Boom-BOOM!

by Wally Duff

  Before I could tell Linda about the two vehicles in the neighbor’s garage, ‘90s rock music blasted out of the speakers in the front of the room and class began. We did a relatively slow warm-up, but it didn’t last long. Cas doesn’t like slow.

  She announced the start of the ride in her typical fashion.

  “Go! Go! EMPUJAR!” she screamed into her headset microphone.

  We began peddling. I kept my head down hoping Cas wouldn’t catch me talking to Linda. But when I turned my head to tell her my news, Cas interrupted me by yelling into her microphone.

  “I can see you two gossiping in the back. If you can talk, you’re not working hard enough.”

  She has the personality of a pissed-off pit bull when she is teaching one of her classes — especially kickboxing — or when one of our friends, usually Linda, disagrees with her when we have our play group discussions.

  Cas stared directly at us. “One more full turn and out of the seat!” she bellowed.

  21

  Fifty minutes later, spinning class ended. The stink of sweat was now the predominant odor in the room. After we finished stretching, I wiped my bike down and told Linda about the registration of the two vehicles.

  “What do you think?” I asked, after I finished.

  “A lot of money is being funneled from the Arun Corporation to your neighbor,” she said.

  “I need to know where those funds are coming from.”

  “I’ll try to hack into the Arun Corporation’s computers, but it’ll have to wait until after the Fourth. We’re going to visit Howard’s parents in New York City. It’ll be our last flight there before the baby comes.”

  “Let me know what you find out. The guy pissed me off, and I want to know why he’s such a jerk.”

  Droplets of sweat covered the floor around me. As I wiped them up with a towel, Sammy Simmons and Corky Gibson, two stunning twenty-somethings, waved at Linda and me as they slid off their bikes and hurried toward the exit, most likely to another class.

  I gazed in admiration at their trim bodies and cellulite-free legs. They never wore makeup, but then, they didn’t need to. And they were total men magnets. A young California surfer type tagged along with them, smiling widely and laughing, probably throwing out his best hookup lines.

  “Did we ever look that good?” I asked Linda.

  “I’m not sure I ever did,” she said. “But they should be buffed. They practically live here.”

  “You are so right.” As I watched them leave, I noticed Sammy looked different. “Plastic surgery helps too.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Check out Sammy’s chest. She has new boobs.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Come on, I’ll prove it to you.”

  Linda followed me to the body sculpting class where Sammy and Corky placed their equipment in the front row. The surfer dude stood between them. Sammy’s fabulous body was even more perfect than the last time I saw her.

  “Breasts that size only come out of a box,” I said. “And if they did, I wonder where Sammy got the money to pay for them.”

  “Could be a story right here: Where to get breast augmentation surgery in Lakeview.”

  “Or better, what did Sammy do to earn the money to pay for the operation?”

  Might have to keep my eye on her.

  22

  Friday, I spent my time running in the neighborhood seeking another possible story, playing with Kerry, and working on the computer. But I hadn’t come up with any additional information involving my rude neighbor or any ideas for a new story.

  Saturday afternoon, Carter came inside from working in his garden.

  “Honey, one of the guys on my staff just called,” he said. “They’re going to Hamlin Park for a slow-pitch softball game. Do we have anything planned?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’ll take Kerry to Whole Foods to shop for dinner tomorrow night.”

  I’d thrown a line in the water to tempt him to indulge in one of his favorite pastimes: cooking. If he did bite, I could watch him do it while I relaxed and played with Kerry.

  “Any suggestions for our menu?” I continued.

  “I would love to try that rub for ribs I read about in the New York Times Wednesday food section.”

  Hook, line, and sinker.

  He printed the list of ingredients he needed from my computer and handed it to me before he left for Hamlin. I lugged my daughter and her two companions down the front steps and loaded them into the stroller. As I hoisted the backpack over my shoulders, I had a “Mommy Moment.” I went through my mental checklist but came up blank.

  The Lincoln-Belmont branch of the Chicago library system is on the corner east of our home. As I pushed Kerry in her stroller past it and toward Whole Foods, I heard Lyndell’s voice in my head: “Tina, you always forget to set your security system.”

  Yep. Did it again.

  As I continued pushing Kerry’s stroller east past the library’s free parking lot, I made a mental note to try and remember to do it next time. A second — public-pay — lot sat in the middle of the block. I noticed a shiny black Ranger Rover in the first row.

  Huh?

  Taking out my cell phone, I scrolled down to the photos I’d snapped of the neighbor’s license plates. It was his SUV. In that picture, there were still a few boxes in his garage. Maybe the two guys in the white van had returned and delivered more boxes. If they did, the man had to move the Rover while the boxes were temporarily stored before he unpacked and sifted through them.

  Carter and I had done the same thing when we moved to Chicago. For the first three months, unpacked boxes filled one side of our two-car garage. Now, half of that side contains clothes and toys from Kerry’s infancy, all of which are being stored in case I ever become pregnant again.

  In the other half of that side of the garage, we have stacks of the hard print copies of all the articles Carter has ever written, even though each story can easily be found on the Internet. We’d argued about this because, in my judgment, it was a complete waste of space. He countered that my stash of writing equipment, which I’d stored while I took a break to heal from my wounds and then to have Kerry, took up unnecessary room.

  My previous job as an investigative journalist often required tools other than a pen and notebook, binoculars, a camera, and a computer. When I worked for the Washington Post, I’d purchased a lock pick gun and torque wrench online. Several times they’d come in handy to break into offices or homes in pursuit of a story.

  Was that legal? No, but I’d worried about breaking the law only after I had the facts I needed to complete the piece.

  I also had electronic gear I used to bypass the phone lines and power sources of home and business security systems. I’d learned the technique from a man I had interviewed for a story about breaking and entering into homes. And I did it while he was jailed on a B&E charge.

  The last item I’d purchased was a GPS tracker. It was expensive, and my bureau chief at the Post had yelled at me when the invoice appeared on my expense account. But he’d paid for it after I used it to help write a story discrediting the CEO of a major retail corporation.

  I’d taken it with me when I was fired after the clinic bombing in Arlington. If I could find the GPS device and the software disc to record the data, I would be able to track the movements of at least one of the new neighbor’s vehicles and then investigate each place he visited.

  But I needed to find the GPS device in time to run back to the parking lot and tag the Rover before the man drove it away. Pawing through the boxes in our garage would take time I didn’t have.

  I had a Sunday afternoon project I didn’t want Carter to know about, but I needed to do it.

  23

  Sunday afternoon, while Kerry napped, Carter prepped the ribs for the dinner he was going to make that evening for the three of us. During that time, I found all of my equipment in our garage.

  And I discovered one other item I had pr
eviously purchased: an electronic scanning device. I had needed it in Afghanistan where I’d written a series documenting government corruption. The local powers had bugged my room hoping to find out what I’d uncovered before I finished the story. The black box had helped me find their bugs and finish my story without them busting me.

  On Monday morning after Kerry’s nap, she and her two companions rode in her stroller as I pushed them into the parking lot of Whole Foods to buy the groceries for Tuesday’s Fourth of July holiday. But I put my plan on hold when a black Mercedes pulled in. I checked the license number in my cell phone. My target car parked thirty feet away from us.

  Do it!

  I waited for my cranky neighbor to enter the store before I made my move. Pushing Kerry in her stroller, I rushed up behind the car and took out the device. As I bent over to put it under the rear bumper, I heard the car’s passenger side door open.

  Dammit!

  The Mercedes had tinted-black windows, and I hadn’t seen a passenger inside. The harsh odor of cigarette smoke drifted in my direction, and I smelled the passenger before I heard him climb out.

  I stood up with my back to him. “I know Momma dropped her keys in this parking lot,” I said loudly to Kerry. “I guess I’ll have to search under all of the cars out here.”

  Turning to him, we made eye contact. He resembled the two men I’d seen unloading boxes from the white van.

  “I lost my car keys” I said to him. “Again.”

  The man threw down his cigarette but didn’t reply.

  “Would you be a dear and help me find them?”

  He crossed his muscular arms over his chest but didn’t move.

  Time to play the empty-headed mommy card.

  I yanked Elmo out of Kerry’s hands. Her instant shrieks attracted the attention of several shoppers who looked over to see what had happened. He muttered to himself, climbed back into the Mercedes, and slammed the door.

  No one came to my assistance as I pretended to look on the ground for my keys. Kerry continued to cry. Finally, a lady my mom’s age walked over to me.

  “Dear, what’s wrong?” she asked.

  Tears might work.

  I cranked out a few. “I lost my car keys, again, and my husband will be furious,” I sobbed, as Kerry continued to scream.

  The tears worked.

  “Where’d you drop them?” a white-haired man with the lady asked.

  I waved around the lot. “Somewhere around here.”

  The two bystanders began searching the pavement and under the cars. I handed Elmo back to Kerry, and she stopped crying.

  The man sat in the Mercedes and couldn’t see me below the level of his trunk.

  Now!

  I pulled out the device from my backpack and planted it under the right rear bumper. Then, I waited until the two people helping me had their backs turned and dropped my keys under the tire of the car behind me. A minute later, the white-haired man found them.

  “You are such a dear,” I said when he handed them to me. “Thank you so much.”

  After putting Kerry in her seat, I got into my car and hurried home to activate the tracking software on my computer. I could shop for food later.

  When I got to my computer, I downloaded the software for the GPS device I’d hidden on the Mercedes. It took me fifteen minutes to remember how the system worked, but once I did, the readout indicated the Mercedes was back at the man’s house.

  I would wait a couple of days to let a pattern of travel develop.

  24

  Monday afternoon, all of my friends and their kids were out of town for the Fourth of July. Carter had been called into work. I asked Kerry what she wanted to do. Her vote was Hamlin Park, and I agreed.

  The eight-acre park has activities for each member of the family. There are fields used for baseball, softball, soccer, and lacrosse, a free swimming pool, plus a playground. The scent of freshly mowed grass from the fields drifted over us as I pushed Kerry into the park. The sounds of splashing and yelling from the kids frolicking in the pool were mixed with the plunk of a metal bat striking a ball.

  Kerry and I sat down in the shade to protect my little girl’s pale skin from the intense Chicago sun. The playground was empty except for another woman I’d never seen before. She sat on a bench about fifteen feet away from me watching four kids play on the equipment.

  My friends kidded me about being the “Mayor of Hamlin Park” because they said I acted like I was campaigning for an elective office, constantly walking around introducing Kerry and myself to anyone new to the park.

  I did it to find new storylines. But today I wanted to spend time with Kerry, and I didn’t feel the need to introduce myself and get her story.

  Kerry sat at my feet piling up little mounds of loose wood chips to make pretend ice cream scoops and imitate the vanilla custard cone I had purchased for us at Scooter’s on the way to the park. She began feeding wood chips to Elmo. Unexpectedly, she began cramming the woodchips into her own mouth.

  “Spit, Kerry. It’s yucky.”

  Kerry, having inherited her stubborn gene from Carter’s side of the family, clamped her jaws shut. I picked her up and tried to pry open her mouth. She twisted and gagged.

  Heimlich!

  Turning her around, I tried to perform the maneuver.

  It didn’t work!

  “Help!” I screamed. “Please, somebody, help! My baby is choking!”

  25

  911!

  I reached into my backpack for my cell phone. Kerry thrashed in my arms, knocking it into the wood chips.

  “Stop!” The lady on the bench said. “Give her to me!”

  I don’t know you.

  The woman limped over to me.

  You can’t have her!

  “I need to do a Heimlich maneuver!”

  She tried to pull Kerry out of my arms.

  I resisted.

  She pulled harder.

  I let go.

  She turned Kerry around to face me, made her left hand into a fist, and placed it over my daughter’s abdomen. She joined her hands together and yanked them upwards toward Kerry’s chest.

  Wood chips flew out of my daughter’s mouth.

  Once Kerry could breathe again, she began shrieking.

  I reached out for her.

  The woman turned away from me and nuzzled Kerry’s neck. My daughter blinked and ceased wiggling and crying.

  I reached out again.

  The woman ignored my outstretched hands.

  She softly sang to Kerry in a language that sounded like German. While she swayed back and forth in rhythm with her tune, she placed her ear on Kerry’s chest and listened.

  That’s why she wouldn’t give Kerry to me.

  She nodded to herself and handed Kerry back to me.

  “Thank you so much,” I gushed. “You saved my daughter’s life.” I hugged Kerry. “This is the first time something like this has happened to her — to us — and I totally panicked.”

  The lady was shorter than me. Her dark hair was sprinkled with gray, and she wore a shapeless green cotton dress that did nothing to flatter her figure.

  “This is your first child, yes?” she asked, glancing down at my toned runner’s body.

  “She is.”

  “A mother must be ever watchful with her child.” Her voice was flat.

  Jeez, no hug? Thanks for comforting me.

  “I assume you’ve had medical training with how you took care of my daughter,” I said.

  She lowered her head and examined her hands. “I am a pediatrician,” she said to the ground.

  “I hope you practice in our neighborhood. Our daughter’s pediatrician is in Lincoln Park, and it’s a total pain to fight the traffic to drive there to see her.”

  “At this point in my life, I am not working.”

  “Welcome to the club.”

  The woman didn’t respond.

  “What I mean is, like me, there are several previously working women arou
nd here who are now primarily stay-at-home moms.”

  She continued to stare at the ground as I rocked Kerry.

  Introduce yourself, Ms. Mayor of Hamlin Park.

  “I’m Tina Thomas and this is my daughter, Kerry.”

  She lifted her head. “My name is Hannah Eisenberg.” With her left hand, she pointed at two young girls climbing on the jungle gym. “Those are my daughters. Sara is six and Rachael is five.” She nodded at the swings. “And there are my sons: Gerald, who is eight, and Jason, who is twelve.”

  “Did you recently move to this neighborhood?”

  “Yes, we did.”

  This is turning into another Mixmaster interview.

  “From Germany?”

  She stared at me. “Why would you ask that?”

  “The song you sang to Kerry sounded like German to me.”

  “It is a Yiddish song I learned from my husband’s Bubbe. And to answer your question, we moved from Israel, first to a condo and finally to a home in this neighborhood.”

  My journalist’s antennae shot up: a doctor/mom with four kids coming to a new country. Questions began whizzing through my brain. She was perfect for a story.

  Start digging.

  “Hannah, I write a monthly column for our local newspaper. The stories showcase people in the Lakeview area. I would love to feature you and your family. And if you ever decide to go back into practice, it would be a terrific opportunity to get your name out there.”

  “This is not possible. My husband would never allow it.” She abruptly turned and beckoned to her children. “We have to leave.”

  Huh? What just went wrong here?

  26

  “Thanks again,” I said, waving at Hannah’s back. She had an abnormal gait, hobbling like her feet hurt from blisters or ill-fitting shoes. She limped toward the park’s gate with a son supporting her on each side. With their other hand, each of the boys held the hand of one of their sisters.