Synopsis:

In this third Jack Vu mystery, Air Force Investigator Jack Vu finds himself displaced by Katrina and forced to live in barracks. Jack anticipates the solitude of a Louisville hotel room when he’s sent to Kentucky to investigate the apparent suicide of an Air Force Officer. Vu encounters unlikely partners in two Big Easy cops, one of whom is jailed for murder. In a town quick to convict, the implications of a delicate snip could spell disaster. From a Mississippi riverbank, to historic Churchill Downs, Jack must tread carefully through tainted jockeys, bantering musicians, and even a quirky Elvis impersonator. When it comes to the Kentucky Derby, social classes collide, proud residents protect their own, and some secrets are best taken to the grave.

It has widespread appeal because it attracts diverse cross-cultural, cross-gender, multi-generational audiences. An Asian protagonist is a fresh face, whose marketability is reinforced by the large sales of Bangkok 8 and Bangkok Tattoo by John Burdett and Leslie Glass’ April Woo series. This thriller engages the reader by weaving contemporary issues with suspense and action.

Doc Macomber is a native Northwesterner. His previous books include The Killer Coin & Wolf’s Remedy. He is a contributor to various national and international publications. Doc divides his time between wrenching on Harley-Davidsons and serving in a Special Ops unit.

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SNIP by Doc Macomber
© 2009

Chapter 1

A cool drizzle trailed down Willy's leathered neck as he settled back and waited for the sky to clear. From shore, he could barely make out faint tug-like sounds motoring on the Ohio. Leon told him the old boat appeared to be barging wheat containers upriver. Sure enough, he finally heard the unmistakable bark of the tug's engine as it muscled around the turn at the forks, a landmark he could no longer see.
As the wind shifted, Willy inhaled an oily diesel stench and the pungent odor of rotting garbage collecting along the riverbank. He shook his head.
"Twenty years ago this river smelled like fine perfume. Now all the sweetness is plum gone."
Leon swung round on his folding chair, grinning at his malcontented friend. "That's 'cause you're sittin' over your damn creel. Dead carp smells a might better."
Willy wiped his nose and shifted the wicker tackle box under his skinny buttocks.
"You think my lures stink?"
"Somethin' does."
"Think it's the whiskey?" Willy teasingly patted his tackle box. Leon pawed around in his front pocket, pulled out a container of chewing tobacco and removed the tin lid.
"I could use a stiff drink. But, I ain't reachin' between your bony legs for it."
"Not until the fish bite." Willy shifted in his folding chair yet couldn't get comfortable. "Them's the rules."
"I should've had Fay spike the coffee."
Leon packed his wet gums, returned the can to his pocket, and gazed out at the winding river.
Willy figured his friend would give in and ask again. But to his surprise, he didn't. Instead, there was only the soft sound of slapping gums and the quiet comfort in knowing Leon had to wait.
"Gotta stretch my legs!"
Willy carefully patted the ground until he found the handle of his white cane. He picked it up off the dirt, unfolded it, and slowly stood. He meandered a few yards along the riverbank, tapping the red tip along the mud, deciphering subtle nuances, and checking the ground for debris. When he heard his creel creak open, he stopped suddenly, flashing a pair of nicotine-stained teeth at his friend.
"If you're fishing for the bottle, I've got it!" He heard the creel shut.
Now satisfied, Willy took his time circling back. When he returned, he folded his cane, tucked it between his legs, and felt around for his fiberglass fishing rod. He found it stuck in a pocket of mud; a hole he'd made for himself. He ran his hand up the Mitchell reel until an index finger discovered the taut monofilament.
"Willy," Leon eyed the whiskey flask sticking out of his friend's shirt pocket, "what's eatin' you?"
"Nothin' worth discussin'."
"I know better. You've been pissin' and moanin' all mornin'. They cut off your disability again?"
"No."
"That's not what Fay said."
"Fay don't know jack."
How could Willy explain the weight of a lifetime of missed opportunities? He sank into this "what if" depression, each time sucking him further into the muck, the rescue line always hovering just at the tips of his frantic fingers. Today the "what if" was his sight. Yesterday it was his flaccid cock, as useless now as a hunk of thick rope. Would vision and a hard-on really have changed the course of his life, as meandering and unpredictable as the river snaking by? Doubtful...
During breakfast somebody other than Leon had noticed his foul mood as well. Fay, the young waitress who slid Willy his plate of biscuits and gravy across the counter, had suspected something immediately.
"You're wearing one sour-ass face this morning," she said. "What's up? Little Oscar depressed?"
"None of your business. Fay. And my pecker's fine thank you. Go fill our thermos with some of that chicory 'cause we're in a hurry. And this time don't scrimp on no sugar."
Leon butted in. "Willy ain't hisself today."
"Shut up, Leon!"
Sure enough, Fay had felt pity for him, because on the way out he'd been able to cop a feel of her fine ass. The last attempt, she'd nearly broken his finger. A blind man wearing a splint on his pussy finger don't look so good. People talk...
Willy sulked. It hadn't helped that some asshole had knocked down his markers along the trail. The sticks were how he counted steps to the water's edge. That was just plain spiteful. A heavy vibration against Willy's foot snapped him out of his funk. Leon jumped up, staring at the bending tip of his friend's fishing pole and reached for it. Willy whirled around like a frisky rat and rapped Leon's fingers with the blunt end of his cane. "Hands off!" Willy jerked hard and set the hook.
"Well - what'ya waitin for? Reel it in!"
Leon rubbed his reddened ringers as he jittered along the riverbank like an electrified eel, gawking at the arc in Willy's rod.
"Reel damnit!"
Shimmering water droplets flew off the line as it circled precariously around a rock, threatening to saw it in two.
"I'm tryin' damnit! Grab hold a me!"
Leon slipped behind his friend, wrapping his arms around Willy's skeletal waist while veins poked out along his forearms as he struggled to hold on. Blood raced to his legs in urgency as both anglers dug in their heels and labored to pull the obstinate fish ashore. For ten exhausting minutes they reeled and kept a steady pressure on it.
"Mother Jesus! It's a fat fucker!"
The two hauled and heaved until their dinner finally hit the shore.
"Well — go see what I hooked."
Leon blankly stared. A gnarled snag had lodged itself against the riverbank.
"You hooked a whopper all right."
"Hot damn!" Willy squealed.
"First a drink." Leon snatched the flask from Willy's pocket one quick swig before exposing the awful truth.
"Hey..." Willy swatted at Leon as he took a long pull of the amber liquid.
"Have a nip yourself while I haul in your trophy," Leon said, finally surrendering the whiskey.
Willy's line was wrapped tightly around the far branches of the slimy log. Leon grabbed hold and grunted laboriously as he tugged it ashore. The log was hung up. Leon dug his feet in and groaned hard as it finally surrendered and climbed the waterline. For a brief moment it seemed quiet enough to hear a tadpole fart.
An odd something, about the size and color of a dolphin, broke the surface and lodged against the slimy bark. But, it was no fish. Leon crept down for a closer look.
Willy grew impatient. "Well! What is it?"
A woman's head floated on the surface, the current tangling her long hair round a branch, while her lifeless torso bobbed against the shore.
Leon turned ashen. He couldn't swallow. Scuttling back up the riverbank, shaking his head, he grabbed the flask from Willy's hand, twisted the top off and guzzled. Tired of waiting, Willy tottered a few steps closer to the waterline, but stopped shy, and turned back.
Leon flopped down on the muddy bank. "Willy — you done caught you a white girl."
"What do you mean caught me a white girl?"
Hand-over-hand, Willy clumsily followed his fishing line down the bank toward the water, until his left hand encountered the log. He pawed along the wet bark until his other hand entangled a fistful of hair.
The body continued its gentle slosh against the riverbank. Most of the torso was now out of the water face up in the mud. Brunette hair floated on the surface like strands of a jellyfish. At most, the body had only been in the water overnight. The icy temperatures of the Ohio thwarted decay.
Leon watched from a distance, his body quivering.
"Leon, describe her to me."
"Willy — I don't know. She's all slimy, covered in river rot. And, she's got on some kind of uniform."
"Leon! Get your scrawny ass down here. What the hell you mean — a uniform? Like a waitress or something?"
The slight swell of the river, forcing the corpse from its murky depths, gave the lump of bones a mysterious life-like quality all its own. Leon tried to be strong as he cautiously rejoined his friend.
"No. Looks like some kind of military uniform."
Spittle ran down Leon's chin. He swiped it off and watched Willy gently caress the poor girl's face.
"Leave her be," Leon whispered. Leon had no fascination with the dead. Willy, however, was a creature of sensation and wanted to feel every square inch of the corpse. Afterall, it wasn't everyday an old black man garnered from the river opportunity to run his hands over a white girl.
Leon stood back as his friend's fingers traced the girl's face, plucked a blade of river grass from her mouth, and tossed it aside. Then, Willy slowly worked his way down the body. He particularly liked the buttons on her suit and the ribbons on her breast pocket. It certainly was a military uniform. His hand slid down her ankle and discovered she was missing her right shoe. She had on nylons, but the little toe had torn through the sheer material.
"She wearing nail polish?"
"What difference does it make?"
"Is it red?"
Disgusted, Leon walked over and quickly examined the girl's foot. "It's more pink than red."
"What color is the uniform?"
"Blue."
"Air Force then," Willy said.
"We gotta call the cops."
"Look, if we call the cops they're gonna ask us plenty of questions. Couple niggers like us? They'll probably throw us in jail for killing this white girl. Even if they don't, they'll sure's hell find out about your unpaid tickets and yank your license. Then I'd have to take the bus everywhere. Can't do that no more."
"We gotta do something. We can't just leave her out here." "You could push her back in and let nature sorta ... take its course."
"I ain't touchin' her!"
"You prepared to pay them tickets?" Leon scratched his head and stubbed the toe of his boot in the dirt. "Guess not."
Willy washed his hands in the river and then stood up straight. "OK, then. I'll say a prayer for her and you push her back in." "Willy — I swear I'll leave your nigger ass here. You walk away from that poor girl this instant."
Leon found Willy's lure, cut it loose, pocketed it, and trudged over to collect his fishing gear.
Willy, detecting the fear in Leon's voice, knew he was finished. So, he silently prayed for the girl as he moved to gather his own tackle. Leon slipped the cooler over his shoulder, handed Willy the folding chairs, then took his friend by the arm and led him up the trail.
As Willy walked through the tall grass, he reckoned he now had as good a reason as any for his solemn mood. Their favorite fishing hole would never be the same.

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