The Wrong Man (11 page)

12

F
ifteen
minutes
later
we
were parked in the
Baron
Square
Shopping Center
and it was enjoying an evening rush. The drug store and the grocery store were still open and people bustled to and from cars, pushing carts, trailing children. The liquor store was lit up and I could see Sully through the glass, in the lighted interior, as clear and obvious as a performer in a spotlight at the front of a blackened theater. I thought of how that could have been me in there tonight, and how anyone could have sat outside, taken aim, and just shot me in the head as I lingered over the cash register. It made me a little sick
.

We parked in a span of empty spaces, removed from other cars and foot traffic. I could look in at Vanguard Liquors to my right, and see the bar entrance of Rancho Bonita to my left. “What now?” I said.

“What now?” Tommy echoed. “We need to find out if your fuckin’ boyfriend is in there.”

“I doubt he is,” I said, thinking about it. “He and his friends probably won’t come here until ten or so.” The dash clock said
8:32
.

“Well, fuck,” Tommy said, lighting a cigarette and hitting the button so a little motor hummed and the door sucked down the glass of the window. “We just gotta sit here and wait.”

And we did. I tried to engage Tommy in conversation and discovered he wouldn’t say two words about anything that might in some way qualify him as a human being. I wanted to get a feel for what was happening here tonight. How people did these lunatic things and what it would mean in my life from this day forward. But Tommy just wanted to chain smoke and make jokes, which got old pretty fast and led to long silences when I didn’t laugh. His favorite subject, I found, was himself twenty years before when he had, by his account, fucked every girl in this county, and most of the eligible girls in
California
. I tried to steer us to something more meaningful, asking him about Grandpa Art, who was the closest thing to a father either of us had, and he said “Yep,” and nothing more. I asked him if Grandpa Art was actually tough back in the day and Tommy perked up and spoke with respect, saying, “He was one of those guys. He didn’t say much, but you didn’t want to rile that motherfucker. He’d smack the fuck out of you.” He followed with a story I found deeply fascinating, about Grandpa Art as a much younger man and Tommy as a ten-year-old. The two of them were waiting in line to ride the roller coaster at the Boardwalk and as they stood there a girl had sprinted up, glancing behind her, and ruptured the line and burst through. A second later a massive young man came in pursuit of her, and Grandpa Art—who was then about forty—had kicked the angry boyfriend’s foot so it hooked behind his other ankle and he sprawled on the pavement. My granddad had then circled and dodged with the outraged youth and landed a punch that sat the boy down on his ass. The show had continued until the police arrived a minute later and arrested the boyfriend.

I can’t say why this meant anything to me, but it did. It was a window into these two people’s pasts—Tommy as a kid, Grandpa Art as a man at the height of his powers. I was struck by the strange pathos of it. The sharp kid Tommy once was, the potential to be anything, reduced to this lying, scheming shipwreck of a human being beside me. The casually capable man Grandpa Art had been, now forced to tiptoe along the edge of the high cliffs where one day, inevitably, he’d lose footing, his heart would freeze and he’d just tumble off into nothing. Christ, why bother with anything? I was on that same conveyer belt of time and shitty luck, no better than Tommy or Grandpa Art, being delivered to oblivion sooner or later—

“What’s he drive?”

“What?”

“Your fuckin’ boyfriend.”

“Oh
 
. . . Shit
 
. . . It’s a
 
. . . uh
 
. . . Celica! A
Toyota
. It’s white. Lowered.”

“Idn’t that him?” Tommy gestured toward the liquor store with his cigarette and I snapped my head to my right. The shape, the
personality
of that little white Celica was tattooed on my brain. It spelled menace for me because with it, of course, was Owen. I felt the pressure in my chest. He had pulled up to the curb and parked right in front of the door of Vanguard. He was out of his car and just passing inside. I imagined the door buzzer going off as I watched him stroll up to Sully in the brightness, lean across the counter and perform the postmodern handshake—hand clasp, palm slap, knuckle bump—and then place both hands on the countertop and begin talking. I looked at his hard narrow back and wondered, just wondered, if he was asking Sully where I might be tonight. I saw Sully shake his head as he spoke.

“He’s looking for me,” I said.

“Probably.” Tommy leaned forward, lifting his hand to the keys that dangled in the ignition.

“What’re you doing?”

He dragged on his cigarette so the cherry lit up. He exhaled and squinted through the smoke. “To tell you the truth, Sammy, I don’t fuckin’ know. Just sit tight and let’s see what happens.”

Tommy started the car as Owen turned and walked out of Vanguard. It felt like too much was happening too fast. I was short of breath. We backed out, then dropped into drive and crawled across the parking lot, our eyes fastened on the taillights of the little Celica.

“Maybe we’ll find out where the fucker lives,” Tommy said.

We wove through the nighttime city behind him, as if there was an invisible tow rope connecting his back bumper to our front. Streetlights slid up and passed. Headlights floated toward us and vanished. When the latter shone through the glass of Owen’s car, we saw that there was someone in the passenger’s seat. I didn’t really know what Owen Ferguson did on a Saturday night, but I imagined he was furious about what had happened this afternoon so he had paired himself with some incredible badass who was graffitied from head to toe in prison tattoos and the two of them were bent on finding and killing me before morning. Then I imagined that I was a fool, exaggerating my importance in the scheme of Owen’s life—he couldn’t care less about me and he and this passenger were just doing whatever they did, picking up and delivering drugs, I guessed.

Headlights came through his glass again and I noted the shape of their heads, Owen’s tall and narrow, his passenger’s round and squat as a jack-o-lantern.

“No way,” I said, feeling sick as we turned onto
Tuttle Avenue
.

We slowed to a crawl and I watched Owen’s car swing into the parking lot without signaling.

“Isn’t this—” Tommy said, and I said, “Yeah. This is my fucking apartments.”

“Get out your gun,” Tommy said, and he was reaching inside his sweatshirt.

“What? No. Fuck.”

He jammed the Ford into a parking space at the curb and killed the engine. Some residual, bluish light played on his face, shined on his eyeballs as he turned to me. “Sam, you little fuck. This is your fucking chance, you prick. We catch ’em in your place, it’s a home fuckin’ invasion and we kill the motherfuckers. Bam! Bam!” He was wild-eyed now, psyching himself up for this. I saw the big gun in his hand.

“Where’d that come from?” I said.

“Where do you think? Those punks at the store, dipshit. This’s a Glock, like cops use. My fuckin’ favorite. Now come on.”

Tommy elbowed the door open and got out of the car. “Hurry up!” he said and I sucked a breath and got out myself. We pushed the doors shut just hard enough to latch them and kill the interior lights.

The parking lot of the apartment complex was small, and many tenants parked on the street. Depending on who was at work when, you could find and use empty spaces, but it was understood that you were in someone else’s slot and they’d be upset if they came off a long shift and found your car there. They might key your doors, and they’d be in keeping with the unwritten rules. Tommy and I moved under a covered area, between front bumpers, both of us with guns in our hands. I felt like a Boy Scout tracking game with Davey Crockett.
  

The Celica was plain as day, parked beside the furthest apartment building next to the NO PARKING sign. Both its doors stood open and rap music bumped from the door speakers. Tommy came close to me and breathed sweet liquor breath across the side of my face as he whispered: “Let’s see what they do. They ain’t staying here long. Maybe they’re dropping off some shit, or making a pickup. . . .”

Shit
, I knew, meant drugs of one kind or another.
 

“Wait a minute!” Tommy’s face was intense with inspiration. He jerked his hand out of his sweatshirt pocket, took the wrist of my left hand, and slapped the car keys into it. He then whapped me on the shoulder hard enough so I stumbled a step forward. “You follow us!”

“Follow who?” But he was running across the murky blacktop toward the Celica, a large, bulky silhouette barreling ahead in a crouch, moving with surprising speed. I saw his big white paw crawling madly, groping at the side of the front seat until he found the lever and the seat folded forward, and then he pitched himself into the back. I saw the disembodied hand come forward again, find the same lever and return the driver’s seat to its upright position. I breathed, “Holy fuck!” out loud. The man was insane. I knew now what was happening. They would climb back into their car and he would make some glib comment like, “Evening, gentlemen,” or maybe just, “Drive where I tell you, motherfucker, or you’re dead,” and he’d have that gun cocked at the backs of their heads.

I ran. Slipping between car fronts, then out to the street and back to the Ford Focus. I had the sensation of being jerked out of the moment, looking down at myself, astounded at what I was doing. I had to force myself to keep moving, to act, to just do this and not stop to think. I pushed the key into the ignition and started the car, noticing how quiet the motor was compared to the sick rumble of my Fairlane. Ford had made a little progress, at least, in forty-five years.
 

I didn’t twist the lights on. I started to drop it into drive, but didn’t do that either because then I would have to put a foot on the brakes and ignite the brake lights. But then, Owen and this other gangster would have Tommy, a huge, drunk, tweaking maniac pointing a gun at their heads. What did they care if some asshole they drove by had his fucking foot on the brake? I dropped it into drive and did a three point turn so I was ready to follow. Maybe a minute passed, then I saw backup lights coming toward me out of the parking lot. It was the Celica. This was happening.

The car reversed soberly, hooking out of the lot and onto the street, then the backup lights went dark and it started moving. I fell in behind it, my chin thrust over the steering wheel, trying but failing to envision what might be playing out with three violent men penned inside that little metal capsule. But the streetlights bounced back at me off the window glass and I could see nothing. This part of town was too bright for making out black shapes in the glare of oncoming headlights.

I had to sleeve the sweat off my forehead and I muttered a long unbroken monologue about how fucked I was and how insane this was, but my gaze was fastened to the Celica’s taillights and I matched its speed and trailed along right behind it. We went to the edge of town, broke out of the last lighted intersection and sped up to cruising speed on the 129—which is a dark state highway that draws a long, arcing line between highway 1 and highway 101. They did the speed limit and I followed, still cursing. About two miles out I gasped as the Celica veered into the middle of the road, then the brakelights flared up and it eased right and came to a stop at the shoulder. I applied my foot to the Ford’s brake pedal and stopped behind it.

I spoke aloud, saying,
“What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck
!” The Celica didn’t move. Just sat idling on the shoulder. Then the brake lights went dark and it eased forward again and I pushed the gas and continued to follow.

Another mile and we turned right onto a road called Murphy’s Crossing, which was another shortcut, this time between the 129 and
San Gabriel
road. I had a premonition then, knowing this pass led only to a small community and dozens of agricultural tracts, and was used very little after dark. The stretch of road was bisected by the
Conejo
River
and in its middle was a cement bridge that carried cars over the secretive jungle foliage of the river’s bank.