Chapters (95)
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- Seventy-Three
- Seventy-Four
- Seventy-Five
- Seventy-Six
- Seventy-Seven
- Seventy-Eight
- Seventy-Nine
- Eighty
- Eighty-One
- Eighty-Two
- Eighty-Three
- Eighty-Four
- Eighty-Five
- Eighty-Six
- Eighty-Seven
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- Also by David Swinson
- Thank you for buying this ebook, published by Hachette Digital.
“Remember to keep me outta this shit. And watch out for that Gibbon. He ain’t right.”
I nod. Sorta feel bad afterward. I like him.
Twenty
Twenty
The phone wakes me up. I scramble for it on the nightstand beside my bed.
Hurley. I was going to call him today.
“What’s up, Joe?” I answer.
“May have located some of your property.”
“No shit! That was fast.”
“Yeah, especially when the suspect makes it easy. I’m at Thrift World, a secondhand dealer not far from your house. You available to stop by?”
“Hell, yes.”
I find a pen and an old receipt on the nightstand. I turn the receipt over so I can write on it.
“Go ahead.”
I write down the address he gives me.
“I’ll be right there.”
“Copy that.”
I disconnect.
“Damn!” I say happily to myself.
Twenty-One
Twenty-One
Thrift World is a two-story redbrick row house connected to two more colorfully painted row houses on either side of it. It’s located off 9th Street, Northwest, on a small block that seems to be struggling, either to separate itself from the new trendy U Street corridor or hoping to find its place there. It’s only a few blocks from my house and not even a block from the 9:30 Club. Parking’s not a problem. I pull to the curb behind Hurley’s unmarked cruiser.
This neighborhood looks the way I remember it, which isn’t a good thing. Back when I was at NSID we used to hit this block and the surrounding blocks on a regular basis with buy busts. Mostly heroin. Certainly isn’t rolling like it was back in the day, but still, I wouldn’t trust leaving my car unattended for too long, even if it is parked behind a detective’s cruiser.
I check the outdoor temperature on the dash before I step out. Ninety-eight degrees. That, along with the extreme humidity, makes it feel like a mucky hundred and ten.
Hurley’s inside waiting for me. No one else is in the store except for a young short guy in his midtwenties riddled with tattoos. He’s leaning against a gold-trimmed glass counter and has a scowl that I’ve seen countless times when someone thinks he’s being harassed. This is probably one of the locations where people would plot their moves back in the day when we had all the IMF protesting going on. Maybe even filled baggies with their own piss to throw at the police standing the line. I don’t even know this guy and I’ve already judged him.
Looks like he sells a few records, which he keeps in bins along a back wall, but he has a lot more CDs. Gotta be hundreds of them. He has old stereo equipment, too, along with a few bikes, small pieces of furniture, a couple of racks of clothing—leather jackets, flannel—and a lot of odds and ends, collectibles.