“Well, thank you”—long pause—”Mister—?”
“Fonseca.”
“Yes, well, thank you. Who is your president?” Cole said, thinking of nothing else to say.
“That would be Franklin Evans, but I was referring to President Obama.”
Cole stood staring at the paused image of John Sebastian in his silly tie-dyed shirt and pants on the wall-sized screen in front of him. “Wow, I, uh, I’m a bit taken aback. Thank you, Mr. Fonseca, I would be honored.” Cole felt foolish and a little ashamed that he was abrupt at being disturbed. He stood gazing at the screen, hoping that irritation hadn’t been too obvious.
“Excellent! The ceremony is the 23rd. I realize that’s only three weeks away, and that’s partially the reason I’m calling. It was the only date the president had open—actually, he had a cancellation but, anyway, we got him on board. We’ll be sending you the formal invitation, tickets for your flight, and your hotel reservation information. Before the ceremony, there’ll be a private meeting with the president along with the two other recipients of this year’s award. We’re grateful for your articles, Mr. Sage. We’ve seen nearly a 30% increase in hits to our web page and a substantial increase in donations. I look forward to seeing you in Washington. Good afternoon, Mr. Sage.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fonseca. I’ll see you there.” Cole clicked off the phone. “Well, how ‘bout that! Far around, far down, far up...” he said toward the screen in his best burned-out hippie impression. “What do you think about that, John?” The tied-dyed Sebastian stayed frozen on the screen as Cole smiled and said softly, “Well, how ‘bout that.”
Cole sat down and hit the play button on the DVD, but after about five minutes, he realized it was no use. The spell was broken, and he was far too excited to sit still for the rest of the movie. He had won awards before, lots in fact, but this was unexpected. It wasn’t a journalism award, either. It was for benefiting someone else. And not to sound mercenary, but awards always meant that he got a raise. He was always happy to get them, and it was a nice honor, but they were just praise for doing his job. Now Cole reflected on what “doing his job” had meant. What had Fonseca said? A substantial increase in donations? That meant something. The other awards always came with a “making the public aware” tag, but this time it was measurable in dollars and cents. Cole was pleased. Self-consciously, he reached up and felt the back of his head. He slowly traced the scar that lay like a small, fat earthworm on his scalp.
The blow that sliced open his head had long healed, and Terry Kosciuszko was long dead, having hung himself in his cell. But Camilla Garza would never be whole again. She could never have a child, her body would never function normally and, worst of all, the scars in her heart, mind, and soul would never fully heal. Each time Cole touched his own scar, he thought of the little girl in the hospital bed. The last he heard, she was home. She couldn’t go to school because she was terrified of going out of her house. Even though she had been told that the man who hurt her was dead, she was still afraid. In her child’s mind, she was still unable to believe he was not outside waiting for her, waiting to hurt her again.
The ringing of the phone brought Cole from his thoughts. He hit pause on the remote.
“Yell-o,” he said brightly.
“Cole?”
“Yes?”
“Hi, this is Kelly Mitchell, Ben’s mom.”
“Well, hello,” Cole said cheerfully.
“Are you busy? Got a minute to talk?” The voice on the other end of the line was smooth and yet carried an air of confidence.
Cole liked the voice. Although they had met only a couple of times and very briefly, Cole found Ben’s mother charming. Who was he trying to kid. He also found her attractive. Tall and straight. He remembered hoping she wasn’t a tennis player. He hated women who played tennis. She was about 40-something, 48 maybe? Her hair was cut short, just below her jaw line. It was nearly black, and Cole remembered thinking, as he watched her through his polarized sunglasses, that her hair didn’t have that funny red cast that dyed hair gets. She was thin but not an “I’m going to be a bony old lady” look; she was thin in an “I take care of myself” way.
“All the time in the world. What’s up?” Cole fumbled for the TV remote and switched off the power.
“I’m having a little get-together on the 23rd and wanted to ask if you could make it. Lots of food and friends, just a small, fun kind of late-afternoon thingy.” She paused. Cole smiled at her saying “thingy.”
“Yeah, I would be but uh, the 23rd? I’ll be in Washington.”
“Name dropper. Seattle or D.C.?” she said. Cole wasn’t sure if she was teasing or being condescending.
“D.C.”
“Private talks with the prez?” Kelly sounded as though she was suppressing a giggle. This woman was almost what Cole would call “bubbly.”
“Well, yes, actually.” Cole’s words sounded funny to him, and he laughed softly.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, actually I’m not. I just got a call from a children’s foundation, and they’re giving me this award, and the president is going to present it to me and I—”
“How wonderful!” Kelly broke in. “What for? I mean, why you? Wait, this isn’t coming out right.” She took a deep breath. “Why are you being honored? How’s that, better?”
“I wrote this article for the paper.” Cole was stammering like an idiot. “It was about a sexually abused little girl. Maybe Ben told you about her.” Cole’s voice softened as he thought of Camilla.
“Yes, he did. The poor little angel,” Kelly said softly.
“The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children has gotten a positive response since the article appeared, and they are giving me an award. So, I’m going to Washington for the ceremony. On the 23rd.”
“Darn. I mean good that you’re getting the award, darn that you can’t come. Just thought it would be nice if you could have joined us. I mean, we are almost related.” Kelly laughed an embarrassed laugh.
“Yeah, that would have been nice. Well, thank you and...” Cole paused. “I just realized, I don’t think I know your husband’s name.” The phone suddenly felt very quiet.
“He’s gone; I mean he died, when Ben was in college. I thought he would have told you. Well maybe not, it was very hard for Ben, losing his father.” There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Oh, I am so sorry.” Cole felt like his face was on fire. “I didn’t realize. I’m very sorry.”
“Eight years ago now. He didn’t even tell Erin until shortly before their wedding. Even then she had to pry it out of him. Tell you what, I’ll scold Ben and you scold Erin for this uncomfortable moment. What do you think?” Another pause. “So, next time?”
“Absolutely!” Cole said, the heat fading from his cheeks. “It would be nice.”
“All right then, it’s a date! I mean, I’ll call you and let you know—oh, you know what I’m trying to say. Bye-bye.” The line went dead.
Cole put the phone back on its base, raised his eyebrows, and blew out a long breath from his puffed-up cheeks. Across the Golden Gate Bridge in Sausalito, Kelly did the same.
Cole went to the hall closet, grabbed a sweatshirt from the hook on the door and his peace sign baseball cap. He locked the front door, unlocked his bike from the wall rack, and jogged down the stairs to the street. Sweatshirt on, cap adjusted, he was off down the street, heading for the bay.
The wind was crisp and the water was tipped in white as Cole pedaled his way along the wide cement walkway. A few months ago, he would have had to stop to rest after the first half mile. Now he braced himself against the wind and didn’t miss a stroke. He stopped at Fort Point, got off his bike, and climbed up on the rock wall. He took a deep breath of salt air.
Even with the slight chill, the day was glorious. He stood looking across the bay toward Alcatraz. As he turned, the golden glow and deep shades of the afternoon sun gave the hills north of the bridge sha
rp contrasts of gold and near black. Cole looked up at the bridge. The tops of the towers seemed to reach the heavens. The sky was cloudless, and Cole squinted as he followed the line of the gracefully flowing cables from tower to tower, like the arch of a trapeze artist. He imagined a girl in white tights swinging along the span of the bridge, her feet lightly grazing the cable, dismounting at the top of one tower, only to grab another bar to the next.
Cole felt totally relaxed on any day he rode along the bay. He seemed to gather strength from the water, the graceful sailboats, and the power of the windsurfers. He loved watching people who jogged and walked along the paths. He smiled at mothers pushing strollers along the walkways. Among the neighborhood residents who walked, rode, or jogged around Crissy Field, there was an unspoken understanding. Cole noticed it about three months after he began riding. One day, a jogger gave him a slight nod of the head. A little while later, another jogger without drawing the slightest notice to himself, briefly touched the brim of his cap. After that, Cole paid closer attention to those around him. He gave a smile and a quick nod of the head to anyone he saw a second time. Occasionally, there was a friendly “good morning” or “hello,” but most of the time, the acknowledgment was enough.
Cole spent about 10 minutes at the Point. He had broken a sweat riding into the wind, and now he was starting to get a chill. As he remounted his bike, he noticed a flock of gulls about 20 feet off the water. Their wings were spread wide and their heads faced into the wind. They hung like a mobile above the water, their altitude fluctuating slightly as they floated. Cole stopped, straddling his bike, and gazed in awe at the birds’ ability to relax in mid air.
It was a good day, and Cole was at peace. He rode back along the side roads and skirted the old Presidio buildings. He decided to take an alternate route home. As he climbed the hills, he had to shift gears twice. He was quite pleased with his new healthier self. The old, getting flabby Cole of Chicago was giving way to the trimmer, more fit, tanned Cole of California.
Cole judged that he had circled six or eight blocks south of home and was thinking of extending his ride to explore the center of the city when he saw a 7-Eleven on his right. He had forgotten his water bottle, and the combination of wind and exercise made him thirsty. Rationalizing that he had already worked off the ice cream from lunch, he figured he could use a Coke and a candy bar. He glided up on the sidewalk in front of the store and leaned his bike against the window. Glancing around, he was aware that the area was not as nice as his Marina neighborhood. He remembered that he hadn’t brought his bike lock. No problem, he thought, I’ll be quick.
The man behind the counter didn’t smile when Cole came through the door. Cole walked to the cooler in the back of the store and got a Coke. He glanced at the window to check his bike. The old Chicago Cole, he thought, always worrying about the bad guys. As he made his way to the candy aisle, he noticed that the guy behind the counter was leaning around the register, watching him.
Cole grabbed a Snickers bar and walked to the counter.
“How you doin’ today?” Cole asked.
The clerk didn’t respond. “One eighty-five.”
Cole paid with two dollar bills, all he had on him. This was another of his old habits: Never carry much money when you leave the house on foot. The clerk slapped 15 cents change on the counter.
“Thanks.” Cole forced a smile.
The clerk didn’t respond.
Cole began to tear the wrapper from the end of the Snickers bar as he stepped out the door. He sensed more than saw someone approaching on his left. As he turned, he saw a man in a filthy down jacket that once had been beige. His hair was dreadlock matted and as filthy as the jacket. He had about a week’s growth of beard. Cole figured him for another junkie panhandler and was planning to ignore him.
“Hey, you,” the man said in a dry growl.
Cole ignored him and reached for the handlebar of his bike.
“I’m talkin’ to you, asshole.”
Cole turned and faced the man, now only about three feet way. So much for trying to avoid him, Cole thought.
“Give me your money,” the man demanded.
“Don’t you mean some money?” Cole said sarcastically.
“Give me your money. Now!” The man shouted.
“I don’t have any.”
“Bullshit!”
Cole glanced around. There was no one on the sidewalk, and he didn’t remember anyone in the store but the clerk. The bearded man was about three inches taller than Cole but thinner. His eyes were large and seemed exaggerated because of the dark circles around them. The muscles in his jaw worked as he gritted his teeth. Cole noticed the man’s strong hands and large knuckles. He used one hand as he spoke to make a jabbing, pointing gesture at Cole; the other hand was in his jacket pocket.
“Have you got a gun?” Cole said calmly, stalling and hoping the clerk would see and hear the confrontation. When Cole glanced through the window, the clerk was no longer behind the counter.
“No, I ain’t got no gun. I said give me your money, and I mean it, shithead.”
“A knife?” Cole wondered what the man had in his pocket. “Have you got a knife?”
“Money!” The man screamed the word in a crazy, long, howling growl. He stretched towards Cole, his neck twisting, his head turning, with lips pulled back, showing a contorted view of his stained, crooked teeth and swollen gums.
“No gun? No knife? What makes you think I’m going to give you anything? I don’t have any money. Now, get the hell away from me!” Cole half-laughed, dismissing the man and now becoming more irritated than afraid.
“I’m going to kick your ass and take it. Now give it!” The man’s countenance had become dark with anger, and his words came in screaming bursts. The strong gnarled hand made a thrust for Cole’s throat.
Cole jerked back and felt the unopened Coca-Cola can in his right hand. He slipped his hand to the top of the can and held it, fingers spread like claws around a sphere. In a quick arcing move, he brought the can full around and, with all his might, struck the man with the base of the can across the bridge of his nose.
The bearded man’s filthy hands flew to his face, and he screamed in pain. Cole stepped back and watched as blood began to flow through the man’s fingers, into his mouth, and down his chin and neck. The man’s eyes were closed, and he screamed, spitting and gurgling blood as he staggered past Cole, turning so he faced the parking lot. Cole spun and kicked the man just above the ankles with a powerful blow with his right foot. The mugger’s feet flew up, and he landed hard on his butt, falling back against the windows and hitting the back of his head on the metal bar that ran about two feet off the ground.
Cole knew the man no longer presented a danger, so he backed away from the howling figure on the sidewalk and opened the door to the store. “Hey, better call the cops and an ambulance. Got a guy hurt out here!”
Cole moved quickly, grabbing his bike and mounting as it rolled down the parking lot toward the street. He passed a green dumpster at the edge of the lot and tossed the Snickers and the Coke into the left side where the lid was flopped back. Traffic seemed to swarm around him like angry bees. Horns honked and cars cut him off, turning in front of him without signaling. Twice Cole had to swerve to keep from hitting people running against the light through crosswalks. The serenity of his earlier ride had turned to an angry fight for survival as he tried to get home.
Reaching his building, Cole laid down the bike and sat on the steps to catch his breath. What happened? Such a great day had turned to crap with just one stop. Cole was not violent by nature. His fight-or-flight response had always been skewed towards flight, but he wasn’t afraid to defend himself. Stopping the mugger at the 7-11 was just such a situation. The man was an unknown quantity. There was no way of knowing what he was capable of. Cole had always believed, as his father had taught him, that you hit first, hit hardest, and disappear.
As a boy, Cole had been harassed by a group of older
boys on his school bus. There were four stops before Cole got off the bus. Each day when the driver got off to walk a student across the street, the older boys would begin a grunting, pushing sound in their throats. As the driver’s feet hit the ground, the boys would rush to Cole’s seat and punch, pinch, pull his hair, and poke at his neck with their thumbs. This torment went on for weeks before—in sheer anger, terror, and frustration—he confided the problem to his father. Cole had made him promise not to tell his mother, because the first thing she’d do was call the school.
Cole’s father took him out to the garage and taught him to hit—and hit hard. Their practice sessions went on every night for a week. On Sunday night, Cole’s father sat him down and taught him two things Cole had never forgotten. The first was to hit first, hit hardest, and disappear—run if necessary before the authorities came or the person revived enough to harm you. This rule came with a stern and strict warning. Hitting anyone was a last resort. It was done only if you believed your adversary meant to do you harm. You had to fear for your own safety or the safety of your loved ones. It was basically the code of kill or be killed. Fight back or live in fear.
Cole’s father had a deep sense of family. The defense of his family was the most important thing in life. When Cole looked back on his father’s life, he was always struck by the impact World War II had on him. Cole’s father often spoke to a school friend whose cousins in Germany had gone to the gas chambers. He was appalled that the Jews hadn’t fought back. Cole had often heard his father say that he would never have let his family be “led off like sheep to the slaughter” in the Holocaust, that he would have either escaped or fought to the death. As a child, Cole knew that no matter what, he was safe as long as his father was alive.
Now Cole was facing his first battle. The next day on the bus, during the first three stops, young Cole was spit on, punched in the back of the head and neck, and his homework folder was torn in half. There was one more stop before he got off the bus. Cole was ashamed and afraid. He knew he had to stop the harassment or he’d go crazy. As the bus slowed to let off Candice Grant, Cole pulled together all the courage he could muster and waited. Remembering what his father had shown him, he waited for his tormentors.
Cellar Full of Cole: A Cole Sage Mystery #2 Page 20
