Black Heart on the Appalachian Trail by T.J. Forrester Read Free Book Online

Fayesha spits, “is she should watch her ass. I seen his kind. He don’t want no poontang, he don’t want no dope, there’s something wrong. That’s all I’m saying.”
    â€œThat Mexican out on the kitchen floor might be dead,” I say.
    â€œWe got us a real genius here,” TT Charlie says. “A real community-college whiz. That watermelon picker’s been dead since morning. We ain’t got around to it yet.”
    â€œIt’ll cost you,” Roxie says. “Me and Taz’ll dump him for an eight-ball.”
    â€œDitch his petrified ass away from here,” TT Charlie says, “and you got a deal.”
    *   *   *
    I drag the Mexican out of the backseat and roll him into an alley that backs up to a shopping mall. Roxie fires her lighter, and the Mexican’s eyes shine like white buttons. I cover his face with a soggy newspaper and look away. The southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail, less than a hundred miles to the north, feels like it is so far off it might as well be in another galaxy. I want to blame Roxie, the hold she has on me, but know I am at fault too. This life—filled with dead addicts, prostitute girlfriends, the intense desire for a fix—is a weakness I’ve never overcome.
    â€œHe might have some dope,” I say. “Feel down around his balls, unzip and feel down there, and see if he has some dope.”
    â€œI’m not feeling up no dead man.”
    â€œFeel down there and see if he has some dope. He must’ve died from something. Poor bastard probably overdosed.”
    â€œTT Charlie checked him over pretty good. He didn’t have no dope and he didn’t have no money, no ID, nothing but one of those Spanish phone calling cards. Fayesha says his name wasJulio and he was a wetback that worked down at Pizzaria. She said he hadn’t eaten in two weeks, probably starved himself to death or his heart stopped or something.”
    To the south, lightning, like a radioactive vein, branches across black sky.
    â€œI got something in the trunk, a surprise,” I say.
    â€œIf I’d known he hadn’t eaten in two weeks I would have brought him a sandwich, or something. Maybe an egg roll. Huh, Julio? You think you might have liked an egg roll?”
    â€œI have this plan, to get out of here, go somewhere we can’t get any dope. It’s impossible to get dope where I want to go.”
    Roxie unzips Julio’s pants, feels under his testicles, and comes up empty. “The things I do for you.”
    I open the trunk.
    â€œSee, I went to an outfitter and bought a backpack and a sleeping bag and a stove and hiking clothes, and look here, a book about a crippled guy who hiked the Appalachian Trail. I must have read this fifty times when I was in prison. If a guy with a bad leg could do it, it’d be a piece of cake for you and me.”
    She holds the book to the trunk light. “You nuts? I told you I ain’t walking no Appalachian Trail.”
    â€œI’m talking about walking out of here up to Maine and I’ll get a job as a cook and maybe we’ll wind up near the beach and I’ll fish for lobsters. You can’t get dope on the trail, that’s what I’m saying. There’s no dealer setting up in the mountains. You can’t get dope out there. It’s a dope-free zone.”
    â€œYou ain’t no cook.”
    â€œI can learn,” I say. “It can’t be that hard.”
    â€œYou can’t even cook eggs.”
    I can cook eggs, but I don’t want to argue the point.
    Roxie gets in the passenger seat, and I wait outside while she shoots up. Then I head to 7-Eleven and buy donuts, broiled sausages, and a jumbo package of potato chips. Roxie’s quiet when she’s high—like she has too many thoughts to sort through—but I don’t mind. It wouldn’t kill her to offer me some of that eight-ball, she’d still