Confluence. Stephen J. Gordon

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      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 hustled up from the end of the block on the right, looked neither right nor left, and went into the restaurant.

      Over the next hour and a half, I sat in my Grand Cherokee, I walked up and down the block, window-shopped, moved the car into another space, and then because I really was hungry, stopped into a corner café for a sandwich. An available table at the front window allowed a clear view of Frere Jacques’ entrance. By 7:45 I was back to window-shopping when the Coakleys emerged. There was some back and forth in front of the restaurant between Mr. and Mrs., while the kids stood to the side, looking bored. The mom half turned away, shaking her head, then everyone except Charlie’s dad returned to the car. Mr. Coakley headed off the way he had arrived from the end of the street.

      Based on Charlie’s application I knew that his father’s office was within walking distance – and that was indeed where he was going. After turning a corner, he walked into a four story renovated building at the corner of St. Paul and Pleasant Streets. Fortunately, there was a small park across the street with sufficient cover, so I could watch both the St. Paul and the Pleasant Street entrances.

      While waiting for Mr. Coakley to emerge, I thought about him hurting his son, plus the fact he didn’t seem to care. The question was how to handle it.

      The sun had already passed behind the skyscrapers, and now the orange glow from old acorn-style streetlamps illuminated the environs. While the park where I stood was well lit, there were still strong shadows, mostly caused by the leaves on ancient branches. Pedestrians came and went, as did a few joggers, but no one looked my way.

      At 9:30, Robert Coakley came out a side street doorway and walked up the block away from me. No one was around. Cars were parked on both sides of the narrow one-way road, with streetlamps reflecting off of the angled windshields.

      I closed the distance with silent, rapid, controlled footfalls. When I approached Coakley’s back, I saw he had a cell phone to his ear – he was in a heated conversation about someone showing up late for a court date. While this distraction made it easier to come up on him, I didn’t want anyone else knowing I was there. Fortunately, the attorney stopped in front of a red Lexus convertible, ended the conversation, and pulled out his keys. I was less than two feet behind him. We were completely alone on the sidewalk.

      “Put your keys back in your pocket,” I said simply.

      He spun around, half jumping up at the same time.

      “Jesus Christ! Sensei, what the hell are you doing?”

      “Put your keys back in your pocket, “ I repeated. “I want to see your hands.” I wasn’t concerned about him moving on me; I just didn’t want him hitting a panic button.

      The keys went in his jacket pocket and he showed me his hands. “What’s going on?”

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