Everywhere That Tommy Goes (3 page)

“Quit screwing around, mate,” Troyer yells in a hush. “Get a move on.”

I’m drunk and scared shitless, but Troyer’s voice brings me back to reality. I shake it off and bolt, like half a dozen MS-13 gang members are on my ass.

Ten minutes later, I pull my car into the alley.

There’s no sign of Troyer.

The motherfucker bailed on me.

CHAPTER 2

I’m totally screwed. My puke is sitting ten feet from a dead girl. If I don’t get the body out of here fast, some TV series CSI will catch me like a one-show loser starring in a two-hour premiere.

Moving quickly, I lift her into the trunk of my car but not before getting blood all over my clothes. I slam down the hatch and channel
CSI
. I’ve got to get rid of the puke, so I grab a pizza box I’ve got stored in the back seat and use it like a shovel. After tossing it all into the dumpster, I jump back in my car, and haul ass. No one sees me.

As drunk as I am, I know this is wrong, but something inside me has already taken over. Maybe it’s because Troyer saved my life, maybe it’s because I know how hard it was for him growing up, or maybe it’s because I’m scared shit of the dude. Whatever it is, it’s too late for second guesses. I just know that I need to get far away from the city before I hide her.

I speed off and drive over the Brooklyn Bridge, leaving the lights of Manhattan behind me. As I cross into Brooklyn, I hear the dead girl calling out: “Troyer, what’dya do to me?” I shiver and open the window to clear my head.

I know she’s dead, but I still hear her calling out over and over again: “Troyer, let me go, let me go.” I turn up the radio to drown out my imagination while I follow the highway around to the Belt Parkway. The voice is lost within the music and the wind. I keep my pace at 60 miles an hour, which is fast enough to avoid suspicion but not so fast that I attract the attention of some dickhead cop.

With the radio blasting and air rushing through the open window, my mind races. I start to wonder if there really is any DNA in puke. I mean, I probably could have left the girl right there and no one would have been the wiser. As quickly as it comes to me, I shake off the thought. There’s no turning back for me now. I’ve heard it said that you can’t un-ring a bell, and now I know what it means. I’m in this thing up to my neck.

I continue through Queens and get on the Southern State Parkway, which takes me to the Meadowbrook Parkway, where I head toward Jones Beach. This brings me onto Ocean Parkway, where I go east. The lights along the road blur together in a haze while my brain jumps from one crazy thought to another. Led by a force beyond my control, I find myself at a desolate spot by Gilgo Beach. I pull over, get out, and take the girl from the trunk. The dim moonlight casts an eerie glow. I can’t bring myself to look at her face, so I set her down, grab her by her legs, and drag her a few hundred feet through the brush. Winded, I suck in heavy breaths, and a foul, salty odor materializes on my tongue, which reminds me of the stale smell the ocean sometimes unleashes at low tide. I close my mouth, but the odor penetrates my nostrils. I can’t take much more, so I quickly cover her with some dead weed grass and bolt.

The trip back to my house feels like an eternity, but I pull into my driveway less than an hour later. Bellerose is darkly quiet. As I walk through the front door, a faint light in the den
focuses my attention on the table beside the armchair, where a half-empty bottle of whiskey sits. Routine Friday evening for dear old Dad. Keeping silent, I head down to the basement bedroom where I live, grab some rags from the laundry room, and head back outside to clean my car. I can’t leave any evidence around to link me to all this. Later on, when it gets light, I’ll hose her down some more and bleach out the trunk. Bleach cleans away blood real well. Again, I’ve got to thank
CSI
for that info. I remember one show where the killer used bleach to clean up the blood. He almost got away with it, but they still managed to track him down. They always catch them on TV. But this is real life, and real life doesn’t wrap itself up so easily. I pray that, so long as I’m careful, I’ll be fine.

I clean the trunk as best I can in the dark. Then, after I’m done, I bag up the rags and my clothes—even gotta give up my Nike sneakers—and jam them under my bed. I’ll ditch it all later. Then I take a hot shower, scrub myself raw, and hit the sack. It’s almost six
AM
, and I’m still too wired to sleep. So I switch on the tube and channel surf for a bit, trying hard to lose myself in the never-ending parade of unimportant images.

CHAPTER 3

I wake up to the sound of my dad stomping around in the kitchen. The smell of frying bacon penetrates my room. It takes me a few seconds to separate dream from reality, but when I look under my bed and see the plastic bag jammed underneath, I realize that last night was not a dream. Bile rises from my stomach and I’m about to puke, so I run into the bathroom and splash water on my face. My head is still foggy from almost no sleep, but I have to finish cleaning my car and get rid of the evidence. I also have to face Dad and act normal, so he doesn’t get suspicious.

I take a few breaths and calmly walk upstairs. There he is, standing over the stove in a ratty gray sweatshirt, frying breakfast up like some sweaty diner cook. In one practiced motion, he lifts the pan from the fire, turns, and dumps everything onto a plate. Then he gives me a nasty look.

“Mornin’, kiddo,” he snarls. “Out damn late last night, weren’t ya?”

I swallow hard, as the scene from last night quickly replays itself, and I see myself dragging the bartender through the weed grass.

Dad barks at me, “I said,
‘Out damn late last night, weren’t ya?
’”

“Uh . . . no, Dad,” I say, returning to the present. “You were sleeping. I didn’t want to disturb you. I was home by one.”

“Bullshit. I didn’t fall asleep until well after one.”

“Okay, maybe it was one-thirty.” Man, he’s a ball-breaker. Ever since Mom cut out on us back when I was a kid, he’s been a real prick to me—like it was my fault she left. I know it wasn’t, though. Dad is just an asshole—drunk all the time, out of work a lot, and just plain mean.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asks, with a look of disgust.

“As a matter of fact, I did. I went out with my friends. We grabbed some chow and hit a bar in Manhattan.”

“You didn’t drink, did you, Shithead?”

“Not really, Dad. Just a couple of beers, that’s all.” He hates it when I drink. I don’t know why, since he drinks every damn night.

“That’s good, Tommy,” he says, as he sits down with a full plate, leaving nothing for me.

Then he starts shoveling the grub into his mouth as fast as he can. I don’t think the old man even chews anymore.

“Listen, Tommy,” he says, egg slime dripping down his chin, “I’m going over to the track today—got a line on a good horse in the second race—so make sure you clean this place up before you go anywhere.” Then he swings his arm around, backhands me in the thigh, and hollers, “You hear me, Shithead?”

“Yeah, Dad. Quit it! You almost hit me in the nuts!”

“Just don’t forget what I said.”

I should have figured it’d be a waste of time to even come upstairs. I can’t remember the last time he even left a few scraps for me. I head back down, get dressed, and wait until he leaves. Then I grab the bleach and head out to my Honda.

In the bright daylight, I see all the blood I missed earlier, so I hose down my car again and bleach the trunk with this color-safe stuff from the laundry.

Once I’m done, I grab the bag from under my bed, toss it in the trunk, and head out. I drive around for a while, trying to find a good place to ditch the bag. It doesn’t take long before I pull into a MacDonald’s on Lakeville Road. I drive through and order a Big Mac meal. Then I park next to a dumpster to eat. When I’m done, I toss the bag, and all the evidence in the dumpster. Then I take my baby over to the car wash and run her through, just to make sure I didn’t miss anything. In a twisted but funny way, she’s never been cleaner.

With all angles covered, I start wondering about Troyer again. He surprised the hell out of me last night. What would make him kill a girl like that? Then again, with his history, who knows? But slicing a girl’s throat? I still can’t wrap my head around it. And now I’m stuck right in the middle. I never should have moved the body. What was I thinking? I really must have been wasted.

I drive around aimlessly for a while unable to stop reliving last night. Then I start to wonder if anyone has reported the girl missing. I race back home and turn on my computer.

Now I’m not what you would call a computer geek, but I do know that news travels fast on the internet.

Paranoid, I spend the rest of Saturday on line but nothing comes up. By nine
PM
my head starts pounding so I take some migraine pills and climb into bed.

*   *   *

Early Sunday morning a beeping sound beckons me from a dream world where I’d prefer to remain. I stumble to my computer and turn off the alarm. The screen lights up and AOL is still scrolling the latest news. I watch the newsreel for a few seconds and a short article comes up which reports the disappearance of a bartender from Club Radical. No specific details are given. Freaking out, I switch on the TV and stop on a local news channel that’s talking about the missing girl.

I turn up the sound as a pretty, dark-haired reporter begins speaking: “In a breaking story, we’re live in the Village, outside Club Radical, where, Friday night, a young bartender disappeared before the end of her shift. The local hotspot, which caters to the chic, twenty-something crowd, is a melting pot that attracts tourists and locals, as well as people from Long Island and New Jersey. The police will have their hands full as they try to sort this out. So far, we have learned that the girl’s roommate reported her missing when she didn’t come home Saturday morning. Additionally, the police have cordoned off an alley nearby, where they have discovered a substantial amount of dried blood on the pavement.”

The TV screen flashes to a picture of the girl as the reporter continues: “The missing girl’s name is Jamie Houston. She is shown here in a recent picture. If anyone in our viewing area has any information, please call the number at the bottom of the screen.”

I get up from my chair and walk over to the TV, totally focused on the photo. Man she is one pretty girl. She’s nothing like the heavily made up chick I saw teasing the guys on the other side of the bar at Club Radical. She looks so innocent in that picture I can’t believe it’s the same girl. But it is. My stomach churns as I envision rats crawling all over her at Gilgo.

In a panic, I return to my computer and refine the search. In seconds the responses tell all. The story is all over the Web. Not good. I keep surfing and settle on a news site, where I click on the video. An elderly reporter, suited up and sporting a heavily dyed, black moustache, stares into the camera. The site is clearly second-rate, but something inside tells me to continue watching.

“Carson Devlin here, bringing you the latest development in the disappearance of Jamie Houston. Our sources tell us that NYPD detectives have interviewed a number of patrons from the bar who said she was talking to a handsome blond man, dressed in a black button-down shirt. Apparently, the surveillance cameras were under repair and no video was available. However, one of the bartenders told the police that the missing girl cut out before her shift ended so she could meet up with a guy who was in town for a visit. In addition there have been reports of an older model Honda speeding away from the scene at a time that corresponds with the disappearance.”

Holy shit . . . I’ve got to book.

CHAPTER 4

By Monday morning, I’m itchier than a flea-bitten mutt waiting in line to get euthanized at the local pound. I don’t even bother telling my dad that I’m leaving. I don’t think he gives a crap, anyway.

I pack up a duffle, throw it in the back seat, grab a water from the fridge, and head out to Carmela’s Pizza to talk to my boss, Mario. It’s just after ten
AM
, and he’s the only one in the restaurant.

“Hey, Tomas,” he calls out, all off-the-boat Italian. “What you doing here so early? We not even open yet.”

“I know, Mario. I just came by to ask you for some time off. I promised this girl I’d take her to visit her mother who’s in a hospital down in Florida.”

“Ahh, you good boy, Tomas. Take all time you need. You job always here.”

“Thanks, Mario. That’s great, but I need another favor.”

“What you mean, ‘favor’?”

“Well, actually I need a little advance pay. I’ll be gone for a while.”

“Money before work? I don’t like do that.”

“Come on, Mario. You’ve known me a long time. I’m good for it.”

“Maybe, maybe not. How I be sure you come back and work off?”

I take off the watch my grandma gave me and hold it out. “I tell you what: this is worth at least five hundred dollars. Keep it until I return.”

Mario takes it from me and eyeballs it. “Okay, Tomas, you good boy. I give you five hundred dollars.” He puts the watch on his wrist and admires it. “I hold until you come back.” He pulls out a wad of cash, peels off five crisp bills, and hands them over.

“Thanks, Mario. You’re a great boss. I’ll see you in a few weeks.” I’m not thrilled that I had to give up the watch, but I need a bankroll more than I need to know what time it is right now.

It doesn’t take long before I’m on the Verrazano Bridge, heading to Staten Island. I love this bridge. Whenever I cross it, I feel like I’m going on vacation. It goes back to when Mom and Dad used to take me away, after school ended, to celebrate the coming of summer. We’d go down the Jersey Shore, all the way to Cape May, and stay at this old hotel with these tiny rooms that had no TV. The bathrooms were down the hall. It was all they could afford, but it was a real vacation. To me, one whole week bumming around on the beach, eating hot dogs, and diving in the surf was really something special. Back then, Dad even played miniature golf with me. Those were the only times we were a real family.