Alcoholic Hazes - a short story

Hurricane Katrina decimated New Orleans in August 2005. My Louisiana parents were living with my wife Marilyn and me in Oklahoma. My mom had just completed her chemotherapy for lymphoma and wanted to return to Louisiana. Marilyn and I drove them to the northwest Louisiana town of Vivian, dropped them at their house, and then continued to New Orleans to see for ourselves the damage incurred by the killer hurricane.

As a Vietnam vet, I had witnessed my share of destruction during my time in Vietnam. I had also driven through downtown Oklahoma City on the day of the infamous Murrah Building bombing in 1995. Neither the War nor the bombing prepared me for the destruction we witnessed in New Orleans.

My first French Quarter Mystery, Big Easy, was completed at the time. Not only was I heartbroken by the devastation suffered by the citizens of New Orleans and south Louisiana, I felt my own sense of loss because I didn't know if New Orleans would ever be the same.

What Marilyn and I learned was that the people of New Orleans and South Louisiana are tough and extremely resilient. The city not only survived, it has prospered. Alcoholic Hazes is one of the stories I wrote during our visit that appeared in my now out-of-print book Murder Etouffee.

Hurricane Katrina took more than 1,800 lives and is considered the costliest, and perhaps the worst natural disaster in U.S. history. The city survived and Marilyn convinced me to rewrite much of Big Easy to reflect Hurricane Katrina.

The female bartender with the Scottish accent in Alcoholic Hazes became the inspiration for the gorgeous redheaded bartender Chrissie who first appeared in City of Spirits, Book 2, and again briefly in Primal Creatures, Book 3. Her collie, the dog behind the bar, was the inspiration for bartender Bertram Picou's collie named Lady.

Even after only a few days following the hurricane, many of the bars in the French Quarter had reopened. Souvenir shops were selling tee shirts commemorating the terrible natural disaster. Even amid the death and destruction, the artists managed a sense of humor, albeit gallows humor. My favorite tee shirt was: FEMA Evacuation Plan - Run Motherfucker run!

The Quarter was almost deserted the night Marilyn and I visited the Irish bar. Almost! 

Alcoholic Hazes

Many great writers including William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, and John Kennedy Toole lived in New Orleans. One thing that made each of them great was their ability to create amid the cacophony and ado of the Big Easy.

I remember reading a humorous essay by a journalist who had lived there for several years. He’d moved to the city looking for inspiration, fully expecting to pen the next great American novel. Something quite different happened instead.

The semi-tropical city steams in the summer with ninety-degree temperatures and humidity through the roof. Like many cities in southern climes, life’s pace is slow, skidding almost to a halt during summer months. Lunches tend to drag on until two, and workdays often end by three or four, usually with a trip to some dark watering hole.

The journalist finally moved away from New Orleans without completing a single chapter of his proposed novel. He lamented that he’d never sufficiently sobered up, but that he did meet many interesting people and had enjoyed himself immensely. I had a similar experience during a post-Katrina trip to New Orleans.

There are so many things to see and do, and so many wonderful places to eat and drink, that it is difficult to find time to write. Still, artists, writers, and poets continue to fill the city. On our way back to where we were staying at the Sheraton on Canal,  Marilyn and I stopped at a little bar on Decatur Street called Kerry Irish Tavern, and ordered a pint of Guinness. The bartender was a friendly young woman with a Scottish accent, her big dog snoring as he napped behind the hardwood bar.

The dim tavern was almost empty except for a young man talking to the pretty bartender. His name was also Eric and we struck up a conversation. An aspiring writer, he had a manuscript in progress. Gill, a graphic artist, and his friend Tim, a poet with a distinct stutter, soon joined us. Our new group quickly became locked in conversation.

We stayed for another round, and then another, discussing Eric’s book and viewing some of Gill’s art. Realizing that I liked poetry, Tim recited several of his poems to us, never once tripping over his words.

The three men finally left, on their way to another bar. “We’ll be back at midnight for the band."

"A band?"

"Many people never left town. Will you join us?”

Marilyn frowned and folded her arms when I said, “Maybe.” 

After paying our tab, we returned to the hotel to sober up. We never made it back to the Kerry Irish Bar.

I’ve thought about Eric, Gill, and Tim many times. Did they finally finish their masterpieces? I’m betting no and that you’ll find them in some French Quarter bar, locked in alcoholic hazes and still contemplating the art they love to talk about, though they will never complete.

###

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 might also like checking out his Facebook page.

Soldiers - a short story

SOLDIERS

Jim and I crossed the state line at noon, black Kansas thunderclouds chasing up behind and miles of highway still ahead. Swirls of ocher powder daubed the once pale sky. Tumbleweeds rolled along the highway like steel balls in a giant pinball machine. A heavy wind whipped the car, scaring pheasant and jackrabbits lolling in the ditch.

Awakening from a fitful dream, I rolled up the windows of Jim’s old beater and pulled a bandanna over my face. Earlier that morning we’d left Omaha, stopping only once to relieve ourselves by the side of the road. Jim’s mood, like the weather, was foul. He hadn’t spoken in two hours. Refraining from disturbing his trance, I folded my arms, braced myself against the seat, and closed my eyes, trying to lock out the storm, Jim’s mood, and the piston drone knocking beneath the hood.

Three miles across the border, the storm caught us, turning dust into rivulets of mud on the car’s hood. Rain blistered the windshield leaving only flashes of visibility between labored swaths of slow-moving wiper blades. Then a billboard, barely visible through the downpour, alerted us to a truck stop up ahead. When we reached it, we found a weather-beaten filling station beside a roadside juke joint.

Jim parked the car in the gravel parking lot.

“Let’s stop. I’m tired of fighting this storm,” he said.

The storm hadn’t tired of fighting us. As we ran for the front door, it bombarded us with falling missiles, thunder shaking the walls as we entered. Removing our wet ponchos, we shook ourselves like two retrievers, and then blinked, waiting for our eyes to adjust to the dimness. When they did, we saw five dismal patrons gazing back at us.

Moving shadows, cast by neon beer signs, danced across the four dingy walls. Through the pallor, a middle-aged bartender behind the counter polished a glass with a white rag. A beefy man played pool alone the faded rose tattoo on his hairy arm matching the exact hue of his sleeveless T-shirt. Before continuing his lonely game, he gave us a quick once-over. A couple, immersed in a whispered conversation, glanced up at us. An old man in a wheelchair, his rheumy eyes never blinking, watched as we approached the bar.

Jim slapped his palm against the counter, stared at the bartender, and said, “Two draws, and a tequila shooter.”

“You boys old enough to drink?”

When Jim glared without answering, I said, “We’re both twenty-one.”

Red hair and ruddy Irish complexion melded with Jim’s high Indian cheekbones, and even when he smiled he seemed angry. He wasn’t smiling. With a frown on his own craggy face, the bartender glared back at him until he finally noticed our short hair and clean shaves.

“Soldiers?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Artillery?”

“Infantry,” Jim said.

As the bartender smoothed greasy black hair and mustache with his fingers, muscles in his neck twitched.

“Guess if you’re old enough to fight, you’re old enough to drink.”

He laughed, and it quickly drew into a dry, hacking cough.

“Damn right we are,” I said.

As he watched us from the corner of his eye, the sullen bartender drew the beer. As he did, Jim started bullet holes in his back, even as I nudged him in the ribs with my elbow. When the bartender returned with two beers and a tequila shooter, Jim immediately killed the shot. When he slammed the glass against the bar, the resultant sharp sound echoed like the crack of a small caliber rifle through the room.

Finishing his beer in one long pull, he nodded at the two empty glasses and said, “Again.”

As he drew another beer from the tap, the bartender’s neck muscles twitched when he reached behind him for the tequila. Jim finished his second shot and glanced around the room like a stray cat in a strange barn.

“Easy,” I said, eyeing his empty glass. “Still got ourselves a long way to go yet.”

He smirked and asked, “In a hurry, Sport?”

Intent on the couple in the back of the room, he didn’t see me shake my head. The man, looking like a middle-aged farmer, was dressed in overalls and a baseball cap. The woman’s weather-beaten face pegged her as his wife. We watched the farmer slam his hand against the table, hard enough to rattle both of their beer mugs and glare as if he were about to strike her.

“If you had a lick of sense, woman, you’d know what a fool question that is.”

Apparently, she didn’t, and her unspoken reply filled the room with silent reverberations. As we watched the scene unfold, Jim’s shoulders tensed, and he stepped away from the bar. Grabbing his elbow, I held on.

“Not this time.”

Jim tried to stare me down. I stood my ground, shaking my head. Then, immersed in our trance, we both jumped when the bartender slapped his hand against the counter. When we wheeled around, he was leaning over the bar with an amused look on his whiskered face.

“Didn’t mean to scare you boys. Nother beer?”

“Sure,” I said.

He asked our names when he returned.

“I’m Paul, and this is Jim.”

“Proud to meet you. Name’s Ezekiel, but people around here just call me Zeke.”

I shook his hand; Jim didn’t bother. Instead, he asked, “What’s the story of the old man in the wheelchair?”

“Rivers is his name. We call him Old Man Rivers,” he said, chuckling at his little joke.

The old man in the wheelchair glared at us through the crumpled mass of wrinkles obliterating his withered face. Angry gaps pitted the man’s features, weathered and spongy as fallen white cake. A half-smoked cigarette rested between gray lips. Like tangles of red snakes on cold stones, broken capillaries veined his nose and eyes. With gnarled hands clawing the wheelchair and bony arms like the plastic limbs of a child’s discarded doll, he looked like warmed-over death.

“I’m buying,” Jim said. “Give him whatever he wants.”

After pouring a shot of bourbon, Zeke tilted the old man’s head and dribbled liquor into his mouth, causing his blotchy tongue to wriggle like an earthworm growing desperate on a sharp hook.

Jim smiled and said, “Make it two.”

As I was watching Zeke whiskey-nurse the old man, someone tapped my shoulder. Six inches from my nose the pool-shooter invaded my space, smiling insanely and blinking one discolored eye that looked to me like a spoiled eye yolk. I backed against the bar. When he spoke, his stale breath smelled like battery acid gone even more sour. Stumbling slowly over his words, he said, “I’m Doyle. Was a soldier once myself. Old Man River’s my Daddy.”

“Oh yeah?”

Doyle grinned and pumped his head like a long-handled water pump. “Nah, not really, though I like to call him that.”

Noticing Jim’s amused smile, I backed even further away from the counter. Doyle pivoted and followed me like a machine gun on a swivel turret. Lightning struck, shaking rafters and sucking air from the room like a giant accordion. Doyle grimaced and drifted back to the red glow emanating from the swaying fixture above the pool table. Raising an index finger, I signaled Zeke to bring more beer.

He grinned and said, “Doyle’s a little nuts. Myra takes care of him.

“Myra?”

“Lives with the Stewarts,” he said, pointing at the couple in the back. “Looks after Doyle, and he takes care of Old Man Rivers. Bring them in every morning. Comes and gets them every night.”

Zeke’s mention of Myra prefaced her appearance through the back door—a pretty girl with pale skin and colorless blonde hair. The thin and wispy fabric clung in blue waves to every subtle feature of her diminutive frame. And, like a low cloud wafting slowly in a gentle breeze, she approached the counter and squeezed in between Jim and me. Zeke placed a glass of white wine in front of her.

“You must be Myra,” Jim said, suddenly becoming verbose.

“Yes.”

“Rain’s a little heavy outside. We come in to drink beer and wait it out,” he said.

In a lilting, whimsical voice, she replied, “Come in and I’ll give you shelter from the storm.”

As Jim listened to her recite the line from the old Dylan tune, his neck inexplicably flushed the color crimson. As if reading my thoughts, Myra turned and studied me with pale, unnerving eyes.

“The storm’s dark and frightening.”

“Yes,” I said, suddenly at a loss for words.

“Have you met Zeke, Doyle, and Old Man Rivers?”

“Yes,” I said again.

Dismissing me with a coy nod, she daintily picked up her glass of wine and went to the old man, stroking his neck with cashmere fingers. As Jim had done, River’s ruddy skin flushed. Static electricity, brushed up by her fingers, raised thin hairs on his head as a booming clap of thunder rocked the roof and the wind whistled through the loosely fitted windows. Again, rain blistered the outside walls and darkness began draping the windows with muted gloom.

“Myra,” the farmer called. “Come answer Mary for me. Tell her what a fool question she’s asking.”

Moving fluidly away from the bar, Myra glided to their table and listened as the woman cupped her hands and whispered something into her ear. After answering, Myra turned away, leaving the woman to rest her head on the table and weep.

When Myra returned, Jim asked, “What’d she want?”

“Her daughter, Emily, is gone. A car accident separated them. Mary asked if I knew when Emily would join them again.

“Did they take her to a hospital out of town or something?”

“She’s where she’s always been,” Myra answered.

“Then. . .”

Before I could finish the question lingering in my brain, Myra placed a finger on my lips and shook her head. “You don’t need to understand,” she said. “The storm’s not over yet.”

Excited by Myra’s perfume, Jim gently touched her cheek. She didn’t move away.

“I wouldn’t mind getting to know you a little better,” he said.

“Forever?” she asked.

Letting his hand drop, he caressed the length of her willowy arm and said, “For as long as you want.”

“Don’t talk to her like that!” an angry voice said.

Behind Jim was Doyle, his teeth clenched in an irritated scowl. He quickly wrapped a hairy arm around Jim’s neck and yanked it. Jim slammed an angry fist at Doyle’s jaw, then tossed the surprised attacker over the counter and dived over after him.

A weighted club appeared in Zeke’s hand. With a practiced swing, he tapped Jim lightly on the neck, just below the base of his skull. He sank to the floor.

“Ain’t hurt too bad,” Zeke said, glancing up at me. “Be just fine when he wakes up.”

After helping drag Jim’s inert body to a chair, I rejoined Myra at the bar. She was staring at the ceiling as she sipped her wine. She seemed disinterested in the whole affair.

Glancing at my empty beer, and then at Zeke, I said, “Better have another.”

“Sure you can handle your liquor?”

“Jim didn’t start it,” I said, frowning at Doyle.

Doyle was still on the floor, grinning like an idiot as he rotated his swollen jaw with his hand.

“Maybe not,” Zeke said as he drew another beer.

Myra said, “Where have you been, Paul?”

“Afghanistan. We just got back and finished our leave.”

“Saw lots of action, did you?”

“Yes.”

“Kill many of the enemy?”

Her question, asked with a curious smile, took me by surprise. “Maybe a few,” I answered.

“And Jim?”

“I’m sure he killed his share,” I said. “What’s the name of this town?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Seems a bit familiar, but no I don’t.”

Zeke chuckled and said, “You’re in Inferno. Inferno, Oklahoma. Hotter’n hell in the summer.”

“Could you love a girl like me?” Myra asked, interrupting Zeke’s vivid description.

“Guess maybe I could,” I said.

“You love someone else?”

“Life,” I said. “With the war and all it’s about the only thing I’ve thought about along those lines.”

“Life is a fickle virgin,” she said, her pale blue eyes suddenly glowing like cold pearls.

“And you?” I asked. “What do you love?”

Myra licked her lips and glanced at Jim. He was conscious, though still moaning as he massaged his neck. Without answering my question, she turned to leave but stopped as if having second thoughts. I rubbed the icy remnant her touch imparted when she squeezed my hand, and then I watched her walk through the door. Holding it open, she stood looking at me.

“Wait. Where are you going?”

“Come with me and I’ll show you.”

“Can’t,” I said. “Have to get back to the post.”

She extended her delicate hand toward me, waiting for me to grasp it. “I promise you won’t be sorry.”

I started to follow but remembered Jim, still lying on the floor. Another clap of thunder sounded, closer this time, shattering the trance and causing me to blink. When I opened my eyes, Myra was gone. Quickly, I downed my beer and tossed some money on the bar.

“Still mighty nasty out there,” Zeke said. “Better have another beer.”

“Not today.”

Bracing Jim beneath my shoulder, I started for the front door. Curiosity stopped me beside the couple’s table. I stared at the weather-beaten woman until she glanced up at me.

“Sorry about your daughter. How old was she when she died?”

A single tear trickled down the woman’s face, and she said, “Emily’s not dead.”

“But what about the car accident?”

The woman’s lingering eyes held me locked in place. “Emily wasn’t in the accident. Just Ralph and me.”

Breaking her cold stare, I pulled Jim out the front door. He staggered alone to the car, revived somewhat by the rain. Taking the keys from his shirt pocket, he tossed them to me and slumped into the passenger seat. I gunned the engine and hurried away before the wipers could clear the ruthless onslaught of rain. A mile down a deserted highway, I glanced into the rearview mirror and searched in vain for the two buildings. They were gone.

Far away, behind reality and disappearing foothills, lightning and thunder flared and crashed like distant firefights. Further still, when the rain finally ceased, filtered light mingled with road dust blown up by our racing tires. As I stepped on the gas and stared into the rearview mirror, swirling ocher powder looked almost like a delicate hand, beckoning me to return.

Maybe tomorrow, but not today.

###

.

• 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 might also like checking out his Facebook page.

Oyster Bay Boogie - Chapters

Oyster Island lies off the coast of Louisiana, about fifty miles from New Orleans. Lighthouse keeper Jack Wiesinski and Atakapa Indian Grogan 'Chief' La Tortue are its only inhabitants. Things are about to change.

 Chapter 1

Grogan La Tortue had never spent an entire night in a bed, at least not alone. The man everyone called Chief was an American Indian and quite literally the last of the Atakapas. Native American blankets and animal skins covered the straw pallet where he slept. His Chihuahua Coco didn’t seem to mind.

The rain and a gentle breeze had created almost perfect sleeping weather in late spring. Light rain beat a gentle cadence on Chief’s teepee. It didn’t matter because the distant howl of some creature he didn’t recognize kept Chief awake. It bothered him his dog Coco hadn’t also heard it.

Chief brushed his shoulder-length gray hair out of his eyes, got up from the pallet, and relieved himself in the privy behind the teepee.

Chief’s property sat on a hill overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. The moon was full, damp clouds partially cloaking its yellow luster. When the moon burst from the shadows, he gazed across the island. Chief could smell the storm moving in from the Gulf. The warm rain felt good on his bare back.

A hulk of a man, Chief’s shoulders rippled when he drew a bucket of water from the well. The water was cool and tasted good. Chief’s grandfather had lived more than a hundred years, attributing his long life and good health to the mineral water from the well. His grandmother had touted the water as having magical restorative powers. Chief had no doubt her words were valid. Before returning to the warmth of his pallet, he again heard the howl. It was closer this time.

Chief’s chickens were in their coop and safe for the night, at least from foxes. The howl he’d heard wasn’t a fox. Before pulling the covers up, he grabbed his old double-barreled shotgun and rested it beside him on the dirt floor.

Chief’s cat Buttercup was out tomcatting, and he worried about her. He knew she didn’t like the rain and wondered why she hadn’t joined him and Coco on the pallet. Though he closed his eyes, sleep resisted his efforts. Finally, he descended into the gentle rapture of a vivid dream.

Dark smoke engulfed the island. Chief stood outside his teepee. Somewhere in the distance, someone cried for help. The cries grew louder as Chief floated down the hill. Though he sensed the crackle of flames, he couldn’t smell the smoke.

When the smoke cleared, he was standing in the sand, looking out at the vast cove where boats and yachts once docked, their occupants gambling inside the casino set on stilts over the water. The old wood-framed building, flames spewing from open windows, was on fire. A young woman’s head and upper body protruded from a third-story window.

“Help me,” she screamed.

The scream awakened Chief to another sound: a howl outside the teepee. He saw a black claw from the glow of the fire pit as it tore through the animal skin. Rising into a sitting position, Chief pointed the shotgun at the claw and pulled both triggers, the ensuing blast waking his Chihuahua.

Coco bounded off the pallet, growling as he raced through the flap of the teepee.

“Dammit!” Chief said.

After grabbing a handful of shells, he followed the tiny dog through the flap. When he stepped on a sand burr, he realized he’d forgotten his moccasins. Coco’s distant growls reinforced that he had no time to return for them.

The moon had temporarily disappeared behind the clouds. Chief missed the trail leading down the hill, tripped on a vine, and rolled to the bottom. His breechcloth did nothing to protect him from the burrs and bull nettle through which he’d rolled. His raw and itching skin meant little now as Coco’s growls grew farther away.

Chief could see blood in the sand and large footprints when the moon burst from the clouds. The indentions in the sand looked like those of a giant dog, or maybe a wolf. Whatever had made the prints wore no shoes. Chief had little time to process the information as he heard the commotion of a fight up ahead.

Half-naked and without his shotgun, Chief had no other plan than to join the fray barehanded and try to rescue Coco. Forgetting his lacerated skin, he raced ahead, reaching the bridge connecting the island to the mainland as the shadow of some erect creature crossed the structure. Chief watched it disappear into the underbrush.

Coco’s barks and growls had gone quiet. The rain had also stopped leaving Chief’s skin in a tormenting burn. Ignoring the discomfort, he frantically searched the bushes on the side of the trail beside the road leading to the Majestic, the island’s Prohibition-era hotel and casino, stopping when the beam of a large flashlight shined in his face.

“Chief, is that you? What in holy hell are you doing out here this time of night?”

“It’s me, Jack. I’m looking for Coco.”

Jack was short, probably no taller than five-six or seven. He was wiry, closely shaven, with brown hair buzzed almost to his scalp. From the odd shape of his mouth, It was hard to tell if Jack was smiling or frowning. Chief stood at least a foot taller than the smaller man and weighed at least a hundred pounds more than he did.

With Jack was Oscar, his English bulldog whose shoulders were as broad and muscular as Chief’s. Oscar wagged his short tail when Chief reached down to rub his head.

“I had an intruder at the teepee,” Chief said.

“I heard a shotgun blast. Was that you?”

“Something tried to tear into my teepee. When I unloaded the shotgun, Coco ran after him.”

“Who was it?”

“Not who, what?”

“The hell?”

“Help me find Coco, and I’ll tell you the rest of the story.”

“Oscar,” Jack said. “Find Coco.”

Oscar’s flat nose went to the sand. He ran down the trail from where Chief had come. Jack and Chief chased after him until he stopped and barked at the brush beside the path.

“I’ll get my machete,” Jack said.

Before Jack could go for his big knife, Oscar bulldozed his way into the brush, returning with the scruff of Coco’s neck in his mouth.

“Oh shit!” Chief said. “Please, God, don’t let him be dead.”

“Let’s get him to the lighthouse,” Jack said. “We can’t check him out in the dark.”

Chief cradled the little dog in his arms as he followed Jack up the hill to the lighthouse overlooking the bay. The door to Jack’s house was ajar. Jack hadn’t bothered shutting it.

“Give him to me,” Jack said. “I was the part-time medic on more ships than I can count.”

Chief was stoic. Jack had never seen him cry and had only rarely seen him smile. Expecting little emotion from the hulking man, he laid Coco on the kitchen table and began wiggling his head and legs.

“Nothing’s broken,” he said. “Get me a washrag.”

“Is he breathing?” Chief asked as he handed Jack a damp washcloth.

“He had the holy hell knocked out of him,” Jack said.

Coco opened his eyes and struggled to his feet. Though wobbly, his tail was wagging when Chief rubbed his head.

“You scared the hell out of me, you little bastard.”

“He doesn’t look half as bad as you do,” Jack said. “Use my shower and get cleaned up. I’ll put iodine on your cuts when you return.”

“It’s not the cuts that are bothering me. I took a roll in bull nettle.”

“Sit here,” Jack said. “I’ll get the tweezers.”

Thirty minutes passed as Jack methodically extracted tiny poisonous spines from Chief’s body.

“I think I got them all,” Jack said. “I’ll apply cortisone and iodine when you come out of the shower.”

“What am I going to wear?”

“Hell, Chief, none of my clothes will fit you. You’ll have to put your breechcloth back on.”

“It’s filthy and full of sand burrs.”

“Then throw it in the washer. A towel will do until it’s washed and dried.”

The aroma of Jack’s chowder greeted Chief when he exited the bathroom. Sitting at the kitchen table, he ate a bowl as Jack doctored his cuts and scratches. Coco and Oscar were lying together in Oscar’s doggie bed next to Jack’s old stove. Both were asleep as if nothing had happened. The rain had returned, the storm from the Gulf resulting in high wind, thunder, and lightning.

When Chief’s breechcloth was clean and dry, he put it on and sat on Jack’s couch with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“Feel better?” Jack asked.

“Not as good as I would if I had a mug of your firewater.”

Jack poured each a mug of rum from a bottle he kept in the cabinet over the stove. The hint of a smile crossed Chief’s face as he leaned his big head against the couch.

“What the hell were you and Coco chasing out there?” Jack said.

“I think it was a Rougarou,” Chief said.

“What the hell is that?” Jack asked.

“Navahos call them Skinwalkers, a human who can take the shape of an animal.”

“You mean like a shapeshifter?” Jack asked.

“Yes. Whatever tore into my teepee was bigger than me and had the claws of an animal.”

“What kind of animal?” Jack asked.

“Though I didn’t get a good look, it was howling like a wolf.”

“Get out of here!” Jack said.

“Coco thinks he’s a lion and went after him. He’s lucky to be alive.”

“If you didn’t get a good look at him, how do you know how big he was?” Jack asked.

“Wait’ll you see his tracks in the sand,” Jack said. “Whatever the thing is, he’s a monster.”

“Pardon me if I don’t believe you,” Jack said.

“Magic is real. Doesn’t matter if you believe it or not. It is what it is.”

Jack was squirming as he sat at the table of the tiny kitchen. “You think whoever tried to break into your teepee was magical?”

Chief nodded. “That’s not all. I had a dream.”

“What?” Jack said.

“The Majestic was on fire, a woman I didn’t recognize trapped on the top floor.”

“No one’s lived in the Majestic for decades,” Jack said.

“Then why does my dream worry you?”

“I had a call from Mr. Castellano today.”

“The man who claims to own the island?” Chief asked.

“The biggest mob boss in the south,” Jack said. “He doesn’t like it when things go wrong.”

“Why do you work for a crook?” Chief asked.

“Mr. Castellano pays me well to take care of things. That and my navy pension provides the grog you enjoy so much.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Why does my dream worry you?”

“Mr. Castellano has found someone to come live here and restore the Majestic to its former glory.”

“You’re kidding me?” Chief said.

“I wish I were. The last thing two old hermits like you and me need is a crowd of people taking over the island.”

“That’s a fact,” Chief said.

“I would lose my job if the Majestic burned, and it won’t make Mr. Castellano happy to learn a shapeshifter’s roaming the island.”

“Then don’t tell him,” Chief said.

“The rain has stopped,” Jack said. “Show me the footprints.”

Oscar and Coco didn’t awaken as Jack and Chief followed the powerful flashlight beam down the path from the lighthouse. They halted when they reached the bridge to the mainland.

“The only way onto the island is across the bridge,” Jack said.

“It’s low tide,” Chief said. “He could have waded across.”

Chief was correct; the water beneath the bridge was shallow enough to see the bottom. Jack was staring at something in the water.

“What is it?” he said.

“Looks like an old crate,” Chief said. “Must have washed up in the storm.”

Chief waded into the shallow water, dragging the crate to shore.

“Too heavy to carry back to your place,” he said. “We’ll have to get it with the ATV.”

“Any idea what it is?” Jack asked.

“Don’t know,” Chief said. “The stenciling on the crate is faded. I think it says Dominican Republic.

Chapter 2

Coco didn’t awaken during Chief’s return to his hill overlooking the Gulf. The rain continued, and Jack had lent him an umbrella. The first thing he noticed when he entered his teepee was the large hole in the wall made when he’d unloaded the shotgun on the intruder. Rain and wind continued blowing through the hole. Chief decided not to worry about it, covering his head with a blanket.

The sound of a horn honking woke him some hours later. From the wagging of Coco’s tail, Chief knew it was Jack waiting in the ATV at the foot of the hill. When Chief exited the privy, Jack was coming up the path, Oscar in front of him.

“Hell, man,” Jack said. “You going to sleep all day?”

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Chief said, “seeing as I got no sleep last night.”

“We got work to do. I brought the ATV.”

“I’m not deaf. I heard the horn.”

“Then get your butt in gear. We’ll haul the crate to my house, and then I’ll fix us a navy breakfast.”

Always hungry, Jack’s offer of food riveted his attention.

“Let me feed the chickens and Buttercup. She was tomcatting all night and is still asleep on the pallet.”

“You and that cat,” Jack said.

“You don’t like cats?”

“There are half a dozen feral cats that hang out behind my house. They live in the storage shed and eat my grub just like you do. Haven’t had a mouse since I moved in. Doesn’t mean I want them sitting in my lap and purring.”

“Bet they feel the same way about you,” Chief said.

The four-wheel-drive, all-terrain vehicle was waiting at the foot of the hill. Jack had lowered the top, Chief contorting his massive frame to fit in the front seat. The 90-horsepower engine started on the first crank of the key. Oscar and Coco loved it, their tails wagging as they sat in the backseat.

A hazy orb poked rays of sunshine through the clouds as Jack drove past the Majestic.

“What a place that must have been back in the thirties,” Jack said.

“That casino almost kept me from being born,” Chief said. “Grandpa went there one night before he and Grandma married. Got hooked up with a lady of the night.”

“What happened?” Jack asked.

“Grandma forgave him. I wouldn’t be here now if she hadn’t,” Chief said.

“Was your granddad as big as you are?”

“Nope,” Chief said. “He was six inches shorter than Grandma. My dad wasn’t tall either.”

“You never talk about your parents,” Jack said.

“Maybe I’ll tell you someday when we’ve both had a bit too much of your grog. Not now.”

Jack let the matter drop as he parked the ATV near the bridge where they’d found the crate. Chief lifted the container into the bed behind the backseat. Instead of returning to the front seat, he stood with his hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

“What the hell, man? What are you looking at?” Jack asked.

“I saw a flash in the water.”

“Just a seashell. Let’s go,” Jack said.

Chief didn’t obey. Instead, he pulled up his jeans over his knees and waded into the water under the bridge. He needn’t have bothered because even his hair was wet when he returned to the ATV.

“Found something,” he said.

“Another crate?” Jack asked.

When Chief opened his hand, the objects in it glinted in the sunlight.

“Gold coins,” Chief said. “Grandpa always told me there was a fortune in Spanish gold buried somewhere on the island.”

“Jesus!” Jack said. “An entire doubloon and a piece of eight. Got to be worth a lot of money.”

“You think I’m going to split it with you?” Chief said.

“If I’d found them, I would have split it with you.”

“Sure about that?” Chief asked.

“Hell yes, I’m sure,” Jack said.

“I’m mighty hungry,” Chief said. “I’ll decide after breakfast.”

Jack carried the doubloons as Chief lugged the crate into the little white house and sat it on the floor.

“Hope you have a crowbar,” Chief said.

“Nothing much I don’t have in my toolbox,” Jack said.

Chief took the crowbar and began loosening the lid. When it popped open, Jack laid it against the wall and then ripped open the waterproof covering with a kitchen knife. The crate contained liquor bottles, and Jack held one up to the light.

“What’s it say?” Chief asked.

“151 proof rum, Whistling Winds Distillery, Dominican Republic, bottled 1929.”

“Then the rum is. . .”

“Close to a hundred years old,” Jack said, finishing Chief’s sentence.

“They look like they were just bottled.”

“The waterproof cover did the trick,” Jack said.

“Open it,” Chief said. “Let’s see how it tastes.”

“You crazy? No telling how much this crate of hooch is worth.”

“Nothing if it tastes like shit,” Chief said. “Open it, and let’s find out.”

Jack continued grumbling as he opened the bottle and filled two mugs. They both took a sip.

“What do you think?” Jack asked.

“Best rum I ever tasted in my life,” Chief said.

“Got that right,” Jack said. “I’ve drunk rum from all over the world. None even comes close to this.”

“What’ll we do?” Chief asked.

“Eat breakfast while we think about it,” Jack said.

The aroma of baking biscuits and bacon and eggs soon filled the cozy kitchen Jack always referred to as his galley. Chief’s stomach growled, and his mouth watered as he waited at the plank table. As they tore into breakfast, complete with strong coffee laced with Dominican rum there was no conversation. Chief was working on his third helping of bacon and eggs when Jack pushed away from the table.

“I think we need to take a road trip,” he said.

“Road trip to where?” Chief asked.

“New Orleans. Seems to me we have a few things to celebrate.”

“Sounds good to me,” Chief said.

“Lots of shops on Canal buy and sell things. We’ll split the money and then eat someplace where I don’t have to cook.”

“You sick of cooking?” Chief asked.

“No, but I love it when someone else does the cooking for me.”

“I’m all in, Jack. Raw oysters, all we can eat, cold beer and barbecue shrimp,” Chief said. “Can’t wait.”

“You got it,” Jack said. “And then a visit to a Bourbon Street tittie bar to watch the naked girls until we get drunk and obnoxious, and they kick us out.”

“Not that drunk and obnoxious,” Chief said. “I don’t ever want to spend another night in the French Quarter drunk tank.”

“Right about that,” Jack said. “It wasn’t exactly the Hotel Monteleone.”

“At least they just let us sleep it off and didn’t charge us with a crime,” Chief said.

“No jail this time,” Jack said. “If you start getting rowdy, I’ll herd your ass out of the joint.”

“Who’s going to herd yours out?” Chief said.

“Let’s don’t worry about it until it happens.”

“What about Oscar and Coco?” Chief asked.

“The doggie door leads out back, and there’s plenty of room inside the fence to run around. Those two dogs won’t go hungry or thirsty and will probably never miss us.”

Chief was already half-drunk as they crossed the bridge to the mainland and headed toward New Orleans. Using the dashboard as a tom-tom, he sang an Indian war song until Jack turned up the radio in his old red pickup.

“Lighten up, Chief. If you even think about scalping someone, I’m bringing you home. Got it?”

“I can’t remember the last time I scalped anyone,” Chief said.

“Because you never have,” Jack said. “That doesn’t stop you from talking about it when you get sotted. You’re so damn big you scare everyone half to death when you do.”

“Raw oysters and wild women are the only two things on my mind right now,” Chief said.

“Then quit hogging that bottle of rum. This country road makes me thirsty.”

Chief took a swig before handing the bottle to Jack. Pastures filled with cattle and cattle egrets were their only company along the rural road. The sky was still cloudy, pelicans flying overhead looking for their nests. The radio station Jack had found was playing an old Hank Williams song. He and Chief knew the words and were soon singing along. The road grew wider when they reached St. Bernard Parish.

“I’m glad you know the way,” Chief said.

“You’re Indian,” Jack said. “You people are supposed to have extrasensory perception.”

“On foot or horseback,” Chief said. “Not in a truck.”

“Then it’s a good thing it’s all but impossible to get lost in New Orleans.”

Chief almost laughed. “Huh? You have a hard time finding your ass with both hands.”

Jack ignored Chief’s retort. “Any more rum in that bottle you’re bogarting?”

“Not much. Luckily, we brought two bottles. Where are you going to park this old heap so it doesn’t get impounded like it did last time?”

“I’ll find a place,” Jack said.

Jack found an alleyway on the outskirts of the French Quarter and parked the truck behind a dumpster.

“Sure about this?” Chief asked.

“It’s three blocks to the French Quarter. No one would park this far away.”

“Famous last words,” Chief said.

“Stow it, landlubber,” Jack said. “We got money to make, oysters to eat, and tits to watch. Don’t jinx us.”

They were soon on their way to Canal Street, the widest thoroughfare on earth. A red streetcar passed as they headed to one of the camera shops. A man with a Middle Eastern accent greeted them when they entered. Cameras, radios, and electronics filled the front window. Inside, there was always a deal someone could make.

“How can I help you two gentlemen?:” the salesman asked. “A new single-lens reflex camera?”

“We’re not buying. We’re selling,” Jack said.

A smile crossed the man's face with the dark mustache and swarthy complexion.

“What you boys got?” he asked.

Jack pulled the doubloon from his pocket, gave it a spin, and watched as it twirled on the glass cabinet filled with exotic cameras. When it came to a rest on the cabinet, the salesman took it, put it in his mouth, and bit it.

“Fake gold,” he said. “I’ll give you twenty-five bucks.” Jack took the coin and started for the door. “Wait,” the man said. “Give you a hundred.”

“You wouldn’t give me a penny for it if it weren’t gold,” Jack said.

“It’s gold,” the man said. “I’d have to get it assayed to determine how much gold.”

“Bullshit!” Jack said. “Let’s go, Chief.”

Again, the man stopped them. “Five hundred dollars.”

He grinned when Jack said, “You wouldn’t give your mama five hundred dollars unless whatever you were buying was worth a thousand.”

“Then tell me how much you want for it,” the man said.

“Four thousand dollars,” Jack said.

“Excuse me a minute,” the man said before disappearing into the back.

He counted out fifteen hundred dollars in hundred dollar bills on the cabinet when he returned.

“Twenty-five hundred dollars, or we’re walking,” Jack said.

“You are an excellent negotiator,” the man said with a smile as he counted out five more hundreds. “My last offer.”

Chief grabbed the cash. Without giving Jack a chance to reply, he started for the door. Jack didn’t take much convincing. Chief handed Jack a thousand dollars back out on Canal Street and put the other thousand in his pocket.

“Let that be a lesson, Chief,” Jack said. “I got us a thousand dollars more than the doubloon is worth.”

“If you believe that,” Chief said. “I have a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you. That man just stuck it up our butts.”

“Then why did you take the money?” Jack asked.

“We have two thousand dollars we didn’t have yesterday. My grandpa always told me about the Spanish gold hidden on the island. There are more doubloons where that one came from.”

“Okay, then,” Jack said. “Let’s catch the streetcar at St. Charles. “Someone’s shucking oysters and I’m buying all you can eat.”

 

Chapter 3

Jack and Chief waited on the corner for the next streetcar to arrive. When it turned off Canal onto St. Charles and rumbled to a stop, they boarded the antique passenger vehicle.

There’s nothing quite as relaxing as sitting in a wooden streetcar seat as it rumbles down St. Charles Avenue. Rush hour had passed, and the old streetcar was almost deserted as Jack and Chief enjoyed the cool weather and fresh air from the open window. Chief pulled the wire to signal the driver to let them off at Napoleon. Daylight began to wane as they exited the streetcar and headed north.

“We haven’t been here in a while,” Jack said. “Hope the place isn’t out of business.”

“If it is,” Chief said. “We can head back to the Quarter and eat at the Oyster House.”

A breeze fluttered the leaves of the live oaks fronting many of the old houses. The sidewalk was growing dark, though neither man worried about being accosted. They reached the restaurant in ten minutes and entered through the parking lot door.

They found a large room with a wooden plank floor and several patrons waiting for dinner in the main dining room. There were two bars, one for drinking and another for raw oysters.

“Order me an Abita,” Jack said. “I’ll get us a couple of dozen oysters.”

The young black man shucking oysters smiled when he looked up and saw Jack.

“Ain’t seen you in a spell. That big Indian with you?”

Jack nodded and shook his hand. “Glad to see you, James. Chief is ordering us beer. Got any oysters in this place?”

The young man grinned. “We got the plumpest, sweetest oysters in all of Louisiana.”

“Then you must have known we were coming,” Jack said.

“Where you boys been?”

“Recovering from our last visit,” Jack said.

“I hear that,” James said. “You two about cleaned us out of oysters last time.”

“We’re going to give it a try again tonight,” Jack said.

Pulling a hundred-dollar bill from the pocket of his blue work shirt, Jack passed it across the bar to James.

“For you,” he said. “Keep the oysters coming.”

James stashed the bill in his shirt pocket. “You boys rob a bank?”

Jack pulled a silver flask from his back pocket and handed it to James.

“Better than that,” he said. “Take a swig of this.”

James opened the flask, smiling after he’d taken a drink.”

“Man,” he said. “That’s the smoothest rum I ever tasted.”

“1929 Dominican. We found a crate of it on Oyster Island.”

“Wouldn’t want to sell me a bottle, would you?” James asked.

James grinned again when Jack said, “Son, they don’t pay you enough here to afford a bottle of this rum.”

“Then maybe you’ll let me take another pull.”

“Go ahead, just don’t drink it all,” Jack said. “It’s a long way back to Oyster Island.”

“You boys have oysters on Oyster Island?” James asked.

“How do you think it got its name?”

“Then why do you and Chief have to come to the city for oysters?”

“The man who owns the island won’t allow anyone to touch the beds. Maybe someday.”

“Damn!” James said. “You know how much oysters are worth?”

James grinned again when Jack said, “There’s way more there than I can afford, at least at the prices you charge.”

“I’ll bring you and Chief your oysters soon as I get them shucked.”

Jack saluted and said, “Thanks.”

When he joined Chief at the bar, he found a chilled glass of Abita waiting for him. James tapped Chief’s shoulder when he delivered their first batch of oysters.

“How’s it going, Chief?” he asked.

“Wonderful,” Chief said. “These oysters look great.”

“Nothing but the best for my two favorite customers,” James said.

Jack mixed horseradish and cocktail sauce, put a fat oyster on a cracker, and then topped it with his concoction before biting into it. Chief didn’t waste time with condiments, forking an oyster straight into his mouth.

“Uh oh!” he said.

“What?” Jack asked.

“James must have left a piece of shell in this one. I almost broke a tooth.”

He fished the object out of his mouth and held it to the light.

“What is it?” Jack asked.

“A pearl,” Chief said.

The bartender with thinning hair and a bushy mustache wiped a glass with a bar rag.

“Your lucky day,” he said. “That’s a nice pearl.”

“A real beauty,” Chief said, dropping it in his shirt pocket.

“Need me to put you on the list for the main dining room?” the bartender asked.

“What about it, Chief?” Jack asked.

“Another couple dozen of these tasty mollusks is all I need,” he said.

The bartender nodded and moved away to help another customer.

Many oysters and cold beers later, Jack and Chief exited the restaurant. Dark shadows danced outside the halos of light created by the street lamps.

“You ready for some titties?” Jack asked.

“Been ready since we left Oyster Island,” Chief said.

The streetcar was nearly empty on their return trip to Canal Street. Chief closed his eyes and got fifteen minutes of well-deserved sleep, awaking when the streetcar pulled to a stop.  Everyone disembarked at Canal Street.

Jack and Chief walked to the intersection with Bourbon Street. Once on Bourbon, they could see the lights and human activity down the famous venue. The raspy voice of street barkers, live jazz, and many drunk revelers accosted their senses. They were soon standing in front of High Rollers, a Bourbon Street strip club. The barker in the doorway implored them to come in.

“Titties and beer. Best in town,” he said. Come in now, and I’ll cut the cover charge to only twenty bucks.”

The barker grinned when Jack asked, “Twenty bucks for both of us?”

“High Rollers is a strip joint, not a charity,” he said. “The twenty bucks comes with one free drink. Come in before the rain starts, and I’ll give you each two free drink coupons.”

Chief and Jack entered the club, paid the cover charge, and had their hands stamped. Once inside, loud music, the fragrance of perfume, and a gorgeous waitress with a thick thatch of blond hair greeted them.

“I’m Opium,” she said. “What are your names?”

“I’m Jack, and this is Chief. Love your name,” Jack said. “You look as if you could be addictive.

“Every man’s fantasy,” she said. “What are you and Chief drinking?”

Opium’s pink nightie didn’t cover her black panties and mesh stockings entirely. Chief was staring, and Opium didn’t mind.

“Pitcher beer and two mugs,” Jack said.

“Doesn’t the big one ever talk?” she asked.

“Chief’s kind of shy until you get him drunk, and then you can’t shut him up.”

“I’ll need a credit card,” she said.

Jack handed her the coupons the doorman had given them.

Opium’s expression didn’t change as she took the coupons.

“I still need a credit card,” she said.

“We got cash,” he said, handing her a hundred dollars.

Opium stuffed the money into her lacy bra. “Cash doesn’t work in High Rollers. We need a credit card, or you’ll have to leave.”

“What about the drinks we paid for?” Chief asked.

“Wait here,” she said. “I’ll send the manager over.”

A man in a pinstriped suit soon joined them. Though he wasn’t smiling, his curled upper lip revealed a gold front tooth.

“You can’t stay here unless you got a credit card,” he said.

“We got cash,” Jack said.

“Don’t matter none,” The man said.

The man was big, though not nearly as large as Chief, who was also frowning, his arms clasped tightly across his chest. The manager counted out forty dollars and gave it to Jack.

“Rockie’s down the street caters to roughnecks, bikers, and college kids. They serve beer and take cash. You and your big buddy will be more comfortable there.”

The gold-toothed manager ushered them to the door, waiting until they’d walked out to the street. A light rain had begun falling as they exited High Rollers to Bourbon Street. It hadn’t stopped the steady flow of foot traffic. Music poured from one of the bars selling exotic drinks through an open window.

“Guess they didn’t want our business,” Chief said.

“Then we’ll spend our money where they do,” Jack said.

“Want a Hurricane?” Chief asked.

“Too sweet for my taste,” Jack said. “The truck’s not far away. The flask is empty. Let’s get our rum. It’s in a paper sack, and we can bring it with us.”

They found the truck the way they’d left it, the bottle of Dominican Rum under the seat. Drinks from the open bottle elevated their spirits as they returned to Bourbon Street's crowds. They soon found their strip joint.

Though not as large and flashy as High Rollers, Rockies seemed more inviting, with slow music emanating from the open door instead of a barker’s raspy voice. They waited at the front door for someone to collect the cover charge. The red neon Scorpion in the front window beckoned them to enter. A half-naked waitress with a pitcher of beer in one hand smiled as she grabbed Chief’s hand.

“If we hurry,” she said, “There are open chairs at the pussy bar.”

Two men dressed like roughnecks from an offshore drilling platform beat them to the seats at the elevated stage where a naked young woman was pole dancing to the slow strains of an old Bob Seeger song. Like the song’s words, the dancer was ‘A black-haired beauty with big dark eyes.’ Her expression revealed she was happy to be the center of attention.

“Someone beat us to the punch,” the waitress said. “How about a table in the corner?”

“That’ll work,” Jack said.

“What are you drinking?”

Jack answered again, “Pitcher and two cold mugs.”

The room was dark, only the stage lights and the supernatural glow of rotating spotlights illuminating the room. A fog machine beneath the dance floor shot periodic clouds of mist to the ceiling. The song to which the naked young woman danced blasted out of giant speakers.

Chief nodded when Jack said, “I think we found the right place.”

Their waitress soon returned with a pitcher of beer and two chilled mugs.

“I’m Angela,” she said. “I’ll check back to see if you need anything.”

“How about a table dance?” Jack said.

Angela’s bouffant blond hair highlighted her great smile and toned body clad only in the skimpiest of blue bikinis.

“I’m a waitress, not a dancer,” she said. “I’ll send one of the dancers over.”

“Sorry,” Jack said. “Didn’t mean to insult you.”

“I wasn’t insulted,” Angela said.

Angela disappeared into the darkness. Another young woman soon approached Jack and Chief’s table.

“Angela told me someone needs a table dance,” she said.

“How much do you charge?” Jack asked.

“A hundred bucks,” the woman said.

“Damn!” Jack said with a smile. “I should be giving table dances.”

“Nobody would hire you,” Chief said. “What’s your name?”

The young woman sat in the chair between Jack and Chief.

“Odette,” she said. “Mind if I sit for a minute? These spike heels are killing me.”

“Sit, pretty lady. Are you Cajun?”

“What gave you your first clue?” she asked.

“Your accent,” he said.

“You don’t like it?”

“You kidding?” Jack said. “I love it.”

“Buy me a drink?” Odette asked.

Jack saw Angela and raised his finger. “Angela, please bring this beautiful young woman a drink.”

Angela smiled and quickly returned with a tall drink.

“Twenty-five dollars,” she said.

Jack did a double-take but quickly handed Angela seventy-five dollars.

“Twenty-five is for you. Bring Odette another when she finishes this one.”

Angela kissed Jack’s forehead. “Bless you,” she said before hurrying off to the bar.

“Angela’s working on her Ph.D. in physics at L.S.U.,” Odette said.

“With a body like hers, she should be hooking full-time,” Jack said.

Odette sprang to her feet. “Angela’s not a hooker, and neither am I. Keep your drink. I don’t sit with assholes, much less dance for them,” she said.

###

• 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 might also like checking out his Facebook page.