by Stanley Gray
Chapter 12
He was on the news again.
Tom woke up, his eyes heavy and his mouth dry. No woodpecker sat outside the window, talking malicious pleasure in prying him from his sleep. Looking around, he realized he was in Delilah Sampson’s bed. A nice, large bed, at that. Stretching his legs, he felt the soft sheets slide across his skin. Turning, his eyes caught sight of something red reflecting on the polished brown surface of the bedside table. Realizing it came from the nearby clock, he checked it. He blinked. It was 3 in the afternoon.
He hadn’t slept until 3 since… Tom couldn’t recall a time when he had done something like that. In college, he had slept in several times, but never until it was almost supper time. Smirking, he admitted to himself that he kind of liked it. Except for the fact that it meant he was no longer employed. That part scared him.
Sitting up, readjusting the multitude of pillows behind him, he looked towards the large thin television bolted to the wall. Scrabbling for a remote, he found it underneath the soft cream-colored cotton comforter. Turning it on, he was treated to a picture of his face. He looked down after blindly pushing a few buttons and found the volume controls. He turned it up and listened, his heart racing.
“…and police are still on the lookout for Thomas Martinez, 43, who is believed to be the suspect behind last night’s tragic shooting at the Mayew Gallery here in El Paso. Martinez, a former reporter for the El Paso Gazette, did not report to his employer today, and has not been sighted at his rented home on Elm Street. Local authorities ask that any residents who may have information that could lead them to Martinez call them at the number located at the bottom of the screen. They also ask that Martinez turn himself in. What we are left with are far more questions than answers, Martha.” the woman reporter said.
Tom located the pause button. He stared at the television screen. He got out of bed, his feet hitting the cold wood-paneled floor, and walked closer. He craned his neck and stared. The woman reporter literally seemed to be standing right in front of his home. Former home, that is. He pondered this, swaying back and forth there at the end of the capacious bed. For them to have located the residence meant something. Sure, El Paso wasn’t a huge market, and even a cursory examination by a relative newcomer to the area, such as Tom was, would probably suggest that the art gallery shooting was one of the biggest things to happen in the area for some time. Yet, even with these facts, he wondered.
Journalists almost were, by their very nature, lazy. That didn’t make them bad. It just made them err towards indolence. You generally made lots of phone calls and relied on your audience in the business, all in the hope someone else would essentially do your job for you. Even Tom had to admit he’d done that for much of his career. No one had the time or money to send everyone everywhere to cover everything, especially in the modern era. If a shooting happened, people would probably post videos in real-time. The only real job for many journalists was to get access to the best videos, and allow the people who captured the images to tell their stories.
For them to find him, Tom Martinez, in El Paso would have taken some work. He’d just barely signed his rental agreement. The house was not part of some property management company with a large online database. He’d never registered the address with the Gazette or anyone, that he could think of. He didn’t even have a Texas license yet.
He felt a draft. Looking down, Tom realized he was naked. He blushed. Glancing around the room, he said a silent thank you, glad no one was around to see him. Swaying there in front of the television. Walking back to the bed, he checked around, trying to find his clothing. He couldn’t find it. He grunted. Bending down, he looked under the bed. Picking up the covers, he tried there, too. Nothing. Turning around in a complete circle, Tom tried to arouse his senses into action.
It didn’t work.
Tossing the thin black remote onto the disheveled bed, he threw his arms up. He marched towards the door, ready to walk through the unfamiliar house naked, but then stopped when something caught his eye. Swiveling, he saw that the closet. The doors blended with the white walls. Reaching out, he twisted the small knob and opened the one closest to him. Tom smiled. He stood, gazing into a large closet, mostly filled with boxes and women’s clothing. Shoes dominated an entire wall. There in the center, however, sat a luxurious ivory-colored recliner. Draped over the chair were his clothes.
Tom dressed himself. The clothing had not been laundered, and still smelled vaguely of sweat and fear. Yet, there it was, neatly folded and arranged. He turned around again, luxuriating in the commodious space. It even smelled nice. Vaguely reminiscent of… sandalwood? Pine? He inspected things for a moment, trying to locate the source of the aroma. Maybe there was a hidden nebulizer.
Understanding that he barely knew the woman he’d slept with, quite literally, the night before, Tom felt…excited. He wanted to learn more. To unlock her secrets. There was definitely something worth exploring in this strange enigma. A former Air Force brat who was a bartender, who possessed a nice house with a rather large closet full of clothing and accessories that seemed to be… for the more discriminating tastes.
Walking out into the hallway, he heard the television downstairs. He looked over the reddish railing and saw Mike. “Hey, buddy.” he said.
Mike looked up and waved. “Dude, you’re all over the t.v.” he said.
“I saw that. Unfortunately. Where’s Delilah?” he asked.
“She said she was going to work. Said it would look suspicious if she didn’t. She mentioned something about the cameras or something. I don’t know. This is a really nice place, and she said I could chill out and eat her food. Why would I complain? I mean, I’m going to jail if they find me here, anyway, so I’m just hoping they don’t find me.” he said.
Tom stared for a moment, then laughed. “Seems reasonable.” he said. He chuckled. “Did she mention what time she might be back?” he asked.
“No.” Mike stuffed some chips from a nearby bag in his mouth. He dropped crumbs on his shirt in the process. “But, if I were you, dude, I’d be cutting my hair, dying that shit, doing whatever you can to change your appearance. I’m fairly certain she’s going to want to get out of town.” he said.
“And…you’re just going to go with us?” Tom asked. It was the only thing he could think to say. The whole thing, it all seemed foreign to him. How does one just uproot themselves in an instant? The woman practically had a room full of clothing. He’d just witnessed it. Was she just going to leave it all behind?
Surprising Tom, Mike just casually shrugged. “Whatever. I don’t care. I’m just around for the adventure. You think I get to sit around watching cable and eating chips all day as an artist? I don’t even have fucking cable at home.” He pointed at the television. “I’m watching a documentary on Cher. I can even skip the commercials.” he said.
Tom gripped the balustrade and stared. Then he did the only thing he could think of. He laughed.
Returning to the bedroom, he collapsed onto the bed. He had to admit, it was an indulgence. The material seemed to carry him on a cloud into a state of Nirvana. It felt… awesome. The superlatives probably couldn’t come quick enough. A cold realization struck him with the swift rapidity of a hawk’s lethal dive: he would have to leave this bed behind. Probably soon. Groaning, he sat up. He began flipping idly through the channels, trying to find something to distract himself with. Delilah called the shots. Tom experienced a complete level of satisfaction with that. He’d let her for as long as she wanted.
Finding nothing, Tom resolved to walk around the house. He didn’t want to venture outside, given the reality that cameras might be lurking. Even a pedestrian with a cellphone could pose a threat, these days. Better than safe than sorry. Wasn’t that how the old saying went? Climbing out of bed, his body aching for some vague reason, he traipsed through the large home. It didn’t look so big from the outside- relatively unassuming. Yet, here, in the seemingly labyrinthine interior, it felt as if it stret
ched into eternity.
Tom couldn’t help but wonder as he meandered how she’d afforded this. She must have had a rich uncle, won the lottery…maybe won some strange lawsuit. He could maybe see her having created some start-up that she later sold for a gazillion bucks, retaining 2 percent, so that when the company finally went public, she would get a few gazillion more.
The kitchen deserved a new respect. He hadn’t been able to contemplate it’s true genius while gawking at the awesome rack of his seemingly rich paramour. Stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, you name it. The island in the middle seemed a bit constraining, but, other than that, Tom could find no real complaints. And he was looking. Ever the anti-establishment investigator, he was now on a mission. The need seemed to drive him forward, to impel him. What could he discover?
A small-ish laundry room decorated with old tiles confronted him. It seemed… too open, with its dinginess. Tom disregarded that. The garage appeared studiously maintained, if somewhat neglected. Save a clear imprint where her car regularly parked, the cement had a liberal coat of white dust. A pegboard held tools of various sorts, and a relatively clean red toolbox sat nearby.
Returning to the living room, he looked up. The stairs even wound a curving path upstairs, damn Delilah’s soul. “Do you think she did this? The interior design and everything?” Tom asked.
Mike just looked up and blinked. “I don’t fucking know. I’m watching Ellen!” he said.
Tom resisted the urge to laugh. He walked back upstairs, lost in his own sea of thoughts.
He heard a noise. Reacting instantly, he rushed downstairs, heart doing a Texas two-step on his rib cage. The garage door. The sound of it rippled through the residence. Even Mike sat up, tense but smiling. The sat, huddled, in the middle of the living room, easy prey for anyone other than Delilah, watching the door leading to the garage like expectant puppies awaiting their master’s return. Tom almost laughed at himself as he caught himself thinking that he wanted to get to her first.
A fleeting desire to kiss her ripped through his brain, streaking from one side to another, attracting attention with its offensive nudity and brazen disobedience to the rules. He walked briskly towards the beige door, eyes wide and alert, his heart fluttering. His fingers tingled with anticipation. His throat felt as if there were a lump there, inhibiting his ability to breathe. Tom experienced desire in the core of his being. Not a sexual desire, but something… deeper, more profound in its layers of nuance and meaning.
She walked in the door. She stopped. Delilah looked at them, eyes going wide, and then broke into a hearty burst of laughter. She brushed past Tom, her scent fraught with hints of her dirty job. Sweat mixed with beer, soda pop, and bleach. “Hi.” she said. She marched into the kitchen, where she reached up on her tip-toes and opened one of the blonde wooden cabinets. Plucking out a plastic bag of pretzels, she turned, leaning against the gray countertop and popping a few of the small brown twisted into her mouth. “How was everything?” she asked.
Tom appraised her. He tried to do so without appearing lewd, though a few lust-driven thoughts trespassed on his mind’s lawn as he allowed his eyes to drift over her body. She wore a black pantsuit with a small bow tie. The outfit clung to her flesh as if it were a cybernetic suit molded to her skin. Her hips threatened to escape their prison, pressing against the thin ebony fabric. He turned and looked towards Mike, trying to get the desire that bullied him to flee.
“What?!” Mike asked.
Tom chuckled. “Mike here got to watch Ellen.” Tom said.
Delilah nodded. “Anything on the news?” she asked. She continued her snacking, crumbs dropping down onto her shirt. She smiled at Tom. She noticed him noticing.
“Yeah.” Tom said. He hated to think about that. But it was something that needed to be addressed.
She smacked her lips, shifted her weight, and opened her eyes wide, staring at him. After a moment, she waved, making a flourish with her hand. “Well?” she asked, raising her voice an octave.
“Homeboy is going to be on America’s Most Wanted.” Mike chimed in.
Tom looked down and swatted at the back of the man’s head.
“Hey! I was just telling the truth.” Mike said.
Tom couldn’t help it. He chuckled. He liked the guy. He perched, half-sitting on the edge of the couch. He ignored Mike’s protest and let the painter switch positions. “I don’t know everything, because… well, I slept in. For, like, the first time ever. And, I didn’t really watch much of anything. Anyway, they found my rental, over on Elm.” Tom said. He paused, frowning and looking down at his feet. “I honestly was a bit surprised by that. Seems a bit fast, even for a town of this size, a market like this. You know?” He nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t expect that for at least a few days.” he said.
Delilah went to the fridge. She retrieved some milk. She drank straight from the jug. Wiped her mouth and put the plastic container back in. “Yeah?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Tom said. Words abandoned him. He sat there and stared. His mind seemed bereft of wisdom or wit. He just felt… drained. “I can still…” He let the sentence trail off, partly because he didn’t want to speak the obvious into existence.
“You can still what? Turn yourself in?” she said.
Tom could only nod in response.
“You’re not turning yourself in.” she said.
“It won’t be long before they find out…about you. About Mike. They’ll tie you two to me soon enough. What are you guys going to do?” Tom asked. His chest felt tight. He sensed the tears threatening to spill out.
Delilah entered the living room. She sat down in the recliner, leaning forward so she was close to him. “Sit down.” She said, sotto voce.
Tom moved, taking the square cushion vacated by the painter. He looked at her earnestly, remaining silent.
“I have plenty of money. Okay? I don’t really want to leave this place, but I can and will. I’m actually thinking we’ll leave Friday, if circumstances allow it. Do you think we have that long?”
Tom glanced towards the ceiling. He placed his index finger on his chin. What was today? Monday? He nodded to himself. “It’s Monday.” he said.
“Good job, genius.” Delilah said.
Tom smiled, blushed. “Do you want the truth?” he asked.
“You don’t think we can wait until Friday?” she asked.
Tom shook his head. “No, I don’t. I mean, maybe. There’s no real way to tell, honestly. But, my gut tells me no. My gut hasn’t been wrong about much, lately. But, it is just my instincts, my intuition. Could just be emotions, you know?” he said. He frowned.
“Well, I need you to be a fucking man and make a god damned decision, okay? Because if I call in, when I’ve never once called off of work in…what? Two years? If I call in all of a sudden, it probably will look suspicious. I don’t really know if anyone is looking at the bar or asking questions yet, but they will. I bet soon. Cops were everywhere today. I mean, the gallery is shut down. I didn’t think they’d even want me, but I am so fucking thankful I set my alarms.” she said. She rolled her eyes. “Gus damn texted me at 4 in the morning. All I did was serve liquor to cops. Cops who were on the fucking clock, in uniform.” she laughed. “Gus made sure to let me know I needed to pour the stuff into coffee cups, in case any reporters showed up.” she said.
“Gus is your boss?” Tom asked. He felt ashamed, but a hot tinge of jealousy shot through him. He wondered what was wrong with himself.
She glanced at him. “Yeah. So?” she asked.
Tom began to shake. He didn’t want to make a decision. He wanted to stay here, forever, luxuriating in the balmy goodness of her presence. “Ummm…I, well, yeah. Okay. Let’s leave Friday.” he said.
“I think we should ahead and leave tomorrow.” Mike said.
“Mike’s probably right.” Delilah said.
“Where would we go? We probably can’t take a plane.” Tom said.
“Border is literally ten minu
tes away.” Delilah said, the corners of her mouth upturned, a light dancing in her eyes.
“Well, I mean, they’re probably watching it pretty closely.” Tom said.
She laughed. “I used to work border patrol.” She turned serious. “They care about what’s coming in. Not so much what’s leaving. But, we’re in the middle of the fucking desert. We put some hiking clothes on, pretend we’re out for a long-ass fucking walk, in case we happen to get caught. Then we just cross. No one said we have to go through the proper channels here. I mean, we are fugitives.” she said.
“Is Mexico really a good place for us to hide? A gay painter, a white dude, and a black woman, none of whom speak Spanish?” he asked.
“Who said I don’t speak Spanish? I’ve been living in Santa Teresa and El Paso for… a while. One does not just live in El Paso and not know Spanish.” she said.
“So, how did you get all this money?” Tom inquired.
Chapter 13
She surprised him.
It wasn’t exactly a bombshell revelation, but to say that what she divulged was expected would be a bold-faced lie.
“My dad is an investor.” she said.
“Hold on. Hold on.” Mike said, scooching closer to Tom. He began panting.
Tom swatted at the man. He could feel the warmth of his stale breath and smell the faint hues of burgeoning body odor as it emanated from the artist’s pores. He smiled at Mike’s enthusiasm, though. It felt infectious. He, too, wanted to know more. The term investor seemed incredibly vague.
“What does that even mean?” Tom asked, giddy inquisitiveness gleaming in his eyes as he sat forward, eyes fixed on her, eyebrow raised.
“Well, an investor takes money, and invests it with the expectation of earning more money.” she said. She bounced one leg and avoided direct eye contact, as if the subject made her nervous. They all retreated into their own corners of thoughtful silence for several moments.
“Does it make you nervous? Embarrassed? To think that people might think you didn’t earn your way through life?” Tom asked, making sure to keep his voice low, even. It wasn’t an accusation. Not at all. But, there was something… inherently vulnerable about her, in this unique moment in time, and Tom felt even more attracted to her. In truth, he could relate to fighting so terribly hard to step out of someone else’s shadow.
