The Little Sistah

By James Mannion

Scanlan Grimes is a fat, 50-year-old white man subsisting on Social Security Disability Insurance in the inner-city of Jersey City, New Jersey. Depressed and suicidal, he is pressed into service to help his salty old landlady (who, “back in the day,” was a dynamic woman straight out of a blaxploitation movie) and a lovely young “little sistah,” Beauty Hind (B. Hind for short). This wise-cracking recluse embarks on a quest to catch a killer and “get his groove back” in the process. Can a cause greater than himself not only save lives, but save his soul? A satirical thriller that takes on serious social issues (race relations, class warfare) with the teasing caress of a French Tickler rather than the heavy-handedness of a sledgehammer, The Little Sistah by James Mannion is sure to generate controversy, but its primary purpose is to spin a fast-paced and entertaining yarn with colorful characters, an exciting story, and a heaping helping of irreverent humor. There has never been a book like The Little Sistah. This is not an outrageous example of what the ancient Greeks called the sin of hubris. It simply means that author James Mannion has never written a work of fiction before. Though a veteran scribe with numerous nonfiction books to his credit, this is his first foray into the novel, or novella, if you want to get technical about the word count. The Little Sistah is a two-commute tale: Depending on how fast you read, you can start it on a Monday morning and finish on Tuesday morning. Warning: Only read this if you travel to work via mass transit. Never read an eBook while driving. The life you save may be your own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Mannion
• Release date: Sep 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301809837

James Mannion

James Mannion is the author of several nonfiction books (that publishers paid him to write, not "vanity press" folderol). However, the less said about them, the better.The Little Sistah is his first novel, or novella, if you're a stickler about things like word count.Doctor Nah is a FREE short story that's a spoiler-free sequel to The Little Sistah, bridging the gap between it and the inevitable sequel. Check it out. It's free! If you like it you might like the novella.

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The Little Sistah

Published by James Mannion at Smashwords

Copyright © 2013 by James Mannion

This is a work of fiction Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional. (If you think you are someone in this book, or aspects of certain characters remind you of yourself, you are advised to seek out a mental health professional ASAP.)

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

1.

I am a fat man. I am a white man. I am a fat, late-forties white man living on Social Security Disability Insurance in a black neighborhood in Jersey City, New Jersey. I think I have an enlarged prostate. I hope it’s benign.

The tale that is about to unfold just ended and I emerged relatively unscathed – so far. In the past few days, I had a grand adventure, or tragic misadventure. I saved the day (kind of), saved the girl (sort of), found something akin to redemption, and made some formidable enemies that are still out there and bent on my most unpleasant demise, but that’s the subject for a sequel, if I survive to write one.

However, as the poet said, to begin at the beginning…

* * *

At midlife I found myself in a dark and dangerous ’hood.

Midlife? Who was I kidding? At forty-nine and unlikely to see ninety-eight, there was nothing mid about my chronological status. I was closer to the end than the beginning even under optimum conditions. And these were hardly the best of times. I was on a fixed income, a stranger in a strange land, and persona non grata in the industry where I plied my trade since I entered the workforce more than twenty-five years earlier. In one of the Daredevil comics, Kingpin says of the titular hero, The man without hope is the man without fear. Not entirely true. I was full of fear, but the man without hope can be a reckless son of a bitch.

I had been gentrified out of the Bronx (sounds inconceivable, downright unbelievable, but all too true these days) and then gentrified out of downtown Jersey City. I was now living in the black part of town, tenant to a salty old lady named Hattie Hawkins. She was apparently something else back in the day. In the funkadelic 1970s she was a female private detective, a real life Foxy Brown. Time had not been kind to Hattie, and she was now a wheelchair-bound victim of diabetes and other ailments, but to paraphrase the late, great Isaac Hayes, she was still one bad mutha – shut yo mouth! She took a liking to me and offered to rent the upstairs apartment in the house she owned at a reduced rate. I helped her out around the place and did her shopping and listened to her stories that were straight out of a blaxploitation movie. She was a very colorful woman of color.

I was on my way back to the house from a cigarette run for Hattie one evening when a young man approached me and demanded money.

Nothing today, kid. See me on the third of the month.

You got money, man. You know how I know? ’Cause you white. All white men got money and all white men are liars.

There y’all go again. Indulging in racial profiling. That’s hate speech. Come on, kid. I live here too. We’re in the same boat.

You messin’ up my neighborhood bein’ here.

Young man, this place was a mess long before I got here and I suspect it will be a mess long after I’m gone. Now excuse me.

I tried to walk around him and he produced a gun.

Hell, kid, you want to kill me, go right ahead. You’ll be doing me a favor. I’m a man whose life has passed him by. I’m gonna be fifty fucking years old in a few days and all the dreams of my youth have been consigned to the ash heap of history.

The young gangsta seemed a bit befuddled. Huh?

In other words, my life has turned to shit. Put me out of my misery.

He started to squeeze the trigger. There was no logic or emotion in his gaze. His eyes were as dead as he planned to make me. There were probably plenty of reasons why this kid became the person he was, but then and there I didn’t care. I wasn’t his social worker. I was his potential homicide victim, and there’s little room for the milk of human kindness when someone is about to kill you.

The survival instinct is pretty amazing. I meant what I said at the moment I said it, but the moment he was about to oblige me, I didn’t want to die.

Like Jackie Gleason, I was a big guy who could be swift and graceful in short spurts. I was smoking a cigar and drinking coffee from a paper cup during this exchange, and I quickly splashed the hot java in the kid’s face while simultaneously extinguishing my Dutch Masters on the wrist that was holding the gun. I twisted the pistol from his grasp while kicking him vigorously in the groin. He dropped to his knees. I then grabbed his head and gave him one of my knees to the jaw. He flew back and his head hit the sidewalk with a crack.

I placed my foot on his neck, pointed the gun at him and said in a generic, action hero menacing rasp, You see that over there, kid? In this part of Jersey City, the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor is visible from certain street corners. I know you think you’re one of the disenfranchised huddled masses, but if you’re yearning to continue to breathe free I suggest you stay out of my way in the future, or I’ll do to you with a modicum of regret what you had zero remorse about doing to me. Your mama will cry, but another little baby boy will be born in the ghetto.

He stared up at me wild-eyed, and thoroughly uncomprehending. I did tend toward the verbose when Hemingway-esque sentences would be more effective.

Get out of here and stay off my block or I‘ll tell Miss Hattie on you.

You know Miss Hattie?

Yeah, and you don’t want her to know you.

He got to his feet and ran. I pocketed put the gun and hurried home, getting inside and upstairs before the inevitable full-blown panic attack ensued. I took four Klonopin (prescribed dosage: one) and collapsed on the futon until it subsided.

* * *

I should tell you now that the above feat of heroism was sheer dumb luck. Those of you who are familiar with stories like this will expect a big reveal somewhere in this saga. You know the formula: I’m really a former Special Ops agent, Navy SEAL, Green Beret, or I worked for one of the clandestine services as a hit man and retired out of conscience, and the events in this story force me to revive my killer instinct. That would be a good, if hackneyed, hook if this were a work of fiction, but this is a true story, and as a journalism major, I am obliged to report the facts, coldly and objectively. I am who am: a poor old fool who fell through the cracks. Does that mean I don’t have a compelling character arc in the course of this reportage? That, dear reader, is for your to decide.

2.

Hattie invited me to her apartment for breakfast the next morning and she wasn’t alone. A very large and lovely young black woman was sitting with her at the kitchen table. About five-ten and I wouldn’t even hazard a guess as to her weight. She was sexy, however. Though large and in charge, she retained an hourglass figure, and was blessed with the most amazing backside I had ever seen. She also conveyed a sweetness that belied her grand exterior. My first impression was that of a little girl in a rather big body.

She was a younger version of an old familiar face. Why are you doing this to me, Hattie?

Hattie made the introductions. Beauty Hind, this is Scanlan Grimes.

Hello, we said simultaneously and shook hands.

Sit down, Scanlan, Hattie said, and I took a chair.

Beauty, I said. Do you sometimes go by the initial of your first name?

Excuse me?

Well, then you would be known as B. Hind.

She didn’t smile. Gee, I never heard that one before.

Pardon my lack of originality. Your name is lovely and most appropriate either way.

Silence.

One of the divine mysteries of the feminine mystique is that deep and convulsive laughter can often induce a spontaneous and unwelcome bladder discharge. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had women say to me, ‘Stop, you’re going to make me pee in my panties,’ when I’m telling a funny story or doing some comedic shtick. Naughty boy that I am, I amp up the hilarity until incontinence ensues. My success rate is 100%. Don’t end my streak, B. Hind.

Silence.

These were relatively young, otherwise healthy women, not little old ladies sporting Depends Undergarments. On magical moments I’ve even been known to make coffee and other beverages come out of their noses. My track record at eliciting other feminine secretions below the belt is not quite 100%.

Thunderous silence.

She also goes by another name, Hattie added. Beauty shot her a look but Hattie was beyond such things. She was nothing if not blunt. You can tell him anything, child. He’ll be doing my legwork so he needs to know everything I know.

I had been pressed into service for something. A cause greater than myself?

Well, Beauty hesitantly began, I also go by the name Greta von Stern, Naughty Nurse.

I felt an almost forgotten stirring below the belt. This pleased me because depression and antidepressants had cooled my libido for longer than I cared to admit. You’re a dominatrix?

Yes, she said shyly.

Well, thank you for the introduction, Hattie. How did you know I needed a spanking?

She cackled and Beauty looked mortified. You don’t need no spankin’. You need an ass-whupping, ya lazy bastard.

I howled heartily, also a rare occurrence these days. You’re not the first to suggest that.

"And I ain’t gonna be the last. Beauty is here with a problem and I need you to help us. Thirty years ago I’d a settled this myself, but now I need a fat honky to be my feet. Start talkin’, Beauty. Let the boy know the