Scout’s Honor: A Novel by John McNellis

Publisher’s Note: Scout’s Honor is the thrilling tale of a New York developer haunted by his criminal youth. Its racing narrative contrasts the hero’s wild success with his struggle to keep his crimes hidden, exploring themes of redemption, identity, and the power of secrets. Advance reviewers of Scout’s Honor are raving about the novel. “In this wild and sweeping thriller, John McNellis puts his mastery of commercial real estate on full display. Scout’s Honor opened new worlds for me.” Veteran MSNBS anchor Chris Matthews, host of Hardball. For further reviews, please go to www.johnmcnellis.com.

Why is this book featured on our site? It’s about commercial real estate, and it’s about adding some new dimensions to our content. In this case, a touch of fiction can hopefully help us gain a new perspective on the industry and provide a respite from our busy lives.

Author John McNellis is not only a long-time contributor to The Registry but also a good friend. Together, we’ve agreed to serialize Scout’s Honor—a la Charles Dickens—over the next four months in weekly installments of three to four chapters. You can read the entire novel here over the summer or, should you wish, buy your own paperback or digital copy on Amazon (HERE).

Scout’s Honor will be released on June 4th, 2024.
~ Vladimir Bosanac, Publisher of The Registry

Chapter 1

Summer of ’69

Eddie Kawadsky gripped his VW van’s wheel as if it meant his life. Spying Roy’s Marlboros, he jerked one from the crumpled pack, tried to light it as he drove north in the battered van toward Tijuana, fifty kilograms of cocaine beneath the surfboards in back. His hands shook. He tried again, and again, but his trembling fingers failed him. He somehow lit the fourth match, burning his forefinger. Then he remembered the van’s cigarette lighter and jabbed the knob. Only nineteen, he’d never had a cigarette in his life. He coughed hard, struggling to hold the smoke down, inhaling again, coughing more, ransacking his memory for someone he could trust, prayer on the edge of his scattered thoughts. In his rising panic, he was blind to the yellowing brown hills soft in the late afternoon light, the wretched trailer parks scarring Mexico’s coastline, and the roadside taco stands.

As his coughing subsided, he felt dizzy, but calmer. Once more, he struggled to bottle his despair and plan his way out. He punched the dashboard and swore. How had he ever let Roy Cross talk him into smuggling marijuana across the Mexican border? He had known all along the idiot’s foolproof plan was worm-riddled. Yet Eddie hadn’t known until that afternoon—while the pair lolled at the beach called K-39—that Roy was smuggling a fortune in cocaine, not a couple pounds of pot. And what doomsayer could have foretold the halfwit Roy’s arrest in Rosarito hours before their return, leaving Eddie alone, holding the cocaine in his van? He couldn’t stay in Mexico. No American car was ever safe there. And, if the shipment were stolen, he was dead.

He had to follow Roy’s plan, cross the border at the appointed hour, pray Roy’s bribed customs inspector was in the right line, and that the secondary inspection unit would ignore him. Even if he made it across, what next? Eddie had no idea who Roy’s customers were, no way of contacting them or an inkling as to where to deliver the shipment. No matter their identity, Eddie knew what happened to those who disappointed drug lords. He had to cross the border, stash the drugs, race back to Rosarito, bail out Roy, then pray the narcotraficantes wouldn’t blame him for the delay. His head swam from the nicotine, his stomach roiled from his anxiety. He pounded the plastic steering wheel. 

Eddie played out scenarios—all bad—as he approached Tijuana in the humble VW van that had doubled as his home since he finished high school. He stopped outside a tumbledown tienda a half-mile from the border, locked the van, sprang inside the small shop that reeked of fried corn oil, bought a Coke, and hustled back. Forced to await his crossing’s appointed hour, he frittered, opening the van’s sliding door and rearranging his scant belongings: foam pad, sleeping bag, clothing, toiletries, and his books. He jammed the duffel bags further beneath the patched surfboards. He set his hamper—his father’s canvas flight bag—on top, the stenciled “Lt. Commander Paul J. Kawadsky US Navy” facing the door. 

Eddie relocked the van, lit another Marlboro, and stood outside, guarding it, straining to appear nonchalant, watching the cart-pushers stream by peddling everything from sombreros to fireworks to pharmaceuticals of questionable provenance. When his chaotic thoughts flashed by his father, Eddie was almost glad he’d been killed in Vietnam, certain the hard man’s disgust over his son’s drug-running would have been unbearable. The commander would have dismissed Eddie’s need for college money with his favorite word: bullshit. Checking his nerves, he failed his father’s test, his outstretched hand trembling. He tried pushing his plight from his mind, filling it with happier memories. He found one: the warm Saturday his father took him to Edwards Air Force Base to get a peek at Lockheed’s secret SR-71. When they were turned away at the gate, they drove to the Antelope Valley Soaring Club, his father rented a two-seater Schweizer sailplane, and thrilled Eddie with an hour of soaring—gliding in primordial silence—wheeling above El Mirage, seeking thermals on which to rise like gods. The overwhelmed fourteen-year-old was hooked within moments after his father let him take the stick, knowing he too would become a Navy pilot. The boy had never wanted anything so much in his life. 

A toothless Indian woman selling chewing gum interrupted his reverie with a beseeching por favor. He fished in his pocket, gave her a dollar for luck, then another, but waved off the gum. A gold-toothed cab driver ghosted by, pimping the beauty of his señoritas. Eddie shook his head, but the thought of sex briefly snagged him. Then he prayed Tommy Mahoney, the crooked inspector, would be in the promised lane. Please God, let him be in Lane 7.

The fading light was smog-dust orange when he turned the ignition. Within minutes, traffic merged into a clogged artery pulsing slowly toward the border. Eddie had donned his NAVY sweatshirt and stuffed his long hair inside a baseball cap that read “Fightertown USA”. He eased the van a few lanes to the left to align himself with 7, the lane Roy’s foolproof plan had Tommy Mahoney in starting at 8 p.m. Six cars back he saw a middle-aged man peer out of its booth. No Tommy. “Oh, shit, shit, shit,” he shouted, drawing a puzzled look from a Mexican in a rattling Plymouth across from him. “I’m so fucked.” 

---

If you’d like to share your thoughts about Scout’s Honor, please write John at john /at/ johnmcnellis.com.