Long Fall from Heaven
George Wier, Milton T. Burton
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"With an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the historic underbelly of Galveston and a ringing feel for dialogue, Long Fall From Heaven carries us along on a sordid yet seamless narrative of murderous mayhem." —Craig Johnson, author of the Walt Longmire Mysteries
Cueball Boland and Micah Lanscomb—both ex-cops with troubled pasts—stumble into the path of a serial killer. The murderer leads them into the dark history of Galveston when the city was Texas’ Sin City. The killer has roots sunk deep into that history, but the FBI and the old Galveston families don’t want Cueball and Micah to solve the crimes. Listen closely. There’s an echo of another serial killer who stalked the city back during World War II.
George Wier writes like he talks: Texan. In the 1990s he befriended the older novelist Milton T. Burton and the two became close friends. In 1998, Burton, worried about his health, told Wier this story and asked him to be his collaborator and principal writer. The two friends talked back and forth, and Wier wrote the novel. Meanwhile, impatient with the publishing industry, George Wier has very successfully e-published his Bill Travis Mystery Series. He plays classical violin and country fiddle, dabbles in art and photography, and is a born promoter of all that he does. This is his first trade-published novel. He lives in Austin, Texas with his wife Sallie.
Milton T. Burton (1947-2011) authored four crime novels published by Minotaur/Thomas Dunne. Like Wier, Burton was a lifelong Texan who breathed the Texas lingo. Burton had been variously a cattleman, a political consultant, and a college history teacher. A cantankerous but generous man, he liked writing and he liked talking to his friends, especially George Wier. He died in December 2011.
of existential possibilities not found in the word ‘outside’ due to the latter’s geographic specificity.” Morgan ground his teeth and peered at the other man for a few seconds, trying to decide if he was serious or if he was being a smartass. He decided he was serious, which was all the worse in Morgan’s view. Smart-ass he could handle. But a guy who would stand around in a Galveston coffee shop at 11:00 P.M. babbling about crap like “geographic specificity” had to be crazy. And literal-minded
towheaded children, ages five and seven. His name was Bartholomew Elrood Dumas, but his co-workers called him Big Bart. His gut protruded a full twelve inches beyond his straining belt. His face, neck and hands were as red as a West Texas Indian—an Apache, perhaps, if such still walked the Earth. Big Bart was known to drink too much on a Friday night, go home and collapse on the couch and sleep half through Saturday. It was his only vice, and his wife Lorraine had come to expect it. She made
you, but you don’t look Greek to me,” Maceo said. “What Greek ever does?” Longnight said. Maceo smiled warmly. “What are we having, Sam?” “Well, actually I don’t ever eat breakfast so my lunch is normally breakfast fare. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering eggs, American bacon, coffee, grapes, toast and a cigar—although not necessarily in that order. “That sounds perfect,” Longnight said. Longnight took in a sweeping view of the Gulf of Mexico. “A man could get used to this,” he said. “Yes,”
Maceo was here. He was a bellhop then. He comes to the restaurant downstairs for lunch, although he doesn’t eat much when he does. His food is mostly wasted. I would like to introduce you to him, Mister C.C.” “I would appreciate that, Giuseppi.” “Maybe he’ll be here today.” • • • Cueball stepped around to face the man. “Mr. Blessing?” He was not much older than Cueball himself. His left side appeared more shrunken than his right, evidence of a stroke at some point within the last ten or
salty, earthy odor of the island. He looked around him. Far out on the Gulf, hundreds of lights glittered where vessels from half the nations of the earth stretched to the horizon, riding the swells, each awaiting its entry to the Houston ship channel. Heavy cars whisked up and down the street, stopping to let out their richly dressed passengers at the casinos and nightclubs that dotted the seawall. The soft strains of Shaw’s Begin the Beguine drifted out above a moonlit beach while palm trees