Black Basketball Jerseys, Chapter 1
Clayton Beaux struggled to look out the window from the back seat of the dark sedan. When the car lurched into a left turn, he raised his head long enough to see the towers of Chicago\'s Loop miles away. A quick right turn bounced his head against the window frame and stars exploded before his eyes. When his head cleared, he stared at rows of rundown bungalows and apartment houses on a dark city street.
Of course, he had no idea where he was or where he was going. The last thing he remembered was talking to an acquaintance in the underground parking garage of his Hyde Park condominium. Now he leaned sideways against the door of a large sedan, an expensive one judging by the cream-colored leather interior. His hands and feet bound with duct tape. A silk handkerchief, smelling slightly of cologne or perfume, stuffed in his mouth, prevented him from speaking. No attempt had been made to cover his eyes.
At a busy intersection, the sedan idled waiting for the light to change. Clayton stared out the window at a group of young black men watching the traffic flow past dirty piles of snow left behind by the city plows. One was dressed in only blue jeans and a basketball jersey against the cold. When the man looked at him, his eyes betrayed no emotion. Clayton had the feeling that both he and the car were invisible.
In a few moments, the car began moving again and the man in the jersey disappeared in a cloud of exhaust. On the opposite corner, Clayton saw a bank. The time on the sign read nine o\'clock.
Taking a deep breath, Clayton tried to clear his head and form an impression of the driver. A dark watch cap covered his head. He assumed it was a him because it was hard to fathom a woman working up the fury that had battered his body. His head felt cracked open and sealed back together with the congealed blood he could taste at Black Basketball Jerseys the corners of his mouth. With each breath, his ribs and back burned with pain.
Forcing himself to concentrate on the driver, his eyes scanned the upturned collar of a heavy wool coat. Neither the watch cap nor the coat registered in his mind as belonging to someone he knew. Confused, he tried to raise himself higher in the seat for a better look, but a sharp pain in his back forced him back against the cool leather as the car hummed along a frozen avenue.
Why was this happening? Muggings and car jacking were common in Hyde Park. Even during his days at the university, students were warned about the potential for crime in the neighborhood. Abduction was a new twist on neighborhood felonies. Though he tried, Clayton could not come up with a reason, personal or professional, for his predicament.
At least the car was warm he thought. In fact, the heat had been running nonstop since he first regained consciousness. Clayton wondered if the heat was preventing him from slipping into Black Basketball Jerseys shock. Was this what the driver intended? Were criminals cold blooded and required blasts of heat to make them think, feel?
As sweat poured down his back and chest, Clayton became aware of the smell of his body. Blood, perspiration, and fear mingled with the something else. Had he soiled himself during the attack? He closed his eyes and tried to quell the wave of nausea that washed across his body.
Focus, Clayton thought. Fighting back the bile that burned his throat, Clayton forced his eyes open. Focus and remain alert. There had to be something, some clue that would reveal to him why he was here. Something he had done that had made someone very angry?
A woman, a jealous boyfriend, a conflict at work, something had put him in the back seat of a car on a dark winter night. Never physically strong, Clayton had always relied on his intelligence to make his way through the world. Now as he fought to remain conscious, he felt his intellect, his reason, his mental foundation slipping out of his grasp. If only he could free his hands, he thought, he might be able to gather it all back together.
A sudden left turn pushed his head painfully against the corner where the backseat met the doorframe. Just as Clayton\'s breathing began to slow with the receding pain, the car eased to a stop. He blinked his eyes and tried to make sense of his surroundings. On the left side of the street sat a row of burnt out row houses. Rolling his eyes upward, he could see the dark sky and a few snowflakes that drifted down and melted against the glass of the car. The ice cold of fear began to replace the pain in his broken body.
Before he could think further, Black Basketball Jerseys the driver gunned the engine and jumped over the curb to the right. Clayton bounced into an upright position and lost consciousness. He came to when the driver opened the door and he tumbled out on to the snow-covered ground.
By now, Clayton\'s vision had narrowed. He had the sensation of looking up from the bottom of a deep well. The driver stood with his back to him, reached down, and grabbed the collar of his coat. Several attempts to drag him away from the car ended in a frustrated mumbled curse.
Now the driver turned towards him and slowly Clayton raised his eyes to meet those of his tormentor. Willing his mind to clear, he focused on the familiar features of a confidant, a mentor. The face, so gentle and kind, smiled down at him. Warmth began to spread through his body until a single gunshot cracked through the cold night air.
Edward Fadden is the grandson of Irish immigrants from Castlebar, County Mayo.
Born and raised on the South Side of Chicago, Edward Fadden, was educated in the local parochial schools.
After high school he attended and graduated from Georgia State University with a bachelor\'s degree and Shorter University with a master\'s degree. Edward has also lived in Orange County, California. Today he lives in the western suburbs of Chicago.
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