Liquid Cool: The Cyberpunk Detective Series by Austin Dragon Read Free Book Online Page A

legacy house. My Pony had been featured (without my permission) in so many hover-car magazines that I lost count.
    I coasted out of the alleyway without revving the engine. I wanted no more than a purr out the engine. If "they" were coming for me, I had to make my getaway quietly. That's what I did. Not even turning on my car lights, I flew out of the alley, waited for my chance, and drove into the empty sky lane. I'd stay under the monorail line bridge as long as I could to avoid Run-Time's taxis. Big Brother government had nothing on Run-Time's civilian surveillance of cabbies throughout the city. They were better than any drone army.
    I thought to myself that the refrigerator at home was empty so I might as well do some grocery shopping. Yes, I had the upcoming Great first dinner with Dot's folks, which probably was the other contributing factor to my post-birthday blues.
    At the time, I had no idea that an operator by the name of Easy Chair Charlie, who had sold me my semi-illegal, nitro-accelerator for my Pony years ago, got himself killed the night before.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 7: The Good Kosher Man
     
     
    I felt naked parking my vehicle outside on the regular street without any kind of security. I used a guy from Run-Time's service named Flash so often, some people felt he came with car. But if I wanted to hide out, then that was the price. And "hide" was a laughable word to use with a bright red hover-car in a city where everyone's vehicle was gray, black, some shade of blue, or, to be daring, silver. I draped my Pony with the car cover in the trunk and locked it to the car. At least no one would see its shiny red paint from afar.
    This was Woodstock Falls and I gave the street--Graffiti Alley--one more glance in both directions. Despite its name, there wasn't, and never was, a speck of graffiti anywhere, ever. Woodstock Falls was a safe, working-class, multi-ethnic, but mostly Jewish, neighborhood. Like similar working-class neighborhoods, residents and business owners fiercely kept the trash--human and otherwise--away. The reason why was simple--the residents didn't just work here; they lived here. The bottom half of the monolith skyscrapers were the businesses and all above to the top was residential. No hover-car, taxis, or bullet train needed for them. Transportation for them was a simple stroll down the hallway to the elevator capsule.
    Graffiti Alley may not have had any graffiti, but it should have. It was secluded and dark, and though it was a main street, had the feel of an out-of-the-way back alley where bad things were supposed to happen. There was never a lot of traffic and the foot traffic was always sparse. I wondered how the businesses were able to stay afloat financially.
    I wondered that about every business, except one. Good Kosher.
    The only reason to go to Graffiti Alley was The Good Kosher Market. After all these years, I couldn't tell you the name of any other business on the street. Good Kosher took up the entire length of the street and that's saying a lot since streets were gi-normous in Metropolis. Food came in three categories--processed (practically everything sold on the market), organic (supposedly the "healthier" alternative"), and natural--or, as I would say, "straight from the dirt." I never shopped anywhere else. I didn't eat processed and felt the whole "organic" thing was nothing but a scam (by the unholy coupling of government and mega-corps) to overcharge people for food. I only ate natural food and Mr. Watts and his seven sons had been serving nothing else for more than a century. It was like many generational businesses. I was a devoted customer and member of its select clientele for the last twelve.
    Graffiti Alley may have been practically empty, but inside Good Kosher was packed. I always felt people were teleported into the store by Scotty's grandson, because my words when entering was always, "where did all these people come