Boise Longpig Hunting Club

BOISE LONGPIG HUNTING CLUB

by Nick Kolakowski

Copyright © and ™ 2024

Cover by Heather Garth

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publisher via the contact methods listed on their website.

ISBN: 979-8-9878765-6-5 (Paperback)

ISBN: 979-8-9878765-5-8 (eBook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024942181

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

All associated characters, logos, and the distinctive likeness thereof are trademarks of the author and used with their permission.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental except where noted.

Published by Rock and a Hard Place Press, an imprint of Rock and a Hard Place Press, LLC,

Woodbridge, NJ.

rockandahardplacemag.com

amazon.com/~/e/B08WPQG5YV

Printed in the United States of America

PRAISE FOR

BOISE LONGPIG HUNTING CLUB

Bounty hunters, a Monkey Man and Zombie Bill, explosions, sharp violence and even laughs. Kolakowski brings the goods with this one!

— Dave White, Shamus Award-nominated author of the Jackson Donne series

"A bounty hunter, his underworld criminal sister, and a dead body stuffed in a gun safe. What could possibly go wrong? In Boise Longpig Hunting Club, Nick Kolakowski unleashes a sordid and delightfully twisted tale of double crosses, revenge, and good ol’ redneck justice. Like the bastard child of Joe Lansdale and James Lee Burke, this one is well worth the sleepless night you’ll spend captivated."

— Joe Clifford, author of the Jay Porter thriller series and The One That Got Away

To G, M, and C.

Contents

Part I: A Nice Pair of Guns

1

2

3

4

5

Part II: Too Many Bodies

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

Part III: My Own Private Idaho

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

Acknowledgements

About the Author

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Other Books by Nick Kolakowski

OTHER BOOKS BY NICK KOLAKOWSKI:

Landmarks

Cover

1

We came home from the movies to find our front door kicked open, both floors ransacked, half the food in the fridge missing. My five-year-old daughter ran into her bedroom, screaming, to make sure her toys were safe. Kelly loved her two Pink Princess dolls, which I won for her at the trick-shooting booth at the state fair. Her toys were safe, but when I went into my bedroom, I found that the frisky varmint had stolen something far worse: a pair of AR-15s with expensive scopes.

First thing, I called the cops. While I waited for them to arrive, I phoned my former brother-in-law. His voice came over the line raspy and slow, and I had to talk loudly to prevent him from nodding off. I had no compunctions about treating him a little rough, not when I paid his sister Janine a grand every month in child support, a big chunk of which probably ended up in his veins.

Rick, I said. You tell any of your fellow scumbags about my guns lately?

Nuh-uh, I swear.

If he kept to his old habits, he was holed up in his cracked-out ranch house in Garden City. I don’t believe you, I said. Activate that chunk of meat you call a brain and think again.

I took his silence to mean he was trying his hardest. Rick had an outstanding warrant, and he knew I would roust him for it, no matter how much my ex-wife screamed at me. Zombie Bill, he finally said.

My skin tingled. Zombie Bill what?

I could practically hear Rick shrug. I told him you had a couple nice rifles. I’m sorry?

I hung up without bothering to reply. A couple of meth freaks stealing my guns was one thing. Ten out of ten times, they would try and pawn the hardware, and end up busted. But Zombie Bill, the crazy bastard, would use those beautiful AR-15s to fill as many people with lead as possible. And that blood would be on my hands.

A police cruiser pulled into my driveway, and I walked outside to meet it, Kelly crying in my arms. The cops were polite as they took the report, and promised to do their best, which meant exactly squat.

2

Roger, my neighbor, was also a firearms enthusiast. They broke into your gun locker? he asked, as I handed him a nylon bag loaded with enough toys, books, and snacks to see my kid through the night and the next morning.

I shook my head. I was an idiot, I said. I keep them in a wooden cabinet, locked.

He offered me dead eyes. Got to get something tougher, man. Steel. Like a big safe.

I know. I shrugged, which felt dismissive and weak. Kept them unloaded, under lock and key. Figured that’d be enough. A gun safe with enough room for my arsenal might cost more than a thousand dollars, if I wanted a good-looking one—well outside my monthly budget after I paid for the mortgage, food, gas, and the kid.

You going to find them?

I nodded. It’s my responsibility to make this right.

After handing Kelly over, I headed downtown in my truck. I needed to talk to Rick, and whether that discussion came with a generous beating was up to him. Zombie Bill might have stripped my house of guns, but I still had a dinky 9mm hidden inside the paperback Bible I kept in my glove compartment. Call me damned to Hell for cutting a hollow in the Good Book, and I’ll tell you I’d rather risk divine wrath than show up anywhere unarmed. Besides, I lost my faith a long time ago, in a desert on the other side of the world.

Stopping at a red light, I dialed the office. Janine picked up on the first ring, sounding bored as usual: The Bond King.

It’s your favorite bounty hunter, I said. You want to carve time out your busy schedule, dig up a last known address?

You looking for a William Price? That was Zombie Bill’s legal name.

What are you, psychic?

Nah, he called five minutes ago, said meet him at the Tastee Diner at eleven. Said you could split a basket of finger steaks or something.

Funny guy.

He’s turning himself in?

Nope, he’s trading info. Thanks for letting me know. I swung the truck around and headed north along Franklin Avenue. The Tastee Diner, a bright and shiny temple to deep-fried fat, always had a crowd. Unless Zombie Bill planned on splattering me in front of thirty witnesses, I was probably safe there.

At the restaurant, I found a booth in the corner and took a seat facing the front door, 9mm in my left hand beneath the table. When the waitress came by, I ordered a coffee. Finger steaks are tasty, but my doctor hounded me about my cholesterol levels. At five minutes past eleven, the door opened and Zombie Bill shuffled in, dressed for success in a white T-shirt and a pair of stained cargo shorts, his tattoos resembling old wounds in the fluorescent lighting. One of his lieutenants, an inked-up skeleton with a waist-length red beard, came in behind him, taking a seat at the counter that ran the length of the restaurant.

Zombie Bill sat down across from me and smirked, revealing metal teeth that could have used a polish. How’s your night going?

Cut the crap, I said. What do you want?

He leaned back, snorted, scratched at the pink scar on his neck. He’d earned his street name after surviving eight bullet wounds to the jaw, stomach, throat, chest, and right arm. It’s like he’s undead, some halfwit had said after that. The only way to kill him is with a shot to the brain. I want a favor, he said.

Good for you. I want a new pickup and a supermodel in my bed. That doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. What makes you think I won’t call the cops?

Because the cops won’t ever find the guns. Zombie Bill waggled a bony finger at me. You think I’m an idiot? Why you keeping that much firepower around the house, anyway?

What can I say, I believe in home defense, I said, my stomach knotting.

I’m not asking anything of you that I wouldn’t do myself, he said, flashing those teeth I so desperately wanted to yank out of his head. Just that you don’t bust me or my crew. Maybe sometimes I ask you to track someone down, and you do it.

I’m never getting those weapons back, am I? I said. It’s like endless collateral for you.

Bill bit his lip. What’s ‘collateral’ mean?

I’m dealing with a genius here.

He slapped the table, softly. This genius already got a task for you: Frankie has some outstanding warrants.

No, I said. You know I can’t do that.

Can’t, or won’t?

Same difference.

He slapped the table again, harder. Better think that over, he said. When you’re ready to make a deal, you call that number I left at your office. I’m giving you until tomorrow afternoon, maybe. Then I do something real bad. And he left, the red lieutenant drifting in his wake, while around me a lot of nice people went on clogging their veins with delicious fat, oblivious to the weird horrors happening all around them.

3

Frankie stood five-foot-two in her customary combat boots, her small body tight with muscle and sharp with bone. She wore as much black clothing and eyeliner as a high school Goth, and nobody made jokes about it, because she liked to do things like shove pens through necks. As she poured me a whiskey, she said, My old friend Bill.

Wants you arrested, I said.

Yeah, so one of his little meth-head bitches can shank me inside. He can’t beat me on the street, you know.

I didn’t say he wasn’t predictable. I sipped the whiskey, checking out her new office: a shipping container with a skylight cut in the roof, a thick rug on the floor, a leather couch at one end and a nice desk at the other. The container sat at the edge of the river. Anyone who wanted to take a shot at her would have to bypass three fences and ten bodyguards. Frankie had founded an e-commerce site on the darknet that exchanged Bitcoin for pretty much anything illegal, which meant hundreds of powerful people in twenty countries wanted her cold on a slab. Hence the security, and her habit of wearing a bullet-resistant vest around Boise, one of the safest cities in America.

Bill’s not predictable, is the problem. Never stops moving. She slugged down her drink.

Thanks for calling me about it.

You know I didn’t have a choice, I said.

True. She poured herself another round, after topping off my half-full glass. Now drink up, because you’re not going to like the solution I’m offering. You’ll have to abuse the powers of your office.

4

I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life, but I’ve never felt scummier than the next morning, when I paid bail for Mark Miller, accused of carnal relations with a variety of barn animals. He was exactly the sort of simpering scumbag that makes you fear for the future of the human race. As we exited the jail, he kept asking me who I was, and what I wanted. I don’t think of myself as blood simple, but it felt like sweet relief once we made it to my truck, where I could punch him in the face many, many times until he snapped into unconsciousness.

You want to know the worst part? I had paid a lot of cash to spring him loose, and I would probably never see a dime of it again.

It was noon by the time I finished cleaning my knuckles, and with Miller bound and gagged in my back seat I swung by the office. Janine, who never seemed to leave her desk, gave me Zombie Bill’s number. I dialed it in the parking lot, the only place where I had a modicum of privacy.

You arrest Frankie? he asked.

Nope, I said, injecting my voice with false cheer. But guess who I just sprung from jail?

He knew. Even with someone like Zombie Bill, there are only so many cousins you can have locked up at one time, especially if the cousins in question help you run your drug-smuggling business. It took him forever to speak: You making a play here?

Uh, yeah. Duh. You hand over my guns, you get your relative back. If you act fast, I might leave most of his face intact. If you don’t, he’s going to tell me enough to make your life real difficult, and real short.

I will kill your daughter, he said. I will blow her brains the fuck out.

My vision went red, and it took superhuman control to force the next words through my clenched jaw without screaming. She’s already out of the city. You want to blast my ex-wife, though, you go right ahead and save me another thirteen years of child support. That part about the kid was true: my friendly neighbor Roger and his girlfriend had driven my little pumpkin north to their cabin.

Zombie Bill fell silent again, so I took the initiative: Listen, man, your plan wasn’t a bad one, but it’s over. Give me the rifles, and I’ll hesitate to bust you in the future. Scout’s honor. Otherwise, this all just ends in blood.

Something in