Wil A. Emerson WHo, Where, How, When

Wil A. Emerson: Who, Where, How, When

Excerpt from
"Blue Suede Shoes"

A short story from Wil A. Emerson


 
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Purple 60's style drawing featuring an eye “Blue Suede Shoes," the story of two private eyes who face off against a wily blond and a mob of egotistical gangsters will be appearing in GROOVY GUMSHOES: PRIVATE EYES IN THE PSYCHEDELIC SIXTIES, Vol. 2, from Down and Out Books, late this year. (Cover not yet available; this is Volune 1.)

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Blue Suede Shoes
by Wil A. Emerson

       Larry and Jimmy were on stake out. Parked in the third row of the Kroger lot. Their five year old Ford Fairlane had been idling for thirty minutes. Every few minutes it sputtered but didn’t conk out.

       “Using up all the gas, Jimmy. Shut it off for a while.”

       “Ya, and we’ll lose him if this shit of a car doesn’t start.”

       “Gotta have faith, Jimmy. When have we had to call for a ride? When, tell me?”

       “Oh, go to hell, Larry.” Jimmy sunk further in his seat but left his wide brimmed Stetson high on his head. He’d fall asleep if he hid the daylight. Up all night with a sore throat and a headache, he wouldn’t tell his partner that he’d caught another bug. Larry would give him the usual ‘you catch more diseases than cheaters; that’s why we can’t buy a decent car’. Then hover over him for days until Jimmy felt more like his better self.

       The guy they were waiting for, Cezary Kaminski, wasn’t doing his weekly shopping at the big chain grocery store. The tall, stupid Polack from Hamtramck who dressed like an Elvis want’a’be, bell bottomed pants, pink shirts, white ankle high shoes, had stolen two thousand dollars’ worth of goods from a gun dealer who ran his business out of a grease pit on Eight Mile Road where Detroit and the suburbs parted ways. A small area of the Motor City no one cared much about. Inner city politicians didn’t have time for a cheap punk like Cezary, who everyone knew as Izzy. Bigger fish to fry. They blamed crime in the area on suburban whites who crossed the Eight Mile border to buy drugs. The police precinct a mile away on the Detroit side had other things to worry about, too. Livernois Avenue, on the west side of Detroit, was about to blow up. No one believed it could be stopped until rioters got fucking tired of setting fires and breaking windows. Couldn’t last long was the consensus because the cops would run out of tear gas soon. Anyway you looked at it, there were no winners in riot wars.

Soon to be released in the second anthology of GROOVY GUMSHOES: PRIVATE EYES IN THE PSYCHEDELIC SIXTIES.

 

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Woman standing in front of a low marble wall

 

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