The Eyes of Texas: Private Eyes from the Panhandle to the Piney Woods

By Michael Bracken

Texas has it all, from bustling big cities to sleepy small towns, and law enforcement alone can’t solve every crime. That’s where private eyes come in. They take the cases law enforcement can’t—or won’t. Private eyes may walk the mean streets of Dallas and Houston, but they also stroll through small West Texas towns where the secrets are sometimes more dangerous. Whether driving a Mustang or riding a Mustang, a private eye in Texas is unlike any other in the world.

The Eyes of Texas features seventeen original tales of Lone Star State private eyes from Trey R. Barker, Chuck Brownman, Michael Chandos, John M. Floyd, Debra H. Goldstein, James A. Hearn, Richard Helms, Robert S. Levinson, Scott Montgomery, Sandra Murphy, Josh Pachter, Michael Pool, Graham Powell, William Dylan Powell, Stephen D. Rogers, Mark Troy, and Bev Vincent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Down & Out Books
• Release date: Oct 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463997994

Michael Bracken

Michael Bracken is the author of several books, but is better known as the author of more than 1,200 short stories, including erotica published in the Lambda Award-nominated anthologies Show-offs and Team Players and in Best Gay Erotica 2013, Best New Erotica 4, Fifty Shades of Grey Fedora, Fifty Shades of Green, Flesh & Blood: Guilty as Sin, Gent, Hot Blood: Strange Bedfellows, Oui, Ultimate Gay Erotica 2006, and many other anthologies and periodicals. Learn more at www.CrimeFictionWriter.com.

Book preview

THE EYES OF TEXAS

Private Eyes from the Panhandle to the Piney Woods

Michael Bracken, Editor

Collection Copyright © 2019 by Michael Bracken

Individual Story Copyrights © 2019 by Respective Authors

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Eyes of Texas

Introduction

Michael Bracken

Chasing the Straight

Trey R. Barker

The Haunted Railcar

William Dylan Powell

The Yellow Rose of Texas

Josh Pachter

In Cowtown

Robert S. Levinson

Harvey and the Redhead

Debra H. Goldstein

See Humble and Die

Richard Helms

No One Owns the Blues

Scott Montgomery

Shaft On Wheels

Mark Troy

Triangles

John M. Floyd

Purple and Blue

Stephen D. Rogers

Lucy’s Tree

Sandra Murphy

Unwritten Rules

Chuck Brownman

Blackbirds

Graham Powell

Weathering the Storm

Michael Pool

Trip Among the Bluebonnets

James A. Hearn

West Texas Barbecue

Michael Chandos

The Patience of Kane

Bev Vincent

About the Contributors

Preview from Regret the Dark Hour by Richard Hood

Preview from The Dead Beat Scroll by Mark Coggins

Preview from Widow’s Run by TG Wolff

For Temple

My Love, My Muse, My Everything

Introduction

I have lived more than half my adult life in Texas, but not nearly long enough to call myself a Texan. I am, at best, a bit of a carpetbagger, having moved here to take advantage of economic opportunities not at the time available elsewhere. I remain in Texas because the low cost of living and the diversity of, well, everything offers me continuous creative inspiration.

For the past several years, the majority of my stories have been set in Texas because my characters can experience an incredible diversity of ethnicities, religious affiliations, political persuasions, sexual orientations, and sociological stratification without ever leaving the state. Additionally, located within the confines of the largest of the continental United States are fourteen soil regions, eleven ecological regions, and ten climactic regions, providing for a vast array of settings, from the sprawling urban metroplexes of Houston and Dallas-Ft. Worth to the barely populated counties of the Trans-Pecos, from the Chihuahuan Desert of West Texas to the Piney Woods of East Texas, from the High Plains of the Panhandle to the three hundred and sixty seven miles of Gulf Coast.

Texans drink a lot of beer, watch a lot of football, and listen to a lot of country music, but the Hill Country around Fredericksburg is one of the top wine destinations in the world, and Texas is home to world-class symphony orchestras, ballet companies, and art museums. With sprawling cattle ranches, Texas is still home to plenty of traditional cowboys, but with both NASA and SpaceX, Texas is also home to the space cowboys leading us beyond the confines of our planet.

So, Texas has it all, from bustling big cities to sleepy small towns, and law enforcement alone can’t solve every crime. That’s where private eyes come in. They take the cases law enforcement can’t—or won’t. Private eyes may walk the mean streets of Dallas and Houston, but they also stroll through small West Texas towns where the secrets are sometimes more dangerous. Whether driving a Mustang or riding a Mustang, a private eye in Texas is unlike any other in the world.

Into this abundance of diversity come seventeen crime fiction writers—native sons, long-term residents, and occasional visitors—who share their takes on the eyes—the private eyes—of Texas.

—Michael Bracken

Hewitt, Texas

Back to TOC

Chasing the Straight

Trey R. Barker

The guy was hidden in the darkness of 2:30 a.m. He cut out the window screen and then, using the knife as a pry bar, he opened the window.

Derrick Kruse, walking the two blocks to his car after snapping a few pics of a client’s spouse, saw the guy from the sidewalk in a dim spill of light. Hey! The hell are you doing?

Shit.

Panicked, the man threw his knife at Derrick and blasted into the darkness. Derrick yelped—

Fucking weak link. Don’t be such a pussy.

—but the knife thudded harmlessly into the dirt. Trying to keep the burglar in sight, Derrick ran after him. Stop, asshole.

The bad guy took a hard left between two houses, ran through the unfenced backyards toward the alley. Derrick shot into those backyards and saw—

Well, hell.

Not a damned thing. The yards were empty, at least as far as Derrick could tell, and he wasn’t about to go poking around in the shadows. Truthfully, now that he had time to think about it, it was probably better the guy had slipped away. Derrick was a quiet PI, not an earth-shaking cop, belt aflame with OC spray and cuffs, with a baton. Yeah, he was licensed concealed carry but rarely was he have gun will travel; his bread and butter was cheating spouses in shitty bars or clandestine lunches or late-night love pads, not going hands-on with real criminals.

Squealing tires sliced the air and Derrick looked toward the side street. The burglar’s head banged against the passenger window of a suddenly stopped car and he hit the ground in a hard heap.

Running up, Derrick put a knee in the man’s back, just in case he wasn’t unconscious, and pulled out his cell as the driver freaked out. Man, I ain’t never killed nobody. I deliver pizzas, for God’s sake.

I don’t think he’s dead. Police? Yeah, I need to report an attempted burglary. Anxious, Derrick looked at the driver. Pepperoni?

Any of those him?

Detectives Benzle and Maas waited. Derrick had known them for years and was as comfortable with them as he ever got with anyone. Wrong order.

What? Benzle’s head swiveled to Derrick. What are you talk—Oh, dude, don’t go all spectrum on me now. Holy balls, just ID the guy.

Wrong order.

Maas laughed. That’s funny.

If you’re a moron, Benzle said.

Local 539, Maas said. Morons and Half-wits International. Got an opening for the presidency. Interested, Benzle?

What I’m interested in, boys. Benzle’s voice went hard, striving for command authority. Is getting outta here. We got a card game tonight and I need to take Derrick’s money so Mama Benzle will come across with some lovin’ time. I got a bottle that needs emptying and I want some of Rudy’s miniature tacos.

Lovin’ time? Maas frowned. Like…with you?

"Maybe she should be president of Local 539." No one said anything and Derrick wondered if he’d once again crossed the line of propriety that he found so hard to define.

Eventually, Benzle cracked a smile. Whatevs. He shouted into the phone, Tallest to shortest, and looked at Derrick for confirmation.

Alternating birth years, even and odd.

Maas laughed. "Our Derrick is a numbers man, got no eyes for anything else."

Eventually, Derrick chose the man third in line. Saw him try to break into a house this morning about two-thirty.

102 Dewberry Street?

Yes.

Benzle dismissed the line-up and popped open the case file. The residence of Billie Vogan. She said it was probably her husband.

"That’s her husband?"

No, a guy her husband hired. Guess hubby’s an asshole. Physically abusive. Financially. Sexually. She’s reported before but never followed through on charges. She moved out on hubby and I guess he’s pissed. A shrug rolled through his shoulders. I told her to shoot his ass and dump him in a ditch.

Fucking pussy. Hit that kid in the face. Maybe if you weren’t so stupid he wouldn’t mess with you. You got seven brothers and sisters…how’d you end up the stupidest one?

Grinding his teeth, Derrick tried not to see the annual family pictures—sans Daddy dearest—that Mom organized. The pictures were all painted by happy smiles and golden sun and they were bullshit, at least for Derrick. Derrick always saw the horror beneath; a family where all the kids had been beaten, but none as severely as Derrick.

Hey, PI. You okay?

How many beatings had Mom taken before she had balls enough to call the cops and then how many times had she called the cops but couldn’t find the courage to charge him? You couldn’t help her?

Benzle tapped the paperwork. Helping her now. Got the mope who broke in and I’ll interview him tomorrow. Maybe he’ll give up hubby.

He won’t.

Yeah. Benzle sighed. The DA’ll run it down to criminal trespass, anyway. Hubby will try again. Hire some other asshole to break in and do his stealing.

It’s not about stealing, Derrick said. It’s about terror; letting her know it doesn’t matter where she is, he can get to her.

Benzle stuffed the paperwork into the manila folder. So…wanna tell me what you were doing out at two in the morning?

Uh…whoring?

It was like the snap of a whip. Pop and hard silence trailing. Both cops’ heads jerked toward Derrick.

The weirdest shit comes outta your mouth sometimes, Maas said.

Come on…you were paying a whore to watch you count out straights, weren’t you?

‘Ten’s knocking at the gate.’

Frowning, Benzle’s head cocked. Whiskey tango foxtrot that means.

From the song? Derrick hummed a few bars. About a winning hand. A straight, no less. Then one of the players pulls a gun.

Benzle chuckled. So neither of you gets that winning straight. You ever figure, in that savant-like brain of yours, how much dough you lose chasing the straight?

Would be too depressing, Derrick said.

Well…just keep losing, at least to me.

Thanks for that. Good luck with that lovin’ time thing. Derrick snapped his fingers. Maybe instead of cards, I’ll go see Mama Benzle. Get my ashes hauled.

Benzle clapped him on the back. Good idea. She likes romance before you haul the ashes out. Leave your money with me first and then give her my best.

Benzle slammed down his cards. Call…bitches.

Dangit. A woman Derrick didn’t know dropped her cards, mumbled something about Benzle cheating like he did on his detective’s test, and headed for the bathroom.

Crap. Derrick shoved his cards into the remains of the deck. He’d had a six, eight, and nine and that gave him the edge toward an inside straight. He was sure the seven was up next and then he’d just have to pull the ten.

Instead, Benzle popped a full house.

Two hours into the game and Derrick was down twenty-six bucks, unable to concentrate. Money lay about the table like forgotten soldiers while a bottle of whiskey that had started half-full was now three-quarters empty. But he wasn’t losing because he was chasing the straight. He was losing because of the woman on Dewberry Street. She’d finally fled her abuser and when the abuser attacked, the cops had left her on her own.

Maas grabbed a smoke and headed for the backdoor. Going out for a pop.

Derrick went with him while everyone else grabbed tacos, drank whiskey, stretched, bitched. The air outside was still hot, but dry and with just the faintest hint of rain coming.

Won’t rain. Maas lit up. Fucking West Texas. Rains once a year whether it needs to or not, but that night ain’t tonight.

Mom loved it here. Never wanted to go home to Oklahoma. Loved the desert and the isolation.

Queer for mesquite, huh?

The smell of cattle and oilrigs was heavy. You know He worked the rigs. Out of Midland and El Paso, sometimes down in the Gulf.

Maas smoked.

Worked a rig and then moved into the Midland office when He lost three fingers. Used to put His stumpy hand up to His glass to measure out His whiskey.

He’s not a proper noun, Derrick.

As close to God as what existed in my house. Omnipresent, omniscient, the Alpha and Omega. That’s what He used to say.

Maas turned to him. What’s going on? Why’s he on your mind? You’ve been distracted since the lineup.

Waste of time.

DA wanted to make sure. Since you lost sight of him.

For…like…ten seconds.

And you’re playing nothing but straights.

Bullshit. I had a flush.

Maas laughed, a little burp of a sound. Which you didn’t realize until after I took your money.

They fell silent for a few minutes.

Talk to me, Derrick.

Billie Vogan.

Maas breathed deeply of the smoke. Abused woman. Which is why you’re playing nothing but straights tonight. Your head’s full of broken glass.

’Cause no one’s helping her.

We’re doing what we can. Got the break-in but wouldn’t tell us about her bruises.

Bruises?

Probably what finally pushed her to leave, but she won’t tell us anything.

Maybe she doesn’t believe you’ll help. Has she reported before?

He held up three fingers. Over two years.

Arrests?

Maas’s silence was as loud an answer as Derrick needed.

Always keep your cards, baby boy.

Like a fucking baby blanket. Get the hell over it, kid. Fucking weak link.

When his head was full like it was now he sought refuge in the routine of counting cards, of finding five cards in a row. Derrick was a creature of nerves and anxieties and habit, and Mama had taught him to seek the straights. He always carried a deck of cards, shoved in a pocket and waiting for the world to get the better of him. Derrick had pulled the cards out thousands of times. He hated needing the cards but sometimes the glass was too sharp and the soothing touch of those cards was the only thing that would grind the shards into powder.

Thanks for the game. Derrick left out the back gate. He knew that tonight, the cards would offer no soothing touch.

The house at 102 Dewberry was both the same and not.

This morning, it had been just another small place; wood and brick, two tiny windows flanking the door like chaperons, a mostly dirt yard because grass was a tough grow in West Texas, and a man slicing a window screen to break in. Tonight, as his watch chirped the passage of midnight, it was an abused woman’s home, wood and brick standing guard, a yard of dirt that would leave footprints and evidence of hubby’s thugs, and a window locked tight against the lack of a screen.

He knocked hesitantly.

The second window was open against the late night heat and through it, he heard her. Billie Vogan didn’t open the door or even call to him. Probably she was close to the window, listening as intently as he, wondering if this was another thug.

He didn’t send me, Mrs. Vogan.

Silence answered.

My name is Derrick Kruse. I ID’d the asshole from this morning.

More silence, cut by the metallic click of a slide racking, of a round slipping into a chamber. She was scared, something he knew as intimately as he’d known the whore in Juarez or the woman who’d almost married him in Denver, and that fear meant she wasn’t going to open the door unless it was to shoot and kill him.

So he would talk to her through the open window and leave as much protection between them as she needed.

Standing here with her, though, the pull of the cards was already on him. He wanted to deal—

…always keep your cards, honey…

—but he wanted to set them aside, too. He wanted to stand on his own.

Fucking weak link. Damned cards. Be a man for once.

Swallowing, his throat one hundred-grit, Derrick said, He used to beat me. Called me the weak link. Said Mom must have cheated on Him because His genes weren’t defective like mine.

He pawed at the seams of his jeans to keep away from the cards.

He took my shoes once. I ran long distance in school. Had an aunt die of breast cancer so I got pink running shoes in her honor. He took them away. Said pink was for titties and pussy, nothing else. I ran in my old shoes. Made my feet bloody.

Across the street, a large TV flashed through a front window. Late night black and white.

Told me I couldn’t run after that. Threw me against the wall before my next race, gave me a concussion. The team doctor wouldn’t let me run. I haven’t run since.

He took the cards out, shuffled, and dealt.

Deuce. Nine. Jack. Eight. Four.

Bust.

He told her of beatings and bruisings, of his dyslexia and slivers of OCD that he always knew were his need to control his surroundings in a way his sperm-donor never let him. He talked of his mother and how scared she was for so many years and that, even in the days before her death from hypertension, even a smell or word or color of light could trigger her PTSD.

Next hand ace, deuce, seven, ten, jack.

Bust.

He told her of seven siblings and how they were never beaten as badly as he was. It got worse as He got older, like beating us would stave off dying or something. Derrick talked for more than an hour but didn’t care. The heat and dust melted time immobile and that very melting made them both feel safe.

"He went to work one morning and we fled. Just me and her because everyone else was grown and moved out. She left her phone because He’d put tracking software on it. She borrowed a friend’s car because He put a GPS on her van. And that night? When we were in Midland and He was in El Paso? She didn’t know what to cook for dinner.

Because. Vogan’s voice was so soft it was barely able to crawl from behind the door. He told her what to cook every day.

When she moved into view in the window, he nodded but otherwise didn’t move.

I’ve bought fast food every night since I left. I still don’t know what to cook.

Well, what do you want?

A nervous smile flashed across her face, gone in an instant. No more hamburgers.

Derrick crossed hamburgers off an imaginary list. Done.

Her face dissolved into tears. I need my daughter back.

Then let me bring her back to you.

She’s not even Clint’s daughter. I was already pregnant when we got married. He said he’d raise her as his own.

He lied. Or he changed. Or both.

You’re autistic. She said it without judgment. That’s why he called you the weak link.

Yeah, but also because He was an abuser and a terrorist. Derrick licked his lips. The cops told me that since there’s no paperwork from a judge or even a court filing in terms of your daughter that—

He has full legal rights.

One last hand: ace, deuce, trey. Five.

Their hands are tied.

Then a four.

Mine aren’t.

The house will be empty, Billie had said.

He’d take his stepdaughter somewhere else?

For control. He wants me to figure out where he is. She had started crying again and closed the door on him.

Now Derrick stood in their marital home. It was dark and cold in spite of the late summer heat. The air conditioning ran at sixty-two degrees and the TV was on The Weather Channel, no sound but images of tornadoes tearing hell through countrysides and cityscapes. In hubby’s office, his computer had multiple windows open, each of them open to a porn site harder than the previous one.

He can’t stop. Jerks off constantly. Till he’s bloody, sometimes. Tells me what to wear and how to pose, posts cyber ads, fucks damn near anybody. I refused to have sex with him when I found out.

So he raped you.

Rapes, she had said. On-going.

Derrick yanked the cables out of the computer, threw the machine onto the floor, stomped it until it was dead. After kicking it out of his way, he went through the rest of the house quickly.

Derrick had asked her, What’s his thing?

Control, she had said. Power. Then she had looked at Derrick’s deck of cards. Gambling.

A landline phone sat out of the cradle, the green light dead. A handful of phone numbers, some random names and doodles, were written on scrapes of paper. 295-2965…294-1298…295-6789—

Lucky number…a straight right in it.

There was also that morning’s paper, opened to the police blotter. Cheap crimes, mundane police calls. And Derrick’s foot chase.

TIME: 02:37. LOCATION: 100 block of Dewberry. Suspicious subject, attempted burglary. RESPONDING AGENCIES: Midland PD. STATUS: arrest.

It was circled, over and over, until the thin line of ink had become a heavy oval track that bled through the page into the next.

Hubby’s angry.

He’d hired the jamoke to terrorize his wife and the guy had gotten arrested. So hubby had gone to daughter’s day care while Billie was at work, had taken the daughter and disappeared. Again, to terrorize her, which meant it had to be a temporary disappearance; easy enough for Billie to figure out so she could come grovel for her daughter and hubby could Lord over her.

At the bottom of that page, Hubby had written Habana Laundry and Pizza. Derrick pocketed the page and left.

Outside, as 2 a.m. crept up, the night was its deepest. Shadows were black holes and the light bleed from the interstate seemed further distant than the few miles it actually was, giving everything the feel of being asleep. Everything was quiet, a silent background to The Weather Channel’s tornadoes.

He lay that money at Habana?

Over the phone she sounded far away, deep in the surrounding desert. Her voice was brittle and anguished. Three times a week we ate that pizza. She went quiet for a minute and Derrick almost interrupted, but her silence had the feel of painful memory so he stayed out of the way. He told me after we got married I was the worst bet he ever made. Seven-to-two against me being a good mother or a decent fuck. Reminds me all the time. Said it the other night. Said he lost the bet and was paying with his whole life.

Derrick snorted, both shocked and utterly unsurprised. His father had said horrific shit like that all the time to his mother. Breathing hard, not sure what to say, Derrick parked in the Habana Laundry and Pizza lot just as the Open sign popped on.

What’ll’a getcha?

Slice of pepperoni. Coke.

Nah, come on. Big boy like you? You need a whole pie.

Lotta things I need, Derrick said. Whole pie ain’t one of them. But some extra change in my pocket would be good.

Guy behind the counter grinned. Got no jobs here. One slice coming up.

Don’t need a job, just need to quit betting the Cowboys. I say Hail Mary, they run a screen. I say screen, they punt. I say two-point conversion, they miss the kick. Drives me crazy. Clint Vogan and me sit back and drink our sorrows away.

I don’t know no Clint and don’t do for bets. Here’s your slice.

Derrick leaned into the counter man. Bullshit. You tell that fucker I’m coming for him. You got me, asshole?

Hey, now…how ’bout it with the mouth?

Footsteps. Hard and fast. Explosive pain in his side—

I’ll piss blood for a week.

—and he hit the ground. A white-hot sunrise bloomed through him as the man kicked the shit outta his ribs.

The fuck you are? Threatening our clients.

Derrick took a blow, then another. He reached out blindly, grasping at empty air, the feet too fast, his attacker too quickly moving around his body, putting pain everywhere.

Ever see you in this joint again, I ain’t gonna get my boots bloody. I’ll just blow your mothertrucking head off and send it to your wife…or mother…or whoever you got.

Another blow, then another. Yelping, Derrick tried to curl away from the pain. Instead, he found himself wrapped around the man’s right foot.

The fuck?

Derrick held the foot just long enough to pull the guy off balance, then he twisted as hard as he could and took a childish delight in the sound of an ankle snapping.

Screaming, the man hit the ground hard. Derrick straddled him and sent a flurry of punches into the guy’s face. His head popped back and forth, a bloody bobblehead.

Derrick leaned close. Where is he? And if he hurts his daughter, I’ll take it out on you.

The man’s eyes popped. What? He ain’t got no daughter.

A six-year-old.

Crazy fuck of a wife tell you that? She’s a liar. Wouldn’t even fuck him much less carry a whelp for nine damned months.

Derrick saw the head-butt coming and slipped sideways. The man used his momentum to try to roll Derrick off him. At the same time, he hammered his knee hard in Derrick’s ass. Eating the pain, Derrick punched him twice and the guy’s nose exploded in a dark red mist as a tooth went skittering across the lot. His eyes rolled up and he went slack beneath Derrick.

Breathing hard, adrenaline heating his blood, Derrick rolled off the guy and saw the sign.

Ph. 295-6789

Lookie there…got a straight right in it. 5-6-7-8-9.

His breathing slowed. Stopped.

Son of a bitch.

He’d seen that number before.

At the Vogans’ house.

In hubby’s handwriting.

…temporary disappearance…easy…to figure out….

A single story, ten rooms across the front, maybe used to be a hotel or office suite or something. Windows boarded up, no lettering, no signs of life at all.

Except the single car parked on the side.

He started at one end, his phone in his ear. He heard the ringtone after the fifth room. He stopped in front of the door, shoved his phone in his pocket, and kicked the metal door twice.

The hell?

Hubby jerked the door open and then tried to close it quick, but Derrick hammered it back against the wall and slammed into hubby, driving them both across the bed onto the floor on the far side. Derrick landed two or three punches but managed to shove himself away before Clint could wrap him up in the small space. He yanked his gun and froze Clint.

Billie send you?

Where’s your daughter?

After a half-second hesitation, Clint frowned. My who?

Your daughter.

Clint laughed, but his eyes darted around the room. I have no daughter, you stupid shit. Billie tell you I did?

Derrick hauled Clint onto the bed and then stood between him and the open door. If there’s no daughter, why run away from home?

Clint’s face was a snake pit of deception and calculation. What’s your stake in all this? You fucking her?

My stake? Derrick thumbed off the safety. Right now, my stake is a Colt 1911.

Clint raised his hands. Message received. Listen, I am an asshole and I’m sure she told you that. You check with the cops and you’ll see I’ve had a couple of domestic complaints against me.

You’re an abuser.

Yes.

Sexual, physical, mental, emotional.

And worse. I held a hot iron to her face once because she cooked meat loaf and I wanted tortellini. She loved chewing gum and I wouldn’t let her buy any. Put tracking software on her phone and keystroke software on her computer. I am an abuser.

Which is great that you recognize, but which doesn’t answer my question.

I’m here because she tried to kill me. Slowly, unthreatening, he raised his right forearm, wrapped by a pristine white bandage.

Derrick shook his head. Damn, you’re almost as good as my daddy. Silver tongued and ready for every question. Got a nice bandage all taped up and ready to go in case you need to paint her as a psycho.

"She is a psy—You know what? Fuck this. Clint stood. I’m outta here. You wanna shoot me? Shoot me. But you won’t and we both know it. If you didn’t have that gun to hide behind, we wouldn’t even be talking. You’re just as pussy as she is."

For a second, Derrick thought he was hearing Clint through a tunnel. The man’s voice was muffled, distant, hidden behind his father’s voice.

Fucking weak link. Nothing but a pussy. Can’t fight back ever, don’t matter who it is. You even have any balls? They even hanging there?

Derrick popped the magazine out. Tossed it out the door. It skittered on the open parking lot, followed by the single round from the chamber. He tossed the empty gun to the bed and nodded at the guy.

Clint stared, wide-eyed, and Derrick knew the play. Derrick had called him out and now Clint had to move the goalposts, give himself something else to hide behind.

Derrick didn’t give him that chance.

He slammed his fist against Clint’s face and sent him flying against the wall. Two steps over the bed and Derrick was on top, the man pinned beneath his legs. As he punched, blood dotting the walls in lines like that of self-flagellants, he squeezed his knees together on Clint’s chest, ignored the man’s cries and tortured breaths.

Wanna hit me, weak link? Do it. Stand up. Be a man.

Derrick, baby boy, don’t. You’re better than him.

Shut up, you stupid cow. Wanna know why he’s like this? Look in the damned mirror if you can stand the sight. Coddling him his entire damned life.

You can’t talk to her like that.

I can talk to her any way I damn please. ’Cause I’m a man. Are you? Hell, no. Fucking weak link, ain’t even got balls enough to hit me.

This time, Derrick did hit. Until the walls were spotted with blood, until the man’s nose was shattered and teeth dotted the floor and his eyes were swollen shut and

Reviews for The Eyes of Texas

[Gary Carter · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Michael Bracken is both an author and a transplanted Texan who has edited these short stories that cover private eyes from the big cities of Texas to the west Texas oil fields and plains to the piney woods of East Texas. If the private eyes and mysteries of Texas are your fancy don’t miss this collection.