Read Online Over Tumbled Graves by Jess Walter - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jess Walter
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pot.”
Dupree turned to face him. “Hmm?”
At the door, Pollard smiled on the left side of his mouth, the left eyebrow rising at the same pace as the corner of his mouth. “The pawnshop guy. Shooter used a nine. That’s your weapon, right?”
Dupree thought back to the Christmas party and his surprise that a common weapon like the nine-millimeter was still available when he chose. The other guys howled and giggled and joked that he was going to shoot people himself—detectives carried nines—but in truth it hadn’t seemed funny to him; he could never get drunk enough at the Christmas party to make the drawing seem anything but what it was.
Pollard was still standing there, apparently waiting for Dupree to say something funny. But nothing came.
8
Thick Jay was in his underwear and a once-white T-shirt, bent over the coffee table, inflating himself with smoke from the glass bong, his back arching as he inhaled. When the hit had gone on a few seconds, he pulled the webbed filter from the end of the bong and sucked the rest of the smoke from the glass tube into his lungs. He set the bowl in the bong and fell back against the couch, letting loose a cloud of smoke. “Up at noon, stoned by one. Nothin’ like a little wake-and-bake, my friend.”
Chase looked up from his cereal. “Why you still use that thing, man?”
“I don’t know,” said Thick Jay. “Nostalgia.” He pushed a pizza box onto the trash-strewn floor to give himself more room.
Katrina came around the corner then, her hair already coming out of the braids she’d been building. “Jesus, Jay, you gonna take care of him or what?”
Jay cocked his head at the raspy whimpering from the back bedroom. “Yeah, I’m a little busy right now. You think you could…”
“No way, Jay. It’s your responsibility. I’m gonna get some cigarettes.” She went outside. Jay watched her go, then rolled his eyes at Chase.
Through the open front door another man leaned in, a guy in his thirties with long, scraggly hair, faded jeans, a black tank top, a backpack, and new running shoes. He gave a short wave. “Hey, man. What’s the special today?”
Thick Jay and Chase looked up together. Jay smiled. “You back already?”
“Yeah,” the guy said. “Whatcha got for me?”
“You smoke all that rock you got yesterday? What are you, fuckin’ iron lung?”
“Hey, I had a party.”
Thick Jay and Chase exchanged glances. “You get your invitation, Chase?”
Chase shook his head solemnly.
“Maybe we oughta go check,” Thick Jay said.
“Yeah,” Chase said. “I better go home and check my mail for an invitation.”
“Aw, man.” The guy with the backpack threw his arms up.
“Don’t get all shitty with me, man,” Thick Jay said. “You’re the one had a party with my rock and didn’t invite me. That’s fucked, my friend.”
In the surveillance van, Caroline rechecked the clip in her handgun as she listened to Gerraghty on the wire: “I got so fucked up I thought you were there.”
Sergeant Lane winced and looked over at Caroline and the other four detectives. Caroline shrugged. It was a good line. There was a brief pause on the other end of the wire and then the two suspects burst into laughter. Usually the wire was closed, with just one officer listening, but it drove Lane crazy wondering when to go in, so he began opening it up, having them all listen.
“No shit?” asked the older suspect, whom Gerraghty’s confidential informant had identified as “Thick Jay” Pringle, a Portland biker who dealt crack and methamphetamine from the house. The meth wasn’t a surprise; bikers had been dealing it in some form for forty years. Spokane was a meth town. But the rock cocaine was a bit surprising. Gerraghty was convinced that Thick Jay had been Burn’s source, and they had hoped to squeeze Burn to get to Jay,then squeeze again to get Jay’s source. With everyone dealing meth, crack was still pretty easy to trace, and Thick Jay
Dupree turned to face him. “Hmm?”
At the door, Pollard smiled on the left side of his mouth, the left eyebrow rising at the same pace as the corner of his mouth. “The pawnshop guy. Shooter used a nine. That’s your weapon, right?”
Dupree thought back to the Christmas party and his surprise that a common weapon like the nine-millimeter was still available when he chose. The other guys howled and giggled and joked that he was going to shoot people himself—detectives carried nines—but in truth it hadn’t seemed funny to him; he could never get drunk enough at the Christmas party to make the drawing seem anything but what it was.
Pollard was still standing there, apparently waiting for Dupree to say something funny. But nothing came.
8
Thick Jay was in his underwear and a once-white T-shirt, bent over the coffee table, inflating himself with smoke from the glass bong, his back arching as he inhaled. When the hit had gone on a few seconds, he pulled the webbed filter from the end of the bong and sucked the rest of the smoke from the glass tube into his lungs. He set the bowl in the bong and fell back against the couch, letting loose a cloud of smoke. “Up at noon, stoned by one. Nothin’ like a little wake-and-bake, my friend.”
Chase looked up from his cereal. “Why you still use that thing, man?”
“I don’t know,” said Thick Jay. “Nostalgia.” He pushed a pizza box onto the trash-strewn floor to give himself more room.
Katrina came around the corner then, her hair already coming out of the braids she’d been building. “Jesus, Jay, you gonna take care of him or what?”
Jay cocked his head at the raspy whimpering from the back bedroom. “Yeah, I’m a little busy right now. You think you could…”
“No way, Jay. It’s your responsibility. I’m gonna get some cigarettes.” She went outside. Jay watched her go, then rolled his eyes at Chase.
Through the open front door another man leaned in, a guy in his thirties with long, scraggly hair, faded jeans, a black tank top, a backpack, and new running shoes. He gave a short wave. “Hey, man. What’s the special today?”
Thick Jay and Chase looked up together. Jay smiled. “You back already?”
“Yeah,” the guy said. “Whatcha got for me?”
“You smoke all that rock you got yesterday? What are you, fuckin’ iron lung?”
“Hey, I had a party.”
Thick Jay and Chase exchanged glances. “You get your invitation, Chase?”
Chase shook his head solemnly.
“Maybe we oughta go check,” Thick Jay said.
“Yeah,” Chase said. “I better go home and check my mail for an invitation.”
“Aw, man.” The guy with the backpack threw his arms up.
“Don’t get all shitty with me, man,” Thick Jay said. “You’re the one had a party with my rock and didn’t invite me. That’s fucked, my friend.”
In the surveillance van, Caroline rechecked the clip in her handgun as she listened to Gerraghty on the wire: “I got so fucked up I thought you were there.”
Sergeant Lane winced and looked over at Caroline and the other four detectives. Caroline shrugged. It was a good line. There was a brief pause on the other end of the wire and then the two suspects burst into laughter. Usually the wire was closed, with just one officer listening, but it drove Lane crazy wondering when to go in, so he began opening it up, having them all listen.
“No shit?” asked the older suspect, whom Gerraghty’s confidential informant had identified as “Thick Jay” Pringle, a Portland biker who dealt crack and methamphetamine from the house. The meth wasn’t a surprise; bikers had been dealing it in some form for forty years. Spokane was a meth town. But the rock cocaine was a bit surprising. Gerraghty was convinced that Thick Jay had been Burn’s source, and they had hoped to squeeze Burn to get to Jay,then squeeze again to get Jay’s source. With everyone dealing meth, crack was still pretty easy to trace, and Thick Jay
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