333 Miles (3 page)

Her real house was not a French villa but
instead a perfectly nice three-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath home
located in University City, about ten minutes northeast of downtown
La Jolla. Though a stereotypical, peaceful, middle-class suburban
neighborhood, it maintained a vibrant, young feel to it. Gary had
lived in a similar house just around the corner when he was in
college. In fact, a few of their current neighbors were college
students renting houses. Blair usually thought this was cool, but
was less happy about it when the girls renting across the street
would wash their cars or water the lawn in outfits she thought more
appropriate for a Britney Spears video. She had noticed the girls’
outdoor household chores often seemed to coincide with a rare
decision by Gary to do some lawn maintenance.

Still, it was a nice neighborhood and she
felt secure. The two hundred thousand dollars or so the house had
appreciated in the few years since they purchased it didn’t bother
her either. At twenty-eight years old, Blair considered her life a
success so far. She had a good marriage, a beautiful daughter, and
owned a nice home. What more could a woman ask for? Well, maybe the
Gucci bag she had her eye on. And that trip to France.

Blair put down a piece of the geography game
identifying Ljubljana as the capital of Slovenia and moved to pick
up the cordless phone. “Hold on one minute, sweetie,” she said to
Sarah cheerfully before answering. She wouldn’t be in as good of a
mood in five minutes.

Alex was now sitting on a bus stop bench a
half a block from the Jack in the Box. The bench was enclosed by
two large advertisements and a small plastic roof. On his right
side was a beautiful blonde girl photographed in black and white
advertising Guess jeans. On the left was an unhappy-looking woman
who was also photographed in black and white. This second display
appeared to be advocating against domestic violence but Alex was
not immediately sure because it was in Spanish and he was focusing
on making a phone call rather than studying bus stop
advertisements. His call was answered on the fourth ring.

Alex: “Hey Blair, this is Alex. How are
you?”

Blair’s eyes instinctively narrowed at the
sound of his voice: “Hi Alex. Gary is still at work.”

Alex: “Yeah, I know. Actually I wanted to
talk to you about something.”

Blair: “Really? What is it?”

Alex: “Well, I want to ask a favor, but it
isn’t for me. I’ll spare you the details, but the bottom line is
that Mike met a girl and yada, yada . . . something crazy happened,
and they are getting married next month. It is totally nuts. Really
wacky stuff. I can barely believe it. Anyway, we want to give him a
bachelor party and there are conflicts for the other weekends left,
so this is the only possible time. A few of us are taking him out
to Vegas tonight for a real quick weekend trip and I know it would
mean a lot of Gary could come.”

“Mike is getting married?” Blair asked
incredulously. Somehow in her mind this cheapened the whole
institution of marriage.

Alex: “Yeah, it’s unreal. I can’t believe it
either.”

Blair: “Why doesn’t Gary ask me himself if he
wants to go to Vegas?”

Alex: “Well, Gary doesn’t even know yet. The
whole thing just happened in the last few days. My guess is the
booze outsmarted Mike and he just proposed in a moment of drunken
inspiration, but really I don’t even know all the details myself.
But I do know it would mean the world if G-Ball, I mean if Gary,
could be there for this weekend. Since its so last minute I wanted
to be in touch with you first, because I am sure you guys have
plans already.”

Blair: “Yes, we are supposed to buy a new
table for the dining room. Also new plates and steak knives for the
kitchen.”

Alex: “Well there you go. See, I knew it. But
the thing is you only get married once (laughs), though in Mike’s
case the over/under is at two and a half. But seriously, it would
mean a lot. Anyway, I will let Gary talk about it with you, but I
just wanted to let you know the situation first so you know it
isn’t his fault for the late notice.”

Blair: “Gee, that is sweet Alex. Okay listen,
Gary can go, but make sure he stops by here first.”

Alex: “You’re the best Blair. Mike will
really appreciate it.”

Blair: “Bye, Alex.”

Alex: “Thanks Blair. Say hello to Sarah for
me. Talk at you later. Bye.”

Chapter Four

The Rodge

2:00 p.m.

“
You got to know
when to hold em, know when to fold em,

Know when to walk
away and know when to run.

You never count your
money when you’re sittin at the table.

There’ll be time enough for countin when the dealin’s
done
.”

–
The Gambler
, Kenny Rogers

Roger walked out of Moondoggies in Pacific
Beach at exactly 2:00 p.m. wearing black slacks and a wrinkled blue
short-sleeved Hawaiian tee shirt. For having only worked three
hours on a lunch shift, he was relatively pleased to have
ninety-five dollars in his pocket. He was not pleased that he
forgot his sunglasses at home and he recoiled sharply when he hit
the sunlight. He briefly put his left arm in front of his face to
shield the light, then ran his hand through his full head of
closely cut brown hair. After, he raised his right arm to take a
sip out of a twenty-ounce plastic bottle of regular Coke.

It was a very pleasant day, but the sun
radiated off of the heavy concentration of cement and asphalt on
Garnet Street, pushing the temperature into the slightly
uncomfortable range. The usual Friday afternoon crowd was milling
about the streets. It featured about half college chicks shopping
at the various boutiques and surf shops, a handful of college dudes
doing basically nothing, scattered military guys starting the
weekend beer drinking marathon early, and a few middle-aged people
who probably had some kind of job, though it really didn’t seem
like it. After orienting himself to the light and remembering where
he parked, Roger began to walk down the street. After about thirty
feet, he untucked the Hawaiian shirt, placed the Coke bottle in his
mouth so he could hold it with his teeth, and dug into his pockets
with both hands, ultimately locating his objective in the left
pocket. He pulled out a one-third full, silver and green can of
Kodiak wintergreen chewing tobacco.

Roger looked around and spotted a bus stop
about forty feet farther up the road. He walked over, took a seat
on one of the benches, set the Coke on the ground, and began
packing the can of chew, subconsciously scanning the street to see
if there were any hot chicks he could be looking at.

He opened the can, glanced inside to ensure
it was adequately packed, and took inventory of how much remained.
He squeezed a medium-sized pinch of Kodiak between his right thumb
and forefinger and placed it in his lower lip. Despite his frequent
use of the product, he still felt the soft pleasing burning
sensation the tobacco caused in its first few seconds. He grabbed a
few more grains out of the can and added them to the amount already
in his mouth. Then he used his tongue to marry the new addition
into the old one. Satisfied with his chew, Roger reached down to
grab the Coke and proceeded to pour the remaining contents onto the
sidewalk. While doing so, he noticed a colony of ants crawling
around by his right foot. He used the last two ounces to attempt to
drown as many of them as possible. At least fifteen of the small
black creatures were engulfed in the brown foamy liquid and began
squirming helplessly.

Roger pressed the chew further down into his
lip with his tongue and then spit once into the now empty Coke
bottle. He then reached into his right pocket and removed his cell
phone. After pressing the button for Cingular web service, he hit
the # key and then the 1 key for “favorite #1,” which was ESPN.com.
After waiting about ten seconds, he realized he didn’t have
reception in this area. “Fucking Cingular,” he muttered to himself
for what seemed like the millionth time.

Roger spit again, this time adding his
tobacco-filled saliva to the brown mixture on the ground and
further thinning the ants’ chances for survival. He rose to cross
the street, breaking into a slow jog at one point to avoid an
oncoming lime-green Volkswagen Beetle driven by a small Asian guy
wearing a Dallas Cowboys hat and who had selected a violet tulip
for the little holder built into the dashboard.

Roger arrived at the corresponding bus stop
on the other side of the street and took a seat. Almost immediately
after he sat down, an attractive girl walked by. She looked to be
about twenty-three, had medium-length brown hair, and long, firm,
well-tanned, shapely legs that disappeared into a short denim
miniskirt. The skirt was complemented by a white half-shirt that
read, in neon pink letters, simply, “Billabong.” About ten feet
past him, the girl stopped and bent down to re-tie the laces on one
of her white Vans sneakers. Much to Roger’s delight, this caused
her skirt to hike up in the back, revealing the bottom of a pair of
light yellow cotton panties. Roger instinctively leaned forward and
tilted his head to get a better viewing angle, spitting into the
Coke bottle again on the way down. Unnoticed at this point, to his
left, a large man of about thirty years of age stopped walking to
concentrate on Roger. The man wore brown lace-up boots, camouflage
pants and a black Slayer rock tee shirt that covered a bulky upper
body most likely achieved with the help of steroids. He had Oakley
sunglasses on, clearly had not shaved in a few days, and had spiky
black hair.

“Hey asshole,” the Rocker Guy said loudly to
Roger who looked up at him startled, “Did you get a good look?”

“Um, no I was just . . . um, . . . So, um . .
. do you know her?” Roger asked, nodding his head in the leggy
girl’s direction.

Rocker Guy walked closer so he was standing
right above Roger. “Yeah, you could say that,” he said.

“Girlfriend?” Roger asked.

“Wife,” Rocker Guy answered and held up his
left hand, displaying a traditional gold band. Then he waved his
fingers around before closing them into a fist.

Roger began talking quickly, “Oh, well hey,
sorry. I um, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Yeah, I bet you didn’t,” Rocker Guy said.
Then after lingering a moment he started to walk away and muttered
to himself, “Fucking joke.”

After the Rocker Guy had moved about ten feet
away and caught up with his wife, Roger spoke again, “Hey, bro?” he
asked.

The rocker guy turned around, “Yeah,
what?”

Roger spit into his bottle, then asked, “You
don’t happen to know the final on the Ohio State game from last
night, do you?”

“What the fuck do you want?” the Rocker Guy
asked, pronouncing the word
fuck
a lot more slowly and a bit
more loudly than the other words. He started walking back in
Roger’s direction.

Roger immediately changed strategy, “Never
mind. It’s cool. Sorry,” he said.

Just then, Roger’s cell phone broke out in
song, producing the familiar tunes of Jay-Z’s
Big Pimpin’
.
This meant Alex was calling.

Roger looked quickly at the phone, then back
up at the Rocker Guy. “Oh, hey, I’ve got a call so, um, you know.
Have a good one,” he said. Roger waved first at the guy, then
smiled and waved at the girl. Then he flipped open the phone and
answered all in one motion, “Yo, Alex, what’s up?”

Alex, who as far as he could recall had never
ridden a municipal bus in his life, was still sitting on his bus
stop bench in La Jolla, about five miles away. “Hey dude, what are
you doing?” he asked.

Roger: “Just got off a lunch shift. Hey, I
had the over on Ohio State last night and have not been able to
check it. Do you have any idea where it came in?”

Alex: “35-24 Ohio. You should be good.”

Roger: “Talk to Daddy! All I need is Stanford
with the points tonight to pop a nice three-teamer.”

Alex: “Dude, you have issues. Anyway, I have
something I think you will like – you up for Vegas?” With Roger,
there was no need to do much promotion when it came to Nevada
trips.

Roger: “Oooohhhh. When?”

Alex: “Today. I can pick you up in two hours.
G-Balls and Mike are in.”

Roger: “Shit, no way. Mmmmm. Look I really
want to, but I was up until six last night banging one of the
regulars and am fucking beat. And I have to work a double
tomorrow.”

Alex: “Get it covered. You can sleep in the
car.”

Roger: “Well, the other thing is if Stanford
comes in it is all good, but otherwise I have no funds. The shift
this morning sucked. I only made ninety-five bucks.”

Alex: “I thought you hit a four-teamer on
Sunday?”

Roger: “Yeah but I had some errands I needed
to do and I still owed some rent.”

Alex: “Jesus, Rodge. All right, listen, don’t
tell the other guys, but I’ll underwrite your share of the room and
your vodka when we go out. Also, I am driving so don’t worry about
gas or anything. All you need to pay for is what you gamble. And
you can bring some Kodiak for me.”

Roger: “Thanks, cool. You know I’ll get you
back. I just need to make sure I can get my shifts covered for
tomorrow.”

Alex: “All right buddy. Make it happen.”

Roger: “Nice, see you.”

Alex: “I’ll talk at you.”

Chapter Five

Good Oral Hygiene

3:28 p.m.

“
If you can't take the heat get yo' ass
out the kitchen

We on a mission

Come along and ride on a fantastic voyage

Slide slide slippity-slide”

–
Fantastic Voyage
, Coolio

Alex’s black 2006 BMW 550i, which he paid
cash for the previous January after receiving his year-end bonus,
needed only a fraction of its 4.8 liter, 360 horsepower engine to
smoothly approach the back entrance of the Wind and Sea apartment
complex just north of Pacific Beach. The car had a black leather
interior, incredibly soft to the touch, but which got annoyingly
hot when left in the sun. Even so, it tended to cool off remarkably
quickly once the air conditioner was turned on. Also, temperature
controls built directly into the seats helped speed things along if
desired. The windows were just cracked open, making Jay-Z’s
Girls, Girls, Girls
barely audible outside of the car. Gary
Williams was sitting in the front seat with a silly half-smile on
his face, still not quite believing that he was headed for a
weekend in Vegas with the boys. Just forty-five minutes ago he was
doing a final proofreading of an adjusted SEC filing for a client
who had to delay their quarterly numbers because it turned out the
CFO had spent over three million dollars on yacht rentals and
private jet flights to the Caribbean for himself and various
“companions.” Unfortunately, it was challenging to justify these as
“marketing expenses” as the company had been doing.