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Advance Reviews
“With lithe, clear prose and a deep sense of place, Mark Hannon’s The Vultures is a novel that balances those elusive qualities that any reader craves: a page-turner that still nourishes a literary heartbeat; a story about unique characters but also about the soul of a city; social
commentary and political intrigue relevant to any period. Vietnam-era Buffalo comes to life in these pages, reminiscent of Dennis Lehane on Boston or Richard Russo on Rust-Belt America.”
— Brad Felver, author of the short story collection
The Dogs of Detroit
The Vultures
The Vultures
Mark Hannon
Copyright © 2020 by Mark Hannon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher (except by reviewers who may quote brief passages).
First Edition
Casebound ISBN: 978-1-62720-311-1
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62720-312-8
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62720-313-5
Printed in the United States of America
Design by Vanessa Gleklen
Editorial development by Annabelle Finagin, Elizabeth Leik and Mary Kokoski
Promotion plan by Annabelle Finagin
Author photo by Jeremiah Hannon
Stadium photo on back cover by John Boutet
Apprentice House Press
Loyola University Maryland
4501 N. Charles Street
Baltimore, MD 21210
410.617.5265
www.ApprenticeHouse.com
“Public diversions at home, wars abroad; sometimes terror, sometimes torpor, or stupid sloth; this is thy daily toil.”
The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, Book X
“The worse things got downtown; the more people, businesses, and stores left; the more grandiose, ambitious, outrageous, and removed from reality became the plans advanced for its renewal.”
-Mark Goldman, City on the Edge
To my little family
1.
The black and white police car drove across the shopping center parking lot, its tires crunching on the ice just before dawn on a February day. The driver stopped next to a cluster of unmarked cars where a group of young men dressed in hooded sweatshirts and blue jeans huddled around a tall man carrying a portable radio. An officer with captain’s bars on his dark blue overcoat stepped out of the black and white and addressed the man carrying the portable.
“Going out with a bang, eh, Patrick?” the Captain said, shaking hands with the tall man.
“Big kick at the finish, Captain,” Lt. Pat Brogan said with a smile.
“Got everything you need?”
“Yes sir,” Brogan said. “I called Judge Casper at home, and he signed the warrant. I’ve got a crew of good men ready to go, and the uniforms from 17 are ready to back us up.”
“Ah, the ever-helpful Judge Casper. All right, good work.” To Brogan, the Captain added, “Nobody gets hurt.” Then, to the assembled police raiders, “Good hunting, men.”
Brogan looked around at his men. “Hammer’s moving out,” he said quietly into the portable radio. The young plainclothesmen slammed car doors and four old Plymouths rolled quietly uphill following Brogan through the Central Park Plaza lot and into the neighborhood of wooden houses.
Brogan keyed his radio, and a uniformed Lieutenant several blocks away answered, “Anvil’s moving,” signaling several marked police cars to head into the neighborhood. Brogan unbuttoned his corduroy car coat and slid his holster forward on his belt. He looked over at the mustachioed driver and said, “Ok, Sal, drive past the house and stop at the corner.” The car glided past a two-story house with a rotting porch and flaking brown paint and stopped behind a beat-up Ford Fairlane. The man in the Ford got out, rubbing his hands together.
“Hammer 2, 3 and 4 in position,” Brogan’s portable squawked. Brogan and Sal got out of their car and stood with the chilled detective.
“Morning, Mel, everything quiet?” Brogan asked.
“They’re all asleep, Lieutenant,” the detective said. “They were partying until about an hour ago, but all’s quiet now.”
“Any deals during the night?”
“Not that I saw,” Mel said, stamping his feet in the cold. “Probably wanted to get happy with the shipment first.”
Brogan nodded and heard the uniformed Lieutenant’s mike key again.
“The uniforms are coming in now. Ok, men. Sal, you and Mel are with me, going in the front. Aloysius, Weisbeck and O’Conner have the place surrounded.”
The three detectives approached the house, and Brogan nodded as one of the younger men drew his pistol and the other racked a round into a shotgun. Three black and white police cars slid silently down the street behind them.
“Hammer 1’s going in,” Brogan said into the portable, then jogged up the creaking steps and kicked in the front door with a grunt, sending it swinging.
“Buffalo Police! This is a raid!” Brogan shouted. He heard glass shattering, wood breaking and “Police!” shouted at the back of the house as he looked around the living room where Sal and Mel were dragging groggy youths off sagging couches and forcing them face down onto ragged carpets littered with beer cans and wine bottles.
Meeting the raiders coming from the back at the staircase, Brogan pointed them up the stairs and then descended into the basement, his sidearm held high. Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, he swung the pistol from left to right until he spotted a frizzy haired boy in a t-shirt trying to squeeze out a basement window. Walking forward, Brogan said, “Buffalo Police, stay where you are!”
The boy slid back onto the floor and reached to his pants. Brogan stepped up to him and put his revolver to the frizzy head. Please don’t do anything stupid, kid, he thought. Not on my last day. The kid’s hands shot up,
