Black Friday

by Tim LaHaye

  She had taken the quick trip three blocks up Easton Road to Friendly’s, a favorite spot for ice cream f loats and burger plates. She shared one side of the booth with Heather. Stan and Gus paired off on the other side, although Stan sat halfway out of the booth where the air wasn’t as ripe.

  A waitress appeared, stuffed the tip left by the previous customer into her chocolate-stained apron pocket, and then wiped down the cocoa-brown Formica tabletop with a rag that smelled like stale milk. She circulated menus and then produced an order tablet and pen.

  Looking over the edge of her glasses, she eyeballed their faces, pausing at the sight of Gus. She put a hand on her left hip. “I’m not sure he’ll be able to stay.”

  Jodi offered a wide smile. “Um, ma’am, we’re, like, having a meeting. I’d really appreciate it if—”

  “As long as we don’t get no complaints, I guess it’d be okay,” she said. “Drinks?”

  “Strawberry shake for me,” Heather said.

  “Make it chocolate over here,” Stan said.

  “How about you, Gus?” Jodi said keeping herself from touching the damp tabletop.

  Gus tilted his head and then flattened his hands, palms down, on the table. “Coffee. Black . . . Black is good.”

  Jodi offered him a smile. She turned to the waitress. “And I’ll have a water with lemon, thanks.”

  The waitress scribbled a note. “How ’bout to eat?”

  Jodi hooked her hair over her right ear. “What sounds good, Gus?”

  He pointed to a picture in the center of the menu and then looked at Jodi.

  “He’d like your Friendly’s cheeseburger special,” Jodi said. “The rest of us already had dinner, thanks anyway.”

  “Gotcha. Won’t take but a minute.” The waitress collected the menus and then headed for the kitchen.

  Jodi folded her hands in her lap, unsure where to start. Heather crossed her legs, rocking a foot back and forth. Stan looked pale. Jodi knew he must have a lot on his mind, what with Faith lying in the hospital. However, at the moment, she figured Gus’s odor was getting to him. For his part, Gus stared off into space as if none of them were present.

  Several awkward moments passed. For the first time Jodi was beginning to think maybe this was a huge mistake. What if her instincts were wrong? What if Gus was nothing more than a delusional street bum? Her boss had told her to forget about Gus, and here she was having dinner with him.

  Then again, if what Gus put in that letter could be confirmed, she’d have a front-page story.

  Even Joey agreed on that point.

  Three words popped into the forefront of her mind: Consider the source. Joey had warned her to find credible sources. Was Gus credible?

  She looked across the table. Gus appeared to be in a world of his own. His head swung to the left, then to the right. His face was long and sad. It drooped like a saxophone. Finally, her first question appeared on the tip of her tongue. She hoped it didn’t come off sounding rude.

  “Okay, so, Gus,” she said in her warmest tone, “I’ve got to put on my reporter hat here. My boss doesn’t think you are a credible source. Why should I believe your story?”

  Gus’s eyes widened. He stole a look at Stan, then Heather before leaning halfway across the table. He stared at Jodi and then spoke just above a whisper. “These are the right people?”

  She nodded. “Like I said, Gus, these are my friends.”

  “The right friends?” he said, still speaking in soft tones.

  Jodi’s face flushed. “Yes, Gus. The right friends. Now, if you could, like—”

  Gus straightened up, his back pressed against the booth. His thick eyebrows narrowed as his pupils dilated. His sudden movements surprised her. “I know things . . . the things in my letter.”

  “How, Gus?” Heather said. “How do you know those things?”

  He focused on Jodi. “There are eyes everywhere. My eyes. I saw these things. I know these things.”

  Stan cleared his throat. “So, what my man is saying is that he was an eyewitness—am I right?”

  Gus rocked in place. “No. I was a partner. With him. My friend. The wrong friend. My partner.”

  Jodi couldn’t believe what he had just said. He didn’t mention a partnership in the letter. “Hold on a sec,” she said. “Gus, you’re telling me that you and Dr. Victor Graham were partners?”

  He picked at the ends of his beard. “No and yes.”

  “I’m really confused here,” Heather said.

  “You aren’t the only one,” Stan said. “It’s not a trick question, Gus. Is it no or yes?”

  “Hold on, Stan.” Jodi tried to sort out his meaning. She thought back to what she had read in his letter. What part of her question didn’t Gus agree with? A new thought surfaced. If Victor Graham worked to terminate pregnancies, and Gus had been his partner, then Gus did, too. By the looks of him now, he must have walked away from his partner and a thriving practice in Maryland ten years ago. But why?

  “Listen, you guys. I think Gus is saying two things. First, he’s saying that Dr. Graham wasn’t a doctor—or at least not a real one, right?” She looked at Gus for confirmation.

  He looked off into the distance. “Not a real one. No.”

  “See,” Jodi said. “But, he’s also saying this guy was his partner, at that women’s clinic in Maryland. That’s how Gus knows all that stuff he put in the letter. He was there, get it?”

  “Gosh,” Stan said. “You think Gus was really—”

  “Partner. Vic was my partner . . . in crime.”

  The server approached juggling an oversize brown tray. She balanced it on the edge of the table. “Here you go,” she said, sliding the burger plate and then a coffee mug toward Gus.

  “Strawberry for you.” She dropped a shake in front of Heather.

  “And chocolate for you, honey,” she said to Stan with about as much affection as if he were sitting in a truck stop. She handed Jodi her water and the bill. “Holler if you need something.”

  “Good deal,” Stan said, scooping out a spoonful of his extra-thick shake.

  Like a vulture, Gus hunched over his meal. Jodi watched as he devoured his food. His lips smacked. His eyes buzzed with excitement. Several sesame seeds fell from the bun to his beard, joining the crumbs that had already been there since who knew when. She had so many questions.

  “Gus, I’d like you to answer ‘Yes’ or ‘No,’ okay?” Jodi said. “Just to be clear, I need to hear this from you.”

  Gus nodded.

  “Were you a licensed medical doctor?”

  “Yes. Licensed. In Maryland. Yes.”

  “Did you perform abortions?”

  He nodded. His face seemed to droop farther. “Yes. Pregnant, then not pregnant. Over and over.”

  “What about your partner? Did Victor Graham have a medical license?”

  “No.” Gus licked his fingers. “Not there, not here.”

  Jodi swallowed hard. She struggled to take her eyes off Gus’s hands as he ate. She couldn’t help but wonder, How many unborn babies lost their chance at life because of those ten fingers?

  Jodi’s chest tightened. She had never been so close to a . . . what? A mass murderer? Yes, in her view, that’s what he was. Legalized or otherwise, life stopped at this man’s doorstep for twenty years.

  And she’d just bought him dinner. What was she doing?

  Be objective, Joey had said. How is that possible? she wondered. Facts. Find the facts.

  Stan cut in. “Wait. I’ve got a question. If he wasn’t a doctor, what was—what is he?”

  Gus stopped eating. He looked down. “Mortician. Vic was a mortician. Hired him . . . to help me . . . do the work.”

  Heather almost flew out of her seat. “You mean, you don’t have to be a licensed doctor to, like, do an abortion? That’s impossible.”

  Gus shook his head. “Happens . . . all the time. Then and now.”

  Stan’s eyes glossed over. “No wonder Faith—”

>   Heather must have had the same idea as Jodi. They both reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “Stan, that’s not your fault,” Heather said.

  “Not your fault,” Gus said. “My fault. Yes, Vic is my fault.” Gus started back into his fries.

  A heavy silence settled between them. Stan pushed his shake away and stared at the floor. Jodi knew this was hard for Stan. And, while she wanted to get at the truth in the worst way, it was difficult for her, too.

  For starters, she wanted to smack Gus for the pain he must have caused so many people. She wanted him to pay for what he had done. How many girls like Faith had suffered severe complications because people like Gus were too busy shuttling patients through their hallways?

  A still, small voice echoed in the back of her head.

  Love your enemies.

  Jodi folded her arms. Love Gus? Love Victor Graham, a phony doctor who, as far as she knew, just about killed Faith? I’m gonna need, like, some serious help with that one, Jesus, she thought.

  For Jodi, this wasn’t about the pro-life versus pro-choice debate. She was pro-life, true, although she’d never carried a picket sign outside a women’s clinic. She might wave to those on the sidewalks who did. But she could never bring herself to be actively involved.

  Maybe it had something to do with her mother’s own decision not to give birth to her first child. She didn’t know for sure.

  In any event, to Jodi, this situation wasn’t about the legality or morality of ending life in the womb. No. It was about peeling back the shroud of deceit, exposing the greed, and revealing the incompetence of the people at the Total Choice Medi-Center that could cost women their lives.

  At least according to Gus.

  Jodi sipped at her water, studying Gus over the rim of the glass. She looked at a clock on the wall. “Listen, it’s getting late. I really have just one more question. Gus, you said Victor Graham sometimes performs abortion procedures on women who aren’t even pregnant. Can you prove it?”

  Gus tugged at his left ear. “No.”

  Jodi’s heart sank. No proof, no facts, no story. More like, “End of story.”

  “You can,” Gus said, interrupting Jodi’s thoughts. “You prove it.”

  “How’s that?” Stan said, speaking without looking at Gus.

  Gus, his plate now empty, leaned toward Jodi. He spoke in an even, low voice. “Listen, missy. Go ahead—suit yourself. Go to Vic’s clinic. Tell them you could be pregnant.”

  Heather blew out a breath. “Right—”

  “Let him talk,” Jodi said, waving her off.

  Gus ignored the interruption. “Take some of this fellow’s pee in a cup,” he said, pointing to Stan. “You’ll see I’m right.”

  Jodi searched his eyes, trying to absorb his meaning. “Gosh, he’s right,” Jodi said. “When they ask for a urine sample, I, like, give them Stan’s, um, donation?”

  “This is so dumb. Why would you do that?” Stan asked.

  “Because, Stan, you’re a guy—guys can’t get pregnant,” Jodi said. “If they test it and say I’m eight weeks pregnant—”

  “They’d be lying for sure,” Heather said.

  “Exactly.” Jodi f lipped her hair over her shoulder.

  Stan leaned back. “Wow, Gus. That’s intense.”

  Gus picked up his napkin and, with a blast of air like a small foghorn, blew his nose. He wadded it up and placed it in his tattered, grease-stained suit-coat pocket.

  “At the same time, Gus,” Jodi said, biting her bottom lip, “don’t take this wrong, but, like, how do we know you’re not the one who doesn’t have the medical license? Maybe you’re jealous of Dr. Graham. Maybe . . . well, you’re trying to ruin his business. I’ve never heard of all this stuff—like, doing that procedure on people who aren’t even pregnant. I mean, come on. That’s nuts—”

  Stan jumped in. “She’s right. This is America. That would be totally illegal.”

  “Yeah,” Heather said, not missing a beat. “How do we know you’re not, like, crazy in the head—” She made a cuckoo sign with a finger by the side of her head.

  “Heather! That is so not right,” Jodi said. She jabbed Heather’s side with an elbow.

  “Well . . . he just sits there like this is, I don’t know, like some kind of game, or whatever,” Heather said. She crossed her arms. “Sorry. It’s how I feel.”

  Gus placed the palms of his hands f lat down on the tabletop. “How I feel,” he said, imitating Heather. “We all feel. I feel, too, missy.”

  Heather shifted in the bench seat.

  “I wander streets—yes, for years I wandered,” Gus said. His face sagged like a basset hound’s. “Still do. I keep trying to walk away . . . from what I did. From Vic, too.” He tugged at his gray beard. “I don’t have much time left. No. Not much time. . . . Time is not my friend. Vic knows too much.”

  Jodi felt her lungs constrict. “Gus, you gave Victor a letter?”

  “Gave Vic a letter . . . today.” Gus started to slide toward Stan. Stan moved out of his way, allowing Gus to stand up. His head twitched.

  “Why?”

  “Vic is my fault . . . all my fault,” he said. “Thanks for dinner, Miss Jodi. At least the right people know. Good-bye.”

  Chapter 12 Tuesday, 8:01 p.m.

  The black Ford Taurus was parked, windows up, engine running, across the street from Friendly’s. Two men sat low in the front seat, their visors pulled down. The air conditioning pumped a smooth blast of cold air into the compartment. Although the sun had all but disappeared, the outside temperature hovered in the mid-seventies, and neither man cared for the humidity.

  The driver, his seat in a semi-reclined position, maintained a clear view of the restaurant’s exit. He wore an inexpensive, charcoal gray suit. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the top, tie loosened around his neck.

  His partner, dressed in similar fashion, studied the screen of a Web linked Palm Pilot. A small red dot f lashed in place on a street map coinciding with their present position. He noticed the time.

  “Say, he’s been in there quite awhile.”

  The driver stretched his arms over the steering wheel. “You can say that again.”

  “Maybe too long?”

  “Nah,” the driver said, suppressing a yawn. “He’s probably packing down some serious chow.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I should take a look.”

  “Suit yourself.” The driver glanced over at his partner’s handheld device. He reached across the car and pointed to the red blip generated by the Global Positioning System. “Isn’t that his marker on your GPS thingy?”

  “It is . . .”

  “Then I’d say don’t sweat it.” Several seconds later, the driver’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out and then f lipped it open. “Yes?”

  He listened.

  “No, not yet. We should be grabbing him any minute.”

  As he listened again, his eyes drifted over the end of the car’s hood to the exit door.

  “Yeah, he’s still wearing the transmitter. We tracked him to an ice-cream joint off Easton Road.”

  He watched a customer shuffle out of the building.

  “Gotta run—I’ll call you back. Our man’s on the move. We’ll talk when I have something.” He snapped the phone shut, readjusted his seat to a driving position, and then engaged the transmission. “It’s showtime.”

  His partner placed the GPS locator in the glove compartment and raised his seat. “You think he’ll cooperate?”

  The driver snickered. “What choice does he have?”

  “Kinda makes me sorry for the old man,” the passenger said. “How about I do the talkin’ this time? You come down a little too hard on him . . . at least that’s my view.”

  “How about you stick a sock in it,” the driver said, maneuvering the Ford across Easton Road and then into the parking lot. He idled near the left corner of the building.

  Gus wandered toward the car and tried to peer through
the tinted glass.

  The driver cracked his window. “Did you miss us, Gus? Let’s go for a ride. And make it quick.”

  Gus looked to the left, then the right, and then froze.

  “Listen, Gus,” the driver said. “We’ve got just a few questions, and we can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s your choice. What’ll it be today?”

  Gus pulled at the ends of his beard, his mop of hair matted against his forehead. His skin was moist from the humidity. An overhead flickering sodium-vapor lamp made him look like an extra in a classic monster f lick. A long second passed.

  “Come on, Gus; have a seat in back.”

  Gus shuffled to the rear door, opened it, and sat down.

  The driver pulled out the back of the lot and then down an alley to a side street, talking as he drove. “So, Gus, what do you have for us? It’s been, what, a week since our last chat?”

  Gus stared into the night, his eyes as dark and empty as the evening sky. “One week.”

  “How about you tell me something I don’t know, Gus,” the driver said, now heading east on Easton Road.

  No answer.

  “Say, Gus, I think you’re stalling. What do you have to say about that?” The driver looked over at his partner, who stared straight ahead, refusing to encourage a verbal clash with Gus. “You’ve had plenty of time to dig up something—or have you forgotten our little arrangement?”

  Gus blew his nose. “Now . . . the right people know . . . at the paper. . . . The wrong people know, too.”

  The driver checked his mirror, slowed, and pulled to a stop on the shoulder of the road. He adjusted the mirror. “Gus, what are you saying? Try plain English tonight.”

  “Plain English,” Gus said.

  “Right, that’s what I need from you, Gus.”

  “Vic knows. I saw Vic.”

  This time the partners exchanged a look. The driver spoke. “Gus, I’m not so sure that was a good idea. You should have at least talked to us first. What did he say?”

  Gus scratched the side of his neck. “Nothing.”

  “Yeah, and I’m Santa Claus,” the driver said, and then pointed to his partner. “This here is Mrs. Claus. Get real, Gus. You show up after all these years and you expect me to believe he had no reaction?”