her head like she’s trying to snap out of it.
“Oh, Brendan! What you do to me!”
I slap her ass on the way out.
Walking to the T.V. I flop down on the couch and grab the remote. CNN jumps on the screen, having been the last station I watched. Out of habit, I stare at the images of the terrorist group Isis flashing before me. It takes me a second to remember our deal, but as soon as I do, I change the channel, stopping at The Christmas Story, just as the kid sticks his tongue to the frozen pole, his schoolmates eagerly watching.
“I wonder if Joe is keeping up his end of the bargain,” I mutter, smiling as the kid finds out he’s stuck like that. Grabbing my phone out of my pocket, I text him:
Watching the news?
No. You?
Christmas Story.
Me too. Hilarious stuff. Thanks for dinner.
Anytime.
Setting the phone down on the coffee table, my glance lands on our tree, naked and waiting for some love. “Don’t worry, buddy. You’ll get yours.”
Chapter Twenty
Tommy
Who knew Lazarus was a beefcake?
I guess the best of us criminals can play a role. Isn’t that what lying is, to a certain extent? Pretending to be something you’re not? Know something you don’t? So I don’t know why I’m surprised when old Lazarus stands up straight, his crotchety back no longer twisted by age as he motions to one of the commercial dryers. “Help me with this,” he says with a voice stronger than I’ve heard him use.
After my double take on his dramatic change, I stroll to the machine and watch as he takes one end, waiting for me to take the other. We lift the beast, both of us grunting, and slide it three feet out into the room, away from the other dryers.
“Well I’ll be,” I huff, staring over at the slender hole. It’s going to be a tough squeeze for me, but like I care? With my pulse hammering in my head, I glance to him. “How’re you going to move the dryer back?”
Without flinching, he says, “Easier to push than to pull. You can use your legs.”
“Right. Well, here goes.” Squeezing back behind the dryer, I stare down at the hole, kneeling to lower myself in. “Hey? Why don’t you come with me?”
He shrugs. “I’ve been here fifty-three years. This is my home.”
I stare at him, taking the weight of that in. “Right. Well, suit yourself.” I’m waist deep when I look at him again. “Why don’t the blondes leave?”
“They love Rita. Or didn’t you notice? Now stop procrastinating. And don’t ask me about Rita. My loyalties aren’t with you.”
My eyebrows raise. Without another word, I squish myself down into the hole, maneuvering my wide shoulders until I fall with a thud on hard dirt. A larger space around four feet wide has been gutted at this point in the hole, enough for me to be able to bend down and start the long crawl out of here.
I didn’t bother to ask how many hundred yards it would be, but right now, I’d crawl all the way to hell if it got me out of the one I was just in. For maybe an hour, maybe more, I crawl in pitch-blackness. Twice rats run over my body, but I keep going. I’m sure there are spiders down here, too. And centipedes. But nothing is worse than Antonio’s gang owning my balls for the rest of my life. Or The Gimp Patrol making me their little bitch. So, I keep going, hoping that on the other end, no one is waiting for me in uniform.
When finally I emerge on the far side of the 580 freeway, with San Quentin across from it looming like a bad dream I just woke up from, I gasp for fresh air, looking around the meticulously cut out insides of a large shrub. With little green leaves all around me, and some dead ones fallen on the earth near my face, I start to laugh. A portion of the hedge is false, held together on the inside by thin, green garbage bag ties. I unfasten two and let myself out through the fauna door, digging my arm back in to tie it closed again, leaving it the way I found it.
Rising up to stand, I strip off my prison blues and ball them up in my hand, just wearing my tighty-whities as I run for the car Rita told me would be here. The key’s in the ignition,