Jack Dillon arrested Deja’ for first degree murder, then married her. After failing to kill him, she left town. Now he’s searching for her needing answers, wanting her love. His chase carries him from Chicago to Indonesia to Hawaii.
My name’s Dillon. Jack Dillon. James and Judy’s kid. I’m a momma’s boy. I admit it. Say it to my face, and I’ll hit you on top of your head so hard it’ll break both of your ankles.
I was a decorated cop out of Chicago, a detective. You didn’t ask, but I said it anyway. What are you going to do about it, close the book? Naw. You know how I know that? Right away, when I said I used to be a cop, half of you liked me. Because you want that crap that you hear on the radio about good cops to be true. Dressed in blue—red, white and blue for all of you flag wavers. And now you’re mad I’m not still out there protecting you, putting my life on the line, getting shot full of holes, so you can sit on your porch at night, complaining that one of our squad cars didn’t ride by every hour on the hour and wave. The other half of you readers aren’t going anywhere either. You hate cops for the opposite reason—and just as much—as the other bunch likes us. You don’t believe what you’ve heard about honor, protect, and serve. You figure we’re all on-the-take, hands in everything that ain’t legit. Deeper than that, you’re convinced that you can defend yourselves without paying higher taxes to pay beat-walkin’ flat-foots who (you assume) half-try to do it for you. You’re so lost—in your skid-marked underwear with that beer-stained shirt—that you think policing is dim-wits, soaking up overtime, scoring groupie chicks, and sleeping on the job, getting cats out from too-high tree branches and helping old bags cross busy streets. As far as you’re concerned, I couldn’t have retired fast enough. I’d say, go to hell; no way anybody’s getting there ahead of me.
Five short stories that deal with famous events in American history.