Machines of Easy Virtue
Jack Price
Author Bio
Jack Price was born in Chicago, Illinois in 1958. In the 1960s, his family moved to the western suburbs, where he spent his early years as a fidgety Catholic schoolboy. He studied computer science and physics in college, worked his way up to a martial arts black belt, then turned to writing, both fiction and non-, getting short stories and articles published under various assumed names. Jack released his first novel, Machines of Easy Virtue, in 2012. He lives with his wife and a zooful of animals on the Chicago Northside.
Description
Sex, Robots, and Hot, flying lead.
Machines of Easy Virtue transports you to late 21st-century Chicago, when all the jobs have gone to robots and millions struggle in poverty, ignored by a feckless government and the billionaires who own it. In this world, private detective Theodore “Red” Bourbon dodges punks and muggers, scrapes out a living chasing errant spouses, and downs an endless stream of pills to keep his sanity. When the wealthy and genetically-enhanced heiress Elena Snowe steps into his office and tells him a domestic robot killed her father, his luck takes a turn. Hounded by a sleazy landlord and lured by the promise of a fat payday, Red agrees to hunt down the servant, knowing the job puts him at odds with the police.
Red Bourbon — Everyman, survivor — has the deck stacked against him from the word go. Broke and forever hustling, he envies Elena’s money and struggles to hide the jealousy. Lonely, he forbids himself from thinking of her as anything but a client but ends up falling for her. When Red’s duped and framed for murder, his friend, police detective Manny Ramos, must arrest him. Even when he persuades the authorities he’s innocent, treachery and mortal danger lurk around every corner.
The world of Machines of Easy Virtue is a tech wonderland, though fun belongs to those who can afford it. The energy crisis is a distant memory. Medical science has wiped out every known disease, and even gruesome injuries heal in a matter of hours. Drugs, necessary to cope with life’s grim realities, have no side effects and can’t be overdosed. With government-handout food, no one starves. Cars, buses and trains drive themselves with spotless safety. Even cheap phones have intelligence and fully-developed personalities. A robotic police force efficiently keeps the peace — at least when they’re around. Robots come in every shape and size, from lawn mowers and floor scrubbers to lifelike androids to satisfy the most exotic desires.
And therein lies the question: what if two machines, designed to please their owners, take a fancy to each other?
Book excerpt
A little after ten, there was a firm knock at the door. I looked up from my reading.
“It’s open,” I called.
She was tall, six-six easy, slim, in a black Versace suit. The material flickered like fireflies at a distance. Eyebrows, cheekbones, lips, everything sculpted. Not just good genes, designer genes straight from a catalog. That’s what you got when Mommy and Daddy had a bottomless bank account. Radium studs in her ears silently announced the superiority of her flesh—no need to worry about a little radiation—and they told normal folks to keep their distance. Standing there, she had an air about her, no-nonsense, used to giving orders.
“Mister Bourbon,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“Ma’am,” I said, standing. “How can I—”
“My father… he’s been killed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I gestured at the chair next to her. She sat, crossing her legs. I pushed a tissue box across the desk. She plucked one and dabbed her eyes behind the veil. Her lips pressed into thin lines.
“Don’t you want to know who I am?”
“You’re Elena Snowe. Your picture’s in the gossip columns. Your father is—or was—Alexander Snowe. Tell me what happened.”
Her misty eyes met mine. “It was a robot.”
“A jimmy. It was his?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t think it was an accident.”
“I know it wasn’t an accident.”
“You have proof? Video?”
She closed her eyes. “Yes. There is a recording.”
“Do you have it with you?”
“No. It’s with the police. They say it’s evidence.”
“What else did they tell you?”
Her gaze went to the window. “They told me, with robots, it had to be an accident, not a crime. Sue the maker.”
“Mister Bourbon,” she said, “this thing killed my father and ran away.”
“You want me to find it.”
“Yes. Find it. Destroy it. Blow its damned head off,” she said.
I heard it coming down the hall, the thump-click, thump-click.
Christ, what timing.
The door swung open. Lafferty stood there, skinny, bald, in his wrinkled undershirt and trousers. He’d lost both legs to diabetes, got new ones a couple years ago. Public-Option jobs, cheap and slow. The rubber on one of his feet had worn off. The legs were mere poles; his pants sagged, lacking anything to fill them out.
I frowned. “Mister Lafferty, it’s not a good time.”
“Sure it is,” he croaked. It’s rent-time, Bourbon.”
I nodded at the woman. “I have a client here. We can settle this later.”
His gray eyes fixed on her like he’d never seen a female. He licked his lips; a thin wheeze rasped between them.
Elena turned to see him. “What does he owe you?”
He stood there a moment, blinking, and looked at me like you’d look at a roach before you stepped on it. “Seventeen thousand.”
She sighed and opened a lime-green wallet. “I’ve got ten thousand. But I’m assuming, aren’t I? I didn’t hear you say you’d take the job. I know it poses some difficulties, but I’m prepared to compensate you fully.” Her hand held on to the money. Lafferty’s fingers bent into a claw, his eyes glaring at the cash.
If I said no, he might have me tossed out then and there. “All right,” I said.
Author Website
http://www.amazon.com/Jack-Price/e/B001K8CYN2/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1