Sometimes I walk mysterious places
Hear voices that talk without a word to say
Sometimes I hear the echoes of laughter
In the twilight of affairs and other tragedies
Sometimes it's easy to forget only for a moment
But there are nights you regret eternally
There's something surreal about leaving prison after ten years.
It's a bit like travelling to a foreign country you've been to as a kid. Technically you know the place, but all your memories are blurred and stretched around the edges. You've tried to recall the weirder details so many times they've become infused with the madness that inevitably takes you after living in the same tiny fucking room for too long. When they drove me here, we came by this one building, a formless chunk of concrete that was repainted so many times everything just melted into some ugly olive. At least I think it's olive. Can't say I know much about colours. Anyways, I could have sworn it was east from the facility, at this T-crossing with the train tracks running by.
I specifically remember turning my head to notice it and thinking how it stared back at me, dark windows gaping up like eyes and mouths. I remember wondering how many morons must have tried digging a tunnel there or some other bullshit. It's the first thing out of the prison grounds in a couple of miles. Bet it's part of every second escape plan. Bet they've got cameras there.
So I've spent my share of sleepless nights thinking about that building. I guess it was an office of sorts at some point, judging from the parking lot in front and the way it's cut. There were some rough spots where I fantasized about waking there, between pigeon shit and rot, rather than on my bunk. Then there were not so rough spots where I imagined beating his ass from one end of the building to the other and throwing him out of a window facing the facility, facing ten fucking years of-
But it's not actually there. It's on the other side of the crossing, so you're driving between the office and the tracks. Could've sworn I saw a train go past it when I got here, but it's a deserted line, too. Turns out if I ever did go nuts enough to dig myself out with a spoon I wouldn't even have found the damn thing.
I got moments like that waiting for me everywhere. Stuff I was sure worked a certain way but then it doesn't, and nobody wonders about it, only me. Some you expect - like walking into a supermarket you could shop blind at once and not finding shit. That I get. Stuff changes. But some things you don't really think about and then it hits you smack in the face.
The weirdest are the people. I'm on the bus to the city with three other guys. None of them served as long as I did, and still we find it weird that nobody really tells us what to do. Where to sit, how to talk to each other. One calls me faggot, I punch him on the nose and the bus driver just sighs.
Guess he thinks we'll all wind up on the return trip soon enough, but there's no shouting, no guards to restrain us. It's strange how punching a guy feels more liberating than to see open terrain, or people that aren't in uniform. Kids. I forgot how noisy kids are. How a woman in a dress looks like when she's not on a television screen. We had an all male facility. Sure gets funny when your papers say you're married to a dude, but I never expected anyone to get it. Hell, even I don't get what my papers say.
It comes with being a conman I suppose. You collect so many forged IDs you forget what should be on the real one. I've got stories over stories to construct a scheme from. Play a role often enough and it becomes a little bit true. So I guess I'm a little bit married.
There's two parts about people that are different on the outside. One is crowds. Crowds are an organic thing here, they move and adapt and nobody really gives a damn. In prison, if a crowd is ever allowed to form, it's so strictly monitored that you feel like it's one single creature. You look to the guys surrounding you and although you don't want to, you feel connected to them. You're all in the same boat and the boat sucks. Outside, crowds are anonymous. All you share is being in the same place at the same time and there's no reason to pay attention. What's the worst that could happen?
Two is being alone. Because you actually are alone, and it's quiet. I had a solitary cell. My whole block was filled with violent offenders, so they wouldn't risk us sharing. But there's no such thing as quiet with all the guards and your involuntary flatmates. We were what, sixteen? Sixteen on a corridor and half snored. Plus there's always someone pissing. Heard in some prisons, they try 'n be polite about it. Well, we weren't one of those.
That's the moment where it really hits me, sitting in my flat, and it's quiet, and the clock ticks on but nobody comes to fetch me. I've got a small television in one corner of the flat. The sofa's sunken in, but it works. Never had a TV in prison. Guy across the hall had one. Had it running all day and night, too. Then there was the one in the common room, where we'd fight over what to watch with a couple dozen guys. Kinda calming to just flip through the channels now. For ten years, this is how I knew about the world. How phones grew flatter and the economy decided to go screw itself. Fun times. Could've made a fortune. Now it's all reality TV. Why these people even claim to be famous is beyond me. They piss and puke in alleys. Been there, done that, just never seen a camera around. I stumble over a sports channel, but it's running darts. Who the fuck takes darts seriously? Darts is for a shady bar that reeks of yesterday's deep-frying fat, for places where the ground is sticky with spilled beer and the air thick with smoke. It's for when you wait to be drunk enough for the real fun. I was always shit at darts, but I never cared. Darts ain't for TV. Darts, it's for my kind of people, and we ain't made for carin'.
It takes me hours to internalize that there's no cafeteria, no lunch bell. Starving, I head out again.
When I was younger, I was in jail a few times, but never for more than a couple of months. Never long enough to feel fucking queasy about cars. I walked here all the way from the city centre. Took me what, two, three hours? Had to do it. Had to proof to myself that I can just walk like that. It was strangely agitating to see them shoot past me. Nothing in prison moved that fast.
Now my legs are tired and lazy, so I slump down with the results of my shopping. I end up having to go three times. First I grab what I think I need for now: Frozen pizza, smokes, six pack of cheap beer - which brand was good, I forgot, what did I like? - toilet paper, some soda in case I change my mind about drinking myself into a stupor. Then I remember it's Saturday, and I go back to grab some canned beans and toast so I have something to eat tomorrow. I end up throwing other stuff that I vaguely remember should be in a kitchen into the basket as well, like a bag of rice and dish soap. Back in the flat I realize I don't actually own dishes.
So I'm there a third time, and I get those plastic plates and the red stupid cups college kids get wasted from, I get salt, I get pepper, I get a list of little things that took me an hour to compile.
Who forgets salt? It's the last item on there. I'm a mess and I know it.
I also get a bottle of whiskey. The kid at the counter looks at me with pity.
"Found everything?" he asks, and I can almost hear him adding "this time" in thoughts.
"Go fuck yerself," I snort. Won't go shopping here again. Might steal some stuff once I've scoped out the place though. The aisles are further apart than what I'm used to, but I'll manage. My trick's always been going in the odd hours, and grabbing two or three things that are clearly inconvenient errands. Diapers or tampons always work. Diapers and booze together gets you a weird look, tampons and condoms makes 'em blush. Then you stuff that in your pocket or under your arm like the good daddy you are and no one's got a clue about all the crap in your backpack. Bought a lot of tampons for a guy who hasn't had a girlfriend in two decades.
Not today though. I'm too shaky to not play it proper. Perhaps that's strategy. Keep 'em locked up long enough they forget how to steal. Not that stealing's the only thing they got me for.
And guess what I still don't have after three fucking runs to the supermarket? A lighter. Good thing the trailer's got a gas stove and there's a lonely pack of matches in a cupboard. Getting a cigarette going with a match looks stupid as fuck but ain't nobody watching. Ain't nobody watching anything.
Can't describe that.
How good it feels.
Just me, and the only sound I'm not making is the oven. It's exciting and captivating. Never been a quiet man, won't get used to it. I've got the house for three months, but if it goes my way, I won't need it that long. Not much of a settler, me.
Might also be that I spent ten godforfuckingsaken years in the same place, so I'm anxious to move. I'll have to get some things in order. A few of my old contacts are here in town. If I can get my hands on an ID and a car, I'll be back in full swing soon enough. Then a gun. Needs a gun, what I'm doing.
The flat's even smaller than I thought. It'll do. I lived half my life in cheap motels and on car seats. Kinda nice to have my own bathroom for once. TV and phone's connected, too. They rent this out to scum like me all the time. Like a transitional period for us to find our own place in society again. I know where mine is. Always been the same. Ain't gonna change.
It's an easy life, and a good one at times.
I've got two cans of beer down and the pizza still isn't done. Turns out I should have pre-heated the oven. Some bullshit, that is. I guess this is easier for someone who's actually cooked their own dinner before they got caught. I'm pretty sure I hadn't touched a stove in half a year. My culinary talent ends at bacon and eggs, and some sources say my eggs suck.
Can't say I disagree.
The doorbell sounds so shrill I drop can number three. It sickens me how my body tenses, fingers cramping into fists. I'm not expecting any visitors. Gotta be someone who rang the wrong door. I force my hands to stop shaking and reach for another cigarette. No more. No more wardens or guards or obnoxious gutter rats thinking they can play in my league. I'm out of the hierarchy and if I don't want to answer the door, I don't have to.
The realization settles in my gut. When the bell sounds again, it isn't unsettling, it is thrilling. I don't have to do it. I don't have to do anything. Eventually it stops, and I'm almost disappointed. Even this tiny act of rebellion against some unwritten rule of common sense fills me with ecstatic tingles. I'm not a lawful man. No prison can change that.. Now that there's a knock on the door, I'm growing suspicious. With a quick glance, I take in the layout of the flat. Ain't no good way out, but I can hold myself in a close brawl. No weapons. All I have is a pocket knife. It would pain me to break it, but my best chance might be the whiskey bottle I got myself on the third run for groceries.
"Mr. Graves?"
A shudder runs down my spine. It's a child. God knows I've got enemies, and I wouldn't put using kids past some of them. With the bottle in hand, I make for the door. I try and sneak, but I got heavy feet. If someone's waiting to kick the door in, they'll know once I'm in range.
"Are you home? Mr. Graves I have to pee…"
I won't fall for it. Can't hear anyone between the little girl whining about her bladder and assaulting the door with tiny fists. I wait. She doesn't leave. Nobody talking to her either. When she threatens to take a leak on my doormat, I can't help but laugh.
"I just got out of prison kiddo," I tell her, "I've smelled worse."
She's almost crying now. I'm still a good two steps away from the door, ready to duck back. The knocking stops.
"This is you, right?" she asks. Takes me a bit to realize she's showing me something through the spy hole. I used to play these games for hours, but now minutes are wearing me down. Still haven't eaten, my nerves are raw and maybe, just maybe I want to believe that I get one evening off before I'm swept up in hunting or being hunted again.
I slide towards the door, as silent as I can manage. Nothing happens. Feeling for any sign of pressure behind it, I press my palm against the wood. Again, nothing. My heart is beating so fast I might just faint. I didn't grind my teeth through years of prison to die in the most blunt set-up ever.
But it's not like that.
Could be a set up, but it's not blunt.
Beyond the spyhole, damn, she can't be older than ten. Dark hair, long and curly, under the ugliest hat I've ever seen. It's pointy, the rim curling up, and looks like it's seen some shit. I can't make out her face. She's holding her tiny arms stretched out to press a photograph towards the spyhole. My stomach doubles over.
"Is this you, Mister? Please, I really need to pee."
It's my wedding picture.
She's cute. Big, round eyes and a button nose. I show her the bathroom and she rushes in. Somehow I snatch the photograph from her. Should keep it. Not the kind of picture for a kid. 'specially not one like her. The hat's old and her tights are dirty, but not because either's cheap. Designer stuff. Rich kids like her, I learned to pickpocket on them.
Ain't no rich kids in the picture. Though, we did have money at the time. Lots of it. But we look ratched. It's obvious how wasted we were. I've got a bottle of beer in one hand and the other on his ass. Fine ass that is, in the lady pants he's wearing. He's wrapped around me, fingers in my hair and under my shirt. We had a photo just before and just after this one as well. In the one before, he's nibbling on my ear. In the one after, he's hurling on the floor. I'm the same in all three: Laughing.
Neither of us recalls much of that night, but with a picture like this, ain't no denying it - we were happy. For once in our lives, and against all odds, we were blissfully happy. No idea who took the photo. We have a copy each. One of the few things I brought to prison. First I wanted to burn it, or cut it, or something. Never did. Kept it as a reminder: His face. The face I'm gonna hunt. I'd stare at it for hours imagining all the things I'll do to make him pay.
Mine's stashed somewhere between my pants, folded, torn around the edges and with stains of all sorts. Held it so often. This copy's clean and straight, nothing like the men it shows.
"You can keep it."
I look up from the picture to find the kid smiling at me. She's missing a tooth here and there. It's fucked up how she both does and doesn't look like him.
"Nah," I mutter, turning the photograph around.
The backside is plain, with a faded note down in the corner. Malcolm&Tobias Graves, it reads, with the date - well over ten years ago - scribbled beneath. As I thought then. Been forgotten in a box somewhere. Me, I can't forget. Never.
"Where'd ya get that?" I ask.
She shrugs.
"Daddy said you look a bit different now," she tells me, "but it wasn't hard to find you."
"Did yer daddy tell you to come here?"
I dread the answer, but she shakes her head.
"He left," she explains, though it ain't explaining much to me, "and I don't like the home."
He left. Sounds just like the bastard.
She pulls a face.
"I don't like Miss Kayle."
"An' who's that?"
Before she gets to answer, the oven beeps, and her face lights up. She hops over to the kitchen, leaving muddy footprints on the floor. Do I have cleaning stuff? I probably don't. Now that the smell of pizza takes over, I realize how little I've eaten all day. I've gone by on less, but ten years of regular meals leave a mark. 'nother thing I don't have, oven mitts. But I got a few towels, so I help myself with that.
"You can have some," I tell the kid, and she rips the package from my picnic plates. This whole get up looked less pathetic when I was by myself. Now I'm oddly aware of how barren the flat is. There's the sofa and the TV with fucking darts still on for some reason, a small table with two shaky plastic chairs and that's it. Bathroom has a little cupboard and the bedroom too, plus a bed of course. To me, it's a palace. Could've fit my cell twice into the open kitchen alone.
Kid's setting the table. Found the soda too. Good, can't exactly feed her beer. The pizza is too big for the plates, so I pop it back onto the cardboard it came in. Glamorous. She doesn't seem to mind. We eat with our hands, and she has tomato smeared across her face in no time. For some reason, she picks the pepperonis off, sets them aside, then eats them all at once. She also eats the crust first. Who the fuck eats the crust first?
His daughter, apparently.
He never did that, did he?
My gut clenches at the thought of him. There goes my appetite. Good thing she's here, like a little dog for the leftovers.
"You know what's good?" she asks me between two bites of pepperoni, "when you put pasta on there."
"Pasta?" I repeat. She nods.
"Or ice cream. Banana ice cream. Right in the middle where the cheese olives meet."
I run my fingers through my hair.
"The fuck does your father feed you?"
"Daddy won't let me eat that," she pouts, "but I make what I want when he's gone."
"An' he's gone a lot?"
Now she shrugs and tilts her head at me, like she doesn't understand the question.
"Of course he is. You know him, right?"
It takes me a while to answer.
This is all a bit much for my first day out. For fuck's sake, I spent ten years of my life in prison because of one guy, who wouldn't be thrown off by having that asshole's kid on their kitchen table? The whole concept of him being a father makes me want to puke. It reminds me that she's not a child, she's a weapon, and he's sharpened the blade before aiming it at me. Gotta be careful with what I tell her.
Especially if it's a ruse - the only proof linking them is the photo. If someone else gave her that, she could be spying on me for god knows whom. And then everything I say about him becomes valuable.
"I knew yer dad ten years ago," I finally say. Each word rolls slowly off my tongue; I'm still not sure they're the right ones.
"He's the same," she grins, although she's got no idea what he was like. All she has is the lies someone prepared for her. With a sigh, I open myself another can. That's what, my fourth beer? Counting the one I dropped.
"What's he told you about me?" I grumble. She goes on for ten minutes babbling 'bout pretty much everything from the day we met to the day he sold me. It's like watching your favorite movie in fast forward: You know all the scenes, and just a glimpse on each is enough to bring the entirety of it back. Moments dash through my tipsy head, chasing each other in a haze of glory and gore. Mine, not exactly a bedtime story.
Seems the kid knows pretty much all there is to know me from his point of view. Glad he left out all the drunk sex we had on the backseat of whatever car we were hijacking at the time. When she's finished listing all the ups and downs of it all, I just nod.
"Now ain't that glamorous," I sigh. "And why'd yer dad spill all the beans 'bout me?"
She tilts her head as if my question is pointless.
"Because you couldn't talk to me. You were locked up."
Damn kid ain't making much sense. Then again, she's raised by a nutcase.
Nutcase who apparently wanted her prepared to face me. Ten years and he's shitting his pants. Good.
I wonder, though. See, I'm a madman, too. Can't pretend the last decade didn't mess me up. I still don't get it. I need to know, but do I want to hear it from her? I guess not. It's gotta be him.
If he thought he'd get me off his tail by sending a child, then I'm no longer the dumb one between us.
Again, the doorbell rings. I raise an eyebrow.
"You got any siblings I should know about?" I grunt. The kid looks fidgety. When she darts around the corner, I see him in her movement, and I choke on my pizza. It's the way she presses herself against the wall, how she peaks through the window from what little shadow she can find. He taught her that. Why would a kid need to know?
She goes pale.
"Don't open," she pleads, "they don't even let me keep Pix!"
"Mr. Graves?" asks a female voice from the door. "This is child protective services."
I can't help but roll my eyes. Not a day and I'm already in trouble with some office again. The kid's looking at me with wide eyes. So that's his plan, then. Not quite the feds yet, but I've barely got a foot out the door and already someone's grabbing for my boot. And with the kid, he can track me.
I ain't buying into that.
"Alright," I holler, "playtime's over."
She's easy enough to scoop up, small and lightweight. Struggles like a cat in a bag, but she's missing the claws. Her elbow hits me in the gut a couple times, but it's not packing any punch. Funny enough, she doesn't scream. That's always been my problem - I've got a temper, and a loud mouth to match it.
All the impatience the woman's been harboring, I feel it released once I open the door. She's a tall, athletic blonde with cold blue eyes, but a face that smiles easily.
"This the one you're lookin' for?" I ask as I drop the kid to her feet. She's well behaved enough not to run back inside, but all my nudging won't get her to walk over to the woman.
"Please Miss Kayle," she whines. Tiny fingers curl into my shirt. The child protective service lady - Miss Kayle, apparently - kneels down to meet the kid on eye level.
"You can't just run away like that," she explains, her voice soft, the words picked with care. "People worry about you, Lulu. We had no idea where you were."
I chuckle. No idea my ass.
"If you didn't," I remark, "how come you're here?"
Kayle's smile cracks a bit as the corners of her lips twitch with disapproval.
"Mr. Graves," she says. There is an edge to it now, threats weaved into speech. It's an old pattern to me. Subtle, too, so I ain't good at replicating it. "I hope you understand that, although we are inclined to keep family together, we have our doubts over acknowledging your custody rights. Lulu has had little stability in her life, and with your recent past, I am not convinced you can provide that for her."
The kid, Lulu, is clinging to me with tears in her eyes - bright green. Not his, then. She's shaking like a leaf and I feel sorry for her, I do, but I don't have the nerve to entertain a grade schooler right now. Even if that grade schooler could lead me to her father so I can put a bullet in his cocky face…
No. I haven't got the nerve. Kayle talks like the kid isn't going anywhere for the time being. First I gotta put myself back together. I've barely eaten all day, so my stomach is pretty much running on beer right now, and I smell like it. Lately my skin is sickly pale and my eyes are bloodshot from how little sleep I get. I look like a ghost.
"Please, Miss Kayle."
Seems Lulu isn't scared of ghosts.
"He's my Dad."
I can't help but stare down at her, and she meets my gaze with question and resolve alike. Her face is turning spotty from all the crying.
"Like hell I am!"
I cross my arms in front of my chest. Ten years of prison, so she's way too young. I like sex, but I ain't stupid. You gotta be pretty drunk to forget the condom, to the point where I'm too drunk to do, let alone father anything. Plus for a couple years before they caught me, I had an ass to fuck.
"I don't know who you are," I remind the kid. "You just showed up here with a damn picture of me."
"But you're my Dad," she whimpers as if she hasn't heard me.
If she didn't sigh right about now, I might have forgotten Kayle's even there.
"Lulu," she asks softly, "would you please wait in the car?"
Defeated, the kid strolls away to an unsuspecting van in muddy blue. Kayle watches her all the way to the door. Only when Lulu is inside and out of earshot does she turn back to me.
"I admit the circumstances of Lulu's adoption were rather… unconventional," she says. "That is why I was hoping to arrange for a supervised visit, but alas, Lulu tends to make up her own rules."
By now, she's starting to annoy me. This isn't my problem. I don't even get half of what she's talking about. My hands are getting twitchy, I need a smoke.
"Let me be honest, Mr. Graves, I don't believe you are suited to enforce your custody for Lulu right now."
"Custody?" I repeat. She mentioned that before. Damn my attention span today.
Kayle nods, her lips pursed with disapproval, and I'm pissed. None of this makes sense, and I've had it. No idea what this shit is all about, but it's not my problem.
"I ain't got the faintest clue who this kid is!" I proclaim, and shouting makes me feel more like the man I once was again. I'm gesturing wildly at the car for a moment, which immediately prompts Kayle to push her hands into her hips and straighten her back. She's taller than me actually, if only by a bit.
"She is your daughter!" she yells back. We glare at each other for a moment before Kayle looks over her shoulder to check that the sudden volume didn't scare the kid, and I allow my jaw to drop for a moment.
I ain't got no fucking daughter.
"It's been a bit over three years since you adopted her," Kayle explains, still focussed on the car. Lulu is slumped down on the passenger seat, head hanging and probably still in tears.
"You do realize I was in prison," I grunt.
"Yes I do realize that," Kayle says sharply. Her head darts around. Another time, another me would have complimented the fire in her eyes.
"And believe me Mr. Graves, I would never have sanctioned this whole mess, but here we are. I have taken personal interest in this case because apparently my duty in life is to clean up after my sister, and I will not let this charade continue.
Once you've sobered up, you can give me a call. Perhaps by then you'll remember starting the most dysfunctional family I've seen in my entire career."
But I don't.
First of all, I don't sober up. The pizza is cold by now and I step on the beer can I dropped earlier. Feels like hours since that. I sit on the couch again, and I crack open the whiskey. The evening drizzles into night as I down half the bottle. It's me, the booze and another stupid show about unimportant people living less important lives.
Second, I don't remember.
It didn't happen, and I know it. Ten fucking years of prison and there's no way I've seen that kid before. Of course child protective services won't know, but I wouldn't be surprised to find my handwriting on a bunch of things. We were partners for so long, we knew how to forge each other's real and fake signatures. He could've signed me up for a dozen different things with five or so names, and even I'd have a hard time spotting it. Ten years and I figured he'd have the courtesy to get us a divorce that way.
I drink, I smoke, and at some point I make it over to the kitchen. Kid left the picture here. It looks blurry in the dim light of the TV screen, but I guess that's just me getting hammered. I'm staring at it with the voice of some sports reporter trying to sound excited in my ears. When did I switch back to the darts channel? How is darts still on?
It's all a joke, but I can't bring myself to laugh.
Apparently we're still married.
And apparently we're parents, too.
How you know what it's like
When good luck has changed the sides
When your life turns upside down it breaks your heart
When you get crushed in a house of cards
Damn, I should be drinking right now. Thirteen hours on the road and I'm flat like a pancake. My body is half asleep, so trying to put food into it doesn't seem to work out quite as well as I need it to. I almost doze off chewing on a strip of bacon. Cheap diner food tastes heavenly at four in the morning, even if it's so greasy that puddles are collecting on your plate. Granted I can't see beans anymore, 'cause that's half of what I live off on the road. There's a whole box of canned goods on the passenger seat. At this point, the car smells like a pickle jar. I don't have much time to shop for things, and I try and stay on the more obscure little routes through areas that hardly count for populated. The best is when you manage to stop at an actual farm. Good meals paid in cash, so nobody can track your cards, and if you ask the right questions, you can usually find out how to avoid traffic and the cops.
If we're not in a hurry, I always let Lulu charm 'em into giving her a tour. She's great with animals and it makes up for another few hours with nothing but fields and concrete. Granted, she can spend days just looking out of a window. For a child her age, she's pretty patient.
Thinking about my daughter makes my stomach clench. I put the half-eaten bacon down and start picking at my eggs instead. It's been far too long since I've seen her. I've tried getting to her four times now, but I always get cut off. Sometimes it feels like every track to south Texas is littered with people looking for me. My best effort so far was when I made it all the way to Cuba and then took a boat back, and the damn lunatic was waiting for me at the harbour. I was within hours of the shitty suburb, but all I did was start another goosechase.
I haven't given up yet, but it's tiring. Back in the day I was on trips like this all the time, but I could go wherever I wanted. It's different when you have something to return for. More complicated.
Wouldn't change a thing though. If anything, being separated shows how much you care for a person. It's fucked up to not have your child with you. Then again, it's fucked up for a guy like me to even have a child to begin with. She's my world.
The scrambled eggs are all but cold, and at this point, very scrambled. I keep pushing bits and pieces around on the plate until it's all too torn apart to fit onto my fork. Perhaps I'm not actually hungry. Perhaps I'm just sitting here because I had to get out of the car for a bit. The coffee is good, though. Usually I don't like it that strong. Half a cup could wake a dead man. I'm on my third.
There was a time when my body worked off a not so carefully balanced mix of caffeine and alcohol. Now that I'm properly on the run again, I'm sliding back into old habits. Of course I try not to take it too far. I can't afford a black out - not while I'm alone. Back in the day, if I decided to pass out on the sidewalk again, I'd have a partner or a crew to drag me into the car and drive off. If I wake up with a hangover tomorrow, I'll still be lying on that same sidewalk. I can't afford staying anywhere for that long.
Especially not when I'm expecting to stay a week or so once I reach Los Angeles. For two years now, it's been a bit of a base of operations. I tried having Lulu go to school there, but we ain't the settling kind it seems. She got pretty upset when I travelled alone and skipped class more than she attended it. Still, we've got the place in L.A., so that's where I'm headed for now.
I need to recharge a bit before my next attempt. Once I've got her, we're out. I don't know to where yet. Maybe I'll let her decide. Canada could be an option, though I don't like the cold. I've been to Mexico too often to like it, but we might give South America a try. Or Europe. I've never been to Europe. It seems like the kind of place for Lulu.
Fact is, the lunatic as I like to call her has chased me all across the states and back again. I've got a pretty good idea of her methods by now. From what I've gathered, her name is Kalista, she was an FBI agent on an old case I was involved with and somehow got obsessed with me. I'd say I'm flattered if her persistence wasn't ruining my life. At this point I've exhausted pretty much all my fake IDs and credit cards, and I'm sure that even though I've taken care not to drop my real name, she knows exactly who I am.
When I was younger, there wasn't much of a point in hiding all that. I used my real identity the same way I used the fake ones so there wouldn't be much point to attack it. That all changed when Lulu came into my life. There is a few things I've signed with my real name for a purpose. My daughter is among those ties that made me want to form a real person behind all the acts and plays. So if I want to keep her safe, I can't have people know the real me, because that's the one who has a kid.
I let something happen to him, I risk it hurting her.
People in my line of work tend to not commit to responsibility like that. It's the point where we stop. I tried. I really did. But a past as checkered as mine, it catches up with you. No clue how that Kalista chick found me, but she's determined to put me behind bars. Can't have that.
My cup is empty, and at this point all I have to do is raise my hand to order a refill.
"Will you be finishing that?" the waitress asks, pointing at my plate.
I shake my head.
"Nah."
The eggs are chewy and I'm half convinced the next bacon strip will give me a heartattack. Although my diet has been shit, I've slimmed down from all the stress. Got the face of a corpse. Some days I feel like one, too. This ain't the high life. Not like I remember it. The thrill is gone. The adrenaline. When you land a big hit, it's like a drug. It washes over you and makes you feel like you own the world. Granted, those hits are hard to get, but I was good. I was damn good. And I knew the right people.
Now that I think about it, the big thrill for me wasn't even the plan itself. It was the ending, the out. That was my role: I was in charge of our exit strategy. When everything else had already fallen into place, my work only just began. Then once I had the crew out, we'd have our rewards to share and drink away.
I'm not sure if happy is the right word for what I felt like. Bliss and happiness aren't always the same. Hell, we were so jacked up half the time we wouldn't even know what either meant. I never got into any of the hard stuff, but there was hardly a day where I didn't reek of booze.
What can I say, I was young. It was all fun and games. Made a fortune or two. Then I lost that all, of course. The money and more. Can't say I regret it. Men like me, we live our whole life as a gamble. You win some and you lose some. If you let either change you, you ain't cut out for this. When you win, you spend it, and when you lose, you get it back elsewhere. You can't linger, and you can't slow down.
I learned that the hard way.
Ten years ago, I lingered. It wasn't easy, turning my back on that whole mess, but I know a lost cause when I see one. I'd already wasted too much on trying to fix it. What little I had left to give would have just gotten me killed, and how would that have solved anything?
And then with Lulu, I slowed down.
I had to. Can't raise a child on my lifestyle. The secret is, I actually liked it. We had it good. Although I'd never admit it, I'm pretty sure I was lonely before her. Men like me, community is everything to us. We rely on the fact that we have contacts. For a long time, I had a tight little group I could rely on. Ah. Good old days.
I don't think I can go for another coffee without turning into a medical mystery, so I savour every tiny sip now. From here on, it's straight north west. I'm already in California, so it won't be that much longer.
"Now will you look at that."
I dart up. My body is twitchy from all the caffeine, but I recognize the face, if not the voice.
"If it isn't the Magnificent Twisted Fate," he chimes as he slides into my booth.
"Fuck's sake, will you drop that?" I grunt. "I don't call you Count either."
"Oh, I certainly wouldn't mind it."
Of course he wouldn't. Vladimir's just as much a self-centered dandy as I am. It's why we get along so well - that and the fact he's one of the few people who can drink me under the table. Good thing he won't do that here. I might have offered him my leftover breakfast, but he quickly orders waffles for himself.
"So what's it take to drag you out here?" I ask him. Vladimir shrugs.
"Ah, the usual," he replies. "Ran some errands down south, so now I'm heading back to Vegas."
"I take it you still work for Noxus then?"
"At times. They pay a lot better than they used to, but I mostly do my own thing."
His waffles arrive a lot faster than my bacon did, and they actually look edible. I'm contemplating a second order, but I'm not sure I can manage it.
There is a TV in the corner of the diner, and now that Vladimir is starting on his food, I take the time to notice the program. I haven't spent much thought on it lately, but Noxus Network has gone through the roof. If I'd gotten sucked in, I could have made good money, but I'm not sure media is my field. Vladimir seems to be doing well enough for himself.
When we met, we were both hanging around the Las Vegas Strip. I mostly gambled at the time; it was an effort to reclaim my former glory, but a poor one. I wasn't as into it as I had been, drained from all the bullshit behind me. Vladimir's the flashy sort. He got me into work with Noxus for a while, doing a show on performers along the strip. It was fun enough, the whole stage magician number, but Vegas isn't the kind of city you stay in. I quit when it started to bore me.
Noxus Network was tiny back then, a regional channel. From what I heard, it was mostly the management shift that marked their golden era. Never met the new guy, but you can't get around them now when you switch on TV. Mindless entertainment is still their strength, and they push the numbers up by pissing on the government. It's quite a delight to watch sometimes.
"Any of our old folk still with the channel?"
Again, Vladimir shrugs.
"Just me in Vegas. The rest felt fancy and moved to L.A., but I think some are still there. Janna, of course. Remember Janna?"
"Sure do," I laugh. It feels good to laugh again. "Hard to tell it's her with all those clothes on though."
"She's done well enough for herself," Vladimir agrees. "Rumor has it she'll make co-anchor. Unless Kat somehow gets her name back in the race, that is."
Katarina, I don't know her that well. She was with the channel before me, and only did some remote production on the program I was part of. I do remember her story, though. Everyone does. Noxus brought out the big guns when they entered reality TV, and Katarina was their ticket in.
"Haven't heard from her since that affair blew over."
"Exactly," Vladimir comments. "She was in every tabloid for humping that politician, but that's about it. Knowing Darius, he'll try to stir up something for the upcoming election, but I don't know if anyone will fall for such an old ruse again."
"Darius?" I ask, and Vladimir pulls a face.
"One of the top dog producers," he explains, "not sure you ever met him. He was already big around your time, but now that his brother is on every damn show, he pretty much runs the channel."
He makes a dismissive gesture.
"But let's not talk about my work," he suggests, "yours are usually the better stories."
"Not sure I have any good ones," I muse.
"You're pretty tuned down now that you're a father, huh?"
I study him as he works his way through the waffles. Vladimir is, surprisingly, a methodical person. When you first meet him, he seems flimsy and fleeting, but he really isn't. He's struck roots. People know him around the strip, and he takes advantage of that. For Vladimir, appearing on TV was a good deal, because he likes to be seen. I enjoyed that, too. There is something about being adored, if only for a moment, that turns a man into a fool.
It doesn't work for me to be famous. Good money, yes, but I couldn't do with such exposure. Like so many things in my life, I guess it was fun while it lasted.
"Have to be," I answer after a while. "Granted, I've got a kid who can't sit still."
"Well it's not like you were ever good at that, either. Is it true you are on the run again?"
The thing with trusting people is, you can do it safely as long as you have leverage. Vladimir is knee deep in some obscure drug stories, so I can always be relaxed around him. Plus, he isn't much of a businessman. Even if selling me out would benefit him, I doubt he could be bothered to do it. We both enjoy an extravagant lifestyle, him more so than me. Vladimir has enough going on without picking feuds.
"Some crazed ex-fed," I explain. "Caught me when I was trying to tie up things down in Texas, and she's hard to shake off."
"What does she look like?"
I shrug.
"Tall, slender. Dark hair. Pale like a wall."
Vladimir sighs and pulls my half empty coffee mug to his side of the table.
"You might want to start running then," he mutters, and I understand without turning around. This is why having a partner is good: They watch the window when you're too tired or shitfaced for it. I get out of the booth and fish a twenty dollar bill from my pocket. Vladimir has effectively claimed my coffee for himself and there is no trace of me left on the table. I'm out through the back just as the front door swings open.
I drive slowly off the parking lot and then speed like a maniac once I'm around the corner. It angers me how close I let her get. If Vladimir hadn't been there, I wouldn't have noticed until she came through the door. Why did I leave the car here? I should have parked it a couple of blocks away so it wouldn't give up my location. That's how fucked up I was from all the driving, then. I saw the diner and all I could think about was coffee. The nights are still pretty cold at this time of the year, and when you're stuck in a car seat for as long as me, you need to get some warm fluid into your system every now and then. My limbs are still stiff, but at least they feel like they're part of me again.
I've got the radio running. During journeys like this one, I switch station every couple of days. They tend to have a limited playlist and hearing the same bubbly pop song over and over again would drive anyone nuts. This isn't my car, of course. I had to ditch it somewhere in Oklahoma. Considering the pickles, I'm kind of glad this is another stolen ride. I've got a cabriolet at our place in Los Angeles, but those aren't for road trips. At least not for the ones where you sleep in your car half the time.
I was going to check into a motel, but now I can't afford it. That damn hag got too close. It sucks. I could have really used a shower. Can't have that now.
I've been chased by cops before. It comes with making a career out of cheating people. Turns out the police doesn't appreciate a good swindle, who would have thought? And if you get big enough, the feds start noticing you. Some wear it like a badge of pride. I used to. Oh, I was big. Used to run the show, me and my crew. In this game, people come and go. You stick with the same group too long, you're asking to get caught. But you find a few here and there that you always get back with.
My crew, we had a big thing every couple months. In between we'd split up. Do our own thing. Then when one of us stumbled over something good, we'd flock back together. Meet up, make plans. It was a constant circle. A couple of times we had to bail out a comrade who got caught, or get our hands dirty in some larger dispute we'd gotten caught up in. Fun times.
And in those down times between two hits, we were filthy rich. Lots of cool things to do when you've got money in these parts. The American Dream really favours those who are too high on coke to think about tomorrow. A couple of times we went down to Tijuana and partied 'till we forgot how miserable our own country was. People like me, we stand proof to why capitalism sucks. Not that I'm complaining, I had it good. Most in my crew were certifiably bad at dealing with money. Or perhaps we just threw it all out of the window right away so we had an excuse to conjure up another scheme.
I'm not going to lie, I've got an expensive taste. I was raised without money, so when I get any, I like to spend it on things that prove I'm worth something now. We're not all like that - many in my crew could get by on little. I can, too, I just don't like it. It reminds me of when I was a romni boy with nothing to my name. That's no longer me. When we moved to L.A., I had a few run ins with the local Romnichal community. They made it rather clear that I've gone gorger, and I'm fine with that. I haven't really been in touch with the culture for a long time now, and I don't see a point in going back to it.
Lulu seems to like it. I once took her to a horse show in Texas, near where I grew up. It was an event I faintly remembered from my own childhood, and oddly enough, it hadn't changed much. After a few hours, I blended in just fine. We had perfect weather for being outside, warm and just the right amount of windy. Lulu looked like a perfect little cowgirl. She had new friends within five minutes of us being there. I had a hard time keeping track of her, so I just gave up after a while. As long as she knows where we're parked, she'll find her way back.
I found her again after a few hours when she had convinced some kid twice her age to take her pony riding. That's my favourite picture of her: Sitting in a western style saddle, clutching the horn with one hand and waving at me with glee in her eyes. I've got it tucked in my purse, which is dumb, but I can't help it. She's my girl. It's all I can do to keep her close.
I wouldn't raise her in the culture I was brought up in, though. As fascinated as she was with the old wagons and the fortune tellers, that's not really what it's all about. Romni girls are pretty sheltered, and I doubt that would play well with my little wildcard. Plus single Dads aren't really a thing in Romnichal communities.
Then again, I'm not all that single anymore.
I notice the date when the news run. My last three or four days were a haphazard blur of roads and gas stations, so I forgot how time passed around me. Now it's six in the morning and the day I've been dreading is behind me. Nothing special has happened, but that's probably because I am a thousand miles west from Houston, Texas.
I did my research down south, and it's frightening how many of his old contacts are still in the area. Granted, they've had ten years to move on, but Malcolm ran with loyal packs before we met. Some won't have forgotten the favors they might owe him. I can't tell how long it'll take him to get back on the road, but from what I've heard, he's as pissed as ever.
Suddenly, I am tired. It is as if all the caffeine got washed out of my bloodstream in the two or three minutes it takes the radio to inform me over whatever petty politics are supposed to make me worry today. I feel heavy. Like all my stress and worries have materialized in the form of stones, and someone put them in the pockets of my coat.
I glance over at the empty passenger seat. Running is fun when you run together. No need to have the radio on when someone's snore is keeping you awake. Malcolm snored like a pig, so there's that. Clever me was planning to have all of this dealt with by the time he got out. I was careful, I went months in advance. All the way down to Houston. At first I didn't want to take Lulu with me, but I knew it was going to take a while, and she gets upset when I stay away for too long.
I should not have brought her.
Damn it, I should not have brought her!
I was knee-deep in tracking down old contacts in the area, scooping out the situation my darling husband would find once the prison doors opened. The coastal part of Texas was always his territory, so I'm not surprised that some of his friends were salty to see me. It didn't seem like they were holding his grudge against me, though. It was a relief to find the playing field is even, because that puts me in the advantage. He won't know where I am, and he once he finds out, he won't know how to get to me. A lot can change in ten years.
But then the lunatic caught me. I guess I stuck around for too long. I wanted to be sure - and Lulu was excited to be in a new city. She knew why we went there. There is no secrets between us. I always told her she'd have two dads one day, so of course she was giddy about this. She's a smart kid. She sees the world for what it is, and for what it could be at the same time. I've had to tell my story a lot of times, but Lulu is the only person who ever really got it.
Leaving her behind was one of the most painful things I ever had to do. There was no other choice - Kalista doesn't care to catch me alive, and I was scared she might take my daughter hostage. That doesn't seem to be her play, but at the time, I couldn't be sure. I was going to shake her off like I've done a dozen times before and then come to get Lulu, but I haven't even made it close so far.
And the worst part is, I didn't just leave her anywhere. She is right in his reach, with half a dozen shady people that could get her to him. This is not how I wanted things to pan out. Yes, she has a right to him - I set that up, so I'll own it. I felt like she deserved someone else. Like she shouldn't be punished for being dealt me, for the fact that I am apparently incapable of running a proper relationship. But what I promised her was a father, and I don't think Malcolm Graves, fresh out of prison, is ready to be that.
There's nothing I can do about it now. Not right away, at least. I feel anger boiling up in my gut, and the only way for me to release it is speeding up. The landscape rushes by me, hills growing into mountains. I don't have time. Not for sleep or showers or sugary diner coffee. I'm running as fast as I can, but I still don't have time to deal with three things at once.
First, I need to get rid of Kalista. So far I've never gone more than a week without her popping up with a gun ready. It can't go on like this. I need her out of the way, for good. She's the reason I'm even in this mess to begin with. If she hadn't shown up, I would still be with Lulu, and we'd be having adventures somewhere way out of Malcolm's reach.
Second, I need to deal with Malcolm. Hopefully that won't be quite as dramatic. He never had the finesse for a long chase like this. The stamina, certainly, but he'll be easier to evade. I just need to get past him, then I'll be faster. I have to outgun Kalista so I can outrun Malcolm. Ten years ago, Malcolm would have done the shooting for me.
The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. It's hard to admit that, were things as they've once been, it wouldn't be half as scary to have the FBI breathing down my neck. Malcolm never cared who he was shooting at. But I can't count on him for this. I need to do things my way, even if that makes it complicated.
Third and final, I have to get my daughter back. I don't care what it takes. I don't care how many bridges I burn.
She's my child, and nothing will keep me from her.
It's so hard to find a way when life is in pieces
And the taste of a kiss is so bittersweet
Sometimes it's easy to forget only for a moment
But the man who will rise up from the ashes is no one else but me
I'm standing in a waterfall
To wash the lies way
House of Cards, Scorpions
