BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense)

by John W. Mefford

  BOOKER

  Box Set #1

  BOOKER – Streets of Mayhem (Book 1)

  BOOKER – Tap That (Book 2)

  BOOKER – Hate City (Book 3)

  By

  John W. Mefford

  ALSO BY JOHN W. MEFFORD

  Redemption Thriller Series

  The Alex Troutt Thrillers

  AT Bay (Book 1)

  AT Large (Book 2)

  AT Once (Book 3)

  AT Dawn (Book 4)

  AT Dusk (Book 5)

  AT Last (Book 6)

  The Ivy Nash Thrillers

  IN Defiance (Book 7)

  IN Pursuit (Book 8)

  IN Doubt (Book 9)

  Break IN (Book 10)

  IN Control (Book 11)

  IN The End (Book 12)

  The Ozzie Novak Thrillers

  ON Edge (Book 13)

  Game ON (Book 14)

  ON The Rocks (Book 15)

  Shame ON You (Book 16)

  ON Fire (Book 17)

  ON The Run (Book 18)

  Other Thriller Series

  The Booker Series

  BOOKER – Streets of Mayhem (Volume 1)

  BOOKER – Tap That (Volume 2)

  BOILERMAKER – A Lt. Jack Daniels / Booker Mystery (Volume 2.5)

  BOOKER – Hate City (Volume 3)

  BOOKER – Blood Ring (Volume 4)

  BOOKER – No Más (Volume 5)

  BOOKER – Dead Heat (Volume 6)

  The Greed Series

  FATAL GREED (Greed Series #1)

  LETHAL GREED (Greed Series #2)

  WICKED GREED (Greed Series #3)

  GREED MANIFESTO (Greed Series #4)

  Table of Contents

  BOOKER – Streets of Mayhem

  BOOKER – Tap That

  BOOKER – Hate City

  Excerpt from BOOKER – Blood Ring (Volume 4)

  Connect with John

  Bibliography

  Copyright Page

  BOOKER – Streets of Mayhem

  A Novel

  Book 1

  By

  John W. Mefford

  1

  He didn’t just want my job, or my admission of guilt through his own tainted eyes—he wanted to break my spirit. That was as obvious as the bulging, crumpled skin on Kenny Young’s sloped forehead. After a ten-minute stare down where neither of us flinched, he relented and broke the silence.

  “Your badge. Give it up.” The barrel-chested man with three gold stripes on his sleeve flicked two beefy fingers. “Now!”

  Out of his sight, my hands curled around the armrests, a single nail carving a crevice into faded wood. Breathing came in short bursts, but I did everything in my power to keep all the anger and resentment deep inside while I debated how to handle this asshole. Thus far, my two options wavered between lunging across the desk and pounding the shit out of him, to removing my gold-plated badge and flinging it like a Chinese star. I envisioned the steel edge chopping off a chunk of his oversized snout. Believe me, Kenny Young—known by the rank and file as KY because we all knew he only wanted to stick his boot up your ass—deserved no better.

  “What if I say no?” I knew my response was weak, immature even. But after seven years on the Dallas police force, despite being on the receiving end of balloons filled with cow piss, self-propelled loogies, and a host of other blood-oriented assaults, I’d begun to believe a single person could make a difference. Even one who wore a blue uniform and constantly interacted with the destitute and desperate. They needed me the most, I realized. Yet, I spent too much of my time dealing with bureaucracy—until the whole world came crashing down on me because I wouldn’t pretend I didn’t see the incident.

  “No?” He cocked his red head to one side. I think I saw steam puffing from his nostrils.

  My eyes shifted to his, then I looked over his shoulder, catching the late afternoon glare through dusty blinds, recalling three nights earlier.

  <><><>

  My partner Paco and I had been second on the scene. A disturbance was reported behind a bar off lower Greenville Avenue. If you were under the age of seventy and had ever partied in your life, Greenville Avenue had surely been the setting of a few memorable stories—mine included, especially back in my college days. Greenville Avenue had been the epicenter for Dallas party animals for six or seven decades and boasted a legendary bar scene full of eclectic holes in the ground.

  “Whatta we got?” Adjusting my hat, I looked beyond the first officer I spotted, Jorge Ortiz, who was standing in the middle of a dark parking lot.

  “Ernie’s got it under control. A couple of freeloadin’ homeless guys got into it by a dumpster, that’s all. I’m just keeping the drunk kids away so no one jumps in and then we’ve got an escalated event on our hands.” Ortiz nodded like it was another day at the office.

  “Doesn’t he need backup?” I peered over Ortiz’s shoulder toward a darkened corner where two brick buildings appeared to meet, the smell of beer looming in the cool, fall air.

  “Not needed. That’s why I’m over here. Those two are so wasted, they couldn’t hurt a fly.”

  I didn’t drive all the way over here to not ensure we had full containment. That was my job, even after one o’clock a.m. on a Saturday night. I took two steps, and Ortiz shuffled my direction with his hands up.

  “Dude, seriously. It’s not worth your time. It’s not worth our time. Ernie’s wrapping it up, and we’ll be out of here in ten minutes.”

  My instinct was to raise my arms and barrel right through him, but over the years, I’d forced myself to exhibit a bit of restraint in these types of situations. A bit.

  I reset my hat and paused, looking at Ortiz’s hands and then into his dark eyes. “Dude, I’m going to walk over and make sure the scene is under control.” I glanced back at Paco, then swiped my arms down like I was a defensive end rushing the quarterback, knocking Ortiz’s extended arms out of my way.

  Ortiz spoke to my back. “Booker. Don’t go there. I’m telling you, Ernie’s got it under control.”

  I held up the back of my hand.

  Ortiz responded in a hushed tone. “Prick.”

  Seven years ago, as a rookie, my anger would have hit an instant boil, and I would have turned on a dime and physically taken his scrawny ass and forced him to taste concrete. Not unlike many other times in my life, I’d created a little compartment for that type of comment.

  One day, that compartment might burst open—just not now.

  Cops were supposed to be your teammates, but I’d learned a few had ulterior motives, so Ortiz’s act of deflection got my attention. Leaving Paco back to deal with Ortiz, my body tensed as I weaved around a dozen parked cars and a gaggle of motorcycles. I moved closer and slowed my pace, listening for evidence of someone, something. I heard muffled voices, one of them agitated. I chose not to call out as I walked slowly, heel to toe, toward an opening, a small alley. I neared the edge of a brick building and stopped.

  “You listen to me, you piece of horseshit.”

  I followed the voice, leaning forward with my hand on my holstered pistol. My eyes caught Sims holding a fistful of shirt, jerking a black man two inches from his face. The man wore torn clothes, each pant leg a different height, but both exposed his ankles. His afro looked matted, with patches of gray sprinkled on the black top. With the full moon overhead, I saw fear on his crinkled face.

  Sims raised his baton and swung it toward the man’s knee. The homeless man howled like a coyote in hea
t and fell to his left.

  “You gone and fucked with the wrong cop, you hear me?”

  I wanted to jump in, but something told me I had to see what was going on, all at the risk of one man who didn’t appear to be a threat to Sims or anyone else. Come to think of it, where was the other homeless guy?

  “I didn’t mean no disrespect.” The man’s voice shook. He was on the verge of crying.

  Sims unleashed three quick blows to the man’s body, and I could hear his lungs force out a guttural breath.

  I took a step into the alley, but no one noticed.

  “Why—” the man started to utter.

  Sims wasn’t taking questions. He slapped the man’s arms away then swatted his baton across his face in the blink of an eye.

  “You. Don’t. Fuck. With. Me.” Sims, obviously enjoying his moment of power, hulked over the older, helpless man.

  Knowing I hadn’t witnessed the whole story and I was about to cross that line of blind trust with fellow cops, I released a breath and made myself known.

  “Sims, it’s Booker. What’s going on back here, man?” I took four more steps.

  He jerked his head my way, his knuckles white from gripping the baton.

  “Nothing. I got it under control. Just a shithead loser trying to steal from this bar. I think he’s got a knife on him so I had to teach him a lesson, that’s all.” Sims wiped sweat from his forehead.

  I walked closer and kneeled down. I grabbed the man’s coat and turned him over.

  “George?”

  The man whimpered. We all knew George, a harmless man, who smoked a little weed, but, frankly, was more of a friend to cops than most citizens. He’d actually given me a few tips in the last three years or so to arrest a slew of gangbangers and two violent drug dealers.

  I patted down George and found no knife. No weapon of any kind. Blood glistened from an open wound on his head. I stood up and made sure I was in between Sims and the injured, defenseless man.

  “I think it’s time to move on. I’ll call an ambulance for George here.”

  Sims laughed and glanced down at George, then he popped the end of the baton in his opposite hand.

  “Did I just hear some low-ranking punk telling a corporal what he should do?”

  I pursed my lips. “Sims, it’s not worth it. I don’t know what he did to piss you off, but George hasn’t hurt anyone, and I never heard of him stealing anything. He’s harmless. Let’s call it a night and move on.”

  A half-foot shorter, Sims moved within six inches from my chin. I could smell his rank breath. “He’s my Chicken George Bitch. Do you want to be my bitch too…boy?”

  I’d been teased my whole life for being biracial. Too white for some, my black curls not kinky enough to ever grow into a true “afro,” my pigmentation far too creamy. Too black for most others. My calloused skin could take the peppering of ignorant comments and usually deflect them with little effort. But this one stung. It more than stung; it penetrated my core and exploded, spraying shrapnel of disgust and anger throughout my body. Sims represented everyone who’d thought they were better than me. On top of that, I realized what I’d just witnessed wasn’t just a cop who’d lost his temper. It was deep-seated hatred. Sims was trying to intimidate me, scare me into running off and leaving him to finish this little side business with a man who hadn’t hurt anyone. For what reason, I still wasn’t sure.

  For all of that…I snapped.

  I turned back to George and I could see the whites of his eyes staring up at me, likely wondering if I would do anything or if I’d leave him alone with Sims. Strangely, I released a quick chuckle. I guess I couldn’t believe I was still working with such trash. I glanced back to look at Sims, whose baton was raised. That fucker was going to sucker-punch me!

  On pure instinct, I hurled two quick body shots to his protruding gut, and Sims let out a grunt and fell forward. I swung my knee up and caught him on the chin, which set up a huge roundhouse right hand that popped his nose. He fell back against the brick wall, and blood gushed. The forty-something cop who appeared to pop steroids like Altoids narrowed his eyes and reset himself. He came at me with everything he had, leveraging all of his weight behind one massive swing of the baton. I guessed the trajectory just right and caught the baton mid-swing in my bare hand. Twisting his arm like a corkscrew, I forced the baton to drop, and I kicked it back toward the alley opening. He quickly hurled his black-soled shoe upward. I jerked left and it glanced off my inner thigh but still connected with my left nut. I went down hard and grabbed my crotch, moaning. That gave Sims time to lunge for his baton. I had just enough energy to trip him, and he fell chin first onto the concrete. I took a few audible breaths and lowered my head, thinking the confrontation was over. A snap and leather movement. I looked over my shoulder. Sims was aiming his pistol right at me.

  “You think you’re better than all of us.” Sims’ gun hand was trembling while he used his left hand to wipe blood out of his eyes.

  I didn’t budge, my eyes riveted on a shaky trigger finger, my air flow all but stopped.

  “Just because you got a degree from UT and you can put two sentences together doesn’t mean shit to me. You’re still just a little nigger trying to act like he fits in with the rest of society.”

  The “n” word. I never used it, even with my black friends. It symbolized ignorance of the highest degree, downgraded people to a lower class, almost sub-human.

  “Sims, this isn’t going to make anything right. Put the gun down,” I said with more authority than I’d intended.

  He glanced over at George who was now leaning against the dumpster, then back at me, like his mental wheels were slowly connecting dots into a fictional story.

  “Booker here came in to help his fellow officer, decorated Corporal Ernie Sims. Booker had convinced Sims that this homeless guy was of no harm to either of them, so the officers talked quietly off to the side. Out of nowhere, the homeless man snatched Sims’ gun out of his holster. A scuffle ensued and the gun went off, killing the young Officer Booker. Then Sims wrestled away control of his firearm and put down the suspect with a lone shot between his eyes.”

  He chuckled at his ability to create substance out of thin air. George began to snivel.

  “Nice try, Sims, but it’s all bullshit. Are you going to admit why you were beating up George here? Be a man and tell me what’s really going on.”

  He looked deep into my eyes and licked his lips.

  “It’s none of your fucking business, half-breed.”

  Gravel popped behind Sims. Someone was approaching the scene.

  “Everything okay?” The distant, accented voice was my partner, Paco. He’d be around the corner in seconds.

  Sims turned and stared into darkness, the direction of Paco’s voice. I wondered if he was thinking of taking out Paco before he had a chance to intercede. I wasn’t going to find out. With his eyes diverted for a brief second, I thrust myself up with all my energy and leaped at Sims. He turned and we collided, the gun fumbling between the two of us. He clawed at me and somehow grabbed the gun before I could. I put my hand over his, and we shook in tandem, trying to gain control. Suddenly, the gun discharged. I didn’t think either of us were hit, but he was able to swing his elbow into my chin. Stars danced over my head.

  “You sick fuck, let go of the gun!” I yelled.

  “Fuck you, nigger,” Sims grunted back.

  I slipped on a can and fell, but I managed to turn him just before we both hit the slime-covered surface. I was on top and seemingly in control, but the gun was still locked between our hands. Without warning, he took one hand off and punched my throat. It felt like I’d just swallowed a basketball, and I grasped for air. He took the opportunity to flip the gun toward me and pull the trigger. The bullet missed, but the explosion triggered a piercing, high-pitched ring in my ear.

  I was sick of screwing with this ignorant asshole. Still unable to hear myself think, I just reacted. I punched Sims in his already bloody
, broken nose, and he yelped like a pathetic, wounded dog. More importantly, the pistol dropped to his side. I kicked it away, then turned around and pummeled his body and face until my hand bled. I don’t know if it lasted for five seconds or five minutes. I just wanted to beat the shit out of him—for everything he was, everyone he represented.

  Finally, Paco pulled me off.

  <><><>

  Blinds flapped shut, then opened again. “Booker, are you with me?” KY asked.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  KY sat back down in his black armchair, crossed his hairy arms. “I’m guessing you’re rethinking this whole thing—you now realize that Corporal Sims was simply doing his job, dealing with an uncooperative suspect.”

  I shook my head. “You push all this ‘by the book’ shit on us every damn day. Now I put something in front of you that really matters. I don’t get it.”

  KY scratched the side of his head. “You just won’t be a team player.”

  He’d ignored my point, and a theory swooped into my frontal lobe. “Don’t tell me—are you involved in this somehow?”

  “I’ve had enough of your crap.”

  “You don’t want to answer my question, it’s obvious. But I’ll answer yours again. I’m not giving you my badge.” Heat crawled up the back of my neck.

  KY popped out of his chair and started jabbing his finger at me.

  “You don’t understand, do you, Booker T. Adams?” KY shook his head and let out a deep southern chuckle. “This isn’t an option. It’s not a trial by jury. It’s a trial by me, your boss. Your slave master.”

  Momma had named me after Booker T. Washington, a transcendent black southern leader who called for avoiding confrontation and bloodshed and, instead, encouraged long-term educational and economic advancement in the black community. A man of peace, the former slave went on to advise presidents, galvanizing generations of all colors and creeds.