Graffiti Creek Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Foreward

  Critical Reviews

  Dedication

  Chapter

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

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  41

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  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

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  55

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Pandamoon Books

  Graffiti Creek

  By

  Matt Coleman

  © 2018 by Matt Coleman

  This book is a work of creative fiction that uses actual publicly known events, situations, and locations as background for the storyline with fictional embellishments as creative license allows. Although the publisher has made every effort to ensure the grammatical integrity of this book was correct at press time, the publisher does not assume and hereby disclaims any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause. At Pandamoon, we take great pride in producing quality works that accurately reflect the voice of the author. All the words are the author’s alone.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pandamoon Publishing. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  www.pandamoonpublishing.com

  Jacket design and illustrations © Pandamoon Publishing

  Art Design and Direction by Matthew Kramer: Pandamoon Publishing

  Editing by Zara Kramer, Rachel Schoenbauer, Jessica Reino, and Forrest Driskel: Pandamoon Publishing

  Pandamoon Publishing and the portrayal of a panda and a moon are registered trademarks of Pandamoon Publishing.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC

  Edition: 1, ver. 1.00

  ISBN-13: 978-1-945502-91-0

  Foreward

  Beyond the Bloodstains

  I read a lot of crime fiction. Some of it is great, but the majority is superficial, formulaic, and trite. The book you are holding, Matt Coleman’s Graffiti Creek, is none of those. This is a book about people caught in situations they don’t deserve. This is a book about corruption and evil agendas. This is a thriller about escape and existence on the lam. Yeah, this is all those things, but it’s also something much more special: a narrative in which everyone has a story, a background, a reason.

  You see, the main problem with contemporary crime fiction is that the tropes that have come to characterize the genre are no longer impactful in most narratives. They have turned into flavorless ingredients thrown passionlessly into a bland broth that writers keep preparing again and again and again. Crime is a commonplace thing, but that doesn’t mean a writer should treat their characters as puppets in order to tell a story about guns, violence, bad decisions, and drugs. In Graffitti Creek, the narrative revolves around people. These characters are alive. Cary is multilayered. Marlowe is nuanced. Hell, even the supporting characters act and talk like unique entities. This is what the genre should always strive for: memorable people instead of disposable cutouts. The way Coleman writes, characters feel human. Even those in the background are never simply used as props. When you read about homeless people huddled around a trashcan fire, the writing makes you see them as part of the landscape, the inevitable result of a system designed to swallow us and spit us back out as soon as we make a big mistake or a few small ones. They are not criminals. They are not insulted. Coleman is here as chronicler, not judge, and that allows his prose, and his heart, to shine.

  Now, are you ready for the beautiful thing? Ready for the thing that pushes this novel into must-read territory? Well, here it is: balance. Yeah, Coleman wrote a novel that shines a light on “bad” people while treating homeless individuals and those from the wrong side of the track with the humanity they deserve, but he also engages fully with every element readers have come to expect from the genre. There is plenty of blood and violence here. There are twists and turns and high-speed chases and screams and curses and guns and a brilliant scene that includes two Hollywood giants about to shoot it out (I’ll let you get to that on your own without more details). There are secret agendas and questions and hiding and escaping from a vehicle as the bullets fly. All of that make this a book that, besides having a ton of heart and being superbly written, entertains constantly in that deep, brain-tingling way only great fiction can.

  Now that you know what makes this an outstanding read, dig in. Join Coleman and he hides Do Right and Seamus from you. Join him in looking at a dark, seedy, corrupt world from the inside and with authenticity to spare. Dig in and enjoy a novel that could be used to teach a course on the psychogeography of crime. Most importantly, come join a writer in an adventure that will undoubtedly place him on all those lists about authors to watch. Welcome to Graffiti Creek. Oh, and keep your eyes peeled because sometimes the stuff on the walls is actually blood, and Coleman is going to whisper in your ear about the stuff that lies beyond it.

  — Gabino Iglesias Author of ZERO SAINTS, HUNGRY DARKNESS, and GUTMOUTH

  Critical Reviews

  “Graffiti Creek by Matt Coleman is a non-stop thrill ride that may be the best adventure/chase novel you read this year. From the opening pages, the action begins and keeps the reader on the edge of their seat all the way through to the climactic finale. However, Graffiti Creek is more than just an action adventure novel. Mr. Coleman takes particular care in bringing forth a nuanced cast of characters; each with a story to tell, each believable in their actions and motivations. Graffiti Creek is also deftly plotted with more twists and turns within the pages than one of Cary Trubody’s many pulse-pounding acts of escape. Mr. Coleman has produced a first-rate thriller. And one that screams to be read in one sitting; those with heart conditions exempted, of course.” — Neil A White for Readers’ Favorite

  “I dare you to be able put it down with thoughts of coming back to it later. Just make sure you have a few hours free to read it in one go…and not before bed…or you will be running down alleyways, climbing through windows, wading through Graffiti Creek or finding yourself locked in a car trunk all night long! The tension jumps right off the page. With bodies being knifed, shot and brutalized all over the place, this is one intense read.” — Viga Boland for Readers’ Favorite

  “A well-written crime novel with elements of mystery, suspense, and action all equally intertwined in one plot. … A lot like a puzzle in that the story could only be solved when all of the puzzle pieces were in their correct places. I truly enjoyed trying to untangle and solve the plot myself throu
ghout the story, even though I never managed to guess correctly what was going on.” — Sefina Hawke for Readers’ Favorite

  “Full of tension and apprehension so much that it touches every one of your senses. A superb story from start to the climactic finish. The ending was perfect and not what I was expecting, because the plot constantly led you down one path and then took you in another direction … a perfect story for anyone who likes a good thriller and whodunit.” — Lesley Jones for Readers’ Favorite

  “Readers will be hooked from the very start. The prose is smooth and often downright brilliant in its simplicity. … 9.50 out of 10.” — The BookLife Prize by Publishers Weekly

  “If you like books that have cops, mystery, suspense, mistaken identity, some curse words then you may want to give Graffiti Creek by Matt Coleman a try.” — Heidi Lynn’s Book Reviews

  Dedication

  To Sam.

  Graffiti Creek

  Chapter 1

  On a wall of graffiti, blood splatter gets lost. One more color among the others. Dots and splashes of red across a spray of fonts with too many joints. They were all hard to read already. But with two eyes swollen shut and a fresh overlay of his own blood, Dante couldn’t make out a single word on the bridge in front of him.

  Detective Mark Thompson gripped and regripped a set of brass knuckles on his right hand. Behind him, his partner, Detective Richard Jolly, stood holding a gun like it was his wife’s purse and she was trying on shoes.

  Dante spit out a tooth. “I ain’t got no more copies, man.”

  Thompson nodded, shrugging with his whole body. His face even shrugged. “I hear you, brother.” He pulled a phone out of his pocket and waggled it in Dante’s face. “Why don’t you tell me how to unlock this little old phone of yours and let me make sure?”

  Dante struggled to raise his head to look at it. Snot and blood dripped down his ripped shirt. When he turned, the light coming in through the trees revealed a knuckle-shaped dent in the side of his head. He tried to talk, but it came out as unintelligible wanderings, “I ain’t g—got a copy, m—man. I ain’t d—done n—nothin’. I ain’t m—man m—man.”

  Thompson guffawed. “My man! My man! There we go! Now we’re chatting like a couple of old pals, huh, Dante? My man, Dante.”

  Jolly sniffed. “I think he’s done, Mark.”

  Dante kept rambling, snuffling, stuttering, sputtering. His hands were starting to tremble.

  Thompson knelt down and got right next to his face. He held Dante up by the bicep, steadying him. “All you gotta do is tell me your code, Dante. We can make this all stop. You got that left in you, buddy?” He tapped lightly on Dante’s head with the phone. “You got six numbers left in all those scrambled eggs up there?”

  Prying open his left eye, Dante managed to stare into Thompson’s splotchy pink face. His breath betrayed his propensity for drinking on the job and the cigarettes he couldn’t give up even after a minor heart attack. Dante forced a smile. “You’re s—such a f—fucking cliché.”

  Thompson stood back up and looked back at Jolly with a flailing flop of both arms. “This asshole wants to die slowly, Dick.”

  Jolly laughed. “They always do. Until they don’t.”

  Thompson wheeled back around and placed the heel of a boot onto the hand Dante had been propping himself up with. He pivoted and ground and grated Dante’s fingers into the cold concrete. Dante sobbed and collapsed, pawing at Thompson’s leg with his free hand. Thompson sucked at his teeth. “What part of this…cliché is good for you, Dante? In fact, correct me if I’m wrong, brother, but my cliché usually leaves your cliché a little worse for wear. Am I right?”

  Dante hung his head into his chest and cried. He mumbled, “Fo …fo …tuh…oh…un…fee.”

  Thompson let up on his hand and took a step back. “Now, you gonna have to speak some English there, boy.”

  Jolly stepped forward in front of Thompson, casually tossed out, “Four, four, two, zero, one, three. I got it,” and shot Dante in the head.

  Chapter 2

  All the traffic lights pulsed yellow. They interspersed the road like an airport runway. Cary leaned over onto an elbow as she drove, the caution lights tinting her face saffron every twenty seconds or so. Johnna slouched in the passenger seat and drunkenly chastised her in rhythm with the lights.

  “You’re ‘mbarrassed of me,” Johnna mumbled into her palm while stifling a hiccup.

  Cary rolled her eyes. “I am not embarrassed of you. I took you around my friends, didn’t I?”

  Johnna shook her head in lazy loops. “You played cards the whole time. Never touched me.”

  Cary sat up and switched driving hands to reach for Johnna’s leg. “I was winning, Johnna. Did you see the table? Three of those guys kept throwing money away trying to impress me with their bravado. I pegged them as eye-raping assholes during the first hand. All it took was a flirty bat of the lashes and they lost all semblance of a poker face. I walked away with $3,000, for Christ’s sake.”

  Johnna jerked away. “They don’t even know we’re together! You inta-introduced me as your friend.” She punctuated the last two slurred words with air quotes and the voice of a teasing child.

  “You are my friend.” Johnna curled a lip and glared at her, so Cary scrambled to cover. “My best friend. The love of my life. My girlfriend. You’re all of those things. I told you: it’s a gradual process. It’ll be a bit of a shock to some of them. And I refuse to be reduced to a label. If I surprise everyone with it, then I become someone’s ‘lesbian friend.’ I am not going to be a token, or some sort of badge my jackass friends get to iron onto their jean jackets.”

  Johnna flailed her hands. “’s been two months, Cary Ann! How long would you wait if I was a guy? Huh?”

  The argument had distracted Cary from the road. One of those flashing traffic lights she had cruised through had been red. Her brain registered it two seconds too late. She checked her rearview mirror for validation. The red traffic light throbbed at her like an angry eye. And swirling blue and red police lights erupted from an empty bank parking.

  “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

  Johnna craned her neck around wildly. “Wha? Wha’s happening?”

  Cary eyed her hard. “Don’t talk. Sit quietly and let me get a ticket or whatever. Please.” She noticed Johnna’s purse hanging open in the floorboard, a thick wad of bills clearly visible. “Shit. Hand me that money.” She snapped a hand up. “In a way that doesn’t look like you’re passing me a wad of money.”

  Johnna reached down to pick up her purse with a drunk’s deliberation. She passed the roll of hundreds and twenties over to Cary. Although Cary’s mother hated anything with the sartorial stylings of a militant lesbian, the tawny green field jacket was still a wardrobe staple. Luckily, its inside pockets held car keys, a phone, and huge wads of money with ease.

  Cary pulled into an empty restaurant parking lot and turned off her car. She started fishing for her driver’s license as the police officer strolled toward them with a flashlight. Cary hit the window button, but she had killed the engine. She laughed at herself and turned the car back on. The policeman put a hand on his gun and shouted, “Ma’am! Turn the car off!”

  Cary jumped, startled, calling out, “I’m only trying to roll down the window!”

  The officer backed up and yelled back, “Step out of the vehicle! Both of you! No sudden movements! Hands where I can see them!”

  Cary turned the car back off. Johnna gasped and stammered, “What the hell?”

  Cary snapped at her. “Do what he says. Try to act sober, Johnna.”

  They both eased out and followed the directions to walk to the back of the car. He guided them to sit on the curb next to where Cary had parked. His flashlight alternated between their faces, sending their hands up into defensive positions and making Johnna groan in annoyance. The cop loomed over them and spoke sharply. “You ladies been drinking tonight?”

  Johnna mumbled something, but Cary sp
oke over her, “My friend has. I haven’t. I’m taking her home. I’m sorry about the light. They had all been yellow before that and—”

  The cop held a hand out. “Ma’am. That’s enough. I didn’t ask. If I want to know something, I’ll ask about it.” He shined a light on the car. “Anything outstanding on you or your vehicle? Any warrants? Anything I need to know about?”

  Cary shook her head. “No. No, sir. I—I’m a graphic designer.”

  Johnna scoffed under her breath. “Friend. You did it again. Did you even realize it?”

  The officer shined his light back at Johnna but didn’t respond. He looked back at Cary. “I’m going to check on those plates. I’ll be back for your license and registration.”

  He walked back to his car and sat in the driver’s seat with the door open. Johnna continued to mumble things about friend this and friend that. Cary shushed her multiple times while trying to ascertain what the police officer was doing. Over the course of the next few minutes, Johnna slumped over and fell asleep on the ground. And the cop abandoned his radio and took a call on his cell phone. Cary squinted and concentrated, trying her best to read his lips, but all she could make out was a “Yes, sir,” right before he disconnected the call.

  He sauntered back over. Cary could make out Reynolds or Reynard on his name badge in the streetlight. He stopped about ten feet away from her, glanced at Johnna, then stared at Cary. “What’s your name?”

  “Cary Ann Trubody. You want my license?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  She fished it out of a pocket and held it up between two fingers. Instead of accepting it, the officer jerked his chin up at her in an aggressive order. “Up. Face the car.”

  Cary frowned. Watched him hold the buckle of his belt and sneer at her. Her chin quivered, but she rose. She held out the license, but the cop motioned with his head to her car. “Set it on the car.” She slowly turned around. Her pulse quickened. His footsteps churned the gravel of the parking lot toward her. She laid the license down on the back of the car. The cop sucked in on his teeth. “Both hands on the car, fingers splayed.” Cary did as asked. Her breath shuddered. He came up behind her, almost touching, and reached around to take her license.