Death In The Arena

By John Brinling

A decade-old vengeance coursed through John Studebaker’s veins.

For more years than he could remember, he had been pursuing a ruthless, mysterious drug lord named the Silver Fox. The pursuit destroyed his career as a DEA agent and a Rivertown cop. It led to the death of his wife and daughter. A good friend. And it sent him to prison for two years for crimes he didn’t commit, much of it spent in solitary confinement.

When released, he set out to get his revenge on the drug lord. And on the traitor who had nearly destroyed him.

But at what cost?

Was it worth the lost of an idealistic politician who he had befriended, who might change the course of the world for the better?

Was it worth the loss of his new girlfriend, his brother, his best friend?

And was it worth the loss of the two kids who had become an integral part of his life?

In the end, did he really have a choice? He was who he was. And that man killed those who needed killing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Brinling
• Release date: Oct 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465931221

John Brinling

Author Bio: John Brinling I was born in Pittsburgh, Pa. on June 8, 1936. I grew up in Pittsburgh and didn’t leave home until I was 21 and heading off to graduate school at the University of Illinois in Chicago. I’ve attended multiple universities: Duquesne, U. of Illinois, U. of Pittsburgh, Columbia. And I have a B.S. in Pharmacy and an M.S. in Pharmacology. I was married in 1975 and have one daughter. I have been writing all of my life. I wrote my first novel when I was sixteen. “Black Dawn.” It dealt with segregation and the KKK. Whatever happened to it I don’t know. Since then, earning a living has preempted long periods of my life when I wrote very little. My wife and I are both in data processing (IT nowadays) and we usually work long hours when we are on a contract, which meant I spent little time writing fiction when gainfully employed. The birth of my daughter offered me another excuse for not writing, but that’s what it was: an excuse. Writing is hard. But it’s in my DNA and I keep returning to it, despite some part of me that prefers the lazy life. However, not writing is unthinkable, and I am constantly exploring ideas even when I’m not committing them to paper. I lived and worked in Europe for seven years. I met my wife In Italy where we both worked for the same company, and were married in 1975. The contract we were working on ended that year and we took two years off to live in England, in a 300 year old farmhouse in Wiltshire. It was in that farmhouse that I wrote “The Ghost Of A Flea,” as well as another book titled “Quarantine,” which is a science fiction thriller. “The Ghost” has a strong autobiographical component. I was a programmer/analyst. The office ambience in the novel is similar to life in my New York office, although the intrigues were of an entirely different nature. I had a good friend who lived in Sparta. I lived for a time near the George Washington Bridge. The building manager was an Irishman, who became a good friend, and an integral character in the book. “Quarantine” is set in East Africa, where my wife and I vacationed, and I drew liberally on what we read, saw, and experienced. I had an agent back then who marketed both books, and came very close to selling them to both Doubleday and St. Martins. Unfortunately he died before completing the sale and I put the books on a shelf and forgot about them for 35 years. Only this year did I resurrect them and publish them on Amazon’s Kindle and Smashwords. In 1977, my wife and I returned to the states and founded our IT consulting firm, Brinling Associates. For the next fifteen years we worked hard building our business. I wrote one novel during that time, a book titled “Alone,” which dealt with a man in an irreversible coma who is aware of what is happening around him, but is unable to communicate with the real world. I thought the book was lost, but have just recently found a hardcopy of the book and have begun reworking it.. In 1990, during a down period in our business activities, I wrote several other novels which I am attempting to bring out of retirement. These novels were also put on the shelf when circumstances re-ignited our business opportunities. One book – “The Watcher,” an occult horror thriller – is already self-published. The other is a much larger work, a rural mystery series tentatively titled “The Valley Mysteries” set in Vermont, that I’m still working on. As you can see, writing books is one thing, marketing quite another. I am perhaps the world’s worst marketer, which helps explain why my writings have spent most of their lives on a shelf in my home in Vermont staring out at me asking “Why am I here?” For the past few years I have been writing screenplays, which are more bite-sized writing efforts. I have done fairly well in some contests, but am still waiting to be discovered. The small royalty checks I earned from Amazon this year are the only money I’ve ever earned from my fiction writing. My writing is pure escapism. When I sit down to write, I embark on an adventure. I let things happen and I let the characters be who they are. Since I strongly avoid outlines, I am as surprised by events as I hope the reader is. Pulling together loose ends is a subject for revision, which I do endlessly. This undoubtedly makes for more work and takes me longer to “finish” something, but it seems to be the best, the only, way for me. It is the candy bar just out of reach that keeps me at the keyboard. My background illustrates my chaotic approach to life. I have been at different stages a pharmacist, a pharmacologist, a tech writer, a programmer/analyst, a business consultant, a business owner, a teacher, a novelist and a screenwriter. At one time I thought it perfectly acceptable, if not desirable, to change jobs/professions every year or so. I didn’t worry about the future, assuming I would always find a way to muddle through. I’m still muddling through.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

OCTOBER, 2007

RIVERTOWN - CEMETERY

Pouring rain drenched the rural countryside.

Church bells echoed morosely in the distance over Rivertown, a city on the Gulf Coast.

The meandering landscape featured one central boulevard with many curving offshoots, several lakes, and communal shelters. The cemetery was always undergoing expansion, since it serviced several nearby communities. Heavy equipment, not suitable for the actual grave digging, often prowled the narrow roads, causing many complaints by the actual mourners.

Two graves stood side by side at the north corner of the grounds.

SAMANTHA MORGAN STUDEBAKER.

JUNE 8, 1972--MAY 30, 2004.

WIFE OF JOHN. TAKEN BEFORE HER TIME.

And

HANNAH STUDEBAKER.

MARCH 19, 2004--MAY 30, 2004.

DENIED THE LOVE OF HER ADORING PARENTS.

Big John Studebaker, thirty-five, stood at the foot of the graves. A grizzly bear of a man, he had bushy, black hair, a pencil thin mustache, and a small, triangular scar beneath his left eye. He wore a too tight gold wedding band on his left hand.

He squeezed a partially burnt Raggedy Ann doll, its head and arm missing, while remembering a time three years earlier....

ST. PAUL'S CATHOLIC CHURCH – OUTSIDE

The church was a mini-cathedral, with long, steep steps, massive doors, spires, and enormous stained glass windows. It was the site for most of the official religious activity in the city.

Big John's wife and daughter waited in the white Ford F-150 parked at the curb. Sam stroked the baby's hair, absently turning the wedding band on her finger.

Side by side, Big John and Father Milton, fifty-two, walked down the steps, waving at the occupants of the white Ford. Dr. Rodriquez, fifty, and the doctor’s wife, also fifty, lingered behind. They waved to Samantha as well.

Sam smiled lovingly as Big John and the priest approached. Pursing her lips, she threw her husband a kiss.

Big John touched his fingers to his lips and reciprocated in an exaggerated fashion.

Without warning, the truck exploded. A violent, deafening upheaval that flipped the vehicle into the air, and turned it into a fire ball. It crashed down on a passing Toyota, killing the driver.

Big John and the priest were hurled backwards by the blast, Big John partially shielding the priest. Big John landed awkwardly, breaking his right arm. His clothing was on fire, in tatters. His face and arms bleeding profusely.

The priest, merely stunned, sustained only superficial injuries.

Dr. Rodriguez and his wife rushed to the injured and knelt down beside Big John, ministering to his wounds. The priest got slowly to his feet and blessed himself.

A smoldering Raggedy Ann doll lay near Big John. Its head and arm missing.

Big John's fingers crawled along the cement toward it....

RIVERTOWN - CEMETERY

Big John's tears disappeared in the rain flooding his face. He hurled the doll into the air and roared his pain. Pain verging on agony.

CHAPTER 2

RIVERTOWN – PARK NEAR RIVER

Night. Light rain. A deserted area along the river, dark, foreboding. A tugboat chugged by, blowing a woeful horn.

The local crime boss, Gilbert Ishi - forty, tall, with short-cropped, straight brown hair and a right eye twitch - stared out at the troubled water, while listening on his cell phone.

After a long moment, Gilbert snapped the phone shut, and spun to face his goons, his mouth twisted in its perpetual sneer. Do it! he ordered. At tomorrow's rally.

His three brutish enforcers - Pauly, Coby, and Carson - ringed him. Pauly, the youngest at twenty-three, was too good-looking for this line of work and too naïve to survive long. Coby, ugly as sin, a port wine birthmark covering a quarter of his face, looked worried, knowing something bad was about to happen. Carson, his nose crooked from twice being broken, looked vaguely amused.

Why Thorn? Pauly asked. He's our guy, ain’t he? We spent months grooming him--

You questioning my order, Pauly? Gilbert scowled.

It just don't make sense, Boss. We--

What don't make sense is you shooting your mouth off to that hooker you're shacked up with.

The darkness bristled with raw tension.

Dread crept over Pauly's face. I'm sorry, Boss. I didn't mean nothin'.

Pauly backed away under Gilbert’s hostile gaze, finally realizing the danger. Then he turned and bolted.

Two Hispanics - Jesus and Marti, both in their mid-twenties - materialized out of the darkness, grabbed him, and twisted his arms in painful hammer locks.

Gonzales, a third Hispanic, forty-plus, pulled a clear plastic bag over Pauly's head, and cinched the string around his neck, cutting off his air.

Pauly jerked frantically. The bag steamed up, obscuring his face, muffling his panicked cries.

The two men held him erect as he kicked and twisted trying to break free. A marionette gone wild. Its strings hopelessly tangled.

Finally, his struggle ended. His bulging, lifeless eyes barely visible through the cellophane bag.

The men let him drop to the wet ground.

Gilbert spit a glob of mucus on Pauly's chest. Asshole! Kill the girlfriend. The Fox wants no loose ends.

CHAPTER 3

BIG JOHN’S TRUCK (MOVING)

The rain poured down in torrential waves. Lightning stretched its bony fingers across the black night sky. The white headlights of the oncoming cars were blindingly bright. The red taillights demon eyes in the swirling mist rising from the asphalt.

Big John barreled recklessly down the highway in his red Ford F-150.

He took a long swig from a silver flask. Wiped dribble from his chin.

He stared for a moment at the tattered photo of a white Arctic fox devouring a lemming taped to the center of the steering wheel, then rubbed his fingers over it, suppressing the urge to rip it to pieces.

He took another drink before turning on the radio. He surfed the stations looking for some music, but stopped at an interview with Nicholas Thorn, the long shot candidate for governor.

...Where do you stand on gun control, Mr. Thorn? the interviewer asked deferentially.

I'm a strong supporter. There are 80 million guns in this country. Eleven thousand handgun homicides each year. It's a national scandal. We kill more people here than anywhere else in the world....

Big John swerved the truck to avoid a car filled with high school kids who cut in front of him. He screamed an obscenity at them and gave them the finger. They gave it back.

...I wish guns had never been invented, Thorn said. That men like Colt and Smith and Wesson had never been born. If I'm elected governor, I promise to limit their availability in this state.

You’ll get strong opposition from 2nd Amendment advocates. The NRA. Are you prepared for that?

Doing what’s right is always worth the fight, and imposing reasonable limits on the right to bear arms is the right thing to do.

Do you own a gun, Mr. Thorn?

I do not.

Have you ever owned one?

No.

Big John's cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID before answering it. I hope this is important, Wes?

Wesley Strong, thirty-five, called from The Firefly Nightclub. Black, elegantly bald-headed, he wore his trademark Italian tweed hat, and sat alone on a stool at the back of the stage, picking at his guitar.

They just dragged Pauly's body out of the drink, he said. And his girlfriend took a flying leap out of her apartment window. Is Gilbert doing his spring cleaning early?

I warned Pauly to clean up his act after Gilbert dubbed him Fredo, but the stupid shit wouldn’t listen. Said he hadn’t seen the movie and didn’t know what I was talking about.

You’ve been kissing Gilbert's ass for months now, and you ain't no closer to the Silver Fox than when you got out of jail. Who’s the ‘real’ stupid shit?

Thanks for your support.

When are you gonna wise up, John. They don’t trust you and they never will. They clam up when you’re around, and won’t even let you up on the second floor to shoot pool. I’ll ask you again: ‘Who’s the stupid shit?’

His shadow hangs over everything, Wes, and sooner or later they’ll slip up.

You think he’s hiding up there? That’s who they’re protecting?

No. He’s too smart for that. He always leaves himself a way out, and that elevator is the only way up.

As far as you know?

As far as I know.

What if he didn't kill Samantha and the baby? You got a ton of people who hate your guts--

Big John's truck hit a slick patch, and hydroplaned. Spun 360 degrees. Slid off the shoulder onto a grassy knoll, and came to a stop against a huge tree.

Big John fought his way through the air bag to stare at the St. Christopher's medal swinging wildly from the rearview mirror. He blessed himself.

You still there? Wesley cried frantically. What happened? For Christ's sake, answer me?

CHAPTER 4

NICHOLAS THORN'S ESTATE – TERRACE

Next day. Seven-thirty a.m. Bright sunshine.

Nicholas Thorn’s house overlooked the river, the downtown area, two bridges, the highways, and rush-hour traffic.

Nicholas Thorn, thirty-six, stood at the parapet in a white robe, his long, white-blond hair tousled by the wind, watching the city come to life, thrilled by the energy he saw in the growing metropolis.

Six feet tall, with a handsome but unremarkable face, he had a gentle demeanor, the heart and soul of a philosopher. He spoke with a soothing Southern accent, a slow cadence that made it seem like a William Butler Yeats' quote.

Simon, his man-Friday, brought a breakfast tray of toast, orange juice and coffee. He placed it on the table near the TV set, and left without saying a word.

A TV commentator droned on about the news in the background….

...Rivertown has sunk into despair and chaos. Crime is rampant. It's not safe to walk the streets anymore....

Thorn, frowning, turned to look at the talking head.

...Over the weekend, a Special Olympian was robbed and killed while waiting for a bus. An eleven-year old autistic girl was gang-raped. And a young waitress, working a double shift, was strangled, her nude body thrown in a dumpster and set on fire....

A picture of Mayor Bill Skinner filled the screen. A short, thin man in his fifties, with ruddy, large-pored skin, and piercing, brown eyes scary in their intensity.

...Our esteemed Mayor Skinner blames this crime spree on the President and the Federal Government for a lack of funding, yet spends all of his time on the campaign trail running for governor. Does anyone in Rivertown still think he should be promoted after the lousy job he's done protecting this city…?

Thorn's picture filled the screen.

"...Sadly, with just four weeks left until the election, he is still running way ahead of Nicholas Thorn in the latest polls: 45 to 36.

Under fifty, I still got a chance, Thorn thought to himself.

The low WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP of the KTVS, Channel 7 news helicopter filled the air as it flew into view.

Nicholas frowned, annoyed at the intrusion, formed his thumb and index finger into a gun, and shot at it. "BANG…! BANG…! You're dead…!"

CHAPTER 5

BIG JOHN'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM

Newspapers, boxes, and posters were piled everywhere. Over-flowing dresser drawers. A bulging laundry hamper.

Alicia Brown and Big John lay in a big, brass bed, naked, covered incompletely by a sheet, exchanging a joint.

Alicia, barely thirty, was tall, athletic, with a honey-colored tan, shoulder-length blond hair, and perfect features. She peered at the mess surrounding her as though for the first time.

You've lived here nearly a year. You ever going to unpack? Clean up? Make this place livable?

Easier to move. Pass the problem on to the next poor guy.

Everything needs to be perfect with the band, yet here you’re a slob. Two different people. Which one do I get if I marry you?

Both. It's a packaged deal.

Big John grimaced grotesquely, growled fiercely, threatened her with bared teeth and clawed fingers. After getting no response, he passed his hand slowly over his face, returning it to normal. Got a preference?

Wolfman, Alicia quipped. He’s got all the charm.

Big John grabbed a pillow and belted her in the face with it.

Alicia seized her pillow and the battle was joined.

CHAPTER 6

WAL-MART - LINGERIE SECTION

Cassie Willis, Big John’s goddaughter - seventeen, attractive, built to seduce - ran her fingers through a pile of cheap acetate panties and bras.

She cast a flirtatious glance at the clerk in a cheap blue vest, who openly salivated for her. Caught in the act, he blushed, looked away, and acted busy.

A red, lacy bra grabbed Cassie's attention. She checked the size on several others. Finding a 36C in black, she tucked it up the sleeve of her rain slicker. Two pairs of bikini-cut panties followed.

The horny clerk - whose name tag said GREG - shook his head reprovingly and walked up to her. If you weren't Big John's goddaughter, you'd be in the manager's office right now.

But I am, Greg. So go get stuffed.

CHAPTER 7

RIVERTOWN CITY PARK

High noon.

The crowd at the political rally pressed close to the stage in order to hear Nicholas Thorn's brisk, inspiring rhetoric.

...The two things we can hope to have said about us when we pass on is that we stood for something that mattered, and we treated others with kindness and dignity....

Coby and Carson hovered at the periphery of the crowd. The few policemen on duty seemed more concerned with the lunch snacks they were munching, than the safety of the soft-spoken speaker.

...Our violent, sex-obsessed, drug-obsessed culture has reached new depths of depravity under this inept administration, and if we are to reverse course we must make a change at the top. Mayor Bill Skinner isn't a bad man or an evil man, he is simply unsuited - intellectually and temperamentally - to lead us in these difficult and perilous times....

Coby and Carson drifted inexorably toward the stage, their mission simple and straightforward: Shoot Nicholas Thorn in the arm or leg. DON’T KILL HIM!

...With your help, my friends, we will soon send him into early retirement....

Wild applause. Loud cheering. Unrestrained clapping….

When the rally broke up and people began to move off, Nicholas lingered behind to sign autographs and talk with a group of ardent supporters.

...We've got to move beyond the fear-mongering and demonizing to true debate. Unless we openly discuss our problems - poverty, guns, crime, AIDS, health care, the list is long - and seek real solutions, we're condemned to repeat the mistakes of the past....

Jimmy Rush - eighteen, gangling, with untidy long hair and an engaging smile - argued with Cassie near the stage, a few feet from where Nicholas Thorn held court.

Jimmy glanced at his watch. C'mon, Cassie. I'm late for Calculus. You coming or not?

I want to talk to him. He's our next governor. Can’t you wait a few minutes?

No! Come on, will you?

Cassie, wearing a ST. PAUL'S HIGH SCHOOL T-shirt, shook her head and Jimmy, grumbling his unhappiness, pushed his way through the crowd, leaving her there.

Big John, wearing dark sunglasses, climbed onto the stage. His bulging chest and arms swelled a cotton shirt embroidered with THE WORLD SUCKS BIG TIME!

He pointed an incriminating finger at Cassie, gave her a what are you doing? look, and motioned for her to join him. Cassie stuck out her tongue, shook her head, and wormed her way closer to Nicholas Thorn, who smiled warmly at her, obviously smitten with her physical charms.

Big John inhaled his annoyance, his intense gaze never leaving Cassie.

Coby and Carson reached the crowd surrounding Thorn, their guns hidden in folded newspapers.

Big John immediately recognized the two men from his associated with Gilbert Ishi, and frowned his concern. These two didn’t give a good fuck for politics.

...We are a nation of laws, Thorn said. We have checks and balances. We have free speech. We have a free press. Why have they failed us…?

Big John flung himself on Coby, slamming a fist into the pony-tailed enforcer's jaw. Coby's gun discharged, hitting a middle-aged woman in the leg. She screamed and collapsed in place, blood squirting through her fingers as she tried vainly to stop the bleeding.

Other screams rent the air. Pandemonium followed. People fleeing.

Big John tackled Coby low as he tried to flee, forcing him into Carson. All three men went down in a flurry of arms and legs.

Cassie dragged Thorn down, using her body to shield him.

Two policemen came running, as Coby and Carson got to their feet