Fun City Punch (Joe Dylan Crime Noir, #5) Read online

  FUN

  CITY

  PUNCH

  JAMES A. NEWMAN

  Copyright James A. Newman

  2nd Printing.

  Published by Spanking Pulp Press 2016

  ISBN 13 – 978-1533554079

  ISBN 10 - 1533554072

  Copyright – James A. Newman

  1 3 4 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  This first edition published by Spanking Pulp Press. www.spankingpulppress.com

  Quotes may be used for the purpose of reviews.

  This is a work of fiction set in a fictional world. No characters or places in this book are intended to have any resemblance to any person living or dead. Fun City is a fictional city set in a fictional time and place.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Fun City Punch (Joe Dylan Crime Noir, #5)

  JOE DYLAN

  Knaves, hustlers, brokers, dealers, buyers, hawkers, gawkers, barkers, thieves, floozies, scoundrels, scallywags, fortune-tellers, city-dwellers, street urchins, leeches, freaks, geeks, moochers, swindlers; welcome all you fiends,

  Welcome to the Fun City Punch.

  “PAIN IS CERTAIN, suffering is optional.”

  ― Gautama Buddha

  JOE DYLAN

  CRIME NOIR BOOK #5

  The series:

  Bangkok Express #1

  Red Night Zone #2

  The White Flamingo #3

  The Black Rose #4

  Fun City Punch #5

  To grab a free book and learn more about the author and the series click the graphic below.

  www.spankingpulppress.com

  "JAMES NEWMAN writes with a flamethrower. He's terrifically gifted, enormously energetic, and in THE WHITE FLAMINGO he builds up, layer by layer, like lacquer, the everyday reality of FUN CITY with such intensity that he creates a nightmare town so terrible that even the advent of a modern-day Jack the Ripper can only make it a tiny bit worse. Newman has serious talent, devoted (in this case, anyway) almost entirely to the noir side of life in a city that has more than its share of noir."

  - Edgar Nominee and Lefty award winner Timothy Hallinan

  “TAKE THE Matrix red pill and then follow his detective into a world of conman, cheaters, schemers, wanderers, and the lost who scramble over women, money, and status. Newman translates their voices, failures, nightmares, and movements. He covers their community and transcript their stories into prose that matches the tempo of their hatred and madness.”

  - Christopher G. Moore, Shamus Prize Winner and author of the Vincent Calvino series.

  "HARD-BOILED pulp fiction pumped up to the max. A lethal cocktail of graphic violence, booze, drugs and sex. It’s bright lights and dark shadows and it’s certainly not for the fainthearted."

  - Paul Brazill - crime noir author.

  “NEWMAN JOINS more established writers such as Christopher G. Moore and John Burdett in an exploration of the garish netherworld of private eyes, prostitutes, pimps, gangsters, cops and dirty tricks.”

  -Tom Vater, crime writer and publisher with Crime Wave Press.

  “IN THE 1950's Raymond Chandler gave pulp readers Philip Marlowe. JAMES NEWMAN gives us a private investigator for our generation, Joe Dylan.”

  - Ish Galvan author of Splatter Island.

  INTRODUCTION

  FUN CITY is made up of six major areas - The Beach, the Red Zone, the Central Business District, Metroland, Main Street, and the Dark Side. Alleyways and tunnels, a cryptic network of mazes not unlike the back lanes and alleyways that connected 18th century London connect all these zones. Perilous passages are rebuilt as soon as they are demolished. Bars, riotous patrons, and the homeless exist both in spite of and because of this labyrinth of decadence. There was the widespread use of illicit substances, distribution of sexual diseases, an escalating murder rate, the general acceptance of corrupt officials, and the popularity of Fringe Theater. London had the Penny gaffs, but Fun City had the bars, the cabaret shows, the boxing rings, the discos and the Theater Bizarre. One was never further than the toss of a dwarf away from a place where it was possible to enter a state of intoxication before discussing the impending apocalypse with a like-minded other.

  This was before the clampdown.

  By 2020, Fun City became an international hub for illegal activity and its global reputation as a serious business and commercial player was at risk.

  Tourism was encouraged. Immigrations discouraged.

  Fun City needed a way to control her population.

  The answer came with technology. First, the surveillance system locally known as the Fun Eye was installed. All main roads were now under surveillance. People came out at night to lessen the chances of being recognized by the Eye’s facial recognition software and quite soon, the City became practically nocturnal.

  Then in 2023, the credit system was put in place.

  Cash was removed and outlawed, and instead, the Fun City credit scheme, which deducted as well as credited the account holder, was introduced. Credits were awarded to the sufferers of conditions requiring medical attention, legislation that led to self-mutilations. Credits were also awarded for artists. So predictably, every Fun City resident was writing a book or working on a play. Credits were deducted for promiscuous behavior, drink, drugs and violence. Those who reached zero credits were subject to the Punch – an intense four week attitude adjustment program.

  Crime escalated as cash vanished.

  Art and suffering thrived hand in hand.

  Fun City had entered her third and final act.

  FUN CITY - YEAR 2025

  ONE

  THE NIGHT wrapped itself around Fun City like a spider. Saxophone notes coughed and moaned across the street. A woman screamed. Her screams turned to laughter, her laughter turned to tears, the sound of glass breaking, a television talent show blaring from an open window. A tomcat leaped onto a corrugated roof wanting to tell some queen cat that he cared about her, or cared about the world, or cared about something, anything, but the queen cat didn’t care, and eventually, the tomcat would be silenced by the impossibility of it all.

  The office was a hole-in-the-wall unit punching out onto an over-ground tunnel connecting the commercial district to the Red Zone. Fun City, like any city, had her main streets and throughways where all kinds of illicit acts took place under the watchful gaze of the Eye, and then it had the lanes and back alleys where the real fabric of the city was weaved and spun.

  The locals called it 'working the tunnel.'

  ​I called it cooling off.

  ​Until the credits ran down.

  Back streets had their own problems. Rats had infested the office and I couldn’t figure out a way to stop the rodent tide. I tried poison pellets, glue traps, bait and death falls, spring-loaded recoil traps, and vacuum containment, but nothing worked.

  Weaned the rodents onto bacon before they lost interest in bacon, and when you lose interest in bacon, what’s the point? So I spent the best part of the night awake with a pellet gun and a bottle of Tiger Sweat waiting for the vermin to show their awful twitching faces.

  Nibble, nibble, nothing, not even a freaking nibble.

  Fun City rats were contrarian to the bone.

  The rats not only dwelled in the office and in the streets, they also stood upright, wore clothes, brokered deals and counted the credits and the debits with merciless rodent care in the CBD.
>
  The rats were everywhere.

  Walking up and down and to and fro in it.

  I was considering the purchase of a ferret when the doorbell rang.

  The client poked his head inside and sized me up. It said private detective on the door and the single-breasted grey number and fedora on the desk should have been the final word on the matter. But, you know, life in a city patrolled by fake policemen and bogus holy men, and I can almost see them now, outside collecting fines and denotations. Well, I waved the client to sit down and hoped for a moment that the case would be big, although the client’s raw silk shirt and local haircut suggested small. Aged some years north of my forty-eight and with hair greying at the temples, the client shuffled in his seat like a banker considering a mortician’s loan.

  “She’s changed.” His face was lined and haggard like an abandoned road map. Either he had sped through his thirties fast and hard, and crashed into his forties too soon, or he had slammed into his fifties following a decade of heavy traffic, hitting the brakes at a sudden red.

  “Well, women do,” I said. “Please take a seat.”

  “How did you know? I mean, I didn’t say it was...”

  “Call it a lucky guess.”

  “They said that you were good. ‘If anyone can help you, Joe Dylan can’. That’s what they said.”

  “I credit them well to say that.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing... How can we help?”

  “I found this while doing the laundry.” He waved the offending item above the desk.

  Black background, brass jazz instruments in gold and red text:

  Neptune in Leather

  Nightmares and Dreams

  “A modern man?”

  “What?”

  “Doing the laundry. That’s modern.”

  “Well, if I don’t...Who will?”

  “U-huh. Name?”

  His eyes glanced up at the ceiling, while his hands gripped the arms of the chair as he sunk into it. “My wife, Trixie. She’s been...”

  “Your name?”

  “Sloane.”

  “Okay, tell me from the start, Mr. Sloane. Keep it clear and relevant. Time’s not an issue.” I lit a Death Cloud Blue to illustrate the point. The Fun City council would deduct me one Fun City credit for the smoke, but I figured Sloane would pay his bill and not squeal.

  “I lost her at The Punch.”

  “BB Punch?” Basic Behavior, a Fun City attitude adjustment program, which for the most part is voluntary, had recently extended its admissions programs to those who scored low on the morality front or reached zero credits. I’d recently recovered from a four week stint in the BB Punch having had my account move to zero. The thing with the Punch was they didn’t admit you twice, unless under special circumstances. After the Punch, they sent you back out onto the street with nothing but sobriety, bitterness, and a refined sense of injustice.

  “Yes,” the client said.

  “How did that make you feel?” I asked. I knew his type. They were all self-satisfied and confident, these Punchers. They knew that as long as they didn’t drink, drug, or play around with the vegetable rack, they were as pure and as serene as a newborn baby.

  “The Punch kept me together.”

  “I see.” I did see it, remembered it, tasted it, visualized it sharp, vicious, clear, like a panic attack in an elevator. A heart beating to the tune of doom: homicide detectives shitting themselves on the couch, disbarred lawyers confessing to bankruptcy, doctors losing their medical licenses, morbidly obese television freaks pissing themselves openly while quoting Yeats or some such drivel. The sexually depraved, financially deprived, clowns, liars, cheaters, mime street artists and children’s entertainers who just weren’t that funny anymore. Jesus sycophants, game show hosts, talent show losers, and the occasional guitarist who knew the three basic chords required to keep in union with troubled college visionaries who painted vulgar abstractions in twilight hours and withdrew from public exhibition through fear of selling out. I once saw the rooms with all their rainbows of color and I did honestly chew on words spun by world-weary consolers of the mind, the soul, the condition. That wholesome soup, that tepid stew, I kid you not, while being tasty that stew was full of indigestible gristly lumps that have remained stuck in the throat and the gullet forever. Since that initial serving of salvation, and yeah, sure, I saw it, ate it, threw it back up and ate it again like the dog returns to the vomit of his folly. It is what men like me do. Lap it up. Not wanting to get biblical and being as I am basically a man of the night and mostly inspired by the rooms that held sanctuary to that night, said, “She slipped?”

  “Yes, she talks about seeing insects. Someone needs to save her before...”

  “Sir, when a man or woman decides to walk on the Dark Side, there’s nothing you or I can do to stop them.”

  “There must be a way?”

  “Perhaps, I can help find out what’s happening. I can gather evidence, but I doubt I can make her turn her life around. She’s aware of the Punch situation?”

  “She says the treatment has made her more introspective, more aware of the city. She’s paranoid from the drink, the drugs. It’s a vicious circle. She started painting.”

  I nodded at Sloane. “I just need a photograph and a lowdown of her general behavior patterns. Her name I have, some general information.” I handed him a ballpoint pen and a standard questionnaire to fill out. “Why did she fall from the program?” I asked.

  “Say she wants to discover herself.”

  I said, “It happens, and when it happens here, it can be, erm, complicated.” I told him I knew the club operated on the other side of the tunnel. The S&M crowd relieved their sins in the Neptune in Leather. A good place to slip, I figured. A 24-hour jazz jam was held at the club above the Neptune. Musicians arrived and played until the crowd decided their time was up and sent the musicians downstairs to the whips and the chains and the talent show hosts. Many of the patrons were known to be past participants of the Punch.

  “I knew something was wrong when she started taking an interest in the arts.” The client shuffled in his chair, brushed a hand through his thinning hair, and massaged his temples. “The Punch discouraged art.”

  “Yes,” I sardonically replied. The words of the Punch came back to me, as they did at times like this. “‘Sobriety is the best drug for positive creation.’ A sudden interest in the arts, particularly in middle age, is often indicative of an impending nervous breakdown.”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean, I once had a client go catatonic following a weakness for conceptual abstract installations.”

  “So what do you think about her descent into the world of music and art?” He asked me, eyes burning into mine searching for perhaps an educated answer.

  I gave him an uneducated one. “Really, Mr. Sloane, I have no idea. My idea of art is a street lamp up close. This woman, Penny, wife of an old client years ago, got into the art scene here. She ended up holed up in the Darkside after the Fun Police came and wheeled her away to a hotel room, where as far as I know, her ghost still rests to this day staring at the cracks in the ceiling and blowing raspberries at the guests, rocking up and down, as they are wont to do. Penny, that is, not the guests. It was, as I say, dark. They renamed the hotel the Penny Black Hotel in her memory.”

  “You think this could happen to Trixie?”

  “Who knows?”

  “I need her straightened out.”

  “Mr. Sloane, the facts, please... How do we get to where we are?”

  “It started with Sunday afternoons. Soon after, it progressed to Friday nights. Before long, I was sitting at home watching the clock. I began playing games.”

  “Video games?”

  “Yes.”

  “Video games in Fun City? Gamers?” I had to ask.

  “The Gamers?”

  “Well, you are aware that there’s this whole community who fake relationships online and use their messages to claim
morality points and to discredit others? There has been a huge scandal, if you read the news. She does have a life-enhancer account?”

  “Yes, everyone does.”

  “Okay, write down the ID number on the questionnaire.” In Fun City, traveling the city without a handheld device known as a life-enhancer was an offence punishable by a deduction of credits. Fun city residents were just a long list of network connections zapping away messages to each other night and day. Yeah, surveillance was rife in the city. Conversations were recorded, bought and sold. Nobody was permitted to be anywhere without somebody knowing about it. Our currency, the intangible credits, was based on not only the work that we did, but also on how we conducted ourselves under the Fun Eye that monitored the City and our life-enhancer accounts. This is how the Gamers came to profit. By setting up and selling the messages and pictures of committed men and women. The government owned and controlled the Fun Eye surveillance systems, which meant freelancers like me caught a piece of the action recording whatever happened when the Eye blinked.

  “So, let me get this clear. You want independent audio or visual evidence of her behavior and then what do we do?”

  “We host an intervention...”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, this is the only way. I fear that she may be mad, or possessed?”

  “Quite possibly,” I said. “I have yet to meet a man or woman who isn’t at least mad or possessed some of the time in Fun City. Would you have a recent picture?”

  “It is not recent. About ten years back. She deleted all her personal pictures after the Punch. Said she had reinvented herself. Your line ID?”

  I gave it to him.

  He continued, “She watches my every move. Then she leaves. The crazy thing is she makes me feel like it’s my fault. Like every bad thing that happens is my fault, you know?”

  “Women are good at that. The ones that are really good at it often become world leaders. The flip side is they’re psychopaths.”

  “Psychopaths?”

  “Yeah, somewhere between five to ten percent of Fun City inhabitants are incapable of empathy, a need to control people. Psychopathy levels like this are only matched in prisons. Does any of this sound familiar? Does your love have a way of figuring out those little self-doubts you have about yourself and blowing them to the size of a Goodyear blimp? Normally, those who exhibit these controlling, manipulating behavior patterns have suffered some kind of abuse or tragic event themselves.” I stopped myself for a moment, realizing I was thinking about the past. “But there’s a strong argument to say that they were born that way.”