All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. But when one of his professors offers to send American grad student Jack Farmer to Europe to do historical research in Amsterdam’s Begijnhof—a peaceful closed community in the heart of the bustling Dutch capital—Jack looks forward to a summer of mostly play and not much work. Then he meets Jet Schilders, an attractive young nurse who takes care of the elderly woman next door, and realizes that his summer in The Netherlands might just turn out to be even more fun than he'd hoped.
When the woman next door is brutally murdered, though, and her nurse turns out to be the prime suspect, Jack and Jet join forces in an attempt to find the real killer and clear her name. But their investigation puts them in Dutch with the local police, and a second murder raises the stakes … and paints a target on both of their backs.
“Dutch Threat has wit, charm, and lovely crisp prose—everything that’s great about Josh Pachter’s short fiction. His debut novel was a long time coming, and it was well worth the wait!" —Tom Mead, author of Death and the Conjuror and The Murder Wheel
It’s 1975, and rookie cop Edward One patrols the streets of Long Beach, California. As he gains experience as a police officer, he finds himself dealing with dangerous criminals as well as outrageously funny scenarios, learning from some of the best—and worst—officers the Long Beach Police Department has to offer. Edward One is dedicated to truth, justice, and the law, which are not always in harmony.
During this time, a twisted and violent predator who calls himself The Skulker grows deadlier with each attack. When The Skulker arrives in Long Beach, he crosses paths with Edward One, and the results are as surprising as they are deadly.
Dilemma tells the captivating tale of the dangers and joys of police work in the ‘70s and provides an insight into the corrupted thinking of a killer.
The zombies are here.An accidental outbreak of a mutated virus unleashes hundreds of the undead on the sleepy town of Flat Rock, Nevada. Now, Sheriff Penny Miller must use her wits, grit, and damn near all of her ammunition to endure the arrival of zombies. Sheriff Miller quickly finds herself leading a vicious biker named Scratch, her ex-husband Terrill Lee, and a unit of incompetent National Guardsmen to safety. At their heels is Colonel Sanchez, the wicked Army commander who is pursuing Miller to gain the special powers the virus has given her. With a gang of murderous bikers on their tail and surrounded by slobbering hordes, Sheriff Miller must do what she does best: Aim for the brain!
“THE HUNGRY is a zombie thriller loaded with sex and smarts. A real nail-biter that brings a new weapon to bear in apocalyptic fiction: Hope. Highly recommended.”
—Jonathan Maberry, NYT Times bestselling author of Dust & Decay and Dead of Night
“If you’re craving an apocalyptic horror novel that’s not just wall-to-wall action but balls-to-the-wall intense, Steven W. Booth and Harry Shannon have cooked up a real treat for you. I would say The Hungry will leave you totally satisfied, but that’s not true: Readers will be howling for more more more MORE just like the hordes of insatiable zombies rampaging through this book.”
—Steve Hockensmith, author of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls
“You don't know what gut-churning page-flipping horror really is until you read this one. The Hungry combines the storytelling power of the big commercial thriller with many new twists on standard zombie fiction. A real winner.”
—Ed Gorman, author of The Dark Fantastic and Cage of Night
Chicago Cop Stacey Macbeth had ended Lonnie Huggins’ reign of terror when he sent the vicious criminal to prison. Now, however, a non-for-profit team of investigators has freed him back into the real world on some trumped up allegations of misconduct on the part of Macbeth. Word on the street is that Huggins is out and looking to settle some old scores, starting with Macbeth. With innocents caught in the crosshairs, Macbeth vows once more to bring Huggins to justice, setting the stage for a head-to-head confrontation where the rule book has been hurled from the window. Both men embark on a collision course in which each is seeking his own brand of Chicago Justice, knowing that this time there will be only one left standing.
5.0from 9 readers
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<h1 class="element-title case-mixed">Motives</h1>
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<h2 id="subhead-1" class="section-title subhead keep-with-next paragraph-follows case-mixed">TUESDAY 1330 Hours</h2>
<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width first-after-subhead first-with-first-letter-t"><span class="first-letter first-letter-t first-letter-without-punctuation">T</span>he door to the 27<sup>th</sup> Ward Alderman’s office on Chicago Avenue opened, jangling the bells behind the glass. A black man in his early thirties stepped through from the street, dressed conservatively in a navy suit. Mavis Stomps watched from the back of the room under the switched-off overhead lights. She knew who he was but had only met him once since he’d come to his church as pastor. By all accounts, people seemed to believe he ran his church in Cabrini-Green for the glory of the Almighty and no personal agenda.</p>
<p class="subsq">He was average height and weight and wore rimless glasses, and no jewelry. He had a smooth, caramel complexion and a close-cut beard matching a trimmed Afro. Everything about him was church conservative. As he stepped up to the receptionist’s desk, she saw that he carried himself with confidence.</p>
<p class="subsq">The girl working the front of the office looked up. Mavis snubbed out her cigarette on the window sill and blew the smoke toward the back of the hallway.</p>
<p class="subsq">“May I help you?” the girl said in a nasally voice that just irked Mavis to no end.</p>
<p class="subsq">“My name is Turner Galbreath. I’m here to see the alderman.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Mavis stepped from the shadows toward him. “Ah, Reverend Galbreath, thank you for coming.” She extended her hand as she got close.</p>
<p class="subsq">His manicured hand took hers, his grip strong and calloused.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Let’s go in back. We can talk.” She gestured for him to follow.</p>
<p class="subsq">Her office, paneled in dark wood, was Spartan, containing a worn desk and a couple of plastic chairs. The desk had come from another closed school, which had been another loss for her ward and her community. The plastic chairs were the white stackable variety. She led Galbreath in and shut the door before taking her seat behind the desk.</p>
<p class="subsq">“I know you’re a busy man. So I really appreciate your stopping by.”</p>
<p class="subsq">He settled into one of the chairs and looked around before nodding.</p>
<p class="subsq">Given his silence, she continued, “I have been a bit slow getting together with my ministers.”</p>
<p class="subsq">His stare bore into her as if she had his undivided, borderline hostile attention. He must be an effective preacher with a look like that. “Your ministers?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“You know, Reverend, the ministers in the ward is what I’m saying.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I see. Please forgive my cautious nature, but I’ve been quite disappointed with public servants of late.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Really?” She found herself wishing she’d taken the opportunity to slam a little more whiskey, but perhaps a clear mind was needed. The good reverend might prove a little challenging.</p>
<p class="subsq">Elbows poised on the arms of the plastic chair, Galbreath steepled his fingers in front of him. “As assistant chairwoman of the police/fire committee, I’m sure you’ve heard about our picketing.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“As a matter of fact, that’s why I wanted to see you.”</p>
<p class="subsq">He settled back into the chair and seemed to want her to continue, but finally went on when she didn’t. “We’ve called and left quite a few messages with your office. We’d like to see you join us on the picket line.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Perhaps.” She weighed the option of a photo op. “But I prefer to work behind the scenes, where I can do more good as an elected official.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“That’s all well and good,” he said. “Your community would benefit by seeing you standing with us. Seeking those very same answers you say you’re looking for.” He made quote marks in the air. “Behind the scenes.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“My people know I’m at work.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Do they?” he asked. “I can assure you that those members of our community who stand with me are skeptical.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Mavis felt her blood pressure begin to rise. “I promise you I do labor on behalf of the constituents of my ward and I don’t appreciate anyone saying I don’t.” She crossed her legs under the desk and laid her hands in her lap, to keep them from betraying her rage. “I work tirelessly for my people.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I didn’t come to level allegations.” Galbreath smiled. “Just telling you what some of ‘your people,’”—he made the quotation gesture again—“have said in my presence. Though, I shouldn’t think an alderman as powerful as yourself cares what a few picketers think or say.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I do care, though.” She clinched her hands in front of her face.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Don’t you see?” she said. “That’s how this mayor works, dividing the people.” She pointed at him. “First you’re out there saying the poh-leece did this or the poh-leece did that, but then slowly you start saying, ‘Where’s Alderman Stomps?’ Next thing you know, the poh-leece is all but forgotten and I’m on the hot seat.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Galbreath took a deep breath and slowly released it. “You seem a little defensive, Alderman.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Damn right.” She stood for effect. “Damn right I’m defensive.” She quieted a little. “Wouldn’t you be? Man I invite into my inner sanctum, accuses me of sitting on my hands, letting my people down, when he don’t know jack about what I’m doing or why I asked him to stop by in the first place. But that’s how this mayor likes to divide the people. I can’t stand it and won’t put up with it.” She tried to look like she was calming herself down. “Sorry I cursed, Reverend, but I get riled up.”</p>
<p class="subsq">He watched her, like he was trying to decide to believe her or what to say, maybe both. “Okay. Why did you invite me?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“You are leading the group picketing the poh-leece and I was wondering what is it you want to know?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“It hasn’t changed since we began. We’re demanding answers about the circumstances surrounding the death of Antwan Simms.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I know that part, IAD has reopened the investigation. But you know that, too. What else?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“What else?” The man brought a certain majesty to the plastic chair in his lack of movement.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yes, what else are you looking for? You already know the cops have reopened the case. So that’s not what you’re protesting for. What else?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Nothing, other than Antwan’s mother deserves to know how her son died, and the police should know already. That’s it.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“C’mon, don’t play me, Reverend. There’s always some other reason, what’s yours?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I don’t know what you’re driving at.” His head moved very little. “You mean an ulterior motive?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah, something like that. What is it?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I can assure you that we’re seeking answers on behalf of Ms. Collins. She’s a right to know the truth about her son’s death. We know there’s more to the story than we’ve been told, including allegations that Antwan might’ve been thrown from that building. There’s supposedly a witness. If anyone has a right to know the truth, it’s the boy’s mother.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Okay.” Mavis settled back into her chair. The honest and righteous were pretty damned dangerous, but they could be useful. She smiled. “Good. I want to applaud what you’re doing, Reverend. In fact, I asked you in here to encourage you to continue and protest more. Maybe escalate things a little, make the poh-leece and the media recognize that you’re serious. What do you need?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Need?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Do you need more people? Signs? A loudspeaker? What do you need?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I think I’ve got all we need. We’re looking for answers, not trouble.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I bet you could use some more bodies. Everyone can use more bodies. I can provide you with those bodies. The media loves to see a crowd. I might be able to arrange a little more coverage, too. You’ve got to work with me is all.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“And you’ll be working behind the scenes?” he asked.</p>
<p class="subsq">“That’s right. The more pressure you can bring to bear on the superintendent and the mayor, the easier it’ll be for me to get your answers. And maybe even effect a little change in the process. And I will be there with you as well, tomorrow in fact.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“What are <i>your</i> ulterior motives, Alderman, if I may ask?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Sure. Sure, you can ask, Reverend.” She sat forward and put her elbows on the table, leaning toward him like a co-conspirator. “We need to bring some change to the way the poh-leece do business in our community. If we lie down and take it, they’ll just keep on kicking us in the teeth. I think it’s going to remain open season on black people until that change comes about.” <i>Not to mention</i>, she thought, <i>getting rid of that pompous ass white superintendent and getting a right-thinking man of color to replace him</i>. Someone she could exert some control over. “I need for there to be pressure on Plumb and the mayor, both media and community pressure. If we can stir up some interest, we’ll be able to rally others to our cause and that’ll add up to even more pressure from all fronts. That’s the only thing these people respond to.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Really? And what change is it that you hope to inspire?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“That they treat us with the respect we deserve as a community and that our rights aren’t trampled on like just some more garbage in the street. That a black man can leave his home and not be afraid of the poh-leece.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I’m not afraid of the police,” he said. “A lot more innocent people are gunned down by gang members than by police. My issue. Well, our issue, at least the issue we’re trying to address, is about a particular incident, a particular officer, and perhaps a cover-up. I realize the police have their hands full, but on the whole, I have a lot fewer problems with them than those drug dealing, gun toting gangbangers.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Reverend, you mean to tell me that when a poh-leece car drives by you with two white cops in it you don’t get nervous? C’mon now?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I don’t think I’m any more likely to be stopped by white officers than by black officers.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“You’re wrong, sir.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“If anything, it’s a power thing, or a covering for one of your own when something goes wrong thing, not just a black-white thing,” Galbreath said.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Reverend,” Stomps said. “This is Chicago. Everything, and I mean <i>everything</i>, is black and white. You feel me?”</p>
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The stench of death hung in the air as John Altar studied the massacre and tried to convince himself that his younger brother, Bobby, couldn’t have been part of this. Torn apart by the Civil War, the two brothers had fought on opposite sides, and in defeat, Bobby had fallen in with a group of Confederate raiders when released from a prisoner of war camp. Their mother’s wish was for her wayward son to be brought back to her, and Altar has sworn to do it. But how much had the war changed his brother? Riding into the Dakotas, Altar must face an unsavory lawman with a rapacious posse, rampaging Indians, and finally battle the brutal renegades in a climactic showdown.
Scarlett Fergusson’s life is anything but perfect. Working as a waitress in a small town, she lives with her addicted father, his girlfriend, and her toddler. Scarlett dreams of a better life. When wealthy Hugh Cruz sweeps her off her feet, she’s ready to believe that her life has turned around. And when Hugh proposes, her fairytale ending suddenly seems possible.
But Hugh isn’t the man she thinks he is. Cruel, controlling, and violent, he turns her fairytale into a nightmare. Scarlett can’t believe the woman she’s become. Just when things can’t get any worse for Scarlett, the unthinkable happens. Is it the end, or a new beginning?
Unbroken is the tale of a woman’s fight for survival, and her quest to discover her own strength.
Stacey Macbeth knows the streets of Chicago better than anyone, but his beat is like no other—Cabrini Green, one of the most infamous housing projects in America. As a tactical officer, Macbeth works to keep peace in a place ruled by gang violence and a constant undercurrent of fear. But when a major drug shipment disappears, the delicate balance of power shatters. Determined to recover their missing stash, a ruthless gang begins a trail of violence that threatens to spill beyond the neighborhood, endangering the entire city.
Caught in a high-stakes race against time, Macbeth and his team must navigate the treacherous web of Cabrini’s factions to stop the gang before it’s too late. In a world where every decision can mean life or death, Macbeth’s resolve is tested as the streets he’s sworn to protect erupt in chaos.
Drawing on firsthand experience from his years as a Chicago police officer, Dave Case paints a vivid, unflinching portrait of life on the front lines. Gritty, intense, and deeply authentic, Out of Cabrini captures the human drama and explosive action of a city in crisis. With lives hanging in the balance, the story builds to a gripping, unforgettable climax.
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<h1 class="element-title case-mixed">The Preliminary Hearing</h1>
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<h2 class="element-subtitle case-mixed">0930 Hours—Monday</h2>
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<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width first-with-first-letter-i"><span class="first-letter first-letter-i first-letter-without-punctuation">I</span>t was a Monday morning in Branch 42, a satellite felony courtroom at Belmont and Western, part of the Circuit Court of Cook County. It was crowded, but it always was, particularly on a Monday. It stank, too. The heater was going full bore. The place smelled of stale sweat and… funk, and this in the dead of winter, too.</p>
<p class="subsq">Judge Margarette Coleman-Brown slid her reading glasses to the end of her nose. She wanted to take a deep breath, but she didn’t dare. Not when it reeked like it did. Instead, she sat back in her chair. How she hated the beginning of the week.</p>
<p class="subsq">She had recognized that her sour moods were no longer contained to just Monday mornings. Her disposition began to darken as the afternoon waned on Sunday. It wasn’t fair to her family; they were suffering from her crabbiness. She had begun to doubt whether a felony trial room was worth the price, but doing bond hearings and prelims was a necessary step to get there. Yeah, life would be good then. There weren’t many black female trial jurists. She didn’t see how they could pass her again. The next seat had to be hers. It had better come soon, though.</p>
<p class="subsq">She sighed and wondered if a fan might not help with the odor. But stirred-up funk was still just that. It occurred to her that the bench sat up high in the room. Was funk hot air? Or did the hot air rise and bring the odor with it? She could get lower in the room, but then she’d be closer to the source. This wasn’t getting her call handled. She gave a nod to her clerk. “Let’s get the in-custodies out of the way next.”</p>
<p class="subsq">The clerk flipped the last in-custody file open. “Mister Sheriff, bring out Alonzo Huggins.” The holding cell door clanged open and two deputies escorted a black man out. He was wearing a Department of Correction tan jumpsuit with the sleeves ripped off to expose arms that were thick with prison muscle. His hair was pulled tight in cornrows. She hated that style. It looked stupid and was associated too strongly with the whole “thug life” motif. If that wasn’t enough, the man wore on his face an expression of utter contempt. She couldn’t tell if it was meant for her personally or just for the whole legal system in general.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Are you Alonzo Huggins?” she asked, as the man was brought in front of her. Jailhouse tattoos ran up and down his arms. He made her uncomfortable. And that was hard to do. “You will either say yes or no.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah.” Huggins flexed his hands. The sheriff’s deputies must’ve felt the same way about him. There were two, where one usually sufficed.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Do you live at 1150 North Sedgwick, apartment 1301?” This day couldn’t be over quick enough for her. She had to admit, though, she was glad this asshole wasn’t going anywhere. He looked like a real piece of work.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Do you have an attorney, Mr. Huggins?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Who’s your attorney?” She had to admit to being a little surprised. What self-respecting member of the bar would want this guy as a client? Then again, were there any self-respecting attorneys to begin with?</p>
<p class="subsq">“Mr. Sherman Gold.”</p>
<p class="subsq">She raised an eyebrow. Ah, that’s who. Gold was in it for the money. No. Not just the money. He liked the glory, too. The action too, or, as she was sure he would say, the challenge. Huggins must have quite a bit to have Gold for his counsel. “Is Mr. Gold going to be here today?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“He outta town.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Public Defender appointed for the purpose of the preliminary hearing,” she said to the court reporter. But she had briefly entertained the thought of giving Huggins a date. She’d just as soon not see him any more today. It was bad enough, as it was.</p>
<p class="subsq">“That’s bullsh… I want my lawyer!” Huggins raised his voice. He turned to the Public Defender’s bench. Steven Reifman, the courtroom’s PD, sat at the table. He was a skinny, nearly-bald white man in a brown, wrinkled suit two sizes too big for him. He looked like what she expected Bob Cratchet to look like. Overworked and underpaid. But, he was still a good, competent attorney.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Mr. Huggins, you’re not getting a continuance. Public Defender appointed. Take him in the back, Mr. Sheriff.”</p>
<p class="subsq">She sighed, feeling worn out. Maybe Traffic Court would be a better alternative.</p>
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<p class="first first-in-section first-full-width"><span class="first-phrase">Steven Reifman took</span> his stack of court files from the clerk and sat down at the Public Defender’s table. There were a lot of cases, as usual. He was handling the call without a partner, as usual. At least his day wasn’t as bad as it seemed the judge was having. Then again, most of her Mondays were crappy.</p>
<p class="subsq">He quickly looked through the folders. Since he’d worked in the office for twelve years, he’d come to know what to look for. This group of defendants was typical, except for Alonzo Huggins. Maybe it was going to be an interesting call, after all. He put the Huggins file on the top and stood.</p>
<p class="subsq">He walked behind the bench to the detention area. The sheriff just nodded at him as he passed. As he got close to the holding cell, Huggins stood. He’d been sitting on the metal bench: big, mean-looking, muscular, with a face that would freeze the heart of the bravest rabbi, particularly his eyes. Alonzo Huggins had absolutely frightening eyes. Like death whacked-out on crack.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Mr. Huggins?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I’m the PD appointed to represent you today. My name is Steven Reifman. I’m going to be your attorney.” He opened the file but couldn’t bring himself to look into those eyes staring at him through the lock-up bars. He waited for some kind of indication that Huggins had heard him. There was none. So he had to look up. Shit. “I said I’m representing you.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“What charges?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Two counts Unlawful Use of a Weapon.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“What ‘bout my car?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Well, let’s see.” Reifman scanned the case report. “It seems, Mr. Huggins, that your car was towed and impounded. It’s the law now that if you get caught with a gun, they can confiscate your vehicle.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Reifman compared the case and arrest reports for discrepancies. None. Huggins had been caught the day after release from prison with not one, but two, handguns. Reifman became aware of Huggins standing within feet of him, staring. He felt the skin on his forehead start to burn. He knew Huggins could reach through the bars and snap his neck.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Who tricked on me?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Excuse me?” Reifman took a step back.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Who gave me up?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I can’t tell from these reports.” Reifman looked up, but stared at the bridge of Huggins’ nose to avoid eye contact.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Give me some paper and something to write with. I got to get a message to my boys.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Mr. Huggins, really.” Reifman grew brave. He lifted the files in front of his chest, as if they would protect him from the cold chill that gripped his heart. “I can’t give you anything to write with while you’re in the bullpen and, even if I did, I would have to read it first. If it contained any criminal content, I’d have to disclose that to the State’s Attorney. I’ll not be a party to a criminal conspiracy.”</p>
<p class="subsq">The clank of the lock-up door echoed throughout the holding area. Reifman took another step back and looked over his shoulder. The man entering the detention area was white, in his middle to late forties, and almost glowed with a golden hue. No salon tan. He had long salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a ponytail and was dressed in a tailored Italian suit. Reifman stole a glance at Huggins. The monster was smiling; one gold tooth showed.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Good morning, Lonnie,” the man said, approaching. “I’m Sherman Gold, Mr. Huggins’ private counsel. Nice to meet you.” He held out his well-tanned hand, decked out in gold and diamond rings.</p>
<p class="subsq">Reifman was surprised. But recovered well enough to hand Gold the Huggins’ court file, instead of his hand. Better to be done with this one, anyway. A little too interesting, thank you very much.</p>
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<p class="first first-in-section first-full-width"><span class="first-phrase">Sherman Gold opened</span> the file and read. Finished, he turned to make sure no one was within earshot.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Not good, Lonnie,” he whispered. “Out Friday, pinched Saturday.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I got to get my car back.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“We’re going to have to beat the case first. Might. Might get it back.” Even Gold felt uncomfortable giving Lonnie Huggins bad news. “There’s a different standard at the impound hearing. It’s only a preponderance of the evidence, not beyond a doubt anymore. On the face of it, I’d say that you’re screwed.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Man, fuck all that. I got to get my motherfuckin’ car!”</p>
<p class="subsq">Gold fancied he could feel the heat from Huggins. He’d caught a last-minute flight from his Palm Springs home, cutting short his winter getaway, just to represent this client. He was well aware of the compensation he had received from representing the Mickey Cobras, but the money carried risk. Taking it was dancing with the devil; the fire was always there, so you could get burned by the slightest misstep.</p>
<p class="subsq">“What happens if we lose the case?” Huggins asked.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Well, you’ll go to prison on the violation, and they’ll try you for the gun case.” He looked up at his client, definitely the worst of the worst.</p>
<p class="subsq">“No, what be happenin’ to my car?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Sold at an auction, more than likely.” Gold watched as Huggins grabbed the bars. The muscles in his arms bunched and swelled, but the bars held.</p>
<p class="subsq">“You got to tell my boys something for me,” Huggins said. “We got to be getting’ that car back. Shit still be in the motherfucker. Tell ‘em I be calling Boo’s.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Gold nodded and turned to walk back out to the courtroom. “I’ll tell them,” he said. “I just don’t see them being able to do anything about it. Not right now.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Hold the fuck up,” said Huggins. “Who gave me up?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Says here,” Gold said as he read from the case report, “that a concerned but unknown citizen flagged down the officers, after seeing you get into your car with the gun sticking out of your pants.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Huggins smirked, shaking his head. “Now, ain’t that some motherfuckin’ bullshit.”</p>
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<p class="first first-in-section first-full-width"><span class="first-phrase">The hearing took</span> place ten minutes later. There was a finding of Probable Cause and a filing of the Violation of Parole. Gold wasn’t surprised in the least. He’d better plan for a jury. His client would be doomed at a bench trial.</p>
<p class="subsq">He put on his cashmere coat, draped a scarf over his shoulders, packed up his briefcase, and picked up his wool cap off the bench. As he walked out through the courtroom, he nodded at the woman with the swollen face and yellow hair. He remembered her from Huggins’ last court case; she must be his girlfriend. The title apparently carried some penalties. Gold had a hard time looking at her left eye, which was swollen shut.</p>
<p class="subsq">There were two young teenagers with her. They must be the young men Huggins spoke of. Gold couldn’t help but wonder what kind of criminal backgrounds they must possess. Job security, no doubt.</p>
<p class="subsq">The entourage followed him from the courtroom to a secluded corner. The young men stepped in front of the woman. They didn’t identify themselves, nor were they asked to. The young man on the left crossed his arms and stared at him. The one on the right chewed at his thumbnail and looked at Gold with the eyes of a tired, old man.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Boo?” asked Gold. The man on the right nodded, still chewing on his nail.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Mr. Huggins asked me to deliver a message to you.” Gold thought for a second. How could he say this without saying it? He was a lawyer; it should be easy. Yet, it had to be within their ability to understand. It’d have to be practically spelled out and that, of course, was a good way to get into trouble. “He wanted me to tell you that he’s concerned about some… property he left in his car. He’s hoping that you’ll be able to get it back for him. He’ll call you at Boo’s apartment.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Boo stopped gnawing his fingernail long enough to shoot a glance at the other man. He nodded back. Boo dropped his hand. As he spoke, he looked away, talking into the corner of the lobby. “So, Lonnie only be charged with them guns, not no drugs, right?”</p>
<p class="subsq">Gold nodded his head. You just couldn’t be subtle these days. The sun of Palm Springs seemed like an eternity ago. He looked out the window and watched the snow fall. Traffic was going to be terrible on his way back to his office, and his calendar was empty for the next two weeks. Wonderful.</p>
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<p class="first first-in-section first-full-width"><span class="first-phrase">Latricia Gibbons’</span> swollen mouth twisted into a grin after Boo and Dease had walked by. A trickle of blood ran into her mouth from her split lip. The attorney began to bundle up. He told her that he was doing everything he could for Lonnie. Things was looking up. Shit, things could still be worse; he could get Lonnie out.</p>
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“In his stunning new book Specters in the Gallery, J. Michael Major delivers an intriguing, finely crafted, twist-laden short story collection chock full of clever tales and unexpected outcomes. Major’s stories explore the exhilaration of danger, the sliding scales of justice, and the sardonic laughter of wry wit. In story after story, Major creates compulsively interesting scenarios. He then bends, twists, turns and corkscrews his plots in directions you’ll never see coming. Fast-paced, fiendishly clever, dark, playful, and unsettling, Major’s stories don't just pull the rug out from under you. They redefine the very nature of the floor. I invite you to step into Major’s amazing gallery of wordly delights. Experience the brilliance of his storytelling for yourself. If you dare!” —Gary K. Wolf, Creator of Roger Rabbit
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