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First things first. We need to get Bradley Junior back in the hospital. It’s exactly how I put it to Joanne.
“Can he talk, Jo?” I ask.
She asks him.
He’s very weak, but he mumbles, “Yes.”
He’s still dressed in his hospital gown, but from what I can see of him in the rearview, it’s filthy and stained with fresh blood where his gunshot wounds are located. His face is pale under his thick beard and his hair mussed up and greasy. He also looks thin, almost frail, like he hasn’t had nourishment in days or weeks. But I know he’s got to be in pain and in need of blood. Fresh blood.
“Listen to me, son,” I say into the rearview. “Do you have a friend at the hospital...a good friend who you can trust that we can call? Someone who will take you into the ER through a back door so that we’re not seen?”
He nods slowly. “Yes, my girlfriend. Jill. She’s a surgeon.”
“We need her phone number, son,” I say. “We need to find a payphone to call her. Our cell phones are out of power.”
I’m now regretting shooting Don Juan’s phone, no matter how good it felt. Maybe it would have been a better move to take it with us.
“It’s possible one of Perez’s men left their phones lying around inside the vehicle,” Joanne says. She’s gripping Bradley Junior’s hand tight.
I gaze around the front, focusing on the dash and then the center console. I don’t see any phones. I open the console. Nothing inside but some old CDs. Leaning across the passenger seat, I open the glove box. A semi-automatic is stored in there along with a couple of extra magazines. I close the glove box.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Nothing back here either,” Joanne says. “They must all be carrying their phones, not that they need them.”
“Wouldn’t have done us much good anyway, Jo,” I say. “Even if we went back to retrieve one of them, we’d never guess the phone’s passwords. We need a payphone and I know exactly where I can find one.”
Having crossed the bridge that spans the Hudson River, we’re now heading into the heart of the city. I drive Henry Johnson Boulevard until I see the same Stewarts Bread and Butter Shop where I originally placed my call to Danish about the Camps having killed the Perez brothers. Something I’m not proud of, but also something that seems like it happened forever ago. Pulling into the lot, I park directly in front of the wall-mounted payphone, put the transmission in park, and leave the engine running.
Turning around in my seat, I eye my sick son. “Can you remember her number, Brad?”
His eyes are slowly opening and closing. He looks like he’s about to pass out.
“It’s...in my...speed-dial,” he mumbles.
“Think, son,” I beg. “Think real hard. You don’t have your phone.”
He nods again.
Inhaling and exhaling, he slowly reveals a number. I repeat it for him. He nods again. Opening the door, I get out. Digging in my pocket, I find some change. A couple quarters are mixed in with the change. But just as I’m walking to the phone, a young man comes out of nowhere, picks up the receiver and starts digging in his pocket. He’s a young white kid wearing a black hoodie.
“I need that phone,” I say.
He gives me a dirty look. I wrap my hand around a portion of the phone his small hand doesn’t cover.
“Hey, bitch,” he says. “I’m using the phone. You’re just gonna have to wait.”
I don’t hesitate to do what I have to do. Reaching into my pant waist, I pull out my semi-automatic, shove the barrel in his gut.
“My friends Smith and Wesson say otherwise...bitch,” I say.
He releases the phone, backs away from me. He’s got his hands raised like he’s trying to surrender.
“Jeeze,” he says. “Take it easy, mister.”
“Now go the fuck away,” I say, “before I shoot you in the face.”
Turning, he runs away. Replacing the gun into my pant waist, I pull out a quarter and slip it into the coin slot. I listen to the mechanical sound of the quarter falling through the phone’s metal insides until it hits the cash well. That’s when I get a dial-tone. Dialing Jennifer’s number, I say a silent prayer to the good Lord that she’ll pick up even if she doesn’t recognize the number.
The connection made, the phone rings. And rings.
“Come on, come on,” I say, my eyes focused on the SUV windshield.
I can barely make out my family inside it, but I know they must be eyeing me intently. They are all I have left in the world. Out the corner of my eye, I see an APD blue and white slowly pass by the store. The cop inside it eyes the big black SUV. This isn’t the best section of town, so my guess is he’s suspicious over an expensive ride parked at the stop n’ rob. I immediately about-face.
More rings. Then, I’m directed to a voicemail.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I say aloud.
“Hi, this is Jill,” a sweet young female voice says. “I can’t come to the phone right now since I’m probably trying to save someone’s life. But if you leave a nice message and your phone number, I’ll try and get back to you ASAP.” She says ASAP like it’s a real word.
I can’t help but grin over her witty message, despite the dire circumstances.
Clearing my throat, “Hi Jill, my name is Bradley Jones. Brad’s dad. I’m sure you know by now that he’s been taken from the hospital where he badly needs to be. But we have him back and we really need to get him into the Emergency Room or ICU or wherever you need to put him to get better. Problem is, we’re going to need your help. My wife and I are in a little bit of trouble and if we just show up at the hospital, the police will be notified. I’m at a payphone. Here’s the number.” I recite it for her. “If I don’t hear from you in a few minutes, I will try and call you back. This is a matter of life and death, Jill. Please call.”
I hang up. Turning, I look out for the cop. He seems to have driven on, which is my good luck. Or maybe he’s spotted me and waiting for backup somewhere.
“Ring, damnit,” I say aloud, as if this is going to make Jill call back any faster.
I go to the SUV, open the back door. My son looks paler than ever, the blood stains on his hospital gown growing larger, darker. He’s also fully passed out. The look on my wife’s face is grave.
“We need to do something now, Bradley,” she says, her tone on the verge of panic. “Or he’s not going to make it.”
“God knows I’m trying, Jo,” I say.
The payphone rings. My heart jumps into my mouth. Sprinting to the phone, I grab the receiver off the hook, press it against my ear.
“Hello,” I say. “Hello.”
“Hello,” a woman says. “Is this Mr. Jones?”
“Jill?” I ask.
“Yes. I got your message. I’m so happy he’s still alive.” Her voice is tense, but I sense her relief over the connection.
“Alive barely,” I say. “That’s why we need your help.”
“I understand,” she says. “You’re all over the news. So is Bradley...his being shot and his going missing. Now they’re saying Mrs. Jones’s mother was kidnapped from her elderly care facility. If you don’t mind my asking, just what the heck is going on?”
“It’s true,” I say. “Mrs. Jones’s mom was kidnapped by some very bad people. The same bad people we’ve unfortunately become associated with, Jill. But believe me when I say Mrs. Jones and I are not bad people. We’ve made some mistakes but we’re not bad at all. We’re actually pretty average everyday folks. Until recently, that is. But I don’t have time to explain everything right now. We just need to get Bradley to the hospital and do it now before he bleeds out.”
“Okay, okay,” she says anxiously, but hesitantly at the same time. Like she’s afraid if she helps us, that makes her a co-conspirator in our... let’s call them, gross illegalities.
“Tell you what, Jill,” I go on. “Just tell us where to leave him at The Albany Medical Center and at what time, and we will drop him off. You don’t even have to see us. All you will see is Bradley. Does that work for you?”
“Yes, okay,” she says, sudden relief in her voice. She pauses for a beat. I’m assuming she’s thinking things out. “Listen, Mr. Jones, there’s an employee’s entrance around the back of the Medical Center, next to the morgue. Almost nobody uses it because it’s just a lot easier to enter through the front door. Can you drop him there in forty minutes?”
I gaze at my watch. It’s after one already.
“Can it be sooner? He’s bleeding real bad.”
“I’m all the way out in Saratoga, twenty miles away. I can’t possibly be there any earlier. Just keep applying pressure to his wounds and drop him at the employee’s entrance no later than two thirty. Will that work?”
“Got it, Jill,” I say. “And thank you.”
“I’m just glad your son is found and that he is alive.”
“Me too.”
“I’ve got to be going,” she says.
“Jill,” I say.
“Yes,” she says like a question.
“Bradley Junior,” I say. “I’ve never seen him this happy with a lady. He thinks the world of you.”
“Well, Mr. Jones, you should know, I love him dearly. And I’m so, so relieved he’s alive.”
I can tell she’s starting to cry as she hangs up. But then, I can’t help but grin warmly.