by Harlan Coben
“Tell Sam to sit down,” Myron said, “or you’ll never have trouble fitting a catheter again.”
Everybody froze. Sam kept the gun on Myron. Myron kept his gun against Chance’s groin. Arthur still seemed lost in thought. Chance started shaking.
“Don’t pee on my gun, Chance.” Tough guy talk. But Myron did not like this. He knew Sam’s type. And he knew Sam might very well take the risk and shoot.
“There’s no need for the gun,” Arthur said. “No one is going to harm you.”
“I feel better already.”
“To put it simply, you are worth more to me alive than dead. Otherwise Sam would have blown your head off by now. Do you understand?”
Myron said nothing.
“Our deal remains unchanged: You find Anita, Myron, I’ll keep Brenda out of jail. And both of us will leave my wife out of this. Do I make myself clear?”
Sam kept the gun at eye level and smiled a little.
Myron gestured with his head. “How about a show of good faith?”
Arthur nodded. “Sam.”
Sam put away the gun. He walked back to his seat and picked up his People.
Myron pressed the gun a little harder. Chance yelped. Then Myron pocketed his weapon.
The bus dropped him off back by his car. Sam gave Myron a little salute as he stepped off. Myron nodded in return. The bus continued down the street and disappeared around the corner. Myron realized that he had been holding his breath. He tried to relax and think straight.
“Fitting a catheter,” he said out loud. “Awful.”
Dad’s office was still a warehouse in Newark. Years ago they had actually made undergarments here. Not anymore. Now they shipped in finished products from Indonesia or Malaysia or someplace else that employed child labor. Everybody knew that abuses occurred and everybody still used them and every customer still bought the goods because it saved a couple of bucks, and to be fair, the whole issue was morally hazy. Easy to be against children working in factories; easy to be against paying a twelve-year-old twelve cents an hour or whatever; easy to condemn the parents and be against such exploitation. Harder when the choice is twelve cents or starvation, exploitation or death.
Easiest still not to think too much about it.
Thirty years ago, when they actually made the undergarments in Newark, Dad had lots of inner-city blacks working for him. He thought that he was good to his workers. He thought that they viewed him as a benevolent leader. When the riots broke out in 1968, these same workers burned down four of his factory buildings. Dad had never looked at them the same again.
Eloise Williams had been with Dad since before the riots. “As long as I breathe,” Dad often said, “Eloise will have a job.” She was like a second wife to him. She took care of him during his workday. They argued and fought and got grumpy with each other. There was genuine affection. Mom knew all this. “Thank God Eloise is uglier than a cow living near Chernobyl,” Mom liked to say. “Or I might wonder.”
Dad’s plant used to consist of five buildings. Only this warehouse still stood. Dad used it as a storage facility for the incoming shipments from overseas. His office was smack in the middle and raised to almost the ceiling. All four walls were made of glass, giving Dad the chance to watch over his stock like a prison guard in the main tower.
Myron trotted up the metal stairs. When he reached the top, Eloise greeted him with a big hug and a cheek pinch. He half expected her to take out a little toy from her desk drawer. When he’d visit as a child, she would always be ready for him with a popgun or one of those snap-together gliders or a comic book. But Eloise just gave him a hug this time, and Myron was only mildly disappointed.
“Go right in,” Eloise said. No buzzing in. No checking with Dad first.
Through the glass Myron could see that his father was on the phone. Animated. As always. Myron stepped in. His father held up a finger to him. “Irv, I said, tomorrow. No excuses. Tomorrow, do you hear?”
Sunday and everyone was still doing business. The shrinking leisure time of the late twentieth century.
Dad hung up the phone. He looked at Myron, and his whole being just beamed. Myron came around the desk and kissed his father’s cheek. As always, his skin felt a little like sandpaper and smelled faintly like Old Spice. Just as it should.
His father was dressed like a member of the Israeli Knesset: charcoal slacks with a white dress shirt opened at the neck and a T-shirt underneath. White chest hair popped out of the space between neck and T-shirt front collar. Dad was clearly a Semite—thick dark olive skin and a nose that polite people called prominent.
“Remember Don Rico’s?” Dad asked.
“That Portuguese place we used to go?”
Dad nodded. “Gone. As of last month. Manuel ran the place beautifully for thirty-six years. He finally had to give it up.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Dad made a scoffing noise and waved him off. “Who the hell cares? I’m just making silly small talk because I’m a little worried here. Eloise said you sounded funny on the phone.” His voice went soft. “Everything okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You need money or something?”
“No, Dad, I don’t need money.”
“But something is wrong, no?”
Myron took the plunge. “Do you know Arthur Bradford?”
Dad’s face lost color—not slowly but all at once. He started fiddling with things on his desk. He readjusted the family photographs, taking a little extra time with the one of Myron holding aloft the NCAA trophy after leading Duke to the title. There was an empty box of Dunkin’ Donuts. He picked it up and dropped it into a wastepaper basket.
Finally Dad said, “Why would you ask that?”
“I’m tangled up in something.”
“And it involves Arthur Bradford?”
“Yes,” Myron said.
“Then get untangled. Fast.”
Dad lifted one of those traveling coffee cups to his lips and craned his neck. The cup was empty.
“Bradford told me to ask you about him,” Myron said. “He and this guy who works for him.”
Dad’s neck snapped back into place. “Sam Richards?” His tone was quiet, awe-filled. “He’s still alive?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Silence. Then Myron asked, “How do you know them?”
Dad opened his drawer and fumbled about for something. Then he yelled for Eloise. She came to the door. “Where’s the Tylenol?” he asked her.
“Bottom right-hand drawer. Left side toward the back. Under the box of rubber bands.” Eloise turned to Myron. “Would you like a Yoo-Hoo?” she asked.
“Yes, please.” Stocking Yoo-Hoos. He had not been to his father’s office in almost a decade, but they still stocked his favorite drink. Dad found the bottle and played with the cap. Eloise closed the door on her way out.
“I’ve never lied to you,” Dad said.
“I know.”
“I’ve tried to protect you. That’s what parents do. They shelter their children. When they see danger coming, they try to step in the way and take the hit.”
“You can’t take this hit for me,” Myron said.
Dad nodded slowly. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”
“I’ll be okay,” Myron said. “I just need to know what I’m up against.”
“You’re up against pure evil.” Dad shook out two tablets and swallowed them without water. “You’re up against naked cruelty, against men with no conscience.”
Eloise came back in with the Yoo-Hoo. Reading their faces, she silently handed Myron the drink and slipped back out. In the distance a forklift started beeping out the backup warning.
“It was a year or so after the riots,” Dad began. “You’re probably too young to remember them, but the riots ripped this city apart. To this day the rip has never healed. Just the opposite, in fact. It’s like one of my garments.” He gestured to the boxes below. “The garment rips ne
ar the seam, and then nobody does anything so it just keeps ripping until the whole thing falls apart. That’s Newark. A shredded garment.
“Anyway, my workers finally came back, but they weren’t the same people. They were angry now. I wasn’t their employer anymore. I was their oppressor. They looked at me like I was the one who dragged their ancestors across the ocean in chains. Then troublemakers started prodding them. The writing was already on the wall, Myron. The manufacturing end of this business was going to hell. Labor costs were too high. The city was just imploding on itself. And then the hoodlums began to lead the workers. They wanted to form a union. Demanded it, actually. I was against the idea, of course.”
Dad looked out his glass wall at the endless rows of boxes. Myron wondered how many times his father had looked out at this same view. He wondered what his father had thought about when looking out, what he dreamed about over the years in this dusty warehouse. Myron shook the can and popped the top. The sound startled Dad a bit. He looked back at his son and managed a smile.
“Old Man Bradford was hooked in to the mobsters who wanted to set up the union. That’s who was involved in this: mobsters, hoodlums, punks who ran everything from prostitutes to numbers; all of a sudden they’re labor experts. But I still fought them. And I was winning. So one day Old Man Bradford sends his son Arthur to this very building. To have a chat with me. Sam Richards is with him—the son of a bitch just leans against the wall and says nothing. Arthur sits down and puts his feet on my desk. I’m going to agree to this union, he says. I’m going to support it, in fact. Financially. With generous contributions. I tell the little snotnose there’s a word for this. It’s called extortion. I tell him to get the hell out of my office.”
Beads of sweat popped up on Dad’s forehead. He took a hankie and blotted them a few times. There was a fan in the corner of the office. It oscillated back and forth, teasing you with moments of comfort followed by stifling heat. Myron glanced at the family photos, focusing in on one of his parents on a Caribbean cruise. Maybe ten years ago. Mom and Dad were both wearing loud shirts and looked healthy and tan and much younger. It scared him.
“So what happened then?” Myron asked.
Dad swallowed away something and started speaking again. “Sam finally spoke. He came over to my desk and looked over the family photos. He smiled, like he was an old friend of the family. Then he tossed these pruning shears on my desk.”
Myron started to feel cold.
His father kept talking, his eyes wide and unfocused. “ ‘Imagine what they could do to a human being,’ Sam says to me. ‘Imagine snipping away a piece at a time. Imagine not how long it would take to die but how long you could keep someone alive.’ That’s it. That’s all he said. Then Arthur Bradford started laughing, and they both left my office.”
Dad tried the cup of coffee again, but it was still empty. Myron held up the Yoo-Hoo, but Dad shook his head.
“So I go home and try to pretend that everything is hunky-dory. I try to eat. I try to smile. I play with you in the yard. But I can’t stop thinking about what Sam said. Your mother knew something was wrong, but for once even she didn’t push it. Later I go to bed. I can’t sleep at first. It was like Sam said: I kept imagining. About cutting off little pieces of a human being. Slowly. Each cut causing a new scream. And then the phone rang. I jumped up and looked at my watch. It was three in the morning. I picked up the phone, and no one spoke. They were there I could hear them breathing. But nobody spoke. So I hung up the phone and got out of bed.”
Dad’s breathing was shallow now. His eyes were welling up. Myron rose toward him, but Dad held up a hand to stop him.
“Let me just get through this, okay?”
Myron nodded, sat back down.
“I went into your room.” His voice was more monotone now, lifeless and flat. “You probably know that I used to do that a lot. Sometimes I would just sit in awe and watch you sleep.”
Tears started racing down his face. “So I stepped in the room. I could hear your deep breathing. The sound comforted me immediately. I smiled. And then I walked over to tuck you in a little better. And that’s when I saw it.”
Dad put a fist to his mouth as though stifling a cough. His chest started hitching. His words came in a sputter.
“On your bed. On top of the cover. Pruning shears. Someone had broken into your room and left pruning shears on your bed.”
A steel hand started squeezing Myron’s insides.
Dad looked at him with reddening eyes. “You don’t fight men like that, Myron. Because you can’t win. It’s not a question of bravery. It’s a question of caring. You have people you care about, that are connected to you. These men don’t even understand that. They don’t feel. How do you hurt a person who can’t feel?”
Myron had no answer.
“Just walk away,” Dad said. “There’s no shame in that.”
Myron stood up then. So did Dad. They hugged, gripping each other fiercely. Myron closed his eyes. His father cupped the back of his head and then smoothed his hair. Myron snuggled in and stayed there. He inhaled the Old Spice. He traveled back, remembering how this same hand had cradled his head after Joey Davito had hit him with a pitch.
Still comforting, he thought. After all these years, this was still the safest place to be.
Pruning shears.
It couldn’t be a coincidence. He grabbed his cellular and called the Dragons’ practice site. After a few minutes Brenda came on the line.
“Hey,” Brenda said.
“Hey.”
They both fell silent.
“I love a smooth-talking man,” she said.
“Uh-huh,” Myron said.
Brenda laughed. The sound was melodious, plucking at his heart.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“Good,” she said. “Playing helps. I’ve also been thinking about you a lot. That helps too.”
“Mutual,” Myron said. Killer lines, one after another.
“Are you coming to the opener tonight?” Brenda asked.
“Sure. You want me to pick you up?”
“No, I’ll take the team bus.”
“Got a question for you,” Myron said.
“Shoot.”
“What are the names of the two boys who had their Achilles tendons sliced in half?”
“Clay Jackson and Arthur Harris.”
“They were cut with pruning shears, right?”
“Right.”
“And they live in East Orange?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I don’t think Horace was the one who hurt them.”
“Then who?”
“Long story. I’ll tell you about it later.”
“After the game,” Brenda suggested. “I’ll have some media stuff to do, but maybe we can grab a bite and go back to Win’s.”
“I’d like that,” Myron said.
Silence.
Brenda said, “I sound too eager, don’t I?”
“Not at all.”
“I should be playing harder to get.”
“No.”
“It’s just that”—she stopped, started again—“it feels right, you know?”
He nodded into the phone. He knew. He thought about what Esperanza had said, about how he “used to” leave himself totally exposed, keeping his feet planted with nary a worry of getting beaned on the head.
“I’ll see you at the game,” he said.
Then he hung up.
He sat and closed his eyes and thought about Brenda. For a moment he didn’t push the thoughts away. He let them cascade over him. His body tingled. He started smiling.
Brenda.
He opened his eyes and came out of it. He switched on the car phone again and dialed Win’s number.
“Articulate.”
“I need some backup,” Myron said.
“Bitching,” Win said.
They met up at the Essex Green Mall in West Orange.
“How far is the ride?” Win a
sked.
“Ten minutes.”
“Bad area?”
“Yes.”
Win looked at his precious Jag. “We’ll take your car.”
They got into the Ford Taurus. The late-summer sun still cast long, thin shadows. Heat rose from the sidewalk in lazy tendrils, dark and smoky. The air was so thick that an apple falling from a tree would take several minutes to hit the ground.
“I looked into the Outreach Education scholarship,” Win said. “Whoever set up the fund had a great deal of financial acumen. The money was dumped in from a foreign source, more specifically the Cayman Islands.”
“So it’s untraceable?”
“Almost untraceable,” Win corrected. “But even in places like the Caymans a greased palm is a greased palm.”
“So who do we grease?”
“Already done. Unfortunately the account was in a dummy name and closed four years ago.”
“Four years ago,” Myron repeated. “That would be right after Brenda received her last scholarship. Before she started medical school.”
Win nodded. “Logical,” he said. Like he was Spock.
“So it’s a dead end.”
“Temporarily, yes. Someone could prowl through old records, but it will take a few days.”
“Anything else?”
“The scholarship recipient was to be chosen by certain attorneys rather than any educational institution. The criteria were vague: academic potential, good citizenship, that type of thing.”
“In other words, it was fixed so the attorneys would select Brenda. Like we said before, it was a way of funneling her money.”
Another nod. “Logical,” he repeated.
They started moving from West Orange into East Orange. The transformation was gradual. The fine suburban homes turned into gated condo developments. Then the houses came back—smaller now, less land, more worn and crowded together. Abandoned factories started popping up. Subsidy housing too. It was a butterfly in reverse, turning back into a caterpillar.
“I also received a call from Hal,” Win said. Hal was an electronics expert they had worked with during their days working for the government. He’d been the one Myron had sent to check for phone taps.
