city blues 02 - angel city blues by jeff edwards Read Free Book Online Page A

last—had been —the last ranch in California to raise real pigs. Not that their ranch was anything like the image conjured up by their business name. No rolling green hills, or babbling brooks. No postcard sun setting over the backs of gently grazing animals. Their facility was a brightly-lit, surgically sterile cage farm in one of the San Diego industrial dome complexes. But, at least the meat they produced came from animals.
    I sighed again. “When did all this happen?”
    “A story about it hit the newsfeeds about ten minutes ago,” House said. “It seems likely that we will soon be forced to purchase our pork products from a non-animal based source. That is, if you intend to continue eating pork.”
    “Not a chance,” I said. “I am not eating anything that comes out of a test tube. I’ll go hungry first, or turn vegetarian.”
    “As you wish, David. But, may I point out that you frequently eat synthetic food? Every time you order fast food, or purchase a microwave burrito from a convenience store, you’re eating cloned food stock.”
    “That’s different,” I said. “That’s out there . When I’m out running around the maze with the rest of the rats, I do what all the other little rats do to survive.”
    I tapped my foot on the floor. “In here is different. This is my home . This is my shelter from all the polymer-syntho-hormone-induced-digitally-enhanced-flavor-engineered-vat-grown-mechanically-optimized-consumer-friendly crap that passes for life these days.”
    “I understand,” House said. “May I suggest a temporary solution?”
    I nodded. “Of course.”
    “Perhaps I should purchase as much of the available stock of animal-grown pork as possible, and then flash freeze it for future use.”
    “Good idea,” I said. “Do it.”
    “Very well, David. Of course, even a large store of frozen meat won’t last forever. This will only delay the inevitable.”
    I fumbled in my pocket for my first Marlboro of the day. When it was lit, I inhaled deeply and exhaled the smoke with deliberate slowness. “House, my friend, that’s the cornerstone of my very existence—delaying the inevitable.”

    I wasted the next two hours on the phone, trying to wrangle an appointment with Gary Thurman, Leanda’s producer at TransNat Telemedia. I managed to talk to his people’s people’s people, and finally to his people’s people. But I couldn’t get anywhere near his actual people , much less the great man himself.
    “Jesus Christ,” I finally said to the fifth or sixth Administrative Assistant who showed her face on the vid screen of my phone: Ms. Rosen-something-or-other, a fortyish woman with tired blue eyes and deeply creased frown lines. “Who is this Thurman guy?” I asked. “The President of the United States?”
    Ms. Rosen-something’s frown lines deepened. “Mr. Thurman is a very busy man—”
    I cut her off. “I’m not asking him to have my children. I just want to talk to him. Fifteen minutes, tops.”
    “I’m sorry,” Ms. Rosen-something said. “If Mr. Thurman gave fifteen minutes to everyone who asked for it, he would never get anything done.”
    “You do understand that I’m a Private Detective, representing Ms. Vivien Forsyth?”
    Ms. Rosen-something gave me a tired smile. “I understand that you have identified yourself as such to several of my colleagues. Which means precisely nothing. Unless, that is, you have some proof. A certified letter of credence from Ms. Forsyth perhaps?”
    I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I don’t have a letter from Vivien Forsyth. Nor do I have a note from my mother.”
    “I see,” said Ms. Rosen-something.
    I gave her my very best I-hate-to-have-to-do-this face. “I’ll go over this slowly,” I said, “since you obviously do not see. Point number one—Leanda Forsyth is missing. If she’s alive, which I have reason to believe, every second may count. Point number two—Between you and your colleagues, you have wasted over two