Page 59 of All The Things: The Last Thing He Needs Omnibus

Tommy took his ID out of his wallet and slid it on the counter in front of the officer.

“Same last name?”

“Yes, sir. There’s seven of them. Oldest one is Colleen O’Shea.”

The cop hit a few more keys and said, “They were placed tonight for emergency housing. It can take up to seventy-two hours for them to get into a permanent placement.” He paused and wrote a few things down on a piece of paper and then went on. “This is their case number. Monday morning you can go down to the Department of Family and Children Services and try to get more information.”

Tommy wanted to scream at him. They weren’t a case number, they were his kids. He balled up the piece of paper and shoved it in his pocket.

“Thanks for all your help.” Tommy didn’t try to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

The sky was pearly gray by the time Tommy made it farther into downtown. He didn’t know how long he’d been walking, but he could barely feel his feet anymore. At some point in the night, he’d ducked into a convenience store to warm up and bought himself a pack of cigarettes. They were already half gone. It was the first time in his life he’d spent money on them, and he felt like an idiot for it.

Even though he didn’t have any conscious plan in his head, didn’t have anywhere in particular to go, he found himself following his father’s usual track. He knew most of the alleys and flophouses his old man hid out in, or, more accurately, passed out in. By the time the sun was coming up, Tommy was standing under an overpass, warming his hands by the fire in a metal barrel and asking for his father by name.

When they all said they hadn’t seen Cal in weeks, Tommy stayed there anyway. He’d reached the end of the line. There was nowhere else to look, nowhere else he could go. He stared into the sparks and dying embers in the can and saw his house there in the glowing pile of paper and wood.

He knew he could go to Bobby. He could curl up in Bobby’s bed and let Bobby try to comfort him. Let Bobby try to help him. He figured, before this was all over, it could come down to relying on Bobby in a way he’d never let himself before. Though, even with Bobby’s help and Judy backing them up, he wasn’t sure what kind of hoops they’d have to jump through to even get a visit with the kids, let alone get custody. Tommy figured he owed Bobby some serious apologies for the way he’d left, too, but at the moment, he couldn’t face any of it.

He left the warmth of the makeshift camp at the underpass and let his feet carry him back toward town. His strides ate up the few miles between there and the pub, and Tommy landed on Smarty’s doorstep right as they were opening up for the morning.

Chapter Thirteen

“Tommy?”

He could hear Gene’s voice, but it was far away, fuzzy. Tommy remembered where he was—propped up on a stool at the pub. He’d been there all day, buying drinks on a tab he’d have to cover later. He’d never been really, truly drunk before. He was starting to understand the appeal.

“Tommy,” Gene tried again. Tommy finally blinked his eyes open and looked at his boss. “Bart told me you’ve been here since we opened.”

He didn’t hear any judgment behind the words. As bleary-eyed as Tommy was, he caught the concern etched over Gene’s face.

“Time is it?” he asked, the words barely slurring as he stretched and reached for his glass mug. He drained the dregs of the last beer he’d had before he passed out.

Gene stood behind the bar, wiping an empty pint glass. “After two,” he said, placing it on the shelf.

Tommy glanced around. All the chairs were already tipped up, the floors swept, tables wiped down. It was well after closing.

“Shawna covered your shift. You might wanna thank her later.”

Tommy ran his hand over his face as if he could wipe away his shame and his heartache as he got to his feet. He staggered slightly and had to catch himself on the bar.

“Christ,” he muttered, feeling foolish. “Forgot I had to work tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Gene took his apron off and set it down behind the bar. “I’ve got ya covered all week. Just until things are settled.”

He paused, and it looked to Tommy like he wanted to ask a few questions but didn’t want to pry either. Apparently, he decided to pry.

“I heard the damage was bad,” Gene started slowly, clearing his throat before going on. “I’m real sorry about Cheryl. I know she wasn’t exactly….” How could anyone finish that sentence? “You got a place to stay?”

Tommy didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about where he was going to stay or how he got where he was. He didn’t want to think about a funeral for a drug-addicted prostitute or a ruined house or where he might dig up his father. Or if the old man was dead in a gutter somewhere. He didn’t want to think about his brothers and sisters in foster care, scattered all over hell and back in emergency placements. He didn’t want to think about the group home Mike would probably end up in or worry about what kind of perverts had his kids.

And he especially didn’t want to think about Bobby and the long list of things he needed to ask forgiveness for. He was sobering up, and all he wanted to think about was getting his hands on a bottle so he could blot it all out again. It was the only thing he might have any goddamn control over, and—more than the booze and the void it offered—that was what he wanted the most. He wanted something he could control, something he could bend to his will, something he didn’t have to fight with.

He had to think hard before he could answer because he was already losing track of the conversation. “Nah,” he said finally, taking a deep breath. “I can probably stay at Farah’s or Kelly’s place, but….”

He thought about how late it was, that he’d lost an entire day here, and what he looked like, what he probably smelled like. “Can I crash on the couch in the office?”

Tommy hated knowing it had come to that. He was finally in a position where he had to beg a night on a crappy sofa just so he could clear his head.

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