by Brent Coffey
Peeking out of the unknown patient’s door and darting her eyes up and down the hall, she still saw no sign of the nurse or Dr. Platter. She hurried towards the nursery, walking as steadily as she could to avoid drawing attention to herself. Passing the nurses’ station, her peripheral vision confirmed that its many staffers were too busy to notice anyone not wearing hospital attire. She kept a steady gaze towards the elevator bank just ahead, and, passing a table in the hallway, picked up today’s paper in case she needed to avoid eye contact. Staring down and pretending to read the headlines, she made her way to the front of the nursery, stopping in front of its glass enclosure. Several nurses that she didn’t recognize were inside tending to rows of crying infants. Debby wondered how any child was expected to sleep in the fire alarm cries of other children. One crying infant had set off a domino effect and was joined by a disharmonious choir of his peers. With frazzled nurses rushing to hold, feed, and change as many disgruntled babies as they could, the place seemed about as peaceful as a bar fight. Debby recognized Gabe, even though she couldn’t read his tiny wristband. Being his mother, she didn’t need to be told which child was hers: she knew. She decided to try her hand at another Emmy.
“Hey, you guys look super busy!” she said with an empathetic laugh in her tone.
Neither nurse turned to meet her, as both were bent over diaper changing stations. One nurse said, “Only personnel are permitted in the nursery.”
“That’s fine. I’ll show myself to the door.” And, picking Gabe up, she did. Gabe’s cries became louder when Debby lifted him out of his plastic crib. Thankfully, the nurses didn’t notice his increased volume, as the other tenants drowned him out. She walked outside the nursery, covering most of Gabe with the newspaper to hide his hospital clothes. She stepped into an elevator filled with people who were either too tired or too sick to ask questions about a crying newborn, and she rode with Gabe to the ground level floor without incident. She didn’t know how much time had passed since the nurse had left her room, but she guessed it couldn’t have been more than five minutes. She was making good timing. I just need one more break. God, let there be a cab. There was. Coming out the front doors of St. Knox’s with Gabe held tightly, she spotted a yellow taxi with “1-800-CAB-FOR-U” in large black letters on its side. Climbing into the back, she gave the cabby her address. Though she had no money on her, she promised him payment plus a tip if he’d cut a new mom a break. The cabby agreed.
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Roman law may have ended its political rule centuries ago, but it still influenced the Mafia in the twentieth century. The mob’s origins in southern Italy and Sicily caused the mob’s power structure to be molded by nearby Roman culture. According to Roman law, the empire could only be handed down to a male heir, usually the firstborn son. (This rule had forced Julius Caesar to adopt his great-nephew Augustus, so that the Roman Empire could remain intact.) The mob’s close proximity to Rome secured the Mafia’s belief that the Family business should be preserved throughout the generations with male posterity.
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Several years later (and closer to the present)…
He was seven, a few years older than August. He was playing on the swing set in his backyard. Faster and faster, higher and higher, the airplane that was his chain linked swing took him to other places, other worlds. As Gabe pretended to blast off for South America, where he and his mom would soon be moving so that she could teach English as a second language, a limo pulled up alongside the front yard (it was too long to fit in the driveway), in front of the Fallons’ small, grey vinyl siding home in Roxbury, one of Boston’s poorer neighborhoods. Gabe saw five men in long black overcoats hustle out of the car and walk towards the front of his house, out of sight from his view in the backyard. Four of the men looked younger than the fifth man, who had large brown moles on his forehead’s receding hairline and a face creased with tortured wrinkles and crevices.
Inside his house, Rocko and Bingo, the respective father and mother of three new Dalmatian pups, snarled and barked. Pop! Pop! The dogs went silent. At the sound of gunfire, Roxbury’s other residents, accustomed to minding their own business during these ordeals, left their lawnmowers, gardening tools, and bicycles outside and quickly sought shelter indoors. When the mob made a house call, it was safer to stay out of sight.
Gabe next heard his mom pleading, “No, no, no, no!” coming from the screen door at the house’s rear. He wasn’t sure what was going on. He didn’t know what the men from the long car were doing in his house, but he could tell that his mom was scared and upset. He’d stopped swinging and stayed deathly still, too frightened to go inside and find out what was happening. When his mom’s protests ended, one of the men from the limo, the older one, opened the kitchen door leading to the Fallons’ backyard and emerged with a slow and purposeful gait that spoke of expecting to have things his way. Gabe, still seated on his swing, saw that the approaching man was looking directly at him with a curious grin. The guy, early-fifties, wore a black overcoat like the others from the limo, sported a modern looking black hat, and his black gloves carried a toy. A teddy bear. His smile broadened to the size of a car salesman’s greeting, as he walked towards Gabe.
“Hey, kid. How’s it going?”
Gabe didn’t know what to say to this stranger standing before him. He was pretty sure that this man and his friends had just hurt his mom and shot his dogs. He wished his swing would turn into an actual rocket so he could blast off for real this time.
“Name’s Victor Adelaide. What’s yours?”
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And even closer to the present…
He held the gun tight with both hands. His weaker left hand supported his stronger right one, just like he’d been taught. Elbows slightly bent and sights aligned, he stood with legs spread eagle in a combat stance. The clerk, eager to please, inched his raised hands down in a I’m not looking for trouble style of deliberate cooperation and lowered them to the register, careful to keep them visible at all times. The clerk slowly inserted a key and turned it to open the register, moving so intentionally that he looked like he was playing charades and merely acting the role of cashier. The clerk then held up each tray’s stack of bills, $20’s, $10’s, $5’s, and $1’s, as he took them out, first to show the gunman that he was forthcoming with the money and then to place the money in the bag like he’d been told. The clerk made it a point not to look at the robber’s uncovered face, lest this young kid (who’s obviously never done this kinda thing before, the clerk thought) figure out that he’d forgotten to wear a mask and kill him to remove a live witness.
Aiming a snubbed nose stainless steel .357 Magnum revolver, Gabe, seventeen, had never felt this powerful. Ever since that fateful day when he was seven, he’d mostly felt powerless, and the feeling his gun gave him was a welcome return of the kind of adventure that his swing set had once given him. While not South America, Outer Space, or any other place he used to visit in his backyard, this truly was a new world, and he didn’t need a swing set to take him there. His gun and 1997 two-door cobalt blue Camaro provided all the adventure he now needed.
Moments earlier, as he’d passed time in the gas station’s peanut and potato chip aisle pretending to read snack labels and waiting for the store’s two remaining customers to leave, he’d debated how he was going to get things started. He wanted to say something, though he didn’t know what he wanted to say. He felt like he should speak something memorable, though why he was concerned about the memory of an audience who would soon be dead never crossed his sophomoric mind. Maybe I’ll make a proclamation, he schemed, like telling the little pussy behind the register, “You stand here only because I allow it, and I allow it no longer.” Today, he would be a made man, the Mafia’s term for a new Family member who’s been initiated by taking Omerta (the code of silence regarding the authorities), pledging loyalty to the Fami
ly, and killing on its behalf. Since Gabe was still a teen, he was excused from assassinating one of the Adelaides’ enemies, as those jobs couldn’t afford to be botched by an amateur. Instead, he’d been given the task of killing a random guy to show the strength of his nerves and his dedication to the clan. He’d killed once before… with Victor’s help, though he hadn’t wanted to, and he tried not to think about that now. This was the first time that he’d kill on his own.
Holding his gun made him feel like he could go anywhere, do anything, and no one could stop him. Feeling powerful felt good; it felt like the ultimate rush of adrenaline. It felt safe. And it had been years since he’d felt safe. He had all the power, the clerk had none, and that was as safe as he could imagine being.
“Okay, here’s the money, sir.”
Sir! Gabe loved it. No one had ever called him that before. Amazing what a weapon could do for one’s social status.
Concerned about the stupid grin that had just appeared on Gabe’s face, the clerk stood facing his robber. Minutes passed as they stared, one with his hands raised in the air and the other pointing a gun. Eventually, the clerk slowly lowered his left hand and, with it, moved the bag of cash across the counter, nodding at it as if to say Aren’t you going to take it? That was when Gabe shot him three times in the chest at point-blank range, leaving both the clerk and the money behind during the early hours of the gas station’s third shift. The initiation was complete. Victor Adelaide’s adopted son was now a made man.
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Back to the present…
The phone rang just as Sara was walking out of her office. She had no intentions of answering it. It was 10 to 5 on a Friday, and, after a particularly bad experience of removing two kids from their biological mom and her druggie lover, she felt entitled to start the weekend a few minutes early. The phone rang until her voicemail answered. She paused on her way out to catch the caller’s identity. As she expected, the caller hung up. Ever the vigilant protector of children’s welfare, she would’ve taken the call had it been an emergency. Relieved that it wasn’t, she resumed her path out, when the phone rang again. Man, she thought, who’s calling now? Once more, the caller disconnected when greeted with her voicemail. It was now 5 to 5, and this time she was determined to leave. No one knew that she was kicking off a few minutes too soon, and, even if they had known, no one would’ve cared.
But the phone rang again. She wondered if perhaps the same person was trying to reach her. She also wondered if the caller wanted to speak to her secretly. Maybe that’s why whoever’s calling keeps avoiding my voicemail. Maybe they don’t want their call recorded. She’d seen plenty of abused kids over the past seven years, and she was used to speaking with people who wanted to leave a quick tip without going on the record. Though she’d had a stressful day already, she decided that the right course of action was to take one more call.
“Hello, this is Sara.”
“Hi, Sara.”
She instantly recognized Bruce’s voice. She struggled to believe that she used to enjoy talking to him. And Martha had once seemed pleasant too, she recalled. That was several weeks and another lifetime ago. Before the dog.
“I’m calling the cops,” she announced, but before she could slam the phone down she heard:
“Good. You need to.”
This stopped her. Was that a threat?
“What did you say?” she asked, less angry and more curious.
“I said you need to call the cops. Listen, I’m not trying to bother you, but I think August is in trouble. There’s a dangerous guy who’s expressing interest in him, and, frankly, I’m worried about him. Have you heard of Gabriel Adelaide? Well, silly question, I’m sure you have. You must’ve heard of him if you follow the news.”
“Of course I’ve heard of him. Are you trying to tell me that Adelaide is the ‘dangerous man’ interested in August? Because if so, I’m not buying it.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, I’m not buying it. You think I’m going to help you adopt August if I find out that he’s vulnerable and needs you to protect him from the mob, and I’m not buying it. I see exactly what you’re doing here. You’re trying to scare me into saying, ‘Oh! God! Poor little August needs a big tough man in his life like, say, I don’t know, maybe the D.A.?’ Well, that’s a crock of shit. The Mafia has no interest in foster kids. There’s no money in foster kids, and you aren’t going to convince me that the mob is after a penniless 5-year-old.”
“I’m not trying to convince you of anything,” Bruce tried, exhausted. “Well, I guess I am trying to convince you of something, but it’s true! I just wanted you to be aware that Adelaide knows that I want to adopt August. I mean, he knows who August is. Doesn’t that trouble you?”
“If I believed you, I guess it would trouble me. But I don’t, so it doesn’t. Don’t call me again, or I really will call the police.” If she hadn’t been in a hurry to start her weekend, she would’ve called them for this infraction. She thought she was done with Bruce. The person bugging her line didn’t think so.
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Chapter Three
The next day, Saturday, Sara went out to treat herself to some shopping. She was excited, elated, and nervous (albeit in a fun way). She had a date on Sunday, and she wanted to look her best. She rarely bought herself new clothes (kids didn’t care how she dressed), and the time was right for a new outfit. After yesterday’s hell of a mess of removing two kids from their parents and Bruce’s ridiculous threat about mob activity, she’d earned it. But enough of all that! She chided herself. She had coupons, a debit card, and yesterday’s paycheck in the bank. And a date tomorrow! Did I mention that I have a date, Mr. Cronkite? Why, yes, you did Miss Madison, and that makes you the most interesting woman in the world! And that’s the way it is. Her mind raced through other fictitious scenarios. Marriage, honeymoon, second honeymoons, but! Wait! First, there’d have to be a proposal, probably a breathtakingly romantic one. Her imagination spun out yarns like a spider on steroids.
She parked her car midway up aisle 8 of Fashion Now’s lot, careful to avoid shopping cart returns and the danger they posed to her bumper, and she took her cell out of her purse so that she could text about her life’s newfound giddiness as she made her way in.
OMG!!! Can’t wait to meet Brad Sunday.
Her girlfriend, Amanda, responded: LOL! You go Girl!!! He’s a keeper.
I know, right?!? That’s what I keep hearing.
Where you guys going?
Don’t know. He said bistro. Picking me up at 8.
Awesome sauce! Excited for you!
I’ll call you afterwards.
You better!!! First blind date is always exciting.
I know, and I owe it all to you. Looking forward to hanging with you l8r.
Not being a teen, Sara wasn’t the quickest texter, and she walked slowly towards the store’s entrance to finish messaging Amanda.
“Excuse me, do you have any change?”
She hadn’t seen the man approaching her. She’d been staring down at her phone, oblivious to the parking lot’s foot traffic.
Glancing up from her phone, she said, “Sorry, but I can’t help you.” As a matter of safety, she tried to end conversations with strangers as quickly as possible. She walked past the man, with her back now to him.
“Oh, but I think you can spare some change, Sara.”
Turning, suddenly worried, she demanded, “What did you say? How did you…”
“I think you can spare a whole purse full of change.”
And that was when he grabbed her purse with enough force to pull it off her arm and bring her to her knees, separating her purse from her extended hand. The man, tall and lanky with olive skin, ran inside an idling jet black sedan with tinted windows parked in a handicap spot. The passenger’s door was open and waiting for him. The door slammed shut, while she remained on her knees about thi
rty feet away, and the car sped away.
She picked herself up off the asphalt and looked around for help. She hoped one of her fellow shoppers had seen the car’s tags. She realized that the purse snatcher was wearing shades, and his clothes were entirely black: he’d be difficult to describe to police. Glancing rapidly in all directions, she saw with dismay that there wasn’t anyone in the parking lot with her. Her decision to shop early had left her without the aid of witnesses. She got up, still stunned, and looked down at her knees. Her jeans were scuffed from being drug on the pavement. She wondered what her knees looked like beneath them and if they were bleeding. She saw that the cell in her hand was intact, as she’d been fortunate enough not to drop it. She quickly dialed 911.
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Coming out of the women’s room at the back of Fashion Now, Sara was relieved. She’d just examined her knees in a stall, and there weren’t any ugly bruises or scrapes, though they hurt like hell. Since her cash and credit cards were in her stolen purse, she decided to go home and shop another day. She’d make do with something in her closet for tomorrow’s date. At this point, she didn’t feel giddy enough to spend money. She needed a nap and some hot chocolate. Her gumption had been stolen with her purse, and she no longer had the courage to model sexy clothing in front of dressing room mirrors. She was on her way out, when she heard the store’s loudspeaker:
