The next thing that saved me thus far was the fact that the picture of me was one of hers. It was from a few years ago, taken at a friend’s picnic. My hair was surfer shaggy and dark brown, no glasses. At that I quickly took my contacts out, flicking them out the GTO’s window and slipped my glasses back on. This wasn’t a Clark Kent thing. The fact that the article stated I had black hair now and I was covered in tattoos was enough to bust me. Most people would be looking at that picture of me, smiling, dimples, younger, so maybe they wouldn’t notice. They’d be looking for him, not clean-cut nerd, not until they got really close and hopefully by then I’d be gone and it would be a case of them shaking their heads in my wake saying, “nah, it couldn’t be.”
Of course, other than those two little glints of luck, I was screwed. My name, Camden McQueen was out there, in the paper. And perhaps I was even on the news, being pumped into the minds of every citizen of this fair fucking country.
Camden McQueen. Wife-beater. Thief. The worst of the worst.
My mind reeled back to seeing Audrey the other day. She would have put two and two together really fast. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was calling the news now to tell them about her escape from Camden McQueen, the bad, bad man who tattooed asses and kidnapped wives and children.
As if on cue, my phone rang. I looked at the display and sucked in my breath. It wasn’t Audrey. It was my father.
He knew.
My father knew I was a wanted criminal. That could be the only reason he was calling.
I expected to feel ashamed or guilty or something along those lines. But for some sick and twisted reason, I felt defiant. Like I’d actually committed it and I did it to prove a point. I secretly felt that way during the whole money laundering operation, like somehow I was sticking it to the jackass. Now, I wasn’t just sticking it, I was driving in a stake like the biggest fuck you.
Too bad none of it was true.
Too bad I knew my father would not accept this without a fight. And that was something I couldn’t even let myself think about, not at this stage.
So, obviously I didn’t answer it. I just watched it ring and ring and ring again. Then I put it on silent and continued cruising up the coast until the idyllic shores of Pismo Beach appeared.
Gus’s house was a little ways from the beach, down a winding road that barely had room to fit one car. It was a lush and strangely idyllic area, as pretty as I thought it would be and not really fitting for the man I was about to meet.
His house was small, the size of a cottage, but well-kept. The garden in the front was overgrown but still tidy, like organized chaos. It was like he could bully the plants into behaving even though he probably weeded the place once a year. My rock garden was easy to maintain but it didn’t have the same kind of beauty. I think I’d been in the desert for too long.
I rapped on the door and could hear a shuffling on the other side. I knew he was peering through the peephole which was one step better than I thought he’d do. After I’d picked up the newspaper I was so damn certain that he’d pull out of the whole deal. I think he thought I wanted Connor’s social security numbers and that alone was aiding and abetting a known felon.
In fact, the longer I stood there on his steps, a young girl on a pink bike peddling cheerily past his slat-wood fence, the more I thought about what a mistake this was. This was an ex-cop. I was a fugitive. I was a lovesick idiot and a sitting duck.
Before I could change my mind and head back to the car, the door opened a crack and I got a glimpse of a wary eye, grey beard, heavy jowls.
“Camden McQueen?” he sounded even gruffer in person.
What was the use in lying now?
I nodded. “Hello, Gus.”
He grunted and then opened the door. “You better get in here before someone sees you.”
I swallowed and walked in. The carpeting underfoot was worn but soft, the house smelled like a cabin. It was dark. The TV was playing in the background, a movie from the 1940’s. I picked out Peter Lorre’s voice though it wasn’t Casablanca.
He shut the door behind him and set about locking the many deadbolts he had before finally sliding the chain across.
“Tough neighborhood?” I asked. “I saw a girl on a My Little Pony bike outside, she looked kind of nasty.”
He didn’t laugh. In fact he looked the opposite of amused. He leaned back against the door and folded his arms across his wide chest, his beer gut sticking out to infinity. His gaze leveled me.
“Something tells me this isn’t the time to be making jokes,” he said. “Now, I don’t know if you realize it or not, but I’m not here to be your friend. I’m not here to give you advice. I’m here to give you what you need because I made a promise to Ellie once and it seems by you being here she’s calling in on that promise. I’ll help you if you understand that I’m not doing it to be nice. I’m not doing it to be good. I’ve got my own life that I’ve sliced out for myself here and if I can avoid putting it through the burner, I will.”
I was biting my own lip without knowing it. He was waiting for me to say something.
“I appreciate that, Gus,” was the best I could come up with. Talking to him was a bit like talking to my dad and though I’d like to think Gus wouldn’t suddenly slap me in the face or call me a faggot, there was always the chance that he would. He was unpredictable and completely detached and that combination was a bit frightening.