Immediately next to School 5 was a computer repair store, naturally offering the best deals in town. I nearly walked into a telephone pole when I saw what was next to the computer store. What every elementary school in America needs within arm’s length, a gun shop. I couldn’t believe that the city of Paterson- any city for that matter, but especially Paterson- would allow a gun shop to be anywhere in the vicinity of an elementary school. Hundreds of kids walk by on a daily basis, staring at the neon signs luring them in for handguns and ammo. Hunting rifles lined the front windows like they were G.I. Joe accessories and not deadly weapons. The city was begging for a school shooting. And Paterson wonders why it receives the reputation it clearly deserves. And the country wonders why we have to suffer through a never ending string of deadly mass shootings. Malls. Movie theaters. Public town hall meetings. Schools.
Society enjoys blaming the increased level of violence and the increased desensitization of our human behavior on the realistic nature of video games and movies. I partially agree with that but the majority of my belief says the amount of guns that are available is way too many and the ease with which people can purchase a gun is absurd. Now I can add proximity to my list of discrepancies related to gun control. Is there really need to place a gun shop anywhere near a school let alone next door?
I bet you’d like another chance, wouldn’t you?
“Shut up!” I said a little too loudly but not enough to draw strange looks.
C’mon, you son of a bitch. I’m sure you’d feel really good about seeing more die like Jake.
The voice has always had a slight variation of my own and always speaks in a commanding whisper with a deep sinister undertone. Talking the way I do sometimes the morning after a night of hard drinking. Raspy, worn out, and hung over.
I’d been out on my own for just a couple of days and wasn’t ready to carry my gun. I hadn’t held a gun since the incident and hoped that I’d never have to again. I continued my walk, a little more quickly this time. It didn’t take me very long to realize that Paterson must have a lot of people that needed their hair done. Nearly every corner on the block was occupied by either a beauty salon or a barbershop. Both serve the same function but apparently are gender specific.
Passing a store called, “G’s Spot,” I became very intrigued. I window shopped. It appeared to be a clothing store, not a sex shop as originally assumed. Very creative. A little further down I found the Passaic County Jail neatly tucked away, just like School 5, in the middle of Paterson’s social life. Another reason why Paterson deserves its reputation. I finally found a safe place to eat, “A Taste of Italy.” I ordered a pepperoni and a black olive slice and sat at a corner table facing the street. I grabbed a Snapple out of the refrigerator. School wasn’t out yet so the place was empty, which gave me a chance to run through everything I’d gathered so far on Esteban Machado.
I took out a pen from my pocket and began making notes on a brown paper napkin. I had: (1) Esteban into drugs?, (2) Crazy house/home life, (3) Older brother in jail for drugs, (4) Reported missing by mother, where’s dad? (5) Fights in school, (6) Klein shady? It was a longer list than I anticipated but it was still worth shit. Nothing connected or even casually intertwined the way I’d hoped they would. Javier, Esteban’s older brother, and Esteban’s incident reports at school indicating his knowledge and possible experience with drugs was the only possible connection I had. I kept attempting to convince myself that it’d only been a couple of days. But just a couple of days to me was an eternity to someone unwillingly on the lam like Esteban.
Then I thought about Klein, School 5’s principal, and whether or not he was putting up a façade, a show to hide something, or he was just that much of a douche bag and simply rubbed me the wrong way. I added another line under number six on my list, to pay Klein another visit.
TWENTY SEVEN
Esteban was tied to a chair with nylon rope intertwining his wrists behind him. The tough image had dissolved faster than an Alka- Seltzer in a glass of water. His street knowledge seemed to be outdone. His bullying impulses were no more. Esteban was in way over his head and he was finally starting to realize it. He was beginning to think this was one of those scared straight programs his mother and teachers kept talking about. A farce to get him to behave better but his mind wavered back and forth from fiction to reality.
He wasn’t sure if he was in some sort of cage but it was a dimly lit box. Dimensions and square footage weren’t Esteban’s motif so he had no idea how big the space was but started feeling claustrophobic. The space was empty except for the chair he was sitting in and the two thugs he was pretty sure were the ones who had picked him up from the baseball field last night. He had no idea if these were the same two that had originally snatched him up and chained him to the backstop or they were part of a small army.
Esteban didn’t remember getting from the parking lot of Checkers to where he was now. Last thing he recalled was lying on his back attempting to shake loose the ropes that bound his wrists. Then everything suddenly went blank. He watched the two guys talking to each other as they leaned on opposite sides of the opening to the storage unit. Esteban thought they looked like the bouncers that worked at the bar his brother used to take him to.
All was quiet until the sound of a slow, steady beat began to echo the desolate halls of where ever he was. The sound was dress shoes steadily marching down the cement- floor corridor. They echoed louder and louder in Esteban’s ears the closer they got. His head thumped as if a drummer was banging away at the flesh of his brain. They suddenly stopped in front of the opening and the two thugs, once casually leaning, now stood at military- style attention. Esteban could see a well- dressed Italian looking man suddenly appear. He only guessed Italian because he looked like someone he knew. His neighbors were Italian, straight from the heart of Sicily. The old man next door used to try and tell Esteban stories about his childhood and being in the war until Esteban broke his window. But this wasn’t his neighbor. One of his old teachers was Italian. He remembered because Mr. Anzino assigned the class a project on different regions of Italy. Esteban didn’t do it. And this wasn’t Mr. Anzino.
This guy was more recent in Esteban’s memory. Maybe it was the extravagant, pricy sunglasses the man wore indoors. Maybe it was the dapper suit the man sported. Maybe it was the shiny shoes. The limited amount of light skewed his vision then the guy slowly walked into the storage unit, towards where Esteban was held captive. The closer the man approached, the clearer his face became. Esteban nearly threw up on himself when he recognized it was Principal Klein.
TWENTY EIGHT
“Hello, Esteban,” Klein, a.k.a. “The Chooch” smugly stated. Esteban didn’t reply. Klein wore his most expensive Movado watch, diamond studded bracelets, one on each wrist, and large pinky rings on each hand. Esteban’s head hung to his chest while Klein crouched down, putting his left hand on the ground to steady himself, in front of Esteban and lifted his chin with his right hand so they could look face to face. “Hello, Esteban,’” he stated firmly.
“Hi,” Esteban whispered. He suddenly became a weak, powerless little boy that could barely find his voice to say hello. It was even beginning to surprise Esteban how weak his own voice sounded. Like an injured baby bird without his mother.
“My, my, my. I can’t believe this is the Esteban that once ran the halls of my school, wreaking havoc. Now look at you. Quiet as a mouse. Nothing to say?” Klein laughed and waited.
“Fuck you,” Esteban said. His voice deepened and grew strong, albeit temporarily, but still couldn’t lift his eyes off his own feet. Klein laughed again.
“Atta, boy. There it is.” Barry Klein was one of the most adamant persons against bullying. In his tenure at School 5, Klein had instilled a variety of buddy programs, character education activities, and severe consequences to curb as much bullying in the school as possible and here he was bullying a teen himself. Lindsey always said that educators could be the biggest hypocrites and here w
as a prime example. She always said that teachers became the biggest kids when they suddenly were the students at professional development meetings, staff meetings, or conferences. They showed the least amount of patience and were more preoccupied with games and texting on their phones or whispering the latest gossip to one another rather than improving their craft.
While Klein was still in his crouched position, the lapel of his suit jacket fell forward and Esteban’s eyes grew wide when he saw a gun resting in a holster pressed against his ribs. Klein noticed Esteban’s facial expression. “Don’t worry about that. I won’t need to use it if you are willing to be a good boy and cooperate.” He stood up and stretched his arms high above his head, contorted his lower back and turned his back on Esteban. Klein let out a groan with his stretch as if he’d just risen from several lazy hours on the couch. He walked towards his two thugs and the three of them spoke in hushed tones for several minutes. Esteban attempted to crane his neck without being blatantly obvious but couldn’t hear what they were saying. He thought he heard his name mentioned every few words or so but he wasn’t completely sure. Sweat began to tickle the insides of his forearms and run down his palms. His hands couldn’t help but be cupped together from the way his wrists were tied. Esteban tried to use the sweat to lubricate the ropes enough to shake him loose, again without being too obvious. His chair skidded a couple of times against the cement but didn’t draw any attention from Klein and his cronies.
Finally, Klein turned back towards Esteban and the two locked eyes. Klein resumed his casual gait in Esteban’s direction. He said, “So, Esteban. What can you tell me about Jamal?”
TWENTY NINE
The Red Hot Chili Peppers came on my iPod when I got back in the car. I felt like I needed to be done with Paterson for the day so I left and headed for home. At the same time I felt like I needed to pound the pavement around the clock and search high and low for Esteban. He was still out there somewhere and his time was ticking away on my watch. Meanwhile, I had quite a few tidbits of information to go on up to this point but I couldn’t figure out the right way to go about it.
I had the windows down and the volume tuned up a few extra notches. There are just so few songs that sound so much better with the windows down. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm and sang the lyrics as if I had written them. Just as “Around the World” was getting to the good part I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. I fished it out and saw that it was Fitzgerald.
I think I’m one of the few that still answer the phone with a ‘hello’ nowadays. With smartphones providing us, not only with Caller ID, but the option to add a photo of the person who’s calling, formal greetings have gone by the wayside. Soon, they are going to have holographic images appear directly in front of our faces and have the caller instantly begin talking rather than wait for the respondent to answer. This time I was feeling frisky.
“Fitzy, my man,” I said.
“Barnes, how’s it going with the PI business? Finding lots of lost kitties?” Fitzgerald retorted.
“Things are good. Yes, I’ve rescued six kittens from trees, a puppy stuck in a doggy door, and even a hamster from a bathtub drain. I’m a regular superhero,” I joked. I heard Fitzgerald laugh.
“Seriously, you still working that missing kid case?”
“Yeah, I was going to call you tonight to look into a few things for me. The kid, Esteban, used to go to School 5 on Main before he was bumped into Lindsey’s class due to fighting and his impulsivity,” I said, emphasizing the coincidence.
“No shit. What are the odds of that?”
“I know. Anyway, I went there today and spoke to the principal, Barry Klein. Something just didn’t fit with him. See what you can dig up on him, if anything. Also, look into a drug bust a few years back. Javier Machado or might be Javier Cruz, the mother’s name. He’s Esteban’s older brother. Got busted on a drug run in ’12 I think it was.” I came to a stoplight and peeked a look around for any cops having nothing better to do than bust a guy behind the wheel while on his cell phone. To them I’d be just another pedestrian on the phone and not the stellar PI that I think I am.
“Ok, well it looks like you’ve been a busy little bee,” Fitzgerald said.
“I have and tomorrow I’ll be able to cross the street all by myself,” I said. We laughed. After a few moments I continued, “I also stopped by to talk to the mother and man, she’s a regular baby- making factory. She was nice enough to me but smacked her little ones around like their heads were a tetherball. I can see why Esteban is the way he is. I’m eventually going to pay Klein another visit and drop by the Cruz slash Machado house again. I want to look in Esteban’s room for anything that might help me more but, frankly, I’m a little scared to go back.”
“All right, I’ll work Barry Klein and Javier Machado slash Cruz from my end and see what turns up, if anything, and get back to you. Anything else you need, just let me know,” Fitzgerald said. He added, “You gotta be careful with kids like Esteban, Chase. We’ve come across a few cases like what this appears to be and ends up turning into a lot more shit than just a missing kid. You remember that one kid from a couple years ago. I think his name was Chauncey or Charlie Something.”
“Chandler Malone. Yeah, I remember. Kid was kidnapped by his father’s own mafia goons to try and get a leg up on the boss. But I don’t think Esteban’s parents are anywhere near the mafia,” I said.
“Yeah, I don’t think so either but I just remember the kid ended up acting out after the whole ordeal. Ended up picking him up a few times for petty crimes over the following few months. Just got pinched for armed robbery and you know what he claims now as a justification for his behaviors?”
I thought for a second and said, “Not getting ice cream after dinner?”
Fitzgerald ignored me and replied, “He blames his parents for exposing him to a life of crime. A mafia kid. Poor kid’s claim is a bunch of bullshit. A cop out if you ask me. Didn’t stop him from knocking over a few local places with two handguns he probably got from dear ol’ dad.”
Blame. It made me think about how that related to Esteban and some of the choices he’s made. Was it because of what he might have been exposed to or was it because of his own choices that he’s made? Maybe both.
“Possibly,” was all I could say.
“I’ll look into what you gave me.”
I thanked him and ended the call. I put the phone in the cup holder and turned the radio back up to catch the end of the song.
THIRTY
I was still trying to figure out if there was a difference between thinking like a private investigator and thinking like a cop. Up to this point, I didn’t think so. This was all still new to me but I’ve always felt I had the instincts. When I got home I checked the landline for messages or missed calls even though I already knew the answer. Aside from our parents and telemarketers, no one ever called our house phone.
Back at home I was standing over the kitchen table, which was still splashed with Esteban’s paper work from school, I was looking for a new direction. A calling or something to scream out at me and say, “Hey, Dipshit. I’m right here.” I didn’t see it because I convinced myself that my fined-toothed comb had scraped everything clean. My mind drifted back to Barry Klein. Here I was thinking that Glen Garvey, the Right Step’s principal, was a whack job. I still did, to an extent, but now I was thinking Klein was a little more off his rocker, albeit a different type of rocker. To me, Garvey was a little disheveled, loose, and disoriented. On the flip side, Klein seemed a little too rigid, while appearing almost free spirited, and shady.
The computer was in the basement bedroom. I sat in front of the screen, thinking like I knew my way around the computer. There was a ground- level window next to the desk and I could see the sun had no intents on settling in the west any time soon, despite the fact that it was well into the six o’ clock hour. My fingers rested on the keyboard, deciding what to search first. Since Klein was in the front of my br
ain I Googled his name. I added ‘Paterson, NJ’ to his name after his name alone came up with way too many hits. The first hit directed me to School 5’s link from the Paterson School District website. Klein’s smug face was plastered front and center on the link. His photo showed him donning a similar suit to the one he was wearing earlier in the day, perched behind his desk with his hands folded in front of him. Klein’s smile even screamed politician.
Before I dove even further into Klein’s website I pulled up my iTunes library and clicked on a classic Bruce Springsteen song. I tuned up the volume a bit and let the opening guitar riff pulsate my ears. Then, I clicked on the icon to force my library to shuffle.
There was a blurb written by Klein himself underneath the photo. It rambled on about how Klein’s vision and determination was to create a positive learning environment and a place for students to grow and mature physically, mentally, and culturally. Their goal was to prepare students and develop them to their full potential to meet expectations in the present and their future secondary experiences. Simple terms: Prepare them for high school. Cliché. Cliché. Cliché. Teach them important life skills. Cliché. Cliché. Cliché.
I hoped to find a biographical link into Klein’s past but knew it was unlikely. I spent the next few minutes surfing the rest of the website, not sure of the purpose or the outcome. The home page for School 5 was much more animated than the appearance of the school itself. The top of the page listed, “What’s New?,” their own philosophy, information on their own anti- bullying policy, and links to school forms for parents. I clicked on the “What’s New?” link and saw various links to student clubs offered, such as gardening and an environmental club. I found those ironic that a school in such a cement world would desire to have such a green thumb.
The Incident (Chase Barnes Series Book 1) Page 8