Arrest, Search and Séance : Book 1 of the Fringe Society, R.D. Hunter [good english books to read txt] 📗

This particular tent city had manifested less than a week ago, underneath the Highway 20 exchange. It was one of the larger tent cities I’d seen. I counted more than fifteen temporary structures and several more sleeping bags scattered around the camp. Several people were milling around, talking, and keeping a sharp eye on the new intruder to their community.

I walked up to a group of men, sitting around in camping chairs and asked if they’d heard about the murder that took place a few blocks away. They all looked at each other and took several moments to respond.

“Yeah, we heard about it,” one said uncertainly. He was an older man wearing a camouflage jacket, flecks of grey showing in his short, dark hair and deep lines running through his face. “We didn’t do it, though. Don’t know nothing more about it.”

“I don’t think you did it,” I said quickly with as much sincerity as possible. “I was just wondering if you saw or heard anything or if any of you know the victim.” A series of looks passed between the men before the speaker answered.

“His name’s Birdshot.” I blinked.

“Birdshot?” The man nodded.

“Yeah, that’s what everyone called him. He always told this story about the time he got caught in bed with another fella’s wife, some years back. He hightailed it out the window and down the street in nothing but his underwear, but the guy unloaded some birdshot into his ass before he got clear. He said he couldn’t sit right for a month of Sundays.” A flicker of a smile played along the man’s lips. “So, everyone on the street just called him Birdshot. He seemed to like it well enough.”

“I see. Did…Birdshot have any family or close relations?” There was much awkward shuffling and mumbling before I got an answer.

“Miss, he didn’t talk about his personal life much,” the Speaker said. “And we didn’t pry. He was a decent guy, shared what had when he had more than he needed, but that’s all we wanna say about it. We’d appreciate it if you’d just move on somewhere else.” The others nodded their heads in agreement.

I didn’t take it personally. Being part of an underground society myself, I understood the stigma that could arise from talking with outsiders. So, I simply nodded, handed each of them one of my cards and asked to call if they heard or remembered something. This way, if any of them knew something, they could wait until they were away from prying eyes and ears before talking to me.

I was just about to leave, when the sound of a heated exchange between two men reached my ears.

One of the men I’d given my card to sighed, “Shit, it’s Bulldog again, giving that boy a hard time.”

“Who’s Bulldog?” I asked before I could help myself. He gave me a sharp look.

“No one that concerns you, Lady. You head along now.”

The sounds of the argument grew louder. I heard swearing and the sound of flesh striking flesh and someone cried out in pain.

“Like hell.”

I marched past the group, who all were staring at the ground uncomfortably, and around a group of two-person tents to find the source of the disturbance. A young man, probably fresh out of his teens, was laying on the ground, clutching a wrapped sandwich to his chest like it was his most treasured possession. Hell, for all I knew, it was.

Towering over him was Bulldog. It couldn’t have been anyone else. Not only were his broad shoulders and heavyset features a dead giveaway, but his face was kind of scrunched in, like he’d been hit in the face with a frying pan really hard and it’d never popped back out. He was dressed better than the others in the camp. His coat was newer and he looked better fed. The kid at his feet, though, was the exact opposite.

His clothes were torn in several places, his hair was a wild, tousled mess and he looked like he hadn’t had a good meal in several days.

“No. No, it’s mine,” he was repeating, a thin trickle of blood leaking from a cut on his lip. “They said I could have it. They said.”

His eyes darted around erratically and he began mumbling to himself, like he was carrying on a conversation with someone only he could hear. Bulldog wasn’t having any of it.

“Boy, I told you I don’t give two shits what they said,” he growled. “It’s time to pay your rent and that sandwich will do just fine. Now give it over.” He reached down and grabbed hold of the cellophane-wrapped sandwich and tried to pull it away, but the boy held tight.

“No, they said I could have it. They said!” he screeched at the top of his lungs.

I realized what was going on at once. Bulldog was “the landlord.”

Whenever a camp was set up, it wasn’t unusual for the biggest and usually meanest person around to charge the others “rent.” Basically, they could take whatever they wanted at any time, under the guise of maintaining order and security, and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do about it. At least, not usually.

Bulldog pulled back one massive fist that would have driven the kid into the pavement. He would tolerate no challenge to his word, even from someone who was half his size and obviously mentally ill. He never got the chance to use it.

Krav Maga doesn’t have a lot of holds and locks. Practitioners are taught to utilize simple, effective strikes to incapacitate their opponent in the most efficient way possible. We’re also taught to use whatever is at hand to give us an edge, and I needed an edge right now.

I didn’t want to pull my gun. That could escalate things beyond the point of no return. Magic was out, as a growing