Excerpt of "The Missing CD"

When I started blogging in December 2007, I intended to chronicle the struggles, trials and successes of an aspiring novelist. For the most part, I think I have done that -- though a few more successes would be welcome. However, I'm still in the process.

This is my 200th posting since I started blogging and so I decided to present to my readers an excerpt from my short story, "The Missing CD." This is from the last e-mail I got before the story went to the copy editor. I don't remember there being any major changes.

This story is in the upcoming racing anthology, BEDLAM AT THE BRICKYARD. All the stories in the anthology relate in some manner to the Brickyard 400 stock car race in Indianapolis each summer, or to NASCAR. The book should be in local bookstores in two weeks, and is available now on Amazon, as well as on the Borders, and Barnes and Noble websites.

The launch party for the anthology is Saturday, June 12, from 2 p.m. to 5 p.m., at the Barnes and Noble bookstore in Carmel on US 31 North. I hope to see some of you there. And I hope you enjoy the story.

Michael

___

The Missing CD
by
M. B. Dabney

Award-winning journalist M. B. Dabney is an avid race fan whose writing has appeared in the Indianapolis Star, NUVO, The Indianapolis Business Journal, EBONY magazine, and BlackEnterprise.com. He is an officer in the Speed City Indiana chapter of Sisters in Crime and recently completed, A Murderous Dispatch, a mystery novel set in a black newspaper. He lives in Indiana with his wife, two daughters, and their dog, Pluto.


Barbara Jean was the best waitress at Rosie’s Roadside Diner on Highway 77 north of Talladega, Alabama, near the interstate. She knew all the regulars and was cheerful and welcoming to a fault. And she was particularly happy about having her one-time high school sweetheart, Bobby Lee Stevenson, having breakfast at the diner.

Barbara Jean offered Bobby Lee a big smile as she approached a booth near the back. She carried a plate full of flapjacks in her right hand, and on her forearm, balanced a plate of fried eggs sunny-side up, four strips of bacon, and an order of grits. She set the glass of orange juice in her left hand on the table before placing the plates of food in front of Bobby Lee.

“Here you go, darlin.’” Barbara Jean called everyone ‘darlin’ these days. “You need anything else?”

“No, Barbara Jean. Thanks.”

One of the old men up front in the restaurant yelled to Bobby Lee.

“Why you down here, boy?”

Bobby Lee, who looked a lot like Cary Grant early in his film career, hadn’t lived in Alabama since his father moved their struggling NASCAR team, Johnny Eldon Stevenson Racing, to North Carolina, 10 years earlier.

“Just visiting some family. One of my cousins is sick,” he said, charging headlong into the food. “You know him. My cousin, Eldon, named after grandpa. And we got a weekend off this week before heading up to Indianapolis for the Brickyard.”

Another old guy said, “You guys looked pretty good last weekend. If it weren’t for that damned fool Tony Stewart crashin’ Kevin out you might have won that Chicago race.”

“We’ll get ‘em next weekend,” Bobby Lee said. “Our guy’s a pretty good driver. We’ll get there.”

The good folks of Talladega considered the Stevenson's a hometown team and no one wanted to mention the team’s fall from grace. For lack of sponsorship, the team was forced to hire a third-rate driver named Kevin Holmes who came with his own sponsorship money from a Southern grocery store chain. That deal, which Bobby Lee arranged, financially saved the team.

Rosie’s was surprisingly busy for mid-day on a Tuesday. A regular crowd of senior citizens was up front having donuts and coffee and talking NASCAR with two truckers, who were having full meals. But there was a lone man, a stranger, sitting at the counter toward the back eating the steak and eggs special, enjoying black coffee and reading the local sports page. He was tall and thin, and wore blue jeans. His cowboy hat was on the counter next to him.

“You finished, darlin’?” Barbara Jean asked Bobby Lee when she saw that he was done. Then she added with a slight flirt, “You need anythin’ else?”

“No, I’m fine, Barbara Jean,” he said, ignoring the come-on. “Just leave the check on the table for me while I go hit the john real quick.”

She nodded, wrote the check, and left it on the table as he headed to the restroom.

Bobby Lee spent a few moments in the restroom. No one was looking his way as he came out. And no one noticed he was carrying a white business-sized envelope in his right hand. As he passed the stranger at the counter, he dropped the envelope on the red vinyl stool next to him. The man didn’t look down and Bobby Lee kept walking. Once at his table, Bobby Lee grabbed his check and headed to the front to pay.

The cash register was on the end of a counter near the entrance and Bobby Lee had the crowd's attention as he walked up. He gave Barbara Jean a knowing smile as he paid the bill and tipped her more than 25 percent.

As everyone else in the joint was fawning over Bobby Lee, the stranger reached for the envelope, opened the flap and looked inside. He saw the left half of 10, nonsequential 500 dollar bills, and a picture of a newspaper sports columnist from Indianapolis named Henry Rennert.

The man with the cowboy hat tucked the envelope in his inside jacket pocket and motioned to Barbara Jean to refill his coffee. It was bitter tasting because it had been sitting on the warmer too long, but he drank it anyway. He was facing a 10-hour drive and needed to stay awake and alert. And once he arrived at his destination, there was work to do before he completed his job.

Three days later, on Friday morning, Henry Rennert was found dead in his Speedway home. Police said Rennert apparently was shot after walking in on someone burglarizing his home.