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The Other Side of the Coin

by Joseph Coughlin

258 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0645; ISBN 1-55369-833-9; US$23.00, C$26.92, EUR19.00, £13.50

A fast-paced murder mystery set against the backdrop of a Navajo Indian Mission in New Mexico.

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpts or Table of Contents      catalogue info

About the Book After the second murder of two itinerants found in the grounds of Saint Gregory's Indian Mission in Thoreau, New Mexico, the mission Director Father DanielConroy turns to his lifelong friend for help. AL (SLATS) SLATTERY, a New York P.I. is summoned to investigate the murders of two itinerants. Slattery is soon caught up in a web of murder and deceit that sends him careening to a shattering and stunning climax that will leave the reader gasping for more.

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About the Author Joseph Coughlin is a native of New York City. With his wife, Joyce, he lives in Clearwater, Florida. he is a retiree who now devotes his time to writing. The Other Side of the Coin is his first novel and he has also completed his first screenplay.

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Sample Excerpts or Table of Contents

Prologue

The wind whipped unmercifully across the barren, unforgiving land. Swirls of sand danced in the air, slashing the ragged man's craggy face as he trudged drunkenly over the bridge. Beneath him, empty boxcars were parked at the siding, waiting ominously in the darkened night. The man's unsteady gait made it difficult for him to brace himself against the icy wind that drifted in from the north. His whiskey sodden body made every effort a painful one.

The man's clothes were in tatters. The thin jacket he wore, having seen better days, clung to his bony body like tissue. Dried blood had formed on the side of his face. It would have been difficult to guess his age. The booze had taken its toll. The man himself would be unable to say how many years he had roamed the earth. Just ahead, the lights of the Mission loomed brightly.

A rush of relief coursed through his ravaged body knowing he would soon be able to escape the elements. The shelter had become his refuge. It was a place he knew well, even if he had to contend with the "white eyes." "Damn them," he muttered to himself. "This was our land before they arrived."

An eerie silence drifted across the blackened sky. It brought the man up short. Standing at the top of the bridge, looking down at the Mission below, a chill passed through him that was not caused by the cold. He cursed again, mad at himself for the fear that he felt. He cursed again as he stumbled over an unseen barrier, causing him to lose his balance.

"Damn white men," his slurred words were lost in the wind. "They don't even know how to put up a fence." He kicked at the unfinished wire mesh hoping it would make him feel better. It didn't. Panicking for a moment, his hand dipped into the pocket of his thin coat. A feeling of relief passed through him as his hand caressed the cheap bottle of wine that would help him get through the dark and lonely night. He shivered again. The thought of the evil demons that visited him in the early hours before dawn caused him to wince. With shaking hands, he took a long pull of the bottle letting the fiery liquid nestle in his stomach.

A dog barked in the distance. It was a signal for the others waiting for permission to howl at the moon. The lights that burned brightly at the church entrance made the man think that curling up in the vestibule of the church might be wiser than spending the night in the shelter. He had been beaten up and his bottle taken from him too many times in there. He remembered when he was a young man. If they had tried it then they would have paid a harsh price, but he was old now unable to defend himself.

He discarded the idea of sleeping in the vestibule. He knew that when morning came he would have to listen to the lectures from the "do-gooders" from the Mission school. He frowned, thinking how they would lecture him on his drinking and try to get him to stop. Then they would find some menial task for him to do, telling him how good he would feel about himself when he showed up at the Mission hall to be fed. He had to laugh at their stupidity. When it came to getting food and clothing, as well as the use of the shelter, he did not have to bow and scrape to the white man.

Stumbling across the road, he saw the rows of trailers that housed the many volunteers who worked at the Mission. They were lined up uniformly like military barracks. The man gradually made his way across the sandy patch of land in front of the thrift shop. A shudder passed through him when he realized the shelter might be locked. Sometimes the person who was in charge would lock it up if there were no occupants when he left. He hurried up to the door.

He breathed a sigh of relief when the door swung open. The stench of urine slammed into his nostrils causing him to double over and wretch. Straightening up, he pushed his way into the cramped, stale space. Placing his hands in front of him, he felt his way. The bunk beds were flush against the wall, beckoning him as he made his way across the darkened room. His hands were in front of him, feeling his way tenuously. His eyes were not yet used to the darkness as he banged up against one of the beds.

Dropping into one of the lower bunks, he rolled onto his back staring at the soiled mattress above him. As his eyes became more accustomed to the darkness he could see that he had the shelter to himself. Smiling inwardly, he extracted the bottle from his pocket, propping himself against the wall. Raising the bottle to his mouth, he took a long pull. The smoldering liquid burned his throat and crawled into his gut, settling in like a warm blanket. Leaning back against the wall, he let the cheap wine work its magic. That old feeling of power he had misplaced for awhile returned.

"Tomorrow," the man muttered in the darkness. "Tomorrow, I'll go back to the Retreat and settle up with that Jimmy Petersen. He had no right to beat me up and throw me out of the bar. Tomorrow, I'll get even with him."

Tilting the bottle back, the man took another drink. This one was a strong one. He knew it would have to last him through the night. Placing the bottle carefully by his side, the man was aware that he had to leave enough for the morning to get him through the inevitable shakes that accompanied his awakening. The demons were returning to torment him.

The moon sent a sliver of light through the narrow window. A slice of light glowed on the floor. Suddenly, the light disappeared, returning just as quickly. He tried pushing himself up without success. The wine had kicked in, rendering him unable to move.. He sensed the presence of someone in the room with him. "Who's there?" he cried.

No one answered. For a moment he felt as though he might have imagined it.

Suddenly a presence was hovering over him.

"What do you want?" The fear caused his voice to tremble.

Through his glazed eyes, the man was sure he saw a glint flickering in the room. Then a hand was raised and came down in a flash. A searing pain ripped through his stomach. His body wrestled and struggled excruciatingly for life. Then the hand disappeared. In its place was a warm, moist feeling that trickled down the front of his shirt and dripped onto his hand. Looking down, he saw the reddish stream spread freely now across the floor. A feeling of peace settled over him as he dropped back onto the bed, mesmerized. He watched the shadow cross to the door and disappear into the night.

As his eyes closed for the last time, his voice grew stronger.

He screamed into the night.

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Catalogue Information

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