You Do What You Have To - 11

 

Micky had been at the motel for three days, only leaving twice—once for his initial foray to get clothes, a phone, and something to eat. The second time he'd gone out early in the morning, to a tiny mom-and-pop grocery store two blocks from the motel, to buy what he needed to make sandwiches. Starvation was not in his game plan if he could help it, now that he felt it was sort of safe to leave during the day—if he was very careful.

 

He devoutly wished he'd picked up a couple of books at the thrift shop while he was there. There's nothing but shit and crime shows on TV and for damned sure, I'm not watching a CSI or Law & Order. I used to think they were fun. Now all they do is scare the hell out of me.

 

By the fourth morning, he was ready to climb the walls.    

 

"Screw this," he muttered, beginning to put the clothes he'd bought into the backpack. "Better to be shot than end up in the insane asylum because I've gone bat-shit crazy."

 

Besides, I need money, and that's not happening without my credit card.

 

He never carried the card with him for the simple reason that if he did, he used it. So it stayed in his apartment, carefully concealed in one of his books. The apartment building was nice enough, but that didn't mean he trusted the manager not to come into his place when he wasn't there to poke around. He smiled wryly. Guess I was already paranoid long before all this came down.

 

He wore one of the new-old jeans, slightly faded at the knees, and a T-shirt with the logo of a band he only vaguely knew. That, by itself, made him look very different from what he had when he'd met Gary. Add the hoodie—which he did—and even his few friends would have had to take a second look to be certain it was him.

 

Slinging the pack over his shoulders, he stuck Gary's wallet in his pocket—along with his keys and the one to the motel room. He still had three days left of the week he'd paid for and was unwilling to check out yet—just in case.

 

Trying to calm his racing pulse, Micky left the room, locking the door behind him. Five minutes later, give or take, he was standing in a bus shelter on Colfax. He kept his head down, hoping the hoodie shadowed his face enough so he wouldn't be recognized. If the guy is around, but he isn't. He'd have shot me already, at the motel, if he was. That had been Micky's mantra for the last few days. He was still alive, therefore the guy hadn't found him.

 

So far, anyway, if he's not waiting at my apartment, because he does know where it is if he has my wallet

 

The bus pulled up and Micky hopped on, putting money in the fare box and asking for a transfer. Then he found a seat at the back, watching through the window as the bus took off.

 

I wish I knew if Gary is still alive and where to find him. He could tell me what's going on and—well, maybe—keep me safe.