Chandler Jordan is Dead. Chapter 1

The buzzer of the alarm clock cut through the air like a digital hangover. He rolled slightly so he could quiet his morning nemesis. “Oh God five more minutes,” he thought.

“Three minutes left of authorized water usage.” Ten minutes didn’t seem to last as long as it used to. The shower continued “to purchase more water say yes clearly.”

“Yes, yes. I’ve still got soap in my eyes.” He fumbled quickly for his cup to catch the extra water before the shower stopped.

“I’m sorry Mr. O’Neil but you have exceeded your financial quota this month.” “In other words, I’m broke,” he muttered.  The shower hissed to a stop, sputtering its last few drops of water into his cup. He savored the drops of his shower as he finished preparing himself for the day.

He hadn’t seen a serious case for a few months, but he had to eat so the only place to go was Kwan’s. Kwan’s was like any other Asian/American diner in the city except for O’Neil knew they’d take barter. Federal trade act 335 had required all citizens to move from a cash economy to the chip. Everyone had a small microchip implanted in their hand at birth allowing the Gov., as it was usually called, to monitor all purchases keeping a particular eye on suspect goods, bomb supplies, medical equipment, and humus. Of course as quickly as the regulations were passed a barter system fell into place, you could get almost anything you wanted if you knew where to go and had something of value.

Since it was made illegal in 2020, O’Neil preferred tobacco for barter, because he could always smoke it when he was bored. The average cit had a life expectancy of 85 years, 150 if you could afford treatment, however detectives and their like were lucky to make it past 50, so a smoke every now and then didn’t seemed to make much difference.

He placed his hand on the scanner of Kwan’s door, it buzzed as it recorded every person who entered the restaurant. It was unusually empty this morning O’Neil thought. There were only a few of the regulars gathered around the wall television watching a debate about pods.

He snickered; people had been debating the ethics of pods since maybe two decades before the first one had ever been grown.

The representative of the Vatican council was speaking. “It is an abomination to God that a human could be grown in the lab, and then at a certain point simply have the brain turned off.”

His opponent a professor from M.I.T. responded,” without a brain there is no life to be an abomination. The work we have done in creating, these pods as you have called them, has improved the quality of life for all humans.”

One of the old men watching the debate shouted back at the T.V., ”Only if you can afford it.”

Another regular responded, “My son, you know the doctor…” All of his companions winced to hear him say that for the millionth time. “He just had a new liver put in last week, and he says he hasn’t felt better in ages.”

A feisty man wanting to liven up the debate added “Which cost more his liver or the new tits they grew his wife?”

We waved his would be assailant down. “Your only jealous cause your wife’s drag to the floor.”

Although the old timers were fun He had come for a simple breakfast and then to hopefully work for a client.

“Mr. O’Neil you here with real money today or barter?” The old woman at the counter asked.

He waved a baggie of tobacco, no one in the restaurant cared about whether he scanned or not.

She wrung her hands in disgust, “Jon, he no pay again, broke only have smoke.” A very old Asian man stepped out from behind the kitchen doors, he was Kwan, or so everyone thought. No one was really sure about him, the rumors on the street ranged from he was the head of the largest triad, or he made the best mock-beef and rye in the city. O’Neil preferred the later but it didn’t really matter since he always took what he offered.

He looked at the baggie, yelling back at the kitchen. “Make him number three.” He looked at O’Neil “You want real job, I use good dishwasher.” O’Neil smiled at the little joke since Kwan’s only used recycle ware.

“No thanks business is bound to pick up soon enough.”

He sat down to eat his mock-beef on rye, come to think of it it might just be the best in town he thought as he chewed hungrily.

He sat in his office for nearly an hour until the gov line finally rang. Clients never called on that line, usually only bill collectors and working stiffs like himself.

“Yes I understand Mr. Jameson; I know I’m behind on my payments. You know what take the damn thing; I can’t afford the petroleum to run it!” He slammed down the phone; the endless war had initially been great for his business. Private detectives made out like bandits when they first privatized the police forces. The government had spent so much money bringing freedom to the rest of the world, they forgot that they needed to pay their bills at home, and everything that could be was privatized.

Eventually the personal security companies took over and in most cases between arbitration fees and security fees only the very few could afford any laws. That left Darien most months with not enough money to buy his extra shower time, but it gave him the antiquated feeling he was living the American dream. No time card to punch and no stubby fingered boss to give him orders, just the way he liked it even if he couldn’t shower every day.

O’Neil sat debating whether or not he should roll a cigarette from his barter fund or simply take a nap when the vidfone zipped into action. “Incoming video call Mr. O’Neil,” Said the automated voice of the SallyBell operator.

He sat up quickly in his chair and turned the screen of the vidfone towards himself. “Sally, are the charges reversed? “  All O’Neil needed was a vidfone charge he couldn’t afford to pay. ‘If not…” he continued, “Ask them to call on the govline.”

A human operator, with a distinctly Hindi accent, “so much for my local phone company” thought O’Neil, came on to the line.

“Yes Mr. O’ Neil, the charges are reversed. Given the nature of your business you really should consider using SallyBell for all of your business calls. We can offer you the best in privacy, and a convent flat rate calling plan…” The operator continued her assault on his pocket book as well as the English language. “According to statute 27 in the federal emergency preparedness plan the free governmental phones lines should only be used in the event of an eminent threat which could result in loss of life or property.”

“Then you should lower your damn rates,” muttered O’Neil, he thought inaudibly.

“We provide our customer with the lowest possible rates and the highest possible local service.” The operator had obviously heard his remark.

O’Neil chuckled to himself, “How’s Bombay? Look I can’t afford your reasonably priced local service, so would you please just place the vid call?” He pushed his receding hairline back in an attempt to look presentable. A woman’s face came onto the vidfone; at first glance she appeared to be a rather uptight woman in her thirties.

“Mr. O’Neil. Mr. Darien O’Neil? “She asked.

He studied her face for a moment, No she wasn’t in her thirties,, more like sixties and very well acquainted with a botoxer. This meant she either had a lot of credit to borrow with or a lot of money. He hoped it was the later.

“What can I do for you Miss…” He paused giving her a chance to give him her name.

She smiled as much as the toxins would let her, “Jordan, Ms. Chase Jordan.”

He knew the name, and he knew a lot of money. The Jordan’s were the modern equivalent of royalty with good teeth. ”What can I do for you Ms. Jordan?”

“I would like you to find a missing person.” O’Neil shot her a puzzled look, that was usually star corps’s bag and with her money they would have been the obvious choice.

“Who would you like me to find?” He asked.

“My brother Chandler.” She replied.

He held his best poker face, while knowing that inbreeding had finally gotten to the Jordan line as well. “Chandler Jordan is dead. I suggest you look in your family plot.” Damn it, he thought, just when I was about to make  real money my client turns out to be the Mad Hatter.

“Mr. O Neil, I know what you must be thinking, but I assure you my brother was not killed six months ago. I would prefer to talk about this in person, if you don’t mind.” O’Neil started to shake his head while interrupting her.

“I thought you might react this way so while I was waiting for the call to connect I took the liberty of transferring 10,000 dollars into your service account to cover your inconvenience of having to come all the way out here.” O’Neil waved his hand across his credit book, the digital read out confirmed what she had said.

“Ms. Jordan I’m not sure I can really help you but…” He looked over at the ever growing pile of newspapers he had been meaning to return for deposit, her brother’s death had been the lead story of every paper for nearly three weeks. Any time the truly rich fall everyone wants to read about it. “It can’t hurt to meet.” He said straightening his tie.

“I hope you would feel that way. When you are ready there is an aero-car waiting for you outside, it knows where to bring you.” He stood up turning off the vidfone. His grandmother always used to tell him to never take candy from a stranger; he hoped 10 grand and a tea party wouldn’t disappoint her too much.

He locked his office and headed for the fire escape instead of the front door, since the Aero-car would be waiting for him there. He was going to meet with Miss Jordan, but first he had to get some information. When chasing rabbits down a hole it was always better to know more about them than they did you, and right now he was feeling under informed. Gorby could help fix that.