry forcibly changed this line of thought. No time for matters of the heart now, and certainly, no place for it. This was a real mess he was in. He had a job to do; and normal attractions needed to be postponed -- indefinitely.
Dannielle and Connie were coming back into the kitchen now and, having made no decision of what to do or how to handle things, he decided to play it by ear.
"Well, Richard," Connie said, as she slid into the chair at the opposite end of the table. "How's the cake?"
"Pretty." He made his voice sound slightly fearful.
"Would you like a different piece not to eat?" she asked casually.
"No thanks."
"Okay." Connie said patiently and began again. "Would you like to go home now?"
"Maybe," he replied.
"Doesn't talk too much, does he?" Connie said and glanced at Dannielle with a look that said, "I can't believe this!"
Dannielle was leaning against the sink glaring at Connie. After her explanation of the situation, Connie had warned Dannielle that this was a mistake; and she feared her friend's thinking was correct.
"Richard . . ." Dannielle began.
"Are you still mad at me?" Berry interrupted as he turned to look at Dannielle.
"Mad? Why, no! I never was. Why would you think that?"
"The only time Benny calls me 'Richard' is when he's mad at me. I like to be called Ricky. Benny says it fits me better. Till I get mature. I’m a robot, you know. And just knowing that means I’ll be getting mature one day."
Remembering Richard's child status, Dannielle said, "I'm sorry . . . Ricky. Yes, it does fit. Tell me about Benny." She moved to take another seat at the table and touched his hand gently as though he were one of her students from the institution. "Do you know where he lives or how to call him if you need him?"
Berry made a snap judgment. He wanted Dusk take a look at the possibilities of the situation and see how he perceived them. "Yup," he answered proudly, throwing his broad shoulders back. "Benny said that if I ever needed him, to have someone dial him up on the phone. His number's in this here wallet." He pulled out a worn brown wallet with a piece of masking tape stuck across the front. "Richard Ballard, Model 432" was written in black ink across it.
"Benny said if nobody could call for me, to dial 911, and a cop would come. Don't think I'll ever do that, though."
"May I see, please?" Berry gave Dannielle the wallet, and she opened it. In the front picture compartment was a photograph of Richard in a swing, being pushed by another attractive young man. "Who is this, Ricky?"
"That's me and Benny!"
This man was no older than Ricky. Maybe even younger. She examined the contents of the wallet further, and found five one-dollar bills and a business card that said "Benjamin Ballard, Photographer." The phone number had been marked out and a new local number had been written in with "Pudgies Hotel" scribbled next to it.
Pudgies Hotel! Dannielle grimaced. What a dive! It was a filthy pretext for a hotel on the west side, just outside the neighborhood, housing mostly whores and cheaters. Poor thing. No wonder he can’t remember where he lives. Who would want to remember Pudgies Hotel?
Dannielle looked warmly at the robot man before her, noticing how vulnerable he appeared sitting there. She took a napkin and wiped some moisture from his forehead, noting again how realistic technology had become. He smiled his thanks at her and then quickly looked down. She could’ve sworn she saw him blink twice in a row. No, imagination.
She left him and went to the phone on the kitchen wall and dialed Pudgies. The phone rang for a long time before a gruff female voice answered. Dannielle asked for Mr. Ballard's room. The clerk connected her and a young man's voice responded after two rings.
"Hello?" Dannielle said. "Is this Mr. Benjamin Ballard?"
Berry broke in displaying excitement, "It's Benny! Not Benjamin!"
Dannielle just winked at him, and the voice at the other end said, "Yes it is, how can I help you?"
Dannielle took a breath, and began. "Well, Mr. Ballard, I have here at my home, a young man – I mean robot -- by the name of Richard Ballard‑‑"
"Ricky? My heavens, I've been worried to death! Is he okay? Where's he been? He just wandered off on me!"
"He's just fine," Dannielle assured the man. "There was a little incident downtown that I pulled him out of, but he's okay now." She paused and then added, "I'm sure you'll want to come and get him. Uhmmm, I live at 146 Greengall Avenue on the north side. Do you know the area?"
"No, Miss . . ."
"Oh, sorry. It's Lawrence. Dannielle Lawrence."
“Miss Lawrence, no, we're new to the area."
"Okay," she said. "Just take the main boulevard through town to Parker Street, turn left and then right onto Greengall. The number's on the mailbox. You’re not that far away – maybe fifteen minutes or so."
"Okay, 146 Greengall. I'll be there in fifteen minutes or there-abouts then; and thank you so much Miss Lawrence. Could I please speak to Ricky?"
"Yes, of course, I'm sorry. How insensitive of me." To Ricky she asked, "Would you like to talk to Benny?"
Berry bounded to the phone nearly tripping over his feet. "Hi, Benny! I just looked at the best chocolate cake in the world!"
Dusk, on the other end of the phone, breathed a sigh of relief. "Damn, I thought they'd got you! Are you okay? Is this girl on the level?"
"Just fine! This is a nice house, Benny." Richard Berry smiled widely at Connie and Dannielle, but kept his eye contact minimal.
Dusk asked, "Are you saying we could stay there?"
"No . . . I don't know." It was hard to talk with the two women listening.
"It's safe for me to come there, right?" Dusk asked. "Not like the farm, is it?"
The officers always used the farm as a signal of danger between them because two years prior they had been ambushed on a farm when responding to a call. It had been a bad night.
"Yes, it's fine. Not like the farm."
Berry, glancing at the two women, saw that they wore puzzled looks.
"All right," Dusk said finally, "I'll be there shortly and we'll see what's what."
Berry hung up the phone and, on impulse, went to Dannielle. He put his arms around her waist and hugged her tightly, making the hug seem like a child hugging his mother.
Dannielle was startled by the little butterfly spasms in her stomach. Her heartbeat increased and her hands turned cold. She pulled away from him, eyes lighting up with embarrassment and an unwelcome blush reddening her cheeks. He is a robot. It is a robot. I hate technology.
Connie watched with mild amusement and this enraged Dannielle, who was disgusted at her own childish behavior. She began cleaning up the table so that attention would be drawn from her.
"Ricky," she said, "why don't you go with Connie into the living room and see what's on TV while we wait for Benny."
Connie, aware that she had been dismissed, reached for Berry's hand to lead him out. He pulled away.
"I want to be with you, Da…" he said, stumbling over her name.
"It's Dannielle. Just call me Danny, if you are having trouble pronouncing it. Look, you go ahead and I'll be in as soon as I clean up here, okay?"
"Okay." Hesitantly, he allowed himself to be ushered out of the kitchen.
Berry held in a sigh and a smile. He could not deny the spark of excitement swelling from within; and the tremors in Dannielle's body when he had hugged her had not escaped his attention. Her scarlet cheeks and erratic actions told him that she found him attractive, despite his pretense of robotic technology. He also saw the guilt burning in her eyes, and felt the same way, wishing again, that he did not have to deceive her. What was it they said about "beyond the call of duty?" Shame was a tearful partner.
In the kitchen, Dannielle stood unmoving. She had to be out of her mind! She had worked with mentally impaired people all her life, but never felt the urge to take advantage of their need for affection. Never! True, she worked usually with children, but this fact did not lessen her humiliation at feeling affection – genuine attraction – for this robot in her house. A robot, for God’s sake!
There was another feeling present, too. She couldn't put her finger on it, but it felt very much like dread. She dismissed the thought. Ballard would be here soon to take Ricky away and the distraction would be over. She sighed hard and entered the living room.