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Matt Minor

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Writer’s Digest Review

02 Thursday Feb 2017

Posted by mattminor in Book Review, Politics, Texas, The District Manager-A Novel, Uncategorized

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Book Review, crime, Reading, Texas, Texas Author, Texas politics

The District Manager by Matt Minor starts slowly but builds to a compelling finish. Mason Dixon takes center stage in telling this tale of his gig as district manager for a Texas State Representative.  His assignment to travel the district and handle problems for his boss and his boss’s constituents puts him in the path of good folks and bad and eventually of those MINOR_final_TheDM.fcwho surpass bad.

The plot moves slowly through the beginning chapters. Nothing much seems to be happening until late when Mason Dixon and the reader start putting pieces together to come up with a surprising (or not) conclusion. 

The narrative is skillfully constructed from firsthand knowledge to be sure. The array of characters is well developed with each having distinctive characteristics and consistent dialogue. There is something for everyone in this novel—a bit of romance, humor, nail-biting suspense, murder and mayhem and a conclusion to set us all on edge in this political season. 

The one typo that caught my eye was in chapter two with the use of slated that likely should have been slatted. Otherwise, the novel is free of distracting errors. Perhaps, with ebooks, the cover is less important but this one works.  The notes about the author give insight into the authenticity of the tale. This a book is surely one I would recommend to other readers.

–Judge, 4th Annual Self-Published e-Book Awards

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The District Manager Pt. 12

01 Thursday Sep 2016

Posted by mattminor in Book excerpt, Politics, Texas, The District Manager-A Novel, Uncategorized

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amwriting, crime, political crime, political issues, Texas, Texas Author, Texas politics, True detective

MINOR_final_TheDM.fc

Chapter Three

A Meeting With the Boss

It was hard sleeping without Ann. It still felt unnatural even  though I was now crashing on a fresh, smaller mattress. The fact that I knew where she was sleeping every night made it that much harder.

I’d been having some pretty gruesome dreams, of late. But on this night, it was over the top terrible.  It was like one of those campy horror movies—only it wasn’t campy.

I awake like I’ve woken from a bad dream. The bad dream I awake from… I don’t remember. Upon waking I turn and find Ann’s softly curved naked body. Her hip is warm and she starts to moan as I caress its crescent. I nestle up against her and we lie in the spooning position. Her bare bottom is pressed against my groin and I’m getting hard. She releases herself from my right arm, which is pulling her tightly into my erection.

She turns around and looks me in the eyes, studying me. After some silence, she speaks in a strange repetitive tone, “Don’t worry, Mason…you’ll get your revenge. I promise, baby, you’ll get your revenge. I promise you, baby, you’ll…” But before she can finish she starts to profusely vomit chunks of blood.

Horrified, I wake. I sit up. This…this was a bad one.

I feel like I’m steeping in something…a hot dampness, not like sweat but more like…!

I fall out of bed and hit the flea infested carpet face-first. I can feel the little fuckers tugging on my legs.

The light through the blinds has faded into a paler shade of purple. I look at the clock:  6:15 a.m. It’ll be light soon. I realize that Keith is in the den. I can hear music faintly playing. He’s passed out with the stereo on.

“Mason…” Keith asks. He’s sipping a cup of coffee as I hurry about, getting ready for work, “Do you know anywhere I can get some weed?”

“What?” I ask, flabbergasted. I emerge from the tiny bathroom with a mouth full of toothpaste.

“Some weed?”

“Jesus Christ, Keith, you know I can’t do that. If I got nailed, not only would I lose my job but I would damage my boss big time!”

“Yeah, I suppose.” He sounds dejected.

“What do you need marijuana for anyway?”

“It helps with the pain.”

“What pain?”

“Why do you think I have those prescriptions, Mason? I live with chronic pain. It’s a medical condition.”

“So weed is supposed to help with that?”

“Yes. It helps more than anything; and, it doesn’t constipate me.”

“I knew you did drugs before prison…but how do you know it works on this pain?” I swish water in my mouth.

“Because I smoked in prison.”

“What?” I ask, spitting into the dirty, cluttered kitchen sink.

“That’s right. I smoked in prison. It helped with the pain. It helped a lot.”

“Goddamn, these places are worse than even I thought. How the fuck did you get weed in prison?”

“The guards.”

“The fucking guards?”

“Yeah, that’s right. They sold it to us. It was one of the only things they were useful for.”

“Is this how you used the money I sent you… for drugs?” I ask rhetorically, then comment, “I don’t know, Keith, I was there yesterday and they looked like they wanted us for lunch.”

“Not all the guards sold, only a few. One or two.”

Before I bolt out the door I tell him, “I’ll think about it.”

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The District Manager Pt. 11

25 Thursday Aug 2016

Posted by mattminor in Book excerpt, Politics, The District Manager-A Novel, Uncategorized

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

MINOR_final_TheDM.fc

 

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

18 Thursday Aug 2016

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

MINOR_final_TheDM.fc

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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The District Manager Pt. 8

04 Thursday Aug 2016

Posted by mattminor in Book excerpt, The District Manager-A Novel, Uncategorized

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

MINOR_final_TheDM.fc

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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The District Manager Pt. 7

28 Thursday Jul 2016

Posted by mattminor in Book excerpt, Politics, Texas, The District Manager-A Novel, Uncategorized

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crime, pit bulls, political crime, political issues, Politics, Texas, Texas Author, Texas politics, True detective

MINOR_final_TheDM.fc

 

I dwell on things, particularly work. I always have. It’s one of the things about me that drove Ann crazy. The irony was that the more I would dwell on work the less I would dwell on Ann.

I awoke that Fourth of July with a horrendous headache. I needed something to eat but there was only molded bread in the apartment. I wasn’t about to try the cat’s Fancy Feast—not yet…

One of the great things about living in a city is the proximity of eating establishments. When in the country, the wife and I had at least a ten-mile trek to the nearest gas station. However shitty the neighborhood where I now live, at least there’s a Whataburger across the street.

I sit in the establishment waiting in agony for my breakfast taco. The Jack is eating a hole in my stomach. I lifted the Julius Reynolds envelope last night before barely escaping the D.O.

Instead of listening to Dwight Yoakum and Tom Petty all night, I sipped bourbon and reviewed the materials therein. What I see is fucked up, to say the least.

The pictures that Mr. Reynolds has taken are disturbing. Pit bulls, some twenty of them, are littered about the rodeo arena’s dirt floor. Though a few have actual dog houses, most are sheltered only by makeshift lean-tos. Chains confine them to an area of only a few feet, with disgusting bowls of slop just barely in reach. How in the hell could no one find a problem here? The dogs that are in view look barely sustained. Marks are visible on a few, even from the distance that the photos were taken.

I’ve brought the materials with me into the Whataburger. I’m flipping through the packet for a refresher. I have to put them aside because it’s nudging the oncoming nausea.

I call Mr. Reynold’s after I eat. Upon return from the local VFW, he calls me back. We make arrangements to meet tomorrow.

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The District Manager Pt. 6

21 Thursday Jul 2016

Posted by mattminor in Book excerpt, Politics, Texas, The District Manager-A Novel, Uncategorized

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

MINOR_final_TheDM.fc

“Yes, this is Mason Dixon, District Manager for House District 100, I just listened to your message about the pit bulls…How can I help you, Mr. Reynolds…?”

“Yes sir, I am so glad that you returned my call. I really don’t know where else to turn. I’ve contacted just about every county official there is and no one seems to think this is
of interest.”

“Have you contacted any animal cruelty organizations?”

“Yes, yes I have, but they said that no laws are being violated as the dogs are on leashes and have access to food.”

“I see. What would you like us to do?” I continue to pack the cigarette on the desktop. It’s now that the absolute darkness of the hallway starts to work its black magic.

“Well, Mr. Dixon, I’m not sure. Have you received the packet of information I sent to your office?” I peer over at the inbox and see it sits unopened.

“Not yet, but I haven’t checked the P.O. Box in a few days,” (an obvious lie). “The post office is closed by now, but I’ll check in the morning.”

“They won’t be open tomorrow, sir. It’s the nation’s birthday.”

“Right, I’ll run by on Saturday, I mean.”

“Well, frankly, I’d like to show this place to you if you don’t mind. I think after you actually see it, you will be shocked. It really is a perversion, Mr. Dixon. Not to mention a threat to the public. We have families with small children in the area.”

“Yes, I heard your message.” I’m now paying more attention to the hallway than to the conversation at this point. “If you like, I’ll review the materials and give you a call
this weekend.”

“Yes, yes, yes, that would be wonderful. I really appreciate your attention to this matter, Mr. Dixon.”

“It’s both my job and my pleasure, Mr. Reynolds.”

I hang up the phone and stuff the well-packed smoke between my lips. The whole path down the dark hallway has me feeling like there’s something, or someone, right behind me. As I unlock the rear door, a breath of cold air suddenly slaps the back of my neck! I jump. I shriek—shamefully…

…it’s the air conditioner kicking on.

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The District Manager Pt. 1

17 Friday Jun 2016

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amwriting, crime, political crime, political issues, Texas, Texas Author, Texas legislature, Texas politics

MINOR_final_TheDM.fc

 

Doing the right thing means you don’t eat.

I should have known this almost universal of maxims. But I refused to acknowledge it. I steered and stuttered my way through traffic, distracted along the way by a series of dead dogs that filled consecutive ditches. I love dogs.

After winding through an arbor of live oaks that shrouded the wealthy streets, I arrived at the scheduled meeting at the Fort Bryan County Courthouse…

Introductions are in order, and when it’s my turn I stand and give my name and occupation, “Mason Dixon!” I declare, knowing that those in the room who don’t know me will think it almost strange, maybe somewhat comical. “I’m the District Manager for House District 100!” My boss, the state rep who I work for, signals discreetly with his hand for me to sit down…

I can’t help but dwell on the meeting I’ve just left as I head east into the big town. No matter what its good intentions, government is a bully. The collateral damage nearly always disproportionate to its benefits. But something happens to people after they get elected to office. In reality, there are no good guys. Maybe at some point in the past there were, but not anymore.

The closest thing to a good guy is me. And what is it that I do?

I’m Mason Dixon—really. I’m the District Manager for House District 100. Nobody knows what I do, and that’s the beauty of it. Nobody sees me coming. And what do I do? If you’ve got a problem with a government agency and can’t get anywhere …if you’re tied up in red tape…maybe I can help. It doesn’t matter if you are having trouble renewing your driver’s license or a family wants to see a loved one, one last time before they die in prison. I will go to bat for you. It isn’t political—far from it. Some English author once said, “Heroism begins where politics ends.” That’s me. Nobody knows what I do. I can help anyone, anyone but me that is…

When I finally pull up to the District Office it’s getting dark out. This sucks. Why? The D.O. is haunted. No bullshit, it’s creepy. Our office is housed in the center of Fort Bryan, in the historical district. The building we rent is as old as anything for fifty miles. It’s situated in a complex of buildings, constructed around the turn of the last century. The D.O. is in an old bank, in fact. The walls are several feet thick. They had to be, so as to withstand a dynamite attack. The place looks like a citadel. All the buildings on our block are connected in typical early twentieth-century fashion. What’s interesting is that they are connected by a labyrinth of internal passageways as well. I’ve only ventured their stairwells on one occasion—too creepy. Anyway, according to local lore, the building that the D.O. sits in was once held up, with several people getting killed. It’s said that it’s haunted by these victims. I fucking believe it. We share the place with an oil and gas company, but this late nobody’s here.

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Book Review – Galveston by Nic Pizzolatto

31 Tuesday May 2016

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crime, noir, Reading, True detective

Screen Shot 2016-05-31 at 11.25.47 AM.png

***** Five Stars

With Galveston Nic Pizzolatto has authored a crime noir novel that spills over into pure southern gothic. Pizzolatto, the creator of the HBO crime series True Detective, abandons the visual script for the literary. The results are impressive.

Roy Cady the protagonist, a true anti-hero, harkens back to the days of Raymond Chandler. The novel drips with so many shadows that it’s not hard to imagine the tale in simple black and white. But this story is anything but simple.

The violence is convincing as is the first person narrative of a desperate, dying man.

The writing style is both lush and tough, filled with lyrical descriptions that alert the senses. This story is alive and as hungry as an alligator.

In a time when all our entertainment is either deliberately twisted or cheesy, Galveston lays bare the human tale of a man on the run from third rate gangsters, accompanied by a young hooker and her small daughter. Roy is under the presumption that he is terminal, which tempers his paranoia into a sublime search for peace.

Original. No pretensions. Fantastic first novel.

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Matt Minor

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Matt Minor presently serves as a Chief of Staff in the Texas House of Representatives.

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