Housebroken (10 page)

“Sure,” Blake said, reaching for the phone.

Joje held it back. “Show me. How do I switch the language?”

“I need to see it. I don’t have it memorized.”

Joje held the screen out for him to see, though he clearly intended to maintain control. The manager looked at her employee with a hurried glance that said he was wasting her time. She put a smile back on as she faced the table.

“Tap the circle in the upper left. There’s a drop-down menu,” Blake said.

Joje flipped the phone back around. “Then I hit language? Ok, Cantonese . . . and then what?”

“Translate.”

Joje held the phone out in the middle of the table for all to hear. His smile couldn’t have been any larger. After the initial three-second pause, the warm voice returned, this time speaking in perfect English:

“Please nod along and laugh as if nothing is wrong. The two men sitting with my family have kidnapped us. I need you to call the police and have them wait outside. This is not a joke, this is real. My family’s life is in your hands. Please help us.”

Their order then began to play.

Blake swallowed. He didn’t dare look up.

“I hit the wrong button,” Joje said. “Let’s try it in Cantonese.” He pushed a few buttons on the phone and the message repeated in the hard syllabic Cantonese dialect.

Jenna’s hand on Blake’s knee should have been reassuring. It felt more like a farewell.

The manager’s plump cheeks rose into her eyes in a forced smile. She glanced between Joje and their server, who looked equally confused.

“Do the one that says it’s a stickup, that we’re holding up the restaurant!” Joje said, holding the phone out to Blake. At Blake’s lack of response, he continued, “There are some really funny ones on here. One that says, ‘Where’s your bathroom? I shit myself!’” He laughed, the only one at the table to do so.

Drew glanced nervously around the restaurant though no one had taken notice of the awkward exchange.

“It’s a joke?” the manager asked.

“Yeah, it’s a joke. We’ll find some better ones. Come back later,” Joje said, waving her away as he continued fiddling with the phone.

She emitted a tinselly laugh, raising her eyebrows at the server as she left. The server looked back at Joje and asked if he could repeat the order.

In fact, he could.

They ate in silence. Sushi had never tasted so bland. Drew ended up ordering a plate of teriyaki chicken after almost gagging on his first roll; his late order, and an additional round of nigiri for Joje, had given Joje plenty of time to try out other phrasings on the phone, effectively diluting the message Blake had attempted.

As they waited for the bill, Joje asked for the keys, handing them to Drew and telling him to take Adam and bring the car up. Blake should have tried to stop him, but they left for the entrance before he could say a word. Just one failure after another.

Jenna’s accusatory look did not help.

Blake picked up the tab, though Joje insisted on getting the tip. He snatched the small leather-bound book, making sure Blake couldn’t write some desperate message.

“Pick a number between one and ten, Bwake. Bwake?”

“Eight.” He was growing tired of the games.

“What about you, Gem?” Joje asked.

“Excuse me?” Jenna said.

“Do you prefer Jenna or Jenn? Or Jennifo?”

“I prefer Mrs. Crochet from you.”

Joje laughed. “Pick a number between one and ten.”

“One.”

“You know, you can tell a lot about a person through that simple exercise. Sixty percent of people choose four through seven. They’re your typical, average Americans. Playing it safe. Those choosing two or three generally lack self-confidence. They see themselves as below average, little aspirations in life. Eights and nines are more like your husband. Successful. Arrogant. Think they’re better than everyone. Some may be right, don’t get me wrong,” he said, looking directly at Blake. “But most aren’t. Now ones and tens, they’re the most exciting. They share a certain psychosis, shaping the world around them. They’re like a spark—unpredictable but commanding attention.”

Blake sighed loudly. He couldn’t take much more of this crap.

“You know the most compatible of matches?” Joje continued. “A one and a ten. They’re the perfect match.”

“And let me guess,” Jenna said. “You’re a ten.”

Joje just smiled, scribbling something on the receipt. His phone buzzed—Blake’s phone—and Joje typed out a reply. Once he had finished, he looked up. “Time to go.”

Jenna linked her arm with Blake’s as they rose from the table. “What are we gonna do?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” Blake said.

Most of the tables were now empty, just a few remaining stragglers enjoying conversation as much as the food.
Sort of a lost art form
, Blake thought.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “We’ll be okay.”

The hostess bade them farewell from behind her podium. Yes, everything was great. Delicious. Joje had her laughing within seconds.

The fogged windows made it impossible to see anything outside. Blake couldn’t help but wonder if something might have gotten through to the manager; she had avoided their corner of the room for the rest of the evening. Was it because she found them annoying, or had she called the police in case it was more than a joke? Maybe they had picked up Drew as soon as he walked outside. Maybe that text—if it had been a text—had been sent to disarm Joje into believing everything was okay.

They stepped outside.

The night was a little darker, air a little colder. No one pointed guns or announced over a megaphone the jig was up.

Even though Blake had been expecting it, the disappointment took a moment to settle in. Maybe it sensed how long of a stay it was looking at.

And then Jenna was running.

It happened so fast nothing registered until she was ten feet away.

“Don’t move,” Joje said. His gun was pressed into the back of Blake’s head. Then into his phone, he said, “The bitch is on the move. Yeah, take the boy.”

Jenna called for help.

Three women and a young girl backpedaled away from her toward the nearest shop. Other clusters gathered but at a distance, staring, watching, whispering, and pointing, but no one reached out. No one took her in. No one offered help. With raised hands, they retreated as if she were the one with the gun, she the one threatening instead of being threatened.

Blake heard her screaming at two teenagers, her voice going raw. “Give me your phone! Give it to me!”

The young girl in a black jacket that had to be her boyfriend’s deferred to the taller boy, his long face accentuated by the bowler cap on his head. He pulled a cell from his pocket and leaned out to hand it to her.

Drew suddenly appeared from behind, encasing Jenna in his arms and lifting her from the ground. The phone fell. Jenna screamed, kicking her feet as Drew carried her to the Escalade at the curb.

Blake started moving.

A gunshot brought him to a stop.

He looked down to see if he had been shot, adrenaline clouding his mind. He didn’t see any blood.

“That’s your only warning,” Joje said from behind him.

Phones were being held up, thrust out, pointing in his direction and at the now-fleeing Escalade. Drew must have gotten her inside. Blake turned around to face his assailant, anger and rage no longer in check.

“It’s over,” Blake said. “Look around! There are too many witnesses!” To his surprise, Joje smiled. “We won’t press charges. Just leave my family alone.”

“This isn’t close to being over, Bwakey.”

“It’s over! We’re finished playing your sick game!”

Joje looked at him. Was that disappointment in his eyes? “Stay here then. I don’t care. This pwoject is not working out like I had hoped.”

He stepped off the curb just as the Escalade braked to a harsh stop in front of him, passenger door already swinging open. He was inside and the vehicle was moving before Blake realized he was being left behind.

Without his family.

Blake ran, momentum carrying him so fast he tripped over his feet, almost face-planting on the asphalt. He hit a passing car on the hood with both hands, trying to get them to stop, the frightened faces inside probably mirroring his own.

He shouted to the gathering crowd. “Call nine-one-one! They’ve got my family!”

He cut across an island of plants and bushes toward the mall’s exit. He had to beat them there.

As he cleared the planter, landing back on the road, a silver Tacoma screeched before him. Blake rushed the driver’s door, throwing it open. “I need your car!”

A young man who probably couldn’t even grow a beard stared back at him. Then the vehicle started rolling. Blake reached out, grabbing the kid by his shirt and dragging him out. Luckily, he hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt. The kid hit the ground hard, and the truck stalled.

Blake jumped inside, letting the speed of the vehicle close the door for him as he turned the key and hit the gas. Slamming on the brakes, he yanked the wheel to the left. The truck fishtailed over the center divider, almost overturning.

There! The Escalade was just beginning to turn onto the main road.

Blake sped past the line of cars, barely maneuvering the truck between them and the divider. He ignored the honking around him.

Then he heard the baby cry.

Behind the passenger seat on the back bench was a rear-facing car seat.

Shit!

He couldn’t see into it, but the wail emanating behind him was fierce. He didn’t slow down, couldn’t slow down.

Something suddenly shot over his head, yanking his neck back against the headrest—a leather strap pressed into his bulging neck. Blake lost his grip on the wheel, his hands clamoring at the tightening noose. It was no longer just the baby screaming; the mother behind him added her voice, a high-pitched screech joining the hysterical wails.

Blake’s vision blurred as he realized they were pulling out into the intersection.

Into oncoming traffic.

Pulling out, but not turning.

The impact on the driver’s side spun the truck a harsh ninety degrees—the airbag sprang, catching the side of Blake’s face as the strap around his neck broke the skin, ripping so tight he heard a distinct snap. Glass splintered and flew, the angry noise like a steam train breaking down the door. Blake hadn’t had time to tense, the only thing that kept him from blacking out when the strap tightened around his neck. The pressure released, though Blake’s lungs refused to fill—it was like being held underwater, the sight of air just above the sullen waves, and for all his thrashing and kicking and struggling, the surface remained out of reach. He lifted the purse strap from around his neck, flinging it down, air escaping his flirtations. The mother’s cries, the baby’s short and constant wails, it was as if all sound had harmonized into one gigantic, thrumming note, vibrating now through his head. He was losing consciousness. His lungs remained empty, throat on fire.

In a moment of searing pain, air rushed down his damaged larynx, filling his lungs. He held it in, the pain so intense he wasn’t sure he could exhale. And then the truck was hit again.

A vehicle barreled into them from behind, from the lane they had been pushed into. The truck jolted up onto the median. Blake flew into the dash, his head connecting with the windshield, sending a spider web of cracks across the glass. He landed in the passenger’s seat, his shoulder jammed against the door.

The truck finally came to a stop.

Blake looked back at the young mother hugging her child to her. At least they had both been belted in.

“You okay?” Blake asked though no sound came out. His throat throbbed. He was barely aware of the blood rolling down his face.

He threw his bruised shoulder against the passenger door. It opened, and he fell backward to the ground. People rushed toward him. Faces. Asking questions. Was he okay. Was anyone hurt. What happened. Phones pressed to ears. People calling nine-one-one.

Finally
.

In his peripheral vision, he noticed a white Escalade pulled against the side of the road thirty yards ahead, thin wisps trailing from its exhaust.

“No Idling Allowed.”

A memory floated before Blake’s vision of him standing on the dock at the Port of Nagoya in Japan, workers scuttling about like beetles in the rain. A yellowed sign had been stuck to one of the wooden posts on the dock, layers upon layers of tape peeling from its edges: “No Idling Allowed.”

It had been the only sign in English.

Blake stumbled forward on the open road, desperate to maintain consciousness. After a few steps, he picked up speed, ignoring the yells behind him. His steps turned into a shuffle, turned into a jog, turned into a sprint as he let the air disappear from his lungs with only one concern on his mind. His family.

He approached the driver’s side, the window already rolled down. “Get in,” Drew said, with barely a glance.

Blake opened the back passenger door, unaware of the pounding footsteps approaching as he climbed into the vehicle. All he saw was his wife and son . . . and Joje. For once he wasn’t smiling.

“I woweed you wouldn’t make it.”

Jenna leaned against him, embracing him as best she could, her hands lashed crudely together in front of her with tape. Drew accelerated, leaving the scene behind. Distantly, Blake heard the locks engage, the child-lock feature meant for safety taking on a quiet reversal of roles.

Jenna’s head fell against the cradle of his neck—despite the pain, Blake refused to flinch or have her move. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Tears came, unbidden, unwelcome, Blake too exhausted to wipe them away. He watched as flashing blue and red lights passed on the opposite side of the road. Two, three cop cars. And an ambulance. He continued seeing a ghost image of those lights long after they disappeared.

He awoke with a start as Drew rolled down the window in front of the gate to their community. Drew tapped at the box, the gates retracting. As they rolled forward, Blake realized they hadn’t asked for the code.

His head felt like a driving range, the plocking of random heartbeats slamming so hard against the back of his skull he wasn’t sure how long he’d remain coherent. His shoulder jolted in short, successive spasms. Jenna had gone blank, lost in her mind’s projection of their inevitable “talk” with Joje.