Cory's Flight

by Dan Petrosini

  * * *

  “Helen, how are you doing?”

  “Cory?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Oh my God. How are you, uh, doing?”

  “The best we can, given everything.”

  “It’s hard to believe.”

  “You and me both. I didn’t do it. Somebody is framing me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I’m calling. We’ve got an investigator checking into some people, but I was wondering about the fan club you ran for me. Was there anyone you think was crazy enough to do this to me?”

  “Hmm. You know, two guys come to mind. One was called Diesel. I don’t know if that was his real name or not, but he was on the sick side. I was on the verge of calling the police one time when he scared me with his stalking. He always knew what we were wearing, and what hotel the band was in.”

  “Diesel? I never heard of him. Did he ever threaten me or the band?”

  “Not directly, but it was borderline.”

  “Could be him. What about the other guy?”

  “I think he was called Juan. He used to email that he wanted the set list in a certain order, and if it wasn’t, he’d blow the place up. He was a nutjob for sure.”

  “Geez. People are crazy. Do you have their last names?”

  “I’ll have to check the records and get back to you.”

  “Thanks, Helen. I hate to push you, but my back is against the wall.”

  “The files are in the office. I’ll get back to you, Cory, don’t worry.”

  Cory hung up, muttering, “Yeah, don’t worry.”

  He wondered what he was going to do with the information. Tower seemed uninterested in pursuing possible suspects. He wanted Cory to plead self-defense. Was that the best option, or was it the easiest one for the lawyer?

  Towel wrapped around her head, Linda came into the family room. “Did Helen come up with anything?”

  Cory told her about the two men. She said, “No shortage of nuts. Remember that guy who got up to our floor in the old building? He scared me so bad, I almost dropped Tommy.”

  “Thank God he was harmless.”

  “Maybe it is a fan.”

  He shrugged. “How are we going to track all this down?”

  “Tower should be doing that.”

  “I don’t think he believes it. He wants me to go the self-defense route. Maybe he’s right, maybe I should.”

  “You changed your mind?”

  “No, I don’t want to, or at least not until I have to, but this is going to cost a ton of money. Money we don’t have.”

  “We’ll find it.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, it’ll work out. You’ll sell some more songs, and I can get a job.”

  “No way. Not until Tommy is older.”

  “We’ll cut back on expenses.”

  “Don’t make it too obvious. I don’t want Ava resenting me any more than she already does.”

  “She doesn’t resent you. She’s having a tough time dealing with this. I’m sure the kids at school are being jerks about it.”

  Cory hung his head. “I feel terrible.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Oh yeah? If I didn’t lose it the first time with Stein, I wouldn’t be screwed. Man, how long do I gotta pay for a mistake?”

  “Beating yourself up isn’t helping. Maybe you should go see Dr. Bruno and talk it out with her.”

  “And spend another two hundred?”

  “You can’t put a price on your health. Why don’t you go play some music? It’ll help clear your mind.”

  Cory said, “Yeah, I need centering.”

  Cory picked up his Gibson L-00. The prized acoustic guitar was his favorite. He scanned the nine others hanging on the wall. His stomach dropped when he thought he’d have to sell any to fund his defense.

  It wouldn’t happen. He’d been broke before and rebounded. All he had to do was write a couple of songs. They didn’t have to be hits; he paid the bills composing midlist tunes.

  Cory noodled around, trying to find a catchy phrase he could anchor a melody on. Nothing seemed interesting enough. He closed his eyes and fingerpicked low notes. It was mysterious. He played the six-note phrase over and over. It was dark and depressing.

  He swung the guitar off and hung it up. He couldn’t write a kids' song in his current state of mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Cory was at the keyboard trying to reharmonize a lesser-known Louie Prima tune. It was catchy and he thought simplifying the chords might give him something to lay a melody over.

  The old-time performer had a knack for creating songs people sang along to. That was a winning formula for the children’s market.

  While notating a dominant chord, his phone vibrated. The number looked vaguely familiar. “Hello?”

  “Cory?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s Suzanne.”

  “Oh wow. How are you?”

  “Pretty good. And you?”

  Cory looked at the phone; she didn’t know about his troubles? “So-so. I’m embarrassed to ask, but what was your last name?”

  “O’Rourke.”

  “That’s it. That’s your married name?”

  “Yes. Why are you asking?”

  “What was your husband’s name?”

  “Why are you asking these questions?”

  “I was just thinking about the old days, and I remembered when he lost it backstage that time.”

  “Billy has a temper.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “What did he do again?”

  “He’s a businessman.”

  “What kind?”

  “I have to go. Nice talking to you.”

  Cory minimized the composing software and opened a new tab. He typed in Billy O’Rourke in the search bar. A long list populated. Cory scrolled down and went back to the search bar, adding crime to the name.

  Cory leaned in. The top result was for an Irish crime boss named William Dublin O’Rourke. He clicked onto the link, and an image of the man nicknamed The Monk appeared. Cory zoomed in.

  Was it the same man? The picture was of a much younger man. Was O’Rourke the kind of guy who had his goons rip a camera out of a person’s hands if they took a picture of their boss? Cory went back to the article.

  The New York Post write-up was short. O’Rourke was suspected of ordering the beating of a man who stole a crucifix from St. John’s Church. Cory read it twice. The theft took place in 2015. Cory scrolled to the top. The article was written on November 10, 2017.

  O’Rourke had waited over two years. Cory leapt up. Was it him? It had to be. He ran into the kitchen.

  “Linda, I think it’s him.”

  “Who?”

  “This guy, his name is O’Rourke. He’s an Irish mobster.”

  “What’s the connection?”

  “He’s the guy who got twisted over his wife flirting with me at an after-party.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “I don’t know. One of the tours we did when I was hot.”

  “I don’t get it. You’re saying this woman was flirting with you and he freaked out?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come on, Cory. You were screwing her, right?”

  “No, I swear. That’s not it.”

  “And you want me to believe he waited years to frame you?”

  “Come here, read this. You’ll see this guy is whacked out.”

  He showed her the web article. “Now do you believe me?”

  “This doesn’t make sense.”

  “It’s crazy, right?”

  “You better be straight with me. Don’t tell me you didn’t do more than flirt with that woman.”

  “It was a long time ago. I—”

  Linda stormed out. “Shut up before you dig a deeper hole.”

  Cory watched his wife walk away, thinking, of all the guys it could be,
did it have to be the husband of someone he’d slept with? He needed a break and it looked like he had one.

  He Googled the mobster, but there wasn’t much out there. He searched using the nickname The Monk. He scanned the results, smiling when he saw a definition of Monk as someone with patience.

  He called Tower’s office. The lawyer wouldn’t get on the phone. Cory passed over the information on O’Rourke and hoped Tower would take it seriously.

  Cory hung up. He was too wired to go back to composing. He went into the kitchen.

  “I called Tower, but he wouldn’t get on the phone.”

  “Okay.”

  “I told his assistant. You remember Brenda, right?”

  Linda nodded and opened a drawer.

  “Anyway, I gave the information on O’Rourke. It’s the first time I’m feeling hopeful.”

  Linda silently put a tea bag in a mug.

  Reaching out, Cory rubbed her back and Linda stiffened. “I’m going to try to finish that song I was working on.”

  Cory exhaled. She was right to be pissed, but did he have to keep paying for every mistake he made?

  Seated behind his Yamaha keyboard, Cory repeated the nickname Monk in his head. It made him think of the jazz pianist, Thelonious Monk. He fingered a couple of dissonant chords the old player was famous for. The clashing sounds wouldn’t work for kids, he thought. Or would it?

  Cory played with variations of harsh chords when Linda came in. “Cory! Mom’s being rushed to the hospital.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Mary went there, and she was out of it. Her legs were swollen, and she couldn’t catch her breath. She called 911. They’re taking her to Mount Sinai.”

  “Let’s get moving.”

  “She needs kidneys. She’s not going to make it.”

  “They’ll move her up the list.”

  “I got a bad feeling. Mom’s not going to get them in time.”

  Cory wiped a tear from her cheek. “She’ll be all right.”

  The couple burst out of the elevator onto the nephrology floor. Hustling down the hallway, Cory wondered why it was so quiet. Rounding a corner, they almost ran into the doctor taking care of Linda’s mother.

  “Dr. Faulkner, how is Mom?”

  In green scrubs and somber, the physician said, “I’m afraid she’s experiencing acute renal failure.”

  Cory put his arm around Linda’s waist, asking, “She needs a transplant. Is she going to get one?”

  “I hope so.”

  Linda said, “We got to get her kidneys. She won’t make it if—”

  “I’m aware of that, Mrs. Lupinski, but all I can do is keep the transplant unit informed of her condition.”

  “This is crazy. My mother is dying! Why isn’t she getting a kidney?”

  “Take it easy, Linda. Let’s go see her, and then we’ll talk to the people in transplant.”

  Cory held his wife’s hand as they entered her mother’s room. Seeing the gaggle of hoses and lines attached to her, he swallowed hard. His mother-in-law was unconscious. Linda’s legs buckled, and Cory eased her into a chair.

  Tears streaming down her face, Linda took her mother’s hand and kissed it. “We’re here, Mom. You’ll be okay.”

  Cory stood beside his wife, staring at his mother-in-law. Her leathery face had a yellowish tint. Seeing how terrible she looked made him wonder if there was anyone he could reach to help her leapfrog the transplant list.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Holding a fire truck, Tommy came into the studio. “Daddy, why is Mommy crying?”

  “She’s upset that Grandma doesn’t feel good.”

  “But she’s getting better, right?”

  “A little bit. Go give Mommy a kiss.”

  As Tommy ran off, Cory tapped a number in his phone.

  “Hi, it’s Cory Lupinski.”

  “Hello Mr. Lupinski.”

  “No one from the transplant board called me back.”

  “We advised them you called. You have to give them time to respond.”

  “But it’s been over a day.”

  “I’m sure they’ll return your call.”

  “Look, isn’t there something you can do? My mother-in-law really needs the transplant. She’s very sick.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lupinski. I know you’ve done marvelous work with our child patients, but Mount Sinai’s transplant board is completely independent. I’m sure you understand; for it to operate properly it cannot be influenced by contacts—”

  “This isn’t influence. She’s dying.”

  “I’ll let them know you called, again.”

  “I’m not going away!”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Lupinski.”

  Cory flung his phone onto the couch. “Goddamn it!”

  Linda came in holding Tommy’s hand. “Who was that?”

  “Mount Sinai. Nobody’s calling me back.”

  Her shoulders sank. “She’s going to die.”

  “Grandma’s gonna die?”

  “No. A friend of Daddy’s is sick.” She got on her knees. “But Grandma is very sick. Mommy and Daddy are trying to help her.”

  “I can help too.”

  Linda hugged him. “You certainly can.”

  Cory lowered himself to the floor. Tousling his son’s hair, his phone rang. “I got to get this. It’s Helen.”

  Walking out of the room, he said, “Hey, Helen.”

  “Hi Cory. I pulled out the records and found some info on the guys we talked about.”

  Cory sat at his workstation and grabbed a pencil. “What do you have?”

  “Diesel’s last name is shown as Jameston. There was no return address on the envelopes he used, but the postmark was Jersey City, New Jersey.”

  “How many threatening letters did he send in?”

  “We saved fourteen.”

  Cory opened his laptop, saying, “Wow. He’s obsessed. Can you scan the letters over? My lawyer will want them.”

  “No problem. There was a note that we had alerted Tracy on five separate occasions.”

  “I remember getting some security warnings.”

  “I’ve been doing this a long time, and though you have to be careful, most of them are just over-zealous fans.”

  Cory typed in Diesel Jameston in the search bar. “Maybe not this time.”

  “Maybe. Now, the other man is Juan Foster. We found six letters that we marked as unusual. We also reported them.”

  “Where does this guy live?”

  “Starrett City. In Brooklyn.”

  “If you can send those over, with his address, we’d appreciate it. I hope my lawyer can track these guys down.”

  “I’ll send them now.”

  Cory’s eyes scanned the search result. “Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.”

  There were ten results, making Cory wonder who named their kid Diesel. None of the names were connected with New Jersey, and Cory had no idea what the man looked like. Most of the men pictured were thirty to forty years old.

  Cory studied one face. The man had an earring and a scar crossing his chin. Could this be him? The fact the guy was an illustrator didn’t fit. He’d have to leave it to Tower to identify who Diesel was.

  But what about this Juan Foster? He did a search, and the third line had a reference to Brooklyn. Cory clicked the link, and a Facebook page opened. Foster was a thirty-year-old with thinning hair. His profile background was a montage of rock album covers.

  Foster was into music and had gone to Brooklyn’s New Utrecht High School. The occupation section read self-employed. Cory took that to mean he wasn’t working. He wasn’t a ‘friend’ and couldn’t view his posts.

  Cory thought about sending a request but was worried he’d tip off Foster. He called Tower’s office. The lawyer was in court. Cory made an appointment for the next morning and went to tend to his family.

  Tommy was brushing Linda’s hair. “See how nice Mommy’s hair is?”

  “It’s super beautiful.”r />
  “How are you doing, hon?”

  “I’m okay.” She pulled her son onto her lap. “Tommy made me feel better.”

  “What time you want to go to the hospital?”

  “I was waiting on you.”

  “I’m ready, but we should wait for Ava to get home. The kids should come.”

  Linda nodded. “She’ll be home in an hour. I told her no dance today.”

  * * *

  Cory turned the lights on and opened the shade. Linda said, “You’re going to wake her up.”

  He threw a chin toward their children at the foot of the bed. “It’s depressing in here.”

  Linda bent over and kissed her mother. She stroked her cheek as Cory put his arms around his kids. “Talk to your grandmother.”

  “But she’s sleeping, Daddy.”

  “She can hear you. It’s good for her.”

  Ava sniffled and stood beside Linda.

  Cory said, “I want to see if I can talk to a doctor.”

  “See if they moved her up the list.”

  “They better have.”

  At the nurse’s station he asked for an update. A pregnant nurse came around the counter. “Hi, I’m Erin. Mrs. Moran is in my section.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  She took a breath. “She’s holding her own.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She’s fighting but needs a transplant.”

  “I know. But as of this morning she was like number twenty on the list.”

  Erin shook her head. “We don’t have enough donors. It’s really unfortunate.”

  “And that’s it? It’s unfortunate? My mother-in-law is going to die, and we’re supposed to watch her go? What’s wrong with this place?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I realize it’s frustrating, but the problem is not limited to Mount Sinai. Until we get the public on board with donating their organs, we’re not going to be able to meet the demand.”

  “This is screwed up, man.” Cory turned his back and headed back to the room. He tried to think of what to tell Linda and the kids.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Cory yawned as he was shown into his lawyer’s office. Tower got up, moving from the round table to his desk.

  “Didn’t sleep last night?”

  Cory shrugged. “At the hospital until two in the morning.”