BooksBarbecue
Back Crime Song Save as PDF
Chapters (95)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. One
  6. Two
  7. Three
  8. Four
  9. Five
  10. Six
  11. Seven
  12. Eight
  13. Nine
  14. Ten
  15. Eleven
  16. Twelve
  17. Thirteen
  18. Fourteen
  19. Fifteen
  20. Sixteen
  21. Seventeen
  22. Eighteen
  23. Nineteen
  24. Twenty
  25. Twenty-One
  26. Twenty-Two
  27. Twenty-Three
  28. Twenty-Four
  29. Twenty-Five
  30. Twenty-Six
  31. Twenty-Seven
  32. Twenty-Eight
  33. Twenty-Nine
  34. Thirty
  35. Thirty-One
  36. Thirty-Two
  37. Thirty-Three
  38. Thirty-Four
  39. Thirty-Five
  40. Thirty-Six
  41. Thirty-Seven
  42. Thirty-Eight
  43. Thirty-Nine
  44. Forty
  45. Forty-One
  46. Forty-Two
  47. Forty-Three
  48. Forty-Four
  49. Forty-Five
  50. Forty-Six
  51. Forty-Seven
  52. Forty-Eight
  53. Forty-Nine
  54. Fifty
  55. Fifty-One
  56. Fifty-Two
  57. Fifty-Three
  58. Fifty-Four
  59. Fifty-Five
  60. Fifty-Six
  61. Fifty-Seven
  62. Fifty-Eight
  63. Fifty-Nine
  64. Sixty
  65. Sixty-One
  66. Sixty-Two
  67. Sixty-Three
  68. Sixty-Four
  69. Sixty-Five
  70. Sixty-Six
  71. Sixty-Seven
  72. Sixty-Eight
  73. Sixty-Nine
  74. Seventy
  75. Seventy-One
  76. Seventy-Two
  77. Seventy-Three
  78. Seventy-Four
  79. Seventy-Five
  80. Seventy-Six
  81. Seventy-Seven
  82. Seventy-Eight
  83. Seventy-Nine
  84. Eighty
  85. Eighty-One
  86. Eighty-Two
  87. Eighty-Three
  88. Eighty-Four
  89. Eighty-Five
  90. Eighty-Six
  91. Eighty-Seven
  92. Acknowledgements
  93. About the Author
  94. Also by David Swinson
  95. Thank you for buying this ebook, published by Hachette Digital.

I don’t know where my car is, so I use the key fob, here it chirp up the street. I drag myself there.

Ticket on the windshield.

I see the black bag of money in the backseat. What an opportunity for a theft from an auto. Would have made some fucking mope’s year.

At home, I can’t dump the shit, much as I want to. Instead I scrape a few grams off the good coke, wrap the big one up again, and stash it along with the money and weed in my stash wall. I have to press all the air out of the garbage bag and tie it tight to get it to fit. I clean the speckles of blood off my leather shoes and wash my tactical gloves. I squirt the white shirt with stain remover and drop it in the washer.

I know Leslie won’t call the police. That is, she won’t unless she sees something on the news about two young drug dealers who were killed during the course of a home invasion.

Fuck, I hope I didn’t kill them.

I check the local news app on my phone. Don’t find anything related to Riggs, so I google it. Nothing. That’s a relief.

I snort some of the good blow. It makes this body right and fine. But not what’s going on in my head. It can’t be over with Leslie. I convince myself that all she needs is time, but then I realize how naive that sounds, given what she discovered and what I told her.

Damn fucking damn damn. So stupid.

I need a drink. Never vodka, though. Never again.

Sixty-One

Sixty-One

I wake up to the sound of intermittent tapping on my bedroom window. I grab hold of my gun and walk toward it. Listen.

Another tap. Makes me jump back a little. Just a little. My bedroom is on the second floor, and there’s no way someone can scale up the wall, so I’m thinking someone’s tossing something like acorns at it.

Another tap.

Pistol held to my thigh, I move forward and peek out but don’t see anything.

That is, until a large cicada smacks into my window, making the same sound.

Blunt-headed dope.

I let the curtain fall back to a closed position, return to my bed, and set the gun back on the nightstand.

No sense in trying to fall back asleep, so I go downstairs and make coffee. Take my gun with me.

Stomach aches raw with emptiness and worry, but I’ll need something more than damn grapefruit to satisfy it. The acidity will tear me apart. I drop a couple pieces of wheat bread in the toaster. I use honey instead of butter. That’ll do me for the remainder of the morning.