The Day Elvis Died - short story

It's August 16th, and I just saw the headline: The Day Elvis Died. Though it was forty-seven years ago, I vividly remember what I was doing and where I was when I heard the news. I was thirty-one at the time and had recently undergone a divorce from my first wife, Gail.

I was on a lonely east Texas blacktop road about twelve miles from Linden, where Don Henley of the Eagles grew up. On that day in 1977, I was on the run. From a couple of girlfriends and not the law.

I was single, working as a geologist for Texas Oil & Gas, and experiencing freedom for the first time in seven years (the duration of my first marriage.) As an oil and gas geologist, I developed drilling prospects. I thought them up, put my ideas on paper, and Texas Oil & Gas drilled them.

In 1977, Texas Oil & Gas was the most active driller in the U.S. They had offices in several cities, and Oklahoma City was where most of their wells were generated. In Oklahoma City, I was the number one prospect generator and, at least in my mind, was the Prospect King of the World.

I know! I probably did more damage to the earth than any hundred people. I was very good at what I did and didn't know any better. Did I mention it was the height of the Disco Era? Women were burning their bras; I was on what seemed an unlimited expense account, had a company car, and felt invincible. After seven years of marriage, which included a stint in Vietnam, I was still naïve about relationships.

I had a girlfriend named Carol, a gorgeous blond lease broker who smoked marijuana and was familiar with many illegal drugs. She was also the wildest woman I had ever met. I'm talking sex, riding motorcycles at breakneck speeds-anything dangerous. I was in lust for her.

TXO, as Texas Oil & Gas was known, had many good-looking secretaries. Nowadays, fraternization among employees is not a wise idea and probably wasn't even then. It mattered little because an attractive brunette named Gayle had her sights on me. We finally had a dinner date and ended up at her house, where her two small sons precluded us from anything other than heavy petting. She said she would visit my apartment next night and rectify the problem. Her visit didn't disappoint and left me in a quandary.

Too much water under the bridge precludes me from remembering how Gayle and Carol got crosswise, although they somehow did. Being the coward I am, I fled Oklahoma City for the weekend, hoping things would cool while I was away. My parents lived in northwest Louisiana, and I headed there instead of facing the wrath of two beautiful women. It was on my trip south when I heard the news of Elvis's imminent demise.

Forty-seven years have passed, and Carol and Gayle are in my rearview mirror. Memories are almost forgotten notes in a never-ending chord progression, and I still remember them. Carol and Gayle are like unfinished symphonies whose melodies linger forever in the recesses of my brain.

Authors and prospect geologists have one thing in common: they are both paid liars. And me? I'm still at it, though my days as a bedroom Casanova are now largely in my dreams.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You can also check out his Facebook page.

Cities of the Dead-a New Orleans short story

INTRODUCTION

I’ve long been a fan of short stories and penned my first attempt at the genre when I was only ten. I continued writing short fiction during high school and college, though none of the stories managed to survive the years. I can’t remember when I wrote my first short story featuring French Quarter sleuth Wyatt Thomas, but it was long before the publication of Big Easy in 2006. Once I started, I found it all but impossible to stop.

~SPOILER ALERT~

When I decided to write Big Easy, my first novel-length French Quarter Mystery, I did so by combining parts of three New Orleans’ short stories: Cities of the Dead, Voodoo Nights, and Pontchartrain. If you haven’t read Big Easy and are considering doing so, then you should probably start it first before reading Cities of the Dead.

If you’ve already read Big Easy, then you might get a kick out of Cities of the Dead as it’s different in many ways than the side-story in the novel.

Cities of the Dead

Darkness draped Rue St. Ann as throngs of French Quarter tourists crowded the entrance to a Creole townhouse. Heat radiating from the stoop bothered Lieutenant Tony Nicosia. He mopped his brow as he watched paramedics remove two stretchers from the premises. The old man occupying one of the stretchers didn't notice the heat.

*  *  *

It started with Buddy DeJan's wake. Buddy was nearing seventy when a heart attack claimed him in his sleep. His wife Foxy called a wake for him at their house, near the spot where the Mississippi River meets the Gulf—the literal end of the road. I attended the wake with Buddy's cousin, Bertram Picou. As lights disappeared in our rear-view mirror, sub-tropical vegetation and endless splay channels gradually replaced them. Soon, there was no sense of civilization at all as scrub oak and cypress knobs replaced jazz and musty mortar.

Distraught over his cousin's death, Bertram tippled Cuervo and sniveled all the way from the City. Having my own memories of Buddy and little patience for Bertram's stories I'd heard all before, I stared out the window, trying to block out his mindless chatter. When we reached the wake, his bottle was already empty.

Foxy and Buddy lived in a fishing camp beside a murky channel that snaked into the Gulf. Wooden stilts raised their house above a soggy yard marked by muskrat hides, catfish bones, and flat-bottomed fishing skiffs. By midnight, the occasion had turned festive, with Bertram leading the charge. A black dress swathed Foxy DeJan’s large frame. She had long since discarded her shawl of mourning. Like many of the mourners crowding the room, she clasped a half-empty glass of bourbon in her hand.

Black crepe-paper draped the front door, and clocks were stopped to coincide with the time of Buddy's passing. All mirrors faced the wall. Lying in his mahogany coffin, Buddy seemed more resplendent than in life. I slipped out of the house, seeking solitude in the darkness below. My trance shattered abruptly when someone tapped my shoulder.

“I didn't mean to startle you,” the young woman said.”

“Guess I was thinking about Buddy.”

“I see that. I'm Celeste Duples. Mr. DeJan and my Father were distant cousins.”

“Wyatt Thomas,” I said. “I didn't know Buddy had any relatives named Duples. You from around here?”

“I grew up in Philadelphia with my mother. Now I live in Starkville. Daddy sells real estate. I teach at the college there. And you?”

“I have a place in the Quarter and do odd jobs for people.”

“Such as?”

“Look up this. Research that. Most anything to earn a buck.”

I stepped into the beam of the floodlight suspended from the roof. Celeste's green eyes sparkled in the light. She was tall, fully five-eight, and had jet black hair and an olive complexion that left little doubt of her French Acadian ancestry.

“This wake seems so strange to me.”

“Ritual,” I said. “A mixture of Catholic, Protestant, and Judaism, with a smidgen of black magic from Africa and voodoo from Haiti.”

Dueling strains of mandolin and accordion, saturating the damp air with a Cajun melody and silencing the chorus of frogs, floated down the stairs. A shooting star streaked across the sky, disappearing over the horizon.

“Buddy's wake will be a party before morning.”

“I won't last that long,” Celeste said.

“I wish I could leave, but I rode down with one of Buddy's closest cousins. He won't stop grieving till he OD's on Cuervo.”

My description of Bertram's alcoholic inclinations amused Celeste. Leaning closer, she said, “We'll take you back.”

I needed very little persuasion. After paying my last respects, I joined Celeste and her father in the driveway. He had the same strange last name as his daughter, and she called him Maurice.

Celeste's maroon convertible left no chance for conversation. The breeze it produced was welcome after the smoky wake. I'd recently moved into an apartment over Bertram's bar. When Celeste and her father dropped me off, I didn't expect to see them again. I was wrong.

***

Lady, Bertram's collie licked my hand, relieving any guilt about missing Buddy's funeral. Next morning I opened the bar for him, even managing to turn a small profit. Bertram showed up at noon. Hung-over and head pounding, he went straight to his apartment in back. I kept working until five when Maurice Duples strutted through the front door.

Back-dropped by bright sunlight, he seemed different from the man whose shoulder I had pressed all the way back to the City. Although still wearing the same tweed sports coat, he had changed pants, shirt, and shoes. Now he sported combed gray hair and a fresh shave and greeted me by squeezing my hand in a vice-like grip.

“I was hoping I'd find you here,” he said.

“Bertram's under the weather. I help out when I can.”

“Celeste said you were a good man.”

Celeste's praise secretly pleased me. “You aren't here to commend me on my benevolence. What can I do for you?”

Surprised by my directness, Duples gazed around Bertram's bar. “Celeste says you know a lot about New Orleans burial rituals.”

“No more than anyone else in the City.”

“Am I correct in thinking you make a point in knowing things others don't?”

“Maybe.”

“Several people at Buddy's wake told me so. I’d like to visit a grave and thought you might be of assistance. I have no earthly idea where to find it.”

“Then you're in trouble,” I said. “The city has dozens of cemeteries.”

“Precisely why I need your help. I'll pay your fee.”

He sat on a stool and sprawled his elbows on the zinc countertop. Exhaling, he rested his head in his hands.

He smiled when I said, “You look like you could use a drink.”

Maurice Duples was tall and slender. Thirty-five or forty years older than his daughter Celeste. I guessed his age at sixty-five or seventy.

“Red wine,” he said.

When I set the glass in front of him, he seemed almost asleep, his left hand dangling off the counter. Lady's warm tongue revived him, and he patted her head before sipping his wine.

“Interesting place,” he said, noting the severed ties, bras, panties and other intimate undergarments draped from the ceiling and mirror behind the bar.

“New Orleans is an easy place to lose your inhibitions.”

Duples smiled for the first time since I'd met him. “Celeste was conceived here. During a particularly eventful Mardi Gras.”

“She said you live in Mississippi.”

“Born in New Orleans. My mother worked for a man named Duplessis. We lived with his family until she died. An aunt from Starkville took me in. I never knew my father or mother's burial place. I'm desperate to find her grave. Will you help me?”

I topped up his glass and said, “Anything else you remember about New Orleans?”

“Is that a yes?”

“Look, Mr. Duples, you don't need me. If you know your mother's name and her approximate date of death, you can go over to the Notarial Archives in the basement of the District Court and find where she's buried.”

“Tried that already. The two investigators I hired found nothing. If you can't help me, I don't know where I'll turn.”

“Why don't you tell me everything you remember and I'll do my best to help you.”

The look of desperation melted from Duples' face. When he latched on to my hand with both of his, I had the sudden sensation I was saving a drowning man.

“Thank you, Mr. Thomas, thank you.”

I poured myself a glass of lemonade from the stash under the counter and said, “Let's go to a booth and talk.”

Duples and Lady followed me to the back of Bertram's bar. Most of Bertram's regulars never appeared before nine or ten at night. The place was empty.

“Now tell me what you remember.”

“Nothing much,” he said. “I was eleven when they buried her. Guess I’ve blocked most of the details from my memory.”

“Rest your head and relax. Close your eyes and focus on the muscles in your face. Imagine you have a warm towel resting there.”

Maurice Duples followed my suggestions, soon sinking into a low-grade trance. I continued speaking in modulated tones until his breathing and heart rate reduced to barely a whisper.

“You're a child again, at your mother's funeral. Tell me what you see.”

Duples began reciting in the high-pitched voice of an eleven-year-old.

“Rows of rectangular structures topped with crosses and Greek statues. Beautiful flowers with colors and smells you can almost feel, amid wide streets separating the structures. I see an impatient horse, snorting and kicking up grass with his hoof. He's pulling a black carriage. It's almost like a city. Everyone is crying, and dressed in black.”

“Is there a special statue you see, or maybe a nearby name you can read? Anything specific you remember?”

“Yes,” Duples said. “Hundreds of x marks on one of the structures.”

Bingo. Having all I needed, I woke Duples from his trance.

“Amazing,” he said. “I feel wonderful. Better than I have in years. And I remember things now.”

“You never really forgot. You just had them blocked.”

By now, Bertram was awake and cleaning up the bar with a wet rag. A few afternoon patrons straggled in, along with a curious sightseer or two. A street band, hoping to evoke donations from the throng of tourists filing into the French Quarter, fired up a hot jazz number outside. Maurice Duples was smiling.

“I haven't visited the cemetery since Mother's funeral. Now, I remember it vividly. It was almost like a little town, with rows of houses and narrow streets.”

“That's why they're called Cities of the Dead. Since much of New Orleans is below sea level, the water table is close to the surface. Before the City set up a drainage system, the only recourse was to bury their dead in a puddle of water, or else above ground.”

“You said you knew where to find my mother's grave.”

“I know exactly where it is, in the St. Louis Cemetery # 1, over on Basin Street.”

“Pardon my skepticism, Mr. Thomas. How can you be so sure?”

“Number One is the oldest cemetery in the City. Many famous people are buried there—Etienne Bore, father of the sugar industry, and Homer Plessy, to name a couple. You may remember the pivotal cemetery scene from Easy Rider. It was filmed in the St. Louis # 1.”

Duples didn't seem to know about Easy Rider or the two names I'd mentioned.

Homer Plessy?”

“Plessy v. Ferguson. An 1892 Supreme Court decision establishing separate-but-equal Jim Crow laws for blacks and whites in the South.”

“Sorry,” Duples said. “I'm in real estate, not a first-year law student.”

Biting my tongue, I refrained from asking if he could read. Instead, I continued my explanation.

“Many of the rich and notables had expensive and ornate tombs built for their families. It's not uncommon to see forty-foot tall Greek statuary or tons of carved and polished stone. I was hoping you would remember a landmark tomb.”

“But I didn't.”

“Yes, you did. You remembered seeing the most famous tomb in New Orleans—the crypt of Marie Laveau, queen of voodoo.”

Light from the jukebox reflected off Duples’ deep green eyes.

“Take me there.”

“We'll go tomorrow.”

Duples folded his arms and shook his head. “I won't wait another day. Let’s go now.”

“Impossible. It's near the Iberville Project and crime is rampant there. Even tomorrow we'll need to go with a group.”

“Not on your life, Mr. Thomas. I have a thousand dollars. It's yours if you take me now. If you don't, I'll find someone else who will.”

Before I could answer, the educated voice of Celeste sounded from behind us.

“Such wild expressions on your faces, you both look ready to fight.”

***

After leaving Duples' irresistible money with Bertram for safe-keeping, I accompanied Maurice and Celeste up Basin Street, past the Project to the St. Louis Cemetery # 1. Although closed to the public for the night, I knew the location of the caretaker's entrance. Duples had armed me with two vital bits of information: the probable location of his mother's grave and the name of a shadowy figure from his past. Arthur Duplessis was still alive, living on St. Ann's. Duples could look him up after we visited the grave.

Last glimmers of the sun had disappeared over the trees as we opened a wrought-iron gate and entered the City of the Dead. Dormant pigeons roosting in eaves around the tombs barely budged as we passed. Bats strafed our heads with wildly beating wings. Up the street, a tomcat's screech momentarily silenced the cooing of pigeons.

Apparently unaware of our possible danger, Celeste sported a blissful smile on her pretty face. “If Marie Laveau's grave is unmarked, then how did you know Daddy saw it?”

“Because it's covered with freshly-chalked x’s. The superstitious believe if you make a wish, along with marking an x on the grave, your wish will come true.”

Celeste squeezed my hand. “What do you believe?”

“That we should find your grandmother's grave and get the hell out of here.”

“Is it that dangerous?”

Her question went unanswered. By now it was dark, with only dim fluorescent street light and the powerful beam from my flashlight illuminating our path. We barely noticed two men as they appeared from the shadows in front of us.

“Well, what do we have here? Grave robbers or midnight mourners?” one of the men asked.

 Several missing teeth made his accent even more incomprehensible. It didn't stop his companion from laughing at the joke. His laughter died away when we tried to walk around them. They were big, mean and ugly. Even worse, both men had switchblades.

“Where you think you're going?” the leader said, digging his knuckle into my breastbone.

To my surprise, Celeste knocked the man's hand away with the palm of her hand.

“Leave us alone. This is a public place.”

Celeste's anger brought an even greater outburst of laughter from the two men.

“Looky here Biggs. We got ourselves a sassy one.”

“Jackson, we surely do.”

“You heard the lady,” I said. “I'm an off-duty cop. Make trouble with us at your own risk.”

I forced as much authority into my voice as I could and it had some effect. Biggs and Jackson both took half-steps backward. The NOPD is notorious. That's spelled b–a–d, with a capital B. The force had even turned back a group of Hell's Angels at the City limits, preventing them from attending and disrupting Mardi Gras. I was counting on my bluff to get us safely out of the cemetery. Something else saved us instead.

Two pistol shots fired directly behind my head almost caused me to lose my lemonade. Diving for the turf, I wrestled Celeste down with me.

“Run or I'll blow your heads off, you lice-infested ghouls.”

 It was Maurice Duples, screaming like a banshee and firing an old German Luger into the air. Biggs and Jackson didn't wait around. They took Celeste's smile with them and she trembled as I helped her up. Sirens wailed in the distance. They weren't coming our way.

“Are they gone?” she asked.

“Yes. Now let's get out of here.”

“Not until I see my mother's grave.”

Celeste and I stared at her father's eyes, now wildly green amid dim light from the street.

Celeste continued to shake. When I put my arm around her, my own racing heart did little to abate her chill.

“This is frightening your daughter. I'll bring you back tomorrow. And what are you doing with that gun?”

“It saved our lives. Go on, if you're so frightened. And take Celeste with you. I'll find the grave by myself.”

When I nudged Celeste toward the street, she shook her head. “We can't leave him here by himself.”

“He has the gun,” I reminded her.

Celeste ignored my comment.

Maurice Duples struck out alone, trudging blindly along the path lined with broken shells. Celeste and I followed after him. We weren't far from Marie Laveau's grave when Duple's demented yell pealed through the cemetery.

“Here it is!”

We found him squatting by a large tomb bedecked with faded marble, and statues of Greek gods. Celeste knelt beside him, her hands on his shoulders.

“What is it, Daddy?”

“The name,” he said. “It's not our name. Someone removed my mother's remains from her grave. Why would anyone do that to her?”

Duples was possibly correct. During the plague years of the 1800s, with cemetery space at a premium, residents often sold or bartered tomb rights to the more prosperous. This practice continued until recent times, bones being moved hither and yon, often to who-knows-where. Strangely, the names of Arthur and Megan Duplessis were engraved in stone on the tomb, their deaths as yet unrecorded. The couple Maurice and his mother had lived with had apparently taken her grave.

Probably a mistake,” I said. “We'll check the Notarial Archives tomorrow.”

After helping Maurice and Celeste to their feet, I pointed the flashlight back from where we had come. It reflected off of Marie Laveau's grave. Celeste stopped beside it. Maurice and I watched as she took a fragment of chalk from the sidewalk, closed her eyes and made a large x on the side of the tomb.

***

I tossed and turned after finally making it to bed, somehow sensing the night had yet to end. It hadn't. At midnight I received a frantic call from Celeste.

“Daddy's gone crazy. He went storming out of here with his pistol to find Arthur Duplessis.”

“Meet me at the corner of Bourbon and St. Ann,” I said, pulling on my pants. “Just down the street from your hotel. I'll be there in ten minutes.”

We found the door to the Duplessis townhouse on St. Ann open and entered without knocking. Duples stood braced against the wall, pointing his pistol at an old man in a rattan wheelchair. A ratty Afghan draped the man's legs and he showed no fear. His face was contorted in a crooked grin every bit as deranged as Duples'.

Duples waved his gun at us in a menacing fashion. Remembering the incident at the cemetery, I pinned Celeste against the wall with the back of my arm. Duplessis spoke, returning Maurice's attention to the center of the room.

“You wanna kill me? Go ahead. I'm ninety next month,” he said, giving his useless legs a hard slap with the flat of his hand. “I already done more living than any three men.”

“I'll kill you, all right, but not before you tell me why you moved my mother's remains.”

 “You crazy? Who are you, anyway?”

 “Maurice Duples. My mother's name was Emeline, but you already know that.”

Arthur Duplessis's rheumy old eyes glimmered with sudden recognition in the light of the suppressed overhead bulb.

“You about a dumb one, you. You mama was a whore over in Storyville until they bulldozed the place to the ground.”

“You're a liar.”

“Don't call your own father a liar.”

Duples opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Outside the door, a horse-drawn carriage clomped by on the street. It was followed by a dog howling over near the Iberville Project.

“Don't look so surprised,” Duplessis said. “You think your name was Duples all these years? What kind of dumb name is that? You mama was my whore and you're my bastard boy.”

Duplessis howled with laughter and it drew into a hacking cough. When the coughing abated, he started to speak but never got the words out. A terrific blast rocked the room, knocking the old man out of his wheelchair and blowing him against the wall.

Celeste and I turned to Maurice Duples but he looked every bit as stunned as we were. Both barrels of a twelve-gauge shotgun had blasted Duplessis. A gray-haired old woman, dressed in tattered silk, stood tall and without emotion. She was still clutching the smoking gun.

“He's the bastard, not you. I should have killed him twenty years ago. He kept your mama and others like her. He never gave a whit for my feelings or theirs.”

Megan Duplessis let the shotgun slide to the floor and crossed the room to where stunned Maurice stood, still braced against the wall. When she touched his cheek, he dropped the pistol to the floor.

“I want you to know, your mama's still in that tomb. The old man just had her bones pushed to the back of the vault. I raised you as my son until the old man sent you away to Mississippi.”

She went to her fallen husband, kneeling and giving his lifeless cheek a final kiss before clutching her heart, gasping once and sinking to the floor beside him.

***

Lieutenant Tony Nicosia gave me a go-to-hell look when he and the NOPD finally arrived. Between stilted explanations, deftly omitting why we were there in the first place, I spirited Maurice Duples' pistol off the floor and into my jacket. Arthur and Megan ranked high in the City's elite. Because of this, the police would conveniently overlook the fact that the old man had died from a shotgun blast. His death, subsequently resulting in Megan's untimely heart attack, would go down as accidental.

Other than some puritanical need to punish Maurice for his temporary insanity, I saw no reason to involve him further in his father’s death. New Orleans has few Puritans. I wasn't one of them. While escorting Maurice and his daughter to the hospital to attend Megan Duplessis, Celeste informed me the real reason I covered up for her father.

“The x I made on Marie Laveau's tomb. I wished my father would find out about his family so his bad memories would go away. And I wished for a happy ending.”

Watching Maurice hold Megan Duplessis’ hand in the back of the ambulance, I realized Celeste had gotten her wish.

####

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.

Something Terrible - The Bombing of Alfred P. Murrah

Years ago, I wrote a short story called Prairie Justice. I had almost forgotten the story and found it again, recently, while deleting unnecessary files from my computer. As I reread and re-edited the story, details of why I wrote it in the first place flooded my brain.

The year was 1995. During April of that year, a madman blew up the Alfred P. Murrah Building, killing 168 innocent victims, including many children in daycare there. Anne, my wife then, was a fledgling lawyer, having gone to law school late in life (mid-forties). She partnered with Becky S., and we were about to move into our new offices when the bomb exploded.

I had returned home from an early-morning dentist’s appointment. I found Anne sobbing uncontrollably.

I was puzzled because Anne was a trooper. Despite all the bad things that had happened to us, I don’t recall having ever seen her cry. When I saw her that morning, she was crying like a baby.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Something terrible has happened.”

We turned on the TV to a local news station. Their helicopter was heading downtown to check out an explosion that had rocked the city.

“There’s lots of smoke coming from one of the buildings. I think it’s the Federal Building,” the chopper pilot said.

A cameraman was taking pictures. Except for the smoke, the front of the building looked normal. We watched as the chopper circled around the building. When the camera focused on what remained of the north side of the building, Anne and I gasped in disbelief.

“Oh my God!” the pilot said. “Oh my God!”

Days passed, and then weeks. The bombing was like a blow to the head for the entire City. It became all too common to be talking to someone, and suddenly have them dissolve into tears, blurting out some heart-wrenching story they’d kept bottled inside for far too long. Everyone had a story. Everyone was affected.

Shortly after the bombing, Becky sent Anne to interview a deadbeat, druggie client that had been put in jail for beating his wife.

“You may think he’s scum, but he deserves his day in court. He’s your client so treat him with respect, no matter how you feel about him in your heart,” Becky counseled.

Anne and I left Oklahoma City early one morning, heading west to El Reno, the Canadian County seat. I can’t even remember why we stopped there, but I remember the courthouse facilities and the historic town well. Leaving El Reno, we passed a Las Vegas-style bingo hall in nearby Concho. Gambling was in its infancy in Oklahoma. Sixteen years later, it’s rampant.

We drove through the tiny town of Okarche, to Eischen’s Bar. The longest continuously operating bar in Oklahoma was shut down at the time because of a flash fire. We made it to Enid shortly before lunch, finding the correction’s facility ensconced in an old neighborhood.

The jailers brought Doug (that was his first name) into a visitor’s room, wearing an orange jumpsuit, shackled in leg irons, handcuffs and a belly chain. I watched from a distance as Anne talked with him for about half an hour. Wearing her own shackles of lawyer/client privilege, she never told me what they talked about.

Later that night, I wrote Prairie Justice, a short story featuring Buck McDivit, a character that had suddenly invaded my mind. The story is about a crooked oilman and mirrors a real oilman responsible for the bankruptcy of the oil company Anne and I started from scratch. Most of the description in the story actually occurred.

Years have passed since I wrote Prairie Justice. Anne died three years after the Murrah bombing. I wrote Ghost of a Chance, my first Buck McDivit novel, some years later. It was published in 2005. The scar of the 1995 Oklahoma City Bombing has faded. Tears streamed down my face as I wrote this story. Buck McDivit is now a real person to me. The Murrah Building scar has faded, and people no longer sob during normal conversation. Maybe, but the bombing still rests like a red blotch on my soul, as I’m sure it does for everyone that experienced that sad day.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.

Night at the Triple X - a short story

It’s been said that the biggest sex organ in the body is the brain. Years ago, I had reason to confirm that claim.

Miss Carol and I were a number, but we were beginning to get on each other’s nerves. She was smart, confident and good looking. I was simply young and dumb. Even though we worked in the same industry, the biggest attraction we had for each other was sex, pure and simple.

Six months had passed in our relationship, and the attraction had begun to wane. Both of us, it seemed, was searching for a way to let the other down easy. My friend Joel was in town from Colorado and staying with me. I was divorced, but my ex and I had not yet sold our house. We were taking turns staying there until we found a buyer.

Miss Carol’s friend Miss Ann took Joel with her to one of our favorite bars. Miss Carol and I were supposed to join them. It was Friday night, Miss Carol a lease broker who had just returned to town from a week of checking records in Roger Mills County, had been doing her thing during that time, and I mine.

“I just want to go home and go to bed,” she said.

“What about Joel and Miss Ann?” I asked.

“They don’t need us,” she said.

“Let’s drive over anyway. Joel can ride back with me, and Miss Ann can take you home.”

“Fine,” she said, “But I’m not staying.”

On the way to the club, I caught a whiff of her perfume and suddenly remembered why I liked her so much. We were on 10th street, an area in Oklahoma City populated by strip bars and seedy hole-in-the-walls. About that time, we passed a stand-alone X-rated movie theatre.

“Have you ever seen a porn movie?” I asked.

“I’m not ten,” she said.

On a whim, I pulled into the parking lot. “Let’s go in.”

Miss Carol grinned. She was trying to dump me but had just enough kink to consider my offer.

“Okay, Perv,” she said. “You’ll say uncle before me.”

The XXX Theatre was a single-storied building with a very dark lobby. We purchased two tickets from the disinterested ticket puncher who had likely seen it all before. The theater was small and dark and smelled like urine. A naked man and an equally unclad woman were going at it on the screen.

There were probably ten patrons in the theater. All weirdos and not people you’d want to call friends. Miss Carol and I found an empty aisle and settled in to watch the movie. The couple on screen was performing every sex act imaginable, complete with grunts, groans, moans, and even a few screams.

As I began getting into the flick, I put my hand between Miss Carol’s legs, groping her most private parts, fully expecting a slap in the face. Instead, she began licking my neck. Before long, we both had our jeans pulled down to our knees, helplessly locked in the throws of hot, mindless sex right there in the middle of an x-rated theater, surrounded by perverts with their own pants down to their knees. We were shocked back to reality by a raspy voice.

“Real sex ain’t allowed in here. Take it outside, or I’ll have to call the cops,” the man from the ticket booth told us.

I was having trouble discerning the difference between real sex and sex on the screen as we headed for the lobby. Didn’t really matter, faces burning and buttoning our jeans as we went. We were both still hot. Hell! My head was about to explode! I was all over Miss Carol soon as the doors of my car closed. She was as hot as I was, and I’m not sure who was all over whom. Our passion continued, the windows steaming like a sauna when someone tapped on the door. It was a cop. He wasn’t smiling.

“Take it to the house, and I mean now.”

Our ardor hadn’t waned when we made it home, spending the rest of the night locked in hot passion. Joel interrupted our ardor, knocking on the door around two in the morning. I let him in and quickly returned to the bedroom without bothering to hear the story he wanted to tell me.

Do I recommend a triple-X experience? I’ll just say this. It won’t save a relationship, but it’ll sure make for unforgettable memories. Miss Carol and I broke up shortly after our night of red-hot passion. My lust had dissolved and my brain again able to add two and two and not come up with five.

END

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.

Blue Norther - a short story

Horror becomes reality when a dark stranger rings the doorbell during a winter snowstorm.

Blue Norther

Dark clouds of an approaching Blue Norther gathered outside the window as Linda watched her husband pace worried circles around their living room.

"Please, Ted, don't go out tonight. The weather's awful and getting worse by the minute."

Ted stopped pacing and frowned. "No option. Big meeting at the bank."

"Friday night at seven?

Both Ted and Linda glanced up at their precocious nineteen-year-old daughter Britta. One year beyond high school graduation, she still lived with them. She glanced over the balcony, naked except for a pair of lacy panties.

Linda said, "Britta! Put some clothes on."

Britta returned to her room with one of her father's starched white shirts over the panties.

"Hot date, Dad?"

Britta's jesting implication caused Linda's gaze to return to the pot on the stove. Ted didn't seem to mind.

"I have an important meeting at the bank, young lady."

"Even Gramps wouldn't call a meeting on a night like this."

"Your grandfather may own the bank, but he doesn't run it any longer. I'm president now. I call the meetings when I see fit."

"Whoa!" Britta squealed.

"Have you done your homework?"

"I graduated a year ago, Mom. Remember?"

"Just being facetious."

"I have a date tonight with Freddy."

"You can't go out in this awful weather. I won't allow it."

"I'm nineteen. I make my own decisions now. Remember?"

"As long as you live here you should at least listen to your mother."

"Dad, will you please tell her to stuff it?"

Ted glanced at his watch before replying. After winking at his daughter, he said, "Britta's a grown woman. Cut her a little slack."

"Thanks, Dad," Britta said, blowing him a kiss and disappearing into her room before Linda could protest.

Ted cracked the curtain and peeked out the window.

"Can you fix me a drink?" he said.

Linda swallowed her annoyance on the way to the liquor cabinet, pouring one for each of them. She touched his hand when she gave him the vodka.

"You know I don't sleep well when you're away."

Ted returned to the window, ignoring her distress. "How did the weather turn so bad, so fast? The sun was out when I left the office."

Drifting snow had already begun piling up against fences and houses. "Blue Norther," she said.

Ted saluted the snow with a raised glass. "Got that right,"

"See how bad it's getting? Please stay home tonight."

She returned to the kitchen without an answer. Linda was different from her daughter. Soft and silky smooth compared with Britta's lithe body and her all-over tan. Long, bottle-lightened hair draped her shoulders. Britta's hair was short and surfer girl blond. Britta was a chatterbox, Linda introverted to the point of angering her husband.

"At least eat something before you go."

Rattling ice in his glass, he just stared out the window. "Maybe. If the weather doesn't get any worse."

The ringing of Britta's cell phone interrupted their conversation, and she returned to the banister. "Guess I'm staying home tonight. Freddy's battery is dead."

"Good," Linda said. "At least I won't be all alone."

They all turned to look when someone knocked on the front door. Ted opened it, finding a tall stranger waiting in the doorway.

"Help you?"

"Car broke down, and I lost my cell phone in the snow. Mind if I use your phone to call for help?"

"Let the poor man in and close the door," Linda called from the kitchen.

Moving aside, Ted watched him remove his gloves and blow his hands to warm them. The young man's clean-cut good looks calmed any distress Linda may have had as she took his coat and pointed to the kitchen.

"Warm yourself by the stove. You look half frozen."

Britta shattered her concentration when she hurried downstairs to see who was there.

"Now I'm glad Freddy has a dead battery," she said, staring at the handsome stranger.

Ted frowned. "Britta, put some clothes on."

Britta frowned but trotted back upstairs as Linda followed the man into the kitchen.

"Coffee or hot tea?"

Looking at her drink glass, he said, "I'd rather have what you're drinking."

Feeling an inexplicable attraction to him, she turned to the liquor cabinet to mix another drink.

"What do you drink?" she asked.

"Scotch, neat, if you have it."

"The phone is by the coffee pot," she said as she handed him the drink.

Without taking his eyes off her, he raised his glass in a silent toast. It brought an inexplicable flush to Linda's cheeks.

"Phone's dead," he said.

"Can't be," Linda said, concern replacing her facial flush. "Britta just had a call."

"On her cell phone," Ted said, walking up from behind.

Linda jumped. Regaining her composure, she called upstairs.

"Britta, is your phone working?"

"No bars. Sorry."

"Mine's not working either in this lousy weather," Ted said. "Guess you're out of luck. Sorry, we can't help."

Britta called from the banister. "Dad can take him into town. Invite the poor man to dinner, Mom."

"Pardon my rudeness. Will you have dinner with us?" Linda asked.

"Why not?" he said, his smile warming Linda's neck.

"Then make yourself comfy. My pot roast is almost ready."

The stranger smiled again. This time, Ted noticed how it flustered her. She turned away, averting his frown.

"How rude of me not to introduce ourselves. I'm Linda Stevenson, and this is my husband, Ted. The sassy young lady is my daughter, Britta."

For an awkward moment, the man continued staring at her as he squeezed her hand.

"I'm Dan Savage," he finally said.

"I'm going upstairs and try the weather band," Ted said.

"Well," Linda said. "Guess we'll soon find out about the highways. Dinner won't be long."

She smiled when she heard the rattling thump of logs added to the barren fireplace. Feeling almost guilty, she peeked through the door. As if he'd felt her gaze, Savage gave her a look that made her weak in the knees.

"Thought I'd heat things up," he said.

Before she could reply, Ted rushed down the stairs, bundled in coat and gloves.

"Can't wait for dinner. Got to go now. Storm's worsening by the minute. I'll drive you into town, Mr. Savage."

Dan Savage placed the last log in the fireplace and grabbed his coat hanging by the front door. Before he could button up, Britta rushed up from the basement.

"Wait, Daddy. We have a broken pipe downstairs."

Ted banged the door with his clenched fist. "You can't be serious."

"No need missing your appointment," Savage said. "I'm handy with things. I'll fix it for you."

"Fantastic! You go ahead, Dad," Britta said. "Mr. Savage can repair the pipe and then stay the night in the spare bedroom. You can give him a ride into town tomorrow."

Ted glare revealed his inner turmoil. After glancing at the cut of Savage's clothes and hair, he decided he was no ax murderer.

"Great. I'll take you into town tomorrow."

He kissed Britta's forehead, ignoring Linda's folded arms as he went out the front door without a backward glance.

"Show me the pipe," Savage said, interrupting the moment.

Britta led him to the basement. Despite Linda's concern, she experienced an almost forgotten flush of sexual excitement. The feeling embarrassed her as she returned to the kitchen.

Unable to shake her growing sexual fantasy for the young man, she fixed him another drink and took it to the basement. She almost dropped it when she saw his bare chest. Stripped to the waist, he was making final adjustments on an exposed pipe. Britta, sitting on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees, was also watching Savage's every move.

"Thought you might need this," Linda said.

Sweat trickled down Savage's muscled rib cage. Unnerved by his physical presence, she had trouble averting her gaze.

"Thanks," he said.

Savage stood six inches taller than Linda, had a strong jaw, thick brown hair and probably fifteen years younger. After tipping back the glass, he touched the icy surface to his forehead.

"Fixed," he said.

"You are good!" Britta squealed, wrapping her slender arms around his neck.

Linda's face flushed, jealousy her only emotion as she watched Savage and Britta embrace.

"Follow me, Mr. Savage, I'll show you the guest bedroom. You can shower, and I'll find some of my husband's clothes."

"Call me Dan," he said, untangling from Britta and following Linda up the stairs, into the spare bedroom.

"Towels are in the cabinet. Take your time."

Linda waited in the kitchen for twenty minutes before selecting a shirt and pants from her husband's closet. Returning to the guest bedroom, she tapped on the door and then entered without waiting for a reply.

Through the cracked bathroom door, she heard Savage humming a silly tune. She eased it open; senses sharpened as she stared into the steam-filled room, her eyes focusing on his hazy shape. Standing with his back to her, he stared in the mirror, shaving cream on his face and razor in his hand. She watched his naked backside until he stopped humming and turned around.

"See something you like?"

Linda's face flushed bright red. After dropping Ted's clothes to the floor, she hurried out of the bathroom.

"Dinner in ten minutes," she said.

Twenty minutes later, Savage joined her in the kitchen. Though Ted's shirt and pants were too small, he didn't seem to mind.

"Britta," she called. "Dinner is ready."

Wearing a sexy blouse and tight leather skirt, Britta danced into the dining room. "Where you from, Dan?" she asked.

"Here and there," he said, ladling corn from a bowl. "Mostly there."

Britta giggled, and Linda smiled. When they finished eating, Britta went upstairs, and Savage helped Linda with the dishes. They were soon together in the living room, basking in the warmth of the fireplace.

"Does your husband always have meetings on Friday night?"

Savage's question earned him a nervous titter from Linda. "I've wondered that myself."

"The answer?"

Reclining on the couch, knees bent, she rested her head in her palms. The posture caused her skirt to ride up on her thighs. She straightened when she realized Savage was staring at her legs.

"Sorry," Savage said with a smile.

Linda's face was on fire, but it felt good and she realized she didn't want it to stop burning.

"Britta says he's having an affair," she said.

"Is he?"

"Probably. I'll get you something to sleep in tonight."

"I usually sleep in the buff," he said

Linda ignored his comment and Savage stretched out on the couch as she hurried upstairs. He was grinning when she returned.

"You're bigger than Ted," she said, handing him the robe and pajamas.

He winked as he climbed the stairs to the bedroom. "Your husband has excellent taste. I can sleep naked if they don't fit."

Savage's words seared Linda's soul. Flushing with sexual warmth, she waited ten minutes. When he didn't return, she went to her bedroom, shutting the door but leaving it unlocked. Her body blazed as she squirmed beneath the sheets. She finally got out of bed and drew open the curtains.

The storm had more than arrived. She watched, perspiration beading her forehead as drifting snow piled up against the house. After returning to bed, she slipped into a restless dream, returning her to the shower scene:

A steamy mist filled the room as Savage reached for her hand. When he touched her breasts, she awoke, tangled in the sheets and needing a drink. Not bothering with robe and slippers, she arose to get one. On her way to the stairs, she found something amiss.

Ted's office door was open. Peering inside, she switched on the desk lamp. Papers lay scattered on the floor. His floor safe stood open and empty. With trembling fingertips to stifle a scream, she touched her open mouth.

"My God!"

When Linda discovered Ted's gun was missing, her hands began to tremble. She hurried to the guest bedroom and pushed open the door. She gasped when she heard the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking. Not only had the brazen stranger stolen their money, but he was raping her daughter. She reached for the light switch.

"Stop it now, you monster!"

Britta sat bolt upright,  shock on her pretty face. Savage grinned.

"Mother, how could you?" Britta said.

"Get out of that bed," Linda yelled. "Now!"

Grabbing Britta's arm, she yanked her to the floor. Britta curled up in a ball to hide her nudity.

"Thief! How could you rob us and then rape my daughter?"

"You kidding me, lady? The little bitch loves it."

"You're a liar," she said, scratching and flailing with arms and fists as he blocked her blows. When he slapped her and shoved her against the wall, she sank to the floor, wiping tears from her eyes and blood from a split lip.

Britta sobbed as she lay crumpled in a naked heap beside the bed. Savage wiped the blood from three parallel scratches on his face. Linda crawled across the floor to her daughter. When she tried to put her hands on her shoulders, Britta wrenched away.

"How could you do this to me?" she said.

"Britta, you don't understand. This man is a thief."

"You only want him for yourself," Britta said, her tears returning.

"That's not true."

"I hate you," Britta cried. "Just like Daddy hates you."

Slamming the door behind her, she ran out of the room leaving her mother alone to glare at the thief on the bed.

"I'm calling the police."

Savage laughed, and it chilled her. "Phone's dead. Remember?"

"It was you that cut the line." Savage didn't answer. "How did you know about the money and jewels we keep in the house?"

"Maybe you should ask Britta."

Linda froze. "What do you mean?"

"You think I just met her tonight? We've been going at it like cats in heat for a month. We're taking the money and blowing this burg."

"Liar!"

"Am I? How do you think I managed the broken pipe in the basement?"

Feeling dizzy, Linda sank to the floor as he got dressed. She followed him out of the bedroom and down the stairs where Britta was waiting, suitcase packed. Savage grabbed his coat and opened the front door as the icy wind filled the hallway with blowing snow.

Linda grabbed Britta's elbow. "Where are you going?"

Britta shook loose from her grasp. "Away from you."

"What will I tell your father?"

Pivoting on her heels, Britta said, "Don't bother. He'll know why I left."

"Please stop," Linda begged as her daughter trudged through the snow.

Britta kept walking. Linda followed her into the brunt of the storm. When they reached a car parked on the street, Savage tossed the suitcase into the backseat. Linda grabbed Britta's arm, but she pulled away and climbed into the passenger seat, locking the door behind her. Banging on the window, Linda pleaded with her.

Savage tried cranking the engine until it became apparent the battery was dead. Britta led him to the garage. Minutes later, Linda's silver Mercedes screamed away through the misty darkness, Linda chasing, barefooted through the snow, after them.

***

Ted Stevenson returned the following day, easing his car into the driveway. In front of the house was a red Chevrolet, and the hood and windows were covered with snow he hadn't noticed when he left. He also saw something else.

It was Linda on her knees on the front porch, dressed only in her sexy nightgown. Crystals of ice coating her body glistened like broken glass in the morning sunlight. One frozen hand clutched the door handle in a deadly embrace. Paralyzed by horror, Ted stared at her pallid face.

A strange smile lay frozen on her lips. Her eyes seemed to move, but it was only a frosty reflection. Rushing upstairs to check on Britta, he abandoned her to death's eternity and the frozen kiss of the departed Blue Norther.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like to check out his Facebook Page.