Satan's Blood by BJ Neblett

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Just in time for Halloween! Here is my popular horror story Satan's Blood in its frightening entirety. It has scared millions, appearing in several magazines, but as a thank you to all of my loyal readers, I am presenting it here as a free read. Enjoy, and please be kind and share the love (and the horror!). By the way, I suggest you read it with a friend... with all of the lights on!
Happy Halloween!!!
BJ

Satan’s Blood

BJ Neblett

© 2005, 2014

October 30, 2000 11:16 PM

            My current address reads Atlanta Federal Penitentiary, Atlanta, Georgia. I’m doing a five year bit for drug possession. The feds enhanced my sentence because I was caught carrying a gun. A stupid little chrome Berretta .25 more suited for a woman’s purse. The damn thing didn’t even belong to me. It was my girlfriend Anna’s. She insisted I take it along. You never know what kind of weirdos and low life you’re gonna’ run into these days when you are dealing.

            Not like the old days.

            Then, a little weed, a couple of blotters of acid, some Boone’s Farm apple and its peace and free love for everyone. If you were lucky some cutie hippie chick in torn jeans and tie-died halter would invite you to join the party. Hell, you didn’t even have to smoke. Just take a deep pull of the Maui-wowie atmosphere and chill to the Dead.

            Not today.

            Today you meet some hyped up street thug who is shakin’ so bad you could use him to mix paint. And you know he’s packin’, too. As are his two homies sitting in the purple juke box with the 20” rims across the street. As is the skinny chick in the blown afro and hot pants. As is the prismatic pimp leaning on the light pole, she’s rubbin’ against. As is the old dude in dirty Tee shirt and suspenders, leaning out the third floor window, watching as daddy shakes-a-lot stands in front of you trying to count his Benjamins.

            Everybody’s packin’. You gotta protect yourself. The feds don’t care. They’ve got a real hard on for gun cases these days.

            Actually, I’m anything but a drug dealer. Sure, I sell a few tabs of ecstasy and maybe a tiny amount of coke. But I’m small potatoes. Very small. One or two buys a month max, just to supplement my income as a free lance photographer. Man, I don’t even use the stuff. Not since Carter went back to being a peanut farmer and disco crawled back into the slimy pit it slithered from. Honest. It’s strictly a business. These days you do what you have to do to survive. Am I right?

            The gun charge also upped the ante and landed me in a federal pen instead of a low or medium facility. Thanks, Anna. Being in prison is bad enough. Pens are the worse, and Atlanta is the worse of the worse.

            Built over a hundred years ago, Atlanta has maintained it’s hard as nails reputation as well as its foreboding appearance. Other joints have been remodeled, modernized, updated or torn down. Not Atlanta. Indoor plumbing, running water and electricity are its only concessions to civilization. Even the tall battlements capped with gun towers were left unchanged. Together with the rough stone construction, they give the place a medieval feel. Like something out of the Marquis de Sade’s nightmares.

            Inside it’s downright creepy. The dark narrow corridors echo and ring eerily. The antiquated pipes scream and belch. And the cold stone walls bleed a dark rust red color. Satan’s blood the inmates call it.

            This is the place that broke the likes of Al Capone. Alcatraz must have seemed like a picnic after Atlanta. Here James Cagney and Edward G Robinson get the chair in old black and white flicks. This is the place no convict wants to go. In the entire world there is no more desperate place than Atlanta Federal Prison.

            I rolled restlessly in my bunk. The hard plastic mattress crackled like fire, beneath me. I have two years and two months left on my sentence as of today. The crude calendar etched into the bottom of the bunk above told me so. I took the homemade scribe and marked off another day, then returned it to its hiding place. The scribe is only an inch and a half long, made of soft aluminum scrounged from a wall rivet, and barely sharp enough to scratch the flaking layers of decades old paint. But it’s considered contraband. If you are caught with it, and if the guards aren’t in a good humor, it could be considered a weapon. Then you find yourself in the hole for thirty days. And when you get out some of your hard earned good time has evaporated into thin air. And here at Atlanta the guards are rarely in a good humor.

            Actually, five years isn’t too bad a stretch these days. And for a place like Atlanta it’s a walk in the park. The sad reality is many of these guys will never again see a sunset that isn’t crosshatched with chain link and razor wire.

            My cellie, Nathan leaned over from his top bunk. “Hey, School, lets me check your radio, man.”

            I handed him up the small, overpriced Sonny Walkman that’s sold on commissary. Nathan’s not a bad kid, for a murderer. When he was nineteen he knifed a guy during a botched drug deal. That was five years ago. He’s looking at twenty five more.

            There is a kind of perverse unwritten code among inmates; a status and pecking order. Take Nathan for example. According to the code, anybody can shoot a person. It takes balls and nerves of nails to gut a man up close. Nathan is shown respect and fear. Even by some of the guards. I know he’s just a scared kid surviving the only way he knows how, in a world he didn’t create and doesn’t understand. Then again, aren’t we all?

            “Thanks, School.” Nathan settled in above me. I could hear the vulgar, repetitive hip hop lyrics hammering out of the tiny ear buds. I wondered which would blow first, the cheap speakers or his ear drums.

            Inmates speak a language all their own. Anyone over forty is School as in old school. It’s a term of respect. For the most part the older guys are looked up to and treated well by the other inmates. I’m fifty-four and white, a definite minority in the system. For the last few years the feds have busied themselves trolling the city sewers for serious offenders. Mostly what they’ve caught are street punks in their teens and twenties. Obnoxious and usually illiterate, toss them in with harden, older criminals who are only interested in doing their time quietly, and you’ve got the makings of real trouble.

            To make matters worse, the system is overcrowded to the max. Three men in two man cells isn't unusual, especially when you heard in a bunch of temporary hold overs. That was the situation this Monday night.

            Lights had been out for about ninety minutes when the door to my cell creaked open. A tattered green mattress hit the floor. It was followed by an old wool army blanket and a stained sheet. A lanky figure in orange overalls three sizes too big for his needle frame stood silhouetted, as the guard removed his handcuffs.

            “You can’t treat me like this,” he screamed in a cracked, scratchy voice.

            The solid steel door slammed shut with the heavy ominous metallic clunk common to jail and prison cell doors everywhere. The stranger gave the door an ineffectual kick and cursed.

            “Welcome to the block.” Nathan had one ear bud out and was hanging out of his bunk like a hungry vulture. “Whats you gots for me, homie?”

            “What?” The stranger turned. Gold shone from between two fleshy lips in the dim light. “Whats you say, boy?”

            “You can’t come into my house empty handed,” Nathan spit back.

            The stranger’s eyes flashed white with anger. “I gots nothin’ for you, bitch. Nothin’!”

            I wasn’t worried. I’d seen Nathan’s jail house act before. For the most part that’s all it was, just an act.

            He rolled over, replacing the ear bud. “Sokay. For now. But your corn flakes are mine, pops.”

            The first thing every con does when he hits a new facility is try to establish his toughness, his manliness, his street cool. Peacocks struttin’, it’s always ninety-five percent show and five percent blow. It’s a prison ritual as old as prison itself.

            The stranger grunted and looked down at me. “And what’s your friggin’ problem?”

            I stared back up at him, “Three men in a cell for starters.”

            He kicked at the mattress then turned around and punched the cell door harder than he meant. Stifling a chuckle, I could see the grimace on his face in the pale yellow moonlight filtering in through the small window.

            “Yeah, well, I ain’t doing this!” he barked, then raised his voice. “You hear me you dumb ass bastards, I ain’t doing this!” And he kicked the door again.

            “Hold it down,” I said. “You’re disturbing the rats.”

            The stranger spun around, his eyes searchlights in the dark. “Rats? They ain’t said nothin’ ‘bout no rats!”

            “It ain’t the two legged kind,” I said.

            “And it ain’t the rats you gots to worry about, pops,” Nathan quipped and let out a sick giggle.

            I smiled to myself and rolled over. Inside, a cold shutter shook my body.

            Our guest noisily settled down, making himself at home on the concrete floor. I was still awake an hour later when the scratching started. Almost imperceptible at first, it grew louder, closer.

            “What’s that?” There was fear in the stranger’s voice.

            “I told you, rats.”

            “You was serious about that, boss?”

            I turned over. The stranger was sitting up in the middle of his mattress, the blanket clutched at his throat. He looked like a frightened little girl who had just heard the boogie man.

Maybe he wasn’t that far off.

            “Relax. They seldom come in here. If one does just throw your shoe at it,” I replied.

            In the cell’s dim twilight I could see the stranger was close to my age. He wore a short nappy afro, graying at the temples. His large nose had been broken more than once and an ugly hook shaped scar marked his left cheek. The air in the cell was cool, but sweat beaded his grooved forehead as he tried to settle back down. His road mapped eyes remained fixed on the large gap at the bottom of the cell door.

            “Don’t worry,” I teased, “they don’t eat much.”

            The stranger sucked in a shock of air and grabbed for his shoe.

            The scratching continued. It echoed off the drab green painted walls. I could hear the stranger breathing on the floor next to me. Nathan’s words rang in my head: it ain’t the rats yous gots to worry about.

            More scratching.

            Closer.

            Instinctively, I reached down and tucked the trailing blanket into the sides of my mattress. Parents tuck their children in snugly, telling them to keep their arms and legs under the covers. It breeds a sense of fear into them. A fear of what lurks under the bed. It wasn’t what might be under my bunk that frightened me.

            A clatter of chains rattled down the hall: the guards making their count.

            Midnight.

            The stranger shuffled nervously.

            Every inmate hears the story of Satan’s Blood his first week here. The story varies, grows with detail and intensity…and gore…depending on who’s doing the telling. But the basic, grizzly, unfathomable true facts remain the same.

October 31, 1934 4:35 PM

            Roger Zaha wore an oversized chip on his shoulder like a medal of honor. He was angry. Angry at life for the lousy trick it played on him. At least that’s how Roger Zaha saw things.

            For seven long thankless years he worked as a guard at Atlanta Federal Penitentiary. The work was honest and steady. It provided an ample living for his wife and son.

            But Roger Zaha was a malcontent.

            He grew up hard and fast in Atlanta’s toughest tenement. Everything Zaha ever had he fought and scratched to gain. He clawed his way up to a respectable job and position in a clean, quiet community. It was the height of the Depression and a man couldn’t ask for more.

            But Roger Zaha wanted more. Hell, he’d paid his dues, he deserved more.

            Zaha resented the other guards. None of them had gone through what he did, Depression or no Depression. Yet here he was, almost thirty, and no better off than the rest of them. He hated them for it. And he didn’t bother to conceal his anger.

            He was the one who pulled himself up out of nothing. He was the one who made something out of himself. It was time he got what he deserved.

            “Hey, Zaha!”

            The words came from cell F66. Molech’s cell. Zaha worked in a section of the prison known as the tombs. Here the worst offenders remained caged in their 8x10 cells twenty-four hours a day. None would ever be returned to society. Ahriman Molech was the worse of them all. Molech had coldly immolated his three young children, burning the house down around them while they slept, just to collect the insurance.

            “Zaha, come here.”

            Molech’s voice was crushed glass in velvet, sibilant. Yet it cut through your ears like razors. His shale black eyes were the devil’s own, never looking at you but piercing straight through your flesh. When he spoke, you felt the gelid fingers of his breath on your throat.

            “Zaha!”

            “Wa’da ya want, Molech?”

            “You know what today is, Zaha?” He curled one thin, barely perceptible lip into a pointed smile. “It’s Halloween, Zaha.”

            “Yeah, so what?”

            “Halloween, Zaha. You know witches, goblins, and the undead.” He let out a laugh that chilled the guard. “Wouldn’t you like to be with your kid?”

            “Leave it alone, Molech,” Zaha replied angrily. He rapped the cell bars with the end of his wooden shillelagh.

            Molech’s sneer grew. “I know what you want, Zaha. I know what you think, what you dream.”

            “You don’t know nothing.”

            The dim cell light cast Molech’s shadow large and misshapen on the rough stone wall. To Zaha it looked like a hulking beast ready to strike.

            “I know you’re right,” Molech said. He paused and leaned closer. “You’re better than these illiterate monkeys who prowl around here in their starched uniforms like zombies, much better than them.”

            “What are you talking about?”

            “I can help you. I can arrange it so you never have to work again…ever.” Molech’s exaggerated face jutted between the bars. His voice hissed in Zaha’s ear. “Think about it, Zaha. Everything you need brought right to you…laid at your feet. You won’t have a thing to worry about.” Molech’s words were sure and quiet as a prayer at midnight. “I can give you what you want…”

            “You’re crazy as a loon, Molech! How can you do anything for me?”

            Molech laughed again then squinted at the guard. “What’s the matter, Zaha? What are you afraid of? You got nothing to lose, except this crummy job. Got no faith in your dreams, Zaha? Afraid of what they may cost you?”

            Zaha reared back and spat on the floor of the cell. “I ain’t afraid of nothin’! Do you hear that, Molech, nothin’!” he barked, shaking the shillelagh. “You’re as crazy as they come!” Zaha gathered himself and stared back into Molech’s serpentine eyes. “But I’ll tell you something, Molech. I ain’t crazy…no, sir. But for what you said…why…I’d pay any price…any price in hell!”

            Molech relaxed back from the bars, the crooked grin melting into a satisfied smile.

            The next morning Roger Zaha awoke to a nightmare. He was dressed in prison fatigues and stood behind the bars of a cell. Cell F66.

            “What the…hey!” Zaha grabbed at the barred cell door and shook it fiercely. “Hey,” he screamed, “what the hell…what’s going on…what is this…some kind of crazy joke?”

         “What’s the matter, Zaha?” A voice from one of the cells called out. “Don’t like the accommodations?”

            “Oh, he’s too good for this,” a passing guard snapped back.

            Another laughed. “Yeah, don’t you know…Zaha’s better than us!”

            “Not anymore he ain’t!”

            The cell block erupted in hoots and shouts and laughter. Tin cups raked and rattled against iron bars. Zaha covered his ears from the rising din. “This can’t be real…it can’t be…”

            When he looked up, a uniformed guard stood outside his cell. But it wasn’t a guard, it was Ahriman Molech! Zaha lunged at him, grasping through the bars. Molech laughed and turned aside.

            “Never have to work again,” he said. His voice was icy and hollow. “Everything you need laid at your feet…at your feet, Zaha!” Molech’s footsteps clattered down the hall, the shillelagh rapping against one iron bar after another, his laughter dissolving in the distance. Just before he disappeared out of sight, Molech raised an arm, snapping his fingers.

            At that moment a piece of paper floated down into cell F66. Zaha snatched it up in mid-air. It was a newspaper clipping dated Friday, January 18, 1935. Zaha’s hands trembled as he read:

(Atlanta, GA) Roger Zaha, the man known as

the Halloween butcher, began his life sentence

today at the federal penitentiary here in

Atlanta, the same place he had worked as a

guard. After a sensational trial, Zaha, 29, was

found guilty of the brutal Halloween night

murder of his five year old son, Roger Jr. Zaha

allegedly used a butcher’s knife to dismember

the boy’s body before burning it to conceal the

crime. During the trial, a police spokesman

testified that the cellar walls of Zaha’s Fulton

County home were splattered with the child’s

blood. Unconfirmed sources have stated Zaha

told police he sacrificed his son to appease Satan,

making vague references to Leviticus 20 and

Jeremiah 19 in the Old Testament.

            The scream reverberated throughout the prison: the echoing howl of a banshee; the plaintive bay of a wolf caught in a steel trap; the cries of a thousand faceless tortured souls; the tormented scream of a madman.

            “I’ll get you, Molech!” Zaha cried out, slumping to his knees. “I’ll get you! As God is my witness, I’ll find you! If it takes me eternity, by hell I’ll find you, Molech! I’ll make you pay…by Satan’s blood I’ll make you pay! Molech…!”

            The inhuman screams continued through the night. In the morning Zaha was found in a heap on his cell floor. His bones were broken. His body was covered in thick crimson welts, and ugly festering purple and black bruises, and dozens of deep cuts and gashes. It was as if some sinister hand had thrown him about like a rag doll. Dark rust red colored blood was splattered across the cell walls.

            Roger Zaha recovered. He spent the rest of his life in cell F66. He didn’t work. Everything he needed was brought to him, just as Ahriman Molech promised.

            Zaha died in 1974, still vehemently claiming his innocence. Shortly after, inmates began to mysteriously disappear throughout the prison.

            Eighteen to date.

            Since that January night in 1935, Atlanta Federal Penitentiary’s halls echo with torturous screams. And its cold stone walls run rich with the dark rust red inmates call Satan’s Blood.

October 31, 2000 2:25 AM

            The scratching continued.

            Waxed louder.

            Closer.

            I could feel the presence of a pair of cold, unblinking eyes. They stared out from a shadowy corner; searched the dusky light for an errant cornflake or a few stray bread crumbs.

            It’s nothing.

            You get used to the nightly scratching and prowling after a while. Some of the guys save their breakfast cereal to feed the rats.

            Like I said, it’s no big deal.

            Unless the scratching stops.

            The scratching stopped after a time. There was a frantic flurry of nails trying to gain traction on the slick, painted cement floor. A few feckless squeals.

            Then silence.

            You see, the rats know.

            “Thank God, theys gone,” the stranger mumbled hoarsely. “That’s ok, right, boss?”

            From the position of his voice I could tell he was sitting up again, probably huddled in the middle of his mattress, the blanket clutched at his throat.

            I wanted to speak, say something. Tell him: no, it’s not ok, ‘cause when the rats run away…

            A dry terror crawled up my throat, silencing my words, stitching my lips together. Above me, Nathan folded himself into a tight ball. I knew he was facing the wall, covers pulled over his head, an unavailing defense against the unknown. His usual position when the scratching stopped and the rats ran away.

            I knew the position too well.

            Boisterous hip hop blared from the tiny ear buds. Nathan had cranked the Walkman’s volume. As if music could drown the fear. From beneath my own covers I cursed for not keeping the radio myself.

            The first scream is always the worse. No matter how many you experience. The piercing shriek grabs you by the balls. It squeezes so tightly the back of your brain aches, like the first stabs of the mother of all migraines.

            I knew the stranger wanted to say something, maybe scream himself. He shuffled nervously on the floor. Fear had stitched his lips together as well.

            If you are not too terrified to listen – if you dare listen at all – you might discern a voice in the truculent wailing:

            “Molech!”

            Shrill. Strained. Raspy.

            “Molech!”

            Tortured. As if imparting pain.

            Another twisted howl rent the stagnant air. Then the pounding began, far down the hall.

            “Molech!” Blam!

            Hollow. Metallic.

            Searching.

            “Molech! Blam!

            Closer. Four cells down.

            “Molech!” Blam!

            Three cells…

            …two…

            A low, algid fog crept into the cell, like the Avenging Angel.

            “Sweet, Holy Jesus.” The solicitous stranger’s whispered prayer floated up from the floor next to me.

            “Molech!”

            Blam!

            The pounding thundered, as if we were trapped inside the breech of discharging cannon.

            Blam!

            Lights flickered on at five AM. The food traps in the cell doors hammered open one by one. Footsteps scuffled outside the cell.

            “Hey, I thought there were three in here?”

            Bleary eyed I accepted the plastic trays from the guard. On the cell floor lay the tattered mattress, old army blanket and stained sheet.

            And one lone shoe.

            Trembling, I passed a tray up to Nathan.

            “The marshals’ probably yanked his ass up out of here during the night,” another guard replied. “You know how the feds operate, they never tell us anything.”

            Nathan and I ate our cold cereal and hard, butter less toast in silence.

            It wasn’t the federal marshals.

            The stone walls in our cell dripped silently…

            …an icy rust red…

Sporting Love by BJ Neblett

            I always tell people that if you want to get to know me read my short stories. You will always find at least a small part of me in my stories. Sometimes it is a much larger part, and not that hard to pick out. However, writing a memoir puts all of your cards on the table face up; it’s ALL about you! Enjoy this follow up chapter to Love At Work, from my forthcoming memoir A Change Is Gonna Come. For more insight into BJ Neblett check out my first memoir Ice Cream Camelot, available in e book form and soon to be released in paperback.

BJ

Sporting Love

BJ Neblett

© 2004, 2014

                                    “Ow, she’s a Brick House/yeah a Brick House”

            The Commodores’ distorted voices blasted from cheap speakers, ricocheted across the club and split the evening’s silence as I pulled open the heavy steel door. A burly, bearded, tattooed giant in denim and dark glasses gave us the cursory once over, clicked his hand held counter twice, and returned to his Easy Rider magazine. Inside, the well worn 45 RPM record skipped once, twice, three times on the jukebox.

            “Damn!” A rough female voice screeched, filling in the unexpected void in the din.

                                    “She’s mighty, mighty/just letting it all hang out”

            The music picked up again. Our ears slowly acclimated to the excessive decibels. Our eyes dilated and adjusted themselves to the dim lighting. The thick gray smoke didn’t help.

            The club was small I thought, not really knowing what to expect. Most of the ambient lighting came from red candle vases on the tables, the soft greenish glow of the jukebox, and a dusty mirror ball which spun silently overhead. Stumbling through a maze of tables, Bill and I made our way to the bar. A very bored looking bartender begrudgingly replaced the paper napkin under a drink, eyeballed us curiously and then looked out across the room. A total of eight customers, all males, were scattered about, strategically placed to make the club appear busy. I was trying to make my order known to the bartender when my friend forcibly spun me around in my stool and pointed. On our left, a long narrow chest high runway protruded from a small square stage like a huge phallic symbol. A buxom bleach blonde, scantily clad in G string, leather boots and a disinterested smile strutted up and down the glossy black surface somewhat in time to the music. She paused just long enough to bend over provocatively, allowing a wide eyed patron to slip dollar bills between flesh and string.

            Bill and I watched agog. It was our third night in Houston, our second evening out and our first foray into the exotic, erotic and enigmatic world of gentlemen’s clubs. It wouldn’t be our last. As our work schedules permitted, Bill and I slowly graduated from the seamier to the classier strip clubs in town. Over the next few months, we sampled all that Houston offered. It wasn’t long before we learned the only difference between a strip joint and a gentleman’s club was the location of the building, the price of the drinks, and the age and quality of the dancers.

            Smarting more than I realized from Julie’s sudden departure, I was through with any serious entanglements. I was twenty-eight and single, with a career that provided me a measure of fame as well as fortune. All I was interested in now was partying. One particularly boring night Bill in his infinite wisdom suggested we raise some hell. As we worked our way up through a chain of progressively classier clubs, the object of our boisterous behavior this evening would be The Forum, one of the city’s premier gentleman’s clubs on Houston’s trendy Southwest side.

            The great thing about radio is you are known by your voice. You can be Joe Citizen with a private life when you choose. However, with the drop of your name to a doorman or maître d' it’s instant celebrity. Such was the case this evening. Bill and I were ceremoniously escorted to a great table just off the end of the runway stage. We took our seats as a half naked dancer concluded her number and faded into the background amidst hoots and cheers. The house lights brightened a bit and a nasally DJ suffering from either too much or too little cocaine announced with too much enthusiasm the presence of the city’s newest and hottest radio jock. Several barely clad beauties surrounded our table leading a round of applause. The intro was over the top, the scene embarrassing, and the undeserved celebrity status intoxicating. It was a drug I would indulge in repeatedly over the next few years.

            The house lights dimmed, the club DJ made a quick pitch about tipping the waitresses, and then introduced the next flavor of the evening a fetching black girl named Licorice. As she strutted, a greasy gentleman with a bushy mustache approached our table. He was accompanied by a gorilla of a man in a fuchsia leisure suit, flowered shirt and dark glasses, following two steps behind. The mustachioed man positioned himself between Bill and me by placing ring studded hands on our shoulders. “Gentlemen, welcome to The Forum,” he proclaimed with a pronounced New Jersey accent. “My name is Harvey. I’m the manager. Anything you need, anything, you let me know.” He turned my way holding out a fleshy hand. “It’s especially nice to meet you Mr. James… Billy. May I call you Billy? Of course I can!”

            I stood and he took my hand. Instead of shaking it he clasped his other hand firmly on my upper arm. Looking me straight in the eyes, Harvey nodded his approval. The last time anyone greeted me this way I was attending a Sons of Italy dinner at Palumbo’s Night Club in South Philly.

            Releasing me from his grip, Harvey gave me a once over. “These eyes,” he said, almost poking out his own beagle browns with two stubby fingers, “these eyes, they have been around. I know… I can see.” He nodded with confidence, “James, now that must be just a stage name or something.”

            It took me a second. I decided to play along. Hell, I figured I’d better. “You got me Harvey,” I confessed. “I was born in South Philly. My mother’s people are from the old country.”

            “Ha!” Harvey slapped me on the shoulder. “I knew it.” He turned to his companion in the bright suit. “Did I tell you, Bruno?” Bruno nodded expressionless.

            Unlike his apish friend, Harvey was more conservatively dressed. That is if you consider a pale yellow suite with white Florsheim shoes and a white open collar silk shirt set off by several gold chains conservative. His slick straight back hair showed a touch of thinning while his chin sported a perpetual shadow. He wore his olive skin loosely, befitting a man of fifty trying too hard to hold on to his youth. Turning his six foot muscular frame back my way, Harvey took my hand again, this time shaking it warmly. “Anything you need… someone gives you trouble in this town, you just let Harvey know. You want anything, I’m your man.” As he pumped my arm, from across the club a fetching blonde caught my eye. Harvey took notice. “Ah!” He grinned broadly and patted my cheek then pinched it. “You have good taste my friend.”

            Before I could say a word, Harvey turned and whispered to Bruno. The big man almost smiled, nearly breaking his stoic expression. Returning his attention to Bill and me, Harvey laughed, wiggled a finger at us, laughed louder, and then he and Bruno disappeared into the crowd.

            Bill was wearing a large grin of his own as I sat down.

            “What?”

            “Looks like you made a new friend,” Bill said flashing that knowing expression of his.

            “Well, with friends like that I won’t have to worry about enemies,” I replied.

            “With friends like that you won’t have any enemies,” Bill corrected.

            We turned our attention back to the stage where Licorice was into her second number. Strutting topless, her G string lined with bills, she positioned herself at the end of the stage. Smiling seductively at three guys seated nearby, she suddenly dashed off down the runway, slowing only slightly as she approached the far end of the stage. The nimble black stripper executed a perfect hand spring, throwing herself at a chrome dancer pole. A breathless second later Licorice hung upside down, her legs wrapped tightly around the shiny pole, her lithe body still wiggling in perfect time to the frantic music.

            The club went nuts.

Mandy

            Bill and I smiled at each other and joined in the applause. From behind, a pleasant female voice with a pronounced Texas drawl cooed into our ears. “How do, gents?” A tall shapely strawberry blonde with hair down to her waist, a rose tattoo over her left breast and a sexy crooked smile stood between us. It was the girl that Harvey saw catch my eye. Without waiting for a reply, she placed a green bottle of unknown brand on our table. “This,” she said, “is on the house.” Producing four stemmed glasses, she poured, skillfully topping each with a pale reddish bubbling beverage. She then slid my chair from the table and fitted herself comfortably across my lap, one tan arm around my shoulder. “And so are we!”

            I looked at Bill befuddled. He had his own hands and lap full with a pretty redhead. Adjusting to the situation quicker than I, he grinned across the table. “Now how’d Harvey know I preferred redheads?”

            Kiki, Bill’s redhead, and Mandy, my sexy companion stuck with us all night. They kept us well oiled with mediocre champagne. We kept them well decorated with bills. By the end of the evening we had all become quite friendly.

            Kiki was cute as a button and just about as big. Working as a dancer for just six months, she hailed from Louisiana and carried a tough Cajun accent that didn’t match her round girlish face. Her tiny frame and red curly hair, to say nothing of her over ample breasts, came straight out of my friend’s fantasies. At six foot and five foot nothing respectively, Bill and Kiki were quite a sight.

            I was enjoying the situation myself. Twenty-four year old Mandy was an old pro, having worked the clubs since before her eighteenth birthday. Thin and shapely on a leggy five foot eight inch frame, her round pointy breasts, heart shaped face, full lips and cute light freckles served her well in the competitive, cut throat business. On her own since fifteen, Mandy’s worldly knowledge, street savvy, and determined confidence belied her age. She was sweet and funny and, unlike many dancers, down to earth and real. From my lap, Mandy batted her long lashes at me and through her crooked smile drawled, “Well, ain’t you just the most adorable thing!” I was hooked. Mandy and I were off on a stuttering, unconventional, fun, no strings relationship that would renew itself time and again over the course of a dozen years.

            Bill and I continued to explore Houston’s seemingly endless stream of strip clubs. From Southwest plush to Eastside sleazy we sampled them all. Sometimes Mandy and Kiki would tag along. Sometimes dancers we’d meet in one club would lead us to other clubs and more wild times. Either way, the young ladies we encountered were always eager and willing to make sure a good time was had by all.

            By the summer of ’79 I was something of a radio star in Houston. The fame wasn’t lost on any false modesty as I continued to live the part. A string of casual, quick relationships peppered with one night stands, plus the always ready for fun Mandy, fueled by alcohol, cocaine and ecstasy became my modus operandi. When I wasn’t on the air; doing a remote or personal appearance for the station, or mixing records at a disco, I could usually be found on the town.

            My party partner Bill on the other hand all but ended his nocturnal reveling. He was in love. The elusive object of his affections was a lovely divorced black woman who worked alongside of him at Texas Instruments. Hopelessly smitten, Bill relentlessly pursued her, leaving me for the most part to party on my own. It didn’t take long for me to grow accustomed to going it solo.

Honey and Summer

            One sticky night in July I wandered into a new small club off of Highway 290 on Houston’s northwest side. Finding a comfortable seat away from the deafening music but in good view of the stage, I ordered my usual gin and Seven Up. I was just finishing my second when a petite blonde took the runway.

            Her movements were faltering and unsure. Self-consciousness shone through her painted smile. Looking around, I doubted anyone in the small club was paying attention to her face. Shedding the skimpy baby doll top for her second number, the DJ re-introduced her as Honey, “The newest bee in the hive.” From her movements and youthful looks, I estimated her to be very new. I watched as she nervously strutted to the end of the runway. Pulling a wad of bills from my jeans, I strolled up to the stage. Honey smiled and stooped, allowing me to line her G string with ten singles. She brushed my cheek with a kiss. I whispered, “Come join me at my table.” Nodding discretely, Honey rose and returned to her dancing.

            A very cute girl with golden brown ringlet curls followed Honey’s performance. She too seemed nervous, refusing to make eye contact with customers. After a time I had given up and was about to leave when I spied Honey crossing the club. Dressed in a black teddy with garters and a sheer black cover up, she approached my table, followed closely by the cute ringlet girl. “Hi.” Honey’s voice lived up to her name.

            I stood. In tall heels, she was barely my height. The ringlet girl took her place beside Honey as I held out a hand. “Hello.”

            “Hi,” she repeated with a nervous tremble. Her hand was tiny in mine, her skin smooth and baby white. She cast her chocolate bunny eyes downward and her cherry cheeks flushed a deeper red. “Hi, I’m Honey. This is Summer.”

            Studying the fetching pair, I realized these two belonged on the side lines of a high school football game shaking their pom-poms, not shaking their young bodies on stage in a Houston strip club. “Nice to meet you both,” I said holding a chair. Honey sat next to me. Summer sat close to Honey.

            A waitress arrived with another drink for me. She placed what looked to be a cola with cherries in front of Summer, and a Shirley Temple by Honey. At the time, in Texas you could work in bars and clubs, serve drinks, even dance topless at the age of eighteen. You just couldn’t drink alcohol until you reach twenty-one. Honey looked up from the innocent beverage, her cheeks redder than before. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, biting her lower lip. “We aren’t old enough to drink.”

            I smiled back at the both of them, bemused by the situation, “Of course not.”

            Honey noticed my gaze landing on her silent partner. “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I should have asked, but Melissa… I mean Summer…” She cast her eyes down again as if expecting to be scolded for the slip. “Summer is my best friend. We do everything together.”

            I felt as if I were back in high school, my timid blind date forcing her reluctant girlfriend to tag along, just in case.  It wasn’t a bad feeling. “It’s nice to meet you both. I’m Billy.”

            Summer silently sipped her drink. Honey continued to blush and stare at the table. “We know who you are, Mr. James,” she said almost apologetically. “We seen ya up in the DJ booth at the Library Club. We love your station.” Summer let the straw slip from her kissable lips long enough to nod in agreement.

            “Well then,” I replied, trying my best to ease their nervousness, “you should know I like to be called Billy.” Both girls smiled. “So, you know who I am, tell me about you.”

            Honey looked up, obviously relieved at the simple question. “Well, Summer and I are from Enid, Oklahoma.” She placed a delicate hand on the other girl’s wrist, looking at her affectionately. “We’ve known each other since the third grade.” The two smiled warmly at one another before Honey turned her attention back to me, leaving her hand resting on Summer’s arm. “We’ve been best friends ever since. After graduation last month we moved here. Enid is so boring. We wanted some fun, excitement.” Summer readily nodded again but remained silent. They both relaxed a bit. “We’ve met some really nice people working here, and the other girls are so sweet and helpful.”

            Their simple, trusting naivety was overwhelming. I wondered if they truly understood where they were and what they were doing. Born Amanda and Melissa, they took jobs dancing on a dare. Both had been cheerleaders back home in Enid, Amanda – Honey – head cheerleader and the quiet, lovely Melissa prom queen.

            Honey’s mention that they did everything together proved an understatement. I never saw the two apart. That evening, after the girls got off work we drove over to Jo Jo’s Restaurant for breakfast. Away from the club they slipped comfortably back into their innocent, mid-western selves. A few nights later I was invited to spend the night at the apartment they shared. I quickly learned the true meaning of we do everything together, and why the shy pair were eager to leave the moralistic judgments of small town America behind.

            Like all of the dancers I dated, Honey, Summer and I carried on a comfortable, casual, on again off again relationship. As it was, the pair followed the well trodden path of other dancers, perfecting their trade, learning to deal with the advances of overly eager customers, and honing their skills at juggling several regulars at the same time. They also followed the downward spiral of drugs, alcohol, partying and too much too fast.

            The last time I saw the affectionate duo the three of us spent a fun Easter weekend on the beach at Galveston Island. The girls seemed to be handling their chosen careers well, having graduated to the nicer gentleman’s clubs. But the effects of cocaine and late hours had already begun to wear away at their natural beauty. Returning to the city, we discovered someone had broken into the girl’s apartment. Although visibly shaken, they shrugged it off as just another random burglary in the big city. I sensed it was something more.

            Summer had become acquainted for a time with a well known drug dealer. She hadn’t seen him for at least a month. Still, three days after the break in, an addict, strung out on crack and heroin showed up at the girl’s apartment ranting that he had been burnt by Summer’s friend in a drug deal gone bad. They desperately tried to reason with him, explaining through the chained and locked door that he wasn’t inside.

            He wouldn’t be convinced.

            Leveling a sawed off shotgun at the flimsy apartment door, the crazed addict fired both barrels. The two innocent eighteen year old's from Enid, Oklahoma, who were only looking for fun and excitement, were killed instantly.

Molly

            Through my relationship with the enigmatic Mandy, I became a full time denizen of the world of strip clubs. It was a world unto itself, with its own set of rules, priorities and standards; a world that existed primarily while the rest of the world slept. For the most part, this was a world ruled over by money and drugs. But there were exceptions.

            Mandy was one.

            Every bit a party girl, Mandy had a good head when it came to that very same partying. A junior high dropout, she was fond of quoting Mark Twain, the Bible and Oscar Wilde. Her very appropriate mantra was Wilde’s Moderation in everything, except moderation. They were wise words for someone dealing with the readily availability of drugs.

            And then there was Molly.

            Along with The Forum, Sweeties and The Second Look were the premier gentleman’s clubs in Houston. The three were written up in Playboy and Penthouse magazines. Here the prettiest girls at the top of their game danced for high rollers from the sports field and the board rooms. Here drugs took a backseat to dollars. The three clubs were no nonsense money makers and the Holy Grail for every serious dancer. Molly was the poster girl for the Hollywood ideal of what a stripper should be, and what America wanted to believe.

            Just thirty-three when we met, Molly was a devoted mother of two, holding down two jobs while putting herself through paralegal school. The wildly beautiful brunet was full of boundless energy and optimism. An athletic body that she somehow found time to keep in shape belied her age and rough early life at the hands of an abusive husband. Classic looks, long sexy legs, and a sharp, caustic sense of humor made her a favorite among regulars at The Second Look. She also enjoyed her role as nurse maid, surrogate mom and mother confessor to the other girls.

            We actually met in the club’s parking lot late one night after closing. “Perfect ending to a perfect day!” she fumed aloud, almost in tears.

            “Perfection is an over rated concept,” I said, strolling over.

            She looked up, wiping mascara from her piercing blue eyes, “One that has been the downfall of many a good man.”

            “Touché, but chivalry is alive and well, my lady,” I replied, feeling the effects of the evening’s gin.

            “And does Sir’s gallant steed carry a spare to fit a ’76 Volare?”

            “Ah, a rare breed indeed. Me thinks not. However I am at my lady’s service. My name is Billy.”

            Shaking my hand, her eyes narrowed and her smile widened to a shrewd grin. “I know who you are. I’ve seen you in the club a number of times.”

            “That’s not exactly what I would call a stellar recommendation.”

            “Perhaps not, but I know you’re one of the good ones. My name is Molly.”

            “Good ones?”

            Molly tossed a small travel bag into the stranded car’s back seat. “Honey, when you work with fifty other girls there are no secrets.”

            “I’ll have to remember that,” I said, blushing and making a mental note to watch what I said and to whom.

            “Besides,” Molly locked the car’s door and turned, her large purse slung over one shoulder, “you can observe a lot just by watching.”

            The passage made me laugh. “Now how can I leave someone who quotes Yogi Berra stranded; especially such a pretty damsel in distress?”

            Molly and I ate breakfast at Denny’s, breakfast and nothing more than a quick peck on the cheek.  One night stands weren’t Molly’s style. With the busy pace she kept she barely had time to herself. The next day, after my show, I had Molly’s tire repaired and brought it to her apartment. It was her day off. I enjoyed her company the night before and my plans included talking her into going out to eat. Instead, I sat down to my first home cooked meal in years.

            The apartment’s homey atmosphere, barking dog, ringing phone and bickering kids dispelled the typical stripper’s image I held. Over delicious homemade manicotti, Molly explained that many of the girls, especially at the better clubs were just struggling working moms as herself. “Just don’t tell the regulars,” she joked, “or we’ll all be out of work.” Later that evening, as we drove to pick up her car, Molly surprised me. Sliding across the wide bench seat of my vintage De Soto, she kissed me tenderly. Then she looked at me with soft but tired eyes. “Tomorrow is Saturday. I have a rare weekend off. Please don’t send me home to my screaming kids and lonely bed.”

            Her touching plea caught me off guard. “What do you suggest?”

            She shut her eyes and sighed. “It’s been a long time for me. I guess I’m just out of practice at this.”

            I kissed her cheek. “Don’t worry,” I teased, “it’s just like riding a bicycle.” That won me a big laugh and another kiss. Twenty minutes later we entered my apartment. Molly made some phone calls while I made some hot chocolate against the cool, damp February night. When I carried the tray into the bedroom I found her curled up on the bed fast asleep.

            Late the next morning I heard the shower running as I fixed omelets and toast. Molly appeared wearing my bathrobe, looking refreshed and beautiful. She sighed and sampled the orange juice I handed her. “I guess I should have told you. I never learned to ride a bicycle,” she confessed and we both laughed.

            Molly and I dated for around a year. It was a very easy, casual relationship, both of us enjoying what was missing from our lives. We did normal things, like normal people: movies, dinner, the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, and the annual Renaissance Festival. We agreed on the basic ground rule of not mentioning work.

            I got to spend some time with her kids as we visited Astroworld Amusement Park and took in the Astros. Molly turned out to be an avid baseball fan. I became an instant hero to her son the afternoon I threw out the first pitch at the Astrodome and introduced him to some of the players.

            Molly graduated from school and left the club life behind. She landed a good job in a judge’s office. Shortly afterwards Molly married. The last time I heard she, hubby, the kids and new baby were doing just fine.

            And so it went. Four years dissolved into a blur of over indulgence. Like the dancers I dated, I too found myself awash in a sea of too much too fast.

            The spring of ’81 my friend and fellow DJ Misty reluctantly accepted a good job offer from a station in Baltimore. At a going away party she hugged me a little longer and cried a bit harder than I expected. It gave me pause. But her career was on the move. It was time to let her go.

            Later that same year I stood up for my best buddy Bill. He finally managed to charm his heart’s desire. Or, as Shirley put it, she slowed down enough for the old guy to catch her. Bill and Shirley made quite a pair and I never saw my best friend happier.

            December 1981 I turned thirty-one. I spent my birthday alone, mostly by choice. The clubs were closed. Mandy was off with friends to South Padre Island. Molly was busy with family, as were most of my friends. Bill and Shirley were spending their first holiday together as husband and wife.

            I sat alone in the darkened air studio on Christmas Eve drinking heavily spiked eggnog. Looking out on the city, I pictured the Astrodome as a giant chocolate muffin with a single lit candle. I really didn’t need to be there but I had nothing else to do; no place to go. I volunteered to mind the on air board, giving the married jocks time with their families.

            I looked over my shoulder often, thinking I heard something. The ghosts that haunt every radio station were restless.

                It was a lonely uncomfortable night.