Prologue

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I WAS THERE the night Hitch Pepper got shot, nursing a beer in a bar that would close down two decades later because the owner liked to evade his taxes

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I WAS THERE the night Hitch Pepper got shot, nursing a beer in a bar that would close down two decades later because the owner liked to evade his taxes.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, Hitch Pepper was just a few bars down the street shooting up heroin in the grimy bathroom as her seedy ex-boyfriend scoured the bar for her, a pistol tucked in the waistband of his Levi's.

Years before that night, it would've been hard for me to imagine Hitch in that state. Slumped up against the smoke-stained wall of a public restroom, her eyes half-lidded as her ex kicked open the door and opened fire.

But now, as I look back at it, I should've seen it coming all along.

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