"One wild ride of a book!"
Reviewed by Melissa Beck
Posted August 30, 2014
Suspense | Inspirational
FEAST FOR THIEVES is exciting from beginning to end and
includes
bank robberies, high speed car chases, shoot outs and lots
of fist fights. But FEAST FOR THIEVES also has a tender
and moral side to it. Rowdy Slater is a veteran of World
War II and is living in a small town in Texas during the
late 1940's. He is a rough and tough veteran who served
as a paratrooper during the war and was shot and wounded
in
battle.
Like many veterans, when he comes home he is a bit lost
and
is trying to find a job and a way to fit back into
society. The fact that Rowdy spent some time in prison
makes it especially difficult for him to gain employment.
He becomes so desperate for money that he agrees to be an
accomplice in a bank robbery but his conscience weighs
heavily on him and he decides to return the money to the
town's sheriff.
The sheriff of Cut Eye Texas decides to cut a deal with
Rowdy when he returns the money: if Rowdy serves as the
town's Reverend for one year, then he can stay out of
jail. Rowdy is very hesitant to take the offer,
especially
due to his "colorful" past, but he doesn't want to face
the
alternative of prison time.
FEAST FOR THIEVES is a page turner and the twists and
turns
in the plot kept me guessing until the very end. The town
of Cut Eye has a plethora of interesting characters with
whom Rowdy interacts as their pastor. Just as Rowdy is
trying to do the right thing and put his life back
together, he is pulled back into committing morally
questionable acts.
I highly recommend FEAST FOR THIEVES to anyone who likes a
great story line with likeable characters and thought-
provoking dialogue.
SUMMARY
Sergeant Rowdy Slater is the most skilled-and most
incorrigible-soldier in Dog Company, 506th PIR, 101st
Airborne, an elite group of paratroopers fighting for the
world's freedom in World War II. Through a bizarre set of circumstances, Rowdy returns to
the
States after the war, turns his life around, and falls
into
the only job he can find-preacher at the sparsely
populated
community church in Cut Eye, Texas, a dusty highway town
situated at the midpoint of nowhere and emptiness. The town's lawman, suspicious that Rowdy has changed his
ways only as a cover up, gives an ultimatum: Rowdy must
survive one complete year as Cut Eye's new minister or
end
up in jail. At first Rowdy thinks the job will be easy, particularly
because he's taking over for a young female missionary
who's
held the church together while the men were at war. But
when
a dark-hearted acquaintance from Rowdy's past shows up
with
a plan to make some quick cash, Rowdy becomes ensnared
due
to an irrevocable favor, and life turns decidedly
difficult. Rowdy's a man used to solving problems one of two ways:
with
his rifle or with his fists. Will he be able to thwart
his
old friend's evil schemes while remaining true to his new
higher calling? This is a wild ride of a book bursting with a bank
robbery,
kidnapping, desperate prayers, and barroom brawls. Before
the smoke clears, all sides just might end up getting
exactly what they want.
ExcerptRead an Excerpt from Feast for
Thieves Set in 1946 and inspired by a true story, FEAST FOR
THIEVES is about an elite incorrigible paratrooper named
Rowdy Slater who comes home from WWII, turns his life
around, and becomes a minister in a backwoods Texas town
called Cut Eye. That might sound like a cushy job compared to
parachuting into Normandy, but Rowdy soon finds out the
job is harder than he first thought, and in his new role
his problems are only beginning. Below is an excerpt taken from the book, when Rowdy's
past begins to catch up with him. Enjoy! "What's wrong?" Bobbie asked. "Doesn't that driver
behind us realize his high beams are on?" "He knows." I kept my voice low, not wanting to alarm the
girl. "How long 'til we get back to Cut Eye anyway?" "About three hours." "Pull over and let him pass then." Bobbie fidgeted in her
seat. "He seems in an awful hurry." "He'd pass us if he wanted to." I kept my speed even. Bobbie craned her head around and looked again. "He's
about an inch from our bumper now. That fool could kill
us. Please stop, Rowdy. Pull over and see what he wants.
Maybe he's in trouble." "No, he's not in trouble." My voice stayed low. At first, the first high-speed bump from behind felt like
a little tap. Our Chevy twisted slightly, like it was
pushed on the pavement. The second bump came harder. Like
momentum was building and the car behind us planned to
ram us if he hit us again. "Rowdy!" Bobbie yelled. "I'm scared. Real scared." The car in back zoomed up behind us again, looked to come
close enough to crash into us, then at the last minute
veered over into the left-hand lane. The car switched off
its lights and accelerated ahead. I tried to make out the
type of car it was as it passed by. The night was too
dark to tell, although I caught a flash of the paint job.
The sides and doors of the coupe were white. The trunk
and hood were a darker color. It looked like a brand-new
1946 Ford Super Deluxe Tudor sedan, although I wasn't
certain. I'd seen one of those back when I was drifting
through Oakland. The police in that city used them as
squad cars. Ahead of us, the car's headlights came on again, and with
it, the driver applied the brakes. We swerved to the side
trying to get around him, but he swerved too and wouldn't
let us through, then he slowed to a stop right in the
middle of the highway. We slowed and stopped behind him.
I decided to see what the matter was, once and for all.
He sat directly in front of us with the motor running. We
sat directly behind him. Neither of us moved. I switched
the headlights on bright to get a better look. A bullhorn showed at the driver's window. The horn was
pointed back at us. It crackled, and a loud voice boomed
through the night air, though the voice sounded a bit
garbled. "Driver and passenger, step out of the truck!" "That's a police car, Rowdy," Bobbie said. "I think it's
the sheriff from Rancho Springs. That's okay, he knows my
daddy real well." "Stay in the car," I said. "We'll know soon enough." "Driver and passenger," came the bullhorn again. "Step
out of the truck!" "Show yourself!" I yelled out the driver's side window. The door opened and a figure stepped out. He wore a
sheriff's uniform and had his pistol drawn and pointed
our direction, although his hat was pulled low over his
face. He stood at his car and didn't advance further.
"Rancho Springs Sheriff's Department," the figure called
out. "Both of you—get out of the vehicle." "Were we speeding, Rowdy?" Bobbie said. "I didn't think
we were going that fast." "No, this ain't about speeding," I said. The bullhorn crackled again. "On the count of three,
driver and passenger step out of the vehicle. This is
your final warning. If you don't come out, martial action
will be taken. One . . . two . . ." "He sounds serious, Rowdy. Let's get out." "Three!" I opened my door. Bobbie did the same with hers. "Driver, get down on the pavement with your hands behind
your back," the bullhorn said. The voice was distorted
through the horn. "Passenger, step to the rear of the
vehicle and place your hands on the bed of the truck." Slowly I crouched to my knees. "Driver lay flat," came the voice over the bullhorn. I could see by the light of my headlights that the man
held a Smith & Wesson square-butt military and police
revolver. That meant he had six shots to my none. I lay
flat on the pavement and tried to keep an eye his
direction. Bobbie went behind the pickup truck. The man
walked over and snapped handcuffs on my wrists—that
much I expected. But when he snapped them on my ankles
too, I grew more than a mite alarmed. In a flash I rolled
over, trying to sit up. He was already behind the truck,
snapping a third set on Bobbie. "What are you doing?" I yelled. "Hey—where are you
going with her?" Wordlessly, the figure pushed Bobbie up the blacktop.
They passed on the shoulder side of the roadway, on the
dark side from me. He was pushing her by the back of her
shoulders and speaking low behind her ear. I doubted if
she had seen his face yet. He put her in front seat of
the Chevy truck and shut the door, then walked up to his
patrol car, got in, and backed it up in a lurch so it was
positioned behind the truck, although off to the
shoulder. He got out and walked back over to where I lay,
pulled out his revolver and shot twice over my head
toward his own car. The patrol car's headlights
shattered. Again I tried to roll into a sitting position.
I couldn't see what he was doing now, and the cuffs held
me fast. He walked back to his patrol car. The Ford's grill was
smoking, and the night was pitch black. I heard him
opening his trunk. A rattling sound came my direction. He
walked up toward our Chevy truck and chained something
fast around my bumper. Then he stood next to me. I moved
to head-butt him, but he easily sidestepped me. Again he
moved toward me, a chain in his hands, and I moved to
swing into him, maybe take him down. A boot came into my
ribs and I sucked in air. I felt his hands over my hands.
Hot. Clammy. He drug me backward to the bumper of the
Chevy truck and linked a chain around my
handcuffs—the same chain that was tied to the
bumper of the truck. "Okay, Rowdy," the figure said, and I thought I
recognized that voice from somewhere. "Let's go for a
little drive." He pushed back the brim of his hat and a
small red gleam of taillight caught his sideburns. Only then did I fully realize who it was ...
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