The District Manager Pt. 11

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crime, noir, political crime, political issues, Politics, Texas, Texas Author, Texas politics, True detective

 

I arrive in Bellville, which is south of San Antonio, after a few drab hours. I’ve never had to pick up a released prisoner before and don’t know what to expect. Everyone is curt, if not hostile. I sign some papers, they give me several prescription bottles full of meds. I wait for several hours.

Doors clang with metallic urgency. At last a haggard figure is rolled out by one of the guards. The red hair is going gray and the face looks like an old baseball glove. The only thing I really recognize is the John Lennon-style rims of his cracked glasses.

“Keith, God bless you, man!” I declare, genuinely glad to see him. But his appearance ignites my spleen. “What, they couldn’t at least get you some new glasses?” I ask verbosely, looking around the room at the stagnant prison employees. “Why didn’t you put this in your letters?”

“Save it, Mason,” Keith demands, under his breath.

But I’m not finished. “What the hell am I paying taxes for anyway?” I ask angrily. The guards have turned and are looking at me hungrily, like wolves on a hill surveying an outcast. “I guess to pay your salary!” I say, looking right into the eyes of some bitch with a badge.

“Get me out of here, Mason. Please, let’s go,” Keith pleads. There’s a genuine fear in his voice.

“Don’t worry, bro, they can’t hurt you anymore.” And with that comment, the guards start laughing as they look at each other.

Once out to my car, I discover a problem: I’ve never had to get someone crippled into an automobile. It ain’t easy.

As we head east towards H-Town, Keith and I sit silent. We listen instead to the Drive-By-Truckers, a favorite of his. When he doesn’t respond I throw on Son Volt. Still nothing. I roll the volume down after we pass Sealy.

“I got that Butterscotch Strat out of hock several years ago. It’s been sitting in my closet for quite a while. I bet you’d like to sink your fingers into that fretboard, huh?”

“Yeah, maybe. My hands burn all the time now. Nerves.” Not only do I not know what to say but I feel guilty for even bringing it up. Luckily, Keith continues. “I remember you telling me about that. I really appreciate it, Mason. I really do. You’re the only real friend I have. You really are…” Keith starts to tear up and now we both start feeling really uncomfortable.

I stop at a liquor store and buy the sad bastard a cheap bottle of vodka. We continue to my place in silence.

Getting into my apartment is our next challenge, as I’m on the second floor. There is a ramp, but it’s difficult to negotiate. The doorways of my apartment are not cut to accommodate the handicapped.

Keith sits up all night listening to music and quietly weeping. I have to get up for work in the morning so I go to sleep. But before I close my eyes… I worry about how I’m going to tell him about Ann. He thinks she’s away on business. He’s really looking forward to seeing her.

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The District Manager Pt. 1o

Tags

crime, noir, political crime, Texas, Texas Author, Texas politics, True detective

Wednesday, an old musician friend of mine is getting out of prison. He had been accused and convicted of intent to sell a controlled substance. It was bullshit. He actually was in possession of less than an ounce. But Keith had had a few other lesser charges, and that, combined with the fact that he was poor and something of an insolent smart ass, the judge sentenced him to three years. During the sting, the cops threw him to the ground and kicked him in his lower back, so as to keep him on the ground. This, in-and-of-itself, may not have caused lasting harm to the man. But given the fact that he has a congenital birth defect in his lumbar spine, the jack boot exacerbated an already deteriorating condition. It didn’t help that the bastards in the McConnell Unit refused him a simple orthopedic pillow. Luckily, with the cooperation of the district office where the prison sits, I was able to negotiate some basic care. But it’s apparently too late. Keith is now in a wheelchair.

State prisons are a crime. Underfunded and run by questionable creatures themselves, they are at best a petri dish of potential life-long, expensive health problems; at worst, a recruiting center for drug cartels and gangs.

The criminal justice system is never wrong. The Corrections Committee in the state legislature is apparently powerless. All they ever say is, “There’s nothing we can do.”

State prisons are a death sentence one way or another.

So I get a call from Jules as I’m driving down to Bellville.

“Mason, I’ve been looking into the ownership of that property.”

“And…?”

“It’s interesting, when I went down to the appraisal district they were really rude.”

“Big surprise, but you need to go to the county courthouse.”

“Yes, I figured that one out. But anyway, the Chief Appraiser came out and confronted me, asking me why I was inquiring about the land.”

“Yeah, that woman, she’s a liar and a cheat. That place blatantly violates the law and no one will do anything about it.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Yeah right!” I confirm with a chuckle. “So what happened?”

“I went to the courthouse and I got the information, but it reveals very little.”

“Oh?”

“It’s in a company’s name: Bowers Power, Inc.”

“That’s catchy. Sounds like it has something to do with that power plant down there.”

“That’s what I was wondering, so I called the plant.”

“You called the plant? You love to entangle yourself in the web of bureaucracy, don’t you?”

“Ha, ha. Maybe so, Mason, maybe so.”

“And…?

“Oh, nothing yet. Left a message with some secretary. She was very nice, I must say. Had no idea what I was talking about.”

“Big surprise. The truth is, Jules, whoever this company is, they probably know nothing about this. That arena is so isolated that I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s being used unlawfully by someone who thinks they can just get away with it. If that’s the case, it’s worked so far.”

“Perhaps, but if someone were to bring it to their attention…”

“They might remove the dogs.”

“That’s right, Mason, they might remove the dogs.”

“I understand.”

“What troubles me is that no one who I have contacted in local government has researched this. I mean, regarding who owns this property.”

“I’m not surprised. That requires work, Jules. Look, the reality here is, this isn’t drugs, there’s nothing to be seized in this particular case that benefits the police or prosecutors. Dogs? They don’t care about a bunch of mutts. No benefit. They’ll just have to pay to put them down or have them sheltered!”

“You are cynical, sir. I hope that you are not right about that.”

“I hope not either, Jules. I hope not either.”

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Thinking Person’s Classic Science Fiction

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aliens, Chris Rogers, Reading, sci-fi

Emissary by Chris Rogers – Five Stars

Emissary is highly original science fiction novel in the vein of Robert Heinlein and Stanislaw Lem, with a nod to Bradbury.

Ruell, the ‘Emissary’ of the title, is a fascinatingly original character. Author Chris Rogers does not waste her time diminishing her odd protagonist’s otherworldliness by pandering to our present societal, self-absorbed prejudices. This entity is an alien. It reads like one.

Addison Hale is the President of the United States, and she is one tough lady. While reading the novel, the image that my mind continuously referenced, was not that of any current politician, but rather Chrissy Hynde of the band The Pretenders: a strong woman who carries her burdens without a chip on her shoulder. She manages this even in the face of a very reminiscent VP. This temperance lends her a certain grace.

And the way she and Ruell connect is nothing short of brilliant.

Filled with an assortment of well-developed supporting characters, the novel continuously switches gears at instinctively the right moment.

There are scientific references that sound utterly learned. And through her natural dialogue, Ms. Rogers even throws an occasional bone to current affairs junkies, policy wonks, with dashes of popular culture; melding the unreal and the real together seamlessly.

Emissary is a commitment, intricate and complex, it moves at its own convincing pace. And Ruell’s journey can be very disheartening at times. But the destination most definitely justifies the travel time.

Chris Rogers’ rise among the book world had the good fortune to occur in that last decade before all our art and entertainment fell to corporate mediocrity and the subsequent catering to an intellectually compromised America. Her craft has the rare privilege of existing as just that, a craft. She’s an artist.

When you’re ready for a literate book that will at some point be considered a classic of the genre, sit down with Emissary. It’s a read that will stay with you.

Matt Minor

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Books & Booze

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amwriting, book signing, bookstore event, political crime, Texas, Texas Author, Texas politics

Join me at BR VINO in Rosenberg’s Cultural District this Saturday the 13th from 6 to 8 PM.
I’ll be selling and signing copies of my latest novel, The District Manager.
www.mattminorauthor.com

BR VINO wine and craft beer bar
1917 Avenue G & 3rd Street
Rosenberg TX 77471
Inside the Vogelsang Building
(832) 595-2881
www.brvino.com

The District Manager Pt. 9

Tags

noir, political crime, political issues, Politics, Reading, Texas, Texas Author, Texas legislature, Texas politics, True detective

 

“How tall is this ladder?” I ask, wiping the perspiration from my eyes.

“Forty-foot.” There’s little breath behind his answer.

“No wonder it’s so heavy.” The metal ladder makes a hard clank as it hits the metal rail.

We survey the monstrosity of this place, aided by his high beam flashlight. The pictures were bad enough, but this…this is flesh and blood. The whole arena smells of shit. The pit bulls, some two dozen of them, have left their pathetic dwellings and are on alert. But not all. Several have not moved since we arrived and I fear they are dead.

“Have you noticed any changes?”

“No. Not since I’ve been aware of this.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Oh, a week ago, last Thursday—over a week now, I guess.”

“In that time you’ve noticed no activity?”

“Someone has to come here at some point. They are fed regularly. This is the third time I’ve been up here and there is always food in the bowls. But I haven’t actually seen anyone. Of course I have to work too, you know.”

“I got the impression you were retired.”

“I am, from the Marine Corps. But my wife got sick last year and my pension isn’t enough. I do consulting work on the side.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your wife. And I thank you for
your service.”

“Oh, she’s doing better—Lymphoma. It’s in remission—experimental drugs. No cure though.”

“So no one you’ve contacted, with the exception of me, has found this even a little disturbing?” I ask sarcastically.

“Oh, they find it disturbing. But everyone says there is nothing they can do, because…”

“Because they have shelter, are on chains, and have adequate food,” I rudely complete his thought.

“Because they have shelter, are on chains, and have adequate food. You are correct, sir.”

“My God, it’s obvious they’re being fought!” I state emphatically. Now, something dawns on me, “Wait a minute, the other day, when I was driving to work, I saw numerous dead dogs lying in ditches, here and there. I couldn’t say for sure, but come to think of it…they could’ve been pit bulls.”

“Well, there you go, Mason.”

“We should inform all parties of this fact. I’ve seen it with my own eyes!”

“What does that prove? No, it won’t change their position, but regarding what you said before your epiphany, and then confirmed by it, yes, they are fighting them, possibly breeding them. If you’ll observe, as far as I can tell these are all females.” He shines his light on the mass of hanging teats.

“The question is who are, ‘they?’”

“Yes, that is the question.”

“Another question is, ‘who owns this property?”’

“I was going to look into that this week.”

“Amazing. No one can do anything. No one sees anything. Are the cops even interested?”

“Sure. There’s even a sheriff’s deputy who lives up the road.”

“What does he say?”

“Oh, how terrible it is…”

“But nothing can be done?”

“No, nothing, nothing can be done. That’s right, Mason.”

I deal with a lot of bullshit problems. So many that the magnitude of any issue I have before me can diminish itself pretty quickly; overshadowed by the next fucked up situation. And…I have a pretty fucked up situation I have to deal with this week.

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The Tarnishing of Texas; (Cowboys in the White House)

Tags

george w. bush, LBJ, texan politicians, Texas politics

No state has seen their reputation tarnished to such a degree, due to its nationally elected native Presidents, more than the Lone Star State. None.  The Chief Executives in question: Lyndon Baines Johnson and George W. Bush; the 36^th and 43^rd President’s respectively.

Granted, both men took office in the midst of national upheaval: Johnson upon the death of Kennedy and Bush Jr. in the midst of a disputed election with Al Gore, his Democratic opponent. And no doubt things began to unravel domestically and globally shortly after both these men began governing. Johnson had Vietnam and Bush 911.

Both situations arguably made worse by their ensuing policies…and personalities.

Even taking into consideration the dark cloud under which Johnson entered office, the tall Texan was in fact the heir to Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal. The Great Society expanded the welfare state into nearly every nook and cranny of our culture. Particularly with regards to African-Americans. It is Johnson who solidified the black vote for the Democratic Party in perpetuity.

And yet the Left all but hate the man.

He was, as James Michener expressed so perfectly in his epic historical fiction novel, TEXAS, quite unacceptable to the eastern establishment. Johnson got the blame for Vietnam, no doubt…but it runs deeper than that. Johnson’s White House briefings on the state of South Asia only served to exacerbate the issue as the first ever televised war waged in America’s collective living room. Had the war broke out under Kennedy, it might have gone a bit better. It was Johnson’s style that was the problem. A cowboy at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. did not connect. Lyndon Johnson’s legacy was in the crafting of modern political tragedy.

Fast forward to the turn of the millennium and the election of yet another Texan, George W. Bush.  Unlike his northeastern father, George Jr. was a real Texan, and this was the problem. Only those motivated by malice towards the man would refute that he was not tragically at the wrong place at the wrong time. After the felling of the Twin Towers the nation was sad and angry. They needed consolation and action. But Bush not only possessed Johnson’s colloquial defects, he did it with his own particular inarticulateness.

We’ll never know how Al Gore would have actually handled the situation post 911, had he prevailed in the disputed election of 2000. The press would have treated him better, but perhaps he himself would have suffered the same fate as Johnson (unlikely). The reality was that once again a Texan was the leader of the free world in a time of great tumult, and the free world couldn’t connect.

A cowboy in the White House doesn’t work.

The state as a whole has suffered immeasurably from this. Texas was never going to be a darling of the northeastern establishment, but it could have had a seat at the broader table. As it is, the state’s immense cultural achievements remain largely on the periphery. That’s unfortunate for the state, the nation and the world, because Texas has lots to offer.

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The District Manager Pt. 8

Tags

crime, political crime, political issues, Politics, Texas, Texas Author, Texas legislature, Texas politics, True detective

Bowers is little more than a tiny community situated in what was once an enormous pecan plantation. The trees are huge. The main highway leading to this outpost abruptly splits, leaving the traveler with a choice between the town, if it can be called that, in one direction, and a small collection of shanty homes in the opposite direction. Exiting in favor of the residential, the traveler discovers that there is a definite class distinction. About a mile beyond the last visible shack, a detour emerges. This leads to Bowers’ well-to-do, and my destination. Four pillars rise in the distance, jutting upward above the giant trees. They are the smokestacks of a power plant, which can be seen for miles from any direction.

I pull into Mr. Reynolds’ driveway and he comes out to meet me. He dons a USMC cap and a beard. He is amicable and grateful for my visit.

“So, Mr. Reynolds…” I begin. We are still outside. His unfenced yard looks out over acres of gorgeous, wild bottomland.

“Please, call me Jules.” His accent nags at me.

“Jules, I’m just curious…are you from somewhere up North?”

“God no, man! I’m from New Orleans!”

“New Orleans? Well, sir, I apologize for my mistake. I’ve lived down here all my life. I should know the difference between…”

“…between a Yankee and a Coon Ass?” He light-heartedly interrupts.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t sweat it, Mason. You don’t mind if I call you Mason, do you? ‘Mason Dixon,’ hell of a catchy name by the way—love it!”

“Mason is fine.”

“Good, let me show you the arena.”

It’s nearing twilight as we make our way toward the rodeo arena. Though not far from his house, the arena is only accessible through a dense wood behind his property. The sun is nearly set and the grass is high. Jules turns on his flashlight. We cautiously make our way, conscious of the possibility of poisonous snakes. The creatures of the night are having a hell of a concert.

The arena is small: I’d say not more than forty yards by thirty, including the rising bleachers. A single entry gate is heavily locked. The bottom bleachers are obscured by a fence. Wild, waist-high weeds line the circumference. But the top bleachers are slated, so you can see through them. Jules signals me towards the nearby thicket.

“I’ve got a ladder hidden over here,” he says, pointing.

“Are you sure it’s safe to leave something like this out here? Like this?”

“I’m not going to haul the thing back and forth through these woods. It’ll be okay,” he answers. He’s breathing heavily.

We each grab our end of the ladder. With some difficulty, we heave it up in an attempt at leaning it against the rail that guards the top bleacher. All this activity has awakened the sleeping dogs.

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Texas Politics in a Nutshell; or not!

Tags

Austin, media, political issues, Politics, Texas, Texas legislature, Texas politics

AUSTIN –

Austin is the pimple-faced teenager of Texas’ cities. But it wears gobs of makeup to cover this up. It looks positively beautiful from afar, but as one gazes closer…well…not so much. To begin with Austin is a city planning monstrosity. Their philosophy of ‘if we don’t build it they won’t come,’ has been disastrous, and the town’s colossal narcissism guarantees that it will continue to become a victim of its own success.

The people running Austin today had little if anything to do with the city’s ascension. And like most heirs, they have little respect for those responsible. Austin is more West Coast at this point than anything else. Californians, in particular, have a knack for running things into the ground. (Moving into a pristine area and then throwing a tantrum at its spoiling). They have all but drained the life’s blood from their home state and have now set their vampiric sights on Austin. With excessive municipal regulation and taxation, they might be successful in their creative destruction.

This taken into consideration, Austin is one of the most creative places in the world at this point in history. But can they sustain this…this is the question.

Austin is on the fast track to accomplish in a matter of two decades what it took NYC and California nearly a century to achieve: killing the bohemian soul. Creative people (true creative people not poseurs) are not usually of privileged means. Their existence requires a reasonably priced lifestyle.  In collusion with the real estate lobby, the Austin municipal monarchy could be ensuring its own creative annilation.

This would be a tragedy. But the city seems ill-equipped to deal with adult problems.

Legislatively Austin is largely intact. This is its weakness, as it has crafted few contingent suburban allies. As the minions of disaffected, priced out of the market members of the productive class, transplant to its perimeter (as Californians have done to Texas—see a pattern here?), it increasingly looks like an island. Where else in Texas can you campaign as a ‘Progressive Democrat’ and not have to worry about your signs being ripped from the earth? Other than housing the legislature, Austin has little policy impact.

In a world governed by irony and unintended consequences, the best that Austin can hope for going forward is in establishing itself as an entertainment and information nerve center. Not so much cultivating, but processing and distributing the ideas that could shape the future.

All the state lacks to dominate the cosmos is a media complex…

But again, will Austin’s success guarantee its failure?

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