Livin' After Midnight

  Copyright © 2020 Tom Nelson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without prior written consent of the authors, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

  Published by Best Seller Publishing®, Pasadena, CA

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  Printed in the United States of America.

  ISBN _________

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  Dedicated to my loving family.

  Without you, this never could have been written.

  Contents

  Introduction

  1997

  Part One

  1976

  1977

  1978

  1979

  1980

  1981

  Part Two

  1982

  1984

  1985

  1986

  1987

  1988

  1989

  1990

  Part Three

  1991

  1992

  1994

  1995

  1996

  1997

  Epilogue

  2009

  Introduction

  1997

  “Tell me who your fucking connection is, you little punk!” the officer screams. “Tell me!”

  Tom chuckles, which seems to aggravate the hell out of the Hollywood narcotics officer standing over him. Tom hasn’t been called little since he was a kid growing up in Savannah. He is named after his father and grandfather, so he grew up as Little Tommy. He shook that name and became Tom when he arrived in California nearly sixteen years ago.

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Tom says innocently. The narcs have kicked his front door down and are now tearing his apartment apart. The cop screaming in his face steps back and punches Tom squarely in the jaw. He sees “chrome beetles” buzzing around his head from that one!

  Tom is handcuffed to a chair, hands behind his back, in the living room of his apartment. The narcotics officer is pacing back and forth in front of him, occasionally screaming in his face, then punching him. It comes with the territory. The motherfucker can really use a mint though, Tom thinks as the other man’s breath assaults his face.

  The punch rings Tom’s bell for a moment. The cop is a huge, steroid-freak with twenty-two-inch arms, leather gloves, and a mean right. And, he just knocked the shit out of Tom! As he recovers, Tom sits quietly handcuffed to the chair. He strains against his bonds and the muscles in his body fire as he attempts to get free. Tom is a pretty big dude, having pumped iron on prison yards most of his life, but he can’t break free of the cuffs.

  The cop walks into the bedroom where a K-9 unit is ripping everything apart. They have found paraphernalia, but no drugs other than a bag of marijuana. Then, another K-9 unit shows up at the front door. Great!

  The second K-9 unit sweeps the den and finds nothing. Then, they turn their attention to the kitchen. The dog doesn’t seem to be alerting to anything and Tom thinks, Huh, what if they don’t find anything? The dog is standing on the kitchen counter with his front paws and face in the cupboard. He seems to be much more interested in a box of Frosted Flakes than finding cocaine. Suddenly, another fist on the side of Tom’s head jars him back to the reality of his current situation.

  “Tell me who you buy your fucking dope from!” The cop is back in Tom’s face. He still hasn’t found a mint, Tom notices.

  “Dude,” Tom starts, “I don’t know wh—”

  Another punch lands on Tom’s face.

  “You don’t have to do a day in jail, man,” the cop is now saying in a slightly nicer tone. “Just tell us who your connection is and we’ll let you walk away.”

  Tom, who is now ten months sober, considers what the cop is offering. The easy way out would be to tell on everyone he knows and get the fuck out of town. But he will be labeled a snitch and will always be looking over his shoulder to see if anyone has found him. He won’t really be out of the life! The truth of the matter is that he has been looking for a way out for a while now. But Tom’s occupation doesn’t allow him the luxury of giving two-weeks’ notice and quitting.

  Besides that, Tom was practically raised in jails and prisons. He has spent a large portion of his life behind bars, so his sense of loyalty to those he thinks of as friends is very strong. He’s not giving anybody up. It’s not even an option!

  After what seems like a lifetime being handcuffed to the chair, the two K-9 units are standing in the doorjamb of the front door to the apartment. The two officers handling the canine officers are chitchatting and making small talk. Hurry up and leave! Tom is saying to himself, hurry up and leave! They haven’t located Tom’s drug stash yet, which is under the kitchen sink in an old metal ammunition canister. It’s hidden in a secret compartment that Tom stumbled upon when looking for a good stash spot in the apartment.

  Suddenly, one of the dog’s ears stands up and he starts barking and going nuts! He is jumping up on his handler and trying to drag him back into the kitchen.

  Motherfucker, Tom thinks, I’m definitely busted now.

  Sure enough, the canine goes straight to the spot where Tom has stashed his drugs. Even after the alert, however, it still takes the cops a few minutes to discover the hidden compartment. The cop who has been punching Tom comes back into the den with a satisfied look on his face.

  “We got ya now, motherfucker!” the cop screams into Tom’s face. “Wanna tell me who your fucking connection is now?”

  “You know what, motherfucker?” Tom shouts back at the cop. “I am the goddamn connection!”

  “Bullshit!” The cop steps back and punches Tom in the face again. “Bullshit!” The taste of blood in his mouth reminds Tom of other crazy shit he has gotten himself into through the years. He’s tough as nails but won’t be able to take many more of these punches.

  As the cop is about to throw another fist at Tom, one of the K-9 unit officers steps forward and talks the angry narcotics officer down. They don’t want to arrest Tom looking too beat up. A little bit is okay. There’s a certain cutoff point the cops know they can get away with, and this guy is about to cross that line.

  After a few minutes of calming down, the angry cop looks at Tom and says, “You’re a third striker, you piece of shit. You’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison!” He laughs. “The rest of your fucking life!”

  Tom thinks about that for a moment. He will be facing California’s recently passed Three Strikes law, which puts career criminals like him behind bars forever.

  What a fucked-up way to get out of a job!

  Part One

  To my parents,

  who never gave up hope.

  1976

  Valentine’s Day. Three days before Tommy’s thirteenth birthday. He is in the small, cramped blue bathroom of his parents’ house. The pop of a backhand and FLASH! As the fuzziness clears, Tommy sees his mom looking at him from the hall
way outside the bathroom. Her head is down. Pop! Another backhand connects with his face and FLASH! As the blurriness subsides, we see that Tommy’s dad is connected to that hand. Tommy is bleeding.

  “You little son of a bitch. I wish you were never born!” Tommy’s father screams. Tommy’s mother yells at his dad to stop, but he turns to her and shouts, “Shut the fuck up!”

  He goes to smack Little Tommy again, but he pulls himself free and runs down the hall into his room. Tommy slams the door, dabs the blood from his nose, and realizes he has a bloody nose and a swollen lip. He is aware of the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Tommy grabs a small duffel bag, throws some clothes in, a couple of items from the top of his dresser and then . . . he stops. He sees a Valentine’s Day card. Tommy stares at it for a moment. It’s a handmade card with cutout hearts,

  “Tommy,

  Will you be my Valentine?

  Always, Lori.”

  He closes the card and puts it in the bag with the rest and zips it up.

  He is on the way out of the house, down the hallway, past the blue bathroom and through the living room. His dad is there.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?!”

  Tommy answers, “Anywhere but here!” He makes eye contact with his mom, but only for a moment. Tommy runs from the house and down the street with the sting of tears in his eyes and the taste of blood in his mouth.

  ~~~

  Tommy is hitchhiking after running away from home to escape the emotional and physical abuse he has been experiencing there. He has a busted lip and a touch of caked blood by the corner of one of his nostrils; tears are running down his face. Several cars pass as dusk settles in. Finally, a car pulls over and he can hear someone calling his name, “Tommy,” as the person steps out of the passenger side of the car. It’s a guy named Dale that he knows from school. Dale is a year older and a grade higher than Tommy. “What the hell are you doing out here?” Dale asks as he approaches Tommy. He sees Tommy’s swollen lip and instantly asks, “Hey. You all right?!”

  “I’m okay,” Tommy replies, “just need to get the hell away from here.”

  “All right,” Dale says, “come on, let’s get in the car.” It had started to rain a little bit just before the car carrying Dale stopped, and it’s beginning to get worse. Tommy follows Dale up to the car. His friend pulls the front seat forward so Tommy can hop in the back seat.

  Once he is in, he sees that Dale’s mother is driving the car. She looks at Tommy with concern and asks, “What happened, honey? Are you all right?” She turns around in her seat to get a better look at him.

  “Nothing,” Tommy mutters, embarrassed about his condition.

  “Well, something is going on for you to be out here in the rain with a bloody nose.” She goes on with a knowing tone to her voice. “Let’s get home. You want to come for dinner, Tommy?” She looks at him with compassion and love.

  “Yeah, come on over, Tommy,” says Dale.

  “Okay,” Tommy agrees. He hasn’t had dinner and is beginning to get hungry.

  ~~~

  Tommy, Dale, and his mom are at the table. They have a brief conversation about why Tommy is out hitchhiking in the rain with a bloody nose and a busted lip.

  “So, Tommy,” Dale’s mom started, “what happened today?”

  “Nothing,” Tommy mutters.

  “Well, your lip doesn’t look like ‘nothing’ happened.”

  Embarrassed, but wanting to confide in someone about the abuse that is going on at home, Tommy says, “My dad just gets a little carried away sometimes.”

  Dale, who was quiet until now, turns to his mom and asks, “Can he stay with us, Mom?” He looks from his mom to Tommy and back and adds, “He can share my room.”

  “He can stay for the night,” she says. “Long enough for his lip to stop swelling and for things to cool off some at home.” She smiles at her son and Tommy as they clean their plates and get up from the table. The two boys go to Dale’s room. Dale’s mother secretly calls Tommy’s mom to let her know that he is safe.

  ~~~

  Tommy is leaving junior high school with Dale. The two boys head across the street to where the bus will pick them up. Dale’s mother had given in and let Tommy stay with them for another night. As they are waiting for the bus, a man walks up wearing a badge on his hip.

  “Are you Tommy?” he asks.

  Tommy looks at him with suspicion.

  “I know you are because I’ve seen your photo and a photo of your friend.” He looks back and forth at the kids, who are standing there speechless. “You’re gonna have to come with me, Tommy,” the man says and pulls a pair of handcuffs from the rear of his waistband. “Your parents reported you as a runaway, and it’s my job to pick you up.”

  Tommy takes a quick look around as he considers running.

  “Don’t even think about it! I’m pretty fast!” the man with the handcuffs says. “Just hold your hands out in front of you. I don’t think I need to cuff you behind your back, do I?”

  Tommy extends both hands forward with his wrists close together, and the man puts the cuffs on. The cop introduces himself by name and gives Tommy his Miranda warning as he escorts him to a police car.

  ~~~

  Tommy is led into a jail cell. A huge steel door cuts him off from the world. There are three bunk beds in the cell, but Tommy is alone. He sits on one of the lower beds with his face in his hands and wonders how all of this has happened.

  The sound of keys jangling and turning the lock of the heavy steel door draws Tommy’s attention.

  The door opens.

  “Come with me, Tommy,” says the man who had picked him up near the school. He is a short, burly man with a head full of black hair and a clean-shaven face. Although he is a cop, he seems like a very friendly man.

  Tommy stands and heads toward the door. The officer closes the cell door and motions for Tommy to head down a hallway. He gets to the end of the hall, and there is a door leading outside. The man opens the door for Tommy and he sees what was once a parking lot is now home to a couple of small trailers. It’s surrounded by a tall fence topped with razor wire. The cop ushers Tommy toward a trailer with black letters on the door that read: Narcotics.

  “We’re going in here so I can interview you,” the man says as they enter the small building. It contains two rooms, one of which contains a desk piled high with overflowing files, a couple of chairs, and several file cabinets. Tommy can’t see into the other room.

  Tommy takes a seat in one of the chairs in front of the desk and the man shuts the door and heads behind the desk. He sits down and scoots the chair forward so he is close enough to the desk to prop his elbows on it.

  “My name is Detective Paul Lagrew,” he begins, “and I picked you up today because your parents reported you as a runaway. What do you have to say about that?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” Tommy mutters, looking down at his lap.

  “Well, I’d like to hear your side of it—” His words are interrupted by a siren blaring in the main jail building they had just exited. “Shit!” he says as he stands up quickly. “Stay right here. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Officer Lagrew takes off out the door toward the rear entrance to the jail.

  A siren. Hmmm. Must be an emergency of some kind taking place inside the jail.

  Tommy looks around the room as he sits waiting for the officer to return. He notices that the file cabinets are labeled with the portion of the alphabet corresponding to the names on the files they contain. Hmmm. Tommy stands up and goes to one of the cabinets and tries the drawer. It opens right up. Just files. He opens the second drawer and, once again, just files. He gets to the third drawer and—HELLO—there are several bags of marijuana. He picks them up and checks them out. Pretty good shit! He stuffs the largest of the bags down the front of his pants.

  He moves on to the next drawer and—HELLO AGAIN—he finds several small sandwich bags containing pills. He quickly picks up a couple of them and
, despite not knowing what they are, stuffs them inside his pants alongside the weed.

  No sooner than he sits back down, the door to the trailer opens up and there is Officer Lagrew, panting a little.

  “Come with me, Tommy,” he says and gestures for Tommy to come with him. “I’m going to put you back in your cell for a while. I’ll have to interview you later.” He ushers Tommy up the few steps into the hallway of the jail. Tommy walks ahead of the cop with his hands in front of him to block anyone’s view of the front of his pants. He is hoping no one notices the extremely large bulge there! They get to the cell where Tommy is being held, the officer opens the door and Tommy walks inside.

  “I’ll be back in a little while.”

  And the cell door closes.

  Tommy walks into the cell and takes the weed and pills from his pants and lays them on the bed. He looks around. Nowhere to hide anything in here. He puts the drugs inside his pillowcase and lays down to rest for a minute.

  “Hey,” comes a sweet female voice from the cell next door. “You got any cigarettes?”

  “No,” Tommy replies as he stands and moves closer to the bars. There is a hallway back here too, but it’s used for officers to perform the count and for trustees to feed the inmates their three meals per day.

  “You got any money to buy cigarettes?” comes the voice again, sultrier this time.

  “No,” Tommy says again. “But I’ve got a little something else to smoke,” he continues.

  “Really?!” The disembodied female voice asks incredulously. “You wanna share some?”

  “Yeah, let me get settled in here,” Tommy says and sits back down on the bed. He pulls the bag of weed from the pillowcase, opens it, and removes a small bud to give to his new neighbor. “Here,” he says and holds his hand out through the bars. The once nicely manicured hand of a woman comes out to accept the gift. The nails are slightly chipped and the polish is coming off, but they had been done well at some point in the past.

  “Thanks, sweetie!” she says, and Tommy can hear the sounds of muffled voices of the other women in the cell with her. They’re excited.