Precious Little

By D.O. Wolf

Kenny and Johnny were well known around the neighborhood as trouble. The boys spent much of their time stealing from stores, breaking into abandoned buildings and other forms of notorious entertainment. However, as do most forms of reputation, Ken-ny and Johnnys history caught with them. They were accused of a crime they did not commit. Kenny and Johnny knew they had to run.
Kenny and Johnny heard some men talking about abandon houses being demolished to make way for a freeway. One of the men discussed how in a few of the houses being torn down, money was found. This piqued Kenny and Johnnys interest and soon they were on a bike trip in which they would never forget.
Once Kenny and Johnny found the house, they began their search for treasure. Their efforts were interrupted by a dangerous man, Jazz. He held the boys hostage until he could find a way to make his own escape. Jazz left the boys tied-up when Jazz went to steal a car for his get-away. Kenny and Johnny knew they would be dead when Jazz returned to the house. The boys broke free just as Jazz returned with the stolen car. They couldnt run, but hid in a secret room below the floor of the house. Jazz, beyond angry, doused the kitchen with gasoline, lit the house on fire and left. Johnny and Kenny struggled to escape the flames and barely fled to safety.
The experience brought the boys to a personal crossroads. Kenny and Johnny drifted apart. Johnny eventually decided he could not live in the manner he and Kenny were accustomed. After contemplating suicide, Johnny turned his life around to one of positive direction. Over the years, Kenny continued in search of the easy mark. Kennys choice led to his death.
Precious Little is a story of adventure, choices, and change. It demonstrates the possibility of change and the consequence of not taking the opportunity of the transformation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477272251

D.O. Wolf

Dennis Wolff has been writing for years and it is his distinct honor to have one of his many novels put into print. Dennis lives in Puyallup, Washington with his wife and his six year old daughter. Recently, he retired from being a long time counselor, and edu-cator of writing and literature. In his spare time, he loves cooking, sports, reading and watching historical fiction, and writing. Dennis has a Master’s Degree in Counseling and Education from Seattle University. As Dennis quotes: “Writing has always been my passion. I feel grateful to have this gift. Always chase your dreams.” Precious Little is somewhat of a semi-autobiographical novel and written in the memory of the dearly departed Kenny. Dennis dedicates this novel to his memory.

Book preview

Overture

Kenny was a panther ready for the kill, as he confidently approached the door. He knew his plan had to go precisely, or it would be the demise of a human life. His powerfully clenched fist pumped, while his intimidating eyes stayed focused. Kenny slowly opened the thick, heavy, wooden door of the tavern and made his move.

The incongruent smell of stale beer and french fries filled the long, dimly lit room. The sound of the cue ball, smashing into the five, rose above the din. There were several round tables with an assortment of mismatched chairs. An old white haired man, with a weather beaten grey coat, was napping over one of the tables. A half filled glass of beer, and an ashtray crowded with spent cigarettes was in front of him. At the bar, along a mirrored wall, were several stools. One of them occupied by a bald, elderly man and another by a plump woman with bright orange-red hair. They seemed to know those stools quite well. The tall, angular bartender, bags under his empty eyes, looked vacantly toward the pool tables. Cigarette smoke clouded the room.

Kenny stood in the doorway. Tall. Blond. Piercing blue eyes. He surveyed the room. His eyes landed on two men in a circular booth at the rear of the tavern. Kenny scanned the rest of the place before making a step. He always checked his surroundings for potential threats. One of the men gestured for Kenny to join them. He sauntered past the tables to the booth. The sawdust covered floor muffled the thumping sounds of Kenny’s shabby boots.

Kenny approached the booth and greeted the pair with his infectious smile. He slid his six foot three inch frame into the booth, dwarfing the two men. On Kenny’s left, a clean shaven man with jet black hair. Kenny knew him only as Diablo. Across from him sat a rather muscular man, who could have passed for a model. Kenny had not seen him before this meeting.

You got the green? muttered Diablo, his dark eyes directly on Kenny.

Yeah, I got it, Kenny responded, with a bit of cockiness in his voice.

All right. Let’s do it.

Kenny and Diablo slid their parcels toward each other. Kenny grabbed the bag. Then Diablo took possession of the envelope, as the other guy eyed Kenny. Kenny, the cocaine bundle in his hand, stood up and bolted past the row of tables out the door. Simultaneously, Diablo opened the envelope and discovered a few twenties wrapped around a load of paper.

Diablo and his partner bounded from the booth and sprinted after Kenny. The men were only a few steps behind Kenny, as he reached his battered green half-ton pickup. Suddenly, a loud, thunderous explosion slammed Kenny against the door of his truck. The bag of coke dropped from his hand to the wet pavement. Kenny slumped to the sidewalk, leaving a trail of blood down the door of his truck. The two men ran to him, grabbed the coke and disappeared into the Mount Vernon streets.

The Arrest

My wrists hurt. These are too tight, I complained.

Tough luck, kid. You should have thought about the consequences before you took the old lady’s money, the cop chided.

This wasn’t one of those bad dreams I sometimes had. It was real. Kenny and I were standing handcuffed in the blazing, hot sun on Mrs. Jones’ front porch. The rays of heat baking my back and the stinging sweat dripping down my forehead was making the situation even more uncomfortable. The huge cop had his sweaty hand tightly gripping my upper arm, like a vise in a metal shop. His powerful hold made everything seem hotter yet.

I looked behind me to see a huddled group of neighbors watching with great interest. I was sure they were telling each other that Kenny and Johnny were never up to any good.

Certainly the neighbors had us convicted.

The sergeant, in charge of the bust, smiled menacingly, while he brought Mrs. Jones to her doorway. He had the look of a lion approaching his victim. Mrs. Jones stood hunched over next to him. A slight stream of tiny tears fell gently over the deep wrinkles on her face.

Well lady, here are your perps, the sergeant announced, with self promoting pride. These boys are the ones who took your coffee can full of money. The good people of this neighborhood led us to them. They’ve created quite a reputation. We haven’t recovered your money yet, however, the boys will tell us where they hid the cash.

Mrs. Jones said nothing, while tuning and shuffling back into her house. I could see her rounded shoulders quiver while she slowly rotated her frail figure toward the living room. I felt like the scum of the earth. I wanted to rush to Mrs. Jones and tell her the truth, but the death grip of the cop assured me I wasn’t going anywhere. Tears filled my eyes, and it wasn’t from fear, the ‘cuffs, or the sweaty vise grip. My thoughts were all about Mrs. Jones.

Mrs. Jones was our friend. She taught Kenny and me about every different variety of flowers in her gardens and always had hot chocolate and a cookie. Mrs. Jones talked to us like a grandmother talked to her grandchildren, with kindness and genuine love. She was honestly interested in what Kenny and I were doing and wouldn’t hesitate to offer guidance. I couldn’t stand her thinking we ripped her off.

Mrs. Jones made no secret of her coffee can of coins. It was always placed on the counter adjacent to her toaster. Anytime she had a dime that wasn’t working it went into the coffee can. Mrs. Jones would occasionally give a coin to Kenny and me to buy some kind of treat. She seemed to delight in our excitement and gratitude.

I stole a glance at Kenny who was being held by another massive cop. Kenny mumbled for me not to say anything, while looking at his feet. No problem. I was trembling, unlike Kenny who always seemed cool, calm and tough. He never showed fear.

The sergeant in charge came out of Mrs. Jones’ house, closing the door behind him. Well boys, you’re going downtown, he said, with that same evil grin. The men at the station know you’re coming. He climbed behind the wheel of an unmarked car, slammed his door, rolled down the window, and taunted, Ya guys having fun yet? Then he burned rubber. I hated him. He was a wicked beast who smiled at his prey before he devoured.

The cop, who clutched my arm, led me to his patrol car. Slide in there, he ordered, while he pushed me into the back seat and slammed the door. I felt trapped, an animal in a snare. Kenny’s cop shoved him in the front seat of the other patrol vehicle. Kenny and I were able to make eye contact, but didn’t mouth a word to each other. Both patrol cars slowly left the crime scene.

I felt scared and alone. I sat on the hard plastic seat not knowing what was going to happen. The plastic was hot, and the air in the car was stifling. None of the windows were rolled down, and it smelled like puke. I felt as if I might add to the hot, putrid smell, but didn’t. The handcuffs were digging into my wrists and no matter how I moved, the discomfort increased with each telephone pole we passed.

I starred blankly out the side window of the puke car. We traveled along First Avenue onto a bridge, and crossed the Duwamish River.