Episode 47

... from the Files of Hydrogen Guy

Part III - "Rumbly in the Tumbly"

The rain came down like chords from a punk guitar. The charcoal grey of night gradually gives way to the slate grey of morning, infusing the new day with all the vim and vigour of an awakening graduate student.

Hydrogen Guy and Deuterium Boy drag themselves into the 24 hour diner and collapse into a booth. They order their caffeinated beverages mechanically; Hydrogen Guy does not even bother with his usual attempt to get some tea other than the "common Red Rose strained floor polish" served here. They remain silent until their drinks arrive and they take a couple bracing swigs.

Deuterium Boy
Man... I don't think we've had a night like that since the entire League of Heroes came down with the flu on the weekend of the Stanley Cup riots.

Hydrogen Guy
This was worse. Everyone from the gangbanger-wannabes to the seasoned henchmen was out tonight. What on Earth has gotten into the criminal element in this city? It's like somebody's lit a fire under them...

Deuterium Boy
Hey... GC agent, two o'clock.

Chuck War, shimmying out of a heavy green rain slicker, appears around the corner. He spots the Covalent Crusaders and heads over.

Chuck War
Hey guys. Rough night?

Hydrogen Guy
The roughest.

Deuterium Boy
Crime wave. Bad.

Chuck nods.

Chuck War
Yeah, same goes for Vancouver... A lotta heavy action down at the waterfront.

Hydrogen Guy
Have a seat, you look tired.

Chuck War
Thanks.

Hydrogen Guy scoots over and Chuck sits beside him.

Deuterium Boy
How much longer till Django Djava opens?

Hydrogen Guy
About ten minutes less than the last time you asked.

Chuck War
What's this?

Hydrogen Guy
You know Carl, the guy who runs Django Djava?

Chuck War
Yeah. My partner plays bass there on jam nights.

Deuterium Boy
You mean Radar?

Chuck War
Yeah.

Deuterium Boy
Doesn't he have green skin and antennae?

Chuck War
He wears a turban.

Hydrogen Guy
Anyway ... Carl's apparently trying to make a deal to be the first guy in Canada to sell this soft drink called "Carffee". If espresso and Jolt Cola mated, then Carffee would be the gunk you scraped off the sheets.

Deuterium Boy
Oh, come on...

Chuck War
It sounds... interesting.

Deuterium Boy
Don't listen to him. It's really quite good, once you develop a taste for it...

Hydrogen Guy
It's the second most disgusting thing I've ever drank.

Chuck War
I don't think I wanna know what the first is...

Hydrogen Guy
That fermented yogurt stuff we had at the Persian restaurant.

Chuck War
Ayran? That stuff's pretty good. The Zarpazi make something a lot like it from darbuk milk.

Hydrogen Guy
Hey, are they the ones who make that incredible cheese?

Chuck War
You mean the stuff I had to physically restrain you from wolfing down at my last dinner party? Yeah.

Hydrogen Guy
Now that's some stuff I'd like to get my hands on.

Chuck War
That's some damned expensive cheese, my friend. That last block I had was given to me as a gift by a Zarpazi agent. That stuff goes for the equivalent of a hundred bucks a kilo, but you can't buy it. You have to trade for it. And unfortunately, there's nothing I have that a Zarpazi cheesesmith would want.

Deuterium Boy
Guys... normally I'm all for the banter, but right now it's just painfully reminding me that I'm still conscious.

Hydrogen Guy
Sorry, DB. Gentlemen, I think we have a problem, and I don't mean DB's newest caffeine addiction.

Chuck War
Yeah. A night like this doesn't just happen at random. Somebody's gotta be behind it.

Deuterium Boy
Round up the usual suspects?

Hydrogen Guy
What usual suspects? The Black Rose is lost in space, Dumnoric's lost in the ether, the Crustacean's dead, even Hans-Raoul seems to have vanished off the face of the Earth. Who does that leave with the ability to turn the underworld up to eleven?

Deuterium Boy
Terrier Ironcore?

Chuck War
Busted in Switzerland this weekend for smuggling genetically-altered llamas. What about Robin Goodfellow, or your buddy N at Servomation?

Hydrogen Guy
Probably could if they wanted to, but it's not their style... ICBC's been restructuring lately, even hinting that they might go legit. I don't know how many master criminals they've got left.

Deuterium Boy
Sounds like somebody new, then.

Chuck War
Yeah. Somebody who wants to shake things up and start making a quick profit, I'll bet. I'll dig around a little today between calls... you guys in?

Deuterium Boy
Just let me get the right balance of sleep and caffeine, and I'm there.

Chuck War
HG?

Hydrogen Guy
Love to, but there's been a fuck up at the Institute and all our group's calculations got killed on the mainframe. I gotta try and salvage about a month's worth of work and restart the rest. Truth and justice'll have to wait.

"... and that was the Vole's artist of the month, Pant Pant Pant, with 'That's What She Said'. We'd like to send that out to the Maple Ridge Blazers, playing game one of their quarter finals series against the Boise '49ers tonight at the Albion Coliseum. Go, you Blazers, go!"

"You know what I'd like to see, Jer?"

"What's that, Bill?"

"I'd like to see some loyal Vole listener get a whole buttload of cold, hard, prostate-ticklin' cash."

"Y'know, I know the money is hidden and all, Bill, but I think you're giving people the wrong idea about where to look..."

"I'd like to see some loyal listener of 93.9 the Vole, Maple Ridge's Home of Real Rock, find themselves that $50,000, and just go nuts with it. Think of all the stuff you could do with fifty grand, Jerry."

"I could buy that sweet little 30-footer down at the Marina I've been drooling over."

"Yeah, and y'know, you could even buy a boat."

"You could buy about fifteen thousand cheap transister radios and lock them all on the Vole."

"Or you could buy about two dozen top of the line stereo systems and, again, lock them all to the Vole."

"And still have enough left over to buy one cheap transisters radio to listen to all those other stations."

"You could even buy a house in Fort St. John with the $50,000."

"Or you could, you know, do something useful with it."

"Frankly, Jerry, I'd like to see somebody, anybody, win the Vole's Find Fifty Grand contest, just because I'm dying to know where the promotions department hid it."

"For those of you who don't know what the heck we're talking about, here's the story: somebody here at the Vole has hidden $50,000 somewhere in the thriving metropolis of Maple Ridge. Every day at 8:15 and 4:45, we'll give you clues as to where the money is. Your job... is to find it."

"That's a pretty good incentive to be listening half an hour from now, don't you think, Jerry?"

"As if you needed any more reasons."

"And if that's not enough... here's the latest from Hakimashita... on THE VOLE!"

"Maple Ridge's Home of Real Rock!"

It is a perfect spring day as Deuterium Boy and Chuck War stroll along the path circling the artificial lake. Many others had the same idea - families, couples and singles, young and old, biking, walking, roller-blading along the path, or playing frisbee on the grass, feeding ducks at the water's edge, or just enjoying the sun and the breeze. The city surrounds the park and the lake, and many come here to escape.

As much as they may be enjoying the setting, Deuterium Boy and Chuck War didn't hop a De Broglie board just to leave behind the Lower Mainland's liquid weather. Deuterium Boy notices more than the usual number of people staring at him. Of course, he's an entirely new sight here.

Deuterium Boy
Why did we have to come here?

Chuck War
Druid said he didn't want to leave the city. He's got other things going on.

He shrugs.

Chuck War
No big deal. I'm used to meeting him in odd spots. Besides, if it helps us get to the bottom of this crime wave, all the better.

Druid
Looking for me?

They turn in surprise to find him standing at Chuck War's shoulder, sucking on bright blue "Tasti-Freez". Despite the warm weather, he's wearing a heavy black trench-coat. His brown hair is wild and untamed, and he's wearing Lennon-style sunglasses, making him look like a young Beethoven out for a walk between sonatas. In his other hand, he's carrying a battered leather briefcase.

Chuck War
Druid. Let me introduce you to Deuterium Boy.

Druid
What's up, DB? Heard that CSIS thing came back to bite you in the ass last year.

Deuterium Boy
How do you know about that?

Druid
I'm a paid informant, dude, it's my job.

Chuck War
That's why we're here.

Druid
Yeah. I dug around for the answer to your question - I'm afraid you're going to lose faith in my l33t skillz.

Chuck War
You didn't come up with anything?

Druid
Oh, I came up with a lot, just not all of it's relevant to you. Hey, you guys want a Tasti-Freez? I got cherry and grape in my satchel.

Deuterium Boy
No thanks.

Chuck War
Nah.

Druid stops and balances the satchel on his knee, and flips it open. He peers inside.

Druid
Aw, man, they leaked on the missile plans... your stuff should be okay, it's in another pocket.

Chuck War
Whose missile plans?

Druid
Mind your own business... here we go.

He pulls out a yellow file folder and shuts the case. They continue on their walk, as he opens the folder and pulls out two sheets of paper.

Druid
Yeah... as you probably guess, there's some new players in town. An outfit calling itself Chimera, Inc. ICBC's apparently decided to spin off most of its urban criminal organizations into an arm's length operation, and brought in Chimera to run it.

Chuck War
They're not wasting any time restructuring.

Druid
They see to have what you'd call a policy of aggressive profit-seeking.

Deuterium Boy
So who is this Chimera? Somebody inside ICBC?

Druid
That's where I hit a wall. They seem to be outsiders. I can give you three names - Chouinard, Ishida, and Camus. They seem to be the top of the Chimera hierarchy, but other than that, I couldn't find out anything. It's like they didn't exist prior to Chimera showing up in Vancouver. I've known KGB moles who leave a wider trail than these guys. I'll keep working on it till I feel you've got your money's worth.

Deuterium Boy
I should have known ICBC was behind this.

Druid
Oh, they're behind it - but they're not what you'd call the root of the problem. There's more going on than just some new bosses blitzing the city.

Deuterium Boy
Like what?

Druid raises his hands in a mock-"don't shoot" gesture.

Druid
Hey, I only got paid to tell you who's behind the crime-wave. And I'm all over that as far as it goes. But anything more's gonna cost you.

Chuck War
How much?

Druid
A lot. Lemme say that buddy's paying me to keep my mouth shut about certain things, and there's a bit of an overlap with your case. Clearing that up'll be expensive.

Chuck War
Asshole.

Druid
Business is business, Charlie. Hey, you dudes are pretty smart. You'll figure it out.

They stop at a trash bin, and Druid drops the folder and his empty Tasti-Freez into it.

Druid
I gotta go, I have another appointment at the tower in thirty. Tell you what I'll do - I feel bad about making you wait for more info. Lemme just say... you'll find the head to all this where Winnie the Pooh lives.

He waves and walks away.

Chuck War
Disneyland?

Deuterium Boy
What? Druid! This isn't a time for crossword puzzles!

Druid
Catch you guys later... Take some time to look around the city before you head back, you won't regret it!

He waves again, just before disappearing behind a small crowd of people.

Deuterium Boy
Why do you use that guy?

Chuck War
Because if he can't find something, it can't be found. That he couldn't tell us who Chimera is yet means somebody's gone to a lot of effort to keep their identities secret.

Deuterium Boy
And what was that shot about Winnie-the-Pooh?

Chuck War
Winnie-the-Pooh lived in the Hundred Acre Wood, didn't he? Maybe he's trying to tell us where to look...

Deuterium Boy
But where in Maple Ridge is there a "Hundred Acre Wood"?

Chuck War
Good question. Maybe HG can decipher it.

Deuterium Boy
Takes one to know one...

The rain stopped mid-afternoon, although the sky continued to glower like an old man paying taxes. Norman hit the local parks as soon as it looked like the rain would hold off for a while.

As he circled slowly, "Greensleeves" burbling happily from the rooftop speakers, he considered his current predicament. He'd been able to think of little else the past two days. That morning, two strapping lads claiming to be Big Li's nephews - they didn't look particularly Chinese - had paid him a visit while he sat in his boxers picking at a bowl of "Mount'n Munch" cereal. They rather forcefully reminded him that he had five days left to come up with $1200, and left a broken vase, a smashed cereal bowl, and a puddle of soggy cereal in their wake. To add insult to injury, one of the louts had pocketed his Metroid NES cartridge. The only consolation, he thought as he sponged off the kitchen floor, was that they hadn't seen "The Big Lebowksi" and decided to pee on his rug.

There was always next time.

Two hours of circling brought only two customers, who wanted nothing more expensive than vanilla. He gives up and pulls over for a pit-stop. As he sits in the Porta-Potty, he wonders what had happened to the adventurous spirit in today's youth. When he was young, an ice cream vendor selling such flavours as soap and hot chili would have had them lined up around the block even in this dismal weather. Like many philosophers, he concludes that today's violent videogames had sapped their spirits.

Stepping out of the Porta-Potty, a flash of movement catches his attention. He sees a slip of paper fluttering underneath his windshield wiper.

It's a $35 parking ticket, for parking in contravention of posted limits.

Norman
AAAAAAAAAGH!!!

He crumples the ticket and hurls it back into the Porta-Potty. He slams the door, and then for good measure gives it a good, hard kick. The Porta-Potty rocks with the force of the blow. Giving into his hate, Norman gives it another wallop, then another, and then, coming around from the side, gives it all he has.

The Porta-Potty topples over, with a satisfying crash and a slosh.

Norman stands there panting, grimly surveying his handy work. The thing is starting to smell, and it occurs to him that the crypto-fascist who wrote the ticket might still be lurking in the bushes, waiting to spring out at him. He scrambles back into the truck, and starts the engine. It's just as he gives one final glance at the dead toilet that he notices --

In the middle of the square patch of dirt where the Porta-Potty stood is a hole. And something is sticking out of the hole.

He turns off the engine and climbs out of the truck. Stepping carefully around a noxious puddle, he takes a closer look at the object in the hole. It appears to be one of those canvas lunch boxes, that you can fold up flat when its empty. He reaches out tentatively to touch the handle; its dry. He grabs it and picks it up.

The bag appears relatively clean; it hasn't been there long. And there's something inside it.

Norman's stomach suddenly feels like it's floating. Could this be... ? He takes a deep breath - which the odour makes him regret - and wills his hands not to tremble. Slowly and deliberately he unzips the bag, and peeks inside.

Peeking back at him are a few dozen neatly bound stacks of hundred dollar bills.

Norman slowly rises to his feet and staggers backwards blindly. He steps in something squishy, and nearly slips, but catches himself on the truck's mirror just in time.

Norman
Oh boy... I've found the fifty grand...

A black Lexxus pulls up the drive and comes to a halt. A tall Japanese man, clad in a long black coat and a dark suit, steps out of the car. He doffs his name-brand sunglasses and gives the house an appraising look. Absently he twitches his shoulders, as if trying to shift an ill-fitting garment into place. He heads towards the house. His posture is abominable, and his gait has a trace of awkwardness to it; but still, he inspires an almost spiritual belief that he could move swiftly, precisely, and gracefully, if the conditions were right.

The curtains on the lower floor are drawn. As he opens the door and steps inside, he is treated to the sounds of a funkified Hammond B3. He smirks, shrugs off the wet coat and throws it over the coat rack.

He finds Georges sprawled across a chair in the front room, flipping through an indelicate magazine. A selection of knives are strewn across the coffee table in front of him and traces of a cleaning solvent linger in the air.

Kentaro
Hey, dog's breath.

Georges
Salut, bird-brain. You just get here?

Kentaro
Just flew in from San Fran, and boy, are my arms tired.

He circles the room, giving it the same once-over he gave the outside.

Kentaro
You look like you've made yourself at home.

Georges shrugs. Kentaro perches himself on the sofa and watches with a trace of amusement.

Kentaro
You listen to that CD I gave you?

Georges haruffs.

Georges
It was crap. Repetitive electronic garbage, it has no soul.

Kentaro
How can you say Moby doesn't have soul?

Georges
Not real soul.

Kentaro
Oh, like this?

He indicates the currently playing track with his eyebrows.

Kentaro
And you want repetitive - they're just playing the same five notes over and over again.

Georges
That's "Green Onions" by Booker T and the MG's. If you ask me, everyone could have stopped making music after this.

Kentaro
God forbid.

Georges growls in the back of his throat. Kentaro had caught him in one of his rare good moods - cocooning himself with knives, porn and R&B tended to mellow him. Normally he was dangerous to tease, but that rarely stopped his younger companion.

Kentaro
How's things coming?

Georges
You want to hear it from me? Why not get it straight from the horse's mouth, eh?

Kentaro
I know Camus would say we weren't moving fast enough even if he had the mayor giving him back-rubs by now. I wanna hear what you think.

Georges
Ça va... most of the local bosses, they fall in line. There's one or two I have to get rough with. But we got the heat turned up now, the cops, they don't know what hit them.

Kentaro
What about BP?

Georges
We had one backer drop out already. This guy like the steam baths, eh, and I got some GIF's from the guy who run the place. Camus just had to say, you switch to Octan or we show the pictures.

Kentaro
Heh.

Georges
Hey, you know what's funny? The guy, he did not care if we showed his wife, he just did not want it to get out to the shareholders.

Kentaro
Everybody's got buttons, you just have to know where to push.

Camus's heavy steps attract their attention as he enters from the kitchen.

Camus
Kentaro. Welcome to Maple Ridge.

Kentaro
Hey, Camus. Nice place you have here.

Camus
We like it. I prefer it when Georges isn't cluttering up the place like a slovenly teenager. Don't you have somebody's ears to cut off?

Georges responds with a sharp breaking of wind. Camus wrinkles his nose in disgust and turns back to the much-amused Kentaro.

Camus
You solved that problem?

Kentaro
Yeah.

Camus
And the report?

Kentaro
In my coat pocket.

Camus
Good. I'll forward it to the appropriate people. Have you made any plans for this afternoon?

Kentaro
A couple girls I promised to see if I was in town.

Camus
Save it for tonight. In fact, you and Georges can go into town together, he hasn't had a good run for a while.

Kentaro
Since when is it my job to take Georges for walkies?

Camus
Since you're the one with the car.

He smirks.

Camus
I'd take him, naturally, but I'd prefer to keep a low profile.

Georges
We going to see your girlfriends, eh, Ken?

Kentaro
Sorry, Georges, you'd cramp my style.

Georges
Eh, I got things to do anyway...

Kentaro
What's on for this afternoon?

Camus
A couple teleconferences - you know the routine, stand in the back and look menacing while I make vague threats from behind the big desk. After that I'd like you to go round and pay a few visits to some other backers.

Kentaro
Right.

The telephone rings, just beside where Camus is standing.

Camus
Get that, will you Georges?

Georges
I'm in a meeting.

Camus
No biscuit for you.

He picks up the phone.

Camus
Hello?

A rough voice addresses him from the other end.

Myron
Mr. Shwenard? This is Myron.

Camus
Mr. Chouinard is in a meeting, Myron. This is his associate, Camus. How can I help you?

Myron
Uh... I just wanted to tell'im... we hit those guys like he said. They went down pretty hard.

Camus
I'm thrilled to hear it. Results like that will get you far in this organization, Myron.

Myron
Uh, thanks... We got about fifty large in bills and twenty in weed. We hadda drop the weed, and stash the money, cause a couple tights was after us, tho'.

Camus
Myron, am I to understand that you lost $20,000 worth of drugs?

Georges drops the magazine and curses under his breath. He makes a move to get up and grab the phone, but Camus stops him with a "one moment" gesture.

Myron
Uh... yeah..

Camus
And did these "tights" -- I assume you're referring to superheroes -- get the drugs?

Myron
Uh... I dunno. We was runnin' at the time.

Camus
You don't know. Who were the tights in question, Myron?

Myron
Hydrogen Guy and the Dooterium Avenger.

Camus
Well, at least you can tell your offspring that you lost to illustrious foes, Myron. Unfortunately for us, if they got hold of the drugs they would have destroyed them or turned them over to the police, so there's no help for you there. You've got the money, the fifty thousand, though, correct?

Myron
Um, well, dat's the thing...

Camus
Myron, are you telling me you lost the money as well?

Georges crumples a page and tears it out of the magazine. Camus gives him a placating smile.

Myron
No, no, Mr. Camus! Like I told you, we stashed it. But we gotta wait 'til tonight to go get it. See, there's all this activity near the place in the daytime... But it's a hundred and ten percent safe, me an' Eddie use this drop all the time, there's never any problem!

Camus
Myron, what good are you?

Myron
Pardon me?

Camus
I said, what - good - are - you?

Myron
Uh, I, well I guess --

Camus
I'll tell you, Myron, you are no good at all. None. You are possibly the most worthless person I've ever spent this long talking to on the telephone, and that includes people who try and sell me long distance plans. You have lost $20,000 of my money and have left another $50,000 of my money lying around carelessly. You are one of a thousand cheap thugs I have in my employment and if I were to let Georges Chouinard, whom you had the incredible fortune not to speak to directly, tear your lungs out with a garden claw, it would be no loss to anyone anywhere. You understand me?

Myron
Y-yeah...

Camus
Understand this, Myron - as for the drugs, you are in my debt. You won't like it, being in my debt, but life will go on. As for the money - if it is not on my desk by midnight, my conscience will be clear as Georges kills you and your partner "Eddie" in an imaginative and bloody style. Am I clear?

Myron
Yeah. Yeah, you're clear, Mr. Camus.

Camus
Good. Have a nice day, Myron. Thanks for calling.

The line goes dead, and Myron hangs up the phone. He pushes his way out of the telephone booth, and Eddie looks at him hopefully.

Eddie
So? How'd it go?

Myron shrugs and sticks his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket.

Myron
Pretty good. We just gotta get the money.

He nods and Eddie nods back.

Piece of cake.

Hot Diggedy Diefenbaker! Are Norman's problems over? Or are they just beginning? Meanwhile, the Diatomic Duo's troubles are blossoming on their own... Who are the mysterious trio delivering a triple scoop of crime to the city? Find out, in part V of...

Black Gold, Blue Moon
Same Hydrogen Time... Same Hydrogen Website!

And don't forget to catch part IV of "Black Gold, Blue Moon" in
Christopher Ford, Amateur Paranormalist!