About the Contest
The winner of James River Writers’ and Richmond magazine’s third Best Self-Published Novel contest is “Hitchin’” by Alexandra Christle. A panel of volunteer judges, led by Katherine Lowry Logan, author of the “Celtic Brooch” series, chose Christle’s manuscript among 64 entries.
“I absolutely loved the characters, the suspense, the plot development,” Logan says. “It was very well written and edited, kept me on the edge of my seat, and I loved the author’s voice. I skipped forward to read the ending to find out which characters were still standing at the end, then I went back and read it. I will keep the author on my list and will read whatever she writes.” “Ocular Denial,” by Anne McAneny of Midlothian, was a runner-up.
Chapter 1
EAST ST. LOUIS, DECEMBER 1975
Anthony Scarlotti leaned against the thick, wooden door of an abandoned building, concealed in the shadows of the alcove. He took a drag on his cigarette as the street’s hushed emptiness stretched out, seducing him, seeking to draw him into its deadly vacuum. Across the road, a trash can tipped over with a crash, and he jerked, pressing deeper into the recess. A tin can tumbled and clinked along the cracked pavement, its echo perforating the quiet. Then a mangy dog, ribs protruding, straggled from an alley with a rotting bone in its mouth. The creature saw him and snarled, yellow teeth bared, and slinked off.
Tony tossed his cigarette butt in the gutter and shoved from the doorway. He had things to do. Nothing was going on here this afternoon. As he stepped toward the curb, a couple of buildings away, two of his gang acknowledged his presence with nods but didn’t approach.
In the distance, the deep rumble of a car engine broke the silence. A second later, a girl sprinted down the street at a full run. Tony slipped into the shadows.
What the hell?
No chica outside his ring ever wandered this neighborhood unless homeless or a whore — and no whore he’d ever seen could haul ass like that.
She dove into an alley and disappeared in the darkness. The deep rumble grew, and a Rolls Royce idled along the street before pausing at the alley, the driver peering into its depths. With the car running, the man opened the door and limped toward the narrow passage.
Tony pushed from the recess and let out a low whistle. Five others joined him, and they retreated around a corner. They didn’t need to get sucked into a murder rap, or maybe worse, messing with some john rounding up a runaway.
After several seconds, the man exited the alley, crawled back into his car, and it rolled off, creeping down the block toward the river. Tony waited, the possibilities toying with his mind. That alley had no exit, but no sounds reached him to make him think the guy had wasted the babe. He held up his hand to keep his gang quiet. Then the girl stuck her head around the corner, hesitated, emerged and scanned the surroundings.
Tight jeans, no coat, no apparent personal belongings. She was either in trouble, or just trouble, period. A flick of his wrist, and his group advanced into the street.
Their movement caught her eye, and she froze. Focus forward, she ignored them, straightened her posture, held her head high, and started toward the river.
The boys taunted her. “Hey, chica! What you doin’ out here?”
Her pace picked up.
Tony arched an eyebrow and crossed his arms. She acted like she belonged on this street and had every right to be here. If women could have cojones, this girl would have an enviable set.
“Hey, white momma! We talkin’ to you!”
She kept going. What was this girl doing in this neighborhood? He snapped his fingers, and in a blink, his gang surrounded her.
“We asked what you doin’ here, bitch,” one of them said.
Her posture stiffened. “I’m going to the river.”
“Why you wanna do that? Dontcha like it here?” The comment brought sniggers.
“My boyfriend is down there. We had a fight, and I took a walk. I’m going back. If I don’t show up in a few minutes, he’s going to come looking for me.”
No sniggers this time — only outright laughter.
“Shut up.” Tony took charge — they’d had their fun. He moved to the front of the group and let his gaze drift over her. Tangled dark red hair, torn shirt, a thin film of dirt coated her skin and clothes. Damned street urchin. If this girl was legal age, it couldn’t be by more than an inch. “Don’t nobody go walking these streets. ’Specially not no little white girls.” He stepped up until he stood inches from her. “You hookin’?”
Terror flashed across her gray eyes, but her voice remained firm. “No. I’m not a hooker. I told you, I’m going back to my boyfriend.”
He had to give her credit. The little babe had some grit. “You a long way from the river, chica. You two musta’ had some hellacious fight.” He fingered the tattered seam of her shirt while the others grunted in agreement.
She wrenched her shoulder away from his hand and tried to push her way out of the group, but they tightened the circle and began to close in.
One of them stretched his arm toward her when someone yelled, “Cops!”
“Split!”
They skittered like cockroaches. Tony pitched a glance at the chica. As tough as she pretended to be, this kid didn’t have a chance out here. He yanked her arm and dragged her along with him.
A squad car screeched to a halt, and two police officers scrambled out as he and his captive rounded the corner. The men’s voices filtered down the street. “I’ll get Tony — you go after the others!”
Tony picked up his pace. The girl was slowing him down. He dashed into an alley and jerked open a door, threw her into darkness and crowded in after her, slamming and bolting the door behind him.
He pressed her against a wall, his hands on her shoulders, leaning into her. She started to speak, and he clamped his hand over her mouth, whispered in her ear. “Make a sound and you’re dead.” At this point, threats, however empty, were his best option to keep her quiet. Seconds later, someone rattled the door handle.
Voices penetrated the walls. “I lost those kids again, damn it. They’re slippery as wet slate. What happened to Tony and the girl?”
“Hell if I know. They came down here and disappeared. Must’ve jumped the fence. Jesus, that kid is slick.” A deep thud vibrated as one of the men banged his fist against the door. “Screw it. Let’s get out of here.”
The girl wiggled, her breath strained through his fingers. He moved his hand from her face — he didn’t want the damned kid to pass out on him. Her chest heaved in rapid breaths, her heart pounding against his ribs. He kept his face close to hers, inhaling the herbal scents in her hair. He’d been wrong — this kid didn’t come from the streets.
Don’t go there. This hot little chica is nothing but jailbait.
He shifted his position but stayed pressed against her until both their heartbeats slowed, and the musty, stagnant air started to suffocate him. He opened the door and shoved her out. She stumbled and fell against the wall, caught her balance, and spun to flee. He snatched her by the waistband of her jeans and yanked her back.
“Let me go.” She pulled against his grip.
This girl was testing his patience. “I let you go, you gonna split?”
Her shoulders fell. “No.”
Like hell. Nevertheless, he loosened his grip.
She whirled around, hands on hips, and stared him down. “Are you Tony?” In the dim light of the alley, shadows spilled over her, giving her a waiflike appearance.
“Yeah.”
“Why did you grab me? I needed their help.”
He gave her a thorough once — or twice — over. Her attitude, her speech — maybe he’d been wrong about her age. “You seen yourself, chica? You look like a damn strung-out addict. The only help you gonna get from the cops is a rap sheet.”
She deflated. Some. Damned spitfire, this little redhead.
“What you doin’ here, anyway? This ain’t your ’hood.”
“I told you. I had a fight with — ”
“Yeah, yeah. The hombre who dumped you in the middle of East St. Louis.” He watched her. “That the guy with the Rolls?”
She blanched and swallowed then curled her lips in.
Hit on something there. He took her by the elbow and propelled her forward. “Let’s go.” She struggled against him, but he led her out of the alley and around the block to a beat-up Impala that boasted more rust than paint. “Get in.” He opened the door.
She held back. “I’m not getting in a car with you. Do you think I’m crazy?”
Anger welled in him, and he muttered a string of expletives in Spanish. Sexy or not, this little hothead had pushed his last button. He gritted his teeth. “Get in the goddamn car before I tie you up and stuff an oily rag down your throat.”
She peered through the car’s back window at the piles of junk in the back seat.
“Yeah. I’m not joking.” He waited, arms crossed.
Some of her superior attitude faded as she slumped. Her chest rose with a ragged deep breath, and she slid into the front seat.
He closed the door and kept his gaze on the car as he skirted to the driver’s side, continuing to mutter curses. She didn’t try to bolt — maybe she’d finally realized her options had run out.
He started the 15-year-old Chevy and crept into the quiet street, taking his time. Stupid to outrun the cops then get pulled over for speeding. Using his knee to steer, he dug for his pack of smokes, pulled one out, and lit it. He cranked down the window and let his arm hang out, for all appearances relaxed and calm.
His nerves couldn’t be wound up any tighter.
She hunched her shoulders and wrapped her arms around herself, shivering.
Aw, hell. What had compelled him to grab this girl?
You know the answer to that. She needed someone to help her. He tossed his cigarette, rolled up the window, and pulled over. When he started to turn in his seat, she shrank away, pressing against the car door.
Teeth clenched, he leaned over the seat, pulled a sweatshirt from a pile of clothes, and thrust it at her. Stupid kid. “Here. Put this on. It’s freezing out. Why the hell ain’t you got no coat?”
She opened her mouth, clamped it shut, and slipped the sweatshirt over her head. Her voice meek, she squeaked a quiet, “Thank you.”
Without comment, he pulled onto the street. No other vehicles cruised the area — too early for the pimps and addicts. A soundless emptiness enveloped the car.
Still huddled away from him, she watched him for a minute. “Why are the police after you? Do they know you?”
He choked out a strangled laugh. “Yeah. They know me.”
“How? What did you do?” She cocked her head. “Kill someone?”
Her caustic tone cut through him, the accusation curdling his blood. Let it go. You don’t have to justify yourself to her. “Haven’t had to yet.” He glanced her way. “But I might now.”
She shut up.
He pulled into the lot of a dingy motel and parked in front of a room. A weathered fake brass 5 hung on the door, barely attached with a loose screw. The window, black from the dark drapes behind it, had a thin haze of greasy film coating it. No other “guests” wandered around the lot, no one checking in or out. Tiny prickles stung his neck, and he jerked his shoulders to shake it off then walked around the car and opened the passenger door. “Come on.”
A deep grimace contorted her face, and she didn’t budge. “No. I’m not a prostitute.”
The comment put him over the edge, and the muscles in his shoulders pinched into a tight knot. He raked his teeth across his bottom lip. “Babe, I don’t know what the hell you are and I don’t give a shit. But you’re comin’ with me ’til I figure out what to do with you.” He dragged her from the car, pulled her inside, and flung her across the room. Then he slammed the door and threw the lock.
Grumbling, he grabbed the cigarettes stuffed in his pocket and whacked the pack hard against his palm several times. He leaned on the edge of the dresser and lit one as she dropped onto the side of the bed. “Wanna smoke?” he asked between drags, reaching over to snap on a table lamp. The bulb crackled and buzzed then cast a gloomy haze over the room.
“No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”
He peered at her through the smoky fog. “You drink Pepsi, little white girl?”
She shrugged without making eye contact, instead picking at a cigarette burn in the frayed bedspread.
He reached into a small cooler, pulled out an icy soda, and tossed it on the bed. After looking at it for a few seconds, she picked up the can and held it in her lap.
The room’s heat closed in on him. Hot air billowed from the rusted floor unit under the window, so he set his cigarette on the edge of the battered dresser and stepped over to adjust it. When he turned around, she’d slipped out of his sweatshirt and was examining a gash on her arm.
He took a second to check her out. Besides the tear in her shirt, filth covered her, like she’d fallen in a pile of dirt. Tendrils of dark red hair had escaped her loose ponytail and stuck to her face. Blood clotted on her left arm, and she rolled the cold can over the wound. He moved closer to the bed. She shrank away.
His muscles quivered, and he tensed his jaw. She wasn’t making this easy. “Lemme take a look at that.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine. I just want to go home. Can you just let me go, please?”
He grunted and spun then propped his hip on the dresser and picked up his smoke. Naïve babe. “You ain’t my prisoner, chica.” Between drags, he kept his gaze on her, surveying her injuries. “So where you live?”
Her voice came out in a whisper. “Columbia.”
Tony ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Columbia. Which one? Alabama, California, Illinois, Kentucky, Maryland, Mississippi, Missouri, North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee, Wisconsin? Or Colombia, South America?”
Her mouth dropped open, and he suppressed a smile. “That don’t include the spin-offs like Columbia City or Columbia Heights, or the counties, or the Columbuses. But outta’ those Columbias, South Carolina’s the biggest, ’bout 91,000 people, and North Carolina’s the smallest, ’bout 900.”
“What do you do, read the atlas in your spare time?”
“On occasion.”
Her brow creased, and she stared at him. “What kind of criminal are you?”
“Unh-uh. Answer my question. Need me to run through those again?”
“No!” A breath shot from her. “Missouri.”
He nodded. “Okay. Illinois’s closer, but Missouri’s just a couple hours. If you said South America, we might have a problem.” He twisted to flick his ashes in a cup. “What’s your name, chica? Or you want me to just call you puta?”
“I’m not a whore.” She hesitated. “Cassie.”
“You got a last name, Cassie?”
“Do you, Tony?”
He dipped his head to hide his smile. She had grit and spunk. He dropped his guard. “Touché. You know, if you’d stop sparring with me, I might be able to help you.” He took a last draw on the cigarette and stubbed out the butt.
She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, squinting at him.
Careful. Don’t lose your focus now. “So what you doin’ on my turf?”
“I got lost.”
“My ass. Who’s the guy in the Rolls?”
She paled. “I … uh … No one.”
He rolled his eyes. Just get rid of her. You don’t have time for this. Not tonight. “Okay, so you got a date with some asshole and what? The guy —” He stopped and pulled a chair over to sit in front of her. “Did that prick rape you?”
At that, her toughness shot from her faster than the air from a popped balloon. An uneven breath caught in her throat, but to her credit, she didn’t cry. “No.” She swallowed. “No, but he tried. I got away.”
Spanish flowed from his mouth. “Hijo de puta. ¿Quién es? Who is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“¿Que? What you mean, you dunno. Huh? You got a date with some dude and you don’t know his name?”
In a soft voice, she said, “I was hitchhiking.”
With her tone so low, it took him a second to process what she’d said. When his mind unclogged, a current of anger rippled through him. She’d been hitchin’ but didn’t want to get in his car? The contradiction pissed him off, and he straightened. “Hitchhikin’. In East St. Louis? You’re some kinda crazy bitch.”
“Why are the police after you? Do they know you?” He choked out a strangled laugh. “Yeah. They know me.” “How? What did you do?” She cocked her head. “Kill someone?”
Her expression tight, she knotted her hands into fists. “That’s a hell of a condemnation coming from a … murderer.”
“I told you. I ain’t killed no one.” He paused to stifle his annoyance. Forget it. Why would she think anything else? “You a runaway? How the hell old are you, anyway? Sixteen? Why you hitchin’?”
She didn’t answer immediately — coming up with another lie, no doubt. “Unlike you, I don’t have a car.”
“So where’d you hitch from?”
“Columbia. Where else?”
“That’s over a hundred miles from here.”
“Wow. Did you learn that from your atlas, too?” Her tone dripped with contempt. Mocked him.
He jerked her from the bed and stuck his face so close their noses nearly touched. “Listen, you stupid little bitch. I don’t give a damn who you are or why you’re here. But you’re in my way, and I need to get rid of you.”
The blood drained from her face. Death wouldn’t have made her more ashen. “Please — please don’t kill me. I’ll —” She squeezed her eyes shut, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
A scent of fear seeped from her. She really believed he intended to rape her. Dear God. An icy knot formed in his chest as he loosened his grip and tipped his head, rolling it across his shoulders. “Siddown.” He took her shoulders and set her back on the bed, went into the bathroom, and grabbed a clean washcloth. Wetting it with warm water, he wrung it, then went back and tossed it at her. “Here. Clean up that cut.”
She stared at the washcloth lying on her lap.
Heat flushed through his body, and he snatched the cloth and grabbed her arm. A large damp spot stained her jeans.
“Ow.” She tried to pull her arm away.
His Spanish flew. He wrenched her up and dragged her to the bathroom sink then splashed warm water over her arm until her drenched clothes clung to her body, molding to her slender frame. In all the places he shouldn’t look.
“Stop it! I’m soaking wet. Give me the washcloth.” She snagged it from him.
He ran his hand over his mouth, covering his smile, then crossed his arms as she wiped at the cut. It continued to ooze and looked fairly serious. She should probably get it checked by a doctor. He had some contacts, but only as a last resort. He needed to get rid of this chica, not take her under his wing like a helpless puppy. He cursed again, causing her to glance at him. Why tonight? “So how’d you get that cut? Did Rolls have a knife on you?”
She winced. “No. I got caught on a piece of metal on the Dumpster.”
Ah. That’s how she got away from the guy. An image of her crammed behind the rat-infested garbage container in the alley danced in his head. Gutsy. “Why didn’t Rolls haul you outta there?”
“He came halfway down the alley, but then said the rats could have me and left.”
“Lucky rats.”
She glared at his reflection in the mirror.
“How’d you get so dirty?”
“I rolled under the warehouse door as it was going down.” She twisted the faucet to rinse and wring out the cloth.
He tilted his head, eyes narrowed. “Which warehouse?”
Head turned slightly, she spoke over her shoulder. “I saw a sign hanging from a couple of nails when he drove in — Henson Aeronautics.”
“Henson … Jesucristo. Dennis Henson?” Anger flowed through him, and he frowned. He knew the kid — it hadn’t looked like him. “Are you sure that’s who that was? That shit? How the hell’d you get away from that asshole?”
“¿Que? What you mean, you dunno. Huh? You got a date with some dude and you don’t know his name?” In a soft voice, she said, “I was hitchhiking.”
Setting the cloth on the bar, she turned, but ignored his question. “How do you know him?” She looked him up and down. “I wouldn’t expect to see you in his social circle.”
Smart-mouthed little puta. He studied her and considered his answer. The truth wouldn’t do. “I sell him coke. He’s one a’ my best customers.”
The blood drained from her face.
“You didn’t answer me. How’d you get away?”
She pulled herself up, planted her hands on her hips, looked him in the eye, and spat, “I bit him in the balls.”
Tony nearly choked. Maybe he needed to reassess this little chica. No wonder the Henson kid was limping down that alley. A cough shot from him, and he grabbed a towel and threw it at her. Then with a deep sigh, he rubbed at his forehead and shook his head. Justifying this one was going to take some serious smooth double talk. “Get dried up and come on.”
“Where now?”
“I’m takin’ you home.”
Meet the Author
Photo courtesy Alexandra Christle
Alexandra Christle wrote the first draft of “Hitchin’” in 1996 but put it aside until a few years ago, when she decided to revisit the thriller. In that time, she had written and published a romance novel, “Between Nowhere and Lost,” and had learned a lot more about writing.
“I felt like I could fix it, and so I did,” she says of throwing out the first 100 pages and reworking the novel. In her revision, she added the character Tony, “who kind of took over the book,” she says. “The story really changed.” “Hitchin’” takes place in the 1970s and follows reporter Cassie Phillips as she hitchhikes across Missouri in pursuit of a story but instead finds herself as a witness to a murder and the target of the FBI, the police and the Mafia.
Christle, who lives in Norfolk, tried to get a publisher interested, but after numerous rejections, she decided to self-publish. Having had her romance novel published by a small company, she felt like she knew enough about the process to do it herself. “Hitchin’” is available through the author’s website, alexandrachristle.com, and at major online outlets including Amazon and Barnes & Noble.
She says one of the challenges of writing a book, whether you self-publish or not, is marketing it.
“You have to get a following, and you have to get out there,” she says. “I think most authors would probably agree that we spend as much of our time on social media and doing newsletters as we do writing anymore.”
Christle hopes winning the Best Self-Published Novel contest will help to spread the word about “Hitchin’.” “I would really like to see this book take off,” she says. “I’m hoping it will take me to the next level.”
—Jessica Ronky Haddad
JRW Writers Conference
James River Writers will hold its 17th annual Writers Conference Oct. 12-13 at the Greater Richmond Convention Center, featuring authors, editors and literary agents sharing insider knowledge of the publishing industry. A two-day ticket is $300 for members and $355 for nonmembers; a one-day ticket is $175 for members and $195 for nonmembers. Visit jamesriverwriters.org for details.
