FIGHT

by Brent Coffey

  “See this? Of course you do,” he chuckled. He always found it amusing to watch average people react to displays of the Family’s wealth. And it didn’t matter that doctors made more money than most people; they were still enticed by a flaunted handful of hundred dollar bills.

  “Are you trying to bribe me?” she asked, her voice rising.

  “And once again, you accuse me of doing something illegal, when I’m completely innocent. The last I knew, cash is legal tender, and medical expenses can be paid in cash. Or is that illegal now?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I told you. I represent a secret group of donors who want to pay for Bruce Hudson’s colectomy. And by pay, I mean ‘in cash.’ Since you refused our check, we’ll pay you every penny in cash. That’s what we want. We want you to make Bruce Hudson better.”

  “Look…”

  “No, doc, you look. You accused our group of being a bunch of frauds, and we aren’t. The police investigated, and, yet, here I am! I wouldn’t be here if I was a crook, and I certainly wouldn’t be offering you money to pay for the district attorney’s medical needs, now would I? I mean, what kind of criminal picks up the tab for the district attorney?” (Luke asked this last question in all sincerity, as he couldn’t begin to fathom why Gabe wanted to improve things for Hudson. But his job wasn’t to understand assignments.)

  “Now,” he said, rising from the patient’s chair in the center of the room, “will you take our money and perform the surgery or not? If not, why not? You at least owe me a reason for not helping your patient.”

  He was proud of himself. He’d held his own with a doctor, without sounding like a high school dropout.

  “Let me think about it,” she replied, more puzzled than upset.

  “No problem. Just remember that the longer you deliberate…” (Luke had searched the dictionary the night before for six dollar words, and he was determined to work “deliberate” into this exchange) “… the longer Bruce Hudson goes without treatment.”

  He took all the envelopes and forced them into Dr. Sandefur’s right hand as he left.

  “There’s $22,000 here. You’ll get the rest when you do the surgery. You should call Hudson and schedule the operation.”

  “Like I said, I’ll think about it.”

  She watched him exit to the lobby, without pausing by the hallway’s glass window to her receptionist’s desk to make an additional appointment. If he was coming back, he’d return on his own time, unannounced.

  Back in her private office with the door closed, she immediately called her lawyer and brought him up to speed.

  “You know, Cathy, this could be legit after all. I’ve heard of wealthy people setting up non-profits that do this kind of thing. This could be a bunch of philanthropists who don’t want to be recognized.”

  “But why, Lar? Why go about it this way? Wouldn’t a rich person have his publicist or agent take out a full page ad boasting of his generosity?”

  “Not necessarily. Some wealthy people are shy, and some genuinely are Good Samaritans who aren’t looking for a positive write-up about themselves. And, in this case, you gotta figure that helping Hudson could be seen as crossing the Adelaides, and I can think of plenty of reasons why someone wouldn’t want to get on their bad side.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted. “Maybe this is a legitimate outfit.”

  “Well the money’s real enough, isn’t it?” Larry Buntmore quizzed with a laugh.

  “Yeah, looks like it.”

  “The way I see it, if this really is a group of civic do-gooders dedicated to helping the city’s D.A., then, fine, they shouldn’t have a problem paying all of the money up front. You’ve got half, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a significant start. When the guy returns, tell him you’ll do the surgery if he’ll agree to pay for it in full up front, and tell him you’ll have a lawyer draw up a contract requiring you to do the surgery once sufficient funds are received. If this group, what was it called again? Boston Monetary Management? Or whatever it’s called is on the up and up, then they won’t have a problem paying for the procedure’s total costs before hand and signing a contract that legally binds you to help Hudson.”

  “I can’t argue, Larry. Sounds like impeccable reasoning.”

  “That’s why I’m the lawyer, Cathy.”

  “I just wish I knew how to get in touch with these people.”

  She wouldn’t have any problem doing that. Parked in the same sedan that he’d used to deliver toys to August, Luke was listening in, and he’d tell Gabe the good news. He suspected that Gabe would send him back with the other half of the money tomorrow.

  “Why in God’s name Gabe wants to help this dick of a D.A., I have no idea,” Luke said aloud to no one. He hit a button on his cell and brought Gabe up on speed dial.

  “Hey, talk to me,” Gabe answered, in a good natured mood.

  Luke could hear a kid laughing in the background.

  ------------------------------------------------

  Chapter Six

  Bruce sat on his front porch reading his daily Boston Times and smoking a Saint Luis Rey. It relaxed him to pretend that he wasn’t a sick man, make light of doctor’s orders, and puff a cigar like a healthy guy. From his painted white chair, he kicked his bare feet up on the lattice fence that wrapped around his porch. He felt like he was in college again. He occasionally had those days. Those days when he didn’t give a damn about his age or his medical condition (and God Almighty how he despised talking about his condition). It was one of those days when the summer breeze was just right, the morning paper was still fresh enough to be relevant hours later, and his dinner of sauerkraut and dogs sat well with him. He was alone with his thoughts at the front of his house, a house that he’d paid off three or four years ago (he couldn’t remember for sure).

  He reflected on his life with Martha in this home: he’d worked these many years, and Martha’d passed her time serving at inner city Catholic charities. That was their life together, and they were both pleased with it. Early evenings like this, when he felt good enough to kick back on the porch with a paper in hand and pass judgment on the printed world before his eyes, had been less frequent, as the one-two combo of growing older and getting sicker had stayed with him round after round, and he often had to be heavily medicated. But he was tough, and he knew it. He never whined, he refused to succumb to depression, and he managed to stay gainfully employed despite bouts of health nightmares.

  Bruce scanned the obits in the metro section with a quick once-over, looking for pictures and last names that he might recognize. A sense of luck warmed him, when he saw that none of his friends or retired colleagues had died. He and his pals had cheated death once again, and for a guy in his fifties with many friends who were much older, he felt like one lucky bastard indeed.

  The front screen door opened, and Martha called out:

  “Phone!”

  Bruce stood, stretching his achy back and bending the arthritic joints in his wrists and elbows, before casually making his way inside to answer the phone.

  “Hello, Bruce here.”

  “Hello, Bruce.”

  Bruce felt the blood in his veins turn cold, the hair on his neck stiffen, and the rhythm of his heart explode. He caught his breath and released it in a controlled exhale, preparing for the worst. He knew this voice. He’d prosecuted the man behind it, only to fail at securing a conviction against him.

  Bruce said nothing. It was safer to be quiet and find out what the enemy wanted, scrutinizing every word. He waited for Gabe to continue, and, after an eternity of a few seconds packed with adrenaline fueled anticipation on both ends, Gabe spoke:

  “I take it you’re still there.”

  “You don’t hear a dial tone do you?”

  “You need to call your surgeon, Cathy Sandefur. The cash you need for your colectomy has been covered. After your operation, you need to contact Sara Madison, August Middleton’s
social worker, and tell her that your health is better. You should qualify to adopt at that point.”

  “Why the hell are you telling me this? You think I’m impressed that you know about my colitis? You think I’m scared because you know about August? Is this the game you’re playing, call me up and tell me all about my life and try to rattle me? Listen, ya punk ass kid, I’ve been throwing dicks like you in prison for years, and it doesn’t surprise me one bit that you’ve dispatched your cronies to do a little homework on me. I expected it, and I came to this game prepared.”

  Bruce tried to steady the galloping beat of his heart. He was scared for August, but he couldn’t show it. He needed to bluff his way through this to find out what Gabe was after. He’d expected retaliation if Gabe had been convicted, but he wasn’t prepared for the Adelaides to seek revenge for a failed conviction; that seemed like an unnecessary risk on their part. Why mess with the law if you don’t have to? You’re a free man. Why are you chancing that?

  “I told you that I’d get you your boy, and that’s what I’m doing.”

  “You’re a fucking coward for preying on a child.”

  “I’m not preying on anyone. I’m making you healthier so that you can adopt August, and I’m doing this at no cost to you. You’re welcome.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You don’t have to believe me. Call Dr. Sandefur and ask about the payment for your colectomy.”

  “I’m not going to do that.”

  “Fine. I’ll have her call you. Once you’re rid of your colitis, August is yours, right?”

  “Why do you care? I mean, seriously, fuckface, why do you care? There’s no money in this for you. If you kill me, my wife, the kid, his social worker, every goddamn last one of us, how do you stand to make a red cent off this? There’s nothing in this for you. We don’t have assets worth pissing on, and, even if we did, how could you take ‘em with this adoption? You’re not thinking this through. You’re lucky to be a free man at the moment. You keep pushing your luck, and you won’t stay that way for long.”

  Gabe circled his apartment’s bedroom, plotting his response. He weighed his options, and he decided that he was in too deep not to go for it.

  “Wait a sec,” Gabe said, pressing the mute button on his cell and dropping it in his pocket.

  He walked into the apartment’s guest room, where August was staying, and clicked off the TV August was watching.

  “Hey, little man, Mr. Hudson is on the phone. You wanna say hello?”

  August shook his head yes, though he instantly took a shy streak. Despite warming to Gabe and becoming quite talkative in the past few days (even telling Gabe all about his favorite cartoons and super heroes) he still fought for courage to talk to other adults. Even remembering how nice Bruce and Martha had been during his visit to their home did nothing to embolden him. He’d say hello, only because Gabe seemed to want him to say hello, and then he’d be out of words. Gabe took the cell from his pocket and deactivated the mute option.

  “I have a friend here who wants to speak with you,” he said, handing the phone to August.

  “Hello,” August said in a near whisper.

  Bruce also recognized August’s voice. He cupped the phone’s receiver in his trembling hand, and mouthed OH SHIT! He had to alert Richard Dorsey in the BPD. He wanted a warrant for Gabe’s arrest issued pronto, and he’d call every judge in Suffolk County until he got one. He couldn’t let this happen, not to an orphan. Whatever the Adelaides were planning had gone too far, and it had to end. Hoping to ease any fear August might have from being with Gabe, he spoke slowly in a calm tone:

  “August, this is Mr. Bruce Hudson. Do you remember me?”

  “Yes.”

  “August, I don’t want you to say anything other than yes or no to the questions I’m about to ask you. August, are you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know the man you’re with?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re sure he hasn’t hurt you?”

  “Yes.”

  Gabe couldn’t hear what Bruce was asking, but he took an educated guess. It occurred to Gabe that, even though August wasn’t afraid of him, Bruce might talk him into being afraid. Gabe took the phone away from August before that could happen, and switched back on the TV so that August couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation. Walking into the next room, he cleared his throat and asked:

  “So, will you agree to a colectomy?”

  “Sure, man. Whatever you say,” Bruce said dryly. He wanted Gabe to keep talking, hoping that he’d let some clues to his whereabouts slip. “How about we meet up so that you can give me the money?”

  “That isn’t necessary. I’ll make sure your doctor is paid. After you recover, contact Sara Madison and tell her your colitis is gone. She’ll let you adopt then.”

  Without waiting for Bruce to ask any more questions, Gabe hung up.

  Bruce was worried sick. He had to make this quick. He slammed the phone down and picked it up too soon to register a new dial tone.

  “Dammit!” he yelled.

  Martha made her way into the kitchen, wondering what had upset Bruce, only to see him slam the phone down, wait a few seconds, and pick it up again. She watched him furiously punching buttons, dialing with a combination of anger and haste.

  “Richard!” he yelled, when his call went through, “They’ve got August! Remember that kid we were going to adopt? Name’s August, and the Adelaides have him!”

  Martha lifted a shaky hand to quivering lips, as she heard Bruce tell and retell Detective Richard Dorsey every word the two had spoken.

  ------------------------------------------------

  Richard Dorsey manned the phones in his office, getting new and conflicting reports every few minutes.

  “The call to the Hudsons at 6:17 p.m. EST was from Beruit,” an office staffer reported.

  “You don’t say?” Richard responded, shooting the guy a look that instantly dashed the staffer’s dreams of impressing his boss. “Because I’ve got reports that say the Hudsons took a call from San Jose at 6:17 p.m. EST, and I’ve got a report that says the Hudsons took a call from Johannesburg at that exact same time. And I’ve got a report saying the Hudsons took a call from Montpellier at, you guessed it, that exact same time. So, thanks for making this job more difficult.”

  The office newbie walked away from Richard in chastened defeat, as Bruce and Martha walked in. Briefly tapping on the open door to announce their arrival, Bruce showed himself to a chair in front of Richard’s desk, and Martha did the same.

  “What do you have so far?” Bruce wanted to know.

  “Nothing. Actually, everything it seems,” Richard sighed, cracking his knuckles. “We got every location that call came from, and that’s the problem. Seems that whoever called you was all over the map. You took a single call at 6:17 p.m. from multiple locations.”

  “That’s impossible,” Martha said.

  “Yeah, I know it is,” Richard said, addressing both of them. “And that leads me to believe that it probably was Gabriel Adelaide who called you, because only someone with access to sophisticated technology could send out many call center locations at once.”

  “What should we do?” Bruce questioned.

  “As of now, nothing. It won’t help to tap your phones and record your calls if and when Adelaide calls back. You’re just as capable of telling us what he says as a machine is.”

  “What about background noise?” Bruce asked. “If you tapped our line, couldn’t your guys augment any sounds in the background for clues to where he is?”

  “Doubtful. He’s playing hardball, and he knows better than to let background noise give him away. Anything we’d detect would be synthetic. He’d fabricate some weird sounding stuff just to throw us off. He’s not going to be easy to track.”

  “I didn’t think he would be,” Bruce agreed.

  “Why d
oes he supposedly want us to adopt August?” Martha asked.

  “No idea,” Richard confessed.

  “Should we call Dr. Cathy Sandefur and tell her that Adelaide says he wants me to have surgery?” Bruce asked.

  “Funny you should mention her,” Richard stated, pulling the check from Boston Monetary Management out from a desk drawer. “This was written to her recently,” he said, handing the check to Bruce, “and it’s from a group that isn’t real. Notice the memo. It says the funds are for your colectomy.”

  “Who gave you this?” Bruce asked with astonishment, passing the check to Martha.

  “Dr. Sandefur turned it over to us and asked us to look into it. She smelled fraud from the get-go, and her hunch was right. There is no Boston Monetary Management. I’m guessing this group is connected to the Adelaides. Because the way I see it is there’s two advocates on the record that want you to have a colectomy. One’s a career criminal, and one’s a nonexistent business. What are the odds they aren’t the same people?”

  “They have to be the same people,” Bruce confirmed.

  “I’m sure they are,” Richard agreed.

  The dialogue paused as the three of them fought for words to make sense of the situation. Then:

  “You have to have surgery,” Martha said, still facing Richard across his desk, and refusing to look at Bruce to her left.

  “You can’t be serious,” Bruce said, startled.

  “Bruce is right, Martha. That’s a nonstarter.”

  “Why? Why is it a nonstarter? He’s needed this operation for years, and I don’t care who’s paying for it. As long as we can trust the surgeon who’s operating, then why does it matter if the Devil himself pays for it?”

  “Martha, I know you’re upset,” Richard pleaded.

  “Don’t write me off as a woman who shouldn’t worry her pretty little head about this!” Martha snapped.