by Roger Herst
For the following two hours Gabby’s phone went wild. Harvey Skulkin absolutely insisted on coming to Ohav Shalom to take Gabby for lunch and express his appreciation. He attributed the launching of his son’s tennis center not only to Gabby’s ability on the courts, but to her persistent lobbying and fund-raising. While watching the finals match, he had come to appreciate the friendship between Gabby and Bart. In his words, it was “a rare and precious flower, seldom duplicated, and very much cherished.”
At 11:20 Caleb Shaboya returned her call. He was so ebullient with praise that Gabby felt compelled to interrupt him. “Your kids are responsible for what happened, not Lydia Browner and certainly not me. Their enthusiasm carried the day, although I must tell you it was, technically, a terrible breach of sportsmanship. But I suppose that’s precisely why it was effective. I doubt that football or basketball players would have been as unnerved as our opponents were. The fellows we beat probably deserve an apology.”
“But all for a good cause, eh?” Shaboya laughed. “Shakespeare put it right, ‘all’s well that ends well.’ I’ve heard from the athletic department that several kids want to switch from track and baseball to tennis, and two gym teachers have sent memos of interest in coaching the tennis team for the remainder of the season. And, would you believe it, I received a call this morning from Admin downtown. The powers that rule the cosmos just freed up funds to pay for a coach’s salary!”
“That’s wonderful.” Gabby replied. “But I need your help for something else, Dr. Shaboya.”
“Caleb, please. It looks as if we’re going to have a long friendship.”
“Sure, Caleb. I’m worried sick about Marcel Clipper. He told me yesterday that one of his teammates had bought a handgun on the street. I need to talk with him about it. It sounds like trouble.”
“He should be in class. I’ll send a messenger to fetch him. Can we call back at your synagogue?”
“I’d appreciate that.”
But no call arrived from the principal’s office until Gabby had gone to lunch with Harvey Skulkin. Dr. Shaboya’s secretary reported to Chuck that the school had not been able to locate Marcel Clipper. Some of his friends claimed he had attended their first and second period classes, but no one saw him after that. Classmates said that he seemed extremely upset and was pressuring everybody for money. The principal’s office promised to continue searching but was not optimistic. It looked as if Marcel had left school mid-morning.
For Gabby, lunch with Harvey Skulkin at Restaurant Nora on Florida Avenue was torture. The California cuisine, prepared with fresh vegetables, was delicious, and the occasion should have been a celebration. Harvey wanted to talk about the tennis match and his son’s tennis center while her mind remained on Marcel.
The newly elected president of Ohav, Ruth Ann Silverman, called Gabby’s office during the afternoon. She took it as an article of faith that, while many would want to congratulate Gabby, others would be critical of her athletic stardom. They wanted a rabbi on the pulpit and in the school, but not on the sports field. Ruth Silverman distanced herself from such feelings. A feminist to the bone, she was elated by the victory.
As soon as she put the phone down, Gabby called through the open door, “Any success at Marcel’s aunt’s house?”
“Nothing,” Chuck replied.
“Please keep trying every ten minutes. Marcel told me that the dealer had given James Tee until tonight to pay for the handgun. I don’t want to imagine what will happen if he doesn’t get his money.”
Dov Shellenberg, carrying a Siddur with the weekly Hebrew liturgy, dropped by late in the afternoon to congratulate Gabby and discuss liturgical changes in the upcoming Sabbath services. He had no interest in sports and rarely got more exercise than an occasional walk. He’d never hidden his disapproval of the publicity Gabby attracted on the tennis court. And yet, this afternoon, there were no signs of hostility. In fact, he’d watched the match on Home Team Sports and been impressed by the support for Anacostia High. He’d seen how easily communities could become galvanized behind causes. Today it was Bart Skulkin’s tennis center; tomorrow it would be something entirely different.
“Still planning to apply for a White House Fellowship?” she asked, changing the subject.
“The application’s in. Representatives Nathan Katzmeir from Ohio and Idriana Seco from Connecticut have agreed to write recommendations. Katzmeir serves on the committee that oversees these fellowships. Could be a little dicey, but his administrative aide assures me this isn’t a big deal. Insider Washington stuff, you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” she grinned, never surprised by stories of influence peddling in the nation’s capital. “Or perhaps I don’t want to know. I’m sure your friends will give you the necessary support ,and I hope that down the road you won’t forget us here at Ohav. When you’re a venerable lawmaker, come worship with us from time to time.”
“Hold it, hold it, Gabby. I’m only applying to become a fellow and not running for governor. Who knows the future? I may return to the pulpit.”
“They say that public office is a bully pulpit where you can shape community values. Though it seems we disagree about more than we agree on, I would be happy to vote for you, Dov. You’d make an excellent public official. And I don’t believe you’ll ever forget where you came from. You’re too devoted a Jew and too good a rabbi. I know something about this profession that you don’t—not because I’m smarter, but because I’ve been around it longer than you. Rabbis never abandon the rabbinate. It has a way of sticking to their bones and haunting them from the inside.”
Pointing to passages from the prayer book, he commented on the pending changes due to the beginning of the Hebrew month of Sivan. When this business was settled, he said, “So, Gabby, when are you joining the professional tennis circuit?”
“I’m not, thanks,” she shot back without an instant of hesitation. “I like my job. Anyone who knows the game understands that Lydia Browner carried the day. Aided, of course, by all those kids from Anacostia. Of this victorious triad, I was, by far, the lease impressive.”
He made it half way out the door before turning for a parting remark. “You know, Gabby, if this congregation had wanted me to stick around a bit longer, you and I might have gotten to like one another. It would have taken awhile, mind you, but there’s potential, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” she said with a smile, but her heart contracted with pain. Had their differences not been noticed publically, the congregation would have been delighted to have him serve longer. If only they could have had this conversation sooner.
Chuck continued to call Marcel’s aunt’s home for the remainder of the day, but no one was at home. At 5:45 p.m. he poked his head into her office to say goodnight, noting to himself that she appeared despondent.
She was still mopping at her desk at 6:14 p.m. when her phone rang. Despite the possibility it would be another press call, she picked up the phone immediately.
“It’s me, Marcel.” His voice was subdued, as if he didn’t want someone to overhear him. “They are gonna kill James Tee. Switchboard told his girlfriend that he’s gonna get hurt tonight. He’s gotta come up with the four hundred dollars. They gave him a place to deliver cash—Fort Stanton Park at 7:15. He’s scared because he can’t find the gun and don’t know that Horace has it. If Horace gives it back, James is gonna rob a store to get more money. I got one hundred and four dollars from the kids at school. That might do it.”
Her head began to spin. “You’ll need the full four hundred, Marcel.”
“That’s all I got. I ain’t got more money unless I steal it.”
“I’ll withdraw it from an ATM. If the dealer gets paid in full, it will be all right.”
“We ain’t got time. They don’t stay in one place for long.”
“Where in Fort Stanton Park?”
“At the baseball diamond. In the men’s toilet.”
“Is there a park entrance where I can meet you
?”
“Yeah, there’s a gate on Morris Street, but you ain’t got time.”
“If I leave right now. I can make it,” Gabby said, not certain that she could. “Wait for me at the Morris Street entrance. Above all, don’t approach the dealer alone. If I’m a few minutes late, it won’t matter. You understand me?”
“I gotta negotiate. He might take what I got.”
“Wait for me, Marcel.” She slammed the phone down and switched into emergency mode, ready for a nightmarish race to overcome a field of obstacles and accomplish an impossible mission.
Her progress down the corridor to the parking lot was slowed by the soft cast on her left leg and the constraints of a tight skirt, both of which she needed to shed. Her Jeep stood as an orphan on the empty asphalt. Reaching it, she opened the trunk and rifled through her athletic bag for a change of clothing. She quickly changed into navy-blue sweat pants and University of Michigan sweatshirt, tucking her cell phone into the elastic band of her pants. She climbed into the Jeep and headed toward a bank ATM on Massachusetts Avenue.
The traffic was light, but the elderly man in front of her at the ATM fumbled with the control buttons in a state of confusion. To speed his electronic transaction, Gabby intervened, offering help. When it was her turn, she discovered that the machine would surrender only $200, half the required sum. That forced her to hobble across a busy intersection to another ATM for the remaining $200.
Climbing back into the jeep, she decided to call Joel, the only person she could think of who could possibly help in this crisis. She unhitched the cell phone from her waist and speed dialed his office. He should still be treating patients, at this hour.
Cheryl, his evening receptionist, reported that her boss was with a patient, but that she would personally like to congratulate the rabbi on her tennis victory. Dr. Fox had told her all the details and shown a picture from the newspaper.
“Can he take my call for just a minute? I’m in my car and it’s urgent,” Gabby said, cutting the conversation short.
Joel picked up an extension in his dental operatory a few seconds later and spoke impatiently, as the interruption had come at a critical moment during his treatment of a patient’s receding gums.
“I’m meeting Marcel Clipper at Fort Stanton Park,” she blurted out the first chance he gave her to talk. “I’ve got the $400 for the dealer. That should be better than trying to return the gun, don’t you think?”
It took him a few seconds to process what she was saying and fashion a response. “Gabby, you gotta be kidding me! I can’t believe what I’m hearing! You’re not really thinking of getting involved?”
“I’ve got to get Marcel the money. More of my kids could get hurt.”
“Gabby you’re dealing with people who will not hesitate to destroy anyone who interferes with their business. Bart got in their way. Why do you think they murdered him? You stop right now, you hear me. Pick your battles, Gabby. This isn’t one you can win. This isn’t your battle and it isn’t any of your goddamn business–excuse my French.”
Suddenly she was furious. “Bart is my business. And so is Marcel. We won’t have a tennis center without these boys. And if kids like Marcel don’t play there, tell me, who the hell will?”
“When He distributed brains, the Almighty short-changed you. I’ve never heard such convoluted logic, even from a knee-jerk liberal! Where are you meeting Marcel?”
“At the Morris Street Gate.”
“How can I get you to turn around, Gabby? Tell me, please, please, what can I do to stop you?”
“You can’t.”
“Then I’m calling the police.”
“Don’t, Joel. Remember what happened last time they intervened. Besides, we haven’t got time. Marcel is waiting for me now.”
Joel couldn’t disagree more, but he saw that arguing with her was futile. His pragmatic mind told him there was only one viable choice and he seized it. “Then for heaven’s sake, Gabby, wait ‘til I get there. I’ll come as soon as I can. The Morris Street Gate, right?”
“You won’t have time, Joel.”
“That’s bullshit. A few minutes won’t upset the world order. You think God will watch over you just because you’re a rabbi. Well, I’ve got news for you, lady. He won’t! Hundreds of innocent people get gunned down every day and your Almighty just snores through the whole goddamn bloodbath.”
“Nobody asked you to come, Joel. I’ll manage on my own,” she snapped, the exasperation she felt only thinly masked.
“Forget that. I’m coming, Gabby. I’m on my way…”
He looked down at his patient. “Sorry, Randy, I’ve got a life-threatening emergency and can’t finish this procedure right now. Cheryl will clean up. I promise to finish any time that I’m not booked tomorrow. I’m really sorry, Randy, I don’t even have time to explain.”
He ran to the computer in his office and, with a few strategic clicks, retrieved the phone number for Steve Murray from the One Shot Club.
Steve answered in the suspicious voice of a man who’d lived as a bachelor since his divorce twenty-two years before. Recently retired as deputy chief in the Department of State, he lived in southwest Washington, only, according to Joel’s calculations, a few miles from Fort Stanton Park. Though he enjoyed many hobbies, retirement had made him sullen and withdrawn.
“It’s Joel here. I’m in big shit trouble and need your help, Steve.”
“Shoot, friend. But only one shot, please,” he quipped.
“You remember the girl I took to our fiasco at Quantico last week?”
“Read about her on the sports page this morning, as a matter of fact. Quite some lady.”
“She’s on her way to bail out a high school kid by paying off a gun dealer in Fort Stanton Park. It’s absolutely ludicrous, I know. I’ve got to stop her.”
“What gun dealer?”
“One of the model citizens who murdered that white teacher from Anacostia High School. The transfer is supposed to take place in less than a half hour. I’m at my office and going to head off my friend. But I haven’t got any heat at my office. Nothing. No shotgun. No rifle. Not even a slingshot. Can you back me up? Something with a punch. A 30/30 or /06. It will be dark by the time I get there. A night scope would be great.”
“What about the police?”
“No time. You know they hate working black neighborhoods. They’ll delay as long as possible, then go in with sirens blaring. My friend is already there, or nearly there, and could get caught in the crossfire.”
“Got just what the doctor ordered. Want a handgun?”
“No. Gimme a good old-fashioned rifle any day.”
“Where do we meet?”
“Fort Stanton Park. It’s right off Suitland Parkway. The Morris Street Gate. If I’m not there, move in the direction of the baseball diamond. The transfer is supposed to take place in the men’s restroom nearby. Use our hunting calls to make contact with me, and I’ll do likewise. I’m not asking you to fire, Steve. Please understand that. I don’t want you involved in this shit.”
“Then why are you involved?”
“Because…because she’s a stupid, impetuous lady who wants to fix the world’s problems. Because I care a lot about her.”
“Enough to start some fireworks?”
“I’ve never shot at a human in my life and, God help me, I’ve no intention of doing it now. But I can’t stand up against these thugs without a weapon. You understand, I hope.”
“No, Joel. I can’t say I do. Or maybe I’m not reading enough into your relationship with this woman.” But Joel’s request promised some excitement. Until that moment Steve hadn’t known how bored he was. “Okay. Let’s go. Meet you there.”
At 7:18, three minutes after the appointed payoff hour, Gabby arrived at the Morris Street Gate. Mercury vapor street lamps flanked the park’s central road and cast an eerie, yellowish glow against the dark forest backdrop. Hilly topography afforded an occasional glimpse of the U.S. Capitol dome, not
more than a few miles distant as a bird flies, but separated by the Anacostia River and miles of urban slum. Marcel was nowhere in sight. She checked the time, nervously concluding that he had left to negotiate with the dealer.
She passed through the gate and followed the road slowly, looking for Marcel. Occasionally her headlights caught unidentifiable shadows darting across the road, perhaps a raccoon or feral cat. A family of crows cawed at one another in nearby trees. In the distance, somebody’s car radio blared with rap music. The clock on the dashboard said it was now 7:24. She checked that her doors were locked.
The voices of boys ahead in the darkness encouraged her to turn up her high beams and increase her speed. Almost as dark as the forest surrounding them, a cluster of human forms appeared ahead like ghostly apparitions. As her headlights trapped them, she recognized first Horace Sklar, then Goofy, Diamond Moore, and Nathaniel Pinkard, the shortest of the group. The moment she recognized them, she pulled up beside them and lowered her window. “Where’s Marcel?” she asked. “He was supposed to meet me at the gate.”
Horace Sklar hadn’t recognized her until she snapped on the interior light. He stepped beside the driver’s door and she saw that he carried a switchblade. “This afternoon he said he was gonna deliver the money. We came to protect him. Ain’t nobody here gonna hurt Marcel.”
Gabby’s heart sank. Two of the others were also armed with switchblades and one carried a kitchen knife. “Does he have the cash?” she asked.
“He’s got about a hundred,” said Diamond. “At school he said he’s gonna make a deal with the dealer. But we don’t know where he is and it’s too dark to see.”
She knew what his teammates obviously did not–the location of the transfer. “Where’s the baseball field?” she asked.
“Up the road, then a little to the left,” Goofy answered.
“I’ve got the four hundred with me,” she said, “but I need your help. Horace, where’s James Tee’s gun?”
