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By Eryk Pruitt

From one of the freshest voices of Southern noir comes a gritty crime story with plenty of Southern flavor and a world and characters you’ll be clawing for more of.

The repercussions are felt across the American South when a pizza joint in sleepy Lake Castor, Virginia is robbed and the manager, Odie Shanks, is kidnapped. The kidnapping is the talk of the town, but it's what people don't know that threatens to rip asunder societal norms. Odie chases dreams of Hollywood stardom and an explosive social media presence while his partner in crime, Jake Armstrong, pursues his own vengeful agenda.

In the meantime, corrupt and lazy Deputy Roy Rains has a hard-luck time of covering up the crime in order to preserve his way of life.

And college student Melinda Kendall has hit the highway in a stolen ride with nothing but a .22 and limited options, on the run from her drug dealer boyfriend, the Mississippi State Police and the media, trying to escape some bad choices by making even more bad choices.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Polis Books
• Release date: Sep 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781943818976

Eryk Pruitt

Eryk Pruitt is an award-winning author, screenwriter, and filmmaker, whose short fiction has appeared in numerous literary publications. His short film, Foodie, went on to win eight top awards at over sixteen film festivals. The author of several novels, he is the host of a monthly radio show and podcast. He currently resides with his wife and their cat in Durham, North Carolina.

Book preview

4

It was a truck stop, one of the newer-fangled ones, complete with a convenience store stocked with all anyone could ever need, a few shower stalls in the back, some payphones, and a little diner. The diner couldn’t offer much more than coffee and whatever could be slapped on a flat-top grill, but nobody should be looking for much more than that at a truck stop on a Sunday afternoon.

Apparently nobody ever told that to Jake Armstrong.

The waitress placed coffees in front of him, Odie, and Rob Winchester, then set the sugar caddy and tin of cream at the center of the table. She shook a pad of tickets from her apron and held her pen at the ready. She never saw it coming.

What you got back there that’s fresh-made? Jake asked her.

It’s Sunday afternoon, she said. Ain’t nothing fresh-made.

Jake pursed his lips and nodded. Fair enough. You got hamburgers, right?

She nodded.

You make those here or do they come frozen? In a box?

The meat gets shipped to us, she said. Darryl in the daytime makes them into patties.

He freeze them?

No, she said. A trucker a few booths up waved his empty coffee mug, but she kept eyes up front. We can’t keep them in stock long enough. Hamburgers is popular.

Perfect, said Jake. I’ll take one of them.

How you want it cooked? she asked.

Bloody to rare. Just brown it up if you don’t mind.

North Carolina law says we got to cook it well to medium well.

He massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. I break laws for breakfast, baby. How about if I promise not to tell nobody.

Can’t do it. State law. She scribbled something on her pad of tickets and looked sideways at him. So how you want it cooked?

What the hell does it matter how I want it cooked if it only comes well or medium well?

She shook her head. Because Hank on the grill back there wants to know how he’s supposed to cook your burger.

There ain’t no difference, snarled Jake. He looked at Odie and Rob and bared teeth. Well or medium well.

She glanced around the room. More than one of the truckers and other folks had eyes their way. Odie twirled an eddy in his coffee with his forefinger.

Are y’all going to order something to eat or what?

I’ll have a burger, said Rob. Medium well.

Same for me, said Odie. But make mine well.

Jake tossed his plastic menu on the table. I ain’t hungry, he said. Just the coffee is fine.

The waitress muttered something sounded like ‘don’t need this shit’ and toddled off with the coffee pot to tend to other folks.

Rob had been somewhat sour since leaving the house. More than once, Odie thought being away from the dingy domicile would cheer the man. So far, it had yet to dent his demeanor. He slouched and sighed and gave nary a shit to anything in his direction, unless it was repeated. He’d especially taken an interest in Odie and what the hell he was doing with his former roommate.

Hollywood, huh? said Rob once the burgers came. I think that’s a big mistake.

How’s that? said Jake.

Rob shrugged, took a bite of his sandwich. Didn’t wait to swallow before speaking. I mean, I can see it maybe a couple years back, but that hen done flown the coop. Your best-looking years are well in the rearview. And you’re too old to start an acting career. Maybe consider being a writer. Writers don’t have to be good-looking.

I can’t write worth a lick, said Odie.

Best I can tell, that don’t matter neither in Hollywood.

Jake put both hands on the table. Quit ribbing the kid, he said. Me and him have plenty of miles between us and California and I’d prefer him in good spirits, if it’s all the same.

What the hell does O.D. stand for anyway?

"It ain’t O.D., said Odie a voice gaining volume. It’s Odie, like the dog in the comic strip."

Rob’s eyes arched up, well into his hairline. He popped a fry into his mouth and leaned back in the booth. Odie’s face burned bright, but he said nothing more, for he’d recriminated himself