Wayne Allen Sallee’s an original. Holy crap—read The Holy Terror. This book’s apt to scare the shit out of Satan. I’m glad to see With Wounds Still Wet available as an eBook, too. Good for you, Wayne. And—I can’t believe security didn’t confiscate your camera when we were in Indianapolis. Since I’m a big guy, I think they wanted to keep me smiling.
Wayne kindly scrawled me on a police desk in this story:
The lead guy at Trace Mike was on the phone, jotting notes on the back of an old Field Investigation report. St. Cyr pulled out the folded sheets from his pocket, filled with sterile anatomical descriptions. It wasn’t like he was in a doctor’s office waiting on a rectal exam, with Newsweek and People on the empty chair next to him. He didn’t even read the papers anymore, not even to look at the sports scores. Anytime he looked at a paper, it got to be too damn depressing. On the desk, scratched with a nail clipper, So’s ya know, Jeff Funk says this is a square house 10/31/52.
—”In the Shank of the Night” by Wayne Allen Sallee in SEX CRIMES, page 32
Conversely, in my stories, whenever there’s a frilly bar down on Sallee Street or a mental institution known as the Sallee Center—it’s a nod to my buddy Wayne!