The Voice Inside

11

Rudy Cutter enjoyed his first beer as a free man, and it went straight to his head. He and his brother, Phil, sat at a corner table squirreled away in a Mission District bar, where he could watch the crowd. It was his old neighborhood, his old hangout. Twenty-somethings filled the floor shoulder to shoulder and spilled out into the street. The music was loud, the drinkers were loud, and the bar glowed under a dozen television screens mounted high on the walls. The Warriors were playing the Bucks.

To the people who didn’t know him, Rudy was anonymous. He wanted it that way. He wore a white Warriors cap low on his forehead and sunglasses despite the darkness of the bar. Even so, he knew he was being watched. Two men at a nearby table kept looking over their shoulders at him. Two more near the door filmed him surreptitiously from their phones.

“Cops,” he murmured to his brother.

Phil’s gaze flicked casually around the bar. “They’re itching for any excuse to bust you again.”

“Yeah, they’ll send somebody over to start a fight soon so they can take me in. Count on it.”

He turned his attention back to his beer. Phil was already on his second.

Rudy’s brother was only a year younger, but Phil had gone downhill during the time Rudy had spent inside and was so skinny now that his bones showed through his skin. Phil’s hair was black but thinning. He drank hard and smoked hard, and it showed in his sallow, sunken face. He had a rumbling voice and raspy cough. He was gruff with everyone, a curmudgeon who’d never married. They’d lived together for a long time. After Hope. After Wren. It had been a bland existence for both of them, two lifetimes whittled away watching sports and drinking in places like this.

“Listen, about the house,” Phil said. “Neighbors aren’t crazy about all the police and reporters hanging around.”

Rudy rubbed his chin. He needed a shave, and he needed a shower. “You want me to stay away?”

“Just keep a low profile when you come by. Wait until dark. Use the back.”

“Okay.”

His brother lowered his voice. “Are you going to need an alibi for anything?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“I got some money for you,” Phil added. “A couple thousand bucks. That should buy you time.”

“Where’d you get it?” Rudy asked.

“A few small jobs.” Phil waggled his fingers. He’d always been good with locks. He’d been caught a few times, but the cash-strapped California jails didn’t have room for low-level thieves.

Rudy took another casual swig from his beer. “Did you a find a guy for the switch tonight?”

“Yeah, he’s sitting at the end of the bar.”

Rudy followed Phil’s glance and spotted a man nursing a whiskey rocks by himself. He was at least ten years younger than Rudy, but they could make it work. Their build was similar. The man wore sunglasses, a loose 49ers jersey, and tan corduroys. A navy knit cap covered his forehead and ears.

“What did you tell him?” Rudy asked.

“Nothing. For fifty bucks, he didn’t ask questions. I text him, we’re good to go.”

“Okay,” Rudy said. “I’ll call you as soon as I can. You have the burner phones?”

“You bet. So what are you going to do, Rudy?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Hey, I never interfere, but you’re out, man. That’s huge. Maybe you should think about getting out of town. San Francisco is too hot right now. Everyone’s keeping an eye out for you. You could head to LA or Reno or someplace like that. You could start over. Or at least lay low for a while.”

“I’ve got things to do. Now text your friend, and let’s go.”

His brother whipped off a quick text on his phone. Out of the corner of his eye, Rudy saw the man at the bar grab his phone and make an awkward, obvious survey of the crowded room. Fortunately, no one saw him; no one cared. The man climbed off the bar stool and pushed through the crowd toward the narrow hallway leading to the men’s restroom.

Rudy waited until the man was gone, and then he got out of the chair. A dozen eyes in the bar followed him as he got up. He pretended not to notice. He signaled the bartender with two fingers. Two more beers over here.

Then he headed for the restroom.

The door was closed, but he rapped his knuckles on the wood, and the man from the bar opened it a crack and looked outside. Rudy pushed past him into the tiny room and locked the door behind them. There wasn’t much space for the two of them inside. A single dim lightbulb overhead cast shadows. The sink was dirty and wet, and the toilet stank.

“Get undressed,” Rudy said. “Fast.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Without waiting for the other man, Rudy yanked off his own suit coat and quickly stripped off his tie and unbuttoned his dress shirt. He kicked off his shoes, undid his belt, unzipped his pants, and stood in the bathroom in nothing but his underwear and socks. He shoved the man’s shoulder hard.

“Move,” he said.

The other man sprang into action. He pulled off his 49ers jersey, and Rudy slipped it on. Same with the man’s corduroys. They switched sunglasses, and Rudy took the man’s knit cap and handed over his own Warriors hat. The man squeezed into Rudy’s suit, and when he struggled with the tie, Rudy reached out and did the knot and shoved it up tightly against the man’s throat.

“Go straight back to the table with my brother,” Rudy told him. “Sit down, and don’t let anyone get a good look at your face. Drink the beer. Talk to him like you’re best friends, okay?”

The man looked nervous. “I don’t know about this.”

“You only need to pull it off for five minutes,” Rudy told him. “Phil will give you an extra twenty bucks if this works.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Now get out of here,” Rudy said.

He unlocked the bathroom door and shoved the man through the narrow opening, then locked the door again and waited. He counted off ninety seconds. Enough time for the man to make it back to their table and for the cops and reporters to notice the suit, the Warriors cap, and the sunglasses. Not enough time to look carefully and realize they were being conned.

Rudy opened the door. No one else was waiting to get into the bathroom. He saw the standing-room-only bar crowd ahead of him at the end of the corridor. Something happened in the basketball game; a cheer filled the room. Everyone was distracted. He pushed casually through the throng and ignored the faces, and they ignored him. Beyond the tables, he saw the exit door, illuminated by a neon sign. He didn’t look at his brother, and he hoped Phil was smart enough not to look his way.

No one saw him. No one recognized him.

He crossed the bar floor and pushed through the door into the cold, drizzly night. Across the street, halfway down the block, cops watched from inside a sedan. He ignored them and walked the other way. At the corner, he turned onto Guerrero and marched uphill with his head down and his hands in his pockets. He was in no hurry. He listened for the noise of cars turning to lay chase behind him.

None did.

At the next intersection, he ran. He sprinted through darkened streets and lost himself in the neighborhood. Back at the bar, they’d probably figured out their mistake by now, but they were too late to find him. He was already gone.

He slowed to a walk and found a deserted park where he could sit and enjoy the San Francisco air. But not for long.

Someone was waiting for him.

She just didn’t know it yet.