by Brent Coffey
“Hey, I’m Gabriel Adelaide. How’s it going?”
She said nothing, unwilling to process what she was seeing on her doorstep. Gabe was used to being stared at, he was accustomed to people pointing and talking about him in front of him, and he didn’t object to locals snapping photos of him. The fame pleased him, but nothing pleased him more than someone too intimidated to speak when they saw him up close. The power of this moment surged through him, and, after the fright she’d inflicted on August with her constant screaming, he enjoyed her look of fear.
“I said my name’s Gabriel Adelaide.” He chuckled.
She still couldn’t speak.
Seconds went by, and she called out in a trembling voice, “Bill…”
Her husband had moved into the backyard’s hammock with an open case of beer. He would’ve ignored her even if he’d heard her call.
“Mind if I come in?” Gabe asked, friendly enough.
Pleading like a little lamb, she whispered Bill’s name again.
“That’s okay. I don’t have to come in. I’ll get to the point. I want to take your foster kid out for a few days. Show him the city, drive him around, that sorta thing. I trust that’s cool with you.”
“Bill…”
“I see you’re a little nervous, but no worries. I’m a free man, I’m not a criminal, and, since I’m guessing you’ve seen me on TV, let me remind you that the jury acquitted me of all charges.”
He mentioned the jury’s acquittal with the pride of a man who’d just been knighted.
“Bill…”
“Would this help?” he asked, reaching in his khakis’ right pocket.
“Oh, please, don’t!” she pleaded, falling to her knees, shutting her eyes, and extending both arms above her head with palms out and fingers spread, like she was doing obeisance to her Lord and Savior.
“Well,” he laughed with amusement, “I was just going to give you a little something. Here.” He tossed three $100 bills on the ground in front of her, while she knelt expecting the worst. She kept her eyes tightly shut, and she didn’t see the money in front of her.
“Ma’am, if I may,” he said in a comforting tone, placing his hands under her arms and righting her on her feet. He then softly tilted her chin down towards the cash below her.
“That’s for you,” he said, still enjoying her fear.
She was too scared to care about the money. She made no move for it. He shrugged. He didn’t care if she kept it, or if the wind blew it into the street. It would be his only attempt at a peace offering in this situation, and it was one more than he usually gave.
“Like I said, I was hoping to take August out for a few days.”
“Okay,” she replied in a voice that was nearly inaudible.
He took her by the hand and led her to her own sofa, gently seating her on it. He saw the TV was on and caught sight of the remote on the coffee table. He unmuted the set, and Judge Conner’s righteous voice boomed back into the Ringers’ house:
“And how many applications have you submitted in the past week?” Judge Conner asked a new defendant, this one an unemployed guy with tattoo sleeves who was late repaying his neighbor a loan he’d borrowed for car repairs.
“You just sit here and watch TV,” Gabe said. “And don’t mind me while I look around.”
He showed himself to the Ringers’ hallway, and he opened several doors without knocking, before he found August’s room.
Propped up on his knees and making engine sounds, August was playing with the fire truck that Luke had brought him, turning the truck in small circles in front of him. He didn’t look up when he heard his bedroom door open. He’d tried to find something to clean when Gina had sent him back, but everything looked in order. He feared she’d come into his room to yell at to him to keep it down because his playing was interrupting her program. He kept both eyes planted on his truck, waiting for the onslaught of verbal chastisement.
“You look like you’re having fun.”
August stiffened at the sound of a strange man’s voice. He forced himself to look up, and he stared at Gabe with fright. August was too young to be an evening news junkie, so he didn’t recognize Gabe. But he didn’t need a newscaster to tell him to be afraid. He knew enough about adults from his short stay with his pop to know that fear was the only appropriate response when a man came looking for you.
“That’s a good looking fire truck you got there, pal. How about we build a road for it?”
Gina remained unmoved from her assigned seat on the sofa. She obediently watched Judge Conner, though doing so now felt like a chore. She broke out in goose bumps, when she heard the patio door open. Bill walked in, clearing his throat, coughing, and scratching his oversized gut through his strained undershirt.
“You ain’t started dinner yet?” he accused by asking. “The hell’s wrong with you?”
She didn’t speak, and she nodded with her head towards the hallway, trying to tip Bill off that he should cool it.
“You got something wrong with your neck?”
She shook her head no furiously. For the love of God, Bill, please get with it! she dictated via telepathy. No use. His intuition was as thick as ever.
“If you ain’t started dinner in the next five minutes,” he warned, letting loose a hearty beer belch, “I’m ordering takeout for me, and you can just sit on your ass and watch me eat.”
She palmed her face in frustration.
Bill was starting to feel the effects of six beers on an empty stomach, and his powers of discernment were now as empty as his six-pack. He opened the fridge, hunting for a pre-dinner snack, and, not finding anything appetizing, he settled for a slice of red cased bologna and shoved it in a wrinkled wad in his mouth, chewing around the casing. He slammed the fridge door, still pissed at Gina for not having dinner waiting for him. He leaned over the kitchen’s garbage can and spat out the meat casing.
“Guess I have to do everything around here,” he complained.
He made his way down the hall to take a leak, when he noticed August’s door ajar. He went to close it, mumbling to himself about how the damn kid had no respect and didn’t know his place around here, when he heard Gabe’s voice for the first time. He stopped in the hall, confused. Why didn’t Gina mention there was company? He slowly pushed the bedroom door open and saw the guy that he recognized as Gabriel Adelaide playing with a truck beside August. He rubbed his eyes and shut the door. How much did I drink? He rubbed his eyes again, in an effort to force them not to see what he’d seen the first time. He reopened the door.
“Nice to meet you,” Gabe said, standing up and extending his hand.
It was the most disturbing experience of Bill’s life. Not only had his wife not told him there was company, but she’d also failed to mention that their guest was New England’s Al Capone. Bill gawked at the hand offered to him as Gabe stood up, and he slowly backed out of the bedroom door, expecting that hand to grab him at any moment and choke the life out of him.
“Gina!” Bill called out. “Gina, call the cops!”
“Is there a problem here?” Gabe asked innocently.
“Get… get out of my house,” Bill said with all the courage he could muster as his knees grew weak.
“Alright, that’s fine. I’ll show myself to the door,” Gabe offered. “There’s no need to call the cops. Like I told your wife, I’m a free man. I had my day in court, I wasn’t convicted, and I’m not breaking the law by playing with your foster son. By the way, Gina agreed to let me take August out for a drive.”
Bill visibly recoiled when Gabe called August his foster son. August was no such thing. That kid was Gina’s responsibility, and he only tolerated the kid because Gina brought home enough beer from the kid’s check to keep him placated.
“You ain’t leaving, hot stuff,” Bill said, changing his mind about telling Gabe to get out. “You’re staying here until the boys in blue arrive.” It may have been the alcohol talking, but he was starting to feel ballsy, a
nd his initial shock at finding a mobster in his home was giving way to intoxication’s bulletproof vest. He’d always wondered how he’d respond to one of these bastards in real life, and now he knew.
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Ringer,” Gabe countered, emphasizing Bill’s last name and shooting him a glance that said I know more about you than you think, and I’m in control here, so don’t fuck with me. Gabe continued:
“I haven’t done anything that concerns the cops.”
Bill found himself at a loss for words. Maybe I’m too damn drunk to think straight, but this guy’s kinda making sense. But it can’t possibly be the case that he can waltz into my home and leave without being arrested. What’s wrong here? A lot, Bill decided. A whole fucking lot’s wrong here.
Bill saw the toys scattered on August’s floor, the same ones Gabe had been assembling into a road for the fire truck.
“Clean this shit up!” Bill snapped, holding August’s eye and sweeping a finger across the toys.
“There’s no reason to yell him. It was my idea to get the toys out, and I’ll clean them up.”
“No, you’re going to… to leave,” (Or was it stay until the cops arrived? Bill couldn’t decide. He was too drunk.) “And he’s going to clean this shit up! If he doesn’t, I’ll clean his clock!” Threatening August felt safer than threatening Gabe, and it was the booze’s meager attempt at reclaiming his home as his territory.
Gabe wasn’t itching for a shouting contest, and he didn’t want the police involved. He put away August’s toys, as Bill warily eyed him.
“There,” Gabe concluded, “that didn’t take long, and now you won’t have to clean anyone’s clock.”
Gabe started to walk past Bill, and Bill considered blocking his path but opted against it. Gabe was some twenty years younger and a hell of a lot fitter. Plus, God only knew what kind of heat Gabe was packing. Still, letting this guy, this punk, just come in his home and leave whenever he damn well pleased wasn’t sitting well. He wanted to take a stand against this good-for-nothing, but he didn’t dare push his luck. His threat to call the police was the only one he was willing to make. His blood boiled from shame when he realized that he wasn’t nearly as ballsy as he thought. With impotent rage, he kicked over August’s yellow tub of blocks and shouted at the boy:
“You got thirty seconds to clean this shit up or else!”
Gabe became furious with Bill’s clean-this-shit-up-bit. It didn’t take a psychic to figure out that removing August from the Ringers could only turn out positively for the kid.
“First of all, Mr. Ringer,” Gabe warned, “those are toys and not shit. Second, you’re the one who spilled them, so you’ll be cleaning them up.”
Bill sized Gabe up and reiterated his earlier conclusion: there was no way in hell that he could take him. But the alcohol wouldn’t let his wounded pride rest, and he was finally feeling drunk enough to bluff a fight.
“I’m not cleaning up anything, you son of a bitch,” Bill uttered, with hot cheeks blistering red. Bill balled up his fists like he used to in Nam, when he and the guys would kill time beating the hell out of each other and taking odds on the winners, hoping Gabe wouldn’t call his bluff and actually fight back. Gabe took in Bill’s fighting stance with a smirk. The old tub of lard can’t be serious.
“Let me assure you, Mr. Ringer, I’m not looking for trouble. I came here to visit August, and I didn’t come to bother you. You wanted the toys picked up, and they were picked up. You wanted me gone, and I was on my way out. I’d already be gone, if you weren’t bullying a boy.”
Being called a bully enraged Bill even more. You think you know what a bully is? I’ll show you what a damn bully is. And turning his back on Gabe (his first mistake) Bill swung a fist against the right side of August’s face, knocking out a baby tooth in the little guy’s lower gum (his second mistake).
August cried from the pain in his jarred head, spitting blood on the carpet from the hole where his tooth had been. Finished with diplomacy, Gabe decided that, yes, there was some shit that needed to be cleaned up, and it had just sucker punched a kid in the face. Gabe didn’t wait for Bill to turn around to face him. There was no need to fight fair with a guy who’d hit a kid… not even the mob stooped that low.
Gabe power kicked Bill in his back, driving him to his knees. Grabbing Bill’s head and pulling it up to waist height, Gabe slammed two fingers in Bill’s eyes, puncturing blood vessels. Bill screamed louder than August cried. Holding Bill’s head steady by what little hair remained on his balding head, Gabe introduced Bill’s face to a swift series of blows, shaking loose more teeth than Bill had knocked out of August’s mouth. When Gabe let go of his hair, Bill crumpled over to his right side, heaving and holding his aching head with both hands. A swift kick to the head sent Bill on all expenses paid vacation to Someplace-Other-Than-Conscious-Reality.
From her appointed seat in the living room, Gina visualized the violence as its soundtrack of chaos played. She heard August cry, then Bill scream, then Bill go silent while August continued crying. She didn’t dare get up from the couch. Moments later, she saw Gabe emerge from August’s bedroom, pulling the boy along by his arm. Blood ran down August’s chin and stained his shirt, he shed tears like he was mortally wounded, and he gripped Zoggy tighter than he ever had.
Oh my God! He’s hurt August and Bill! she thought, fearing she was next. Gabe had to shout to be heard over August’s crying:
“Your husband assaulted a minor, and that’s a felony. I’m taking August, and I’m not bringing him back. If you call the police, your husband will go to jail. I know you receive $500 a month for watching August. You’ll keep getting those checks, if you don’t tell his social worker he doesn’t live here. And I’ll match those funds. You’ll make an extra $500 a month to let me take care of him, and you won’t have to lift a finger. Do we understand one another?”
She shook her head yes enthusiastically, partly relieved that Gabe was leaving without killing her and partly excited that she was now going to make twice the cash off of August while doing no work at all.
“I know Sara Madison stops by to check on him. Stall her until next month. By then, I’ll have thought of a way to deal with her. Got it?”
She eagerly nodded yes once more.
He walked out the front door, still pulling August along, and left her sitting idly on her couch to wonder what he’d done to Bill. Eventually, curiosity trumped her fear that Bill was now a corpse, and she made her way into August’s room. She saw Bill looking like he had earlier in the backyard, only this time he hadn’t passed out from a round of drinks. She felt her heart slow to a less anxious pace when she saw he was breathing. When he woke up, she’d tell him that Gabe had left and that Sara had stopped by and removed August from their home. She wouldn’t tell Bill about the extra cash Gabe was sending, and, since he was too lazy to check the mail, he’d never know about the money coming in for August. She smiled. From now on, he’d buy his own damn beer.
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Chapter Four
Their eyes met, and neither knew what to say. Seated on a sofa with a loaded .45 caliber semiautomatic on the cushion next to him, Gabe had kicked off his shoes and taken his firearm out of his waistband. Another day done. August stood watching him, while Gabe propped his feet up on a small table in the poorest of his three apartments, an old and unassuming small place in Roxbury. He only stayed at this one when he wanted to avoid being seen.
“You okay?” Gabe asked casually, locking his hands behind his head to relax.
August didn’t reply. Gabe knew the kid’s background, and he wasn’t surprised by the kid’s shyness. The uncertainty of being with a strange man had overwhelmed the pain August felt from being socked in the jaw, and he’d clammed up. He wasn’t sure what he thought of Gabe. Gabe had defended him when Bill had bullied him, but he didn’t know why.
Gabe tried again:
“Are you okay after that asshole hit
you?”
August’s look of confusion was his only response. He tried not to look at Gabe’s gun. He didn’t want Gabe to catch him looking at it. Too late.
“Would it help if I didn’t have this?” Gabe asked, pointing to his gun with his right hand. August still didn’t respond. Gabe decided to holster the gun anyway, placing it back in the waistband underneath his shirt.
“So,” Gabe began again, “you and me cool?”
August still didn’t respond.
“I guess it’s kinda hard for you to decide if we’re cool since you don’t my name,” Gabe reasoned, answering his own question with a laugh. “Name’s Gabriel Adelaide, but you can call me Gabe. Everyone does. Come to think of it, it’s been a while since I’ve had to introduce myself. But I guess you’re too young to watch the news.”
Gabe noticed a forced look of concentration come over August, like he was about to do something he didn’t want to but had to. August began to visibly tremble. He slowly lifted his fists to cover both eyes and, not looking at Gabe, he whispered, “Hello, my name is August. Pleased to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, August.”
August spoke again, still hiding his eyes behind raised fists: “Nice to meet you, Mr. Gabe.”
“You don’t have to call me that.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to call me Mr. It’s just Gabe.”
“Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. Are you hungry?”
“No,” August lied. He’d been told not to take food from strangers, but he was tempted to let Gabe get him something to eat. Gabe had picked him up before Bill could finish “relaxing” and before Gina could feed him canned ravioli.
“Thirsty?”
“No,” he lied again.
“We’ve got some time to kill. How about we watch TV? And I’m going to eat something even if you don’t.”
Gabe flipped through stations until he found a cartoon and then went into the kitchen, leaving August alone in the apartment’s small living room. August slowly took his hands off his eyes, and, opening them, turned away from the sofa and towards the TV. Even though one of his favorite shows was on, Three Blind Mice, he couldn’t enjoy it in the presence of a stranger. Especially one with a gun. But he felt obligated to watch, since Gabe had clearly turned the program on for him. As he stood watching TV, he heard a microwave bell go off in the kitchen. He hoped Gabe knew that he’d missed dinner and insist that he eat… True, he wasn’t supposed to take food from a stranger, but if the stranger insisted that he eat, well, he also wasn’t supposed to disobey an adult, and he’d gladly follow the last rule in this moral dilemma. If only he’d figure out I’m hungry and make me eat.
