Piggyback

By Tom Pitts

A Crime Novella.

When two young girls disappear with a trunk-load of pot, unaware their payload has been packed with an extra five kilos of cocaine, a lovable loser persuades a sociopathic killer to pursue them across Northern California on a violent, twisted goose-chase that ends in a horrific place none of them could have foreseen.

Praise for PIGGYBACK:

“Piggyback restores noir to its dark kingdom, a rollicking pumping novel of losers, psychos, stone killers, idiotic amateur rip-off artists, and a road-movie of a story that is as fast as it is beautifully written. Think Don Winslow’s Savages meets Christopher Cook’s Robbers and you have the dark read of the year.” —Ken Bruen, two-time Shamus Award-winner

“Piggyback is a wild frenzy of drugs, violence, and crazy plot twists. Somebody needs to make the film version.” Tony DuShane, author of Confessions of a Teenage Jesus Jerk

• Language: English
• Publisher: Down & Out Books
• Release date: Feb 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370066438

Book preview

PIGGYBACK

Tom Pitts

PRAISE FOR PIGGYBACK

"Think Don Winslow’s Savages meets Christopher Cook’s Robbers and you have the dark read of the year." —Ken Bruen, bestselling author of the Jack Taylor series

"Piggyback is a wild frenzy of drugs, violence, and crazy plot twists. Somebody needs to make the film version." —Tony DuShane, author of Confessions of a Teenage Jesus Jerk

Praise for AMERICAN STATIC

"American Static is a stunning achievement and nobody could have written it but Tom Pitts." —Benjamin Whitmer, author of Cry Father

Tom Pitts serves up noir just the way you want it—dark, relentless, and inevitable.—Rob Hart author of the Ash McKenna series

"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

Praise for HUSTLE

Bold, honest and daring. —Todd Robinson, author of Rough Trade

Quick-paced and dark, sad and funny, with a Thompson-esque cast of characters and echoes of Bukowski in its poetic sensitivity. —Ro Cuzon, author of Under the Dixie Moon

Unflinching and without apology. —Joe Clifford, author of December Boys

Praise for KNUCKLEBALL

I’d say he knocked it out of the park. Top notch. — Brian Panowich, author of Bull Mountain

An ambitious and tightly-packed slice of modern crime fiction. —Jordan Harper, author of She Rides Shotgun

If you dig tales with wire-tight tension, stuffed with characters that massage the margins of life, then pick up Mr. Pitts latest work. —Mike McCrary, author of Steady Trouble

Pitts deftly sets up lives you care about, then propels you forward as he knocks them down. —Jon McGoran, author of Spliced

Copyright © 2012 by Tom Pitts

Down & Out Books Edition February 2018

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.

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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

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Piggyback

Acknowledgments

Preview from Tom Pitts’ Next Novel, 101

About the Author

Also by the Author

The Down & Out Books Publishing Family Library of Titles

Preview from Dillo by Max Sheridan

Preview from Accidental Outlaws by Matt Phillips

Preview from May by Marietta Miles

For Cheryl, always.

San Francisco

He woke up early, crawled out of bed, and made his way into the bathroom. He stared into the mirror 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 he could easily hate.

He lifted his head 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 Humboldt County pot 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. He liked something about that too. The only thing he hated about his job was 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 a 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 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, man, 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 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, man, 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 San 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, 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, Paul said.

Jimmy reached over and flipped the stereo off. What did Jose say?

Jesus, 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