Lee Carey
Lee Carey

Lee Carey lives with his sweet wife/editor, Kay, in a small coastal town known as Sandbridge Beach in Virginia Beach. His writing career began in '99. Lee has penned eleven novels in various genres: 3 Mystery/Crime and 4 Pet Novels. 3 in 1950's Historical fiction (The McComas Trilogy) . And 1 family saga, and 2 compilations of Short Stories. Lee enjoys surfing, writing, skydiving, golf, and hanging out on the beach with his wife, their rescue pooch Angel, and their friends. His attitude is: "Paddle hard for every wave...it might be your best ride." His sign off slogan: 'Keep smilin'..." Thank you for sharing your time to read and review my works on Amazon or Goodreads. Have a great day!"




Book 3 of The Bobby Harris Series


The making of moonshine is an art, but it's also illegal. It's usually produced by creative mountainmen, unafraid of lawmen. Profits can also be substantial, since the final product is enjoyed by many.

So, let the process begin!


In 1984, deep in the hollers of Virginia's Shenandoah Mountains, the Bales family experience situations that could ruin their very profitable illegal enterprise. With no warning, mayhem, murder, and family divisions appear like a fierce, summer thunderstorm.


P.I. Bobby Harris offers to help his good friend, Jimmy Bales, by travelling from Sandbridge Beach to the mountains to investigate his brother's sudden disappearance. Within twenty-four hours, Al's body is found floating in Key Creek...bullet hole between his eyes...and no suspects. But Bobby stays on, now he's investigating a murder.


Since this country has been inhabited, moonshine has run through its veins. Creative, fearless men still strive to master the art of cooking shine and jugging it for bucks or barter. Of course, whenever something is illegal, it attracts the good, bad, and the ugly of humanity - like gnats to fermenting mash. And that's what happens in 'Smokin' Mountain Justice' - due out in the summer of 2020.


'Smokin' Mountain Justice' is set in the Shenandoah Mountains in 1984. Greed and power fuel the attempted takeover of all eight of Clarence Bale's biggest and best stills. There are no laws or rules for this battle between a New York man from a mid-size mob family and the father and sons of the Bales family.




~ Two days earlier – Corbin County, Virginia ~


The hopped-up ‘79 Chevy Silverado entered the hairpin curve up the mountain at fifty-five. Oversize tires screamed while keeping the rear end on narrow Rt. 769 to Coon Holler Cove, the area containing eight of their most profitable stills. Fifty-nine-year-old Lester Bales gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled fingers. “Somebody’s gonna die for stealing from us.” The oldest son of the head honcho of Shenandoah Shine was pissed off, much more than he had been in several years. That fact guaranteed that his trifling son, Albert, would reap a large portion of his wrath. And Lester had no doubt that Irene, his wife, would go off the rails when justified punishment was rendered on their son. He slowed, then turned onto the partially hidden dirt path, and proceeded the two miles to the scene of last night’s theft of sixty gallons of prime corn likker. “That club-footed son-of-a-bitch better be there with some damn answers when I pull up,” he mumbled while lighting a Camel with his Zippo.

Twenty yards from the heavily-wooded section containing one of the family’s eight, one-hundred-gallon stills, Lester stopped to unlock the metal gate. He keyed the heavy-duty padlock, then pushed the gate open. As he climbed back into his truck, he saw Albert leaning against the storage shed, his head down. “I’ll bet he’s cooking up another dim-witted lie to try and save his worthless ass.”

Lester gunned the big V-8 and shot forward, then slid to a stop. He reached under the seat and pulled out his .357 Magnum revolver and slipped it into his belt. Very slowly, he stepped down from the cab, closed the door, and carefully looked around the area. His eyes intentionally skipped over Albert. He strolled over to the wrecked double-doors of the storage shed and stopped. Albert silently scooted several steps away, dragging his club foot.


“From the damage, they weren’t worried about being quiet,” Lester mumbled. He fired up another Camel and took a long drag. “I’m going to ask you some questions. You’d be real smart to tell me the truth. Understand?”


Albert shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yes, sir.”


“Follow me,” Lester said as he pushed aside several broken boards and entered the shed. Albert shuffled behind his father, eyes on the hard-packed dirt. They each took a seat on separate piles of one-hundred-pound burlap bags of their homegrown whole grain corn.


“You were supposed to be on watch last night from seven o’clock until sunrise. When your Uncle Abe made his rounds before dawn this morning, he told me that he didn’t see you anywhere around here. Is that right?” Lester’s eyes locked on his son as he waited for a reply. “The damn floor ain’t asked you the question, so look at me when you answer!”


Albert’s eyes opened wide and focused on his daddy. “I was around all night, but maybe not right here.” The thirty-four-year-old man cleared his throat and swallowed.


“Okay. Even if you weren’t in here, you should’ve been near enough to hear whoever broke in and stole sixty plastic gallon jugs of our best shine.”


The terrified son looked at him, licked his lips, and quickly shook his head.


“Then where were you? Down by the creek jerkin’ off? Were you stoned again?” Lester looked upward and balled his fists. “I want the truth, Albert!”


The young man ran his calloused hands up and down his denim-covered knees. “I heard them but I could tell there were too many for me to stop.”


Lester dropped his cigarette butt to the ground, crushing it with his leather boot, then he laughed out loud. “Boy, more than one is too many for you. I’m not surprised. Your momma raised you to be a pussy because of your damn foot.” Lester removed the empty pack of Camels from his top pocket and tossed it on the ground. “What were you doing, Albert?”


“Everything was quiet. I was getting sleepy, so I walked down to Rocky Creek to soak my feet in the cool water.” Albert coughed, then spit through the open doors. “That helps me stay awake.”


Lester jumped to his feet. “And how did staying awake help you protect our likker?” Before Albert could produce a reply, Lester’s hand went up. “Don’t answer! Because it didn’t! You fucked up…again. You are worthless, boy.” Lester slowly placed his right hand on the revolver in his belt, hoping to put fear into his son. Albert’s eyes widened and followed his daddy’s actions.


“Daddy, please don’t. I’ll tell you the truth…please don’t.” Albert trembled and sobbed, hands over his face. “I met up with Autumn at the creek. She didn’t want me to go check out the noise. She said it was too dangerous because I knew who was behind the break-in and why.” Albert looked at his daddy and breathed a deep sigh of relief, two seconds before a bullet opened his head like a dropped watermelon.










Print Print | Sitemap
© robert carey