Everywhere That Tommy Goes

by Howard K. Pollack

  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.

  I figure I’ll head down to the Cape, since I know it so well. There are plenty of cheap places to stay this time of year. Not much going on in April. I can get some work at a pizza place or a gas station or something.

  A few hours down the Pike, I need a break from driving, so I pull off the highway and find myself in this small town called Seaview, a half hour north of Atlantic City. Just a mile down the main road, I come across a place called The Tide’s Inn. I head inside. The place smells like an old fish market on a muggy day with no ice to store the catch. The floorboards by the bar are all rotted and uneven. The top of the bar is slicked over with layers of polyurethane, making it shine like new, even though the rest of the place is so dilapidated it should have been closed down years ago. There’s a large, handwritten sign that reads, BATTLE OF THE BANDS TONIGHT 8 PM

  This short old man, with a fat, red nose limps down the bar to me. “You eating or drinking sport?” he asks me, all Irish.

  “Both if you’re serving lunch, mister; a beer if you’re not.”

  “Serving food and drinks all day long here, laddie,” he says, grinning like he knows something that I don’t. “You plan on staying around a while?”

  All of a sudden, a weird, paranoid feeling comes over me, like this bartender knows I stashed a dead girl and he wants me to stick around until the cops show up. It’s not possible, but I feel like the old man is reading my mind. He keeps staring at me, and I get this queasy feeling like I should just book. I give him this lame smile and say, “You know what? Just gimme a shot of your best tequila and chase it with a Heineken for now.”

  “Coming up,” he says, as he turns around to get my drinks.

  Whew, that was close. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m thinking way too much. This old guy doesn’t know anything, but I still feel like I better jet right after I down my drinks. I’ll pick up some food later. Shit, I’ve never been paranoid before, but I think this whole thing is starting to freak me ou
t.

  “You with one of the bands?” the old man asks as he pours the Heineken.

  “Nah, just passing through.”

  “Well you sure do look like one of those types we get in here during battle week. You picked a good time to pass through.”

  I just nod at him and slide him a twenty. I don’t want to get into no heavy dio’ with this guy. He gets the hint real quick, takes the dough, and walks to the register.

  I down my drinks quickly and head back to my car. I get in and turn the key, but she won’t start. I twist the key again, but she just keeps cranking and coughing. She won’t turn over.

  I sit there for a minute, then try once more. Same thing. So I head back to the bartender to see if he knows a mechanic.

  “You forget something, laddie?” he asks, wiping down the bar where I was sitting.

  “My car won’t start. You know any mechanics nearby?”

  “Mobil station down the road a piece. They have a few.”

  “You got a number?”

  Fat old Irish reaches under the bar, pulls out a card, and hands it to me.

  “Thanks,” I say. Then I start getting the chills and feel like I’m being watched—or set up or something.

  This is messed up. Something feels very wrong, and I don’t like it one bit. I go back outside, pull out my cell, and call the number. I get some hick on the phone who tells me they’ll be sending someone over soon and I should just wait. No shit—what else am I going to do?

  While I’m standing by the car, a knock comes from the back. Then I hear bizarre laughter. I pull open the trunk, and, get this: It’s fuckin Troyer.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Troyer! What the hell, where did you come from? And where the fuck did you go the other night?” He just climbs outta the trunk, grinning wide and laughing all psycho and shit. “Quit it, Troyer. Answer me.”

  Still laughing, he says, “You have to see the look on your face, mate—like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Screw you, man! And what’s with that bullshit accent?”

  “What are you talking about? This is how I’ve always spoken.”

  He says it to me like he totally believes it. This dude is unreal.

  “Whatever. How the hell did you get in my trunk?”

  Troyer grabs me by the shoulders. “I’ve been with you all along. I slipped in there right before you left home.”

  “You what?” I shout, pulling away from him. Then I take a few steps back, trying to gather my thoughts.

  “Don’t look so surprised. I saw you preparing to leave town, so I just jumped in.”

  “So why’d you leave me with the dead girl?”

  “Leave you? You left me. You were gone for almost a half hour. I couldn’t just wait there. Besides, the chick was alive when I left her. I checked, and she was breathing. She wasn’t cut that deep. She was going to be all right.”

  “No way!”

  “Yes, sir, Tommy Boy. She was still alive.”

  “Look, man, I’m telling you, she’s dead. I dumped her body by the beach.”

  “Well, we have to go back and get her, mate.”

  “Are you nuts? I’m not going back there.”

  “Then this is all on your head, mate. I won’t be held responsible for what you’ve done.”

  “Me? You’re the one who slit her throat.”

  “I did not kill her, Tommy Boy, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to hit the head. Bouncing around in your trunk all morning has left me quite full.”

  Troyer turns and walks off as casual as can be. I’m totally blown away. I can’t believe he actually hid in my trunk like that. Then, just as he disappears inside, a dude in a tow truck pulls up.

  “Afternoon,” he says as he shimmies out of the cab. Man, this dude is fat, and I don’t mean regular fat like some guys. We’re talking massive fat. He’s got three chins and no neck, and he’s wearing these big gray overalls. His nametag reads CHUNKY. No joke.

  “What seems to be the trouble, pal?” he asks.

  “My car won’t start. Not sure what’s wrong with her.” I do a double take toward the bar, still flipped out about seeing Troyer.

  “Lemme check it out.”

  I refocus as Fatso opens the door, leans in—stretching those overalls to the max—and pulls the hood latch. Then he waddles around to the front of the car and says, “Okay, pal, try and start her up.”

  I get in the car and turn the key. Same thing, she just keeps coughing and sputtering but doesn’t kick in.

  “Okay, hold it up,” the Chunk-monster shouts from under the hood.

  He fiddles around for a few more minutes and says, “Okay, try it now.”

  I try again—still nothing.

  “That’s enough,” he yells as he comes over, dripping sweat. He pulls a rag from his rear pocket, dabs his forehead, and looks right through me. Wiping his hands, he says, “Got to take it back to the shop, pal, and hook it up to the computer.”

  “Is this going to take a while?” I ask him, like some dumbass schoolboy who doesn’t know shit about cars.

  “Not sure, pal, but it’ll probably need parts, which means you’re stuck here till tomorrow.”

  “That’s just great. I’ve got no place to stay.”

  “There’s a motel a half mile down the road,” he says, pointing with his chubby index finger. “I could drop you there.”

  “Nah, that’s okay. I’ll hoof it after I’ve chowed down, if you know what I mean.” And, trust me, he definitely knows what I mean.

  “Suit yourself. I’ll hook her up and be on my way. The shop is another half mile past the motel.” He hands me a card. “Here’s my number. You can call later if you want to check on the repair. The name’s Chunky.”

  “I can see that,” I say, trying not to smile.

  I head back inside for the third time now, and there’s the old man wiping down another corner of the bar. No one else has even come in, but he’s still wiping the bar. Guess there’s not much else to do around here.

  “You again, laddie?” he Irishes at me. “They fix your car?”

  “Nah, gotta tow her over to the shop and figure it out. Hey, where’s the head?”

  “Around back, through those doors.” He points over to the corner, past the Battle of the Bands sign.

  “Okay, be right back.”

  “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere, and the bands should be rolling in soon.”

  Any other time, I would have been excited about the entertainment, but right now, I couldn’t care less. Anyway, the shitter is out back—I mean, real outside out back. It’s a separate little shack set apart from the bar. A stand-alone crapper made from wood. I walk in and find Troyer sitting on the bowl, reading a newspaper, with his pants around his ankles.

  “Is that you, Tommy Boy?” he asks me, looking up over the news.

  “Quit playing games, Troyer. What’s this all about? Why are you following me?”

  “Like I said, I had to get out of the city bloody fast, and you’re the one with a car. I was simply going to borrow it. When I arrived at your place and saw you toss your luggage in, I assumed you were packing to leave. I figured it would be a rip to surprise you, so I hopped in the trunk and hid.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “Did you do something to my car so she won’t start?”

  “How could I do anything, mate? I was locked in your trunk.”

  At this point I’m suspicious, but I just don’t know.

  “So what’s up with your car?”

  “Don’t know,” I answer, still flustered. “They had to take it to the station.”

  “So what now?” he asks me, like I’ve got a plan.

  “I’ve got no clue, but I’m stuck here for the night. Guess I’ll eat, then check into the motel down the road. Later on, I’ll call the mechanic. Once the car is fixed, I’m going to the Cape.”

  “Sounds good, mate. I’ll join you. Just let me finish up here.”

  “I don’t know, dude. You�
�ve caused me enough trouble. I think we should just go our separate ways.”

  His pants still around his ankles, Troyer gets up from the toilet and grabs me by the shoulders. “Are you daft? Haven’t you realized by now that you need me? What I’ve taught you these past few weeks is only just the beginning.” Then, with a look scarier than Robert De Niro in Cape Fear, he says, “This is the next phase of your education, Tommy Boy, and I won’t allow you to give up now.”

  I pull away from him, more freaked-out than I’ve ever been in my entire life. This dude is seriously out of control. I don’t even know what to say.

  My eyes still on him, I back up toward the door. Troyer reaches down, pulls up his pants, and follows me outside.

  “Hold on, mate. There’s no place for you to go, so you might as well just follow my lead. I am truly here to help you.”

  I keep walking toward the bar, realizing that challenging him now is just not wise. I mean, I can’t get away from him, so I better not make him mad. This dude is dangerous, and he could easily kill me. “Whatever,” I say, as I open the door to the bar. Troyer doesn’t follow me in.

  Back inside, old Irish is arranging some glasses near the beer pulls.

  “Gimme a burger, fries, and a Heineken.” I say, all friendly and shit, because I know the old guy now. He nods, tosses his rag, and heads off to the kitchen.

  After eating and downing a few brews, I ditch the dump and head off to the motel. Troyer is waiting for me out front. He follows alongside me as I walk down the road. He stays quiet for ten minutes, before he steps in front of me and flashes that toothy smile of his. “You know, mate, we should go back there tonight and check out the Battle of the Bands. I’m betting quite a few horny young ladies will be in attendance.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. You really think I want to watch you do your thing again? Then what—you gonna slice up another one?”

  “Not sure, Tommy Boy. I suppose you’ll just have to wait and see.”