The Innocents

by Nathan Senthil

  Iris had to repeat the words in her mind to make sense of them. The implication was preposterous; they were mistaken. She said, “I think you got the wrong address.”

  Bugsy giggled. “Oh, you poor bitch.”

  Iris stiffened. “Get out!”

  “Let’s make a deal. You know where your son is working, don’t you? Call that organization, and if they say he is employed there, we’ll pay for your door and leave. How about that?”

  Iris thought it through. Finding that she no other option, she walked purposefully over to the phone and dialed Ryatt’s football team.

  But it said the number did not exist.

  She frowned. From the drawer, she recovered her cellphone.

  Unlocking it with her fingerprint, she said, “Ok Google.” When the phone chimed, she put the mic near her mouth. “Floridan Crocs.”

  Once the results were loaded, the Text-To-Speech function began reading what was on the screen. As it iterated the phone number of Floridan Crocs, she memorized it. This was not the number Ryatt had given her.

  Putting the uneasiness aside, she dialed Floridan Crocs from her landline.

  The answering machine advised her to call between 10:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m.

  As she placed the receiver back, the hum of the wheelchair moved towards her.

  Bugsy said, “Tell us where he is. We’ll bring him here and you can ask him yourself.”

  “I’ll never tell you anything about him.”

  “We’ll see.” As the wheelchair receded, Bugsy shouted. “Dry drown the broad!”

  She jumped to dial 911, but two pairs of hands caught her arms and pulled her away. Grasping her wrists, they dragged her across the floor, to the kitchen.

  They freed her left wrist, letting her hang by her right, her shoulder bone threatening to rip out of the socket. But she would never scream or cry or beg.

  Silverware and cutlery fell from the dining table.

  One of the two hands holding her right wrist grabbed her left. Then someone else got her ankles. She was lifted off the floor and dropped onto the hardwood.

  Her ankles were clasped by a pair of strong hands, so were her wrists. The dining table tilted, sloping downwards, and they placed something under the legs to make it stay like that. Iris would have slid headfirst onto the floor if it weren’t for the hands holding her feet.

  As she reminded herself not to be afraid, a wet cloth was wrapped around her face.

  “Last chance, Granny,” the person pressing the cloth against her face said. “It’s a CIA torture technique. Trust me, you won’t be a fan.”

  When Iris lay motionless and unresponsive, he said, “Have it your way.”

  Her face was then doused with water. She reckoned that someone was pouring it over the cloth. At first, she didn’t feel anything, except it was cold. But due to the decline of the table, the water flowed into her nose.

  Her head jerked involuntarily when it was impossible to breathe. She struggled to remove the cloth, but she couldn’t move even an inch. As seconds passed, water turned acidic, burning her nostrils and airway.

  Writhing in agony, she reminded herself not to cry or scream. When she felt her consciousness slip, the cloth was yanked from her face. She gasped deeply, greedily sucking in air. Never before had she appreciated sweet, sweet oxygen so much.

  “We have gallons more where that came from,” Bugsy said. “Tell us where your little nigger is.”

  Iris turned her head to the direction of Bugsy’s voice.

  Shuddering uncontrollably, she said, “C-come closer.”

  The wheelchair rolled and stopped near her. “Yes?” Bugsy said, expectantly.

  She lurched her head forward and spat forcefully.

  “Goddamn it!” Bugsy’s wheelchair rolled back. “Rome! Get it off! Get it off!”

  A few moments of dubious silence. Then he barked, “Again!”

  She instinctively flinched, and the wet cloth smothered her once more. As water was poured above the cloth, she lost control of her convulsing body. It was on autopilot now, evolution mistakenly making her believe that she was drowning, forcing her arms and legs to thrash about.

  For some reason, she thought of the time she had to deliver Ryatt, unassisted, during what was practically a battlefield. This dry-drowning was painful, but not nearly as bad as giving birth alone. Not even close.

  As she recalled that day, other thoughts scrambled. Everything spun out of angle. Her sinewy arms and legs became flaccid, and Iris entered into a world that was bright. The deprivation of oxygen did not seem so bad anymore. She ascended into the void, her body relaxed, and the last of her earthly afflictions vanished.

  It is… peaceful…

  The cloth was removed. The air, now an unwelcome guest, rushed to her lungs like hot steam, scalding its way down. A bout of coughs knocked the air out just as quickly.

  “You changed your mind yet?” Bugsy asked.

  Her throat had swollen from the violent coughs, so her voice would be very raspy if she spoke. But her answer did not require words.

  She turned towards Bugsy and spat again, though it wasn’t nearly as forceful as the first time. She heard the spit land on the table beside her.

  “You fucking bitch!” Bugsy screamed again. “Once more!”

  Smiling crookedly for egging him, she didn’t even flinch when the wet cloth hugged her face. There were two things she was certain of. One, this was not the most overwhelming experience she ever had, because she was a single parent. Two, she would never let Bugsy near Ryatt.

  The water came rushing into her nose. Though her limbs tried to splay, she did not do it willingly. And she visited that serene place between life and death once again.

  When the cloth was removed, she neither coughed nor heaved.

  It was getting old now. Definitely not a masochist, she was ready for this little game of theirs. Let them do it a thousand times; still they wouldn’t be able to squeeze a word out of her.

  “Boss,” the man holding Iris said. “She’ll die if we keep at it.”

  “Damn it,” Bugsy sighed. “I didn’t think we’d be able to crack her anyway. Couldn’t do it the first time.”

  “We even broke wise guys who were ex-Marines by waterboarding,” he said. “What’s this grandma made of?”

  “Grit of headstrong women,” Bugsy said vehemently. “We’re gonna have to figure out a different approach.”

  “Should we let her live?”

  “I guess the Feds are watching the house. If she dies, it’ll be a problem for us.”

  The hands around her wrists and ankles unclasped. She slid backwards and crashed down onto the floor.

  “Do me a favor?” Bugsy said. “Just call that Florida cock or wherever your son said he was working.”

  The wheelchair rolled away from her, out of the kitchen, so did the scuffing of the shoes. When they left, the house was quiet. She shot up to her feet and marched out, dragging a wooden chair behind. Once she closed the front door, she wedged the backrest under the doorknob.

  Sure that the entrance was as secure as it could be, she made her way to the bathroom. She toweled her hair and face dry, then plugged in the dryer and evaporated the dampness out of her hair.

  Should she report the incident to the authorities? Then she would be required to live through the ordeal again, and tell them that Bugsy thought Ryatt was some bank robber. Which might make the police want to question Ryatt. Her son didn’t need to see that side of life, no, thank you.

  She went to the dresser and changed into a set of crisp fresh clothes. Sleep now a distant dream, she returned to the living room and sat on the couch, picking up Tuesdays with Morrie.

  But before she touched the first word, she whispered, her voice raspy, “My son is not a murderer.”

  When saying that sentence out loud, the absurdity of it sank in. Ryatt never even used expletives, he attended church on Sundays, and donated hundreds of thousands to charities.

  Really absurd.


  Shaking her head, she began tracing the indentations on the paper with her fingertips.

  However, calling Floridan Crocs in the morning wouldn’t hurt, would it?

  Chapter 39

  May 12, 2019. 02:02 A.M.

  Gabriel and Morgan watched the feed from the cameras the tactical team had installed around Iris’s house. The black Land Rover and white Chrysler were parked up front. A Rolls Royce stood between them, which Gabriel assumed was Bugsy’s. Morgan, the computer wizard, looked it up and confirmed his suspicion.

  Gabriel called Conor. “We have the armed response unit around Iris’s house?”

  “Watching it like hawks.”

  “So you know that Bugsy and his men are inside the house?”

  Conor did not speak.

  “Mobilize them and save Iris,” Gabriel said.

  “Sorry,” Conor said. “Bugsy’s men will have weapons. If we try to save her, it might escalate into a gunfight and hit the news, tipping off Ryatt.”

  Gabriel did not care. He would not sacrifice Iris for his revenge. Just when he began to insist strongly, Morgan pointed at the video feed.

  There was movement in front of Iris’s house. Six men came out, one of them in a wheelchair. Then they got into the cars and left.

  A few seconds later, Iris appeared at the door and Gabriel could breathe easily again. She closed it and went back inside.

  Gabriel wanted to know if she was ok. He said into the phone, “They are gone. Can you send someone now?”

  “Look, these men are holed up pretty good. It’ll give away their positions,” Conor said. “How about this? I’ll instruct the local PD to check on her in the morning.”

  Satisfied, Gabriel began discussing the case. Conor was very careful because no one had an inkling where Ryatt was. Chances were, even Iris didn’t know. And they couldn’t get a warrant to search her house with what they had.

  At Gabriel’s suggestion Conor went through Ryatt’s history, especially the records from the IRS. They found that whatever money Ryatt had robbed, he had deposited it in the Lawrence Foundation. Not all at once but in five or six installments. They knew it was the banks’ money because the Lawrence Foundation saw sharp growth in anonymous donations, always a week after Ryatt robbed some bank.

  The IRS did flag this account. But when they saw that Iris was really spending all the money on public welfare and not using the Foundation as a device to launder money, they cleared her.

  Ryatt co-owned an electronic shop, Goodwill Electronix, and he paid taxes for what measly income he earned from it. Two other guys had shares in this shop. Leopold Williams Jr. and Thomas Brown, who Gabriel guessed was the third member of their gang.

  One of the biggest puzzles Joshua couldn’t crack was why Ryatt had taken a hiatus. This was revealed through his tax records.

  Goodwill Electronix was opened at the end of 2008, after Ryatt’s gang stopped robbing. But it was a really bad year to come into the retailing business. Many online markets were taking the world by storm, buying in bulk from factories and selling them at discount rates that physical retailers just couldn’t keep up with.

  Still, Ryatt and his friends managed to run the shop until 2018, when it finally began sinking.

  Evidently lacking the skills to run a business, they turned back to the only lucrative job that they could do. Robbery.

  Seeing how Goodwill Electronix might be the only other location where they could find Ryatt, Conor had suggested that they storm the place.

  Gabriel refused, stating that they would observe it first, since they had no assurance that Ryatt was there.

  Conor had a camera installed across the shop, and like Gabriel had said, only Thomas was in, not Ryatt or Leo.

  Conor called it a night, Morgan left, and Bill had been sleeping for the last hour.

  Gabriel dug into his rucksack and took out a phone, a burner he’d bought the day before, then he went to buy food for Brooks and Bill.

  He typed Goodwill Electronix - Howard Street and sent it to Roman. A minute later, Roman texted back Tnx. If this leads us to Lolly, you get reward.

  * * *

  A few hours later, a call from Conor blared and woke up Gabriel.

  “You won’t fucking believe what happened.”

  I will.

  Gabriel said, “What?”

  “Thomas was abducted. The guy manning the camera before the shop just told me. I sent two plainclothes to investigate.”

  “Let me go,” Gabriel said.

  “Okay,” Conor said. “Shit!”

  Twenty minutes later, Gabriel braked in front of Goodwill Electronix. The shutter was down. A bloody streak trailed across the sidewalk, leading from inside the shop to the road.

  An unmarked car was parked a few yards down the shop. A guy with a marine haircut behind the wheel greeted Gabriel with a nod. A small black kid was sitting beside him on the passenger seat.

  As Gabriel got down from the Camaro and walked to the car, its window rolled down.

  “Agent Chase?” Jarhead asked.

  “Yup.” Gabriel flashed his ID. “What happened here?”

  “We got information that the shop owner was taken.” Jarhead pointed at the shutter. “My partner is in there, analyzing the CCTV. We closed it because this little shit,” Jarhead motioned at the black kid, “and his friends were stealing chargers and headphones from the shop when we came. Others escaped, but I caught him.”

  Gabriel peeked inside. The boy couldn’t be more than thirteen. He was trying to look tough but his chest was heaving, forehead peppered with sweat. He was too young for prison. Juvenile didn’t rehabilitate boys. It criminalized them. Gabriel had seen kids going inside, all innocent, but coming out with a vast expertise in the art of crime.

  Gabriel’s eyes shifted down. The boy’s thin wrists were tied together with plastic wires, and a thick cable extended from it, which Jarhead held.

  Gabriel pointedly looked at the degrading harness.

  “We don’t got no handcuffs.” Jarhead shrugged. Then without a prompt, he leaned in and slapped the boy on his head. “I didn’t know we were going to encounter these sticky-fingered sons of bitches when we came.”

  The boy stared at Jarhead, his eyes tearing up in humiliation. Oh brother, was he in for a surprise when they strip him naked and powder him on his first day in juvie!

  “Mind if I talk to him?” Gabriel asked.

  “Sure.” Jarhead exited the car. “I’m going for a smoke.”

  Jarhead transferred the cable to Gabriel. He got it and climbed into the car.

  Once the Jarhead was out of earshot, Gabriel asked, “What’s your name?”

  “LC,” the boy said, his voice full of fake depth.

  “LC?”

  “Lil’ Cessna.”

  Gabriel lifted his brows.

  “Because I love planes.” LC got defensive.

  Gabriel shook his head. “What’s your real name, kid?”

  The boy did not open his mouth.

  “Okay, LC. Do me a favor?”

  “Man, I ain’t snitching on my friends.”

  “Not on your friends, though you must ask yourself, are they really your friends?” Gabriel said. “Friends don’t take you down a path that ends with you getting slapped around by strangers.”

  The boy didn’t answer.

  “Tell me what happened in the shop, before you guys ransacked it,” Gabriel said.

  LC gawked, unsure what to do.

  Gabriel added, “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  LC smiled and said that he and his friends were hanging out at an alley across the street when some guys arrived in a Land Rover and abducted the Black Hulk Hogan.

  “The Land Rover had a funny number plate?” Gabriel asked.

  “Yeah.” LC giggled, his veneer of toughness gave way to his childhood naiveté.

  Gabriel tugged at the cable. “Is this how you want to be treated the rest of your life? Like an animal?”

&nb
sp; “Man, cut the crap. I’m ready for the slammer.”

  “You’ve been?”

  “First time for everything.”

  “Then you aren’t entirely gone. You think life is unfair to you and you gotta push back and take what you want? Take what doesn’t belong to you?”

  “You know how it feels to not have stuff?” LC said.

  “I do. I also know poverty doesn’t justify stealing.”

  “You don’t know what you talking about.” LC shook his head. “You haven’t been through shit.”

  “Let’s say your assumption is correct, and that I haven’t been through shit. But I know someone who’s been through shit. Tough shit. Shit that will make your shit look like a cake walk.”

  “Yeah?” LC sat straight, challenging Gabriel. “Like what?”

  “His family was so poor that he was born on a dirt floor. He lost his mom at ten. Not rich enough to go to school, he taught himself to read, after working as a farmhand during his days. Say, you’ve been through this shit, working in hot sun from dawn till dusk and then study?”

  LC’s eyes fluttered and he looked down.

  Gabriel continued. “He tried to be a politician, but it didn’t work out. Tried to be a lawyer, and that didn’t work out either. He tried his hand in business with a partner and guess what?”

  LC said, “It ain’t worked out?”

  Gabriel nodded. “His partner drank to death and left him with a huge debt that he worked for 15 years to settle.”

  “Man, this ain’t inspiring me. This fool born to be a loser.”

  Gabriel smiled drily. “He was a loser. Just like how you are right now. Everyone’s a loser at some point in life. I was too, trust me. We all have to be losers before we become winners. Before we get our shit together.”

  “So this guy, he got his shit together?”

  “He did. Went on to achieve many great things. He’s kind of famous, actually.”

  “Why? What’d he do?”

  Gabriel stifled a yawn. “Just freed slaves is all.”

  LC’s eyes bulged. “Honest Abe was a loser?”

  Gabriel nodded. “Every great man had to go through trials and tribulations. Poverty, failure, humiliation, betrayal, self-loathing, you name it.”