Riverview

By Alan Guzzetti

Riverview is the name of a maximum security penitentiary. Riverview is also a poor prison town where the opening scene occurs, setting up a chilling and suspenseful sequence of events told in flashbacks.
The lives of four people inextricably interweave to create a gripping story, crafted to hold the reader’s attention throughout, and to keep him guessing about what will happen next.
The protagonists include a psychopathic and bloodthirsty misfit who learned to hate from birth, and a misguided wanderer who takes advantage whenever he can. A beautiful victim of circumstance falls prey to an unscrupulous prison warden and charms her way to freedom. The love of her life is devastated by one disaster after another. Various other nefarious characters all serve to make this complex and suspenseful story one that you can not put down.

Author Alan Guzzetti takes you on a mind bending tour of an underworld of despicable characters committing unspeakable acts. Some of the realistic and descriptive prose is not for the faint-hearted, but the action and captivating story telling will completely engage the reader.
There are tender moments as in all human experience, but they are sometimes eclipsed by the dysfunctional interference perpetrated by abnormal individuals. The reader may begin to wonder what is normal and abnormal when one is placed in an environment where survival is of the utmost importance and revenge is essential for self preservation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Guzzetti
• Release date: Oct 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311418043

Alan Guzzetti

About the AuthorAlan Guzzetti was born in upstate New York at the beginning of World War II. His family migrated to Northern California when he was five years old. Guzzetti has led an exciting and fascinating life as a world traveler and a businessman.He joined the U.S. Air Force at seventeen and spent four years touring the Far East and other parts of the world. Later, he was involved in America’s early space program as an employee at Lockheed Missiles and Space Company.As the computer industry matured, Guzzetti became a successful sales and marketing executive in the field of high technology. At one point he was responsible for an extensive international marketing operation and visited many foreign countries.Guzzetti was selected for publication in Reed Magazine, the official voice of the John Steinbeck Study Center at San Jose State University. He has also published several short stories in Fresh Ink, a writer’s magazine. Bull Magazine, has also recently featured Guzzetti's literary reportage of the bombing of Hiroshima.His first book, NO MORE SMOKING IN BED was published as part memoirs, part travelogue, and a series of humorous adventures. His second book, RIVERVIEW is a suspenseful crime and punishment novel. His third book, also a novel, is entitled DANGEROUS PROFESSIONS. The sequel to DANGEROUS PROFESSIONS, titled NEVER FAR FROM DANGER, was published in late 2011.His latest work, THE RELUCTANT NAZI, an unusual spy novel set in Europe during World War II, has recently been published.Guzzetti is a past member of California Writer’s Club. His work can be previewed on his website www.americanpacificbooks.com Some of his books are available on www.amazon.com, Lyon Books, and Kindle.Mr. Guzzetti lives in Chico, California.

Book preview

Chapter One

The Last Stop Saloon

January 2006

The Number 16 dropped off its single passenger at 8:45 P.M. He stepped off the bus, shrugged at the cold wind trying to get a grip on him, and headed into the grungy, dimly-lit saloon. No one recognized the man. He was about forty and already grizzled. He had two scars running down the right side of his face which had not been shaved for two days. His eyes had a peculiar slant that made him appear both wizened and very mean. He was five feet eleven, but he had big shoulders, giving him the appearance of a larger man. Apart from the wool seaman’s cap, his clothes were ill fitting – the tweed sport coat dirty, and frayed around the sleeves. He wore a rough, blue denim shirt that was two sizes too large and scrunched up around the shoulders, causing the shirt front to pooch out from the coat.

He fit in nicely at The Last Stop Saloon. He walked up to the bar and before Tom could greet him, he said Your best whiskey – straight up in a raspy, deep throated voice.

Tom replied We don’t have much call for Wild Turkey here, so’s the best we got is probably Canadian Club. That O.K?

That’ll do said the stranger.

Tom poured a healthy shot and before he could say Three bucks, the man surrounded Tom’s hand and the bottle with his large left hand, grabbed the shot glass with the other, and downed the whiskey. He let go of Tom’s hand and Tom poured another shot, understanding the message.

That’ll be six bucks said Tom. You got a credit card? I’ll run a tab.

The man sneered I don’t got no fucking credit card, man. Leave the bottle. You’ll get your money.

Tom was no pansy. He was a large man himself, standing over six feet and built very broadly. He had been in his share of brawls and handled himself as well as most men only wish they could, but there was something about this stranger that sent a chill right through him. He thought a moment and just left the bottle there on the bar and went back to washing glasses.

YEEE-HAW came from the end of the bar, seemingly out of nowhere. The gruff stranger was instantly on his feet. The .357 Magnum was shiny in his hand and pointed right at old Art’s head less than a second after he cried out. Art was oblivious, and his head was already cradled back on his arms. The stranger, realizing his over-reaction, stood for a moment, taking in the small crowd and Tom’s shocked expression. Then, he slipped the pistol back into his pants front and sat down.

I’ll just have one more and then I’m out of here – O.K. with you? He directed the question to Tom.

Tom replied Sure, and that number sixteen bus will be out front in less than four minutes. Just thought you might want to know.

The man downed his whiskey, threw a twenty dollar bill on the bar and walked out without waiting for his change. Tom reached for the phone.

It was Thursday night. Most of the few patrons were regulars. Three or four people had not been seen in the place before. This particular Thursday was not near the first or the fifteenth of the month, and most people who didn’t get paid on those days usually got paid on Friday. Hence, the small crowd this night. The Last Stop got its name from the bus stop right outside the front door. It was the final destination for the Number 16 Riverview Transit Authority coach that came by about every forty-five minutes at this time of night. When a passenger got on, it would take them on a lengthy forty block journey back to its first stop, but only after entering the I-97 highway a block away. Some said that this was the most poorly planned bus route that any city had ever conceived, but no one ever did anything about it. Besides, some of the patrons of the saloon got to take a nice snooze on the way home.

It was only eight-twenty-seven and old Art was on his usual stool at the very far end of the bar where he would be the least conspicuous. He was already semi-comatose and sleeping with his head resting on his arms. Every eight or nine minutes, he would rear up his head and let out a YEEE-HAW as if to let everyone in the place know that he was still alive. Since no one ever sat near him, and since Tom the bartender knew him well, this seldom startled anyone. They were mostly used to it.

Even less often, he would wake up long enough to signal for another shot of Old Bear Piss as Tom called it. Yukon Woods was its real name. Tom wouldn’t serve it to anyone else. Art had been patronizing the place for five years, or longer. So, quite some time ago Tom began to stock this particular rot-gut just for him. It was either that, or he would have had to raise his price to Art as he had done with everyone else. He didn’t have the heart. Art got the bad booze at the old price of $1.65 a shot. He didn’t seem to know the difference, and if he did he never questioned Tom’s decision.

The town of Riverview had a population of 26,000. There were eleven other bars and seven restaurants that served liquor in town. That was one drinking establishment for every 1368 people, including children. There was no river within view of Riverview, nor was there a lake, ocean, or even an Olympic sized swimming pool. In fact, the largest body of water within twenty miles of town was owned by the Johnstone Sand and Gravel Company, about three miles west of the city limits. On any warm summer night, and even on Sundays and holidays, one could usually find kids or lovers having a swim in the quarry pool. The old cyclone fence surrounding the property had not been a deterrent from illegal entry for years. There were more holes in it than a pair of four year old socks.

There wouldn’t be anyone there on this night, though. It was forty degrees outside and the wind coming off the eastern hills made it feel like twenty degrees. January was a tough month for this town. The holidays were over and most of the working class population was broke and looking for a way to make ends meet. The big cattle ranchers came in to town occasionally on hiring junkets, but they hired mostly illegals because they would accept any work for meager pay. If it weren’t for the prison, there just wouldn’t have been much else to keep people going there.

There weren’t even other small towns nearby to attract the Wal-Marts of the world. So, although that was good news for the small businesses that did thrive here, it was still tough going for many of them. How many donuts could be sold here? How many people other than prison guards would get their clothes dry cleaned?

Riverview had an average of six suicides per year. That didn’t count the two or three unsuccessful attempts. So, statistically the suicide rate was slightly higher than the national average of 21.7 per 100,000 persons.

The prison was euphemistically known as the State Correctional Center at Riverview. It was a maximum security facility built on twenty-seven acres, and it was within spitting distance of the southern city limits. Riverview was known to be a no-nonsense, fry ‘em fast, unforgiving system, second only to Huntsville in execution rates. In 2006, there were 11 executions at Riverview compared to 31 in Huntsville, Texas. However, the total prison population of Huntsville during that period was 13,000 compared to 6,000 at Riverview. Riverview had 117 men and 4 women awaiting execution. It was not a pleasant place.

When Tom was interviewed by the police and the prison officials the next day, no one could believe that Sheriff Guinne was able to drive right up to the front door of The Last Stop and arrest Greeley Garth Grimes, twice the most wanted man in the state, without a struggle. Grimes had brutally murdered four people in a liquor store holdup eighteen years ago in the city of Beaumar, a little more than one hundred miles from Riverview. He got away with $56 and a bottle of Jack Daniels and was at large for seven months. He had been a resident of Riverview prison for the past seventeen years until two days earlier, at which time he pulled off the first escape ever from that eighty-year-old institution.

The entire sequence of events was unbelievable, including the fact that anyone who would escape from a maximum security prison, would walk into the closest town and take a bus. Then, get off the bus and go into a bar, drink for twenty- minutes or so, brandish a weapon, and then leave to wait for the next bus.

Of course, there were several other pieces of the puzzle not yet in place. Who was the naked dead man in the dumpster, nicely mutilated, laying next to Grimes’ prison clothes? He had yet to be identified. Other unanswered questions included exactly how Grimes had escaped, where he got the pistol, and why he didn’t just steal a car and hit the road.

Time would tell, but Tom had seen these guys before. As far as he was concerned, the guy just wanted a little outing. He had been institutionalized and couldn’t stand being free. It was enough to drive a man to drink.

Chapter Two

The Beaumar Incident

May 1988

Greeley Grimes was thinking about laying out the fifty bucks that the girl wanted. Then, he would take her out behind the bar where he had seen an old mattress near some boxes and trash. He sure as Hell wasn’t going to spring for a motel and she had already told him that her boyfriend was home watching her kids. He couldn’t take her to his place because God only knew what was going on there. Besides, he was sharing a dump with two other guys, and it wasn’t his turn to use the one and only bed until after midnight when Ben went to work. That was still three hours away.

Then, he realized that he didn’t have that much money left anyway, after drinking for several hours. He dug in his pockets and pulled out the crumpled bills. Shit he said aloud. Only sixteen bucks left. Not enough to get her to do anything. Damn! She was good looking, with a tank top that showed off her little cantaloupes and tight fitting jeans that made her sweet little ass say Come here baby. He had to do something, but he was so drunk and messed up from all the crank he had snorted, he just couldn’t think straight.

I gotta take a walk he said to no one in particular.

He went outside and took a deep breath. He started to walk past the line of parked cars on the side street next to the B-29 Bar when he got the idea to steal one. He knew how to hotwire cars. He had been stealing them since he was a kid and professionally for the past six years; and today was his twenty- first birthday. He deserved a nice one. There it was – a brand new 1988 Pontiac Bonneville. It didn’t even have plates yet – just those plastic frames with cardboard inserts. These said Fredrick Buick/Pontiac – Beaumar’s Best Deals.

He scrambled around for something that he could use to unlock the door. What luck. Not ten feet away was a number ten tin can lid, nicely flattened from cars running over it time and again. A little manipulation, reforming, and he had his tool. The car door opened and he slid in. Damn, it smells good in here. This thing must not even be two days old, he thought.

Within sixty seconds, he had the car started and he was off, tires squealing as he went roaring down the street. When he got a safe distance from the neighborhood, he pulled over and started to go through the seat pockets and the glove box. He felt something hard and cold scrunched between the passenger seat and the console.

What’s this? He almost shouted with joy. A Goddamned piece. I don’t fucking believe it.

It was a brand new .09 millimeter Glock 19. These pistols were just becoming popular and he had only recently heard of them. They were made out of some sort of composite material and metal, so that they were durable and light weight. They were manufactured in Austria. He released the magazine.

"Good Christ! This