CHAPTER 11
Truman
We snuggled all night.
It was no doubt the most exquisite night of my life.
After drenching the poor guy with my backload of jism, I admit I was a tad shy.
I’d never had a round of mutual masturbation—usually the kids or freckling geezers you get playing the field, are the type who want to do you, not allow or demand you touch them.
I’d been jacked several dozens of times, but certainly never mutually. It was heaven.
After making out long and hard, we raced back into the shower, slathering each other with hands full of liquid soap.
“That was the best thing I’ve ever known,” Alessio muttered in between bites to my lower lip.
“Same here. You’re the cock o’ the walk.”
He had to laugh at that, but I was certain he’d use it again in the future—when bragging in his magnetic, smooth, operatic manner.
I was so confident that I’d made the right decision in following—or rather, going with—Alessio on his journey.
After all, we were only robbing the scumbags who made life a chore or worse for addicted humans.
The next day we’d go after Les Moore, the tranq supplier who murdered the musician in my club, ransack him blind and let him know why.
I’d discovered a club of antisocial peers. We all reinforced each other’s spontaneous instincts. Partners in crime, we goaded each other on. With a man as determined and arrogant as Alessio by my side, both of us adrenaline junkies, nothing could screw up.
The next morning, I wasn’t so sure.
It must’ve been around ten when frantic pounding sounded on our motel door. “Truman! Truman!” came the frenzied woman’s voice.
I sat up on my elbows, hair in my eyes. Erin?
Alessio, accustomed to moving fast whether onstage or in jail, leaped right up, grabbing his jeans off the floor. I was behind him trying to snatch mine and we fought with tangled limbs for a few seconds. I almost put my foot into his pants leg.
“I’ll be right there!” I shouted, so she’d stop yelling my name.
She must’ve gotten the picture, as she lowered her voice. “Truman. They’re after you.”
They? It dawned on me “they” could’ve been any number of people.
Alessio yanked the door open before me. Facing Erin breathlessly, he finger-combed his hair to tie it back, probably realizing how bad this looked.
No one really cared.
Erin barged in, Alessio slamming the door behind her. I’d never seen her eyes so fiery before, and she clutched my bare biceps, shaking me like a shirt in a hurricane. “You didn’t see the news?”
Alessio and I looked sideways at each other. News?
Our silence was Erin’s answer. She shoved me away. “You guys! Unbelievable! They came to our fucking house!”
Alessio spread his hands out. “Wait a second. Who’s ‘they’?”
“The cops, you dumbasses! You’re fucking wanted for murder!”
That was a good reason for a silent pause. We all stared at each other for different reasons. Erin panted defiantly, hands on hips, eyes flashing. I slowly, numbly, bent to pick up my shirt, like feeble action was the only answer to a literal charge of murder.
“Well.” Alessio shrugged. “I was the only murderer there.”
Erin jammed her forefinger into her own chest. “Well I know that, duh! But of course the kids told the cops what they saw! And the oldest kid was all super-proud of you.” Her upper lip actually snarled when she looked at Alessio.
It was time for me to open my dumb mouth. “Erin. We all know that guy deserved what he got. You should’ve seen the kids all cheering for Alessio here.”
“Yeah,” Alessio said to me. “It must’ve been Tyler who told the cops.”
Erin said, “Well, they wouldn’t name names of the kids, of course.
All they’d tell me was a CCTV caught some kids dragging a body out of their car, trying to leave it in a creek by Lawrence Livermore Lab.
But they must’ve seen the “no dumping” sign because they put the body back into the trunk.
Cops got the license plate and tracked it to Leonard Skinner’s house.
Cops somehow figured out it was Alessio Messina”—she glared at him—“recently helping an inmate escape from a shitstained ambulance, who’d done the deed.
” She paused for drama. “Some hair salon guy told them you’d all recently been in there, talking about taking out Skinner. ”
For lack of anything else to say, Erin stormed to the empty coffee pot and shook it around. It occurred to her to yell, “You’re officially on the run now! There’s a BOLO on you.”
Did Alessio just grin like a lion?
I asked, “What did you tell the cops?”
“Well of course I acted dumb. But I did say ‘take no chances on them, as they are desperate men.’”
Alessio rolled his eyes now. “Oh, just great. Now they’re getting the cavalry after us.”
“No shit!” Erin yelled, more quietly now. “You know, news channels don’t survive on boring stories about foreclosures and climate change. People tune in to hear shit like this!”
That gave me an idea. I took three long strides to my suitcase, flipped it open, and withdrew my laptop. Jamming my butt onto the bed, I tapped to the latest local Bay Area news. Alessio bounced onto the mattress next to me, breath hot on my shoulder. Erin took my other side.
She shrieked, “See? See?” before I had a chance to see.
Sure as shit, an article about Alessio Messina dominated the front page, his name bigger and bolder than an article about a 4-bedroom garden apartment asking four million, and one about whale communication.
“Desperate Musician Kills Former Abuser,” the headline yelled, next to a promo photo of Alessio looking dapper and divine, his nose in perfect profile.
I read aloud. “Desperate musician Alessio Messina tracked down his childhood abuser, his foster father Leonard Skinner, in Livermore. Mr. Skinner had apparently been abusing—”
“Apparently?” Erin and Alessio shouted in tandem.
“—not only Messina but many other foster children for years. Skinner was shot in the head at close range, execution style—”
“They love saying ‘execution style’,” noted Erin.
Alessio added, “They always have to say ‘apparently.’”
“—before the revenge killer departed the crime scene, where dirty boys clad in rags applauded being freed from their rapist. ‘Alessio’s a hero,’ claimed more than one boy.
The home was discovered to be filled with child pornography.
Boys had for years been beseeching the Child Welfare Agency, filing reports against Mr. Skinner, but no action had been taken.
The outlaw killer, dubbed ‘The Western Will-o’-the-wisp Bandit,’ was also known to have robbed a fentanyl dealer in Fresno, so police believe he is heading east. Any information leading to his arrest, please call blah blah number.” My voice faded as a cold sweat began flowing down my torso.
“Wow,” said Erin, grabbing the laptop and swiping around.
“Look here, another nationwide article on CNN. ‘Police are also on the lookout for Messina’s accomplice, Denmark Groover, who broke out of prison earlier in the week. Alessio’s friends took to social media, pulling for his freedom.
“Everybody send prayers to my brother and musical mate,” said Smoot Schmid in a post to X, a saxophonist with Messina’s band, Moist Division.
Schmid used to travel the world with Messina…
” Erin faded away, maybe afraid to remind Alessio of better times.
Spinning the laptop back onto my thighs, she stood, jamming her hands onto her hips.
“Well! That’s it, then. I’m coming with you.”
“Are you sure?” I queried. “You know you’re putting yourself in danger.”
“Not if I don’t do any of the crimes. We need a name for our club.”
“Club?”
“Yeah. We’re an outlaw club now. How about The Souls of Mischief?”
I could tell by the way Alessio stroked his beard he was doing some blue sky thinking. He muttered, “I like The Undisputed Truth.”
Weirdly, I did too. They were a 70s Motown act who famously sang, “Smiling faces sometimes tell lies.” And we were telling the truth about chomos and dealers. I smiled. “That’s it.”
“Well,” said Erin. “We can’t go home, obviously. The kids might not’ve known your name, Truman, but they’ll figure it out soon. What’s next?”
Standing, Alessio slapped his taut, bare stomach. “Barstow. But not before I post on X.”
“What?” I cried, as Alessio whipped the computer from me. I had no time to stop him, though, because our door opened, stunning me and Erin, immobile like sphinxes.
We breathed clear sounds of relief when we saw it was only Gunning and Denmark.
“Yo,” called Denmark, also striding to the empty coffee pot and shaking it around. “Did you know that we’re being wanted—”
“—for murder, yes, I know,” I said wearily.
But Gunning seemed excited. “Alessio is being hunted by cops all over California.”
Denmark stabbed a finger into Gunning’s chest. “The nation!”
“Well,” said Gunning, “they know we’re heading east so maybe we should head north or something.”
Erin said matter of factly, “I want to visit my grandma in Lake Havasu. No one’s seen how she’s been doing.”
I stood. “And forget Kermit Staggers, the musician who coded at the Establishment Club due to tranq? No fucking way! I’m with Alessio to the bitter end!”
Alessio sure did type fast. He hit the SEND button with a flourish and grinned triumphantly at me. “Okay, Tru. Whether you like it or not, you’re a permanent member of the Undisputed Truth.”
“What’s that?” asked Denmark, while I just said, “what?”
I raced to the laptop on the table. “What did you just fucking post? Under your real name?”
“Why not? Everyone knows it’s me.”
Gunning said proudly, “The Will-o’the-wisp Bandit. We read that.”
“Fuck!” But what Alessio had done was write some song lyrics, impressive for how off the cuff and sudden, like a meteor.
You’ve read the story of Bonnie and Clyde
Of how they ran and flew.
If you’re still in need of something to read
Here’s the story of Alessio and Tru.