“Good Joey,” I said, “real good.”
He filled the two glasses and handed one to me.
“So,” I asked, “how’s Carmella?”
“Beautiful,” Joey said, “unbelievable.”
Joey and I talked about his granddaughter.
When the ice was gone we went back to the party.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J.L. ABRAMO was born in the oceanside paradise of Brooklyn, New York on Raymond Chandler’s 59th birthday. Abramo received a BA in Sociology and Education from City College of the City University of New York and an MA in Social Psychology from the University of Cincinnati. He has been a long-time educator, a producer and director of theatre, and an actor on stage and in film; with a number of television credits including roles on Homicide: Life on the Street and Law and Order. Abramo’s first novel, Catching Water in a Net, was recipient of the St. Martin’s Press/Private Eye Writers of America Award for Best First Private Eye Novel, and was followed by two additional Jake Diamond mysteries, Clutching at Straws and Counting to Infinity. A stand-alone thriller, Gravesend, was recently published by Down and Out Books; and a fourth novel in the Jake Diamond series is in the works. Abramo is a card-carrying member of the Screen Actors Guild, Private Eye Writers of America, Mystery Writers of America and International Thriller Writers.
For more information please visit:
http://www.jlabramo.com/
https://www.facebook.com/jlabramo
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OTHER TITLES FROM DOWN & OUT BOOKS
See DownAndOutBooks.com for a complete list
By J.L. Abramo
Catching Water in a Net
Clutching at Straws
Counting to Infinity
Gravesend
Chasing Charlie Chan
Circling the Runway
Brooklyn Justice
Coney Island Avenue
By Anonymous-9
Hard Bite
Bite Harder
By Jonathan Ashley
South of Cincinnati (*)
By Trey R. Barker
2,000 Miles to Open Road
Road Gig: A Novella
Exit Blood
Death is Not Forever
No Harder Prison
By Richard Barre
The Innocents
Bearing Secrets
Christmas Stories
The Ghosts of Morning
Blackheart Highway
Burning Moon
Echo Bay
Lost
By Eric Beetner (editor)
Unloaded
By G. J. Brown
Falling
By Rob Brunet
Stinking Rich
By Milton T. Burton
Texas Noir
By Dana Cameron, editor
Murder at the Beach: Bouchercon Anthology 2014
By Eric Campbell, editor
Down, Out and Dead
By Stacey Cochran
Eddie & Sunny (TP only)
By Mark Coggins
No Hard Feelings
By Angel Luis Colón
No Happy Endings
By Jen Conley
Cannibals and Other Stories
By Shawn Corridan and Gary Waid
Gitmo
By Matt Coyle, Mary Marks and Patricia Smiley, editors
By Tom Crowley
Viper’s Tail
Murder in the Slaughterhouse
By Frank De Blase
Pine Box for a Pin-Up
Busted Valentines and Other Dark Delights
A Cougar’s Kiss
By Les Edgerton
The Genuine, Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping
Lagniappe
By A.C. Frieden
Tranquility Denied
The Serpent’s Game
The Pyongyang Option (*)
By Danny Gardner
A Negro and an Ofay
By Jack Getze
Big Numbers
Big Money
Big Mojo
Big Shoes
By Keith Gilman
Bad Habits
By Richard Godwin
Wrong Crowd
Buffalo and Sour Mash
Crystal on Electric Acetate
By William Hastings, editor
Stray Dogs: Writing from the Other America
By Jeffery Hess
Beachhead
Cold War Canoe Club
By Matt Hilton
No Going Back
Rules of Honor
The Lawless Kind
The Devil’s Anvil
No Safe Place
By Naomi Hirahara, Kate Thornton and Jeri Westerson, editors
LAdies’ Night
By Terry Holland
An Ice Cold Paradise
Chicago Shiver
By Darrel James, Linda O. Johnston and Tammy Kaehler, editors
Last Exit to Murder
By David Housewright and Renée Valois
The Devil and the Diva
By David Housewright
Finders Keepers
Full House
By Jon Jordan
Interrogations
By Jon and Ruth Jordan, editors
Murder and Mayhem in Muskego
Cooking with Crimespree
By Lawrence Kelter
Back to Brooklyn
By Lawrence Kelter and Frank Zafiro
The Last Collar
By Jerry Kennealy
Screen Test
Polo’s Last Shot (*)
By Dana King
Worst Enemies
Grind Joint
Resurrection Mall
Triple Shot
By JB Kohl and Eric Beetner
Over Their Heads
By S.W. Lauden
Crosswise
Crossed Bones
By Andrew McAleer and Paul D. Marks, editors
Coast to Coast
Coast to Coast 2
By Terrence McCauley
The Devil Dogs of Belleau Wood
The Bank Heist, editor (*)
By Daniel M. Mendoza, editor
Stray Dogs: Interviews with Working-Class Writers
By Bill Moody
Czechmate: The Spy Who Played Jazz
The Man in Red Square
Solo Hand
The Death of a Tenor Man
The Sound of the Trumpet
Bird Lives!
Mood Swings (TP only)
By Gerald M. O’Connor
The Origins of Benjamin Hackett
By Gary Phillips
The Perpetrators
Scoundrels: Tales of Greed, Murder and Financial Crimes (editor)
Treacherous: Grifters, Ruffians and Killers
3 the Hard Way
By Gary Phillips, Tony Chavira, Manoel Magalhaes
Beat L.A. (Graphic Novel)
By Tom Pitts
Hustle
American Static
By Thomas Pluck
Bad Boy Boogie
By Robert J. Randisi
Upon My Soul
Souls of the Dead
Envy the Dead
By Rob Riley
Thin Blue Line
By Charles Salzberg
Devil in the Hole
Swann’s Last Song
Swann Dives In
Swann’s Lake of Despair
Swann’s Way Out
By Scott Loring Sanders
Shooting Creek and Other Stories
By Linda Sands
3 Women Walk Into a Bar (TP only)
Grand Theft Cargo
By Ryan Sayles
The Subtle Art of Brutality
Warpath
Let Me Put My Stories In You
By John Shepphird
The Shill
Kill the Shill
Beware the Shill
By A
nthony Neil Smith
Worm (TP only)
All the Young Warriors TP only)
Once a Warrior (TP only)
Holy Death (TP only)
By Liam Sweeny
Welcome Back, Jack
By Art Taylor, editor
Murder Under the Oaks: Bouchercon Anthology 2015
By Ian Truman
Grand Trunk and Shearer
By James Ray Tuck, editor
Mama Tried 1
Mama Tried 2 (*)
By Nathan Walpow
The Logan Triad
By Lono Waiwaiole
Wiley’s Lament
Wiley’s Shuffle
Wiley’s Refrain
Dark Paradise
Leon’s Legacy
By George Williams
Inferno and Other Stories
Zoë
By Frank Zafiro and Eric Beetner
The Backlist
The Short List
Published by ABC Group Documentation, an imprint of Down & Out Books
By Alec Cizak
Down on the Street
By Grant Jerkins
Abnormal Man
By Robert Leland Taylor
Through the Ant Farm (*)
Published by Shotgun Honey, an imprint of Down & Out Books
By Hector Acosta
Hardway
By Angel Luis Colón
Blacky Jaguar and the Cool Clux Cult
By Nick Kolakowski
A Brutal Batch of Heartbroken Saps
By Albert Tucher
The Place of Refuge
(*) Coming soon
Back to TOC
Here is a preview from the third book in the Penns River crime series by Dana King, Resurrection Mall…
1.
A lot colder at midnight than when Greg Twardzik pulled into the Allegheny Casino lot at a quarter to eight. Greg shoved his hands into his coat pockets and hoped his gloves were in the car. The breeze drilled a small hole dead center of his forehead, the hairs in his nose freezing together. It smelled cold, like when he re-stocked the ice cream freezer at Giant Eagle.
Tonight Greg’s monthly run to the Allegheny. A true grind joint: slots and a bar, shitty restaurant. The unofficial slogan: Give us your money and get the fuck out. Greg saved his spare change each month the way geezers saved stale bread, except Greg fed the slots instead of pigeons. “Spare change” had an expansive definition in Greg’s mind. Stop at Sooki’s for a beer; beer cost two and a quarter; pay with a five. Tip Frankie a quarter, the other two-fifty is spare change. Next beer, another five. Take the kids to McDonald’s on his weekend with them, pay for twelve bucks worth of food with a twenty: eight bucks spare change. Saved up ninety-two seventy-five in January, rounded to a hundred.
He’d come out the wrong door. Again. All the exits looked alike to Greg from inside. He’d get turned around looking for a promising slot, lose track of where he came in by the second scotch. He at least remembered parking his Pontiac looking straight across Leechburg Road at Wendy’s. Came out on the Rabbit’s Foot side, by the big fences with ivy or kudzu or whatever growing on them, a barrier between the casino and the residential neighborhood butting up against it. He should have taken the Horseshoe exit. Now he had to walk halfway around the building to get there.
The night started well. Hit for about fifty bucks half an hour in. The plan had been to put the fifty in his pocket and play until the hundred he came with was gone; go home with the winnings. A loser’s mentality so early in the night. A jackpot that fast, there had to be more. There were two. Eight bucks within half an hour—big night brewing—then sixteen at eleven o’clock, about the time he started to wonder how much he had left. Hit the cash machine on his way to get the third drink and took out fifty—no, a hundred; still had twenty in his pocket. So he came with one hundred dollars, won seventy-four he should have stashed away. Lost the original hundred plus eighty from the ATM to go down one-eighty, not counting the seventy-four of house money he’d blown, which shouldn’t count, it not being his money. At least he had a good time.
He found the aisle facing Wendy’s, started walking. His car should be on the right, about three-quarters of the way back. Halfway there he still didn’t see it. Probably blocked by the Ford Expedition he’d had to squeeze past, left wheels dead on the line. It wasn’t.
Must be the wrong row, but how many of those big goddamn Expeditions could there be in this part of the lot? Greg turned his back on the Ford to face perpendicular to the line running from the casino to Wendy’s, capture his bearings. Pointed at Wendy’s and blinked his eyes. He’d nibbled the fourth drink, hearing rumors the local cops were cracking down on drunk driving. Coffee not a bad idea, once he found the car. He turned with great care and pointed at the Horseshoe entrance. It occurred to him the Expedition he’d parked next to might have left, and he was looking at a different one. He’d been careful to line himself up on Wendy’s and the casino entrance, could be off a little after five drinks.
Tried a row to his left, then a row to his right. Freezing his ass off, he recalled something else he’d heard standing at the bar waiting for the sixth drink, one for the road. Paid attention to the barmaid who told him to be careful about the DUIs—paying attention to her tits more than what she said—a guy to his right bitching about cars stolen out of the casino lot. Greg almost asked, thought why would the guy still come if he thought cars were being stolen?
Focused now, expanding his search with each circuit. Trying the aisle he thought, then one on either side, then two on either side until he realized the guy at the bar wasn’t some jagov blowing smoke. Cars were being stolen out of the Allegheny Casino lot, and Greg’s was one of them.
2.
Ben Dougherty pushed back from the kitchen table. “Enough. Mom, that was great.”
Ellen Dougherty smiled. “There’s plenty to take home. I’ll pack you a bum bag when I clean up in here.”
Some things never changed. Doc—only his family called him Ben, or Benny—in his late thirties, still came home for Sunday dinner. Sat in the same place as when he’d lived there. Ellen sat closest to the sink and stove, ready to spring into action if anyone looked like they might be thinking about wanting anything. Tom sat across from her, turned his head one-eighty to see the television in the living room, like he’d done for almost forty years.
“Bum bags” an echo of Ellen’s mother, who never let her grandchildren go home without a poke containing at least a couple of apples and a Hershey bar. A phrase coined during the Depression, when she’d given bum bags to people worse off than her. At least she did until her husband lost his job at Scaife’s and it became all they could do to keep from asking other families for handouts.
“What else can I get you?” Ellen still cleared the table like the waitress she’d been. Tom pulled a half-empty dish of cucumbers and sour cream closer to his plate. He’d miscalculated and not finished before Ellen started cleaning. The rest of his meal would be a competition.
“I haven’t even started digesting what I just ate, Mom. I have no idea what I want next. A nap, maybe.”
“I heard Dickie Laverty had his house broke into this week.” Tom stabbed the last two slices of cucumber, pushed the dish into Ellen’s sphere of influence. Wrapped a finger along the edge of his dinner plate, where scraps of roast beef and mashed potatoes remained.
“His shed,” Doc said. “Took his lawn mower, snow blower, leaf blower, chain saw. All the outdoor power tools.” Doc knew, being a Penns River police detective.
“Anything you can do about it?”
“We took the report. Poked around.” Tom looked up from his plate, piece of roast hanging from his fork. Doc said, “What would you like us to do? Someone takes his stuff out of town and sells it? Hell, someone sells it in town. Even if he recognizes it, can he prove it’s his?”
“He knows what his riding mower looks like. He just bought it last spring.”
“Did he write down the serial n
umber? He can’t take us up to some guy’s house, point to a mower and say, ‘that’s mine,’ and expect us to take it back and haul the other guy off to jail.”