“Hey,” he said. A young guy. Unshaven. Wild hair. I could smell the street on him. His teeth were yellowed and chipped. Looked to be blackening in places I saw. His tongue continuously licked at his cracked lips. I couldn’t speak. Wouldn’t have known what to say if I had been able to, and I was having a very hard time keeping my eyes open. The lights were too bright.
“Hey,” he said again. “I didn’t know you would be naked… In a bath tub… He didn’t say that… I’m sorry…. I really am sorry.” His hand swam into view as I watched. Normal except a black lump seemed to be fused to it. A black lump with a blacker hole in the end of it. Fire spat from the blacker hole. The lights went out…#Audio #Book #SamWolfe #DreamTravel #Readers #Listeners
Amy and Diedra are best friends, maybe more, something always seems to be in the way every time an opportunity to explore the possibilities arise. Dave Plasko is serving a long sentence at Huntsville state prison, and after that he will be transferred to New York to serve more time. Rebbeca Monet is working her way up the ladder of success in the television reporter game. A hurricane of epic proportions is heading towards Mobile Alabama. The lives of the people involved will never be the same again… #Crime #Drama #Action #Readers #DellSweet #KDP #KU
Take a look at this excerpt from Author W. W. Watson. This is a series of private detective novels. This is from Book 2. Scroll to the bottom of the page to get the book, if you like it, from Amazon…
The sense of closure from the Robert case proved illusory. The city’s hum, once a comforting backdrop, now felt like a constant, low-level thrum of impending trouble. It started subtly; a missed call from a blocked number, a cryptic email with no sender’s information, a fleeting glimpse of a familiar face in a crowded street that vanished as quickly as it appeared. These were small things, easily dismissed as coincidences, the product of an overactive imagination fueled by months of relentless investigation and emotional turmoil. But they chipped away at my newfound peace, a slow, insidious erosion of calm.
Then came the letter. A simple, unmarked envelope slipped under my apartment door, containing a single photograph – a grainy, poorly lit image of Sally standing outside a dimly lit bar, a man’s arm draped possessively around her shoulders. The man’s face was obscured by shadow, but the silhouette, the posture, the way he held her… it was chillingly familiar.
My stomach clenched. I knew that face. Or at least, I knew the
shape of it. It resonated with a memory, buried deep beneath the layers of recent trauma, a fleeting image from a case I’d worked years ago – a case involving a brutal assault, a string of unsolved disappearances, a network of organized crime that had stretched far beyond my reach. The man in the photograph, I was almost certain, was a peripheral figure from that investigation, someone I’d only caught a glimpse of, a shadowy figure on the edge of the frame. Someone I’d never been able to identify, someone who’d vanished without a trace.
The implications were staggering. My investigation into Robert’s infidelity had inadvertently unearthed something far more sinister, something that connected to a dark chapter in my past, a case that had haunted me for years. It was a chilling revelation, a cruel twist of fate that thrust me back into the murky waters of organized crime. This wasn’t just about a broken marriage anymore; this was about something far bigger, far more dangerous.
The photograph wasn’t just a threat; it was a challenge. A gauntlet thrown down, daring me to pick it up and face the consequences. The carefully constructed peace I’d worked so hard to achieve was shattered, replaced by a familiar knot of anxiety that tightened in my chest. The nightmares returned, sharper, more vivid, filled with distorted faces and the chilling whisper of impending danger.
My cautious, methodical approach, honed over years of experience, was suddenly inadequate. This wasn’t a simple infidelity case; this was a potential descent into a dangerous underworld. I needed to tread carefully, to plan each step meticulously. I couldn’t afford to make a mistake; the consequences could be devastating.
My first step was to verify the photograph. Was it a genuine image, or a carefully constructed fabrication designed to manipulate, to provoke a reaction? The quality of the photograph was poor, the details obscured, but there were subtle elements that suggested authenticity – the subtle grain, the way the light fell on the building in the background, the slightly blurry details that hinted at a hasty, clandestine shot.
I ran the image through various forensic enhancement programs, pushing the pixels to their limits, attempting to coax more information from the shadows. The results were frustratingly inconclusive. The man’s face remained obscured, his features hidden beneath the veil of darkness. But I did find something else – a barely visible detail in the background of the image – a street sign, partially obscured, but identifiable as a street located in the city’s less desirable district, known for its high crime rate and its connection to several organized crime syndicates.
The location provided a starting point. I checked local police reports, scouring databases for any activity in that area that might shed light on the man’s identity or Sally’s activities. There was nothing immediately obvious; the police reports were a sea of mundane incidents – petty theft, domestic disputes, vandalism. But something felt off. The sheer volume of minor offenses, their clustering within a small geographical area, suggested a pattern, a suggestion of organized crime operating at a low level, using the smaller crimes as a distraction or as a way to maintain control over the territory.
My investigation led me down a rabbit hole of back alleys, shady bars, and clandestine meetings. I spent nights following shadows, observing individuals who seemed to exist on the periphery of the city’s underbelly. The investigation was a slow, painstaking process, a delicate dance between observation and discretion. One wrong move, one misplaced step, could have dire consequences.
Days bled into weeks, the anxiety a constant companion. Sleep offered little respite, the dreams a chaotic mixture of blurred faces, cryptic messages, and the suffocating weight of impending danger. My old fears returned, sharper and more intense than ever before. The memory of the near-fatal incident with my friend, the agonizing physical and emotional pain, felt like a constant threat, a stark reminder of the dangers inherent in this line of work.
I sought guidance from my therapist, Dr. Evans. He listened patiently, offering words of encouragement and practical advice. He reminded me of the importance of self-care, of the need to maintain a balance between my work and my personal life. His words were calming, his presence a source of strength and stability in a world that was increasingly uncertain.
Through the fog of fear and uncertainty, a new understanding started to emerge. This wasn’t just about solving a case; it was about protecting Sally, about preventing a potential tragedy. The stakes were high, the risks considerable. But I couldn’t stand idly by. The sense of responsibility, the weight of the potential consequences, drove me forward. The fight was on, and this time, it was personal. The shadows loomed large, but the flickering flame of determination within me burned brighter than ever. The city held its breath, oblivious to the storm brewing beneath its surface. I was ready.
The city’s underbelly, once a distant, shadowy realm I only glimpsed from afar, now felt unnervingly close. The investigation into Sally’s husband’s infidelity had led me down a rabbit hole, and I was rapidly losing sight of the surface. The blurry photograph, the ominous location, the sheer volume of seemingly unrelated petty crimes in that specific area – all pointed to something far more intricate and dangerous than I had initially anticipated.
My next step involved deep dives into the city’s databases, exploring connections beyond the police reports. I focused on property records, business licenses, and even social media profiles of residents in the area identified in the photo. The digital breadcrumbs were sparse, but they began to reveal a pattern. Several businesses in that area, seemingly legitimate establishments like a laundromat, a small grocery store, and a repair shop, were registered to shell corporations, their ownership obscured by layers of anonymous holding companies. The addresses, however, all clustered around the same few blocks.
This pointed towards a money-laundering operation, a classic front for a larger criminal enterprise. I recalled a similar tactic used by the organization I’d encountered years ago, the one that had left a trail of unsolved disappearances in its wake. The chilling similarity sent a shiver down my spine. Could this be a splinter group? A resurgence of the same organization? Or something entirely new, using similar methods?
I spent days observing these seemingly innocuous businesses. I watched people coming and going, noting license plates, making mental notes of faces and interactions. I learned to recognize the subtle cues – the furtive glances, the hushed conversations, the nervous fidgeting, the almost imperceptible exchange of small, unmarked packages. The seemingly ordinary citizens were playing a crucial role in a far larger, more sinister game.
One evening, while observing the laundromat, I witnessed a meeting that sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. Two men, both dressed in unremarkable clothes, met in a secluded corner of the parking lot. One was short, stocky, with a face etched with years of hard living; the other was taller, leaner, with a cold, calculating gaze. They spoke in hushed tones, occasionally glancing over their shoulders, their body language betraying a deep-seated unease.
Using my long-range lens, I managed to capture a brief glimpse of what they were exchanging – a small, leather-bound book, seemingly innocuous at first glance. But closer examination revealed a series of intricate symbols embossed on the cover. These symbols, I realized with a jolt of recognition, were similar to the ones I’d encountered in the old case files, symbols used by the organized crime syndicate I’d battled years before.
The book, I suspected, contained vital information – perhaps a ledger of transactions, a list of members, or even a detailed plan for a major operation. My gut instinct screamed that this was my key to understanding the larger network. Securing that book was now my top priority.
The following days were a whirlwind of planning and preparation. I reviewed my previous surveillance techniques, refining them, incorporating new elements learned over the years. The challenge was significant: the men were obviously cautious, aware of potential surveillance. They were professionals. I needed a strategy that minimized my risk, maximized my chance of success, and left no trace of my involvement.
I mapped out the men’s movements, noting their routines, their preferred routes, their meeting points. I identified the blind spots in their security, the moments when their attention was diverted, the windows of opportunity. I devised a plan – a carefully orchestrated sequence of events designed to snatch the book without raising their suspicion.
The execution of the plan required nerves of steel and precision timing. It involved a carefully planned diversion, a subtle manipulation of their routine, and a daring snatch-and-grab operation under the cover of darkness. The risk was considerable. One wrong move could expose me, not only jeopardizing the investigation but potentially putting Sally in harm’s way.
The night of the operation arrived, cold and damp, the city lights reflecting in the puddles on the slick pavements. My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic drumbeat accompanying my every step. I moved like a ghost, my movements fluid and silent, blending into the city’s nocturnal tapestry.
The diversion went off without a hitch. The distraction created the necessary opening, allowing me to approach the meeting point undetected. The snatch itself was swift and clean, a blur of motion and a decisive grab. Before the men could react, I was gone, melting back into the shadows, the leather-bound book safely secured in my possession.
The book’s contents revealed a network far more extensive than I had imagined. It detailed a sophisticated money-laundering scheme, an intricate web of shell corporations, and a series of planned illicit activities that stretched far beyond the city limits. The names and aliases mentioned were chillingly familiar – echoes from the past, remnants from my previous encounters with the organization.
The implications were profound. This wasn’t simply a case of infidelity; it was a major criminal operation, with far-reaching implications. I had stumbled onto something far bigger, far more dangerous than I ever could have anticipated. The city, its bustling life continuing oblivious, held its breath, a storm brewing under its seemingly calm surface, a storm I was now squarely in the middle of. And as I delved deeper, I realized the true magnitude of the threat, a threat that extended far beyond Sally and her husband’s personal drama. This was a fight for survival, not just for myself, but potentially for the city itself. The stakes were impossibly high, and I was prepared to pay the price.
The leather-bound book, now safely tucked away in my apartment, felt heavier than its actual weight. Its contents were a damning indictment of a criminal network I had only glimpsed years ago, a network that seemed to have resurfaced with renewed vigor and sophistication. The intricate web of shell corporations, the coded language, the subtle allusions to future operations – it was all a testament to their meticulous planning and their chilling efficiency. But the book also revealed something unexpected, something that added a whole new layer of complexity to the case: a series of names, seemingly unconnected to the money-laundering scheme, yet intricately woven into the fabric of the organization. These names belonged to individuals I knew – some acquaintances from the police department, others from the shadowy world of private investigation.
The realization sent a cold wave of dread through me. It wasn’t just a case of organized crime; it was a conspiracy that reached into the very institutions I had trusted, the people I had considered allies. The lines between right and wrong, between friend and foe, had become hopelessly blurred. I was forced to confront the unsettling truth that some of the people I’d interacted with over the years might be complicit, knowingly or unknowingly, in this criminal enterprise.
The weight of this revelation forced me to re-evaluate my approach. I couldn’t just rely on my instincts and investigative skills; I needed a more strategic approach, one that navigated the treacherous waters of betrayal and hidden allegiances. My network of contacts, once a reliable source of information, now seemed unreliable, possibly compromised. Every conversation, every exchange of information, was now fraught with suspicion, a minefield of potential deception…
Get this book at Amazon…
My apartment, usually a sanctuary of quiet solitude, became a temporary forensic lab. The dining table transformed into a command center, littered with maps, photographs, financial records, and transcripts of intercepted phone calls. The air hung heavy with the scent of stale coffee and the lingering aroma of cheap takeout containers. Days bled into nights as I painstakingly organized the evidence, meticulously documenting every detail, creating a comprehensive narrative that would stand up to the scrutiny of the legal system… #BookWorm #Readers #KindleUnlimited #WWWatson #Crime #Noir #Mystery #PrivateEye
The end of life no longer means the end. Now it means the beginning of death. A new type of life. A hunger machine searching… #Zombie #Apocalypse #ZombieApocalypse #ZombieFiction #Readers #Thriller #Drama #Horror
Wastelands One
Her body shook, but her chest did not rise. She had tried to rise several times before one of the cousins had bound her with rope, hand and foot. #Zombie #Apocalypse #ZombieApocalypse #ZombieFiction #Readers #Thriller #Drama #Horror
Wastelands Two
– he could tell from the way her skin stretched too tightly across her face, the way her bones protruded through that skin in places… #Zombie #Apocalypse #ZombieApocalypse #ZombieFiction #Readers #Thriller #Drama #Horror
Fig Street (Glennville Book 1) The year is 1969: In the city of Glennville the streets, even in the poorest of neighborhoods are safe for children to play. But the city has its secrets, and those secrets have their dangers. #Horror #Crime #Fantasy #DellSweet #Series
The “dance hall western whore” stereotype, widely popularized by Hollywood, is a misleading and historically inaccurate portrayal of women working in saloons and dance halls during the American West. While some women did work as prostitutes, a distinct class of entertainer existed whose primary role was to socialize with and encourage men to spend money, not to provide sexual services.
The lives of dance hall girls
Distinct role: In most towns, a clear distinction existed between saloon or dance hall girls and prostitutes, who were sometimes called “soiled doves” or “painted ladies”. A dance hall girl’s job was to dance with lonely men and flirt to encourage them to buy drinks, for which the women received a commission.
A respectable living: In the Old West, where men far outnumbered women, dance hall work offered a respectable and often lucrative path to independence. Some women earned more in a night than a working man did in a month. Many women worked only temporarily before marrying, sometimes to a man they met at the dance hall.
Protection by owners: Saloon owners had a financial interest in protecting their dance hall girls. They often demanded that customers treat the women with respect, and men who harassed or mistreated them could be ostracized or banned from the establishment. Many women carried concealed weapons for self-defense.
Theatrical fashion: In contrast to Hollywood’s revealing costumes, historical dance hall girls wore eye-catching but generally modest clothing. They dressed in bright, frilly dresses with colorful petticoats, often with bodices cut low and shorter hemlines to make dancing easier.
The reality of prostitution
Separate class: Prostitutes occupied a lower class than saloon and dance hall girls, though it could be a higher-paying profession than other limited options for women, such as being a seamstress or laundress.
High risks: Life as a prostitute was far more dangerous, with high risks of violence, disease, addiction, and abuse. They faced social stigma and often died in poverty.
Working conditions: Prostitutes worked in different types of establishments, from high-end parlors run by influential madams to small “cribs” or as streetwalkers. Some madams were highly successful and well-known in their communities.
Societal hypocrisy: Despite being legally outlawed, prostitution was tolerated and even taxed by many Western towns, with brothels often contributing significantly to municipal revenue. “Respectable” women shunned prostitutes, but their husbands often frequented brothels.
In the American Old West, a “dance hall girl” and a “whore” were not the same, though the line could be blurry and the popular image of them has been conflated by Hollywood. The terms describe distinct roles, and not all women working in saloons were prostitutes.
Dance hall girl
Role: A dance hall or saloon girl was primarily an entertainer. Her job was to socialize, dance with male customers, and encourage them to buy drinks. The dance hall earned money from the dance tickets and the drinks the customers purchased, and the girls earned a commission on these sales.
Income: For many women, this was an honest and lucrative profession that provided them with independence in the male-dominated frontier. It was not uncommon for a popular girl to earn more in a single night than a working man did in a month.
Social status: Despite their flirtatious roles, most dance hall girls were not “fallen women.” In fact, some were treated as ladies by their patrons. Many were able to use their work to meet and marry respectable men.
Prostitute
Role: Prostitutes, also known as “soiled doves,” “shady ladies,” or “painted ladies,” engaged in sex work for a living. This was a distinct profession, separate from being a dance hall girl, though the two fields sometimes intersected, particularly in the roughest frontier towns.
Social status: The social hierarchy for sex workers varied. Some worked in more upscale “parlor houses” run by a madame, while others worked independently or in the lowliest “cribs,” small, dilapidated shacks on the outskirts of town. The work was generally more dangerous than being a dance hall girl.
Overlap: Though it was rare for a successful dance hall girl to double as a prostitute, some did. For example, Old West figure Big Nose Kate was a gambler, saloon girl, and prostitute during her life.
Historical nuance
The historical nuance between these roles is often lost in popular media. Hollywood often portrays saloon girls and prostitutes as the same, but for women in the Old West, the distinction was a meaningful one that affected their earnings, working conditions, and social standing. While both occupations were outside the bounds of “proper” Victorian society, the dance hall profession was a legitimate and often profitable job that allowed women to earn a living with dignity.
Try a free look at a book from author W. W. Watson…
Private Investigations 1: A John Rourke Private Detective Story
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The city lights blurred through the rain-streaked windowpane, mirroring the hazy fog in my mind. The Fields case was closed, the invoice sent, but the quiet aftermath felt heavier than any stakeout. It wasn’t the physical exhaustion, though that was considerable. Weeks of sleep deprivation had etched themselves onto my face, in the dark circles under my eyes and the stiffness in my shoulders. No, it was a deeper weariness, a hollowness that gnawed at my soul.
I’d dealt with worse, seen things that would curdle the milk in a saint’s coffee. I’d faced down thugs with shivs, navigated treacherous alleyways, and stared into the eyes of men who wouldn’t hesitate to snuff out a life. But this case… this one was different. It wasn’t the brutality, the violence, or the threat of physical harm; it was the insidious erosion of trust, the slow, creeping revelation of deceit that had left me feeling strangely… violated.
The initial excitement of the chase, the adrenaline rush of the stakeout, the satisfaction of uncovering the truth – all of that had faded, leaving behind a residue of bitterness and disillusionment. Melinda, bless her trusting soul, had confided in me, revealing her vulnerabilities, her fears, her suspicions. I’d sworn an oath, implicit though it was, to protect her, to find the truth, and to bring justice to her situation. But the truth, as it so often does, was far more complicated, far more messy, than I had anticipated.
The truth wasn’t just about Paul Fields’ infidelity; it was about corporate greed, about a web of lies woven by powerful men, about the systematic corruption that festers in the shadows of the city’s glittering façade. And I, a lone wolf in a world of sharks, had been forced to navigate that treacherous terrain, using every tool at my disposal, even the ones that left a bitter taste in my mouth.
I thought about the woman who’d arrived at the neighbor’s house, the unknown variable that had changed everything. Her presence suggested a much deeper conspiracy, a level of intrigue that extended far beyond the personal drama of a cheating husband. The investigation had morphed, evolving from a simple case of infidelity into something far more sinister, far more dangerous. The lines between right and wrong had become increasingly blurred, forcing me to make difficult choices, compromises that continue to haunt me.
The “less-than-savory sources,” as I’d vaguely termed them on the invoice, weighed heavily on my conscience. The favors I’d called in, the debts I’d incurred, were not easily forgotten. These weren’t transactions you could record in a ledger; they were unspoken agreements, exchanges of information and influence that lived in the shadows, their consequences unpredictable. There were whispers in backrooms, hushed conversations in dimly lit bars, and promises made in the dead of night that could come back to haunt me. The city was a labyrinth of such deals, and I, a seasoned traveler of its darker paths, knew the price of admission.
I rubbed my weary eyes, the stale cigarette smoke clinging to the air in my office. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock, each second a tiny hammer blow against the walls of my already fragile composure. The loneliness was crushing; the burden of the case, the weight of the city’s secrets, had pressed down on me, leaving me feeling isolated, estranged even from Joan, my wife.
Joan, ever the anchor in my turbulent life, had borne witness to my late nights and erratic moods. She’d seen the strain etched onto my face, the exhaustion in my eyes, the growing distance between us. She understood the nature of my work, the shadowy corners I inhabited, but she couldn’t fully comprehend the toll it took on me, the way it slowly chipped away at my spirit, leaving me hollowed out and depleted.
I’d tried to explain, to articulate the moral ambiguity of my profession, the subtle betrayals, the compromised ethics. But words failed me. How do you explain the feeling of walking a tightrope between justice and compromise, between the need to earn a living and the desire to uphold some semblance of integrity? How do you convey the weight of a city’s secrets, the burden of its untold stories, the constant threat of danger lurking just beneath the surface?
The pay from the Fields case, while generous, couldn’t compensate for the emotional cost. It couldn’t buy back the sleep I’d lost, the peace of mind I’d sacrificed, the trust I’d begun to question. It couldn’t erase the images seared into my memory – the fleeting glimpse of fear in Melinda’s eyes, the calculated coldness in Paul Fields’ gaze, the sinister smiles exchanged in smoke-filled backrooms.
I lit another cigarette, the match a fleeting flicker in the darkness. The smoke curled upwards, a ghostly representation of my own internal turmoil. The city outside continued its relentless rhythm, oblivious to my struggles, its lights twinkling like distant stars, cold and uncaring. The case was closed, but the emotional aftermath remained, a lingering echo of the shadows I’d navigated, a testament to the price of truth, a price far exceeding the sum on the invoice.
This wasn’t just a case closed; it was a wound that wouldn’t heal easily, a scar etched onto my soul. The investigation had taken more from me than I initially anticipated. It had stolen my peace, my sleep, and a piece of my integrity. The truth was often bitter, leaving a residue of cynicism and distrust. I looked at my reflection in the window, a stranger staring back, weary and worn. The lines on my face seemed deeper, the shadows under my eyes more pronounced. The city lights outside, once a beacon of excitement, now seemed to mock my solitude.
The following days were a blur of paperwork, an attempt to regain some semblance of normalcy in my chaotic life. I responded to other inquiries, trying to immerse myself in the routine of my profession, hoping to distract myself from the emotional turmoil of the Fields case. But the memories persisted, haunting my waking hours and invading my dreams.
One evening, I found myself staring at an old photo of Joan and me, taken years ago, before the weight of the city had begun to bear down on us. We were younger, carefree, our smiles bright and unburdened. The photograph was a reminder of a simpler time, a stark contrast to the grim reality of my life now. The distance between us was palpable, a chasm carved by the relentless demands of my job, by the unspoken burdens I carried within.
I knew I had to make amends, to reconnect with Joan, to bridge the gap that had grown between us. I realized that I needed to share my burdens, to lighten the load I’d been carrying alone. I needed her strength, her compassion, her unwavering belief in me. And maybe, just maybe, with her support, I could begin to heal the emotional wounds inflicted by the Fields case, to find my way back from the shadows and into the light.
The process of healing would be slow, arduous, and require more than just a few nights’ rest. The memories would linger, but I needed to find a way to confront them, to process them, to integrate them into my life rather than let them define it. I needed to confront the moral ambiguities, the compromises I’d made. Was it worth it? The answer wasn’t simple, a clear-cut yes or no. It was a complex equation weighed against the price of justice and the cost of survival. But perhaps in confronting the cost, in acknowledging the pain, I could begin the process of healing. The city, with its darkness and secrets, would always be a part of my existence, but I wouldn’t let it consume me completely. I needed to reclaim my life, my relationships, and my sense of self.
The journey would be long, but I wouldn’t walk it alone. I would lean on Joan’s unwavering strength, her unwavering faith in me. I would find solace in simple things – the warmth of her embrace, the quiet comfort of her presence. I would remember that even in the darkest corners of the city, there was still hope, still light, still the possibility of redemption. And in that hope, I found the strength to move forward, to face the future, one step at a time, one day at a time, one case at a time. The weight of the Fields case would always be a part of me, a stark reminder of the price of truth and justice, but it would not define me. I would choose to define myself – a private investigator, a husband, a man trying to navigate the treacherous waters of life, to find his way back into the light.
The next morning, sunlight, harsh and unforgiving, sliced through the blinds, revealing the dust motes dancing in the air of my cramped office. The lingering scent of stale coffee and cigarettes hung heavy, a testament to another sleepless night. The Fields case, officially closed, continued to gnaw at me, a persistent irritant under my skin. The neat stack of paperwork on my desk, the final invoice, felt like a flimsy shield against the storm brewing inside.
It wasn’t just the moral ambiguity of the “less-than-savory sources” I’d employed; it was the unsettling feeling that something was still amiss, a loose thread dangling in the intricate tapestry of the case. The woman at the neighbor’s house, her face obscured by shadow and distance, had been a phantom, a silent specter haunting my every waking moment. Her arrival, seemingly innocuous, had shattered the neat resolution I’d presented to Melinda, leaving me with a gnawing unease that refused to be silenced.
I reread Melinda’s initial statement, her words painting a picture of a seemingly perfect marriage, cracks subtly appearing only upon closer inspection. Paul, a successful businessman, had been exhibiting increasingly erratic behavior, an odd combination of paranoia and carelessness that had raised her suspicions. He’d been unusually meticulous in checking the locks, adjusting the blinds, and scanning the street from his study window. These weren’t the actions of a man with a clear conscience, but neither did they conclusively point to infidelity.
Then there was the matter of the neighbor’s house, a seemingly ordinary dwelling that had suddenly become the focal point of my investigation. I ran a background check on the property, discovering its owner, a reclusive old woman who rarely left the house, seemingly estranged from her family. The timing of the woman’s visit, coinciding with the apparent resolution of the infidelity angle, sparked a flicker of suspicion that quickly grew into a blazing inferno of intrigue.
Driven by a renewed sense of purpose, I dusted off my contacts, the shadowy figures who operated in the city’s underbelly. These weren’t the kind of people you met in respectable establishments; they frequented dimly lit bars, backroom poker games, and seedy motels, their business conducted in hushed whispers and furtive glances. They dealt in information, secrets, and favors, and their services came at a price.
Private Investigations 1:
The chipped paint on my beat-up Ford was flaking like old skin. The smell of stale coffee clung to the interior like a cheap perfume…
The Streets By Wendell Sweet One evening, I found myself back at the scene of the car accident—the snow-covered road where my life nearly ended. The scars on my body served as tangible reminders of that brutal night; the emotional scars were far deeper. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional rustle of the wind. The cold night air, the harsh sounds of snow crunching under my boots; it all was reminiscent of the night that would nearly cost my life. Standing there, I felt a wave of sadness, a flicker of the old fear, but it quickly subsided. The trauma was still there, woven into the fabric of my being, but it no longer controlled me. I had faced it, processed it, and emerged stronger.#True #NonFiction #Crime #Memoir #Kindle #KU Kindle:
Happy Sunday. It has been a long weekend for me. I suppose that like everyone else I try to cram too many things into the weekend. I always end up with undone items on my weekend list.
Yesterday I ran into an arguer. Some people will listen to what you say, or expect you to listen, and then you can agree to disagree or maybe even enlighten each other and learn something that changes your mind. Arguers on the other hand are never wrong so there is no need at all to back up on what they have said, or apologize, or change their mind or anything other than point out that you are absolutely wrong and then proceed to argue you into submission. Couple that with religious extremism and you have got a formidable opponent. Now not only are they right but the Holy Ghost, Jesus and God himself say so. I know that because I have had them tell me, like the arguer the other day, that the Holy Ghost gives them the words to say. Talks to them. My friend said, Hmm, usually when you have voices in your head it means that you have an illness, usually a mental illness. I agreed.
I would love to go further with this line of thought, but I wont. I will say be who you really are and don’t let people push you around. And don’t waste your time with arguers. You just have to accept the fact that they are not interested in solving the problem, or compromise, they are only concerned with winning. It’s a ME ME ME thing, and so it really has nothing at all to do with you.
I have about a week or two before I am back into full time writing. I have already got the notebooks out and the storyline working. Now that Earth’s Survivors and The Zombie Plagues are splitting there is a lot to write. I have it worked out in my head and that is my start. The rest comes when I sit down and begin to write it in a few weeks. I am really looking forward to it.
I am going to leave you with a free story from the Rapid City stories. This is Two. These are short stories but I have a longer book stuck in my head that I will write someday, and as the Earth’s Survivors and The Zombie Plagues books progress, Rapid City will play a larger and larger part. So one way or the other the story will be written…
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This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual living persons places, situations or events is purely coincidental.
A short foreword. I did not realize when I wrote the original story that there would be interest in it as any more than a good, short read. But, like many of the readers out there, I got caught up in the life of Robert Evans… What was it like? Traveling from town to town? Selling your skill to the highest bidder. I found myself so curious that I sat down to write it out and find out. At the very least this will be a long series of short stories, but it may just turn into a novel with the short stories as a prelude to The true story of Robert Evans life….
Wendell Sweet 01 – 2013
The novel based on this short story is available at Amazon.
Rapid City
The newfound resources provided a small measure of comfort, but the shadow of suspicion and mistrust lingered, a constant threat to their already precarious existence. They had survived the attack, but the war within Rapid City had only just begun, a war fought not with guns and blades, but with suspicion, betrayal, and the relentless erosion of trust. #Dystopian #Apocalyptic #Zombie #KU #Audio #Readers #Listeners #DellSweet
They had come from north of the border. Two men and two women, and they picked up others as they came. They were twenty when they came to the river where it had cut into the floor of the desert and spread out nearly a mile wide.
Near the spot they had decided to build there was a set of rapids that stretched for nearly a mile. So they had named the city Rapid City, half joking, but it had stuck as they had worked to build the city. And city was a kind name. Rapid city, six months later, had been no more than a collection of ten wood sided structures, and the river had moved more than a mile away. Wetlands had formed where the river had been, and they seemed to be slowly turning to swampland.
Ten had died over the last few weeks. The fight, and that was what it was, was taking a toll on them.
On this day, the sun hung straight up in the sky. Dust coated the buildings, the odor from the swamp seemed to hang over the little town like a veil. Gary sat on the front porch of the church and looked out at the little town. His wooden chair leaned back into the wall, feet on the railing. And in the daylight it seemed unreasonable that there could be any such thing as the Un-Dead. It seemed, in fact, completely impossible.
The first few deaths they had not been prepared for. The first had been Gary’s friend Daniel. They had buried him in a small cemetery they had built a mile from the town to bury a few wanderers who had found the town in a half dead state and not lasted long after they did manage to find it. Daniel was the first of their own they had found a need to bury.
They had buried him in the early morning after finding him dead in his bed. It had been a horrific scene. They had thought quite possibly it had been wolves. The windows were open to let in the summer breezes. The wolves, they had seen them out by the swamp, could have easily come through the window. Daniel had been savaged. His throat ripped open. They had buried him in early morning and by that evening twenty six wolves had been dragged back into town. If there were any left they had hidden themselves well.
Then evening had come and the whole world had changed. It was not far into the night when the noises had begun out at the cemetery.
In the desert noises carry a long way. They had been unsure of what the noises meant at first. What they had decided was that there should have been no noise at all out there in the darkness. Six of them had taken their rifles and gone out into the darkness, following the noise to it’s source.
When they had arrived at the cemetery the grave had been opened. But, not just opened. Dug up, and dug up from the inside outward. There was no way they could deny it, although they did until a few nights later when Daniel himself had come back.
It had been deep into the night. Deep. Gary, Mitch and Sam and Freddy had had the watches. The watches, at first, had been to watch for the never ending gangs of murderers and thieves that seemed to be flooding out of the north. The watches by that night, had consisted of nothing more than hanging around in the church building, which was their newest and best built building, and maintaining a presence in the town just in case someone happened into the town in the middle of the night. No one ever had in the last few months.
There was no denial after that night. Daniel had come from the shadows, stinking of the grave, and made a grab for one of the rotting corpses of the wolves that they had meant to drag back out to the swamp earlier in the day but hadn’t gotten to. Gary had seen him clearly. He had turned to the others but it was one of those things where everyone had just happened to be looking in the right direction at the right time. No one had missed it. No one had only partially caught it. When he had turned to them they had been turning to one another. The only that didn’t happen was nobody thought to go for a weapon until a few minuets later. And, even then, they were not sure exactly what they were doing.
They had not caught him that night, but they had caught him the next night when he had killed and was eating Barry Evers in the storage shed behind John Sampsons place. That had been a bad deal, Gary thought now.
Gary had shot him twice. Nothing. He had not even stopped trying to eat Barry’s face. Mitch had stepped up and blew his head off.
Rapid City had no doctor. W had had a veterinarian at the first but he had run off with Freddy’s wife and that was the last we’d seen of him. Together, Gary and the others had looked over the body. And, body it was, and had been for several days. Daniel had died and had somehow not died at the same time. That was the first time Gary and the others had talked about Zombies. Some of the travelers through Rapid city had talked about them, it was the hottest topic, usually. It was supposed that the north was infected with them. But They had never seen one, and they had never discussed them until that night.
As it turned out the Zombies were infesting the swamp. They had buried Daniel for the second time only to find Freddy dead the next morning. His throat ripped open the same way Daniels had been And Mitch had argued for taking his head off. It was the right, the smart thing to do. To make sure he didn’t come back. But they had not. They had not wanted to sink to that level of barbaric depravity. Sam had argued against it and it had not been a hard thing to get behind. But that night when the noise had started they had grabbed their weapons and made for the cemetery
They had found him nearly free of the grave. And there had been more. Six other Un-Dead had been standing close to the grave. Waiting for him.
Before the killing was over they had gotten two of those waiting and Freddy. They had dumped all three into the grave. Mitch had taken a round pointed shovel and severed their heads. It had taken forever and had been about the most gruesome thing Gary had ever seen. But he had been unable to take his eyes off the scene.
Gary tipped his chair forward and stood from the chair as the legs came down on the wooden decking. A rider was approaching on the main street. Gary loosened his pistol from his holster. It was one of those nylon webbed ones. They were all wearing one kind or another now. This was surely not a Zombie but they were down to ten. They were vulnerable on many fronts now. Not just from the undead, but from the living too who seemed to have no problem killing each other for next to no reason at all. A dog. A vehicle. A horse, and horses were becoming major items, but mostly women. Women were the keys. Men could not procreate, women could. True, they could do it with any man. But a man could not do it without a woman at all. Gary had seen many men killed over a woman.
“Right there will do,” Gary told the man in a clear strong voice.
The man stopped the horse in the street but stayed on his mount looking across the short stretch to Gary where he stood on the porch. They were down to ten now. Two men and eight women. It was like the Zombies only wanted the men. Or maybe wanted the men out of the picture.
“Heard this was a peaceable town,” The man said.
“Was… Ain’t now… Now it’s a plague town… You best ride on,” Gary told him.
“I ain’t heard of no plague,” The man said. His eyes were like diamonds looking out from under the brim of his hat. He wore no gun, but a wire stock machine pistol protruded from a scabbard off the saddle.
“You heard of this plague… They call it the plague of the dead… The Un-Dead… Zombies. Call it what you will, you heard of it or you ain’t real… And I can tel you they are real and we got them right here… You don;t even want to think about spending no time here at all.. We been losing a man a night lately…” Gary shifted, rocked on his heels to take the tingling out of his legs. He had sat in the chair too long. His left leg was nothing but pins and needles. He kept his eyes on the man who shifted in his saddle slightly.
“Ain’t real,” He said.
“Uh huh… Got a little cemetery outside a town… Rode right by it.”
“Uh huh… Saw it,” The man agreed.
“Up until a few weeks ago that cemetery was empty. Go tell those dead men Zombies ain’t real.” He stepped forward and spit over the rail into the dust.
Silence held. The dust seemed to settle more fully onto the town. At last the man spoke.
“Any way I’d like a drink… Wouldn’t deny a man a drink, would you,” he asked?
“No I would not. And I will tell you what you do. Point that horse due East out of town. You’ll hit the river and fresh water about a mile out… Ain’t been no fresh water here in months. Drink your fill.”
His eyes seemed to blaze from the brim of his hat. “I believe I’ll remember you, Friend.”
“Good. You do that. Then remember I saved your stupid ass by sending you on your way… Ain’t no way to fight these bastards…” He spit over the rail once more. “We expect to be dead inside of a week… Got about seven hours until full dark. That will put you up in the hills… Ain’t heard of trouble from the Un-Dead up there.”
The stand off lasted a few more minuets in the hot sun and then the man turned his horse and rode away without another word.
Donita waited in the shadows of a building starring at the lights in the church building. They were forty now. Strong. And she was their undisputed leader.
She had undergone many changes on the journey across the wastelands of the west. Her body had finished it’s changes. Her mind had come back to her. And her authority had come more fully to her.
They were forty bot they could have been seventy. She would not stand those who showed the least bit of defiance. With her there was no second chance. There could not be. If defiance was in them it would only grow. If they grew they would become strong. If they became strong she would not be able to control them. If she could not control them they could control her, and she could not abide that. She ruled and bowed down to no one at all.
She took them as babies. When they were lost in the pain and confusion of transition. She killed them. Took their heads and let them continue their journey to the dead. It served a reminder to those with her, but she was not sure it mattered after a time. She had so many that were loyal to her that none could get close to her. And chief among them was the big man she had taken up north, Jeff.
The passage into death took some of what you were. You did not come through it the same. The skin pulled taught upon your bones. The fat stores were gone, and you were reduced to the basics. Not so with the big man. He had come through virtually unchanged. That and the strength that naturally came to them made him the strongest in the group. He was easily stronger than and three of her others; any five breathers. He stood beside her now. Waiting on her orders.
The moon was new in the sky. Still competing with the setting sun. They had set out from the swamp just past twilight. She hoped the breathers were thinking that there was no need to worry until later in the evening when full dark came.
She watched a few seconds longer. They were at their evening meal. They took them together now. Hoping for security in the numbers. Shadows moved on the curtains as she watched. They would be the most vulnerable now, and it was time to end this fight with them. The night before they had killed one of the twins. One of her twins, and they had to pay for that.
She hesitated the briefest of seconds longer, then, as a group, they took the building and the feasting lasted into the early morning hours.
I watched the sunrise on the wall across from me. I could’ve turned but my heart wasn’t in it.
The walls were plywood, scarred, gouged and in need of a coat of paint. But there would be no paint, of that I was sure. Even if it could be found no one would be bothered to take the time to put it on.
The pain was running around in me like a live thing. A ferret gnawing its way out of a burlap sack. It was the biggest thing in my life right now, overshadowing the why and how of me seeing this sunrise and hopefully a few more.
The sun crept a little further up the wall and the shadows in the room began to fall back under the furniture and creep into the corners, This day was coming whether I wanted it or not. Whether I was in any shape to see it or not.
I shifted slightly and the pain became a monster. The wall flickered in my vision and then I was gone, dropping off into a deep, black void…
~
My eyes came open like rusty springs on a screen door, screaming and reluctant. The shadows were coming back down the wall. Maybe I had avoided the day after all. I caught a movement to my right and turned my eyes faster than I should have. Doc Mulberry sat in the gathering shadows, chair tipped back, feet off the floor. He grinned at me when my eyes fell upon him.
“Well, now. If it ain’t Robert Evans, lately of the prettty-close-to-being-dead.” He drawled.
I tried to move my arm and the pain shot back up and into my shoulder like a live wire in the old days of electricity. It lit up the pain in my chest which I had barely even noticed at that point. I swiveled my eyes down to look.
“It’s there,” Doc told me. He quietly lowered the chair to the floor and caught it with his feet.
My eyes found it. I had expected to see a wrapped stump somewhere below my shoulder, at least below the elbow. In fact, I had expected not to wake at all. What I saw was my whole arm. Wrist wrapped. Fingers pale and blue tinged. I recoiled and thrust my arm away despite the pain that caused the gray to seep into the corners of my vision. “What in fu… !”
Doc leaned from the chair and spoke forcefully. “You got the blood in you now…. I left it….” He sat back and waited for me to lie back into the bed.
I cursed, still holding the arm away from my body. But I was tired and the pain was back, and I let it down, resting it once more at my side. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.
“I thought it over,” Doc said in a soft, low voice. “If I’d taken the arm you’d a been done for. You ain’t no one armed gunfighter… I watched you close.. If you’d a started to turn I’d have done you right then. Believe it…” He paused for a bit. Kicked the chair back off the floor and balanced against the wall once more.
“Heart’s still beating… You ain’t dead by a long shot… But, well, you ain’t exactly alive either…”
I rubbed at my eyes. “What made you believe I’d want to live like this?” I took a deep breath, then another. “And what is this anyhow… I mean what is this going to be,” I asked?
“Not a clue,“ the doc answered. He had closed his own eyes I noticed as I looked over at him.
“But you left me this way?”
“I did,” Doc agreed. “But, you got your arm. You can use it. And you can’t hardly tell.”
“You mean the arm don’t look all that bad? I figured you’d at least have to cut a big chunk out of my wrist… Into my arm…”
“That too,” The Doc agreed. “But, no… I wasn’t talking about the arm… You got the blood… It was bound to make some changes… Bound to.”
“Christ on a fuckin’ roller skate… What in fuck are you talkin’?”
He came down hard, the chair legs banging the floor. He reached down and picked up an old plastic cased hand mirror where it lay on the floor next to his chair. “Here,” he said, offering the mirror. “Better take a look.” He stood and walked to me, placing the mirror in my good hand. “Eyes,” he said as he walked back to his chair, tipped it back once more, and balanced against the wall.
The light was low in the room, but more light would not have changed a thing. They eyes that looked back at me from my own head were not my own. Pale white, washed out. Pink at the edges, and a green glow from the center that held silver irises. I blinked and refocused but it made no difference. “Christ,” I groaned.
“I don’t think Christ has got a thing to do with it,” Doc Mulberry told me. “Was a whore… A month or two back… Got bit, same as you. Laid right there in that same bed. Those Goddamned Zombies out to the swamp…” he took a breath, pulled a stubby cigar from his vest pocket. He made them himself: Rolled from tobacco he grew out near the river. He lit it with an old lighter that he somehow managed to keep in fluid. Inhaled and blew out a cloud of blue-gray smoke that drifted up to the ceiling.
“Bad news and don’t even offer me a smoke.”
He flipped me one of the cigars, came off the wall once more. Lit it and then rocked back against the wall. This time balancing the chair. Rocking it with the motion of his feet. “Her eyes turned.. Same as you. I come and stood looking at her… Waiting to see.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. She turned that fast. Nearly got me. Come off that bed as strong as two men…” He inhaled deeply. “Shot her in the head as we struggled against the other wall over there. What a mess that was. Told myself this time I would not take the chance. You ain’t no whore. Had the gun right to your head…”
“Jesus,” I muttered.
He laughed. “Yeah… Yeah… But you never turned… Never did… I can’t tell you why…” He came down on the legs fast once more banging to the floor. “You… You ain’t feeling funny, right? Like.. Like you want to eat me or something… Right?” His hand clutched at his belt but there was no gun there. He glanced over at the dresser where he had left it and I heard him cuss under his breath.
“Doc.. Doc,” I told him. He finally looked over, eyes a little too wide. “I ain’t… I ain’t got no urges… None at all… “Cept an urge to smack the livin’ shit out of you for allowing this at all. What if I had been? Been filled with urges? What the fuck would you have done then?”
He tipped the chair back up. Chewed at the thick stump of cigar and squinted his eyes at me. “Would have got you somehow… Thing is I knew… I knew.” He took a deeper breath. Sucked at the cigar, and the tension seemed to leave him. He took the chair up full and balanced against the wall full.
“Chest hurts more than it did when I got shot,” I said, changing the subject.
“Flesh wound… Bad bullet… Probably made it himself. Wonder it even went in… Dug it right out with a rusty pocket knife.”
“Prick,” I said.
He laughed. “Well anyhow. You ain’t fit to travel for a day or three.”
I nodded. “What about some whiskey,” I asked?
“Sent Milly locke over for some when it became clear you was coming out… She’ll be back any minuet, I expect.”
I nodded and let the silence hold. Watching the shadows deepen in the room. “So what goes now,” I asked?
Doc shook his head. “I do not know, Robert. I do not know,” he told me.
Wendell Sweet wrote his first fiction at age seventeen. He drove taxi and worked as a carpenter for most of his life. He began working on the internet in 1989 primarily in HTML, graphics and website optimizations.
He is a Musician who writes his own music as well as lyrics. He is an Artist accomplished in Graphite, Pen, and Electronic media. He has written more than twenty books and several dozen short stories.
The city sprawled beneath him, a glittering tapestry woven with threads of ambition and illuminated by a million indifferent stars. From the aerie of his penthouse, high above the cacophony of the streets, Vinny LaRosa surveyed his kingdom. It wasn’t a kingdom of stone and mortar, but of shadow and influence, a sprawling, illicit empire that pulsed with a life of its own. The lights weren’t just streetlamps and neon signs; they were signals, markers of territories controlled, deals brokered, and lives manipulated. Each flicker was a testament to his reach, a silent acknowledgment of the power he wielded. This was the zenith, the apex of his ascent, a plateau of opulence built on a foundation of calculated ruthlessness and an almost supernatural understanding of the human appetite for both order and chaos. #Crime #Fiction #Amazon #KU #Kindle #WGSweet #Mafia #Organizedcrime
