Lost Friday

by Michael Bronte

  “Mister Pappas, you may open your eyes now.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Johnny?”

  I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder.

  “Would you like some water?”

  I looked around; everything blurry. “Where am I?” Roy’s face. My eyes adjusted. He was staring at me. So were the other two people, both women. One of them looked familiar. I remembered now. “Are we in Caesar’s?” I asked shakily.

  “He’ll come out of it,” the woman I didn’t recognize, said. “Give him time.”

  The inside of my head felt like it had turned to molasses. Eyes clearer now. Had I just awakened from another life? “I… I must have been having a nightmare.” I looked around, the drapes open, sunny outside. Hotel room? Yes, I remembered. Caesar’s. “Roy?”

  “Jesus, son.” He turned to the woman I didn’t recognize. “I thought you said everything would be normal.”

  The woman shrugged nonchalantly. “Sometimes this happens. Who’s next?”

  Roy helped me from the chair, and Anne Behari—that was the other woman, I remembered now—took my place. I leaned back, feeling my senses slowly rejoining me. Roy gave me a pat on the back. “Good job, son.” Behari was groomed, her shiny, black hair drawn back so as to accentuate her flawless cheekbones. The other woman looked like a relic from the sixties in her faded peasant dress; legs crossed; sneakers. Roy sat on the other side of the table, wearing his usual flannel shirt and baseball-style cap, this one with a marlin sewn on its crest.

  The woman in the peasant dress said, “Pick a spot on the wall, and concentrate.”

  Behari found a spot, and fixed her eyes to it. The wall was one big mural: ancient Roman fountains, the Coliseum, scenes of Roman peasants leading Roman donkeys, loaded with Roman fruit.

  “Concentrate,” the woman said. “Don’t take your eyes from that spot. Breathe deeply. Let your eyes become part of the scene. Relax. Do you want to remove your shoes?”

  Behari said, “Yes,” and slipped them off. Breathing deeply….

  “Now close your eyes, and listen to my voice. Breathe deeply. Relax. Listen to my voice. Breathe deeply….”

  I must have closed my eyes as well, because I don’t remember anything after that.

  Chapter 17… Road Kill

  Roy pocketed his cell phone. “Two more blocks of frozen helium have been discovered since we’ve been here.”

  I knew what he meant, but the Beharis were quite mystified. Join the club, I thought. We were surrounded by the constant cacophony of the casino, whirring, ringing, pulsing sounds that, over time, could make one go completely batty. Catatonic except for their arms, slot players had coin sex with their machines, the occasional jackpot orgasm adding to the dissonance. Scantily clad cocktail waitresses pranced to and fro, immune to stares from ogling rednecks who gawked at their cleavage. A couple walked by with the woman, businesslike in spandex and high heels, leading a paunchy suit three inches shorter than her to their rendezvous, where in all likelihood she’d give him a quick around-the-world for a couple of c-notes. Off to one side, another couple argued at the bar, both of them drunk off their asses. Organized debauchery, I thought, and it paled in comparison to the mental excursion I’d just taken in room 914.

  “They always say everything will be normal when you come out of hypnosis,” I carped.

  “Do you remember anything?” Anne asked. Fingers intertwined with husband Robert, she was sitting across from me inside one of the many lounges at Caesar’s. With her, as with Roy, the hypnosis had shed no light on how the three of us had managed to regurgitate the swastika symbol on a field of red. I was the only one who remembered it as such, and I was the only one having one of those dreams. You know those dreams, like when you’re falling off a skyscraper and you wake up just before you turn into a puddle of red oatmeal. That’s exactly how I felt—impending doom—and my heart seemed as if it had lodged itself in my throat. The back of my neck was soaked with sweat, and Anne, Robert, and Roy were all staring at me, waiting for me to either pass out, or answer Anne’s question.

  “I remember a smell,” I said finally.

  Roy sipped his beer. “What kind of smell?”

  I looked at my drink and thought suddenly it was coming from there. “Like road kill,” I said disgustedly.

  “Now when have you been close enough to road kill to smell it?” Roy asked.

  “I haven’t. But it can’t be any worse.”

  Road kill was probably the last thing on their minds when they decided to attend this little soirée that Roy had put together, and Anne and Robert seemed to retreat in their seats. The hypnotist, it turns out, was somebody famous, having been used many times by the police to uncover information that had been buried away in victims’ psyches in their attempts to escape some personal terror. Roy knew her of course, was on a first name basis with her; the guy never ceased to amaze me.

  As if he knew what he was talking about, Robert said, “The subconscious mind is very complex. Sometimes people bury things for decades. All we need is a trigger to pop them out.”

  Just great, I thought. Someday, someone snaps their fingers, and I start seeing ghosts. I looked at my watch and noted that it was almost six o’clock. I said to Roy, “We need to get back. I’ve got twelve interviews to do, and a story to write.”

  * * * * *

  I only had time for one interview by the time we got back—or so I thought—and that was only because Roy stopped by the home of his old fishing buddy, Norm, to try and console Norm’s wife. She greeted us at the door with watery eyes; there were two full-grown boys standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room when we came in. It was a typical Jersey Shore house, bungalow type, cramped but comfortable, huge, stuffed striper with mouth agape over the fireplace. Maggie was a tall woman, trim, denim shirt and jeans, looked like she didn’t bother much with makeup.

  The boys came over and gave Roy a hug. “Hi, Uncle Roy.”

  Roy hugged them back and did the “How’s school?” and the “How’s the new job?” thing, then turned to Norm’s wife.

  “It’ll be okay, Maggie. I promise.”

  I didn’t know how Roy did it, but there was something about how he talked to people that washed the anxiety right out of them. Maybe he’d learned something after breaking bad news to people for thirty years, but when he said, “I promise,” it felt like he was the only one on Earth who could say that.

  Maggie swallowed hard. “If you say so, Roy.”

  He put his finger under her chin, forcing her eyes to his. “I have a plan, Maggie, and I’m going to get him back.”

  I thought: he does? And he is?

  “If you want, you can stay with me and Mary for a few days.”

  Maggie squared her chin. “No need. I have the boys.” She turned and smiled a Mrs. Cleaver smile at both of them. She seemed to notice me for the first time.

  Introducing me, Roy said, “This is Johnny Pappas, the reporter.”

  The tenderness she exuded suddenly turned to something else. Her eyes sparked, and she made the tiniest of moves backward, a lioness shielding her cubs. “I don’t want you writing about my Norman, Mister Pappas. Use something else to sell your papers.”

  Maybe my face had a look on it, but Roy stepped between us as if to protect me. “It’s okay, Maggie. Johnny was taken by them too, just like Norm.” I mean, I hadn’t said a word.

  Her features softened. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that…. Do you want some coffee?” she said, her distrust waning a bit.

  I guess that was about as close to an apology as I was going to get. Thankfully, Roy said, “We have to get going, Maggie. I just stopped in to make sure you’re all right. If it’s any help, everyone who’s been taken has been returned unharmed.”

  Her eyes caught Roy head on. “I guess you’re forgetting about David Robelle.”

  “I meant—”

  “I
know what you meant, Roy. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  So dismissed, we left quickly. Back in the truck Roy said, “That was pleasant. We cheered her right up.”

  Inside the house, I’d felt my cell phone vibrating, but I didn’t answer it, hoping, like I said, that I’d be able to use the visit with Maggie as part of my story. Well, that wasn’t going to happen, and I had to think of another angle on the twelve disappearances. I checked my phone and saw that it was Romano who’d called. It was just past seven o’clock. Maybe he was still at the office. I dialed the number.

  “Where the fuck have you been all day?”

  Hearing Romano’s gracious greeting, Roy chuckled lowly. “I went to a hypnotist. In Atlantic City. With Roy.” I waited for the follow-up eruption, and it wasn’t a long wait.

  “A hypnotist? What the fuck for? I heard another dozen people were beamed up. How the fuck am I gonna cover that with you… hypnotized? Goddamn it, Pappas. You’re not, like, hypnotized now, are you?”

  “No, I’m not,” I said, glancing at Roy and suddenly remembering Robert Behari’s statement about a trigger.

  “Good. I need something on these disappearances.”

  “Gimme the phone,” Roy ordered. I pushed the speakerphone button before handing it over. “Paul, this is Roy.”

  “Where are you taking him this time, Roy? He’s got a story to write.”

  “You can’t use the story, Paul.”

  Romano paused and said, “You know Roy, for a second there, I thought you said I couldn’t use the story.”

  “Don’t play games, Paul. I promised these people their names wouldn’t be plastered all over the media.”

  “What the fuck, Roy? Who do you think you’re talking to, Jerry Springer? The public has a right to know about this.”

  “Not on this one. How’d you find out, anyway? I told my men not to release any names until I’ve had a chance to talk to the families.”

  “I don’t have names, Roy! That’s what I need Pappas for.”

  “Then your story is unsubstantiated. I don’t want anything in the papers until I’ve had a chance to investigate. There could be evidence, something that will give us a better handle on what’s going on.” Roy hesitated. “Johnny’s had the inside track on this all along, Paul. I need your help here.”

  Silence, then, “You owe me big, Roy. I want an exclusive on these disappearances once you’ve had a chance to investigate. Just make sure those security checkpoints do their jobs and keep the riff-raff out of town.”

  “By riff-raff, you mean other reporters?”

  “Hey, you’re sharp. I’ll hold off—for now.”

  Roy looked at me from across the truck, and said, “Don’t worry, Paul. I’ve got something good for you.”

  “Lemme talk to Pappas.”

  Roy handed me the phone. “Yeah.”

  “You got anything at all? I’ve got a hole on page one waiting for fill.”

  “Not a thing. The hypnosis got nothing from any of us.”

  “Any of us being you, Roy, and that Anne Behari broad.”

  Ah, Romano. Such a delicate creature. “Right. Got nothing, boss.” A picture of a prisoner waiting to be executed flashed in my mind. It was gone in an instant. “You’ll have to go with something else for page one.”

  “Fine. It’s time for me to go home and kick the dog anyhow. Will I see you in the morning?”

  “As far as I know,” I said, thinking that the phone was starting to smell like road kill again.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just an expression, boss.” I ended the call, and turned to Roy. “Okay, what are you going to give him?”

  Roy swung the truck off Center Street onto Shore Avenue; looked like we were heading for his house. “I’m going to give him whoever is kidnapping these people.”

  I felt a little jolt in my pulse rate. “Okay. How?”

  “Let’s go to my house and talk about it over dinner. I’m sure the missus has got something stewing on the stove.”

  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to do dinner at Roy’s again, but I said, “Okay,” anyway. I just didn’t think I could eat much with that damned road kill smell in my nose.

  Chapter 18… Not TGIF

  Dinner at Roy’s had pretty much amounted to me watching him eat while I nursed a gurgling stomach. The sense that I was on the edge of something awful stayed with me all night. I don’t know, maybe it was the hypnosis, but it was like coming down the escalator at an airport and seeing an old guy in a black robe holding a sign with your name on it.

  Roy said, “Aren’t you gonna eat?”

  The Missus, as Roy called her, had cooked up what was “probably the best damned pot roast in six states,” and I knew if I took one bite I’d hork it up into my napkin. Something from that session with the hypnotist was sitting just below my skin, eating at me. I decided to change the subject.

  “About what you said to Romano….”

  Roy cut off a huge chunk of pot roast, slathered in brown gravy. “Yeah?” he said, shoving it into his cheek.

  I had to look away. “How are you going to give me the kidnappers? You don’t even know who they are.”

  Working that roast, Roy said, “Not yet, but I will within the next day or two.”

  “Wait a minute. That’s the timetable for the teachers’ abductions.”

  He pointed his knife at me, and said, “Badda-bing.”

  I went home after that and slept fitfully, dreaming about something I didn’t remember. Probably that damned skyscraper dream again, or maybe the one where I’m standing in front of a firing squad. I think that one has something to do with Romano.

  I looked at the clock, noting that I still had forty-five minutes before the alarm went off. With any luck, I could grab some morning z’s, the most restful kind after a tough night in the sack. No such luck. I heard a knock and thought: what the hell… again? At 5:30 on a Friday morning? If it was Romano…. I got up, and, scratching my nuts on the way, decided to go to the bathroom before I answered the door. Whoever it was would have to wait. Knock, knock, knock. Up yours. I got to the door when I was good and ready, and, glancing through one of the little four-inch windows at the top, I expected to see either Romano, or Roy, in that order. It was neither. There were two guys out there looking up and down Warren Street as if they were afraid someone would see them. I was still in my boxers, about which I didn’t really give a shit, and I yanked the door open.

  “I hope to hell you’re not selling Avon,” I shot sarcastically. One guy was older, late forties, shiny dome, veins traversing it like river tributaries on a map. The younger guy could have been a Navy Seal, all chest, buzz cut, sinewy neck. Both were wearing dark suits.

  Skin Head held up an ID. “Secret Service.”

  You know, I just wasn’t in the mood. “So?”

  Bull Neck glanced up the street again. “May we come in?”

  “What for?”

  “We have a message from the president.”

  Good reason. I stepped aside, and said, “Try not to mess anything up.”

  The SS guys—odd acronym, I thought, seeing as a swastika was a regular vision in my thoughts lately—stepped past me and did a check-out dance in the middle of my living room. Bull Neck looked like he was smelling bad feet, while Skin Head turned to me and said, “Nice place.” Fucking smart-ass. “The president is going on television today to defend his original decision to keep the NASA abductions a secret.”

  Like I knew what this gorilla was talking about. “What does that have to do with me?”

  “The president wants you to know that breaking that story the way you did put him in a very compromising position.”

  Okay, now I was getting it. I thought suddenly that I’d feel more in control if I had some pants on. “At no time did the president indicate he was off the record, and, he was aware of my being a reporter. I have a w
itness to that entire conversation if you want to verify that.”

  “No need,” Skin Head replied. “Freedom of the press, and all that. The president simply wanted us to let you know how important it is that this be controlled properly, and that we get your cooperation. We don’t want to create any mass hysteria, or anything…. Do we?”

  There was that cooperation word again. Something was wrong with this whole presidential involvement thing—on any level. “We need to be honest with the American people,” President Richardson had said. “This is a threat to our very way of life.” Why did he reveal the information about the scientists’ abductions to a reporter if he didn’t want the general public to know? Was it already out, and was he simply covering his ass? And, what about that, “we need to cooperate,” bullshit? I mean, did I look like a complete dope? And that stuff about the frozen helium—was that a classified bone to make me feel important? Now, I had these two morons in my living room telling me that I’d put the president in a compromising situation. It didn’t jive. Something had backfired on the old boy, and now Skin Head and Bull Neck were trying to intimidate me. I made a note to get hold of Remington as soon as I got to the office to tell her to forget the scientists; the president was the story here. But, the scientists were the connection to David Robelle. Damn. We needed more bodies on this story. My mind was going about a hundred miles an hour.

  “So what are you telling me, that I should have checked with the president before I broke the story?” Skin Head let go with a smarmy little smile, like one gives a toddler for asking for candy too many times. “It’s not my fault that he put his foot in his mouth. The public has a right to know.”

  Speaking for the first time, Bull Neck said, “Of course it does.” At least now I knew he could talk. He stepped over and towered over me. “But we know that you’re a good American, first and foremost.”