Piggyback Read online

  “Shit, big enough?”

  “There’s plenty. Spark it up.”

  The girls passed the joint back and forth, taking deep pulls and pausing only to cough. Halfway though, Becky got up and walked to the kitchen and opened up the fridge.

  “Got anything to drink?”

  “Yeah, there’s white wine in the door. Don’t touch my dad’s beer, he’ll kill me.”

  Becky shrugged her shoulders and pulled out the bottle of white wine. She dug through the drawers and finally found an opener.

  “Fuck, your parents got enough shit in here?”

  “My mom’s a shopaholic, what can I say?”

  “Look, do you think you could pull over somewhere so I could piss? Somewhere that sells booze?” asked Paul.

  There were back on the road heading south on Interstate 5.

  “Why didn’t you piss when we were pulled over?”

  “They don’t sell liquor in a cornfield.”

  Jerrod spoke up from the back seat. “I gotta piss too.”

  “Piss your pants; it’s an old car anyway,” Jimmy replied.

  They pulled off the freeway at an exit that promised fast food, cheap motels, and gas. Jimmy pulled into the gas station.

  Before he got out of the car, Paul tapped Jimmy on the knee and pointed with his head to beckon him out of the car.

  “What?” said Jimmy.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute,” Paul kept his voice low, “privately?”

  “There’s no need to whisper, we’re all friends here.” Jimmy looked back in the rearview and smiled at the boys. “Be right back.”

  The two men got out and stood behind the car.

  “Look man, I was thinking, maybe we should just call Jose.”

  “What for?”

  “These kids, man. I don’t want to get in too much deeper. Shit, I don’t wanna spend the next two days digging holes.”

  “The only hole you gotta worry about is the one you already dug for yourself. We’re going to get your shit back. Jose is going to be happy and that’s that. I’m good at what I do, that’s why you showed up on my fucking doorstep begging for help. Remember?”

  “Yeah, I know, I just don’t want to, you know.”

  “What?”

  “You know, Jimmy.”

  “What? See anyone get hurt? Too late for that. See anybody die? Just remember the person you’re trying to keep alive is you, Paul.”

  “Jesus, Jimmy.”

  “Go take your piss.”

  “After, you mind if I just run over to that store for one minute?”

  Jimmy rolled his eyes.

  Paul stood there for a second. “I’m still broke, Jimmy.”

  “Fuck,” said Jimmy, pulling a twenty-spot from his pocket.

  Paul took it, but still stood there.

  “Um, I need smokes too.”

  Jimmy pulled out another ten dollar bill.

  “Thanks buddy. I’ll be right back.”

  Paul was sipping from his bottle of Jim Beam and had finally settled on a radio station. Classic rock, again. The lights of Sacramento were visible, lighting up the horizon and giving shape to a long stretch of heavy-looking clouds hanging low over the city. Jerrod spoke up.

  “I thill need to pith.” He was lisping now through his swollen lips.

  “I told you, piss in your pants.”

  “Come on,” said Paul, “I don’t wanna smell that shit, and I know you don’t want that stink in your car. Just let him piss.” The Jim Beam had mellowed Paul. He was growing more comfortable with the situation.

  “All right, but his hands stay tied.”

  “How’s he gonna piss?”

  “You’re the one that’s so concerned, you help him,” Jimmy said as he signaled to the right and exited the freeway.

  They pulled off the side road onto a gravel patch and Paul got out, opened the back door and unbuckled Jerrod. The two walked several feet from the car. Jimmy watched Paul bend over and manipulate the boy’s zipper. After a moment he heard the boy cry out, “I’m pithing all over my leg.”

  “Shut the fuck up, man. I’m trying to help you.”

  “You hath to undo my panths, dude.”

  Jimmy watched and shook his head. The phone in his jacket began to vibrate. He took it out and looked at the number—Shelly. He turned to Tristan and opened his jacket to show the boy his holstered gun. An unnecessary reminder of who was in-charge.

  “Tell her you’re both on the way. That’s it. Sorry you’re late. Blame it on Jerrod. That’s it, no bullshit or we’re gonna bury your friend right here, right now.”

  Tristan nodded. Jimmy hit answer and held the phone up to Tristan’s ear.

  “Hey baby.”

  There was a shrill female voice in the background.

  “No, no, no. We’re coming, we’re on the way. We’ll be there in a bit. Jerrod was having beers and lagging, you know how he is.”

  More bitching on the other end.

  “No really, we’ll see you in a bit …. I don’t know, a little while.”

  The voice said something else.

  “I love you, baby.” The line went dead. She didn’t say it back.

  “Good job, kid. You may get out of this one yet.”

  Tristan looked down and nodded. Mostly to himself.

  “She’s anxious, huh? Pissed too. No I-love-you? Be terrible if that was the last time she talked to you.”

  Tristan didn’t say anything; he just kept looking at his feet.

  Paul led Jerrod back to the car by his elbow. There was a large wet stain down the front of the boy’s left pant leg. Paul opened the door for him and buckled him back into the seat.

  “Little trouble?” said Jimmy.

  “Fuck you, man. The kid’s an asshole, wouldn’t hold still.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want you holding his dick too long.”

  “This fucking sucks. I got piss all over my hand. Where the hell are we going?”

  Jimmy turned his head toward the back seat and asked the boys, “You want to tell him, gentlemen? Where is it that I want to be? Where am I going to find those sweet young girlfriends of yours?”

  The boys made no sound, didn’t look at each other, gave no sign as to where they had arranged to meet the girls.

  “All right, have it your way.” Jimmy stepped hard on the gas and let the tires spit out some gravel before they gripped the pavement.

  Rio Linda

  As the downtown skyline came into view, Jimmy pulled out Jerrod’s driver’s license and checked the address in the light from the dash. They finally reached the connector from the I-5 South to Interstate 80 and began heading east. They were going to an area just north of downtown called Rio Linda. As soon as he exited the interstate, Jimmy checked the rearview. This time, the boys did look at each other, just a furtive glance. It should have told Jimmy something, but he didn’t know what. To Jimmy, it was a simple equation. Jerrod had the bigger attitude, seemed to be the alpha between the two, so it was his house they’d hit first. Sooner or later, the boys would give up the girls or the stash.

  They crept through the rural streets of Rio Linda. It was as close to countryside as Sacramento got. Small-acreage lots looking run-down and impoverished. The streetlights were far and few between and made it tough to see. Each house had a few vehicles in their driveway, usually trucks, and a couple lights burning in their kitchens. Every property seemed to have dogs coming out to greet them with angry barks. Occasionally there would be a well kept home, secluded from the road with an ornate gate, looking out of place amongst their poorer neighbors. Many of the homes had scattered livestock wandering behind them: horses, cows, chickens, even goats, but never more than a handful of each.

  “Fucking hillbillies, eh?” said Paul.

  After zigzagging for a long time, Jimmy finally pulled up under the street sign they were looking for, he turned right and began to drive slowly, trying to see the numbers on the houses or mailboxes. After he was sure he was
heading in the right direction, he looked into the rearview mirror and asked Jerrod, “Who’s home, kid?”

  Jerrod furrowed his brow like he was trying to think of what to say.

  Jimmy asked again, more slowly this time, “Who is home?”

  They had almost reached the address on the license; Jimmy slowed the car even more and turned the lights and the radio off. He rolled down his window and listened. There were trees leading up to the fence that lined the road. Jimmy pulled the car off the road with just the grill poking out from behind the trees. Lights were on all through the house, but there was no sound, no dogs barking, nothing. Jimmy sat and squinted at the house, trying to read it, wanting it to tell him something. The house told him nothing. It was one story, brick. It was dirty, the yard was overgrown. There was a screen door with the screen ripped out and a solid white door behind it. There were three cars parked in front, two of them looked like they hadn’t run for years. He listened hard. No voices. Nothing.

  Jimmy threw the car into gear and pulled back onto the road.

  “Was that it?” asked Paul. Jimmy stayed silent, looking for a place to pull over. When he found a spot secluded enough, he shouldered the Camry, pulled the automatic from his holster and got out of the car. He opened the back door and undid Jerrod’s seat belt.

  “Get out.” His voice was low and monotone. Jerrod obeyed and Jimmy took him by the elbow and led him around to the back of the car. He opened the trunk and pulled out his duffel bag. It sounded heavy when it hit the ground.

  “Get in,” he said to the boy.

  Jerrod looked at him confused. Jimmy cocked back the hammer and pushed the barrel against Jerrod’s swollen lip.

  “You heard me right, get in.”

  Jerrod tried to get in. His hands were still tied behind his back and his balance was off. Jimmy sped him up with a shove and the boy fell ungracefully into the trunk and quickly rearranged himself into a fetal position. Jimmy leaned into the trunk and, with the same dead monotone, said, “Now keep your fucking mouth shut, or, and trust me on this one, I will kill you and I will kill your friend, then I will find your girlfriends and I will kill them both. Right now you are still alive, you can stay alive; you can live to fight and fuck another day. You can get out of this mess, still. I can be a just bad memory. But if you fuck up, I’ve got no problem shooting you in the head, no problem at all. No one will ever find you, you’ll just be gone, and you’ll be the memory. Do you understand?”

  Jerrod understood. He understood this better than he’d understood anything in his short, stupid life. He looked up at Jimmy, tried to look into the man’s eyes, and nodded. Jimmy shut the trunk, eased the hammer back down, and picked up the duffle bag.

  When he got back into the car, Paul sat looking at him, still hoping for an answer to his question and wanting to ask a dozen more. He was thinking he didn’t know Jimmy at all. He was wondering why the hell he’d gone to Jimmy for help. He looked as scared as the kids. He watched as Jimmy unzipped the duffle bag and swapped out the automatic for the .38.

  “My lucky gun,” said Jimmy.

  Paul wanted to say something. He felt the situation escalating. As Jimmy turned the key in the ignition, Tristan asked the question for him,

  “What are you going to do?”

  Jimmy turned around a looked directly into Tristan’s eyes.

  “Let me ask you something. Are you as stupid as your friend?”

  Tristan was afraid to answer. The blond patch of hair stood up on his head, cartoony, like it was from sheer fright.

  “You don’t look as stupid, but that’s a fine fucking line. Are you as dumb as that dumbfuck in the trunk of my car?”

  Tristan slowly shook his head.

  “Then shut the fuck up and don’t ask stupid questions.”

  Paul sighed as Jimmy turned the car around and started back toward the house. He wanted another bump of blow. He wanted one more than anything, but he thought that might be a stupid thing to do. He sure as hell didn’t want to ask. Instead, he took the bottle of Jim Beam from between his legs, spun off the cap, and took a pull. He’d called on Jimmy because he knew the man was a professional, that he’d know what to do. That’s what he told himself; Jimmy knows what he is doing.

  The girls had moved to the living room. They were sprawled on a plush L-shaped sofa watching TV. There were two plastic cups of white wine in front of them. Becky held a remote control and flipped the channel every few moments.

  “This sucks, there’s nothing on.”

  Infomercial, music video, cartoon.

  “Go back, go back. I like that song.”

  Becky flipped back to the channel and grunted, “To this? Why?”

  Becky had one eyebrow raised. Shelly hated that look. Becky had used that look on her since they were in Fourth Grade. It was a look of ridicule, a look of contempt. It was the look that called Shelly a chicken-shit. That look got Shelly to do a lot of things she knew were wrong. That eyebrow was peer-pressure concentrate.

  “It’s good. I like it. The singer is cute.”

  “Are you serious? He looks retarded when he sings. Look at his pants. How can you stand this crap, Shell?”

  Shelly sat up and held up her hand. “What was that?”

  “What was what?” said Becky, flipping the channel again.

  Shelly’s voice turned to a whisper, “The door, I think I heard the door.”

  Becky turned off the TV and they both looked at each other, in the dark, listening. From toward the front of the house they could hear the clumsy metallic sounds of someone fumbling with the lock. The front door slammed shut. There was definitely someone in the house. They heard heavy footsteps creaking on the hardwood floors. Whoever was stomping around was not shy about being there. The footsteps came closer. A dark figure filled the doorway to the right of the TV, all shadow, tall and menacing.

  “Michelle.” The voice was shrill and angry, half-bark, half-shriek.

  The girls both exhaled. It was Shelly’s mother.

  “Jesus Christ, Michelle, it smells like smoke in here.”

  “What are you doing home?”

  “Is that my wine you’re drinking?” Shelly’s mother pointed to the plastic glasses on the coffee table. “And no coasters?”

  Before Shelly could answer, her mother spun around, her long, brown leather jacket flashing like a cape behind her. Moments later, they heard the sounds of a purse thrown across the kitchen, the fridge door opening and slamming shut, the smack of glasses in the cupboard.

  “What are you doing home so early?”

  “Your father’s an asshole,” came a shout from the kitchen.

  “She’s drunk,” Shelly whispered.

  “No shit,” said Becky with no attempt to lower her voice.

  “You father’s an absolute dickhead,” shouted the voice again.

  “I heard you the first time, Mother.”

  They listened for a moment to the violent sounds of Shelly’s mother making herself a vodka tonic. It was peppered with various vulgarities with no apparent target. They couldn’t tell if the profanities were directed at them, Shelly’s father, or the ice cubes.

  Inside the kitchen, Shelly’s mother struggled to make herself the drink. She had spilled ice cubes and vodka all over the countertop. Before she tried to cut a lime, she kicked off each of her heels, sending them flying into the corner, narrowly missing a full wine rack. “Fucking things are killing me,” she murmured before slicing a wedge out of the lime and squeezing it into the glass of vodka. She took a long sip and set the glass back down before picking up the tonic and topping it off. The fizz edged over the top of the glass and she took another sip.

  “God, that’s good.”

  She took a look at herself in the reflection of the window above the sink. She wrinkled up her face for a moment, then puckered her lips before pulling a few strands of bleached blonde hair out of her face. The face that looked back was a monster. She picked up the toaster; it made a better mirror.
It bent and distorted her face, but she could stand that, even approve. She was still a good-looking woman, even after the booze, the drugs, and the unhappy years of marriage. She set down the toaster and turned back toward the living room. She reached the doorway and saw the glow from the TV lighting the room.

  “So, what are you two girls up to tonight?”

  The room was empty. The glasses were gone, wet, round rings where they’d stood.

  “Bitches.”

  Jimmy pulled into the driveway and parked perpendicular to the house. He climbed out of the car and walked up to the front door.

  Jimmy opened the screen door and knocked on the white door. Three hard raps. Waited, and knocked again. The door swung open and a grizzled-looking man with grey stubble and greasy hair stood before him. He wore an unbuttoned plaid shirt exposing a stained white undershirt underneath.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hi, I’m looking for Jerrod.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” Gaps from missing teeth were exposed when he opened his mouth.

  “I’m Becky’s Uncle Richard and I was actually looking for her. Last I spoke with Jerrod, he said they may be here.”

  “Who the fuck is it?” a voice from inside the house shrieked.

  Jerrod’s father leaned back to answer and Jimmy got a quick peek into the house.

  “It’s not for you,” the man snapped back. It was the sound of timeless bickering, of unhappy marriages, of constant and comfortable bitterness. It was a tone that Jimmy remembered from his childhood. Jimmy hated them both instantly.

  The man turned back to Jimmy. He looked both defensive and suspicious. “Look, Jerrod don’t live here no more.”

  “I understand that, it’s just that I was wondering if you know where I could find them.”

  “Shut the fucking door, it’s getting cold in here.” The voice again. She had to be as ugly as her voice. “Who the fuck is at the door?”

  “It’s some friend of Becky’s,” shouted the man.

  “Relative,” corrected Jimmy.

  “Well, don’t be a jerk, invite him in.”

  The man rolled his eyes, expecting some sort of commiserating look back from Jimmy, then, to Jimmy’s surprise, stepped back and cleared the way for his entry. Jimmy stepped into the front room of the tiny house. The smell hit him immediately, stale, smoky, acrid, and foul. Stale beer, old garbage, rotten food and bad breath. The woman who possessed the voice was quickly clearing paraphernalia off of a crowded coffee table. A glass pipe, a small mirror, a small plastic baggy. She missed a couple of other empty small baggies, easy to do with the large amount of trash piled on the table. She hurried the stuff into a drawer in a small table at the end of the couch and then began to make room for Jimmy. She pushed aside several newspapers, a couple of beer cans, and two battery-less, useless remote controls.