“A middle-aged man with graying blond hair sat in the driver’s seat, one hand resting on the bottom of the steering wheel, the other resting on his thigh. An open billfold was in his bloody lap. His head was tilted down, like he was checking the speedometer, and his mouth was open. His gold-framed glasses were slightly crooked on his nose. His face was pale and creamy. His eyes were open wide. Bulging. A cartoon character who just saw a ghost. Small-caliber, low-velocity slugs rudely entering the skull will do that.”
Detective Heber Parkins is the Clark County Sheriff’s Department’s outcast, the lead man in its “leper colony,” the guy who collects the anonymous victims of the most anonymous town of them all, the “trash man.” Then he’s assigned to investigate the murder of the partner of the man who operates the classiest club on the Strip. Joey’s Place. Is he being set up to fail? Play the cat’s paw? He doesn’t care. It’s his first real case in years and it draws him into a struggle that will determine the future of Las Vegas.
I feel fortunate to have a roster of readers who not only enjoy crime fiction but also know a great deal about Las Vegas in September 1970. If you would like a review copy, please contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org
“You wanted to see me?” Heber said.
The little man looked up and appraised him like he was meat on the hoof. Those close-set eyes were as dark as coal. Death itself was in those eyes.
Heber took a step back. He wondered if he’d have to dig his own grave. Planted in a desert forested with forgotten ghosts.
Finally, the little man smiled and said, “Yes, young man. I did wish to see you.”
Heber badged the security guard at the employee entrance and used a service corridor leading to the casino. He tipped his hat to the showgirls headed for the Crystal Room as they passed. On stage, they looked gorgeous. Up close, they looked tired. He heard one say that her feet would never survive the midnight show.
(from “Joey’s Place,” coming soon as an e-book)
He looked around. Turned his hat in his hands by its brim. He didn’t want to stand here in the foyer and tell them that nothing would ever be the same again. That Mr. Wallace was just cooling meat now, manhandled downtown by people who didn’t know or care about you or your kids or your sisters and brothers. Just another inconvenient stiff making them work late, keeping them from that cold beer, TV dinner, and the six o’clock news.
(from “Joey’s Place,” coming as an e-book December 2013)