In late January of 1978, with football season over and hopeful Christmas tree lights throughout the vast northern winter darkness switched off in defeat, full-time cabdriver, sometime card shark Keith Waverly witnesses the violent abduction of a local street hustler. Later, when the man is found with his head ventilated by bullet holes, Waverly is dragged into a world of high-rolling gamblers, crooked politicians, violence and really bad weather, with only his wits and his new girlfriend to pull him out.
CHAPTER 8 – Acid Reflux
Excerpt 1
There were cars parked everywhere. I slid the Olds into a spot about two blocks away from the club. Waves of red light pulsed from a giant neon LIQUOR sign behind me, bouncing off the rear view mirror like warning beacons.
I hit the sidewalk and the damp air filled my lungs. The booze was wearing off too quickly and I was starting to feel the pain. The sounds of traffic whirled in my head as I pulled open the red upholstered door and entered the hazy world of The Boulevard Lounge.
I paid my two bucks and got my hand stamped and moved slowly through the crowd. An amply endowed black chick was gyrating in a G-string on the stage while baying hounds at her knee level paid money to stick fingers up her snatch. I watched as she squeezed her breasts together and ground her pelvis against the intruding digits. Over to stage right the band did a loud and sloppy version of “Born to be Wild.” I ordered a double Smirnov on the rocks.
“Bartender,” I asked the young man as he set the squatty glass in front of me, “what time does Princess Mary do her thing?”
“She comes on around midnight. Last show’s at two.”
“Well, I guess it’s worth waiting for—L.A. Princess and all.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Some nights she really puts on a show.”
Squirming, squirming, squirming. You can’t do anything about it when you got that kind of squirm going. I gritted my teeth and poured down the booze. My head got heavy. Discretion took flight. The baying at the stage front continued. Voices got louder; sweat beaded on my forehead. After what seemed like forever the hands on the clock finally joined together at the twelve. Shortly thereafter the band started up a grinding version of Dylan’s “Just Like a Woman.” At the chorus, the thin, pale, sunken-eyed lead singer would rasp: “She sucks, just like a woman. She fucks, just like a woman. But she tastes, just like a little girl.”
Surely the devil was in the building.
(To be continued)
Dead Low Winter available on ebook at all online bookstores.
Bluestone's Blog 
Leave a Reply