Dead Moines

By Al Simon

Rey Cruz, a journeyman comic is found a block away from a veteran friend's home with gunshot wounds to the head.  Darren Wallace, the veteran friend who is black, doubts the local police will be diligent in looking for a killer of a person of color.  Especially given the sketchy area where Cruz was found and also, Cruz's well-known history of substance abuse.

 

Darren is a landlord who teaches self-defense out of his home as a side hustle and is not a trained investigator.  Darren at first suspects a local meth dealer as the culprit.  However, after inheiritng Cruz's notebook of material which also was his journal and recalling past conversations leads Darren to one Amos Detweiler.  Cruz was having an affair with Breck, Detweiler's wife whenever he was in town.

 

As Darren descends into a rabbit-hole trying to ferret out the killer he brushes up against Detweiler, his wife, an ex-MI6 agent and an ex-Air Force supervisor of his.  One Clayton Fisk who is now head of security for Detweiler.  Fisk also heads a white nationalist group and fosters a grudge against Darren.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Al Simon
• Release date: Feb 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224032730

Book preview

Table of Contents

Dead Moines

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

EPILOGUE

Dead Moines

Darren and Rita Wallace lived in the 1200 block on 10th Street, just off University in Des Moines.  In the 50s and early 60s most of the homes in the neighborhood were composed of the Jewish middle class.  By the mid 60s up to the 2000s the area became predominantly African American.    There was a dirt alley that separated his home, especially the garage/gym where he lived from the one across.  Although raising livestock in the city was now prohibited, a lot of homes still had sheds and chicken coops. 

The house across from his had an over-sized shed that once housed pigs.  It lay in front of a large parking area scattered with concrete debris that serviced a large two-story house.  Darren never paid much attention to the house and its occupants until Cujo began to bark at him whenever he pulled up to his own garage.  He only knew the dog’s name because Britt, the owner, would often yell for him to be quiet.

Cujo was tethered to a long-braided metal chain that was attached to a spike in front of the dilapidated shed.  The shed had some recent adornments.  A sturdy metal door which was always padlocked.

There was a small hole facing the home where Cujo could go into the shed to seek refuge from the elements.  As far as Darren could tell the dog’s only purpose was to alert Britt whenever anyone would drive up. 

Dealers, Darren surmised as he assessed the shed and the dog.  There were piles of unattended feces around the shed and scattered McDonald’s fries' packages.  In his neighborhood one learned to live and let live so long as boundaries weren’t crossed.  Cujo was a pitbull Shar-Pei mix.  Darren used to be a security police dog handler in the Air Force and felt an affinity towards dogs.  You ain’t gonna be barkin’ at me all the time.

On his next trip to Costco, he bought a case of wet cat food seeing that it was the cheapest.  At first, he’d dump the contents of the can on a paper plate and slid it closer to the dog yet staying out of reach in order not to get bitten.  Here Cujo, Darren has some nummies for ya.  Once the dog ate, he’d use a stick to retrieve the paper plate.  After a week of this, it was no longer necessary.  Cujo would run to see him whenever he showed up with a plate.  It was then, after petting the dog, that he noticed the sandy coat that affirmed his being a Shar-Pei.  And the blue tongue. Other than that, he had the look of a pit bull.

One time while he was feeding Cujo he felt eyes upon him.  He looked up and saw that he was being watched from the downstairs apartment.  Soon, the blinds fell.  He began to call the dog Joe, not liking the Cujo connotation.  It wasn’t long after when Darren would come out and sit beside Joe and let the dog nestle his muzzle on his lap.

Darren lived in a loft over his garage.  He was a landlord of the house that faced 10th.  He taught self-defense as a side hustle.  It was a large four car garage that he mainly used as his martial arts studio.  During the winter months Darren would look out his window whenever he heard Joe bark.  Invariably it was at cars that would pull in. And leave within a half hour.  On bitterly cold nights and after 11 p.m. when the traffic to the house died down, Darren would go to the shed and call for Joe.

C’mere, Buddy.  He’d unfasten the dog from his chain and take him into his gym.  Darren was an early riser and at six, he’d take Joe back to the shed.

Rita, Darren’s wife, liked dogs and grew up with them where Darren had not.  It’s a shame how they treat that dog.  Darren would give her a sympathetic look.  Why don’t you call the city?

If this was the white middle-class neighborhood that you grew up in, sure, I’d do it.  But it’s not.  It would cause more trouble than it's worth.    And they’ve seen me with their dog.  I dunno if you wanna open that can of worms.

What’s the worse they could do?

Darren snorted.  They’re dealers!  A lot worse.  Even as he said this Darren knew his ministrations towards Joe had crossed a line.

It was in early spring when Darren found himself driving behind a beat-up Ford truck on the way to his gym.  The Ford truck swerved right into the lot behind the house as Darren pulled left to the front of his gym.  Joe, as dogs are wont to do, ran out of his shed to greet his owners and stopped in his tracks once he saw Darren.  Darren merely looked that way just to see Joe.  Seeing the two that got out of the truck was incidental.

The man was pot-bellied, in his forties and had more than a five o’ clock shadow.  He had long black hair with steaks of silver throughout.  Disheveled could be one way to describe him.  White trash was what Darren thought.

The boy with him appeared to be in his early to mid-teens.  He was thin and rangy looking.  No Rhodes scholar here.  Even if Joe was not in the picture Darren knew that he would not like either one.

The three assessed each other.

Uppity nigger was the thought uppermost in their minds.  However, the eldest allowed a slight smile lacking any warmth.  It was just a practiced phony exercise.  They were far enough away so Darren could not hear what they were saying.  Darren nodded and prepared to head into his gym.  Inside he could ascend the indoor stairs to his loft apartment.

Git down!  He heard the elder say and then heard Joe yelp before he could fit his key into the lock.  Darren froze in his tracks.  He felt his insides churn.  He knew that he needed to let it go, that it was none of his business and that he’d be upsetting the applecart.

Fuck it.

When he turned to look, he saw Joe cowering at the feet of the older man and exposing his belly in a sign of submission.

Say man!

Both turned to look at Darren.  Can I help you, the man asked.  His voice was gravelly from smoking.

Darren could tell by the man’s posture that he was standing his ground.  Darren chose his next words carefully.

Ya hafta hit a chained-up dog?

Can’t say that it’s any of your business.  The man turned to face Darren.  My boy says you’ve been feeding Cujo.  Y’know, you can get a dog of your own from the pound.

And you can give the dog away if you don't wanna take care of it.

The older man pulled aside his denim jacket.  A butt of a .38 was wedged between his pants and flannel shirt.

Like I say, I can’t see how any of this is your fuckin’ business.  Neighbor.  With that, he spat into the dirt, gave Joe another look that made the dog cower and turned to enter his house.

It was a few days later Darren saw the man leave Sav-On gas, a local convenience store.  Both acted like they didn’t see each other.  Darren was friends with the owner and asked, Dugie, who’s that dude that just left?

Junior Britt.  Meth dealer.  Dugie had known Darren from elementary school.  Darren had also worked part-time at the store at one time.  Why do you ask?

He lives behind me.  He’s got a dog tied up to a shed that he barely takes care of.  We had a few words.

Well, Dugie’s voice took on a precautionary tone.  As long as it a few words...

Darren’s eyebrows arched.  And?

"Him and the Ochoas got into an argument here in the store one day.  It carried on into the parking lot. A bit later, Hector Ochoa comes runnin’ into the store with a shotgun on his hip.  At first, I thought he was gonna rob me.  But all he says is ‘Call the cops!  Britt and Felix are gettin’ into it.’

I call the police and then get on the intercom and tell them that they all better quit ‘cause the cops are comin’. . Britt and Felix are still jawbonin’ it, but both have their guns out.  They all get in their cars and head out before the police gets here.

Just another day at Sav-On gas.

And fuck you very much.

Darren would still retrieve Joe at night, irrespective of the weather.  He bought better dog food and would augment it with table scraps.  The ribs that were once apparent on JOe began to disappear.  Darren would groom and bathe him.  At night, Joe would nestle between him and Rita on the couch.

Darren sniffed the air.  He looked at Rita.  Are you cooking something?

She laughed and swatted him.  No, you asshole.  Joe farted again.

A few moments passed before Rita spoke again.  How long are we gonna be going this?

Darren kept looking at the television.  I think about it every day.

No matter what, I’ll respect your decision.

He waited until he knew that Britt had left his house before taking Joe to the vet.  After the examination, Dr Bejarno came to Darren with a petri dish.  Mr. Wallace, I’m afraid that I don’t have good news.

He saw some black squiggly lines inside the dish.  What am I looking at?  He wasn’t sure but dread was creeping up inside of him like the onset of a fever.

Heartworms.

Darren sighed.  Although he hadn’t been around dogs for over 10 years, he knew this was serious.  Can you treat him?

The vet hesitated before answering.  The results aren’t typical.  It’ll cost around 100—

I don’t give a damn about the cost.  I’ll take care of it.

Didn’t you tell me this is not your dog?

He is now.

You’ll have to let the owners know.

I will.  As he said this, he knew that he didn’t have to.  Once Britt saw that Joe was gone he’d know where he was.

Darren didn’t own a gun.  He didn’t like them.  In the service he was a security policeman with a dog handler specialty.  He carried a .38 but mainly posted with a GAU.  He didn’t like to shoot and in fact, was a lousy shot.  He’d have to qualify with his weapons once a year and there were times his mind would wander on the range.  Each year the firing range supervisor would fudge Darren’s results in order for him to go back to work.  He knew the fundamentals of shooting.  Hold his breath, use his sites and keep a steady aim.  He never had to shoot anyone and that never kept him up at night. 

However, now it was different.  He went to a pawnshop and bought a .45 and some ammunition.  After the required waiting period, he picked up his weapon and went to the southeast side of Des Moines.  He parked his car at Pete Crivaro Park and took the bike path until it swerved off and followed the deer trail for several miles.  When he found a secluded area with a slight hillside for his bullets to go, there he set up a small range.  He went for several days until he was satisfied he could shoot with some accuracy.

After Joe’s first treatment Dr Bejarno warned that Joe could not get excited and needed to avoid excessive movements.  Darren had had Joe in his care for a week when he heard a pounding at the service door to his gym. Although he could exit from the loft via a staircase adjacent to the garage, he preferred to use the interior way. He was barefoot as he strode across his mats. Joe fell in step beside him the moment Darren left the couch.

When Darren began to have Joe for a houseguest it didn't take long to housebreak him. Every morning Darren would take him on mile walks and began to teach him obedience. Joe loved Darren and sat on every word and awaited each gesture. Despite that it was hard telling whom he loved more, Darren or Rita. Even if the couple were snuggling on the sofa watching television Joe would nose between the two and would not stop until he was nestled comfortably between them.

Even before he looked through the window and pulled open the door, he knew it was Junior Britt.

Stay, he said to Joe who was a few feet behind him. He gave the 'down' gesture and the Sharpei-pitbull mix went to his haunches, his head up and alert.

Junior.

Where's my dog? Britt looked like his typical disheveled self. Darren could smell beer emanating from the man. His plaid shirt was open but not so much that Darren couldn't see the ubiquitous .38 he was wont to carry.

Pardon?

Don't get cute with me. You've had my dog for over a week. I've seen you walking with him. Don't make me sue your ass.

Ha! Darren laughed in his face. You ain't suing shit. And even if I were to give you that dog back—which I'm not—you'd have to pay me at least $300 for all the vet visits.

Vet visits! Britt's demeanor changed momentarily. Ain't nothing wrong with that dog.

Well, you stupid fuck how would you know if you've never took him. Hell, you barely fed him, he's sitting out in the elements, tramping in his own dog shit that you don't pick up. You have no idea how dangerous that is. Darren was poised to close the door on Britt's face but added, And go ahead sue. I dare ya. You don't want anybody looking around that shed. Now get off my property. Darren turned and was about to slam the door. Britt stuck his foot in before it closed, pushed the door open and took a step into the gym.

Look, you fuckin' nigger, I've had enough of your ass—

There was a guttural snarl that came from Joe as Britt's left hand went inside his shirt. The growl caused him to look at the dog who was still growling and baring his teeth and up on all four legs.

That was all the time Darren needed. Once Britt looked to see where the growling had come from Darren was already airborne. Though a shin kick—done with the inside arch of the foot—is usually targeted for the knee and below, with a half step forward with the opposite leg the strike can go higher. Darren knew Britt was left-handed and as his foot hit the radial nerve just above the elbow joint the weight of his body coming down also slammed into Britt, carrying the two men out the door and to the ground.

Darren was already on top of Britt. He knew that the kick would momentarily paralyze the nerve. He snatched the .38 from Britt's waistband with his left and jabbed the pointer finger of his right into another plexus of nerves just above the left ventricle but beneath the collarbone. Pressure from that alone would inhibit anyone from quickly rising. However, he augmented his pin with his right leg straddling across Britt's left arm and abdomen. And before Britt could realize what had happened Darren had cocked the .38 and was holding it under Britt's jaw with his left hand.

Don't move, Darren commanded in a threatening voice. Once Britt complied Darren continued. Now, I'm gonna let you up and, Darren clicked open the cylinder and tipped the gun so that the bullets fell out of it. I'm gonna give you your gun back. Are we cool?

Britt's eyes were enraged but he knew he was out of options. Though he couldn't mask the hate in his eyes they suddenly went opaque. He merely nodded.

Darren slowly rose and pitched the .38 towards Britt's shed. As Britt ambled to his feet Darren said "Leave the bullets alone. I'm sure they all have your fingerprints on them, so I'll be keeping them in a safe place in case something happens to me.

Now we both don't have to like each other but we both have to live with each other. Now you get along and we'll both forget about this.

Darren waited until Britt left his yard before getting a small broom and dustpan and swept up the bullets. He put them in an envelope after writing some details on it and stored them in the desk in his gym.

Joe had watched from inside the door the entire time and hadn't relaxed his stare until he sensed the tension leaving Darren's body. Darren smiled at his dog and said, Thanks pal.

Joe thumped his tail wildly.

Of course, this episode ended in nothing. Mark Britt, Junior's 15-year-old, took over. It began with him walking past Darren's