Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway: 25 to Life (Jack Bertolino, #5) by John Lansing

25 to Life

by John Lansing

August 21 - September 15, 2023 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

25 to Life is the fifth and latest installment in the Jack Bertolino series, written by John Lansing in the propulsive, cinematic, page-turning style he has become known for.

Gloria Millhouse, a beautiful African American law student, is working with the Project for the Innocent. She has done extensive research on inmate Carl Forbes, who she believes was wrongfully arrested, convicted and incarcerated for a crime he didn't commit, the sexual assault and brutal murder of a teenage girl in Los Angeles twenty-three years ago. Gloria dies in a car crash on Malibu Canyon Road after questioning powerful, politically-connected men who were witnesses at Carl's trial and knew the victim personally. Private investigator Jack Bertolino is brought on to discover the truth behind Gloria's death. Was her crash simply a random accident or a conspiracy to prevent the courts from reopening the case and granting Carl Forbes a new trial? Jack believes that Gloria was murdered, and as the body count rises, it becomes clear that if Jack can find Gloria's killer, he will also find the man responsible for the teenager's assault and murder. And Carl Forbes can walk out of prison a free man.

Praise for 25 to Life:

“Los Angeles–based private investigator delves into a murder with ties to a wrongfully convicted man in Lansing’s detective novel.”
“The author packs this latest installment in the Jack Bertolino series with new and returning characters. Gloria’s mysterious death is the catalyst, but it’s this vibrant cast that truly propels the tense narrative. The author’s incisive writing sets Jack on the investigation right away, and succinct chapters breeze by as he compiles a suspect list and looks into a host of crimes. Even as the culprits become more apparent, Jack must still prove they’re guilty. It all leads to a superb ending and the unmistakable sense that this series is nowhere close to slowing down.”
“Razor-sharp characters propel a taut, suspenseful thriller.”
~ Kirkus Reviews

Book Details:

Genre: Crime/Thriller
Published by: White Street Press
Publication Date: September 5, 2023
Number of Pages: 276
ISBN: 979-8-9885 166-1-3
Series: The Jack Bertolino Series, 5
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | More

Read an excerpt:

ONE

Gloria was embarrassingly beautiful first thing in the morning. Her lively intelligent eyes, were the color of cocoa. Her perfect skin was a shade darker. She blew steam over the rim of her coffee cup, steeling herself for the day. Gloria mentally repeated the bullet points she wanted to make with her next group of interviewees.

Mug shots of Carl Forbes, a teenage African American boy, were taped to her mirror. A daily reminder of her life’s work. She quickly gathered her overflowing briefcase and iPad, and locked the apartment door behind her.

Gloria slid behind the wheel of her Fiat, the color of a pistachio, and headed for her first appointment with Councilman Mark Corcoran.

Gloria’s interview with the councilman wasn’t going well. Saying she worked with Project for the Innocent did her no good. Corcoran had agreed to give her ten minutes of his time, but the officious man had already checked his watch twice.

“I’m a big fan of your program,” Corcoran said. His unblinking eyes used to intimidate had no effect on Gloria. “But I believe your client is a guilty man. I followed the case—hell, we all knew the kid. Quiet type, lived a few blocks over, didn’t run with our set. Hard to believe him capable of such brutality, but he confessed to the crime.”

Gloria was prepared for this. “Carl says the arresting officers tortured the confession out of him. He was seventeen years old. Thirty-six hours without food or bathroom facilities. And look at the photograph, it’s clear he’d been beaten.”

The councilman glanced at the photo and handed it back. “He was picked out of a lineup.”

“Eyewitnesses are notoriously undependable. If the cops coerced the confession, it’s not a stretch to think they might have manipulated the lineup. And none of his DNA was found on, or in the victim’s body. Shelley Goldstein had been sexually assaulted before she was murdered. I believe Carl was set up. He’s already served twenty-three years for a murder he didn’t commit.”

Corcoran wasn’t moved. “Shelley was a lovely rich girl. None of the boys in our neighborhood stood a chance in hell with her. Sorry, but there’s nothing more I can add.”

“I was told you had a big crush on her.”

“We all had crushes on her. Who were you talking to?” All attitude now.

“I don’t reveal sources.”

Corcoran rose from his power desk, “Good luck with the case. I respect what you’re doing.”

Gloria understood an exit line when she heard one. She nodded, and walked out.

Gloria was early for her next interview. She grabbed a latte from her favorite coffee house, and took a window seat. She called Professor Ted Andrews who ran Project for the Innocent and filled him in on her less than stellar performance. Her mentor wasn’t pleased.

“It’s a little early in the game to be burning bridges” Ted said.

“I know, you’re right. I get it. But he was so arrogant.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. You’re doing a good job.” Ted counseled her to take a few days, consolidate her notes, and then they’d revisit the case. Not what Gloria wanted to hear. And then as an afterthought, “I think I’m being followed.”

That caught the professor’s attention. Gloria explained it was an SUV with tinted windows. She’d picked up a strange vibe. She made a few off-the-wall turns, and he was gone. She started questioning herself, said it was probably nothing. The professor reminded her when they exonerate one of their clients, someone else’s career and reputation sustains damage. It’s a dangerous business. He tells her to trust her instincts. Gloria took that to heart and signed off.

Hanna Cook was standing on the postage-sized porch of a tired California bungalow in Del Rey. She was pushing fifty but giving sixty a run for its money.

“So, what can I tell you about the bastard?” Hanna asked, droll.

Gloria shared a conspiratorial grin. Put the subject at ease, she’d been taught, and they might share their secrets.

“Do you remember the case? It was back in 2000. The sexual assault and brutal murder of a young co-ed.” Gloria reached into her briefcase, “This is a picture of Carl when he was seventeen.” She handed Hanna the photo.

“What did Kevin have to do with it?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. He’s on record as being part of the team who arrested the young man.”

“No,” she said wistfully, handing the photo back. “The less I knew, the better off I was. Kevin was an angry man who never should’ve been a cop. Went to his head. That, and the rye whiskey. Only thing that made him feel good … then it made him mean. When he wasn’t getting his kicks arresting dirt-bags, he’d start in on me.”

“Was he ever cited for physical violence?”

“Once or twice. It wasn’t like it is now. People with their cell phones, and cameras. And just try to arrest a cop back then for slapping around his wife…”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Gloria said, and decided to drop the hammer. “Carl claims your ex, and his partner, beat him into giving a false confession.”

Hanna considered that. “I almost shot Kevin one night. Had his gun. He woke up staring down the barrel. I started to cry and he slapped the thing out of my hands and gave me something to cry about. First call I made after they unwired my jaw was to a lawyer.”

The conversation was going nowhere. Nothing but conjecture to corroborate her inmate’s story.

It was dusk as Gloria made her way toward Twin Dragon Restaurant. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a gray Ford Expedition several lengths behind her. Was it the same SUV she saw before? There were lots of SUVs in LA. When she checked again, it was gone.

Gloria pulled her car onto the side street next to the restaurant. All was quiet. She draped a sweater over her briefcase in the rear compartment, locked up, and hoofed it around to the front entrance to pick up her order.

Five minutes in and out. When Gloria emerged, her hands were full and the smell was incredible. She rounded the corner—and had to look twice to make sense out of what she was seeing. Broken shards of glass fanned out around the back of her car. She took another tentative step forward and could clearly see the shattered rear window of her Fiat.

Her heart pounded, and her breath came in fits and starts. She prayed she was wrong. Yet as she neared her car, her worst fears were realized.

Her briefcase was gone.

Her throat went dry, and she stifled tears. She set the bag of food on top of her car and took in the scene. She looked around her car, checked the traffic on Pico, and the quiet side street for anything out of the ordinary.

Nothing. No one who could have witnessed the break-in. No one who cared that she was caught in a nightmare.

Gloria did a quick mental inventory of everything in her briefcase and came to the sickening realization her iPad and four months of hard work had been stolen. In some instances, information and notes of interviews that took hours to create, and hadn’t been copied. The flood gates opened and tears streamed down her cheeks. Light-headed, she had to lean against the car to keep her balance.

Was it an opportunistic crime? The thief saw an object, did a smash and grab. Could it have been that simple?

What else could it have been? The SUV? Gloria knew she was paranoid now. Scared silly. She grabbed a few napkins out of her takeout order and whisked the shards of glass that had landed on her front seats onto the curb. She turned on her headlights and pulled out, driving toward home.

Her head was still swimming. Gloria pulled to a stop, grabbed her cell phone and called her father.

After she told him what had happened, he quickly replied:

“Look, darling, don’t go home to an empty apartment,” he said with a tenderness that belied his courtroom reputation. “I don’t want you to be alone. Drive over the hill and spend the night. We can file a police report in the morning and set you up with a rental car.”

“I’ve got Chinese.”

“Shrimp with black bean sauce?”

“And Kung Pao.”

“I’ll chill the chardonnay. I don’t want you to worry. Drive safely, honey.”

“Okay, Dad. Thank you.”

Gloria clicked off, feeling loved, and headed for the Las Virgenes exit off the 101.

Malibu Canyon Road was two lanes of driving pleasure. Winding blacktop cutting through deep canyons and steep cliffs with sandstone outcroppings. It came to a dramatic end, revealing the Pacific Ocean and Malibu.

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The missing rear window of her Fiat created a strange whistle as she powered the small car around the curves at forty-five miles an hour. Her rumbling stomach got the better of her, and Gloria rummaged around the bag with one hand and plucked out a dumpling. She smiled, took a bite, and glanced at the rearview mirror.

A large SUV appeared around one rocky turn, moving fast, and she hoped the driver wasn’t going to be a pain, and force her to pick up the pace.

Gloria made short work of the dumpling and used two hands to maneuver around a tight curve. Her discomfort swelled as she realized the SUV was closing the distance. Headlights on high beam. Her body tensed as she realized the vehicle bearing down on her was a gray Ford Expedition.

Gloria wondered if she was going mad. It looked like the same car she’d seen before. No, it was impossible, she thought, but picked up her pace. Fifty miles an hour was pushing it around the tight curves, and as fast as she was willing to go. Screw the driver.

The SUV was tracking her now. Tight on her fender. Headlights blinding. She grabbed her cell phone and hit her father’s number with one hand. Gloria slid around the next turn, and the phone dropped out of her hand.

“Back off!” she shouted over the whine of air thundering through the broken rear window as her speedometer hit sixty miles an hour. The SUV loomed in her rearview and she instinctively pushed the car to sixty-five, white-knuckling the steering wheel.

Gloria drifted over the broken white line as a car blasted by from the opposite direction, horn blaring, scaring the crap out of her. She came dangerously close to skidding onto the narrow gravel shoulder and colliding with the sheer cliff face.

And then, oh Christ, she felt the SUV nudge the back of her car.

Gloria stomped pedal-to-metal. Her small sedan rocketed to seventy miles an hour.

The SUV tapped her rear bumper again.

Gloria’s eyes teared. She was losing it but fought to keep the car on the road.

The SUV slammed into her harder. “Stop it!” she cried.

And then the power punch. Five thousand pounds of steel rammed her compact car.

Gloria couldn’t hear her squealing tires over the sound of her own screams as she went into a death spin.

Gloria knew she was going to die a moment before her car came out of the 360 on the opposite side of the road, barreling toward the cliff at seventy miles an hour.

Her Fiat smashed into the rocky berm and went airborne.

Time stood still.

The only sound: the whistling wind and Gloria’s beating heart.

The rock-strewn riverbed grew in size, filling her field of vision as she dropped out of the sky and bore witness to her impending death.

The pistachio Fiat that had brought Gloria so much joy in life burst into flames on impact and enveloped her broken body.

***

Excerpt from 25 to Life by John Lansing. Copyright 2023 by John Lansing. Reproduced with permission from John Lansing. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

John Lansing is the author of four thrillers featuring Jack Bertolino—The Devil’s Necktie, Blond Cargo, Dead Is Dead, and The Fourth Gunman—as well as the true-crime non-fiction book Good Cop Bad Money, written with former NYPD Inspector Glen Morisano. He has been a writer and supervising producer on Walker, Texas Ranger, the co-executive producer of the ABC series Scoundrels, and co-wrote two MOWs for CBS. The Devil’s Necktie is in development at Andria Litto’s Amuse Entertainment, with Barbara DeFina attached as a producer.

A native of Long Island, John now resides in Los Angeles.

Find out more on:
JohnLansing.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @JohnLansing
Instagram - @johnlansingauthor
Twitter - @jelansing
Facebook - @devilsnecktie

 

 

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Release Blitz: Unchained Fury by Bill Runner

 

Thriller, Action Thriller

Date Published: July 15, 2023

 

Sometimes, anger needs to be unleashed.

Blaze gets a call from ex-US Marshal Mitchell. He has seen two ghosts roaming the streets of San Francisco. The Cady brothers. Ruthless arms traffickers and killers Blaze and his Marshals’ team had taken out two years ago. One brother, Carson, died trying to escape. The other, Dexter, killed a Marshal and barely stayed alive, once Blaze was done with him. Dexter ended on death row, awaiting execution.

When Blaze lands in San Francisco, he discovers he and his team are on the Cadys hit list. A gang of hitmen has taken the contract. They made a mistake. When the game becomes no holds barred, when nothing is off limits, there’s nothing to hold back Blaze’s fury.

Following the success of Blaze Returns, Lethal Force, Hard Target, and Mean Streets, Bill Runner is back with the fifth novel in the Axel Blaze thriller series. The fast-paced, brutal action in the series is attracting fans of thriller novels worldwide.

The Axel Blaze Thriller Series:

 

Blaze Returns

Axel Blaze Thriller, Book 1

 

Lethal Force

Axel Blaze Thriller, Book 2

 

Hard Target

Axel Blaze Thriller, Book 3

 

Mean Streets

Axel Blaze Thriller, Book 4

Unchained Fury

Axel Blaze Thriller, Book 5

About the Author

Bill Runner worked as an investigative reporter before turning to writing. He has created the Axel Blaze series of books. The next books in the series will be released in 2022. Bill has been a lifelong student of martial arts and has trained in Karate and Krav Maga. Working the crime beat and studying the art of fighting helped make him the author of nail-biting thrillers. Bill’s writing won him an award for debut authors at the London Book Fair.

 

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

Twitter

 

Purchase Link

Amazon

Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway: What the Monkey Saw (Death Doula, #1) by Lynn Chandler Willis

What the Monkey Saw

by Lynn Chandler Willis

January 30 - February 24, 2023 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

When F.B.I. agent Emily Gayle’s partner is brutally murdered, Emily forsakes her career at the bureau and returns home to the North Carolina mountains to care for her disabled father. Guilt ridden over leaving her partner alone to die, Emily takes a job as an end-of-life caregiver.

Deep in Appalachia, Jude Courtland is desperate for a fast buck to pay for his grandmother’s chemotherapy. Together with his brother Crispin and cousin, Devo, the trio takes to hijacking insulin delivery vans and selling the stolen drugs on the black market. When Emily is assigned to cancer patient Hazel Courtland, the line separating right and wrong begins to blur.

As the hijackings escalate and turn violent, Emily’s intuition hones in on startling evidence she can no longer ignore.

Struggling with the truth, Emily is torn between her conscience and her loyalty to a dying woman. With her own life in jeopardy, Emily’s forced to take a side. Right or wrong, the consequences are deadly.

Praise for What the Monkey Saw:

"A stunning portrait of small town southern crime where characters walk a moral tightrope and risk everything to do what they believe is right. Emily Gayle, who watches people die for a living, is caught up in a drug theft ring and if she's not careful, death will come for her. With breakneck pacing, you'll want to devour What the Monkey Saw in one sitting, but don't—this is one you'll want to savor. Highly recommended series debut for fans of S.A Cosby, Joe Landsdale, and James Lee Burke."

James L'Etoile, Award winning author of Black Label, Dead Drop, and the Detective Penley series

"This tale, ripe and deep with the Appalachian experience, makes us feel sorry for the bad guys and better understand how some people make ends meet to get by. The struggle of living is real. The crime is ugly in some ways and needed in others. Combine all this with Emily Gayle's deep-seeded struggle to overcome her trauma and reluctance to use her investigative prowess and you have a solid, multi-layered, intriguing mystery that still warms your heart, even amidst the hardness of Appalachian living."

C. Hope Clark, award-winning author of The Edisto Island Mysteries, The Carolina Slade Mysteries, and The Craven County Mysteries

"As in the best crime fiction, Lynn Chandler Willis's What the Monkey Saw is about far more than the crimes committed, in this case the hijacking of insulin deliveries in Appalachia. Through the plot of a heist novel, Willis demonstrates how some people respond to the twin pressures of poverty and illness by breaking the law, and she accomplishes this without either glamorizing the crimes or condescending to her characters. Ultimately, What the Monkey Saw stands out as an exploration of death and dying, and how we react to both: the avoidance, the denial of loss, and the acceptance and grief that wash over us like mountain rain, either drowning us or bringing the promise of brighter days just over the next ridge."

Christopher Swann, 2022 Georgia Author of the Year (Detective/Mystery), Author of Never Go Home, A Fire in the Night, and Never Turn Back

"From the very first pages you'll sense that this is something truly special not only a suspenseful story, but one that represents the triumph of the human spirit to survive hardship and confront the inevitable end. A must read!"

Lawrence Kelter, International bestselling author of the Stephanie Chalice Mystery Series

Book Details:

Genre: Crime/Suspense
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: January 2023
Number of Pages: 240
ISBN: 978-1-68512-220-1 (ASIN: B0BMCSK8KG)
Series: The Death Doula Series, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon

Read an excerpt:

Jude Courtland stared through the passenger window of his truck, focusing without blinking on the road so hard his eyes burned. He didn't dare blink. Life could change in that split second and he wasn't going to fuck this up. There was too much riding on it. Like the deal he'd brokered with the pit bull for the money they needed. Plus, his grandma's life depended on it.

His right foot rested lightly on the gas, ready to drop as soon as the van came into view. Beside him in the cab, his baby brother and cousin yakked their never-ending bull shit.

The glimmer of a front bumper edged into sight. Jude's chest tightened, clutching at his lungs, his breath trapped like miners waiting for rescue.

His cousin, Devo, leaned back in the seat as a Ford pickup passed by. "Damn. I thought that was it," Devo mumbled.

Jude's brother Crispin said something back to Devo but Jude didn't grasp it. He concentrated on the intersecting road. Every brain cell he possessed that had survived the weed zeroed in on the two-lane.

A van rounded the curve. "Showtime," Devo said. He and Crispin quickly tugged down their hunting masks. The clock in the console said 2:24.

Jude hit the gas and pulled out in front of the Belton Pharmaceuticals delivery van. The van barely missed the bumper of Jude's truck. Jude saw the driver in the rearview mirror give him the finger. He gunned the engine to pull away from the van, then slammed on the brakes while jerking the wheel to the right. Crispin and Devo were out of the truck before the delivery van had stopped fishtailing to avoid the crash.

They were on the van in record time. Devo yanked the driver's side door open before the driver had time to react. In the same second, Crispin grabbed hold of the driver with both hands and jerked him out of the cab while Devo climbed over the console into the passenger seat.

"What the hell!" the driver yelled, struggling to stay upright as Crispin tossed him aside. He was an older dude, paunchy in the middle, and no match for Crispin.

The driver didn't see it that way and lunged for Crispin. Jude's throat tightened. The stupid driver may have signed his death warrant.

Crispin body-slammed the man to the rocky ground and before the man reacted, Crispin had the barrel of a .38 pressed between the man's eyes.

"No, no, no," Jude whispered to himself. "Don't do it, Crispin." His gut muscles tightened as he silently prayed his brother would for once, just once, act like he had some goddamned sense.

The driver pissed himself, cowering and begging for his life. The dark piss spot spread across the front of his uniform khakis. Probably shit himself, too. Crispin drove his size 15 boot into the man's ribs once to make his point and again out of pure meanness. With the man crumpled in a heap of moans, pleading for no more, Crispin spit on him before climbing into the driver's seat.

Jude backed the truck up enough to straighten it in the road. He pulled away with Crispin and Devo behind him in the van. The old guy writhed on the side of the road, his pants loaded with piss and shit, his face covered with spit. Jude looked at the clock in the console. 2:30.

He smiled. Damn, they were getting good at this.

Jude drove to the spot they had scouted. Crispin and Devo followed in the van. He guided the truck down a dirt path, the wheels bouncing over exposed roots. The undercarriage scraped a time or two. Low hanging brush glided over the hood. "Damnit. If this shit scratches my truck," he mumbled to no one but himself.

Finally, a mile deep, the land opened up to a grown-over field. Broken fence posts stood defeated by the elements near the far tree line. Jude pulled off the path and came to a stop. The area spooked him. He didn't know anything about this part of North Carolina. His knowledge of the state centered around Boone town limits. Unlike his home in Tennessee, where he knew every back road, these roads were squiggle marks on Google Maps.

Jude killed the engine. Crispin turned the van around and backed it up so the rear doors lined up with the truck bed. They all three got out at the same time and went to work.

Jude slapped at a mosquito that had landed on his neck. He scanned the area, looking for a pond he might have missed on the satellite image. If he'd missed a body of water, what else had he missed?

Devo handed him one of the cold boxes full of insulin and Jude shoved it to the back of the truck bed. Standing on the tailgate, he waved his hands at Crispin and Devo to hurry with the others. "Come on, come on."

Crispin, the big dumb brute, carried two boxes at once to speed things up. Thirty minutes into this heist and they still had half the van to unload. Jude swore sirens passed in the distance. The unfamiliar surroundings of this area made him jumpy and kept his nerves on edge. No way to see anything through the overgrown thickets and underbrush tight as a steel wool pad. No way to see someone coming up on them.

"We gotta get outta here," Jude said, more firmness in his voice.

Devo, skinny as a broomstick but strong as a mule, put some urge to his step and copied Crispin, moving two at a time. Sweat trickled down Jude's back as he worked quickly to secure the containers in the bed.

"Whatdaya think?" Devo said, handing off the boxes. He scratched at the beard tickling his chest. "Gotta be twenty grand worth?"

"Ain't gonna be worth shit if the cops show up." Pushing forty minutes. Jude hopped down and started helping to transfer the containers himself.

They had to be in Beckley by six P.M. Thirty minutes for the deal and back on the road and home to Mountain City by nine. He didn't like leaving his grandmother alone all that time.

Two-by-two, they moved the cold boxes until the transport van was empty. Jude and Devo pulled the canvas tarp over the bed of the pick-up and secured it while Crispin wiped the van of prints. A few minutes later, with Jude and Devo waiting in the cab waiting, Crispin poked his head through the open passenger door. "We might have a problem."

Jude glared at Crispin a moment. He scrambled out of the cab, rushing to the van with Devo right behind him. His mind whirled with possibilities and none were good. Crispin led the charge to the passenger side of the drug supply van, yapping a mile a minute.

"I don't know where it came from. I swear it wasn't there when we snatched the van. Was it, Devo?" He carefully opened the door, scared something was going to jump out at him.

For a moment, Jude couldn't speak. When the words finally came, he spoke so softly he wasn't sure he'd said anything. "What the fuck?"

A monkey wearing a diaper and a tiny striped t-shirt stood on the seat, staring them down.

"It's a fucking monkey," Devo said. "One of those cappuccino things."

"Capuchin," Crispin corrected. He reached his hand into the cabin, slowly. The monkey watched with curiosity.

"What the hell are we supposed to do with it?" Devo balked.

"We can't leave him here. He'll die." Crispin didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground, but he knew his animals.

Jude backed away from the van, assessing the situation. Damnit! A monkey. A fucking monkey. Jesus Christ.

"What are we gonna do?" Devo said.

With his own .38 pressed against the small of his back, a quick solution came to mind. Jude jerked the Glock from his jeans and racked a round. Before he brought it up to fire, Crispin plowed into him like a linebacker, taking them both down. Every ounce of air in Jude's lungs whooshed out as his back slammed against the ground. The gun flew from his hand and skittered to a landing a few feet away.

"What the fuck?" Jude pushed against Crispin's 250 pounds, trying to free himself from underneath, trying to reach the gun.

Crispin raised up but held Jude's shoulders pinned to the ground. "I ain't gonna let you kill him, Jude. Say you ain't gonna hurt him. Say it," he hollered.

Rage flamed deep in Jude's belly. He spit in his brother's face, ignoring the backsplash his own face absorbed. Beneath clenched teeth, he mumbled, "Get off of me, Crispin."

Crispin pressed harder on Jude's shoulders until Jude was sure they'd cracked. Every broken twig and sharp-edged rock bore into his back. "Get the hell off me, Crispin."

Crispin pushed harder. "Say you ain't gonna hurt it. Say it!"

"I ain't gonna hurt the goddamn monkey," Jude yelled.

Devo tugged at Crispin's t-shirt. "Come on, man. He said he weren't gonna hurt it."

Crispin moved slowly off his older brother. Jude staggered up, rolling his shoulders to ease the pain. He walked it off, his heart hammering in his chest. He couldn't let Crispin think he'd won.

He spun around and caught Crispin with a closed fist below his left eye. He punched him again, this time connecting with his brother's left cheek bone. Crispin's head snapped backwards. He stumbled but didn't go down. Devo moved between them, hands on Jude's chest, pushing him toward the truck.

"Jesus Christ, you two," Devo said. “You can kill each other after we get the money."

Jude staggered to the truck. He climbed behind the wheel, clenching his teeth so hard he worried he'd chipped a molar. His back hurt, his shoulders hurt, and the skin on his knuckles was busted. Devo slid beside Jude creating a barrier between the brothers. There'd always been a barrier. Always would be.

Safely inside the cab, Devo handed Jude the .38.

Crispin climbed in with the monkey cradled in his arms like a baby. He sat it in his lap long enough to buckle up.

"Maybe we can take it to the drug company and they'll get it back to its owner," Devo said.

So angry he wanted to spit, Jude's hands shook as he gripped the steering wheel. His knuckles were already swelling. Devo's bony-ass elbow jabbed him in the ribs as his cousin pushed closer to make room for Crispin. "We can't take him back, Devo. Think they're gonna believe we found him on the side of the road?" Jude said.

He maneuvered the truck over the dirt pathway, trying to avoid the gullies and tree roots. The wheels bumped over a small mound of rocky dirt and finally grabbed hold of the asphalt. The two-lane snaked around the mountain in back-to-back S curves and emptied into the highway. Jude picked up I-81 and escaped into his own mind for the two-hour ride.

Too many thoughts ran rampant through his head. Crispin talking non-stop about the damn monkey. Arguing with Devo. The cab of the truck, stuffy as shit. Body odors, stale cigarettes, crusted sweet tea in his Gas-N-Go thermal cup. Jude punched the air conditioner as low as it would go, hoping to circulate some air.

He didn't like leaving their grandmother, Hazel, alone this long. Maybe with the next heist, he'd stay back and let Devo and Crispin make the run? Not a smart move. He couldn't trust either one of them to not fuck something up. Besides, that lady from the agency would be there sometime this week to sit with Hazel. Emily something-or-nother.

Jude jacked up the volume of the radio hoping some Tyler Childers would drown out his arguing brother and cousin. They'd all squabbled since Jude could remember. Back when they were kids, Devo's mom would let Jude and Crispin spend the night on a Saturday, and haul them all to St. Paul's Gospel Church the next morning. Even as kids, in Sunday school, the boys would find something to argue about. While Crispin and Devo fussed, Jude learned the bible stories from the Old Testament and the gospels from the New. Learned his name--Judah--meant the betrayer. Why didn't his momma name him John? The one that meant love.

At thirty-two, Jude and Devo were the same age, Crispin two years younger.

Devo married his high school sweetheart fresh out of school and had been producing kids ever since. There were four red-headed boys like stairsteps and one little blonde named Grace who had Jude wrapped around her skinny little finger. Crispin paid her no mind.

Devo's mom was a good woman. Real Christian-like. Total opposite of Jude and Crispin's mother. There wasn't a pill Tammy Courtland wouldn't swallow or a powder she wouldn't snort or shoot. Jude was fourteen when she od'd. Her death didn't really affect him much. She was hardly around, anyway. Crispin cried some and Jude grew angrier at her even in death because his little brother didn't understand. He was a pain in the ass and dumb as a sack of rocks, but he was Jude's baby brother.

"I heard monkeys throw their own shit," Devo said.

The comment rattled Jude. "They what?"

"They throw their shit at you."

Crispin coochie-cooed the creature like it was a tiny baby. "That's why you put diapers on 'em. Same with a baby."

"Babies don't fling their shit at you," Devo said.

The two continued to argue and Jude wondered if this trip was going to be worth it. Regardless, he needed the money for his grandmother Hazel. He wished the two idiots with him came with an on-off knob like a radio. Just a simple twist to allow him a moment to himself.

When they crossed into West Virginia, Crispin asked, "Can we go to the New River Gorge Bridge?"

"You gonna throw the monkey off the bridge?" Devo said.

"The gorge is thirty minutes north, Crispin. We ain't got time this trip. Maybe on the next one." Any other time, Jude would detour out of the way to take in the sight of the steel structure. The pinch in his shoulder reminded him a while earlier he'd have killed Crispin if he'd still had the gun in his hand.

Five miles outside of Beckley, Jude turned off the highway at the Jesus Saves sign. His gut tightened as he pulled onto the mile-long dirt driveway. This was the third deal he'd brokered with Pansy Thomas and there wasn't a damn thing pansy about him. Dude looked like he ate a pack of pit bulls for lunch.

"Leave the monkey in the truck when we unload." Last thing he needed was Pit Bull Pansy to see them with a monkey in a diaper.

Pansy Thomas stepped out onto the sinking porch of the ramshackle house and hooked his thumb to the back. Jude followed instructions and drove the truck as directed, parking in front of a free-standing garage about twenty yards behind the home. The grass died years ago and had never been re-sewn. Pansy came into view in the rearview mirror, all three-hundred pounds of him lumbering toward the garage. A grease-stained t-shirt with the sleeves cut out rode up on his belly.

Jude got out, followed by Crispin and Devo. They waited while Pansy unlocked the roll-top door of the building and pushed it open. "How many you got?" A toothpick bobbed between his lips when he spoke.

"Twenty-two." Jude went around to the back of the truck and lifted the tarp for the pit bull to inspect the goods.

Pansy removed the toothpick and spat, barely missing Crispin's boot. Jude held his breath and prayed his idiot brother would ignore the blatant insult. Crispin stared at the cab, too preoccupied with the monkey to notice.

The pit bull pulled a stack of bills from his pant pocket. He handed the wad of cash to Jude then turned to Devo and Crispin. "Put 'em on the left near the back."

While his cousin and brother unloaded the cold boxes, Jude counted the money. Twenty-two-thousand, like they'd agreed. He dropped the money in his pocket, satisfied for the moment.

"I've got another order for next week." Pansy said, the toothpick bobbing again. "Y'all up for it?"

"Damn straight."

Pansy offered his meaty hand and Jude shook it, hoping the lady from that agency worked out. He'd hate to leave his grandmother at home alone almost as much as he'd hate back-peddling on a deal with this redneck. Few things in life scared him. Pansy Thomas was one of them.

Chapter 2

My name is Emily Gayle and I watch people die for a living.

At thirty-two, I ran home to Meat Camp, North Carolina, to live rent free with my disabled father when things went south at the Bureau. Pretending to help out dad eased the guilt I carried. Tripoint Transitions didn’t pay near what I'd earned with the F.B.I. But this job wasn't about the money. I didn't pay my penance to the dead. Those struggling for that last breath granted my atonement. Like Hazel Courtland, my newest assignment. I was one more curve away from meeting the next person I'd watch die.

I slowed for the switchback twisting around the mountain. I spotted a sad-looking mailbox at the end of a sparsely graveled driveway and slammed on brakes. "Courtland'' was painted in elementary-style script on the side. The pathway snaked from the road through a dense forest of pines. Streams of sunlight filtered through the trees in spots and lit the path in far-between sporadic waves. My headlights flickered on in reaction to the perceived darkness. The driveway emptied into a clearing, exposing an old house, and beyond that the Appalachian Mountains rising up like sentries standing watch.

The A-frame structure looked like any of the others dotting the mountain landscape. Like most of the inhabitants, the houses appeared tired. The Courtlands’ was no different. Colorless weathered siding could benefit from needed paint along with new shutters to replace the half-slatted ones. The unmowed yard rolled into a forgotten garden on the other side of a free-standing carport with a lean to. Although faded, a blue pickup sat sheltered under the aluminum carport like a prized possession.

I gathered my bag and the folder containing detailed info on Mrs. Courtland. Seventy-six years old, second bought with Leukemia. Lives with her two adult grandchildren. As soon as I got out of the S.U.V., two mutts sauntered up from the side of the house, neither in a hurry to attack nor welcome me. The larger of the two stood knee-high while his cohort stood underneath him. The big dog shied when I offered my hand to sniff but the smaller one greedily accepted a scratch behind the ear. They followed me up on the porch, in no rush, stretching out the kinks from a good night's sleep. The shy one crawled up under a cheap plastic chair like he was hiding and I couldn't see him.

Hand lifted, ready to knock, I jumped when the front door jerked open. A brutish-looking guy stared at me through the screen door. He was as broad as the door was wide. My mind flickered with images of Saturday night wrestling matches at the high school gym with headliners named Pretty Boy or Crusher. The proceeds going to the fire department's ladies' auxiliary. The purple bruise underneath his right eye, along with the busted skin on his left cheek gave credence to the wrestler image.

The big guy gave me the once over. "Who are you?" he said.

Special Agent Emily Gayle came to mind but that was another life ago. "I'm Emily Gayle, from Tripoint Transitions. I'm here to meet Judy Courtland."

***

Excerpt from What the Monkey Saw by Lynn Chandler Willis. Copyright 2023 by Lynn Chandler Willis. Reproduced with permission from Lynn Chandler Willis. All rights reserved.

 

 

Review:

5 stars!

Exciting, tense, and utterly unique, WHAT THE MONKEY SAW is one of the best crime novels I’ve ever read.

What the Monkey Saw is the first book in author Lynn Chandler Willis’s new series, Death Doula, and it is one of the most fascinating and unique crime novels I’ve ever read. With characters so finely drawn, you’ll feel as if you knew them personally, its unusual premise, its mix of poignancy, heartache, and heart-pounding excitement, you’ll want to read the whole thing in one satisfying and absorbing session.

I loved the main character, Emily Gayle. She’s haunted by the circumstances of her fiancé’s death and conflicted over leaving her former career, but she feels like what she’s doing now is truly of more service than anything she’s ever done. Much of the story is told from her first-person viewpoint.

Jude Courtland is also carrying many burdens. He is desperate to save his beloved grandmother but, at the same time, aches to be free of his responsibilities. He’s weary from the toll that being a caretaker extracts and feels guilty for his desire for release. He’s also keeping his brother in line, while Crispin seems oblivious to Hazel’s and Jude’s needs. Crispin loves animals, and when he discovers a small capuchin monkey inside one of the stolen vans, he takes it home as a pet, but not until after coming to blows with Jude over that decision. In his early 30s, Crispin is a little boy in a big man’s body.

The story is told in alternating points of view, Emily’s and Jude’s, and this works well as the two separate storylines wind their way toward each other. They came together in a tense collision and kept me on the absolute edge of my seat all the way to its shocking resolution.

I recommend WHAT THE MONKEY SAW to readers who enjoy strong and thrilling crime stories, unusual premises, Appalachian settings, or tales told from the “villain’s” perspective.

Author Bio:

Lynn Chandler Willis is a best-selling, multi-award-winning author who has worked in the corporate world, the television news industry, and had a thirteen-year run as the owner and publisher of a small-town newspaper. She lives in the heart of North Carolina on a mini-farm surrounded by chickens, turkeys, ducks, nine grandkids, a sassy little calico named Jingles, and Finn, a brown border collie known to be the best dog in the world. Seriously.

Catch Up With Lynn Chandler Willis:
LynnChandlerWillis.com
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Twitter - @LynnCWillis
Facebook - @lynnchandlerwillis.author

 

 

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Central Station by Joseph Cariffe

Central Station: A Ray DeLuca Novel by Joseph Cariffe
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Action-packed and enthralling, I loved Ray DeLuca and cheered for him every step of the way.

The son of an east coast Sicilian mafia boss, young Ray DeLuca, was part of “the life” but entered the Navy instead of following in his father’s footsteps. Sixteen successful years later and a SEAL Chief Petty Officer, he retires to pursue a career in protecting and serving with the San Francisco Police Department. However, on his very first shift at Central Station, he attracts the ire of the Watch Commander, Lt. Flynn, who takes any opportunity to criticize and embarrass him.

Assigned to a two-officer black and white, Ray and his partner, Chinese-American Officer Hank Lau, patrol the Chinatown/Little Italy neighborhoods experiencing an upswing in gang activity. Chinatown, already home to the deadly Ghost Boys, has attracted the notice of a Sicilian mob family, and an influx of wise guys shaking down the business owners for protection money has the area teetering on the brink of an all-out war.

When a domestic violence call goes south, and a Ghost Boy dies, Ray is marked for death with a $50K bounty on his head. Ghost Boys make several failed attempts on his life but still seem one step ahead of Ray at all times. One night while he’s out on a first date with his dream girl, four gang members confront the couple. Ray fights back, injuring two and sending them running. His date, appalled by the violence and frightened out of her mind, never wants to see Ray again. But worse yet, later that night, he is called into Central Station, where Lt. Flynn is gleefully waiting with the news that the thugs he fended off have filed charges and a complaint, intending to sue the city. But when Flynn blames Ray and takes the thugs’ side over his own man, Ray loses his cool standing up for himself and earning himself a suspension.

With his gun, ID, and protection of his badge gone, Ray must now fend off continued attacks from the Ghost Boys on his own while waiting for his opportunity to defend himself, clear his name, and return to the job he loves.

Central Station is a riveting crime thriller featuring the engaging and immensely likable Ray DeLuca. The action is non-stop as the story unfolds and we follow the main character through his trials and tribulations and the will-he-catch-him murder plotline. I was glued to this story from page one until the close, smiling almost the entire time. I thoroughly enjoyed this book, and the family ate out while I was reading it. Who has time to cook when you’ve got such a page-turner in your hands?!

Our man Ray is a charming guy with a successful career as a Navy SEAL behind him. He has a couple of relationships with different women during the course of the story, some of which, for a number of reasons, don’t flourish. Like Ray’s mother, though, I have high hopes.

While the action and adventure commands center stage, I loved his interactions with his mother. Whenever he got a care package from home, I was dying to know what she’d sent this time. The discussions of her cooking had me enthralled and ready to head to Sicily (or at least the east coast.) One thing I didn’t go for was how her dialogue was written to convey her accented English, but I don’t know any other way the author could have accomplished this. I eventually got the rhythm of it, and it didn’t slow me down as much as it did initially. I also enjoyed the peek inside THE FAMILY, especially when Ray’s father was incarcerated.

The book is GODFATHER long but literally full of exciting action. The author’s writing is smooth, comfortable, and compelling. It is also the author’s DEBUT novel. Amazing! I can hardly wait to see what comes from his pen next and for Ray DeLuca’s future adventures.

I recommend CENTRAL STATION to readers who enjoy crime fiction with a charming main character, police stories featuring organized crime and criminals, San Francisco settings, and non-stop action/adventures that will keep you on the edge of your seat.

I voluntarily reviewed this after receiving an Advanced Review Copy from Reedsy Discovery.

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Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway: Good For It (A Grifter's Song, #30) by T.G. Wolff

Good For It

by TG Wolff

February 13 - 24, 2023 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Sam and Rachel find themselves in a diner in Wisconsin Dells, WI in the middle of winter. The calm in the middle of the storm is looking to be long and non-profitable. 

Then they hear about Catalonia Shoals, a retirement community for the uber-rich and bored. A new con is started, one that will give the residents what they most want. 

But as the game unfolds, it's getting hard to tell who is the mark and who is the grifter.

 

 

Book Details:

Genre: Noir Crime
Published by: Down & Out Books
Publication Date: February 2023
Number of Pages: 100
ASIN: B0BSVBQ635
Series: A Grifter's Song Anthology
Book Links: Amazon | Down & Out Books

Read an excerpt:

(Note: Sam is using John as an alias)

Rachel hurried across the plowed parking lot, slipping through the narrow opening in the mounded snow, to the nearest entrance. She made her way to the main foyer with the idea of meeting back up with Sophia to return her car keys. Stepping into the Tuscan garden atrium, she spotted Sam stalking down the room, his cheek and eye swollen.

Joey trailed after him, dragging his oxygen tank. “You should be proud of yourself. You took the punch like a man.”

For all of the crazy, insane, and deadly situations they found themselves in, Sam rarely lost his cool. He was always thinking, always working out a solution. No matter how hot things got, her man was ice.

The look on his face said her glacier was in Global Warming meltdown.

Sam spun on his heel and took a step toward the old man. Rachel called out sharply, “Johnny!”

At the sound of her voice, Sam stopped and just breathed.

“Joey,” Sophie said, her soft voice once again. “What did you do this time?”

“Nothing,” he said, wearing an expression of angelic innocence. “John and I were leaving church when this bear of a man walks into me. I told him, politely of course, that those were my feet he was standing on. And then he punched John.” Joey went to Rachel, taking her hand. “You have a lot to be proud of in your husband. He stood up to a man twice his weight without breaking.”

“You could sue.” Paul crossed his arms over his chest. “We could get a million, maybe five.”

“We’re not suing,” Sam said with authority. “You,” he snapped at Joey. “You’re going to make me whole on the seven g’s he took off of me.”

Rachel gasped. “Seven grand! You lost seven thousand dollars? Wait. Where did you get seven grand to lose?”

“He didn’t lose anything,” Joey said. “The money was stolen and as I might have had a teeny bit to do with it, I’ll cover it.”

Sam snorted and started walking toward their rooms.

“Don’t be like that, son. I’m good for it. You know that.” While Sam kept walking, Joey turned to Rachel. “Your man hold a grudge?”

Rachel calculated her response. She slid into a sad expression and shook her head. “Not usually, but he’s been worried about money. We should get the prototype in soon and with it the estimate for production. He’s expecting a big number.” She looked down the hallway. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check on him.”

Inside the cottage, Rachel found Sam sprawled on the couch, a towel filled with ice pressed to his cheek. She closed the door and let go of the grin she’d been restraining.

“That man is a menace,” Sam said, scowling.

She swallowed her smile and crawled next to him. “What happened?”

“What he said. He picked the biggest, meanest bastard in the casino to flop in front of. The guy was a cop.”

Rachel gasped. “Sam.”

“A crooked one, luckily. Says he’s seen every scam there is and if I don’t want my ‘pops’ to spend the night in lock up, I better pony up the bail. I paid him two grand and was good until Joey opens his mouth about the other five I’d won at black jack. The idiot.” He shook his head. “And you thought he might be a pro. There was nothing professional about the shit he pulled.”

Rachel moved to the corner of the couch and tugged until Sam’s head was in her lap. “Maybe it isn’t all bad,” she said, smoothing his hair back. “The more he feels he owes you, the more he’ll invest.”

Sam relaxed under her attention. “Maybe.”

“Did you hear their latest idea?” She waited until he shook his head. “Paul thinks we should sell shares of the company. Instead of taking good faith investors, we should sell stock. The more I think on the idea, the more I like it. I can create a certificate, get it printed on heavy paper.”

He removed the ice pack to stare at her. “Paul.”

She put it back. “He’s harmless.”

“He isn’t, but it’s a good idea.

***

Excerpt from Good For It by TG Wolff. Copyright 2023 by TG Wolff. Reproduced with permission from TG Wolff. All rights reserved.

 

 

Review:

5 stars!

With its likable characters and clever plot, GOOD FOR IT is better than great!

Good For It by author T.G. Wolff is the 30^th entry in the terrific novella anthology, A Grifter’s Song, which follows the moves and maneuvers of Sam and Rachel, a pair of con artists on the lam from the capo of the Philadelphia mob. The books stand alone and are written by a variety of different authors. From the reviews, each is a gem in its own right, and this tale is outstanding as well.

The main characters, Sam and Rachel, are fun and flirty with each other: a committed couple. They are also ever-ready with a con to separate a mark from their money while evading their mob pursuers and setting up a safe exit strategy. While cold-blooded and unsentimental in their endeavors, I think a couple of the residents of Catalonia Shoals got under their guard this time. The ending carries a fair amount of melancholy.

The senior facility sounds like a sweet deal, and the residents are absolutely living their best lives in style and comfort, but they are not at all who they seem. I enjoyed the older characters immensely, and though I liked the two con artists, I was delighted with the outcome and laughed out loud over some of the dialogue as the real con was revealed.

With its likable characters and clever plot, I recommend GOOD FOR IT to readers who enjoy crime fiction and characters of a certain age.

Author Bio:

Like you, I’m not one thing. I’m a writer, an engineer, a wife, and a mother. What is first on the list depends on the day. Beyond the title I claim, I’m a person who loves learning and thoroughly enjoys a good puzzle, is creative and gets bored easily. I hold a BS in Civil Engineering from Case Western Reserve University and an MS in Civil Engineering from Cleveland State University, which gives me absolutely no background in writing, but I do it anyway. Writing mysteries and engineering isn’t as different as you’d think. Both require using logic and process to get from a starting problem to a solution.

Catch Up With TG Wolff:
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Facebook - @tina.wolff.125

 

 

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Book Blog Tour: Nunzio's Way by Nick Chiarkas

Nunzio's Way

by Nick Chiarkas

October 24-November 18, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

"In this city, you can have anything you want if you kill the right four people." ~ Nunzio Sabino

In Weepers (Book 1), Angelo and his gang, with a bit of help from his beloved "uncle" Nunzio Sabino, defeated the notorious Satan's Knights. Now, in this standalone sequel to Weepers, it's 1960 and Nunzio is still the most powerful organized crime boss in New York City, protecting what's his with political schemes and 'business' deals.

Against this backdrop of Mafia turf wars, local gang battles, and political power-plays in the mayoral election, the bodies begin stacking up. An unlikely assassin arrives fresh from Naples after killing a top member of the Camorra to avenge the murder of her family. She blends seamlessly into the neighborhood and with the focus on the threat from the Satan's Knights, no one suspects that Angelo's father and Nunzio are next on her hit list. Nunzio has lived his entire life by the mantra; Be a fox when there are traps and a lion when there are wolves. Will Nunzio be a lion in time?

Praise for Nick Chiarkas:

"Writers are always told, 'Write what you know.' Nick Chiarkas knows New York, organized crime, and how to write an engaging story. Nunzio’s Way is gritty and thoroughly gripping."

John DeDakis, award-winning Novelist and former editor for CNN’s “The Situation Room with Wolf Blitzer”

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Thriller / Historical
Published by: HenschelHAUS Publishing
Publication Date: October 2022
Number of Pages: 261
ISBN: 978159595-908-6
Series: Weepers, #2
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

PROLOGUE

For those who have read Weepers a while ago, and for those who have not read Weepers, here is a brief description of Nunzio Sabino, as told by Father Joe to Father Casimiro (Father Cas) in Weepers.

***

“In 1920... Caffè Fiora was the Baling Hook, a tough bar owned by an ex-longshoreman, Stanley Marco, and his wife Sylvia—who was every bit as tough as Stan. The place was decorated with nets, anchors, and baling hooks hanging all over the walls. It had a long bar and small tables.”

“Sounds charming,” Father Casimiro said sarcastically.

“In a strange way, it was. The booze was good. The food was tolerable. And the dancers were okay—that is, except for one. Fiora Ventosa was a delicate breeze in a cigar-filled room. And when she danced, the room dropped silent. She was sensational.”

“A stripper?”

“Not completely, more burlesque. The dancers would take off this or that but never stripped completely. Each night of the week featured a different dancer. Fiora danced on Tuesday nights. And Nunzio fell in love with her.”

“How old was he?”

“Thirteen. We were all kids about the same age. There were five of us—me, Nunzio, Pompeo—Anna’s father—

George, and Nick. We would sneak in every Tuesday night. Sylvia knew, but let it slide.”

“Did Fiora know how Nunzio—”

“Probably. She would sometimes sit with us after her show. Thinking back, she probably thought it was cute, and compared to the rest of the clientele, we were safe, adoring fans. We would sit there and Nunzio would be transfixed. She was seventeen and Nunzio figured a four-year difference wasn’t that much. So, after watching her dance every Tuesday for seven or eight months, on the third Tuesday in January 1920, Nunzio decided to tell Fiora he wanted to marry her. Seems silly now, but back then...what did we know? Anyway, Nunzio had to work late, so we waited for him and then we beat it over to the Hook.”

Father Casimiro loved these stories. They gave him a history, like he belonged to the neighborhood. “Did he tell her?”

“When we got to the Hook, Stan was shoving everyone out of the place, telling them to go home. Somebody, I don’t know who, said, ‘You kids better not go in there tonight.’ We pushed our way in against everybody leaving. There were several overturned tables and a couple of people standing around looking down.”

“Looking down?” Father Casimiro dodged several kids running along the sidewalk.

“Sylvia was sitting on the floor crying. Fiora was lying on the floor, covered by a large flannel shirt. Her head in Sylvia’s lap. Stan was arguing with a big guy they called the Bear. He was six- foot-six and must have weighed in at over three hundred pounds. He was a foreman on the docks and a neighborhood bully. The Bear stood there in a T-shirt and said to Stan, ‘Don’t you say nothing, you hear me? Nothing.’ Sylvia shouted up at the Bear, ‘You sonofabitch, you killed this little girl.’”

“What? She was dead? He killed her? Why?”

“The drunken Bear wanted to see more skin. He yanked her off the dance floor. She fought and he broke her neck.” Father Joe lit a cigarette and handed the pack to Father Casimiro.

Father Casimiro lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “Poor girl.” Cigarette smoke escaped with the words. He handed the pack back to Father Joe. “Nunzio must have been devastated. You all, just kids, must have been—”

“It was the only time I ever saw Nunzio cry. Ever. It was the most heart-rending, profound sadness I ever witnessed. Nunzio dropped to his knees and touched her face. Meanwhile, the Bear was standing over Sylvia with his two buddies, one on either side of him, and he said to Stan, ‘The girl’s trash; nobody’s gonna miss her. So, you and your wife keep your mouths shut.’ He reached down and grabbed his shirt off Fiora and started to put it on.

He continued, “That was when I noticed that Nunzio was missing. And then I heard the scream. It didn’t sound human. It was pain and fury. It was Nunzio, and he was in midair—he jumped from the top of the bar behind the Bear. In each hand, he gripped a baling hook—he had taken them off the wall. He looked like an eagle screaming in for the kill. The Bear’s arms were halfway in his shirt sleeves when the points of the heavy hooks pierced his deltoid muscles from behind. The hooks hit both shoulders and sunk behind his collarbone.”

“Dear God,” Father Casimiro shivered as he imagined the pain of a thick steel hook sinking into his shoulder muscle.

“The Bear roared and swung from side to side. Nunzio held on tight to the hooks, his legs flying from left to right, back and forth. The Bear’s arms were pinned halfway in his shirt. He kept trying to grab Nunzio’s legs. But with each movement, the hooks sank deeper.”

Father Casimiro was no longer aware of the people pushing past him, some smiling and nodding. The musty beer and sawdust of the Baling Hook filled his senses. He imagined the blood spurting from the hooks, and a thirteen-year-old boy hanging on—fortified by rage. Father Casimiro smoked and listened. “What about the Bear’s friends?”

“The two of them grabbed at Nunzio, and that’s when we—all four of us—jumped in. I was a pretty good boxer by then, and Pompeo was always a strong kid. Nick pulled a knife, and George grabbed another baling hook off the wall. The Bear’s buddies ran out of the place; they weren’t up for the fight. After that, the only ones in the Hook were Stan, Sylvia, the Bear, Fiora, and us. The Bear started spinning and coughing up blood. Nunzio just held on. We were trying to get them apart. But the Bear kept spinning, knocking over tables. And Nunzio was like a cape flying from the Bear’s shoulders.

“Then, finally, the Bear dropped to his knees, straight down, his arms dead, draped at his sides. As the Bear fell forward, Nunzio pulled on the hooks. The Bear growled and then whimpered as his face cracked the wooden floor. All the time, Nunzio held onto the hooks—pulling. He let go when the Bear rolled over on his back—hooks still buried in his shoulders. He looked straight up at Nunzio.”

“He was still alive?” Father Casimiro gasped.

“Only for a moment or two. Nunzio wasn’t finished, but Stan grabbed him and said, ‘He’s gone. You kids get out of here so we can clean up.’ Nunzio never fell in love again.”

“Did she have any family?” Father Casimiro asked, flicking his cigarette into the gutter. “I mean, Fiora.”

“Fiora was fifteen and pregnant with Natale when she arrived in New York from Genoa. The Cherry Street Settlement took her in and after Natale was born, they got her a room with Sylvia and Stan, who hired Fiora to tend bar and dance on Tuesday nights. Fiora Ventosa was born on the third Tuesday in March and seventeen years later died on the third Tuesday in January, and her only family was two- year-old Natale Ventosa. No one ever knew who the father was. Natale was raised by Sylvia and Stan.”

“What about the police and the Bear’s friends?”

“No police—Stan fixed that. But the Bear’s pals came after Nunzio. The five of us were inseparable. Nunzio was, is, a born leader. Battle after battle, victory after victory, we quickly gained a reputation. Eventually other guys wanted to join our gang. By sixteen, Nunzio was the most powerful gang leader in the city. When he was twenty, he bought the Baling Hook.”

“He bought it?”

“Stan had passed away a couple of years earlier, so Nunzio turned it into a pretty good restaurant—no dancing—and re-named it Caffè Fiora. He sent Sylvia money every month to cover Natale’s financial needs. He paid Sylvia more than she ever dreamed to run the restaurant. When Sylvia died in ’51, Nunzio gave the restaurant to Natale.”

“So, you became a priest to ...”

“The battles we won were hard fought and people were killed. We all...I killed,” Father Joe confessed. “At nineteen, I decided to become a priest and devote my life to saving as many kids in these neighborhoods as I could in return for God’s forgiveness. We have an uneasy relationship—I’m certain God doesn’t always agree with my methods, and I have some questions for Him as well. But I’m sticking to the deal.”

“What about the other kids? Did they stay in the gang?”

“No. Pompeo is a foreman at the meat market, Nick became a cop, and George is a foreman on the docks. But on the third Tuesday of each month, the five of us go back there, just like when we were thirteen, but now it’s the Caffè Fiora—and we play poker in the back room and talk about how fast time passes.”

“Does Natale know?”

“Sylvia told her the whole story. Natale loves Nunzio like a father,” Father Joe said as he and Father Casimiro passed Columbus Park and made a left from Mulberry Street onto Worth Street. “This is the end of Little Italy.”

As they reached St. Joachim’s, Father Casimiro said, “I think I’ll walk over to the Settlement. You want to come with?”

“Come with?” Father Joe teased. “Sure, I can use the exercise.”

“Does Nunzio ever worry about some ambitious hooligan wanting to take over? Or is that just in the movies?”

“Hooligan?” Father Joe smiled. “Nunzio is the top lion. He is constantly watched by the ambitious and the aggrieved. He can’t show weakness. He can’t let a single insult—especially a public one—go unchecked. Continued leadership requires constant vigilance and no margin of error. None.”

“Sounds stressful.”

“It is. The only time Nunzio can relax—really be himself, joke around—is with us, the kids who grew up with him, on the third Tuesday of the month.”

CHAPTER ONE

“The right four people”

“Pal, in this city, you can have anything you want if you kill the right four people.”

“Nunzio, we don’t have to kill –”

“We? Me and you, De?” Nunzio leaned back, a gesture as intimidating as a knife to the throat when it came from Nunzio Sabino, the most powerful crime boss in the city.

Nunzio sat at his private table with his attorney, Declan Ardan, in the dusk-lit Caffè Fiora on Grand Street in Little Italy. On the walls, ropes, hooks, and paintings of Genoa’s seaport, honored the birthplace of the owner’s mother, Fiora, her dark eyes still vigilant from the portrait above Nunzio’s table. The Caffè was quiet on this rainy St. Patrick’s Day. Two of Nunzio’s men sat at a nearby table. The guy who had come with Declan sat hunched over coffee near the entrance.

“No, I mean, nobody has to get killed; talk to your guys at Tammany. They respect –”

“You still got that scar,” Nunzio said. It’s bad enough in court; there, I do what he says. But not at my table. Since we were kids, this mameluke was a bully. I can’t give him an inch. Not an inch. “What about my guys?”

De touched the scar above his left eye. “Doolin said the Italians run everything now. He said, ‘If anyone can pull strings...’”

“Before you start pinning medals on my ass,” Nunzio signaled to a waiter. “Arturo, bring me and ‘Deadshot’ here a couple of espressos and Natale’s little cakes.”

“All I’m saying is–”

“Marone, you’re still talkin’?”

“All I want – ”

“I know what you want. You wanna be mayor.” Nunzio lit a Camel and tossed the pack on the table while exhaling through his nose like a dragon. “Listen to me, Brian Doolin is a piantagrane, a troublemaker. For an upfront payment he sells you a dream. Then when it doesn’t come true it was always somebody else’s fault. Like you, that time when we were kids, and you told me Eddie Fialco sounded on my mother. It was bullshit, you just wanted me to beat him up. You’re a piantagrane, like Doolin. It works for you in court, but Doolin just likes to cause trouble. Look, you got a kid who wants to go to college for a grand, your kid’s in. But mayor, forse si forse no?”

“So, maybe a chance?”

“Maybe.”

De stroked his scar absentmindedly. “You gave me this when we were kids.”

“It makes you look like a tough guy.”

“I once asked Joe why you hit me with that rock.”

“It was a brick,” Nunzio said.

“Joe said it was to save my life. I still don’t get it.” “You don’t have to.”

“But Joe was there.”

“Joe was with Pompeo and me and a bunch of us.

What were we, ten years old? We were cutting through the empty lot to school, and you – ”

“Okay, so I was taking kid's lunch money. They all gave it up except you. You were the smallest kid, and you just said ‘No’.”

“And what did you say to me?”

“That’s what I don’t get; I just said, ‘okay, maybe next time’ and you hit me hard with a brick. I swear I was knocked out for a couple of minutes.”

“You said ‘maybe next time.’”

“Yeah, that’s all.”

“But you never asked me again.”

“I thought you were crazy. I followed you home one day. I figured if I saw where you lived, I would get a better read on you. I trailed you into the cellar of 57 Canon Street. I saw a little bed in one corner and a pile of banana crates by the door – the only things in that dirt floor cavernous space. You were shoveling coal into the furnace, which explained why you always had soot on you. I was about to say something when a spider the size of my face jumped out at me from the crates, and I beat it the hell out of there.”

“You followed me?”

“How could you have lived in that cellar?”

“Instead of where?”

“I don’t know. Maybe in...I don’t know. Didn’t some family take you in?”

“Yeah, the Sas family. Good people.”

“Anyway, I never asked you for money again.”

“If you had, I would’ve killed you. So, the brick saved your life.”

Declan nodded. “Yeah. Got it.”

Three years later, a hulking longshoreman people called “The Bear” wouldn’t be so lucky. He was the first man Nunzio killed. At the ripe age of 13, his life and the lives of four of his friends, changed forever.

Nunzio drifted back to his childhood. He was six years old when his mother and he moved from Naples to the Lower East Side. Alone after his mother died, he learned to survive in one of the most notorious neighborhoods in the city. Where the narrow, trash-lined streets and alleys weaved together decaying brownstone tenements with common toilets, one per floor. He shoveled coal and guarded the produce stored there by the ships docked off South Street, to pay for living in the cellar.

After school, Nunzio mostly walked the streets. He recalled the putrid smell of decomposing cats and dogs covered with a trembling blanket of insects, rats, and things he didn’t recognize. Lying in the gutter against the sidewalk on Pike Street was a horse, with old and fresh whip wounds, shrouded in a cloak of flying and crawling insects. Plenty of other horrors and hardships confronted him throughout his life, but when he closed his eyes, Nunzio saw the horse.

“I know you’re not here to talk about old times. Whadaya need?”

“Nunzio, no one is better than you with –”

“Christ, without the bullshit.”

De lowered his voice, “Tammany Hall is on the outs

with the mayor, and they’re scrambling to find a candidate to run against him. So, if you would tell them that you would be grateful if they would pick me...”

“You tellin’ me what to tell them? Forget about it. Anyway, I like the deputy mayor; he postponed the Brooklyn Bridge deal as a favor to me back in ’57.

“Nunzio, did I do something to piss you off? Is that why your guys searched us when we came in today?”

Chinatown was pushing towards Canal Street; the Russians were gaining a footprint in Brighten Beach. And Pepe, Nunzio’s driver, bodyguard, and right hand since forever, told him there were rumbles of a hit on Nunzio. Someone or some group was always waiting and watching. He knew, like bosses everywhere, that everyone under him thought they could do a better job and thought the boss never did enough for them. This felt different. Pepe had heard it from one of his spies in Satan’s Knights. Pepe would get more information.

But all Nunzio said was, “I’m a little cautious these days. You know how it is.”

“I’m your lawyer; you call me when you need help. Right?”

“I pay you top dollar. You complainin’?”

“No, I’m saying we help each other. We knew growing up here, the only choice was to be a gangster or a victim. No offense.”

“You believe that crap?” Nunzio shook his head. “What?”

“You can be whatever you wanna be.”

“I try to be straight, but you know – ”

“Who you kiddin‘?”

“The point is, we have to trust each other.” De took a long breath and looked wistful as his eyes landed on the painting of Fiora. “I came here with you to see her dance. She was 16 back then, with a two-year-old kid.”

“Seventeen,” Nunzio said, “and the kid’s name is Natale.”

“And you were 13 and asked Fiora to marry you in this Caffè. Am I right?”

“I never got the chance.”

***

Excerpt from NUNZIO’S WAY by NICK CHIARKAS. Copyright 2022 by Nicholas L. Chiarkas. Reproduced with permission from Nicholas L. Chiarkas. All rights reserved.

 

 

Review:

5 stars!

Engaging and totally immersive!

I felt I was side-by-side with the characters in this compelling crime drama.

Reading Nunzio’s Way, I was immediately transported to the crime-stricken streets of 1960 Manhattan’s Lower East Side and absorbed into Angelo’s family, circle of friends, and history. Nunzio is the shrewd and ruthless boss of the community with connections everywhere and a firm grip on his business, and a deep love for his friends and family. The teenage Angelo is the leader of the neighborhood gang, The Weepers, and a younger, more vulnerable version of his Uncle Nunzio, who is his guide in life. 

As the story builds, so does our understanding of these characters. The action is gritty and violent, with murder for honor, vendetta, but at times, to do away with witnesses. Some of the deaths are richly deserved; not naming any names, but one in particular, shocked me so much that I gasped out loud; I was so invested in the story and this family. 

Character dialogues and interaction were so natural I felt like I was in the moment with them. Everyone was so engaging and real, and I quickly felt like I knew these people. And almost all of them do terrible things. Two characters really surprised me by how much I enjoyed reading their parts of the story: Rico and Heather/Angie. A lot was going on with both of these awful people, but I looked forward with so much anticipation every time they came on the page, wanting to know what would happen next. 

The Lower East Side setting was a living, breathing vision of the past. As I read, it felt like it was constantly in motion with activity, but there was menace lurking around every corner and in broad daylight. The descriptions are integrated so well into the narrative that I could easily envision the characters and their surroundings. 

The author’s writing style is easy to read and so compelling. I was so engrossed in the story I didn’t want to put it down. Now completed, I am not ready to leave this family and hope the ending is a tip-off that there is more to come and soon. Nunzio’s Way is the second book in the Weepers series, so the characters have a history with each other that began in book one. There is an adequate amount of explanation of relationships and backstories so that readers can enjoy this book on its own. However, the first book, Weepers, is also a must-read for the same reasons I enjoyed this one so much. 

With its engaging characters, iconic setting, and fascinating plot, I recommend NUNZIO’S WAY to readers who enjoyed The Godfather, fiction set in 1960 New York City, or stories about gangs in the city during the late 50s and early 60s.

Author Bio:

Nick Chiarkas grew up in the Al Smith housing projects in the Two Bridges neighborhood on Manhattan’s Lower East Side.

When he was in the fourth grade, his mother was told by the principal of PS-1 that, “Nick was unlikely to ever complete high school, so you must steer him toward a simple and secure vocation.” Instead, Nick became a writer, with a few stops along the way: a U.S. Army Paratrooper; a New York City Police Officer; the Deputy Chief Counsel for the President’s Commission on Organized Crime; and the Director of the Wisconsin State Public Defender Agency.

On the way to becoming an author, he picked up a Doctorate from Columbia University; a Law Degree from Temple University; and was a Pickett Fellow at Harvard. How many mothers are told their children are hopeless? How many kids with potential simply surrender to despair? That’s why Nick wrote Weepers and Nunzio's Way— for them.

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