That Good Night (5 page)

I didn't keep track of exactly how much I had stowed away, but I wouldn't be surprised if it neared or topped the million-dollar mark.

Thinking about the escape gave me real purpose. I was talkative, nice to the staff, backed off of cursing too much. I could taste freedom. Just a little maybe, but that's enough to give anybody hope.

Let's say Bob shows up, cuts off the ankle monitor, we run like hell for his truck, peel some rubber and get caught two blocks away. That's not the headline I'm looking for. As I was pondering all this, discouraged over my lack of creativity, Cat strolled in. And right behind him was Ashley smiling like a dog that just spied the biggest, meatiest bone in her entire life. “Hey, what's happenin?” was the best I could muster.

Cat gave me a high five. “You know Ashley?” he asked, smiling back at the only thing in Sunset that qualified as a hot chick.

“Yes,” I replied. “I've been helping Ashley with her homework.”

Turing to her I asked, “How's the trig coming?”

“Great, thanks to you Mr. Lambert,” she answered smiling. Looking over to Cat, she added, “Catlin's thinking of volunteering. I'm going to give him a tour.”

“Oh, he'd be good at it,” I commented, then fell silent without anything else to say.

“I'll be back as soon as my
tour
is over.” Cat's smile oozed with all manner of teenage fantasy.

“I'll be here,” I said. “Nice meeting you Ashley,” I said as they left.

The second they disappeared, I felt jealousy, unadulterated envy over their youth and my age. Everything was in front of them. I teetered on depression. What the hell was I thinking, that I could just escape this place and go sailing? My confidence in the whole idea burst like a soap bubble hitting a fan. Maybe Bob was on his way, maybe not. Maybe he was too old to help. Maybe my son found out about the money and got his hands on it. Maybe I was too goddamn old to do a damn thing other than eat, shit, and die in this living purgatory. I lay down and cried a little, hugging Lori in the form of my pillow. The idea of escaping slipped into folly. How the hell was I going to carry this off? I drifted off. Around seven o'clock, nurse Sallyanne came by with a tray of warmed-over food. Lightly tapping my shoulder to awaken me, she said, “We missed you at dinner Charlie, are you all right?”

I nodded, “Just a little headache, I guess I slept through it.”

“Well then, sweetie, here's some nice broth and biscuits to scare the nasties away,” Sallyanne sing-songed. I thanked her and she left. I fell back asleep.

I already had breakfast and was standing staring out of the window when Cat came in. He was out of breath, something rare for Cat. “Hey, Charlie, you got a call from Bob. Said you should call him back right away. It's ringing,” he added pushing the phone into my hand.

“Charlie, I'm coming up 81. My GPS says I have thirty minutes before arriving at your place. What do I do when I get there?”

Depression scattered in all directions. “Come into the lobby. I'll be waiting there.”

“Good enough,” Bob said before hanging up.

“Bob will be here in a half hour. For god's sake, I'm down to the wire and I don't have a clue how to make it out of here.”

Cat shuffled around the room, his chains making light metallic sounds with each step. He turned toward me. “The tour I was on with Ashley—she's hot, don't you think?—she gave me a good look at the place. Pretty standard, like maybe Days Inn designed it. It's not going to be easy. But I think I might have an idea. Like, maybe it includes a few dogs or something like that.”

“Dogs!” I exclaimed. “What the hell do dogs have to do with it?”

“I'm not sure,” Cat said moving toward the one chair in my room. I sat on the edge of my bed while Cat flopped down on
the chair, taking on a posture that might be comfortable for an octopus. “Ashley said it would be neat to have a dog in the home. Like one that could meet and greet, you know, give the folks some petting time. Maybe a black lab. You old guys like that kind of stuff. So, it got me thinking. Like, maybe we could get a dog to help us.”

I asked, “What the hell would we do with a dog?”

He whined, “I don't know. Just a thought.”

I looked at my watch. “Bob will here soon. I better get out to the lobby.”

“Chill man, we've got time. Like, rushing out there's not the best idea. Do you want me to come to the meet and greet with you?” Cat asked.

“Ah, maybe it's best if you wait here. Security might get suspicious. Besides Bob is, well, he's kind of conservative. I'd like to prime him.”

“Say it straight,” Cat said, getting up from the chair. “He'd think I was a freak. That's how a lot of old people see me. Like, why don't I just disappear and let you two adults chat about your favorite Lawrence Welk video.”

“Hold on, Cat,” I stood to confront him. “Let me do what I do and you cool your heels. Go chase after Ashley for a while. Then come back here and let things evolve.”

“Yeah,” Cat said. “Maybe I'll come back, maybe I won't.” His eyes went to his iPhone, his fingers danced, and he was out of the room, missing the door frame by a fraction of an inch.

After about ten minutes of sitting under the fake fig tree, Bob appeared, swinging open the double glass doors like John Wayne entering a saloon. Bob looked around like he was sizing up the place. I hadn't seen him in over a decade but I recognized
him instantly. Topping six feet with thick curly white hair, he was lean with wide shoulders and long arms. His hands were bigger than bear paws. A woven bracelet dangled from his right wrist. Tan plastic clogs completed an outfit of loose fitting dungarees and a T-shirt that read, MAINE MAN. So much for the John Wayne image.

I stood and came slowly out of the shadows, apprehensive that he wouldn't recognize me. His eyes met mine and he said, “So you want to go sailing?” I looked around to see if his comment aroused suspicion. Besides the bored receptionist whose face was nose close to a paperback and a few visitors sitting with clients, we were alone. We walked toward each other. We hugged. Or I should say he squeezed the breath out of me producing a series of clicks and clacks that came from somewhere along my spinal column. I hadn't been hugged for over a year and despite the fact that my body went into survival mode, my heart and mind cherished the feeling. We stepped back.

“You have to sign in at reception,” I said. Bob went over to the desk and scribbled something. Without looking up from her book, the receptionist said, “Thanks.”

As we walked toward the hallway, I whispered, “Did you sign your real name?”

Bob gave me a slight shake of the head as if to say
stupid question
, then said, “I didn't sign anything. That lady didn't look up so I just pretended to sign.”

I gave a thumbs up. “Follow me,” I said, leading him to my room down the hall. I closed the door behind us. Bob paced the few steps it took for him to cross my room. He stopped to look out the window which had a great view of the maintenance garage, trash bins, and a beat-up old dump truck with a rusty
plow stuck to its front.

“Not a whole lot here,” he commented.

“No kidding,” I said. “I just want to get the hell out of here. It's no place to live.”

Bob turned from the window to face me. “Or die, either,” he said, walking to the chair to sit down. I perched on the edge of the bed. “So that's the security gizmo,” he asked, eying the shiny black strap on my ankle. He motioned with his hand for me to lift my leg so he could have a closer look. Like an orthopedist, he cradled the heel of my left foot in his hand, turning my ankle left and right carefully examining the security device. A few moments of guttural sounds from Bob and he let my heel go. My leg dropped like dead weight. “I brought my hydraulic shears,” he said with pride. “We'll have that thing off in no time.”

“That's good, I said. “The problem is, the minute we cut it, an alarm goes off. We'd have maybe a minute or two to get out of here. Not enough time.”

Bob sat back in his chair. His hand went to chin. “How about we throw the damn thing out the window, maybe make it to one of those bins out there?”

“Oh, that might work,” I said. ”But you'd have to toss it like a Frisbee. The window doesn't go up very much. Besides,” I said, “I stuck my leg out a few days ago and the guards were here in minutes.”

We returned to silence. There was rap on the door. “Can I come in?” Cat asked. I nodded. Cat opened the door, caught sight of Bob, and froze.

Bob did a double take, his eyes focusing on Cat's iridescent spiked hair. Cat's eyes went to Bob's rubber-clogged feet. Bob leaned forward, squinting his eyes like reality had just taken a
nasty turn: Earrings, chain necklace with dragon pendant, black shirt opened to mid-chest, jeans with more rips than a hurricane-roughened flag, chrome chains everywhere, red sneakers. “I'll be damned,” Bob uttered under his breath.

Cat's head withdrew like he smelled something bad. His eyes scanned Bob bottom up: white socks with plastic clogs, nondescript full-cut dungarees, belt buckle with embossed bulldozer, Maine Man T-shirt, smoothly shaven chisel-featured face, neatly combed wavy white hair. “Holy shit,” Cat whispered to himself. It looked like a gun-fight in the making, a stand-off between age and youth. No one said a word until I interrupted. “Bob, Cat; Cat, Bob.”

Their eyes met. Lips curled in distain. Eyes narrowed under furrowed brows. I thought I detected some subtle snarls.

Slowly entering the room, Cat turned to close the door. He was shaking his head. Bob grimaced at me with a
what the hell is that doing here
look. Great beginning for an escape plan, I told myself.

Cat sidled over to sit beside me on the bed. I filled Cat in on Bob's plan for getting the strap off, that we were in a what/then mode.

“I got it down,” said Cat with utter assurance. “Like, remember me talking about the dog? Well,” he went on, “how about we get a dog in here. We cut off the damned thing, put it on the dog and let him run lose. Maybe let him out of the maintenance door in the basement which I found thanks to my tour with Ashley. And, like, here's the good news, baby,” Cat proclaimed spinning his index fingers heavenward, “because the basements door's always locked, there are no alarm sensors. Cool, huh?”

I looked over toward Bob. “Yeah, that's good work,” he said, giving Cat a slight nod.

“What about the thing going off the second we cut it?” I asked, looking from one to the other.

“Hey, I found the route and I'll get the dog, you figure the rest of it.” Cat said.

“A shunt,” Bob said. “We put a shunt on it.”

“What's that?” Cat asked Bob.

“If we connect the wire embedded in the plastic with another wire before we cut it, we wouldn't interrupt the current.”

“Phew, the dude knows his stuff,” Cat said, eyes directed upward.

I chimed in. “Okay, I'm with you on the shunt. Back to the dog with a few questions. First, how do we get the dog in here; second, how do we know that the dog will take off and not run back into the building? And finally, will we have time to get to the truck and out of here?” I leaned back on the bed to listen.

“This feels like an oral, man,” Cat said. “Don't sweat it. I'll bring the dog in through the outside basement door. Then I'll come up the inside steps and let you in. Like the rest? What am I, an escape artist or something?”

Bob let out a big breath. “The kid's got a good idea,” he admitted. “Maybe I can meet the kid…”

Cat interrupted, “The
kid's
got a name and that name is Cat.”

Bob drew back his lips. “Okay, maybe I can meet
Cat
at the outside door with my tools. You get there the best way you can. And one more thing, I have a Rent-a Wreck. A rental I picked up in Utica. I left my truck there.”

“Not a breakdown, I hope!”

Bob sat back in his chair. “This is an escape, right?” he asked nonchalantly. “Well, I figured a car with a NY plate is better than a Maine plate on an F150. If that security guy you talked about has anything at all in his head, right now he's out checking out my car, which he won't find because I parked it about two miles away on a tree-lined street in a residential neighborhood where it blends with all the rest of the ugly cars out there.” Cat's eyes were like saucers. Bob noticed. He continued, “Tonight, I get a motel. There's one a few miles from here, a Budget Inn with a Bob Evans next to it. I'll be registering under the name Clement Jones from Peoria, Illinois. So where's this basement door you're talking about,
Cat
, and what time do we meet?”

“You're beyond, dude, man. You're awesome. I mean, like talk about blowing the stereotype thing.” Cat slapped me on the back, “This guy's amazing.”

We sat and talked over the plan. In truth, it was really Bob and Cat that did the talking. They cajoled, partook in repartee, even high-fived once. Unlike me, Bob connected with a loud assuring smack. Their outer shell belied the fact that these two seemingly very different characters had a common gift for scheming that rivaled Steve McQueen in
The Great Escape
. I felt safe in their hands.

We planned the escape for tomorrow morning, Bob insisting that the sooner we were away from this place the better. Bob and Cat arranged to get together to figure out the best way to get into the basement without being seen. The plan was that at nine-thirty, I'd go to the hallway basement door, where Cat would meet me to unlock the door from the inside. From there it was a matter of cutting off the strap, letting Cat and his dog
take off with it while Bob and I make our escape. It couldn't be simpler, except for one thing: innovative disruption. I first heard this slick-sounding term when I lost a contract to a competitor who'd undercut my bid by twenty-five percent. I couldn't beat his price because he bought a computer driven lathe that could operate with some kid punching in numbers. Forget employees. I had Herman, George, Pete, Helmut, Cliff, and Archie, all seasoned machinists. Each was paid a fair wage with benefits and knew how to handle a four-jaw chuck on an old but fine South Bend lathe, or deal with any of the other well-used machines in my shop. The computer-driven wonder didn't need a seasoned machinist. You put a chunk of stock in the thing, hooked it to a computer, and that was that. Either I had to retool or I was out of business. I took another option, I sold the business. My help retired along with me.