Denny Frawley will do anything to be governor of South Carolina.
Anything.
Denny Frawley is a crook. He's a murderer. He loves cocaine.
His children and their friends sell weed. His wife is an alcoholic. His mistress is conniving. His minions are as ruthless as he.
Hal Kinley is a good cop. He works for Frawley. He's known him all his life. Denny is on the verge of being elected governor of South Carolina. No one can stop him but Hal. Hal's son has fallen under the spell of the Frawley twins. Hal wants to save Hayden, too.
It's a long shot.
Excerpt
Chapter 1
The Old Switcheroo
A traveling salesman named Bobby Lowe pulled off the interstate late on Tuesday night and checked into the Truckers Inn, where he negotiated a rate of thirty-five dollars. When he found the room ice-cold, he turned on the heat and decided to walk to the nearby Hardee’s, which was still open for another half hour. That was when Burt Lockerbie realized he had his man. Lockerbie was sitting in the Hardee’s parking lot, munching a Thick Burger, when he saw Lowe’s fourteen-year-old Honda pull up at the office of the Truckers Inn. He watched the man check in, drive to his room, emerge from it, and walk over to have a burger.
A Honda of that age was simple to vandalize. It was late at night. Its owner would probably be up early and back on the road in the morning, and he was undoubtedly tired from a long drive. Getting him a little snack at Hardee’s now. He’d likely be out like a light by midnight.
Plus, the man was black, which made him a perfect diversion.
Lockerbie left to put his plan in motion.
***
Lowe dawdled a little the next morning. He’d driven late into the night because he knew he could get a cheaper room out in the sticks than in a city like Asheville or Spartanburg. He kept on driving till he saw what he was looking for. He might’ve gone for a Motel 6 if there had been one, but all he was going to do was sleep. In the Truckers Inn, he got what he paid for, but he didn’t see any bugs or anything. He had all day to get to Savannah, so he sipped some coffee and had some Raisin Bran in the breakfast nook, which, surprisingly, the Truckers Inn had.
At about a quarter to ten, Lowe loaded his car. The trunk had two boxes of Bibles in it. He placed his travel bag in the back seat, didn’t notice anything amiss because he wasn’t looking for it, and drove up to the office to leave his key and get a receipt. He poured himself another cup of coffee for the road, though he figured he’d pull over at a truck stop on the highway to fill up his insulated mug. Then Bobby Lowe, who was a religious man, said a little prayer asking the Lord to allow him safe passage and pulled first out of the parking lot and then down the interstate. A squad car of some kind pulled down the ramp behind him, but he didn’t think anything of it. As he passed the next exit, a screaming squadron of police cars roared down the ramp after he passed.
Lt. Harold Kinley, who had been driving the single Latimohr Public Safety cruiser, pulled off the exit while five sheriff’s department cruisers screamed down the other side. The interstate wasn’t in the Latimohr city limits. His job had been merely to monitor the suspect and report when he moved and where he was going. That way the story could be reported as a joint effort of Rollison County and Latimohr city law enforcement. The anticipation was that this was going to be big. Kinley didn’t know for sure, but he was betting the sheriff himself was in one of those cruisers.
Lowe thought the police were after someone else, or, more likely, something else. With all those cars hauling ass, he figured there must be a wreck or something up ahead. A bad one. The ambulances just couldn’t move quite as fast.
But it dawned on Lowe, none too subtly, that, for some reason, the cops were after him. He practically had to veer off the road because it seemed as if the cops were going to ram him if he didn’t jump to it. Two cars screeched to a halt in front of him, two more behind him, and the fifth actually stopped right alongside, out in the lane where folks were supposed to be driving when they weren’t passing. Uniformed officers in the back cars immediately started placing orange traffic cones to divert traffic out of the right lane.
A fat, white officer got out of the car alongside and immediately pointed a big chrome gun right at Lowe.
“Get out of the fucking car! You hear me? Out of the fucking car! Now!”
Two more officers, more slender and young, also trained their guns on Bobby Lowe. He got out of the car.
“Officer, there must be some mistake—”
“We’ll see about that, boy. Spread ’em.”
The man didn’t ask him for license and registration. His men relieved Bobby of his wallet and a Swiss Army knife he carried to open boxes and provide any other function he might need. They handled him roughly and demanded he open the trunk. Bobby told them the keys were still in the ignition and he needed to get them. They shoved him back along the side of the car. One of them slapped him. He was shaking, dropped the keys, got pushed to the ground, and picked them up again. He opened the trunk.
“Hey, Sheriff, this here says the man’s a preacher.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Sheriff Felton Dorn said. “Sleazy fuckers’ll do anything. I reckon you’re proud of yourself, you son of a bitch.”
Bobby Lowe didn’t say a word.
“Sheriff, come look at this.” It was Sgt. Jim Lavery, who was opening Lowe’s boxes in the trunk.
“Keep your gun trained on him, Troy,” he said to the officer with the wallet, who jammed the wallet into the pocket unoccupied by his own and pulled his piece.
“Bibles,” Dorn said. “Holy Bibles.”
“Holy shit,” the sheriff said. “Search the car. Look under the seats.”
Bingo. The back seats had mats in the floorboard. Under them, and carefully arranged under both front seats, were twenty-four plastic bags, each containing approximately two ounces of what appeared to be marijuana.
The sheriff took one of the bags, ran a knife through one side, and sniffed.
“It’s weed, all right,” Dorn said. “Cuff the suspect and read him his rights.”
“Sir . . . Sheriff, I don’t know how that got there. I’m . . . I’m . . . not a . . . drug—”
The sheriff cuffed Lowe across the face.
“Save it, asshole. I’ve seen that fucking movie.”
***
Two major events were going on: the Latimohr Christmas Parade—traditionally, it was the first day school was out for the holidays—and a major drug bust on the interstate. No, actually, there were three. While the sheriff and five deputies were shoving Bobby Lowe around out west of town, and the Latimohr High School Marching Lions were playing “Jingle Bells,” Burt Lockerbie and his associate, Nathaniel Clinton, were knocking on the door of apartment 217 at the Creekside Manor, a low-income project on the opposite side of town. Cesar Blancas wore only underwear when he opened the door, squinting and rubbing his eyes.
Lockerbie said, “Hiyadoin’,” and shot Blancas twice in the chest. Clinton found Rosalie Espinosa in the bedroom and shot her dead, too.
They were out of there in three minutes.
In the car, Lockerbie said to Clinton, “Fuckin’ Mexicans’ll think long and hard ’fore they fuck with me again.”
“Hell, yeah,” Clinton said. “Thug life.”
For a moment, Lockerbie had an urge to shoot that dumbass Nathaniel, too, but he let it pass.
“All it cost me was all the oregano Sam’s Club had in stock.”
Clinton thought, which wasn’t common, for a moment.
“What they say when you put that shit on the checkout counter?”
“I don’t know. I sent a kid up to Spartanburg in the Chrysler. Had to go to Greenville, too, to get enough. Paid with cash.”
Professional Reviews
The Consequences Our Souls Choose
Forgive us our trespasses was for me a study of the light and dark capable in the same human soul. Monte does a great job illustrating the consequences should our souls choose the high or low roads, drawn in clear bright colors of morality.
Set in the bleeding heart of Americana, Monte draws his readers in with an unflinching portrayal of small town life. Not always pretty, but always genuine and authentic, the textures and smells of a blue jeans life waft from the pages like a rogue uncle that smells of cigarette smoke and stale coffee.
The main characters, Denny and Hal are opposite sides of the same coin. As the up and downsides of Denny's good nature come to bear, and we see a photo negative in Hal. The book left me a strong sense of what it might feel like to live in Latimohr.
What I liked most is how sure each man is that their path is right and just. Denny knows he's no saint, but his lies aren't just for constituents. All men believe they are the heroes of their own narratives I suppose. Some of the racial tensions felt forced to me, but to be honest the fault might lie with my own lack of experience in race relations.
Overall I very much enjoyed the book and found the ending satisfied my own desire for justice and redemption. Recommended for anyone looking for a story of dichotomy, dirty politics and home cooking.
Perfect for Election Season
Fresh off of "Crazy by Natural Causes," this dark novel proved to be another Monte Dutton book that I couldn't put down. Stories of power, corruption, cocaine and plenty of sex keep the pace moving quickly. Given the election cycle we are in, everything Dutton writes about seems plausible, even if it's mostly insane. Not for the easily offended, but a fun read for those looking for a blunt, dark ride through South Carolina.
Hitting His Stride
I have always enjoyed Monte's ability to tell a story. But I think he had hit his stride with his latest. He has became a master of flawed heroes and despicable antagonists. What I like he did this time is you know who did it but kept you pulled in to see if they get away with it. It is dark but a great tale
Serial killer Ted Bundy's murders recounted from the perspective of thirty years after his execution in a Florida prison.
Brutal, compelling, with new updated facts about the case, his victims and the compulsions that drove Ted Bundy to mass murder.
