by Roger Herst
“Here in my pocket.” He fondled a bulge in his jacket.
“Let me see it, please,” she said in a commanding tone and repeated the request when he failed to comply immediately.
Cautiously, he freed a bulky black weapon from his jacket and displayed it in both hands for Gabby’s benefit, the barrel pointed carelessly in Goofy’s direction.
“Is it loaded?”
Horace answered, “No, ma’am. James Tee never got no bullets.”
“That’s good, very good. I don’t want you firing it under any circumstance. I didn’t bring money for a funeral. Before any of you guys get hurt, I want you all inside this Jeep. Put away your knives. You’re not brawling with anybody tonight, particularly with dealers. Now, who knows how to drive?”
When all hands went up she became suspicious. They all knew how but it was doubtful any had much experience.
“Okay, Nathaniel,” she said, choosing the boy she judged to be the most responsible, “you sit behind the wheel. Keys are in the ignition. If you hear me call your name, then drive onto the baseball field. You’re in four-wheel drive, so in low gear you can go over just about anything. It handles like any other car. Think you can manage that?” “No problem,” he replied, clearly pumped up.
“We ain’t gonna let you go in there by yourself,” said Diamond Moore. He fumbled with his switchblade but didn’t open it. “We came here to protect Marcel and if you’re going to him, we’re gonna protect you.”
“Thanks, fellows,” she said, slipping down from the front seat to the road. “But there’s a guard posted somewhere out there. If he spots a bunch of us, he’ll sound the alarm. I have a better chance alone. Besides, there’s no sense starting a brush war. So I want you guys to stay inside this Jeep. And don’t move unless you hear my signal. Understood?”
Three few heads nodded. Diamond remained uncertain, urging his cohorts to accompany Gabby, at least as far as the baseball field. It was Goofy who finally persuaded him that she had a point. Sneaking up on the men’s toilet in a group was a bad idea, especially when the dealers had guns and they didn’t have a single bullet.
Gabby was horrified by what needed to be done. As she stepped out onto the outfield, she knew she was putting herself in harm’s way. The rational part of her mind rebelled. What can you do, it asked, besides get yourself killed? A rabbi in a strange ghetto? What good is that? She could imagine what her father would have said. Or Seth Greer. She didn’t have to imagine Joel’s reaction; his words still rang in her ears. But however much her brain resisted, a deeper certainty kept her moving. She was the best chance Marcel had. Tzedik, tzedik tirdof. Seek justice. That a young man of promise should live to see his high school graduation was just. She knew why Bart had come to Dupont Park on that December night, and she felt herself walking in his footsteps. Yes, he had been her Bar Mitzvah bocher, but she had become his disciple. From the beginning she had known him to be an extraordinary child, but it had taken his death to reveal his depths. In ma-asim-tovim, acts of loving-kindness, he was far her superior. She ministered to a large congregation of worshippers, carrying the title and authority of spiritual leadership, but Bart had been God’s shepherd. He had bequeathed his flock into her keeping. That her limbs were not trembling in fear, she took as a sign of this stewardship.
The outline of bleachers and a batting cage were barely visible in the pale light from the surrounding city. Public toilets, she reasoned, would not be situated far from the stands. Daryl Bender had told her to expect a watchman posted nearby. She considered circling through the woods to avoid detection but rejected the idea. Time was so precious she had no alternative but to cut across the field in full view, hoping to appear as if she had legitimate business.
As she crossed into the infield, her leg suddenly flared with pain, forcing her to limp. There had been a shower during the afternoon and in the semi-darkness it was difficult to avoid puddles. She didn’t try. A faint amber light at the far end of the bleachers became her beacon.
As she neared the bleachers, she glanced up and saw the silhouette of a figure standing on the top row of seats. The watcher was clearly aware of her presence; he gave her a hand signal that conveyed permission to proceed. She passed behind a twelve-foot high batter’s cage and headed to the restrooms housed in a freestanding cinderblock building. There were entrances on opposite ends and pale orange light filled doorways. Behind her, the watchman’s feet pounded heavily on the wood plank seats as he descended.
One of two incandescent lights was broken over the entrance to the men’s room. There was no swinging door, just a barrier wall to curtain off the interior. She hesitated, her brain telling her to backtrack immediately and move as fast as her injured leg would permit. But by now she felt the presence of the lookout, blocking her route of escape. She’d long since passed the point of no return.
***
As Joel maneuvered through traffic, still heavy though rush hour had officially passed, he found himself reciting a litany of every terrible things that could possibly occur. He pushed the Bronco well above the speed limit, monitoring the rear-view mirror for signs of police presence. A ticket at this precarious moment would only slow him down and he didn’t think he could possibly explain the situation and obtain help in time to do any good. He didn’t want to think about the odds of locating Gabby and Marcel in an unfamiliar area and in the dark. The link up with Steve Murray was even more problematic. Involving Steve, he reflected, had been a foolish idea, conceived in a moment of panic. For what he intended to do, carrying a rifle would achieve little and might make things far worse. A shootout in a city park was the stuff of the movies, not the reality Gabby was facing. But how was he going to save her from the clutches of men he knew nothing about and in a park he had never seen?
Anacostia’s street grid had been laid out in the 1840s, when horses and wagons were the mode of transportation. Short intersecting streets presented turning problems for motor vehicles. Several streetlights were dark at critical locations, making it difficult to read the street signs. The park’s Morris Street gate turned out to be sandwiched between blocks of row houses. That Steve wasn’t waiting for him was no surprise.
He downgraded his headlights to low beam and, a few moments later, to the still dimmer parking lights, adjusting his eyes to the darkness. Since he could find no sign of Gabby, he crept along the tarmac hoping to spot the baseball field she had mentioned. An occasional headlight from a distant car penetrated the forest to cast eerie shadows around him. He spotted a vehicle parked on the right shoulder, recognized Gabby’s Jeep, and pulled up alongside it.
Nathaniel and Diamond poked their heads out open windows on the driver’s side. Beside them, Horace and Goofy fumbled with their knives.
Joel called out through the open window on his passenger side. “This vehicle belongs to Rabbi Gabrielle Lewyn. Any of you fellows know where she is?”
“Who are you?” Diamond snapped back.
“I’m Joel Fox, her friend. She’s in trouble. I came to help. Where is she?”
Diamond and Nathaniel pulled their heads inside the Jeep to confer with their friends. They were skeptical about this stranger.
“You guys have yellow T-shirt with Bart Skulkin Tennis Center on them?” Joel cried out.
“Yeah…Yeah….”
“I’m the one who sent them to your school before the tournament.” He didn’t wait for their verdict, but jumped down onto the tarmac and approached on foot. “Who are you guys?”
“We’re on the tennis team. Rabbi Gabby’s friends,” answered Goofy.
“Good. Then we all want the same thing. Do you know where she is?” Joel asked, his voice commanding. He could sense their relief at having someone older take charge.
Diamond Moore said. “She went to find Marcel.”
“You know where the ball field is?”
Horace piled out of the Jeep and toward Joel. “Straight ahead, over there.”
Joel peered into the darkness before t
urning back to the boys. “Okay, listen carefully, gentlemen. I’m going to get the rabbi. If she returns here before me, honk the horn—beep, beep, beep, beep—four times. But it’s essential you guys stay put. Don’t move this vehicle. And this is real important, so pay attention to me. A friend of mine is coming here in a black Nissan Pathfinder SUV. He’ll have a rifle. In the dark he won’t be able to tell you from the dealer, but he definitely won’t shoot if you’re inside this Jeep. As long as you’re inside, he won’t hurt you. If he stops to ask about me, tell him I’ve gone to the baseball diamond. You guys understand that?”
Horace nodded immediately. After a moment’s hesitation, the other three followed.
Joel was about to return to his Bronco but paused with a last minute thought. “By chance, any of you fellows have a gun? It might come in real handy.”
Goofy looked to Horace who looked to Diamond who looked to Nathaniel. Horace pulled out James Tee’s Glock 17 from his jacket. “It ain’t worth nothing,” he said. “It don’t shoot.”
“Why not?”
“Got no bullets.”
Joel reached for the gun, but Horace pulled back.
“I need it,” Joel urged, now opening both hands in supplication.
“Why do you want a gun that don’t shoot?” Horace asked in apparent confusion.
“For leverage.”
Nathaniel couldn’t let it go. “You don’t understand, man. That gun ain’t gonna do you no good. It ain’t got bullets.”
“True,” Joel said, impatient to get started. “You know it and I know it, but the dealer doesn’t. Does he?”
The four young men acknowledged the point with a short burst of conspiratorial laughter, and Horace passed the gun to Joel. He instinctively yanked back the barrel to check the chamber for a cartridge inside. Horace was right. No shells in the breach or the clip.
Once he found the ball field, Joel paused only momentarily to reconnoiter. He failed to spot the lookout, who had assumed a new position near the foot of the bleachers. He decided that approaching the public toilets through the woods would take too much time. Instead, he planned to work his way along the periphery of the ball field in the direction of third base. The dark forest backdrop would shield his movement.
***
From his condo on 4th Street, SW, Steve Murray drove his Pathfinder along South Capitol Street and crossed the Anacostia River on the Frederick Douglass Bridge. But once on the Suitland Parkway he encountered stop-and-go traffic. A series of uncooperative traffic lights cost him valuable minutes. One light seemed to be malfunctioning and refused to turn. He resisted a temptation to pump the horn and urge other drivers through the light. The last thing he needed was to be stopped by the police and then arrested for illegally transporting a rifle and ammunition in the District of Columbia.
When he finally neared Fort Stanton Park, he discovered a warren of confusing streets so short they were impossible to identify on his map. On Morris Street, he lost additional time searching for the park’s elusive entrance. Since he was late, he did not expect to see Joel’s Bronco and immediately implemented Plan B–head directly for the ball field.
He eventually came upon Gabby’s Jeep, and his first impulse was to ask its occupants for directions. But he’d spent his career at the State Department and the habit of not drawing unnecessary attention to one’s activities was ingrained. He ruled out inquiry and proceeded past the Jeep.
Ahead, he spotted a brown and white sign that pointed left to the ball field, and, a few moments later, he spotted Joel’s abandoned Bronco. At least he was on the right track, but it was too late to deliver the rifle. He spotted a small knoll from which he could observe the entire field and, if absolutely necessary, shoot the rifle himself. He shut off his headlights, cut his engine, and opened his windows. The night was filled with urban noises, but nothing that sounded like Joel's hunting call.
He needed to load the rifle. The rifle barrel was cumbersome to manipulate in the Pathfinder’s cab, but once he’d balanced it through the driver’s window, it became easier to handle. He reached into his hunting vest for ammunition and cursed his own stupidity. As he’d rushed from his apartment, he had grabbed the vest, thinking that there would be cartridges in the interior pocket. But he was a member of the One Shot Club, and, if he wasn’t planning on target practice, he rarely carried more than a single cartridge. He had a single bullet and faced a possible shootout. A host of nasty what-ifs flooded his mind, none good. But what alternative did he have? It was too late to do anything but insert the lone cartridge into the chamber of his 30/06 and lock the bolt. And in his haste, he’d forgotten the night-viewing scope. That would make an effective shot harder.
He caught sight of someone moving from the bleachers toward what appeared to be a low, freestanding structure. But he failed to notice Joel, using the dark forest as a backdrop, moving toward third base.
***
Gabby passed through an L-shaped entry to the men’s room, emerging in a rectangular space with three urinals, three toilet stalls, and three washbasins. A clogged washbasin was overflowing onto a concrete floor strewn with soiled paper towels. The air was saturated with the pungent odor of human waste. A yellow Post-it on the door of the center toilet stall immediately clued Gabby to Marcel’s location. It made sense. The customer could be surrounded if the dealer chose. The tips of black basketball shoes peeked from under the door of an adjacent stall.
“James Tee, I’m sick of you arguing. You are lying to me,” a scratchy voice was saying, its possessor apparently unaware that Marcel was standing in for James Tee.
A second voice that Gabby knew to be Marcel’s answered. “I ain’t lying. I’m telling you that’s all I got in the job. I’ve never done a heist like this before and I ain’t good at it. I got a hundred and four dollars. The man was out. Only his old lady was home. She cried and said that was all the money she had in the world. If you want, I can bring the gun back.”
“Everybody says the same thing. ‘Sorry, Mister,’ they say. ‘That’s all the loot I got. I didn’t even stop to buy me nothing to eat or drink. You’re getting every last cent I took.’ I don’t believe you, James Tee, and I know where you live and who your people are.”
“It’s the truth,” Marcel pleaded. “Why do you want more? I already paid you the deposit. Now you got my hundred and four, too. That’s a good deal. If you give me time, I’ll get you more. Or give you the gun back. Are you a businessman, or not?” Gabby tiptoed into the third stall beside Marcel, moving carefully so that the dealer would not spot her feet or hear her steps on the soiled towels. She quietly knelt beside the toilet seat on the far side, hiding her body, and leaned over the toilet to pass $300 under the partition. It seemed an intolerably long time before fingers on the other side responded. As she carefully rose, a shock of fire from her injured gastroc shot up her leg.
Now her escape would be complicated both by the guard she knew must be somewhere outside and the crippling pain in her leg.
“We only do business with people we know. We can find you and your family.” she heard the dealer say. “I ain’t negotiating any more with you. You owe me three hundred dollars and that’s that.”
After a brief silence, Gabby heard the rustle of paper as Marcel passed her contribution under the stall. There was an answering rustle from the dealer’s side.
“Now then, that’s better,” the dealer declared with satisfaction. “I knew you had it. How come all the bills are twenties? What did you do? Rob a bank?”
Marcel hesitated and then came up with an answer. “Yeah,” he said. Gabby could hear in his voice a mixture of fear and relief.
Gabby realized she was beginning to hyperventilate. She’d been breathing through her mouth to mitigate the stench in the bathroom. She needed to slow her breathing and began to inhale deeply through her nose. The odor was nearly unbearable, but it was also unexpected. It was tinged was a faint, cloying sweetness.
She took a few more breaths, concentrat
ing on the sweet fragrance. It was clearly perfume. Could the dealer, two stalls away from her, actually be a woman? A woman who typically wore perfume and might not remember it could give her away?
It seemed preposterous. But why? Everyone assumed the gun trade in Anacostia belonged to men, but nothing about the business would naturally preclude women.
The dealer was speaking again; she listened closely. “You’re gonna find yourself in jail, James Tee. They got cameras in banks and they got your picture. When you rob a bank, it’s the FBI that comes after you.”
The voice could easily be feminine, she thought. And now that she concentrated, this was a familiar voice. She’d heard it several times at the most unlikely of places, the National Coalition for Gun Control. She knew this woman and she’d liked her. She’d shared a podium with her at Bart’s memorial service.
A wave of outrage swept over Gabby, but it made a terrible kind of sense. Mothers against Guns was a perfect cover. Community leaders included the civic-minded mothers in their plans to fight gun-related crimes. School authorities provided them the identities of suspected offenders. And the police often included them in planning and community outreach programs. What better way to keep abreast of police activities and recruit potential customers?
A cell phone rang, resonating in the confined space.
“Yeah, yeah,” the dealer snapped and then paused to listen.
“Where? Are they police?” She was clearly anxious now.
Gabby guessed the guard outside had sounded a warning. Maybe the kids from the tennis team had disobeyed orders and decided to take matters into their own hands. Or perhaps Joel had called the police. Maybe Joel had come himself. Her heat skipped a beat. She suddenly wanted desperately to see his face. It wouldn’t matter now how angry he was.
“Okay, okay.” Gabby heard. “We’re getting out right now. Cover me while I move.”
There was a shuffle in the far toilet stall, then a bang as the door slammed into the cinderblock. Simultaneously, Marcel threw open the door to his stall, bolted into the open space, and almost collided with the dealer.
