BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) by John W. Mefford

Author:John W. Mefford [Mefford, John W.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Sugar Hill Publishing
Published: 2015-06-14T04:00:00+00:00

14

“If you’re not a fighter, don’t live in Dorchester. It’s a ghetto where Irish and black gangs rule the street, where hood rats and thugs kill each other over a pick-up basketball game, or even a sneer. Don’t raise your kids in Dorchester, because they’ll eventually be pulled into the gangs just to survive. After that, their lives are trash, waiting for that moment until they spend the rest of their lives in prison or taste dirt six feet under.”

Bordered by the Neponset River at Lower Mills, just east of Milton, one of the most historic neighborhoods in the country was also the most dangerous, according to Donny Pickles’ parole officer. We’d spoken by phone just after I touched down at Logan Airport in the teeth of Boston, the smallest big city I’d ever seen. His account of the town where Donny lived was disconcerting, if not surprising. But I figured he’d been so transparent because he was about to retire from his Suffolk Country job after forty-two years of keeping tabs on generations of criminals. Not all bad people, he said, but enough to make you question the evolution of mankind.

“You sure about that address?” Anxious eyes glared at me through the rearview mirror, the cabdriver questioning my sanity, I was certain.

“It’s not changing. If you don’t want to take me there, I can find another cab,” I said, running my hand across the expansive back seat, more duct tape than vinyl.

“You pay, I’ll take you there.” He nodded, I replied with the same, and he motored ahead.

Rolling on an uneven surface in the poorest section of town, the car stripped of anything resembling a shock absorber, my head clanged against the roof. It didn’t help my disposition or my headache. I pressed fingers on the sides of my nose and took in a breath, a brief respite from clogged nasal passages, my eyes squinting from a low sun on the eastern bank. With my bloodstream filled with a plethora of over-the-counter medication, mental focus came in spurts. I was damn glad not to be driving, even if I had to take in the foul smell of smoke, mildew, and urine. Who knows what the hell had taken place on this seat.

“Fuckin’ lights,” the cab driver muttered, slamming his wrist on top of the steering wheel. “How can they get shit done in this town when every cah is just pahked on the street?” Obviously, a native Bostonian.

Taking in another congested breath, I thought about Henry’s call last night. Using photos I’d provided and my eyewitness account of the NorthPark Center swap, he used his influence as assistant DA to have the DPD track down both vehicles. Cops pulled over the Camaro first and asked to search the car. The men wearing matching Cowboys raincoats watched DPD officers tear open three grocery bags containing clear Ziploc bags full of translucent, jagged rocks—crystal meth—or so they thought. The two men were handcuffed, arrested, and driven into the division, where, after

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