Voodoo Bully

By E. R. Yatscoff

For MG and Tweens.
Evens Duluce, a small ambitious Haitian boy, knows the man who poisoned Scraps, his dog, but can do little about it. He vows to get even somehow, someway. Unfortunately, no magic wands, incantations, or friendly creatures can help. He's not sure how to get even for the dog’s death until he stumbles upon the dark secret of the high school bully, Algie. Evens, in grade ten is too small to physically confront Algie, never mind control him.
Manipulating the walking, talking slab of meat on the senior football team is risky and likely to be painful. Evens manages most of the flyer and newspaper deliveries around his small town. With a sharp eye and suspicious streak, he holds secrets about his customers, pillars of the community, secrets they'd rather stay hidden. They too, find their way into Evens’ complex plan where the enemies he makes are the only ones that can help him. Perhaps a little bit of voodoo will help things along.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. R. Yatscoff
• Release date: May 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994750440

E. R. Yatscoff

Crime Writers of Canada Arthur Ellis Award finalist, John Bilsland non-fiction award, Canada Book Award Winner and Author Shout 2023 honorable mention. Most mysteries and suspense novels have to do with cops, lawyers, and PIs. My protagonist is a firefighter and is the first firefighter pulp fiction in Canada. True grit and reality are my writing tenets.My juvenile/middle grade/chapter books have no magic wands, wise talking creatures, vampires, or parallel worlds. I write stories about children, not so much specifically for children. Many adults enjoy my writing because of this. My stories are about unassuming boys who get in trouble and must prove themselves and show the world they have hearts of lions. There's fighting, conflict, loyalty, bullies, integrity, and courage. I've read samples to Grade 4 and 5 students and garnered excellent reviews.I was born in Welland, Ontario and now live in Alberta. Backpacked the world on the Hippie Trail and lived in Australia. I've worked as a paperboy, grocery clerk, sales rep, all types of construction work, painter, mink ranch hand, assembly line rubber factory, cherry picker, freelance astronaut (no offers), boilermaker apprentice, delivery driver, father, coach, and career firefighter and officer for 32 years. I've also played drums in the Black Gold Big Band for 8 years.I retired as fire captain with Edmonton Fire Rescue, a large Canadian metro fire service. I live in Beaumont, Alberta with Gloria, whom I met on a freighter/passenger ship from Jakarta to Singapore. I've climbed the Great Wall of China, been down and out living in Australia, honeymooned with Gloria during the Grenada Revolution and saw Maurice Bishop, snorkeled with a marlin, almost smuggled a Playboy into Communist Russia, tossed eggs at an Aussie PM, was in Havana when Fidel shocked Cubans and stepped down. My wife made a pot of tea for the Queen of England in N.Z.I travel widely, do a bit of fishing and boating, drink demon rum, manage a writers group, do occasional renos, and sit on my butt outside in the good weather reading a decent book. My writing work consists of travel articles, YA, juvenile, how-tos, and has garnered several awards. Check out my website for some excellent short stories.

Book preview

VooDoo Bully

by

E.R. Yatscoff

Copyright © 2015 E. R. Yatscoff

Smashwords edition

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9947504-4-0

Please leave a review at Smashwords

MG/Young Reader

Ransom Out On A Limb The Far Bank Archie's Gold (excerpt below)

Young Adult

VooDoo Bully The Blob...In My Shoes

All ages

The Rumrunner’s Boy (Arthur Ellis award Finalist 2019)

Firefighter crime series

Fire Dream Man On Fire Final Response (summer 2021)

Crime and Suspense

Teeth Of The Cocodrilo Services Rendered (2022)

License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author © Voodoo Bully

This book is a work of fiction. Certain locations and people figures are mentioned but all other characters and events are imaginary. Any similarities are coincidental.

Dedication

To all the courageous ones who find a way.

Special thanks to my writer's group; Edna G., Em P.

The chapter headings are taken from real voodoo superstitions

Speak softly and carry a big stick; you will go far.

- Theodore Roosevelt, U.S. president b.1858 - d.1919

VOODOO BULLY

Chapter 1

To give your former beau a life-long heartache, take his picture and stick two needles through his heart one way and one needle the other way.

When the weather was good or especially during a full moon, I often would head down to the river with Scraps for a walk or to fish. On this particular morning, Scraps was not in the yard, probably having squeezed through the high hedge to chase something. I missed his presence trotting beside me, sometimes running around me in circles. Before leaving home I walked around block after block searching for him. No luck. Scraps enjoyed running along the shore to bother ducks, romp around the thickets, and occasionally trying to swim after beavers. Further disrupting my fishing at the river, one of my delivery boys called to say he'd quit his paper route. That meant I'd have to get up before school and take over the spot until I could find a replacement. I managed several paper routes and most of the flyer deliveries in my small town of Devon, Alberta.

I didn't see Scraps until I returned home. He lay on his side in the hedges, panting; not trotting over to greet me as he usually did. Curious, I set my rod against the house and walked over to him.

What're you doing over there, Evens? said Uncle Alain, coming out onto the deck with a bottle of beer in his hand.

Something's wrong with Scraps. I knelt on the grass beside my dog, who appeared in great distress.

Scraps was a border collie-cross, a mongrel, my parents adopted from the animal pound three years ago before they left Canada to visit relatives in Haiti. They never came back. Mom and Dad were abducted, shot, and dumped in front of a police station in the middle of the night. Dad, a former policeman on the island, a top cop, became involved in organized crime by investigating the Cité Soleil gang. One day, he gathered up my mother and me and fled to Canada under threat of death. In Canada, he became a private detective. He taught me all I know about the detecting business and a lot about people. Everyone has secrets, Evens.

Scraps bled badly from his nose and mouth. His breaths were rapid and shallow. The blood would not stop coming. How much blood could a dog have? I went into the shed for a rag to staunch the flow, but it became soaked in no time. I couldn’t put it over his nose and mouth. He tried to stand to greet me as he always did, but was too weak. His muscles twitched as though an electric current ran through him.

What can I do? I pleaded.

He will not be making it, Evens, Uncle Alain said, and came over with a doggie bowl of water. Looks like rat poison to me. It stops the clotting and makes blood flow freely. He nodded in agreement with himself. His large baldhead bobbed like a toy as he set down the water. Happens when you let him run free like you do. That dog will eat anything. You should not let him wander the town.

Scraps' eyes were glassy and seemed to be looking faraway, like watching a daydream go by.

Can we get him to the vet or something? I asked, turning to my uncle.

Yes, we can. All we will get is a big bill and the dog will still die. He set his large brown hand on my shoulder. He's too far gone. Say your goodbyes. I'm sorry.

I sat on the grass trying to comfort my pet by scratching his belly. Scraps coughed a bit and bubbled up more blood. I wiped away some tears. Wasn't somethin' on the street, Uncle. No. Someone did this. I looked up at my uncle. I know who did it.

Yes, I know who you mean, said Uncle Alain, rising unsteadily and returning to the deck and sitting on a lawn chair.

Scraps' murderer lives three blocks away in a rundown rented bungalow at the end of an unfinished dead-end street. It's where my friend Jay lives, too.

Joseph 'Joey' Mendel is about thirty years old; a skinny runt inked with a pencil-thin mustache and tattoos on his arms and neck that looked done by a blind man. He always wore a shabby Bud Light straw cowboy hat; got it free for buying a truckload of beer for a party where six people showed up. The music was so loud the police visited him. His older model 4x4 truck windows are pasted with oil industry stickers and jacked up so high a ladder is almost needed to climb in.

In reality, he's a dropout with bad teeth and hygiene who works at the truck wash, power spraying the real oil worker's trucks. A wannabe. One of my teachers keeps telling my class to develop our own identity as we enter adulthood; find our way in life. I hope I don't develop like Joey. I don't know where he got his instructions.

Joey doesn't like me, and I don't like him. Neither do his neighbors. If I'm shooting hoops at the end of his street with my buds and the ball happens to roll into his yard, he keeps the ball. He'll give it back in a few days, but only when Jay's dad or my Uncle Alain knocks on his door. Or else he'll leave it in the street, hoping someone will walk off with it.

Come try to get it back and I'll put a hole in you, he says, like some movie cowboy, pantomiming pulling a trigger with his finger.

Scraps, my unfortunate pet, didn't like Joey much either and showed it by lifting a leg, leaving some liquid discontent on the chrome rims of his 4x4. Poor dog just couldn't help himself. It was as if he knew what Joey was all about, and the disrespect poured out of him. This would send Joey into outer space with rage. He'd grab the garden hose and stammer and holler and swear as he hosed off his wheel. I and my buds would have a good laugh. Scraps would return with a bounce in his stride to be petted approvingly.

This infuriated Joey into:

-picking up a hockey stick and chasing Scraps down the street.

-threatening us as we shot baskets until we left.

-throwing empty beer cans as we played, forcing us to move the hoop and backboard down the street in amongst parked cars.

-cranking up his crappy country rebel music to ear-splitting levels until we'd leave.

Little Joey's venom spewed far and wide, bringing out his neighbors for a quick look to see all the fuss. My father once told me that if the police couldn't be relied upon to look after its citizens, the community is forced to take the initiative. The neighbors on the dead-end street were big men, putting up with the runt and his antics. These men were nothing but Big Pussies who told us to quit inciting the man.

Well, I was in for some incitement myself.

I sat with Scraps until he drew in his last breath and closed his eyes. You were a fine friend, I said.

I began to cry when I thought of how smart Scraps was. He liked to surprise beavers, ambush them by making them think he'd go one way then double back to jump out at them. I think...no, I know he had a sense of humor, too. If he could talk, he'd be a standup comedian at the SPCA. When I caught a fish, he'd wade into the shallows, clamp down on it with his teeth, and bring it onto the shore.

When it began to drizzle, I dug his grave under a poplar at the far end of our small garden. Inside, I joined my uncle at the kitchen table. While absently scanning the newspaper I noticed many of the movie listings were about zombies or werewolves or magic.

The words seeded my thoughts. No vampire or any creature would be biting Joey--reality would.

Uncle Alain went to the fridge and cracked another beer. He'd moved in with me after my parents were murdered. He was my father's brother, and also a renter. He suggested he'd help me out by moving in and paying the bills and taxes. Cheaper than the rent at his apartment in Edmonton. That way I didn't lose the house because I was a minor. By default, Alain became my guardian. It worked out good so far with him minding his own business and not giving me much parental grief. When he drank in the evenings he became real easy to get along with. Then again, I was a good student and busy with my newspaper delivery business, soon to be an empire. As I stared out the window at the freshly dug earth, I felt my anger simmering, my brain shifting into gear, hurtling recklessly around corners.

You got that look on your face. Where you goin'? asked Uncle Alain.

Going to see the man who murdered my dog!

Chapter 2

If you want someone to do as you say, take a piece of rag and let them spit on it,