Soutee: The Complete First Story

By Dale Wiley

Steve Soutee is a lawyer, a ladies man, a master gardener and chef, and the man you need in a pinch. When a bailiff runs off with $25,000, Soutee is hot on his trail at the behest of the judge, with a bevy of beauties, a paternity accusation and a new woman who just may know where the money is hidden. Follow Soutee as he heads to Memphis and further south with his Cadillac's eight track filled with great country tunes, 1979-style. Featuring a Soutee playlist so you can play along!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dale Wiley
• Release date: Jan 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370042951

Dale Wiley

Dale Wiley has had a character named after him on CSI, owned a record label, been interviewed by Bob Edwards on NPR's Morning Edition and made motorcycles for Merle Haggard and John Paul DeJoria. He has three awesome kids and spends his days working as a lawyer fighting the big banks.

Book preview

SOUTEE

Dale Wiley

Copyright © 2018 Vintage Burn, LLC

All rights reserved.

Distributed by Smashwords

Okay, folks. This is a work of fiction. Steve Soutee was a real person who not only had great talents and potential, but he had a flawed side. That culminated in him spending time in prison. This book is an attempt to create a fictionalized version of Soutee, one who has many of the good qualities, but some of the flaws as well. It is not a biography and does not claim to be true. Steve was a good friend and a notorious scoundrel, often within minutes of each other. He talked like this, and he was the closest thing to a real-live fictional character that I have ever met. I hope you enjoy.

www.dalewiley.com

Other works by Dale Wiley:

There Is a Fountain

The Intern

Sabotage

Southern Gothic

Margaret Baker Stories

Coming Soon:

The Jefferson Bible

Table of Contents

Other works by Dale Wiley

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

SUGGESTED AND APPROVED SOUTEE PLAYLIST FOR THIS STORY

PART ONE

We was drunk as trainrobbers by nine in the morning as we glided on down the highway heading for Mt. Vernon. It was me, my secretary Janice and little Donna Phelps. I had had the pleasure of Donna’s company the night before, but had picked up Janice before we left for good measure. Nothing like having a spare just in case. I had the top down on my black 1973 Cadillac Eldorado, and the sun was terrible hot. I imagined it wouldn’t be long before one or the other of my companions would be taking off some of those cumbersome items of clothing that they were currently wearing, and they was already plenty uncovered.

Donna kindly favored clothing skimpy enough that if a disco broke out, she would be right in style. Her cut-off shorts were right and left little to my over-taxed imagination, and the halter top told the rest of the story. Janice wore jeans and a blouse that looked elegant and timeless.

This, said Janice, making sure she would be compensated, Is a helluva way to spend a work day.

It was a glorious morning, towards the hind end of April, and the world was as green as the felt on a poker table. My clematis was goin’ crazy back at the house, and so were the magnolia blossoms, although I was highly disappointed in my attempts at orchids. They was making me look kind of shabby, and I didn’t appreciate that. I was half-beginning to think they just wasn’t going to grow in southern Missouri, and that would mean I owed a lot of apologies among my friends with green thumbs, who had been telling me that very thing for a whole year. If they didn’t work out, I would try some Rattlesnake Plantain orchids next, which were supposedly native to our region.

The year was 1978, I believe, or maybe ‘79. Donna put the Waylon Live album in the eight track, and there we was transfixed by Waylon singing Jimmie Rodgers. T for Texas, T for Tennessee. If there’s a better album in the world you tell me what it is and I’ll fight you for it. I know that one by heart, and I’m especially partial to that song, when Waylon is tellin’ you about that damned old Thelma, the one who made a wreck out of him. Waylon is playin’ those loud, syncopated lead runs all low down on his guitar, and ol’ Mooney - who once wrote Crazy Arms, the Hillbilly National Anthem, takes the steel lead and runs away with the thing. I can’t sing but I sure tried. Donna gave me a kiss on the cheek, and Janice looked all jealous. I pretended to tip my cowboy hat to her, which I had removed due to the convertible, and she blushed. All was good. Least, I hoped it was, because the Judge was behaving all unusual.

All I knew was that he wanted to see me, and that he was goin’ to send me to Memphis. That was all right by me: it was Friday, and I didn’t intend to work anyway. I believe that any work done on a Friday is arbitrary, capricious and communistic, and if I did much of anything other than sit around and pour a finger or two of Maker’s Mark for my lawyer friends, you can be sure it was a jury trial or something terrible important. Otherwise, I’d try to high-tail it on out, to Okie City, or Hot Springs, or somewhere where there was cold beer and warm women, my two main requirements. I have a few others, like the aforementioned good country music and the Cardinals on the radio, but a man must have his core values. Mine are cold beer and warm women, not necessarily in that order.

I guess I was half-curious, because, like I said, it was a little strange for Judge Pinnell to ask me over like this. I had gotten the message the night before: Get the hell over here when you get up, and be prepared to be gone this weekend. Sounded like my kind of assignment.

We pulled into about three