Everywhere That Tommy Goes

by Howard K. Pollack

  “No way, no how, no chance am I doing that.”

  “We shall see, mate, we shall see.”

  I get the shivers and start sweating. My body can’t seem to make up its mind about being hot or cold, but I’m really starting to shake. Something bad is up with Troyer, and I can’t get away from him.

  We walk in silence for a while, finally reaching this dingy, wood-shingled building fronted by a yellow neon sign that reads, THE WATERSIDE. The place looks like it came right out of some old-time western movie, except the sign just doesn’t fit. A porch runs along the entire front, and three cars are lined up facing the rooms.

  We walk in. The place smells like curry. Troyer quietly says to me, “I’ll handle this.” Then he walks up to this pretty Indian girl sitting behind the counter. He leans in and slides his elbow along the counter, smiling all nice and shit. Fuckin’ Troyer, he never passes up a chance to hit on a babe. Now, I’m not exactly sure what nationality she is—I mean she’s got that medium dark complexion, she’s got jet-black hair, and she’s wearing one of those kerchief things on her head—so I figure she must be from India. But anyway, Troyer doesn’t care. If they’ve got legs that end in a Y, he’s game.

  “Hello, luv,” he says, all Australian. “Would you happen to have a room available for tonight?”

  The girl smiles back at him. “Well, sir, it is Battle of the Bands week, and we have a lot of reservations.”

  Troyer turns around and winks at me. “I don’t see many cars out front. You must have at least one room available, luv. I’ve come from very far away, my car’s broken down, and I’m stuck for the night. Couldn’t you find just one room here in this lovely place?”

  Man he’s talking sweet, and with that smile of his, there’s no way she’s refusing.

  “Well, sir, I suppose for just one night I might have a room.”

  In five minutes, he’s got the key. I still can’t explain why I follow him, but I do. We head down to room 21, which is located around back. Well, at least it will be quiet with no street noise passing by.

  As we walk inside, I get smacked in the face with a musty cigarette stench. “Shit, Troyer, this place stinks, and to top it off, I feel one of my nasty headaches coming on.” I reach into my pocket, pull out my pills, and drop four—dry. “I’ve got to rest for a while.” I take off my pants and shirt and dive onto one of the beds while I wait for the pills to kick in.

  “You do that, mate. I need some fresh air, so I’m going to take a walk. I’ll be back in a few.”

  I’m relieved when Troyer leaves, and part of me hopes he never returns. I stare at the ceiling for a bit before I doze off.

  * * *

  A car door slams and wakes me up. It’s a little past nine PM. Sounds like people are starting to check in for the night. I look around—no sign of Troyer. I get up and turn on the light.

  There’s blood all over the place. The bed, my undershirt, my hands—everything is soaked.

  Shocked, I look in the mirror and see that my face is streaked with blood, too. I bolt toward the bathroom, pull open the door, and find the girl from India laid out in the tub—naked and tied around the ankles. My eyes almost pop out of their sockets, and my mouth opens wide, but no sound comes out. The poor girl’s wrists are bound and held up above her head by a rope suspended from the shower spout. Blood is still dripping from dozens of knife wounds all over her body. The bottom of the tub is a pool of red liquid. I drop to my knees, gag, and dry-heave. All at once, my stomach reverses, and I lose my lunch.

  About to scream, I catch myself. If anyone hears me, I’m dead.

  The whole room starts spinning.

  * * *

  Some time after midnight, I wake up in the same spot. Nothing’s changed. The girl is still as dead as can be, and her blood is still everywhere. Fuckin’ Troyer—he’s done it to me again.

  I pace the room back and forth, passing the mirror and looking, hoping to see someone else on the other side. Troyer, even—that backstabbing, stupid-ass, toothy-grin, murdering motherfucker.

  CHAPTER 6

  It isn’t until eight AM that I wake up, sunlight bursting through the blinds. No sign of Troyer. I leap out of bed and rush into the bathroom, hanging on a glimmer of hope that maybe this was all a dream. No such luck. The girl is still there drenched in blood. My knees get weak. I fall to the floor and start crying like a baby. I can’t stop shaking, and I can’t think straight. My heart slams against my chest, and I roll over, curl up into a ball, and wrap my arms around my shins. My mind is spinning out of control, so I stay in the fetal position, praying for my head to clear.

  Slowly, reality sinks in and I get up, convinced that the only way to escape this nightmare is to wipe it out of my mind, forget it ever happened, and bolt before the cleaning crew comes around and finds the mess in the bathroom.

  After splashing water on my face, I get dressed and scan the room hoping that I haven’t left any evidence that can tie me to all this. Then I grab the white undershirt I left drying on the heater and stuff it in my crotch. I did my best to clean it last night, but it still has some faded bloodstains on it. If anyone finds this, I’m dead, so I can’t leave it here. Gotta find a good place to ditch it.

  Once I’m satisfied that I haven’t left anything behind to screw me, I head off to the Mobil station. To buy extra time, I put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob, then wipe away my fingerprints with a towel. I leave casually, still sweating bullets. Thank God no one is outside.

  I walk for a half hour still trying to clear my head of the horror behind me and knowing that when I get to the shop, I’m going to have to put on an act to avoid suspicion. I keep trying to fill my mind with nonsense thoughts to distract me, and by the time I reach the gas pumps, I’m back in control. After a few deep breaths, I ease my way into the garage bays. Chunky’s head is buried in my baby’s hood. He’s still wearing the same pair of overalls. At least I think they’re the same pair—unless the dude’s got a rack of ’em back at his crib—which isn’t as strange as you think and is a perfect example of the kind of nonsense I have to focus on to distract me.

  You see, a while back I watched this story about Albert Einstein. It seems he had a rack of identical shirts and pants all hanging in the closet, so he never had to think about what he was going to wear. I suppose he was too busy thinking about that relativity crap to waste time worrying about what to put on for the day. Maybe Chunky is the same way. He’s probably all messed-up thinking about what he’s going to eat, that he can’t be bothered deciding about what to wear. Anyway, I sneak up and tap him on the back. The dude jumps right out of his skin and almost hits his head.

  “Are you crazy, pal?” he yells. “You scared the piss outta me.”

  “Sorry—I just wanted to see if my car was fixed.”

  “Can’t you see I’m working on it, you idiot?” Then he stares me up and down with this real nasty look.

  “Like I said, sorry. Don’t get your balls in an uproar.”

  “Gimme a few more minutes,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m almost done putting in the parts. Go wait by the office. And don’t creep up on me again!”

  I leave the garage and walk around, looking for a place to get rid of my undershirt. I’m not surprised when I find a dumpster out back. Perfect. No one will ever look in there.

  I reach in, lift up some greasy old car parts, and stick the shirt underneath. Then I head back to the office and sit down on this bench. I’ve got some time on my hands and don’t want to think about the girl in the bathroom again, so I start thinking about how Chunky jumped when I tapped him, and I start laughing. Lucky no one else is around or they’d think I was nuts or something, just laughing out of nowhere. But you know what? That was pretty funny. I mean, I’ve never seen someone that big move that fast. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone that fat move, period.

  A half hour later, Chunky waddles out of the garage. “Come on over and start her up for me.”

  “Ab
out time. You sure she’s fixed?”

  “I’ll bet my lunch on it.”

  “Could be a big bet.”

  “Funny, pal—real funny. Just get in and start her up. And make it fast. I’ve got other cars to work on today.”

  I get in and turn the key. The engine roars to life. “Yeah, boy, you did it. She’s fixed!”

  “That’ll be a hundred fifty bucks for the car and another twenty for my lunch.”

  “Hey, I never agreed to that. Besides, twenty bucks is way too much for lunch, even for you.”

  “All right, then, that’ll be a hundred seventy bucks for the car. I’ll pay for my own lunch.”

  “What? You’ve got to be kidding. That don’t seem fair.”

  “It’s fair to me. Now pay up if you want your car back.”

  “Damn!” I can’t believe this porker is hanging me up for the extra dough, but I don’t want to make any waves here. I just want to jet. So I reach into my pocket, pull out the cash, and hand it to him.

  “Thanks, pal. And next time you’re in town . . . don’t bother to look me up.”

  I don’t answer. I’m never coming back here anyway. I pop the trunk—to make sure Troyer isn’t hiding in there—slam it closed, and take off.

  CHAPTER 7

  Driving toward the Garden State Parkway, I spot a hitchhiker in the distance. As I close in, I realize its Troyer. Part of me says to keep driving, and part of me says to stop. Don’t ask me why, but yeah, I pick him up. He jumps in, flashing that stupid-ass grin of his.

  “Good day, mate,” he says, pleasant as the morning sun. “How’s it hanging?”

  “Are you shitting me?” I say, totally blown away. “How could you kill that girl and leave me like that?”

  “Pardon me, Tommy Boy: I didn’t kill anyone. What are you talking about? If memory serves me correctly, you fell asleep on the bed. When I returned from my walk, I tried to wake you, but you were out cold. I decided to revisit the bar and check out the bands. While I was there, I hooked up with a very sexy lassie and spent the night with her. When I went back to the motel this morning, you didn’t answer the door, so I started down the road, hoping to hitch a ride to the Cape.”

  “That’s a load of crap, dude. You’re setting me up.”

  “I’m afraid not, mate,” he says, so innocently it makes my skin crawl.

  Part of me says I should keep pressing him, and part of me says it’s a waste of time. Don’t ask me why, but yeah, I reach for the radio and crank up the tunes. But even with the music blasting, I can’t stop my mind from racing. How could Troyer do all of this? The dude is out of control.

  Troyer closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and goes to sleep. Amazing.

  I drive along the highway for an hour or so and try to focus on the music, but my mind keeps replaying the chain of events that brought me here. Over and over, Troyer slices the bartender’s throat. Again and again, I drag her through the brush. Then, my waking nightmare pans to a still-frame picture of the girl hanging in the tub. I feel like I’m never going to get away from this insanity. Panic sets in. I get the damn shakes again, and the sweat pours out. My vision blurs, so I pull over right in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. I mean, there’s nothing around but wide-open space and some trees way off in the distance. Cars are speeding by every few seconds, echoing that windy, whistling sound they make when you’re not moving. But they are.

  I don’t even look at Troyer as I throw open the car door and get out. I walk through the weeds, trying to clear my head. Then I pull out my junk and take a leak. Guys are damn lucky we’re made the way we are. You know, able to drop trou anywhere and let it fly. I finish my business, zip up, and start back. As I look up at the car, I see Troyer leaning against it and waving at me. My head starts pounding, and I get real dizzy. I fall to my knees and puke. That shit’s been happening way too much lately.

  Still queasy, I reach into my pocket and pop some of my pills before I stumble back to the Honda. Troyer is looking at me kind of funny, but he doesn’t say a word. My head is spinning so fast there’s no way I can drive, so I climb in the back seat, take a few deep breaths, and . . .

  CHAPTER 8

  I wake up in the dark, totally disoriented. Get this: I’m still in the back seat, and some chick’s lips are wrapped around my cock, giving me the business. Troyer is sitting in the front passenger seat staring at me, flashing a half-assed, toothy smile. I look down at the top of the whore’s head pumping up and down, then look back at Troyer.

  “What the fuck is this?” I scream. “Where’d she come from?” I can’t remember anything after I climbed in this afternoon.

  “Come again, mate?” Troyer says with a grin. “I was wondering if you’d ever blow your load and return to reality.”

  I’m still half in the bag and clueless. “What’s going on, Troyer?” I ask. Meanwhile, the chick barely misses a beat, as she keeps pulling on my withering cock.

  “Finish up there, Tommy Boy. Then we can talk.”

  “I don’t remember even driving here,” I say, shaking my head. Then I grab the whore by the hair and pull her up. “Okay, that’s it—party over. Get lost.”

  The chick gives me a look, opens the door, and bolts.

  “Hey, mate, that’s not nice. She’s just doing the job I hired her for.”

  “You hired her? Why? From where?” I’m so confused that I don’t know whether to shit or wind my watch. But before I can say another word, cop lights flash on behind us. “Shit, Troyer—we’re dead.”

  Troyer smiles and says, “Relax: we can handle it. Just be cool and we’ll get through this just fine.”

  The cop comes over to the car and knocks on my window. I open it, and he looks in.

  “Evening. Any reason you’re parked here with your lights off?”

  “Uh, just taking a break from driving, officer.” I say, as calm as I can.

  “Izzat so, son? You see, there’s some fella been hanging around in the area, dressed up like a hooker, and offering blow jobs for thirty bucks a pop. Wouldn’t want you to get suckered,” he snickers, “if you know what I mean.”

  I turn and look at Troyer, who isn’t saying a word. Then I get sick to my stomach. “Not to worry, sir. I’m the kind of guy that stays far away from trouble.”

  “I’ll bet you do, son. I’ll bet you do. Show me your license and registration.”

  Troyer gets my paperwork from the glove compartment and hands it to the officer. He looks it up and down before handing it back to me.

  “Now, get back in the driver seat and get a move on. No loitering around here. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As I climb into the driver seat, I catch another glimpse of Troyer, who’s holding back probably the biggest laugh of his goddamn psycho life.

  After the cop gets back in his car, Troyer explodes with this hack-sounding guffaw and slaps me on the shoulder.

  “So, how does it feel getting your dick sucked by some dude?” Troyer is coughing and laughing so hard he can’t catch his breath.

  “That was no dude. I could tell. The cop was just being an asshole.”

  “I don’t know, mate. She was quite tall—and painfully ugly, as well.”

  I throw the car in gear and hit the gas. “Fuck you, man. I know a chick when I see her.”

  “It is very dark,” Troyer says, still laughing. “I think you’ve been shafted.”

  “Forget that. This is not just a joke, you psycho. You’re murdering innocent girls. What the fuck is wrong with you? Why did you kill that girl yesterday?”

  “Pardon me, mate. As I said before, I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Bullshit! You can’t deny what you did, and I won’t let you pin it on me, either.”

  “Look here, Tommy Boy: Your imagination is getting the better of you. No one has been killed. You’re simply not right in the head.”

  “Please, dude—you’re lying, and I’m not buying it. You’re setting me up, and I don’t like it one bit.” I hit
the brakes hard and screech to a stop. “It’s time for you to get out.”

  Troyer slaps me hard across my face. “Listen, mate. I’m not setting you up. But if you want me to leave, I’ll make it easy. Let me off here, and I’ll find my way. I don’t need this.”

  “Whatever,” I say lamely, as I turn and stare him down. “I just need to get away from you, so get the fuck out!”

  “Suit yourself, my friend. I’m done with you for the time being, but you haven’t seen the last of me.”

  Troyer gets out, and I floor the gas pedal before he even shuts the door.

  CHAPTER 9

  Once I find a main road, I realize I’m just outside of Cape May. I know this place called the Chalfonte Hotel. I can crash there until its safe. I stayed there many times when I was a kid. It’s very cheap and more like a rooming house than a hotel. “Victorian-looking” is how I recall my mom describing it. Big old porch, tiny rooms, and bathrooms down the hall. It’s three stories tall, and there’s no elevator. The staircases are all slanted, and they creak when you climb them. I remember they’ve got these wooden banisters that look like they’re at least two hundred years old.

  As I turn onto the street, I see it off in the distance, and my stomach begins to churn. I start getting all anxious and jittery as I get closer. It’s just like I remember from when I was a kid. Believe it or not, they still have that same damn sign out front that reads, ESTABLISHED IN 1789. I wonder if George Washington ever slept here.

  The place is empty as I walk into the office to check in. Some old bag, who also must have been established around 1789, smiles, showing her crooked, yellow teeth.

  “May I help you, young man?” she wheezes.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, all sweet and shit. “I need a cheap—uh, an inexpensive room for a week or two.”

  “Without baths are the least expensive.”

  “I need a bathroom though, so forget that.”

  “What about TV?”

  “How much extra for the tube?” I ask, because now I’m thinking I may need the TV, too.