“Brother. Let’s go.”
We both got out of the van, and slipped in behind some of the exiting theater-goers. Tony Hill and I fell back, keeping mostly to the shadows. Up ahead, a nearby pool of light with a bench was undoubtedly their destination. The shuttle pick-up.
But between theater-goers and the shuttle pick-up was a dense row of bushes.
Still walking with the group and ducking a little to keep a low profile, I saw movement in the bushes. So did Tony Hill, who suddenly broke into an all-out sprint. Although the head of security had me by about twenty years, he didn’t have a gimp leg, and soon he was covering ground much faster than I could.
He might have also been driven by adrenaline. I’m sure he was taking it personally that the residents had hired outside help. I’m also sure, having been around the guy a few times now, that he took it personally that such attacks were taking place under his watch.
And so it really came as no surprise that when I saw the lanky young man step out of the shadows, wearing only a light-colored bathrobe and a black wig, Tony Hill was in an all-out sprint.
One of the old ladies turned and saw Tony Hill running and screamed. Another woman saw the young man in the robe and black wig and screamed. A third turned, saw me and screamed, too. Hey, what did I do?
Finally, the young man, in the very act of exposing himself, turned and saw the older security guard bearing down on him. He screamed, too, just as Tony Hill tackled him to the ground.
While the two rolled around in the grass, with the flasher’s robe spilling open, I wanted to scream, too.
Chapter Forty-three
Cindy and I were at my apartment.
Ginger and Junior were snuggled on the couch between us. The patio door was open, and through it we could hear the sounds of the surf crashing, seagulls squawking and music playing.
“Why don’t we ever hang out at your apartment?” I asked her.
“Because your apartment is much cooler than mine,” she said. “And your apartment always feel like...an escape.”
“An escape from what?”
“Life. Pressure. Expectation.” She drank more of her wine as she gently ran her long nails down Junior’s back and up Ginger’s stomach on the return trip. “Not to mention, I always feel completely and totally safe here.”
We sat quietly, our stomachs settling. I had made a homemade pizza using two Boboli crusts, a half dozen vegetables, sundried tomatoes, tomato sauce mixed with olive oil and fresh garlic. Oh, and cheese. Lots and lots of cheese. My stomach, I knew, was busy sorting through the mélange of vegetables, spices and sauces and would be busy for some time. Cindy’s stomach tended to settle a little more quietly than mine.
Girls.
Cindy sat with her feet and legs tucked under her in a way that made my own gimp leg hurt like hell just looking at her. It was late evening on a Thursday night, and the street sounds weren’t quite as clamorous. The wind that meandered through my open balcony door was tinged with brine and salt and car exhaust. A heady combination. From where I sat, I could just make out a bright red star that I was certain was Jupiter. Then again, what did I know? I’m just a dumb jock.
“This is perfect,” she said.
“I know.”
I reached behind my couch and found the remote to my sound system. I clicked it on and soon Marc Antoine and his Spanish guitar filled my small apartment.
I debated telling Cindy about Gary Tomlinson. But I decided against it. If she knew what I was going to do, things might not be so perfect.
Instead, I kept my thoughts to myself, and as the soothing music drew us together, as Cindy lay her head on my shoulder and little Junior and Ginger snuggled deeper between us, I closed my eyes and saw Mom’s lifeless body, the endless blood, and the old pain filled me completely. The old pain that never, ever went away.
Gary Tomlinson, I thought. I’m coming for you.
Motherfucker.
Chapter Forty-four
He was sitting at an outdoor table, drinking what appeared to be an iced latte, when I pulled out the little metal chair and sat across from him.
“This seat taken?” I asked.
Gary Tomlinson, who had been reading something on his phone, looked up at me, frowning. I knew the feeling. Strangers didn’t generally come up to you in California. A stranger comes up to you in California, they either want something or they’re crazy.
He sat back a little, clutching his phone, frowning. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like that his peaceful Starbucks time was being stolen by a stranger.
“Here you are,” I said. “Enjoying yourself at Starbucks. Drinking your latte. Texting your wife or mistress or playing Angry fucking Birds. The world looks bright. The day looks bright. And then some asshole comes and sits across from you.”
He sized me up—which, with me, always takes a little longer to do. There was maybe a half dozen tables out here. We were off to one side and close to some plants and smaller trees. Opposite the trees was a Navy recruiting office. Birds fluttered in the trees above. Attracted, no doubt, by errant bagel crumbs. Or maybe they really were just angry.
“Do I know you?” he asked, blinking.
“We met a short while ago,” I said. “A memorable meeting for me. Maybe not so much for you.”
He was looking like he was about to get up. To prevent this, my right hand snaked out and grabbed his left forearm, pinning him to the table.
“Hey!”
Recognition still hadn’t dawned on him. He clutched his cell phone like a lifeline. Interestingly, there was little fear in his eyes. Just confusion.
“Who are you?” he asked.
In southern California, perfect days are a given. In southern California, perfect days were wasted indoors. The only other person out here had their back to us and was be-bopping to their iPod. The sun shone down. A small breeze meandered. Sweat stood out on Gary Tomlinson’s upper lip.
I released his arm. He stared at me. I stared at him. My heart was beating strong and sure. The heart of the just. He still didn’t look nervous. In fact, he was now looking oddly amused.
“Did I cut you off in traffic or something?”
“Or something,” I said.
“So what’s your problem?”
I said nothing. It took all my control not to lunge over the table, grab his head and start smashing it into the table...and to keep smashing it until his skull burst open.
He continued looking at me. He was a big guy, although not as big as me. He had broad shoulders, although not as broad as mine. His hair was brown and cut short. His sunglasses were sitting on top of his head. His nose was small, as were his eyes. His eyes, I thought, were dark and too close together. His lips were narrow. In fact, I was hard-pressed to see any actual lip. The skin just seemed to stop at a slit. Maybe I was sitting across from Lord Voldemort.