Allen reclined in its chair, narrowing its field of view as it scanned the barkeep what seemed like a dozen times. An odd silence fell in our little corner of the speakeasy for a good few minutes before it leaned toward me and began to spit out what it had observed.
“He’s left-handed, as he uses it primarily for wiping the counter, but as a child he was repeatedly beaten for using it, which is why he hesitates when reaching for items with his left hand. He hasn’t seen his wife and children in at least three years, judging by the grime and dust building on the photo of them behind some of the items on the wall behind him. And finally, he is far too trustful of his patrons, as he leaves his shotgun on the wall, rather than a more accessible location. Ordinarily, I might guess that he hides the shells underneath the counter, but that seems unlikely, considering where the weapon is. I’m betting that he has a .22 revolver under the bar in case he has to deter any vandals.”
“Fascinating, Allen. I’m glad I’m not the only person who gets the raw end of your judgment.” I leaned back in my chair, satisfied.
“It is not judgment, but simple observation.”
I looked at Allen for a good while. It made a point without speaking: I really did take things too personally at times. It was something I should work on. “I need to piss. Watch out for the perp while I’m in there.”
“Yes, Detective.” It nodded, turning to keep an eye on the street through the window.
I left my darts on the table, stood up, and sauntered over to the bathroom door at the far end of the speakeasy. The small tiled room was clean, and I was sure the barkeep worked far too hard to keep it this way. I wandered over to the mirror to look at myself. The bags under my eyes were fading somewhat due to the naps I’d taken earlier today.
“He’s not an Automatic,” I told myself, unzipping my pants. I tried to imitate Allen’s voice. “Detective Roche, it is not judgment, but simple observation … fucking Blue-eyes.”
A wave of relief washed over me — or rather, out of me. I leaned my head back, enjoying the relative silence inside the cramped white bathroom.
I had only a few moments of enjoyment before some calamity outside grabbed my attention. Sounds of yelling and shuffling came from the other side of the door. Whatever the tension was, I shouldn’t get involved in it. But then again, who would I be if I didn’t? I finished halfway through my stream, zipped up my pants, and walked out the door to see four cops cornering Allen.
The chair it had been sitting in was turned over, and the darts that had been on the table were strewn around the floor. The Blue-eyes in the bar backed away, trying to put space between themselves and the cops. The other patrons watched, but with much less concern than they would have had if the boys in blue had been roughing up a human.
Allen looked tense. It was as stiff as usual, but it wasn’t clenching a fist or even holding a hostile stance. It looked patient, if not perturbed.
The leader of the squad of cops — which precinct they belonged to, I couldn’t tell — was pushing Allen against a wall, obviously enjoying seeing the machine in distress. He took the badge out of Allen’s suit pocket, looked at it briefly, and threw it on the ground before stomping on it. I heard the metal crack from the other side of the speakeasy. “How do you feel about that, capek?”
“I am aggravated, officers. I’ll have you know I’m legally allowed to enforce the law in this city.”
“That so, eh?” They wouldn’t have any of it.
I was curious to see how Allen would handle this, as none of the patrons was keen on helping out. The barkeep, too, was hesitant, knowing full well that even raising his voice against a dirty cop was a one-way ticket to the slammer. After all, good cops didn’t exactly go around abusing random machines in public.
The cop grabbed Allen’s coat lapels and hoisted the metal man up against the wall. Its servos whirred in surprise and the wall shuddered from the impact. Allen seemed to wince, like it had been hurt.
“You the 5th’s new lapdog, capek? Gonna bark when we kick ya?”
“I don’t believe it is wise to threaten another officer, sir. Especially not one from a reputable precinct.”
“Look at that: capek thinks it’s big shit being part of the 5th, thinks we can’t touch it!” he shouted to everyone else in the speakeasy. The other cops laughed, while the patrons — both human and Automatic — kept their eyes off the altercation. “We got our eyes on you, hear me? You fuck up once, we’ll shred you.”
“I hear you officer … though I must say, you are making a big mistake manhandling me.” Allen’s tone had changed from fear to concern. It could see me moving toward the cops from behind, and knew they were much too busy harassing it to spot the obvious danger I posed.
“Is that a fact?” the lead cop asked Allen.
“It is. I would suggest you release me.”
“Oh yeah? The fuck you gonna do about it?”
The cops suddenly knew what would happen when I swung at the one holding Allen. He dropped like a sack, hitting the floor as the others backed up, grabbing their pieces. But mine was already out.
I pressed a small switch on the side of my Diamondback, hearing the internals snap and lock as the weapon went from a double-action to a single-action trigger.
Then they recognized me. Every cop knew me.
“All right, boys, you want to settle this the old-fashioned way?” I said, stepping forward and pressing my foot down on the neck
