The Claysville Escapade is the first book in the series.  It introduces Sam Budda and Nick Savarese, who are the main characters in each of the books in this series.

In this book, Sam and Nick retire from work as government contractors and settle in Pittsburgh, where they establish a personal protection business.  They are hired by the regional police to kill a local judge who wants out of a case-fixing scheme organized by the district attorney and the police.  The police want to kill the judge because they are afraid he will talk to federal investigators. 

In a fit of poor judgment, the police decide not to pay Sam and Nick, and that is when bad things begin to happen to various judges and to the police themselves, who are constantly frustrated in their attempts to kill the two killers. 

Here is a chapter in which Sam meets Menello, the Regional Policeman who is to deliver money for the assassination of the judge.  Unknown to Sam, the police have decided not to pay the agreed amount of $70,000 and have unilaterally decided to pay him $20,000.  This is what Menello has to tell Sam at the meeting.

From the Claysville Escapade

The evening after Captain Menello had spoken with Donne, Menello began his preparations.  He stuffed $10,000 into an envelope, sealed it, and strapped on a short .38 revolver in an ankle holster.

Menello and Garrison had discussed how this should be handled and they agreed that the only thing they could do was put up a tough front and refuse to pay more than the twenty thousand.  Menello’s instructions were to get a good look at the killer so they could track him down if he ran away with their money. 

Menello headed out to the meeting with Sam in an unmarked car.  He had shed his uniform coat and put on a three-quarter length gray-green civilian coat.  The night was cold, a damp November night in the low 30’s, a bit blustery with some biting mist in the air.  It stung Menello’s face as he stepped out of the car.  He shivered as he headed toward the diner. 

The diner was a long tube, brightly lit and shoved in between two warehouses on the south side.  Across the street was a three story brick warehouse, dark, maybe empty.  Bums and derelicts seemed to be the only customers this time of night, and three of these street denizens were scattered in various seats and booths, nursing hot coffees as a relief from the cold of the pavement.  Menello headed for the back and a dimly lit booth.  He sat, facing the door, and asked the man behind the counter for a coffee. 

Just as the coffee came, the door opened and another derelict entered.  He wore a baggy wool overcoat and tinted glasses.  His hair was a mass of dreadlocks topped by a stretchy wool cap, and his face was a thicket of disheveled gray beard.  He shuffled toward the back, studied Menello for a minute, and then sat down. 

“I’ll have a coffee with you,” he said.

Menello looked at the man, paused, and then signaled for another coffee.  The derelict stretched his arms out on the table, revealing starched thick cuffs under the tattered overcoat, and a Marathon watch on the left wrist -- black dial, white numbers, military issue.  Menello’s eyes went to the watch.

He glanced back to the steady stare of the derelict.  “You must be the man we’ve made arrangements with,” Menello said.  The waiter came with the coffee and left it on the edge of the table.  The men sat in silence until he left.

The derelict spoke: “Correct.  I’m here to collect some money.”

“How do I know I can trust you to do what we’re paying you for?” Menello said.  “I want to see who I’m dealing with.  Take that beard off.”

       Menello’s hand moved slightly toward the derelict, and before he knew what had happened, his wrist was pinned to the table bending backwards.  His face instantly registered pain and he shrank in the booth in submission.

“I didn’t come here to be fucked with,” the derelict hissed, maintaining pressure on the wrist.  “The deal was that we meet and I get paid,” Sam said.

“O.k.  O.k.,” Menello moaned, in pain, trying not to scream.  The derelict released Menello’s hand, and the policeman pulled it back to his chest, cradling it in the hand that still worked.  Rubbing the wrist and taking a minute to get his breath.

After he regained some composure, Menello said, “There’s been a change in the plan.  Since you won’t do it our way, we’re only going to pay you twenty grand.  I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s a reasonable price for what you have to do.”

Menello continued rubbing his wrist and looked nervously at the derelict, uncertain how he would receive this. 

Sam had seen a lot of unpredictable behavior, but this was new, and he studied the man for a time before speaking. It wasn’t unusual for clients to think they were tough, but this went beyond that.

“Who are you?”  Sam said.  There was silence.  Menello didn’t answer.  Sam’s eyes studied Menello and he sat back in the booth, almost as if relaxing, removing his hands from the table and resting them in his lap.  Without visible movement, he extracted a seven inch Busse Steel Heart combat knife from his left sleeve and, with his right hand, he  shoved the point inside Menello’s left knee.  Menello jumped.

“If you don’t answer, I will shove this razor-edged knife into your leg and I’ll open that leg up all the way to your groin, and then I’ll flick it to the left and take your balls off.   You won’t have time to move and you wont feel anything until its done.” 

Menello imagined a gleaming razor edge slicing down his leg, severing arteries and veins as it ripped through his leg, and his willpower vanished.  If he ever had been in danger, this was it.  “My name is Dave Menello,” he said quietly.

“Who are the others?” Sam said.

“Paul Garrison and John Zeresnek,” Menello said with some hesitation and fear in his voice.

“Is Zeresnek related to the big Regional Police guy in the papers?” Sam asked, his eyes boring through Menello.

“It’s the same guy,” Menello said.

“And how are you related to Zeresnek?” Sam asked.

“Garrison and I work for him.” Menello said.

“You mean you’re cops?” Sam asked, disbelieving.

“Yes.”  Menello said.

“So three cops want me to kill a judge for twenty grand because the judge doesn’t want to fix cases anymore,” Sam said.

“Yes,” Menello said.

“What’s in that envelope?” Sam said.

“Ten grand,” Menello answered.

“Open it,” Sam said. 

Menello opened the envelope and showed Sam the hundred dollar bills stuffed inside.  Sam reached over and took the envelope.

“Now you need to listen to me very carefully officer . . . is it officer Menello?”

“Captain,” Menello whispered.

“You need to listen carefully Captain Menello to what I’m going to tell you.  You and your friends shorted me twenty-five thousand dollars.  That wasn’t smart.  We agreed to a down payment of thirty-five thousand dollars.  Now that you’ve shorted me, I don’t trust you any more and the terms of payment have changed.  The whole amount is due now, up front.  You’ve paid me ten thousand.  I’ll give you a few days to come up with the remaining sixty. If you choose not to do that, I will come after you and your families.”

Menello looked stunned.  He thought of the Busse Steel Heart still ready to rip through his groin.

Menello and Garrison had assumed that the shooter would agree to their terms.  Neither one had predicted this.  Who the hell could have predicted this?  In the world of police work, everybody is intimidated by the police and it is always better to get along and go along.  Twenty thousand was a lot of money and anybody he knew would accept it. 

“I understand,” Menello murmured.

“You understand what?”

“I understand you want the whole $70,000.”

Menello seemed frozen to the seat and his countenance  was the color of chalk.  His mouth was so tight it seemed as if his face might split.  His fear was palpable.

The derelict nodded.  He stared into Menello’s eyes.  “I kill people for a living, he said.  That’s what I do.”   He got up from the booth and shuffled, sideways, to the door.  It opened and he was gone.

Steel City I is available now at Amazon.com