Piggyback Page 2

  A few more minutes went by.

  “Hey, Jimmy, you want a little bump?”

  “Fuck no.”

  “You mind?”

  Jimmy breathed out loudly through his nose and gave Paul an irritated squint. Paul ignored it.

  “Thanks, man.”

  Paul pulled a small plastic baggie from his jacket pocket. He squeezed some of the powder inside, crushing it between his thumbnails, and set the baggie on the dash. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and carefully stuck the tip of one key in the bag and scooped out a tiny bit of powder and lifted the key to his nostril, then repeated the process for the other nostril. He sniffed hard a few times to make sure the blow was as deep as it could go.

  “Oh, that’s better. You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said. Paul did two more hits off the key before returning the baggie to his pocket. “Mind if I put on some music?”

  “It’ll wear down the battery,” Jimmy said without turning his head. He kept his eyes on the house, waiting for a light to go on, anything.

  Time began to move more slowly. Paul was slowing it down. He was tapping a rhythm out on his knees, humming quietly, smoking cigarettes. After a half-an-hour, a car pulled into the driveway. They watched two young men climb out and walk up the side stairs. One of them carried a brown bag, square and heavy. Beer, thought Jimmy. The two men were talking loudly, but Jimmy couldn’t make out what they were saying. The lights came on in the upstairs apartment, illuminating the skull and crossbones in the window. Jimmy sat still, waiting, more patient than ever.

  “The boyfriend’s name is Jerrod. I can’t tell which one that is. Kevin didn’t say what he looked like. This is where they packed the load.”

  “What now, do we go talk to them, or what?” Paul’s voice was loud. Their windows were open. Jimmy shushed him with a finger and kept his eyes on the house.

  After fifteen more minutes, Jimmy quietly opened the door and walked back to the trunk. He pulled out his blue duffel bag, gently closed the trunk, and got back into the car.

  “What’s that?” Paul whispered.

  “Tools,” was all Jimmy said as he unzipped the bag.

  Inside the bag Paul saw three guns: an automatic, a snub-nosed .38, and a handle-gripped shotgun. There were three boxes of ammunition, a couple of pairs of gloves—both leather and rubber—a shoulder holster, a stun gun, at least a dozen zip-ties, and what Paul thought was a police badge.

  “Holy shit, Jimmy. You’re a fucking cop?” Paul’s voice jumped an octave. He recoiled against the door as though the badge were going to bite him.

  Jimmy put his finger to his lips and shushed Paul again. “Tools of the trade, my friend.”

  “Is it fake?”

  “No, it’s real. It just ain’t mine.”

  Jimmy took off his jacket and put on the shoulder-holster. He checked the clip in the automatic and stuck it in the holster. He pulled back on the jacket and put the badge in the breast pocket and the stun gun in the side pocket. Then he reached in and grabbed a handful of the zip-ties. He sat for a few more minutes watching the house.

  When he got out of the car, Jimmy shut the door quietly. He returned the bag to the truck, again being careful to close the lid gently. It probably didn’t matter; he could hear loud music coming from the house, a rhythmic thump that Jimmy hated. He walked directly across the street. He paused to look in the lower level. Dark, quiet. Satisfied, he began to walk up the stairs, stepping as lightly as possible. The stairs creaked, but the music was loud.

  Jimmy knocked at the door. The music thumped on, some kind of hip-hop with a grinding guitar. Jimmy knocked again, harder. The music stopped.

  “Yeah?” barked a voice from inside.

  Jimmy knocked again. The door swung open. A young man stood there. The sides of his head were shaved and a bleach blond tuft of hair stood up on top of his head. His eyes were red and his smile showed an almost perfect set of white teeth.

  “What’s up?”

  Jimmy smelled marijuana. “Jerrod?”

  “Hang on. Jerrod, it’s for you.

  One question answered. Jerrod walked to the door. His brown hair was knotted into short little dreadlocks. He wore a black shirt with a skull that had snakes twisting through its eyeballs and a logo for a heavy metal band emblazoned below. Jimmy didn’t recognize the band name, but he recognized what kind of kids these were. Assholes.

  “What’s up, dude?” There was a little more defiance in Jerrod’s voice than his friend’s.

  “You a friend of Rebecca?” Jimmy said, looking right past him, scanning for hints of other occupants, any sort of clues.

  Jerrod looked back at his friend. “Rebecca who?”

  Jimmy ignored the cat and mouse. “So you are her friend? Good. You’re the guy I want to talk to,” he said, unbuttoning his jacket so his shoulder holster was visible.

  “Don’t talk to this guy,” said his friend.

  “Shut up, Tristan, I know what I’m doing.” Jerrod folded his arms and asked, “Who are you, dude? You got some kinda identification or something?”

  Jimmy stepped across the threshold of the doorway and shut the door behind him.

  “I didn’t say you could come in.”

  “Look, kid, we think something may have happened to your girlfriend and we need to find out where she is, speak to her, and make sure she’s okay.” He was using the softest tone he could, doing his best to sound like he wanted to help.

  “You still haven’t told me who the fuck you are.”

  “Maybe you could call her parents?”

  “Pfft,” said Tristan. Jerrod turned at him and glared.

  It was time for the badge. Jimmy pulled the official-looking leather billfold with the badge pinned in it and flipped it open and closed it, quickly returning it to his jacket.

  “Something serious may have happened and we really need your help.” Jimmy was still scanning the room, looking for any information of use.

  “Nothing happened to her, she’s fine.” Another question answered.

  On the kitchen counter, Jimmy saw a sink full of dirty dishes, a half-dozen empty brown beer bottles, and an old rotary phone. On the coffee table in front of the couch he saw a tall green-stemmed bong, more empty beer bottles, two fresh beers just started, and a small square mirror. He could see, even from across the room, there was a light film of white powder on the mirror. That was good enough for him.

  He pulled the automatic from his holster and, using the butt of the gun, hit Jerrod right below the eye. Jerrod blinked and took a step back. Jimmy could see the rectangle imprint of the gun butt below his left eye. When he didn’t go down, Jimmy backhanded him with the gun still in his hand. This brought the kid out of shock enough for his hands to instinctively fly up to his face. Jerrod dropped to his knees.

  Tristan’s eyes were wide. “Am I under arrest?”

  Jimmy pointed the gun at Tristan’s face. “On your knees.”

  Tristan got down on his knees. Jerrod kept asking, “What the fuck, dude, what the fuck?”

  Jimmy let just a couple more what the fuck’s go by before he knelt down and pulled Jerrod’s head back by his short dreadlocks. The young man’s cheekbone was already swelling fast. Jimmy hit him again with the butt of the pistol. This time a little lower in the face, closer to the mouth. He was sure he’d cracked a tooth or two. Then he asked, “Where the fuck is your girlfriend, Jerrod?”

  “My fucking face. Goddamn it, my fucking face.”

  “He doesn’t know anything.” Tristan was on the verge of tears.

  “He doesn’t, huh? Then I’ll have to kill him first.”

  Tristan turned white. He was trying to say the word “no”, but there was only a hollow wind sound was coming out of his mouth.

  “How would you know what he knows or doesn’t, Tristan? Maybe you have some answers for me, huh?” Jimmy was still holding up Jerrod’s head by the hair, but he now was pointing the gun at T
ristan.

  Tristan’s head started to shake; his mouth was oval-shaped, still trying to say no.

  Jimmy hit Jerrod with the butt of the gun again, this time in the side of the skull.

  “Lie down, face first.”

  Jerrod obeyed, quietly saying, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  Jimmy got up and stepped on the back of Jerrod’s head as he moved over to his friend. Jimmy pointed the gun again at the Tristan’s face. The boy raised his hands and cowered.

  “You too, face first.”

  Tristan obeyed.

  “Put your hands behind your back.”

  Jimmy pulled the zip-ties from his pocket and secured them tightly around Tristan’s wrists. He pulled a wallet from the boy’s back pocket and tossed it on the coffee table, then he moved back to Jerrod and did the same thing. He stood between them for a moment, listening to them whimper, then went over to the stereo and found the volume knob and turned it up just a little. He sat down on the couch and began to go through the wallets. He took the cash from each one and put it in his jacket pocket. He examined the driver’s licenses. They both looked much younger in their pictures. Neither had the goofy hairstyles they were wearing now. He did the math from the birthdates. They were both twenty-two. They both had Sacramento addresses.

  “Cell phones.”

  Neither of the boys said anything.

  Jimmy got up off the couch and walked over to Tristan and kicked him once in the ribs.

  “In my pocket, in my front pocket.”

  Jimmy rolled the boy over and dug the phone out. When they were facing each other, Tristan looked his captor in the eye. Jimmy winked. He walked over to Jerrod and asked, “Cell phone?”

  Tristan answered for his friend, “His is on the kitchen counter.”

  Jimmy sat back down on the couch with the wallets and cell phones spread out in front of him. He began to go through the contact lists, making notes of the obvious numbers like, home, mom. Jerrod’s phone had a listing for Kevin Rose. He set the phone down and picked up the small square mirror off the table, got up and waked over to Jerrod. He pulled his head up by the dreadlocks again. There was a smattering of blood where his face had been resting on the floor.

  “You like to do blow, huh?”

  “No, no, no …”

  With the palm of his hand, Jimmy smashed the mirror on Jerrod’s forehead. One of the cell phones began vibrating. Jimmy let his head drop back down onto the shards of glass on the floor and walked back to the table. It was Tristan’s phone. He looked at the caller ID. Shelly—Michelle. Another question answered. The phone kept buzzing. He thought about answering it; just to hear her voice.

  “Michelle is calling,” he said to Tristan.

  Tristan squeezed his eyes tight. Jimmy smiled. He waited for a moment and the phone blinked. Voicemail waiting. He was about to reach out and pick it up when Jerrod’s phone began to buzz. The caller ID read Becky. Perfect.

  Paul had been sitting in the car with the window open, smoking steadily, and waiting. He only had three smokes left and didn’t want to ask Jimmy for another pack. He was patient at first, but after thirty minutes, he started to worry. He kept looking up at the apartment. At first he could see shadows moving around, but that was a while ago. There had been no movement for at least fifteen minutes. No one was coming out. He wished that Jimmy had left him one of those burners so he could call and see what was happening, or at least the keys to the fucking car so he could listen to some music to calm his frayed nerves. For the second time, Paul pulled out his baggie and did another bump. Two times, each nostril.

  He had just put the bag back in his pocket when he saw shadows moving upstairs. The door opened and lighted the stairway. He saw three people walking down the stairs, the two young men that they’d watched going in and Jimmy bringing up the rear. The two in front had their hands behind their backs, like they were under arrest. Paul’s brain flashed on that badge again. What if Jimmy really was a cop?

  When they reached the car, Paul could see that the first kid, the one with the short dreadlocks, was bleeding from the mouth. The second one seemed only scared. Jimmy opened the rear door for them to get in. He swept his hand courteously, like a maître de. “After you, gentlemen.”

  When they were in their seats, Jimmy leaned in and buckled their seatbelts.

  “For safety?” Jerrod asked, trying once again to sound sarcastic, tough.

  “For the man,” said Jimmy. Then he winked.

  Once they had hit the open road, Paul asked, “What now, where’re we going?”

  “Sacramento.”

  “Sac? What for?”

  “To visit their girlfriends.”

  Paul looked behind him at the two sullen faces in the back seat and asked, “Either of you two got any smokes?”

  Neither said a word.

  Jimmy produced a pack of American Spirits from his jacket and tossed them into Paul’s lap. “I found those upstairs.”

  “American Spirits? Ugh, hippie shit,” said Paul as he opened the box and shook one out. He lit up and took a few drags before turning around to look at their passengers again.

  “That lip looks kinda bad.”

  “It’s not.” It was the first thing Jerrod had said since they began moving.

  “Damn, your face don’t look too good either.”

  The welt under Jerrod’s eye was swelling and turning a deep shade of purple.

  “Who are you guys?” asked Paul.

  “Don’t tell them your name,” said Jimmy. Paul looked confused, he wasn’t sure if Jimmy was talking to him or the boys. Jimmy looked at Paul. “You, don’t tell them your name.” Paul nodded and turned again toward the back seat.

  The boys sat silent anyway.

  They rode that way for a few more minutes, classic rock playing quietly on the radio. Jimmy finally spoke.

  “Dreadlocks with the busted lip, that’s Jerrod, Becky’s boyfriend, and Captain Braveheart there, that’s Tristan. That’s Michelle’s boyfriend.” He looked into the rearview mirror. “Ain’t that right, gentlemen?”

  Tristan looked like he was about to cry. Jerrod rolled his eyes.

  “You guys want one of your smokes?” asked Paul. The boys stayed silent.

  They made their way back to the interstate and started south toward Sacramento. Paul continued to change the radio station midway through each song. The passengers in back remained mute. When they were far enough away from any lights or civilization, Jimmy took an exit and drove straight into the flat barren countryside. They were the only car on an unpainted asphalt road. When he figured they were far enough away from the freeway, he pulled over and shut off the engine. He pulled the stun gun from his pocket and turned on the dome light. From his breast pocket he took the boy’s driver’s licenses and set them on the seat beside him. He turned toward the boys and crackled the gun. The sound was loud, crisp, and frightening.

  “What the fuck?” said Jerrod.

  Jimmy didn’t say a word. He pushed the stun gun into Jerrod’s chest and hit the button. Jerrod’s head flew back, a fine mist of blood from his lip hit the roof of the car. Jimmy turned toward Tristan and repeated the shock.

  “Jesus, Jimmy,” said Paul. Jimmy glared at him for mentioning his name.

  The boys began to recover from the shock and Jimmy gave them each one more. He waited again for them to recover.

  “Who lives at these addresses?”

  Tristan spoke first. “What addresses?”

  Jimmy gave him a short zap with the stun gun.

  “The address on your license, Tristan Boliaire.”

  “That’s my parent’s house.” The boy’s voice was raspy and cracked like he had just hit puberty.

  Jimmy looked at Jerrod. “How ‘bout you? You live with mommy and daddy too?”

  Jerrod nodded, his mouth hurt too much to talk.

  “Do either of you know where the girls were calling from?”

  “No, no. You didn’t let us answer the phone.” Trista
n’s answers had become whimpers.

  “We’re gonna find out. We’re gonna find out everything.” Jimmy reached down and gave Jerrod a long zap in the crotch.

  “You’re going to kill him,” pleaded Tristan.

  Jimmy held the stun gun up to Tristan’s chin. “This won’t kill him. Trust me; I know what will kill him. You guys not telling me what I what to know, that’s what will kill him.” Jimmy pushed the button; the shock flipped Tristan’s head back.

  “Jesus,” Paul said again. Each time the boys were shocked, he squinted and winced like he felt it. “Hey, can I talk to you for a minute.”

  “Nope,” said Jimmy. The line of questioning continued. So did the shock treatment.

  In a large two-story house in the east Sacramento neighborhood known as the Fabulous Forties, Shelly and Becky sat at the kitchen table of Shelly’s parent’s home. The house was dark and empty except for the girls in the kitchen. The large antique dining table was empty too, except for the girls huddled in one corner in front of a plastic tray with a few bright green buds, a grinder, rolling papers, and an ashtray.

  “Why aren’t those assholes calling us back?” said Becky.

  “I don’t know. They’ll call. Open the sliding glass door, the house stinks like bud.”

  “They got our messages. They’re not calling on purpose. What the hell are they doing? Jerrod can be such a dick.”

  “Please, open the door; I can’t have it smelling like weed in here.”

  “Mellow out, there’s no one coming home.” Becky walked across the dining room area and slid open the glass door that opened onto an expansive wood deck. “There.”

  “They’ll call; maybe they’re on the way. Maybe their phones were off.”

  “Both their phones? I don’t think so. I’m calling those assholes again. I can’t believe they’d pick a time like this to flake.”

  “They’re not flaking. Just wait.” Shelly twisted the grinder and tapped out the crushed marijuana onto the tray. She scooped the pot into a rolling paper and twisted it between her fingers. She handed the short, fat joint to Becky.