The Revelations of Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey Book 3) Read Online Free PDF

with
bright green eyes.
    I held the door open for her and
turned, hoping to catch Brad or Jim’s eye just to give them one last little
wave or a thank you, but they were back at the presses. Back to work.
    Down the street I saw our shiny white
rental van, our home for the last few weeks. My feet wouldn’t move though.
“Should I tell Pauly to come up and see?”
    “We’ll be back, Pres.” She grabbed my
hand and pulled me down the sidewalk.
    As soon as Pauly looked up I let go of
Katy’s hand and slid a poster out to show him. He reached across to unlock the
door, and I passed it over to him before setting the rest in the back.
    While I got in, Pauly studied it and
even sniffed the ink like when the teacher passed out fresh Dittos back in
elementary school. He said, “Pretty good, I guess,” and nothing more.
    “Brad said they used the same type for
that Johnny Cash.” I pointed at the iconic poster displayed in the shop’s
window as I pulled the door shut. “But they use it in a bunch of others too, of
course. Looks nice, huh?”
    “Looks real nice, bro.” He reached
over and turned the radio off.
    I felt like Pauly could’ve acted a
little more excited even if he had to fake it. If I would’ve known he’d poop
all over my parade I would’ve kept my mouth shut. So I bit my lip for a second,
decided not to let him bring me down, and said, “We’ll put some on the merch
table and what we don’t move tonight we’ll sell online. You should’ve come in
with us. Brad gave us a tour and showed us how to set type and everything.”
    “Wish I could’ve been there,” Pauly
said in a tone flatter than a buckwheat cake. He looked over his shoulder then
studied his mirror before pulling onto the street. He got up a little speed,
looked over to his right, and said, “So that’s where Margaritaville’s at?
Thought Buffett lived in Key West.”
    Since I didn’t know whether or not he
was being serious, I ignored the comment. “How did the A.A. meeting go,
anyway?”
    “Pretty good, I guess.”
    And I’d always have that discussion as
my parting memory of Broadway. A little part of me ached to stay and it pissed
me off that I had to cater to Pauly’s whims all because he was doing us a
solid. I vowed right then and there to never have to owe anybody ever again.
Maybe the road had worn me down a bit, but I decided if I couldn’t afford
somebody, I didn’t need them. I’d drive the van, do our own sound. We could
sell merch online for all I cared. The knot in my belly killed what remained of
our morning in Nashville.
    “I went and filled up too. Gas is
outrageous anymore.” Pauly drifted left, depriving me of a last good look at
The Ryman. “Sometimes it’s tough feeling good about going to meetings on the
road because you don’t know anybody. One of the old-timers talked about
gratitude and how you express it through action. I never heard that before and
kind of liked it.”
    “That’s great, man.” His apathy ate at
me and I tried real hard not to say anything, especially after all that crap in
Louisville.
    He inhaled, like he had something else
to say, then released his breath without saying anything. Riding in silence
suited me just fine. I looked for the river and the stadium where the Titans
played, but Pauly’s driving disoriented me.
    Once we hit the interstate, Pauly
said, “There’s something else I wanted to talk about more than anything.” He
cracked his window in anticipation of lighting a smoke. “I mentioned the
incident at the show last night when I shared. They knew who I meant . It’s not Westboro Baptist. They said this group’s
real militant, which we knew.”
    Pauly drove on, letting the news hang
for a minute or two. “They call themselves Circuit Riders. The leader is a guy
named Zebadiah Boggs. They are big in Tennessee. They mainly run in Alabama,
Georgia and up through Kentucky to West Virginia. Boggs used to be a Texas
lawman before he got reprimanded for using