Redemption Avenue

By Jeff Wishard

Televangelist Charles Garrison and undercover cop Bobby Dell are both employed by the most powerful mobster in the Southwest. They are also estranged father and son.

Redemption Avenue, the new novel from Jeff Wishard, is the story world-famous pastor held hostage by the mob syndicate who bankrolls his ministry at Redemption Church, the largest megachurch in Texas. Fifteen years after his mother’s suicide, Bobby unwittingly returns to his father’s life as Mafia don Davis Morgan's promising new associate.

Unknown to Charles, his son is working undercover inside the Morgan family, a final opportunity to salvage his fading career. Bobby’s slim chances of success are made even more precarious by a secret affair with Davis’ daughter Teri, and the uneasy alliance between the Morgans and Bobby’s nemesis, a sinister district attorney poised to be the next governor of Texas.

As the body count rises and loyalties are tested, Charles and Bobby realize that their only hope of survival is each other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Wishard
• Release date: May 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9780983465300

Jeff Wishard

Jeff Wishard lives in Texas with his wife, Donna, and two spoiled cats. Redemption Avenue is his first novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

THE detectives about to be killed showed no indication they were aware of the Escalade tailing them. Preston Road was filled with belligerent drivers, especially on a Friday night. With vehicles darting from lane to lane with abandon, being made by the cops amid the chaos was the least of the driver's worries.

While enough speed was never an issue for the SUV's wheelman, navigating the road was another matter. He leisurely followed the unmarked pool car from a reasonable distance, hardly watching the traffic around him. Instead, his attention was focused on a wrapped piece of bubble gum his hands fiddled with while his massive forearms did their best to keep the vehicle on the road.

Here, let me do it.

The front seat passenger lifted an open hand to the driver who grunted negatively in response.

Watch it, Krane!

Krane looked up just in time to swerve into another lane, narrowly avoiding the vehicle ahead. A young man sitting in the rear leaned forward, motioning across the seat.

Krane, give it to Fuller.

The driver reluctantly obeyed the order, handing the package to the man sitting across from him who opened it and gave the gum back. Fuller then opened the window just enough to drop the wrapper outside.

Hey, I wanted to lick the wrapper!

Why?

There's always sugar on the—

Krane, watch the road! We're working, remember?

Donnie Morgan rolled his eyes, amused at the quirks of his employee. He then turned to the passenger sitting in the rear with him.

Are you ready, Skip?

Almost, Skip replied. He turned on the interior light, unzipped the backpack in his lap and began shuffling through its contents. He pulled a worn metallic box out of the pack, no bigger than a deck of cards. He popped the cover off of one side, his eyes squinting to inspect the contents. Satisfied, he snapped the cover back into place.

Where did you get that? Donnie asked.

This place I know, replied Skip. Problem?

That doesn't exactly look state of the art.

It's not, but I paid a fraction of what the fancy, high-tech stuff would cost. Skip pulled a touch-screen phone out of the pouch at his side and turned it on. The light from its screen produced a wry smile from the expert who relished flaunting his skills. He snapped a memory card into the device and began tapping the screen purposefully.

How difficult will it be to trace?

Difficult, but not impossible. You said that wasn't important.

It's not, Donnie replied, accustomed to Skip issuing a disclaimer. He put his hand on his driver's shoulder. Pull back a little. We know where they're going.

Krane followed the detectives through a turn at the traffic light, flipping the blinker as he blew a bubble, barely easing the weight of his foot off the accelerator. He snapped the bubble with a loud pop, smiling with childlike satisfaction. Skip and Fuller watched him warily, but Donnie's slight grin discouraged them from speaking.

Half a mile down the lane, the strip malls and chain restaurants faded, giving way to residential developments as far as the eye could see. The detectives made a right turn underneath a massive stone archway guarding one of the developments. Discreetly lighted letters inserted in cuts in the archway spelled PROVIDENCE.

The dwellings inside confirmed the development's name was fitting. Instead of tract homes routinely constructed for a sprawling suburbia in a matter of weeks, these were the ornate mansions that graced the real estate section of the Sunday paper. The intimidating estates glared in contempt at cars from the other side of town who dared trespassing into the neighborhood.

An opportunistic tycoon gave birth to Providence after unloading his oil and gas properties at precisely the right moment in the early eighties. Despite his declaration of retirement, he soon found himself investing in whatever captured his interest. The first house he built was his own, a two million-dollar palace. Over a hundred mansions and three decades later, the dwelling that had started it all was by far the cheapest home in the development.

The homeowners were as varied as the homes themselves. Doctors, lawyers, investment bankers, web millionaires, a disgraced politician, a burned-out Hollywood vixen and a retired football star all maintained addresses there. The detectives were summoned by an individual whose fame outweighed that of any of his neighbors.

His home was nestled far inside the development, sitting in the turn of a winding street that circled its rear perimeter. The Mediterranean style mansion was guarded by Italian Cypress trees on either side of the front doors and at the front corners of the house. The landscaping featured well lights situated every five feet which illuminated the front of the house, tantalizing the imagination as to what was inside.

The sedan pulled up to the curb and stopped, the driver politely electing not to use the covered entryway. The two men left the vehicle and walked up the circle drive to the entrance. One of the officers pressed the button next to the door, prompting the peal of a bell appropriate for such a majestic home.

SHE was in her silk robe, her dark auburn hair pinned up loosely, lying in bed. Her progress on the novel was slow tonight, and not only because of the white noise emanating from the plasma television hanging above the fireplace. She was distracted by the expected arrival of visitors, and knew why they were coming.

When the doorbell echoed throughout the house, he emerged from the bathroom in a sweatshirt, jeans and sandals. Unable to find an activity to keep himself occupied, he simply took the hottest, longest shower he could tolerate in an effort to relax his nerves. Despite the wafts of steam curling out of the bathroom, the tension on his face confirmed that the exercise had not served its purpose.

He glanced once more in her direction, hoping for encouragement. Her pained expression gave him the answer, but not the one he wanted.

Are you sure about this? she asked.

I'm sure I can't live this way anymore. Not knowing what I know.

The woman didn't respond, returning her eyes to the book in her lap. The man sighed, fearful of not trusting her instincts, as they were rarely wrong. She had not suggested any better course of action than the one he was about to take, however. With no other choice possible, he left the bedroom to greet the guests he had summoned.

He pulled the front door open. The visitors saw a man in his early fifties. He ran his fingers through his brown hair, the minute amount of gray unnoticeable except from a conversational distance. He was clearly fit and wore the years well, but was nowhere near as young as he looked on television.

Hello.

Reverend Garrison. Good evening.

Please, come in.

As the detectives walked inside and the door closed behind them, the Escalade quietly rolled to a stop half a block away. The driver extinguished the lights and shut off the engine.

BY now, Krane had chewed all the sugar out of the wad in his mouth and his attention was on the music emanating from the speakers. The snapping of his bubbles didn't flow with the orchestra's performance, but only Krane didn't find this odd. The six-five, 300-pound behemoth rarely missed his beloved symphony series, the season tickets a part of his salary.

Surely he didn't do this at the concert hall, his companions privately mused. Why did he always do it when listening in the car?

Beside him in the front seat, Fuller was nearly a match in size and build, which was where the similarities ended. One look into his eyes revealed a cold, disturbing darkness, a sharp contrast to his childlike colleague. Watching Krane irritate him was a constant source of amusement for the other employees of the Morgan family.

Donnie leaned forward and grasped Krane by the shoulder.

Turn that down, will you?

Krane moved the volume to the left slightly. Fuller turned back toward Donnie.

Look, why can't we just do the preacher and be done with this?

Don't forget his girlfriend, added Krane.

Donnie shook his head. We still need him right now.

How does a televangelist keep a mistress without people finding out? Krane asked. What about his wife?

Just like anyone else in the spotlight, Donnie replied. Very discreetly. Garrison no longer has a wife, though.

What happened to her?

You'll hear that story soon enough, Donnie replied, before turning back to Skip. Are you ready?

Skip nodded, handing the phone to Donnie. He stepped out of the SUV with his equipment, closing the door as slowly and as gently as possible. He jogged the short distance to the detectives' sedan and crawled underneath the front of the vehicle. Donnie produced some binoculars and handed them to Fuller.

Watch the house.

Fuller took the binoculars and put them to his eyes. He adjusted the focus slightly and surveyed the entryway, lit up in fluorescent green by the night vision lenses.

Can you see the door?

Yeah, partly, Fuller said. If it opens, I can tell.

Donnie sat back and waited. Skip had assured him that it would only take a few moments to complete the task. Still, there was no guarantee of how long the detectives would be inside. The possibility of the men emerging from the house had Donnie's heart beating a bit faster than normal.

Skip crawled underneath the vehicle and slid toward the front of the car, searching for the right spot to attach the device. Feeling the leak of fluids from the sedan on his head, he grunted in disgust, wondering why department vehicles weren't more regularly serviced.

The short time that elapsed until Skip emerged from underneath the sedan seemed like hours to Donnie. It didn't help his nerves that Krane smacked his gum, nodding his head as the strings hummed to a crescendo. Feeling the glare from the other two passengers, the driver closed his mouth and the sound effects from his chaw subsided. The demolition expert finally scampered back toward them. Donnie breathed deeply in relief.

Done, Skip said as he jumped inside the car.

Any problems?

Not with the device, Skip replied, taking the phone back from Donnie. We're ready.

REVEREND, do you realize the serious nature of your statement?

Yes, I do.

The officers rose from their seats on the couch and moved toward the door. The host opened the door for his guests and they bid him good evening. The men loaded into the sedan and turned around, moving towards the Escalade down the block.

Heads down.

The sedan passed by harmlessly and four heads slowly rose from inside the vehicle.

Okay, said Donnie. Keep some distance, Krane. We want some buffer between us when it goes.

The SUV came to life and turned in pursuit of its prey. Once out of the development and on the main road, two cars stood between the unmarked sedan and its shadow.

Alright, Skip said, fingers poised to strike the touch screen. Pick your spot.

The detectives turned south on Preston as the light changed.

Make it, snapped Donnie. Don't lose them.

Krane pressed the accelerator to the floor and turned on the red light to keep pace, oblivious to the blaring of horns from oncoming traffic.

I want them isolated and away from other cars.

Good luck, said Fuller.

It's going to be tough, agreed Krane. They may not get any space until they pull into the garage.

Just watch, said Donnie. We'll get a chance.

Traffic began to ease and Skip's gaze shifted from the road to the phone every second, sensing the moment was drawing near. Donnie nodded as he saw the room around the detectives' vehicle grow.

Get ready.

From the right hand side of the road, a pickup darted into the road directly in front of the detectives. The driver alertly swerved away from them and moved down the road. The truck wove aimlessly, hitting the median and turning back against oncoming traffic, the Escalade leading the procession. Krane swung the steering wheel violently, trying to avoid the rampaging pickup. The passengers tossed around the cab and Skip lost his grip on the phone.

The SUV and the pickup barely missed each other. The pickup skidded down the road, wildly parting a procession of cars before jumping the median once again and weaving from lane to lane, now in the right direction.

Skip!

Skip searched under his feet for the unit. He found it and pulled it into view.

Well, he sighed, it's armed now.

I can't believe this, Donnie groaned. We have to do it now.

They're pulling up to an intersection, Krane said.

Is there anyone close to them? Donnie asked.

No.

Do it, Skip.

But—

Now!

Krane turned off of the road as Skip obeyed Donnie's order, pressing the hot button. Moments later, an explosion turned the unmarked sedan into a ball of fire. Traffic quickly jammed in the intersection, but only the intended victims suffered harm. The shell of the department's vehicle would be all that remained from the blast.

Donnie motioned for the binoculars and Fuller handed them to him. Through them, it was clear that the detectives had not survived. As people scattered about the blaze, Donnie nodded in satisfaction, confirming their success.

Let's go home.

Do you think they will know who did it? Krane asked.

Who cares? Donnie replied. Somebody will blame it on us, anyway. No one knows about the phone call those detectives received.

Except us, reminded Fuller.

Right, Donnie sighed, drained by the excitement of the last few minutes.

Skip handed the phone to Fuller after removing the memory card. Fuller managed a slight grin before snapping the phone in half like a graham cracker. As the Escalade picked up speed, he rolled the window down and tossed the remains of the unit out of the car.

CHAPTER 2

THE only fan in the bleachers not stomping his feet and screaming like a maniac was the base runner's grandfather, confined to a wheelchair throughout his favorite player's brief career. His grandson's left foot was planted at an angle on the edge of second base. He chomped on half a pouch of Big League Chew while watching home plate.

The other half of the pouch was being chewed by the eleven-year-old at the plate. The player's name was Bobby. He stood outside the batter's box, wiped his forehead with the shoulder of his jersey, and then glared back at the pitcher staring him down until the chants of Bobby! from the home section of the bleachers couldn't get any louder. He took a quick glance at the scoreboard in right field before stepping into the box, but the information there was of no use to him. He knew the score was tied with two outs in the bottom half of the last inning of the district championships. The winner would move on to regionals. The loser would go home.

The first pitch flew into the heart of the strike zone, but it never crossed the plate. Bobby grooved the ball to the gap in left-center where it bounced harmlessly off the fence. As soon as the ball left the bat, the crowd erupted in a unified roar. The runner at second took off without hesitation, raising his arms in triumph as he rounded third. Just as the centerfielder vainly gunned the ball in the direction of the backstop, the runner arrived at home plate where half the team mobbed him. The other half sped to first base where Bobby had fallen to his knees, his clenched fists pumping up and down.

As the defeated opponents left the field, the parents of the victors poured out of their half of the stands, mobbing their children as if they had just won the World Series. Bobby's father made his way through the crowd, accepting the congratulations of his fellow parents while straining to make his way to first base.

When Bobby saw his biggest fan, he leapt into his arms and his father hoisted him atop his shoulders. Since their first day of playing catch in the backyard, they had dreamt about this moment. Their fantasy had come true.

You did it, son! the father shouted above the din of the celebration. You did it!

No, Dad, Bobby screamed in answer. We did it. You and me.

The father squeezed his son tightly in a hug, wishing that this moment could somehow be bottled and relived all over again. The son reveled in the moment, lost in a state of euphoria beyond words.

TWENTY-ONE years later, Bobby Dell awakened from a dream that he could only faintly remember. Like many dreams, it was filled with faces that were at once familiar, yet difficult to name. Memories that seemed clear in slumber mysteriously evaporated as soon as he tried to place them.

The blinds to the bedroom window rocked from a slight breeze, clicking up against the nightstand by the bed. Bobby found his cell phone on the nightstand, and saw it was time to get up. He then reached for the lighter and the half-empty pack of cigarettes and trudged to the bathroom.

After his nicotine fix, he showered and made himself presentable, a condition which did not require shaving or any grooming of his hair using more than his ten fingers. He then began selecting his attire from all points of the bedroom, every item flawed in some way. The faded jeans were torn in places. The boots were dusty and had missed several needed rounds of polish. Most of the polo shirt's many wrinkles would be hidden by the sport coat that hung loosely from his lean, muscular frame. The generous room the jacket gave him would make the shoulder holster and the .45 it held unnoticeable to all but the most pointed observers.

Bobby left his apartment and drove his pickup several miles to the parking lot of a strip center anchored by a Staples and a Best Buy on each end. He stepped out and leaned against the truck, waiting for his appointment. When he saw the black Escalade approach, he dropped the butt to the asphalt, stamping it flat with his boot. When it stopped a few feet away, he opened the rear door and jumped inside.

Donnie Morgan watched the new passenger carefully, waiting a few moments to see if he would speak. After a minute or two of silence, he realized unprompted conversation would not be forthcoming.

Rough morning?

They usually are, Bobby said, as he watched the scenes passing by through the window.

Donnie glanced at his watch, realizing it was actually well into the afternoon. He often wondered what Bobby was thinking about when he answered open ended questions with short, understated answers. His employee carefully measured every word he spoke, unconcerned about contributing to an awkward silence.

So, began Donnie, did you ever play baseball as a kid?

I did.

Any good? asked Krane.

Bobby shrugged. I held my own.

I bet he was good, Fuller said. The ones that don't brag about it usually were.

Why do you ask?

We're going to a ballgame, said Donnie.

Bobby's gaze shifted and he turned across the seat. I don't think the Rangers are in town this weekend.

Wouldn't you rather see some kids who play for nothing more than the love the game?

Okay.

Lighten up, Bobby. It's a beautiful day for baseball. You'll get to reminisce about all those past glories.

The Escalade turned right and slowed in front of a parking lot nearly full with vehicles. Beyond the lot sat eight ball fields, all holding young players ranging from six to twelve years old. Kids scampered on the diamonds, cheered by parents who watched with a variety of emotions they made little effort to hide.

Krane parked a few rows away from the fields, recalling from younger days how often windshields would shatter after an errant foul ball. As the passengers emerged from the vehicle, four more men with sport coats stepped out of two sedans a few rows away. The jackets would be a bit warm for late April, but necessary to conceal their firearms in such a public place.

When Bobby stepped out and saw where they were, he realized he had been here before. Twenty-one years before, to be exact.

Donnie turned to Skip emerging from the sedan and nodded. Skip directed the four men with him to the other sides of the field. Krane and Fuller had already surveyed the field and identified the fan in question.

He's over behind first, Krane said.

Alright. Let me get some peanuts.

Donnie, the game is almost done. He might bolt.

Fuller, I am not watching a baseball game without peanuts. Just watch him. Let's go, Bobby.

Donnie moved toward the center of the complex. Bobby saw the two men roll their eyes before he turned to follow.

Several noticeable improvements had taken place over the years at the complex. It was now open eight hours a day during the week and twelve hours a day on weekends. Huge skylights lit up the eight diamonds after dark. Several concession stands and a swank restaurant with a press box view of the elite fields rang up thousands of dollars of business a day.

Donnie paid for a bag of peanuts and ripped it open. He motioned to Bobby and poured several peanuts into his hands as they entered the seating area. Krane and Fuller met them there.

It's the guy in the red shirt, Fuller said, pointing. Three rows up from the field, all by himself.

Donnie nodded as he poured some peanuts into his hands before handing the bag to Krane.

Stay up here.

The man in red was bursting with pride, cheering on number 14. His son would turn twelve next Tuesday, but he would not be able to celebrate his birthday with him. His ex and her family would have that privilege. The frustration of living a majority of the year without the Senior League All-Star at his side briefly subsided as he watched his only child patrol the hot corner like someone who knew he was destined for Cooperstown.

A sharp grounder cracked off the opposing bat and sped down the third base line. Daniel Stewart backhanded the ball, planted his feet and fired to first. Before the ball touched the first baseman's mitt, the base runner slowed, realizing he had no chance.

Applause and cheers erupted from the bleachers, followed by what sounded like booing. Devoted fans of Merle's Auto Body knew the crowd was simply chanting the young prodigy's nickname.

The proud father jumped from his seat, leading Merle's fans in the chorus of Stew! The volume of his bellowing explained the considerable distance he allowed himself away from the rest of the team's fans. Len Stewart would take turns bragging with the other parents afterwards. During the game he sat alone, daydreaming of ten to fifteen years from now when children would walk by with Stewart on the backs of their replica jerseys.

Your boy has quite an arm.

Stewart was taken aback at the remark, unaware of Donnie's presence behind him. When he saw who it was, he quickly turned back to the field of play.

What are you doing here? We're not supposed to be seen together in public.

Relax, Mr. Stewart. Everyone is watching the game.

What do you want?

At this, Donnie's attention shifted from a casual observation of his surroundings to burning a hole through Stewart's head.

We have some matters to discuss.

Let's do it tomorrow. Today is about to become a special day. I can feel it.

Len.

The edge and emphasis put on his name caused Stewart to turn around. Donnie's glare confirmed the serious nature of his business. The father was determined not to be intimidated, or at least not show it.

What are you going to do, take a tire iron and beat me in front of all these people?

Len, take a look toward the outfield fence.

Stewart turned and saw two men in left field near the foul line and two men in right field next to the scoreboard. They looked large and not all that interested in the game itself.

It's nearly eighty degrees. Do you really think those guys are wearing jackets because it's comfortable in this spectacular weather?

Stewart's eyes fell to the metal bleachers underneath him. The Morgans periodically showed up at his office door, usually at an inconvenient time. Accosting him in his private life was a first.

The game is almost over, continued Donnie. When it's done, go congratulate your son, send him home with one of his teammates and tell him you'll pick him up later this afternoon. That is, unless you want to involve your son in your professional affairs.

No, no. I understand.

At the top of the bleachers, Bobby tried to separate what he saw before him from the memories that were flooding back. Not only were these the same ball fields he played many games on, they were watching the game on the very diamond where his most memorable performance was staged.

Fuller nudged Bobby out of the tension mounting inside him, pointing toward home.

That's his son at the plate.

Bobby watched the young batter, calmly swinging his bat in the space between the on-deck circle and the batter's box.

He'll hit the first pitch, Bobby surmised confidently.

What makes you think so?

Bobby's only reply was a sigh as they watched the pitcher look in for the sign.

When the crowd saw the first pitch jump off the bat, they instantly rose to their feet. The poor youngster on the mound didn't even turn to see the ball sail far beyond the centerfield fence. He slammed his glove on the dirt in front of him, knowing the game was done.

The entire team of Merle's Auto Body gathered at home plate as the hero trotted around the bases. He had hit many home runs in his life, but this was the first game winner of his career. From the smile on the boy's face, everyone knew this was a day he would never forget.

Good guess, Krane said as he and Fuller clapped for the game-winning hero. Bobby didn't clap or even smile, armed with a strong suspicion the day would soon be as bittersweet a memory for the boy as his was for him.

Both Donnie and Stewart stood and clapped, the father letting out a laugh like he knew it all along. His joy had been stifled a bit from what it would have been, due to the unwelcome visitor.

Check out my boy, hands in the air, he said defiantly, but with an edge of temerity. Just like the World Series.

He looks like a five tool player.

Damn right. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a son to put on my shoulders.

Stewart rose from his seat and made his way to the field. Donnie's first impulse was to warn him further, but watching the celebration made him realize that a heated exchange would only arouse unneeded attention. The father