Oscar_Jade
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Thanks very much for the welcome into your great community here. I'd like to share a sample of my book...an excerpt from my first chapter. I hope you enjoy it.
1: Fumble-Foot
The stranger took Oscar Jade by surprise—that was the worst part. Worse, even, than the white-hot pain as Jade dropped to one knee, angry with himself because he had no one else to blame.
He figured the stranger would have been watching closely as Jade got up from the outdoor table he’d been sharing with the dame at the beachfront Pelican Bar & Grill. He’d probably taken note of the way Jade’s left foot turned inward, and the obvious limp, as Jade made his way past the other tables to where the stranger stood. He would have made a quick and casual appraisal of Jade’s lean, lanky height. The stranger probably missed the unusual thickness of the wrists, the wiry power hidden in those long arms, and the measured determination of the approach. He would have been confident in his judgment that Oscar Jade was easy game.
The stranger was broad-shouldered, thickly muscled and obviously very powerful beneath his expensive grey suit with its telltale bulge under the left armpit. His hat was angled forward, the stiff brim nearly hiding his sharp, dark eyes. The wide nose had been broken at least once, the chin was pointed, the smile a little too self-satisfied. He was probably in his late thirties.
Jade passed beneath the red and white striped canvas awning of the Pelican’s open-air frontage and stood next to him. The stranger leaned back, his elbows resting on the ancient wooden tavern bar. He slowly turned his gaze upward to meet Jade’s eyes.
“Hello,” said Jade.
“Hey,” he replied lazily.
“Anything I can do for you?”
“I doubt it, junior.” His smile didn’t waver as he stared over Jade’s shoulder at the brunette at the table. She was in conversation with Claude Applegate, the owner of the Pelican: a huge, square-jawed, white-haired, lean giant of a man. Both of them returned the stranger’s stare.
“Is there a problem?” asked Jade easily.
“It’s none of your business, fumble-foot.”
Jade smiled pleasantly. “Actually, it is my business now.”
And so the stranger had quickly stepped forward and stomped down on Jade’s club left foot, and Jade dropped to one knee and cursed his own stupidity.
He looked back at the table; Myrna’s mouth was open in surprise. Claude took a step toward the bar. Jade raised an open hand, and Claude stopped in mid-stride.
The stranger leaned down, grabbed Jade by the collar of his shirt, and whispered in his ear. Jade noted the distinct Brooklyn accent. “If you’re smart you’ll stay out of it, gimp.”
He let go of Jade and stood up. He smiled at Myrna and Claude, and tipped his hat. Then he turned and walked away. Emerging from beneath the Pelican’s awning, he strolled toward the corner of 15th Street and Ocean Drive, where a line of cars were parked at the curb alongside the stuccoed south wall.
Jade stood up quickly. He reached across the bar and grabbed an unopened bottle of beer from a tub that Claude had recently filled with ice. By this time the stranger was perhaps thirty feet away. Jade held the bottle firmly by the neck in his right hand, stepped forward, and threw it overhand, putting all of his weight behind it. The bottle completed one revolution end over end in midair before it hit the guy at the base of his skull and bounced upward in a lazy, looping arc. It didn’t break until it hit the sidewalk—exploding with a pop of foam and shards of broken brown glass—and by that time the guy in the nice grey suit was sprawling forward on his face. His jaunty hat fluttered to the ground beside him.
Jade was upon him in no time. He rolled him over onto his back, and stepped on the stranger’s neck with his bad foot. Only those who knew him well would have noticed the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth as Jade accepted the pain with the familiarity of an unwelcome relative.
The guy blinked up at him in disbelief, his constrained breaths whistling between bared teeth. Jade opened the guy’s suit jacket and pulled a Colt .45 semiautomatic from a leather holster under his arm.
“Nice piece,” Jade remarked, and stepped down harder. The breathing stopped altogether. He pulled back the hammer, and jammed the barrel directly between the stranger’s bulging eyes. “Just so you know,” he said, “I don’t like a******s.”
1: Fumble-Foot
The stranger took Oscar Jade by surprise—that was the worst part. Worse, even, than the white-hot pain as Jade dropped to one knee, angry with himself because he had no one else to blame.
He figured the stranger would have been watching closely as Jade got up from the outdoor table he’d been sharing with the dame at the beachfront Pelican Bar & Grill. He’d probably taken note of the way Jade’s left foot turned inward, and the obvious limp, as Jade made his way past the other tables to where the stranger stood. He would have made a quick and casual appraisal of Jade’s lean, lanky height. The stranger probably missed the unusual thickness of the wrists, the wiry power hidden in those long arms, and the measured determination of the approach. He would have been confident in his judgment that Oscar Jade was easy game.
The stranger was broad-shouldered, thickly muscled and obviously very powerful beneath his expensive grey suit with its telltale bulge under the left armpit. His hat was angled forward, the stiff brim nearly hiding his sharp, dark eyes. The wide nose had been broken at least once, the chin was pointed, the smile a little too self-satisfied. He was probably in his late thirties.
Jade passed beneath the red and white striped canvas awning of the Pelican’s open-air frontage and stood next to him. The stranger leaned back, his elbows resting on the ancient wooden tavern bar. He slowly turned his gaze upward to meet Jade’s eyes.
“Hello,” said Jade.
“Hey,” he replied lazily.
“Anything I can do for you?”
“I doubt it, junior.” His smile didn’t waver as he stared over Jade’s shoulder at the brunette at the table. She was in conversation with Claude Applegate, the owner of the Pelican: a huge, square-jawed, white-haired, lean giant of a man. Both of them returned the stranger’s stare.
“Is there a problem?” asked Jade easily.
“It’s none of your business, fumble-foot.”
Jade smiled pleasantly. “Actually, it is my business now.”
And so the stranger had quickly stepped forward and stomped down on Jade’s club left foot, and Jade dropped to one knee and cursed his own stupidity.
He looked back at the table; Myrna’s mouth was open in surprise. Claude took a step toward the bar. Jade raised an open hand, and Claude stopped in mid-stride.
The stranger leaned down, grabbed Jade by the collar of his shirt, and whispered in his ear. Jade noted the distinct Brooklyn accent. “If you’re smart you’ll stay out of it, gimp.”
He let go of Jade and stood up. He smiled at Myrna and Claude, and tipped his hat. Then he turned and walked away. Emerging from beneath the Pelican’s awning, he strolled toward the corner of 15th Street and Ocean Drive, where a line of cars were parked at the curb alongside the stuccoed south wall.
Jade stood up quickly. He reached across the bar and grabbed an unopened bottle of beer from a tub that Claude had recently filled with ice. By this time the stranger was perhaps thirty feet away. Jade held the bottle firmly by the neck in his right hand, stepped forward, and threw it overhand, putting all of his weight behind it. The bottle completed one revolution end over end in midair before it hit the guy at the base of his skull and bounced upward in a lazy, looping arc. It didn’t break until it hit the sidewalk—exploding with a pop of foam and shards of broken brown glass—and by that time the guy in the nice grey suit was sprawling forward on his face. His jaunty hat fluttered to the ground beside him.
Jade was upon him in no time. He rolled him over onto his back, and stepped on the stranger’s neck with his bad foot. Only those who knew him well would have noticed the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth as Jade accepted the pain with the familiarity of an unwelcome relative.
The guy blinked up at him in disbelief, his constrained breaths whistling between bared teeth. Jade opened the guy’s suit jacket and pulled a Colt .45 semiautomatic from a leather holster under his arm.
“Nice piece,” Jade remarked, and stepped down harder. The breathing stopped altogether. He pulled back the hammer, and jammed the barrel directly between the stranger’s bulging eyes. “Just so you know,” he said, “I don’t like a******s.”