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

hours of my time. That’s alright by me, because I’m getting paid no matter what happens. That may not be okay to Leanda Forsyth, whose life could well be hanging by a thread. Point number three—According to this morning’s newsfeeds, Vivien Forsyth owns thirty-one percent of TransNat Telemedia, and she controls an additional twenty-three percent through various proxies. Unless I’m very much mistaken, that means she owns your job, and the job of your Mr. Thurman.”
    Ms. Rosen-something’s florid face went a shade paler.
    I bulled right on, making it up as I went along. (In point of fact, I had no idea whether or not Vivien Forsyth owned so much as a single share of TransNat Telemedia, but I was on a roll now.)
    “It’s possible,” I said, “that Ms. Forsyth won’t take it personally when she finds out that your Mr. Thurman was too busy to spend fifteen minutes to help save her daughter’s life! ” My voice grew in volume as I spoke, and the last five words came out at a near shout.
    Ms. Rosen-something’s jaw dropped open.
    “Thank you for your assistance,” I said curtly. “I’m sure you’ll be hearing from Ms. Forsyth shortly. Or your replacement will. I’ve got a feeling that you won’t be around by then.” I reached out to hit the disconnect button.
    Ms. Rosen-something practically came out of her seat. “No! No! No, wait !”
    My hand paused in mid-air, halfway to the disconnect button. “Yes?”
    “Just a second!” she said, fidgeting visibly. “Let me… Let me see what I can do…”
    I smiled sweetly, my hand still hanging in the air. “Don’t go to any trouble on my account.”
    “I’m going to put you on hold for a minute,” she said.
    “Thirty seconds,” I said.
    “Okay,” she said. “Thirty seconds.”
    Her face disappeared from the screen, replaced by a logo made up of several hundred tiny animated vid screens that spelled out the words TRANSNAT TELEMEDIA in flickering capitals. An accompanying sound track poured out of the phone’s speakers, computer-generated pseudo-classical music.
    I leaned back in my chair and lit a cigarette.
    Ms. Rosen-something’s face reappeared in about twenty seconds. “I can get you in to see Mr. Thurman at one-thirty. Will that do?”
    “Thanks. That will do just fine.” I smiled and hit the disconnect button.
    I glanced at my watch. I didn’t need to be at TransNat for nearly three hours. That left plenty of time to make a stop along the way.
    I strapped on my shoulder rig and holstered the Blackhart. The heavy automatic rested comfortably under my left arm. I pulled on my old gray windbreaker and spent a few seconds adjusting the shoulder rig until the butt of the Blackhart didn’t print so obviously against the fabric of the jacket.
    Satisfied that I was at least marginally presentable, I grabbed the strange triangular chip and dropped it into a side pocket.

    Twenty minutes later, I eased my Pontiac into the parking lot of Alphatronics , a retail electronics store on Hudson Avenue, near the southern end of Dome 14. It was a small family business, and I knew the owners, Henry Mailo and his son, Tommy. They were of Samoan blood, and—true to genotype—both of them were built like bulldozers.
    I touched a button on the control yoke and sent the Pontiac into parking mode. The car settled onto its apron as the blowers cycled down to a stop and the turbine began to spin down. With the soft whine of servo motors, the car’s computer rotated all of the airfoils to their neutral positions. The tattletales on the wraparound plasma display flickered from green, to red, to off as the computer brought the car’s internal systems down. After a few seconds, the display went dark, except for the Parking Mode tattletale, which shone a soft green.
    I unlocked the door and climbed out.

    Henry looked up from behind the counter when I walked in. His face lit up. “Dave! How’s it hanging?” His hair was getting gray around the temples, but I’d