Everywhere That Tommy Goes

by Howard K. Pollack

  I slide up next to Troyer. “Hey, Tommy,” he says, stepping away from the bar and smiling. He hands me a shot and a brew. “Drink up, then I’ve got a present for you.”

  “Thanks dude, but what are you talking about?”

  “Just do the shot first.”

  I toss it back and chase it with a swig of the brew. “Nice.”

  Troyer reaches into his pocket, pulls out a silver necklace, and hands it to me.

  “Very cool. What is it?”

  “This, my friend, is the phoenix. It signifies strength and the ability to conquer against all odds. It’s for you. If you ever start to question yourself, just hold it between your fingers and repeat over and over again that you are indestructible. Remember, you are only limited by the thoughts in your head. If you think you can do something, you can.”

  “Wow, man, I’m touched. I can’t believe you’re actually giving this to me.”

  “No sweat, it’s for good luck, so wear it all the time. It will remind you that even when I’m not by your side, I’ll still be with you in spirit.”

  “Thanks.” I fasten it around my neck.

  Troyer reaches out and holds it in his palm. “Yessir, Tommy Boy. That is one fine piece.” Then he slaps my face playfully. “Okay, now pay attention. You see that babe over there?” He points up the bar to this gorgeous blond bartender, checks his look in the mirror, and gives me a perfect, toothy smile. “She’s all mine. Watch me work it, and learn how it’s done.” He stares right into my eyes and says, “Just keep your distance, you got it?”

  He eases his way through the crowd, and they all step aside like he’s Moses parting the Red Sea. I follow right behind before the floodwaters fill up and drown me. He stops in front of the babe as she’s serving a fat, hairy dude who’s wearing a yellow Ed Hardy T-shirt, all that colorful crap on its front. A shirt that probably hasn’t seen the laundry in—shit, forever.

  Troyer doesn’t say a thing. He just turns sideways, puts his left elbow on the bar, and leans in real close. With two fingers, he motions to the knockout. The chick comes right over and leans into him from the other side of the bar. They’re almost nose-to-nose. “Patron Silver, luv,” rolls off his tongue in—get this—a fuckin’ Australian accent.

  “You want that chilled?” she asks.

  Troyer shakes his head and looks deeply into her eyes. “Where I come from, luv, we take it pure or not at all.” He grins again. “To dilute perfection is senseless, don’t you agree?”

  “Are we talking about drinks?” she asks him, like she really cares.

  “I’m talking about everything . . . life, in general, and all it has to offer.”

  “Interesting analogy,” she says, “but way too deep for a place like this.” She smiles, turns, and walks down the bar to serve some loudmouth, big-haired Goth chick.

  Troyer turns and whispers in my ear, “She’ll be back quick. Just watch.”

  Two minutes later, she’s back with his drink. Sliding it across the bar, she says, “Where you from, handsome?”

  “Down Under, luv,” he answers, in that same bullshit accent. Man, it’s smooth, though. I didn’t even know he could talk like that.

  Grinning, the chick says, “I figured as much.” Then she goes, “That’ll be twelve bucks, tourist, but the next one is on me.”

  Troyer turns to me for a second, smiles quick-like, and nods me off, like I should just disappear. Then he turns back to the babe and slides her a hundred-dollar bill. “What makes you think I’m a tourist?”

  “Well, aside from the accent—mate,” she giggles, “you don’t have that phony, toughguy, New York attitude I see here night after night.”

  “Truth is, luv, I’m just passing through—visiting my cousin for a spell and don’t know my way around here at all. He’s working tonight, so I’m on my own.”

  Now, I’m barely hearing all this, because I move down the bar and act like I don’t know him. But I have to say, the dude is smooth. He’s got the attention of the hottest bartender in the place in less than two minutes. I definitely have to get me an accent.

  I watch him for a while as the chick bounces around serving people, making drinks, and doing the whole bartender thing. But every few minutes, she comes back to him and smiles all sweet and shit. Meanwhile, I keep trying to get his attention. He either flat-out ignores me or gives me these looks like I should take a hike or something. I guess he wants to make her believe he’s really a tourist and doesn’t know anyone, so I can’t blame him. But shit, now I’m gonna miss out on the brunette with the tongue piercing.

  Finally, when the chick leaves the bar for a minute, he walks over to me and leans in, mouth to ear. “Sorry, Tommy Boy. I got this thing going on here, and I don’t want to mess it up. She thinks I’m from Australia and I don’t know anyone. I’m getting her to show me around later on, when she gets off. She’s going to cut out at one, just for me.” Apparently, I didn’t hear their entire conversation. Troyer is always smoother than I even expect him to be. “I’ll make it up to you another time, I promise. And hey, look—you can still hang out here. Just don’t make like you know me.”

  “No problem,” I say to him, but I don’t mean it. This totally sucks. I’m not real good all alone in places like this. I hate feeling like a fly on the wall, just peering at everything and looking desperate. But you know what? I’ll tough it out—watch him and learn.

  “You sure you’re going be okay?” he asks me.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. But what about those other chicks you were supposed to meet?”

  “Don’t sweat it,” Troyer says, as he takes out his cell and punches in a number. “I’m going to call them right now and tell them I can’t make it out tonight. They’ll be cool about it. Women always are.”

  Maybe they are to him, but not to me.

  So he calls the chicks and blows them off. They don’t seem to care—at least it sounds like they’re cool about it. I mean, Troyer smiles at me and nods the okay, just before the hot bartender chick comes back and he snubs me.

  So I back off, disappear into the crowd, and watch him play her for a bit. Then I wander around, find my way to the other bar, and hit the sauce real hard. Later on, I come back for another look. By this time, Troyer’s got the babe leaning in on him and smiling so much that she’s ignoring the rest of the dudes at the bar. Me, I’m piss-drunk from tequila shots and feeling no pain.

  After a time, Troyer nods at her, pulls away from the bar, and heads for the back of the club. Sure enough, within a few seconds, the hottie whispers something in the other bartender’s ear and slides out of the bar. I figure now’s the time to head out and follow Troyer, so I ease away from my spot and leave through the back door. Troyer doesn’t see me as I slip out and hide behind this smelly green dumpster. I’ll just wait and watch what he does.

  A couple minutes later, Troyer walks out with the girl on his arm. I knew it: the dude picked her up just like he said he would. So I follow them, staying far enough behind to see but not close enough to hear what they’re saying. It doesn’t matter, though: I can figure it all right. He’s probably telling her how strange it is coming here from another country and not knowing anything about the place, and she’s probably telling him not to worry, that she’ll show him around just fine.

  So they walk around for a bit, and he leads her down a dark alley. I guess maybe he’s planning on banging her just for a laugh. Anyway, I creep up on them and hide myself against a steel doorway that probably leads into some sleazy peep show dive. I half-expect the door to swing open any second, some drunk-ass lowlife stumbling out while holding a little brown bag that hides a bottle of Colt 45. Whatever, I have to see what Troyer’s up to.

  They’re both arm-in-arm and walking together until they get behind this heap of garbage piled up next to a dumpster—I knew it! They start making out, and he slides his hand along her leg and up her skirt, real smooth and sexy-like. Then—get this—she pulls his hand away and stops kissing him. Two seconds later, sh
e reaches up with both hands and pushes him off at the chest.

  Troyer steps backs, tilts his head to the side, and stares at her. Then, before I can blink, he reaches up and slices her throat with a knife. The chick goes down like her legs have been cut off at the knees. No sound, no reaction—she just collapses and dies right there.

  Without thinking, I let out a puke-like hurl sound and scream, “Troyer! What the fuck!” Troyer turns around, sporting this blank stare and a distorted smile that creeps me out so bad that I feel like I’m laid out in a snake pit, tied to the ground and three dozen snakes are crawling all over me. I can’t move.

  “You like that, Tommy Boy?” he asks, still in the Australian accent he pulled out of nowhere.

  I just stand there staring at the dead chick with my mouth open wide.

  “Say something, mate,” Troyer says, turning and looking up at the sky, bellowing out a throaty, psycho laugh. Then he raises the knife skyward and shakes his fist like a goddamn lunatic.

  I still can’t speak and just fall to my knees hurling up all the chips I ate along with all the tequila I drank. Troyer kneels down, too, and coughs a bit, still howling that sicko laugh.

  Finally, he stops ranting. My heart is beating against my chest so hard that it feels like it’s going to burst out. It gets real quiet for a time, and then, out of nowhere, Troyer goes, “Okay, Tommy Boy, now we must dispose of the bitch and cover our tracks.”

  It’s weird, because the dude is still talking in that hammed-up Australian lingo. It’s like he’s a totally different person.

  “This is crazy, Troyer,” I say, finally finding my voice. “I’m outta here. Don’t bring me in on this shit.”

  “Don’t be such a wuss, mate, or I may have to slice you, too,” he says, pointing the knife at me. “You’re not going anywhere. You and I are going to make this all go away. We’re going to take lovey here and make her disappear. Go get your car and bring it around, before someone else shows up. Even a fool can see it already looks like you did this. After all, it’s your vomit staining the pavement. And that’s all the authorities will need.”

  I look down at the pile of puke and another wave of nausea comes over me. Frozen in place, I just keep staring.

  “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 u
ntil 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.