Diners, Dives, and Dirty Deeds

by David F. Berens

  Diners, Dives, and Dirty Deeds

  A Jack and Alison Thriller

  David Berens

  DINERS, DIVES & DIRTY DEEDS

  A Jack And Allison Thriller

  By: David F. Berens

  All Rights Reserved © 2018 by David F. Berens

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

  Contact the Author at:

  http://www.DavidFBerens.com

  Diners, Dives & Dirty Deeds: A Jack And Alison Thriller is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For seekers of treasure around the world.

  May you attract all that is bright, shiny, and priceless.

  Contents

  Introduction

  Diners, Dives, and Dirty Deeds

  Prologue

  1. Rusty Bob’s Soda Shop

  2. A Million Dollar Emerald

  3. Ezra Tate and the Chocolate Cake

  4. Brunswick Stew

  5. The Dogs or the Knife

  6. Shotguns and Trailers

  7. Hiddenite

  8. Secret Ingredients

  9. Bear Necessities

  10. Fight or Flight

  11. Brunswick Stew Too

  Afterword

  Also by David Berens

  Goats, Boats, and Killer Cutthroats

  1. Poof! Montana!

  2. Four Men and a Body

  Introduction

  So, I am sure many of you know me as a Tropical Thriller and Action Adventure writer. (See the Troy Bodean series and the Jo Bennett series.)

  This series is a bit of a departure. I wanted to write something that is more straight forward, with less gore, less harsh crime, a little romance, and a couple to serve as the protagonist.

  With a lot of help from another writer friend of mine, we came up with the characters of Jack - a seasoned photographer between assignments and Alison - a green journalist who has been assigned to a couple of ridiculous beats.

  When she finally gets a chance to break out, she needs help. Luckily, her hero appears in the form of Jack - a guy I really like!

  This is their first adventure and I hope you get to know these two and love them as much as I do.

  There are already two more completed installments that are going through editing and production and will be released soon. A fourth is in development as well as a little prequel. So there is PLENTY of Jack and Alison on the way.

  If you’d like to sign up to my reader group, I’ll be sure to keep you posted on the upcoming releases. Click Here to sign up.

  -David Berens

  Diners, Dives, and Dirty Deeds

  A Jack & Alison Thriller #1

  Prologue

  The hillbilly with the knife shoved my face into the moist, orange clay. I had bloodied my elbows and scraped my knees kicking and screaming trying to break loose. But that just made him pull back harder with his vise-like hands against my throat until it seriously felt like he was about to break my neck. I couldn’t breathe at all.

  I tried to calm myself and gather my wits as he tied my wrists behind my back with a thin, hard cord. It didn’t help that Alison was still screaming. Alison? Oh, that’s right, I haven’t introduced you to her yet. All in good time.

  Her screams were muffled as he stuffed a bandana into her mouth and I heard her gag a few times through the stained red cloth. I staggered to my knees and the man jerked her up around between us. He pressed his knife against her throat and a thin trickle of blood ran down her neck.

  “Just shut up and cooperate, or your girlfriend gits it.”

  I could almost hear the toothless man smacking Ned Beatty on the behind, telling him to squeal like a pig. I think that’s when the terror really started to sink in and chill my spine. I wondered if we were going to make it out of this alive. I promised myself I’d do whatever I could to give Alison a chance to run, to escape this hillbilly. But he had us right where he wanted us... for now.

  He shoved us forward in front of him, grabbing my arm now and pushing the point of his knife into my back.

  “We’re gone walk this way,” he said. “No funny business, or you’re gonna have more holes than a piece of Swiss cheese.”

  The strange mention of food made my mouth water while his rancid breath made my stomach turn at the same time. It was odd to think this man knew what Swiss cheese was and even odder that I was hungry again. I’d just finished off what must’ve been a pound of chocolate cake… and that’s how we wound up here in the first place.

  So, let me back up a bit and bring you up to speed on how Mr. Deliverance got the drop on us and started showing off his new knife.

  1

  Rusty Bob’s Soda Shop

  I walked into the old timey Soda Shop on Main Street-Rusty Bob’s Soda and Burgers. The place was a holdover from the 50’s. Even the soda jerk wore a striped shirt and a bow tie with the goofy paper hat like they had back when Motown played on the jukebox. Everything in this place sizzled and got a hefty dose of butter slathered on it while it jumped and popped around on the grill. I was tired, and smelling the greasy goodness wafting through the air, I realized I was starving. But every stainless steel table was taken. As were the red vinyl-lined booths.

  I dodged unruly kids just sprung out of school on summer break to place my order at the counter; then I scanned the small room one more time for an empty table. Rusty Bob’s had it going on. This crowd had turned over twice while I stood in line to request my quarter pound of beef topped with all of Jimmy Buffet’s favorites. And the fries… ooh, the salty, peppery, savory fries. They even had a sign that proudly boasted their use of beef tallow to cook them. McDonald’s screwed the pooch on that one when they stopped using it for theirs. Arteries be damned, I was going to enjoy a super-sized portion with a generous slathering of ketchup.

  While every seat was still taken, what I found instead was even better. I felt my energy shoot up three notches and my pulse took a sudden jolt. A very cute girl had a booth to herself toward the far end. She was scratching notes on a steno-pad and occasionally clicking the keys of an outdated laptop. She looked about my age—twenty-three or so. Okay, maybe I’m not twenty-three anymore, but it’s all in your mind anyway, right? Her hair was pulled back into one of those messy ponytails that leaves a few wisps of hair dangling around the cheeks. Her sweatshirt proudly proclaimed her alma mater-Elon University. One of those schools that liked to think of itself as Ivy League, but not quite on the same level as Princeton or Harvard. Still, for this town, not too shabby.

  Davidson, North Carolina is a small town, and the crowded Soda Shop seemed a social staple. The kind of place where people shared booths that weren’t full, right? The logic seemed appropriate to me. I did my best to look surprised when she looked up and caught my eye.

  Green eyes. She had electric, stunning, emerald eyes. Wowza.

  “Hi. Mind if I join you?”

  “No, not at all,” she reflexively answered, scooping her notepad off the table and shoving it into her purse beside her.

  I unslung my camera bag and pushed it into the seat ahead of me. Thankfully, I had dressed the part of the photographer in the field-cargo shorts, long-sleeve denim shirt, olive green vest with pockets overflowing with batteries and chewing gum, and my favorite Boston Red Sox baseball cap. Eat your heart out, Ansel Adams.

 
“Thanks. I thought if I waited till I finished my work I’d miss the lunch crowd. So much for that plan.”

  I watched as she gave me the first five-second once over that happens any time you meet a stranger of the opposite sex: the assessment of danger, the sensing of intent, and the level of attractiveness. She wore a white blouse with the sleeves rolled to her elbows and dark jeans. I was reading her press pass in her shirt pocket and looked up to find her eyebrow arching at me.

  “Oh.” I almost stuttered, but I caught myself before I did. “I wasn’t looking at your… I mean…um… I see you’re a journalist.”

  I pointed at her chest where I had seen the pass. She held her questioning gaze for a second and I wondered if I had blown the five-second assessment. I swallowed and shrugged. I smiled broadly and hoped it was enough to win her back over.

  “Uh huh. So, what kind of work do you do?” she asked, with a pretty strong drawl that I missed the first time she spoke.

  I looked down at my outfit and then back up at her. I had thought it was obvious, but maybe not.

  “I’m a photographer. I was shooting website photos for the new store down the street. Um, Mast General I think is the name of it.”

  “Wow, that sounds exciting.”

  “Exciting? Yeah.” I laughed. “Who do you write for?”

  “I’m at the Mecklenburg Weekly.”

  “Well, that sounds about exactly as exciting as what I do.”

  She gave me a tiny token laugh and took a sip of her water. It didn’t matter how long I looked, her eyes were captivating and unique. I had never seen anything so green and bright. They practically sparkled under the naked bulb hanging over us.

  An older lady suddenly appeared and laid a plate down in front of her-an ordinary looking club sandwich, some potato salad, and a side of mixed fruit. I wondered how my plate of greasy diner food would sit with my new friend.

  The lady looked at me and said, “I’ll bring yours right out, hon.”

  “Oh, uh, I…” I said, intending to wave off my order, just in case, or at least have it packed up to go. But the waitress was gone before I could stop her.

  The girl across from me, as stunning as she was, was turning her plate around, contemplating the food with absolutely not interest. She took a deep breath and let out an intense sigh.

  “So, if you don’t mind me asking,” I said to my booth mate, “you don’t seem to be very enthusiastic. Everything okay?”

  She picked up her plastic fork and poked at her potato salad. “I don’t know. This just didn’t turn out like I expected.”

  “The potato salad? Are you a vinegar girl instead of mayonnaise?” I grinned and waited for the rimshot. That got a little smile out of her.

  “Ha. No.” She said and took a bite of her potato salad.

  She chewed it differently than I might have. I’m more of a shoveler than a taster.

  “This is actually pretty good,” she said. “It might be the best thing I’ve eaten all day and that’s pretty sad.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I’m doing an article on all the restaurants in Davidson. There have been five new ones open up in just the last few months.”

  “So, what’s the problem? Aren’t they any good?”

  “I guess so I mean, it’s not the restaurants; it’s the job.”

  The server appeared again with my food. The burger was still sizzling and the fries were practically dripping grease.

  “If you need anything else, just let me know, sugar.”

  Then she snapped her fingers and disappeared leaving me high and dry to explain away the cholesterol bomb sitting in front of me. Okay, not really, but it sure seemed that way.

  “I think that’s what I should’ve ordered.” The girl’s shoulders slumped.

  I pushed my burger to the side and leaned forward. “Okay, let’s have the whole story. What’s really the matter?”

  “Photographer, eh? More like part-time psychiatrist?”

  “Comes with the territory.”

  She swallowed a bite and said, “I thought I could get a good job with a journalism degree. I’d travel to exotic locations and meet fascinating people. Instead, I’m covering every road closing and fifth grade graduation, and barely making enough to pay my rent.”

  She paused. I wondered if she was going to continue. Her eyes threatened to well up with tears, but she collected herself before they did.

  “I didn’t think it would be so hard.” Somehow she squeezed an extra syllable into “hard.” I’ve tried to talk southern, but I can’t do it. I must not have the gene. On some people it sounds unintelligent, but on her, it just sounded cute.

  “So is it just the job, or is it the money?”

  “It’s the money. The Weekly barely pays anything, but at least it is a steady paycheck so I have to keep it. I do some freelance work, too, but that’s hard to get. I pitch magazines a lot, and sometimes I get an article, but they don’t pay but a hundred dollars or so. I mean… I have to freelance just to make ends meet.”

  “Tell me about it.” I picked up my burger and took a big bite before continuing.

  Rude, maybe, but I was hungry. I swear she looked at the fries longingly and I almost pushed them over toward her.

  “It’s a lot the same for me. I don’t have any steady paycheck. I have to hustle for every dollar I get,” I said.

  “How do you do it?”

  “Well, I have a website, Instagram, Tumblr, Snapchat, and a few other sites to post on, and I’m always doing little things to it to keep the content fresh. I put up new stuff every day so my work will come up high in searches.”

  “I don’t have all that. All I have is Facebook.”

  “You need to get a real website at the very least. I’ll bet everyone you pitch to looks for you online. But it takes more than just a website. You need to put yourself out there as much as you can. I make my rounds with all the local bridal shops and try to find all the wedding planners so they can recommend me. I visit the marketing agencies to offer my services through them. Pretty much everything they advertise needs pictures. It’s a lot of legwork, but it pays off.”

  She frowned. “I guess I need to figure out how to do that.”

  “Here,” I said. “I have exactly what you need.”

  I pulled my camera bag onto my lap. It’s a backpack that I carry all my cameras and lenses in. A padded grid inside the main compartment separates most of the gear, but there are some outside pockets on it, too. I unzipped one of the outer pockets and pulled out a short stack of tapered cups and a red foam ball. Her face was curious and her eyes glittered with a new spark of interest. I had her.

  “Three cups, one ball,” I said as I arranged them in front of me on the table. “I’ll place the ball under this cup.”

  I mixed the cups around a little slowly and revealed the ball again. Her smile was growing as I moved my hands around the table.

  “Keep your eye on the cup with the ball,” I said as I mixed them some more, just a little faster.

  I stopped suddenly. “Now, which cup has the ball?”

  “The middle one.”

  I lifted the cup to show that she was right, and she smiled.

  “Keep watching,” I said as I mixed them quicker this time.

  “Hey! You crossed them. I mean—”

  “Which one?” I asked with a smile.

  She reached across and touched the cup on my right. I lifted it to reveal nothing underneath. I then lifted the center cup to reveal the ball.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Let’s go for two out of three.”

  I mixed them up again this time I was up to speed, moving them faster than most people can follow.

  “This one,” she said, tapping the cup on my left. She was leaning over the table with real interest now.

  “You sure?” I teased.

  “Definitely.” Her eyebrow arch was back, but this time it wasn’t suspicious… it was intrigued.

  “Well, first let’
s check this one.” I lifted the cup on my right to show it was empty.

  She nodded confidently.

  “So far, so good,” I said. “Let’s try this one.”

  I lifted the center cup. Empty, also.

  “Ha!” she said, reaching for the third cup. “Two out of three.”

  She lifted the cup and three red balls rolled out, one of them falling onto the floor at our feet.

  She jumped back and let out a squeal. She cover her mouth and giggled as several of the other patrons stared our way. Can she get any cuter?

  “How’d you do that?” she demanded.

  “A true magician never reveals his secrets,” I replied with my best mock smugness.

  The magic server lady appeared again, this time standing up from below the end of the table and handing me my stray ball. If I ever needed a magician’s assistant, she was the one.

  “Nice trick, Houdini,” she said, and she vanished again.

  I wanted another second to explain that Houdini had never performed close up magic, but I was a second too late.

  “Are you a real magician?” the girl with the auburn hair and emerald eyes asked across the white, marbleized Formica tabletop.

  “Strictly amateur, but I’m working on it.”

  She giggled a little, reaching back for her food. I realized that through all of this, introductions, lunch, and parlor tricks, I had no idea what her name was.

  “Name’s Jack,” I said, extending my hand toward her.

  “Alison.” She shook my hand and I wondered if she saw the sparks fly.