by Gordon Brown
I nip round the truck, keeping it between the house and me. The passenger door is open. I reach in and pull out a battered Rand McNally road atlas – no GPS for my boy. The pilot’s map I have is useless for up-close detail.
I saunter to the cross walk. Trying to look as if I belong here. Christine and 2nd. I flip through the map and track down the possibles for the two road names. I come up with only one town with both: Shady Hills. The good news is that I’m not much more than ten miles from Hudson.
A young man appears on the sidewalk opposite, he walks up to me, jeans so low it’s hard to tell if he’s lost ten pounds in the last ten minutes or is just too lazy to pull them up. His ears are full of white as an iPod pumps music intravenously. Hair hides his eyes.
He yanks one ear bud free. ‘Dude, got a flame?’
I shake my head.
‘Know where I can get one, man?’
Hippy meets Hip Hop. He’s white with a black voice on Haight-Ashbury lyrics. Go figure.
I shake my head again. ‘Sorry.’
‘Bummer. You sure, man.’
‘Positive.’
‘Bummer.’
He likes the word.
I turn back to the truck but he isn’t finished.
‘Could you get me one, man? You know, ask one of the homes.’
I start walking.
‘Hey man, no need for the rude walk, man.’
I keep walking.
‘Bummer. Could you tell me what I need to do next?’
The question stops me in my tracks. I don’t want to turn round and re-engage but I’m intrigued.
He keeps talking. ‘Could you? My life could be better. Much better.’
The down in the grit accent is slipping. A southern lilt of a well-educated boy creeping through. I still don’t want to turn. Turning will mean speaking and speaking will mean I might miss my ride. Although I’m already thinking my time with the truck is done. My driver will head for the Suncoast Parkway, bypassing Hudson – the bible according to Rand McNally says there is no other choice that makes sense.
The boy steps towards me. ‘Could you? I mean you kind of look like you might know about these things.’
My driver exits the house. A man with a neatly trimmed goatee waves him goodbye. There’s no way I can make the back of the truck now even if I want to.
I feel sad. I had intended to take one of the sculptures as a memento. Leaving twenty bucks of course. Assuming they were worth that much or maybe that would have been too little. Graham slams the truck door shut and he’s history.
Shit.
My bag. My clothes. The Wild Turkey.
Shit.
Fingerprints. DNA.
Shit.
‘Excuse me, sir? Can you help? My life seems to have gone wrong somewhere.’ The boy’s voice is close.
What the hell is this kid on?
There is enough in the truck to tie me to the Greyhound bus and from there to the plane and from there to the truck and from there to Florida.
Shit.
The boy keeps going. ‘I did very well at school. I did well at college but I met up with some cool guys. At least they were cool when I met them. Now I think about it I’m not sure they were cool. Too many drugs. Too much of everything really.’
I turn. I don’t want to but I can’t see the downside now. He’s standing a few feet away. Head down. ‘My ma is worried sick. She thinks I’m going to end up in prison. I think I might. What do I do?’
The boy is a little different to a few minutes ago. His pants are up round his waist. His shirt is tucked in. His hair pulled back from his eyes. He’s holding it in a ponytail with his left hand. The false accent is gone. He stands straight – the street slump gone.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure what you need but if you want a bit of advice – smarten up, get back to college and work hard. Get a part-time job and knuckle down. Will that do?’
His face lights up. ‘Wonderful.’
He screws round on his heels. A military turn and he marches off – whistling.
What in the hell was that all about?
But I know something. At least I know he’s going to march all the way home. He’s going to walk into his house. Up the stairs. Into his room. He’s going to throw off the street clothes and pull on an Izod polo shirt, a pair of chinos and a set of Payless brogues. He’s going to flush the smack he has hidden in among his childhood Lego. He’ll go to the barber’s, get a number two. He’ll walk to the college, wait until the doors open tomorrow and sign up again. Then he’ll go down to McDonald’s, ask if they need anyone to flip burgers or clean the john. After that he’ll try and ace the first year at college.
How do I know this? I don’t. Somehow it’s the only thing that makes sense and that in itself doesn’t make sense.
I feel good about it. Real good. Like I’ve just saved a life. A One Republic moment – only I didn’t have to stay up all night to do it. I turn west and look to the dipping sun. Hudson lies ten miles that way. Ten miles is a three-hour walk. A walk I am looking forward to.
The bag is history. The truck is history. The nonsense around me is history. For a bit. It may not go away but for the next three hours it can sit on the shelf. I may even blow a few dollars on a beer or two.
Chapter 23
The neon bar-light wraps a warm welcome around my shoulders and carries me in. It has echoes of Charlie’s place but heavier with locals, although, thankfully, there’s no brushwood moment as I cross the threshold. No one cares.
Two barmen are on call. The younger asks what I want and I ask for a Coors Light. JD is too heavy for the moment. He cracks one from the cooler and pops the top. I decline the frosted glass, necking a third of the contents to get me on my way.
The feel-good sensation is still lingering. So much so that I made a point of looking for waifs and strays on my walk. A walking Oprah-meets-Jerry thing. I found none.
I sit on one of the stools guarding the bar, relaxing into my drink. Cool time. The first real cool time since the back alley at Charlie’s place. This brings up Lorraine and the cool moment passes.
I can see her lying on the bar floor. Face pouring with blood. Mary being carried away screaming. I look at the payphone on the wall. It’s heart-achingly hard not to get in touch. Not to pick up the receiver and dial the hospital number. Not to listen to her voice telling me she’s fine and, by the way, what are you talking about – electrocution – me?
‘New boy?’
The question comes from my neighbor – a checked-shirt-and-tartan-tied man with slicked-back hair. He has a faint air of decline about him.
I half smile at him. ‘Just stopping for one.’
‘I used to say that. He returns the smile and flips a hand at the nearest barman for another. ‘Where are you from?’
‘New York,’ I lie.
‘Never been. Kind of a Florida State man me. Tim Askovitz.’
He reaches out a hand. I shake.
‘Paul Dearham.’ Paul was my medical liaison officer when I was discharged from the army.
‘Knew a Dearham once. In the army I think.’
I think he notices the double take on my face.
‘Really. Never been in the army,’ I reply.
‘Me neither. What do you do?’
‘Freelance security. You?’
‘Anything that pays.’ He laughs. ‘Used to be the sales director for a big software company but I got canned. Downsizing. Recession – you know the drill.’
‘And now?’
‘On the road. Sales. Bag in hand. Hand on bell. Foot in door. Mostly cleaning stuff.’ He points to a sample case squeezed between his legs and the bar. ‘You don’t happen to need a couple of hundred gallons of Mr Kleen – Number 1?’
I shake my head.
‘Same story everywhere.’
My good mood has evaporated. I want to be out of here. The change is sudden, dramatic. I slug the Coors but there’s too much to finish in one go.
&nb
sp; ‘Your face looks a little familiar.’ He’s leaning towards me.
‘Can’t think why,’ I say.
‘Bit like a friend of mine. You have that look. Lost. Not sure of what’s going on.’
I make the effort, draining the bottle before standing up. ‘Time to go.’
‘You just got here!’
‘A quick visit. Nice meeting you.’
‘Have one more?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why? Where do you need to be?’
‘Somewhere.’
‘No you don’t. You don’t have to be anywhere. You don’t need to be two yards from here in the next week.’ His voice has an aggressive edge.
‘Yeah, well I’m off. Nice meeting you.’
‘No it wasn’t. You think I’m a waster.’
I get up.
He stands. ‘Can see it in your eyes. Waster. Used to be big time – now a waster.’
‘Tim. Leave the man alone.’ The barman is on his shoulder.
I push open the door. Tim shouts out. ‘Ain’t no waster. I know where I am. Where are you? Where are you?’
The door cuts him off and I regret going for the beer. I walk out into the parking lot. US 19 hums along in front of me. I begin walking and if I have my directions correct it can’t be more than a couple of miles or so to Hudson.
The day is closing off and the traffic winding up. I cross strip mall after strip mall. Parking lot after parking lot. The sign for Hudson appears – now I’m looking for Hudson Avenue. I find it. A Regions Bank on one corner, a Walgreens on the other. There’s a Winn-Dixie in the mall, behind the bank. I cross to walk in. I enter the world of A/C and ask where Fairway Oaks is.
‘When you hit two gas stations keep going – it’s on your left.’ So says the man stacking the trolleys.
I exit, wandering along the road. I find the gas stations sitting next to another mall. I start to hunt down Irondale Lane.
The whole name thing is a giveaway. Golf course development. I enter the estate, glimpsing a golf hole in between the homes. The area is nice. Large, well kept, stand-alone houses. Each stands in its own plot and most are in good condition. The odd house sits in an overgrown garden but since the credit crunch nowhere has got off. Probably repossessions that won’t sell.
A sign telling me to beware of golf buggies signals a crossing point between green and tee. After a few false starts I find the street I’m looking for and finally the house.
I walk by – trying, once more, to look like I belong where I don’t. There are no SUVs. No Regals. No suits. I walk up the blockwork drive. A large stone pelican sits next to the front door. I take a look round. Clear. I put my hand in the pelican’s beak. Nothing. I dig a little deeper and feel metal, grasp it and pull it out.
The front door opens onto a sitting room. The house is well kept. To my right is a dining area and, beyond this, a large open-plan kitchen sits next to the TV lounge. In the corner of the lounge, sliding doors lead out to a meshed-in pool. A quick wander and I count four bedrooms, three bathrooms, a walk-in changing room in the master bedroom to back up the sitting room, dining area, kitchen and lounge.
The decoration is neutral. The smell suggests it’s been uninhabited for a while. Although someone is keeping the garden neat and the dust off the furniture.
I flip the fridge. Empty. I spotted a Publix in the mall next to the gas stations. I do a fly round once more and leave. Pocketing the key, I head for the supermarket, stock up on chips, chocolate, a bottle of JD, Coke and something for breakfast.
On my return I slump into a large corner unit that’s wrapped around the TV. I crack a packet of Lays. I add in a Hershey. I flick on the TV. The Tampa Bay Devil Rays are at home to the Toronto Blue Jays; the first of a three-game series is into the bottom of the second inning. I watch the game unfold, switching it off at the top of the fifth with the Devil Rays two to zip and looking good.
I enter the master bedroom and strip off. My clothes are fit for the trash but I search out the washtub to load everything I have into it. I tip in some powder that might or might not be for washing. As the machine kicks in I walk back to the bedroom and through to the shower.
Fifteen minutes later I’m lying on the bed. A JD and Coke in one hand, my dick in the other. I’m not doing anything with it – just a comfort thing. There are paperbacks stacked in a display unit. I pull down a Stephen King I haven’t read and try and give it some attention. I fail.
I go for another wander. I see a red light flashing on the telephone. Pressing the play button brings Charlie’s voice into the house.
‘Each day at ten o’clock in the morning. I’ll phone each day at ten o’clock until I get you.’
There are two more of the same messages on the machine. Each timed at ten o’clock. Twelve hours before the next one. Time for another drink and maybe bed.
Three drinks later, bed is still a distant objective. I fire up the TV again. The Rays win four to one and the late-night news doesn’t have my face on it. I think about a dip in the pool, but I have no costume.
I lie on the bed and drain another and another and – good night.
*
The phone cuts through. I roll over and lift it.
‘Craig?’
‘Charlie?’
‘You made it OK?’
I’m trying to clear my head. ‘Yes.’
‘Everything all right?’
‘Where are you calling from?’
‘A cell. Prepaid. Fresh out of the wrapper. Don’t want the men in black listening in.’
‘Lorraine. How is Lorraine?’
‘Fine. I saw her last night. She’s a bit groggy. I think your boys gave her something to keep her quiet.’
‘What?’
‘She doesn’t have much recollection of the last few days.’
‘But she’s OK?’
‘She’s as OK as you get when you’ve had your face caved in by a beer bottle. But the doc thinks it will heal well enough. She might need a minor op to correct the breaks but all in all she’s a lot better than she could have been.’
‘Thank God.’ I roll back on the bed. The sense of relief is stunning. Simply stunning. ‘When will she get out?’
‘She hasn’t been told.’
‘The suits?’
‘Nowhere to be seen at the hospital.’
‘Do you think they’ll leave her alone?’
‘How the hell would I know, but it would be hard to get to her. She’s in a busy ward.’
It didn’t stop the bastards electrocuting her.
‘What are you going to do now?’ asks Charlie.
‘I don’t know. Lie low?’
‘You think that’ll work?’
‘No idea but the suits are serious. Deadly serious. Where are you?’
‘Down on Santa Monica pier. Only place I could think of where I can get a clear view of everyone. I had a hell of a job losing the tail they put on me.’
‘They’re following you?’
‘Craig, I haven’t always been injecting alcohol into the needy. I can tell when someone is playing my shadow.’
‘And you’re clear of them?’
‘Not for long. How are you for cash?’
‘Busted. Won’t last another few days.’
‘I can’t send you cash. Too easy to trace. But I might be able to get you a job. A bouncer. Private club. Not on the street. Discreet. Interested?’
‘Charlie, I can’t. Whoever the suits are they’ll find out.’
‘They won’t. There’s no connection to me. Trust me. OK, if they tie me down and slice off my testicles a ham slice at a time I might talk, but if they’re that desperate you’re fucked anyway.’
‘Where’s the job?’
‘Tampa.’
‘Let me think.’
‘I’ll call tonight. Seven o’clock.’
‘OK.’
‘I need to go.’
‘Do me a favour?’
‘What?’
‘
Pop in and see Lorraine for me.’
‘Deal.’
The line drops dead. My first thought is a vision of Charlie standing in a ring of suits, the man in white linen nodding, telling him how well he has done. How clever he has been in tying me to the house, while they arrange to have me lifted.
Only they would have been here by now. This is not a game. I pull back the blinds. At least it’s a quiet road with no SUVs.
I’m going to take the job. I knew it as soon as Charlie mentioned it. I need the time to think. I need the cash. Lorraine is OK. For the moment. It’s a risk keeping the tie with Charlie – house, job, phone calls – but I need a line to my wife. Also the world is a crap place when you have no cash.
Tampa is straight down US 19. I’ll need to figure the public transport system. Not that I’m a fan. The Greyhound was my first bus in ten years but public transport is as anonymous as you get. And it’s cheap.
I take a trip to the washtub. I forgot to take the stuff out and dry it. I put it in the spin dryer to give it twenty minutes.
While waiting I use the door that leads to the garage. Here it’s a great place to dry stuff. Always hot and no chance of a sudden Floridian downpour.
The garage would hold two cars and a party if need be. Much to my surprise, there’s a vehicle taking up some of the space. It’s wrapped in a white tarpaulin with just the wheels jutting out. I pull the cover off to reveal a late-’90s Toyota Corolla. White, a little dented, it’s the perfect runabout. If the keys are around I could be mobile. I have to assume that it’s Charlie’s. Insurance is another thing altogether.
I try the car doors. Locked. I search around. Behind the wheels. On top of the tires. I do a scan of the garage but it’s clear of junk and there are no keys hanging up.
I return to the house, beginning a systematic search. I start with the master bedroom, checking all the drawers and cupboards. I work room by room, striking lucky in the kitchen. Beneath the light switch there’s a key hanging on a hook with the telltale Toyota bull sign embossed on it.
The remote is working. The car’s lights flash at me as I press the tit. I flip the driver’s door. Heat barrels out. I let the interior equalize with the exterior before getting in. Sticking the key in the slot I find I have a full tank. It’s a stick shift but I’ll get by. I start her up.