A Feral Chorus

First published in the United States of America and Great Britain in 2023 by Helvellyn Press, Houston, Texas Copyright © 2023 Matthew J. White. All rights reserved. The moral right of the author has been asserted. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. ISBN: 978-1-7391031-2-5 Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Epilogue About the Author It is a most mortifying reflection for a man to consider what he has done, compared to what he might have done. ―Samuel Johnson Chapter One A year since my return to Houston, and here I was, still chaperoning eager suburbanites around ten acres of floodlit concrete. My latest pair had been wandering up and down the rows of Chevy Tahoes for the better part of two hours. Dale Massey returned to a High Country in Satin Steel Metallic for what had to be the fifth time. The beefy property appraiser squatted down next to the three-ton SUV and muttered an approval in the direction of the chrome-trimmed running boards. He was attempting to talk his cheerful wife, Mallory, into this top-of-the-line model on the basis of the more powerful engine and air-ride suspension, but I could tell she judged these upgrades frivolous—pointless male vanity—and the Premier in Empire Beige to be the more responsible choice. She took him aside, pressed a manicured hand into the small of his expansive back, and breathed words of prudence upward toward one of his formidable ears. Big Dale pressed his case with appreciably less restraint. “Honey, this one’s got the adaptive shocks. You don’t want the kids bouncing around like they’re on a mechanical bull, do you? You know how sick Randy gets in the back of the Durango.” He turned to me. “What do you think, Guy?” I shot Dale an agnostic smile. Was he serious? What did he expect me to say? “Yep, that’s the one, buddy. Screw the Premier, it’s air-ride all the way. Go big or go home!” Forget that. Not happening. If I were to endorse Dale’s plan to add two hundred dollars to the Masseys’ monthly nut on the pretense of easing little Randy’s gastrointestinal discomforts, jaunty Mallory was liable to turn sour and march him right back out to their old Dodge, no matter its worn ball joints and oxidized clear coat. My phone vibrated in my pocket. Unlike Dean Peas, I don’t take calls when I’m working a sale, but spousal friction warrants exception. Mallory had seen through Dale’s brazen attempt to capitalize on poor Randy’s sensitive plumbing. Her accommodating smile had been replaced by the somber countenance of female reproach. Dale had much work to do if he wanted to enjoy the extra low-end grunt of that big 6.2-liter V8, so I excused myself and strolled behind a row of highly incentivized Malibus to take the call. It was Aunt Imogen. Uncle Harry had been due home by six thirty. It was now eight, and there was no sign of him, and he wasn’t answering his phone. She had called building security; nobody picked up. She was worried, his memory problems and all. Could I swing by the office and check on him? I told the couple I had to run. “Really sorry, something’s come up. Ask Krystal at reception to page Jake Hodges. He’ll take care of you. You can’t go wrong with either of these beauts.” I wasn’t exaggerating there. Hodges was a solid guy. He’d get the deal done at a fair price and without all the hemming and hawing and pointless padding back and forth of Dean Peas. Not only would Peas jerk them around on the price, he’d inflate the deal with hefty charges for paint sealant and the Concierge Service Plan—flagrant banditry, nothing more than a thin coat of spray-on wax and a free ride home in whatever demo happened to be lurking around the service department that day. Peas’s bumbling mendacity was legendary. He’d present the paperwork with his hairy hand over the extras. If the customer noticed the ruse, he’d play dumb and try to salvage the deal by throwing in a few embossed key chains or other inane dross. The only reason Peas had the job was because he was the son-in-law of the owner, Beau Holloway. I figured it would be better for business if Holloway cut Peas a check every month and told him to stay home, pick up the slack around the house, take the load off Holloway’s daughter. Either that or move him over to used cars, where people at least expected devious tricks such as the hairy hand. I jumped on the freeway and headed north, back into Houston proper. Dusk had melted into night, the week into the weekend. A wall of taillights winked scarlet shades of red as the sea of disaffected motorists jostled for position on the coarse cement. An absurd jalopy entered the freeway at the next on-ramp. It hurtled to the outside lane and cut off several vehicles in the process. A chorus of wild honking ensued. The jalopy man stuck his arm out the window and waved. His limp gesture was a shameful display, the same “I’m sorry but not really” arm waggle offered up by seniors jumping the line in a crowded pharmacy. Who were all these slapdash drivers in their steel cages, and where were they going? The great mystery of Eisenhower’s blanket arterials! Rush hour was over, but it still took