by Tim O'Mara
“You should take the pulpit every once in a while at that church of yours, Mr. Cruz.”
He smiled. “I leave that for the real preachers. I am just a businessman. Which I must now get back to,” he said. “Let me take you home.”
By the time Cruz dropped me off, it was after ten. I picked up an egg sandwich, another coffee, and a newspaper at the deli. It was almost noon when I finished all of them. The message light on my phone was blinking. It was Billy.
“No go on those plates, Ray,” he explained. “Used to be registered upstate, but that car was dumped and they ain’t in the system anymore. Maybe your friend read it wrong. Sorry.”
I hated dead ends. I took a second shower, then wasted half an hour channel-surfing, and another thirty minutes trying to doze off. Too many thoughts of Frankie made me feel helpless; too much caffeine had me wired. Looked like I was going to see Muscles after all.
Chapter 19
“I GUESS I DIDN’T MAKE MYSELF clear last time we spoke.”
Muscles was spreading a jellylike substance on my knees as I was trying to get into a comfortable position on the training table.
“When I said it was about time you decided to get your knees back in shape, you thought I meant what, now?”
It’s pretty easy to be sarcastic when you’re the one holding pads with wires connected to a generator that looks big enough start a truck engine.
“Explain this part to me again,” I said as he attached four pads to the sides of my knees.
“Transcutaneous Electronic Nerve Stimulation.” Like he had invented the thing. “TENS. Once I turn on the generator”—he gave a sweeping hand motion—“you’re gonna feel something along the lines of pins and needles. I’ll increase the voltage until you tell me to stop.”
After a few seconds, I said, “Okay.” It took me a while to get used to it, but when I did, it felt … therapeutic. “This new tech stuff is great.”
“Not so new, Raymond.” Muscles stood. “High frequency electronic stim has been known to disrupt the pain signals in targeted parts of the body for years.”
“I’m not buying one of these machines, Muscles.”
“You could, though. This one here’ll run you about eight hundred.”
“And my insurance?”
“Covered,” he said. “I may have to call it something besides TENS, but they’ll cover it.”
“Why’s that?”
“Raymond. Do you really need a lecture on how our medical system—and the politicians they pay good money for—would rather spend billions of dollars on drug therapy instead of something like this that really helps? This device, you buy and pay for once. Where’s the perpetual profit in that? Drugs? Now, there’s the gift that keeps on giving.” He reached into the cooler, pulled out two ice packs, and placed one on top of each knee. “Don’t worry. There’s no danger of leaking”—he wiggled his fingers—“and gzzzzzzz!”
“I trust you.”
“When I submit your forms, I’ll have to write ‘Pain Management’ instead of ‘TENS.’ Some insurance companies still consider this an ‘elective procedure.’ From the Latin for ‘We don’t wanna pay for it.’ They reject, I appeal. Sometimes I win.”
The pins-and-needles were doing their job, creating a pleasant sensation that started at my knees and rippled up the legs and down to the feet. I was tempted to ask Muscles to up the voltage, but it was my first time.
“How long do I lie here?” I asked, leaning back and shutting my eyes.
“Give it ten. You know, I really could hook you up with the home version.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Minimal cost,” he continued. “To you, I mean. A little creative writing on the referral, get your ortho to spice up his scrip a little…”
“I’ll be fine,” I repeated. “Thanks.”
The ten minutes went by too fast. I thought about taking a shower, but decided to just get dressed and take one at home. I was lacing up my sneakers when I realized I hadn’t spoken to Elaine Stiles about Lisa.
This time, I remembered my cell and used it to call the school. Someone in the main office picked up.
“This is Raymond Donne,” I said. No response. “Mr. Donne.”
“Oh, hey, Mr. Donne.” A kid’s voice. “This is Juanita. I’m interning with the after-school program. How may I direct your call?”
“Is Elaine Stiles there?” I asked.
“I’ll try that extension.”
A short while later, Juanita was back. “No, Mr. Donne. I’m sorry. She must have left for the day. Can I take a message?”
“No, thanks.” I was about to hang up when another thought hit me. “Juanita. Would you mind going to my mailbox and seeing if she left me a message?”
“Your mailbox? Oh, you work here. Sure, Mr. Donne. Gimme a sec.”
A sec later, she was back. “Yes, Mr. Donne. You have two messages in your box.”
I waited a bit, but it was apparent I was going to have to ask.
“What are they, Juanita?”
“Oh. One’s on white loose-leaf, and it’s signed, ‘Elaine.’ I guess that’s Ms. Stiles.” Silence. “I’ll read it to you. ‘Tried you at home. NA.’ That means ‘No Answer.’” More silence. “‘Doctor says Lisa’s fine. I’ll swing by the Kings on my way home.’ That’s it for that one.”
“Good. Thanks, Juanita.”
“You want me to read the other one?”
I wanted to say it could wait, but it came out, “Go ahead.”
“This one’s on a pink ‘While You Were Out’ slip. It’s got today’s date on it and it’s from … Willy B. Says ‘Four o’clock. Halfway point.’”
“And?”
“And … that’s it.”
Willy B.? “Who took that message, Juanita? Does it say?”
“Nope. Sorry. I came on at three fifteen, and the office was empty.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Thanks for calling,” Juanita sang. “Have a good day!”
Elaine was in contact with Lisa’s family. Good. But who the hell was Willy B.? None of my students was William or Bill or Will. A parent? Four o’clock. Today? Tomorrow? I know Mary didn’t take that message. Probably Edna. Halfway point.
Something about that name—Willy B.—rang familiar. Some kid’s tag I’ve seen scrawled in black marker on the bathroom wall?
I said good-bye to Muscles, assured him I’d be back in two days, and walked out to the elevator. Willy B.? The elevator doors opened. Whoa! The Willy B. That’s what the hipster locals and kids called the Williamsburg Bridge. That’s why it sounded … but that didn’t make sense. Juanita said the message was from— Jesus. The halfway point. I must have told my students dozens of times that one of my favorite places in the city is the middle of the Williamsburg Bridge walkway. The constant hum of the traffic underneath generated white noise, giving the illusion of silence, providing one of the most unlikely places I’ve found in the city where I could actually think. But what— Holy shit.
Frankie. He called.
I looked at my watch. I had less than fifteen minutes.
Chapter 20
MUSCLES PULLED HIS BMW UNDER the overpass and parked in front of the entrance to the pedestrian/bike pathway of the bridge. I picked up my water bottle and umbrella from the floor, mumbled thanks, and was about to open the passenger door when he grabbed my forearm.
“You gonna stick with that bullshit story,” he said, punctuating it with a squeeze, “or do I go with you and find out what you’re really doing here?”
I looked at his hand and realized there was no way of shaking it loose. I grimaced and said, “How about you let me stick with my bullshit story, and I’ll call you later and let you know how it all turned out?”
“How about you just tell me the truth?”
I glanced over at the digital clock on the dashboard. I had less than five minutes.
“What gets me out of the car quicker?” I asked. “The truth or another lie?”
> “Try the truth.”
Muscles released my arm, and two minutes later, he was filled in on the details of Frankie’s disappearance. I stopped when I got to today’s phone call. “It may be something or maybe not. Either way I have to go by myself. I’ll be okay.”
Muscles stared at me for about ten seconds before he shook his head and smiled.
“What?” I asked.
“Nice to see you coming back, Raymond.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I asked, remembering Billy’s comment the other day.
“It’s like the rehab,” he said. “A little bit at a time.”
“Whatever you say, Muscles.” I slid the rest of the way out of the car and shut the door. “Thanks for the ride.”
“How long you gonna be?”
“I have no idea.”
“Call me, and I’ll pick you up. No problem.”
“What’s your number?”
He took my phone and pressed a bunch of buttons. “That’s my office,” he said. “I’m not going home for a while. So give me a call, and I’ll come get ya.”
“Thanks,” I said for the third time.
“You know what you’re doing, Raymond?”
“No more or less than usual,” I said.
Muscles gave me a shake of the head and then made an illegal, screeching U-turn up the wrong way of a one-way street. I took a long sip from my water bottle before turning around and walking up to the halfway point of the Williamsburg Bridge.
I got about a hundred feet before I had to stop. I did a couple of quick stretches, gulped down some more water, and tried to get my breathing and heart rate somewhere close to normal.
Frankie may not have been the best student in my class but he was always a good listener, and I guess he was paying attention when I told the kids about the bridge. It made sense for him to leave that cryptic message at the school. Especially with all that had been going on lately. He didn’t trust most people on a good day, and I don’t know when he’d last had one of those.
I was still a couple of minutes away from the middle of the bridge, so I took a little more water and started moving. Three Hassidic men were walking toward me, briefcases in hand, coming back home to Williamsburg after a day in the city. Behind them, I saw a couple of black kids on a bike. The one doing the pumping was doing it hard, using the downward momentum to build up to a real cruising speed. His buddy had his hands on the leader’s shoulders and screamed with laughter as they frightened the three men, who split up to avoid getting run over. Another fun thing to do on the Willy B.
A minute later, I was standing at the midway point. I did a three-sixty. No sign of Frankie. I didn’t even know which side he’d be coming from.
This was the spot I’d told my students about. A hundred feet above the East River, just as close to Brooklyn as to Manhattan. Watching from on high as the tugs, tourists, and other boats made their way up and down the East River. The slightly less-than-cool breeze coming off the water, the vibration of the bridge as the subway rumbled by. The collective hum of the tires on the asphalt just below me, creating a white noise, blocking out all the other sounds of the city. This was the place to come—in the middle of everything—to get away from everything else.
I grabbed the railing with both hands, took a deep breath, and did a slow bend. I held it for five seconds and came up slowly, releasing the air from my lungs as Muscles had instructed. The process took about twenty seconds. As I rose out of the last one, a voice came from behind me.
“Hey.”
I turned and looked at Frankie. “Hey,” I said back.
Resisting the urge to throw my arms around him, I watched as Frankie removed his Yankees cap and ran his fingers through his brown hair. It was longer than I’d remembered, but clean. There were dark rings under his eyes, and his face looked as if he’d lost some weight. He was wearing a long-sleeved baseball shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of khaki shorts that looked as if they’d been recently cleaned and pressed.
“Where have you been, Frankie?”
“Thanks for coming, Mr. D.” He looked up and down the bridge. I did the same. “I wasn’t sure you got my message. Hadda say it twice for that lady at school.”
“Took me a bit to figure it out, but I got it. Let’s go home. I want to get you to the—”
“That’s not why I called you, Mr. D. I didn’t say nothing about going home.”
“You didn’t say anything. Where’d you call from, anyway?”
He lifted his shirt and showed me a cell phone clipped to his shorts. “A friend’s,” he explained. “I called you from where I been staying. How’s Milagros?”
“She’s good. Children’s Services is letting her stay with your grandmother for now. They’re both worried about you. What friends?”
Frankie just smiled. “Good,” he said. “Tell ’em I’ll be home soon and I’m sorry about being away so long.”
“You’re coming with me and telling them yourself.”
He shook his head. “Can’t do that. I got some shit I gotta figure out first.”
“Can’t do that? Frankie, your dad’s been murdered, and the cops are looking for you. You don’t have to figure out anything. You’re fourteen years old.”
He looked down at his feet. “I got Milagros and me all the way up to Anita’s.”
I nodded.
“And I got Milagros to you safe.”
“That was a big risk, Frankie.”
“I was watching from the corner when you got dropped off, Mr. D. I knew she’d be okay. I just need a few more days.”
“Jesus, Frankie. You go all the way up to Highland and don’t contact your cousin?”
“I thought we could stay up there for a few days, but then I seen that guy.”
“What guy?”
“The big one I seen coming outta my dad’s … the day … you know?”
“No, Frankie,” I said. “I don’t know. That’s why you have to go back with me now so you can explain all this to the cops.” I got a look telling me this kid was five seconds away from pulling another Houdini. “Okay,” I said. “Start from the beginning.”
He looked around again. When he was sure we weren’t being stalked, he looked at my water bottle. “Can I get some of that?”
I handed it to him. “Finish it.”
He did. In one gulp. He let it do its job and then said, “We were staying at my dad’s. Milagros and me. He was real nervous the last few days. Not jumpy nervous like when he drank too much or scored something, but real nervous. Like he was expecting some shit to come down. He’s not usually like that. That day he was gonna take us into the city, maybe the zoo. Showed me a buncha hundreds, like he was trying to impress me.”
“He say where he got the money from?” I asked.
“Said he had a good week selling stuff. Did that a lot. Anyways, we’re all getting ready to go, and he looks out the window, and something got him real jumpy, y’know? He starts to put all this shit into a case, gives it to me, and tells me to take Milagros up to the roof. Says he’ll call up to us when it’s okay to come down.”
“So you went up to the roof…?”
“Yeah. We get up there, and we’re waiting for about a half hour and then he yells up that it’s okay to come on down.”
“Did he say who he was talking to?”
“Nah.” Frankie scratched his head. “Probably one of his friends he hangs with when me and Milagros ain’t around.”
“What makes you think that?” I asked.
It looked like this question embarrassed Frankie a little by the way he shifted his feet and looked over my shoulder when he answered. “He was kinda slurring his words, y’know. Wasn’t doing that before. He seemed a bit … sleepy. I seen him like that after he’d been smoking. Didn’t smell no smoke, so maybe they opened a window in the front room. He don’t usually—”
“Then what happened?”
“We start getting ready to go, and someone started knocking
on the door. I mean banging. Dad tells us to get back on the roof again, and he’d let us know when it was chill to come down.”
He was having trouble breathing. I put my hand on his shoulder.
“Take it easy,” I said. I counted to twenty before asking, “How long were you up there?”
Frankie took a deep breath and swallowed hard. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t know. Another half hour, maybe? I heard this door shut outside, and I go over to the side and see this big guy get in the driver’s side of a van, and then the van pulled away.”
“A white van?” I asked.
“How’d you know that?”
Had to be Ape, I thought. “The big guy, you saw him up at Anita’s?”
“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I keep waiting for Dad to call us down, but he don’t. So after a while, we go down and he’s … he’s on the bed, and he’s not moving, and there’s all this blood on his face and the floor, and he’s holding on to Milagros’s book bag, and…”
“I know,” I said. “I was the one who found him.”
“I don’t get it, Mr. D. I was just talking to him like this and then he’s…”
Now the tears came, and he didn’t try to stop them. I put my hand on his shoulder and kept my mouth shut. We stood like that for a few minutes as Frankie let the last week pour out through his eyes. A young couple walked by and gave us a look. The two kids on the bike sped past, the one on the back screaming, “Faggots!” Frankie was oblivious to the whole scene. It was just the two of us and some bad memories.
When he was done, he wiped both cheeks. “You saw him?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I was looking for you. You promised you’d be in school every day for the rest of the year, remember?”
He managed a small grin. “Sorry about that, Mr. D.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it when I get you home. This has gone on long enough.”
“I don’t know what to do now, Mr. D. That’s why I called you.”
