Newport Ave

A fugitive from a manslaughter charge returns home to a foggy California beach town hoping to protect his sister Olivia from her estranged husband, a mob-connected gambler. He enlists the help of his closest old friend, now a devoted Christian family man and Sunday school teacher. After exploring all options, they decide the only sure way to protect Olivia is to kill the gambler. Newport Ave, a gripping novel in the noir tradition, explores crime and its endless consequences.

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NEWPORT AVE

a novel of crime and . . .

1

GREG MAIRS WAS a high school senior when his girlfriend called with the news. The next day, his amigo James said, “Come on, Romeo, make up your mind.”

The boys were carrying longboards on their shoulders down Newport Avenue toward the pier.

“Crap,” Greg said.

“Jesus, man, do you love her or don’t you?”

Greg shifted the board from his right to left shoulder. “Sure, I guess. I mean, she’s a babe, a lot of laughs, we have a good time.”

Then James stopped cold, staring downhill at the Silva brothers. Tony stood in the middle with legs spread, his stance and shoulders as wide as the sidewalk. Junior was stationed in the gutter. Leaning against the schoolyard’s chain link fence was Marco, the oldest and boss of the family since their papa got gaffed.

“No sweat,” Greg said. “They just want to talk.”

James harbored no such illusion. He was plenty enough acquainted with Portuguese families who made up the Point Loma tuna cartel to know they were big on honor. Knock up the little sister, you’re liable to die.

Junior made the first move. He aimed a forefinger at James. “Scram, Dobchek. This ain’t about you.”

“Yeah, then what’s the deal?”

“Just get lost, Whiz.”

Before James could decide how best to give his amigo a getaway op, whether to take a swipe with his board or to drop it and lead with his fists, Greg passed him by.

Greg was approaching Junior, their classmate through whom he met Lonnie Silva, when Tony blindsided him with a sharp jab to Greg’s cheekbone.

When Greg’s board hit the pavement, the fin cracked. As if he prized the board more than life, he bent and began to flip it over.

Tony launched a kick that caught Greg in the ribs and landed him on the board. Now Marco joined in, blasting James’ amigo in the face and skull, in the side and belly and neck with his pointed toe Mexican shoes.

While his brothers kicked and stomped and used their fists to prevent Greg from rising, Junior hopped onto the sidewalk and held up his hands, warning James to stay put.

But James was no observer, not since the incident that sent his dad to prison. The pulse in his head throbbed. All his faculties felt powered by hot blood. And his mind had split in two. Half stayed behind. The rest flashed to six blocks down Newport Avenue and three years back when a man came running into Virgil’s grocery yelling threats while James stocked shelves and his sister Olivia was sweeping.

But even with part of a brain and stoked with adrenaline, he was smart enough to calculate the odds of a schoolboy taking on three tuna fishermen. He spun around looking for help. All he saw was a weapon in the schoolyard, propped against the backstop a few yards inside the gate.

He lifted his board and heaved it at Junior, who caught it in the face and toppled backward. James dashed through the schoolyard gate and snatched up the blue Louisville Slugger a kid must’ve left behind.

Junior had pitched the board aside. Again he raised his hands.

“Let me by,” James shouted. He didn’t mean to hurt Junior. They used to be friendly. James had helped him with math and biology. But Junior widened his stance into a crouch and inched closer.

A glance toward Greg lying still, silent and bloody warned James not to waste an instant. He swung, aiming below Junior’s arms, but the boy ducked at just the wrong moment. The bat struck hard bone. He dropped without a peep.

James would’ve stopped, thrown down the bat and tried to make amends by helping Junior. But Marco had a foot raised high over Greg’s face and Tony came rushing. James hardly knew where to look. He swung blind. The bat glanced off Tony’s shoulder and shot upward. When it slammed against his skull, Tony reeled for moment. Then he yowled as he fell.

The way James heard, Tony’s yowl rose in pitch until it was a siren then a pair of sirens. In the midst of all that noise, he heard Marco yell, “Hand it over, Dobchek.”

He dropped the bat and ran up Newport Avenue.