Confluence. Stephen J. Gordon

who had been into a lot of shit in earlier years…bullying, alcohol, drugs. His dad had pulled him out of a party where he was half-stoned and brought him to me. I basically presented him with some personal challenges, and he rose to my expectations. In other words, I beat the crap out of him as I worked him out.

      “So, let me tell you the latest,” I said. “See what you think.”

      I told Jon about my adventures at the rabbi’s house last night and about the murders in the ambulance. He had two questions.

      “What do you think the deal is with the Mandels?”

      “I don’t think they’ve consciously done something wrong…like committed a crime or anything. But someone is after either both of them or one of them for whatever reason, and it’s intense enough to send assassins.”

      “And what are you going to do about the guy in the Buick?”

      “I’m hoping he’ll show up again so I can have a conversation with him.”

      He smiled. “Can I come?” Considering the events of last night, he knew that the hypothetical conversation would be less than polite.

      “He may have taken off already. He killed the connection to him – that guy in the ambulance – or had it done, so maybe he left town.” I actually didn’t think he had. “Have you ever heard the name ‘Mazhar’?”

      He shook his head.

      “Me either.”

      I turned on the computer at my desk, and while it booted up, went back to an earlier subject: “This issue with Charlie is troubling.”

      “He’s a good kid. If his dad is hurting him, that’s pretty messed up.”

      I just nodded. On the monitor meanwhile, the icons had settled in. I pulled up Google and typed in “Mazhar.”

      “Okay,” I read to Jon, “I’ve got some Pakistani stuff, a tambourine used in Arabic music, and a Turkish name. I imagine Nate is in the process of getting more information from the guy’s fingerprints. He’ll call when he has something.”

      “You think this Mazhar guy was just the hired help?”

      “Yep. But the nationality makes things interesting, doesn’t it?”

      After looking at the screen again, I felt something… almost like a pressure change or a shift in presence.

      Jon caught my distraction. “What?”

      “Someone just came in the front door.”

      We both stood up. “I didn’t hear anything. How do you do that? Can you also tell if there’s a disturbance in the Force?”

      “My teacher could.” I grabbed a sharpened letter opener and we headed into the practice hall.

      Approaching us from the front was one of our students. She was the redheaded college girl with the short messy hair style. I moved the letter opener behind my leg, out of her line of sight. No need to show it. As the redhead came closer, she looked from Jon to me.

      “I’m sorry, Sifu,” she said. “I have a question for Sensei Jon.” I could see her blushing slightly and I stepped away from them. “Sensei Jon, would you like to join me and some friends tonight? We’re going to the Mount Vernon Tavern at about midnight?

      He smiled a smile that I knew could melt a coed’s inhibitions. “Sure. I have no plans. Thanks, Angie. 12:00.”

      Angie beamed back, bouncing a little on her feet, then turned and headed back to the exit.

      I turned to Jon: “What happened to Evy?” She was another coed Jon had met several months ago and had been hanging out with.

      “We’ve gone our separate ways…she’s off to her life and I’m off to mine.”

      I just looked at him.

      “It was a mutual parting.”

      “So, when did this happen?”

      “A few weeks ago.”

      “Where was I?” I asked, wondering how I could have missed that.

      Jon just shrugged. “I gotta keep moving, ya know.” He bobbed and weaved.

      I shook my head and headed back into the office. “Be careful with Angie, Grasshopper. Teaching friends and lovers is very dangerous.”

      “You’ve told me. You speak from experience, Old Man?”

      “I do, sonny. But that’s another lesson.” I plopped back down in my desk chair. “Meanwhile, I’ve been thinking about changing the class schedule.”

      He raised his eyebrows.

      “I’m considering not having classes on Saturdays.”

      “Oh?”

      “Yeah. Just an idea that’s been gestating. You could still come here and work out, but maybe we’d just not teach.”

      After a long moment: “I think that could be cool for you. Not working on Shabbat.”

      I shrugged, like “I don’t know.”

      “Did you get this idea before or after yesterday’s visit to the synagogue?”

      “Before.” I didn’t tell him that it was part of my mental state of trying to find some peace. “Anyway, just a thought.”

      “We’d have to figure out what to do with the classes we have today.”

      I nodded.

      “Whatever you want, Master,” he bowed, making just a little fun of me. “Meanwhile, have to take off. Have a bunch of stuff to do.”

      “Be gone,” I waved him away, and Jon smiled, bowed seriously this time, and left.

      After a moment of watching the empty doorway, I looked back at the computer screen. The Google search on “Mazhar” was still up. I ignored it and went over to the filing cabinet. In a moment I had Charlie’s file in my hand. I sat at the desk and looked though his forms. On top was his Hold Harmless agreement that his dad had signed, and then under it was the application to join the dojo. His last name was Coakley. Mom’s name, April, and dad’s name, Robert. Their home address was in Towson, a suburb just north of the City. Mom’s occupation: ultrasound technician; dad’s occupation: attorney, but I knew that. His office was listed on St. Paul Street about half a mile north of the city courthouse.

      I thought about the conversation with my yellow belt’s father. I had said that Charlie should work with a partner here, not at home. The dad understood what I meant about not working with him. It was clear he was going to ignore me and continue hurting his son.

      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