FRANTIC CITY
Raven is no ordinary dancer. Wyatt ‘Denni’ Dennison is an ex-cop who has lost his way. They share the scar of tragic loss. She wants revenge. Murder is a line he won’t cross. When Denni is asked to do a simple favor; find out if Raven is working at a bar outside of Atlantic City; they are thrust together with a kaleidoscope of characters who dwell where justice and the law diverge. Frantic City is set in Southern New Jersey, from the streets of one of the nation’s most dangerous cities, Camden, on the west, to Atlantic City on the east, and the ancient Jersey Pine Barrens in between. available on Kindle Frantic City |
available for all e-readers
Kings of the Street |
Kings of the Street
Denni has made enemies. Mostly punks and thugs who don’t have the juice, or the balls, to come back on him. But when he kills the sons of a notorious city drug lord, he makes a dangerous enemy with a very long memory.
Kings of the Street is a mystery/thriller set in the nine square miles of dysfunction that is Camden, New Jersey.
After this deadly encounter ends his job as a Camden City cop, Wyatt "Denni" Dennison redeems his career as an officer with New Jersey’s Intensive Supervision Program (ISP). His past catches up to him when the drug lord, crippled at Denni’s hand, orchestrates a series of abductions and murders that implicate Denni and derail his professional, personal, and love life. Denni’s off-the-book investigation into the disappearances takes him deep into Camden’s underworld, and the darkest recesses of his own history.
Kings of the Street is written by the team of Stuart Smith and Stephen Zippilli, and is drawn from Stuart’s career, formerly as a private investigator, Probation Officer and currently an Officer with the New Jersey Intensive Supervision Program, supervising felons on the streets of Camden for the last 14 years. Stephen Zippilli is just one sick bastard.
Kings of the Street is a mystery/thriller set in the nine square miles of dysfunction that is Camden, New Jersey.
After this deadly encounter ends his job as a Camden City cop, Wyatt "Denni" Dennison redeems his career as an officer with New Jersey’s Intensive Supervision Program (ISP). His past catches up to him when the drug lord, crippled at Denni’s hand, orchestrates a series of abductions and murders that implicate Denni and derail his professional, personal, and love life. Denni’s off-the-book investigation into the disappearances takes him deep into Camden’s underworld, and the darkest recesses of his own history.
Kings of the Street is written by the team of Stuart Smith and Stephen Zippilli, and is drawn from Stuart’s career, formerly as a private investigator, Probation Officer and currently an Officer with the New Jersey Intensive Supervision Program, supervising felons on the streets of Camden for the last 14 years. Stephen Zippilli is just one sick bastard.
Here's a little taste ...
Chapter 1 - The Odd Couple
The sound is unmistakable. The crackling staccato buzz and click of eight hundred thousand volts arching between metal studs. The next sounds are inevitable. A screaming plea for mercy followed by a strangled grunt. Panting when the buzz stops. Prayers that it doesn’t happen again. Screaming just before it does. But the sound after that, the high child-like giggle, is at once incongruous and unsettling.
Buzz; crackle. Plead; grunt. Giggle
The cycle repeats.
“That’s enough you maniac.”
“Fuck you, crip. This is the deal.”
“You watch your mouth. I can still kick your ass.”
The only light in the dingy room is coming from a set of small windows set high in the wall. The smell of urine and mildew permeate the room. The man is bound to a support pole in the middle of the clammy 20 by 25 foot space. The hemp twine binding his wrists is cutting into the skin, but that’s the least of his worries. The man leering at him has sweat rolling down his forehead and a sickly, yellow-toothed grin.
“No! No! What you want man? Let me go. I’ll do anything.”
“Yeah – that’s it. Beg doggy, beg.”
Buzz; crackle. Plead; grunt. Giggle.
“Oh shit, he passed out.”
“Good, then let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“But I’m not done yet.” He is still staring down at the heap before him.
The blast jolts him. The flash lights the room. The crimson and gray spatter confuse him. He spins on the other man to find the weapon being holstered.
“Now you’re done.”
*************************************************************************************************************
Lesters’ bad day had begun twenty four hours earlier.
The yellow-toothed man had pounded on his door. “Lester! Crudwell! Open up!”
After a moment a drug-raddled woman, maybe 50, maybe 25, wearing only a thin, filth-stained robe, loosely tied at the waist, opened the door. “What you want?”
“Lester. I want Lester. Get him.”
“Ain’t no Lester here.”
“Don’t fuck with me, skank. He better be here or I’m going to call the ‘Po-lees’ and they’ll search this shit hole until they find him, or anything else you don’t want them to know about. Now get Lester!”
“Fuggin’ as’ole,” was all she could mutter as she moved away from the door.
First there was muffled conversation, then yelling, then a baby cry. The slamming of doors and drawers. Then Lester clumsily made his way to the door, pulling on pants as he moved. What was once a white but now grayed, sleeveless tee shirt covered his malnourished frame.
“Oh. Din’t spec you here.”
“Lester, listen to me closely now. Focus that mud between your ears for one minute. You need to make a choice right now. I have a job for you. If you’ll take the job, it will keep your black ass out of jail, for a while anyway, and you can come home to your little Green Acres here. You follow?”
There followed a long moment of blinking vacant eyes as Lester stared at the yellow-toothed man. His mouth was making an “O” shape, and he rocked slightly back and forth as Lester fought to think. Finally, Lester answered, “Huh, OK. When do I start?”
“Right now dipshit. We go right now.”
“Wha? Uh, I don’t think now is a good time for me to do no work.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Lester. What don’t you fucking understand? Now is not a good time for the police to show up either, is it? So put on some shoes and let’s go. The man with the job is waiting.”
More blinking yellow eyes. Then a quick double nod of assertion. A slow turn back into the room, the thought of finding shoes nearly causing smoke to billow from Lester’s ears.
“I’ll be in the car, Lester,” the man said, shaking his head in disgust as he made his way off the stoop.
When they arrived at the abandoned house, the yellow-toothed man instructed Lester where to go. Then he sat and watched to make sure the ragged junkie could manage to muster enough concentration to complete the thirty second walk. Once Lester made it inside, he punched the accelerator on the car hard enough to tease his deep-rooted desire to abuse.
As Lester passed through the door he weakly called out, “Huh-lo?”
“Hello, Lester,” a smooth baritone responded. It took a moment for Lester to locate the source, but a glint off something silvery caught his attention. As his eyes adjusted to the deeper darkness of the room, he realized with a start who it was that he was here to meet.
“You know me Lester?” It was only a half a question, more of an assertion really.
“Yessuh, I think I do. It’s been a long time.” Lester could feel his heart rate rising, cloudy questions forming in the haze of his consciousness, a warning making its way to his attention by way of slow boat.
“Yes, it has,” the baritone responded. “Last time I saw you I didn’t need this,” he said as he rocked forward in his seat, placing his substantial weight on the head of an ornately decorated silver topped cane. He pushed himself to a standing position with a wince he tried to hide, but which Lester could see even in the gloom. “You used to be a good customer, Lester.”
As the man approached, Lester could see the labor in each step. “Heh, was, yeah. Long time.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the man, fearing him as if his condition made him even more dangerous. “Um, I’m here for a job?”
“Truth is Lester we’re looking out for you by bringing you here. We know you won’t do well on a long stretch. And, see, that man who brought you here owes me a favor. You can be the payback, so this is a win, win, win. Everybody goes home happy. Understand Lester?”
Actually Lester didn’t follow at all, but he nodded anyway.
“Sit down, Lester and I’ll explain the job.”
*************************************************************************************************************************************
The spotter called in the location. The driver brought Lester to the intersecting side street. The Crack they had given him was amping him up. He was thinking, “ ‘Dis is easy. I can do this.”
The driver pulled over to the curb and said, “A’ight, dis it. Go nice an easy. Make a lef at da corner; red hoodie. Get out.” That was it.
Lester got out and unconsciously started whispering, “‘Dis is easy, ‘dis is easy,” over and over. At the corner he stopped. Almost forgot which way he was supposed to go. “Left,” he whispered to himself, then thought for a moment about which was his left. He looked both directions at the corner, and then he looked behind him. The driver was still there. “Left. Red hoodie,” he whispered to himself. He looked left. There it was. “Red hoodie. Red hoodie. Red hoodie,” he whispered with each step. By now, between the Crack and adrenaline, Lester was electrified. He was two steps from red hoodie when red hoodie turned to look at him. Lester didn’t even realize he had pulled the gun out, but it was firing, one, two, three shots at red hoodie. When he heard the yelling around him he started firing randomly, four, five, six shots. Two more people fell. Lester ran ahead to the next corner and made another left in time to see the driver headed toward him.
The brakes squealed. The door flung open, the driver screaming, “Get in! Get in!” Lester hopped inside and the door slammed shut from the acceleration of the car. Lester kept repeating, “Red hoodie. REd hoodie,” until the driver yelled, “Man, shut the fuck up!” So he did. Then, “Gimme dat gun.” And he did. Even when the driver dropped him back at the abandoned house, Lester didn’t say a word. He entered the house as he had several hours before. This time Baritone appeared from the kitchen.
“Lester, thank you. Good job. Come, have a drink and I’ll pay you.”
Lester blankly complied, and headed into the kitchen. It was dark and his eyes were still adjusting when he saw the yellow-toothed man standing next to the doorway. A light exploded behind his eyes, his knees gave out, and he hit the pockmarked linoleum hard. That was the last he remembered until he was awakened by a splash of cold water in the face. His shoulders ached from the pull backwards. His wrists were bound behind him, and it felt like barbed wire was cutting into them. Now he knew he was sitting on a cold, hard floor. His head hit the post as he jerked back from the water. The Crack was out of his system now and his mind was functioning slowly. The overhead light, though not bright, hurt his eyes nonetheless. As he focused he saw the yellow-toothed man standing over him with a half grin.
“How you doing, Lester?” the man asked, the anticipation in his voice rendering it nearly falsetto.
“What’s, what’s this? I did my job. What’s dis ‘bout?” He didn’t recognize what the man was holding, but he heard first a buzz, then a crackle, and when it touched him the light exploded again. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t scream. He could only convulse.
Buzz; crackle. Plead; grunt. Giggle. Repeat.
Buzz; crackle. Plead; grunt. Giggle
The cycle repeats.
“That’s enough you maniac.”
“Fuck you, crip. This is the deal.”
“You watch your mouth. I can still kick your ass.”
The only light in the dingy room is coming from a set of small windows set high in the wall. The smell of urine and mildew permeate the room. The man is bound to a support pole in the middle of the clammy 20 by 25 foot space. The hemp twine binding his wrists is cutting into the skin, but that’s the least of his worries. The man leering at him has sweat rolling down his forehead and a sickly, yellow-toothed grin.
“No! No! What you want man? Let me go. I’ll do anything.”
“Yeah – that’s it. Beg doggy, beg.”
Buzz; crackle. Plead; grunt. Giggle.
“Oh shit, he passed out.”
“Good, then let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“But I’m not done yet.” He is still staring down at the heap before him.
The blast jolts him. The flash lights the room. The crimson and gray spatter confuse him. He spins on the other man to find the weapon being holstered.
“Now you’re done.”
*************************************************************************************************************
Lesters’ bad day had begun twenty four hours earlier.
The yellow-toothed man had pounded on his door. “Lester! Crudwell! Open up!”
After a moment a drug-raddled woman, maybe 50, maybe 25, wearing only a thin, filth-stained robe, loosely tied at the waist, opened the door. “What you want?”
“Lester. I want Lester. Get him.”
“Ain’t no Lester here.”
“Don’t fuck with me, skank. He better be here or I’m going to call the ‘Po-lees’ and they’ll search this shit hole until they find him, or anything else you don’t want them to know about. Now get Lester!”
“Fuggin’ as’ole,” was all she could mutter as she moved away from the door.
First there was muffled conversation, then yelling, then a baby cry. The slamming of doors and drawers. Then Lester clumsily made his way to the door, pulling on pants as he moved. What was once a white but now grayed, sleeveless tee shirt covered his malnourished frame.
“Oh. Din’t spec you here.”
“Lester, listen to me closely now. Focus that mud between your ears for one minute. You need to make a choice right now. I have a job for you. If you’ll take the job, it will keep your black ass out of jail, for a while anyway, and you can come home to your little Green Acres here. You follow?”
There followed a long moment of blinking vacant eyes as Lester stared at the yellow-toothed man. His mouth was making an “O” shape, and he rocked slightly back and forth as Lester fought to think. Finally, Lester answered, “Huh, OK. When do I start?”
“Right now dipshit. We go right now.”
“Wha? Uh, I don’t think now is a good time for me to do no work.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Lester. What don’t you fucking understand? Now is not a good time for the police to show up either, is it? So put on some shoes and let’s go. The man with the job is waiting.”
More blinking yellow eyes. Then a quick double nod of assertion. A slow turn back into the room, the thought of finding shoes nearly causing smoke to billow from Lester’s ears.
“I’ll be in the car, Lester,” the man said, shaking his head in disgust as he made his way off the stoop.
When they arrived at the abandoned house, the yellow-toothed man instructed Lester where to go. Then he sat and watched to make sure the ragged junkie could manage to muster enough concentration to complete the thirty second walk. Once Lester made it inside, he punched the accelerator on the car hard enough to tease his deep-rooted desire to abuse.
As Lester passed through the door he weakly called out, “Huh-lo?”
“Hello, Lester,” a smooth baritone responded. It took a moment for Lester to locate the source, but a glint off something silvery caught his attention. As his eyes adjusted to the deeper darkness of the room, he realized with a start who it was that he was here to meet.
“You know me Lester?” It was only a half a question, more of an assertion really.
“Yessuh, I think I do. It’s been a long time.” Lester could feel his heart rate rising, cloudy questions forming in the haze of his consciousness, a warning making its way to his attention by way of slow boat.
“Yes, it has,” the baritone responded. “Last time I saw you I didn’t need this,” he said as he rocked forward in his seat, placing his substantial weight on the head of an ornately decorated silver topped cane. He pushed himself to a standing position with a wince he tried to hide, but which Lester could see even in the gloom. “You used to be a good customer, Lester.”
As the man approached, Lester could see the labor in each step. “Heh, was, yeah. Long time.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the man, fearing him as if his condition made him even more dangerous. “Um, I’m here for a job?”
“Truth is Lester we’re looking out for you by bringing you here. We know you won’t do well on a long stretch. And, see, that man who brought you here owes me a favor. You can be the payback, so this is a win, win, win. Everybody goes home happy. Understand Lester?”
Actually Lester didn’t follow at all, but he nodded anyway.
“Sit down, Lester and I’ll explain the job.”
*************************************************************************************************************************************
The spotter called in the location. The driver brought Lester to the intersecting side street. The Crack they had given him was amping him up. He was thinking, “ ‘Dis is easy. I can do this.”
The driver pulled over to the curb and said, “A’ight, dis it. Go nice an easy. Make a lef at da corner; red hoodie. Get out.” That was it.
Lester got out and unconsciously started whispering, “‘Dis is easy, ‘dis is easy,” over and over. At the corner he stopped. Almost forgot which way he was supposed to go. “Left,” he whispered to himself, then thought for a moment about which was his left. He looked both directions at the corner, and then he looked behind him. The driver was still there. “Left. Red hoodie,” he whispered to himself. He looked left. There it was. “Red hoodie. Red hoodie. Red hoodie,” he whispered with each step. By now, between the Crack and adrenaline, Lester was electrified. He was two steps from red hoodie when red hoodie turned to look at him. Lester didn’t even realize he had pulled the gun out, but it was firing, one, two, three shots at red hoodie. When he heard the yelling around him he started firing randomly, four, five, six shots. Two more people fell. Lester ran ahead to the next corner and made another left in time to see the driver headed toward him.
The brakes squealed. The door flung open, the driver screaming, “Get in! Get in!” Lester hopped inside and the door slammed shut from the acceleration of the car. Lester kept repeating, “Red hoodie. REd hoodie,” until the driver yelled, “Man, shut the fuck up!” So he did. Then, “Gimme dat gun.” And he did. Even when the driver dropped him back at the abandoned house, Lester didn’t say a word. He entered the house as he had several hours before. This time Baritone appeared from the kitchen.
“Lester, thank you. Good job. Come, have a drink and I’ll pay you.”
Lester blankly complied, and headed into the kitchen. It was dark and his eyes were still adjusting when he saw the yellow-toothed man standing next to the doorway. A light exploded behind his eyes, his knees gave out, and he hit the pockmarked linoleum hard. That was the last he remembered until he was awakened by a splash of cold water in the face. His shoulders ached from the pull backwards. His wrists were bound behind him, and it felt like barbed wire was cutting into them. Now he knew he was sitting on a cold, hard floor. His head hit the post as he jerked back from the water. The Crack was out of his system now and his mind was functioning slowly. The overhead light, though not bright, hurt his eyes nonetheless. As he focused he saw the yellow-toothed man standing over him with a half grin.
“How you doing, Lester?” the man asked, the anticipation in his voice rendering it nearly falsetto.
“What’s, what’s this? I did my job. What’s dis ‘bout?” He didn’t recognize what the man was holding, but he heard first a buzz, then a crackle, and when it touched him the light exploded again. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t scream. He could only convulse.
Buzz; crackle. Plead; grunt. Giggle. Repeat.