The Art of Dash

“Oh, the wit and the sarcasm! A little crime, a little love, a little backstabbing, a little cat and mouse, and capped with a little supernatural action.”

Chapter 1

The young Black guy stepped away from the Chrysler and gestured to its open rear door. He wore a dark suit; looked expensive, or Italian. Gold chains draped his skinny neck and wrists, more sparkle in his earlobes.  The kind of guy who believed clothes maketh the man, instead of ignoring this ancient sales pitch.
“He wants to see you,” the guy said.
“Who?” Zach asked. “Some jeweler offering discount specials? I’ll pass, thanks. I don’t do trinkets.” He moved to step around him.
Another guy, older, more mannish, climbed out of the front seat, spread his hands in a let’s-not have-any-trouble gesture .
“He’s no jeweler,” the skinny one said. “Best not to piss him off. We’ll bring you back.”
Both lightly built, no match for Zach in an arm wrestle, but probably strapped with some weapon.
“It would help if I knew the nature of this visit,” he said. “Otherwise I’ll be testy and uncooperative.” The skinny one tilted his head. “You deal in news, right? He’s got some, is all.”
“How long will this take?” His curiosity pricked at him; some of his best stories came from unexpected sources, and he hadn’t found a quality piece for months. Damn stupid to turn down a possible front pager.
“Takes as long as it takes.”
“Sounds okay,” he said agreeably, and climbed into the back of their car. The skinny guy took the space alongside him. The older one drove. Zach’s phone rang, and he reached for it.
“Leave it.” The skinny guy put a hand on his arm. “Call back later.” The phone rang out, then pinged with a message arriving. He ignored a second ping as well. His minders seemed relaxed, which reassured him. Best to assume they were doing what they said: fetching him for a meeting.
Nobody spoke while they sped south on North Michigan Avenue, pulling up outside a restaurant fifteen minutes later.
“Thai Style,” proclaimed neon in red and blue in the window. “Closed,” announced the sign on the door.
“Good choice, guys,” he said, “but it’s the wrong day.”
“Private function.” The skinny guy ushered him out of the car. He knocked twice, and when it opened, stepped back to let Zach to enter first. Inside, two bigger men, also Black, sat at a table. No skinny aides-de-camp, these two were bulky, unbuttoned windbreakers showing holsters and firearms. What the fuck was this about? One of them stood and patted Zach down. The two who had brought him stayed behind him, blocking his exit.
“Careful now,” Zach said. “I’m ticklish.”
The guard removed his phone and his wallet. He took out Zach’s driver’s license and compared the photo to his face.
“I know, I know, it was taken on a bad day,” Zach told him.
Nobody spoke. The continued silence gnawed at his confidence; his normal assurance that he could cope with most anything the world threw his way. These guys were smart; they gave him nothing to work on, nothing to counter.
The skinny one took Zach to the back of the restaurant and down a corridor to a private room. Two knocks, and he eased the door open as if a wild animal was loose inside.
“Bring him in, Dash,” someone said.
Zach entered a small room dominated by a big black man at a table. In a corner sat another brute, the biggest Zach had ever seen off a football field. This one also wore his windbreaker undone, gun showing. These guys expecting gunplay any minute, or what?
Dash closed the door behind them and stood against it, hands clasped in front of him.
“Sit down, Mr. Zachary Bones,” said the table man.
Zach sat, eyeing the Thai dishes arrayed across the table. Five dishes steamed in front of a single diner. A lone beer alongside them. Nobody was offering him anything. Such manners.
“Do you know who I am?” the table man asked. He wasn’t big big; he was big like Humpty-Dumpty. Normal-sized head, wrecking ball for a body. He also favored gold chains, sparkling stones in his lobes, and a citrus-scented cologne.
“I can guess,” Zach said.
The man was Frankie Ritchie, a person of ongoing interest on the South Side. He was well-known in media and police circles for his involvement in street drugs despite not associating himself with either the Gangster Disciples or the Vice Lords. Both gangs had a big say, usually the final say, on who sold what in their streets, but Ritchie seemed to trade without impediment. Trading successfully; his specialty—everything nasty.
From what Zach had picked up, the police, too, were baffled by Ritchie. He had one minor conviction as a teen street runner, but he’d never again soiled a charge sheet.
“I’m talking to Frankie Ritchie, the high-flying tycoon,” Zach said.
Ritchie studied his face for a few seconds, probably figuring whether the remark held sarcasm, decided it didn’t.
“You guessed right,” he said. “And you are Zachary Bones, the corruption buster, the hotshot reporter for the Chicago Post.”
“Modesty prevents me from agreeing with you.” “Like I care,” Ritchie said. “I got news for you.” “You do?”
“You know of a guy called Jason Virgil?”
“Is he in your line of work?”
Ritchie’s handsome face tightened. “You don’t know me, and you sure don’t know my work. Don’t make rash judgments; they annoy me.” “Sorry. What about this Virgil?” Best to ask questions, keep control of the interview. Keep everybody smiling and reasonable, with all weapons holstered.
“He’s a bad person. Sells drugs to kids. Needs to be brought to justice.” Ritchie drained his beer. A drug dealer complaining about somebody selling drugs? That was news, but not front page stuff. Not worth a free ride to the South Side.
“Not to Black kids, which I know you don’t care about, but to white kids,” Ritchie said. “Up on the North Side. College kids, high school kids, elementary school kids for all I know.”
“A bad person, as you say.”
Ritchie pointed a fat finger at him. “You’re a newspaper guy; you should publicize these crimes and stop that sort of thing.”
“I’m sure the police are putting their shoulders to the task as we speak.”
Ritchie grunted. “They fuckin’ useless. They need help, and you’re gonna give it to them.” “Me? What do I know?”
“You gonna get vital evidence, and Virgil be put away for a couple of lifetimes.”
Ah. This was why he was here. Another shape-the-story kind of situation. Just took him a while to spot it.
“Where will I find this evidence?” he asked, but he knew the answer.
“We give it to you.” “Stupid question, but why don’t you give it to the cops?”
Ritchie regarded him for a second or two. “They told me you were a smart one, but now I think they was wrong.” He leaned forward. “I can’t trust the cops for nothing, but you got a journalistic creed, right?”
“A creed? Like, telling the truth?”
Ritchie laughed. A quick and dirty laugh. “Nobody tells the truth, my friend. I bet even Mother Teresa jived a few times.”
My friend, he’d said. People who called him “friend” usually meant the opposite.
“You have certain privileges, right?” Ritchie asked.
“You mean journalistic privilege? Which we treasure, where we go to jail rather than reveal our sources?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.” Ritchie leaned back, smiling. “You got that, right?”
“We do. We think it’s part of the First Amendment. Governments think it isn’t.”
“Skip the civics lesson. Here’s what’s happenin’. We gonna send you information regarding this Virgil. You gonna write a nice story, the police gonna come to you, you gonna hand over this information, and they gonna take Virgil off the streets.”
“And if they ask how I came by this information, I’m gonna keep my mouth shut?”
Again Ritchie gave him the look, the one that said if you’re dissing me, you’re about to collect a train-load of grief. Again Ritchie decided Zach was innocent.
“You won’t have to,” he said. “It’ll come to you anonymous like, untraceable. What I’m saying, the info is genuine. You can check it yourself.” “And this meeting?”
“Today? Never happened. Nobody saw you here all day. And if they did, your privilege would stop you confirming it, right?”
“Possibly.”
Ritchie leaned forward, unblinking. “Not possibly, definitely. Right?”
Zach said, “Can’t say that. Have to see what we’re talking about.” Get it straight from the start. He wasn’t a priest with confessional duties; he wasn’t going to cover up a major crime anytime.
Behind him a chair creaked, floorboards groaned under heavy footsteps. His chair flew out from under him as the corner guard kicked it across the room. He fell to the floor, twisted around to a sitting position.
“What the fuck?” He looked up at his attacker. “Oops,” the guard said in a soft voice, like his bulk did all the loud talking necessary.
One massive hand bunched around Zach’s collar and lifted him clear off the floor. The other gripped his waistband, and the giant threw him into the wall. He threw up a forearm to brace. It didn’t work. He hit the wall like a rag doll. Air exploded from his lungs, and he was back on the floor again.
“Melvin doesn’t like those who be disrespecting,” Ritchie said. “You notice that?”
Zach pushed himself up, knees shaking, fighting the panic of empty lungs. Waited for his breathing to restart. “We were having a discussion, I thought,” he said finally. “I don’t recall any insults.”
Melvin returned to his seat and grinned.
“A discussion?” Ritchie said. “Was no discussion. I was sayin’ how things are and you were listenin’ and agreein’. Right?”
Zach hesitated, Melvin’s grin widened. “Right.” Later, when this “evidence” arrived, he’d decide whether or not it qualified as privileged. Ritchie’s information was almost certainly worthless and self-serving crap.
“Right,” he said again.
Ritchie glanced at Dash. “He’s done. Drop him back in the playground you found him.”
As Zach moved to the door, Ritchie said, “Let’s not meet again. People might talk.” “
Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“One more thing,” Ritchie said. “You walk that mouth around me again, I’ll remove its working parts forever.”

CHAPTER 2

They say spirit guides are here to help. Unless you have Bardo. His visible presence often signaled a major shift in Keera’s life. New stuff crashing in, tricky stuff, bad stuff that tore the soul out of a body and left it scrabbling for a new home.
Not the best news, then, to walk into a room and find him comfortable in an easy chair, smiling an apology for his unexpected appearance.
She pushed the staffroom door shut, hoping no other faculty members entered and found her talking to thin air. An assistant professor in the Department of Anthropology at the University of Chicago couldn’t explain Bardo.
“There’s this man,” he said without preamble or greeting, brushing imaginary crumbs off his monk’s habit. “A powerful man, a large man, fond of eating.” He leaned forward. “But that’s not the problem.”
Bardo’s size paid tribute to his own past interest in food, and his robe sported fat stains like campaign medals.
“He has plans,” he said. “These plans will come to include you.”
“In what way?” she asked.
“You’ll become troublesome to him.” “
Please explain.”
“Your impulsiveness takes you to dark places, but doesn’t get you out of them easily.”
“Look,” she said, with mounting anxiety, “You can’t offer aphorisms and leave me hanging.”
His previous life as a medieval monk in England had embedded in him an Anglo-Saxon preference for the understatement.
“You need to be careful. Just saying.” “
Careful? Careful? A powerful man is coming, and you only tell me to be careful? I need more than that.”
Bardo picked at a food stain with a fingernail. “You’re a fighter. You always give a good account of yourself.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll pass over to spirit side.”
No arguments could ever sway this man. Bardo considered death as another rite of passage that led to a spiritual peak. She, by contrast, figured a long and healthy physical life was also desirable. She flopped into the easy chair opposite him, tried a new tack. “So what should I be doing?” “Watch out for strangers.”
“For God’s sake, I’ve been doing that since grade school.”
“And now’s not the time to relax simple precautions.”
“What kind of strangers?”
“Those who want you in their car.”
Although Bardo was her best friend on both planes of existence, she still wanted to strangle him. Why was he pointing out the obvious? Freaking her out with homilies that carried dark undercurrents. “
Get into their car?” she said. “Like I would anytime.”
“You, yes, but your friend not so much.”
“Zach? Zach? Is he in trouble?”
“He’s stepping into a bear pit. What I said about strangers and cars? That goes for him, doubly so.”
“He’s a reporter, for God’s sake. He’s always dealing with strangers.” “
These strangers he should avoid.”
“I’ll warn him tonight.” “I’d do it sooner. They’re very close.”
“Okay. When we’re done.”
“We’re done,” Bardo said. His outline shimmered before he faded from view.
Keera remained in the room and considered the previous five minutes. Bardo stayed mostly a voice in her head, guiding, chiding and explaining. He had entered her life when she was a teen and took over from the guiding spirits of her earlier years. He seldom volunteered information about the future; she had to ask, and even then he answered obliquely. From his point of view, all earthly troubles were minor ones in the context of a vast and unknowable universe. Easy for him to see things that way: he didn’t have a partner he would die for. For a start, he was already dead.
He’d had brought Zach to her, had insisted they were a perfect match although she ducked permanent relationships like young horses ducked bridles. Bardo had been right, though—she had been wrong. Now she couldn’t bear a life without the man. She didn’t understand why, just knew it.
She called Zach. No answer.
She tapped out a text: don’t get into cars with strangers. As she pressed SEND she picked up on him assuming a joke, or some kind of touching-base thing, letting him know she had thought of him. She keyed out a new message. I’m not joking, this is serious. She sent it off to chase the first.
Keera settled herself and let her psychic self come into play. No images formed in her mind, no voice in her ear whispered soft words, just a hunch grew firm enough to become certain. A black cloud was wrapping itself around Zach, and it would continue rolling and tumbling until it swallowed her as well.

CHAPTER 3

Dash led the reporter back to the Chrysler and popped the passenger side door for him. Just the two of them for the ride back. This Bones guy wasn’t going to act crazy, wasn’t the kind of fool to get in your face. No need for an extra hand to smack him around if shit happened. Melvin had seen to that. Bones no longer the struttin’ rooster like before.
The guy paused with his hand on the door handle. “I ride up front now?” he said. “I get a promotion or something?”
“You get a free trip back is what you get.” Dash hoped he didn’t yap yap all the way. He swung the car away from the curb and headed for North Michigan.
“How come they call you Dash?”
The dude might have shaky legs but his yapper still worked. He gave him a look that said shut the fuck up.
“Is it because you’re a lively person? Always running around?”
Fool couldn’t read sign language. “It’s my name,” he answered, deliberately showing irritation. “Got a problem with that?”
“No need to get huffy. Your given name? Dash? Sounds to me like there’s a story there. Or is it a street name?”
“It’s short for Dashiell.”
“You’re named after Dashiell Hammett? The crime writer? Hell of a thing. You got a bookworm in the family?”
Dash threw another look at him. “You dissin’ me?”
“It’s no disrespect to suggest your ma was a book reader. She read Hammett? The guy’s been dead for fifty years. Stopped writing years before that. She must have been dedicated to track him down.”
Dedicated, shit. She was dedicated—dedicated to whacking his skinny ass with any magazine she holding at the time. Never wanted to be disturbed. Not for shit like him hungry for a snack, needing a new game, bored with his own company. She got her face into some celebrity shit and she gone from the world.
“Yeah,” he said. “She was dedicated.”
“So, she gave you his name, an unusual name for a kid these days.”
Dash didn’t answer. Truth was, he liked the name. Sounded like a badass king pin, knew his ancestors, right down to their middle names. “You got a middle and a last name?”
The guy reading his mind.
“But Dash became your regular name?”
Fuck, this guy was persistent. Gave him a bit more to shut him up. “Got shortened to Dash. Suited me, see. I always had style, looking good, talking good.” He glanced at the reporter’s jeans and shirt. “See you ain’t reached that level yet.” Bones grinned. “You read any of him, Dash? Sounds like you got reading genes. Hammett was a top crime writer. You could pick up some neat ideas if you and your colleagues ever run out of ways to rob and steal.”
“Don’t see the need to read. I got movies, YouTube. They faster.” “
What’s faster? The telling of the story? That’s like saying sex is best when it’s over quickest. Some stories, you need to slow down, love the words a little.”
Dash laughed. “You telling me about sex? A white boy. We all know you not rated in that department.”
Bones laughed also, and looked out the window. “That’s just urban legends to make you guys feel good. I rate way up there.” “
Yeah? You been rating yourself, I’m thinking.” Bones shut up for a while. Then started again, his tone no longer easy. “You often pick up strangers on the street like you did me? Like, just stand there and say ‘come along bro’?”
“You’re the first of the day,” Dash answered, keeping it light.
“Just saying, I don’t appreciate it.” Bones stared out the window.
“Didn’t hear you putting up a fuss when you had the chance.”
“I’m lodging a complaint now. Tell your fat, fearless leader it’s no way to operate if he wants to deal with me.”
“Want me to use your exact words?”
“Just use words he’ll understand. One letter at a time if you have to.” Dash said,
“Big man waits ’til he down the road apiece before talking smack.” Smiling at him, letting him know how chickenshit he was when Melvin fixed his attitude.
Bones kept staring out the window. “The story comes first. I had to listen to what Ritchie had to say. Didn’t get a chance to set out the terms of the relationship.”
“Relationship? Shit, it’s easy. He talks, you listen, you do what he say.”
“That your way of life, Dash? You listen to his garbage, then rush around like a trained dog fetching and carrying?”
Bones working himself up. Probably feeling less of a man than he did an hour ago. Ritchie had that effect on people. Bones trying to get him riled up, say something stupid. “
What kind of shit your outfit’s selling?” he asked. The fucker wasn’t going to stop; would keep huffing and puffing until he got a whack around the chops.
“Let me guess,” Bones said. “Rocks, blow, ice. All the traditional stuff.”
Dash kept his eyes ahead, acting like he had no ears.
“Prescription drugs? Oxycontin, hydrocodone, Percocet? Ritchie got a copy machine out the back of the Thai joint, rolling out thousands of fake prescriptions? Or has he got you running a crack house somewhere?”
They stopped at a red light.
“I forgot some old favorites,” Bones went on like he was counting shit off his fingers. “Fent, Meth, Xanax, Dilaudid and Valium.” Waited a while, then, “Maybe X and roofies, too.”
Dash broke out a laugh. “Roofies? You got the wrong handle on that one. No bro I know needs roofies to get a bitch to lay down with him. That’s a white boy’s toy, that is. Shit, drop a pill into a drink, and your idea of a good time is giving it to someone who don’t even know you’re there?”
He open-palmed Bones’s shoulder, shoving him gently against the passenger door. “When I’m down and digging it with a woman,” he said, “I want her to know who’s taking her to heaven and back. Shit.”
Moved the car forward on green. Bones hadn’t reacted to the contact. He felt good for a whole five seconds until the fucker started up again. “What about the other stuff, then? You feel good about selling that shit to kids, in school, just out of school, too stupid to know there’s little difference between trying shit and needing it?” “You not from here, you don’t understand,” Dash said, wanting to shut him down. “People take what they need to get by. Got it?”
“Oh, I get it. You’re part of a public health service. Nice to know. You a patient, Dash? You take stuff to get by?”
“I got no pain. In fact, I’m so happy that at night I hit myself with a brick to stop from singing out loud and keeping the neighbors awake.” He smiled at Bones, letting him know it was okay to smile back, and letting him know who was in charge here.
“The business you’re in,” Bones said. “What kind of career path you planning on?”
Fucker had no laughs in him. Dash drew a long breath. “You gonna shut up, or do I put earplugs in?”
“Only asking,” Bones said. “It’s not my area of specialty, just curious. I mean, you don’t see many dealers who reach a nice old age where they can look back on all the good works they did, and get all warm and fuzzy inside.”
Dash gave up. Bones kept coming with the questions, slipping the knife in smooth, thinking it wouldn’t be noticed.
“I mean, most of you guys don’t make it past your mid-twenties,” Bones said. “You’re found shot up, spilling your insides onto a dirty street, and the next fool steps up to take your place. You got a plan to avoid that fate?”
He stopped like he’d run out of shit to say. Then something else came to his busy mind. “How many birthdays you had, Dash? Twenty or so? Keep ’em in your memory bank, Dash, ‘cause you won’t get a lot more.”
Dash pulled over to the curb. Pointed to the passenger door. “Your ride stops here, bitch ass white fucker.  I’m done with you and your questions.”
“I have a few more. I should do a piece on you, showing your rise and likely fall. A shining example to your peers. What it’s like to live a short life as a street rat.”
Bones way out of control now, running off like a loose hose spraying water everywhere. Dash locked eyes with him. “A piece? I got a piece I’m gonna lay across your face a dozen times you talk anymore.”
Bones held his gaze for a couple more seconds then opened his door. “I felt like stretching my legs anyway.” He got out. Held the door open and stuck his head back in. “You ever want to talk about shit, call me,” he said, sincere as a preacher now, dropped his card on the seat. “You’ll find I’m a good listener. I protect my sources.” Pushed the door shut and stepped away.
Career fucking path, Dash thought as he drove off. He already made more in a day than that lippy fucker made in a week; that be certain.

Finished the sample? My complete library of thrillers is available in digital and print via the link below.