Black Fridays

by Michael Sears

  “So? My son? You guys have him? Is he here?”

  “No. Sorry. His mother took him home.”

  “His mother?” His mother was a thousand miles away. My next thought was of Skeli. Highly unlikely.

  “She showed up while we were waiting for the EMTs.”

  One of the monitors was emitting an annoying beep. I tore the wires off my chest and tossed the plastic clip on my index finger across the room.

  “No. Impossible. Who was this? Did she give you a name? What did she look like?” I tried sitting up. It worked better than the first time—I didn’t pass out.

  “Take it easy.” He flipped through a small notebook. “Blond. Five-eight. A looker. Here it is. Evangeline Oubre,” he read. “Her license showed an address downtown. The boy knew her—went right to her.”

  I screamed. It’s a good way to get immediate attention in an ER, but that wasn’t why I did it. I screamed because I couldn’t do anything else.

  “OOOOhhhhhhhh, faaaack. How the fuck could you?”

  The nice nurse arrived first, followed by an orderly and the butch doctor. In varying tones and volume they all gave me the same orders—lie back, try to relax, and let them help me. They couldn’t help me.

  “The bitch stole my Kid!”

  It took another few minutes for me to explain the situation in language they could understand.

  The two cops conferred and called in the detectives, which in turn led to another hour of questions, explanations, and delay. Details of my failed marriage and my recent incarceration were openly discussed as though we were on a midafternoon talk show, as hordes of the medical staff floated in and out of the room—an audience tag team that, no doubt, kept the flow of gossip running smoothly. No matter how hard I tried to spin it, I still managed to come off sounding like a schmuck. Possibly dangerous. Definitely dishonest.

  Impossible. But it was Angie. No doubt. The two cops who had seen her further revealed that the woman had one arm in a cast, and that she was wearing cowboy boots—and the younger cop also offered up that she had been wearing “very tight” jeans.

  The mention of cowboy boots set off another iota of memory. “The guy who was kicking me was wearing pointed boots,” I said. “Probably her husband. You should be looking for a big silver pickup truck with Louisiana plates.”

  Depending on which route they had taken, the truck might have already been passing through Martinsburg, West Virginia, or Baltimore, Maryland.

  A brown-suited detective with a Wyatt Earp mustache had taken charge. “Maybe they flew. We’ll check the airlines.”

  He didn’t know my son. Anyone who had flown with him once would much prefer to drive halfway across country and back rather than repeat the experience.

  “This makes it kidnapping, right? Parental kidnapping. You can call for a whatsit—a Yellow Alert. You can stop them.” I was practically jumping up and down on the gurney. “Look, I will cooperate any way I can, but if you don’t start the ball rolling, they’ll be back in Louisiana by Friday and that crazy bitch will have the boy locked up again, if her nutcase husband doesn’t beat the crap out of both of them first.”

  The detective shot his cuffs, like he was getting ready for his big scene at the O.K. Corral. “I’m sorry, Jason. May I call you Jason?”

  He didn’t wait for me to say no.

  “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot, here. I can see you’re upset, and hurt.” His voice hardened. “But I don’t work for you. Right now the only witness is you, and, if you’ll excuse my saying so, you are not prime material. But”—he held up a hand to stop me from interrupting—“but, I am going to investigate your claims, despite the fact that this sounds a lot like a domestic dispute that got out of hand. Maybe you want to get some rest and rethink things in the morning. Meanwhile, me and my partner will make some calls. We will get back to you. But in the meantime, we have to assume that your son is safe with his mother.”

  “That guy is a thug. He did this to me. He put her in the cast. He’s dangerous!”

  “And if he committed a crime in the City of New York, I will get a warrant and have his ass extradited back here. That includes assault. And kidnapping. Good night, Mr. Stafford.”

  The room felt a lot bigger without four policemen in it.

  “I’m leaving,” I said. It didn’t sound like my voice. It sounded like someone who was borderline psychotic.

  “Chuneetabe checked out.” Nurse Maya tried to be both comforting and in control.

  “I am checked out,” I said. “I’m fine. Where are my clothes?”

  I had to move—to act. The shirt and jacket were torn and bloodied, and the pants were dirty, but I wasn’t on my way to a fashion show. I pulled them on, wincing and occasionally gasping as movement reactivated areas of pain.

  Dr. Glen became quite solicitous when she heard that I was leaving. By the time I found myself on the corner of Amsterdam, trying to hail a cab in the rain at two in the morning, she had provided me with: prescriptions for opiate-strength pain medication, which she warned me against using because of my concussion; more liability waivers than the Feds had made me sign when leaving Otisville; and printed instructions for how to care for the stapled wound on my scalp—“(3) Some bleeding is to be expected” and “(9) Return to the ER if bleeding returns.” Also “(5) Clean the wound gently with mild soap and water” and “(8) Keep the wound dry. DO NOT wash hair for ____ days.”

  As I stood there in the cold, light rain, with the sheaf of documents held over my head to protect my wound, I realized that I had no idea where I was going or what I was doing next.

  I WENT HOME and called my father. He was still at work.

  “Pop?”

  I was sitting in my broken chair, looking down at Broadway and holding a bagful of ice to the back of my head with one hand and my cell phone with the other.

  “Hey! Number One Son! What are you doing up at this hour?”

  My father had been closing the bar—two on weekdays, four on Saturday and Sunday mornings—for fifty years.

  “Looking for good advice,” I said.

  “And you called your old dad. I always knew this would happen—if I lived long enough.”

  “Got a minute?”

  He would be sitting at the bar, sipping the single glass of Jameson he allowed himself each day, and making out an inventory list for the porter in the morning. The doors would be locked, the last customer ushered out, and the lights dimmed. During my third year of college, I had discovered it was the best time to reach him. He was never stressed or worried. Tired, but happy. Ready to joke a bit, to listen if I needed it, or just to chat about the latest Yankees blunder—their successes were expected, therefore rarely commented upon.

  I brought him up to date.

  He gave a groan way back in his throat. “What a fucking mess. Do you know what you’re going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I want to get my ass down to Louisiana and get the Kid back—and take a minute or two to get behind TeePaul with a Louisville Slugger.”

  “Hmm,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know. If I get caught down there, my parole officer will send me back—even if I don’t bust that asshole’s head open. Besides, I don’t even know for sure if that’s where they’re headed.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” he said.

  “I need help.”

  “It takes a big man to say that. You talk to a lawyer?”

  “Yes. Yesterday. He told me to sit tight.”

  “Good advice always hurts.”

  “Right.” Waiting for the slow machinations of the legal system to work their fickle, black-box magic would be excruciating, but breaking parole for the sake of an ugly showdown would only work against me.

  “You need allies, son. I wish I could help, but you need bi
g guns. And the more the merrier.”

  He was right. I needed someone to help me protect my son—someone who might be able to talk to Angie. And, I needed Big Guns.

  —

  IT WAS LATE in Beauville—even a time zone earlier. The phone rang a long time before she answered.

  “Hey, Mamma.”

  “Ooohh, Jason,” she cooed in a sleepy voice. “Lord, it’s the middle of the night. Where are you calling from?”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “She won’t talk to you, you know.” Her voice instantly became guarded.

  “Do you know what they did, Mamma? Did you know what they were planning?” I tried to bury my anger—she might be the boy’s best hope.

  “What happened? What are you talking about? You are scaring me.” She did sound scared. Maybe she really didn’t know.

  “Angie and TeePaul, Mamma. They came up to New York. He jumped me and put me in the hospital. Then they took my son.”

  She wailed. In between long sobs, she gasped like an asthmatic in a dust storm. I stood it as long as I could.

  “Mamma, I have to know. Do you have any idea where they are now? Where are they taking him? Did she call you?”

  “Oh, forgive me, no. No. I am so sorry, Jason.”

  I believed her.

  “You would be so proud of him, Mamma. He’s coming out of his shell. He goes to school. He likes it. They’re teaching him to be a whole person. Do you understand? I don’t have to keep him locked up. He’s learning to read! The Kid’s got a chance at something better.”

  She was crying softly. I let her.

  “This is my fault, Jason. I am so sorry.”

  There was plenty of blame to go around, I couldn’t let her hog it.

  “Yeah, well, I should have seen this coming. Angie called me Sunday and as much as told me she was going to try something like this.”

  “No!” She cut me off. “You don’t know.” The story started pouring out.

  Angie had shown up on Monday—bruised, frightened, and hungover. TeePaul had announced that he was not going to raise “another man’s son”—especially “a lil retard”—and had backed up his debating points with his fists. Angie begged Mamma to keep him away and had hidden out in her old room.

  “And when that fool boy showed up on my porch—crying like a baby with a bee sting—I told him to pray for strength so that he would never hurt my little girl ever again. And he did. Right there, he dropped down on his knees and prayed.”

  She began sobbing again—either at the memory of TeePaul’s miraculous salvation on her front porch, or the realization of her own culpability.

  Inside, I was screaming with frustration. But over the years, I had learned that you can’t rush a southern woman with a story to tell.

  “Oh, I am so ssss . . . so sorry, Jason.” She was stuttering and hiccuping. “Forgive me, I was so touched I let him upstairs to talk to Angie. About an hour later, they came down and left in that truck she bought him.”

  “Mamma.” The word felt like gravel in my mouth. “Please tell me. Where are they taking my son?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I did. I asked Angie if she was all right going with him and she told me that TeePaul was taking her to get what she wanted most in the whole world.”

  “Shit! How could you let her do this? Why didn’t you warn me?” I was sick of her bumbling self-recriminations.

  “Well, I didn’t know! I thought may’ he was taking her to N’Awlins for the shopping!”

  She had a point.

  “Mamma, you and I know what is best for the boy.”

  She was quieter, but still sniffling.

  “He can do better, but not if he’s locked up. And not if he’s living with that monster she married. It’s for the best, you know this.”

  “I know,” she mumbled.

  “I don’t want anything from Angie but the boy. You have to help me. Help him.” I was asking her to choose—her daughter or her grandson.

  She didn’t reply for a long time. “I know.”

  “Good. If she calls, let me know. I promise I will never hurt her, but you have to help me.”

  There were a few more sniffles before she answered. “I will.”

  I didn’t know if I believed her, but I needed her on my side. It was a start.

  —

  THE CLOUDS WERE breaking up. A few stars showed. A satellite arced overhead. I called the Big Guns.

  “FBI.”

  “I’m trying to reach Agent Maloney.”

  “Who’s calling, sir?” He had a voice like Robert Duvall—competent, efficient, and humble all rolled into one.

  “My name is Jason Stafford. He’ll want to talk to me.”

  He put me on hold briefly and came right back. “Agent Maloney is not here. Can someone else help? Does this have to do with an ongoing investigation?”

  “He’s waiting to hear from me,” I lied. “Tell him I’m sitting on the phone.” I gave him my number and rang off.

  A trickle of ice water ran down my neck, soaking the back of my shirt. It helped keep me awake. Minutes passed. The phone rang.

  Maloney. “Did I miss something? I thought I wasn’t going to hear from you until hell froze over.”

  “I need your help,” I said. My mouth was dry.

  “And you’re willing to trade for it.”

  “That’s what I do.”

  “And I figure that since it can’t wait for morning, you are desperate and willing to make ‘one-time-only’ kinds of offers.”

  “I’m having a fire sale.”

  “All right. Talk to me.”

  I told him everything that had happened that night, detailed right down to the cast on Angie’s arm and the Yosemite Sam mud flaps on the pickup truck. My voice cracked more than once during the telling.

  “I need a Yellow Alert. That’s what they call it, right?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “Unless he was kidnapped by terrorists. Do you mean an Amber Alert?”

  “Amber, yellow, whatever.”

  “I’m going to need to hear the NYPD version before I lift a finger.”

  “They think this is some pushing match. Domestic dispute, he called it.” I started getting loud. “But this guy is dangerous. I’ve got two dozen staples holding my head together. He put my ex in a cast. If something sets him off, he might take it out on the Kid.”

  “Understood. But this is not what I do. White-collar, money-laundering, securities fraud, insider trading. I’m going to have to convince some of my peers to come on board with this.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Yes, you will. Meantime, you’re going to have to do some groundwork. Get me some documents. School records. Birth certificate. Doctor’s reports. Fax them to my office.”

  He was engaged—in charge. I had my Big Guns. The Kid was safer already.

  “I’ve got all that. What else can I do?”

  “Sit tight. Let me make my calls.”

  I was on such an emotional roller coaster, I forgot I was negotiating. All I felt was a huge rush of gratitude.

  “Thank you. This is great. Go ahead, make your calls. You can put me on hold.”

  “No. Come to my office in the morning. Late morning. Give me some time to find out if this is something the FBI will be involved in.”

  The panic was back. “By tomorrow morning this guy could be halfway to Louisiana!”

  “Mr. Stafford, I don’t know how much you know about our organization, but we actually have regional offices all over the deep South.”

  “That is very funny, but I need to know NOW. Can you help me or not? If you’re not on board, I’ve got to make other plans.” I had no other plans. He kne
w it. It was so desperate a bluff, I should have been embarrassed.

  But it worked.

  “Maybe we should talk about what you’re offering,” he said.

  We were negotiating. My turf. I made a lowball bid.

  “I’ll pick up the laptop first thing in the morning and bring it in. I can show your guys the whole thing. The codes, the trades, the dates.”

  “That’s a start.”

  I took a breath. “Put me in front of a judge. I’ll get you your warrant.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “Don’t go all delicate on me. I won’t perjure myself, but I will convince him. I know the players and I understand the game.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Take me with you when you hit the Arrowhead offices. I’ll be able to handhold your guys through the files. I’ll see connections your people will miss.”

  I didn’t entirely believe that, but I hoped he would.

  “Okay. That’s smart. But you’re not convincing me, Stafford. This is all nice. I appreciate it. But it’s not going to get you special treatment.”

  Shit. I gulped air and plunged on.

  “I’ll wear the wire. I’ve got an early meeting with Stockman. I’ll do the Hochstadt interview. I’ll get him to talk to me.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Done.”

  “What else?”

  “Are you kidding? Come on, Maloney. I’m rolling over. I’m giving you everything you asked for.” I kept my voice flat. “You’ve got me negotiating against myself. What else?” I mimicked him. “What else? Fine. If I ever get the Kid a dog, I promise to name him Maloney. Deal?”

  He didn’t answer for a minute. He just let me stew. It is a very effective tool for cutting through bullshit.

  “Mr. Stafford.” He spoke patiently. “You might have been a great trader, stone-cold and rock-solid, but I spend my life listening to people lie to me. It gives me a one-sided view of humanity. My ex-wife didn’t like it. I’ve got a teenage daughter who thinks I’m the devil. Only she doesn’t say it that politely.”

  He paused again. I felt like I had talked myself into exactly where he wanted me.