Part three is below. Short update because I am working on finding a permanent home for my own brand of pulp fiction. More Thursday.
Hector Shelton worked hard for his money, so you better treat him right. Or at least, he was the sort that felt that way. He was also the sort that would have sued Donna Summer over the song lyrics. Add all that to the fact that he was the sort who worked hard through murder, theft, and assholery, and we get a rather accurate picture of the sort Hector Shelton might be.
Right now, Shelton was working hard at inventory in a music shop, one he had owned since three days after he had had Trude Oliver shot for asking one too many questions about his schemes. He chuckled lightly, remembering that day, then grimly went back to sorting through the instruments. As he scanned each sticker, he muttered to himself. Things were not going well, not going well at all. He just could not find it.