Bad Beat: A Pete Fernandez/Ash McKenna Joint

By Rob Hart and Alex Segura

An Ash McKenna and Pete Fernandez Joint

When beloved college football star Raleigh "The Gun" Davis is suspected of shaving points, sports reporter Pete Fernandez is tasked with digging up all the dirt that's fit to print. Mired in his own mounting personal problems and drinking himself blind, Pete slams into an unexpected brick wall: Ash McKenna, an amateur private investigator with a very bad attitude. Both are looking for the AWOL QB, but their goals run counter to each otherAsh is trying to help an old friend, while Pete is looking to redeem his once-promising journalism career.

What they find is more than they bargained forand more than they can handle alone. Can the unlikely duo find common ground in time to bust a dangerous crime ring? Or will they get tangled up in their own egos and agendas?

Acclaimed crime writers Rob Hart and Alex Segura pair up for a unique adventure that brings together their series characters Ash McKenna and Pete Fernandez for an untold tale of vice, double-crosses and the back alleys of suburban New Jersey. Before NEW YORKED and SILENT CITY, there was BAD BEAT.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Polis Books
• Release date: Jan 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781943818266

Rob Hart

Rob Hart is the author of four acclaimed previous Ash McKenna novels: NEW YORKED, CITY OF ROSE, SOUTH VILLAGE, and THE WOMAN FROM PRAGUE. His short stories have appeared in publications like Shotgun Honey, Thuglit, Needle, Helix Literary Magazine, and Joyland. He has received both a Derringer Award nomination and honorable mention in The Best American Mystery Stories 2015. His non-fiction articles have been featured at LitReactor, Salon, The Daily Beast, The Good Men Project, Birth.Movies.Death., the Powell's bookstore blog, and Nailed. He lives in New York City. Find him online at @robwhart and www.robwhart.com.

Book preview

Pete Fernandez reached for the flask and stopped midway. It was empty. Drained on the way over. He exhaled and looked at the worn reporter’s notebook resting on the steering wheel of his battered teal Saturn SL2. He pulled a pen out of his pocket and hovered over the cluttered top sheet.

Focus. He had to focus. His head felt fuzzy and the contents of the flask hadn’t washed away last night’s hangover. His mouth was dry and he was on deadline.

His cell phone buzzed in his pocket and he struggled to get the tiny flip phone loose. He looked at the small display before answering. Shit. Hal Bradley, the assistant sports editor at The Bergen Light.

Pete used to like Hal. That felt like a long time ago.

Fernandez, Bradley said, not bothering with pleasantries. What’ve you got for me?

Just got to the bar, Pete said. Going over my notes.

Bradley’s sigh was long and pronounced. They were entering last-straw territory.

Listen, Pete, Bradley’s voice softened. I know you’re going through some shit. We’re all sorry about, he paused for a beat. Look, we’re sorry about your father. But this story is going to be a shark for us. A big shark. I need you to shake some mojo loose and get this one.

I’ll nail it, Hal, Pete said before hanging up, not even believing himself. Not reacting to Bradley’s awkward condolences.

I’m money when it comes to stories like this, he said to himself, not entirely convinced.

The story wasn’t much of anything yet—it hinged on a tipster’s call Pete got early that morning, in between a trip to the kitchen through his empty apartment for water and Motrin before crashing back into bed. His fiancée Emily had bailed pre-dawn early. Something about running errands or a book club.

The young-sounding voice on the phone connected a few dots he’d long suspected of belonging together: that hometown QB, Raleigh The Gun Davis, the golden-armed star of the painfully mediocre Rutgers football team—and therefore the only one with big league prospects— was a little too invested in how other college football games ended.

As in, he was betting on games like it was his job.

Pete wasn’t sure how the tipster got his number, but it wasn’t the first time it had happened. Pete was easy to track down. He’d built a rep over the last few years of being in the wrong spot at the right time. Once upon a time, he’d been hungry.

Pete was the only reporter who showed up to the coach’s press conference. Digging through the athletic director’s trash to see what memos he’d shredded. Tailing the star point guard to the after hours club to sneak a few photos of him doing blow off a stripper’s bare ass.

After a while, though, the reporting was replaced by solo visits to bars or boozy lunches with sources that turned up a lot of garbage, only half of it making it to ink on the page. And only half of that worth the time and cost. The editors began to notice. His father’s sudden death had only bought Pete a short-term respite from the stern talking-tos and demotions. Once the enterprise sports reporter at the paper—meaning he got to pick his assignments and work up lengthy, feature-style investigative pieces—he was now relegated to being the B reporter on the Rutgers beat.

The B did not stand for better.

The pity party wasn’t going to last much longer. He had a plane ticket back to his sun-drenched shithole of a hometown, Miami, taking off tomorrow afternoon. Once he and Emily made it back to Jersey from the funeral and all the post-mortem legwork kids have to do when