Everywhere That Tommy Goes

by Howard K. Pollack

  EVERYWHERE

  THAT TOMMY

  GOES

  By Howard K. Pollack

  This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved below, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  Copyright © 2014 Howard K. Pollack

  All rights reserved.

  Image by Marlene Piskin; cover design by Marlene Piskin and Natanya Wheeler.

  Produced with the assistance of The Stonesong Press, LLC

  Kindle ISBN: TK

  “All human beings . . . are commingled out of good and evil.” —Robert Louis Stevenson

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  PART TWO

  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

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  CHAPTER 75

  CHAPTER 76

  CHAPTER 77

  CHAPTER 78

  CHAPTER 79

  CHAPTER 80

  CHAPTER 81

  CHAPTER 82

  CHAPTER 83

  CHAPTER 84

  CHAPTER 85

  CHAPTER 86

  CHAPTER 87

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 88

  CHAPTER 89

  CHAPTER 90

  CHAPTER 91

  CHAPTER 92

  CHAPTER 93

  CHAPTER 94

  CHAPTER 95

  CHAPTER 96

  CHAPTER 97

  CHAPTER 98

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  The blue glow emanating from the night-light plugged into the wall of Tommy Sullivan’s bedroom cast murky shadows across the floor. The bed creaked as Tommy turned and rolled uncomfortably under the covers, wetness dampening his pajamas in the most embarrassing of places for an eight year old. He jumped up midway through the recurring dream that had plagued him for three years. He still didn’t quite understand it, but he knew deep down that something very bad had happened when he was born. It had all blown up after his fifth birthday celebration, and the dream always jolted him awake just as his mother screamed, “I want him back.”

  Tommy reached out for the baby blanket that lay securely by his side. When he couldn’t locate it, his heart began to pound against his chest. He sat up and switched on the lamp beside his bed. Light flooded the room. He still couldn’t find his security blanket. After a few seconds of panic, he remembered that his mom had said that he would have to go without it for the night because it was being washed.

  Tears began to flow. He pulled the covers over his head and started to wail.

  But no one came to comfort him.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  I don’t know how many punches I’ve taken, but the metallic taste of warm blood is overwhelming. Dazed, I can still hear them laughing. The bigger guy’s laugh is deeper. He’s got my arms pinned behind my back, and I feel his hot, stale breath against my ear. The smaller guy snorts a laugh, and every time he hits me, my brain rattles.

  I tighten up, waiting for him to belt me again, when another dude comes out of nowhere. Moving like lightning, he blocks the next punch, spins the guy around, and unleashes a barrage of blows that drop the guy cold. The big guy is slow to react, but he soon lunges forward and squares off. The new guy takes a boxing stance, quickly pivots, and connects with a rear-leg round kick to the head. The big guy wobbles for a second, regains his composure, and charges, swinging wildly.

  The dude steps aside and absorbs a glancing blow across the chin. He shrugs it off, follows the big guy, and shoves him from behind. Stumbling forward, the big guy regains his balance and turns, but the dude is already waiting for him. He nails him with a throat strike, follows with a leg sweep, and the guy goes down. Then he positions himself on the big guy’s chest, all MMA, and starts pummeling his face.

  After the first few punches, the big guy is out, but the dude keeps punching away like a madman. I pull him back by the shoulders. He looks up at me—all crazy eyes—almost slugs me, then he starts laughing. After a second, he looks down at the blood on his fists. Then, all casual, he stands up, licks his knuckles, and sticks out his hand.

  “Troyer Savage, at your service,” he says, as calm as can be.

  I look at him sideways, wipe my forearm across my mouth, and hesitantly push out my hand to shake his. “Thanks, dude, but where the hell did you come from?”

  He grins, showing the straightest, whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. “Back at the club, I happened to see you hitting on that punk’s girlfriend. Not too smooth, by the way. When he and his buddy followed you outside, I had a feeling you might need some assistance.”

  “Thanks. Those guys would have killed me if you didn’t step in.”

  “Probably, but lets book before the cops show up.” He pulls me by the elbow and starts to run.

  I follow him at a quick pace for a few blocks, barely able to keep up. Then he slows to a jog and finally stops in front of a Japanese restaurant. A lighted sign says: SHIKI. He starts laughing again. “Now that was fun, wasn’t it?”

  Breathing heavily, I bend over, hands on my thighs. Staring down at the sidewalk, I suck wind for a few more seconds. “You call that fun? I think my nose is busted, along with a few ribs. That’s not my idea of entertainment.”

  “Oh, come on, you don’t look so bad. Besides, I gave them a lot worse than you took. That should make you feel better.”

  “Not really,” I say, finally catching my breath. “Hey, where’d you learn to fight like t
hat anyway?”

  “Forget it. Let’s go inside. I feel like sushi.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he says, “I’m sorry. I don’t even know your name.”

  “Name’s Tommy, Tommy Sullivan . . . and how can you think about eating at a time like this?”

  “Because I’m hungry.”

  “Well I’m sick to my stomach.”

  Troyer chuckles, “You need to toughen up, Sullivan.” He pulls open the door, walks through the place like he owns it, and sits down at a table.

  I follow behind and slide onto the seat across from him. “I gotta say, you’re blowing my mind here. How can you be so calm?”

  “Hey, this is no big deal, just relax.”

  Seconds later, the waiter appears with the menus. “Good evening, would you care for anything to drink before I take your order?”

  Troyer answers quickly. “Bring out a double shot of Patron Silver and a large bottle of Sapporo beer.”

  I shake my head.

  “Very well,” he says, nodding as he walks away.

  I lean in to Troyer. “No big deal! That was amazing! I’ve never seen anything like that in my life. Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

  He flashes a perfect smile. “Please, that was nothing. I’ve been training since I was seven years old.”

  “Seven? Really? Tell me more.”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Come on, I’ve never seen anyone kick ass like that. You have to clue me in.”

  “Trust me, how I became who I am is not as glamorous as you suspect.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you shouldn’t be so impressed. Necessity is the mother of invention. Sometimes we have no choice. Life directs us and we cannot control it. I am who I am and I do what I do because I wasn’t given a choice. While the end result may be different, I’m sure it’s the same with you. Go ahead tell me a little about your past and I’ll prove it.”

  “Honestly, I’m probably the most boring, lame-ass loser who ever lived. Do you really think I want to explore that after watching you destroy two guys like they were nothing? Frankly, I’d rather hear about you.”

  “Maybe later.” Troyer grabs my wrist. “Right now there’s something else on my mind.”

  “Huh. Like what?”

  “Like, I don’t believe in coincidences. From the moment I saw you fumbling at the bar I had this feeling about you. I think fate put us together so I could help to rescue you from being a so-called ‘lame-ass loser.’”

  I pull my hand away and look at him crossways. “What the fuck are you talking about? All I know is that you just wiped the floor with two guys like it was nothing. That was sick! I still can’t believe it, even though I saw with my own eyes. I want to know how you can do that shit.”

  The waiter interrupts, puts down the shot and pours the beer into a glass. “Are you ready to order?”

  Troyer orders a sushi and sashimi combo.

  I shake my head “no” again. The waiter nods, and walks away.

  Troyer hoists the glass and takes a sip. “Ahh, now that’s good. I just love an ice-cold brew after a fight.” He puts down the beer and pushes the shot toward me. “Come on, shoot it. You’ll feel better.”

  “I don’t know dude, that’s a double.”

  “Don’t be such a pussy.”

  “Hey, I’m no pussy. But I’d sure like to be able to do what you just did.”

  “You, and every other tough guy wannabe that ever lived.”

  “Yeah, so, then tell me, where’d you learn to do that shit?”

  Troyer smiles, gestures to the shot, then to my mouth. “I’ll think about it. In the meantime, show me you’re a man and throw that back.”

  I roll my eyes, hoist the shot, and down it.

  Troyer slaps the table hard. “Excellent! You do have balls after all. Now tell me a little bit more about yourself.”

  My throat burning from the tequila, I push out a breath and force an awkward grin. “I don’t get it. Why would you be interested in anything about me? I mean, this is probably the craziest night I ever had.”

  “Forget that. I saved your life, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “Okay, so don’t you think that entitles me to know a little bit more about you?”

  “I suppose. But to be honest with you, my life has been pretty dull, until now.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Why not let me be the judge?” Troyer sucks in a deep breath, holds it for a second, and blows it out. “Okay, I can see you won’t give up, so I’ll go first. Just be prepared. This is no fairy tale.” He takes a big swig of beer, puts the glass down, and pushes it away. “It’s like this. I grew up in an orphanage. And the kids there were very tough. If you didn’t stand up for yourself, you got the shit kicked out of you every day. It was a Catholic place, and one of the priests saw that I was being bullied all the time, so he offered to teach me how to fight. He acted as if he really cared for me. In fact, I quickly discovered that he had an ulterior motive. Ultimately, I had to make a choice; learn to fight from Father Ryan, and allow him to . . . ,” Troyer hesitates, looking up at the ceiling. “Or get beaten up every day.”

  “You mean he . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “God had nothing to do with it.”

  “So why couldn’t you just tell them what was going on?”

  “Them!” Troyer shouts under his breath. “Who the fuck do you think I could have told? Do you really believe the Church would ever listen to a piece of crap like me? Anyway—and I can’t believe I’m actually telling you this—it’s not the point. Father Ryan taught me basic fighting skills. Then I ran away from the orphanage and took to the streets. I survived on my own for years, doing the dirtiest jobs a kid could ever do. I ran drugs, I fronted for pimps and their whores, I slept in alleys, I ate from garbage pails . . . then fate stepped in. I hooked up with the first guy in my life that ever did right by me. He gave me a job cleaning the locker room and the toilets at a kickboxing gym. In exchange, he gave me lessons, fed me, and let me crash in the storage room. Being in that place night and day, watching all these tough guys beat each other up, was mind-blowing. I decided right away that I had to become an expert, so I could return to the orphanage and kill Father Ryan.”

  “Holy shit! So what happened? Did you ever go back there?”

  Troyer shoots me a wide smile, raises his glass, and takes a long swallow. “Now it’s your turn.”

  * * *

  It’s only been a month or so since our first encounter, but I can honestly say that meeting Troyer Savage has been a turning point in my life. He is a very different kind of dude. Not only is he a badass: He’s also a chick magnet. I swear he is the ultimate player. He’s real goodlooking, like some movie star or something, and all the chicks want him. I’m not joking—all of them. From the hottest party girls to the darkest Goth chicks, he gets them all. Thick, wavy blond hair, high cheekbones, and a tight build can take you far, but Troyer takes it to the next level. And no, if you think I’m gay, you’re dead wrong. Furthest thing from it. I’m just saying.

  Anyway, I’ve been hanging out with him a lot lately, and he’s been schooling me on the finer points about picking up women and how to handle myself in a bar. It’s been quite a learning experience. I mean, I’m no slouch, but I don’t carry it the way he does. I’m just a regular guy. I work at a pizza place and volunteer at an animal shelter. Troyer, though—he’s cut from a totally different mold. I’m not ashamed to admit it, but I want to be more like him, so I’ve been watching him and taking notes. I know he doesn’t mind. You see, he’s taken me under his wing, and tonight’s my next lesson.

  Troyer is planning on hooking up with these two hot babes at Club Radical, down on Fourth Street. He told me that if I get there by 10:30, he’ll hook me up with this righteous brunette who has a tongue piercing. I think he just wants me to occupy her while he locks it in with her
girlfriend. No prob though. I’m game for that, that’s for damn sure.

  Now this guy moves like nobody else. He’s got this swagger when he walks, this drawl when he talks, and a killer smile that chicks just can’t resist. And like I said before, I’ve never met anyone like him. I’ve got to figure out how he does it and make it my own.

  I pull up to the club knowing for sure he’s inside with a posse of girls surrounding him, all dripping wet. The place is rocking.

  I pass all the dorks lined up trying to get in and walk to the door. This six-and-a-half foot bouncer with a neck the size of my thigh is checking IDs. I slide on up to him. “Tommy Sullivan,” I say, because Troyer told me he’d get my name on the list.

  “Sullivan, huh?” he says, eyeballing me like I’m from Long Island or something.

  “That’s right,” I say, as tough as I can.

  So the jock-head looks at this list he’s holding, as if it’s the freaking Bible, looks back at me again, and—get this—he steps aside, lifts up the rope, and ushers me past like I’m some bigtime celebrity. Just like that, I’m inside one of the hottest clubs in the city.

  Some new Lady Gaga shit is pounding in the background while these pasty, eye-shadowed chicks, sporting six-inch stilettos, are standing around and texting. Texting. And the dudes, all swervy and ripping outta their shirts—probably juicing on the latest steroids and hanging little pinky-dicks—they’re posing and flexing, probably thinking that’ll impress the babes.

  I look down toward the end of the mirrored bar, where the waitresses drop their orders and pick up their drinks, and Troyer is standing right in the middle of the action, working it. These chicks are the hottest I’ve ever seen. And if you ask Troyer, that’s what brings in all the muscle. Fuckin’ guys, all thinking they can get the waitresses and barmaids, so they tip ’em like crazy, all horned up and wearing dumb looks on their faces. Trouble is they’ve got nothing new to say. Those chicks have already heard every line ten times over. At least that’s what Troyer says.

  The bar is three-deep, so I squeeze my way between two jerks drinking Buds, who look like they’re in the middle of a swillin’ contest to see who can swallow a bottle in one damn swig. A crowd of tight-skirted girls is busy yapping it up, trying to look hot and get the attention of the group of guys hovering around.