Author: MJ Porter, author

I’m welcoming AB Michaels to the blog with an excerpt from her new release, The Twisted Road #historicalfiction #AmericanHistoricalFiction #NewRelease #BlogTour

I’m sharing an excerpt from chapter 1 ‘Bloody Tuesday’

Nineteen years old, with the long, skinny limbs of a colt, Jimmy Walsh crouched behind a lamppost and shivered in the early morning fog. He dropped the brick he’d been clutching and hesitated before picking it up again. “This ain’t right,” he said, just loud enough for his nearest comrade in arms to hear. “It’s like waitin’ for Beelzebub to unleash his hounds of hell.” Several yards away, the wooden barn that housed the city’s electric trolley cars remained shuttered, but the sounds inside, muted through the mist, told him the show was about to begin. 

Toke Griffin, a rock in one meaty hand, took a drag of his cheroot with the other. The smoke mixed with the fog, obscuring his leathered face. Two decades older than Jimmy, he was a union man from way back. This strike was nothing new. “Yeah, well them mutts are takin’ our jobs and we got to stop ’em any way we can.” He tossed the rock a few times and caught it. “They’re scabs and rotten to the core.  We got to let them know it.” The gas-powered streetlight above Jimmy hissed, letting off sparks and a sulfurous belch. Toke barked in appreciation. “Even the damn lamp’s on our side.”

“Shut the hell up!” Another hiss—this one from a fellow striker, positioned behind one of the barbed wire barriers the scabs had set up to protect the cars. “You’ll give us away.”

Toke continued to grouse but lowered his voice.  “Hell, you think they don’t know we’re out here? They’re chompin’ at the bit same as us.” He tossed his rock again. “But we got right on our side, just like old Davey and Goliath. You wait and see.”

Jimmy tried to swallow but couldn’t get passed his Adam’s apple. Lord, he wished he had some water or somethin’ else to calm the jitters taking over his body. Even his lucky red flannel shirt was no help. Why didn’t he keep the grub his mother had given him as he’d left that morning? She’d been up before him, knowing he had to go and not even trying to talk him out of it. “You keep your head down,” she warned as she handed him the bag with bread and cheese and a slice of apple cake in it. She’d even put in a mason jar full of cider.

“Sure, sure, Ma,” he’d told her, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.” Giving her a peck on the cheek, he’d headed out, but once around the corner, he’d ditched the bag, thinking it would look squirrelly bringing a lunch sack to a riot. What a damn fool.

It shouldn’t have come to this. It’d been over a year since the earthquake and fire had torn up the city, and the roads were still a tangled, busted-up mess. It was tricky driving the streetcars, and there were fewer drivers to boot. All the union wanted was an eight hour day and three bucks a shift. But United Railroads kept bickering with the city over repairs and used that excuse to refuse the union’s demands. What else could the carmen do but strike? Then the company brought in the Farleymen to drive the cars—four hundred of them! It stunk to high heaven and Toke had the right of it: they had to stop the scabs from taking their jobs.

The crowd outside the barricade was growing. Jimmy saw groups of Poles and Italians and Irish, even Chinese. They weren’t members of his union, but they were workingmen all the same, showing their support. That was labor for you, sticking together to get the job done. But there were also women and kids pouring out onto the street, like it was a parade or something! Thank God Ma had stayed home; he hoped his cousin was smart enough to keep her distance, too. This kind of ruckus was no place for females.

But damn if there weren’t plenty of ladies mixed in with everybody else, a lot of them young and fired up, itchin’ for a fight just like the men. He’d never admit it, but deep down, part of him admired their courage. Like Toke said, they were sticking up for what was right.

He was chewing on those thoughts when the big wooden doors on the barn began to slide open with a screech and the streetcars lumbered out, each driven by a scab, and each protected by several men with clubs and a guard with a rifle. The clock in the tower above the car barn soon started chiming the hour, but it was nearly drowned out by all the people screaming insults as they surged through an opening where the cars were supposed to leave the yard. 

The strikers rushed by Jimmy, shoving him out of the way and already throwing whatever they’d been carrying—rocks and bricks and bottles—toward the scabs. Some strikers on the roofs pushed iron girders they must have got from construction sites; the beams hit the cars with a sickening clang.

Jimmy started to throw his brick, but stopped when he got a look at the second car and who was guarding it. Damnation, it was Emmett Barnes! That sonofabitch used to be a union man—not to mention Jimmy’s best friend—and now he was a hired gun for the Farleymen! He watched Emmett shoot his rifle into the air a few times, and his shots were answered by rooftop union men protecting the strikers on the ground. He couldn’t see Emmett’s face too well, but he bet his ex-friend wasn’t happy, especially since his shots hadn’t stopped the crowd from swarming around his car. Jimmy wasn’t part of that crowd; he couldn’t make himself move—like he was paralyzed or something—as he watched it all unfold.

A brick sailed through the air and hit Emmett in the face; he dropped down, and Jimmy couldn’t see him anymore. He glanced to his left and saw a man taking photographs of everybody. “Quit takin’ pictures!” Jimmy yelled at him. “Get out of the way—you’re gonna get hurt!” 

More and more people began pushing Jimmy from behind, determined to stop the cars from running.  He turned back to Emmett’s car and saw … and saw the rifle pointed toward the crowd from another angle. No, pointed right at him.  Emmett? It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t do that, would he? He wouldn’t— 

Jimmy Walsh started to put his head down like his ma had told him, but he wasn’t fast enough. He heard the crack of the rifle and felt the thump of the bullet hitting his skull. Then he felt nothing at all.

Here’s the blurb

1907 

Rising from the devastation of a massive earthquake and fire, San Francisco is once again on the move. But a strike by streetcar drivers threatens to halt the Golden City in its tracks. Protests turn to violence and violence leads to death. Soon a young guard is convicted of willfully killing a protester and the public is out for blood. 

Jonathan Perris, an immigrant attorney from England, has opened a law firm with an eye toward righting wrongs, and the guard’s conviction may fall into that category.  But the talented barrister soon finds his newfound career shaken by a tragic event: the gruesome murder of the beautiful and mysterious Lena Mendelssohn—a woman he’s been squiring around town. It’s difficult to run a law firm when you’ve been arrested for murder.

Purchase Link

https://books2read.com/u/479n6R

Meet the author

A native of California, A.B. Michaels holds masters’degrees in history (UCLA) and broadcasting (San Francisco State University).  After working for many years as a promotional writer and editor, she turned to writing the kind of page-turning fiction she loves to read.  She writes historical fiction (“The Golden City” series), historical mystery (the “Barrister Perris” series) and contemporary romantic suspense (“Sinner’s Grove Suspense.”). All three series are character-linked and all are stand-alone reads.

Michaels lives in Boise, Idaho with her husband and elderly wiener dog, Teddy, who cannot see or hear, but sniffs his way from one comfortable spot to another.  In addition to writing and dog-snuggling, Michaels is an avid reader, traveller, quilter and bocce player, as well as a mediocre but enthusiastic golfer.

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