Harlan Coben - One False Move

Arthur’s brow lines deepened. «What’s that?»

Myron pointed to Chance, then back at Arthur. «Which one of you beat up Anita Slaughter?»

Stone silence.

Myron kept going. «Just a few weeks before Elizabeth’s suicide, someone assaulted Anita Slaughter. She was taken to St. Barnabas Hospital and still had abrasions when your wife jumped. You want to tell me about it?»

Lots of things started happening seemingly all at once. Arthur Bradford gave a small head nod. Sam put down his copy of People and stood. Chance turned apoplectic.

«He knows too much!» Chance shouted.

Arthur paused, considering.

«We have to take him out!»

Arthur was still thinking. Sam started moving toward them.

Myron kept his voice low. «Chance?»

«What?»

«Your fly’s undone.»

Chance looked down. Myron already had the thirty-eight out. Now he pressed it firmly against Chance’s groin. Chance jumped back a bit, but Myron kept the muzzle in place. Sam took out his gun and pointed it at Myron.

«Tell Sam to sit down,» Myron said, «or you’ll never have trouble fitting a catheter again.»

Everybody froze. Sam kept the gun on Myron. Myron kept his gun against Chance’s groin. Arthur still seemed lost in thought. Chance started shaking.

«Don’t pee on my gun, Chance.» Tough guy talk. But Myron did not like this. He knew Sam’s type. And he knew Sam might very well take the risk and shoot.

«There’s no need for the gun,» Arthur said. «No one is going to harm you.»

«I feel better already.»

«To put it simply, you are worth more to me alive than dead. Otherwise Sam would have blown your head off by now. Do you understand?»

Myron said nothing.

«Our deal remains unchanged: you find Anita, Myron, I’ll keep Brenda out of. jail. And both of us will leave my wife out of this. Do I make myself clear?»

Sam kept the gun at eye level and smiled a little.

Myron gestured with his head. «How about a show of good faith?»

Arthur nodded. «Sam.»

Sam put away the gun. He walked back to his seat and picked up his People.

Myron pressed the gun a little harder. Chance yelped. Then Myron pocketed his weapon.

The bus dropped him off back by his car. Sam gave Myron a little salute as he stepped off. Myron nodded in return. The bus continued down the street and disappeared around the corner. Myron realized that he had been holding his breath. He tried to relax and think straight.

«Fitting a catheter,» he said out loud. «Awful.»

Dad’s office was still a warehouse in Newark. Years ago they had actually made undergarments here. Not anymore. Now they shipped in finished products from Indonesia or Malaysia or someplace else that employed child labor. Everybody knew that abuses occurred and everybody still used them and every customer still bought the goods because it saved a couple of bucks, and to be fair, the whole issue was morally hazy. Easy to be against children working in factories; easy to be against paying a twelve-year-old twelve cents an hour or whatever; easy to condemn the parents and be against such exploitation. Harder when the choice is twelve cents or starvation, exploitation or death.

Easiest still not to think too much about it.

Thirty years ago, when they actually made the undergarments in Newark, Dad had lots of inner-city blacks working for him. He thought that he was good to his workers. He thought that they viewed him as a benevolent leader. When the riots broke out in 1968, these same workers burned down four of his factory buildings. Dad had never looked at them the same again.

Eloise Williams had been with Dad since before the riots. «As long as I breathe,» Dad often said, «Eloise will have a job.» She was like a second wife to him. She took care of him during his workday. They argued and fought and got grumpy with each other. There was genuine affection. Mom knew all this. «Thank God Eloise is uglier than a cow living near Chernobyl,» Mom liked to say. «Or I might wonder.»

Dad’s plant used to consist of five buildings. Only this warehouse still stood. Dad used it as a storage facility for the incoming shipments from overseas. His office was smack in the middle and raised to almost the ceiling. All four walls were made of glass, giving Dad the chance to watch over his stock like a prison guard in the main tower.

Myron trotted up the metal stairs. When he reached the top, Eloise greeted him with a big hug and a cheek pinch. He half expected her to take out a little toy from her desk drawer. When he’d visit as a child, she would always be ready for him with a popgun or one of those snap-together gliders or a comic book. But Eloise just gave him a hug this time, and Myron was only mildly disappointed.

«Go right in,» Eloise said. No buzzing in. No checking with Dad first.

Through the glass Myron could see that his father was on the phone. Animated. As always. Myron stepped in. His father held up a finger to him. «Irv, I said, tomorrow. No excuses. Tomorrow, do you hear?»

Sunday and everyone was still doing business. The shrinking leisure time of the late twentieth century.

Dad hung up the phone. He looked at Myron, and his whole being just beamed. Myron came around the desk and kissed his father’s cheek. As always, his skin felt a little like sandpaper and smelled faintly like Old Spice. Just as it should.

His father was dressed like a member of the Israeli Knesset: charcoal slacks with a white dress shirt opened at the neck and a T-shirt underneath. White chest hair popped out of the space between neck and T-shirt front collar. Dad was clearly a Semite – thick dark olive skin and a nose that polite people called prominent.

«Remember Don Rico’s?» Dad asked.

«That Portuguese place we used to go?»

Dad nodded. «Gone. As of last month. Manuel ran the place beautifully for thirty-six years. He finally had to give it up.»

«Sorry to hear that.»

Dad made a scoffing noise and waved him off. «Who the hell cares? I’m just making silly small talk because I’m a little worried here. Eloise said you sounded funny on the phone.» His voice went soft. «Everything okay?»

«I’m fine.»

«You need money or something?»

«No, Dad, I don’t need money.»

«But something is wrong, no?»

Myron took the plunge. «Do you know Arthur Bradford?»

Dad’s face lost color – not slowly but all at once. He started fiddling with things on his desk. He readjusted the family photographs, taking a little extra time with the one of Myron holding aloft the NCAA trophy after leading Duke to the title. There was an empty box of Dunkin’ Donuts. He picked it up and dropped it into a wastepaper basket.

Finally Dad said, «Why would you ask that?»

«I’m tangled up in something.»

«And it involves Arthur Bradford?»

«Yes,» Myron said.

«Then get untangled. Fast.»

Dad lifted one of those traveling coffee cups to his lips and craned his neck. The cup was empty.

«Bradford told me to ask you about him,» Myron said. «He and this guy who works for him.»

Dad’s neck snapped back into place. «Sam Richards?» His tone was quiet, awe-filled. «He’s still alive?»

«Yes.»

«Jesus Christ.»

Silence. Then Myron asked, «How do you know them?»

Dad opened his drawer and fumbled about for something. Then he yelled for Eloise. She came to the door. «Where’s the Tylenol?» he asked her.

«Bottom right-hand drawer. Left side toward the back. Under the box of rubber bands.» Eloise turned to Myron. «Would you like a Yoo-Hoo?» she asked.

«Yes, please.» Stocking Yoo-Hoos. He had not been to his father’s office in almost a decade, but they still stocked his favorite drink. Dad found the bottle and played with the cap. Eloise closed the door on her way out.