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?
That blinking light meant Johnnie had a short message in Spanish, and about thirty minutes to return a call to the man who’d left it, a man whose name he didn’t know. That man—who worked for the indios from Acuña, who answered to an even more important man they all called El Indio—wouldn’t be calling him again about this shit out on the road, so it had to be something else. Something serious. Another piece of his ass. He shook his head and realized that he’d already lost his first bet of the night.
It wasn’t either of his women who’d texted him first.
He was, in fact, the unluckiest goddamn son of a bitch he knew.
Deputy Johnnie Machado went to the trunk of the Charger and grabbed the can of gas he’d stowed there six hours earlier. He walked back toward the Malibu, shaking his head at his run of bad luck, wondering when the fuck it would finally turn.
When would it finally, mercifully end? It had to, right?
When he got to the Malibu, he popped the matchstick out of his mouth—finally time to put it to good use—as he poured gas over the car’s hood.
PART TWO
NARCOMANTA
THIRTEEN
Eddy Lee Rabbit felt like hammered shit.
Eddy wasn’t exactly sure what that meant: “hammered shit.” But he’d grown up hearing it from his old man, and it seemed pretty damn appropriate right now.
Like . . . the way the lights were way too bright, drilling right into the soft parts of his skull. And how his court-appointed lawyer’s teeth were too white, too big for his goddamn head. The same lawyer who was now sitting there doodling on some paper, instead of calling off these two attack-dog deputies. If Eddy didn’t know better (and to be honest, he didn’t), he would have thought his lawyer was in cahoots with them (“cahoots,” another one of his old man’s dumbass words). The three of them seemed determined to jump up and down on him until he admitted to some shit that he actually didn’t do, or at least sure in the hell didn’t remember.
Maybe that was the whole “hammered shit” thing.