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  Lost Friday

  by

  Michael Bronte

  Copyright ©: Michael Bronte

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  To Peter, who hatched the idea

  Chapter ... PROLOGUE

  His headlights reflected off a cloud of cold predawn dew hovering over the landscape. The days were definitely getting shorter, thought Roy, noting that the sun seemed to be having trouble getting up this morning. Before long, the vacation bungalows would be shut up tight, and even on weekends there would be nary a tanned tourist in sight. He pulled into the Wawa and went inside, plunking down a buck for his twenty-ounce morning decaf. For everyone else a twenty-ounce coffee was a buck-sixteen, but he and the store’s owner had been fishing buddies since grade school and Norm always cut him a sixteen-cent break on the coffee. Ah, the many perks of being Chief of Police.

  “Mornin’, Norm. How are the stripers running?”

  “Heard they brought in a forty-pounder off the surf yesterday.”

  Roy took a moment. A forty-pounder was worth checking into. “Where’d it come in?”

  “Southern tip of the park, somewhere around mile marker fifteen, I think. You working tomorrow?”

  Roy knew exactly what Norm was thinking. “Nope. Got the weekend off. You?”

  Indicating the elegant surroundings of his convenience store, Norm said, “Hey, I’m an independent businessman. I can take off whenever I want. You wanna give it a whirl?”

  “Wouldn’t mind a bit,” Roy said. “I haven’t cast a line since spring. Just need to clear it with the missus in case I made other plans.”

  Norm smiled. “Tell the old ball-and-chain I said hello.” With that, he hoisted a bundle of newspapers to the counter. He cut the plastic tie and pulled one out, opening it to the fishing page in the sports section. “Let’s see, says here high tide is just before seven. We’ll have to get there early.”

  “Not a problem,” Roy said, suddenly aware that he was the only one in the store. He looked at his watch. It was almost six, and, knowing that on most days it seemed as if every construction worker on the Jersey Shore stopped by Norm’s convenience store for his morning coffee and pork roll sandwich, he asked, “Kind of slow this morning, ain’t it?”

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Norm replied. “Something special happening around town?”

  Roy shot a gaze through the plate glass windows, noting that the sun was finally peeking over the tree line and burning a gray-blue streak on the horizon. “Not that I know of,” he said just as a couple of pickups pulled up. “Here they come now, Norm. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Gimme a buzz on the cell phone,” Norm said, putting the newspaper back on the stack. “I’ll be out and about.” Roy stepped away from the counter just as Norm added, “That’s strange.”

  “What’s strange?”

  “They got a misprint in the paper. See the date? It’s for tomorrow.” Norm’s eyes floated up to meet Roy’s. “Today is Friday, isn’t it?”

  “As far as I know.” Roy checked the date on his watch. Coincidently, it read 25, the date for Saturday, September 25th, not Friday, September 24th. Odd, he thought. His watch was wrong too. “I’ll call you later,” he said abruptly, realizing now that he needed to get to the station.

  “Call me on the cell phone,” Norm yelled again as Roy pushed through the door.

  Roy ticked off a backhanded wave and fired up his old F-150 pickup. Clanking along Ocean Avenue, he thought: a forty-pounder. That must have been some battle, especially off the surf. Wonder what they caught it on. Clam snouts, probably. Couldn’t go wrong with clam snouts. He hung a left onto Center Street, which was also Route 9, noting that the blue-gray streak on the horizon was turning into an orange glow. Looked like it might turn into a hot one for late September. He pushed on the accelerator and popped through the light where Center Street crossed over the Garden State Parkway. Two minutes later, he pulled in to his private parking spot behind the Boro of Sea Beach Police Station, the building that had been his home-away-from-home for the last thirty years. Roy moved quickly, knowing that Johnson would want to hightail it home to Tuckerton before his wife left for work. Newlyweds were like that. Sure enough, Johnson was just putting the finishing touches on his shift log as Roy walked in.

  “Mornin’, Chief. Thought I heard you pull in. Mind if I skedaddle?”

  “No, you go ahead. Collins will probably be his usual fifteen minutes late. Everything all right?”

  “Everything is fine. We haven’t had a call all night. Amazing how quiet it gets with all the summer folks gone.”

  “Peace and quiet,” Roy said. “Just the way I like it.” He set down his coffee, woke up his computer, and immediately dipped into his email. “What time are the state boys due in?”

  “What state boys?” Johnson replied as he shrugged into his windbreaker.

  Roy looked up. “The state boys, you know: the prisoner transfer? Hello?” Roy shot a thumb over his shoulder at the thick steel door that opened to the holding cells.

  Johnson’s eyebrows knitted themselves into a tight line. “What prisoner transfer, Chief? We don’t have anybody back there.”

  Roy felt a chill up his spine. “What do you mean, we don’t have anybody back there?”

  “I don’t mean to be a smart-ass, Chief, but what the heck are you talking about?”

  Roy’s chill turned colder as he bolted from his chair. Putting his nose to the viewing window, he observed quite clearly that Johnson wasn’t yanking his chain. “There were three prisoners in there when I went home last night, Johnson. Where’d they go?” Johnson was looking at him sideways.

  “Chief, there ain’t nobody been back there since I came in. You can ask DiNardo if you like. He should be coming in off patrol any minute.”

  Maybe he’d lost it, thought Roy. He took a seat and actually pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. There were three prisoners back there, all of them being trucked up from somewhere in the Carolinas to stand trial in Jersey City. “Johnson, who was here when you reported in last night?”

  “O’Malley was on dispatch when I came in.”

  Roy shot a glance at the duty roster posted on the large whiteboard on the wall. “O’Malley wasn’t on last night. O’Malley is on tonight.”

  “I know what O’Malley looks like, Chief. She was on last night, and she didn’t brief me on no prisoner transfer.”

  His anxiety sizzling, Roy walked up to the duty roster and pounded a thick index finger onto O’Malley’s name. “O’Malley is scheduled for tonight, Johnson. Keller should have been on dispatch last night, and I want to know why he didn’t brief you on the prisoner transfer. Hell, I want to know what happened to those goddamned prisoners!”

  “Chief, Keller was on dispatch Thursday night. Last night was Friday, and O’Malley was on, just like the schedule says.”

  Friday? Roy looked at his watch again, noting the date once more. The newspaper: he remembered Norm’s comment about the misprint. “Johnson? What day is it?”

  Johnson dropped a look that needed no explanation. “Today is Saturday, Chief, September 25th. Are you okay, Chief?”

  Knees rubbery, Roy walked back to his desk. He checked the date on his computer. It read Saturday the 25th. What happened to Friday the 24th, and what happened to the three prisoners who were in those holding cells?

  * * * * *

  Bank president Ben McDermo
tt whistled out the door, singing, “I’m late, I’m late—for a very important date.” Dropping his travel mug into the cup holder, he wheeled his Dodge minivan out of the driveway, and pulled in to the employee parking area outside the Sea Beach Community Bank with two minutes to spare. He prided himself on being the example of punctuality at the bank. Inside, still singing, “I’m late, I’m late—for a very important date,” he stopped dead in his tracks as his branch manager rushed towards him, her features twisted in distress.

  “Mister McDermott, I see you got my message. This way.”

  Hesitating, noticing Louise’s two tellers standing nervously outside the tellers’ cages, “What message?” McDermott asked.

  “Well, I know you normally don’t come in on Saturday, so I called your house. Your wife said you were already on your way in, and I asked her to call you on your cell phone with the news.”

  McDermott touched his hip, realizing that, in his rush, he’d forgotten his cell phone. Suddenly, the words hit him. “Today is Friday, Louise, and what news?”

  Louise’s hands were shaking, and her gaze caught him flush on. “Today is Saturday, Mister McDermott, and the back vault is completely empty. You need to come with me.”

  * * * * *

  Must be a hell of a traffic jam somewhere, Coach Lucas thought as he pulled into his parking space. Only about half the teachers’ spaces were occupied. Tucking his playbook under his arm, he grabbed his lunch bag and trotted across the lot to the teachers’ entrance adjacent to the gym. Vice Principal Morgantheau was already moving down the corridor toward him, her large body quivering as her heels pounded the gleaming tile floor outside his office.

  “Brian, I was just coming to see you.”

  “Margaret, you look upset. Is everything all right?”

  “Upset doesn’t even come close, Coach. Over half the teachers haven’t come in, and we haven’t heard a word from any of them. We’re canceling all the phys-ed classes this morning, and I need you to cover one of the home rooms and a couple of study halls until we figure out what this is all about.”

  “Sure, no problem. I noticed all the empty parking spaces. Is anybody calling to see what the hell is going on?”

  “We just started,” Morgantheau responded. Just then, the walkie-talkie on her hip went off. “Yes,” she snapped.

  Lucas listened attentively. “Ms. Morgantheau, this is Freeda in admin. Have you been to your office yet?”

  Raising her eyes, Morgantheau said, “No, why?”

  Lucas shook his head, indicating he hadn’t made it to his office either, which was only a few feet away.

  “We just switched the phones off night mode, and there must be a hundred messages here asking about yesterday.”

  “What about yesterday?” Morgantheau shot back. “Did we miss a teachers’ conference or something?” Her face softened and she made a waving motion.

  Ah, Lucas surmised along with her. That was it: another screw up, but he didn’t recall there being any teachers’ conference scheduled yesterday, or today either.

  “No, nothing like that,” Freeda crackled back. “Evidently the school was closed yesterday.”

  “The school wasn’t closed. I was here. You were here too. What are you talking about, Freeda?”

  “I’m only relaying what the messages say,” Freeda replied. “They say none of the students showed up, Mrs. Morgantheau, and none of the teachers who live in town showed up either. I’m starting to think I’m crazy.”

  Morgantheau said, “This has to be some sort of prank.”

  Lucas flashed a time-out sign and asked, “Does that mean that the teachers who live outside Sea Beach showed up?”

  Morgantheau posed the question, and added, “Freeda, the teachers who are here today, do they live in town, or out of town?”

  Freeda paused. “Now that you mention it, I think that everyone who’s here today lives in town.”

  Morgantheau clicked off. “Coach, can I use your computer?”

  “Of course,” Lucas replied, pulling his keys. Inside, the locker room smelled like liniment, and rolls of athletic tape littered the floor. He kicked the tape aside, and pulled up a chair for Morgantheau in his office. Pushing a button on his computer, he said, “It’ll be a minute. This machine is as slow as molasses.”

  “Don’t let me hold you up from anything you need to do to get ready for that homeroom coverage, Coach. There’s bound to be an explanation for all this in my e-mail.”

  Lucas gave her a weak smile as he set down his play book and picked up his laminated cheat-sheet, as he called it: his double-sided list of plays, highlighted in various colors. He figured he could map out the game plan for tonight’s game against Barnegat while he was covering the study halls. He noted his message light blinking and figured he’d check his voice mail while Morgantheau tried to figure things out. There had to be a rational explanation. He punched up the first message, and the blood drained from his face.

  Seeing his expression, Morgantheau said, “Is everything all right, Coach?”

  Lucas felt like his veins were buzzing. “I’m not sure yet,” he said, catching Morgantheau’s look. “Am I dreaming too, or were we supposed to play Barnegat tonight?”

  “Of course, Coach. We have a pep rally scheduled for this afternoon.”

  “From what I just heard, the game was last night—and we forfeited.”

  “Forfeited? How could we have forfeited?”

  “Evidently, we never showed up.”

  Chapter 1… Lost Friday

  I opened my eyes, and the light stabbed through like a rusty sword. Damn, I thought, I hadn’t felt that bad since my college days. I staggered into the bathroom and took one look at myself, figuring I must have had one hell of a time. I vaguely remembered stuffing a dollar bill into a g-string that was way smaller than the dollar; I also remembered it might have been my last dollar until payday. Yessiree, that was some bachelor party we threw for old Murph. I wondered how he’d feel at the wedding. The wedding! I needed to pick up my tuxedo by noon. What the hell time was it?

  I re-staggered into the bedroom and saw that I had plenty of time. Thank God for small favors, my mother always said. The wedding was an evening affair, with the ceremony around five, and the reception about forty minutes away on Long Beach Island. I had some time to recuperate. I laid back down and closed my eyes, pleased that I’d had to foresight to know I’d be feeling like crap after the bachelor party, and, as such, had arranged to go in late to work. I didn’t have any deadlines and, to my editor’s delight, all my features were in on time for a change. Basically, I figured I’d mosey in and jack around with my e-mail for a while, then leave early to make up for going in late.

  I was just lying there waiting for the swirlies to go away, when I thought about the time again. The clock showed that it was just after eight, which meant I’d only gotten about four hours sleep, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that the digital readout, which showed the day-and-date along with the time, read SAT for Saturday, not FRI for Friday, and the date read 25, not 24. I knew I was probably not entirely sober yet, but I didn’t think I was still so buzzed that I couldn’t read the freakin’ clock correctly. Painfully, I swung another look. Right: SAT and 25, not FRI and 24. Okay, someone was screwing with me. Somehow, some way, one of those jackass friends of mine had gotten in to my apartment and messed around with the clock just to frost my doo-dads. Well it worked. I closed my eyes again and tried to catch a few z’s, but the time thing gnawed on me, and when something gnaws on me I’ve got to get to the bottom of it. It’s what makes me such a damned good reporter—which my editor would never admit, of course. Anyway, I knew the z’s would evade me until I solved this little conundrum. I turned—damn, my head hurt—and grabbed the remote off the nightstand, flipping on the little fourteen-inch TV I’d had since my college days. Cartoons. Since when did they run cartoons on a network station on a Friday morni
ng? Where were Matt and Meredith? Inside my brain, I went, “Oh-oh.”

  I stood up and scratched said doo-dads, denying there was any possibility that I’d slept through an entire day and completely missed the wedding. The pain in my head suddenly took a back seat to the pain in my heart, which had sunk into my stomach and lay there like a manhole cover. I was supposed to have been Murph’s best man. There had to be some other explanation. I shuffled to the front door and opened it. Sure enough, there lay a copy of the Asbury Park Press, along with a copy of the New York Times. I got the Asbury Park Press because I worked there and it was free. I got the Times because I wanted to keep up on what the no-talent hacks there were writing. I almost didn’t dare to pick up either of them. When I did, I compared the date on both papers, and they were the same: Saturday, September 25th. Wait a minute. My story on the new Pinelands antidevelopment regulations was supposed to run on Saturday. I quickly turned to page two in the Press and there it was: Is Zero Development Really The Answer? by Johnny Pappas. Jesus H. Christ, I thought. I’d been asleep for an entire day, and I had completely missed the wedding? Really? Murph was gonna be pissed.

  * * * * *

  I got over the urge to crawl into a corner and die, and decided to go down to the diner and get something into my stomach. I didn’t take my cell phone with me, figuring any calls about my well-being would quickly deteriorate into attacks on my character once the caller found out I wasn’t dead. I couldn’t blame anyone, really. I was even down on myself.