FIGHT (7 page)

“I’m calling the cops,” she announced, but before she could slam the phone down she heard:

“Good.  You need to.”

This stopped her.  Was that a threat?

“What did you say?” she asked, less angry and more curious.

“I said you need to call the cops.  Listen, I’m not trying to bother you, but I think August is in trouble.  There’s a dangerous guy who’s expressing interest in him, and, frankly, I’m worried about him.  Have you heard of Gabriel Adelaide?  Well, silly question, I’m sure you have.  You must’ve heard of him if you follow the news.”

“Of course I’ve heard of him.  Are you trying to tell me that Adelaide is the ‘dangerous man’ interested in August?  Because if so, I’m not buying it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, I’m not buying it.  You think I’m going to help you adopt August if I find out that he’s vulnerable and needs you to protect him from the mob, and I’m not buying it.  I see exactly what you’re doing here.  You’re trying to scare me into saying, ‘Oh! God! Poor little August needs a big tough man in his life like, say, I don’t know, maybe the D.A.?’  Well, that’s a crock of shit.  The Mafia has no interest in foster kids.  There’s no money in foster kids, and you aren’t going to convince me that the mob is after a penniless 5-year-old.”

“I’m not trying to convince you of anything,” Bruce tried, exhausted. “Well, I guess I am trying to convince you of something, but it’s true!  I just wanted you to be aware that Adelaide knows that I want to adopt August.  I mean, he knows who August is.  Doesn’t that trouble you?”

“If I believed you, I guess it would trouble me.  But I don’t, so it doesn’t.  Don’t call me again, or I really will call the police.”  If she hadn’t been in a hurry to start her weekend, she would’ve called them for this infraction.  She thought she was done with Bruce.  The person bugging her line didn’t think so.

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The next day, Saturday, Sara went out to treat herself to some shopping.  She was excited, elated, and nervous (albeit in a fun way). She had a date on Sunday, and she wanted to look her best.  She rarely bought herself new clothes (kids didn’t care how she dressed), and the time was right for a new outfit.  After yesterday’s hell of a mess of removing two kids from their parents and Bruce’s ridiculous threat about mob activity, she’d earned it. 
But enough of all that!
She chided herself.  She had coupons, a debit card, and yesterday’s paycheck in the bank.  And a date tomorrow! 
Did I mention that I have a date, Mr. Cronkite?
 
Why, yes, you did Miss Madison, and that makes you the most interesting woman in the world!  And that’s the way it is.
Her mind raced through other fictitious scenarios.  Marriage, honeymoon, second honeymoons, but! Wait!  First, there’d have to be a proposal, probably a breathtakingly romantic one.  Her imagination spun out yarns like a spider on steroids. 

She parked her car midway up aisle 8 of Fashion Now’s lot, careful to avoid shopping cart returns and the danger they posed to her bumper, and she took her cell out of her purse so that she could text about her life’s newfound giddiness as she made her way in.

OMG!!! Can’t wait to meet Brad Sunday. 

Her girlfriend, Amanda, responded: 
LOL!  You go Girl!!!  He’s a keeper.

I know, right?!?  That’s what I keep hearing. 

Where you guys going?

Don’t know.  He said bistro.  Picking me up at 8.

Awesome sauce! Excited for you!

I’ll call you afterwards.

You better!!!  First blind date is always exciting.

I know, and I owe it all to you. Looking forward to hanging with you l8r.

Not being a teen, Sara wasn’t the quickest texter, and she walked slowly towards the store’s entrance to finish messaging Amanda. 

“Excuse me, do you have any change?”

She hadn’t seen the man approaching her.  She’d been staring down at her phone, oblivious to the parking lot’s foot traffic. 

Glancing up from her phone, she said, “Sorry, but I can’t help you.”  As a matter of safety, she tried to end conversations with strangers as quickly as possible.  She walked past the man, with her back now to him. 

“Oh, but I think you can spare some change, Sara.”

Turning, suddenly worried, she demanded, “What did you say?  How did you…”

“I think you can spare a whole purse full of change.”

And that was when he grabbed her purse with enough force to pull it off her arm and bring her to her knees, separating her purse from her extended hand.  The man, tall and lanky with olive skin, ran inside an idling jet black sedan with tinted windows parked in a handicap spot.  The passenger’s door was open and waiting for him.  The door slammed shut, while she remained on her knees about thirty feet away, and the car sped away.

She picked herself up off the asphalt and looked around for help.  She hoped one of her fellow shoppers had seen the car’s tags.  She realized that the purse snatcher was wearing shades, and his clothes were entirely black: he’d be difficult to describe to police.  Glancing rapidly in all directions, she saw with dismay that there wasn’t anyone in the parking lot with her.  Her decision to shop early had left her without the aid of witnesses.  She got up, still stunned, and looked down at her knees.  Her jeans were scuffed from being drug on the pavement.  She wondered what her knees looked like beneath them and if they were bleeding.  She saw that the cell in her hand was intact, as she’d been fortunate enough not to drop it.  She quickly dialed 911.

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Coming out of the women’s room at the back of Fashion Now, Sara was relieved.  She’d just examined her knees in a stall, and there weren’t any ugly bruises or scrapes, though they hurt like hell.  Since her cash and credit cards were in her stolen purse, she decided to go home and shop another day.  She’d make do with something in her closet for tomorrow’s date.  At this point, she didn’t feel giddy enough to spend money.  She needed a nap and some hot chocolate.  Her gumption had been stolen with her purse, and she no longer had the courage to model sexy clothing in front of dressing room mirrors.  She was on her way out, when she heard the store’s loudspeaker:

“Would Sara Madison please come to the customer service desk, please?  Would Sara Madison please come to the customer service desk, please?  Thank you.”

She was surprised to hear the page. 
Who wants me now?
She hurried towards the customer service desk near the store’s entrance, across from a bank of registers. 

“Um, hello, I’m Sara Madison, and I believe I was just paged.”

“Yes, ma’am, one second,” the attendant said, wearing a blue vest and sporting a red tag reading
I’m here to help!
  The attendant walked to a different section of the counter and stooped to retrieve something.  When the attendant stood up, Sara saw the employee was holding her stolen purse. 

“I believe this is yours.  A guy said he found it in the parking lot.”

Sara was shocked.  It was her purse all right, instantly recognizable with its large gold S emblazoned on the front of her customized Ralph Lauren. 

“Oh my God, thank you!”  She eagerly took her purse and nearly ran to her car in excitement.  As she made her way to her Civic, a feeling in her gut told her to be wary of the purse snatcher’s return
.  Hope he hasn’t realized he dropped this and come back for it!
  She clung to the purse with both hands, using strength that surprised her.  Safe inside her car, she took inventory. 

Nothing. 

Nothing was missing.

And a lot had been added.  Wads of cash rolled newspaper style and held together with rubber bands stuffed her purse from side to side, giving it a pregnant bulge.  Her jaw dropped; she’d never seen so much cash.  Her career as a social worker paid her a respectable $38K a year, but a quick glance told her the cash in her purse was worth much more than her annual salary.  She took a roll of bills out and stripped off the rubber band.  It was a bunch of $50’s.  Straitening them back to their originally flat shape, she thumbed the bills’ edges. 
There’s nearly a couple dozen here.
(She multiplied.) 
That’s
a cool grand!
 
Do I really have that much money in my hand? 
She certainly hadn’t left home with that much money. 
Where did this come from?
  Dazed, it slowly occurred to her that she should count the number of rolls of cash in her purse.  Furiously scanning inside, she estimated a good two dozen rolls.
Two dozen rolls at 5 grand each… that’s roughly $120,000. 

“Holy crap!  Who gave me this?” 

Digging through the rolls of cash, she discovered an unlabeled white envelope at her purse’s bottom.  Inside the envelope was a neatly folded white page reading:

“Perhaps being nice will work better.  Give August to the Hudsons.”

She read it in disbelief. 
How did Bruce get all this money?
 
How did he pull off this heist and my purse’s return?
Her last conversation with Bruce sprang to mind.  He’d mentioned something about the mob being interested in August. 
Can there be any truth to that?
She’d written off Bruce’s warning as a scare tactic concocted to manipulate August’s adoption in his favor.  Now, uncertainty (and fear) shook her once firmly held conviction that he’d been lying.  Her trashed condo also sprang to mind
.  What if he was innocent the entire time?  What if the mob really is involved?  But, but why would the Adelaides care about who adopts a foster kid?

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The phone rang close to 7 that evening.  Martha was quick to answer.  

“You’ve reached the Hudsons.”

“Yeah, hi, Martha.  It’s me, Sara.”

Martha didn’t need a name: she knew the voice.

“What do you want?”

“I want to apologize, especially to Bruce.  There’s no way to say this without sounding crazy, but I think he’s right about the mob being interested in August.”

“What happened?” Martha demanded, grabbing the kitchen countertop with her free hand in fear of the worst.

“Let’s just say that I got an unexpected gift today.  It was quite a lot of money.  There was a note with it telling me to give August to you guys.  Say, you wouldn’t happen to be missing $120 grand would you?” Sara lightly chuckled. 

“How much did you say?  $120,000?” 

“Yeah, crazy, right?  Anyway, is Bruce there?  I’m not sure what to do with the cash, and I thought he might know.”

Before Bruce took the call, Martha briefed him.  He then listened to Sara’s account of the day’s events.  He intended to ask her for a description of the purse snatcher and the getaway car, but, before he could, his colitis overwhelmed him and the sudden need to take a shit became more urgent than his questions.

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Sara knocked on the Ringers’ door and rang its bell.  She wanted to see August ASAP.  Waiting no more than two seconds, she did both again. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Gina called out. 

When Gina saw Sara through the door’s peep hole, her tone become noticeably less impatient.

“Sara!  Didn’t expect to see you today.  Did you stop by to bring August his blocks?”

“No, actually, I forgot again.  Sorry.  But I need to talk to you about something.  Can I come in?”

Hurrying to the Ringers’ sofa, Sara turned down Gina’s offer of coffee and cake. She skipped the pleasantries and got down to business:

“I think August is in trouble.”

“What?”

“I know this sounds kind of crazy, and, trust me, I struggle to believe it myself, but I think August is in some sort of trouble with the mob.”

“The mob!”

“Yeah, the mob.  Particularly, the Adelaides.  For reasons I can’t wrap my head around, I think the mob wants August to be adopted by the Hudsons.  I have no idea why.  I’d give you more details if I had them.  I know this makes no sense.  The only thing I can think of is that maybe the mob is planning some sort of revenge against Bruce Hudson for trying to prosecute Gabriel Adelaide, and, somehow, that involves August.”

Gina silently recalled the recent visit from the Kid Center rep who’d paid her $1,000.  She’d long been suspicious of the guy, but she decided not to mention the recent visitor.  The mob’s money was green too. 

“Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary?” Sara wanted to know.

“No, nothing’s new on our end,” Gina lied.  “What should we look for?”

“Anything unusual I guess.  To be perfectly honest, I don’t know what to expect myself.  I guess no one’s contacted you about the Hudsons adopting August, or said something like ‘Give August to the Hudsons’?” 

“No. No one’s mentioned anything about August living with the Hudsons.  Last I knew, all that fell though, because Mr. Hudson was too sick to adopt.”

“You’re right.  I did say Mr. Hudson is unqualified because of his health and…” (she started to add “and his age” but opted not to, since Gina wasn’t much younger)… “and we in social services aren’t looking to place August in an adoptive home at the moment.”

Thank God!
Gina rejoiced.  Her monthly stipend was safe.

“I’m concerned that someone might contact you about the Hudsons adopting him,” Sara explained, “and, if that happens, you need to let me know right away.  Also, if a stranger shows an unexpected interest in him, try to get a description of the person, a license plate, anything.”

“Of course!  Dear Heavens, this is just unthinkable.  The little man has been through so much, with his parents’ death and all, and now this!  I worry about his poor little soul,” Gina said, laying it on thick.

“He’s quite the trooper.  I’m not sure I could deal with all the stuff he’s been through.”

“I’ll definitely let you know if I spot anything odd,” Gina added convincingly.

Sara was relieved.  She’d feared Gina would freak out when she mentioned the mob. 
Gina’s quite the trooper too,
Sara believed. 
She’s taking this threat in great stride
. 

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That night, two very different men went to bed in Boston.  One turned in for the evening in an elderly Victorian home in Boston’s wealthy Back Bay neighborhood; the other called it a day in a modest brick house in Boston’s Charleston area.  One worked against the law, and the other worked for it.  Before they slept, each had a 5-year-old boy on his mind.  They had similar thoughts.  They wanted him to be adopted by the same family. 

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He’d now practiced law for thirty years, built up an impressive ratio of trial wins to losses, and was widely viewed as one of Suffolk County’s most skilled court orators in recent times.  He’d put his time in, busted his balls, and done everything from grunt clerical work to risking his life by pissing off Boston’s underworld.  But financially, Bruce’s effort didn’t matter. Bruce didn’t have the $44,000 needed for a colectomy, the removal of his infected colon, and his insurance company had bailed on him, citing his colitis as a previously existing condition.  Since his colitis wasn’t killing him (yet), no hospital was required to perform an emergent colectomy that the Emergency Medical Treatment Act of 1986 would’ve granted him.  In one of the cosmos’ crueler jokes, Bruce was too healthy to get medical help.  He couldn’t ditch the colitis unless he ditched his colon, and he couldn’t ditch his colon unless he was dying.  Bruce was shit out of luck.