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Smirkowitz gritted his teeth and glanced in the rear-view mirror of his Porsche GT2RS as he backed out of his driveway. Life had been good to him, at least, so far. He stared at his face in the rearview mirror and hardly recognized himself. The face that looked back was scared, white, and uncertain. Smirkowitz brushed his fears away. No one could touch him. He had money, prestige, and a beautiful, young wife. Even though he paid alimony and child support, he could easily afford it. He drove a two hundred and fifty-thousand-dollar automobile that was arguably one of the finest in the world. His imposing Tudor-style home located in Richmond’s elite west end was the most expensive in the neighborhood and was larger than any other of the McMansions in the area. As he considered his accomplishments, his spirits rose. He’d made it. He had it all. Money, fame, cars, women, a thriving dental practice, great kids. There was nothing he didn’t have. He smiled at himself in the mirror, and his confidence returned briefly before fading.
Is my life ever going to be the same or are the good times over? Dude could feel his anxiety ratchet up as he headed down Cary Street, a vial of long-acting insulin tucked into a cold backpack on the seat next to him.
He cursed as his cell phone rang and the digital display on his dash announced the familiar number of his ex-wife. The last person in the world he wanted to talk to, but he grudgingly clicked the button.
“Hello, Constance. What’s up?” he barked in his gruffest voice. He wasn’t up for a bunch of whining from his ex. There was enough stress in his life without having to talk with her. The divorce had been painful enough, and their relationship had only worsened with his new marriage and new baby. They were barely civil.
There wasn’t an answer, and then he thought he heard a stifled sob. “Constance, what’s wrong? Are you crying?”
Another stifled sob escaped. He could picture her sitting in the sunroom of their former home in her favorite chintz chair, her dark hair pulled up in a chignon with tendrils framing her face. She’d be dressed in a silk blouse and dark pants thumbing through a magazine. Now in her mid-forties, Constance remained a beautiful woman.
“Nicholas, I’m scared,” she finally managed. “Someone tried to kidnap Nicholas, Jr. this afternoon. After school.” Her voice ended in a high-pitched screech.
Smirkowitz’s blood turned to ice, and he could feel his heart jump violently in his chest.
"What do you mean? Did they snatch him from school? Who took him from school?" Dude’s voice was sharp. He was short of breath. He took his hand off the gear control to rub the chill bumps from his arms.
Constance’s voice was hesitant. "I ...I don't know. I don’t know what to say. A little while ago, a police officer came here and brought Nicholas home. The officer told me a tall thin man in a black sedan tried to pull Nicholas off the school bus as he climbed the steps. Nicholas’s friend kicked the guy in the groin, and another boy kicked the man in the behind, and Nicholas managed to get on the bus. The bus driver called 911, and the officer assigned to the school tried to follow the assailant, but the man escaped in his car."
Dr. Dude's fear was palpable. He was silent for a moment and then asked, "What kind of black car? Did they get a license number? Have they chased the car down or do they know who it is?"
A sob escaped from Constance before she spoke. "I don't think they got a license plate, and I don’t think they know who it was. I didn't really ask. I was just happy that our son was safe."
Smirkowitz was quiet.
After a moment Constance asked in an accusing tone, "Don't you want to know if he is safe? Don't you want to know if your son is okay?" Her voice was loud and angry.
"Of course I do," Dude snapped. "What the hell do you think? Of course, I'm worried about him. How is he?"
Constance was silent for a moment and said in a low voice, "What have you done, Nicholas Smirkowitz? Are you in trouble with those people again? Are these the same guys that threatened you a few years ago back?"
Dr. Dude was silent for a moment. "Of course not, Constance," he assured her.
The silence was deafening. She didn’t believe him.
"You know I haven't gambled in years,” he said wearily. “There is nothing that I’ve done to cause this. Maybe it was an attempted kidnapping."
"I wish I could believe you, Nicholas," she said sadly.
Dude could hear the question and uncertainty in her voice. For some reason he felt the need to reassure her and said,
"I promise, Con Con," he said, reverting to a nickname he’d used for her in the old days when things were good between them. "I've done nothing to cause anyone to want to kidnap our son. I promise. You know how much I love him."
Constance was silent. She could hear the inflection in his voice that she could always hear whenever he lied. "I don't believe you, Nicholas. You’re a liar and always have been. I am going to call the Richmond Police and ask them to look at everything you've been doing lately. I think you're involved in this somehow, and I think you're involved in something up to your eyeballs... something that involves our son’s safety."
"What are you talking about? Constance, Constance, please let's talk about this."
But it was too late. His elegant ex-wife had hung up. With a huge sigh of anxiety, Dr. Dude speed-dialed his best and only friend.
“Hello, handsome,” the voice was sensual and musical. “Do you want me? Do you need me?” she asked hopefully.
“It’s Constance,” he said hoarsely. “You’ve got to do what we discussed last week, scare Constance to keep her from talking. Do it now. Right now.”
“Okay, with pleasure.” the voice said before clicking off.
Dr. Dude accelerated his powerful car and flew down Route 33 as he pushed his car as fast as the streets allowed. He sighed deeply as fear for his children became a permanent reality in his mind. All because he hadn’t paid his due to the devil. Dude reviewed and rationalized his life. There’d always been so much expected of him, and he’d done his best. Everything and everyone had been so unfair.