Roughhouse

By Jeffery Hess

In Roughhouse, Jeffery Hess returns to the unforgettable world of good-natured badass Scotland Ross—hero of his critically acclaimed Beachhead and Tushhog—to tell the powerful story of people stretched to extremes.

It’s August 1986. The Cold War rages and Yuppies make all the money. Fresh off a three-year stretch at Starke for keeping Pearce family secrets, Scotland has a new place to call home on Fort Myers Beach. All should be perfect except Scotland’s wife is going to die unless he comes up with $100,000.

He enlists a trusted friend to help him rob a Tampa casino to pay for her unconventional treatment. While freely risking life in prison if he’s caught, he never thought his trusted accomplice could go rogue and turn against him. On top of that, his long-lost nieces come to him in need of help only he can provide, while a mysterious female former Marine has her own surprise plan for him.

Scotland hurtles through his new-found freedom right back into a storm of violence and pain with strong women and treacherous men gusting in all directions. Without him, the women would be doomed; without them, he would be. Yet, success and failure are put to the biggest challenge by an unsettled score from the past that threatens to bury them all in the surf.

Praise for ROUGHHOUSE:

“Rounding out a trilogy is never easy, especially one with as memorable an anti-hero as Scotland Ross, the on-again/off-again criminal-with-a-heart-of-gold who managed to shoot his way out of Jeffery Hess’s Beachhead and Tushhog. Yet Hess’s finale to cap the series not only delivers, it firmly sets Hess up with the masters of Florida rough-and-tumble crime fiction. Roughhouse pummels Scotland Ross as he fights his way through heartache, betrayal, shifting family loyalties and unbreakable family bonds, all set against a backdrop of bullets and cash, salt and sun, the best that Florida has to offer.” —Steph Post, author of Miraculum, Lightwood, Walk in the Fire, Holding Smoke, and A Tree Born Crooked

“A bruised and bloodied hero punching destiny’s jaw one last time. Tense, gritty, emotional. Roughhouse carves a fitting end for the unbreakable Scotland, who, like the 80s itself, ain’t accepting fate easy.” —James R. Duncan, author of Blood Republic

“What a wild ride! I really dig that this book is noir through and through yet has this emotional beating heart at its center. I could read about these characters and their wacky Floridian lives all day. Well done, sir!” —Chris Rhatigan, author of Squeeze and Race to the Bottom

“Scotland Ross is a good man running in a merciless world. It’s a good thing he’s built for the battle. This book reminded me of early Elmore Leonard books. I’m embarrassed to say this is my first Scotland Ross novel. But I’m fired up that I can devour the other two.” —Jonathan Brown, author of the Lou Crasher Mysteries

“Edgy, rich and excessively smart, Roughhouse might be that rare third element of the trilogy, even better than its predecessors. Regardless, it is constantly entertaining and, even better, always artful.” – Fred G. Leebron, author of Six Figures, Out West, and Welcome to Christiania

• Language: English
• Publisher: Down & Out Books
• Release date: May 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005730840

Book preview

ROUGHHOUSE

Jeffery Hess

PRAISE FOR ROUGHHOUSE

"Rounding out a trilogy is never easy, especially one with as memorable an anti-hero as Scotland Ross, the on-again/off-again criminal-with-a-heart-of-gold who managed to shoot his way out of Jeffery Hess’s Beachhead and Tushhog. Yet Hess’s finale to cap the series not only delivers, it firmly sets Hess up with the masters of Florida rough-and-tumble crime fiction. Roughhouse pummels Scotland Ross as he fights his way through heartache, betrayal, shifting family loyalties and unbreakable family bonds, all set against a backdrop of bullets and cash, salt and sun, the best that Florida has to offer." —Steph Post, author of Miraculum, Lightwood, Walk in the Fire, Holding Smoke, and A Tree Born Crooked

"A bruised and bloodied hero punching destiny’s jaw one last time. Tense, gritty, emotional. Roughhouse carves a fitting end for the unbreakable Scotland, who, like the 80s itself, ain’t accepting fate easy." —James R. Duncan, author of Blood Republic

What a wild ride! I really dig that this book is noir through and through yet has this emotional beating heart at its center. I could read about these characters and their wacky Floridian lives all day. Well done, sir! —Chris Rhatigan, author of Squeeze and Race to the Bottom

Scotland Ross is a good man running in a merciless world. It’s a good thing he’s built for the battle. This book reminded me of early Elmore Leonard books. I’m embarrassed to say this is my first Scotland Ross novel. But I’m fired up that I can devour the other two. —Jonathan Brown, author of the Lou Crasher Mysteries

"Edgy, rich and excessively smart, Roughhouse might be that rare third element of the trilogy, even better than its predecessors. Regardless, it is constantly entertaining and, even better, always artful." —Fred G. Leebron, author of Six Figures, Out West, and Welcome to Christiania

Copyright © 2021 by Jeffery Hess

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Roughhouse

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Books by the Author

Preview from Suicide Squeeze by TG Wolff

Preview from Complicated Shadows by James D.F. Hannah

Preview from Tracking Shot by Colin Campbell

For everyone who’s lost and found or found and lost

CHAPTER 1

Tuesday, August 19, 1986

The Hewett sisters were up to no good. Seashell fragments crunched beneath their footfalls as they stalked the parking lot of the Madeira Beach tourist trap on the Intracoastal everyone called John’s Pass. Heat radiated off cars with license plates from places as far flung as Ohio, Michigan, and Ontario. Sun beamed back at Rachel and Josie from chrome bumpers. Their heads swiveled, on alert with the fear of getting caught.

The two girls were high school seniors-to-be with less than two weeks left on summer vacation. Separated by a little over a year in age, but in the same grade, they were dressed identically in jean shorts, yellow tank tops, and sandals.

As they searched for unlocked doors or windows rolled down, Rachel asked, What time do we have to meet Skip? Her face glistened beneath the cheap sunglasses they’d stolen two days ago from the 7-Eleven on Park Boulevard. Her forehead shined and she fluffed her hair repeatedly.

Relax, Josie said. He’s usually there around four o’clock. We’ve got time for one more on the way out.

Seagulls cawed as they soared overhead.

They walked with purpose, as if searching for their car. They both carried purses that bulged beneath leather straps resting over their shoulders.

You figure he wants to renegotiate our deal?

Josie nodded. I’m guessing.

Sun beat down enough to make them squint behind the sunglasses.

Ain’t it too soon?

Damn right it is.

With all the distractions that fought for tourists’ attention, they walked a balance beam between alert and worried about being watched. The marina behind the buildings held fishing boats, speed boats, and yachts in dark green waters that led to the Gulf of Mexico.

Down the boardwalk, Crashers Surf Shop blared a Ventures song over speakers just inside the open door, girls in bikini tops walked amongst the slow herd of sunburned tourists, and window displays offered all manner of shells, silk-screened T-shirts, and postcards.

Remember the last time we came here with Uncle Scotland? Rachel’s voice was soft and it cracked on their uncle’s name.

At the mention of him, Josie’s shoulders slumped and the strap on her purse slipped down to the crook of her arm. Been trying not to think about that all day. She readjusted her strap.

Rachel smiled and shook her head. I haven’t laughed that hard since that day.

Josie scratched the sweaty skin above her left breast and sighed. I haven’t eaten that much taffy since then either.

I miss him.

I still don’t want to think about it. Josie resumed their search.

A propeller plane towed a banner advertising nickel beer night at the Hibiscus Pit.

As they passed a Monte Carlo with the doors unlocked, Josie bent down as if to tie her shoe. Rachel followed her younger sister’s lead and stood lookout.

From her crouch, Josie opened the door and slid into position to reach under the seat and check the glove box, which held an unopened pack of Marlboros and nothing else worth taking.

Excuse me! A guy walking from the Seafood Shack through the parking lot called out to them. He waddled more than he walked, and he approached like he knew they were up to no good. He had a red nose and the whites showed all around his eyes.

What are you two up to out here?

Rachel cleared her throat, her mouth pasty with disappointment in herself for not alerting her sister sooner. But she didn’t run. She never ran.

Josie sighed as she stood.

While Rachel stammered, Josie smacked a hand on the car’s roof. She stood tall and smiled. Looked him in the eye. Her breathing was even, controlled, calm.

Silly me. I’ve misplaced my keys, she said, lowering her sunglasses as she looked him up and down. But ain’t you sweet for looking out for us decent folk.

Is that right? He rubbed sweat from his forehead with the palm of his hand. What’s the license plate number?

Even if it were her car, she wouldn’t have taken the time to commit the license plate number to memory.

Rachel stood far enough back that she was able to convey the plate’s numbers and letters with fast hand gestures. Josie made it look like she was remembering their order. He never went back to check.

I don’t know, he said. I’d hate to get the cops involved.

Josie shifted her weight, drummed her fingers on the roof of the Monte Carlo, and made mental comparisons between this guy and others she’d duped in the past. As she did, her muscles tightened to outrun the porker if they had to.

How about both of you in the back seat of my car? He nodded, as if sending a subliminal message to encourage them to agree. Ten minutes, tops.

Josie thought about the folding knives they each carried in their purses. Both of them being involved made it easier for them to roll him. Fortunately, this guy didn’t look the sort to have much of value and they had to meet Skip at four.

That sounds like a party and all, but we’re waiting for my boyfriend to bring my extra set. You might know my boyfriend, he plays for the Bucs.

I don’t know many of those players. I’m a Steelers fan, myself. From just outside Pittsburgh.

Well, this season will be his first as a starter anyway. Defensive line. He’s fast for a big guy. Practice just let out so he should be here soon.

Rachel stood at an oblique angle to the two of them. She licked her lips, as the sun and salt air made them dry. She flipped her hair from one shoulder to the other. Neck muscles corded. Sweating.

Oh. The guy blinked and gave the whites of his eyes a break for a second.

I’ll tell him you weren’t hassling us, Josie said, but I just hope he’s in a good mood.

Well now, I’ll just leave you to continue your search. Be sure to check under the driver’s seat. I’ve dropped my keys down the side there a time or ten.

Will do. Thank you.

With the guy waddling toward the seafood place, Josie elevated her chin to the sun, felt the warmth radiating through her body. Dumbass.

Rachel paced as she muttered to herself.

Josie took off her sunglasses as she turned to her sister. Why the hell did you spaz like that?

I didn’t spaz. Rachel looked at the crushed shells beneath her feet as she spoke. I just kind of got tense. He reminded me of Daddy.

Daddy’s got a gut, but he ain’t that fat. He did have the same way about him at first. I’ll give you that.

Rachel shoved Josie’s shoulder. You’re going to get caught in that football lie someday.

We know too much about them for that to happen, Josie said.

Who? The Bucs or the tourists?

Both, she said. She held up the pack of Marlboros and walked toward Gulf Boulevard.

A pack of smokes. Nothing else? Rachel asked.

Josie returned the shove to Rachel’s shoulder. Pretty great day overall.

A lone seagull flew silently over them. Shit-bombed a buttoned-up Corvette illegally parked near a corner.

They laughed and plucked at their tank tops to cool down as their bare legs took long strides, arms swinging beneath bags loaded from a productive haul. Up Gulf Boulevard toward home, squealing in excitement, dance stepping, and getting catcalled, which they liked.

They bragged as they walked. Recapped the events of the day, not paying attention to anything that didn’t matter. They’d spent most of the afternoon walking along the boardwalk, eating ice cream cones tourist boys bought them and stealing purses out of unlocked cars in the parking lot.

It was good for a Tuesday. Older couples, younger couples with kids too young for school, as well as a surprising number of boys from states where school hadn’t started yet. The lighter weekday foot traffic helped the girls. Bigger crowds brought more selection and potential, but also more possible witnesses and more competition. The Hewett sisters weren’t the only ones to have figured a way to profit from sun-drunk tourists.

They’d eaten four scoops each and gotten two hundred twenty-three dollars in cash, three credit cards, and a bottle of pills Josie was anxious to try.

They had no guilt. It was a matter of principle. They thought, If you can afford to have something this nice AND afford to take a vacation AND shop for ways to spend even more money, then you can live without this wallet or that boom box or that camera or leather jacket, Zippo lighter, or coins in the ashtray. They took what they could get, never got caught, and didn’t worry much about what would happen if they did—they were underprivileged minors with no prior record. Of course, if the news didn’t make their father die of embarrassment right on the spot, they’d have beatings coming. Their father never went more than a month without backhanding, grabbing, or taking a strap to their backsides.

Rachel kicked a dented Mountain Dew can into the street. I wish Uncle Scotland was our dad.

Dammit, girl. Don’t start with that again.

It’s true.

No shit. We established that years ago. Josie shoved her sister playfully toward traffic. As she did, she saw her watch. Oh, shit. Now we’re late.

CHAPTER 2

Wednesday, August 20, 1986

A redneck named Bud picked up Scotland Ross from the Florida State Prison in a stolen limousine. Parked as it was at the curb in front of the gate, the custom-stretch Lincoln shined so black it looked wet in the summer sun. Scotland almost couldn’t hear it running, and for a moment, he forgot the fancy ride was for him.

It was his first time on this side of the gate in three years. Somehow, daylight burned brighter here. He gripped the rolled top of a brown paper bag in his fist, which he let hang at his side. He squinted his left eye, which held the faint remnants of having been blackened. It no longer throbbed just beneath the surface. According to an article in a magazine without a cover he’d read on the shitter just the day before the scuffle with his cellmate, it was one of only a fraction of black eyes that came from intentional physical violence. Most black eyes come from sports, work, or car accidents. He’d lost count of how many black eyes he’d had during his thirty-four years on the planet. This one had the worst consequences. It had set his release back four days.

But in the sunshine and with the gate finally behind him, he filled his lungs with the humid air of freedom. He dropped his paper sack by his feet, held his hands out to each side, and angled his face directly into the sun. The last time he’d been released from confinement had been under the threat of November snow from a gray Kansas sky.

The sky above him now stood as blue as the ocean with hardly any clouds. It looked different than it had since he’d last been a free man. It made him feel anything was possible.

The buildup to this point had involved a shitload of tense moments on one of five pay phones outside the chow hall as he planned and arranged the timing and details by talking in code to his buddy in Daytona, and to his girl, Kyla. Scotland had learned and forgotten Morse code, semaphore, the periodic table, algebra, and respectable amounts of French and Italian, yet he could rarely guess what most women were trying to say. His mother and sister included. Not Kyla. She always made sense. She’d often say one thing with her mouth and something entirely different with her eyes, and he read it right every time. If there was a woman more perfectly suited to him, he’d never found her.

Scotland, Bud said as he shut the driver’s door. Congratulations, my man!

Scotland had been around enough to know that everyone would speak to him with uncomfortable enthusiasm because they either didn’t know how else to act, or because they knew exactly how he felt in that moment.

Bud had been the one to restore Scotland’s faith in humanity the whole time he stewed behind bars. It gave him comfort to know Bud had spent his days shadowing Kyla, looking after her since Scotland got locked up. Scotland appreciated that. Trust wasn’t an issue. He worried about her giving in to impulse, but not with Bud. The guy was older, around forty, getting gray at the flaps of his ears. He sported a belly that crested his belt and warped his profile. He wasn’t remotely her type.

Bud walked around the front of the car with a hand held out to shake and nodded toward Scotland. Scotland swatted the hand away and pulled him in for a hug. They were friends, though not truly close enough for such an embrace, but the guy represented home and that was something Scotland had missed more than he realized. Scotland released the pressure of his thick arms as he realized Bud’s face was smashed into his chest. They smacked each other on the shoulder.

Bud was a few inches shorter than Scotland, which gave him a look at the part on the left side of Bud’s collar-length hair. The part was made wider by a thick, white scar running the length of his skull, announcing the poor boy’d had his melon split open at some point in his life. Scotland had to wonder what other clues were hidden beneath his thick goatee.

Scotland’s secrets were out in the open. His hair was short and he’d shaved every morning with an electric razor his first cellmate had left him. That electric razor was in the paper bag Scotland held at his side. He’d also exited prison a little leaner than he was on arrival. Three years earlier, he’d walked in carrying two hundred twenty-five pounds on his six-two chassis. He didn’t know what he weighed now. Fat cells had shrunk between sinew and skin, exposing a muscle-covered stack of bones.

Considering he was up for five, getting three with good behavior had taken patience and diplomacy. So did staying safe in there. He was plenty big, though not the biggest, and plenty bad, though not the baddest. His superpower in the pen had been his ability to find an advantage in every situation.

Bud, Scotland said. This is great. Brand new?

Looks it, but it’s an ’82. Mint condition inside and out. Low mileage for a four-year-old, totally custom version of what rolled off the assembly line in Detroit.

I see that, Scotland said. His experience in auto body repair never involved cutting and adding a section into the middle of a car, but he could imagine the work involved. He’d never done that personally, but spent many workdays welding, grinding, filling, priming, and painting. The real magic trick to Scotland was how they got every seam lined up like that. There wasn’t an angle the work on this limo looked less than perfect, even in the sun.

What’s with the boomerang? Scotland asked, pointing toward the trunk. That’s the oddest spoiler I’ve ever seen on a car.

Ain’t no boomerang or spoiler. That’s the antenna.

For the stereo?

TV.

TV? In a car? Have I been away that long?

Bud opened the back door.

As Scotland leaned in and squeezed the leather seat, he inhaled the rod-stiffening scent of thigh-warmed estrogen. His line of sight continued toward crossed legs attached to a completely nude woman. The only way in the last three years to see such a thing was in the stuck-together pages of old Playboys. The difference between magazines and flesh wasn’t just dimensionality, but also that scent of skin and moisture.

Hey, handsome, she said through strong red lipstick. I’m Theresa and I’m watching a game show in here. Come watch with me. The grapefruit-sized tits on her chest had lines of cocaine laid out on each, her nipples on high beams in his eyes. Her legs were crossed loosely, as if relaxed enough to close or spread. All it would take was a smile or a grunt.

Simultaneous surges of adrenaline and testosterone flooded through the pipes beneath his flesh. If he were truly free, he’d be able to sex this woman up and go home to his wife with no one thinking twice. Yet, even on the outside of prison walls, he was not completely free. No man was ever truly free.

These are the types of notions he’d spent hours contemplating. It was how he filtered out the constant noise of the building and its inhabitants. He didn’t have the time now to sit and analyze the issue from both sides. While the primitive part of his brain demanded he get in and yank the door shut behind him, he ducked out of the car and stood tall.

No, he said, even and smooth, his voice low in volume and pitch. The power of the word shot a charge up his back, as if his spine was applauding. He clamped down every urge, bent forward and said through the open door, Nice to meet you.

He stood again and swung the door closed without slamming it. His spine quivered, as if applauding him again for being physically able to resist. He made eye contact with Bud.

I thought… Bud said. You know?

Scotland ignored the erection straining below his belt. Smiled at Bud. It’s not a problem.

Any other guy would never stop thanking me.

Scotland felt hormones coursing through him with nowhere to go. Three years of hunger could end in a matter of minutes, and he’d never wanted a meal so much. Especially one served on a silver platter. Can’t argue that. But you know…

Yeah, man. Shit. I get it.

Sounds good in theory, Scotland said, but if Kyla ever found out, it would kill her.

These days, somebody sneezing could kill her.

What? Scotland wanted to see if he would elaborate on the topic.

Never mind. Bud spun the car keys on his finger.

Scotland wasn’t sure he was ready to hear anything on the topic anyway. He grabbed Bud’s hand and took the keys. I’ll drive. Get in and have fun. I’d hate to have wasted her time.

Bud barely blinked before turning to open the door and stepping a foot inside.

The naked woman pointed at the black and white television installed in front of her.

You’re not going to believe this, she said, "but I’m watching The Price is Right and the news just cut in to talk about a mailman going nuts in a post office in Oklahoma and shooting everybody. At least ten people dead. She dipped a finger into the line of coke on her left tit and rubbed it on her gums. What’s the world coming to?"

Scotland nodded. I applaud your concern for society, he said, barely able to keep a straight face. He didn’t find it funny, and he hated to hear about the casualties. On the other hand, it made him feel better about himself as he left prison for far lesser crimes. He waved at her and turned to Bud.

Hey, Scotland said, as if to scratch an itch. Any word from Joby?

Bud leaned an elbow on the open door. Voices flowed from the television loud enough to be heard, if not understood. Not since that one time shortly after it happened, he said.

Scotland felt his eyes squint as he grinned. Must’ve been rough with her going off on him and him laid up in a full body cast.

About as rough as those surgeries he had to have afterward.

Word on the inside, he’s headed here after he heals up one more time, Scotland said.

Bud rocked atop the door’s hinges. That ain’t going to be anytime soon.

Scotland laughed. That’s what he gets for crashing that beautiful truck of his.

What made him think he could jump that half-built overpass?

Scotland licked his lips and said, Speed and desperation.

If it comes to it, please pull over.

Nothing’s going to happen. Relax.

Well, I don’t want to get T-boned by a cop car or dropped off an overpass, especially while my crank is between that broad’s teeth. I’m sure you can appreciate that.

Why didn’t she tell me she was getting so bad, Bud?

She thought she could handle it.

How rough has it been since the money from Joby got cut off?

For her? Very rough, my friend, but she did it as long as she could. Bud turned his head toward the road and stared across it. After a few cars passed, he said, It’s still profitable, but not the same. Even if we didn’t take paychecks, there’s not enough profit to pay for her special treatment.

The reminder of her condition sent torque through his spine. He rubbed the back of his neck to alleviate the tightness there.

You sure you’re okay driving while I’m fucking? Bud asked.

I’ve been locked up for a thousand and eighty days. A long drive is exactly what I need right now. He jutted his chin toward the woman. And a few more hours of keeping it in my pants won’t kill me.

Oh.

What? Scotland asked.

I mean, I guess there’s no way for you to know. Bud looked at the ground as he spoke.

Scotland squeezed the bag in his fist. Know what?

Bud shook his head and only half looked at Scotland. It’s best we talk about this later, when money’s no longer a problem.

Yeah. Shit. You’re right. We can’t allow any distractions.

Except maybe this one. Bud smiled, pulled the door open all the way and stepped a foot inside. Don’t forget, if you see Smokey the Bear’s blue lights in your sideview, you pull over. Hear?

In Fort Myers, Kyla watched the shape of the treatment center shrink in her sideview mirror. It had been a great meeting with the people who would take care of her tomorrow. Excitement coursed through her. She’d never been more hopeful or confident that she’d get well again. And if she was that happy just confirming the appointment for treatment the next day, she couldn’t imagine how good she’d feel after actually getting the treatment. It was the first time she’d felt herself smile since she woke up with the realization Scotland was coming home that day. The time between those smiles was filled