Plan C by Lois Cahall Read Free Book Online

$1,000-a-head ticket price. Henry was known for his fundraisers. He was also known for the pages they filled in
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Magazine and “Palm Beach Today,” a website that even toots “click here to see 6,000 + society event photos” - because in Palm Beach, sadly, there are that many.
    But what Henry didn’t know was that nearby, in a beat-up Chrysler, with windows down and watching like a hawk, was a gang leader who was certain that the event would raise more than just money. You see, to get initiated into this particular gang, a young thug would be handed a pistol and sent to a big-bucks party to pull the trigger on some random victim – shooting but not killing him. “If you shoot ‘em in theknees or the gut, they gonna live,” is how the gang leader explained it to the trigger-happy teen nicknamed “L’il Freaky.” ‘And then you in the gang. That’s the game.” Freaky examined the weapon that lay silently in his right palm, turning it left and right, and admiring it like a fine piece of china in the Bridal Registry at Bergdorfs. L’il Freaky was seventeen but could easily pass for twelve. The gang leader could sense his inability to stay in control and said, “Don’t you go shooting no white dude in the heart, you hear?” L’il Freaky nodded. “Or you do, you gonna be doin’ hard time.”
    The five gang members slammed their car doors in synch and crossed the street with purpose into the well-lit yard of the mansion. They ran up the plank onto the yacht out back, pushing forcefully past guests, knocking into hysterical women who clutched frantically at the pearl and diamond necklaces on their leathery, tanned necks, certain this was a robbery.
    That’s when something clicked in L’il Freaky’s head. He knew who would be his initiation target. It was Henry who moved in toward L’il Freaky, his hands out in front of his chest, in a gesture that meant, “Please don’t.”
    L’il Freaky began twitching and pointing the shaky gun at Henry.
    “What is it you want?” asked Henry cautiously. “Money? I can give you money. Food?” Henry stepped in a little closer to the teen and begged, “Just don’t hurt any of these ladies. They’re….”
    The gun exploded three times. One shot missed, but the other two pierced straight into Henry’s stomach. Blood began to ooze from his side. A distinguished man in a Navy pinstripe suit stepped forward and dropped to his knees. “I’m a doctor,” he announced as he ripped open Henry’s blood soaked shirt, while somebody screamed out “Call 911!” Asthe doctor bent over Henry to help him, another thug grabbed a bottle of vodka from the catering table and slammed the glass contents over the doctor’s head.
    Later, the town’s stories differed but they went something like this: the ambulance arrived; then the cops, and even the firemen, but the thugs had long-since split, not even leaving tire tracks for the detective’s investigation. Henry and the Doctor were taken away on stretchers as party goers looked on, shaking their heads and consoling one another. It was the biggest event to happen since Trump turned Mar-a-Lago into a country club.
    Henry spent the next week in intensive care with Bebe crying and praying at his side. He was finally released from the hospital three weeks later, only to find himself in and out of the emergency room for six more months, his blocked intestines failing to function on their own, so the doctors kept having to cut another inch. Every snip represented a piece of Bebe’s broken heart and a realization that life for them would never be the same.
    We later learned from the police investigator that gang shooters opt for the stomach because, as their leader put it, “the dude lives, man, but you fuck ‘em up for good.” And fuck ‘em up for good he did. By the seventh month, Henry had changed not only physically but emotionally. He was angry at the world, now staring for long hours out the window from his tobacco-colored