Martial Law in Yakima

Martial Law in Yakima, an action/mystery by Seattle author Al Hooper, is a whirlwind ride to the dark underside of a small town where big city politics, greed and violence are very much the new standard.

Martial arts instructor B.J. Reynolds thought he knew Yakima from his growing years there. But when he returns to visit the grave of his own instructor, mysteriously slain a month earlier, Reynolds is drawn into a morass of danger and intrigue. Why do former mob kingpin Vince Aselmo and his enforcers have the run of the town? Are they responsible for the death of Reynolds' instructor? Where is the police presence when murder and intimidation rule the streets? Or are the police part of the problem?

For B.J. Reynolds, each day adds to the dangers he can't seem to avoid. But balanced against this are the order and sanity of the martial arts dojo, where he meets Charlene Locke, a local newspaper reporter who changes his life in a direct and dramatic way.

Martial Law in Yakima is written with vitality and narrative force. The action sequences leap across the page. But as a character-driven novel, it appeals equally to female readers who demand character-driven stories with strong women in prominent roles.

Seattle author Al Hooper is a 30-year newspaperman who holds black belts in two martial arts disciplines: Shudokan Karate (promoted by Morris Mack) and Chinese Kenpo (promoted by Al Tracy). Informed readers applaud the authenticity of the martial arts background in Martial Arts in Yakima. But Hooper says the general reader is the target audience for his mystery thrillers.

To allow more time for his fiction writing, he now works part-time as editor of his community newspaper in Edmonds, Washington. "As any editor can tell you," he says, "community newspaper and part-time are a contradiction in terms."

Hooper has written one previous B.J. Reynolds novel, Martial Law In L.A., and two books for young readers. His wife June is a public health nurse and his three grown children are "married and normal -- that is, they're not writers."

He watched her cross the street, and continue past her car. In the time it had taken her to get out of B.J.'s Datsun, a gray Lincoln stretch limo had pulled up behind her Porsche.

Shannon headed for the stretch limo.

As he watched, the passenger door on the far side of the limo swung open. A leviathan emerged, towering over the Lincoln. This could only be Big Jake Mielke -- 6-foot-6 and, at a bare minimum, 300 pounds.

Big Jake opened another door on the limo and waited. When Shannon got within range, he raised his hand with casual menace. She instinctively ducked and circled past him and climbed inside.

Only then did Big Jake Mielke, assuming that's who it was, glance over at the parked Datsun. He glared at B.J. for several seconds, then propped an elbow on top of the stretch limo. Several more seconds passed. Nothing happened. Then Big Jake jerked the thumb of one huge hand in the time-honored get-lost gesture.

B.J. sat.

He stared back at Jake Mielke.

Big Jake finally bellowed, 'Hey! You! Beat it!'

B.J. was considering his options. This whole scenario was interesting. The limo represented a cultural sea-change from the Yakima he remembered. Nothing small-town or small-time about this gaudy trinket, or about the behemoth standing next to it. On a more immediate level he wondered about his obligations to Shannon. She had been clearly apprehensive. Fearful, even. Presumably she was in no real danger, she must know what she was doing. But there was no Sak Miyasaki around to watch out for her now.

Nothing showed through the Lincoln's smoked windows, and B.J. had to wonder who else was in there. The limo could accommodate the Green Bay Packers without crowding. Up to now Big Jake Mielke was the only visible face, and in the fading light even he was less a face than a silhouette.

B.J. decided he needed to know more.

He palmed his car keys and got out.

As he shut the door behind him, he did a quick inventory of the area. Sak's shuttered dojo a few doors away. Deserted train station across the street. Darkened fruit warehouses filling out the block. A hiss of traffic drifted over from Yakima Avenue, but nothing moved here on Front Street.

Whatever was about to happen, there would be no witnesses. And no interruptions. And here came Jake Mielke.

Big Jake took the shadowy street in five strides and stopped an arm's length away. His arm's length. All of Jake Mielke's appendages were oversized -- head, shoulders, hands. Even his voice had muscles.

'You're not hearing so good, pally!'

B.J. had to look up at him. On a typically hot Yakima night Jake had stepped out of the climate-controlled Lincoln in a French blue gabardine suit, and it was hard to miss the bulge under the left side of his jacket. Not that you were meant to miss it. The piece would be essential to Big Jake's personality.

When Jake advanced, B.J. spread his feet slightly.

Jake growled at him, 'You forget how to talk too?'

B.J. felt the car door at his back. At 6-foot-1 and 220 pounds, he would be outgunned in any grappling situation. He badly needed leg room. He took a short, sliding step to his right.

Still without answering, he tried to look past Jake Mielke at the parked limo.

Big Jake moved to block his view. 'You're missing the point here, pally. I don't like for johns like you to look at me or my car. And I don't like for johns like you to mess with my girl!'

'Your -- ?' B.J. offered a contrite look. 'I thought she was a working girl.'

'She's a hooker!'

'Then what's the problem?'

'You're the problem, a**hole! Just pile back in that bag of bolts and clear the neighborhood!'

'A minute ago I was pally. Now I'm a**hole. Something I said?'