by Peter Parkin
Suddenly they all heard a feeble little voice. "They's over the fence." The three of them whirled around in all directions, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. Troy yelled out, "Say again?"
"They's over the fence there." It was a child's voice, coming from the direction of the dumpster. Troy could see a rusted hole in the side of the old metal structure, with two eyes peeking out. He ran over and lifted the lid. There he was—a young boy about eight years old, crouched inside with toy guns and cars surrounding him.
"Hi there. Do you want some help getting out?"
"No, I's okay here." The filthy little boy cowered in the corner of the dumpster. "This my fort. Kees me safe."
Troy could tell that this dumpster hadn't been used for what it was intended in a long time. There was no garbage inside, and none of the usual sickening odors. Each corner of the container had different toys set up. It was clearly this boy's little makeshift playhouse.
"Do you live around here, son?"
The boy nodded. "Jus down street there."
"And did you see what happened here today?"
He nodded again. "Mean man, flew through th'air and hit that man with no cloz. Then threw cloz and case over this fence behind here. I's scared. Dint move."
Troy was joined by Jim and Mike who were also now peering into the dumpster, clearly perplexed at seeing the paradox of a little boy in such a decrepit bin with all his shiny toys. His clothes were tattered and his shoes were missing half of their soles. Strangely, his toys looked brand new and Troy suspected that the kid stole them from backyards and kept them in this dumpster so his mother wouldn't know.
Mike turned to Jim. "Could you check that yard for my clothes? I'm in no condition to be vaulting fences."
Jim nodded and took a run at the fence and pulled himself up to the top edge. "Yep, they're in here." He yanked himself up and over. The first thing he threw back was the briefcase, followed by a bundle of clothes and a pair of shoes.
Suddenly a woman was screaming, and they could hear the sound of footsteps thrashing through the bushes. "Get out, you pervert! Get out of my yard! I'll call the cops!" There was the thud of something metallic banging against something not so metallic. Then Jim's panicked voice: "Shit, take it easy, lady! I'm leaving, I'm leaving!"
Jim came flying over the top of the fence, crashing to the ground onto his back. He slowly got to his feet while holding one hand to the side of his face—blood was dripping from his jaw. "Let's get the fuck out of here—this is nuts!" He rubbed his back with his other hand. "There's a maniac in that yard. She hit me with a shovel!"
Troy couldn't help but chuckle at the image, but he made sure he turned away so that Jim wouldn't see the insensitive grin on his face.
Mike heeded Jim's warning and quickly donned his dirty clothes. Then he stopped and took a look inside the briefcase. "Look, guys—he didn't take any of it. That money apparently wasn't even on his agenda."
"No, he was several steps ahead of us on this. We were set up. Troy and I were drug-darted by two fake police officers—plus, they took our receiver. Looks like this lunch meeting was intended to be an altercation, with the bribe as the cover story. He sure came prepared and seemed to know exactly what we were planning to do."
Troy motioned to his friends. "Let's move our butts before that woman really does call the cops—and this time the real ones will come." They started walking back down the alley towards Jim's car.
*****
A weird feeling came over Mike, and he stopped. He felt he just couldn't run off like this, not after what he had seen in the dumpster. "Wait for me a second!" He ran back to the dumpster, and opened the lid.
"Hi again, little friend." Mike was favored with a shy but friendly smile from the tiny face looking up from the depths of the bin. "Tell you what, if I give you some money, will you take it to your mummy and ask her to buy you some new clothes?"
The boy gave Mike a big toothless grin. "Yes, Mister—thas real nice o you."
"Okay, here you go." Mike snapped open the case and took out two five-hundred dollar bills. He reached down and stuffed the bills into the boy's pocket. "That's a lot of money, son. You go home right now and give it to your mom, okay?" The boy nodded. Mike reached down into the dumpster and lifted him out. He felt so light.
"What's your name?"
"Do want nickname...or real one?" The boy clearly had trouble putting his words together, but he tried hard. His pronunciation at his age should be much better though, which made Mike wonder.
"Your real name."
"Is Jonas, Mister."
"Would you prefer me to call you by your nickname?"
"Oh, no. I don like it. Mos of the kis call me that and I wish they stop." Mike braced himself. "What do they call you?"
Jonas looked down at the ground. "Cuntface. I don even know what that means, but it duznt soun nice."
Mike felt a sinking in his stomach as he looked down at the sad little face. "Jonas is a nice name, and I'm going to call you that. Don't worry about other names kids call you; you know what your real name is."
Jonas looked up and flashed one of his charming grins. Mike could tell that he was a cute little guy underneath all the grime. His hair looked like it could be blonde if it was clean, and his eyes were a beautiful shade of blue. Sadly, he could also see several bruises on his arms and legs. "Who made those bruises, Jonas?"
"Jus some kis who make fun—they jus kiddin."
"Is that why you hide in the dumpster?"
"I's safe in there. When they see me, they chase. I keep this place secret." Mike frowned. "What happens if they catch you?"
"They each jus hit me and laugh—duznt hurt anymore. I use to it now.
But my mom won let me go school anymore." Jonas politely held out his tiny hand, inviting Mike to shake it. Mike obliged, with tears in his eyes. "I's sorry I coont help you, Mister. I's scared when I saw that man spinnin. I dint want him to know I's watchin."
Mike ruffled Jonas' curly hair. "That's okay, son. You did the right thing. He was a bad man and he might have hurt you just like he hurt me. By the way, call me Mike, okay?"
"Okay, Mike." Having been forgiven, Jonas gave a final smile and ran down the alley, no doubt excited to show his mummy their newfound wealth.
Mike called after him. "Hey Jonas! Which house do you live in?" He pointed over the fence at a red clapboard bungalow.
*****
The three amigos made it back to their Harbor Square office complex in record time. Their clothes were dirty and rumpled, and Mike and Jim looked considerably banged up—so they decided to take the service elevator up to the fortieth floor to avoid the enquiring eyes of the usually full passenger elevators.
Once they reached their floor, Mike ordered, "Get changed, cleaned up, and come to my office in twenty minutes." They each had private washrooms along with a change of clothes that they always kept on hand—never imagining that it would be for something like this.
Mike managed to sneak by Stephanie with a quick "hello", covering his forehead with his hand
She called after him, "Coffee, Mike?"
"Sure, bring three cups—black today."
He closed his door and went into the bathroom. He took a good look at his forehead in the mirror. A bruise had formed already, and his temple was swollen down over his eyebrow. Geez, Samson had kicked him hard. And what a kick—he remembered the blur of him spinning in the air, just as Jonas had witnessed. The man was skilled, no doubt about it.
He got changed, washed his face and hands and went back into his office. His friends were already there, as were the three mugs of steaming coffee. Mike took a long sip and sighed with relief. He looked at his buddies. "God, I'm glad to be back. Never thought I would ever be so relieved to see my own office."
He stretched out on the couch; Troy and Jim were sitting across from him in the easy chairs.
Jim spoke first. "I think we need to call the police about this. I've been thinking and I don't
know how we can keep this quiet. This is serious business now."
Mike nodded. "Yes, it is serious. This man is more than we ever imagined. He clearly knows martial arts, with the things he did to me. And he has a team behind him, probably more than just those fake police you guys encountered...by the way, I saw them too. I asked them for help and they just laughed at me. They were guarding that alley so no one would come down and interfere with what Samson was doing to me." Mike took another long sip of his coffee. "Samson had a bug detector in his shirt pocket—he knew I was transmitting. Pretty sophisticated stuff—police uniforms, transmission detection, tranquilizer darts, karate."
Troy interrupted. "What did you two talk about?"
"He pretended not to know what the payoff was for—he didn't want to talk about it. He just wanted me to apologize, and intimated that I had more to apologize for than just the beating at the church. He wasn't satisfied when I did apologize. He wanted more." Mike shook his head. "I got the feeling he wanted to just intimidate me, humiliate me, which of course he did. Why, I don't know." Mike leaned forward over the coffee table. "He didn't even flinch when I tried to trap him into saying he was Gerry's accomplice. Calm as a cucumber."
Jim stood up and started walking the room as he usually did when he was stressed. "Mike, this is getting dangerous. As I said before, I think you need to report this."
Mike stood up too, and rested his hands on his hips. "And what would I say? It would open up a Pandora's Box. The company would be dragged into this. My apparent complicity in the fraudulent property purchases. My deception to the Board. We can't prove anything; Samson's hands are clean. It's my word against his—and all the evidence points to me. But my biggest fear, especially now knowing that he has other people working for him, is the safety of my family. He's already proven that he can reach my children. He wanted me to know that. He could do it again. And if somehow we managed to get the police to pick him up and actually hold him—which is unlikely— what would stop his thugs from continuing to carry out his orders? He wants to hurt me for some reason. It's like a vendetta. I wasn't even the one who fired him—it was Gerry. And Gerry's the one he's been working with the last few years."
Troy rose from his chair and headed toward the door. He motioned for Jim to follow. "This is too emotional a time for us to discuss this. We've been through a hair- raising experience today. Let's talk again later when we're more rational. Right now, we have jobs to do and those jobs have been suffering with all this covert nonsense. Okay?"
Mike nodded. As his two best friends left his office, he plunked down on the couch again. He didn't know what to do. He'd never felt this powerless before in all his years as an executive. He was usually decisive, and never had hesitations about the right actions to take. But this time was different.
This time he didn't feel so confident. He had tried to put on a good face for his friends, but the truth was he felt humiliated and...well, subservient, useless. He felt naked in both the literal and symbolic sense. It was not a good feeling. He felt stripped of his façade, his shell, his image. If this is what Samson had been trying to accomplish, he succeeded today.
Mike got up and walked over to his bar. He poured himself a stiff scotch and took a slow sip. The strong liquid felt good as it slid down his throat. He sat on the edge of his desk and looked out at Lake Ontario. Then he turned his gaze to the portrait of Cindy and the girls on his credenza. They looked so healthy, so happy. So unlike Jonas.
He pictured the little guy, crouched in the corner of his dumpster, his fort, helpless and scared. Wondering if one or more of the bullies would find him, chase him, punch him, call him 'Cuntface.'
Jonas had said that it didn't hurt anymore, that he was used to it now. Mike wondered how many times something so disturbing had to happen before it 'didn't hurt anymore.' He shuddered. It had apparently gotten so bad for Jonas that his mother wouldn't let him attend school.
Jonas had said those things so matter-of-factly. That was his pathetic little life and he had grown to accept it. And he couldn't be more than eight years old! What kind of person would Jonas be at sixteen, twenty-five, forty? It was bound to have a long-term negative effect on him.
Mike wiped a tear from his eye, and took another sip—a longer one this time.
Chapter 25
Mike was driving north on University Avenue, winding his way through rush hour traffic. Tonight was one of his nights at home—his real home— with Cindy, Diana and Kristy. Things had been going well whenever they got together, and Mike was hoping that one of these nights Cindy would invite him home permanently. For the first time since he left, he finally had some things to share with her that might help her see the world more in his favor.
It had been a few days now since the terrible incident in the alley, and the swelling on his forehead had come down considerably. Should Cindy notice it, he would explain it away as just a fall caused by one of his little blackouts. He wasn't certain she'd buy it, but he sure wasn't going to worry her by telling the truth. Sometimes 'the truth' was overrated anyway.
He pulled into his driveway, and honked the horn at his two girls who were sitting on their bikes. They hopped off and gleefully ran over to the car. Mike could barely open the car door with the girls dancing around beside it, giddy to see him.
Squeezing out of the car he grabbed both of them, and swung them around like he always did before he was banished from the house. Kristy gushed, "Daddy, are you going to stay tonight?"
"You bet I am. I need to catch up on lecturing you two about all the bad things your mom has been telling me about!"
"No way! You're kidding, right?"
Diana rolled her eyes and glared at her younger sister. "Well, duh. Do you think?"
Kristy ignored Diana; instead she just grabbed her dad's hand and led him up to the front door.
"So, Daddy, when is your special project going to be finished so you can live at home with us again for good?"
Diana couldn't resist another jab. "Kristy, you're so naïve. Don't you know anything?"
Mike whirled around and gave Diana a look that made her stop in her tracks. He held up his finger in admonishment. Sheepishly, she nodded her head.
"What does she mean, Daddy?"
"Nothing Kristy. She's just teasing you."
"She does that a lot." Kristy opened the front door and skipped into the front hallway.
Mike and Diana followed; Mike allowed his nose to lead him directly to the kitchen where he knew he would find his gourmet chef of a wife working hard at her craft.
Cindy was in front of the range stirring some concoction that was blessed with a magnificent fragrance. She looked up with a wide smile on her face, dropped her wooden spoon into the pot, and ran over to him. They hugged for a few seconds, and then Cindy leaned her head back and planted a big kiss on Mike's lips. Mike returned the gesture and held it, vaguely aware of the two girls watching them.
Kristy yelled, "Yay!" Diana mumbled, "Yuck."
Mike and Cindy turned around and laughed at the starkly different, but predictable reactions of the girls. Sometimes they found it hard to believe that these two were created from the same gene pool.
"I'm sooo happy to see you, Mike! We talk everyday on the phone, but it's so exciting when I actually see your handsome face again!"
"Same for me. I miss waking up to your gorgeous smile every morning." Cindy blushed at the compliment. Then she gently touched his forehead, concern in her eyes. "What happened here?"
"Oh, just fell against the doorway. One of my little lightning blackouts." She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed the spot. "There, all better." Then she hugged him again. "Isn't it nice that we have all weekend together? It will seem like normal again for a little while."
Mike gave her another squeeze. "Let's have a drink and we can talk for a bit before dinner."
*****
The dirty martinis were great—Cindy always made them perfectly, with just the right amount of olive juice. They were s
itting side by side on the cozy leather couch in the family room. It was cool for October, so they had the gas fireplace on. It was a perfect Friday evening. And the best was yet to come— Cindy's superb lamb stew. Talk about comfort food!
Mike had decided that he was going to share with Cindy as much information as he could, without alarming her too much. He would just omit the violent stuff from the conversation, but he felt she had a right to know the rest.
The next hour or so was spent going over what he and Troy had discovered down in Brazil and Mexico, the embezzlement of Baxter funds and their diversion down to a bank in Panama, and their suspicion that Gerry along with an ex-employee had committed the frauds together. Cindy's crestfallen face lost all color, as the shocking revelation about Gerry was dropped in her lap.
Mike skipped the parts about beating up the Brazilian lawyer and his associate, as well as the slugging of David Samson at the church. He also wisely left out Samson's subsequent revenge against Mike in the alley. He found it humiliating just remembering that incident himself, let alone sharing it with someone else—even if that someone else was his wife.
The most important parts that he wanted Cindy to know about were the matching handwriting on both the condolence and birthday cards, and the tracing of the e-mail that ordered the limousine—back to, first, Jim's computer and then further back to Libya.
After disclosing those particular discoveries to her he could see relief wash over her pretty face. Up until now he knew that she had been convinced that Mike had sent the birthday card to himself, and that he had unknowingly, in a daze, sent the e-mail to the limousine company. Those were the two main reasons she had asked him to leave the house. Mike was now quietly praying for a reprieve.
Cindy made another couple of martinis for them and sat back down next to him again on the couch. She leaned in and tenderly kissed his cheek.
"I forgot to tell you. Bob phoned and wants to see you again. I agreed that we would meet him at his office tomorrow. He seemed quite anxious to see you."