Imagine a world without cash.
A world under surveillance.
A world where morality points earn you your status.
Enter Private Eye Joe Dylan's Fun City.
It's corrupt to the bone and under the ever watchful surveillance system known as the Eye. Money has been abandoned in favor of the credit system. All citizens are required to carry hand held devises containing their credit score and personal information.
Dylan is recovering from the government attitude adjustment program known as the Punch since his credits reached zero. His adopted son Jimmy is missing presumed dead and his basement office is infested with contrarian rats.
When Dylan is assigned the task of keeping socialite artist Trixie Sloane on the straight and narrow his pursuit of her leads him down into a sub-culture beneath the city where a vigilante Resistance force plan to strike out against the city before the last drop of human will and dignity is drained away down into the tunnels and the sewers under the metropolis.
Enter the Fun City Punch.
This is a new release and 5th in the Joe Dylan series.
Since 2010 the series has ranked at the top of its respective Amazon charts, been adapted to screen, recorded for audio editions, sold briskly, and atracted much admiration from peers in the industry.
'James Newman writes with a flamethrower. He's terrifically gifted and enormously energetic' Edgar nominated Timothy Hallinan.
'A world of conmen,cheaters, schemers, wanderers, and the lost' Shamus winning author Christopher G. Moore.
'A Fascinating hybrid of classic detective work and gritty ultra-detail' Ish Galvan author of Blubber Island.
'Hard-boiled pulp fiction pumped up to the max' Paul Brazill.
Found the Neptune in Leather like a tequila hangover. Crimson wallpaper bled into a lounge with stairs to the left, and straight ahead, a jazz band played. The trombone player blew his instrument beneath a shock of tightly curled hair. Signet paperback edition of On the Road poked unobtrusively out of his denim jacket pocket. Gibbon hung from a ceiling rafter languidly masturbating above a terminally bored scarlet macaw. The bird was hopping from one foot to the other as if the perch was aflame. A holy man sat at the bar wearing a white hemp safari suit, drinking mojitos with a docile puffin perched on his shoulder. Outside, the sound of tires screeched as a drum solo collided with a sudden blast of brass. A cheetah-skinned barmaid approached. “Soda water, no ice,” I told her.
A suit sat in the far corner looking at a copy of the government pamphlet they called the Fun City Express. Somewhere, a cockroach died. Slowly, painfully, the man with the newspaper sat staring at the print, not reading it, just staring at it. Nervous and slim, he couldn’t sit quite still and he had nobody to talk to, so he talked to himself, moving his hands to illustrate his outrage at whatever article had strangled his attention.
The bar was a nest of pariahs, most of them incurably damaged by the life that brought them here. They existed for the night, the first rays of sunlight signaling the end of the boulevard. Day was simply an interruption of night for those, who like vampires, returned to their twenty square foot urban coffins and shook away the day until the evening came around, arousing them to set foot on the concrete once more. These solitary night crawlers were running low on credits and knew that the Eye just might not catch them wallowing in the rubble.
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Spanish
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Already translated.
Translated by Carlos Alberto Purata Tobias
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