Chapters (110)
- Cover
- ALSO BY J. TODD SCOTT
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- PROLOGUE
- I
- II
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- PART TWO
- 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
- PART THREE
- 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
- PART FOUR
- 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
- EPILOGUE
- I
- II
- III
- IV
- V
- VI
- VII
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Excerpt from LOST RIVER
- LITTLE PARIS
- DILLON
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
He checked his main phone, tried to make a bet on who’d text him first to bitch at him. Either Zamantha, his wife, or Rae, that nice piece of ass at El Diablo Norte he’d been tapping since June. Rae had gotten mouthy lately—needy—making more and more demands on him, but she wasn’t the problem. The real problem was the goddamn bet he was trying to make with himself about the texting. Johnnie Macho couldn’t avoid a good wager, any wager, on anything, anytime. He bet on the Cowboys and fútbol, on cock- and dogfighting. He bet on high school football games and would even throw money at a friendly dart game between his buddies or someone tossing a wadded-up ball of paper into a goddamn trash can. The thought of putting a little something on the line to make life interesting made his dick hard, and for the last three years he’d made steady use of his open line of credit at the book in Odessa. He was what they called a valued customer . . . VIP repeat business.
And more often than not lately, a goddamn loser.
He’d been on a ferociously bad streak for a year, so bad it boggled the fucking mind. It was like he was cursed. Like all the world’s bad luck was piled up on his fucking head. He’d doubled down his way into a goddamn hole he couldn’t see out of anymore, deeper than the pumpjack working right next to him. It was a lightless place in the center of the goddamn earth, but still not far enough away from the men he owed. Men who didn’t care who his daddy was, or that he carried a badge and a gun, or that he was a goddamn somebody in this county. The sort of men who had no problem driving out from Odessa one night and filling in that hole he’d dug for himself with a ton of Terrell County dirt, if he didn’t make at least some interest payments on what he owed. That’s why Johnnie Macho never looked up much, because he damn well needed those eyes in the back of his head to see what was coming.
And that’s why he was sitting out here on 349 in the dark, watching the road. He’d had to keep on making bets, spreading them around, so one bad hand could pay off the other, and tonight was one of those side wagers. It hadn’t been placed with that tatted-up Crip bookie in Odessa who kept a sawed-off rifle with a plastic Coke bottle suppressor in the back of his 300M, but instead with those indios down south, even far more serious, if such a thing were possible. These side bets had paid off well, better than any card game or the goddamn Cowboys, but it was a goddamn hard way to live.