“You don’t want to hear any more of my songs.”
“Yeah. I think I do.”
TJ pondered this for a moment. “Okay,” he finally said, and placed the guitar on his knee. “This is what I’m working on now. It’s not done, so it’s still pretty rough. Anyway…”
He dragged his hand across the strings and closed his eyes. His fingers were long, delicate, and danced across the frets. The music they produced was arresting in its simplicity. The song was melancholy without being maudlin, about a lost love reflected on from the distance of many years. He didn’t have all the lyrics yet, but a sentimental chorus repeated several times.
When he was done, he held the final note for a beat, his eyes still closed, a twenty-two-year-old lost in a world of middle-aged regrets. Finally he emerged by blinking himself back to the hotel room.
“That’s great.”
“I’m still working on it.” He placed the guitar back in the case.
“It reminds me of Paul Simon. Something like … ‘Old Friends’ or ‘Still Crazy After All These Years.’ You know ’em?”
“Yeah. Thanks. I love those songs.”
“I can see why you and Eli might have creative differences.”
TJ snorted. “Not so great for synchronized dance moves, huh?”
I offered him a weak smile. “So what are you gonna do?”
“What do you mean? About the band?”
“Yeah.”
He shrugged. “I can’t go back. Eli. Miguel. There’s just too much baggage, y’know?”
I nodded. “But what about the tour?”
“What about it? That’s why you started looking for me, right? Eli wanted me on the tour.” He shook his head. “Baggage, man.”
“I don’t give a shit about Eli anymore, or his money. I just want Jennifer back. I’m askin’ about you and the tour. About the commitment you made.”
“Commitment? What commitment? Eli’s probably already found a replacement. I think there’s an automatic penalty in my contract with Global. So, Eli will take his money, but I don’t owe him any more than that. The price of my freedom, man.”
“Not Eli. I mean a commitment to your fans. To Jennifer. Do you have any idea how hard she’ll take it if you quit?”
“I—I can’t stay in that band. I can’t live that lie anymore—not with who I am and not with my music.”
“I am talking about who you are. You said it in your note to Miguel, and I saw it with my own eyes downstairs. You’re a musician. An artist. Whether it’s in a boy band or at a gazebo in front of five strangers, you need to perform. I saw it in your eyes. You have a gift. And a passion.” I sighed. “I lost that passion a long time ago. When you have that … I dunno … I think you—you need to hold on to it for as long as you can. Because it fades. And when it’s gone … it’s just very hard to get back.”
TJ eyed me, unsure. “Are we talking about you or me?”
I rubbed my face. I was suddenly very tired. “Look, you do what you want. All I care about is my daughter. But, it seems to me that there’s plenty of reason to go back, at least for one last hurrah. Think about Miguel. He needs you back, as a bandmate if nothing else. You have a lot of fans out there, including my daughter, who would be crushed if you just vanished. Their support made you rich enough to walk away. Don’t you at least owe them a good-bye? But, most importantly, you’re a performer. You need to be onstage. Don’t douse that passion. It’s the essence of who you are. If you disappeared, I think you’d dry up. Half the Boyz Klub songs are yours anyway. If it were me, I’d ride the wave a little while longer, maybe a farewell tour or something, and lay the groundwork for the next chapter in my career.”
“I don’t know…” Then he muttered to himself, “Alanis Morissette started out on Nickelodeon…” TJ fell silent and I let the silence hang between us. “You want that bed tonight?” he finally asked, nodding at the bed I was resting on.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I’ll take this one. I’ll call down to the desk and have them send up a toothbrush and razor for you.”
“Thanks.”
“So, you ever share a room with a fag before?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Aren’t you worried I’m going to make a pass at you?”
“Should I be?”
“You’re not exactly my type.”
“Then we should be fine.” If Miguel was his type, then I could almost be described as the polar opposite.
We readied ourselves for bed, taking turns at the sink. When a bellman delivered the toothbrush and razor, he also delivered my antiseizure meds and a bag containing clean underwear and a T-shirt. There were also a couple more blister packs of Zuraxx. Good old Camilla. I could only imagine the chuckle the front-desk clerk was now having.
TJ and I hit our respective beds, killed the lights, and lay in the dark stillness of the room for a minute.
“Hey, Mike?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s your plan for tomorrow?”
It was a good question and the exact subject I was pondering when he asked it. My plan was simple but risky. And it was still evolving. But TJ was a major part of it. And he asked.
So I told him.
CHAPTER 34
Bob woke me early, a little after six, with an ache like a car parked on my head. I pulled myself up and felt along the bed to find my way to the bathroom sink. The room was still dark with the heavy vinyl curtains pulled.
The sink was open to the rest of the room, adjacent to the tiny space that housed the toilet and shower. As I came around my bed, I saw a sliver of light from under the bathroom door. TJ was in there.
I flipped on a light and leaned on my elbows over the sink, fighting the rising nausea in my throat. I splashed a palmful of cold water on my face and took a few deep breaths. I popped two Zuraxx from their blister packs and swallowed them with another cupped hand of water.
The bathroom door opened and TJ emerged amid a puff of steam. He was wearing only a towel and his face was once again clean-shaven. His long hair was brushed back, making it appear short again. He looked very much like the album-cover TJ. A shirtless album-cover TJ.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I croaked.
“Headache?”
I grunted.
“My dad got those. Near the end.” Then he realized what he’d just said and quickly added, “Sorry.”
I gave him a wince and a shrug meant to say Whatever, but I’m not sure he got it.
I shuffled into the bathroom to take a leak, which made my bladder feel better but did nothing for my headache. When I came out, TJ was dressed.
“You up for breakfast?” he asked.
“Maybe coffee.”
“If you want to take a shower, I’ll make a pot.” He headed for the complimentary hotel coffee.
I nodded and grabbed a clean towel. The shower did make me feel better, but I soon realized that my headache was almost as much a result of my punched-up face as it was Bob. When I stepped out, still wearing yesterday’s pants and socks, but with clean shorts and a fresh T-shirt, I did feel much improved.
As I brushed my teeth, I surveyed my reflection in the mirror. Damn. My face looked worse than it did yesterday. My eye was swollen and purple. My elbow ached where I’d fallen on it during the chase last night. My split lip throbbed.
But the Zuraxx were kicking in and the coffee was hot, and by the time TJ and I finished watching Matt Lauer interview some self-help author, I was finally ready for that breakfast.
We returned to the IHOP, where I had a more sensible breakfast of fruit and yogurt. I also decided now was the time to take the latest dose of my antiseizure meds. Just as we signed the check, which we split, my cell phone rang. TJ and I exchanged a look before I answered it.
“Hello?”
“Mike? It’s me. Arlene. I have the money.”
* * *
I grabbed a few things out of my truck and we took TJ�
�s car. If Alomar and his goons were on the prowl, they were probably looking for my truck, which had spent the night in front of the 7-Eleven and was now safely hidden in the private Rainbow Arms lot. They wouldn’t expect me to be tooling around town in a canary yellow Jetta. Although it might keep them off our tail, as inconspicuous transportation, it left a bit to be desired.
We drove to the Florida Mall, where we parked and strolled casually into a JCPenney department store. As arranged, we met Arlene in the linens.
Without a word she walked up to TJ and clutched him in a relieved embrace. Her cool façade cracked and I glimpsed the fear and worry that had obviously been bubbling inside her. TJ responded in kind, visibly relaxing, returning the embrace. They held each other for a long moment before separating.
Arlene swallowed and wiped her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” TJ said.
She patted his face to reassure herself. Satisfied, she turned to me. “What about you?”
“Good.” An optimistic assessment and she knew it.
She nodded and put a hand on the large tote bag slung over her shoulder. “So, what do I do? Just hand it to you?”
“Yeah.” I took the bag.
“It’s all in there. One seventy-five.”
I nodded. “Any problems?”
“No.”
“Thanks. I’ll get this back to you. Somehow.”
Arlene waved me off. “We’ll talk about that later.” She looked between TJ and me. “What do you do now?”
“We wait,” I said.
* * *
We bid Arlene good-bye and she gave TJ another emotional hug. She clearly wasn’t comfortable with his agreement to be part of my plan, but she didn’t try to talk him out of it.
TJ and I found a Bentley’s luggage store, and I picked out a suitable briefcase for the drop. I made sure that the cash would fit inside and that it had the kind of pocket and easy catch latches that I needed.
“How much cash do you have?” I asked TJ as we exited the store.
“You mean in my pockets?”
“No. At the hotel. How much could you get within an hour if you needed it?”
“I’m not sure. A pretty good chunk. I’ve been using cash to pay for everything.”
“Could you get ten grand?”
“Yes.”
“We need to add that to the one seventy-five. It’s a gesture. An apology for the trouble.”
“So you’re really going to give them the money?”
“Hell yes. At the end of the day these guys are businessmen. They care about money over all else.”
We returned to the Rainbow Arms and loaded the briefcase, adding in another ten grand from TJ’s stash. Arlene had done well, getting her withdrawal in mostly large bills, fifties, hundreds, and a few twenties. TJ and I rehearsed the scene a few times—at least how I thought the scene might go. I instructed TJ where to stand depending upon where we made the delivery.
My guess was that it wasn’t going to be a dead drop, where I leave the money in a specific location for someone else to pick up. That would be a more traditional kidnapping scenario. These guys weren’t typical kidnappers. Plus, they wanted TJ. The only way they could get him was if I delivered him personally. They might even suspect that I would have to drag TJ in by force.
When Day-Glo’s call came, I assumed it would be instructions for me to personally bring the money and TJ somewhere, and that I would have face-to-face interaction with Alomar or his goons. Probably Alomar himself would be present because this was his mess and he would be encouraged to clean it up himself.
After rehearsing the possible scenarios a few more times, we ordered lunch from room service and watched TV. It was strange. After looking so hard for TJ with no success, I had found him within a few hours of receiving the twenty-four-hour deadline. Now that I had him and the money, there was nothing for me to do until my time ran out.
I wasn’t going to take any chances, so we agreed to stay in his room at the Rainbow. We watched cable news and Oprah. I took two more Zuraxx and another dose of antiseizure meds.
As the afternoon wore on, my anxiety ratcheted up. I couldn’t afford to make a mistake. Jennifer’s life literally depended on it. My mouth grew dry and I couldn’t sit still. To make matters worse, I felt a welling dizziness in my head, an intermittent and unwelcome side effect of my seizure pills.
I lay down on the bed, trying to stop the spinning gyroscope in my inner ear. Closing my eyes offered little solace.
“Mike?” asked TJ. “What’s wrong?”
Before I could answer, the trilling ring of my cell phone pierced the room.
I sat up and looked at TJ, then at the clock: 6:25. This was it. I found the phone. The caller ID read UNKNOWN. I took a deep breath and pressed ANSWER.
“Garrity here.”
“Mikey,” came Mr. Day-Glo’s filtered nasal voice through the receiver. “I do hope you’ve been busy.”
CHAPTER 35
“Where’s my daughter?” I demanded.
“You have my money?”
“My daughter.”
“My money.”
“I got it.”
“And the cousin?”
“Yeah.”
“No shit? You lyin’ to me, Mikey?”
“No lie.”
“We’ll see.” Day-Glo chuckled. “I gotta admit. I didn’t think you’d do it. All it took was some incentive, right?”
“Where’s my daughter?”
“First things first. Pay attention now, this is important. Bring the money and the cousin to the Palm Court Motor Lodge on 192. You know where that is?”
“No.”
“East of I-4. Next to a Perkins restaurant. Come to room 126. Knock five times. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“You got exactly forty-five minutes. One minute late and we’ll know you’re bullshittin’. No funny business, Mikey. You hear me? I got watchers all around. If I even think I smell a cop within a mile of here, it’s over for you and your girl.”
He abruptly hung up.
TJ stared at me, his eyes wide and expectant.
“Showtime,” I said. “Let’s go.”
* * *
I was still dizzy, so TJ drove. We took his Jetta because it would allow us to get closer without being marked. We drove quickly, but didn’t push the speed limit dangerously. We couldn’t afford to get pulled over.
Twenty-eight minutes later we pulled off I-4 and exited onto U.S. 192. We passed the ramp that led to Walt Disney World’s Magic Kingdom and entered an entirely different world, a land populated by motels, T-shirt shops, and fast-food restaurants. Tourist World.
“There,” I said, pointing. “The Perkins.”
“I see it.”
Directly behind the restaurant was the Palm Court, an independently owned motel whose street sign advertised its low rates as being even lower than those of the Econo Lodge across the street. Compare and save.
TJ pulled into the parking lot and I glanced around, searching for Mr. Day-Glo’s watchers. I didn’t see any, but I knew that didn’t mean anything. Any one of these parked cars could have been hiding a pair of eyes.
Room 126 was at the back of the property, opening up onto a thin strip of parking lot abutting a shallow drainage canal and a view of palmetto scrub. It was the most isolated part of the motel. A few cars were parked on the cracked asphalt of the lot, but there were more empty spaces than filled.
TJ parked in front of room 126 and cut the engine. Neither of us said anything for a moment.
“You ready?” I asked.
“I think so.”
We both got out. As we had discussed, I held the briefcase. TJ remained a step behind me and just off to one side. I paused, resting a hand on the hood of the Jetta.
“What’s wrong?” TJ asked.
“Dizzy. I’ll be okay.” It was almost seven o’clock in the evening but the summer sun still hung fat and hot in the sky. Sweat was beading on my fo
rehead and upper lip. I closed my eyes and took a breath, calming my nerves, forcing down the nausea. In all my years on the job, charging through doors, dicey moments during my undercover work on the previous Alomar operation, I had never been as nervous as I was now. My hands trembled. My heart pounded in my ribs. Never before did I have so much riding on my actions.
I took another deep breath and straightened. TJ followed me to the door. As instructed, I knocked five times. For one long, horrible moment, nothing happened. Then I saw the door’s peephole go dark.
The door opened to reveal my pal Slick from the Escalade, his face looking even worse than mine. His broken cheek was a deep, swollen purple, the massive bruise ringed with an angry red border. He didn’t look too happy to see me. The feeling was mutual. I braced myself for another fist to my chops. Instead, Slick took one step back and allowed me to move into the doorway. He frisked me roughly and thoroughly. He also pulled up my shirt to make sure I wasn’t wearing a wire.
“He’s clean,” Slick said, and allowed me to step to the side of the door. TJ took my place in the doorway and was subjected to the same search. “Okay,” Slick said, and gestured for us to enter.
It was a small, shabby room with a thin orange carpet and peeling wallpaper. A large, brown water stain decorated one corner of the ceiling. I smelled mildew and Lysol. Besides Slick, three others were in the room. Day-Glo stood in front of the television smirking at me, his unnaturally dark hair reflecting the room’s artificial yellow lamplight. Alomar stood between the two double beds, arms folded, hostility seeping from every pore in his body. A guy I recognized as the driver of the Escalade stood in the far corner near the bathroom.
“That him?” Alomar said, nodding his head at TJ. The question wasn’t meant for me. The guy in the corner held up a Tiger Beat magazine and studied it for a second. He looked back at TJ, then back at the magazine.
“Yeah,” the guy said. “That’s him.”
Alomar nodded and addressed TJ. “You think you’re real funny. Think you can play games with me, huh? I don’t care who you are. Nobody fucks with me.” TJ remained silent, following my instructions, but I saw the nervous movement of his eyes, the rapid breathing.
Head Games Page 26
