Poor Boy Road (Jake Caldwell #1) Read Online Free

cadaver face; like someone sucked the life essence from her and left nothing but a shell. Too consumed with the poison to even think about actually being a mother. He also saw what Shane did to dealers who dipped into their supply and got sloppy. Willie liked having all his fingers attached.
    “I still think we should take the Mexicans out,” Bub said. Willie rolled his eyes. “A truckload of drugs and wads of cash. One score, that’s all we need. Hightail it out of Benton County and disappear.”
    “You got a death wish, my friend,” Willie said.
    “Not if we do it right.” Bub took a deep drag and flicked the cigarette butt out the open window.
    “There ain’t no doing it right. They got Uzis in those trucks and those crazy wetbacks would carve the Mexican flag on your fat, dead belly. Even if you got away with it at the time, they’d find you. Where you gonna go? Mexico?”
    “Maybe Canada,” Bub offered. “My momma says I got some Frenchy in my blood.”
    “You’re as French as a Mickey D’s fry,” Willie said. “If the Mexicans didn’t get you, Shane sure as hell would. Dude’s got mad reach.”
    “Still worth thinking about, man. Better than this nickel and dime shit we’re making now.”
    Willie couldn’t argue with his logic. They used to make a decent living passing meth to the County’s downtrodden. Until Sheriff Bear squeezed the trade, shut down the labs, and the mass distribution of meth in Benton County came to a screeching halt. Now that the Mexicans were moving product north, a chance of getting back in the game reared up. There certainly wasn’t much else to do for a living for the likes of him in Warsaw.
    “We need some bank,” Bub said. “Get us on the good side of Poor Boy.”
    Willie nodded, thinking about his trailer back in the deep woods off Poor Boy Road. Out of sight, out of mind. A stranger venturing off Highway 7 or Old Highway 65 heading toward Fristoe on double-lettered roads like MM or NN might find some seriously nice lakefront homes owned by people in real estate or banking. The stranger had an equally good chance of wishing he never made the turn off the highway, and would be happy to get out of there unscathed. Crumbling wood-framed homes and shacks, some so run down that hanging laundry provided the only clue someone actually lived there. Every town, every city had their economic dividing line between the haves and the have-nots. Poor Boy Road was their line.
    Willie fantasized about moving far away plenty over the last year. Fly away with the little bankroll he stashed away in his momma’s old music box behind a loose brick at his trailer. Drop the meth dealing and live cheap as he made his way somewhere warmer. Maybe go to Colorado and hook up with his little brother. Avery said it was good money. Anywhere else would be fine as long as it was far from the rotting meth mouths pleading for more and the vice grip of Shane Langston.
    Just as Willie was a hair’s width from kicking Bub’s ass out of the truck and peeling away in a cloud of dust with a hearty Hi-Yo Silver , his burner cell phone rang. Willie answered, listened, and the thoughts blazing down the road disappeared. Sixty seconds later, he grunted and hung up.
    “So what’s the plan?” Bub asked.
    “Shane wants to meet.”
    “Here?”
    “My place. We gotta get Howie and Bennett.”
    “What the hell is it about?” Bub asked.
    “Didn’t say. I didn’t ask.”
    “He sound okay?”
    “He sounded pissed. Someone’s ass is in a sling.”
    “Hope it ain’t mine.”
    “You and me both, man.”
    Willie started the truck, backed up and sputtered out of the parking lot to Main Street. He hung a left and paused at the intersection at Highway 7. The empty stretch of road invited him to head west out of town. Willie’s instincts screamed at him to turn that way. Instead, he turned east toward home. A knot balled in his gut. When Shane was pissed, things tended to get