The past is never past. Sometimes it repeats itself. And sometimes it comes back to pay a visit. Blu Carraway, flush with cash and back in business, never had it so good. Or so he thought.The reality is his love life is in shambles, his business partner is spending too much time with women half his age and not enough time on the job, and someone close goes missing. Blu’s business partner goes off the rails, his friends show their true colors, and he realizes that getting closure sometimes means walking away from everything. With a case from the past gone wrong twice, a loved one in trouble, and an unanswered marriage proposal, it’s a bad time to be in it for Blu Carraway Investigations.
I’ve lived in the south since I was nine so I’ll say Atlanta, Georgia. I loved the big city life and set one of my books (
, Henery Press 2017) there. My wife and I reside in South Carolina, which I’ve called home since 2000. It’s the longest I’ve lived in any state. As a side note, our state flag is my favorite!
Where my wife and I live in South Carolina, we are close to two major cities and three hours from the ocean. The cost of living is reasonable, unemployment is low, and it isn’t insanely crowded. Plus it’s the south. There’s so much grand history and ugly baggage here to keep me busy writing books for a long time.
A
used Porsche 911 in about 500 weeks. It’s my dream car and sooner or
later I’m going to have one. I don’t care if I’m fulfilling the cliché
of mid-life-crisis with it or not.
I didn’t study hard enough in college. On the flip side, I didn’t give up which I thought about doing several times. At some point, I realized that graduating was the best thing I could do, so I gritted my teeth, straightened up, and made it through. It turned out to be one of the best things I’d done.
Life is short. Planning to do something “some day” never really happens. For me, it took my wife basically saying it was “time to write your book now.” If she hadn’t, I might still be thinking about doing it instead of authoring five novels and working on a sixth.
I should have started writing seriously thirty years ago. Looking back, I suppose I wasn’t ready. It takes quite a bit of toughness, if I can call it that, to put something out there. I didn’t have it then. Some days I don’t have it now. Some people are great. Some are not. In the end, I’m glad I keep going.
I’m a degreed engineer, and I have worked in manufacturing for twenty years. I feel it is important for America to continue to make things and get better at it so it is a vocation for me as well as my livelihood. Engineering is all about problem solving. That helps me with my writing. What doesn’t help is being structured. I am a “seat-of-the-pants” writer as opposed to an outliner. The problem solving comes in when I have about two-thirds of a book not necessarily in any kind of sequence and need to put it all together.
Our German teacher set us up. No joke. We were living two hundred miles apart at the time.
Blu says, “He mostly gets it right, but sometimes I have to spell things out for him.”
Sometimes it feels exactly like I’m telling Blu’s story, but since I’m not him, it takes a while to figure out why he’s doing what he’s doing. Since I don’t outline, Blu has carte blanche in the story. It’s the “why” that throws me for a loop. Sooner or later, he shows me what he’s up to. But, damn if the man isn’t frustrating when he takes his own bloody time about it.
I have to be able to get into the book within one page. Some readers struggle through an entire book. I don’t have the time and figure if I’m not getting it, it’s not for me. It’s not that the book is bad, it’s that I’m not the right reader for it.
I just completed the first draft of the manuscript for my next book. My routine was to write 1000 words a day. I wrote 75,000 words in eighty days, and it was the most stress-free writing I’ve done in a while.
I’ve trained myself to write anywhere, but I prefer my home office. It’s on the first floor, and my desk faces the window that overlooks my front lawn. We live on a cul-de-sac so there isn’t a lot of traffic.
It would be similar to my current one except it would overlook a wildlife refuge or a body of water. Or both.
I’m in the middle of the second draft of my next Blu Carraway book. It should be out in the spring of 2019, and I’m really enjoying the story.
Chapter One
Belize City, Belize, August, mid-Monday
Paco squinted as he stared out over the courtyard, the afternoon sun a brilliant blaze. Sounds of local women selling vegetables, cheap pottery, and trinkets to tourists filled the air. The clinking of dishware. Some of the vendors were lucky enough to have an umbrella or canopy to shield them from the burning heat. Most weren’t.
The pavement baked Paco’s feet through his cowboy boots.
He lifted his straw hat, one with an orange band he’d bought from a local Mennonite child, and wiped his brow. The air tasted of salt, dust, and tamalito grease.
His two partners, a Belizean Creole called Lin and a Jamaican named Peter, were already in position. Lin nodded at him from the other side of the square. Paco checked on Peter and found him fifty meters due east scoping out the three young women they’d come for.
Well, really it was just one of them they wanted. The other two women were going to be a bonus. The contract was to grab the woman with the family name of Kincaid, make a phone call when they had her at their hideout, and then do whatever they wanted with the other two. And eliminate any resistance.
The stupid chicas had only one guard with them. Some tall, middle-aged Bufon Paco guessed was half-Cuban, half-gringo, who wore sunglasses and dressed in light-colored fatigues and military style boots. He looked fit but was most likely nothing but an easy target. In the three days Peter, Lin, and Paco had tracked the women, the man with the sunglasses always kept watch from behind.
The past two nights Paco had dreamt of shooting the man through those sunglasses.
Using the sleeve of his shirt, Paco wiped his forehead one more time and then replaced his hat. He watched Peter wait until the women and the man passed and then fell in behind them.
God, the women were beautiful. Suntanned white girls in their early twenties. Perfect teeth. Curled, long hair. Linen blouses, short shorts, and sandals. After he shot their protector, his dreams ended with tying each of them to a bed, the fear in their eyes giving him immense pleasure.
And today was the day his dream would come true.
Paco watched the group pass through a crowd of old people in bright clothes unloading from a tour bus.
Except Peter didn’t emerge behind them when the women came through the other side of the gray-haired mass.
Neither did the sunglass-wearing guard.
Paco smiled and thought, good, Peter took him out already.
He nodded at Lin who gave him a thumbs-up.
The women perused another row of vendors.
He and Lin followed, coming from opposite ends.
The women were just ahead. Paco caught sight of their toned caderas and thanked his god again for tight American shorts. He picked up his pace as he threaded through the crowd.
After about forty meters, something didn’t seem right any more. He should have caught up to them by now. And Lin should have joined him.
Paco stopped, checked his phone. No messages.
Looking around, he thought he spotted the women turn down an alley.
Where were Peter and Lin?
It didn’t matter.
He had to get the woman now. Especially with the guard out of the picture.
Paco knew he could handle her by himself, even if the other two females had to die to make things easier. He sprinted after them, cut down the alley, and found himself alone with nothing but a dead end. The only noise he heard was the market from which he’d come.
An abandoned car on blocks with its hood open mocked him. Dust kicked up from his boots as he skidded to a stop. Paco turned around. No one had followed him.
He turned back and looked straight down the barrel of a revolver.
His eyes would not—could not—keep from staring at the black hole in front of him that brought death. Where in the hell did this come from? There had been no sound.
A man’s voice said, “Esto es donde dar la vuelta y a pie.” (This is where you turn around and walk away.)
Thinking fast, Paco said, “Que buscaba para mi hija.” (I was looking for my daughter.)
The thumb of the hand holding the revolver cocked the hammer back.
Anyone else would have soiled his pants at this. But Paco knew the man had made a very big mistake. Other peoples’ mistakes, and Paco’s awareness of them, were how he had survived this long. The cocked pistol an arm’s reach from his face had caught him off guard. If it had been five feet away, the perfect distance for control,he would have had a problem.
But this close—
Paco swung an arm at the hand with the pistol and ducked the other way, all in one motion just like he’d done before.
Except another gun fired.
Paco felt an inferno of heat and lead tear through his leg. He screamed and crashed to the ground.
A large, military boot kicked him in the face. It jolted his focus off the pain in his leg for a second and onto the sunglasses of the man from his dreams. Paco spotted a second pistol in the man’s other hand. He hadn’t seen the second gun because he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the first. The man had outsmarted him.
The man smiled down at him and said, in Spanish, “Who hired you?”
The pain flooded back. Paco seethed out a “Piss off.”
The man with the sunglasses put his large boot on Paco’s injured leg and stepped down hard.
Paco had never felt pain so great in his thirty-three years on this earth. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. He swam in a horizon of white noise.
The pressure on his leg let up. The boot kicked him in the ribs, ripping his concentration away from his leg once more, long enough for him to breathe.
“Your two friends won’t be joining us. Tell me who hired you. Do it now. I won’t ask again.”
Paco’s mind recovered enough from the pain to formulate a last desperate plan. He slipped a hand behind his back and pulled out a derringer.
Before he could aim it, the man standing over him blasted his hand from two feet away. And Paco felt a different twinge of pain that almost matched the firestorm in his leg. He lifted his hand to where he could look at it. Two of his fingers were missing.
Then he saw nothing.
Chapter Two
Charleston County, South Carolina, August, mid-Monday
DAY ONE
Mick Crome sat on a stool at the inside bar of the Pirate’s Cove on the Isle of Palms. He finished off a second pint while staring at all the liquor bottles lined up on the shelves in front of him. They had a habit of staring back. Maureen, his sometimes girlfriend and bartender a hundred miles north up in Myrtle Beach, was pissed off at him. He couldn’t chill and watch her tight rear end as she poured drinks tonight. Maybe not tomorrow night, either.
The current bartender serving the beers, a friend named Brack Pelton, wasn’t exactly his type. At six feet and with a perpetual suntanned complexion, Brack looked like he should be tending bar in the Bahamas, not owning two watering holes in the South Carolina lowcountry.
Pelton asked, “You want another one, Mick?”
Even inside the place, the smell of the Atlantic Ocean directly behind him cleaned out his sinuses. The song streaming on the bar’s sound system, “Paradise City” by Guns and Roses, was a real classic.
Crome nodded, hooked a boot heel on the bottom rung of his stool, and pulled a vape pen out of the breast pocket of his weathered leather vest.
He couldn’t figure out what exactly he’d done wrong with Maureen but was sure it might have something to do with the two women he traded vodka shots with the night before. Mainly
because neither of them was Maureen. Maureen hadn’t taken too kindly to him cancelling their date so he could follow a lead only to end up getting drunk and crashing at another woman’s pad. She didn’t believe him when he’d tried to explain that nothing had happened. The lead was legit, but even he knew he should have just gotten the information over the phone.
What did people say in times like this? C’est la vie?
Whatever.
Pelton set a fresh pint of draft down in front of Crome. “Haven’t seen you or Blu around in a while. How’s it going?”
The
kid, Pelton, meant well. If Crome hadn’t taken a liking to him, and if
he hadn’t watched a video of the kid, empty handed, take on an armed
giant of a man and win, he might have picked a fight with him just for
fun. But the kid had saved his best friend’s daughter and was an
unofficial partner in the private investigation firm Crome co-owned.
Unofficial because just about everything Crome did was unofficial. The
official side was handled by his main partner, Blu Carraway.
Crome said, “Blu’s on a security job. In Belize, the lucky bastard. Should be back in a day or two.”
A voice from behind him said, “Hi, Crome.”
It was female and familiar. Damn.
Anyone
else would have been a welcome change to his wandering thoughts, a
defense mechanism he used to avoid thinking about Maureen.
Hell, Maureen in her most pissed-off state would have been a welcome companion compared to—
The female voice interrupted his thought. “Aren’t you going to invite me to sit down?”
Crome
saw the smirk form on his own face reflected in the mirror behind the
bar. He also saw the strawberry-blond curls, red lipstick, and tight
dress of his newest problem. “It’s a free country.”
Harmony Childs
pulled out the stool next to him and sat. “That bad-ass biker routine
won’t work on me, Sugar. You’ve seen me in my underwear.”
Twenty
years his junior, nuttier than a pecan tree, driven, and drop-dead
gorgeous, Harmony was the very cliché of Kryptonite for him. She was
also one of the two women he’d traded shots with last night.
It
was true; he had seen her in her underwear. But not out of her
underwear, thank God, or he and Maureen wouldn’t have lasted this long.
Harmony
said, “Don’t tell me you’ve still got a hangover. I’d hate to think you
couldn’t hang with us, given your propensity for bars and liquor.”
She
really was beautiful. And she’d matched him shot for shot, unless the
bartender was feeding her and her friend water instead of Citron. But
that couldn’t be because he’d watched all their shot glasses get
refilled from the same bottle.
“Not on your life, Dolly,” he said.
Pelton came over, grinned at the young woman, and said, “What’ll it be, Ms. Harmony?”
If
Pelton’s wife caught him doing anything more than casual flirting,
she’d string him up by his testicles. Especially if it was with Harmony.
Or her cohort, Tess Ray. Which reminded Crome, when there was one, the
other wasn’t far behind.
Tess pulled out the stool on the other
side of Crome and sat. “Sorry I’m late. There was another double
homicide in North Charleston.”
Shorter than Harmony, with shoulder
length blonde hair that fell in layers, Tess wore dark-rimmed glasses, a
business dress with no sleeves, and medium heels.
She’d been the
second woman from the night before. Two women to one man, a bottle of
vodka, and all he had to show for it was a nasty headache, a stiff back
from the couch he’d crashed on alone, and a pissed off girlfriend. Must
be his lucky day.
Crome opened his mouth to say “howdy” but got cut off before he could start.
“It would be nice if your partner was around,” Harmony said.
“You guys make good copy. Maybe you all could give us something besides gang violence to report on.”
Harmony and Tess were eager-beaver news correspondents who’d recently gone independent.
Tess asked, “So when is Blu due back in town? Soon, right?”
Every damn woman who’d ever laid eyes on Blu Carraway fell in love with the bastard.
Again,
Crome opened his mouth to speak, and again got interrupted. This time
by the other local lady killer, Pelton’s dog, Shelby.
At the sight
of the chow-collie mix, Harmony and Tess both slid off their stools and
swarmed the mutt. The damned canine seemed to be eating it all up,
dancing around between them, his wagging tail high in the air.
The
song ended, and in the lull before the next one began, Crome checked
his iPhone, the one that felt like an old-fashioned pair of handcuffs
restraining him from freedom. The one that came with the business of
running a private investigation firm. The one that his partner had made
him take.
He’d missed a call.
The number wasn’t familiar, but whoever had called left a voicemail. He listened.
It sounded like Maureen. “Mick? I’m in trouble. Please help—”
A man’s voice cut her off. “Listen Crome, it’s payback time. You took from me so I’m taking from you. I’ll be in touch.”
His phone showed a text message. He tapped to open it up and stared at a picture of a scared Maureen with a gun to her head.
Billy Idol’s “Eyes Without a Face” started playing, blowing a hole through the world.
Excerpt
from
Bad Time To Be In It by David Burnsworth. Copyright © 2018 by
David Burnsworth. Reproduced with permission from David Burnsworth. All
rights reserved.
David Burnsworth became fascinated with the Deep South at a young age. After a degree in Mechanical Engineering from the University of Tennessee and fifteen years in the corporate world, he made the decision to write a novel.
(July 2018, Henery Press) will be his sixth. Having lived on Charleston’s Sullivan’s Island for five years, the setting was a foregone conclusion. He and his wife call South Carolina home.
