Sally's Story: Hot Water

	Their ward soundly ‘asleep’, if it could be called that, the duo made way for the address that had slipped out to Vincent through the handset. The radio was silent, the car drifting noiselessly along the dazzling streets of downtown Beacon City, stretching ribbons of neon rubbing along the car and twisting in its windows as they drove on. Leaving behind the dingy alleys and diner that had bore them Mitchell they etched away and into the city exterior, quietly breaking in and out of traffic. Yellow cabs zipped about in the busier intersections, joined by the last flurry of late workers racing home, or night-shifters slinking out into the dark skies to set to work. Turning into a car park their car arrived at a dense, brick apartment building, a smattering of vehicles lying below its monolithic shape.
	“Alright Sal, let’s do this,” Vince nodded. “Be alert, okay?” The robot nodded, determined- she wouldn’t let someone else get the jump this time.
	“Should I get Mister Atkinson?”
	“He’s who we’re here to, well, deliver,” he started, turning to the bulky man in the back. “Uh… I’ll get him.”
	“Understood.” Hefting the heavy man onto his shoulder, dragging him by the legs, Vince set out for the building with Sally leading the way. The extra hand at the door, and a merciful elevator, was much needed as the snoring body slacked behind the detectives. Ascending the handful of stories to their destination, hands itching at their sides, the two left the elevator. Apartment 613- the home of the voice on the other end of the line. Sally rapped her knuckles on the door, a shuffling inside preceding the drop of a bolt, chain jingling along in time. The door cracked open, a pair of beady eyes peeking out and widening as they landed on Mitchell, the broad man still slumped in the arms of the other detective. A few whispered profanities and the door was swung open, a narrow man, hair neatly combed and greased, ferrying the trio in.
	“So,” he began, pointing to a couch where the man was laid. His eyes were open again, and he groaned and rubbed his head as he twisted on the couch. “How did you all happen on Mitch?”
	“Well we were out at the disco,” Vince started. The man glanced between the tiny robot and the man next to her.
	“Ohhhh, ohoho,” he chuckled. “I gotcha. Mitch has been out and about a lot, you’re not the first, believe me. Can I get you guys anything before you head out?” The man smiled at the pair, a flannel shirt hanging loose around a small chest.
	“Could we talk about your friend Mitch,” Sally started, bold.
	“I- Sure, sure I guess! Come with me.”
	“Mngh… bucket,” the man on the couch groaned.
	“Oh shoot, one moment.” Rushing to an adjacent room he left the two detectives to stare about the living room, taking in every little ounce of detail and information. Eyes landing on the wall, Vincent recoiled instinctively at seeing a red-blue flag hung front and center, a menacing star claiming its center. He’d seen it before, most infuriatingly hoisted by hippies and protestors years ago. Scrubbing it from his attention he eyed the paintings on the wall, all similar and equally elegant, imaginative and, frankly, beautiful. Verdant green scenes were illuminated onto the canvas, paths through dense rainforest to grassy clearings and blue skies beyond. Eagles and all manner of birds soared overhead, tying them together. But Vincent couldn’t help but scan the treelines over and over, gorge rising in his throat as his breathing shallowed subconsciously.
	“Bucket, Mitch!” The man hurried from the side room, slinging the plastic pail alongside the ailing man who, rolling over, unceremoniously puked into the waiting vessel like some Roman patrician. “There you go, get it all out buddy,” he said, rubbing his back. The two shifted uncomfortably.
	“Right… uh, so- how do you know Mitch?”
	“Huh-oh! Well, we’ve been friends a long while, yeah. High school or so.” He turned back to his now spitting and coughing patient. “Say, you know what he took tonight?”
	“Sorry?” The man looked down, ashamed.
	“This isn’t the first time he’s come ‘round like this, I mentioned that earlier. Whenever he gets in a bad way he always finds someone and has them bring him here. He’s like a pigeon,” the man laughed. “But right, yeah- what’d he take tonight? I’ve been trying to keep track, get him on the right path.” He kept rubbing Mitchell’s back, a proffered glass of water downed greedily.
	“Well, I saw him take a lemon when he was dancing, and when he sat down with us he smoke a full joint.”
	“Jesus, Mitch,” the man whispered.
A little whine from the upholstery responded: “Buzz off,” it said.
	“He was definitely drinking beforehand.”
	“And we got him a coffee,” Sally jumped in. The man laughed again.
	“Mitch hates coffee, save for when he’s stoned. Always has, why I remember he’d-” He stopped, not wanting to bore the couple with his stories. Rising from his place kneeling he was about to ferry them to the door before pausing. “Right- you wanted to talk a bit? About Mitch?”
	“Yes, sir,” Sally started. “He said some troubling things while inebriated, he mentioned all sorts of things.” The man’s eyes widened imperceptibly- it was something no human would notice, not even the eyes’ owner, but Sally caught it, sought to exploit it. He knew something.
	“Well, I don’t know anything about that. Mitch has always been the troublemaker, heh.”
	“He never mentioned your name, sir. You seem close for him to not have-”
	“He’s high, of course he’s not thinking right. I’m surprised he remembered my number.” The man was pacing around the room now, circling slowly around Mitchell. He knew something was up, but he wasn’t about to kick them out, either- then the jig would really be up.
	“Sir? I think it’d be helpful if we talked names,” Sally began. “I’m Sally, and this is Vincent we’re…”
	“Partners, I can tell.”
	“Right, yes! Right… But you?”
	“My name’s not important, no, no.” He circled closer.
	“I think it is, we should be keeping in touch. If you won’t tell us I can give you a name,” the robot giggled, playing with him. “How’s about Paul?”
	The man lunged for Vincent, eyes wide and angry, pupils needle-thin as he pulled a fighting knife from his pants and pressed it to the officer’s throat.
	“THAT’S IT,” he screamed, the blade pressing into the delicate skin. “I want answers, now! I was willing to think you brought him home out of goodwill but now you’re fucking with me!” His wild eyes narrowed onto the robot, her own eyes darting around the room in fear and panic. She saw the room darken around her, walls closing in as it thrummed with the beating of the hearts around her, and the hollow whir of the mechanical one in her chest. There was an itch in her back, the heavy, new plate not fully replacing the ancient feeling of the piece of lead that had lodged there for hours. The itch travelled around her back- unreachable, taunting her. Now it hung inside her jacket pocket, the heavy handgun there ready to burn its way through the coffee-colored corduroy as she locked eyes with the man. The knife pressed deeper.
	Were she to draw it would mean death, instantaneous for him and slow, meandering for Vince. The thought of him laying, helpless, on the floor slowed her hand. The snoring behind her threw her, a glance away and a glance back seeing to the man’s savage grin only growing wider. He was panting, only waiting for the word or sudden movement he was waiting on. Sally drew one hand up and into the air, slowly and ponderously as the other wormed to her outside pocket. Delicate fingers laced onto the leather fold inside, flipping open as her provisional badge unfurled.
	“Detective Sally, BCPD Vice- please, sir, drop the knife.”