Piggyback Read online

  Piggyback

  Tom Pitts

  Piggyback by Tom Pitts

  Published by Snubnose Press at Amazon

  The copyright belongs to the authors unless otherwise noted. 2012. All rights reserved.

  Amazon Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  First Amazon Original Edition, 2012

  Cover Design: Eric Beetner

  Amazon Edition, License Notes

  All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

  San Francisco

  He woke up early, crawled out of bed, and made his way into the bathroom. He stood staring at the shadows that were once his eyes. He was gaunt and his skin looked yellow in the bright light. He couldn’t decide if he hated himself or not. He’d been at this job for years now and it was starting to show. He had a talent, he knew that, but the job was eating it up, eating him up. He squinted, exaggerating the wrinkles around his eyes, turning his face into a scowl. He looked old, like a stranger. He was someone else, someone whom he could easily hate.

  He lifted up his head just a little, letting the light fall onto his eyes. He looked into them, cold and blue. The eyes he trusted. He recognized himself again, could feel himself in his own skin. He pissed, flushed, flicked off the light and went back to bed.

  It was the light that woke him up again. It cut through the venetian blinds in clean, hot lines, heating up the room. He had a headache, his shirt was wet, his sheets damp. He wondered what the dreams had done to him this time. It was past noon. Even when he managed to sleep long enough he still felt exhausted.

  Drug dealer, drug courier, mule, wholesaler, runner. He wouldn’t know what you’d call him; he was a go-between, a bottom-feeder. He’d never get called a kingpin, that’s for sure. He was good at it; he was all-business in a business full of fools. Working his way up from a trunk full of pot from Humboldt County to the kilos of blow and ounces of heroin he moved now. It was all the same to him; it was product. It paid the bills and it kept him from having a real job.

  There were fringe benefits, too. Good blow on the rare occasion he had a female over to the apartment. Good friends, for when the going got rough. And good scotch. When there was too much of that, he still had the endless supply of good blow. And of course there was the violence. It was no secret he loved the violence. That’s what made him good at his job: the underlying fear that his associates had, hearing the stories, the rumors. It was his edge. He never bragged, didn’t have to, gossip did the work for him.

  As for job security, the future, there was none. There was something about that he liked too. The only thing he hated about his job were the dreams. The dreams and having to look at himself in the mirror.

  There was a knock at the door. It wasn’t a cop knock, it was small nervous knock. Three quick and quiet ones. He lay there wondering how someone had gotten into his building. Three more, a little louder this time. He sat up and pulled a snub-nosed .38 from the drawer in his nightstand. He approached the door, wearing only a t-shirt, socks, and boxers, holding the gun behind his back. Five more quick knocks, a little harder this time. It had to be someone he knew.

  He swung the door open quickly and saw Paul standing in front of him. Short, sweaty, worrywart Paul.

  “Jimmy, thank God you’re here. Can I come in?”

  He pulled the gun out from behind his back and motioned with it for Paul to enter. Paul entered, sat down on the couch and stood back up again.

  “Thanks, man. You got anything to drink?”

  Jimmy pointed to the half finished bottle of scotch on the kitchen counter.

  “Little early. You got any beer?”

  Jimmy nodded at the fridge. Paul went straight for it, opened the door, grabbed a beer, popped the top, and began to guzzle.

  “Make yourself at home.”

  “Shit, Jimmy, I’m fucked.”

  Jimmy turned the slats on the venetian blinds to cut the light and sat down.

  “I lost a load. I mean, I think I did, pretty sure. Oh fuck, Jimmy, this is fucked.”

  “How the fuck did you get in here?”

  Paul looked at him for a second, eyes blank, not understanding the question.

  “I’ve been outside for a half-an-hour. A neighbor finally left and I grabbed the door.”

  “You don’t have a phone?”

  “I didn’t wanna use it, I’m afraid to, I didn’t wanna wake you. Fuck, Jimmy, I don’t know.”

  “Whose load?”

  “What?”

  “Whose load did you lose?”

  “Jose, man. It was from fucking Jose.”

  Jimmy had worked for Jose before. Neither of them knew his real name. Most of these Mexicans didn’t give the gringos their real name, but Jimmy knew exactly which Jose that Paul was so worried about.

  “How much?”

  “Five kilos, five fucking kilos of blow. I’m fucked, I’m really fucked, man. Just saying it out loud, I feel sick. What am I gonna do, Jimmy?”

  “Let me put some pants on.” Jimmy picked up his gun and started walking back to the bedroom.

  “I changed my mind,” said Paul.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I changed my mind, can I have a little of that scotch, too?”

  Jimmy walked out of the bedroom buttoning up his jeans. He pulled a pouch of coffee from the freezer and poured out yesterday’s pot.

  “So what happened?” he said without turning around.

  “It was in with a load of smoke from the hill. These two girls were supposed to drive it to Utah, drop it with Kevin the Freak, and he was gonna pull out the blow for Dusty. I haven’t heard from these girls in three days.”

  “What Kevin? Kevin the rose guy?”

  “Yeah, that’s the guy.”

  “He’s a fucking idiot. What did he say?”

  “They never showed.”

  “I’m starting to think that you’re the fucking idiot. Why the hell would you give property of Jose’s to a couple of girls?”

  “They’re good girls. They’ve worked with us before. Kinda hippie chicks. They’re all right; I don’t think they would fuck me over.”

  “You don’t, huh? Did they know what they had?”

  “No way, just the weed. That’s all they thought they were carrying.”

  “How much?”

  “How much weed? About seventy pounds, individually packaged. Shrink wrapped twice. I don’t think they knew about the piggyback, I really don’t.”

  “The load is gone.”

  Paul looked like he’d been shot in the gut. He winced and doubled over, pushing his face into a couch pillow.

  “Aw, Jimmy, don’t tell me that. It can’t happen, it can’t,” he said into the pillow.

  Jimmy stood there, looking at his friend feigning tears onto the pillow and listening to the water bubble its way through the coffee maker.

  “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Help, Jimmy, I need help. I need to get this shit back. I need to find those bitches; I need to figure out who fucking burned me.”

  “You want some coffee?”

  “No, but can I have another beer?”

  They were in Jimmy’s car moving across S
an Francisco at a determined clip. Paul fiddled with the stereo and Jimmy stayed silent.

  “Mind if I smoke?”

  Jimmy hit the button and cracked the window on Paul’s side. Paul lit up.

  “Shit, Jimmy, why don’t you get a new car? Something a little more stylish.”

  Jimmy’s car was an old Toyota Camry. It was the color you got when you squished all the play-dough together, somewhere unsettled between green and brown. “I’m not about style,” answered Jimmy. He kept that car for a reason. It didn’t draw the heat.

  “Or at least a new stereo,” said Paul.

  Jimmy reached over and flipped the stereo off.

  “What did Jose say?”

  “Jesus, Jimmy, a little music would be nice, it relaxes you.”

  “I don’t need relaxing, you do. What did Jose say?”

  “I haven’t told him.”

  Jimmy already knew this. Paul was scrambling. He wanted to gauge his reaction. Jose would assume the worst, rightly so. Paul was desperate or he wouldn’t have shown up at his door.

  “Where did you say these girls are from?”

  “Chico.”

  “Chico?”

  “Chico State,” said Paul.

  “Chico State Penitentiary?

  “Very funny.”

  “They’re from Chico, or they go to school in Chico?”

  “I’m not sure, I think they might be from Sacramento, but they live up in Chico.”

  “A lot of trust for someone you know nothing about.”

  “I’ve done stuff with them before, they’re good girls. Rebecca and Michelle. They’re not the types to burn someone like me. They might be in trouble, you know.”

  “Well, you definitely are.”

  Paul clammed up and stared out the window. Jimmy kept driving. They passed through Civic Center, across Market, and onto 8 Street. When they took a left on Bryant and started up a freeway on-ramp, Paul asked where they were going.

  “I guess we’re going to Chico, unless you got any better ideas.”

  Chico

  The ride was long and boring, a solid three-hour drive. The suburban hills of the Bay gave way to flatlands and farmlands. Paul smoked cigarette after cigarette and spun the dial on the radio constantly. Jimmy stayed mostly quiet, trying not to let himself get too annoyed by Paul. Every few miles he’d ask Paul a question or two. Questions like: How did you meet these girls? Do they have boyfriends? Have you been to their houses? Do you have their last names? What kind of car are they driving? Who packed the load? Ever seen them do blow? Are they into other shit, other drugs? Every once in a while he’d ask the same question over again, seeing if Paul’s answer would change.

  All of Paul’s answers sounded like apologies. The more that came out of his mouth, the more both of them realized he had no idea what he was talking about.

  “You think I should call Kevin the rose guy?” asked Paul.

  “No, he’s not gonna tell you anything. Kevin’s an idiot. If he’s in on it, we’ll find out, but he ain’t gonna tell us.”

  Jimmy kept his eyes on the road. They approached Interstate 505 and Jimmy pulled over for gas. As Jimmy unbuckled his seatbelt, Paul asked, “Hey, do you think you could get me some smokes?”

  Jimmy was dumbfounded. “Seriously, Paul? You’re broke? You got nothing?”

  Paul looked embarrassed, sheepish, at least he tried to.

  “Tell me something, my friend, what’s in this goose-chase for me?”

  “I thought you were helping me out.”

  “Before I start laying out anymore dough, before I drive another inch, what the fuck am I getting out of this?”

  Paul sat silent, not wanting to make promises he couldn’t keep.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Jimmy. He slammed the door and went in to purchase gas and cigarettes. He pumped the gas and got back into the car. They were back on the road again. Jimmy kept the cigarettes in his pocket. He waited. After about fifteen miles Paul began to fidget and pout.

  “You said there was five kilos?” It came out of the blue.

  “Yeah,” said Paul, “and the weed.”

  “I don’t want any part of the weed,” said Jimmy. “But here’s what I do want, when we get this shit back, I want one kilo. That’s it. Finder’s fee.”

  “Fuck, Jimmy. Jose’ll shit. What am I gonna tell him?”

  “Tell him the kids ripped it off, it was all we could recover. You don’t think he’ll be happy to have eighty percent back? Of course he will.”

  “I dunno, man.”

  “Sure you do. You don’t have a choice. It’s one kilo or I turn around right now.”

  Paul looked out the window. He knew he couldn’t do this on his own.

  “All right.”

  “And any money we happen to find.”

  “Jesus, Jimmy.”

  “I think you should let me call Kevin, too,” Jimmy said.

  “Yeah, yeah, you can use my phone.”

  “And I think you should let me call Jose.”

  “Yeah, of course, you know him better than I do. But we should wait, shouldn’t we? That guy hates my guts. He always acts like such a hard-ass around me.”

  Jimmy turned his head a little so Paul wouldn’t see him smile. He pulled out the pack of cigarettes and tossed them into Paul’s lap.

  “He is a hard-ass. He’s a pro. And before you ask me, yes, this is something he’ll kill you for.”

  Paul opened the pack, mumbled a thank-you, and stuck one into his mouth. There was the slightest tremor in his right hand when he tried to light it. He noticed Jimmy watching him and rolled up the window to steady the flame.

  “Those’ll kill you too,” said Jimmy, “but not as quick as Jose. Cancer’d be more fun, too.”

  After a few more exits, Jimmy pulled off into a Walmart parking lot. He told Paul to wait in the car. He went in and purchased two mobile phones, the kind that you paid for by the minute. Untraceable. Burners, his friends called them. He grabbed a pack of mints, paid cash, and walked back out to the car.

  Paul was out of the car, leaning on the Camry’s hood, sunglasses on, smoking another cigarette. He watched Jimmy approach with the plastic Walmart bag. The sun was going down. Paul felt the warmth of it on his face. It would have been a beautiful day if not for the fuck-up. The valley sun was warmer and friendlier than the sun in San Francisco. He felt like having a drink.

  Jimmy walked around to the back of the car and popped the trunk. He unzipped a small blue duffle bag and threw in one of the phones. He ripped open the packaging on the other and got into the car. When Paul hadn’t followed him, he tapped the horn once. He watched Paul’s body jerk back into the present. Paul took off his sunglasses and got into the passenger seat.

  “What’s Kevin’s number?”

  “What’s that?” asked Paul, pointing to the phone.

  “A burner, dumbass. I got you one, too. Smarten up and start acting like a professional and maybe we can get Jose’s shit back. Now what’s Kevin’s number?”

  “It’s in my phone. You think it’s okay to open? You think they can trace it?”

  “Did you ever bother to turn it off?”

  Paul hesitated before saying, “No.”

  “Do you even have GPS?”

  Again, “No.”

  “I don’t think it’s something we have to worry about just yet.”

  Paul flipped open his phone, an older model Razor, beat-up and well-used, and began to thumb through the contact list. He found Kevin’s number and handed the phone to Jimmy.

  “You want Jose’s number, too?”

  “I already got Jose’s number,” said Jimmy, tapping his temple, “up here. Under bad-ass. But let’s just start with Kevin the flower boy right now. We don’t want to get Jose upset over nothing.” He punched in the digits and looked over at Paul. Paul looked back at him, wide-eyed and expectant; his face tightened a little every time he could hear a ring. Jimmy opened the door and got out of the car before Ke
vin answered. He walked in front of the vehicle where Paul couldn’t hear the conversation. The sun began to slip behind the huge Walmart sign. Paul sat and waited, fidgeting with his sunglasses and wanting that drink more than ever.

  When Jimmy climbed back into the car, he said, “Got an address. Looks like Rebecca’s got a boyfriend.”

  “That was easy, what’d you tell him?”

  “I told him that if he didn’t give me something I was driving straight to Salt Lake City to shoot him, that’s all. No problem. I told him that I was less than seven hundred miles, that I already have his address and couldn’t wait to see him.”

  “Do you? Have his address, I mean.”

  “No, but like I told you, Kevin’s an idiot.”

  Jimmy smiled at Paul. Paul even managed to smile back.

  When they pulled into Chico it was well past dark. The moon was bright and stars littered the sky, something Jimmy had almost forgotten about living in the fog of San Francisco. Luna cacciatore, the hunter’s moon. They navigated the streets looking for the address that Kevin surrendered. The houses were mostly older single-story jobs occasionally punctuated with a short apartment building in between.

  “I think it’s a bit further up, maybe closer to the campus?”

  “How would you know, Paul, you ever even been to this town before?” Jimmy’s patience with Paul was waning. He knew Paul had a jones on. He kept asking to stop for a drink. Jimmy knew this task would be better accomplished alone.

  “There it is, up on the left,” Jimmy said. They were across the street from a large, older two-story home that had been converted into smaller apartments. From the tattered curtains and the skull and crossbones flag that hung in the front window, Jimmy guessed that the boyfriend lived upstairs. He pulled under a large oak, out of the glow of the street light.

  “What now?” asked Paul.

  “Now we sit awhile and see if anyone is home.”

  A few minutes and a few cigarettes had passed, Paul finally asked, “How long is this gonna take, man?”

  “Look, we want to do this right. You’ve got to get your frame-of-mind right. It takes a little patience. We don’t want to tip our hand.”