Sounds Like Trouble: A Novel by Pamela Samuels Young and Dwayne Alexander Smith
Two opposites. Undeniable attraction. Three mobsters. An offer they can’t refuse. It sounds like trouble as Jackson Jones and Mackenzie Cunningham, reluctant partners and two of the best private investigators in Los Angeles, return to solve their most dangerous case yet.
“This sexy, banter-filled mystery is so much fun you’ll lust after a sequel.” —South Florida Sun Sentinel
“Mr. & Mrs. Smith–like characters are still flirting, still fighting, and somehow managing to get things done… The novel’s ‘will-they, won’t-they’ vibe ramps up the tension in this lighthearted thriller.” —Kirkus
Sounds Like Trouble – Chapter 1
JACKSON
Despite the pair of armed thugs looming over me, it was a beautiful morning on Venice Beach.
I was seated on the patio of a hip beachfront coffee shop called Drip Drop. The tiny café was part of the carnival-like collage of souvenir shops, fast-food joints, weed dispensaries, psychic parlors, and artist stalls that lined the Venice boardwalk. My loft was just a block away, so on those mornings when I felt like giving my Keurig a rest, I’d throw on some sweatpants and wander down for a freshly brewed cup of vanilla-nut roast.
Prior to the arrival of my two surly visitors, I was sipping my coffee, watching the daily parade of local oddballs on the boardwalk, and strategizing about how to convince my new business partner, Mackenzie Cunningham, to double the furniture budget for our new office.
A little over a week ago, Mac and I received the keys. The 650-square-foot storefront space, located in downtown Culver City, was move-in ready. Unfortunately, Mac and I weren’t ready to move in. The only things occupying our new place were a couple of cheap folding chairs and stacks of file-storage boxes. We couldn’t agree on how to decorate the place. Mackenzie was all about function. A clean and professional look was good enough. I disagreed completely.
Looking successful is just as, if not more, important than looking professional. When clients crossed our threshold, I wanted them to believe we were killing it. That we didn’t need their business. That they’d be lucky to hire us. For weeks now we had visited dozens of furniture stores in search of a happy medium with zero success.
I was determined to have it out with Mac. Somehow convince her to see things my way. At least, that was my plan for today until my two visitors dropped into the Drip Drop.
“Sorry to bother you. Are you Jackson Jones?”
Admittedly, that opener threw me. When I first spotted the two African American men approaching me in designer suits with hip-level gun bulges, I instantly pegged them as professional lawbreakers …AKA gangsters. Detectives can’t afford Tom Ford and Hugo Boss. What I didn’t expect was polite gangsters. Either way, I knew these brothers were trouble, so I went for a Hail Mary.
“Nope,” I said, shaking my head and focusing on my coffee. “Sorry.”
The two men didn’t budge or take their eyes off me.
I figured the dude who spoke first was the one in charge. He had a perfectly cropped beard and better shoes than his pal, and I was pretty sure his nails were manicured. And although he was the younger of the two—I guessed early thirties—there was an aloof certainty in his eyes, like someone who thought he was untouchable.
“Mr. Jones,” he said, “let’s forgo the games.” His voice was even-toned and measured, with an educated ring. He sounded more like a lawyer than a criminal. “My name is Prentice Willis. My father is Cedric Willis. I’m here on his behalf regarding an urgent matter.”
I was mid-sip when Prentice brandished his father’s name, and I damn near did a spit take. Cedric Willis was infamous. Known on the streets as Big Ced, head of the most powerful criminal organization in LA. Big Ced’s crew didn’t really have a name, but whispers called them the Black Mafia. Even the old-school Italian mob, which had slipped a rung or two over the decades, didn’t screw with Big Ced’s operation. His big black fist had a grip on everything, from traditional rackets like drugs, gambling, and sex trafficking to cutting edge misdeeds like cyber scams and ransomware attacks.
Over the last decade or so, Cedric Willis had launched many legit businesses in an effort to go corporate and rehabilitate his image, but everyone knew that Willis Worldwide was just a facade for a sophisticated and dangerous criminal empire.
I couldn’t imagine what urgent matter had caused Big Ced to seek me out, but the very idea put a knot in my gut. Trying very hard to maintain my cool, I said to Prentice, “I don’t believe I’ve ever met your father.”
“You haven’t. Not yet. That’s why I’m here. He’d like a meeting at his office.”
“About what?”
“All I’m allowed to say is what I’ve already said…it’s an urgent matter.”
“Oh, I see. He’s looking to hire a private investigator.”
“Correct.”
I sighed under my breath and eased back in my chair. I didn’t want anything to do with public enemy number one and now I saw a way out. I frowned and said to Prentice, “Unfortunately, right now I’m moving into a new office, so I’m kind of on a break. If it’s urgent like you say, you might want to find someone else. Sorry.”
I’m not sure Godfather junior heard a word I said, because he didn’t miss a beat. “Mr. Jones, if you know who my father is, and I’m certain you do, then you know on what scale he operates. This could be an enormous opportunity for you.”
“Right, I get that but—” I hit the pause button because of the way Prentice’s sidekick eyeballed me. Not only was he older, but he was also bigger. An ex–football player was my bet. Seeing his jaw tighten and his hands ball into fists instantly told me they didn’t come out to Venice Beach to hear Jackson Jones say no.
“You know what?” I said, changing my tone. “Let’s schedule the meeting for tomorrow. I’m guessing Big Ced—sorry, Mr. Willis—likes to sleep in so, I don’t know, how about eleven a.m.?”
“He’s expecting you now.”
I blinked. “Now? You want me to drive there now?”
“No. There’s a car waiting around the corner. It’s better if you ride with us.”
Time stopped briefly. Then I couldn’t help myself. I shook my head and laughed.
The two men traded looks, then Prentice said, “Something funny?”
“Yeah. I thought Bogart shit like this only happened in movies.”
Prentice, to his credit, wasn’t offended. Instead, he chuckled. “Look, my father just wants to talk. Nothing more. You’ll be perfectly safe. You have my word.”
I don’t know why I would believe the word of a gangster, but the dude sounded like he meant it. Also, to be honest, I was damn curious about this whole urgent matter business. Lastly, Prentice wasn’t kidding about his old man. Cedric Willis wasn’t called Big Ced because he was fat or muscular. No, he earned that nickname because everything Big Ced did, legal or illegal, he did, well…big. Maybe this would turn out to be a straight-up PI gig with a Big Ced–sized payday. Maybe this truly was an enormous opportunity.
“Okay, I’m in,” I said, reaching for my iPhone. “Just let me call my partner so she can meet us there.”
“There’s no need to call Ms. Cunningham,” he said. “That’s being handled.”
I almost laughed at his reference to Mac as Ms. Cunningham. He obviously didn’t know Mac the way I did.
“Um. When you say being handled do you mean like the way you two ran up on me? Just so you know, she isn’t as easygoing as I am. I mean, she might even—”
Prentice held up a definitely manicured hand. “We’re wasting time. Let’s go. My father hates to be kept waiting.”
“Sure.” I left a tip on the table, then exited the patio and followed them.
For an instant I considered taking off down the boardwalk, but then remembered that I was no longer working alone. I now had a partner to worry about and count on. And she had to be able to count on me. Even if I gave these jokers the slip there was no way to be certain what would happen to Mackenzie.
So, yes, I willingly followed two armed criminals to their car.
There’s a popular T-shirt many vendors sell on the Venice boardwalk that warns: Venice Beach, Where Art Meets Crime.
Yeah, tell me about it.
Sounds Like Trouble – Chapter 2
MACKENZIE
Standing at the base of the steepest hill at Kenneth Hahn Park, I was about to embark on my fifth and final sprint. The panoramic view of LA awaiting me at the top was well worth the grueling workout.
This secluded haven, a favorite of true fitness fanatics, was an ideal spot to get a rigorous workout without having to dart around dog walkers and baby strollers.
The park was also my go-to spot for releasing pent-up frustration. And after a week of dealing with Jackson Jones, my agitation meter was inching into the red zone.
While I was still excited about our joint venture, I was exhausted from our epic battles over everything from office decor to billing rates to the name of our new firm. After a stalemate over whose name would go first, we finally settled on Safe and Sound Investigations. A tad mundane, yet charming in its own right.
I stretched my arms high above my head, took a deep breath, then blasted up the hill like an Olympic sprinter. By the time I reached the top, my lungs were on fire. I bent forward, gripping my thighs for support as I gasped for air.
As I rose, a man leaning against a shiny silver Cadillac Escalade several yards away set off some serious red flags. He was not here for a workout. He was casually dressed in a sport coat over a black T-shirt, but there was nothing casual about his hulking demeanor.
I zeroed in on his white leather tennis shoes, clearly crafted for style rather than function. The emblem on the side looked familiar, but even under duress, I couldn’t tell you if the brand was Armani or Adidas. Of course, my snob of a partner would’ve instantly recognized them and bragged that he had two pairs still in their original shoeboxes sitting in a closet three times the size of my kitchen.
As I kept my focus on the WWE wannabe, the SUV’s passenger door opened and a woman emerged. She rounded the car and headed straight for me. Dressed in a black tailored leather blazer, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she was probably in her midforties, but could’ve passed for much younger.
I took a step back, letting her know I didn’t appreciate people getting in my personal space.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“My name is Jada.” She smiled and extended her hand like she wanted to be my friend.
When I left her hanging, she continued, the smile still in place. “Ms. Cunningham, my boss would like to hire you for a job,” she said.
“I’m off today. Have your boss, whoever he is, call my assistant and set up a meeting.”
Before continuing my stroll, I mentally ran through a few Krav Maga moves just in case the pair was looking for trouble. I also surveyed the area. The nearby picnic tables were empty. A handful of walkers were headed toward the bowl-shaped, circular walking path. If something was about to go down, at least there would be witnesses.
“Mackenzie, please wait. My boss is Cedric Willis. He needs to talk to you. Today. Now. We’re here to take you to his office.”
That stopped me cold. Willis was a man you’d call a respectable criminal. For decades, his network of underworld, political, and financial connections shielded him from any repercussions from his myriad of illegal activities. But despite his scary reputation, that didn’t give him the right to summon me to his office like I was one of his underlings.
“Tell your boss I appreciate the gesture,” I said with a chuckle, “but I don’t accept rides from strangers.”
For the first time, Jada dropped her smiley face. “Cedric Willis never accepts no for an answer.”
Her tone was menacing now. Still, I remained unfazed.
“Exactly what kind of job does he want to hire me for?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. But I’ll get you back here in no time,” she said, reverting to friendship mode. “I promise.”
“Give me the address. I’ll drive myself.”
I had no intention of going to meet Willis. Let him make an appointment and come to my office.
“That won’t work,” she said.
My eyes crisscrossed the immediate area. The walkers I’d seen earlier were gone. If Jada instructed wrestler dude to force me into his car, they might just get away with it. I patted the cell phone in the side pocket of my leggings, wishing it was my .38.
I purposely slowed my breathing and forced myself to think rationally. Snatching women off the street was not Big Ced’s MO. It was highly unlikely that they were going to take me to some abandoned warehouse and work me over.
“This is on the up-and-up,” she assured me. “Big Ced needs to talk is all.”
“So where’s this meeting supposed to take place?” I asked as I committed the Escalade’s license plate to memory.
“Mr. Willis’s office downtown. On Fifth Street.”
Strangely, a bit of excitement began to bubble up in my chest. If a mogul like Willis wanted to hire me, the job would probably come with a big paycheck. I’d worked for some seedy people in the past; granted, not on his scale. As long as a gig wouldn’t land me in jail or a graveyard, I was usually game. A smile eased across my face. I was going to love showing Jackson up by landing our first big case.
“I’ll go with you,” I said, pulling my phone from my pocket. “But I have to let my partner know where I’ll be.”
Just in case he needs to play superhero and rescue me. Jackson would love that.
“No need,” Jada replied. “Mr. Jones is already en route.”
Whoa. I wasn’t sure if that little tidbit was reason for relief or concern. Either way, Jackson should’ve given me a heads-up.
Jada walked over to the Escalade and swung open the front passenger door. “You can ride shotgun.” She flashed me another faux smile.
Ignoring her, I reached for the handle of the back door. I needed to keep an eye on my two escorts.
“I’ll go with you,” I said, climbing inside, “but I prefer the view from back here.”
( Continued… )
#TroubleInTheCity, #SoundsLikeTrouble
Excerpted from SOUNDS LIKE TROUBLE: A Novel. Copyright 2025. All rights reserved. Book excerpt reprinted with permission of the authors Pamela Samuels Young & Dwayne Alexander Smith. Published by Atria Books.
Sounds Like Trouble: A Novel by Pamela Samuels Young and Dwayne Alexander Smith
Fiction > Suspense > African American > Thrillers > Crime Fiction > Mystery & Detectives
We’d love to stop by your blog, YouTube channel, podcast, or newsletter! Whether it’s a Q&A, excerpt feature, or virtual author visit—we’re in. Let’s make it happen. Contact us at edc_dg@yahoo.com
Download any material that you need for your page, platform or blog, go here.