Chasing China White, Allan Leverone [feel good books to read txt] 📗

Whether things are going well or poorly—and there have been plenty of both situations in my writing career—Sue Leverone has been a source of encouragement and support. If she has any doubts in my ability as a writer, they’ve never crossed her lips.

My wife believes in me more than I ever have, and I owe her more than I can ever say.

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ALLAN LEVERONE is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of twenty novels, four novellas and countless short stories. A former winner of the prestigious Derringer Award for excellence in short mystery fiction, he lives in Londonderry, New Hampshire with his wife of thirty-five years, three grown children and three beautiful grandchildren. He loves to hear from readers; connect on Facebook, Twitter @AllanLeverone, and at AllanLeverone.com.

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BOOKS BY ALLAN LEVERONE

The Paskagankee Series

Paskagankee

Revenant

Wellspring

Grimoire

The Tracie Tanner Thrillers

Parallax View

All Enemies

The Omega Connection

The Hitler Deception

The Kremlyov Infection

The Bashkir Extraction

The Soviet Assassin

The Midnight Series

Mr. Midnight

After Midnight

The Jack Sheridan Pulp Thrillers

The Organization

Trigger Warning

Death Perception

Dead Reckoning

Novels

Final Vector

Darkness Falls

The Lonely Mile

Heartless

Covenant

The Lupin Project

Novellas

The Becoming

Chasing China White

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Here is a preview from 40 Nickels, the second Carnegie Fitch Mystery Fiasco by R. Daniel Lester, published by Shotgun Honey, an imprint of Down & Out Books.

Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.

Before: Toronto, Ontario, 1956

1

The punch knocked the wind out of me good, a fist right in the breadbasket. I coughed. I wheezed. I sucked air that wasn’t there. Then I coughed some more. It was half real and half comedy bit, a little show for the barflies to give me time to recover. Plan my next move. Running away very fast was probably my best option, considering the big oaf didn’t seem bothered at all by the barstool I’d cracked over his back. But he was well into a full-on drunk with no signs of stopping until he crossed the finish line so that may have had something to do with it.

Booze logic. The body forgets to feel pain.

I didn’t have the luxury because I was practically sober. Spent my last dime on a glass of beer at the Wheat Sheaf Tavern, corner of King and Bathurst, one I was planning to nurse for a good long while. That is, until the large fella something degrading about my hat. And then I said something about his mother and voices were raised and that’s when I hit him with the barstool. Best to end a fight before it begins being a personal credo. But it only seemed to rile him up more. I blamed the barstool—lousy, cheap manufacturing. Broke like kindling surrendering in front of a fire.

He towered over me. “So, you got somethin’ you wanna say or do you want a knuckle sandwich for lunch?” When I didn’t respond right away, his work boot nudged me in the ribs.

“Okay,” I said, “I shouldn’t have compared your mother to a bottom feeding sucker fish. I don’t even know the woman, I’m sure she’s lovely.”

“Hmm. Apology accepted. Now, you wanna get up or lie on the floor some more?”

I mulled it over. “I suppose I could give upright a shot.”

He reached out a giant bear paw and helped pull me up. I stood, straightening up slowly to look him in the eye. No such luck. My gaze ended at his chin, even though I was no slouch in the height department. They built ‘em big where this one came from. And that was the problem with starting a fight when the other guy was sitting down—perspective.

“You pack quite a wallop, fella,” I said, when the spots in front of my eyes stopped dancing jigs and disappeared.

He nodded, smiled, and placed a tightly wrapped roll of nickels on the counter. “I had a little help.”

“That’s nifty,” I said.

“Always served me pretty well. Makes a point.”

“That it does. Though I’m curious: you roll ‘em yourself or get ‘em from the bank already done?”

“Oh, I roll ‘em myself. Figure it’s more meaningful that way.”

“Sure, I can see that. You from around here?”

“Nah. Passin’ through. Headed north to the Sudbury Basin, to work the mine.” So that explained all the beer. He was getting one last drunk in before tunneling to the Earth’s core to harvest its precious metals.

“Probably for the best. Otherwise I don’t think there’d be enough barstools to go around. I’m Carnegie Fitch. But most people just call me Fitch.”

“I’m Wendell.”

We shook hands like proper gentlemen, despite our deficiencies of character.

“Not such a pleasure to meet you, Wendell, but I suppose I had it coming. So, what do you mine up there, anyway?”

“Nickel and copper, mostly.”

“Wait a minute, you mine for nickel and carry a roll of nickels? Your commitment to character in this human play called ‘Life’ is worthy of admiration and praise. You’re a true artiste. So much that I’d like to offer you a beer for your efforts. Bartender, a drink for my new friend here.” I patted my pockets exaggeratedly. I could do some performance art, too. “But oh yeah, my wallet’s a graveyard until payday.” The bartender stopped pouring.

Wendell laughed, a loud, hollow sound. “You’re a funny guy, Fitch. How ‘bout I buy you a beer?”

The bartender finished pouring and placed the beer in front of me, shaking his head in distain. He had no flair for the dramatic, I suppose, no appreciation for the arts. Regardless, it was the fastest beer I ever drank. One big gulp. Wendell was impressed and even offered to spring for another. Every drunk loved a drinking buddy. This time around, I declined. I wanted out of there. I needed air. And, frankly, an escape route. So, I wished him good luck with the mine and said to make friends with a canary. The remark shot over his head even as tall as he was and all I got