Head Games

by Thomas B Cavanagh

  “He has a gun,” the kid said, wheezing.

  “Where?” I said.

  “His ankle.”

  “Take it,” I said, maintaining my aim and gaze intently on Day-Glo’s face. The kid looked up at me, hesitating. “Take it!” I ordered. “And slide it over to me.”

  The kid pushed himself over to the big man’s leg and shoved the pant cuff up. A small .22 semiautomatic pistol was holstered above his right ankle. The kid fumbled with the safety strap but managed to extract the weapon.

  During this, the big guy and I continued making the love eyes at each other. He remained motionless—a statue—but his eyes increased their malevolent intensity. My cop instincts were telling me that he was very bad news. I couldn’t let my guard down for an instant.

  “Slide it over,” I said to the kid without looking at him.

  The .22 bounced over the blacktop and skidded to a halt about eighteen inches from my toe. The kid pulled himself upright and leaned heavily against the trunk of his demolished car. His left hand clutched his rib cage and the wince on his face registered definite pain.

  “Okay,” I said to both of them. “Somebody tell me the story.”

  In my peripheral vision, I could see a couple of shoppers staring wide-eyed through the T-shirt shop window. In the clouds above I heard the boom of an afternoon thunderstorm rolling in from the west. It was immediately followed by a distant siren.

  That was the kid’s cue because he instantly turned and started running, his gait a limping struggle.

  “Hold it!” I shouted, and was summarily ignored. The kid disappeared around the side of the shop. I debated going after him, but a little voice in my head told me not to turn my back on Day-Glo.

  The big guy finally moved. He straightened himself up and rolled his shoulders, adjusting the lay of his bright orange shirt across his back.

  “Okay,” I said, “talk quick before the cops show up. What’s goin’ on? Why have you been following me?”

  “You ain’t gonna wait for the cops and you know it,” he said, tilting his head and popping a vertebra in his neck. “You gonna hand my piece back?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “You pissed in the wrong soup, brother.” He started back toward the Mustang.

  He was right about the cops. If I waited for them to arrive, I’d be hauled in with him. As it was, I only had a moment or two to slip away, and even then, I could still easily get nabbed. So, unless I wanted to actually shoot him, that meant I had to stand here like a limp wiener and watch him drive away.

  Day-Glo backed his ass into the Mustang’s driver’s seat. “I want the money,” he said. “And I don’t care who I carve it outta. You. Him. Don’t matter to me. But I’ll get it. And somebody’s gonna get carved.” The approaching sirens were getting louder.

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “You really that dumb? You better get yourself smart pretty fuckin’ quick, Mikey.”

  “Who the hell are you?” I said, jabbing the barrel of the Glock at him.

  “I told you. A friend of a friend.” The Mustang’s engine growled to life.

  “You stay away from me, friend. I see you again—”

  “And what? You gonna shoot me? Do it now, then.” He lifted his chin farther out the driver’s window, offering a clean shot of his Frankenstein head. He held it up for a beat while I stood there impotently. “Yeah,” he said, and the Mustang started rolling. “You have a nice day now, Mikey. Enjoy your time with that little girl of yours.” A moment later the Mustang melted back into the I-Drive traffic, slipping between lanes.

  The sirens weren’t far now. I snatched the .22 from the ground, trying to grab only the trigger guard and not lay a bunch of fingerprints on it, and leapt back into my truck. I pulled forward and slipped out the rear of the shop parking lot, turning onto an industrial service road that ran behind the I-Drive restaurants and shops and fed the distribution area of the convention center. I did a quick scan looking for the errant kid in the sweat suit, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  A fat raindrop whacked my windshield with a sharp crack. Then another. They were soon followed by a brilliant flash of lightning and a thunderclap so loud that I flinched, my ears ringing. The raindrops were then joined by 10 billion of their siblings. An aggressive wind billowed mile-long sheets of plump droplets across west Orange County. It was a typical Florida summer-afternoon storm shower: a tempest of biblical proportions. I leaned heavily on the pedal and sped off.

  The cops would be thick here in a few minutes. Probably Orange County deputies but maybe a few of my old friends at OPD, too. Depended on who was winning the jurisdictional politics at the moment. If I stayed smart, didn’t speed, got out on the Beachline Expressway, and the storm stayed as torrential as it was starting, I had a shot of getting away.

  And I needed to get away. I suddenly had a lot to do.

  * * *

  I had no doubt considerable effort was expended to find the Mustang and the Ford pickup that the witnesses surely identified. But the weather turned into an ally. In that storm, it was too difficult to mobilize a truly effective dragnet. And forget about calling in a chopper. I guessed that the officers (or deputies) on the scene figured they had the smashed Mazda and could easily track the owner down. They might even have grabbed him already. He was on foot, after all, and injured. Once the cops had him, they could figure out the rest of the sordid story. I wished I could.

  I drove around for thirty or forty minutes before I found a Bennigan’s restaurant and parked. The storm let up just enough to allow me to run from my car to the restaurant without scuba equipment. I planted myself at a high table in a dark corner of the bar, ordered a Scotch straight up, and tried to catalog my next steps.

  First, the case … I still needed to get in touch with Arlene Sommerset. She needed to know about TJ’s letters and my fear that he’s a suicide candidate, if not already—God forbid—a victim. I’d left her a voice mail before arriving at her house. I now used my cell phone again to leave her another message to call me as soon as she could.

  Next, the kid in the sweat suit. I assumed he was TJ’s cousin, but that was just an educated guess. I needed some confirmation. He had somehow gotten through the Isleworth security, and it made sense that if he really was the cousin, he would be on the Sommerset access list. But why all the creeping around the Sommerset abode? He clearly wanted to get inside. Did it have to do with TJ? Or something else? It occurred to me that it was possible that Arlene was home the whole time but avoiding him. She might still be home, avoiding me, too.

  Finally, Day-Glo and his blue Mustang. Clearly, the guy was a professional influencer. His demand for money. His threat to carve somebody up. The .22 on his ankle. A picture was taking shape, but it was way too ugly to hang on a wall. My best guess was that the cousin owed Day-Glo or his boss some money. But the cousin didn’t have the money, and the usual result of such a situation was a scene like the one a little while ago in the parking lot. Perhaps I’d just wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.

  But Day-Glo knew my name. And had been following me. I first spotted him after searching TJ’s apartment. Was TJ mixed up in this? Was this a more plausible reason for disappearing than Eli’s interference in his and Miguel’s relationship? Was Day-Glo following me to find the cousin? Or TJ? Or both?

  Or was this about me somehow? The goon described himself as “a friend of a friend.” Was it just an expression or did it have more significance? And why did he make a point to mention my daughter? It was an unambiguous threat.

  Jennifer—I suddenly remembered her sitting alone in my apartment. My fingers quickly punched the cell’s buttons and I heard the phone ring a few times. I let it ring, waiting for the answering machine to pick up. It never did. Five rings. Six rings. Finally, I heard a click followed by Jennifer’s voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Jennifer, it’s me. Your dad.” I wanted to call myself Mike. I felt awk
ward referring to myself as Dad.

  She had been on the other line with Gwen and had finally decided to answer the call-waiting tone. Gwen was probably still on the other line. I made Jennifer check that the front door and windows were all locked. I lied to her that there was a report of a rapist in the neighborhood and instructed her to stay inside. Only after she promised twice that she would did I hang up.

  Or, despite his protestations, was the whole scene today still somehow tied to Eli Elizondo and Global Talent? Maybe he really didn’t trust me to find TJ and had hired some PI on his own. Or maybe Eli wanted one of his own guys to shadow me, make sure I was doing what I was supposed to. Once I found TJ, the big man would swoop in and ensure he got on the tour plane. But why chase the cousin? To find TJ? And why risk pissing me off if I now knew about TJ and Miguel?

  I needed information—some edge to give me an advantage. I’d managed to get both the Mazda’s and Mustang’s license tags. A DMV search would tell me who I was playing chase with. A call to Big Jim Dupree should enable that. I was getting concerned about going to the Big Jim well too often. I was on the verge of abusing our friendship. But I decided to call him anyway, later tonight. Maybe go over to his house with a bribe—a bottle of the good merlot he and his wife liked so much.

  If the DMV check didn’t produce results, I still held the .22 pistol. I could pull the serial number or have Jim lift some prints, if they weren’t too compromised.

  A second Scotch replaced the drained first and I ordered a bacon burger to accompany it. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast at Denny’s and was suddenly famished. I was halfway through the burger when my cell phone chirped.

  “Hello?” I said, wiping ketchup from the corner of my mouth.

  “Mr. Garrity, it’s Arlene Sommerset. You wanted to talk with me?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I said, and clicked off the phone.

  CHAPTER 14

  I pulled into Arlene Sommerset’s brick driveway. The last time I had been inside this house, Bob gave a command performance of the Seizure Follies. I didn’t relish the idea of returning for a possible encore.

  So far the antiseizure meds had been working fine, without debilitating side effects. The nausea was still severe but intermittent. There had been no more seizures since my last visit to the Sommerset manse. However, the doc had told me nothing was guaranteed. Another seizure was still possible and a different prescription might be necessary.

  Involuntarily, I flashed back to what I remembered of the seizure. The confusion when I couldn’t understand what Arlene was saying. The tunnel vision. The distorted hearing. The glass smashing on the tile. Pitching forward off the couch.

  My hand froze on the keys in the ignition, about to shut off the engine. I distinctly remembered falling off the couch, the expensive Italian tile spinning up at me before I lost consciousness. Arlene told me afterward that I’d convulsed, presumably there on the living-room floor. Yet I awoke laying comfortably back on the couch.

  How did I get from the floor back to the couch?

  I didn’t think that Arlene could have lifted me by herself. It was possible, I supposed, but I doubted it. I’ve lifted my share of unconscious bodies in my career, and it’s a lot harder than lifting someone with some kick. Imagine a 185-pound sack of water. My guess was that Arlene had some help. Yet the only other resident of the house that I’d seen was that yippy little dog.

  Which begged the question: Was there another resident that I didn’t see?

  I cut the truck’s engine and made my way to the front door. Arlene answered it with a tired smile. She said nothing and stepped aside, indicating I should enter. I did and followed her into the family room this time. The family room was furnished with bright Florida upholstery and thick beige carpet. A gold-trimmed ceiling fan rotated lazily overhead.

  We sat on separate couches across a glass-and-bamboo coffee table. There was no offer for something to drink this visit.

  “So, what was so urgent, Mr. Garrity?” she said evenly.

  “I’d like to speak to TJ, please.”

  “I told you before, he’s not here.”

  “With all due respect, Mrs. Sommerset, cut the crap.”

  “Perhaps you should leave.”

  “Perhaps you should start telling me the truth. Is TJ here?”

  “No.”

  “Was he here during my last visit?”

  “No.”

  “Who helped you put me on the couch after my seizure?”

  “What? No one.”

  “Look,” I said, holding out both hands, a plaintive gesture. “My agenda has evolved somewhat. Yeah, I’m still looking for him, but the reasons are a little different.”

  “Oh?”

  “The truth is, I’m concerned about your son’s safety.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “I believe that TJ may be considering harming himself.”

  Her brow creased. “What? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Are you aware that TJ recently sent a series of cards to the other members of the band, offering farewell and inspirational messages?”

  “So? If you knew TJ, that wouldn’t surprise you.”

  I sighed. I was about to cross some invisible line of privacy and wondered if I was doing the right thing. I determined that I was—that I needed to in order to reach TJ in time.

  “Your son was in a relationship with someone. Someone important to him. Eli didn’t approve of the relationship and interfered, ruining it. Immediately after the breakup, TJ disappeared. And TJ also just sent this other person a special letter, a letter that looks way too much like a suicide note for me not to be concerned.” I leaned forward slightly. “So I ask you again: Where is TJ?”

  Arlene was silent for a moment, her eyes drifting down, searching inward. Finally, she spoke.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know if I should—”

  “Who?”

  “Arlene, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I find TJ and make sure he’s okay.”

  She closed her eyes and clenched both hands. “Tell me,” she said in a desperate whisper.

  My head dropped and I exhaled slowly. “Miguel.”

  She absorbed that and nodded to herself. Then she opened her eyes and looked directly at me, her lips a taut line.

  “Is TJ here?” I said, trying to be gentle.

  “No,” she said in a weary voice, and for the first time I believed her.

  “Has TJ been here recently?”

  Arlene swallowed with difficulty. “Yes.” She winced, as if revealing this caused her physical pain. I felt sorry for her.

  “You lied to me.”

  “I’m his mother.”

  I nodded. That seemed to be explanation enough.

  “Where is TJ now?”

  Before she could answer, the telephone blared loudly. Arlene hesitated, looking up at the ceiling, letting it ring twice before rising from the couch. She stepped into the hallway adjacent to the kitchen and answered it. She listened for a moment, thanked the caller, and hung up. She came back to the foyer and gazed into the family room at me. The blood had drained from her face. She looked nauseous.

  “That was the guard gate,” she said. “An Orlando police cruiser is on its way to my house.”

  The cylinders in my brain instantly started firing. This neighborhood was the jurisdiction of the Orange County Sheriff’s Office, not the Metro Orlando Police Department. There were a couple of likely reasons why OPD was on its way. First, TJ was dead or injured and OPD had found him. They were on their way to notify the next of kin. Based on her countenance, this was what Arlene feared. Second, the cops had made the connection between the smashed Mazda on I-Drive and the Sommersets of Isleworth. They were coming by to ask a few pointed questions about the snooping kid. Third—

  Hell, I didn’t have time to worry about a third reason. My truck, the truck surely ID’d by witnesses, was sitting in plain sight in the drive
way. I had to haul ass or hide. I leapt from the couch.

  “Arlene, listen to me,” I said. “There’s a chance that these cops are investigating an incident that I was involved in earlier today. I didn’t break the law or hurt anyone, but it’s important that they don’t know I’m here. If they find me, my search for TJ will be over. Do you understand?” She stared at me, confused. I gripped her arm. “Do you understand?” Finally, she managed a frightened nod.

  I raced through the kitchen and tore open the door to the spacious, three-car garage. The temperature in the garage was like a sauna. I found the controls for the electric door opener and punched the button. The garage door whirred up and I ducked under it.

  A few seconds later I pulled the truck into the garage next to Arlene’s silver Jaguar sedan and pressed the controller to shut the door again. I felt my heart thudding in my chest, the adrenaline starting to surge, the heat popping beads of sweat across my forehead and neck.

  My feet still in the garage, I waited with the kitchen door ajar, listening, inhaling the cool air-conditioning from within the house. There was a faint click behind me as the automated garage light shut off. I presumed that Arlene was still standing in the foyer, her guts tight with anxiety, waiting for the police to arrive with what might be the worst possible news about her only child. I thought about Jennifer and tried to put myself in her place.

  I heard two car doors thump in the driveway, followed by the musical doorbell chime. Quietly, I closed the kitchen door and slipped back into the cab of my truck. If the cops got nosy and decided to poke around, outside the main house might be the best place for me to lie low. There, in the sweltering, darkened garage, I closed my eyes and waited.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later I heard the car doors thump again in the driveway and the police cruiser pulled away. The kitchen door squeaked open and light spilled into the garage.

  “Dear God,” Arlene said. “It’s an oven in here. Of all the places to hide. Come inside.”