Down on Your Knees

By Lee Thomas

Denny “The Bull” Doyle steps out of prison only to find a low-level gangster is attempting to take over his organization. Brendan Newton is a newbie to the gang, who’s spent too much time in front of the television, building a grand fantasy about the machinations of the underworld. He’s naive and weak, but he may be the only chance Doyle has. The Bull's associates are being murdered in violent and bizarre ways, and the next target is his beloved, though wholly sociopathic, brother, Jordie. Behind it all is Malcolm Lynch, a sadistic gangster who has more than guns and knives at his disposal. He’s a sorcerer intent on building an empire, and Doyle is the only thing standing in his way.

"Down On Your Knees Knees is a crime novel you won’t soon forget. Lee Thomas uses his hallmark crisp, lucid, muscular prose to take you on a journey through the underworld of a Southern City that is at once familiar yet wholly distinct and unique. Brothers Denny and Jordie Doyle are your guides through a tale that does not flinch when navigating the dark and often brutal corners of organized crime and exploring just how far people can go to protect dark secrets. This fast-paced, supernatural crime thriller is masterfully populated with humanity, betrayal, brutality, and dark magic that only Lee Thomas can deliver."
- Daniel Braum Author of the Night Marchers and Other Strange Tales

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lethe Press
• Release date: Sep 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370021673

Lee Thomas

Lee Thomas is the Lambda Literary Award and Bram Stoker Award-winning author of more than 20 books, including: Butcher’s Road The German The Dust of Wonderland Like Light for Flies Torn Stained In the Closet, Under the Bed Ash Street Writing as Thomas Pendleton and Dallas Reed, he is the author of the novels, Mason, Shimmer, and The Calling, from HarperTeen. He is also the co-author (with Stefan Petrucha) of the Wicked Dead series of books for young adults. Lee currently lives in Austin, TX.

Book preview

ONE

Brendan sat in a borrowed Toyota Tercel outside the gates of Crainte Prison, waiting for Denny The Bull Doyle to step into freedom after an eighteen-month stretch. Rain poured, slashing the air with ashen lines and beating the car under a noisy assault. His gut revved like a muscle car engine. Denny Doyle. The fucking Bull himself! Brendan squinted through the windshield at the gate eager to see the man his father had reverently called, a queer angel.

Of course, he’d seen Doyle before, but always at a distance and always in a crowd. Another face among many, Brendan had been too unimportant to be noticed.

The gate opened and the Bull stepped forward, put his hand into the rain and shook his enormous head. Snowy gray strands ran through his short-cropped hair and beard. He wore a charcoal-colored suit that matched the sky. Brendan snatched the umbrella from the back seat and splashed into the downpour, feet disturbing low puddles as he fumbled with the umbrella. Doyle eyed him coolly.

Who’re you? he asked.

His voice was dry and deep, and his face was calm, the features of a warrior carved in an expression of utter peace. Large green eyes looked Brendan over. Thin lips rested together in a relaxed line. Standing close to him, all six foot, four inches of him, it looked like the bulk of his weight had landed in the man’s chest.

They call me Bee.

What does your priest call you?

Brendan.

And you’re my driver, Brendan? Doyle asked.

Yeah, Mr. Doyle.

Then you better get to driving.

He lived up to his name. His presence, a presence that seemed to engulf the lot and the sky, set Brendan’s gut to kicking and his skin to crackling. This was as close to royalty as he ever expected to get, like doing blow in Tony Montana’s mansion, or shooting the shit with Tony Soprano at Bada Bing!

Brendan led Doyle to the car, holding the umbrella up and out to cover the Bull while exposing half of his own body to the storm. He opened the door. Doyle examined the Tercel with a slow sweep of his head, eyeing it from trunk to hood.

Times have changed, he said. Then he lowered his bulk into the passenger seat, filling the space like gray smoke.

Once Brendan had the car running, he pointed to the glove box. When that received only a sneer from Doyle, he reached across and popped the latch. Inside were a pack of smokes and the flask of whisky Barney had handed off to him. Doyle reached in and retrieved the cigarettes. He lit one and cracked the passenger window, allowing trickles of rain to splash the shoulder of his suit.

Are you my piece of ass? he asked.

The words hung between them, stinging Brendan’s ears. They grew denser and darker as Brendan tried to process what he had heard. Then, once the question had gathered enough bulk, it punched the side of his head. That shit just shattered his cool, leaving cracks to be filled with anger. The kid didn’t care how big the fucker was or how legendary, Brendan was nobody’s homo-bitch. If the Bull wanted to play ass games, that was his business, but no way in hell was Brendan grabbing his ankles for the man.

Fuck no, he snapped. I gotta girl. This is her car.

Hmm, Doyle grunted. He drew on the cigarette and exhaled blue white smoke, quickly snatched away by the wind. First time I got out on an armed robbery rap, a limo picked me up. The back was stocked with smokes, whisky, and my brothers hired one of the local girls to entertain me on the drive home. Second time, same thing. Lost my interest in girls a while back, and you’re a good-looking kid. A bit scrawny, but not an eyesore.

I’m not your piece of ass, so just put that shit away.

Doyle laughed. It was a deep, rapid-fire series of chuckles. Machine gun mirth. He crossed his arms over his chest. I’m just messing with you, kid. You can unpucker now. I only play with adults.

Brendan had heard about Denny Doyle and his excursions into the Old Quarter of Saint Anne. Everyone had. He’d heard the jokes… and the warnings. You could laugh about the homo all you wanted, could joke about him sucking cock, but if you were going to talk smack about the Bull, you better know good and well whose ears were picking up your noise.

Personally, Brendan didn’t care what the Bull did with his dick, as long as he kept that shit to himself.

I’m driving you back to the city, to your house. If you need a ride to the party, I’ll stick around to drive you. That’s it.

Again the machine gun laugh. Softer this time.

And where are they throwing this bash?

McDougall’s, Brendan said.

Good place.

Though it was early afternoon, furious darkness whorled around the car. Rain crashed hard against the windshield. The road appeared in short sharp flashes, before being washed away in a sluice of gray. The man in the seat next to Brendan consumed every bit of the atmosphere, even the wind racing in from the cracked window. Brendan’s chest felt tight. He reminded himself to breathe.

This wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d hoped to hear a few stories about the inside, maybe share some laughs. If nothing else, he’d wanted to score points with the boss, show Doyle he was solid and worthy of advancement.

The Bull and his brothers, Jordie and Nathan, were legends. All three were gang-made. They brought their balls to the game, hitting fast. Hitting hard. But unlike most of the punk-bitch mob boys, they gave back to the town that fed them, and that’s why a good amount of love accompanied the fear and respect people felt for them.

The Doyle brothers protected Gray’s Channel. Some kid knocked down a granny to snag her purse, and Jordie grabbed his Glock. Some guy fiddled with a brat, and Denny used his Makita nail gun to pin the perv’s dick to his belly. One college student-douche refused to turn his stereo down after having been repeatedly asked by his old-man neighbor. The sleepless neighbor complained to Nathan Doyle. So Nathan got himself a machete and paid a midnight visit. He explained that what he was inflicting on the asshole’s stereo could easily be inflicted on the guy himself, if Nathan felt it necessary.

Jordie was the baby. He had an imp’s grin and a plague’s body count. Alcohol had stained rosy patches on his pudgy cheeks, and his eyes twinkled. In photographs, he looked like a gleeful prankster but pictures never caught the ice-cold, no-soul truth of Jordie Doyle.

Denny the Bull was the middle son. Compared to his kid brother he was sane. Violent but sane. When he worked a job, it was lube-and-spit smooth. He was smart enough to avoid friction. Over the calendars, he’d stolen a couple of shopping malls’ worth of goodies and had spent two decades out from under the blue until some punk rolled, pinning a weapon’s charge on his massive back.

The elder brother, Nathan, hadn’t been as smart as Denny, hadn’t been as crazy as Jordie. He was the closest thing to straight and narrow the Doyle family knew, but he’d still won the race to Wormland, and he went out bloody.

Brendan didn’t know how many men his passenger had killed. Some said it was well into the double digits. Others, those who took his interest in cock as a sign of weakness, figured he’d ordered a few hits, but didn’t have the balls to pull his own trigger; they said Nathan and Jordie had done the wet work for him, protecting their pansy brother. Sitting there, Brendan felt that those who underestimated Doyle were suicidally mistaken.

Barney send you out? he asked.

Yeah.

How long you been with the crew?

A couple of years.

You from the neighborhood?

Yeah, Brendan said.

Why don’t I know you?

You know my father. You helped him out with the Italians when I was a kid.

You’re still a kid. What’s your father’s name?

Ethan Newton.

You’re one of Ethan’s? Good guy. How’s your sister?

Good. Got married. Moved to Houston.

And your mother?

It was a test, and Brendan didn’t like it. Mom died when I was ten.

That’s right, Doyle said. I’m sorry. Lovely woman.

Yeah. Thanks.

Well, Brendan, with this weather we’re going to be on the road for three or four hours, so I’m going to shut my eyes. You get me home safe, now.

Yeah, Mr. Doyle.

The seat ratcheted back and groaned as Doyle reclined. He removed a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket and slid them over his face. A minute later, he was purring softly. Asleep.

When Barney had issued the assignment, Brendan had been psyched. His career up to that point had been spotty. Low-level shit. Some burglaries. A few stolen cars. Nothing impressive, nothing that would draw attention to him and secure a reputation. He wasn’t muscle, and he wasn’t much of an earner. Most of the guys in the crew, outside of his small group, could hardly remember his name. Even though Brendan knew playing chauffeur to an ex-con was grunt work, the ex-con in question was a Captain, and he was a legend.

And he’d wanted to impress his boss, let the man know he had value, not like some shit-chicken scratching around the yard. Instead, he’d behaved like a fucking doorknob. He’d even insulted the guy.

Doyle’s purring sleep lasted until they reached the outskirts of Baton Rouge. Then he leaned forward in the seat, removed his sunglasses, and asked how much progress they’d made.

Brendan told him.

You got a phone? Doyle asked. He wiped the sleep from his eyes. Brendan noticed his hands then. His knuckles had been broken so many times, they ran under the pale skin of his hand like a line of pebbles.

Yeah, he said.

Good. Let’s see it. They gave mine back but the battery’s dead. Keep your eyes on the road, kid.

He took the phone and quickly punched in a number. Jordie… Yeah it’s me. He let loose a quiet barrage of chuckles. Indeed true… No, fine. They sent a kid named Brendan… Good. No, fine… I’m gonna see you at McDougall’s, yeah?... Good… Right… Fine… Brendan Newton. He’s Ethan Newton’s kid… Nah, good kid… No, fine. Right I’ll see you at eight.

When he finished the call he held on to the phone. He sat quietly for a minute and then he made another call and then another. He left messages for a man named DK and another for a man named Milky. DK was surely Danny Kennedy, an enforcer who had gotten out of Crainte himself only six months before, and the other had to be Michael Milky Wilton, a meth dealer and major earner who operated out of the Business District.

With Baton Rouge hidden by torrents of rain, Brendan held out his hand for the phone, but the Bull kept hold of it. He lit another cigarette and stared at the smudged landscape beyond the passenger window.

How old are you? Doyle asked, not looking away from the glass.

Seventeen, he said.

By seventeen I was doing my second stretch at Bridge City.

Yeah?

Yeah, he replied.

Brendan had expected to hear a story, the tale of a real gangster's origin, but instead, he got yeah, and then a lot of silence. The Bull probably figured none of it was worth the oxygen to tell.

Still, Brendan wanted to know. He wanted a conversation. They could share war stories, though Brendan’s battles with the law had been embarrassingly weak. He’d been busted a couple of times, but he’d never spent any real time locked up. He told himself he’d never go to the slam, but that’s what every kid on the block said.

On the far side of Baton Rouge, Doyle shifted in his seat. He said, Son of a… and then quickly added, Pull over, kid.

What’s up?

Phone dropped under the seat. Can’t reach it. I need to make a call.

Up ahead Brendan saw the dark silhouette of an overpass, arcing through the gray air. He pulled to the side of the road under it and put the car in park. He checked the mirror to make sure no one else had had the same idea.

Then the Bull’s fist, like a granite stone, smashed into his jaw. The blurry gray weather ran into Brendan’s mind. Dazed, the kid tried to ask what was going on, but he didn’t get the chance.

You’re about to have a very bad day, Brendan, Doyle said.

Then he slammed his fist into the side of Brendan’s head, knocking him out cold.

TWO

Brendan came to in the dark living room of a tiny shotgun-style house. Dingy old wallpaper hung in strips from yellowed plaster. Brown patches stained the cracked wooden floor. The only light came from two candles sitting on a canted and littered fireplace mantel across the room. They flickered, illuminating the altar to poverty. The archway leading out of the room was as black as a shark’s gullet. His hands were tied behind his back. A rope wrapped his chest, securing him to a rickety chair that creaked with every breath. An excruciating ache hammered his right temple.

What the fuck? he muttered.

Behind him a calm, deep voice–the Bull’s voice–said, That’s a very good question, Brendan. It’s the same one I’ve been asking myself since I saw you climbing out of that garbage wagon with an umbrella.

He searched for Doyle. Turned his head. A sharp slap to the back of his head launched jagged needles of pain behind his eyes.

Eyes forward, Brendan. You don’t want to see me right now.

What is this? I didn’t do a fucking thing to you.

Profanity is the sign of a lazy mind, Brendan. I know it’s just a reflection of your environment. You think it makes you sound hard. It doesn’t. Those words are thrown around so casually; they have no meaning really. But I’ll let you in on a secret. If you ever hear me curse, you’ll know I’m about to put your lights out. You don’t want to hear me curse. Do you understand that, Brendan?

Yeah.

Yeah, Doyle parroted. He could hear the contempt in Doyle’s voice. Here is another thing you need to know, Brendan. I’ve called my brother, and after he pays a visit to our friend Barney, he’s coming here. If he walks in here, and you see his face, he’ll pull your plug. That’s not negotiable. He has very specific ideas about witnesses. I on the other hand can be reasonable, but if you dance around me, if you waste time…

I don’t know what’s going on, he said. It was the truth. Denny knew everything he did. Barney had sent him to pick up Doyle, to take him home, and to drive him to his party if he wanted it. What the hell was happening?

Shadows moved at the corners of his eyes. First on the left, then on the right. He struggled to keep his eyes forward.

You know things, Doyle said. "Maybe you just don’t think they’re important. For instance, did you know that Jason Moore was run