You Gotta Die Sometime

YOU GOTTA DIE SOMETIME You Gotta Die Sometime Copyright© 2023 Jay Cameron Parker All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Printed in the United States of America Published by Stone River Books Visit the website at www.jaycameronparker.com This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental. Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page To my loving family 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 CHAPTER THIRTY CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT THE END Sign up for Jay Cameron Parker's Mailing List Also By Jay Cameron Parker About the Author To my loving family CHAPTER ONE The naked woman beside me slept through the noise like she was dead. I sat up and let my eyes adjust to the small dark room; the only light source came from the hotel sign shining outside a solitary window. The doorknob rattled. “Hello?” I said softly. I assumed it was another Stanley Brush salesman, perhaps Clifton, drunk and searching for his room. I gave it a few moments, thinking the guy on the other side would move down the corridor soon, but the doorknob continued to rattle. I tip-toed to the door. “Hello? I think you have the wrong room. This room is occupied,” I whispered. Perhaps he didn’t hear me. I flipped the latch under the knob and opened the door a crack. The guy shoved his hand in and clutched my throat. His body followed, pushing his weight through, then slamming the door behind him. All the while, his hand squeezed my throat, cutting off my air. I grabbed his doughy, cold arm. I fell backward onto the floor; he straddled my torso. Both hands were around my throat. My heart hammered in my chest like an oil rig. I struggled to breathe. The stink of booze and sweat filled my head. Everything turned red. The dark figure on top of me, his teeth, his shoulders, red. Red stars and lights floated across the room then everything went black. I don’t know how much time had passed when I came to. I lay on my back for several moments, massaging my sore neck. My body shivered as I stared at the sheer white curtains drifting lazily from the open window. I grabbed the foot of the bedrail, pulled myself into a sitting position, and saw that the nude woman was no longer there. Well, that explained it. The woman was a wife, fiancé, or girlfriend. The midnight caller with the grip of a gorilla was her jealous who-zits. I tried to stand, but the floor wouldn’t stay still, so I sat on a small chair next to the dresser. I figured it must be getting close to sunrise as there was more noise outside than before the altercation. It made sense that a big city like Los Angeles would start moving before dawn. The Los Angeles salesmen have it easy; they cover a lot of ground if they do six miles daily. But for a guy like me, from some little pip-squeak desert area, I have to travel fifteen to twenty miles a day, rain or shine. So, coming to L.A. to receive the Stanley Brush Salesman of The Year Award of 1933 was a big deal for me. I got the invitation on a Saturday two weeks prior. Between morning services the following day, I pulled my fiancé, Janet, aside under the shade of a large date tree and showed her the notice. New Eden was experiencing an influx of new members. Since Janet oversaw hospitality, I knew she’d be busy and have less time to argue. She glanced at the invitation but did a double-take when she saw my name and picture on the cover. “You can’t go to that,” she said, “Conventions like these are excuses for drunken carousing.” “I’m not going there to carouse,” I said. “The company wants to honor me for a job well done. They’re going to award me a brand-new sample case with all the new inventory at no charge. The other guys will have to pay for their new cases out of their own pockets, and they probably won’t get them for another six months. I’ll have the best stuff in the region. And they’re throwing in 25 bucks on top of it.” “No. You’re just asking for trouble if you go. Forget it,” she said. Her cold blue eyes were fixed on mine. “Besides, Dr. Pally has his thing there this weekend. You don’t want to get mixed up with that.” “I have no intention of running into Dr. Pally and his congregation of muscleheads –” “Keep your voice down. Someone will hear you.” “I’m going to be somewhere else. This has nothing to do with him.” Reverend Wright approached, chuckling. “You two at it again?” He had just finished a rousing sermon. His curly black hair was beginning to frizzle, which always happened after one of his flamboyant exhortations. A wave of curls usually started at the back of his head and slowly worked toward his forehead, giving the impression that he was wearing a dark baby bonnet. “He wants to go to a convention in Los Angeles just to get a pat on the back,” Janet said. “The scripture says, ‘God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.’ Instead of