LIQUID COOL
THE CYBERPUNK DETECTIVE SERIES
Crime in a High-Tech, Low-Life World
AUSTIN DRAGON
Table of Contents
Title Page
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PART ONE
Chapter 1 | Easy Chair Charlie
PART TWO
Chapter 2 | Run-Time
Chapter 3 | China Doll
Chapter 4 | Phishy
Chapter 5 | Punch Judy
PART THREE
Chapter 6 | I, Cruz
Chapter 7 | The Good Kosher Man
Chapter 8 | The Wans
Chapter 9 | Run-Time
PART FOUR
Chapter 10 | Fat Nat
Chapter 11 | Phishy
Chapter 12 | Mrs. Easy Chair Charlie
Chapter 13 | China Doll
Chapter 14 | Run-Time
Chapter 15 | Punch Judy
Chapter 16 | Detective Friendly
Chapter 17 | Flash
PART FIVE
Chapter 18 | The Guy Who Scratched My Vehicle
Chapter 19 | The Guy Who Got Shot In My Office
Chapter 20 | Phishy
Chapter 21 | Punch Judy
Chapter 22 | China Doll
PART SIX
Chapter 23 | Mr. Smalls and His Boss
Chapter 24 | Mr. Wan
Chapter 25 | China Doll
PART SEVEN
Chapter 26 | Officers Break and Caps
Chapter 27 | Bugs
Chapter 28 | The Realtor
Chapter 29 | The Government Guy
Chapter 30 | Officers Break and Caps
Chapter 31 | The Government Guy
Chapter 32 | Phishy
Chapter 33 | The Wans
Chapter 34 | Compstat Connie
Chapter 35 | Trash Boss
Chapter 36 | Just Me
PART EIGHT
Chapter 37 | Phishy
Chapter 38 | Punch Judy
Chapter 39 | China Doll
Chapter 40 | Box
Chapter 41 | Detective Monitor
Chapter 42 | Box and Rexx
Chapter 43 | Run-Time
Chapter 44 | Carol Num
Chapter 45 | Blue Pill Rabbit
Chapter 46 | Chief Hub
Chapter 47 | Mrs. Easy Chair Charlie
Chapter 48 | Red
Chapter 49 | Carol and Lutty
Chapter 50 | Deputy Doohickey
Chapter 51 | Punch Judy
Chapter 52 | Phishy
Chapter 53 | The Mick
Chapter 54 | The Mayor
Chapter 55 | Holly Live
Chapter 56 | The Peanut Gallery
PART NINE
Chapter 57 | Run-Time
Chapter 58 | Exe
Chapter 59 | Flash
Chapter 60 | Monkey Baker
Chapter 61 | Police Watch
Chapter 62 | The Mayor
Chapter 63 | The Man From Up-Top
Chapter 64 | Run-Time
Chapter 65 | Dot
REVIEW REQUEST
THANKS FROM THE AUTHOR
CONTINUE THE ADVENTURE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
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PART ONE
Shootout on Sweet Street
Chapter 1
Easy Chair Charlie
METROPOLIS.
Everything that was seen or heard, every smell, and almost every feeling belonged to it. Skyscraper monoliths with their side lights rose into the near-perpetual overcast sky one way, blink-blink, and the lukewarm downpour fell onto the neon urban jungle the other, drip-drip. From the ground, looking up, on those days that were as clear as it could ever get, buildings seemed to have their own halos, courtesy of the rooftop lights. On “normal” rainy days, that same illumination gave the sky a faint glow. Also from the vantage of the streets, the city’s lighted buildings pulsated in all the many psychologically-tested and focus-group-researched colors to mitigate the street’s base griminess, despite the ever-rain. The flashing neon signs screamed every second of every day; their soft-sell, quasi-hypnotic consumerist cons of Big Bad Business and government public service “aggravations” (PSAs) of Big Bad Government. But people were numb to it all, no matter how outrageous or provocative.
The crowds on the streets moving about were like a collective life form. Everyone clad in their gray-toned or black slickers, and for those carrying them, umbrellas with glowing colored handles. Most had their ears covered with headphones, their heads covered with hoods, and everyone had their eyes covered with glowing colored glasses. The masses were in the world, but mentally someplace else—away from it, never a part of it, unless there was a reason, and there rarely was a reason. Tech-tricksters, analog hustlers, and digital gangsters, at least, had purpose. The masses had only one concern—to exist, get to the end of the day unscathed, and then do it all over again the next day. Maybe smile a real smile a time or two in life. Escape was only possible if you could buy or trick your way Up-Top or, of course, when the Grim Reaper came a-knocking. ‘Til then, for most, there was plugging the ears into the music, and the eyes (and brain) into the virtual television. For too many others, it was also about jacking the body into the drugs or the mind into the cyber-games. Everything in an attempt to stave off the dark emotions and conventional madness that accompanied the daily grind of life in the 50 million-plus, supercity of Metropolis, and the many, many other metropolises exactly like it, though smaller, on Earth.
“Yo, yo, yo. Easy Chair Charlie! What’s the street talk, E.C.?” a voice called out.
If it were not for their glowing colored glasses, the three street kids would have been invisible through the drizzle of the night. Easy Chair Charlie stopped his musically-influenced stroll through the streets, pulling his headphones down around his neck. He wore his favorite embroidered, black slicker that flowed behind his tall, lanky frame. He also had the attached clear hood pulled over his bleached-white spiky hair and wore glowing, dark blue-black shades, but looked out from the top as if they were bifocals.
A neon sign flashed, and he could see the kids clearly—flapper hats and chia-pet bubble-coats—squatting on the corner. “What you playin’?” he asked.
The boys looked like gorillas with the heads of old World War I fighter pilots. The water-resistant, faux-fur of their coats kept them toasty warm in the rain.
“Just a game of street jacks to pass the time, Easy,” answered the same boy. “Easy, what’s the street talk? You always know the low-down. If we get something, we’ll give you a cut like always.”
Easy Chair Charlie was a hustler of some distinction. His racket was the numbers, and he had the inside scoop on every professional and amateur, major league and minor league sports game, hovercar race, horse race, dog race, boxing match, or martial arts match there was and every illegal and back-alley one, too. But he was branching out from his old racket, though he still had the touch and threw a tip here and there to the street kids he liked.
“No action now. But I may have something for you later,” he said.
“Righteous, Easy. You always come through for us.”
“You always come through for me. The street looks out for self.”
“You know it, Easy.”
“Catch me later.”
“You got it, Easy,” they said in unison.
Easy Chair Charlie returned his headphones to his ears and strutted away to his tunes. He gave them the thumbs-up as he disappeared into the rain.
Downtown loved to tout the ethnic diversity that was the melting pot of Metropolis. It was true; everyone felt equally miserable, and that they were being melted into a pot—a big wet one. With so many millions in the supercity, there were more ethnicities, nationalities, and languages spoken here than any other place in the world.
In the old days, groups fervently protected their neighborhoods, but legacy housing changed all that, some say, ending the traditional ethnic communities forever. There were still the ethnic enclaves of old, but often, they were not run by the nationalities that originally created them, back when Metropolis was just a city, let alone a megacity or the supercity center it was today. The suave, hipster Old Harlem, with more historical landmarks than any other part of the city, was run not by Blacks anymore, but Italians. Most of its buildings were not as tall or as massive, but many argued it had the best clubs and restaurants in the city. It was also the center of the cigar aficionado world, one place in particular.
Joe Blows was where Easy Chair Charlie was going—the world famous Joe Blows Smoking Emporium on Sweet Street. He was out of smokes and needed to replenish his stash. It was a lucrative storefront, but also an official historic landmark of the city. In the old days, movie celebrities and megacorporate playboys made up its famous clientele, but though it no longer featured in the papers and trades like back then, everyone knew it as the establishment for all cancer-stick connoisseurs, and people came far and wide for a stash. There wasn’t an exotic, classic, or premium cigarette or cigar in the world that they didn’t carry. But no narcotics. If you wanted that, any corner dope daddy or drugstore cowboy on speed-dial could get you that. Joe Blows was for those who loved smoke—the taste and feel through the lungs, nose, and mouth. For the true connoisseur, that was the high. It had its main store, but the real action was the adjoining smoking rooms, where old-time smokers sat around chatting it up for hours and doing deals as they smoked and joked over drinks, dinner, poker, or a game of pool with beautiful waitresses around. Joe’s was strictly a straight joint—male chauvinists and babes only, though nowadays, a quarter of its clientele were female smokers.
“This is a public service announcement to remind you that the Metropolis Surgeon General says you can double your life expectancy by ceasing the use of all tobacco products,” said one of the baby-faced agents in a suit, but without a lick of style.
The government’s “cigarette police” would stop by every month or two to pass out anti-smoking flyers, but were met with howling laughter and men stuffing the flyers—in front of the agents—into their butt cracks or in the front of their jock straps. However, today was one of those bad days, and Easy Chair Charlie entered the smoking room as the two meek college kid agents—paid government volunteers—were practically running out as smoking room customers threatened them with obscene gestures, jeers, and curses. The entire establishment was yelling at them to leave.
Easy Chair Charlie chuckled, carrying his two just-purchased boxes—his stash of exotic cigars for the month—from the main store to the sitting rooms.
“Easy Chair Charlie!” a booming voice called out.
Fat Nat, a large pot-bellied man, waved to him as he stood up from a card table of other men. Easy waved back with a smile and then gave him a salute. He walked to the table and set both boxes in the center, on top of the men’s cards.
The men grinned at the words on the boxes.
“Havanas, Easy?” a seated man asked. “How the hell can you afford a box of those? One of those is worth a king’s ransom, and you got two boxes.”
“This is Easy Chair Charlie. He knows how to get things, so he can sit back easy-like in his chair,” Fat Nat said.
They listened keenly to the sounds. Easy carefully cut the outer plastic wrapping from one cigar box with his switchblade and asked, “May I perchance offer my good comrades a genuine Havana?”
The men stood from their chairs as Easy lifted the lid and then slit the inner plastic covering to allow the aroma of the cigars to rise from the box. Each man pulled a glove from a pants pocket and put it on their right hand. One by one, the four men grabbed a cigar and inhaled deeply as they were passed under their nostrils.
“This, Easy…is what heaven smells like,” Fat Nat said.
Easy took one himself. One of the men pulled another chair from a nearby table for him. “Easy, set yourself down in an easy chair.” Easy smiled as he and the five men sat. Fat Nat pulled a box of old slow-matches from his chest pocket and struck one. He lit Easy’s first and then each friend’s cigar with its steady, slow-burning, tiny flame. He left his for last.
“The first puff of the cigar.” Easy leaned back in his chair to savor it.
“Easy is like no other.” Fat Nat lifted his Japanese whiskey glass. “Here’s to Easy and easy living in this wet, rainy, modern, miserable world.”
The men drank.
Easy Chair Charlie stifled a slight burp. “Gentlemen, I may have something for you.”
The street knew Easy for his take-it-to-the-bank betting tips, but few knew of his new, more lucrative, racket of the acquisition. Not a finder. They only told you where an item you desired was, but Easy found it and delivered it right to you. Acquisition experts, like him, were in high demand and insanely compensated. He could make more with the successful acquisition of an item in one year than his old gambling racket. His specialty was acquisition of items from Up-Top—where the wealthy and powerful of the planet lived. That’s where the astronomic cash was to be had.
“Something good?” Fat Nat asked.
Easy did a slow exhale. “If I play my cards right, I’ll be able to make it all the way to Up-Top myself. Not just get things. And you know how generous I am to my friends.”
The men smiled.
“How Easy?” Fat Nat asked.
Easy Chair Charlie leaned back. “How indeed.” He took another draw from his cigar like a king. They all heard a low hum. Easy clenched his cigar gently between his teeth and said, “Excuse me, gentlemen, my pants are vibrating.”
A couple of the men grinned as Easy stared down at the display of the mobile phone in his hand. He answered it as he got up from the table and walked outside.
“Something good must be callin’,” Fat Nat said to the men.
From the roof of a skyscraper, a silver-and-black body-armored policeman stood with a high-powered binocular attachment over his visored half-helmet, watching. To him, two miles away was turned into five feet away. Easy, Fat Nat, and the boys were back at the card table, laughing and joking.
From the darkened sky, a policeman slowly descended via rocketpack, the yellow flames glowing from the double exhaust nozzles. The word “PEACE” was visible on his black chest body armor. Two more policemen descended from the sky and then another half dozen.
Foot police arrived on the ground, and people crossed the street or double-backed to walk away from them—something bad was about to happen. In mere moments, the busy street was empty, except for the police and an arriving police cruiser that appeared, hovering six feet from the ground in stealth mode.
Joe Blows also had its main bar—a big bar. Members always got their first drink free, and all members, besides their love of smoking products, loved to drink. And Joe Blows only served alcoholic drinks. If you wanted coffee, green tea, or another girly-man non-alcoholic, then you needed to get in your hovercar and go someplace else.
“Hyper, waiting on my drink order!” the waitress yelled out.
The bartender behind the counter seemed to float on air as he moved to her with a tray of clear and colored drinks. She smiled, and he smiled back.
“You’re slowing down, Hyper. Normally, you’d have my order before I started my sentence.”
“If you say.” He continued to get bottles and g
lasses, pour alcohol into glasses, get trays, and then set drinks on the bar and on trays for pick-up. He moved like a machine.
“I thought you were off tonight—” she began.
A pulse-round of white light exploded her tray of drinks, sending glass and alcohol everywhere. Another blast hit Hyper in the shoulder, knocking him back, and ripped through the wall behind him. The waitress screamed as more rounds whizzed past, hitting the bar counter and the wall. She stood in place, yelling hysterically.
Everyone in the bar dived to the ground for cover.
“Get down, Tab!” Hyper yelled from behind the counter.
Big G was about to throw his card on the table, when a pulse-round blasted through his hand and the cards. Fat Nat kicked the table away and pushed his friend to the ground from the chair. All the men were flat on the ground as the pulse-rounds ripped through the establishment. They could hear screams from patrons and things being blasted apart. One of the old-timers got to his feet and ran to the side entrance.
“Stay on the ground!” Fat Nat yelled.
Another customer jumped up and ran to the main entrance, also in panic; others jumped up, following. A pulse-round ripped through the wall, knocking the left leg off one man’s body and grazing the head of another, sending both patrons to the ground in shock.
“‘Nuff of this!” Fat Nat bolted away on all fours.
“Nat, where you goin’?”
Tab, the waitress, kept screaming, frozen, as multiple pulse-rounds whizzed closer and closer to her head on their way to blast the front bar area to pieces. Fat Nat appeared from around a corner, crawling fast. He stopped and pulled his piece from his back waistband. The rifle auto-unfolded; he aimed and then fired at her. The waitress fell, crashing to the ground on her back and her screaming never ceasing.
“You want to get killed!” A round hit the wall above his head. “Hyper, you alive?”
“I’m good, boss. Now, I can get that bionic arm I always wanted—for free!”
Liquid Cool Page 1
