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  AMERICAN STATIC

  Tom Pitts

  PRAISE FOR AMERICAN STATIC

  “American Static is a stunning achievement and nobody could have written it but Tom Pitts. Pitts ain't just the real deal: he set the mold for what the real deal is, and the rest of us are just plastic copies.” —Benjamin Whitmer, author of Pike and Cry Father.

  “American Static grabs you by the collar and drags you through a dirty, dangerous tour of San Francisco. Tom Pitts serves up noir just the way you want it—dark, relentless, and inevitable.” —Rob Hart author of New Yorked, City of Rose, and South Village.

  “American Static is a remarkable novel, a ride with brilliant twists and turns and a relentless momentum, racing to an ending both unavoidable and unexpected.” —Steve Weddle, author of Country Hardball.

  “American Static is a hot dose of pure adrenaline that will leave you gasping for breath and begging for more.” —Owen Laukkanen, author of The Forgotten Girls.

  Copyright © 2017 by Tom Pitts

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Down & Out Books

  3959 Van Dyke Rd, Ste. 265

  Lutz, FL 33558

  DownAndOutBooks.com

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Eric Beetner

  Lyrics from American Static by Micah Schnabel, used with permission

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  American Static

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Other Titles from Down & Out Books

  Preview from Back to Brooklyn, a sequel to My Cousin Vinny by Lawrence Kelter

  Preview from A Negro and an Ofay by Danny Gardner

  Preview from South of Cincinnati by Jonathan Ashley

  To my father, who remains my greatest hero.

  Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour. —Peter 5:8:11

  “We all grow up to be our fathers, marrying the daughters of the men we once despised.” —Micah Schnabel, “American Static”

  Chapter One

  It came as soon as he touched the flame to the end of his cigarette. Like a brick to the back of his head. The pain was searing, white-hot. For a split-second he thought he’d been struck with an aneurysm, but he saw his cigarette fly out in front of him and he knew that he’d been punched.

  He crumpled toward the ground, powerless to the pain. The shock of it paralyzing his senses. He lay there confused, not knowing what was happening to him. “Gimme the bag, motherfucker.”

  Then a kick. A hard one, into his right kidney. Then another at the base of his spine.

  “Give me the fuckin’ bag.”

  The bag was a knapsack, a backpack tightly secured around his shoulders. He folded his arms into his chest and pulled himself into a fetal position. Whoever his attacker was, they circled round in front of him. He could see feet now, boots. Two more sloppy kicks to his stomach. He felt the bag being pulled from his back. Instinctively, his arms locked onto one another and held tight. There was a strong torque in his shoulders as the straps dug in, followed by the sound of the assailant’s labored grunts. When they pulled the bag, his body moved with it, sliding across the gravel.

  There were two of them, maybe more. One in front, kicking with those big black boots, and one behind, pulling at the bag. He held as still as he could, willing the attack to end through inaction. He waited for more blows. And they came. Kicks to his legs now, his lower back again, and to his head and face. He was sure they’d broken his nose. The pointed kicks turned to heeled stomps and, finally, he gave in. His arms let go as his mind flicked on and off in solids of white and black. He felt the bag being roughly yanked away.

  He thought maybe he was unconscious, but he heard the crunch of boot steps on gravel departing. He lay warm in the sun, hot where the contusions throbbed, wet where blood trickled. In front of him he saw his cigarette, barely burning, a fine wisp of smoke curling up from its resting spot. He watched it, wanting it more than anything.

  ***

  “What the hell’s a matter with you, son?”

  Steven opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was a pair of mirrored sunglasses. The sun reflected off them just right. It sent a piercing ray into his retinas. Fucking cops.

  The man behind the sunglasses said, “Don’t you know that smoking can be detrimental to your health?”

  A set of near-perfect white teeth appeared below the sunglasses and out came a chuckle. Not a self-aggrandizing laugh, but a cool chuckle. Steven tried to focus and saw the man was wearing a dark brown leather jacket and jeans. Not a cop. Probably not, anyway. A hand came out and pulled Steven’s forearm and he straightened himself up, the axis of the earth still pitching and tilting.

  “Shit, son. They got you good, didn’t they?”

  Steven wasn’t sure if he’d made a sound or just nodded.

  “You gonna make it? You want me to call an ambulance…or a priest?” There went the laugh again. “You waitin’ on the bus? Or just got off?”

  “I got off to have a smoke. They took a ten-minute bathroom break. Thing hadn’t stopped since Eureka. All I wanted was a smoke.” Steven heard his own voice quiver.

  The stranger reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a box of Marlboro red, flipped the top, and shook one out. “Here, kid. You look like you could use it.”

  Steven took the smoke and allowed the man to light it for him. The man squatted down on his haunches and Steven sat with his legs splayed out in front of him. They stayed still and quiet for a moment, Steven smoking and letting the air pass between them.

  “Where were you headin’?”

  “San Francisco.” Steven’s head throbbed and the knots on his forehead felt heavy and swollen.

  “You know who it was that fucked you up?”

  “I think it was two Mexican guys from the bus. Got on in Eureka.”

  “What’d they get?”

  “My backpack. Everything. All I had was in there.” Steven breathed out through his nose as the reality of what he was saying sunk in. “Fuck.”

  “You think they got back on the bus?”

  Steven was sure they did. They’d been eyeballing him since they got on up north. “I don’t know.”

  “Did you see which way they went?”

  Steven admitted, “No.”

  “Willits ain’t too big a town.” The man flicked a thumb behind him toward the 101, the only real artery running though the tiny burg. “Tell you what, get up, we’ll take a quick cruise round. See if we see ’em.” The stranger once again held out his hand. Steven took it. He pulled Steven to his feet. “If not, maybe we can catch up to that bus of yours.”

  Steven was sore and stiff from the beating and moved slow behind the man. “Where’s your car?”

  “Right there,” the man said, pointing at a cherry red 1966 Mustang parked across the street.

  “Nice ride.”

  “I’m just fuckin’ with ya. My truck is over there.” He swung his index finger to the right and pointed at a well-worn, gray Ford F-150. “Nineteen ninety-four. Nothing fancy, bare bones. But it gets the job done. Let’s go.”

  First they headed sout
h on the 101 as far as Brown’s Gas Station, where the town began to thin out, then they looped around and drove north up the same stretch, all the way to Willits High School.

  “See anything?”

  “No,” Steven said. The sad futility in his statement was hard to hide.

  “What was in the bag?”

  “I told you, everything. My money, my phone, my ID, even my bus ticket. Everything.”

  “Everything, huh?”

  The cynical tone in the man’s voice made Steven think he didn’t believe him. Steven said, “Yeah, everything. I don’t know what I’m gonna do now. I’m fucked.”

  “Tell you what, why don’t we grab some lunch. I’m buying. Then we’ll figure out what to do.”

  “I thought we were gonna catch the Greyhound?”

  “Trust me, we got time. You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

  ***

  They drove directly to a spot on the southern edge of town, a diner. As they walked toward the front door, Steven wondered if it was one of those retro joints or just old. When they entered the dusty place, poorly lit and choked with greasy smoke, Steven decided it was just old. They sat in a vinyl booth with a scratched Formica table between them. The vinyl bench was worn and cracked and pinched Steven’s ass when he sat down.

  A waitress stood near the cash register calculating and recalculating a bill. She waved at the two as they took their seats. “I’ll be right with y’all.”

  The man waved back. “Take your time, sweetheart.” He removed his sunglasses, folded them, and took a menu from its cradle behind the napkin dispenser and dropped it on the table. “My name’s Quinn, by the way.”

  Steven didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say pleased to meet you, or what. After a few seconds of the man staring at him with his cool blue eyes, he said, “Steven.”

  “What’re ya havin’, Steven?”

  “I dunno. A cheeseburger, I guess.” Steven looked out the window at the cars streaming by on Highway 101.

  “Look, don’t be so anxious. They’re on a bus that stops every twenty minutes. We can catch ’em. We only need a schedule. You got a phone?”

  “No, they took everything, I told you. No phone, no contacts.”

  “Right. Well, I do. We’ll use mine.”

  Quinn pulled a flat black cell from his pocket and tapped the screen. “Let’s see, Greyhound schedule. Where the fuck are we again? Willits, California?” He tapped in the letters, mumbling to himself.

  Before he could complete the search, the waitress approached with two glasses of water and Quinn set the phone down to his right. “How’re ya doing, sweetie? What’s good here?”

  The waitress blushed but managed to come back with, “Other than me?”

  She chuckled and Quinn chuckled and she said, “The country-fried steak is good. Our gravy is the best in the county.”

  “You have any documentation to back that up?”

  “Oh, sugar, you just get whatever you want, and we’ll make sure it’s the best.”

  Quinn ordered a cheeseburger for Steven and the country-fried steak for himself. “With the gravy on the side. I’m watchin’ my figure,” he said with a wink.

  When the waitress had tottered back toward the kitchen, Steven said, “Friendly sort.”

  “What can I tell you, people love me.”

  They ate in silence. Steven was having a tough time chewing. His jaw hurt and every time he bit down sharp pains rocketed up his cheek into his eye socket. He swished water around in his cheeks to help aid the breakdown of the burger. He tasted blood in his mouth, but he forced back the nutrition, reminding himself he didn’t know where his next meal would come from.

  Quinn watched him while he ate, smiling at Steven while chewing his country-fried streak. Amused, but sizing him up, too. He picked up the small porcelain cup full of white gravy and poured a dollop over his steak. “How’s your burger?”

  “S’good.” Steven nodded. He knew he was being scrutinized and stayed focused on his food.

  “Gravy’s excellent. Hard to find good gravy out of the South. You wanna dip your burger in?”

  Steven shook his head.

  There were a few more moments of silence. The only sounds were Quinn’s cutlery and the hollow noises from the kitchen. Finally: “You better hurry up and finish if you wanna catch up to that bus.”

  ***

  They were back in the truck. The interior was bare except for a single roll of paper towels on the floorboard. No personal items, no tiny statue of a saint stuck to the dashboard. It was clean. Steven wondered if it had been rented.

  Quinn started it up and put it in gear. The wheels spat gravel as he accelerated out of the diner’s parking lot. As soon as they were traveling south on the 101, Quinn asked Steven if he wanted another cigarette.

  “Sure,” Steven said, taking one from the flip-top box. “You haven’t smoked one yet. You keep these just for giving out?”

  “Nah, I smoke ’em. I’m trying to cut back, though. I usually don’t have one ’til I’ve had a drink.”

  Their speed was increasing. From his vantage point, Steven watched the speedometer climb above eighty.

  “But if it makes you feel any better, pop open the glove box.”

  Steven opened the box; inside was a pint-sized bottle of Jack Daniels sitting beside a chrome-plated .45.

  “Pass that over. The bottle, not the gun.”

  Quinn took the bottle from Steven, unscrewed the cap with his teeth, and took a hardy swallow. He put the cap back on and passed Steven the bottle. “You wanna hit?”

  Steven shook his head.

  “Time for that cigarette,” Quinn said.

  ***

  The countryside flew by as they smoked. Steven peeked again at the speedometer. Ninety-five. He gripped the door handle with his right hand and fought the urge to brace himself on the dashboard with his left. He turned and looked at Quinn who looked relaxed, head tilted back, nodding his chin to a private beat that bumped on in his head. Steven couldn’t decide if the man were deliberately trying to terrify him or just didn’t give a shit.

  After a few more miles, Quinn noticed Steven eyeing him and turned toward his passenger. “Shit, your eye is starting to swell real good. Look in the mirror. Hell of a knot on your forehead, too.”

  When Steven didn’t check his bruises and kept his eyes glued to the road, Quinn added, “You said you wanted to catch ’em, right? You want me to slow down, just say so.”

  Steven finally gave in and put a hand on the dash. Quinn took his foot off the gas and the truck slowed. As they decelerated around the next turn, they came up behind a Greyhound bus. Quinn got close enough to where they were engulfed in its shadow.

  “Look familiar? We’ll wait until the next stop.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I go see if they’re on the bus.”

  “How?”

  “What do you mean, how? I just walk on and take a look. But before I do, I need to ask you again, what was in the bag?”

  Quinn saw Steven hesitate. The kid wasn’t sure if he could trust him.

  “Look, I don’t want what’s in it. I told you I’d help you. I need to know what I’m gettin’ into though. You understand?”

  “Smoke.”

  “Smoke? You mean weed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I figured. How much?”

  “Three pounds.” When Steven said it, Quinn didn’t look surprised or impressed. He waited for a response.

  “Not too much then.”

  “It is to me. That’s all I had. It isn’t paid for and there’s people in the city waiting for it.”

  Quinn shrugged. “All right, all right.”

  They drafted the bus for about two miles before it pulled into a combination gas station, diner, and bus stop. The bus ground to a halt in a cloud of dust. It stood inert for a moment before it gave off a high wheeze of hydraulics as the front door opened. A few passengers disembarked. A mot
her with three young children, an elderly couple, and two young men. All of them appeared to be Hispanic.

  Quinn nodded at the two men. “Is that them?”

  Steven looked closely. “No. They were younger.”

  They waited another minute. No one else got off.

  Quinn said, “Gimme that piece.”

  “What?”

  “The gun. In the glove box. Let me have it; I’m going in to see if they’re on board.”

  Steven opened the box. The gun felt heavy in his hand. He passed it over.

  “How will you know it’s them?”

  “Easy. They’ll have your backpack.” Quinn opened the door and got out of the truck. He stuffed the gun in the small of his back, adjusted his jacket around it, and, without another word, walked toward the bus.

  Steven watched him go, sauntering over like he was just another passenger. He watched him board the bus.

  Inside the bus, Quinn walked down the aisle, looking from left to right. About two-thirds of the way back he saw two young Hispanic kids. The one closest to the window had a backpack clutched to his chest. They made eye contact. Quinn studied them for a moment, then winked. Both boys furrowed their brows. Quinn turned and walked off the bus.

  Steven watched Quinn walk back empty-handed, giving his shoulders a small shrug. Before he got back in the truck, Quinn pulled the .45 from behind his back and handed it across the seat to Steven, telling him to return it to the glove box. With a grunt, he climbed back behind the wheel.

  “They ain’t on there.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. They’re probably still in Willits, laying low and waiting for the next bus back north.”

  “Fuck.”