Heaven, Hell, or Houston

by Erb, Thom

  Heaven, Hell, or Houston

  Thom Erb

  For Shelly.

  This book, or anything I've done thus far, could not have happened without your love and support. Your unending patience and understanding of the many hours lost while I've pursued my writing passion, as well as a myriad of other creative adventures, is so incredible to me. Thank you!

  And always remember, that neither torrential rain, nor zombie apocalypse could ever keep me from you. There will never be enough words or enough books to dedicate to you for all your love and undying support. I love you!

  ------------------------

  This book is an homage, and a thank-you note to four of my favorite writers.

  Thank you so much gents, your words have brought joy, fear, laughter, anger, excitement into my life. Oh, and not to mention, beyond a metric ton of inspiration and knowledge.

  Joe R. Lansdale - The Outlaw, the Fighter, the Silent Teacher.

  Elmore Leonard - The Voice, the Beat, the Groove.

  Joe McKinney - The Lawman, the Guide, the Amigo.

  Jonathan Maberry - The Warrior, the Sensei, the Friend.

  Thank you/Acknowledgement Page.

  Top- Every tormented step in in this book's creation, was kept in deep bluesy, gritty company by your deeply Texas rooted music.

  BIG ERBAL THANK YOU!!!

  Best Beta-Readers in the Erbal Universe. You guys rock!

  Skip Novak, Sheldon Higdon, Kurt Criscione, Eric Ralston, Bridget Manns, Robin Casella, Stacy Gonzalez.

  David Moody, David Bernstein, David Dunwoody, Michael Knost, Rick Hautala, Gord Rollo, Brian Keene, Gregory Hall, Charles Day, Joseph Mulak, Brady Allen, Scott Christian Carr, Ty Schwamberger, Dean Harrison, Lucy Snyder, Steven Shrewsbery, David Brockie, Nick Cato, Darren Gallagher, Lincoln Crisler, Alex Katrin, Michael Boatman, , Weston Ochse, TG Arsenault, Tony Trembly, William Cook, Tonia Brown, Adam Millard, James Roy Daley, Jackie and Dan Gamber, Louise Bohmer, Shannon Lee Simmons, Ben Eads, Jason Keene,

  The Four Horsemen- Thank you so much for that very first beer and the safe space to lean on. Timothy Deal, Mark Wholley, Danny Evarts and Zjonny Morse.

  The amazing Funky Werepig Radio Show- Friday's will always be party night.

  The Marion Public Library- Tracy-Fleegel-Whitney. Support your local library folks.

  Mucho Gracias to the mighty CITIZENS of the ERBAL NATION:

  Jerry and Marianne Gorman, Christine Gorman Sanchez, Paul Reynolds, Todd Housel, Darrell Sergent, Jeff Lewis, Ginger and Steve Hadden, Lisa Hornsby, Talana Erb Bruce Cramer, Diana Weber, Karl Weaver, Christine McCord, Marge Delmar, Gregg Deutschbein, Tim Deutschbein, Robert Cossaboon, Melani McWilliams, Todd Dykhuizen, Darrell Sergent, Jeff Casella, , Jim Briggs and Tammy Klaver, Amy Smith Hunter, Barbara Sergent. The list grows on and on.

  Foreword

  By Joe McKinney

  Texas is a land of legends.

  The Lone Star State was carved out of rocks and swamps and forests and endless, endless deserts by outlaws and Tennessee deadbeat debtors and high society ladies; by Cherokees and hard charging lawmen; by Mexican migrant workers and billionaire oil men; all of them running from something, looking to start again.

  Texas is the last, best chance for people of extraordinary character.

  It’s the home of musicians as diverse as Beyoncé and Buck Owens, Buddy Holly and Meat Loaf, Selena and ZZ Top. Writers like Sandra Cisneros, James Michener, Justin Cronin, Larry McMurtry, Katherine Anne Porter and Joe Lansdale, just to name a few, have all pulled their inspiration from under the wide Texas sky.

  It is a land of dirt road small towns and snake-handling preachers, but also of vast cities of glass palaces where every taste, no matter how cosmopolitan, can find indulgence. It is a land of lonely highways that seem to stretch forever to the horizon, and of rocket ships that climb the highways of the sky toward a future we can only imagine.

  Texas is a land defined by its vastness, its possibilities, its endless possibilities, yet that vastness hasn’t driven Texans apart. Despite all the diversity, a unique voice, an attitude, has emerged that is uniquely Texan. It is more than style, more than an accent, more even than a jealously guarded pride in one’s history and one’s reputation among outsiders. Being a Texan, speaking with that voice, is an expression of one’s character.

  It can be imitated.

  It can be emulated.

  It can even be mocked.

  But it can never be usurped by someone whose soul isn’t Texan.

  I believe that to the soles of boots.

  And so, when I first got hold of the manuscript of the book you now hold in your hands, I thought: Uh oh, this here’s gonna be a problem.

  I thought there was no way that some guy from a little town in Wayne County, New York was going to pull off a story about a Texas Ranger, one of the proudest symbols of Texas independence and self-reliance, with any sort of conviction at all.

  Then I read it.

  And I’m here to tell you now that this book is damn good.

  It’s the story of a very bad man looking to extract his lethal revenge on the Texas Ranger who put him behind bars.

  It’s also the story of a road trip into the soul of a man battered time and again by bad circumstance and hard breaks, who nonetheless always seems to find just a little more inside himself to do the right thing, who can never simply take the day off.

  And, oh yeah, it’s got zombies too.

  But above all, it has that unique, almost ineffable something that is uniquely Texan. Books like Heaven, Hell or Houston aren’t accidents, I suspect. They are the products of a displaced soul. They are the products of a Texan, born elsewhere.

  I myself was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, so I get it.

  But here’s the thing.

  The book you hold in your hands is something special: it is witness to a writer finding his center. If you are a stranger to the Erbal Universe, you will find instances of unspeakable cruelty here.

  Turn back now if you have a weak constitution for such things.

  There are moments in this book so offensive (especially to the father of young girls, like myself) they made my skin crawl. And then, and THEN, the author has the audacity to come back with a scene of brotherly forgiveness and understanding so deftly drawn that I couldn’t help but put the book down, rest my chin on my chest, and get lost in thoughts of my own life, my own family.

  Be prepared.

  This is not a kind book. Rather, this is the kind of book that grabs you by the nuts and squeezes, all the while smiling at your surprise and pain.

  There is an ocean of pain in these pages.

  Yet, on the far side of that ocean, there is courage, and kindness, and ultimately, love.

  This is not a horror story.

  This is not a revenge story.

  This is not a Grindhouse/family sit com mashup.

  This is not even the story of a man in need of redemption, and ultimately finding, if not redemption, some kind of peace that leaves him the opportunity for goodness.

  I’d call this book a collection of moral ambiguities.

  A knot begging to be untied.

  One doesn’t simply live in Texas.

  One IS Texas.

  Texas is a state of mind, and Thom Erb is ready to put you there. If you haven’t read him before, you are in for a treat.

  Please, listen to him carefully.

  Because once you do, you and I will share one of the most honest and sensitive Texas voices I have read outside of a Larry McMurtry novel.

  Enjoy!

  Joe McKinney

  Helotes, TX

  December 6, 2014

  You may all go to Hell, and I will go to Texas.

  Davy Croc
kett

  1.

  Jailhouse Rock

  Oklahoma State Penitentiary

  McAlester, Oklahoma

  May 31, 1985

  3:35 a.m.

  The Voice shouted, implored in Isandro Dianira's twisted mind. Inmate #926934 smiled and reveled in the prison guard's warm blood, running over his scarred and calloused hands.

  The Voice demanded blood. Isandro didn’t think twice about shoving the shiv deep into the bitch’s belly and was almost aroused at the thought of the dying man. He laughed as he let the guard’s lifeless body fall like a discarded cigarette. He was the leader of Los Malvados, one of Mexico's more powerful gangs. The sweet smell of freedom was only a few seconds way. And after two years of intricate planning and a lot of cash spent, he’d kill his own brother to be on the outside. He crept down steel steps that led to the loading dock where, if all was going as planned, a garbage truck would be waiting for the most notorious cop killer in all Texas history.

  The moon cast cold blue tinted shadows on the parking lot. Isandro leapt down into a crouch and waited for the signal. It should be one quick flash from a small penlight, followed by a short whistle. His thin, taut muscled body tensed in anticipation. Freedom was finally almost here, and he could taste it. But an even greater taste made his pulse quicken, vengeance.

  He owed a certain Texas Ranger a special thank you for putting him in the Oklahoma State Prison on a ten-year stint. He had plans for piece of shit Texas Ranger, Jay McCutcheon. He smiled as the small light flashed, and the whistle followed. The first cold rain drop hit him in the eye. He wiped it away and grinned as he spotted the large green garbage truck idling, while a stocky figure stood at the back end of it.

  “Hector,” Isandro said in a low voice and ran to his twin brother, hugging him “Great to see you, brother,” Hector said, pushing Isandro toward the back.

  “It’s gonna get a bit…dirty, but the Crew are waiting on the outside. Hope you don’t mind rolling around in shit for a few minutes, brother?” Hector said, trying to hug his brother again, but Isandro had enough of the touchy-feely bullshit already. He nodded coldly and grabbed a handle on the truck.

  “Hell no. I’ve been rollin’ in shit for the past two years. I can handle it.” Isandro gave his brother's cheek a firm slap and hopped into the back of the truck. “Let's go.”

  Hector looked up. “What’s the first thing you want to do?” he asked with a big grin.

  “Puta” said Isandro, looking back up at the prison. “Then, I find McCutcheon and show him what pain and hell on Earth feels like.” He spat on the rain-soaked pavement. “Vamanos!”

  Isandro stared up at the black sky as rain attacked his cold, scarred face. He may be cold on the outside, but deep within, a roaring furnace of hate and revenge had been feverishly stoking for years. Now, he was free, and that meant the world was going to bleed.

  2.

  Good Texan

  2700 feet above Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport

  April 1, 1985

  Friday, 8:30 p.m.

  I wiped the sweat from my face and forced the bile from exploding out of my mouth. It tasted like stale enchiritos and boiled ass. The thought made me gulp another rush of burning liquid back down. Only about fifteen more minutes before I’d be off this shit-bird and headed home. That might just be about fourteen minutes too long, I feared. My stomach felt as if it were on a roller coaster designed by Satan himself. The plane ride from Washington had been painfully slow and torturous. The Governor had the personality of a dead tree stump. The cabin smelled like whiskey, cigars, and rot-ass farts. I'd been on babysitting duty for this ass-clown for only a few weeks and had already grown dead tired of all of his arrogant bullshit. But I couldn’t decide which was worse, my hatred for flying, or the broken record of bad jokes the old gasbag spewed out like diarrhea through a lawn sprinkler.

  “Say, son, did ya hear the one about the one legged spic and a jar of peanut butter?” The Governor laughed and punched my arm.

  This guy’s a real prize. I offered him a tight smile and pretended to give a rat's hairy ass..

  This slimy politician had won the silver-spoon lottery and was a hell of a lot more crooked than the NFL, MLB, and the entire Congress combined. More bile mixed with spit. I choked it back, forced it down with a sip of water, and shot the portly man a passable look. I snatched the barf bag from the seat pouch in front of him. The fresh contents of the bag didn’t help the back alley aroma of the plane. My gut rolled with the pitching plane.

  “I hear ya got a hot little Mexican mamacita waitin’ for ya when ass hits asphalt?” The Governor raised his long white, antennae-like eyebrows and gave me a lecherous wink.

  “Yes, Sir. Her name’s Inez. She’s my fiancée.” I had to keep cool. This guy was really starting to wear on my last nerve. I sipped on the warm water, hoping to get the puke taste from my mouth. Somehow, it was better tasting than the company I’d been stuck with for the past few hours. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the job; being a Texas Ranger was all I ever wanted to be. It’s a family legacy. From the very leafy-top of the McCutcheon family tree all the way on down to my middle-aged ass. We’ve all dedicated our lives; some even died for the Rangers. But hell, guard duty for this womanizing, crooked as a Sahuaro cactus tree on mescaline, was enough to test even the staunchest of diehard members of my family.

  “Oh, now I don’t mean no offense there, Ranger.” The fat-ass in the wrinkled suit tapped me on the leg and shot another sickening wink.

  “No offense taken, Sir.” I swallowed, moving my leg out of his sweaty reach. I was never keen on lying and would prefer to throw the cuffs on this golden-tongue shit spinner, but knew all too well, where that would get me. I’d been down that road too many times to recall, and was pretty damn sure, this time, there would be no saving my career. And getting fired was not on my to-do list for the day. I chose to suck it up and wait for the damn plane to land.

  “So, you have any pictures of this here fiancée of yours?” The old drunk nudged forward on his chair with a leathery squeak that sounded like he ripped a ripe one that would surely smoke out the entire cabin. He didn't even notice. I ignored the sound, but couldn't ignore the smell. Damn.

  “Well, son, pics? Hold that thought. I need to take my lizard for a walk. Would ya mind fixin’ me an Irish whiskey?” He shot me a wink and hoisted his fat ass out of the seat with another gaseous squeak.

  “Oh, and a little splash of Tab too, if ya please.” He slapped the small fridge with a chubby hand, and hurried back to the restroom, groping his crouch.

  I thought the old man was a whole side of jackass, but I always followed orders and respected the position regardless of the pecker-head that held it. I took a deep breath, fetched a Lucky Strike from my inside breast pocket, and lit it. The soothing smoke filled my lungs as I walked to the small bar and began fixing the bat-shit crazy politician’s goddamn whiskey—after I took a long swig for myself, of course.

  I turned to Novak. “Jesus H. Christ. What did I ever do to deserve this living hell?” I walked to the bar and started to fetch the asshole's drink. “Can you believe this shit?” I whispered. All my partners had to offer were muffled laughs.

  Assholes.

  I guess I was more pissed off than I thought. As I turned toward my fellow Rangers, both shaking their heads, like they were on fire, and wore matching, mocking smiles. Higdon slowly mouthed the word, ‘no,’ over and over again. He knew me all too well. I looked down to see that I'd squeezed the Tab can and all its contents had spilled out onto the counter.

  More laughter.

  Fucking assholes.

  “Oh, okay. Thanks, Mom.” I snatched a towel, cleaned up my mess, and flipped them both the bird. I gave them a death stare as the plane made yet another not so subtle adjustment. My stomach was on fire.

  The Governor stumbled back into the cabin with his hand out and a big cigar dangling from his thick lips. He snatched the glass from the bar, worked a zigzag dance
to the chair, and promptly tumbled into it. The old professional didn’t spill a drop or lose an ash.

  “So Ranger, where were we? Oh yes. Do tell me about that sweet lil’ mamacita ya got. Come on, show me something.” The sloshed Governor sipped long from his glass, and the ice tumbled as he motioned with his cigar hand for me to ante up with some juicy details.

  This was getting old. I washed the indignation down with another shot of whiskey I’d snatched from the bottle and wiped my mouth on the silk napkin from the side stand. Okay you old Devil Dog, in a few hours, you’ll be home, and your assignment with this fuck-knuckle will be over. Houston never sounded so good.

  “C’mon now, son. I know you have to have some sexy Polaroid’s or something. After all, you Rangers spend a lot of time away from home, and y’all must need some kind of spank material.” Whiskey spilled from the drunk’s mouth like a large mouth bass letting a tasty worm slip.

  He had a reputation for ruining folk’s careers. It seemed I always had one foot in the grave and the other on board a speeding freight train hell bent for leather, 120 miles an hour, in the opposite direction. I didn’t have a lot of room for forgiveness. Inez and me having a little girl, Bellia, a new house and a wedding to pay for, the last thing I needed to do was piss this perverted old man off and become the next on his kill list. Hell, that and being about thirty minutes from a two week vacation, I reluctantly pulled my wallet from my back pocket and flipped it open to Inez’s photo.

  The chubby hands of the Governor flashed out, snatched the wallet from hands, and brought the photo to his wide eyes.

  “Well, sweet Jesus, Ranger. Holeeee sheeeit.” The Governor slunk back into his chair. His eyes stuck wide open, and his thick cigar-stained tongue licked at his even fatter lips like a snake tasting the air.