Everywhere That Tommy Goes (7 page)

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.”

“I’m not running anywhere. But tell me—how’d you find me?”

“That’s my secret. If you want answers from me, then you will have to give me some answers first.”

“Like I said, I did nothing wrong, and I’ve got nothing more to say.” I get up and start walking away, still pulling off a defiant attitude but knowing it won’t last much longer with that softball growing in my gut. When I’m about thirty feet away, I turn around to see what the detective is doing. I catch a glimpse of her taking my water bottle off the table and putting it in her satchel. Shit! She looks up at me, smiles, and walks off.

CHAPTER 11

An hour or so later, I find myself sitting on a gray metal bench and facing the beach. The waves are rolling up the sand in soapy white splashes, making it look like the ocean is scrubbing the beach clean. My head is pounding, and I can’t think straight, so I take four of my migraine pills and swallow them dry. How did the cops find me? I just can’t believe this actually is happening. Now I can’t even stay here, I’ve got to keep moving.

I turn around fast to see if anyone is watching me. There’s a couple of old folks holding hands and walking barefoot in the sand. Their pant legs are rolled up, and they’re smiling at each other like they’re in some corny Cialis commercial, so I start looking around for a pair of clawfooted bathtubs. Off in the other direction, a group of little kids is playing in the sand with pails and shovels. Two women, wearing big hats and sunglasses, watch from low-slung beach chairs. I turn toward the shops along the strip and see some guy in a suit standing alone. He’s holding one of those color maps that they sell locally. He seems way out of place. He must be following me. I’ve got to find a way to ditch him fast.

I start walking along the boardwalk, away from the guy, and make like I don’t know he’s following me. At the next intersection, I cross the street and start walking past the storefronts until I find just what I’m looking for—a tourist shop that sells all kinds of clothes. I go inside, pick out a pair of colorful board-shorts, a bright T-shirt, and cheap sunglasses. I top it all off with a Quicksilver baseball cap. Then I grab a pair of beach thongs and walk up to the register, like some cornball tourist. I dump it all on the counter.

This cool-looking Goth chick, with a diamond in her nose and steel bracelets on her wrists, smiles at me.

“Is that all, or could I interest you in a surfboard?” she asks.

“Nah, surfing isn’t my thing. I’m just fine here on dry land. Water’s still too cold this time of year.”

“Not so for the hardcores,” she says, as she rings up my stuff.

“Well, I’m no hardcore, that’s for sure.” I start looking at her more closely because something about her looks familiar.

“You could get a wet suit. With one of them, you won’t feel the cold.”

“Things must be slow around here,” I answer, smiling.

“Why do you say that?”

“Only because you’re trying to sell me shit I don’t need.” I laugh.

“Just a little bored, that’s all. I mean, it’s real nice out today, but the season hasn’t actually started yet. There’s not much going on.”

There’s something about her smile that won’t let go. “Hey, do I know you?”

“Are you serious? Is that the best line you could come up with?”

“No, really, it’s not a line. You look so familiar, I just can’t place it. What’s your name?”

She cocks her head to the side and stares at me. “Aurora. What’s yours?”

“Tommy. I used to come down here every summer when I was a kid.”

“Wait a second. I’ve lived here for most of the last twenty years. I remember a boy named Tommy, too. We played on the beach together. In fact, he was my first kiss. Tommy, is that really you?”

“Well, my first kiss was here in Cape May, but it was with a girl named Alice.”

“Holy shit, it is you! I’m Alice, I mean, I used to be—before I changed my name.”

“You changed your name? Why?”

“We used to go to Alaska sometimes. My father worked for an oil company. And when he traveled up there he took me with him every so often. He always told me that I was the light of his life. Some nights, we would sit together on the porch watching these crazy, colorful lights flash across the sky. My dad told me that it was the Aurora Borealis and there was nothing better than seeing it live. We truly were lucky enough to witness the phenomenon first hand. He died suddenly one day, and it turned my whole world upside-down.”

“And changing your name made you feel better?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Yes, and it keeps his memory alive inside me.”

“Interesting. I’d rather forget about my dad totally.”

“That’s too bad. Why?”

“I’d rather not get into it right now. But, wow, I can’t believe it’s really you.”

“Me either. So how’ve you been Tommy? It has to be almost twenty years.”

“I know. This is incredible! We have to hang out. What time do you get off?”

“Six tonight.” Aurora smiles and puts her hand on my cheek. “This is so bizarre. I still can’t believe it’s really you. But before we go any further, the total is $99.85.”

In the back of my mind I know that I have to leave town as fast as I can, but running into Aurora like this . . . I reach into my pocket and hand her a hundred dollar bill. “I want to see you later, but right now I need a favor.”

“A favor?”

“Yeah, would you mind if I change into these clothes and leave through the back?”

“Sounds mysterious. What’s the deal?”

“Ah, probably nothing, but I think some guy is following me, and I need to get away from him. And, after I go, if he comes in here asking questions, can you just play dumb?”

“As long as you promise to tell me more about this later. I’m intrigued.”

“I promise. Why don’t you meet me at the Oyster Bar after you get off work?”

“Sounds good. The changing room is over there.” She points toward a curtain hanging in the far corner.

Once inside, I begin to undress. I pull my cell phone from my pants pocket. As I hold it in my hand I start to think, and all at once I realize that the cops must have traced me through my phone. I’m just about to smash it on the floor when a flash of brilliance hits me. If I simply power it down, they can’t track me. And I can always switch it back on later and use it to send them off on a wild goose chase. As an added precaution, I take out the battery. Then I change and walk out the back door looking nothing like I did when I first arrived. Aurora smiles at me as she tends to another customer.

I try to remember more about her, but my memory fails me. Even so, she seems like one cool chick. I can’t wait to hook up with her. But I have to make sure I’m not being followed first. I walk down a few side streets and come across a garbage pail. I toss in my old clothes and sneakers.

I’ve got the whole day to blow while I wait to meet up with Aurora, so I head over a few blocks more and go back to the beach. I find a small shop and go inside. I buy a beach chair, some sunscreen, and a book. I set myself up in the sand. Now I look more like a tourist than a tourist, so there’s no way I’ll be spotted. “Hide in plain sight,” they say, whoever they are.

CHAPTER 12

At five, I head back to my room to shower and change. With my cell phone off, I’m confident they can’t track me. I still keep watching my back and weave my way through a few side streets just to be sure. I make it back to the Chalfonte, shower and dress, and head off to the Oyster Bar to meet Aurora. I haven’t felt this good in a long time. I can’t believe how excited I am to see her. There’s something about this chick that just seems right.

Still suspicious, I take a detour and walk through a few shops to make sure I’m not being followed. I get to the restaurant just after six. The place hasn’t changed much in the last twenty years. The faded wood walls are still covered with the same photos of proud local fishermen displaying their swordfish, shark, and other large catches. I even remember the ancient ship wheel that doubles as the hostess stand. Meshed netting, littered with starfish, hangs from the ceiling. The faint odor of fish is masked by the smell of sautéed garlic and onion.

I grab a stool at the bar, which runs the entire length of the east wall of the restaurant, and turn to face the door. The bartender, a middle-aged, over-dyed redhead with large cans, slaps down a beer coaster in front of me.

“What’ll it be, kid?” she asks me in a dry, raspy voice. She smells like she just came back from her last smoking break.

“You got draft Heineken here?”

“Coming up,” she says, as she turns and walks down the bar to the beer pulls. She fills a mug, returns, and drops it in front of me. There’s quite a bit of dinner activity, and the voices carry and mix into a noisy conversational buzz.

A few sips later, Aurora bounces into the restaurant beaming a bright smile. She looks even better than before.

“I see you started without me,” she says, pointing to the beer.

“Just a habit. I can’t sit at a bar without something in front of me. You want one?”

“What’re you drinking?”

“Heineken draft.”

“I’ll take a Coors Lite.”

I motion to old orange hair and order the Coors.

“Okay, Tommy, I’ve been wondering all day: what’s going on with you, and why do you think you’re being followed?”

“Hold on. First, I need to know: did a guy in a suit come into the shop after I left?”

“No. It was a slow day—just the usual tourists . . . and some locals.”

“Really? I could swear I was being followed.”

“Whatever—just tell me what’s going on. I don’t normally get involved in all this intrigue. I mean, who comes into my shop, buys all new clothes, asks me out, changes, and runs out the back claiming he’s being followed?”