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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 2

The hounds hooted like it was raccoon season as Mary strutted out on the stage, rocking it in red stiletto heels with sexy little straps around the ankles. The place exploded with applause and whistles and rebel yells.  Red, red roses sparkled on her shiny lavender robe. Little stars glittered in her hair.

My Queen of the May.

The feeling was indescribable—so much mixed together. I was breathing heavily; swaying back and forth and staring like a stage-side lunatic at Altamount as the band jumped crisply into “Season of the Witch.”

Mary undid the robe, slid it off her bare shoulders and tossed it to the floor. She shimmied inside lingerie the color of blood. She danced. She glided. She shook it. She unhooked her bra and freed her delicious round breasts. The junkie singer hissed those familiar words about rabbits in the ditch and hippies trying to make it rich. Mary lip-synched and played the hounds like a ringmaster. My gut wrenched as waving hands with bills clutched tightly in anxious fingers swayed at her feet like a brood of praying mantis. I couldn’t take much more—that I knew right then and there. I was aroused—watching her move—but it felt real weird.

Pushing my way through the crowd toward the stage, I had second thoughts. I sat down in a vacant chair at a table near the stage so I could think. A fat guy was across from me, his huge forearms resting on the table. He looked at me like he was King Shit.

“I’m just taking a little rest,” I said.

“Yeah, well, rest your fucking ass somewhere else, faggot. That’s my buddy’s chair.”

“Fuck you, fat ass.” I jumped up and jostled back into the crowd and started weaving my way toward the alley-side door. I expected the fat man to be hot on my trail but he never moved. Too much cholesterol, I guess.

I went outside and headed for my car but a half block before I got there I turned around and went back the way I came. Back to face the music.

(To be continued)

Dead Low Winter available on ebook at all online bookstores.