by Alan Lee
Sophomore Slump
Written by Alan Lee
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
This 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.
Copyright © 2017 Alan Janney
First Edition
Printed in USA
Cover by Inspired Cover Designs
Formatting by Polgarus
ISBN: 978-0-9983165-2-9 (print)
ISBN: 978-0-9983165-3-6 (ebook)
Sparkle Press
This book.
Made possible by camaraderie.
Specifically…
Adam
Brad
Cory
Daniel
Jesse
Joe
Jon
Nick
Samy
As iron sharpens iron.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Excerpt from the next Mackenzie August novel…
From the Author
Chapter One
I sat in the swivel chair at my new office and thought deep thoughts. Such as, I wished The Killers released as many albums as Coldplay.
And, how does Apple Pay work?
Also, I hoped the first client at my new office looked like Princess Leia. Help me Mackenzie. You’re my only hope.
Perhaps I’d moved here too early. It was August and the heat kept reaching triple digits and my basement’d been cooler. The office was on Campbell Avenue, downtown Roanoke, Virginia. Second floor, above a bookstore and the restaurant Metro. From my window I could see an Orvis and a river of millennials on cellphones streaming to the local farmer’s market. To purchase responsibly grown broccoli. Maybe some elite asparagus. To produce truly exquisite steel-cut urine. All paid for with Apple Pay, pure sorcery.
My building was 1920s classic revival and Beaux-Art, built before World War II. The stairs creaked and the central air-conditioning groaned but I’d moved with certainty that clients would rush the doors with bags of cash. And perhaps be a princess in distress.
Thirty minutes before lunch, the stairs creaked and snapped. A new client. I tried to look busy.
Sheriff Stackhouse entered. I recognized the sheriff from recent campaign posters. Approximately fifty years old. Brown hair showing the first streaks of silver. Excellent physique. Rumored to be a hard-ass. Pretty green eyes. “Mackenzie August?” she said.
“Princess Leia?”
“Beg pardon?”
“I said, I notice you’re not carrying bags of cash.”
“I’m hoping you take Apple Pay,” she said.
“I do not. But you may ogle my new office for free.”
Sheriff Stackhouse wore tight khakis, which flared at her lace-up Kate Spades. Her white button-up shirt was tucked in, sleeves rolled up, collar flicked wide. Rumors were, she was enhanced surgically. I’d heard her described as good breeding wasted on public service.
The sheriff was followed by a man who resembled what a police detective should look like; thick, buzz cut, hairy forearms, snub nose, maybe forty-five. Vaguely resembled a Rottweiler. Not good breeding.
Two clients!
He threw me a nod.
“You look like your father,” Sheriff Stackhouse told me.
“Except handsomer?”
“I haven’t seen him recently. I don’t recollect quite the same breadth of shoulders, though. You played football in college, yes?”
“I was a juggernaut of mediocrity.”
Sheriff Stackhouse sat down on the chair placed opposite mine across the desk. She shifted to accommodate a pistol and badge clipped at the small of her back, and crossed her legs. “You played on Radford University’s first team, if I recall.”
Buzzcut snorted. “Never won a game.” He poked through the stuff on my bookshelf, of which there wasn’t much.
“In my defense,” I said, “we were terrible.”
“I remember reading about you in the papers,” she said. “I’m glad you returned home.”
“Good to be back.”
“Do you have a few minutes to chat with Sergeant Sanders and me?”
“I do.”
She held out her hand and Buzzcut placed an iPad into it. “I’d like to verify some information about you.”
“Sounds exciting.”
She powered on the tablet and ran her finger across the screen. “You were born and raised in Roanoke, Virginia. Played on Radford University’s first football team and earned a dual degree in English and Criminal Justice. After graduation you moved to California and joined the Highway Patrol. Worked your way onto the Los Angeles police force. Was assigned to homicide. Promoted to detective. Got mixed up in the high-profile North murders. Took a leave of absence that became permanent. Briefly worked in a church before moving to South Hill, Virginia and teaching English for one year. Came home last year, couldn’t land a teaching job, so you got your private detective license and contracted out to local law firms. How am I doing so far?”
“I was my apartment building’s chess champion in California.”
She returned to her iPad. “You are an alcoholic. You fought in underground cage matches in Los Angeles. You were reprimanded multiple times while on the force for insubordination. And last year you shot your coworker.”
Buzzcut sniffed, possibly with approval. “Shot the bastard twenty times.”
“Am I still accurate?” she asked.
“Except for the alcoholism. And my coworker needed shooting. And try not to make me sound like a cliche.”
“You come highly recommend by Brad Thompson Law in Salem. He says your work is so good you’re now in demand by other firms. The Los Angeles police captain told me I’d be a horse’s ass if I don’t hire you. And finally, you have a son named Kix.”
“Last but paramount in importance.”
She clicked off the iPad and returned it to Buzzcut. “I’m here to potentially offer you a job, Mr. August.”
“Not interested in police work,” I said.
“Good. I’m not interested in having you in my office.”
“Rude.”
“Roanoke has a gang problem. A significant one. You’re aware of this?”
“Roanoke doesn’t have gangs. Roanoke has illegal organized groups involved in territorial disputes.”
She smiled. Kinda. “You’re quoting me. From the article in the Times a few weeks ago. That’s only bullshit I feed to the press. We have a gang problem.”
; “Oh dear.”
“It stems primarily from narcotics. On the East Coast, cocaine and opiates such as heroin are smuggled in from South America, Mexico, and the Caribbean. Although there are many points of southern ingress, much of it is temporarily warehoused in Atlanta, awaiting distribution. But the drugs don’t stay there. Unfortunately for us, Roanoke is the halfway point between Atlanta and New York City. Seven hours, each way. Billions’ worth of drugs travel up and down Interstate 81, and Roanoke is a convenient meeting place.”
Buzzcut Sergeant Sanders spoke up. “Roanoke’s a staging area. A shit ton gets stashed here by the local gang.”
“Bloods,” I said.
“Yes. Crystal meth hasn’t hit us yet, thank god. We’ve got our hands full as it is.”
I placed my elbows on the table and steepled my fingers. “You’ve come to the right place. I’ll take care of this gang problem.”
She smiled again. Kinda. “Ha ha. It’s a bit beyond one man.”
I kept my fingers steepled, but I pointed one of them at Stackhouse and then at Detective Buzzcut. “Sheriff’s office. And police. You represent different departments.”
Stackhouse answered. “This is a joint endeavor. I’ve taken point but I’ll collaborate with the chief of police.”
“Lucky him.”
“I agree,” she said.
“I met the chief. Or what’s left of him. We shook hands and I nearly killed him.”
Buzzcut snorted and said, “I heard you was funny.”
“Were.”
“What?”
“Were funny. Or are,” I corrected him. “Not was. I know it’s complicated because are and were are both plural, but you does not take singular verbs.”
“The hell you talking about?”
“Don’t blame me, Sanders. It’s the rules.”
“You taught English, huh.”
“Correct.”
He held up a book found on my shelves. “This the fucking Bible?”
“Better be. Else that’s a terribly misleading cover.”
“Why you got it in your office?” he asked.
“To pass the time between my affluent and attractive clients.”
“You a christian?”
“You got a problem with the fucking Bible?”
Buzzcut said, “I’m a christian. Went to an episcopal church when I was a kid.”
“I don’t know what episcopal means.”
“You go to church?”
“I do not.”
He snorted. “Then you ain’t a christian, dope.”
“Sanders, I’m entertaining the possibility you aren’t the world’s foremost expert on the subject.”
“You say weird damn stuff, know that?”
“Boys, we’ve gotten off track. Sanders, close your mouth,” Sheriff Stackhouse said. “We’re here because we need help. I have it on good authority a heavy hitter has recently moved to town.”
“A heavy hitter.”
“Gangs don’t have strict hierarchies or leadership, per se, and in fact Roanoke is even less organized than most. The Bloods are subdivided into neighborhoods, like Lincoln Terrace. But the sets do recognize older and more powerful members. And apparently, the Roanoke Bloods has one. An important one. Nicknamed the General.”
“Your sources are local and low-ranking gang members?”
“Correct. Incarcerated and willing to snitch for reduced prison sentence.”
“How do I help?”
“By returning to the classroom. I’d like fresh eyes and ears inside Patrick Henry High School. I believe the General is active there.”
“You want me to teach.”
She nodded. “Yes. Tenth-grade English.”
“This would interfere with my thriving private detective enterprise.”
“Think of me as a ten-month client.”
“You can’t afford me.”
She gave me a half smile, genuine this time, and shifted in her chair. “Sexy talk for a broke PI.”
“That’s economic profiling. I’m loaded.”
“Yet you live with your father.”
“The August boys stick together.” I made a dignified fist for visual aid. “Solidarity.”
“No interest in teaching?”
“The schools have resource officers. You don’t need me.”
“ROs wear uniforms. Hard to get fresh intel. You know this.”
“I know this,” I said.
“I need someone to listen in the tenth grade. That age is beginning to drive. Becoming more active in gangs. I want to identify the new OG.”
“Original gangster. Roanoke’s new big man.”
“Yes. We know you can handle this because of your well-publicized heroics last year.”
“I’ll pass.”
She sucked lightly on her pearlescent front teeth and tapped her index finger on the chair’s armrest. “What is your hesitation? You were applying for jobs like this last year.”
I shrugged, palms up, winsome smile.
“Now you’re being an ass,” she said.
“I know this.”
“I’ve offended you. I said something uncouth, but I’m unsure what. I didn’t realize men could be so prickly.”
“Only us sensitive types.”
“You do not strike me as a sensitive type.”
“I’m not. But I pass.”
She stood and moved to the door. “I’m not giving up on you yet. Okay?”
“You’ll need to line up behind my many clients with bags of cash.”
“Think about it. Please.”
“Because you asked nicely.”
Sergeant Sanders shot me with his finger and followed her out. He left the door open and the heat poured in.
Chapter Two
The following morning my son Kix and I sat in the kitchen eating breakfast. He was almost two and concentrating for all he was worth on scooping bits of banana into his mouth using an adult spoon. He spurned baby spoons for reasons I hoped would become clear when he began speaking in full sentences.
He was a good-looking kid, no thanks to me. Got the big blue eyes, long lashes, and sudden smile from his mother. His biceps and deltoids, however, left a lot to be desired and he wasn’t keen on curling reps with his firetruck. He took a draught of milk, slammed the cup, and gave me a grin.
Life was good.
We lived in the Grandin neighborhood. Big house on a big corner lot off Windsor Avenue. Big enough to have two staircases, sheer lunacy. A restored 1925 classic brick foursquare, so Timothy August said, with wraparound porch and interior craftsman woodwork. The yard was shaded with hundred-year-old pine, maple, and magnolia trees.
No mother, no cousins, no grandparents, just us August boys. When Timothy August found out we were moving to Roanoke, my old man put his trendy condo in Hunting Hills up for sale and bought this place on the condition we move in.
In my thirties, living with Dad. Just like I planned.
Kix requested more bananas. I told him to use his manners. He did, though he couldn’t pronounce the “L” in please yet. I acquiesced anyway because I was a charitable and doting father.
Timothy August, my father, entered. Brown loafers, pressed chinos, blue sports coat. With three buttons, the saucy creature. He poured coffee from the carafe, sat, and snapped open a newspaper. “Morning, boys.”
“No one reads newspapers anymore, Dad.”
“Only those of us with class, son.” He lowered the paper long enough to smile at Kix, who responded with sunshine. “Hello, grandson.”
Kix pointed at his food and expressed concern. Dad agreed. I got more coffee.
“Busy day?” he asked.
“I’m thwarting an evil apartment building which is being sued by clients who have fallen on the stairs. The proprietor arranged an impressive cover-up but I am undaunted.”
“One of Brad Thompson’s assignments?”
“Indeed.”
“Sheriff Stackhouse phoned last night.”
He tilted his head down far enough to examine me over his stylish bifocals. “She told me about the job offer.”
“You two go back?”
“Yes. We’ve both lived in Roanoke for the past twenty-odd years, so…”
“She’s quite the smoke show.”
“She’s always been attractive, yes. But she’s aging remarkably well. She’s only four years younger than me. WDBJ 7 is running out of reasons to put her face on screen.” He sipped at his coffee. “Will you accept her job offer?”
“Not sure.”
“I told her you wouldn’t.”
“How’d you know?” I asked.
“Too many bosses.”
“I dislike bosses.”
He nodded and returned to the paper. “Which is odd. Because they always seem to enjoy you.”
“I’m enjoyable. But I’d rather not report to a principal, vice principal, English supervisor, department chair, and sheriff.”
“I figured.”
“You didn’t tell her, though,” I said.
“That you dislike bosses? I did not. I felt no compulsion to divulge more information than necessary.”
“Atta boy.”
“Still,” he said behind his paper. “Still. Seems a shame. That school needs good teachers. Which, according to your previous supervisors, you are. Switching gears, is your fight tonight?”
I nodded. “Coming to watch?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Wimp.”
“You’re a violent man.” He sighed. “Probably take after your maternal grandmother. But that doesn’t necessitate my viewership. Shall I drive Kix to Roxanne’s? I’m leaving in five.”
“Nah. I need the jog.”
Kix and I went outside. I strapped him into the jogging stroller, shoved his bag into the storage pouch, and tightened my laces.
All of Virginia seemed to be boiling but especially Roanoke, which rested in a wide valley that trapped moisture. I broke a sweat within a block and was soaked after five. Like running in a sauna. Wearing a thick robe. After a mile I could’ve probably slipped through prison bars. But the overhanging leaves were a deep rich green and almost worth it.
