Yellow Mama Archives

J. B. Stevens

Home
Adair, Jay
Adhikari, Sudeep
Ahern, Edward
Aldrich, Janet M.
Allan, T. N.
Allen, M. G.
Ammonds, Phillip J.
Anderson, Fred
Anderson, Peter
Andreopoulos, Elliott
Arab, Bint
Armstrong, Dini
Augustyn, P. K.
Aymar, E. A.
Babbs, James
Baber, Bill
Bagwell, Dennis
Bailey, Ashley
Bailey, Thomas
Baird, Meg
Bakala, Brendan
Baker, Nathan
Balaz, Joe
BAM
Barber, Shannon
Barker, Tom
Barlow, Tom
Bates, Jack
Bayly, Karen
Baugh, Darlene
Bauman, Michael
Baumgartner, Jessica Marie
Beale, Jonathan
Beck, George
Beckman, Paul
Benet, Esme
Bennett, Brett
Bennett, Charlie
Bennett, D. V.
Benton, Ralph
Berg, Carly
Berman, Daniel
Bernardara, Will Jr.
Berriozabal, Luis
Beveridge, Robert
Bickerstaff, Russ
Bigney, Tyler
Blackwell, C. W.
Bladon, Henry
Blake, Steven
Blakey, James
Bohem, Charlie Keys and Les
Bonner, Kim
Booth, Brenton
Boski, David
Bougger, Jason
Boyd, A. V.
Boyd, Morgan
Boyle, James
Bracey, DG
Brewka-Clark, Nancy
Britt, Alan
Broccoli, Jimmy
Brooke, j
Brown, R. Thomas
Brown, Sam
Bruce, K. Marvin
Burke, Wayne F.
Burnwell, Otto
Burton, Michael
Bushtalov, Denis
Butcher, Jonathan
Butkowski, Jason
Butler, Simon Hardy
Butler, Terence
Cameron, W. B.
Campbell, J. J.
Campbell, Jack Jr.
Cano, Valentina
Cardinale, Samuel
Cardoza, Dan A.
Carlton, Bob
Carr, Jennifer
Cartwright, Steve
Carver, Marc
Castle, Chris
Catlin, Alan
Chesler, Adam
Christensen, Jan
Clausen, Daniel
Clevenger, Victor
Clifton, Gary
Cmileski, Sue
Cody, Bethany
Coey, Jack
Coffey, James
Colasuonno, Alfonso
Condora, Maddisyn
Conley, Jen
Connor, Tod
Cooper, Malcolm Graham
Copes, Matthew
Coral, Jay
Corrigan, Mickey J.
Cosby, S. A.
Costello, Bruce
Cotton, Mark
Coverley, Harris
Crandall, Rob
Criscuolo, Carla
Crist, Kenneth
Cross, Thomas X.
D., Jack
Dallett, Cassandra
Danoski, Joseph V.
Daly, Sean
Davies, J. C.
Davis, Christopher
Davis, Michael D.
Day, Holly
de Bruler, Connor
Degani, Gay
De France, Steve
De La Garza, Lela Marie
Deming, Ruth Z.
Demmer, Calvin
De Neve, M. A.
Dennehy, John W.
DeVeau, Spencer
Di Chellis, Peter
Dillon, John J.
DiLorenzo, Ciro
Dilworth, Marcy
Dioguardi, Michael Anthony
Dionne, Ron
Dobson, Melissa
Domenichini, John
Dominelli, Rob
Doran, Phil
Doreski, William
Dority, Michael
Dorman, Roy
Doherty, Rachel
Dosser, Jeff
Doyle, Jacqueline
Doyle, John
Draime, Doug
Drake, Lena Judith
Dromey, John H.
Dubal, Paul Michael
Duke, Jason
Duncan, Gary
Dunham, T. Fox
Duschesneau, Pauline
Dunn, Robin Wyatt
Duxbury, Karen
Duy, Michelle
Eade, Kevin
Elliott, Garnett
Ellman, Neil
England, Kristina
Erianne, John
Espinosa, Maria
Esterholm, Jeff
Fallow, Jeff
Farren, Jim
Fedolfi, Leon
Fenster, Timothy
Ferraro, Diana
Filas, Cameron
Fillion, Tom
Fisher, Miles Ryan
Flanagan, Daniel N.
Flanagan, Ryan Quinn
Flynn, Jay
Fortunato, Chris
Francisco, Edward
Frank, Tim
Fugett, Brian
Funk, Matthew C.
Gann, Alan
Gardner, Cheryl Ann
Garvey, Kevin Z.
Gay, Sharon Frame
Gentile, Angelo
Genz, Brian
Giersbach, Walter
Gladeview, Lawrence
Glass, Donald
Goddard, L. B.
Godwin, Richard
Goff, Christopher
Golds, Stephen J.
Goss, Christopher
Gradowski, Janel
Graham, Sam
Grant, Christopher
Grant, Stewart
Greenberg, K.J. Hannah
Greenberg, Paul
Grey, John
Guirand, Leyla
Gunn, Johnny
Gurney, Kenneth P.
Hagerty, David
Haglund, Tobias
Halleck, Robert
Hamlin, Mason
Hanson, Christopher Kenneth
Hanson, Kip
Harrington, Jim
Harris, Bruce
Hart, GJ
Hartman, Michelle
Hartwell, Janet
Haskins, Chad
Hawley, Doug
Haycock, Brian
Hayes, A. J.
Hayes, John
Hayes, Peter W. J.
Heatley, Paul
Heimler, Heidi
Helmsley, Fiona
Hendry, Mark
Heslop, Karen
Heyns, Heather
Hilary, Sarah
Hill, Richard
Hivner, Christopher
Hockey, Matthew J.
Hogan, Andrew J.
Holderfield, Culley
Holton, Dave
Houlahan, Jeff
Howells, Ann
Hoy, J. L.
Huchu, Tendai
Hudson, Rick
Huffman, A. J.
Huguenin, Timothy G.
Huskey, Jason L.
Ippolito, Curtis
Irascible, Dr. I. M.
Jaggers, J. David
James, Christopher
Jarrett, Nigel
Johnson, Beau
Johnson, Moctezuma
Johnson, Zakariah
Jones, D. S.
Jones, Erin J.
Jones, Mark
Kabel, Dana
Kanach, A.
Kaplan, Barry Jay
Kay, S.
Keaton, David James
Kempka, Hal
Kerins, Mike
Keshigian, Michael
Kevlock, Mark Joseph
King, Michelle Ann
Kirk, D.
Kitcher, William
Knott, Anthony
Koenig, Michael
Kokan, Bob
Kolarik, Andrew J.
Korpon, Nik
Kovacs, Norbert
Kovacs, Sandor
Kowalcyzk, Alec
Krafft, E. K.
Lacks, Lee Todd
Lang, Preston
Larkham, Jack
La Rosa, F. Michael
Leasure, Colt
Leatherwood, Roger
Lees, Arlette
Lees, Lonni
Leins, Tom
Lemieux, Michael
Lemming, Jennifer
Lerner, Steven M
Leverone, Allan
Levine, Phyllis Peterson
Lewis, Cynthia Ruth
Lewis, LuAnn
Licht, Matthew
Lifshin, Lyn
Liskey, Tom Darin
Lodge, Oliver
Lopez, Aurelio Rico III
Lorca, Aurelia
Lovisi, Gary
Lubaczewski, Paul
Lucas, Gregory E.
Lukas, Anthony
Lynch, Nulty
Lyon, Hillary
Lyons, Matthew
Mac, David
MacArthur, Jodi
Malone, Joe
Mann, Aiki
Manthorne, Julian
Manzolillo, Nicholas
Marcius, Cal
Marrotti, Michael
Mason, Wayne
Mathews, Bobby
Mattila, Matt
Matulich, Joel
McAdams, Liz
McCaffrey, Stanton
McCartney, Chris
McDaris, Catfish
McFarlane, Adam Beau
McGinley, Chris
McGinley, Jerry
McElhiney, Sean
McJunkin, Ambrose
McKim, Marci
McMannus, Jack
McQuiston, Rick
Mellon, Mark
Memi, Samantha
Middleton, Bradford
Miles, Marietta
Miller, Max
Minihan, Jeremiah
Montagna, Mitchel
Monson, Mike
Mooney, Christopher P.
Moran, Jacqueline M.
Morgan, Bill W.
Moss, David Harry
Mullins, Ian
Mulvihill, Michael
Muslim, Kristine Ong
Nardolilli, Ben
Nelson, Trevor
Nessly, Ray
Nester, Steven
Neuda, M. C.
Newell, Ben
Newman, Paul
Nielsen, Ayaz
Nore, Abe
Numann, Randy
Ogurek, Douglas J.
O'Keefe, Sean
Orrico, Connor
Ortiz, Sergio
Pagel, Briane
Park, Jon
Parr, Rodger
Parrish, Rhonda
Partin-Nielsen, Judith
Peralez, R.
Perez, Juan M.
Perez, Robert Aguon
Peterson, Ross
Petroziello, Brian
Petska, Darrell
Pettie, Jack
Petyo, Robert
Phillips, Matt
Picher, Gabrielle
Pierce, Curtis
Pierce, Rob
Pietrzykowski, Marc
Plath, Rob
Pointer, David
Post, John
Powell, David
Power, Jed
Powers, M. P.
Praseth, Ram
Prazych, Richard
Priest, Ryan
Prusky, Steve
Pruitt, Eryk
Purfield, M. E.
Purkis, Gordon
Quinlan, Joseph R.
Quinn, Frank
Rabas, Kevin
Ragan, Robert
Ram, Sri
Rapth, Sam
Ravindra, Rudy
Reich, Betty
Renney, Mark
reutter, g emil
Rhatigan, Chris
Rhiel, Ann Marie
Ribshman, Kevin
Ricchiuti, Andrew
Richardson, Travis
Richey, John Lunar
Ridgeway, Kevin
Rihlmann, Brian
Ritchie, Bob
Ritchie, Salvadore
Robinson, John D.
Robinson, Kent
Rodgers, K. M.
Roger, Frank
Rose, Mandi
Rose, Mick
Rosenberger, Brian
Rosenblum, Mark
Rosmus, Cindy
Ruhlman, Walter
Rutherford, Scotch
Sahms, Diane
Saier, Monique
Salinas, Alex
Sanders, Isabelle
Sanders, Sebnem
Santo, Heather
Savage, Jack
Sayles, Betty J.
Schauber, Karen
Schneeweiss, Jonathan
Schraeder, E. F.
Schumejda, Rebecca
See, Tom
Sethi, Sanjeev
Sexton, Rex
Seymour, J. E.
Shaikh, Aftab Yusuf
Sheagren, Gerald E.
Shepherd, Robert
Shirey, D. L.
Shore, Donald D.
Short, John
Sim, Anton
Simmler, T. Maxim
Simpson, Henry
Sinisi, J. J.
Sixsmith, JD
Slagle, Cutter
Slaviero, Susan
Sloan, Frank
Small, Alan Edward
Smith, Brian J.
Smith, Ben
Smith, C.R.J.
Smith, Copper
Smith, Greg
Smith, Ian C.
Smith, Paul
Smith, Stephanie
Smith, Willie
Smuts, Carolyn
Snethen, Daniel G.
Snoody, Elmore
Sojka, Carol
Solender, Michael J.
Sortwell, Pete
Sparling, George
Spicer, David
Squirrell, William
Stanton, Henry G.
Steven, Michael
Stevens, J. B.
Stewart, Michael S.
Stickel, Anne
Stoler, Cathi
Stolec, Trina
Stoll, Don
Stryker, Joseph H.
Stucchio, Chris
Succre, Ray
Sullivan, Thomas
Surkiewicz, Joe
Swanson, Peter
Swartz, Justin A.
Sweet, John
Tarbard, Grant
Taylor, J. M.
Thompson, John L.
Thompson, Phillip
Ticktin, Ruth
Tillman, Stephen
Titus, Lori
Tivey, Lauren
Tobin, Tim
Torrence, Ron
Tu, Andy
Tustin, John
Ullerich, Eric
Valent, Raymond A.
Valvis, James
Vilhotti, Jerry
Waldman, Dr. Mel
Walker, Dustin
Walsh, Patricia
Walters, Luke
Ward, Emma
Washburn, Joseph
Watt, Max
Weber, R.O.
Weil, Lester L.
White, Judy Friedman
White, Robb
White, Terry
Wickham, Alice
Wilhide, Zach
Williams, K. A.
Wilsky, Jim
Wilson, Robley
Wilson, Tabitha
Woodland, Francis
Young, Mark
Yuan, Changming
Zackel, Fred
Zafiro, Frank
Zapata, Angel
Zee, Carly
Zeigler, Martin
Zimmerman, Thomas

Big Nasty

By J.B. Stevens


Getting his brother out of jail for Kazinski’s murder was not going to be simple. The evidence was strong, and Marvin didn’t have an alibi.

But Hank couldn’t stop. Marvin’s wife and daughter needed him. The death penalty was on the table and Marvin’s sentencing hearing was coming up fast.

Hank had to form a plan.

Hank spent the morning scratching up a piece of paper, plotting out the situation, and trading text messages with Marvin’s defense lawyer.

The lawyer wanted Hank to focus on taking care of Marvin’s family. Marvin’s wife wanted Hank to figure out the truth before it was too late.

Hank gathered the hand-written notes, sat down at his computer, and hit up some search engines. He was able to track down some of the Kazinski’s social media. There had to be something in there that would help.

Most of it was set to private, but what was public showed a lot of travel to Thailand and Brazil. Hank recognized working girls from a mile away, ever since his time in the Army and as a cop.

The pictures, arrest history, and online presence indicated Kazinski liked to pay women for their time. That made Hank think of extortion. A man with a lot to lose and sexual secrets is always risking blackmail. Blackmail can lead to threats, and threats can lead to murder.

Kazinski’s house came up in a white pages listing. Hank located the place on a real-estate website. The home was far too nice for a local bank’s IT guy to afford. It had a heated pool, a theater room, a gym, and sat on twelve acres.

Kazinski had a lot of money to spend, but the fund’s source was not clear. Hank found no evidence of family money and Glassdoor showed that the bank IT job paid on the low end of average.

Kazinski enjoyed his vices and had the money to indulge them.

Hank ruminated a minute and decided he needed go where the prostitutes plied their trade, Savannah’s seedier motels. His time as a Deputy U.S. Marshal, before that career crashed and burned, ensured he knew where all of the city’s underground types operated.

Hank opened the wall-safe and grabbed his Glock 26 nine-millimeter pistol. It was the company’s smallest double stacked weapon at six and a half inches long, four inches tall, and an inch wide. It held a ten-round magazine with one in the chamber. As a striker fired gun the trigger pull was the same, every time.

Hank carried an extra seventeen-round magazine in his left front pocket, giving him a total of twenty-eight chances to solve any problem.

He was surgical with the gun.

Hank stored the weapon empty. After taking it out he loaded it. He pressed the slide slightly back and saw the glint of a Federal Hydra-Shock round in the chamber. The nine-millimeter bullet expanded when in hit flesh and left a huge wound channel. It was extremely effective. He put the Glock in a leather holster on his left ankle.

The pistol wasn’t his only preparation. He had practiced boxing three times a week for the past decade. Since he was a smaller guy he liked to really know how to fight.

The art kept him ready in case he ever needed to defend himself and his Glock wasn’t the right choice. His messed-up foot from back in Iraq gave him some grief in the gym, but he never stopped training.

In his right front pocket went a knife, four zip-ties, and a thick stack of twenty-dollar bills.

He put on a plain t-shirt flecked in paint, canvas work pants, and some beat up leather work boots. A trashed Atlanta Braves baseball hat completed the look.

Hank hopped in his Ford Bronco and headed to a no-tell motel. A loose plan was forming. When he was a Marshal, he seemed to find a fugitive at this place once a month. He knew a lot of working girls hung out there.

Driving from his cabin out in the country to the Day’s Inn on the 1000 block of Abercorn was like going from Mayberry to Somalia.

Hank felt his senses prick up. Suspicious eyes followed him as he rounded the corner into the parking lot. It felt like he was back in the war.

Hank shut off his truck and waited, letting the location breathe and settle. Everywhere has an ecosystem. Hank wanted to get a feel for the motel’s before entering.

He watched a few hand-to-hand drug deals. There were some couples entering and leaving rooms. After a few hours he had a solid sense of what was going on. Two lookouts were posted up for the prostitution. Two were for the drug deals. There was an old woman tending to the worker’s kids, the little ones played in a dirt lot near the parking lot.

He had to earn the lookout’s trust, get access to the girls, and get one to spill about Kazinski, if she even knew the guy. The odds were stacked against him, but he needed the info, and this was the only place he could start. Ignoring his bubbling stomach and the sweaty palms, he steeled his reserve. The nervousness worked with his cover. It made him look like any other new John. 

Hank exited his truck. He walked through fast food wrappers, past beat-up plaster walls, and up to the eastern-most prostitute lookout. Hank’s head was down and his hands were in his pockets. His chest hammered and adrenaline flooded his blood stream. The smell of human waste and cigarette smoke filled his nostrils. Trap music lightly tickled the air.

“Yo,” the lookout said. “What’s up cracker, what you want?” He was small with stained teeth.

Hank looked up and made eye contact. Hank recognized the man… but from where?

The lookout stared Hank down, hard. The lookout’s eye’s narrowed and his face became concrete. Recognition flashed.

“Five-O,” the lookout yelled to the entire motel. Then he turned and sprinted to the back of the building. Hank watched him drop a small baggie of crack and throw a knife.

“Wait, I’m not a cop anymore. I just like to party.” Hank said to the runner, laughing to himself at how insane the comment was. Hank turned and saw the entire area was a ghost town. Only grandma and kids remained.

“Seriously,” Hank said. “I’m just a big fan of the call girls. Not a pig.”

When he got back to his truck he saw the front driver’s side tire was slashed.

After putting on the spare he made his way to the Alamo Plaza on Bay Street. Hank readied himself for the headache that was about to come. Second time’s the charm… he hoped.

Pulling in, he observed a similar environment. Lookouts were in place, but he only saw three. Also, they seemed to be covering both the pimps and drug dealers. Seemed smart on them for consolidating security. An effective business tries to keep overhead low.

After watching for a couple hours Hank approached the western-most watchman. As he walked up, he took the time to make sure he didn’t recognize the guy from the past. The fella looked young, about fifteen. He was basketball-tall and gangly.

“What’s up dog? Need a little somethin?”

The kid’s voice was smooth and kind. It felt good when it hit the ear. He should be on the radio or working voice-over in Hollywood, not guarding crack and hookers in Savannah.

Hank’s nervousness shone through. He didn’t try to hide it. He was a horrible actor. The U.S. Marshals never let him work undercover.

“Um… yea… hi. I, uh, wanted to talk to a girl,” Hank said.

“Chill out. You seem sketch as hell. This ain’t no thing,” the kid said. “I got you. What kind of girl you want?”

“Asian… I guess,” Hank said, remembering Kazinski’s preferences.

“This is Savannah. We got Chocolate or Vanilla.”

“What?”

“You want a crack head or a meth head?”

“I’m confused. If Asian isn’t an option, can I get a white girl?”

“Meth head it is. Head over to room seventeen. My girl Betty is in there.”

The watcher gestured towards the room, looked down at his phone, and sent a text.

“Thanks.”

“Now you only gonna see Betty. But just so you know, Betty got friends. Some real hardcore pipe-hittin brothers. Betty says the magic word and these boys are going to get medieval on you. Understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Also, I know I sound all friendly, but don’t let that fool you. I don’t play. You do me wrong and it won’t work out so well.”

“Got it.”

“Aight, let me see your dick.”

“What? I thought I was going to see a lady.”

“I ain’t sucking dick,” the watcher said. His voice was soft and kind. “What I look like, a little sweet boy?”

“I’m confused.”

“No cop is going to whip out his dick in the middle of a parking lot.”

“I imagine not.”

“But some horny John will.”

“Makes sense.”

“So, let me see your dick.”

Hank laughed inside. His dick had been out in many parking lots on many continents. He unzipped and showed off the goods. He swayed back and forth. A smile crossed his face. Hank made a mental note to kill Marvin if this all worked out.

“That’s a good cracker. Ya’ll crazy as hell. Time to go meet your date. Give me twenty dollars. Once you get in the room give Betty forty more.”

Hank reached in his pocket and did as he was told. He fished out exactly three bills. He didn’t need anyone seeing the wad of cash. After paying, Hank went over and knocked on room seventeen’s door.

“Hey daddy. Come on in,” a voice said from inside the room.

Hank pushed the door and stepped inside. A sheet over the window filtered the light into a piss-yellow glow. It smelled like a gym locker room and axe body-spray. He could taste the sadness. He walked over and gave her the cash.

Betty sat on a tired bed. Her age was impossible to determine, but the meth had not been kind. Her skin was translucent. She wore an ill-fitting emerald nightie.

 “Hey daddy. Little birdy told me you wanted a good time.”

She didn’t make eye contact. There were track marks in both arms. A smoking glass pipe was on the table in the corner.

“A man likes to feel good,” Hank said.

“I’ll make your toes curl, sweetness,” Betty said.

Hank had to get this encounter moved to an interview fast. Betty stood and started to take off her lingerie.

“Betty, how would you like to make sixty more dollars?”

Her eyes stitched together and she frowned.

“I’m not into any kinky stuff.”

“I just want to talk.”

 “About what? I can do dirty talk, but you still got to pay full price.”

Hank pulled out his smart phone and tapped up a picture of Kazinski.

“Do you know this guy?”

She looked at the photo. Hank saw recognition in her face.

“I don’t talk about my friends with anyone, Sugar. You might as well call me Vegas.”

“What? Call you Vegas?”

“Yup. Cause what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

Hank laughed out loud. He knew it was time to cut to the chase. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his entire wad of bribe money. It was approximately five hundred dollars, all in twenties. Betty’s eyes got wide.

“Ok, Vegas, how much is a little information going to cost me?”

Hank heard the room’s door. Turning he saw a large man lumber in. The visitor was a foot taller than Hank, fat, frowning, and wore sunglasses. He was holding a chrome pistol Hank recognized. The Desert Eagle .50 caliber. A hand cannon.

“Big Nasty,” Betty said, “I got this on lock. Scoot on out of here, Sugar.”

“Naw girl,” Nasty said while turning towards Hank. “Time for you to shut up. I got questions. What you really doin here, cracker?”

Hank took a step backwards and looked left and right. The only exit was the window and the door. Nasty was in front of both.

“What are you getting at, Nasty? I’m not sure I understand.” Hank said. “O, and let me tie my shoe.”

“Wonder bread, you’re asking questions about stuff that don’t concern you. You’re asking questions about that dead man on the news. You’re hassling my girl instead of paying my girl. Time is money. You’re wasting both. That’s going to cost.”

Hank’s right hand slipped underneath his pants. He unsnapped the holster and gripped the Glock. It felt like home.

“So, cracker, how about you show me that stack of cash you playing with,” Nasty said.

The fat gangster pointed the Desert Eagle at Hank’s head.

Hank looked at the gun and time slowed. His hearing became muffled and the edges of his vision blurred. His heart rate spiked. Somewhere on the edge of reality he noticed Betty slink out of the room.

Hank kept looking down.

“Well, Nasty, it’s like this. They say my brother killed that guy on the news. I just want to get to the bottom of it. I’m not looking for trouble. We can work something out.”

Hank felt sweat roll down his spine. It was cold and slow. He was still kneeling and squeezing the pistol.

“It’s already worked out,” Nasty said. “Give me that stack and walk away.”

“That’s it?”

“Hopefully I don’t smoke you.”

“I’m going to take that deal.”

“All right, cracker, stand up and walk.”

Nasty slid left. He shifted the gun to his other hand and reached out for Hank’s cash. The movement cleared the path to door.

Hank took a deep breath. He flicked out with his left hand and swatted away the Desert Eagle. From the crouch he exploded towards the open door. He flew out of the room while drawing and gripping the Glock.

He slid into the breezeway on his right side and kicked the door closed. Ten feet to his right was a set of red-brick stairs.

Hank’s mind screamed: Move. Get away from where Nasty would aim. Hank crawled into the dusty stair-well. The knuckles on his right hand were scuffed up and bleeding. He was still holding the Glock.

As soon as the door shut Nasty screamed, and started a string of words. With every word he fired a round.

Hank felt a change in air pressure. He pressed himself against the bricks and focused on remaining calm.

Bang. “Piece”

Bang. “Of”

Bang. “Trash”

Bang. “Loser”

Bang. “Scum”

Bang. “Cracker”

Click.

“O hell.”

Nasty’s gun was empty.

 Hank peeked out around the corner of the stair-well. The air was smoky with a pink tinge from the impacted bricks.

There was an explosion of cheap particle board and the large gangster stood yelling on the balcony.

Hank aimed his Glock. The red fiber optic dot rested on Nasty’s sternum.

“Drop the pistol,” Hank said.

Nasty pressed his gun’s magazine release and dropped the empty. He reached into his back pocket pulling out a fully loaded seven rounder. He slammed it into the handle and reached for the slide release to put a round in the chamber.

Hank focused on his gun’s front sight. He pressed the trigger straight to the rear. The first shot broke. As soon as the sight returned Hank squeezed again. As the criminal fell Hank fired two more rounds.

Four shots in the blink of an eye.

Nasty lay still in front of the hotel room. Blood started to pool. Hank heard Betty screaming.

Hank counted four holes in Nasty. The gangster was bleeding from the stomach, left shoulder, right thigh, and gun hand. Nasty began to rattle.

Hank kept his Glock aimed in and walked over. He kicked the Desert Eagle away from the pimp’s hand.

“You done now, cracker,” Nasty said. “My people gonna put a hit out. Then they gonna put a root on you. Got you twice. Bitch.”

“I think your girl Betty’ll call the ambulance. I don’t think any of those wounds will kill you. So…”

“You’re done. This isn’t over.”

Hank wasn’t sure what to do. He had never shot someone while not on government business.

“Ok…” Hank said. “I guess see you later?”

Nasty didn’t respond, he just laid there struggling to breathe. Hank considered first aid, but didn’t want to risk catching whatever blood-borne diseases Nasty surely hosted. Hank reached into the hotel room and grabbed a small plastic trash can. He placed it upside down over the Desert Eagle. Then he picked up the four brass 9mm casings from his Glock.

Hank left quickly. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in the cell next to his brother.

He went the long way home, checking to make sure no one was following him. Halfway back he stopped in a Piggly-Wiggly Grocery Store’s parking lot, rolled down the windows, and called Marvin’s defense lawyer.

After Hank finished hiring the lawyer for himself, he called Erica.

It was all going to work out.

As Hank turned off the phone he heard a smooth and kind voice call out over his left shoulder.

Marvin never left the jail.


J.B. Stevens lives in the Southeastern United States with his wife and daughter.

His writing has been featured in Mystery Tribune, Noir Nation, Criminal Element, Tough Crime, Out of the Gutter, Close To The Bone, Thriller Magazine, and other publications.

He is a veteran of the Iraq war where he earned a Bronze Star. Prior to the war, he was an undefeated Mixed Martial Arts Fighter. J.B. graduated from The Citadel.

He can be found online at twitter.com/IamJBStevens and jb-stevens.com

In Association with Fossil Publications