Biscayne Boogie

By Gregory Payette

After six long years in prison, Dennis Malloy is determined to straighten himself out. But life on the outside's not easy. He just can't seem to catch a break...

His luck seems to change when he witnesses a robbery gone wrong and the bag of loot lands at his feet. Dennis could do the right thing, of course. But he's broke. And desperate.

With his pockets stuffed with cash, he stops off at a local watering hole for a drink. When a couple of thugs follow him into the men's room, he's left battered and bruised on the damp floor.

The money's gone.

All is not lost when an attractive woman he meets at the bar offers to take him back to her place. But a fun night in the sack isn't the only thing she has in mind. The woman presents him with a tempting offer that's hard to refuse...

One last crime could be the answer to turning his misfortunes around.

Will he take the bait and risk it all?

Join Dennis Malloy and his unscrupulous friends on a wild ride through the seedy streets of Miami in this gritty, comedic crime thriller with characters you're not supposed to root for, but probably will…

• Language: English
• Publisher: 8 Flags Publishing, Inc
• Release date: Oct 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985846096

Book preview

Chapter 1

Dennis sat in the front seat of his twelve-year-old Honda Accord, with gold paint, half the bumper smashed, bald tires, and a cracked windshield. He folded the eighth losing lottery ticket he’d scratched in half and stuffed it in the pocket on the inside of his door with the other losers he’d blown his money on.

He grabbed all eight tickets and looked each one over, making sure he hadn’t missed a winner.

No such luck.

He lifted the cover on the center console under the armrest and pulled out the only winning ticket. Looking up at the 7-Eleven sign, he let out a sigh.

Dennis stepped out of the car and threw the losing tickets in the trash can on his way inside the store. He pulled open the glass doors and right away smelled some kind of coconut fragrance he assumed was suntan lotion. He got in line and stood behind a young woman he believed was the source. She wore tight cutoff jean shorts, high enough to see her bikini bottom sticking out from the frayed denim, her skin was darkly tanned, her blonde hair sporting dark roots.

She turned to Dennis and looked at him over her shoulder, like she thought he was checking her out. She gave him a smile, looked down at her own behind and met his eyes again. Hey, she said with a crooked smile. What are you looking at?

Dennis just looked at her and shook his head, hiding the lottery ticket behind his back.

The woman stepped forward and paid for a bottle of Gatorade and asked for E-Z Wider rolling papers.

She paid the man and stuck the papers in her back pocket, then headed for the exit, giving Dennis one last look on the way out.

He cleared his throat and gave her a nod. Hey, you need help smoking whatever you’re putting in those papers, I’d be happy to help.

She stopped at the door. I appreciate the offer. But I don’t think my boyfriend would appreciate me taking a cute guy home from 7-Eleven. She walked out and let the door close behind her.

Dennis watched her through the glass. She stepped inside a red Corvette with a man who had to have been twice her age.

He caught the license plate, LIVETOWIN as the Vette pulled out of the parking lot and turned right onto Biscayne Boulevard.

Sir? Can I help you?

Dennis turned to the man behind the register and stepped to the counter. He placed the lottery ticket down on top. Big winner, he said. Hope you have enough in the drawer. He smiled, expecting the same from the man once he looked at the ticket.

The man scanned it under the lottery machine and looked at Dennis. Big winner? He shook his head and tapped a key on the cash register without looking at Dennis. The register door popped open, and the man pulled out two one-dollar bills. He placed them down on the counter. Will that be all?

What am I going to do with two dollars? He pushed the money on the counter toward the man. I’ll take another ticket.

The man looked at the line of people behind Dennis, nodded, and put the money back in the drawer. Which ticket? The man still hadn’t looked Dennis in the eye.

I don’t care. Give me a winner.

"How would I know which ticket is the winner?" the man said.

You’ve got a great sense of humor, huh? He looked down at the tickets behind the glass, pointing to one. Give me that one. The Lucky Seven.

The man opened the glass and tore a ticket. It looked to be the last one from the roll. He placed it on the glass counter and leaned to his right to look at the man behind Dennis. Next?

Dennis tapped the edge of the ticket on the glass and stared at the man behind the counter, turned and walked out the door and into the parking lot.

He stepped into the Honda, tossed the ticket on the passenger seat, and turned the key in the ignition. When the engine started, as it always did, the muffler leak sounded louder than it had when he first pulled into the lot. It was not only loud, but it rattled like something was going to fall from underneath the car.

He knew it wouldn’t pass inspection with a bad muffler, and he wouldn’t be able to register it without the used-car inspection. If he only knew better before he spent what little money he had on it.

Dennis watched the store empty out of the people who had stood behind him in line. One couple walked out, both wearing straw cowboy hats as if either had ever been anywhere near a horse.

A young man with a red tank top, his arms covered with tattoos, walked out behind them. It didn’t appear the three were together, especially when the young man turned in the opposite direction and disappeared around the corner of the building.

Dennis never understood tattoos. It just was never his thing.

He looked at the glass of the storefront, but it was hard to see inside with the way the setting sun reflected off it.

It was past dusk and getting darker outside.

He turned off the ignition and grabbed the lottery ticket from the seat next to him, taking a penny from the ashtray. He hesitated a moment, then placed the ticket on his thigh, scratching the numbers.

He took his time. He always did, not wanting to know right away he’d bought another loser.

The first number revealed was a seven.

Is that the lucky number? He read the instructions: Match any number and you win that prize. Match two 7’s and the prize indicated doubles.

He scratched again.

Thirteen.

His ex-wife was born on the thirteenth.

That was just part of the reason he always told her she was bad luck.

He stopped and looked through the glass and inside the 7-Eleven. The sun was just about down now, and he could clearly see the man inside. What an ass.

All Dennis needed to do was match the seven or thirteen.

Was that too much to ask?

He wiped away the residue from the UV ink from the ticket. He only knew it was UV they used, because he used to work for a big commercial printer in Daytona Beach.

He was almost methodical the way he scratched the ticket, as if it mattered, and revealed the numbers. Still not a seven or thirteen. But even if he’d won five hundred bucks, it wouldn’t make much of a difference. It’d be a Band-Aid on a bullet hole, with his ex up his ass for child support for a daughter the ex barely let him visit.

Although he understood why.

He scratched each circle. A six. An eight. Fourteen. Thirty-one. Seventeen. He flipped over the card to read the fine print, thinking maybe if you add up the numbers to match the one you need, you’d get a prize.

Not likely.

He hesitated to scratch the last two spots, knowing it’d send him over the edge, knowing he would’ve been better off using the two bucks for a coffee or a goddamn Twinkie. Something.

Instead, he donated to the State of Florida.

The poor man’s tax.

He scratched the eight silver circles, slowly from the top down. He uncovered what looked like a thirteen.

Lucky after all.

He felt the excitement. A rush. And moved the penny back and forth until he revealed what turned out not to be the thirteen he needed.

Eighteen.

Shit, he said, shaking his head. But he had one more spot. And he didn’t go slow this time. He scratched it and knew before he’d finished he had nothing but another losing ticket in his hand. He’d drive away with nothing but the penny he held between his thumb and middle finger.

He folded the ticket and stuck it in the pocket on the door, turned the key, and carefully watched the gas gauge. He hoped it’d move past the red.

It didn’t budge.

He looked in through the window of the 7-Eleven at the man in the red shirt with the short sleeves. He rubbed the stubble on his face, almost a full-on beard, and watched the man make a pot of coffee and put another stack of paper cups on the dispenser on the counter.

He turned off the engine but left the keys in the ignition. He watched the man step behind the counter.

Dennis reached into the pocket on the door and straightened the losing ticket he’d folded in half. He studied it again. Maybe he missed something.

He flipped it onto the floor in front of him. He rested his forehead on the steering wheel and took a deep breath. He stared at the dashboard display in front of him: 213,000 miles on the Honda’s odometer. He should’ve never bought it, even if it was only a few hundred bucks.

He lifted his head and stared into the brightness inside the 7-Eleven. He looked in the rearview mirror into the parking lot behind him. He looked over his left shoulder, then his right.

He reached under his seat and pulled out the .38 revolver he kept inside a paper lunch bag. He leaned across to the passenger side and opened the glove box, grabbed the cardboard package, and tore off the plastic. He removed the pantyhose and shoved the packaging into the pocket on the driver’s side door.

With both hands he stretched the pantyhose and looked at the man inside the store. He pulled the pantyhose over his head and pulled down the visor so he could see himself in the mirror. He saw the cars buzz by on the busy boulevard behind him.

The door creaked when Dennis pushed it open and stepped out. He kept the .38 down by his side and headed for the entrance.

But he stopped, mid-step, before he was halfway there.

Inside the store he saw the kid with the tattoos who had gone around the back a few minutes before. He didn’t notice him go into the store. The kid had a gun, twice the size of the .38 Dennis had in his hand, and pointed it at the man behind the counter.

Are you kidding me? Dennis said to himself. He pulled the pantyhose from his head and tucked the .38 in the front of his pants. He hurried back to his car and stood in front of the hood and watched the man behind the counter stuff cash into a white plastic bag.

Dennis heard the kid yelling, pointing the gun at the man, telling him to hurry up or he’d shoot him. Then the kid turned and looked toward the glass at the front of the store, almost as if he could see Dennis out there watching him.

The kid beat him to it. Two minutes earlier and it would’ve been Dennis inside, getting all that cash. But right then, for some reason, he felt for the man in the red 7-Eleven shirt.

The kid ripped the bag from the man’s hand and waved the gun at him with his hands up.

It was hard to tell from where Dennis stood, watching, but it looked like the man said, Don’t shoot.

The kid backed away from the counter, turned, and ran for the door.

But before he even got his hand on the steel handle, the man behind the counter reached down and came up with a shotgun, an old wooden one you’d use for hunting.

The whole scene was in slow motion, the way the guy came up and fired at the kid, shot him right in the back. The kid’s head whipped back, and his body crashed through the door. Shattered glass exploded onto the sidewalk, and blood poured from the kid’s face.

But the white plastic bag with the 7-Eleven logo on it, flew out of his hand and through the air. It skidded across the parking lot and practically landed at Dennis’s feet.

Dennis looked at the kid, facedown on the sidewalk, surrounded by blood and shattered glass. He gazed into the store through the broken door and saw the man with a phone to his ear, the shotgun on the counter.

Dennis didn’t hesitate another moment. He took three steps and leaned over, picked up the white plastic bag and jumped back into the Honda. He turned the key in the ignition, but the engine wouldn’t turn.

No, no, no, no! Shit, no! Not now!

His heart pounded in his chest. He was out of gas. Or at least that’s what he assumed. But he wasn’t going to sit around trying to figure it out. He pushed open the door, and with his keys in his hands, he ran across the parking lot toward Biscayne Boulevard, turned down Northeast First, and continued moving as fast as he could with the traffic at his back. He felt the .38 falling down his pants, so he pulled it out but tried to keep it hidden under his shirt.

He ran across Biscayne when he had the chance, horns blaring at him, and made it to the other side. He kept running until he couldn’t anymore. His chest burned. He looked back toward the 7-Eleven, but it was out of sight, although the scream of sirens grew louder from every direction.

Chapter 2

Dennis walked enough and finally took the cash from the bag and stuffed it in his pocket. He hadn’t yet counted what he had but waved down a cab from Fourth Street and took it over to Jack’s Hideaway at the beach.

He paid the driver and stepped out onto the sidewalk, looked at the neon sign over the door, and turned back to the cab. He pulled open the door and stuck his head inside. Hey, you have a card or something? I might need a ride later.

The man handed Dennis his card without another word, and Dennis closed the door, walked to the entrance, and went inside.

He was surprised at the size of the noisy crowd. The smell of women’s perfume and cheap cologne, mixed with cigarette smoke, hit him as soon as he entered. He worked his way to the packed bar and looked back and forth for an empty stool.

No such luck.

He stepped behind two women facing each other on their stools. In what appeared to be a deep conversation, they acted as if Dennis wasn’t there.

Excuse me, he said. Can I just squeeze in so I can get a drink?

They both stared at him but didn’t exactly answer.

Dennis slid between them and leaned an arm on the bar, lifted his hand to the bartender. He raised his voice over the crowd and tried to get her attention. Lucy!

He looked back at the two women. They had disgusted looks on their faces, got up from their seats, and headed out the door.

Dennis sat down on one of the empty stools.

Lucy, the bartender, cleared the empty glasses and put the bills they’d left in a bucket at the back of the bar. Driving away my customers again? she said, a crooked smile on her face. They weren’t very nice anyway. She wiped the bar top with a wet rag and tossed it underneath. So how’re you doing, sweetie?

Dennis rubbed his face and looked along the bar at the other customers. I’m doing, he said. I could use a drink.

Lucy leaned with her elbows down on the bar and glanced over her shoulder toward the kitchen. She turned back and was eye to eye with Dennis. Joe told me not to serve you anything else until you clear your tab.

Dennis leaned back in his seat and looked at a woman standing next to him. She was dressed nicer than most of the crowd, certainly better than Dennis was, and gave him a smile. Is this seat taken?

Lucy said, Have a seat, hon. Don’t worry, he won’t bite. She placed a coaster on the bar in front of the empty stool. What’re you having, hon?

The woman smiled at Lucy and sat down on the stool next to Dennis.

Put whatever she’s having on my tab, Dennis said.

Lucy stared back at him but didn’t say a word.

The woman smiled at Dennis and thanked him, holding her purse with both hands, and rested it on her lap.

I’m Dennis, by the way. He nodded with his chin. That’s Lucy. Best bartender on the beach.

So what’s it going to be? Lucy said.

A vodka martini. Grey Goose. Extra dirty, please.

Dennis reached into his pocket and pulled out some cash. He stood from his seat to pick up a few bills that had fallen out. He straightened and yelled over to Lucy making the woman’s drink. What do I owe? he said. My whole tab.

She placed the martini down on the bar, filled a rocks glass with ice and poured a double Jim Beam. She looked over her shoulder toward the kitchen and placed it down in front