A Score for Little Dale
by James R. Winter

“Five people saw you in the basement last night,” said Tom Jefferson, chief of the Mt. Washington Police.  The big man looked even bigger in his uniform.

Roland could smell Maker's Mark on Jefferson's breath.  Now didn't seem like the time to bring it up.  “Well, I do live here, Chief.”

“Yes, you do.  But this is building four.  They saw you in buildings two and three.  Coincidentally, three of those people reported their cars broken into.”

“Sorry about their luck.”

“And did you really go downstairs and tell Kitty Denniston you heard she got robbed?”

Roland tried to keep his poker face, but he felt his cheeks flush.  The bitch told him.  Either she did, or that psycho husband.  “Never said it, Chief.”

Jefferson's eyes narrowed as he blew out whiskey-scented breath.

“Would you like one for the road, Chief?  I got a bottle of Southern Comfort in the cupboard.”

Jefferson scoffed.  “Gee, that's funny.  Kitty said someone stole a bottle of that from her car.  You sure you don't know about it?”

“Got prints?”

“No.”

“Search warrant?”

“Not yet.  Are you going to barricade the door like you did the last time?”

Roland stood.  “Until you get a warrant, I suggest you get the fuck out of my house.”

Jefferson stood and put his hand on the butt of his gun.  The whole time he smiled at Roland.  “Fine, Roland, but remember, you aren't across the Levee anymore.  Your neighbors want me to send you back.”

“My neighbors are all assholes.”

“That may be, but they have something you don't have.  A job.  Which explains how they pay for all that stuff they think you stole.”  Jefferson tipped his hat at someone behind Roland.  “Myrna, pleasure to see you again.”

Roland didn't like the tone in Jefferson's voice, carrying some sort of secret he'd never know.

“Chief Jefferson,” said Myrna from behind.  “How's your wife?”

Jefferson didn't so much as blink.  “Just lovely, Myrna.  How's tricks?”

Myrna didn't answer that.

Roland felt his cheeks burn once again.  “Out, Jefferson.  Or I get a lawyer.”

“You'll need one.”  Jefferson tipped his hat at her again.  To Roland, he said, “We'll be in touch.”

As soon as the door closed, Roland said, “Fucking drunk pig.”  He turned to Myrna, who stood in the doorway to the back of the apartment.  “He's not making you give him some, is he?”

Myrna shook her head, bouncing the baby in her arms.  A cigarette bobbed in her mouth as she talked.  “I don't turn tricks for cops.”  The baby started crying.  “I need smokes.  Can you run to the store while I feed Little Dale here?”

*     *     *

The pickup almost stalled as Roland pulled into the Kroger lot.  Normally, he got Myrna's smokes at the gas station at the end of Mears, but the dot heads running the place had been giving him the evil eye lately.  He hated them.  They watched everything and locked down anything worth carting away.  The best Roland ever took from there were some spare tires he found in the back.  Those hardly brought in enough to cover beer money for the week.

As he trudged into the store, he noticed the armored car parked along the front.  It seemed like an armored car always sat there anymore, and Roland hit the store at all hours.  He saw it last night before his rounds.  He saw it three days before in mid-afternoon.  And he saw it early one morning coming home from a temp job at the packaging plant in Norwood.

What was going on?  He always saw the same company.  He thought he may have seen the same drivers every time, but he hadn't been paying attention until now.

The truck started rolling away as he came back out.  Tossing the cigarettes into the pickup, he got an idea.  He coaxed the battered old Ford to life and pulled up behind the truck and followed it.  It turned right on Beechmont and headed down the hill.  At the bottom, it turned into the Skytop Plaza and pulled up to Bigg's, another big box grocery store.  Roland drove past and parked over by the Gold's Gym.

Ten minutes later, they were back on Beechmont, headed across the Levee into Cincinnati.  Roland had an idea of where the truck was headed.  The Cincinnati Police cruiser at the end of the Levee, however, convinced him to turn off before crossing into the city limits.  He took the circle below the Levee bridge and looped back onto Beechmont.

Roland went home with the biggest grin on his face.

*     *     *

Something pushed Roland down the stairs into the darkened basement.  He landed face first at the bottom, tasting blood from his split lip.  The lights came on and nearly blinded him.

The door slammed, followed by heavy footsteps on the stairs.  Roland looked up to see Jim Denniston headed for him.  Before he could get up, Denniston brought his foot down on his arm.

“Heard Kitty got ripped off?” said Denniston, looking bigger than normal.  Then again, Roland looked up at him from the floor.  Everyone looked bigger from there.

He couldn't roll out of the way as one of Denniston's sneakers collided with his nose.

“You didn't hear shit,” said Denniston.  “You were too busy ripping her off.”

At that point, Roland became thankful for thinning hair as Denniston grabbed him by the back of his shirt.  All that didn't matter as the back of Roland's head collided with wall.

“I'm only going to say this once,” said Denniston, his face inches from Roland's.  “If anything of ours disappears again, it won't matter if you did it or not.  You are going to disappear.”

“You know I sell weed,” said Roland.  “You know my suppliers will come looking for me.”

Denniston laughed.  “You think anyone'll look for you?  There are a dozen high school kids lined up to take your place, and all of them smarter than you.”  He took a fistful of Roland's shirt front and dragged Roland to his feet.  “Let me give you a little advice.  You aren't in East End anymore.  You can't piss in your own pond.  You rip us off one more time, and bad things are going to happen to you.  Very bad things.  And I don't think Jefferson gives enough of a shit to look into it if they do.”  He shoved Roland back onto his ass.  “Go back to East End.  Go back to your white trash ghetto and stay the hell out of the suburbs.”

Roland lay there long enough for Denniston to march back up to his apartment.  He stood stiffly and hobbled up the stairs.  Right outside the door, he could see Denniston's Corolla in the slot nearest the building.  The sight made his lips pull upward as limped up to his second floor apartment.

*     *     *

“You can't,” said Myrna.  “Roland, you barely cut it ripping these people off.”

“I'm telling you, honey, it's two guys.  That's it.”  Roland sat on the ratty couch rubbing his hands together.  “This is the score we need to get the hell out of here.”

“I don't want to get out of here!”

Little Dale cried as his mother shouted.  She began bouncing him, shushing him and making cooing noises.

“Ah, honey,” said Roland.  “How much longer you think you can suck dick for a living?  We ain't getting any younger.”

“No, we're not.  And I ain't tricking much longer.  I'm going to get my GED and go to school and get a decent job.  You should, too.”

“Why?  All I need is one big score.”

“You've been saying that since we were teenagers.  And you ain't had that big score yet.”

“I can support us on weed.  Middle class burg like this.  Kids across the street.  They eat this shit up.”

“It's an elementary school.  And even if you could sell to them, you always smoke half your stash.”

That he did, but he wasn't about to admit that.  “Myrna, look.  If I can hit this truck, we'll have enough cash to go somewhere nice, maybe start over fresh.”  He got up and walked over to her, putting his hands on her arms, rubbing them.  “No more tricking.  No more ripping these losers off.  No more selling nickel bags to stupid college kids.”

Myrna frowned and looked away.

“You'll never have to suck another dick,” said Roland.  “Even mine if you don't want to.”

Myrna smiled and laughed.  Little Dale laughed with her.  “I never suck your dick anyway.”

“You can go to school.  Maybe we can start a business.  You know?  Be someone, not selling other people's junk at the flea market.”

Myrna sighed.  “This is your last score.  Right?”

Roland stepped back and raised his right hand.  “Promise, sweetie.”

“If you get busted, go to jail, we're through.  Got it?”

“Last one.  I promise.”

“Good.  Now get out of here.  I got two homeboys coming over for a white girl sandwich.  I need them to pay CG&E for the month.”  She took Little Dale's cap, a miniature Dale Earnhardt cap, and handed it to Roland.  “Here.  For good luck.”

*     *     *

“Corolla?  Yeah, that's easy enough.  But why don't you just lift the guy's keys?”  The cigarette bobbed between Ed Platt's fleshy lips.

“Guy sees anything missing in his apartment,” said Roland, “anything wrong with his door, he's gonna kick my ass.”

Ed looked Roland over then blew smoke at him.  “I'd say he already did that.”

“Yeah, well, this is going to be payback.”

Ed nodded.  “I gotta guy.  But it'll cost you.”  He leaned back against the bar, put his cigarette aside, and gulped beer from a big mug.  This he followed with a thunderous belch.  “You haven't been too good about meeting costs lately.”

“Well...”

“Well, nothing.  You wanna smoke the weed I give you, fine.  But you gotta pay for it.  As of today, you're three hundred in the hole.  Let's face it, Roland, you're credit's tanked here since you left East End.”

“Well, I'd still be here if it weren't for those fuckin' condos.  You think I wanna live in that yuppie paradise over in Mt. Washington?”

“I think you're smoking your stash and making excuses not to pay me.  Am I gonna have to teach you a lesson, Roland?  Am I going to have to make an example of you?”

Roland wanted to choke the living shit out of this fat leach, watch his face turn purple and his eyes bug out.  He wanted to, but it would get him killed for sure.  “I'm working a job, Ed.  One that'll let me pay you back with interest.”

Ed said nothing and put the cigarette back between his lips.

“There's an armored car that hits the Kroger everyday.  Only two guys guard it.  If I can get their schedule...”

Ed blew a stream of smoke from each side of his mouth.  “Those trucks shuffle their schedule.”

“I know.  But it's there almost every time I hit the Kroger for smokes or whatever.  And they probably have set routes.  They just take a different one each day.”

“How's the Corolla play into it?”

Roland grinned as he pointed to his black eye.  “See this?  The guy who owns that fucking Corolla gave this to me.  People will see his car and...”

Ed's grin mirrored Roland's, only with more jowel and less teeth.  “You're fucking crazy.  You know that?”  He threw the cigarette across the room.  It bounced a couple of times, trailing sparks, and came to rest in a puddle of beer under the nearest table.  “Your sure you can do this?”

“I'll need a week, two.”

“But you can do this?”

“Get them on the Levee, maybe on a side street...”

Ed lit another cigarette.  “And you're doing this alone?”

“You're the first person I told.”

“You're fucking nuts, you know that?”

Roland shrugged.

“I'll have my guy follow your neighbor to work.  He's got a panel truck, so he can pass himself off as a locksmith.  I get you the keys, and you're on your own.”

“It'll be a sweet score, Eddie.”

“We'll see.”

Roland shoved his hands in his pockets.  “There's, um, one more thing I need.”

“Oh, Jesus, you're just a needy fuck today, aren't you?”

“I need a gun.  Clean.  Untraceable.  And some ammo.”

Ed shook his head and threw the new cigarette at Roland.  “Christ, you're fucking incredible.  You better pull this one off, Roland, or you're in the hole for a grand.  And for a grand in this neighborhood, you might not come back.”

When Denniston threatened to make him disappear, Roland wondered how he could get even.  When Eddie threatened him, he went cold.

*     *     *

When he started up the stairs, he heard Little Dale crying.  Odd, he thought, since Myrna would usually shove a tit in his mouth to shut him up.  At the door, he heard Myrna moan.  Not the fake porno moans she did for johns but a loud one like when she got sick.  A man grunted.

“You're hurting me!” she said, and the man muttered something Roland couldn't hear.

Roland opened the door and ran back to their room.  On the bed, Myrna lay face down, naked and pinned beneath the Conner, the landlord.  He had his pants around his ankles and straddled her hips.  He, too, was naked and sweaty on top of her.  Little Dale cried in the other room.

Conner looked back at Roland and smiled.  “Almost done with her.”  He moved more vigorously, leaning forward once more to pin her down.

Roland went into the other room and picked up Little Dale.  Over the child's fussing, he heard Conner's grunts become louder until he shouted, “Oh, yeah, baby!”  Roland squeezed his eyes shut.

When the door slammed and Conner's boots thudded down the stairs, Roland went to their bedroom.  Myrna stood and walked gingerly.  She wore baggy sweats and a NASCAR T-shirt.

“That paid our rent for the month,” she said.  “At least I can still do that for us.”

Roland put Little Dale on the bed and took Myrna in her arms.  “Oh, baby, we won't have to do this much longer.  I talked to Eddie.”

“And?”

“And he's gonna help me out.”

Her eyes widened.  “Really?  How?”

“He's getting me a car to use and a gun.”

“No backup?”

“Don't need it, sweetie.  I can take those two guys alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“It's easy.  One or two bags out of that truck will be more than enough for us.  How much you think those big grocery stores take in every day?”

Myrna stroked his cheek.  “You're serious about this.  This isn't bullshit this time, is it?”

“No bullshit, babe.  I'm gonna do this.”

“Honey, if the landlord hadn't just taken the rent out of my ass...”

“There'll be time for that later.”

*     *    *

The next day, Roland waited in the Kroger parking lot for the armored car.  It showed up around ten in the morning.  He followed it on up Beechmont into Anderson Township, where it stopped at another Kroger, then a K-Mart, and finally the Target up past Eight Mile Road.  Each time, Roland parked well away from the armored car.  Each time, he hung back several car lengths, just like they did in the Elmore Leonard books.

That was another thing Roland did to prepare:  He read books.  That first morning, he started on an Elmore Leonard novel.  It read fast, and Roland barely moved his lips during it.  He then stopped at a used book shop near the Target the following evening and bought one by a guy named Richard Stark.

As he started into a new one, he wondered why Donald Westlake and Richard Stark sounded alike.  He figured Westlake was ripping off Stark, the bastard.  He didn't have time to worry about it though.  On his fourth day of surveillance, he hit the jackpot.  The armored car led him to its garage in Norwood, a dying industrial suburb completely encircled by Cincinnati.

He now knew at least four routes, what businesses the armored car visited, and which banks it delivered to after a run.  He only needed to find out if the routes repeated.
They did, starting the following week.  He missed the Monday run the previous week, but Tuesday's pickup matched the previous Tuesday's, as did Wednesday's, Thursday's...

The ease with which he picked up on this convinced Roland he'd wasted twenty-five years of his life on penny-ante shit, ripping off condos and and lower middle-class homes for torn-up electronics and petty cash.  He could do this.  He could hit armored cars, maybe even banks.

He'd talk to Eddie.  Maybe they could start an operation where they hit pizza shop managers after closing.  Those guys always took their deposits to the bank after they closed down for the night.  Only a sleepy, bored driver following behind kept them from being robbed.  Roland could take half those snot-nosed little kids.  And with untraceable guns from Eddie, he might even take a few out.

*     *     *

Myrna worked Saturday nights, leaving Little Dale with her sister.  Roland spent those nights at the Crash Pad, Eddie's dive on Eastern Avenue.  He had no desire to watch ESPN while his woman ate strange men's cocks in the other room.  One Saturday night after Roland had cased the truck for a couple of weeks, Eddie took him into his office.

“That little lady of yours is bringing in the dough,” said Eddie.  “I hear she gives the best head in Mt. Washington.”  He smiled a yellow-toothed smile at Roland.  “Give me one night with her, and I'll forgive half your debt.”

“Where's my keys?” asked Roland.  “I'm ready to hit the truck.  Where's my keys?”

Eddie laughed.  “You sure you don't wanna let me have Myrna for a night?”

“Eddie, I know the truek's routes.  I know what stores they hit and the banks where they drop.  Where's my keys?”

Eddie stopped laughing.  “You're serious, aren't you?  You're really gonna do this.”

“I know I can do this.  I was born to do this.”

That made Eddie laugh again.  He almost fell out of his chair, which, with his bulk, wasn't hard.  “And if you succeed?”

“I was thinking maybe we could hit pizza store managers.  You know?  Get 'em at night when they only have some college kid driver watchin' their backs.”

“Well, I'm impressed, Roland.  I didn't think there was anything in that thick head of yours.  Apparently, you can think when you don't smoke most of your merchandise.”  He reached into a desk drawer and tossed a pair of Toyota keys across to Roland.  “It just so happens, I'm a man of my word.  And because I like you...”  He reached in again and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves.  Snapping them on, he reached into a different drawer and took out a gun wrapped in oil cloth.  “Clean and untraceable.  Make sure you wipe it good if you use it.  And don't throw it in the trash if you do.  That's like putting a big 'Bust me' sign on your back with all the forensics they have now.”

“So what do I do with it?”

“You can go fishing one night at the Mt. Washington end of the Levee.  Might also be an opportune time to lose the gun in the Little Miami River while you're there.  Comprendé?"

“Whatever.  I don't speak Italian.”

Eddie sighed.  “You got until the end of the week to pull this off.  You fuck up, I take Myrna as collateral.  And I keep her as long as she's got mileage on her.”

Take Myrna?  He couldn't take Myrna.  He wanted to scream at Eddie, but he could only stare at him with his jaw hanging open.

“What's the matter?  You think I ain't ever fucked your woman before?  Who do you think used to pay your rent when you lived up by the waterworks?”

Roland left that night and drove around until after midnight.  He'd make this work, he told himself.  He had to.

Then he'd take that clean, untraceable gun and kill Eddie with it.  He doubted the Cincinnati Police would dredge the Little Miami River for that fat fuck's murderer.

*     *     *

Roland got home after 1 AM, expecting Myrna to be done with customers for the night.  Instead he heard grunting and moaning.  Quietly, he let himself in and grabbed a beer from the fridge.  Chances were the john would think he was another john waiting his turn.

The Weather Channel, piped in from a line he spliced off of the Dennistons' feed, said Monday morning would be sunny and warm, perfect weather for hitting the truck.  He decided to boost Denniston's car early and start shadowing the truck.  By the time Denniston knew what had happened, he'd be a suspect.

The bedroom door opened, and Eddie stepped out, hitching his pants.  He looked at Roland and grinned.  “Damn fine piece of ass you got there.”

Roland stood and pointed the revolver at Eddie.

Eddie put his hands up.  “Hey, Roland, easy.  I paid for it.”  Two holes opened up in Eddie's chest as Roland squeezed off two shots.

Myrna rushed out into the living and clamped her hand over her mouth, stifling a scream.  “Roland, what did you just do?”

Roland looked down and smiled.  “He pay you?”

“Of course, he paid me!  You think I'd fuck that sweaty pig for free?”

“Help me get him downstairs.”

*     *     *

The gun's crack woke the neighbors.  Denniston screamed something up through his ceiling.  Jenna, the grandmother next door, knocked and asked if everything was all right.  By then, Roland and Myrna had moved Eddie into the half bath and tossed a rug on the floor where he'd bled.

“We had a fight,” said Myrna, “and Roland tripped and fell on something.”

When Jenna gave her a skeptical look, Roland started rubbing his forehead and moaning.

“I'm sorry, baby,” he said.  “I guess I was a little drunk.”

“I pushed him,” said Myrna.

That brought a smile to Jenna's face.  “Maybe next time, you'll think twice about shoving your woman around.”

As soon as she left, Myrna grabbed Roland by the arm and dragged him into the bedroom.  “You stupid bastard!  Now we got a body on our hands.  What are we gonna do?”

“Looks like I'm gonna have to hit the truck sooner'n I thought,” said Roland.  “I'm also going to have to borrow Denniston's car sooner.”

“What are you talking about?”

Roland took the Toyota keys out of his pocket.  “I'm talking about an alibi.  I'm talking about a ready made suspect.”

Myrna stared at the keys dangling from Roland's fingers.  “Oh, no.  You're not...”

“Why not?  Serve that asshole right for trying to get us evicted.  Bet he's down there now calling the police on us.”

She sat down on the couch and put her head in her hands.  “This is insane.  I'm going to my sister's.”

“Good.  That'll make them think we really had a fight.”

“That's not what I mean.  I can't stay here.  You've got a gun now, Roland.  You shot a man.  Do you really think you'll get away with it?”

Roland grinned.  “If you help me get him into the trunk.”

Myrna stood up and sighed.  “All right.  Then I'm going.  You're hitting the truck Monday?”

“Yeah.  Got it all figured out.”

“If you pull it off, come get me.”

“And if I don't?”

Myrna stood with her hands on her hips.  “Then I never want to see you again.”

If he failed, she probably wouldn't.

*     *     *

At the bottom of Beechmont Hill sat an abandoned BP station.  Trees and brush had overgrown the lot, and it had become a favorite place to abandon cars.  Roland parked the Toyota there around five Sunday morning.  No one would give it a second glance.

To be safe, though, Roland drove over into Cincinnati and tracked down another Toyota of the same model and helped himself to the plates.  He found it at a known after-hours joint, so the driver would be too drunk or tired or both to notice his plates had been switched.

Now only Eddie could screw up the plan.  If it were particularly warm tomorrow, a Sunday, Eddie might start to ripen.  Nothing drew police like a car reeking of corpse.  Roland couldn't worry about that right now.  He wiped down the Toyota and walked home.  Alone and with nothing to do until early Monday morning, he finished off the bottle of Southern Comfort he'd stolen from Kate Denniston's car.

He didn't sleep at all that night, and spent the day dozing fitfully on the couch.  Dreams came to him in fragments, mostly visions of the parade of men coming to Myrna so she could pay their rent, their light.  And in the other room, Little Dale, the only reason Roland and Myrna had to live now, cried for his mother.  And what did Roland do?  The junk he sold at the flea markets and pawn shops barely kept gas in the truck or food on the table.

Late Sunday evening, he awoke and went to Little Dale's room.  Myrna had forgotten the Earnhardt cap Little Dale always wore.  Roland picked it up and fingered it.  With the money, Little Dale wouldn't have to settle for trinkets or watching races on TV anymore.  Roland would take him down to Kentucky Speedway.

He went back to the couch and fell asleep, clutching Little Dale's cap.

*     *     *

He woke up at four, rolling off the couch.  His fist still clutched Little Dale's cap.  Downstairs, Roland saw an unfamiliar car with an Enterprise Rental sticker in the windshield.  Denniston must have called his insurance company.  What would they say when they found Eddie in his trunk?

Roland pulled into the Skytop Plaza ten minutes later.  The Toyota still sat behind the old gas station.  As he approached the car, he could smell Eddie.  He'd ripened over Sunday.  Roland would have to get used to that smell until he hit the truck.  Tossing Little Dale's cap into the passenger seat, he started up the car and headed out to Norwood to start tailing the armored car.

*     *     *

The Monday runs were the the most lucrative.  The armored cars, at least with this company, didn't run on Sunday.  The two guards always loaded more bags on Monday than any other day of the week.  Roland guessed the Hyde Park Kroger took in an easy fifty thousand that on Saturday alone.  This truck would hit three Krogers and a Bigg's before it headed for the banks.

As predicted, the armored car stopped at Bigg's first on its way to Mt. Washington.  Sometimes it would loop around the municipal airport, up along the Ohio River, and double back through Anderson Township before hitting Bigg's.   Other times it would zigzag back and forth across the Levee, trying to keep would-be robbers off balance.  Mondays, however, they took the most direct route, the drivers not wanting to keep so much money on them for very long.  Roland would have to hit them before they left Bigg's.

The armored car cleared the Levee and turned into Skytop Plaza with Roland almost on its bumper.  No sooner did they clear the Starbucks on the southwest corner of the lot than three cruisers from three different police departments lit up.  The Mt. Washington cruiser pulled out of its slot and settled in inches behind Roland.

Roland looked down at Little Dale's cap.  In his rearview, Jefferson sat behind in the cruiser grinning.

“Fuck!” he said, pounding his fists against the steering wheel.

Behind him, the other two cruisers had lined up behind Jefferson.

“Fuck!” said Roland, pounding the steering wheel again.  The armored car pulled ahead and made a seemingly impossible turn toward the exit.  He followed.

Roland knew he couldn't hit the armored car now, but he still had to get out.  When the armored car turned left onto Beechmont and up the hill, Roland floored it and shot across the street.  The police cars all turned their sirens on.

Roland found himself on Elstun Road, a winding access drive to some isolated houses and a couple of condo developments.  Beyond the entrance to the new townhouses, the pavement started to break up and disappear.  The Toyota didn't handle the road change too well.  The car bounced and shimmied.  Doing fifty on a road marked thirty-five didn't help, either.

The road ended after a mile.  Roland skidded the car sideways into a ditch.  Screaming, he beat the steering wheel again.  Three sets of tires skidded behind him.  Roland reached into the glove box and took out the pistol.  He climbed out of the car and waited for the cops to take their positions.

Jefferson stood in front, one hand on his hip, the other holding his service pistol to the side at ready.  A Cincinnati cop and two deputies stood behind him in three-point stance, their pistols aimed at him.

“Give it up, Roland,” said Jefferson.  “You should have known we'd see you driving Denniston's car around.”

“How'd you know this was Denniston?”

“Come on, Roland.”

“Looks like you got what you want, Chief.  You're finally gonna be rid of me.”

“Put the gun down, Roland.  We'll make this nice and easy.”

“I'll make it easier.”  Roland put the revolver to his temple.

A landing Learjet at the municipal airport covered the sound of the shot.

THE END

BIO: Jim Winter is a writer and reviewer from Cincinnati.  His work has appeared in January Magazine, Mystery Scene, A Twist of Noir, Thug Lit, and Spinetingler.  By day, he works in IT for an insurance company.  By night, he is a middle-aged college freshman, a writer, and a web designer.  He lives with his wife Nita and stepson AJ.  Check out his blog, Edged in Blue.