Booker - Streets of Mayhem (Volume 1) by John W. Mefford

Author:John W. Mefford
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery detectives, mystery and thriller, mystery private detective, terrorism thriller, investigation murder, mystery pi, mystery action suspense thriller, detective or private eye, mystery detective thriller, thriller mystery set in texas

20

Tossing and turning on a spongy mattress and squeaky frame, the man yanked the covers off his sweaty body, his flinging hand catching a tray of metal objects that clanged to the floor. The sound pounded his battered brain.

“Dammit!”

A splinter of light shone directly on one of his prized possessions, and the plastic smile soothed his core. Finally, he succumbed to the tug of sleep, his conscious pulled under like it was tied to a five-hundred-pound weight. Clinging to a dreamlike state, he replayed another moment from his youth.

Carrying an army of puppets into his bedroom, the boy’s feet nearly tripped over the footed pajamas, a size too big for his chunky feet. He’d heard his parents walk in the back door moments before, and at a few minutes after midnight, he’d have to fake being asleep in a hurry.

A yelp. The nine-year-old boy stopped arranging his puppets on the dresser. A voice, a shrill from his babysitter. He padded over to his door, pressing his face against the crack. His eyes grew wide at the sight—his dad with his pants down to his knees, his flabby butt cheeks moving back and forth. The boy couldn’t see the babysitter except for her flailing arms.

The boy swallowed, his throat scratchy like a dry toothbrush. He wanted to look away but simply could not.

His mom appeared, her face strained but unflinching. She moved next to his dad, looking straight ahead, her hands clasped in front of her brown suede dress.

The boy sniffed, wrinkled his nose. Something smelled funny.

His dad stopped moving, put his clothes on. The babysitter sat up, tears rolling down her face, and pulled up her pants. His mom took two steps, brought a finger to her mouth, then glanced toward her son’s bedroom. A moment later, the front door opened and shut.

Bickering, then a slap, could be heard in the living room; the boy had to remember to breathe. He heard clomping steps, then his dad appeared in the hallway. His flapping silver-plated belt buckle clinked with each step and shuffle, a finger wiping blood off his lip.

The boy took a careful step back then stopped, stock-still.

A white eye appeared in the crack of the door, looming larger than the moon. The boy nearly swallowed his tongue. Moving backward, he tripped, his eyes riveted to the eye.

The door smacked his bedroom wall, the knob buried inside crumbling sheetrock.

“You got something you wanna say, boy?” Fingers digging deep inside his arms, the boy was lifted off the floor, the height almost as frightening as his dad’s fuming scowl, a smell of booze nearly causing him to choke.

Words pressed at his lips—so much he wanted to say, needed to say—but he couldn’t escape the fear. He only managed a stiff turn of the head.

“I haven’t taught you how to be a real man? If you got something to say, you better fuckin’ say it now. You hear me? Say it!” Barking so loud it hurt his ears, the boy’s dad shook him like a five-pound rag doll, his face nothing more than jagged teeth and wild animal eyes.

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