SOUP BOYS, Chapters 1–3

Soup Boys is an Elmore Leonard-style crime thriller with a Bad News Bears subplot. You can buy a copy from Mouse House Books or Amazon and receive a cool bookmark designed by J.O. Applegate. (Contact Mosley to request.) Please enjoy the first three chapters below.

Chapter One

Donny Brooks said later that, in his dazed state, their arrival seemed almost instantaneous. One second he was standing wet and naked over the bug-eyed corpse, on the phone with 911; the next, he was still naked, giving CPR as the flashing rocket pops atop the aid and cop cars made a sad disco of the empty gym.

By the time Louis Meneses arrived, the building was taped off and Donny was clothed. Cameras flashed inside as detectives photographed the scene. Patrol officers loitered outside, big and bored. The night was warm for Seattle in June and the air smelled of industry.

Louis had rushed over immediately after receiving Donny’s call. Stepping out of his Honda Accord in khakis, flip-flops, and a half-buttoned guayabera shirt, he knew he looked out of place. The detectives wore ties, and even they had some heft to them. Louis was built like a distance runner and dressed like a guy who’d just run out of money at a Mazatlán strip club. Act like you belong, he reminded himself.

A reporter held a microphone and conferred with her crew. Louis knew where the fingers would point. Slighted fighter and felon “discovers” the corpse of the man who’d just slighted him, the strip club owner and fight promoter Tony Mascarpone. It was too easy.

How’d the news get here so early? And why were there so many cops?

Louis ducked the crime tape and found himself and everything near him instantly floodlit. He raised his hands and turned slowly, but it was only light from the TV camera, the reporter a silhouette against the brightness.

Turning back, he spotted Donny, baseball hat pulled low, towering above two men in sweaty dress shirtsand loosened ties who had him stuck against the gym’s outerwall. Donny was a great villain for TV news: big, tattooed, brown-skinned, a brawler by name and trade. While the men jabbered at him, Donny played it cool, staring blankly above them. He knew not to do or say anything without a lawyer.

One detective was pale with a salt-and-almond mustache, his hair neatly parted like a good boy’s. The other was darker and clean-shaven, his hair buzzed short. Louis had managed to sneak by patrol, but these guys noticed him right away.

“Hey!” shouted Mustache. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to pick up my brother.” Louis gestured to Donny.

“What’s your name?”

“Louis Meneses.”

“You guys got different last names.”

“Different dads.” No need to mention that they also had different moms. Growing up in the same group home doesn’t make you family in the eyes of the law.

“We still need to talk to him. You need to get on the other side of that tape.”

“Am I free to go?” asked Donny. “You still haven’t answered that.”

The detectives looked at each other.

“We just need to ask you a few questions so we can figure out what happened to your friend,” said Buzz Cut.

“I told you what I know. Am I free to go?”

“Are you free to go?” asked Mustache.

“Is he free to go?” asked Buzz Cut.

“You’re free to help us figure out what happened here,” said Mustache.

“Let’s go, Lou,” said Donny, turning sideways to slip between them. “Later, officers.”

“Maybe sooner,” said Mustache, handing him a card. Thomas Carlson. Buzz Cut did the same. Saul Esposito. Homicide detectives. “You could do yourself a favor talking to us.”

The patrol officers eyed the brothers as they passed the crime tape. “Where’s your car?” asked Louis.

Donny gestured to the far end of the lot, where it was parked in by multiple patrol cars.

“I’ll get it tomorrow. Let’s get out of here.”

“What the hell happened? You know they’re gonna pin this on you.”

“They got nothing on me. I didn’t do shit.”

“But you were there.”

“I was in the shower.”

“Yeah, you were washing your hair.” Louis stopped before they entered his Accord. “Where’s Mascarpone’s car?”

Donny just shrugged.

The ride was quiet. While Donny hadn’t been arrested, it felt like those times when Louis had had to bail him out. The childhood dynamic of Donny protecting Louis, who was two years his junior, had long ago been reversed.

“You know someone framed you, right?”

“Yeah, man,” said Donny. “Who Framed Donny Brooks? Do I get to fuck Jessica Rabbit?”

“We probably shouldn’t have left your car,” said Louis, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as they waited out a red light. “Though I guess whoever framed you can’t plant anything with the cops there.”

“Sure,” said Donny. “If it’s not the cops who framed me.”

Chapter Two

“Float like Baryshnikov . . . Sting like Kalashnikov . . . BLACK RUSSIAN!” Hear it crackle over a casino hall’s PA just before the cheap fireworks pop and the Red Army Choir’s rendition of “The State Anthem of the Soviet Union” kicks in and Donny begins his slow walk past the rows of folding chairs and into the cage.

See it in Rodchenko font on an eleven-by-seventeen-inch poster, Donny shirtless against the silhouette of a factory, a hammer and sickle tattooed on his chest. Find the posters on telephone poles and bus shelter walls, on coffee shop bulletin boards and random windshields. Above the trough in a dive bar men’s room. On the wall beside Louis’s desk at Matsakis Capital, the only adornment in that joyless space, the only family picture.

Now see the poster on Louis’s computer screen, embedded in a newsarticle on Mascarpone’s death, in which the police strongly suspect foul play.

Black Russian was Donny’s Rocky IV-inspired character from his backyard wrestling days at the group home. Back then it was a middle finger to his housemates and their great white hope. Now it was a bit of Cold War kitsch, an inside joke between Donny and Louis that had stuck.

It always baffled the local fight press.

“You’re not really Russian, are you?” asked one reporter.

“Y’all ask Pablo Gomez if he’s really a bear?” countered Donny. “Would you like it better if I was Black Panther? That’s more my politics.”

“Do you support what the Soviet Union did?”

“I’m a Marxist, not a Tankie.”

That comment headlined the article, with one small variation:

Donny “Black Russian” Brooks: I’m a Marxist, Not a Tank.

Donny had wasted his prime in the underground circuit, fighting bare-knuckle for rubber-banded rolls of cash that were delivered before the blood dried. Aging mobsters placed bets and stood spittle-close, shouting at the fighters as they would at racehorses.

Then one day Tony Mascarpone showed up. A snake, a loan shark, a pussy hound in alligator shoes, he was an animal, gaudily veiled, a wolf in pimp’s clothing. You couldn’t trust him, but you could trust him to put on a show. He signed Donny on the spot with a fat stack of twenties.

Mascarpone held Donny’s first fight in the parking lot of his strip club, Tony’s Palace. Stunt motorcyclists jumped the cage between rounds. Tickets were good for a lap dance afterward. Donny fought as Black Russian and won by knockout. The crowd loved him, so Mascarpone did too.

A few months later, Mascarpone picked up another heavyweight: Jameson “Sweet Dreams” Suggs, who’d been a special teams standout on the University of Washington football team. Mascarpone called Donny and Jameson the “Bash Brothers,” a moniker he stole from the late-eighties Oakland A’s stars Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire. At a glance, Donny and Jameson lookedenough alike, tall and broad with light-brown skin and strong jaws. And they both had hard-luck backstories — Donny orphaned early, Jameson raised by a mother who struggled with addiction and did some time.

Everyone assumed Mascarpone preferred Donny’s knockouts and showmanship to Jameson’s less theatrical fare. Mascarpone had given Donny occasional work as a bouncer and driver, and even let him stay in the various apartments he kept for entertaining. Jameson received no such favors. Nevertheless, just twelve or so hours before his death, Mascarpone announced that Palace Promotions would be sending Jameson, not Donny, to fight local heavyweight Pablo “El Oso” Gomez in the main event of the upcoming Wallop in Puyallup, a fight that was considered an informal audition for a contract with a national promotion. At thirty-three, Donny couldn’t be sure he’d get another shot.

*

“You’re a buncha potted plants!” Nick Matsakis shouted, distracting Louis from the article on Mascarpone’s suspectedmurder. “Dildos with ears!”

Matsakis was angry that a client hadn’t been sent a birthday card. He was angry that Louis had convinced him to bet big against a local bank stock. He was angry that no one had refilled the candy bowl. The flesh of his neck wobbled against his collar.

The objects of his ire, be they dildos or potted plants, numbered three, and their duties were well defined. Matsakis Capital was a boutique wealth management firm catering to the less-legal entrepreneur, and each employee played his part. Tom Popler was the fixer, well-connected, responsible for tokens of appreciation like hookers and birthday cards. Dermot Wellnitz was the accountant; he made the clients’ books look legit, which they rarely were. And Louis was the whiz kid, insulated from the dirt (or so he told himself), his only job to pick and manage investments. The candy might be termed a floating responsibility since the receptionist had quit.

“Easy, boss,” said Popler. “I sent him a girl with a balloon bouquet that said ‘Happy Birthday.’”

“A balloon bouquet?!”

“He likes balloons.”

Matsakis tucked his chin, folding his jowls against his collar, and pondered the answer. Several seconds later, he lifted his chin and gave a small nod, indicating approval.

“And you?” he asked Louis.

“And me,” Louis replied. The bank short was a good bet. He got up and gathered his stuff.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked Matsakis.

“Getting candy,” said Louis. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

*

They met at their usual spot, a diner near Donny’s gym, even though the gym was now a crime scene and not open for training. Donny arrived first and grabbed a window booth. Smiling through the steam from his coffee, he didn’t look like a guy about to face a murder charge. Nor did Louis want to bring it up, so he asked about fighting instead.

Who would run Palace Promotions, which still had Donny under contract? Mascarpone had only one child, a son named Frank. But Frank and his girlfriend, former Palace dancer Honey Summers (given and stage name), were on the lam for killing two men in a cardroom shoot-out. That left Tony’s brother Dominic, a straight-and-narrow family man who lived in Philadelphia and wouldn’t want Tony’s action, and Hal Tran, a local restaurateur who had recently purchased a minority stake in Palace Promotions.

“His timing’s too good,” argued Louis, who hadn’t given Tran much thought when the partnership was announced, when it seemed like just another footnote to Donny’s modestly successful fight career. “Why would he want in?”

“He loves fighting. He did this Vietnamese martial art called Vovinam when he was a kid.”

“And why would Mascarpone want him?”

“Mascarpone wanted to go big, rent the Tacoma Dome. Tran has deep pockets.”

“He makes that much selling soup?”

“Come on, man, you know his story.”

“How would I know his story?”

“Alright,” said Donny, settling his forearms on the table and leaning forward. “About ten years ago, he went to this auction at a seized mansion in Mercer Island, a drug case, and bought a Steinway piano. When he got it home and had a look under its hood, he found fifty-two keys.”

“Keys inside the piano?”

“Kilos, Lou. One key of white for every white key.”

“That’s a lovely fairy tale.”

“For real.”

“Like Clipse pitching a script to Disney.”

“I’ve seen the piano.”

“No one with that kind of money would keep his supply in his house. It’s a terrible idea.”

“Tony Montana did.”

“Someone would’ve noticed it. The dogs would’ve smelled it. The acoustics would’ve been off. Why would he keep it in the piano?”

“Yeah, how’d they make it through sound check, right Lou?”

Louis shook his head and picked at his fries.

“Think about it, though,” continued Donny. “You got this windfall, but how do you move it?”

“It can’t be that hard to push imaginary weight. You could sell it to imaginary customers.”

“You got no muscle and you tell someone you got fifty-two keys, they either assume you’re a cop or they rob you. Now you could claim you’ve got a connect, but they’ll be pissed when they realize you lied. You can move it slow, a little at a time, but that’s just more chances to get busted or killed.”

“You know nothing about the drug business and neither do I,” said Louis.

“Now, anyone in their right mind, they’d just call the cops and turn it over, right? I mean, dude was a refugee, and now business is so good he’s buying Steinways. What’s he need to sell coke for? But Tran, he hits up a local distributor, claims he’s got muscle, some Green Berets he knew from when he ran a nightclub in Saigon. They were probably importing for the CIA by this point anyway. He says, look, buy this shit at wholesale — good deal for you — or we go to war.”

“And?”

“And it worked. He’s got vacation houses. He drives Benzes.”

Okay,” said Louis. “So let’s say he’s that fearless, that opportunistic. Why shouldn’t we think he knocked off Mascarpone and pinned it on you? A Vietnamese refugee can’t be a fan of your little communist act.”

“Nah, me and Tran are cool.”

“You’re the one always telling me not to underestimate greed.”

“It’s not like that,” said Donny, sipping his coffee. “Tran’s loyal, looks out for his people. Speaking of which — ”

“I got it,” said Louis, referring to legal fees. He lived thriftily to be ready for times like this. “Just put me in touch with Rutecki.”

“Thank you,” said Donny. “I really appreciate that. But I was thinking of something else. What are you doing on Friday?”

Chapter Three

Tony Mascarpone had been a man of the church, at least if you went by the donations on his ledger and the diamond-dipped crucifix on his chest. So when time came to mark his passing, Tony found himself in an open casket at St. Joseph’s, rosary beads clasped in his knobby, dead hands.

Louis was uneasy about Donny’s decision to attend, expecting disapproving stares and maybe worse. The brothers drew little notice upon entry, perhaps because they had so much competition for it. Popler, the professional schmoozer, had his work cut out for him: the church was full of criminal luminaries. It was like the crime section of a local wax museum had come to life. Except for poor Tony, of course.

Louis and Donny found a stretch of open pew beside four old women. Louis wondered whether these women had even known Tony Mascarpone. That they might attend a stranger’s funeral seemed both absurd and decent. They nailed every liturgical response and sang along with the hymns in threadbare falsettos.

“And he will raise you up on eagle’s wings . . . bear you on the breath of the dawn . . .make you shine like the sun . . . and hold you in the palm of his hand.”

Louis pictured Mascarpone, glowing magnificently, strapped to the back of an eagle like a kayak on a Subaru, or sitting in the giant hand of the Lord while a cartoon cloud puffed a sturdy breeze and a cartoon sun peeked its head over the eastern horizon, offering a jovial wink.

Tony’s brother Dominic delivered the lay eulogy. He wore a dark suit with generous shoulder pads. His voice was raspy and a little high.

“Tony was a gentle soul,” said Dominic. “He was a loyal brother and a loving father and uncle. My heart breaks to think that Francis may not know yet of his father’s passing.

“But the truth is, Tony treated everybody like family. Many times I saw people come to him for help, people some would say didn’t deserve it, because they’d made poor choices. I make no such judgments, especially in the house of the Lord. And Tony made no such judgments either. If you asked Tony for help, he gave it — freely, and without strings.

“However,” Dominic continued, his delivery growing more forceful, “not all of his recipients were grateful. And his generosity was not enough to protect him. Now he lies in the bosom of our Lord. May he find there eternal peace, and may the Lord have mercy on whoever ended his beautiful life.”

Heads turned toward the lone suspect. Donny tensed his jaw and stared ahead.

*

The sky was dark and knotted, ready to rain. The priest stood beneath a small tarp before the casket and the grave, his robe hanging down to the grass. Altar boys on either side of him held giant crosses.

The mourners stood on the other side of the grave. Dominic and his family were in the front row. Behind them were dour, double-chinned dons, making a show of their manly forbearance, and young women, probably Palace dancers, their pouty lips painted bright red, their melodramatic veils rippling in the winds of their fanning funeral programs. They reminded Louis of the reality show contestants competing to win the aging celebrity bachelor’s heart. Except now they were competing to be his widow.

By contrast, the new boss felt no need to compete. Hal Tran and his family had stationed themselves on the periphery, grim and inscrutable. Tran and his wife looked alike — all angles and wrinkles and upright bearing. Their son was wiry too, but looser of limb. He appeared to be in his twenties and wore a porkpie hat and a pinstriped suit straight out of a nineties NBA draft.

But it was the daughter who caught Louis’s eye, with her long limbs, high cheekbones, and sleek black dress and flats. Porkpie noticed Louis staring and mean-mugged. Louis looked away.

Popler blew in Louis’s ear, causing him to jump.

“You get that suit in the boys’ department?” he asked, doing his silent giggle, bouncing his shoulders. “Look who’s here. Two o’clock.”

A group of middle-aged white guys stationed about thirty yards away. Their self-regard was palpable, particularly the tallest one.

“Who are they?” whispered Louis.

“The tall one’s Foster Capps,” said Donny.

Foster Capps and his Youth Gang Unit had been the start of young Donny’s troubles with the law. An overzealous bunch,they loved to harass Donny’screw. One day they stopped him for jaywalking and things got physical. Donny broke one of their jaws andended up in the hospital himself after the beating that followed.

The incident made Donny a legend to the neighborhood kids but somehow never made the papers, perhaps because Capps was so cozy with the press. He was the subject of fawning profiles, the square-jawed straight shooter “just trying to help these kids.” But if the salty popcorn of hood rumor contains a hard kernel of truth, reporters would have found a better story in his time in the vicesquad, where he was said to have exacted all sorts of tribute, from cash to drugs to sex.

“What’s he doing here?” asked Louis.

“I see him at the fights occasionally,” said Donny. “He likes Jameson, but he knows not to fuck with me.”

“He’s head of homicide,” added Popler. “He might want to see who shows up. Might want to make a show of being at the victim’s funeral. Also, he’s a climber — I hear he wants to run for office. Lotta money here, even if it’s dirty.”

A rumble of thunder drew murmurs from the crowd. The priest sped up his incantations. As Dominic and his family threw dirt and flowers on the descending coffin, the raindrops began to fall, fast and fat. The crowd hurried to their cars, but Donny just stood there, his eyes bloodshot and his expression blank. For the first time that day, Louis really noticed his brother’s grief.

“You got a lot of nerve showing up here,” snarled a guy in a too-tight suit. He had a thick neck, a blond military cut, and cauliflower ears.

Donny snapped to. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m a guy with a clean conscience.”

“You’re about to be a guy with a clean clock.”

Louis felt a wave of panic. This is exactly what he’d feared. He grabbed Donny by the arm, but Donny easily slipped free. Donny and the guy were chin to chin. Louis stepped between them. Everything went black.

Buy Soup Boys from Mouse House Books or Amazon