The sun beat down like rain on a tin roof. I steered the Mystery Machine, a beat-up VW bus, through the heavy traffic on South 10th Street. I drove, while Shaggy, Velma, Daphne and Scooby-Doo got psyched for our undercover assignment at the convention center. We’re cops, and damn good ones, too. The AC was busted again, so we rolled down the windows for fresh air. Scooby-Doo hung his head out to let his tongue flap in the breeze like a drippy pink dish towel.
“Rucking hot ray,” he yipped with that wacky speech impediment of his. But he expresses himself well enough for a Great Dane. We all had the same gripe; fucking hot day indeed.
We were working vice around the convention center at S. 10th and Highway 83. Think of the area as the French Quarter with a Mexican accent. Conventioneers in goofy hats, bored after a day of seminars and exhibits, would hit the streets to sample big city sleaze, available 24/7 no cover charge from strip clubs, tattoo parlors, cantinas, rescue missions, curio shops with piñatas and sombreros imported from Mexico, Internet cafes. Depending on what convention was in town, a steady stream of urologists and oilfield-supply salesmen rubbed elbows with hustlers, preachers, aspiring mariachi musicians, dotcommers, chicks with dicks looking for tricks looking for kicks. Our job was to keep the hookers and pushers in line, in part by disrupting demand.
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