by Jonathan Van Gieson
os Angeles. It's the city where Hollywood meets Vine on its way to the store to pick up some eggs. Where the deals go down faster than a cheap whore on a cheap hood on a cheap date. Where the smog hangs so low and so thick that a short guy with a knife could cut it with a fork. Sure, some folks will tell you it's the city of dreams, but dreams don't buy the groceries, and neither do movie stars. Servants buy groceries for the movie stars, but servants can't buy dreams. And dreams can't cut through the smog any better than a short guy with a knife standing on the corner of Hollywood and Vine trying to get a cheap date with some eggs.
The nights are long and dark in the City of Angels, and the criminals roam dimly-lit streets, preying on the people who are stupid enough to be roaming dimly-lit streets at night with a bunch of criminals. It's called the City of Angels all right, but bad things happen in it anyway. Some would call that ironic, but not me. I don't know the meaning of the word. Another word I don't know the meaning of is "solipsistic," but I'm pretty sure it can't be applied to this situation. Yeah, bad things happen, and when they do, people go to the police for help, but they don't always get it. Sometimes, Joe and Jane P. Citizen don't know where to turn, and that's when they turn to a good private eye.
That private eye isn't me. I don't live in Los Angeles, although I did visit it once. It seemed pretty nice. No, most of the stuff I just told you about LA I pieced together from things I read in web sites. See, while other dicks make their dough softshoeing it around the streets, I do my legwork online. Maybe you read the article about me in MacWorld. The name's Sam Webb. I'm an Internet Detective.