G. Neri - Surf Mules

Text copyright 2014 by G. Neri.

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Cover and interior photograph Aleksandrs Jermakovics/Dreamstime.com (Cannabis leaf).

Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 10/14.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Neri, Greg.

Surf mules / by G. Neri.
pages cm

Previously published: New York : G.P. Putnams Sons, 2009.

Summary: When a tragic accident and sudden financial woes cause recent high school graduate Logan to question plans for his future, he agrees to make a road trip with his best friend and surfing buddy, Z-boy, transporting marijuana from southern California to Orlando, Florida.

ISBN 9781467742382 (pbk. : alk. paper)

ISBN 9781467743259 (eBook)

[1. Coming of ageFiction. 2. SurfingFiction. 3. Automobile travelFiction. 4. Drug trafficFiction. 5. DeathFiction. 6. FriendshipFiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.N4377478Sur 2014
[Fic]dc23

2013040428

Manufactured in the United States of America
1 BP 7/15/14
eISBN: 978-1-46774-325-9 (pdf)
eISBN: 978-1-4677-6605-0 (ePub)
eISBN: 978-1-46776-604-3 (mobi)

ALSO BY G. NERI

CHESS RUMBLE
GHETTO COWBOY
KNOCKOUT GAMES
YUMMY: THE LAST DAYS OF
A SOUTHSIDE SHORTY

For D.E.Thanks for taking me along for the ride.

PROLOGUE

Dude, check it out! Surfers! Z-boy shouted as they sped down Interstate 10. Logan glanced over at the beat-up Jeep top-loaded with longboards. They were a motley crew of shirtless sunburnt cowboysall Ray-Bans and hillbilly tattoos. Logan wondered what they were doing out here in the middle of Nowhere, Texas. Then he noticed the bumper sticker: SURF NAZIS KICK ASS.

Logan pressed on the gas and sped up a bit. Lets keep going.

Come on, man. When are we ever gonna get to talk to Texas surfers? Z-boy asked. Thats kind of like ... running into Bigfoot or something. Hey, theyre even wearing cowboy hats! Yeehaw!

Z-boy leaned out the window, his blond crew cut ruffling in the wind. He flashed the back of his fist with his thumb and pinkie finger extendedthe universal surfer hand gesture. Shock em, brah!

The driver of the Jeep, a big chiseled ape of a guy, looked over, baffled. He nudged his squirrelly tattooed friend next to him, who pointed at Z-boy and laughed.

Logan would have laughed too if he had seen what they saw: two clean-cut high school students a thousand miles from home, dressed like Republicans in suits and ties, fer Christs sake.

Theyre making fun of us, Z, Logan said.

Z-boy howled at them, Were surfers too. Hermosa Beach rules!

The driver flipped off Z-boy. Z stuck his head back in the car.

Whats up with that? he asked Logan.

Logan glanced at Z-boys polyester suit and close-cropped hair. Uh, you dont really look like a surfer anymore, Z.

Z-boy looked down at his clothes. Were on business! he shouted out the window. He rolled up his sleeve and pointed at the SURF OR DIE tattoo on his arm. Dude!

Posers! the chiseled guy spat, as the Jeep veered off to an empty exit ramp.

It should have ended right there, Logan thought later. They could have gone on their way, stayed on schedule, made the drop-off point. But stupid Z-boy couldnt handle the rejection and reached over and grabbed the steering wheel, swerving the car toward the off-ramp.

Are you crazy!? Logan yelled. Were supposed to be pros, remember?

Were not gonna be dissed by some Texas yahoos ...

But as soon as they hit the off-ramp, Logan knew there was going to be trouble. The Jeep had stopped in the middle of the exit, blocking the road. The Surf Nazis hopped out and quickly surrounded the car.

The engine was still running. Logan could have made a break for itbut the squirrelly guy reached through Logans open window and pulled out the ignition key. Dont get any ideas, boy. You in Texas now. He put the key in the pocket of his thrift-store shirt, which sported a name tag that read BRAD.

Logan started to sweat. Maybe we can work something out here.

A white light blinded Logan. His face felt numb from the punch. Then he tasted the blood on his lip.

What the fuck?! Logan yelled.

Z-boy was riled up. Nobody hits my friend ..., he hissed.

Brad got in the backseat and held out the keys. I just did. Now move over and drive this heap under the bridge over there.

Logan held his nose. His hand had blood on it. What the fuck do you want?!

Brad sneered, What do we want? Everything you got. Whatre you gonna do, call the cops?

Logan could see Z-boy figuring the odds in his brain. There were three of them, so Z-boy was in no position to play hero. Even if losing the car meant theyd have a price on their heads.

Z-boy sighed and got out. Logan slid painfully over into the passenger seat, his bloody nose throbbing with every move.

Z-boy got into the drivers side and just sat there. Youre violating the code.

Brad sat up. The code? What code is that?! he asked.

The surfers code.

The dude was getting pissed. There is no freakin surfer code! he yelled.

Logan glanced at Z-boy out of the corner of his eye and saw Z-boy mouth Hold on. When Z-boy put on his seat belt, Logan did too.

Z-boy gunned it, the car peeling out past the Nazis parked Jeep. Brad flew against the backseat. What the hellre you doing?! he screamed.

Logan checked the speedometer. They were heading past ninety. Then he checked the side-view mirror as they shot back onto the interstate. The Jeep was right on their tail. Shit. Theyre chasing us!

Logan watched helplessly as the Jeep made up lost ground and suddenly, they were right next to him, casting glares that meant they were dead meat.

Logan turned away. If he was going to die, he didnt want to see it coming.

Instead, he saw something else. A sign for a rest stop one mile ahead. A highway patrol car parked next to it with a speed gun.

And Z-boy speeding up.

Z, whatre you doing?! Logan yelled.

Getting us out of this mess, he said, ratcheting up the speed past a hundred.

The highway patrols red and yellow lights flashed behind them, the siren blaring in Logans ears as Brad yelled like a madman. Logan slunk down in his seat and shut his eyes tight.

He wondered how, two days after graduating high school with honors, he was being chased by cops and a group of redneck Surf Nazis, in a car that wasnt theirs, loaded to the gills with one hundred pounds of pot. How the hell had that happened?

All he could remember was this: it had all started with the Perfect Monster Wave.

THE WAVE CAME CRASHING DOWN, a giant wall of white water barreling toward Logan Tom. He sucked in his breath, pushing down hard on the front of his board with all his weight. He dove deep beneath the white water seconds before it swallowed him whole.