Someone Else

Chapter 28 (Tommy)

The Silver Town Diner sat quietly on its perch at the top of Main Street under a blanket of dark clouds that hung low over the mountains, suffocating the stars. The moonless night, combined with the layer of newly fallen snow, muffled the sounds of traffic, sirens, and airplanes. It felt as though the town was holding its collective breath.

"It's so quiet, I don't how anyone can think around here," Marcus said, as Tommy

angled the car into the parking lot behind the restaurant. A faint light emanating from the kitchen allowed him to see—with some fascination—that the chairs had been neatly stacked on the tables, as though someone had mopped before leaving. I never would have guessed they mopped this place.

"Man, I don't feel good about breaking in," Tommy muttered. "I'm pretty much a regular here."

"What's that got to do with the price of rice in China?"

"I'm no good at this stuff," Tommy whined. "I'm not, how do you say it? Seasoned at breaking the law."

"You're not a seasoned law breaker?" Marcus said in a mockingly snooty tone, before bellowing angrily, "You're a fucking drug dealer!"

Tommy rolled the claim through his head. In all his time selling drugs for Ben, he had never considered himself to be a bad guy. He certainly didn't think of himself as a criminal. "I guess," he countered weakly. "But I only hook up some of the crew guys and the occasional actor. You know, like a friend would."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night." Marcus threw back his head and laughed, genuine and loud in the quiet parking lot. "It's just like how I provide a few friendly love taps to my homies." He slapped the gun against his palm twice.

Tommy sensed the dangerous side of Marcus remained coiled and ready to spring, but the enforcer had lost much of his bluster since he left the presence of the larger WCF thug. "So you're from L.A.?"

"Born and raised," Marcus responded proudly. "South Central."

"Rough neighborhood?" Tommy inquired, Ice Cube lyrics running through his mind.

"We hard," Marcus answered with bravado. "But we ain't got to deal with this snowpocalypse shit like you guys."

"Not a fan of the snow, huh?"

"It's cold, wet, and fucking miserable."

"Oh, come on!" Tommy loved Utah's changing seasons. "When it falls in big, wet flakes that you can catch on your tongue—makes you feel like a kid again."

"It's too damn cold." Nothing would sway Marcus' opinion.

"You get used to the cold part," Tommy replied, realizing that the temperature inside the truck had dipped dramatically in the few minutes they had been sitting with the engine off.

Marcus shook his head in denial. Still cradling Moose's 9-mil, the Californian brought his hands up to his lips and blew on them, his breath billowing up in a cloud, an exclamation point on his argument. "I wouldn't."

Tommy pivoted away from the gun. "It's all about your mindset. And you make sure to wear the right stuff...like that sweater you got on." He grinned, as though he had landed a killer punch line, causing Marcus to glare down at the stripes running along his chest.

"Then winter's not so bad," Tommy continued. "Plus, it makes you appreciate the other seasons. I'm telling you, summers in Park City are the best! It's warm. You got people out and about...mountain biking, going on hikes, and there's a different street festival every week. It's awesome!"

"You know what summer in Park City sounds like?" Marcus countered. "Every damn day in Los Angeles!" He flashed a brilliant smile and continued, "You got the sunshine, the warmth, the women—whooeee...all without six months of shivering your ass off." Tommy could never outpride Marcus when it came to repping his hood.

As they talked, Marcus scanned the roofline of the diner, searching for cameras. "They got no cameras, so a brick through the window will be the quickest way in." With one last glance at the deserted street, the enforcer gripped the handle on the car door and said, "Let's do this shit."

"Listen," Tommy began with reticence, not moving from his seat. "I just remembered something else." The impending betrayal tasted bitter on his tongue, knowing the words would hurt Jeff, probably doom the poor bastard, but he couldn't think of another way out. Giving up Jeff has got to be more honorable than handing over Cleo, right? The fact that spilling his guts would save him from a potential breaking and entering charge was beside the point. "I think I know the name of the guy who looks like Ben," Tommy continued, his voice barely above a whisper. The thick curtain of clouds seemed to sink lower in the sky, making him feel claustrophobic. He had to spill or suffocate, but he struggled to continue, because he knew that saying Jeff's name equated to pulling the trigger.

"Yeah?" Marcus asked, his voice rising slightly. "It just came to you?"

Tommy started to answer, but Marcus exploded in anger, reaching out and pressing his fingers into to the raw stump where Tommy's thumb had been. He screamed in pain and tried to shake his hand free. "What the F, man!"

"The name?" Marcus ordered.

"I was just about to tell you!"

Marcus responded by digging his fingers in deeper into the raw stump.

"It's Jeff." Tommy eeked out through clenched teeth, feeling as though he might pass out from the pain. "The guy's name is Jeff Rydell."