It’s been a few weeks since we
posted serial fiction on Friday.
I hope
you are looking forward to the next installment of
Devils Walk Through Galveston. Settle in for the Thanksgiving weekend.
And if you’re looking for something to give
for Christmas, give a good book.
I’m
more than happy to sign any copy you get to me.
The
prologue,
Chapter
1 (which introduced the crime and criminal),
Chapter 2 (which introduced the police officers),
Chapter 3 (the seduction of the initial victim),
Chapter 4 (which follows the fleeing killer), and
Chapter 5 (police begin tracking the killers),
Chapter 6 (backstory of Eli, one of the key police
officers), and
Chapter7,
(the killers make their way to Galveston).
In Chapter 8, Searching through Houston’s underbelly. I hope you
enjoy it. Please read it and share (noncommercially). Go to Amazon and
get the book for the rest.
8. Eli and Vincent
out. Night. A reluctant prowl.
Vincent
drove them in his classic Barracuda, north out of Houston into the
unincorporated areas of Harris County. A
stretch of land between the city of Houston and its northern suburbs. Old mineral land still producing oil and gas
with the city surrounding it. Cows
walking over fields dotted with the gas well cap fire hydrants from which no
water would flow. Less than a mile from
the interstate. Twenty miles north of
downtown. Twenty miles south of oil
company headquarters in the Woodlands.
Sort of a no-mans land of car lots, hotels and gentlemen’s clubs. An occasional spa mixed in throughout the
strip malls.
This
was the Sheriff’s territory. Laws
reached here if problems were reported.
Little was.
The
first rain-drops on the windshield. The
first lightning struck overhead. Thunder
close enough overhead to shake the car.
Vincent
turned the radio down, started the conversation: “I’m glad you got the Lucchese’s. The boots suit you.”
Eli,
pensive, not about fashion: “Thanks. I
didn’t think they’d work at first. I
like the couple of inches they give me.
They cost a ton.”
“You
can write it off. You needed to look
like you have some money and know what to spend it on. You needed a little cowboy, too. Not much though. You look nervous.”
“Not
too much.”
“You’re
not worried about the sheriff, are you?
This place never gets raided in the evenings. Abject whoring takes place in the
afternoons. Or so I’m told.”
“I’m
not whoring.”
“You’re
not. Just remember, if you’re in one of
the private booths and the song changes in the middle, toss the girl off your
lap.”
Eli
laughed at the idea: “They enforce the three-foot law?”
“Not
really. It only counts if the girl isn’t
wearing pasties over her nipples. Which
they don’t do at this club. If the girl
has bare breasts, she can’t officially be within three feet of you. She can sit on your lap at the table as long
as she has her breasts covered. And all
the three-foot law is down here is an excuse to haul you into the station. In West Texas, they take it seriously. Down here, it’s just to fuck with guys who
they don’t catch with a girl’s hand in his pants but want to lean on a
little. The song change is a warning,
though.”
“What
do you mean?”
“The
club outfits all the bouncers, managers, bartenders, even the valets, with
walkie-talkies. They use them for
legitimate purposes. But they have a
couple of buttons on them. One has a
specific tone. Anyone sees the Sheriff’s
vice squad, or someone they think is vice start to do a raid, they hit the
button. The d.j. will switch the
song. All the girls in the back jump off
the guys laps. Sometimes they don’t
hear. You have to toss them.”
Eli
incredulous: “The Sheriff doesn’t know
this?”
