by Ray Backley
NEVER
BE
SAFE
NEVER BE SAFE
RAY BACKLEY
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2021 by Ray Backley
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
ISBN: 9798580902654
Contents:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
About the Author
By the Same Author
Chapter 1
San Quentin State Prison, near San Francisco, California.
Everybody entered San Quentin with a certain level of fear, whether they admitted it or not. Many left to return to the free world with just as much fear.
Vinnie Lemont wasn’t one of those people.
He’d heard people talk – in those candid moments that were so rare in prison – about being nervous of how the world had changed while they’d been sitting and rotting; or how they had changed while inside and weren’t sure how their loved ones might get along with their new personality; or how they would simply miss fellow prisoners – people who they previously wouldn’t have chosen to associate with but had now become close friends; or even how they knew they wouldn’t be able to cope with unfamiliar freedoms, because with freedom would come choice, and with choice would come responsibility, and they would now have to decide for themselves when to get up, when to go to bed, when to eat, what to eat, where to go, who to talk to, when to exercise, and a hundred other much more important things.
But today Vinnie was bidding farewell and good riddance to his home of thirteen years and to everyone in it. Yes, he might have had some minor fears, but for now they were firmly pushed to the back of his mind because he had plans. There was business to attend to. And that was thanks to the elderly lifer who had sidled up to him as he was strolling alone around the exercise yard four months before.
The guy was like a thin weasel without the hair, and started speaking in an annoying whiny voice that didn’t exactly go against the weasel theme. At first Vinnie had given him a mouthful of prime San Quentin abuse. But the old man persevered; there was obviously something in it for him: perhaps protection on the inside, perhaps some cash for his family on the outside. The guy was just the go-between, and whatever he eventually received, it was effectively commission on the five hundred bucks Vinnie subsequently had to lay out for the full information.
Vinnie didn’t yet have the results of that payment, but that would change, and hopefully very soon. For now, he just wanted to get as far away from San Quentin as possible, relax for a few hours, revel in the quiet, and enjoy the absence of people dictating what he had to do and what he couldn’t do.
He’d calmly sat through the “behave yourself from now on” talk, had been returned his broken watch and his wallet with no bills and four well-out-of-date credit cards, and was now experiencing the full adrenaline rush of walking on the free side of that seemingly endless series of security gates, his eyes slitting to avoid the glare of the early morning California sun.
The overfed figure of Johnny was leaning on a yellow pickup truck, jabbing a finger at his cell phone, but glanced up as the final gate clattered shut behind Vinnie. The front end of the pickup visibly bounced up with relief as Johnny’s substantial ass lifted away, and seconds later the two old buddies were fist bumping and bear hugging halfway between the gate and the pickup.
“They done it,” Johnny said, nodding and flashing his broad grin. “Guys finally let you loose on the world.”
“Oh, I told them I’d had enough. Didn’t like the cuisine. No cable TV. Very poor selection of beers. Said I’d be a good boy from now on, so they just let me roll on out.”
Johnny thumbed toward the pickup. “C’mon, let’s get you away from this place.”
Vinnie didn’t so much as glance back as he got inside the pickup and let Johnny drive away.
“You got my stuff?” Vinnie said even before Johnny had left the parking lot.
Johnny said, “Sure,” but didn’t elaborate.
Vinnie waited until they were a hundred yards away, then said, “So?”
“Don’t worry, man. Your money’s safe.”
That went without saying. Vinnie trusted Johnny. They’d become firm buddies during the last year at high school. Johnny used to come over to Vinnie’s place – to Vinnie’s parents’ modest bungalow – and take advantage of the backyard shooting range he’d constructed. Vinnie’s mom didn’t much care for the hobby; his dad joined in. The two buddies continued to hang out together after leaving school, eventually joining the same gang, and when the shit went down many years later, they were tried within days of each other and incarcerated together.
When Johnny left San Quentin after serving eight years, he would come visit Vinnie most weeks despite the tedious three-hour drive up from Fresno. But that wasn’t the only reason Vinnie trusted Johnny.
After two years of those prison visits, Vinnie noticed a subtle change in the man he’d known for almost twenty years. It started out with him asking to be called Jonathan rather than Johnny, saying he wanted to become a different person – a much better human being. Vinnie just ignored that; to him the man had always been Johnny and always would be Johnny. But then there would come casually scattered comments about meeting up with friends who just happened to be churchgoers, which gradually turned into regular verbal essays on where they were all going in life and what the point of it all was. It ended up with the guy coming out as a fully-fledged member of the God squad. Vinnie didn’t mind; it lent an extra uplift to Johnny’s already trustworthy quality.
More importantly, it made him easier to weigh up, made his actions more predictable.
It also made him accept roasting in good spirit.
“You got it all?” Vinnie asked a mile later. “You were never tempted to, uh . . . dip?”
Johnny laughed and shook his head, his wide neck lagging half a second. “Every last cent is there, my man. Well, minus the five hundred bucks you asked me to give that guy who came visiting a while back.”
“Of course. And don’t you go thinking I’m not grateful for the help you’ve given me.”
Vinnie kept his dirty smile to himself at the thought of what he’d gotten for his cash. He hadn’t told Johnny what it was for, and Johnny hadn’t asked. You got that with Jesus lovers. That was good. Because if he had told Johnn
y of his intentions, it was odds on that the religious nut that had taken up residence inside the guy’s head would have piped up and made him try to talk Vinnie out of it.
So Vinnie kept his thoughts to himself, and just let his mind float back to that day three months ago when skinny old weasel-features had started it all, when he’d approached Vinnie in the exercise yard.
“Got something you might want,” the guy had said, looking the other way and casually twisting a pinkie around in his ear as he walked alongside Vinnie.
Vinnie immediately gave his stock response: “You got nothing I want, shit face.”
“Oh, I beg to differ, Mr. Lemont.”
Vinnie fought the urge to shoot the guy a glance. So he knew his name. Big deal. “Hey, just go beg to differ up your ass,” he replied.
But the guy showed no signs of giving up. The son of a bitch even edged closer. “You need to hear me out, my friend. I got information.”
And that had been the start of it. It hadn’t finished yet, though. Vinnie had paid his money using Johnny as the mule, but hadn’t yet received the information he’d been promised. That had been part of the deal, and, as weasel-features had pointed out, he wouldn’t need the information until he got out anyhow.
Now he was out, and being driven back to Fresno. He could access the information, could use it, could move forward in life. He needed just two things.
“What about the cell phone I asked you to get?” he said to Johnny.
That was the first thing he needed.
“Oh, yeah. I forgot.” Johnny fumbled in his coat pocket and handed over the cell phone. “Should be what you asked for, not a top-line model, just does the job. And it’s fully charged.”
Vinnie switched the phone on and tried to stop every muscle in his body twitching with anticipation. “Awesome. Thanks, buddy.” He messaged the number he’d been given by weasel-features after the cash had been paid, and waited, phone in hand.
“Got you a vehicle too,” Johnny said.
That was the second thing Vinnie needed.
“Cool. What is it?”
“Cheap is what it is. Old Toyota sedan in a lovely dirty white.”
“Dirty white. Best color.”
“What I thought. With some long scratches down each side to add some character.”
“Awesome.”
Soon they were on the freeway, headed due east away from San Francisco Bay. Vinnie settled back and admired the view.
To his left was a pretty featureless grassy bank. To his right was a grassy bank dotted with a few ugly trees. Ahead was a long and flat black highway. Vinnie knew most people wouldn’t appreciate it, but it was big and endless and free. And it was beautiful. There was so much sky he felt like reaching up and bathing in it. Hell, even sniffing the pollution through San Francisco had been a turn-on after smelling nothing but body odor, disinfectant, and excrement for thirteen years.
“You thought about what you’re gonna do?” Johnny asked.
Vinnie sighed inside. Time for a lie. “Not really.”
“But have you thought about what I said?”
“You mean, the church?”
“I mean about gettin’ your shit together, finding a better way to live your life. Of course, if it so happens that God fits in with your new life, then . . .”
“Mmm . . . not really my thing, Johnny. But thanks.”
That was another cool thing about getting out of prison: no longer would he have to sit through Johnny spouting on about Jesus and God’s love and the spiritual benefits of taking the righteous path. From now on, Johnny would not be his only visitor. Unfortunately, there was a journey to Fresno with him to complete first. And that meant listening to quite a bit more of Johnny’s crap.
“You could just try it. Wouldn’t do any harm. They’re a nice bunch of people. You might like them.”
“Johnny, I got a lot of respect for God, but he hasn’t exactly done me any favors over the years.”
“No proof God’s a male.”
Vinnie’s shiny new cell phone bleeped and his mind flew in a completely different direction. It was a return text message, and yes, it was an address and details of who lived there. And he could trust it. Weasel-features had given him too many details – details Vinnie knew to be true – for it to be some sort of scam. The runt had even explained the source of the information.
The nerves and itchiness that had been bothering him now drifted away, and he felt more relaxed than he’d been in a long, long time. Yes, he had work to do, but for now he could talk. That was when Johnny’s last remark registered with him. He frowned and threw his face left. “What did you just say?”
“I said there’s no proof God is male. You said ‘he.’ Plenty of people at my church believe God has no gender.”
It wouldn’t have been right for Vinnie to roll his eyes at Johnny and tell him not to be such a goddam pussy. He’d been a good buddy. Far better to change the subject.
“You taking me for a beer when we reach Fresno?”
“Oh, sure. We could stop off at a bar and have one.”
One? Vinnie did his best to hide his grimace of disgust. If Johnny had his way it would probably be only one beer, but with sermons before and after. His old buddy had turned into a bigger pussy than he ever could have imagined. To avoid any more conversation, Vinnie said he was dog-tired, closed his eyes, and pretended to fall asleep.
Vinnie knew exactly where his own road to happiness and fulfillment was going to begin, and it had nothing to do with the baby Jesus or the good Lord. No, his future was just a long drive away. He would stay a day or two in Fresno, planning and thinking, then make his move.
And God could go screw himself.
Or herself.
Chapter 2
Later that same evening. Pasadena, near Los Angeles.
Cath was on the couch with Dan when her cell phone rang.
His arm was around her shoulders, and they were watching The Big Sick. The movie had been Dan’s choice. Cath had said she wasn’t keen on watching a movie with a title like that, but it was Friday night, and watching a movie after the children had been put to bed had become a tradition of sorts. He’d told her to trust him, that she’d like it; and he’d been right. She was enjoying the movie.
Until her phone rang.
She groaned and apologized to Dan, saying she thought she’d switched it off.
“You want to answer that?” he asked.
She shrugged. She wasn’t worried either way. And that was because she felt safe. Well, more than that, she’d become accustomed to feeling safe. She’d spent many years balancing on that fine line between comfortable and complacent, but kept telling herself she was over it now and the future would be just fine. That was good. Good for her mental health. These days, she hardly ever thought about her past. And after all, that was the way it had been planned all along. Right down to the last detail.
Dan paused the movie, picked up her cell phone from the table next to him and passed it to her. “Who’s calling you at this time of night?”
He said it with a puzzled smirk, not aggressively. Dan didn’t do aggressive. Cath had always liked that.
She checked the number and frowned. “Nobody I recognize.”
“You want to call them back after the movie? It’s only got twenty minutes left.” He pointed at the TV – at Ray Romano’s face frozen in an unflattering pose.
She shook her head at him and answered the call. “Hello?”
“Is this Catherine Brewer?” the woman asked, her words sharp, quick, efficient. And very serious.
“It is. Why? Who wants to know?”
“The codeword is salamander. Salamander, do you understand?”
Cath went weak in an instant, her mind ripping through the years gone by, her nerves alight with the trauma she thought was behind her. She struggled to her feet but felt her legs give way, and couldn’t help but fall back down onto the couch.
“Catherine?” the woman on the line said
.
“Who is it?” Dan hissed.
Cath held a silencing hand up to him, took some deep breaths. “I’ll take it in the kitchen,” she managed to half-gasp, half-whisper to him.
For a moment he narrowed his eyes in confusion, then he shrugged acceptance and said, “Sure.”
She got to her feet again and tottered into the kitchen, her legs barely obeying orders.
“Are you there, Catherine?” the woman said, popping the words out.
“Hold on.” She headed for the far end of the kitchen, went through the back door, and shut it behind her. Alone in the back yard, she turned and looked back inside. Dan had picked up his own cell phone and was idly flicking through it. Usually that would be annoying, but not now. Right now that was exactly what Cath was praying for him to do.
It had been a warm and cloudless day, but now, approaching ten o’clock, most of the heat of the day had gone up to the heavens. That was also good; she needed something to counteract the burning inside her head. She gulped and drew breath.
“Yes. This is Catherine.”
“Good. You recognize the codeword?”
“Of course I do. Just tell me what’s happened.”
“I’m Sergeant Susan Jones. California State Police. I’m afraid I have some bad news, Catherine.”
Cath said nothing, just swallowed to hit back at the bitter taste that had tracked up to her throat.
“He was released this morning. Did you know?”
“How would I know that?”
That was a little dishonest. Only a little. It was going to happen eventually.
The years had been counting themselves down. She knew his sentence, and she’d been made aware of what that would mean in the real world: if he was a good boy and did as he was told he wouldn’t serve anywhere near twenty years – perhaps twelve to fourteen. So just lately, for the sake of her mental health, she’d tried not to concern herself with the dark cloud of his release. But the troll in the far recesses of her mind wasn’t so accommodating, and kept reminding her that the event was imminent. And she had to admit that the troll was right, which was why just lately her cocoon of safety had been getting one more knock of the wrecking ball with each passing month. The sleeping pills prescribed to her were testament to that fact. She’d been to see her physician late the previous year, complaining of being unable to get to sleep, lying to both the physician and herself when she’d said she had no idea where her anxiety was coming from.
