137. Tommy
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Seven
TOMMY
N erves: Shot. Me: Stuck. Car: Blue 1983 Dodge Colt.
“ C ’mon, Bruce, you couldn’t have gotten me a nicer car?” I grumble, yanking the stick shift into neutral after the damned thing’s conked out on me again. I grab a curly fry from the fast food bag beside me and chew as I give the car some gas. This time it starts up and I pull away from the parking lot across from Location Times Three at a casual, restrained speed. The hoodie Bruce left me is pulled up around my head shielding me from view, but there’s no one here anyway. From my years working at the ad agency, I knew it’d be closed on Christmas Eve, so I came to take one last look around. I thought I needed closure to my old life, but it just made me feel like crap.
I should escape to Canada, and I should do it now. That would be the smart thing to do. But I can’t. I’ve got to stay here and finish what I started.
My burner phone rings and I pull it out of my pocket to see a number I don’t recognize. But there’s only one person who’d be calling: Bruce.
“It’s about time,” I tell him, hitting speaker and laying the phone in my lap. “Couldn’t you get me a better car? And these jeans are way too loose. What, dya think I’m a fatty?”
He’s nervous and it shows in his voice. “The beater was the safest thing I could find. It’s small and unintimidating. And I had to guess on the pants. You’re welcome,” he adds with dripping sarcasm.
I chuckle, looking to my right so I can change lanes. “Thank you. And I appreciate the cash, too.” I grab another fry and start crunching.
He pauses and doesn’t join me in the smile. “Tommy, you’re on the news.”
I swallow the fry before it’s ready, and mumble, “I’m not surprised. Guess I won’t be buying things again until I’m out of here.”
“What’d you buy?”
“Just some food. You don’t know how long I’ve been craving a burger.”
“Did you see her last night? Did you take care of it?”
I stop at a red light and wait. “I saw her. But she heard me coming and then Bobby showed up to rescue her. I had to hide before he recognized me.”
“Fuck!” Bruce yells, then asks in a lower voice, “Where are you?”
“You don’t wanna know.”
He’s silent for a second. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Tommy. You want me to do it?”
“No. This is all me. You know that. You just take care of your part.”
“Okay, but throw this phone away and use the one I put in the trunk with the blanket and stuff. Oh, and there’s some food, too, so you’re good for a little while. I’m throwing this burner I’m using, away, too, just in case. I’ve got another one. I programmed that number into your other burner so you can call me. Or I can call you. Got it?”
“Got it. Hey, Bruce. Are you near a computer?”
“Why?”
Turning the car right toward Golden Gate Park, I pull up behind a cop car who’s just pulled out from a parking spot. My heart stops. “Bruce.”
“What?” he asks, picking up on my fear.
I hiss quietly, “I’m behind a cop car.”
“Shit! Get out of there!”
All the muscles are tight in my body and my jaw is clenched. “That could draw attention. I’m going to turn when I can, like nothing is wrong. Stay here with me.”
“Okay.” We’re both silent as I follow the cop for another block.
At the next street, I tell my cousin, “I’m turning right. Cross your fingers he didn’t spot me, that he doesn’t turn on those lights and whip around.” As this clunker makes its way into the right-hand lane of the new street, I flick my eyes several times to the rearview, my chest pulsing hard.
“Is he coming?”
I watch in silence for the length of seven Victorian homes, then, “Nah. He’s gone.” Exhaling, I give my shoulders a little shake. “That was too close.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the city.”
“What?!”
“She’s in the city, dipshit. Where am I supposed to be?”
“You’re supposed to be out of there in daylight! That’s where!”
Knowing he’s right, I growl, “Look, do you have a computer or not?”
“Yeah, I do. Why?”
“Find Rebecca Wells. Google her and ‘charities.’ She’s gotta be listed with a contact number.” While I wait for him, I flip the radio on to calm me down. Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas comes on and I change the channel to Classic Rock. The opening guitar riff of Led Zeppelin’s Over The Hills and Far Away sounds through the speakers and I put my hand on my thigh, tapping out the chords as I drive. “You got it?”
“Yeah. She’s gorgeous. Who is this? Is she going to help you?”
“Ha,” I say, dryly. “That’s a laugh. No. But I want to talk to her.”
“Tommy–”
“Bruce! Give me the damn number!” I bellow, my patience shot. He does, but he can’t stop himself from muttering that I have a death wish.
Dialing Rebecca’s number, I wonder if she’ll answer an unknown caller. She just might since she gets calls all the time from people she doesn’t know, working with all those organizations.
After three rings, I hear her smooth voice. “Hello?”
With Zeppelin playing softly in the background, I drive along, imagining her soft, dark hair pulled back over her ear with the phone pressed against it. Her long legs crossed in an elegant pencil skirt. Her supple lips pursed as she waits for me to talk, those almond-shaped, soft brown eyes of hers concentrating underneath a small frown.
“Hello?” she asks again, this time with a tinge of urgency. “Tommy?”
I hang up.
I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before I called. I’m on the news. She’s probably seen my escape. The last guy to escape San Quentin was Eduardo Mariscal in September of 2000, a legend on the inside. I’m sure my escape is broadcasted across the nation now.
Rolling down the passenger window by hand, I toss the phone onto the road and drive off.