Читать книгу Confluence - Stephen J. Gordon - Страница 11

5

The restaurant Frere Jacques was located on West Franklin Street around the corner from Enoch Pratt Central, the main public library. The area overall was a mixture of businesses, eateries, residences, and a world class museum – the Walters – up near Mount Vernon. The late Saturday afternoon was peaceful, and I parked diagonally across from the restaurant and to the right for an unobstructed view of the canopied entryway.

I wasn’t hungry, nor was I meeting anyone for dinner. I was waiting for my student and his family to arrive. At the end of my conversation with Charlie’s father, he had mentioned they were coming to Frere Jacques at six o’clock to take the grandmother out.

At 5:55, a white CR-V pulled into a spot a few doors up from the restaurant. Four people got out: Charlie’s mom from behind the wheel, a thin, silver haired grandmother on the passenger side, and Charlie and a young teenage girl from the back seat. The young girl, who was skinnier and taller than my student, had to be his younger sister. The four of them headed to the restaurant entrance, descended a short set of steps, and went in. After a few moments with other patrons entering, I wondered if the dad were coming – or if he had gotten here before me. Then, at 6:15 Charlie’s father hustled up from the end of the block on the right, looked neither right nor left, and went into the restaurant.

Over the next hour and a half, I sat in my Grand Cherokee, I walked up and down the block, window-shopped, moved the car into another space, and then because I really was hungry, stopped into a corner café for a sandwich. An available table at the front window allowed a clear view of Frere Jacques’ entrance. By 7:45 I was back to window-shopping when the Coakleys emerged. There was some back and forth in front of the restaurant between Mr. and Mrs., while the kids stood to the side, looking bored. The mom half turned away, shaking her head, then everyone except Charlie’s dad returned to the car. Mr. Coakley headed off the way he had arrived from the end of the street.

Based on Charlie’s application I knew that his father’s office was within walking distance – and that was indeed where he was going. After turning a corner, he walked into a four story renovated building at the corner of St. Paul and Pleasant Streets. Fortunately, there was a small park across the street with sufficient cover, so I could watch both the St. Paul and the Pleasant Street entrances.

While waiting for Mr. Coakley to emerge, I thought about him hurting his son, plus the fact he didn’t seem to care. The question was how to handle it.

The sun had already passed behind the skyscrapers, and now the orange glow from old acorn-style streetlamps illuminated the environs. While the park where I stood was well lit, there were still strong shadows, mostly caused by the leaves on ancient branches. Pedestrians came and went, as did a few joggers, but no one looked my way.

At 9:30, Robert Coakley came out a side street doorway and walked up the block away from me. No one was around. Cars were parked on both sides of the narrow one-way road, with streetlamps reflecting off of the angled windshields.

I closed the distance with silent, rapid, controlled footfalls. When I approached Coakley’s back, I saw he had a cell phone to his ear – he was in a heated conversation about someone showing up late for a court date. While this distraction made it easier to come up on him, I didn’t want anyone else knowing I was there. Fortunately, the attorney stopped in front of a red Lexus convertible, ended the conversation, and pulled out his keys. I was less than two feet behind him. We were completely alone on the sidewalk.

“Put your keys back in your pocket,” I said simply.

He spun around, half jumping up at the same time.

“Jesus Christ! Sensei, what the hell are you doing?”

“Put your keys back in your pocket, “ I repeated. “I want to see your hands.” I wasn’t concerned about him moving on me; I just didn’t want him hitting a panic button.

The keys went in his jacket pocket and he showed me his hands. “What’s going on?”

“You’re never going to hit Charlie again.” My voice was quiet and unemotional.

“What are you talking about? You already told me about his wrists.”

“He has bruised ribs. You hit him repeatedly. I know that. And either you don’t care that it hurts or you enjoy it.”

The street was completely silent. There was no noise…no traffic sounds, no HVAC humming from any of the buildings around us. Nothing. It was like we were in an acoustic bubble.

“That’s none of your—”

“You’ve got two choices. Either as your son’s teacher I call the police, where I am certain you’ll end up in jail, or you’ll start seeing a friend of mine who is a counselor. Either way, you will never work with Charlie on karate. Ever.”

I saw the anger rise in his eyes. I was simultaneously watching all of him. I saw his right arm begin to tense.

“Don’t,” I said calmly. “I’m faster than you, and I want to hurt you very much.” I took a minute step closer.

He looked at me again, and the anger in his eyes changed. It reflected another basic emotion. Very primal. Fear.

“You will also take a martial art class. Not mine. A tai chi class. I’ll tell you where. And just so we’re clear, you won’t stop the counseling or the tai chi before you’re told it’s okay to do so.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I’ll take that as a yes. I’ll give you those names tomorrow and you’ll call them on Monday morning. I’ll check by the afternoon.”

He continued to stare at me.

“The next time I see you will be at Charlie’s green belt test. I don’t want to see you before that. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“Go.” I motioned to his car.

He retrieved his keys, and looked at me. I just stared at him, expressionless. He beeped his car open, climbed in, and started the engine. He pulled out of the space without looking at me again.