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191 pages

English

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Extrait

Description

DeShane Salliver has no redeeming qualities. He travels the streets smelling out crime and opportunites. When he kidnaps a young mother, his life takes a hard and fast turn.
Circus of Angels is the story of a young man's poor choices. In his search for a better life, many lives are taken while others are forever changed.

Sujets

Kidnappings

Fiction

Informations

Publié par	Archway Publishing
Date de parution	25 avril 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781665742016
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Circus of Angels
LORYN KRAMER STALEY

Copyright © 2022 Loryn Kramer Staley.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.archwaypublishing.com
844-669-3957

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4200-9 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6657-4201-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023906280

Archway Publishing rev. date: 04/19/2023
CONTENTS
Introduction

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Also by Loryn Kramer Staley
The Righteous Enemy
1230 North Garfield
Briefly Borrowed
Thunder’s Glory
INTRODUCTION
In the early 1930s, a narrow dirt road known as the “Big Nine” veined north to Blue Goose Hollow, a company housing area for employees of an iron works refinery positioned alongside the Tennessee River. To the east of Big Nine, Onion Bottom, a low-lying area known to flood after an April shower, encompassed a dump site, a processing plant, and the county’s largest slum. Pennies away from poverty, the area’s residents lived alongside run-down and abandoned buildings, neglected lots, and vacant retail spaces. Storefront windows were busted out and, when city officials demanded, boarded up, only to be violated with graffiti gang members left behind when marking their territory. In the shadows, addicts and nickel prostitutes called condemned structures their “place of business.” Over time, Big Nine attracted panhandlers, loitering, and petty theft, and its homeless population overflowed into muddy arroyos and littered streets.
DeShane Salliver, who is known on the street as Sally, is already crime savvy, and when day turns to night, the streets become his hunting ground. When the life of crime takes a day off, he returns to his mother’s apartment, a single-parent environment he shares with Marshall, his younger brother.
Their building is the last structure edging Foundry Street. Abutting a drainage ditch, their building mirrors several four-story tenements overshadowing their run-down, three-story building.
Once an oasis for travelers, the train depot across the street shut down before the holidays and the lumberyard on the corner continues to post signs advising it is not hiring.
Sometime ago, when vandals defaced the green and white street sign, city officials made a so-so promise to replace it and the burned-out bulb in the street’s only lamppost.
The daughter of a third-generation sharecropper, Ramona, DeShane’s mother, escaped the hood when her mother kicked her to the curb. “A bad seed!” her mother shouted at her back while throwing an open hand to a rickety screen door. Now, each time Ramona narrows her eyes on DeShane, she repeats the names her own mother once threw at her.
1
“S uzanne, do you have a minute?” Gail asks, holding the phone close.
“I always have time for you. What’s up?”
“Lewis is a coward. Always has been. Always will be. He is having an affair. When I questioned him about it, that stupid husband of mine went into details my heart will never forgive or forget,” Gail shares in a low voice. “This chick wears spinners on her tatas. A sixth sense tells me Lewis is reaching for a way out. I could kick myself for not paying attention to his darting eyes. Now that I think about it, I’m surprised he is not cross-eyed.”
“An affair? Are you sure? Given the dandruff he carries on his shoulders, I’m surprised any woman would take an interest in him,” Suzanne lets slip.
“He met her at a casino,” Gail shares, skipping over the insult her best friend threw at her husband. “He used our credit card each time he booked a room. Idiot kept the receipts in an envelope. I found them in our desk when I was organizing the drawers. When I asked him about them, he tried convincing me that it was just a fling and it’s over.”
“I am so sorry to hear this. I can’t imagine the pain you are feeling.”
“It’s funny, but it’s not pain I’m feeling. Pain is learning my mother was recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Lewis went on to tell me he had given this woman an engagement ring.”
“Are you serious?” Suzanne asks, recalling the time Gail told her that when it came to happenings in the bedroom, Lewis knew only one position—spooning. “Are you certain he ended the affair?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know. I’m ready to send his sorry self packing.”
“I’ve never been in your situation, but my advice would be to wait it out. It’s possible time will heal your open wounds.”
“I’ve been such a fool. I believed he was spending his free time playing tennis. It never crossed my mind that he was playing house with another woman. When I slammed him with a wall of questions, he went possum on me.”
“Possum?”
“Played dead. I could shoot myself for not staying single. I’m learning that life with Lewis is a crapshoot. I never know what’s waiting around the corner. Take my advice—never marry a man known as One-Way Lewis.”
“Not to worry. Glenn is stuck with me,” she says, turning her eyes to her husband. “Something tells me there will never be another love like ours.”
2
T he Warehouse Row Clock Tower rings out eight bells, letting the people of Chattanooga know the city is open for business.
A parade of lawyers marches along at a pace hinting they were due in court yesterday. Shouldering cell phones, they race along East Third Street. Close observation lets curious onlookers know a smile is not to be found among them. Crammed together in their approach to the finish line, they travel the stairs to the Hamilton County Juvenile Detention Center, where youthful detainees await their arrival.
The center’s walls are cracked, and dark circles left behind after a season of threatening rains freckle the ceiling. Given the center’s tight budget is already at a stretch, repairs remain in the holding pattern.
Deep within the nurse’s station, young DeShane runs a thick, wet tongue over a fresh cut on his wrist. Tapping his feet to the low music escaping the room’s sound system, he licks at a pool of blood and picks at an aging scab a burning joint left behind. Nipping at the twisted appendage, he spits the flesh into the air. Twice in the last week, he asked the nurse in the white lab coat for ointment or painkillers—anything to ease his discomfort. Both times, her response was the same.
“If you’re going to act out like a crazy man, you best be prepared to take it like a man.”
Believing he is the victim of the courts and its reprimands and sentences, DeShane has little doubt his day in court will have a different outcome. A creature of habit and a kid who refuses to take no for an answer, he continues to keep after it.
“Give me something for the pain,” he says, scratching at his ears.
“I’m no doctor, but that rash has me believing you’re allergic to carbon steel or aluminum,” the nurse says, limping to his side. “That’s what those handcuffs are made of.” Planting her feet and placing her fisted hands on her hips, she looks him straight in the eye. “One would think that alone would be enough for you to want to turn your life around,” she says, giving her two cents’ worth. “You also have a bad case of ear mites and scabies.”
“Ear mites?”
“Common in dogs.”
“And scabies?”
“Infestation of the skin by the human itch mite. They burrow into the upper layer of the skin, where they live and lay eggs.”
“Get rid of them.”
“Maybe you can nip at them and spit them into the air. Just so you know, a spit hood is on its way. How long have you had lice on your eyelashes?”
“Listen up, Gimpy. My lashes are my business. I’m guessing you are not paid to think,” he sasses, running a hand over his eyes. “Don’t think I won’t use this,” he says, throwing out his fist.
“Oh, but I am paid to think. Throwing out that fist will keep you here,” she says, jabbing an inch-long needle into the beefy part of his arm. “Oops. My bad. I should have mentioned you might feel a sting.”
Not to be outdone, he raises cuffed wrists to the air and, with the passion of a trained conductor, flips her the bird.
“Really? Like I’ve