Cold Bullets and Hot Babes. Arlette Lees
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COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2006, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011 by Arlette Lees
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
To The Memory of My Grandmother,
Mae E. Lees,
Who taught us the love of books;
And to
My teacher and friend,
Hannah Folsom,
Who said I’d write one.
INTRODUCTION
When arrogant smart-ass Jeeter Tate ventures into Louisiana’s BLOOD BAYOU, he finds more trouble than he bargained for in the steamy underaged Cajun girl, Suzette, and her wild, certifiable brother Pierre.
BRUISED introduces Joey McFeeny, a city cop on medical leave, and his brothers, Pug the gangster and Mick the parish priest. But, will they step over the line in seeking justice in the disappearance of their missing sister?
TROUBLE IN GUNNAR presents us with two brave youngsters trying to survive the powers of evil after their widowed father rushes into marriage with a strange woman with a mysterious past.
CASH is a seasoned grifter who preys on innocent and unsuspecting women like sweet golden-haired Carly and the darkly alluring Greta. But lounge lizard Cash might be in for a surprise or two.
Until beautiful Frances Bulger became pregnant and was expelled from parochial school, she had been known as Irish Rose in her blue collar neighborhood. After watching Frances grow fatter and more apathetic with each passing year, her daughter Rosemary, AGAINST ALL ODDS, is determined to go down a different road.
Our youthful protagonists in LAST CHANCE IN GUNNAR struggles to survive the abusive and neglectful parents who are supposed to be watching out for them. They fight, not only for their dignity as human beings, but against the dark shadow of their past.
If you are a fan of classic pulp fiction, ANGEL DOLL was written for you. Jaded alcoholic ex-cop Jack Dunning and the delicate, sensuous, dime-a-dance girl, Angel, seek salvation in one another’s embrace, willing to give love one last chance on the mean, Depression-era streeets of Little Ireland.
Our journey concludes with the poignant poem, FAMILY MYTHOLOGY, about a boy’s devotion to his violent and emotionally complex Uncle Mick.
—Arlette Lees
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
These stories were previously published as follows, and are reprinted (with minor editing, updating, and textual modifications) by permission of the author:
“Blood Bayou” was originally published in Hardboiled #41, January 2010, and also in Whodunit?: The First Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories, edited by Robert Reginald, Borgo Press, 2011. Copyright © 2010, 2011 by Arlette Lees.
“Bruised” was originally published in Hardboiled #37, March 2008. Copyright © 2008, 2011 by Arlette Lees.
“Trouble in Gunnar” was originally published in Deadly Dames, Bold Venture Press, 2009. Copyright © 2009, 2011 by Arlette Lees.
“Cash” was originally published in Hardboiled #35, Spring 2006. Copyright © 2006, 2011 by Arlette Lees.
“Family Mythology” was originally published in Hardboiled #35, Spring 2006. Copyright © 2006, 2011 by Arlette Lees.
“Against All Odds,” “Last Chance in Gunnar,” and “Angel Doll” are published here for the first time. Copyright © 2011 by Arlette Lees.
BLOOD BAYOU
Jeeter Tate hit the ground running—well, he might as well have been running considering the condition of his old Ford pickup. With a burp and a backfire he headed out of Bakersfield in a cloud of dust, his radiator boiling over on the long stretches of desert between California and Texas.
Jeeter was born in Texas and so was Charleen. Her five burley brothers were still there, fighting dogs, selling white lightning, biting the heads off chickens to freak out neighbors who wandered too close to the property line. Jeet had no way of explaining Charleen’s absence, so he limped the truck across the state line into Louisiana’s alligator country.
God, how he wished he’d never hooked up with Charleen, but like all the other high school guys he’d salivated at the sight of her juicy little bod. She was the cutest girl on the cheerleading squad with her fluffy blonde curls and bouncy boobs.
She’d fallen for him too, like a ton of bricks, just like the other hot babes that ran their fingers through his jet black shag of hair and gazed into his paler than pale blue eyes. Charleen said they were the color of moonlight reflected through a Coke bottle. Now, how many dudes had eyes this color? One in a thousand? Hell no, Jeeter knew he was one in a million.
When he started dating Charleen his cousin Huey told him there was no way she could get knocked up if they did it standing up. That method of family planning failed right off the bat and Huey laughed his fool head off even after Jeeter blackened his eye.
Three years married and there were already two squalling rugrats on the scene. He hadn’t known babies were capable of such heroic vocalization. He’d morphed from devil-may-care Romeo to a trained monkey on a short leash.
Charleen had managed to keep her trim figure and good looks while his were slipping faster than a clown on a banana peel, especially after he lost his two front teeth in a bar fight over a redheaded waitress. She might have had the decency to mention that her husband harbored unrealistic expectations regarding her fidelity.
“If you’d stay home where you belong these things wouldn’t happen,” said Charleen, rocking baby Skeezix in her arms. What a know-it-all! Next she’d be filing for divorce, asking for alimony and child support. First, she’d have to prove those brats were really his.
As if things weren’t bad enough, he lost his job at the auto repair shop. He’d taken Mayor Stapleton’s Lincoln for a joy ride when it came in for a lube. Except for the ding in the passenger side door and a rear flat tire, he’d returned it in pristine condition.
When Charleen took the last five bucks he’d earmarked for a pack of smokes and bought lotto tickets he’d had it. He broke into the repair shop after midnight and treated himself to some well-deserved severance pay. Even then, there was hardly enough cash to make it worth his while.
Almost out of money, he’d pulled into a clapboard grocery store on the edge of a mosquito-infested swamp. It wasn’t where he’d intended to end up, but his map was in shreds and he’d lost the main road about an hour back. He thumped a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a bag of chitlins on the counter.
“Hey, Pierre,” said the old witch behind the cash register. “I thought you never came off the bayou.” What a ding-bat! “Looks like you had a rough night, mon.”
He caught his reflection in the plastic donut case, a face thorny with stubble, hair as dirty as a mechanic’s rag.
“Ya, one hell of a night,” he said. The old crone looked like a voodoo queen in her Mardi Gras beads and towering head wrap. He’d seen fewer wrinkles on mummies. He told her to take off her mask, that Halloween was over. She pointed an arthritic finger in his direction and mumbo-jumbo’d a death curse that made him roar with laughter as he walked out the door.
What a weird backwater dump!
As he walked to his truck a mail carrier pulled into the lot.
“Hey, Pierre!” he called, with a friendly wave. Jeeter looked behind him but no one was there. What the hell? Back in California they called strangers dude or bro and laid on a high five. In Texas it was bubba or cowboy delivered with a playful punch to the shoulder. Pierre had to be a Louisiana thing.
The carrier shoved a passel of mail in Jeeter’s hand. “You’ve saved me a trip up Bayou Sang,” he said. “Give my regards to old man Devereaux.”