Everywhere That Tommy Goes

by Howard K. Pollack

  “Five dollars a day.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  “Credit card, please,” she says, holding out her hand.

  I hesitate, thinking CSI again. Once she runs that card through her machine, I’m registered all over the place.

  “I’d rather pay cash, if that’s okay.”

  “Fine, but we still need something for security. And you need to fill out this information card.”

  “How’s a few hundred,” I say, as I pull out two hundreds and hand them to her. I fill out the card with a phony name and address.

  “Very well, then,” she says, taking the dough. Then she hands me the key and points toward the staircase. “Third floor, halfway down the hall.”

  I turn and head to the stairs. Simple enough, and I didn’t even have to use my real name. After I drop my duffle, I hit the sack.

  I don’t sleep very long, though, on account of this pounding headache that creeps up on me. Another migraine. I pull out my pills, pop a few dry, and turn on the TV. Figure I’ll check the news and see if there’s anything I should know about.

  Sure enough, it’s all over the place. Every news channel is talking about it. I settle on Eyewitness News. I always thought that was a great name for the news. Like they’ve seen it with their own eyes. Whoever came up with that must be pretty clever. Anyway, the whole back of the motel is roped off. The camera pans over to some old guy with tears in his eyes. Her father, I guess. Poor bastard.

  The camera refocuses on a reporter holding a microphone. “Mallory Hammond reporting from the Waterside Motel, where the police are investigating a gruesome murder. I have with me Sergeant Monty Tanner of the Seaview police force. Sergeant, what can you tell us at this time?”

  “Frankly, Mallory, we are only at the beginning stages of our investigation. I am not at liberty to disclose anything at this time, other than to tell the residents of our town to remain indoors, be vigilant, and be mindful that there is a dangerous individual out there. And if anyone has any information about this incident or if anyone sees anything suspicious, please contact our office at the number on your television.”

  “Sergeant, with all due respect, the people of Seaview really need to know more about what has happened here. Without compromising your investigation, there must be some details that can be released. In fact, any information may help the citizens of our town in their efforts to assist you.”

  Tanner thinks for a moment before answering. “Very well. What I can say is that a young girl who worked at the Waterside was found murdered in one of the motel rooms. She was discovered dead from multiple stab wounds. The room was rented by someone who paid cash and registered under the phony name Charles Webb. I am warning everyone to stay alert and report anything out of the ordinary.”

  Nauseous, I turn off the tube, not just because the news is scaring the shit out of me, but also because the light is hurting my eyes. I need silence and total darkness when my head feels like this. I used to think I had a brain tumor or something, so a while back, I had an MRI done. The doctor reviewed it and found nothing, but the damn headaches wouldn’t go away. I’m still willing to bet I have this massive tumor that just keeps growing bigger every day.

  Lousy doctors—they don’t know shit, and you just can’t trust them, either. It all goes back to when I was a kid and my mom took me to see this shrink. They said I was a problem child—whatever that means. The damn shrink would ask me all these stupid questions about what was going on in my life, how I felt and what I thought, but he never did tell me what was wrong with me. He’d just keep checking the time, like he was in a rush or something. Then I’d have to leave his office and wait in the waiting room while my mom would go in and talk with him. Every time she came out, she looked flustered, and her hair and makeup were all messed-up. She almost looked like she’d been crying. She never did talk to me about what he said to her regarding my condition—or even if I had a condition. A load a crap them doctors sling for their dough, if you know what I mean. And you know what, Dad never came with us. Mom didn’t want him to. In fact, I remember one time he even said he wanted to come, but Mom insisted he stay home, that it would be better for me. Hell, I didn’t give a crap either way. Looking back now, I think that damn shrink had the hots for my mom and they weren’t just talking about me in his office.

  After about an hour the pills kick in so I get up and go out to look for a bar. It’s close to midnight and scary quiet as I walk along the storefronts by the shore. This place used to be full of activity way into the night when I was a kid. I guess the season hasn’t started yet.

  Even so, I find an open bar that’s still got some people inside. Not my type, for sure, but at least there’s something going on. I hate hanging out at places where there’s nobody around. It makes me feel like some kind of loser. This place is a hole, but at least there’s music. They’ve got Springsteen playing low in the background. “Rosalita”—great song. I sure could use a sweet señorita right about now. Not here, though. Just a bunch of old men drowning away their miserable lives with some of the hard stuff. Makes me think of my old man.

  The joint smells of stale beer and wet wood, mixed with some god-awful ammonia stink. I don’t think anyone besides me even notices. Man, this place is the pits, but it’s all I’ve got right now, so I strut on up to the bar.

  “What can I get for ya, kid?” the bartender asks me. He calls me “kid,” even though he can’t be more than a few years older than me.

  “Gimme your best tequila, and chase it with a Heineken.” I answer back, deepening my voice.

  “Neat?” he asks.

  “Absolutely, dude.” I figure if I call him “dude,” I can bond with him.

  “You got it,” he says, reaching under the bar and pulling out a beer, like he’s probably done a million times before.

  “Where’s all the action?”

  He chuckles. “Action? There’s no action here until Thursday night. College kids start coming around at the end of the week, when the live music starts. Fridays and Saturdays are even better.”

  “Sounds cool. Guess I’m a bit early.”

  “Definitely. You from New York?”

  “Why you say that?”

  “Accent, bud. You sound totally Brooklyn.”

  “Sorry—don’t want to disappoint, but I grew up in Vermont.” I’m not sure why I lie. I just do. And then I realize I don’t even know the names of any towns in Vermont. I hope he doesn’t ask me what town I lived in.

  He doesn’t. Instead, he heads down the bar to get my tequila, so I spin around in the other direction and take a long swig of my brew. Just then, I notice some old guy, three stools over, eyeballing me . . . and it’s making me uncomfortable. I pull out my cell, trying to act like I’ve got something going on. The old man keeps looking me up and down like I must have just killed somebody.

  I turn away, then turn back and stare him down. I’m not letting anyone intimidate me.

  “You want something, old man?” I ask him.

  He turns away, sulking, and acts like he didn’t hear me. That takes care of that shit. I’ll kick his ass if he doesn’t watch himself. What’s with him anyway? Looking at me and then ignoring me.

  I don’t mean to get carried away. I just get fired up sometimes when people look at me for no particular reason. People shouldn’t size you up just because you’re sitting at a bar getting a drink.

  It’s kind of strange, because I’m saying and doing things I would have never done a few months ago—for better or worse. And you know what, it’s all Troyer’s fault. No doubt, that guy has totally fucked with my head.

  The bartender comes back with my tequila. I down it in one gulp and order another.

  Before I book out of the dump, I finish off three shots and two brews. As I get up to leave, I see Troyer standing by the door.

  “What’s up, mate?” he asks me, still Aussie.

  “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? Where did you come from?”

  “B
een watching you the whole time. You going to let that old fart get away with that attitude? I saw the way he looked at you.”

  “Screw the old man. You and me got some talking to do.”

  “Whatever you say. Let’s walk.”

  We leave the bar, cross the street, and start walking along the strip that runs down the beach. It’s dark, I’m drunk, and I’m so mixed up I have no clue where to begin.

  “Look, Troyer—I don’t know what your game is, but everything you’ve done these past few days is totally fucked-up. Why are you doing this shit to me? I never did anything to hurt you. I thought we were friends. Why did you kill those girls?”

  “First of all, you wanker, I didn’t kill the bartender. I’ve actually been trying to protect you all along. The truth is, it was you who slit her throat. Whatever you think you remember is wrong. It’s not what really happened.”

  “Quit screwing with me. I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t work.”

  “Fine—believe what you want. And like I said before, I didn’t kill the girl from the motel, either. I never returned to the room after I found you passed out on the bed. Look, I’m your friend, and all I want to do is help. You simply don’t realize that there is something wrong with you.”

  I stop dead in my tracks and push him off at the shoulders. “You’re the one who’s nuts, Troyer! I just don’t understand why you’re setting me up.”

  “Precisely the point. I have no reason to set you up. Think about it. From the first time I met you, all I’ve done is save your ass. I don’t have to remind you that if it wasn’t for me, those two goons who attacked you would probably have killed you. I saw something in you that night and decided to take you on as my protégé. Why would I try to hurt you after all that? The truth is, you don’t remember the crazy things you do.”

  “Bullshit! I’m not crazy. You’re the one who’s messed up. One day you’re from New York, the next you’re from fuckin’ Australia.”

  “What are you talking about? I’ve been an Aussie all my life.”

  “No, you haven’t! You only started that shit the night you met the bartender. Stop screwing with me. What about your whole orphanage story and Father Ryan?”

  “Orphanage? Father who? You’ve flipped your bird, mate, I was born and raised in Melbourne.”

  Man, Troyer is good. So good I’ll bet he’d pass a lie detector test.

  “Okay, then, how’d you find me here?” I start patting myself down wondering if maybe he’s got a bug on me.”

  “Actually, mate, you’re quite predictable and easy to track. More to the point, I’ve grown quite fond of you, and I feel obligated to try and help you.”

  “That’s a laugh. It seems every time you show up, trouble follows.”

  “Look, here, if that’s the way you feel, I can piss off right now and leave you to deal with this mess all by yourself.”

  I’m standing on the walkway, a few feet from the beach, shaking my head in total disbelief. It’s dark, waves are crashing in the background, and a chill wind is slapping against my back. Even so, I’m dripping sweat. Troyer’s got me so messed up I don’t know what’s real anymore. I step onto the sand and walk toward the water. Troyer stays behind.

  My whole world is out of control. I’m actually starting to think that Troyer is telling the truth. Maybe I did kill the girl and I just don’t remember. . . . Nah, it can’t be. I know myself and I’m just not capable of murder.

  I sit down in the sand and stare off toward the ocean. It’s hard to see. The moon is hiding behind some clouds. The sounds of the waves settle me. The salty smell in the air brings me back to summer, when I was a kid, hanging out on this very beach. I wish I could go back to those days. Life was easy then. Now everything sucks.

  I turn around, and Troyer is leaning against a light post, looking out at me. I wish I could get inside his head.

  Inside my head, though, this phrase keeps repeating itself over and over again like some scratched up CD that’s stuck in a groove: “Even when I’m not by your side, I’ll still be with you in spirit.” It makes me wonder.

  I get up and walk back to him. The dude is smiling so wide you’d think he was doing a goddamn toothpaste commercial.

  “That didn’t take long, mate,” he says obnoxiously. “So, what have you decided?”

  “Look, man, you’re too dangerous for me. I’m gonna deal with this on my own. I don’t need your help. I just want you out of my life. No offense, but it’s time we went our separate ways.”

  “No worries,” he says, still grinning. “I’ll be on my way.”

  Troyer gives me this creepy stare, turns, and walks away. Five seconds later, he turns back to me.

  “Just make sure to watch your back, mate.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The next morning, I wake up at around nine. It takes me a few seconds to adjust. Then I realize where I am, rub the sleep from my eyes, and roll out of bed.

  A half hour later, I’m sitting across the street from the beach at this tiny place that makes the best pancakes and sausages I’ve ever had. Down the block, there’s a big commotion. The police have an area roped off not too far from where Troyer and I were hanging out last night. Some very skinny, long-haired dude is coming from that direction. He’s wearing a T-shirt that reads, I’M NOT A GYNECOLOGIST, BUT I’LL TAKE A LOOK. I call out to him. “Hey, what’s going on over there?”

  He stops, looks at me for a second, and points back in the direction of the activity. “You mean over there?” he slurs. “Seems some old drunk had the shit kicked outta him late last night. He’s in a coma, with half his skull bashed in.”

  “Wow, that’s scary. Do the cops have any leads?”

  “Nothing yet, but they just started the investigation.”

  I look back at the scene, then at the dude as he walks away. A cold chill runs down my spine, and suddenly, the sausages and pancakes are inedible.

  A few minutes go by before I get tapped on the shoulder by this blond lady sporting a tight ponytail. She’s wearing a black jacket and pants, and she’s got a black leather pouch slung over her right shoulder. She looks totally out of place in Cape May.

  “Excuse me,” she says, all official. “Are you Thomas Sullivan?”

  “Now, how’d you know that?” I shoot back, pouring on the charm.

  “I’ve got a picture of you here in my case.”

  “Really!” I say, feeling that chill again. “Now, why would you be carrying a picture of me?”

  “To be honest, there are some people looking for you back in New York, and I’ve been sent to find you.”

  “Looking for me? Why would anyone be looking for me?”

  “I think you know that already.”

  “Sorry, ma’am—I’ve got no idea. Maybe you’re confusing me with someone else?”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Sullivan.”

  “Well, since you seem to know me, perhaps you can tell me who you are.”

  “Detective Stone—Theresa Stone. Third Precinct, Manhattan.”

  “Ahh, a chick dick. Why the hell are you looking for me?”

  “How about you answer a few questions for me first?”

  “Would I need a lawyer for this, Detective?”

  “Only if you did something wrong.”

  “Well, I haven’t, so go for it.”

  “Fine. Where were you last Friday night?”

  “Hmm, let’s see, Friday night . . . actually, it’s hard to remember, but I think I was home all night.”

  “Are you sure about that? I want you to know we’ve already done some investigating, and we know that’s not true.”

  “Well, then, if you know already, why bother asking me?”

  “For the record, Mr. Sullivan, I need to hear it from you. But let me tell you this: we’ve already interviewed your father.”

  “Dad? He’s just a drunk. He wouldn’t have a clue where I was—and I don’t tell him, either.”

  “Perhaps. But he did say you
were out most of the night.”

  “Like I said, he’s just a miserable drunk and was probably passed out on the couch like every other night. He has no idea if I was home or not, so I’m not buying it.”

  “Okay. You work for Carmela’s Pizza as a delivery guy, correct?”

  “Yeah—so what of it? I wasn’t working Friday night.”

  “No, but somehow, one of their pizza boxes wound up in a dumpster not too far from where a girl was reported missing that night.”

  “Ha, that’s a laugh. You’re looking for me because a pizza box was found in the garbage?”

  “Actually, yes. You see, Carmela’s is located in Queens, on the other side of the East River and at least fifteen miles from the dumpster. Your boss says the delivery limit at his place is around three miles.”

  “And you think this pizza box connects me to all of this?”

  “You are one of two delivery guys, and the other one has an alibi.”

  “Whatever—there’s a very good explanation as to how that pizza box got in there. Besides, how would that even tie into some girl’s disappearance?”

  “Perhaps you can tell me that.”

  “It sounds to me like you actually believe I’m somehow involved, so I’m not going to say another word here.”

  “Well, then, come back to New York with me and prove that you’re innocent.”

  “I’m sorry, but I always thought it was ‘innocent until proven guilty’.”

  “That’s correct . . . but.”

  “. . . But nothing, Are you arresting me?”

  “Not at this time.”

  “Then I’m not going back to New York right now. I’m in the middle of a vacation, and I expect to be here for a few more weeks.”

  “Is that how you’re going to play this, Mr. Sullivan?”

  “I’m not playing anything. I’ve done nothing wrong, and I’m not going to let you ruin my vacation.”

  “You are within your rights, but I will tell you this: Refusing to come in and talk makes you look that much more suspicious. And with a little more evidence, I will return with an arrest warrant. Until then, we will be watching you. So don’t try to run off.”