Caveat Ties

My magnum opus. A noir Anti-Batman of sorts. I'm blinded by this one, and arrogant about it. Not sure I'll let anyone touch this one much. While I do see why one might find this child of mine bratty, I still want the world to love this one as much as I do.

It's available on Amazon... 

Some say pain begets the deepest beauty. Then maybe, Michael Caveat has done West Willow a favor. The city used to be a hillbilly haven, until he cleaned it up. He restored the rundown historical buildings, added culture, and snaked a recreational trail connecting a series of willow-filled parks. To make it all possible, he simply had to form a mafia; delve into extortion, money laundering, and drug manufacturing; and take control of the city.

Most the citizens have surrendered. All but a few… Detective Sean Ingram has fought for years to find the right legal snare. Celeste Lewis searches for the acceptable words to expose him. The words that her editor will let her print. The ones the public will accept. Haunted by his raucous past with Caveat, Jamie Jefferson of JJ’s Diner seeks peace. And, Gus O’ Reilly, a beatnik snitch, helps out where he can’t. Their teenage offspring, Spencer, Jewel, RJ, and Rachel witness their failures, birthing a youthful set of frustrations and fruitless cracks at the justice gig.

With as much luck as a mosquito challenging an alligator, they resist his power, until Caveat’s own ghost rises. Able to disappear and reappear, a masked vigilante strikes the Mafia's operations, leaving only bodies and a note behind. As West Willow grows more turbulent, the anti-Caveat dissenters bicker between the bunkers, wondering who is Vigilante, or if they even want to find out.

First Chapter

1NE
West Willow used to be a beautiful city. If you’re the wine and cheese type, you would have loved it. The cultural elitists boasted about their public buildings: museums, libraries, theaters, schools... etc. I don’t mean to sound like a highbrow-hating hick. I’m an educated man. I enjoyed those things too. But, the bike path was the town’s Hanging Gardens. It was beautiful. Resurfaced after even a hint of wear, the asphalt followed the banks of the Canton River. Fishing docks, fountains and garden parks seasoned the route. And the willows... The sweet smell of the now faded willows.

I watched those kids from one of the umpteen dignified buildings. The courthouse. They waited by the statue after each and every Vidal trail. After that day, they wouldn’t need to go to another.

A pointed-arch swallowed the building’s front door, the stairs reaching toward Lady Justice. She stood on a long pedestal, torch lampposts at each end. You would have thought those council guys would have fixed the statue’s disrepair, clashing with the surrounding details. Like a pinch of fiberglass in the bed sheets, some hooligans cut off one of the scales. Just one. A political statement? Probably.

“So why haven’t they replaced that yet?” Spencer Ingram gawked at the damaged statue. His sandy hair blazed in the wind as if fueled by anger. A guy couldn’t tell by looking at his face. For the longest time, he had been a bottler. He suppressed his feelings like a shaken soda, tapped the top every now-and-then to relieve pressure.

I can hardly blame him for being mad. If only people could learn to leave well enough alone...

“The council said they want to make sure they replace the piece with something that matches the ‘historical significance’ of the statue.” Jewel Lewis finger-quoted. “The process is so bogged down in bureaucracy. I’d be surprised if it ever gets done.” A bit of a political whiz, she would have known.

Spencer grinned a stoic smile, as Jewel spoke matter-of-factly. It’s like a toddler trying to boss her baby brother around. ‘Cute.’ A description Jewel detested. A real fawn-face, eyes large, nose round. A Junior, who looked like an 8th grader. She was softer than some, but far from overweight. Her features twinkled a schoolgirl likeness that would entice an over affectionate aunt to pinch her cheeks and not let go. An image the girl craved to shed. In an attempt to counter her persona, she kept her hair short, bangs as long as the back. She thought a professional look might have helped. Didn’t do a lick of good.

“You’d think they’d focus on the image they have to retain,” Spencer said.

“Their guilt compels them to leave it as it is,” Trace Herman replied. The mulatto youth leaned against the Lady Justice wall. His jaw was tense behind the greasy complexion. His hair carried a rusty tint that seemed unfitting for the texture. Of the three, Trace had the most on the line for this particular trial—bringing his father’s murderer to justice.

No one wants a youth to experience such heartache, but… Yeah. I don’t dare tread there, in risk of sounding callous.

The three waited in silence. A verdict would come shortly.

Mid-August. The thought of school starting in a few days was but a backdrop at that point. The wind alternated cool and warm gusts. A can rattled across the street. Wouldn’t be long before a flatfoot apprehended it. What else was he going to do?

Sitting against the pedestal, Spencer let his leg shake. When is dad going to get out of there?

The door opened. Jewel’s bangs lashed her face as she spun around. No one important. She sighed and faced Trace. “How are you feeling?”

“I hope they kill the bastard.” A tear struggled to fall from Trace’s eye. After nearly two years, his fury smoldered like acid in a cast-iron pan.

Miles Vidal killed Trace’s father for refusing to pay protection money. The mechanic could no longer afford it. But before you get consumed in righteous indignation, it was not as if he was without options. The mafia realized hard times would come. They accepted favors as payments, but Herman was too stubborn for that.

That day, Vidal was not on trial for murder, but a lesser charge. I can’t even remember what Ingram was trying to get him on. The Herman murder was declared self-defense. And, really it was, Herman was the one that pulled out the shotgun.

Jewel rubbed Trace’s shoulder.

“Hey man,” Spencer said. “We’ll get him. If not today. Sometime.”

“Your guys’ parents aren’t cutting it. Someone else has to do something.”

“Like who? Like what?” Spencer tapped Trace with his fist. “Hey, if I knew I could do anything, I would.”

“When you get mad enough, you’ll...”

“I’ll what?”

“I... I don’t know. I’m not thinking clearly.”

“I don’t think I’d ever get angry enough to do anything too rash.” Spencer winked, and tapped Trace a little harder with his fist.

The doors flung open. A horde of reporters flooded out. Flashes flared and questions thundered. The teens’ hearts shattered as Miles Vidal smiled lifting his hands in celebration. His smug expression clobbered their innards.

Trace’s fist trembled, clenched tightly as veins pulsed from his forearm. He carried those big veins. The ones that don’t take much to bulge.

Jewel frowned the frown of a girl crying in her head.

The thug’s suit reeked of excess. The unmistakable Caveat White Tie—a designer silk piece—flaunted his position. Youthful, attractive, Vidal’s boyish face and wickedly charming smile glimmered mafia philanthropy. He hosted numerous events, and conducted television interviews. The perfect PR rep. Probably why Ingram turned the pressure up on the man. Hit the face of the mob, hit the whole mob.

“The charges were completely fabricated.” With smug educated talk, Vidal walked toward a limo.

“How do you think this controversy will affect the charity ball Saturday night?” a reporter asked.

“I hope my accusers can live with themselves, if West Willow’s inner city children lose funds for the Word Up after school program. I just want to help the kids.” Plastic tears percolated in his ducts. His mouth flexed a smile disguised as a frown.

Jewel’s face went austere as the media sucked up to the criminal. “Why do they even talk to him?”

Her mother moved from the mass with an identical expression. Celeste Lewis wrought the attraction Jewel wished to emulate. One would be hard-pressed to call the dame ‘cute.’ Beautiful, definitely, but not cute. Her face carried sharp features. Her hair, light brown and curled a hint. Her khaki blazer with oversized buttons was reminiscent of a gumshoe’s trench coat. No one would ever dare pinch Celeste’s cheeks. I wouldn’t mind trying though.

“Pfft.” Spencer scowled at one side of his mouth. “They don’t even talk to my dad and get his side.”

Vidal hopped into the limo.

As the vehicle sped off, reporters interrogated the next character exiting the courthouse. In the midst of the horde, the teens couldn’t see who was walking toward them.

“Detective Ingram.” “Detective Ingram.” “Detective Ingram.” “What do you think of the outcome?” “Do you wish you would have waited for more evidence?” “Have some police officers conspired to frame Mr. Vidal?” Questions stampeded.

“No comment. No comment. No comment. No comment.”

Each ‘no comment’ roared louder, like a lion struggling to escape the midst of a charging wildebeest herd.

On tiptoes, Spencer scanned the crowd, eventually able to spot his father, pushing through.

Detective Sean Ingram’s shoulders hung low. It seemed after every failed trial, they moved a little lower. His dark hair, normally kempt, jutted in various directions from reporters’ jostling. A frustrated expression dominated his face as media hornets swarmed him. Realizing the mass was not going to relent, the detective sat on a bench at the side of Lady Justice. With chin on his fist, he stared forward, refusing to speak.

“This has got to stop,” Spencer said.

Clatters and queries faded. As reporters realized their questions would remain unanswered, the crowd evaporated.

The three teens, and Celeste remained. Each knew to let Ingram stew a bit.

Detective Ingram was an arrowhead without a shaft fumbling toward the West Willow Mafia. He had yet to hit an outer ring. The red center: Mob Boss Michael Caveat. (Everyone called him ‘Caveat.’)

With a thrust of his fists, the detective stood, and pointed his face at the metal plaque on Lady Justice’s pedestal. He chuckled.

“What happened?” Spencer asked.

“The judge and jury were paid off.” Ingram loosened his tie. “Sometimes I think Caveat wants his guys on trial. Double jeopardy will protect them in the future.”

“What’s the point?” Trace pulled his hair, kicked a retaining wall and shouted a series of obscenities.

“If we keep trying, eventually the public will get sick of this,” Celeste said after his cussing breather. “I understand your pain. All of us have lost loved ones.”

“Whatever.”

“You want to come with us to JJ’s for supper?” Ingram asked.

“No. I just want to be alone.”

“Ok. But you’re alright?”

“Yeah. I just need to think.”

“You going to come by later to play Parcheesi? RJ wants a rematch.” Jewel said.

“Maybe. I’m beat. Vidal does that to me.”

“Of course. I know what that is like. It’s been 11 years since I lost my husband,” Celeste said. “But I know we’ll get justice, either in this world or the next.”

“Yeah. The next.” Trace walked away with no further word.

“Should we go after him?” Jewel asked.

“He needs his space. I know that sometimes we all just need space.” Ingram placed his hand on Celeste’s shoulders.

Spencer glanced at the pedestal plaque as he followed. “This guy didn’t know anything.”

The foundation of justice

is good faith.

~Cicero