Piggyback (9 page)

Shelly sighed, it was that tone again. There was no use in fighting it.

“
It
’
s in the garage. We can
’
t wake up my mother; I don
’
t want to hear her bullshit.
”

“
Nobody does,
”
said Becky.

The two crept downstairs as quietly as they could. In an older house like that one, it was impossible to take a single step with out some kind of creaking. When they reached the main floor, they could see from the glow that the TV was still on. They had to pass through the TV room to reach the door to the garage.

Shelly
’
s mother lay on the sofa passed out with her head thrown back, mouth wide open, soft snoring reverberating through her nostrils. They could see the gold chains avalanched between her tanned and freckled fake breasts move up and down with every deep breath. With her arms flung across the couch and her legs on the table, she looked older than her forty-six years in the unnatural crucifixion posture. Like the boobs, the tan was fake; the freckles were age spots. Any youthful glow she tried to emulate was lost in such an unflattering repose.

“
She
’
s so out,
”
said Becky.

“
Ssh.
”
Shelly wasn
’
t so sure. She
’
d seen her mother snap out of a near coma before just to give her shit about not doing the dishes.

The two reached the garage and opened the door slowly. The cement was cold on their bare feet and they tried to hurry their errand before they experienced anymore discomfort. Shelly kept holding her index finger up to her lips as she carefully moved pieces of empty luggage from their storage spot in the corner.

Becky watched her friend
’
s espionage. Every few moments, Shelly would look back to communicate her progress. Her facial expressions suddenly went from sneaky to confused to full-on panic.

“
What the
…”
She pulled another suitcase, light and empty, from the stack. Her family owned at least three full sets of luggage for each of its members. Suitcase after suitcase, Shelly was getting less concerned about the noise as she pulled them like weeds.

“
What is it?
”

“
It
’
s not here.
”

“
What do you mean it
’
s not here? Of course it is. Where
’
d you put it?

“
Right here, it was right under here.
”
Shelly lifted another suitcase.

Both their minds jumped to the same conclusion, the only possible conclusion they could come to. The boys.
 

Paul tried to sit still on the hood of the Camry. He stood up and tried to light another cigarette, one of the boy
’
s American Spirits. The wind was picking up. He noticed how badly his hands shook; it took him several tries to get it lit. He cursed the brand and wished he hadn
’
t left the remainder of his bottle in the front seat. He sat back down again on the hood; the hood was warm from hours of engine heat. Then he stood back up. Each time he changed position the car
’
s shocks creaked with disapproval.

“
Fucking things taste like shit,
’
he said to the glowing ember on the end of the American Spirit. He took one more drag and threw the cigarette down, turning to see if Jimmy had finished his phone call. He saw Tristan
’
s silhouette in the car, as still as a mannequin. The kid had to know something was up, had to feel the vibe. Paul wasn
’
t sure he could get back into the car with the kid and act like nothing had changed. Everything had changed. 

Jimmy paced around in a short circle at the other end of the car. He
’
d dialed the number he had memorized and was getting no response. After seven rings, the robotic voice of the automated response answered. He redialed. This time someone picked up on the third ring, a female voice with a thick Spanish accent.

“
Hola?
”
Then something else that Jimmy didn
’
t understand.

“
Jose, please.
”

“
He is not here.
”

“
This is his phone, he
’
s there. Put him on, please, it
’
s important.
”

“
Who is this?
”

“
This is his friend, can you put him on, please.
”
It was noisy in the background. There was salsa music playing and the joyous sounds of drunken voices.

“
All his friends have names.
”

“
Tell him it
’
s Jimmy.
”
The sounds were muffled as she covered the phone with her hand. There were a few more moments during which Jimmy couldn
’
t make out anything other than that strange suction cup sound, then Jose
’
s voice came on.

“
Hello, my friend.
”
Jose called everyone his friend. Everyone knew that Jose had no friends.
“
Que paso
?
”

“
Not a lot. I
’
m out in the valley trying hard to straighten out some troubles of yours?
”

“
Of mine? What kind of troubles?
”
Jose
’
s accent was thick, but his English was good.

“
Paul, you know Paul. He thinks he lost track of what he
’
s supposed to keep track of.
”

“
I know.
”

“
You know?
”

“
Of course, he hasn
’
t called in days. I was starting to wonder if that son-of-a-bitch crawled into a rat-hole.
”
There was a sing-song quality to Jose
’
s voice that made it sound as though nothing fazed him.

“
No, no, he
’
s a good guy; he wouldn
’
t do anything like that.
”
Jimmy looked up and watched Paul heating and re-heating his ass on the front of the car. He hoped he was a good guy.

“
Are you with him, right now?
”
The music in the background had died down, replaced by the sounds of traffic. Jose had walked out to the street for privacy.

Jimmy was still looking at Paul. He hesitated before answering,
“
Yes.
”

“
Why don
’
t you two come back and we
’
ll solve this problem together?
”

“
I think I can bring it back to you.
”
It
meant the load, not Paul.

“
Listen, Jimmy. You
’
re a good guy, and we
’
ve been able to count on you in the past, why don
’
t you just come on back and we
’
ll figure a way to get this
…
straightened out.
”

Going back without the load would mean a certain death sentence for Paul—and Jimmy too, if he weren
’
t careful.

“
I got a
…
I got a lead,
”
said Jimmy.

“
Look, my friend, I don
’
t know what Paul
’
s told you, but I
’
m not sure if you even know what you are looking for.
”
The piggyback.

“
I think he
’
s told me everything. That
’
s why I
’
m working so hard.
”

For a few moments all Jimmy heard was the sound of street traffic. That was the sound of Jose
’
s frustration.

“
Okay, Jimmy, you are a smart guy. You know how this thing works. You call me back with some good news.
”

“
Thank you.
”
Jimmy tried to sound as respectful as he could, but Jose had already hung-up. He slipped the phone back into his pocket. He felt it vibrating again. No one had the number. He took the vibrating phone back out, it wasn
’
t his burner, it was Jerrod
’
s phone. Jimmy looked at the name lighting up the front. Becky. He flipped the phone open and hit the green button. An angry female voice came through so loud it distorted and crackled in the tiny receiver.

“
Listen, fucker, I don
’
t know what the hell you think you
’
re doing or where the hell you guys are, but you two better get your asses over here to Shelly
’
s. If you guys touched that shit, you are both in deep trouble. And if this is some kinda game you two are playing, it
’
s not funny. Shelly and me are pissed off at both you two, so you better hurry the fuck up or you two can spend your nights fucking each other.
”

The call ended as abruptly as it started. Jimmy hadn
’
t said a word.

Damon Lafleur wasn
’
t speeding because he was in a rush to get home. He wasn
’
t worried about his wife. Not in the traditional sense. She
’
d left hours before, drunk as usual, behind the wheel of their Lincoln Navigator. The odds that she
’
d have gotten pulled over were nil, she had that kind of luck. The odds of her getting into a crash and dying were also nil; that was the kind of luck he was stuck with. He was speeding home in his Mercedes Benz C300 because he liked the feel of it. He liked the solitude. When he was in his car he could think, clear his head. The faster he went, the clearer his head became.

He was worried, not about his wife
’
s well-being, but about her spite. Spite is what drove the woman. The mood she was in, he didn
’
t know what to expect when he got home, presuming she even went there. Mild spite drove her to massive overspending, each punitive purchase a lashing out at her husband. Medium spite would get her throwing things, smashing up the valued items that she
’
d bought with his hard-earned money (perhaps even destroying the previous week
’
s spiteful retail binge). But full-on spite, that hateful, hot spite, brought infidelity. There
’
d been many occasions when he had to call in a favor from an associate to help extract from his home some young pup with dollar signs in his eyes and his wife
’
s stink on his dick. He hated what she did to him, hated that his instincts still sent him into jealous fits when his rational brain told him to keep it compartmentalized, that he
’
d been there before, it wouldn
’
t last—neither would his wife.

The stereo throbbed away with some anonymous beat that reminded him of the discos and clubs where he escaped to avoid his marriage and try his hand at playing single. The open road was unpopulated and was perfect for his mood. It was a little like being in a car commercial, he thought, except he had to watch his speeds, topping out at 85mph to avoid getting another ticket.

Pushing fifty years-of-age, things were looking up for Damon Lafleur. There was almost certainly a divorce in his future, an occasion he was looking forward to more than retirement. As soon as his daughter, Shelly, was out of the house he could begin that task in earnest. He
’
d already begun hiding assets to prepare for whenever her lawyers would come sniffing around. His business was not in the best shape, but the money, at least his end, kept rolling in. He was branching out on his own and preparing for the next stage of his life. He was looking forward to making his golden years truly golden.

The music suddenly broke, replaced by an old fashioned telephone ring-tone. He looked at the car stereo display, it read: Caller Unknown. He hit the answer-call button on the steering wheel and said,
“
Yes.
”