A Brilliant Disguise

By Keith Andrews

The story is set in the South Bronx, 1976. Fifteen year old Eli Goldman wanders in a world of burned out brownstones and violent street gangs. Despised by his family and feared by the street gangs that lay claim to the streets, young Eli searches for his destiny. Years before, late one night, he catches a glimpse of that destiny when a passing car silhouettes a beautiful young girl watching him from the second floor window of a burned out brownstone. While he waits for his destiny to reveal itself, he roams the ruins of the South Bronx, hunting the feral dogs that attempted to kill him as a boy, and any other predator that would challenge his supremacy as the apex predator on the streets of the Bronx. Told by his family that the girl in the window is a demon, rather then an Angel, Eli waits alone for the truth to be revealed. Either way he knows she's coming.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483581583

Book preview

22

CHAPTER 1

In many ways he was the perfect predator. Long and lean like a yearling colt, his wide shoulders and sinewy limbs spoke of the speed and power in his young body. Despite the youthful exuberance that sometimes displayed itself there was calmness to him. His face rarely displayed his feelings, either for good or for bad. Better he thought to not reveal his intentions. It had always been that way for him, and he had never understood. Above all things he was a creature of instinct. He no more understood what drove him then he did what force drove the moon or stars that peered down on him tonight.

But he was also a boy, and now he felt the sting of betrayal stir through his soul.

He had agreed to meet his cousin Max in front of his father’s apartment on Bergan Avenue at seven o’clock to go to the Yankees game. It had seemed funny that Max would want to meet here. The apartment that he shared with his father on Bergan was almost a mile from the Stadium. In the past they had always met at Max’s father’s place in the shadow of Yankee Stadium. Max’s father, his uncle Joel, had stubbornly refused to abandon his place in the South Bronx despite the area’s slide into chaos. Where else in the world can someone walk to a Yankees game? he would ask, when questioned about his choice to remain as the fires raged throughout the Bronx.

So now young Eli Goldman watched from the other side of the dimly lit street at his father’s brightly lit second floor apartment. Outside on the curb was his grandparents gleaming new Cadillac, a dark colored ford sedan he didn’t recognize, and Uncle Joel’s old clunker. The old clunker was the only car that made sense on the deserted dark street, and that’s why his uncle refused to buy a new car even though he could afford to drive anything he chose. It looked like it belonged here, and as such was unlikely to draw unwanted attention from the thieves and vandals that roamed the area. Uncle Joel was smart, too smart. Eli was certain that he had put Max up to luring him home for whatever purpose his grandparents had planned for him.

The noise from the traffic on 149th Street carried down the trash strewn side street as young Eli tried to figure out the purpose of drawing him here. Why did his family want him here, and why at this particular time? And why were his grandparents here, a family meeting maybe? He shook his head, not likely that he would be invited to a family meeting. No one cared what he thought. No, it was something else. It was something that they planned to do… to him. Yeah, that’s it. He felt his jaw slow down its rhythmic motion of the gum that he constantly chewed. Of course he could not know the particulars, but that was unimportant. Maybe the dark sedan belonged to a cop that came to lock him up for truancy. That could be it; he hadn’t gone to school in over three years now. Not that anyone gave a crap about his education, if they were putting the cops on him it was purely paybacks. His grandparents hated him and they controlled the family. It was paybacks for sure, but why now? He’d had little to no contact with them for a few years now. He knew that didn’t matter though. They, like the rest of his family, were cowards. And cowards could wait a long time to act.

Huh, Eli muttered, as he stepped into the street. He felt relaxed now that he had let his instincts guide him. They were the same instincts that caused him to be an hour late to meet with Max to attend a, ‘Yankee Game.’

Yankeegame my ass. Sorry I missed that but I won’t be attending tonight.

Eli Goldman walked casually across Bergan and reached under his denim jacket, grabbing the thin hickory shaft that hung at his side. With a sharp pull he heard the rasping sound as the Velcro strap gave way to the pressure. He felt the twelve ounce steel ball bearing attached to the top of the hickory shaft slide down his side and swing free. It was time to let the boom out. He walked to the new Cadillac and swung the boom, first the taillights, then the headlights, then the side windows. He moved slowly and deliberately around the expensive car letting the boom do its work. He saw a shadow approach from his dad’s second floor apartment. He stepped away from the car and stood close to the deteriorating brownstone, to close to be seen from above. Besides, looking from the light of the apartment into the dark of the street below was impossible. Young Eli knew that, just like he knew many things. When the shadow above moved away he stepped up the car for one last swing of the boom. The windshield shattered into a million sparkling gems that glittered in the light from above.

You don’t belong here, not you or your fancy car. Don’t come down here again. Consider this a warning.

Satisfied that he had made his displeasure known, Eli Goldman turned abruptly and headed south toward the lights and sounds of 149th Street.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Jack Welker had heard enough. For the past hour the people gathered around the dining room table had filled him in on young Eli Goldman’s short history. Most of the talking was done by the grandparents, George and Connie Siegal. He had gathered quickly that there was no love lost for the wayward boy. His mother, the Siegal’s only daughter, had died bringing little Eli into the world. A tragedy to be certain, but the old couple seemed to suggest that the boy was somehow to blame for the misfortune of their daughter. While in a way that might be true, sometimes child delivery could be tricky, they seemed to hint at something darker, more intentional. The boy had arrived silently into the world fifteen years ago, and remained silent for most of his life. At an early age he had sought out the streets, and despite the efforts of all involved had never really returned to his family. Sure, he may come home to sleep or eat, but that was about it. At eleven years of age the boy had been the victim of a horrible dog attack that had left him in the hospital for nearly two months while the doctors and nurses stitched his ravaged young body back together. It had taken over six hundred stitches to put him back together. His grandmother dismissed the whole episode with a he shouldn’t have been there. If he’d been home where he belonged it wouldn’t have happened. The old woman seemed to contain the strongest dislike for young Eli. To Jack Welker her dislike verged on hatred. At any rate, the boy had stopped going to school after the attack and never returned. What he had been up to over the last four years was a mystery to the adults at the table. Only the boy, Max, had any real knowledge of Eli’s activities since the dog attack. If young Max Siegal was to be believed, Eli had become a bit of an urban legend in the South Bronx. Young Eli Goldman was everywhere and nowhere. He wasn’t a gang member, but was given free rein to travel through the streets and alleyways of the city. People either liked him or were afraid of him, or both. For revenge of the dog attack years ago Eli had fashioned something he called the boom. A wicked little steel ball bearing on the end of an eighteen-inch-long hickory shaft the he could wield with deadly precision. According to Max Siegal, Eli had killed hundreds of the feral dogs that roamed the streets of the South Bronx. Yes, that and more. Yes, he was sure that Eli had used the boom on more than just dogs. Yes, he sure that he’d used it on people also, but never without provocation. Max had insisted on that. Eli had never started any confrontation. But yes, Eli would more than happily oblige anyone or anything that sought to confront him. Yes, he would be happy to do that.

But none of that made any difference to Jack Welker. If the plan had worked out he should have young Eli Goldman in his custody right now, and on his way back to The Fordham Military Academy. But it hadn’t, so the last hour had been spent seeking clues to the boy whereabouts. Nothing he had heard would help him find the boy, and unless he delivered young Eli to Fordham he wasn’t getting paid. That was the deal. For all its high sounding name, The Fordham Academy, was little than a maximum security prison for wayward rich kids whose wealthy parents could afford the exorbitant tuition. What the school promised in return for that tuition was a changed child or teen, obedient, docile, and compliment. All that was necessary was money, and a release, signing custody of the child or teen over to Fordham. Jack Welker knew that the brutality of the school’s methods was well known to those seeking a solution to their problem. He even reckoned that maybe that was the schools biggest selling point. After all, a parent could only be expected to take so much. Fordham Academy was, in a way, paybacks to the little bastards. And paybacks are never cheap.

Hell, if the job was easy anyone could do it.

The boy wasn’t coming he thought, so let’s get the paperwork out of the way. So Mr. Goldman, as the father of Eli Goldman I’ll need you to sign some papers authorizing me to take custody of one Eli Goldman, at which time he will be transported to The Fordham Military Academy for Boys. You will also need to sign temporary custody over to the Fordham Academy, allowing them to administer all educational, housing, and discipline as needed to accomplish the re-rehabilitation of your son Eli. Do you agree to this? Jack Welker asked, pushing the stack of papers toward the tired looking man across the table.

I don’t know… I’m not sure what I should do, Jerry Goldman answered, looking at the papers sitting on the table in front of him.

Jerry! Connie Siegal’s sharp voice jarred him. We’ve talked about this. You know we can’t allow that boy to continue doing what he’s doing. You know as well as me he’ll end up killing someone else if we do nothing!

Mom, Eli hasn’t killed anyone, Joel Siegal answered for his brother in law.

Yes he has, Connie Siegal hissed at her son.

Enough, Jerry Goldman said quietly, mom’s right, Eli can’t keep going this way Joel. You know that, I know that, and god knows that. He pulled the stack of papers to him and began singing wearily.

You’re doing the right thing Mr. Goldman, Jack Welker assured him. He thought he heard something outside and got up from the table as the boy’s father signed the documents that would give the Fordham Academy ownership of his son for the next three years. He hoped the kid was as tough as these people made him out to be. He would need to be. He walked to the window and looked out. He saw nothing in the darkness below. His car parked on the street below worried him. The thought of something happening to it and having to take the subway out of the Bronx worried him even more. He should have been gone from this place an hour ago. He cupped his hand over his eyes and just barely made out his car parked behind the Cadillac on the street below. He saw the cars and nothing else. This place spooked him, and that was saying something. Jack Welker was a product of the United States Marine Corp. He had seen battle in Korea, served as a military officer in Vietnam, and done a six-year stint as a police officer in Chicago. He had, over the course of his career, developed a bit of a reputation for being cruel and heavy handed. His career as a cop in Chicago came to an abrupt end when a couple of teenagers accused him turning a routine traffic stop into a sadistic attack on the young girl as the boy sat in his patrol car watching. The girl had had it coming, smart mouth little spoiled bitch. But he had miscalculated her parent’s anger and political pull. In the end he was lucky to have lost only his job. The powers that be within the Chicago Police Department protected him from prison, not because they gave a shit about him, but because his actions would reflect poorly on them as a whole. That was the way it worked.

The offer from the Fordham Academy had been a godsend, and for the last six years he had done the dirty job of picking up what he called the little bastards. But that was usually in good neighborhoods, where a man felt safe doing his work. This place reminded him of the photos he had seen of bombed out cities after World War Two. Hell, it reminded him of Hiroshima after they dropped the big bomb. It was freaking unbelievable.

When Mr. Goldman had finished signing the commitment papers he did a quick review of the signatures. It was all perfectly legal, guardian, witness, and of course his. He filed the papers neatly in his briefcase. Nothing left to do but find the little bastard. That was his expertise after all, finding the scared little bastards. This was going to be a tough one though. He was going to need a place to start. Mr. Siegal, I’d like to ask Max a few questions before I go. Do you mind? Jack Welker asked. Joel Siegal shrugged. Good, let’s see what the boy knows, Max, tell me where Eli is.

I don’t know.

Yes you do.

I already told you I don’t know.

Did you warn Eli about this meeting today?

No! I did like my dad said. I invited him to the game tonight. He said he was going to meet me here at seven o’clock.

But he’s not here. How do you explain that?

I don’t know Mr. Welker.

I think you do.

Grandma and Granddad Siegal were now giving young Max the evil eye. They were paying for little Eli’s exodus from the Bronx, and his three-year journey into the wilderness of up-state New Hampshire. The cost of such an adventure to the Fordham School for troubled boys was astronomical. And the price was about to go up if the family couldn’t help him locate Eli Goldman. Max looked close to tears as he bent under his grandparent’s gaze.

I can’t! I did what my dad asked, that’s all. If Eli knew he’d kill me! Max pleaded.

Okay, that’s enough Mr. Welker. It’s your damn job to find Eli. If you people want to continue this bullshit with Eli, then leave Max out of it. Joel Siegal said, and then turned his gaze on his parents, I love you guys, but this isn’t right. You reaped what you sowed and now you’re scared, but you leave my son out of it. Do you understand me?

Don’t speak to me that way Joel, I’m your mother, Mrs. Siegal shot back.

Now dear, the older Siegal broke in before things got out of hand, don’t get yourself all worked up. He turned to Jack Welker, Mr. Welker, let me remind you that I have an agreement with the people at Fordham that you would be responsible for finding the boy. The boy’s tuition is paid in full for the next three years, starting on Monday. Today is Thursday. If that boy isn’t sitting at his desk, at Fordham, on Monday, I expect a refund for all goods and services until such time he does sit at that desk. Now the people there tell me you are very good at what you do, so I suggest you quit wasting time and go do it.

Jack Welker felt a flash of anger, and quickly pushed it away. He hated rich people and their miserable spoiled spawn, but it wouldn’t do to have them know that. It wouldn’t do at all. Instead he stood up and smiled, Yes sir, I’ll find him.

The elder Siegal smiled back at him without rising from his seat, good for you young man.

Jack Welker left the apartment without a single offer of a handshake from the family. Part of the job he thought. Besides, he was well paid, he didn’t need any gratitude.

On the street below he suddenly smiled. The gleaming new Cadillac Seville with the shattered headlights, windows, and windshield, calmed to his concerns about finding young Eli. The boy was reckless. Better yet, he was close.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Eli waited for a break in the traffic on 149th Street, spotted his opening, and loped across the four lanes of traffic. Horns blared angrily at his sudden encroachment. On the other side of the street he turned right toward Third Avenue. It was eight o’clock at night and the foot traffic along 149th and Third Avenue was at its peak. The sidewalks were jammed with shoppers and commuters entering and exiting the El overhead. The rumbling of the elevated subway train passing overhead momentarily drowned out the street noise below. Eli snaked his way through the crowd and emerged on Third Avenue. Without any real destination in mind he started south toward 138th Street. He hadn’t visited with Tiko Gomez in a few days. Maybe the Ghetto Boys had something going on tonight, maybe even a party? Maybe Lettie Suarez would be there? Never know unless you go. So he went.

EEEEllliii! a voice called out from the crowded sidewalk. He looked around and spotted the group of teens wearing sleeveless denim jackets with large letters on the back proclaiming them as the Third Avenue Reapers. A tall, black, slender, youth was waving him over.

What it be like Dion? Eli called out, walking toward the group.

Where are you going in such a hurry brother? Dion asked. Is it the exodus from the land of the Pharaohs? he added. The group of teens wearing the Reaper vests laughed at Dion’s humor.

No, I was going to see your little sister. I heard she was giving it away, and I’m in the mood for some dark meat, Eli answerer. The group of teens whooped loudly.

Hey bro, white, black, don’t matter, it’s all pink on the inside. You dig my brother? Dion slapped hands with his boys, Yeah! Am I right?

Damn Dion, you been looking at your sister’s pussy? I thought only the crackers in Georgia did that shit, Eli grinned back. The group of young tuffs howled.

Damn little brother, don’t be telling on me now, Dion said conspiratorially. Dion had three brothers and no sisters. Anyway, let me ask you something, he said, dropping an arm over Eli’s shoulder and leading him a few steps away from the group, you got anything for a brother? I’m a little tapped out, but you know I’m solid right?

Eli looked into the tall slender youth’s eyes. He knew Dion and his boy’s weren’t tapped out, and if they were some poor smuck getting off the El would be in some serious trouble. No, he was showing off for his guys. Eli understood that, even appreciated it. Sure Dion, he said, reaching into the inside pocket of his denim jacket. He saw the slender black youth move back. What? Eli asked, producing a small zip-lock bag of white rocky powder cocaine. He extended the bag toward Dion, here, take it.

You know I’m just playing brother, Dion said, looking at the tip of the hickory shaft protruding from under Eli’s jacket, but I do appreciate it, he smiled, taking the small clear bag.

Anything for a brother, Eli answered.

Hey little brother, hang with us for a while. We’ll kick it, you know, go back to the club… a couple girls. You dig? It’s all pink brother, Dion proclaimed loudly.

Yeah… no look, I got to go see Tiko, Eli answered. He really would like to stay and party with the Reapers, but not tonight. The sting of his cousin’s betrayal was still there, gnawing at that little spot in his brain. He’d have to keep moving till the gnawing stopped. He started to turn and head back toward 138th and suddenly stopped.

Little prick.

Hey Dion, you know my cousin Max right, Max Siegal? He used to hang with me sometimes, you remember him? Eli asked, walking back to the slender black youth.

Yeah sure, little punk fagot, acts like he’s somebody, Dion nodded.

Yeah, that’s him, Eli almost smiled at Dion’s appraisal of his cousin. Max got to act like he was someone because Eli had always protected him. It was time his cousin learned that harsh truth. He reached into his denim jacket and pulled out another half eight of coke and stuck it into Dion’s jacket pocket. Do me a favor okay?

Anything for a brother, Dion smiled, reaching into his pocket and feeling the packet of coke. All rock, very nice my brother.

My cousin catches the train up near 162nd Street, the Melrose Station. You know where it’s at?

Yeah brother, I get around, Dion answered.

You guys are gonna be kicking it all night anyway, maybe you can take the guys up there tomorrow morning, say around seven-thirty, and put a little something on him.

Damn brother, trouble in Jew-Jew land? Dion asked.

I ain’t a freaking Jew, Eli answered calmly.

So what the fuck are you Eli? Dion asked, smiling broadly.

I ain’t nothing bro, absolutely fucking nothing, Eli answered flatly, taking a small step toward Dion. The move didn’t go unnoticed by the tall black teenager, who instinctively moved away from young Eli.

Just messin brother, it doesn’t mean nothing, Dion said, holding his hands high, don’t want no trouble, it’s just the word on the street is that you protect the boy, that’s all.

Ancient history bro, Eli answered.

I can dig it, Dion nodded, and fell into thought for a moment. Okay, how bad? he asked.

Eli thought for a moment before answering the question, and decided on the answer. Beat his ass into the fucking street, he answered. Dion stared back for a moment, before finally smiling and giving Eli a wink.

You’ll be able to feel his pain my brother, Dion said seriously.

No, I ain’t going to feel shit, Eli answered.

You a hard man Eli Goldman, Dion said, nodding his head.

Eli thought about that for a second before answering. He grabbed his crotch and grinned. That’s why I’m going to see your sister bro, Eli said, before he turned and walked away. As he walked south on Third Avenue toward 138th Street he didn’t think about his Cousin Max’s date with the Reapers tomorrow morning, but instead he thought about girls. At 143rd Street he turned into the ruins that made up the majority of South Bronx. Street upon street of burned out and abandoned brownstones, piles of rubble where buildings once stood, abandoned and stripped out cars lined the streets and empty trash strewn lots. This had been his playground all his young life.

Years ago when he was eleven or twelve, he didn’t really remember his age, but it was after the dog attack, he had seen the Angel here. His scars, to the amazement of the doctors and nurses, had already begun to fade. Five or six hundred stitches to put him back together and all sign of the attack had virtually faded into memory. No one could explain it, and he never even thought about it. Instead he had fashioned his boom from a store bought hickory shaft and twelve once steel ball bearing. The ball bearing had a three quarter hole in the middle, he had no idea of its original purpose, and it had been a simple matter to fit the round metal sphere to the wooden shaft. Then he had gone hunting.

One night deep into the ruins he had seen her. A car had suddenly appeared out of a dark side street and illuminated the second floor opening of a burned out five story brownstone. In the empty opening, where a window had once been, a small figure stared down at him on the street below. Their eyes had met for a brief second as the beams from the passing car shined on the second floor opening. Only for an instant, but he had seen her. He’d seen a beautiful young girl with glowing brown hair that seemed to dance in the night breeze. She was an Angel; she was his Angel.

Over the years he had felt her there with him in the ruins. Sometimes deep into the night he would catch a glimpse of movement inside one of the burned out and abandoned buildings between 149th and 138th Street. Sometimes he would hear the soft sound of a young girl’s giggle, like the tinkling of broken glass, and he knew she was there.

And while he waited for her to finally reveal herself he hunted the feral dogs of the South Bronx. Over the years, one by one, he had decimated their population to the point where it became difficult to find his prey. But he continued to search for whatever remained. Tonight he