Uncle Dust (Uncle Dust Book 1)

A Dark, Character-Driven Noir Thriller

Rob Pierce’s Uncle Dust is a gritty noir crime novel that plunges readers into the volatile life of a bank robber trying—against his own nature—to build something resembling a family. Told in a razor-sharp first-person voice, the novel explores the uneasy intersection of loyalty, violence, addiction, and domestic life in the modern urban underworld.

Uncle Dust stands out in contemporary noir fiction for its unflinching psychological depth and authentic voice. The novel offers a raw, intimate portrait of a blue-collar criminal navigating both tenderness and savagery, where survival often comes at the cost of everything else. Fans of hardboiled crime fiction, urban noir, and character-driven thrillers will find a compelling, immersive read.

The first in a powerful noir quartet, Uncle Dust introduces a haunting, unforgettable voice in modern crime literature—one that lingers long after the final page.

Excerpt from the book

There was something about Theresa’s mouth. Not the usual something; this was something I didn’t like.

“But you don’t like much of anything about me, do you? Except the part you fuck.”

She could always read my face faster than I could talk. “You’re wrong,” I said.

She counted the money on the kitchen bar, rubber banded it in thousand-dollar stacks. “I ain’t wrong about the second part. So let’s hear you count the ways.” The suitcase was open on the bar. She lay five stacks in it and looked at me.

“It’s something about your lips.”

“That’s something you love?” She ran her hand over her black hair, but it was already pushed back and flattened. Her eyes were green like emeralds, nothing I’d expect from a face so dark. But I’d gotten over that surprise days ago.

“No one’s ever gonna complain about the way you look.”

“Not complaining’s a long way from loving.” Her eyes left me for the money and she resumed stacking.

I stepped around the other side of the bar, poured two glasses of scotch, put one in front of her and sat beside her with the other and the bottle. “Is this about love?” My eyebrows rose. “When did that happen?”

“Fuck you.” She kept counting money, and that was all I wanted her to do. The banded stacks were small. When she finished there would be a lot of them. Someone’s payroll must have been in that little bank. Now that payroll sat on our bar. Theresa sat on a bar stool in a short skirt, legs crossed, counting money.

I put my hand on her thigh and she backhanded me, hard. I leaned into the slap and kept leaning, kissed her harder than she hit. She tumbled off her stool to the floor and I tumbled with her. That thing about her lips still bothered me, but it could bother me later.

Theresa changed clothes. I threw my old ones back on. She went back to counting, I walked around the room. “You’re right,” I said. “I do like that part I fuck.”

Theresa looked like she’d throw something at me, but all she had near her was money and scotch, and she wasn’t mad enough to throw either. She shook her head, and it was almost there again, that thing I’d seen on her mouth.

“I don’t know him,” I said, “but I earned this money. If you go, the money stays.”

She looked at me like I made that shit up.

“You do that good: mouth open a little, eyebrows up, eyes wide. Shit, I’m sorry I raised my eyebrows earlier. Didn’t mean to steal your act.”

“You stupid fuck. When would I be with anyone else? There’s no one else, won’t be no one else. When I walk out on you, it’s all because of you.”

I nodded. “I appreciate that.” But I didn’t believe it. There was someone else, someone she liked better than me. I slammed my hand on the bar, shook the glasses and the bottle and the money that wasn’t counted yet. I grabbed my scotch and took a drink. I finished it and poured another. “You want more?”