Synopsis

A few days before Thanksgiving, Sailor Cassidy is running an amateur stakeout she has no business conducting. She’s nursing a bad breakup, following a plan that’s half-baked in more ways than one, and reckless enough not to care. What could go wrong?

Across town, Officer Tuscaloosa “Tusk” Knight is working an off-the-books job for his captain, tailing a drifter who, it turns out, once sat two rows over from him in high school English. It’s not exactly the glamorous step toward promotion he pictured, but it beats paperwork.

When Sailor’s disaster and Tusk’s assignment collide, the two stumble into a life-or-death mess involving kidnapping, half-wit criminals, and a tangle of small-town secrets longer than the Carolina coast. With the clock ticking, Sailor and Tusk are left trying to separate the truth from the lies, and the lies from the truly stupid decisions.

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Praise

“I’ve been waiting a long time for someone to explore the enigma that is Myrtle Beach. Kennedy has answered my prayers at last.” —Brandon T. Snider, best-selling author of The Dark Knight Manual and writer/actor (Inside Amy Schumer, Late Night with Conan O’Brien, Chappelle’s Show)

“I’ve been recognized as an actor, director, and producer, but the first thing I identify as in my mind is a late-’90s Myrtle Beach bartender. I swear I’ve poured drinks for every character in Dirty Myrtle. Kennedy Weible nails the peculiar, hilarious chaos of that world in a way I could never describe to people. It’s a thrill ride full of wild, idiotic characters who stumble, trip, and accidentally crash their way toward redemption. That’s exactly how I remember the underbelly of the Grand Strand.” —Kevin Kane, actor, director & producer (Life & Beth, Law and Order: SVU, Martin Scorsese’s The Irishman)

“Dirty Myrtle is the kind of novel that settles into your bones without asking permission. Reading it felt less like following a tidy plot and more like stepping into a humid, half-lit corner of Myrtle Beach where everyone is carrying something they don’t quite know how to put down. […] Overall, Dirty Myrtle is a thoughtful, character-driven novel that rewards patient readers. It’s a story about people caught between who they’ve been and who they might become, set against a backdrop that feels both sun-bleached and bruised. Readers who appreciate literary crime, complex women, and emotionally grounded storytelling will find a lot to admire here.” —Los Angeles Book Review

Excerpt

Sailor was driving down Ocean Boulevard, which ran for miles along Myrtle Beach’s shoreline, bordered on either side by luxury hotels, decidedly non-luxury motels, houses and condos, bars and beachwear stores. It terminated on the north end at Dunes Golf and Beach Club, an upscale neighborhood and golf course that hosted PGA tournaments. The south end passed through “The Strip,”where lifted trucks cruised up and down for an audience drinking on the sidewalks outside the T-shirt shops, bars, and arcades. Sailor was currently between these two poles, cruising through a residential stretch where older, stately homes held ground with new construction that looked like it was built with fondant. “Got an emergency call from a customer,” she answered Carrie.

“Make Dad do it. It’s your day off.”

Sailor opted to change the subject rather than explain that if she punted the call to their dad she wouldn’t have an excuse to run away from her apartment and the woman inside it. “What did Chess say?” Sailor made a mental note to buy some cleaning supplies and a second towel before Carrie came over again. Maybe a scented candle. “I mean, Morgan’s cheating on you. It’s a spike, right?”

“A spike?”

“Like in volleyball. A slam dunk? Is that better?”

“Apparently, I need proof,” Carrie said.

“Can’t they pull his phone records?”

“Maybe, yeah. But once I file, he’ll delete everything and his lawyer will fight it. Chess says we want the proof first, before we file.”

“What kind of proof ?”

“Pictures,” Carrie said. “Video. I need a private detective but it’s—”

“It’s what?”

“Expensive.”

“How much?” Sailor said.

“Like a couple thousand at least I think.”

“You’ve got that.”

“Yeah, still it’s just a whole—”

“It’s a whole thing, and you don’t want some stranger knowing how messy your shit is now that your life has heavy spice,” Sailor said. Her sister was a private person. She would hate having a stranger follow her husband just to prove he was a shitheel.

“That’s a gross way to phrase it, but yeah,” Carrie said. Sailor was always remarkably perceptive, despite being half-stoned most of the time. She read people well.

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Right now I’m sitting in my car eating a whole pack of gum I found in my purse.”

“I’ll do it,” Sailor said. She was morose about her inability to really help in any way since her sister had confided in her about Morgan and his cheating. Sailor had wanted to go after Morgan right then, chase him out of that McMansion he built for them, maybe throw his shit all over the lawn—her and Carrie stampeding through the house, shouting and wrecking things. That was how she imagined it. Carrie hadn’t felt like doing that, of course, so Sailor’s sense of vengeance remained pent-up and looking for an outlet.

“You’ll do what?” Carrie asked.

“I’ll get pictures of Morgan and the floozy. I’ll follow him.”

“Don’t do that,” Carrie said. “Chess said it was best to keep family uninvolved. I’ll hire a professional. I’m just feeling bummed about the whole thing this morning, is all.”

“Dude, I’ll handle it. I’ll do it for free. It’ll be like a second wedding gift, but on the ass end of things,” Sailor said. She was excited. She would bust that punk Morgan’s bullshit wide open.

“You didn’t get me a first wedding gift,” Carrie reminded her.

“Then I owe you one,” Sailor said. “Wait, I got you something for your wedding. Didn’t I put my name on Mom’s gift?”

“Mom and Dad paid for the wedding. That was the gift.”

“Yeah, that was from all three of us,” Sailor said. “Listen, this is perfect. I’ll get the pics, you save money and emotional leakage, and Morgan gets divorced so hard in the nuts he can’t stand straight for a year. It’s perfect.”

“Sailor, no.”

“Think about it,” Sailor said.

“I’m thinking about it now. I can think on demand, it’s not something I need to get to at a later time. No.”

“I can see we’re at loggerheads right now, but we’ll come to an agreement.”

“Sailor!”

“Hey, guess who I saw last night,” Sailor said.

“Sailor, I’m serious—”

“Jug.”

That stopped Carrie mid-protest. “Jug? As in Judson Shaw?”

“One and the same.”

Jug had grown up next door to their small house in an even smaller house, with his grandmother, Nana Jean. He was the same age as their older brother, JP. He had worked for their father for a time before quitting one day with no notice and leaving town.

“Well that’s a blast from the past,” Carrie said. “Did he say where he’s been all this time?” Jug skipped town more than three years earlier. He was rarely heard from after that. It had been hard on Nana Jean.

“Not to me. He was pretty drunk by the time I saw him.”

“Maybe we’ll see him at Mom and Dad’s tomorrow at breakfast.” Their youngest brother, Dex, was coming home from college for Thanksgiving break that night. Their mother wanted all the

kids at breakfast the next day. “Do you know if Jug’s staying with his grandmother?” Carrie asked.

“I don’t know. He didn’t last night.”

“Why not?”

“Last night he went to jail.”

About the Author

Kennedy Weible was born and raised in Myrtle Beach, SC. His short stories have appeared in Iron Horse Literary Review and Hanging Loose Magazine among others. He is the author of the novels Number One Loser and Prophet of Loss, the short story collections, How You’re Not Funny and Hello From Out Here, and the children’s book Bed Critters. His humor essays have appeared in Men’s Health and McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. He lives in Raleigh, NC with his wife and son.

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