that conversation. I send the call to voicemail and put on my Trauma-Gone windbreaker to hide the bandage. Annoyingly, the phone begins ringing once again. She and Harold have something in common this way. “Tom,” I answer.
“Don’t just send me off to voicemail, fucker,” Ivy chides.
“I’ve got work to do.”
“I haven’t heard from you.”
“I hadn’t had a reason to call,” I say with a shrug.
“And now?”
“We’ll talk later.”
“You at a job?”
“Going to be,” I say.
“Anything you need help with?”
“No. You should be out trying to get a new job.”
“I got one—Daddy Long Legs on Figueroa, you know it?”
“No.”
“You should come by tonight. After four. And you’d better spill the dirt.”
“We’ll see.”
“Don’t be a—”
I hang up before she can finish.
—
Walking out of the stairwell and past the superintendent’s door, I hear strains of snoring against the backdrop of
The Price Is Right
. Ms. Park-Hallsley is the only woman I know of who snores like this. It is not an endearing trait and quite possibly the reason she lives alone. I’m sure that, though she is asleep now, when I return home later I will find another note reminding me to amend my late-night habits.
I get to my car and realize there is a note tucked under the windshield wiper. At first, I think I’ve been ticketed. I glance around for some sign regarding parking enforcement, but know there isn’t one. When I unfold the unsigned white paper note, it simply reads:
Whoops! I followed you home. Now I know where you live.
Tense, I scan the people and cars immediately surrounding me—the construction crew across the street working the pavement, the man in tight, colorful spandex walking his Chihuahua—seeking out someone paying attention. It isn’t a joke and it isn’t an accident.
Fuck.
Not this
. Folding the paper back up, I do my damnedest to not look concerned. If he wanted me dead, likely an attempt would have already been made. With at least fifteen kills in just over three months, he isn’t exactly the patient sort. Putting the envelope in my glove box, I nose the Charger out into traffic and the beginnings of what is doubtless going to be a very long day.
I watch, almost obsessively, as I drive, looking to see if I am being followed. If I am, the last thing I want is to give him any more information about me than he already has, so I take a long, meandering route to Trauma-Gone headquarters, blasting through yellow lights as necessary, staring in my rearview to see who does the same. But this is Los Angeles and everybody runs the yellows and early reds here. During this time, Harold buzzes me three times, wanting to know where I am. I imagine the pressure of picketers has gotten him a little testy. It’s gotta be Hank and Julie Kelly plus members of their congregation—it was the last time too. The Kellys don’t like me very much.
I pull in to the industrial complex and, driving up, I see the cluster of about eight picketers, men and women, with Hank Kelly and his silver hair standing taller than the rest. The presence of a vehicle makes them mobilize and shake their picket signs in the direction of my car. They can’t possibly know it’s me yet, but when they do, they will boo and hiss and attempt to block my path with their signage. They will not actually go so far as to assault me; no, they figure I might actually call the police on them for that, though I wouldn’t. The tactics they’d used before, when they got me fired from Home Depot (and a cafe before that), would be to disrupt the flow of my work, create a presence of fear about me in my coworkers and employees at neighboring businesses, and to harangue my management about their willingness to hire a child murderer.
Their picketing signs are of the same variety, essentially, that they’ve used before. Hank holds his “Tom Tanner killed my daughter” sign, and because of his height, it is considerably taller
“Don’t just send me off to voicemail, fucker,” Ivy chides.
“I’ve got work to do.”
“I haven’t heard from you.”
“I hadn’t had a reason to call,” I say with a shrug.
“And now?”
“We’ll talk later.”
“You at a job?”
“Going to be,” I say.
“Anything you need help with?”
“No. You should be out trying to get a new job.”
“I got one—Daddy Long Legs on Figueroa, you know it?”
“No.”
“You should come by tonight. After four. And you’d better spill the dirt.”
“We’ll see.”
“Don’t be a—”
I hang up before she can finish.
—
Walking out of the stairwell and past the superintendent’s door, I hear strains of snoring against the backdrop of
The Price Is Right
. Ms. Park-Hallsley is the only woman I know of who snores like this. It is not an endearing trait and quite possibly the reason she lives alone. I’m sure that, though she is asleep now, when I return home later I will find another note reminding me to amend my late-night habits.
I get to my car and realize there is a note tucked under the windshield wiper. At first, I think I’ve been ticketed. I glance around for some sign regarding parking enforcement, but know there isn’t one. When I unfold the unsigned white paper note, it simply reads:
Whoops! I followed you home. Now I know where you live.
Tense, I scan the people and cars immediately surrounding me—the construction crew across the street working the pavement, the man in tight, colorful spandex walking his Chihuahua—seeking out someone paying attention. It isn’t a joke and it isn’t an accident.
Fuck.
Not this
. Folding the paper back up, I do my damnedest to not look concerned. If he wanted me dead, likely an attempt would have already been made. With at least fifteen kills in just over three months, he isn’t exactly the patient sort. Putting the envelope in my glove box, I nose the Charger out into traffic and the beginnings of what is doubtless going to be a very long day.
I watch, almost obsessively, as I drive, looking to see if I am being followed. If I am, the last thing I want is to give him any more information about me than he already has, so I take a long, meandering route to Trauma-Gone headquarters, blasting through yellow lights as necessary, staring in my rearview to see who does the same. But this is Los Angeles and everybody runs the yellows and early reds here. During this time, Harold buzzes me three times, wanting to know where I am. I imagine the pressure of picketers has gotten him a little testy. It’s gotta be Hank and Julie Kelly plus members of their congregation—it was the last time too. The Kellys don’t like me very much.
I pull in to the industrial complex and, driving up, I see the cluster of about eight picketers, men and women, with Hank Kelly and his silver hair standing taller than the rest. The presence of a vehicle makes them mobilize and shake their picket signs in the direction of my car. They can’t possibly know it’s me yet, but when they do, they will boo and hiss and attempt to block my path with their signage. They will not actually go so far as to assault me; no, they figure I might actually call the police on them for that, though I wouldn’t. The tactics they’d used before, when they got me fired from Home Depot (and a cafe before that), would be to disrupt the flow of my work, create a presence of fear about me in my coworkers and employees at neighboring businesses, and to harangue my management about their willingness to hire a child murderer.
Their picketing signs are of the same variety, essentially, that they’ve used before. Hank holds his “Tom Tanner killed my daughter” sign, and because of his height, it is considerably taller
Similar Books
