Read Online Trial Junkies (A Thriller) by Robert Gregory Browne - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Gregory Browne
Ads: Link
relocating to Chicago next year and I'm thinking about buying this house. I heard the best way to get to know a neighborhood is to park your car at different times of the day and just observe for a while."
"Yeah? Well, I hope the asking price is reasonable, because this place is a dump. Plus you got the L tracks right overhead. That can't be pleasant."
"Beats Australia," Hutch said.
"Oh? How's that?"
"No kangaroos."
The driver chuckled and turned back around, then reached for his rear view mirror and adjusted it slightly, to get a better view of his passenger.
Hutch had seen that look a hundred times before, the guy thinking he knows you from somewhere but he's unable to place you.
Sooner or later it would come to him, but Hutch hoped the cab ride would be over before that happened.
You'd think that most actors would be thrilled to be recognized, but that feeling wears off pretty fast. Especially when you've had your dinner at your favorite restaurant interrupted by an overenthusiastic fan who gets upset when you politely ask her for a little privacy.
She can't understand why you don't want to sign her napkin or her menu or the dimple above her right ass cheek. She's your biggest fan and she's spent a lot of money on you. Bought all your movies. Downloaded your TV shows off the Internet.
After a while you stop being polite. Or you do what the megastars do—stay home most of the time. Eat in and invite your family and friends over.
For the big names it isn't just a matter of vague recognition. Everybody and his brother knows exactly who you are.
A few years back, Hutch had been on the threshold of that kind of stardom but never quite got there—unless you counted all the tabloid fodder. Now he was happy to be a has-been, an also-ran, a burn-out. The guy who reminds them of somebody they once knew. Maybe a distant cousin or something. A former co-worker they used to see in the lunch room.
Most encounters he had with the public these days were friendly—like the one with the deputy at the courthouse. But every time he was recognized by someone, his gut immediately tightened. You never knew where it would lead. And you could never be sure if you were dealing with a genuine member of the public, a psycho, or some tabloid jerk trying to suck you dry.
Hutch checked his cell phone. It was closing in on seven o'clock and he figured he'd already given this a lot more time than it deserved.
He had no idea what Ronnie wanted to show him, and he didn't much care anymore. His curiosity had waned.
He was about to tell the driver to take him home, when a Chevy sedan rolled up the street and pulled into the Baldacci driveway. The car, a ten year old Malibu, was much like the exterior of the house—worn and in need of some serious body work. As it came to a stop, the engine rattled and died, and the driver's door creaked open.
A weary-looking woman of about fifty-five—whose dyed brown hair failed to disguise her age—climbed out, slung a purse strap over her shoulder, then reached back inside, saying, "Come on. Let's go get some supper."
And all at once Hutch realized why he was here.
He watched as a boy of about five grabbed hold of her hand and climbed out after her. A gangly, tow-headed kid who couldn't have been more than three feet tall, and was the spitting image of his grandmother.
And of his mother—Ronnie.
"Can we have mac and cheese?" the boy asked.
"You gonna help me make it?"
He smiled. "Uh-huh. But I want bow ties instead of curly cues."
"You got it, sweetie. Bow ties it is."
She was a clever one, Ronnie. Wanting Hutch to see the boy first hand. Wanting to slam the message home with a clear and convincing visual.
This is why , she was telling him. This was why she could never hurt anyone. Because this child, this boy, was her life. And to do anything to destroy that life—and the boy's along with it—would not only be foolhardy, but unconscionable.
Ronnie had made no mention of being a mother,
"Yeah? Well, I hope the asking price is reasonable, because this place is a dump. Plus you got the L tracks right overhead. That can't be pleasant."
"Beats Australia," Hutch said.
"Oh? How's that?"
"No kangaroos."
The driver chuckled and turned back around, then reached for his rear view mirror and adjusted it slightly, to get a better view of his passenger.
Hutch had seen that look a hundred times before, the guy thinking he knows you from somewhere but he's unable to place you.
Sooner or later it would come to him, but Hutch hoped the cab ride would be over before that happened.
You'd think that most actors would be thrilled to be recognized, but that feeling wears off pretty fast. Especially when you've had your dinner at your favorite restaurant interrupted by an overenthusiastic fan who gets upset when you politely ask her for a little privacy.
She can't understand why you don't want to sign her napkin or her menu or the dimple above her right ass cheek. She's your biggest fan and she's spent a lot of money on you. Bought all your movies. Downloaded your TV shows off the Internet.
After a while you stop being polite. Or you do what the megastars do—stay home most of the time. Eat in and invite your family and friends over.
For the big names it isn't just a matter of vague recognition. Everybody and his brother knows exactly who you are.
A few years back, Hutch had been on the threshold of that kind of stardom but never quite got there—unless you counted all the tabloid fodder. Now he was happy to be a has-been, an also-ran, a burn-out. The guy who reminds them of somebody they once knew. Maybe a distant cousin or something. A former co-worker they used to see in the lunch room.
Most encounters he had with the public these days were friendly—like the one with the deputy at the courthouse. But every time he was recognized by someone, his gut immediately tightened. You never knew where it would lead. And you could never be sure if you were dealing with a genuine member of the public, a psycho, or some tabloid jerk trying to suck you dry.
Hutch checked his cell phone. It was closing in on seven o'clock and he figured he'd already given this a lot more time than it deserved.
He had no idea what Ronnie wanted to show him, and he didn't much care anymore. His curiosity had waned.
He was about to tell the driver to take him home, when a Chevy sedan rolled up the street and pulled into the Baldacci driveway. The car, a ten year old Malibu, was much like the exterior of the house—worn and in need of some serious body work. As it came to a stop, the engine rattled and died, and the driver's door creaked open.
A weary-looking woman of about fifty-five—whose dyed brown hair failed to disguise her age—climbed out, slung a purse strap over her shoulder, then reached back inside, saying, "Come on. Let's go get some supper."
And all at once Hutch realized why he was here.
He watched as a boy of about five grabbed hold of her hand and climbed out after her. A gangly, tow-headed kid who couldn't have been more than three feet tall, and was the spitting image of his grandmother.
And of his mother—Ronnie.
"Can we have mac and cheese?" the boy asked.
"You gonna help me make it?"
He smiled. "Uh-huh. But I want bow ties instead of curly cues."
"You got it, sweetie. Bow ties it is."
She was a clever one, Ronnie. Wanting Hutch to see the boy first hand. Wanting to slam the message home with a clear and convincing visual.
This is why , she was telling him. This was why she could never hurt anyone. Because this child, this boy, was her life. And to do anything to destroy that life—and the boy's along with it—would not only be foolhardy, but unconscionable.
Ronnie had made no mention of being a mother,
Similar Books
