Brother’S Keeper: A Pit Boss Tale

By Michael Odden

When a string of racially motivated attacks hits someone close to him, homicidal pit boss Jennings Kavenaugh is out for revenge.

Jennings Kavenaugh is a pit boss at the Royal Flush Casino in Detroit. His job affords him certain opportunities. After his father took his own life because of gambling debt, Jennings developed a real hatred for those harboring a gambling addiction. His position as pit boss allows him freedom to spot the addictsand eventually kill them, believing its for the greater good.

Oddly, one of Jenningss closest friends is Detective Nate Jackson, who has no clue Jennings is the guy responsible for so many dead gamblers. Now, a string of racially motivated attacks perpetrated by a violent gang of young, white men catches the attention of the Motor City. Jennings wouldnt have gotten involved, but then the gang targets a member of Jenningss inner circle. While Nate investigates, Jennings plots revenge.

As Jennings sets his personal agenda aside for the moment and tracks down the white supremacists intent on beating and humiliating Detroits minorities, he fears Nate might be onto him. If his best friend realizes the true nature of his murderous habits, things could get complicatedor deadly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475962338

Michael Odden

Michael Odden is a pit manager with over seventeen years of experience in the gaming industry. He currently resides in a suburb of Detroit, Michigan, with his wife and their three daughters. Brother’s Keeper is the sequel to his first novel, Pit Boss.

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BROTHER’S

KEEPER

A PIT BOSS TALE

Michael Odden

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

BROTHER’S KEEPER

A Pit Boss Tale

Copyright © 2012 by Michael Odden.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6232-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6234-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6233-8 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012922094

iUniverse rev. date: 12/10/2012

Contents

Prologue

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

Epilogue

Dedicated to

CLARENCE ODDEN

Prologue

Frankie walked into the house expecting to see his pops laid out on the couch, snoring away his morning bender. His mom would be in the back room watching television or surfing the net.

When he found neither, the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise.

He made his way to the basement steps that lead to his room and heard his fathers voice. He entered just in time to see him ripping his Michael Jordan poster off the wall.

Dad, what are you doing?

This is my mutha fuckin’ house, boy. I don’t want niggas on my wall!

Dr. Johnson said you need to respect my boundaries and the fact that I don’t share your beliefs.

Fuck Johnson. I don’t answer to that bitch! My house, my rules. Don’t like it? Get out! Oh, by the way, I borrowed some of that jig music. It’s in the trash can. Let me show you.

The dark-haired, fat hillbilly unzipped his pants and pissed in the trash can. Rage built within Frankie until his eyes began to water. He clenched his fist and took a step forward, but then came to his senses. His dad was a very large man, and even drunk, he was very capable of beating the hell out of him.

Shit sounds better already! The look on your face says you disagree with my managerial changes, so I tell you what. I’m going upstairs to discuss some changes with your mother. If you feel like appealing my decision or have some suggestions of your own, I welcome you to come and share your thoughts.

Frankie took a few minutes to assess the damage done to his room. For years, his folks have tormented him and made his life hell and it began to seem like he would never find a way out.

He reached over his bed and then made his way to the stairs. As he climbed each step the world became more like a mirage, and when he reached the top it was a total blur.

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Jennings and Nate have built a friendship as strong as family itself, despite how they met. Nate Jackson is a cop, and for months he was convinced that Jennings, a pit boss at the Royal Flush Casino, was a serial killer feasting on the people of Detroit, Michigan. He was right. He hounded the young man relentlessly in an attempt to gather facts, but Jennings was always one or two steps ahead. Jennings finally found a fall guy to dump all of the evidence on and got Nate off of his back once and for all.

Nate was filled with so much guilt for hounding Jennings that he apologized and offered a peace pipe in the form of a drink. Jennings agreed, and the two formed a bond stronger than oak.

With Nate no longer looking at Jennings as a psychotic killer, he is free to get back to his mission of killing addicted gamblers who have allowed their addiction to destroy their families.

It’s Jennings’ belief that the death of the gambler will allow their family to get their lives back under control without guilt. The insurance monies obtained through the death could help recover some of the loses. And although their loved one is dead, they can hold on to the good memories and know that in the end, death saved their life.

It’s only when a new threat enters the city and the family is directly affected that Jennings once again has to put his plans on hold. He takes matters into his own hands and faces this new evil head on. His personal mission still eating at him, he finds a way to handle both and evolves into a true angel of death.

I

11:49 P.M. Detroit, Michigan

It was late February when the black Econoline van was creeping along Woodward and Six Mile.

Hey, what about him?

Yeah Mikey, he’ll do just fine.

C’mon, y’all. That geezer’s got to be about 60!

Even better. It shows that no one is out of range.

The van pulls to the curbside and two thugs jump out and grab the old man, throwing him into the open side door. The thugs hop back in and the van pulls off as smoothly as it pulled up.

What the hell’s goin’ on? Who the hell are you?

Shut the fuck up, mud!

A thunderous gut punch makes the old man double over in the seat.

Now what, Frankie? What are we going to do with the geezer?

Now we go for a ride.

The old man tries to gather himself and begins talking.

You young fellas don’t have to do this. I ain’t got no money. I’m just a tired old man.

Shut the fuck up before I pop you again!

Well boy, the way I see it you already done hit me once, took me against my will, and made me spill my drink. Shit, before I go you may as well tell me why.

A new voice comes in from the driver’s seat.

Fair enough, old timer. You minorities have slowly destroyed this country. Lazy, shiftless bastards always trying to get something for nothing: food stamps, WIC, always with the hands out. Because of your kind, good, hardworking people like my old man get laid off. It’s time for the country to see that people are fed up.

That’s some of the dumbest shit I have ever heard. You want to blame the problems of this country on the minorities? You dumb-ass kids don’t pay attention to nothing. How can minorities be the problem when your people run the country? For eight long years Bush and the ‘Publicans fucked this country good. And not just your people, but all the people. The ‘Publicans don’t care about white or black, all they care about is the green.

Mud, you can’t deny the dope dealers and gang bangers selling that crack and killing people over territory, sneaking into the country and taking all the jobs.

"You got it all wrong, son. Nothing goes on without the government knowing about it. You think they couldn’t stop people from coming into this country if they really wanted to? Fact of the matter is, they know those workers that come over are cheap labor. It’s always about the money.

"The problem is that before they were just taking the low end jobs, but now they come over with serious skills: carpentry, electrical and such. And you try to talk about the punks selling that crack rock, but you forget to mention your own kind making and selling that crystal meth shit, turning all the pretty little white girls into raggedy-mouthed hoes. Naw, what’s going on in the world ain’t classified by color, it’s just pure evil. The devil is coming.

"The world is in a moral decline and greed is everywhere, along with stupidity. Young kids walking around with their ass hanging out cause they saw some thug like that. What they don’t know is that thug was in jail and his ass couldn’t wear a belt.

Women swearing up and down they don’t need a man, choosing to be with a woman instead. But then they turn around and want a kid. Yeah boy, evil is coming."

The van pulls in under a viaduct on the southwest side and comes to a halt.

It’s time. Get his old ass out and fuck him up!

The two thugs in the back grab the old man and fling him out of the van. Then they lay down a god-awful beating. Afterward, the leader hops out of the van, walks over to the beaten and bloody old man, unzips his pants and pisses all over him.

Damn Frankie, that’s some nasty shit.

That ain’t shit, at least not yet it ain’t. You two go do what I told you to and give me a little privacy.

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Every morning at 6:30 Sean Jester takes his dog for a walk.

They walk over to the park where Sean lets Bogart stretch his legs and handle his business. While on their stroll, Bogart seemed a little agitated and pulled Sean in a different direction. Bogart led Sean to the viaduct where they found a bloody body. Sean immediately called Bogart away and ran home to call 911. Twenty minutes later he could hear the ambulance and police arrive. The EMTs quickly learn that the bloody body is still alive and scramble to keep it that way. The police officers canvass the area and realize that this wasn’t an ordinary beat down.

Shit, Eddie. This is way above my pay grade. I’m calling the sarge.

Sounds good. I’m just going to get some pictures of the area.

Officer Skelokowski makes his way back to the squad car and radios the sarge.

Car 87 to base. Car 87 to base.

Go ahead, 87.

Better patch me straight to the sarge base. What I got to say he ain’t going to like at all.

You got it, 87.

Moments later Sgt. Kettles chimes in.

What’s so damn important, 87?

Sir, we were sent out to the southwest side on that beating call. Well it looks like this thing is racially motivated, sir. There appears to be a fresh message painted on the wall and it reads ‘Death to all the mud races!’

What!?

Yes sir, and there’s more. The victim appears to have been pissed and shit on.

Aww, fuck! You two seal off the area and hang tight until you hear back from me. Do not fuck this up. No one in until I give the word. Where are the EMTs taking him?

He’s headed straight to Receiving Hospital.

Alright. Out.

Sgt. Kettles sits and ponders the situation for a minute and then puts in a call to an old friend, Captain Dave Stevens.

Dave, this is Kettles over at the 3rd.

Greg, what’s up?

I have a problem that’s got your name written all over it. A couple of my guys got a call on this side of town about a beating, only it might be much more. It may have some real racial shit attached to it. I’m talking straight civil rights shit. Anyway, me and my guys aren’t prepared to handle this type of shit so I was hoping you would do me a solid. Plus, if this shit turns out to be the real McCoy it’s going to fall in your lap sooner or later. Got a body you can spare?

Geez Greg, my stats are already fucked up. I don’t know if I can handle another hit.

C’mon, Dave. You guys are always looking for the sexy cases. These newbies aren’t ready for all the drama yet. I know you got someone over there who can run with this.

You’re right, I’ll send you one of my studs, Nate Jackson. I swear the kid’s part Bloodhound. Let me get him on the horn and I’ll have him call you.

Thanks, Dave. I swear if this kid can handle this I’ll owe you big time.

After hanging up the phone Dave placed his face in his palms and sighed. He then got up and walked over to his office door, peeked out, and yelled.

Where’s Jackson?

One of the many voices in the division cried back.

Not in until 10 AM.

Call his ass and have him call me ASAP. I have a job for him.

Nate Jackson lie sprawled all over his queen size bed in a peaceful slumber, dreaming about the one that got away. When the phone rang it shocked him so he was immediately sitting up.

Hello!?

Jackson, the boss wants you to call him ASAP. That’s police for: wake the fuck up and get your ass on the phone.

But I’m not due in until 10.

He’s got something just for you.

Jackson gathered himself and moved over to his kitchen table. Still shaking off the sleep he put in a call to his boss.

Hey boss, wassup? You do now I’m not due in for a little bit.

Yeah yeah, whatever. Something’s come up and I think it fits your particular skill set. Get your ass dressed and get over on the southwest side. Call the 3rd precinct on your way over there and speak to Sgt. Greg Kettles, you’ll be working for him on this. Make me look bad and I promise you, I’ll have you directing traffic in Greektown until your hair falls out.

The phone slammed so hard Jackson thought he felt a breeze. He hopped up and went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. His boss had loaned him to another house. Depending on how you looked at it this could be very big or very bad. He didn’t feel like he had pissed Dave off so bad that he would shop his services out just to keep him out of the office. What kind of case would require the 3rd seeking help? Nate continued to let his mind wonder while the steaming water coaxed his lethargic body awake. When he finished, he got dressed, grabbed his shield and service weapon, and headed out the door. He hopped into his black 2010 Dodge Charger and started it up, then he grabbed his cell and placed a call to the 3rd precinct.

Detective Nate Jackson for Sgt. Kettles.

The voice on the phone put him on hold and transferred the call.

Jackson! This is Kettles. I need you to get over to Federal and Junction now. I got two unis over there waiting. Look, I need focus and I need skill. They tell me you’re my guy.

I won’t let you down, sir.

After you survey the scene and get your legs under you, report back here in person so we can get on the same page.

You got it, sir.

Jackson drove down to the crime scene and met up with the officers. Then he walked the crime scene grid himself, taking mental notes.

You guys say he was pissed and shit on? Damn, that’s just wrong. Alright, here’s the plan you guys. You two stick here and wait for the tech guys and give crowd control. Me, I’m headed down to receiving to see how our vic is and if the doctors can give me any workable info. Under no circumstance are you to open your mouths to anyone lurking around. Reporters sometimes listen to the scanners trying to get the good stories, so just shut up. Trust me, the last person you want to be is the fuck up that leaks this story. Jeez. I got to bounce. The smell is terrible.

Jackson gets back into his car and heads for Detroit Receiving Hospital, with the scene flashing through his mind.

Anger builds inside him. The thought that this kind of behavior still exists makes his eyes begin to swell, but the rage evaporates his tears before they can begin to fall. He arrives minutes later at the hospital and heads into the ER where he approaches the desk and flashes his badge at the chubby little woman behind the desk. The woman isn’t impressed. She looks up at Nate and shrugs her shoulders.

What?

Detective Jackson. I’m here investigating a beat down that happened over on Federal? Trust me, you smelled it before you saw it.

Yeah, you’re right. I’ll get the doctor up here for you. Wait over there.

Jackson went over to the set of chairs and quietly had a seat. He pulled out his pad and started looking over his notes. After what seemed like an hour, a man who appeared to be in his mid to late forties walked out and scanned the waiting area. Then he walked over to Jackson.

Are you the detective?

Yes, Jackson. Nate Jackson. What can you tell me about my victim, doc?

Jessie Ferguson, age 62. Let’s see: orbital fracture, three cracked ribs, bruised kidney. Those are the serious issues he obtained from the beating. The problem we’re facing is that Jessie had so much alcohol in his system that we’re afraid to give him anything for the pain. Not sure his liver can take it. So as of right now, we’re just trying to make him comfortable and get him detoxed. When his levels come down will give him something to help him manage. Oh yeah, he also has a broken jaw. Honestly, I don’t know how the old timer’s doing it. A beating like that at his age . . . hmph. He’s one tough, old bird.

Do you think I can have a word with him?

You’d be talking to yourself. Leave your number and I’ll give you a call when he’s in a better place. In the meantime, I got his clothes bagged and you can take them. As a matter of fact, I insist that you take them.

Thanks, doc.

The doctor turned and walked back through the double doors, then returned with a couple of plastic bags filled with soiled clothing and gave it to Nate.

Maybe you can get some answers from these.

Maybe. I’ll be in touch, doc.

Jackson took the belongings down to his car and placed them in the trunk, then he got in the car and headed for the precinct. He hoped he would be able to hand the filthy clothes off to the techs and maybe they could drum up some leads. Because as it stood right now, all he had was some filthy funky ass clothes and a big ass dead end. Not quite the way he wanted to meet his new boss. All he could think