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This is the third installment of a three-part story.
Patrick Jr. sweated through the uncertain days and a vicious withdrawal from heroin in their hotel room.
Theyd just been told they were too exposed to Riquinhos surveillance where they were, so Alloccos moved hotels.
The Sana was still partly under construction, taking guests while gearing up for its grand opening.
And yet it cost some $475 per night for a room with only a single queen-size bed.
Been a long time since we shared a mattress!
said Patrick Sr., trying the lighthearted approach.
Patrick Jr. was not amused.
In their new digs, father and son were a bit of an odd couple.
Patrick Sr.s clothes were in the dresser neatly folded; Patrick Jr.s were lying in a heap.
Patrick Sr. couldnt stand how much his son was smoking.
The kid was like a chimney.
Patrick Jr. discovered his father was using his shaving cream and always leaving foam on the nozzle.
Get your own shaving cream!
Patrick Sr. couldnt understand why it mattered.
You were homeless, and you care about your shaving cream?
he said, a bit of a low blow.
In truth, Patrick Jr. didnt shave all that much.
Just rinse off the top and put the cap back on, he said.
As the days ran together, the Alloccos settled into a strange routine.
They slept at odd hours because of the time difference with the U.S.
They had breakfast at the $75 buffet, often at 3 p.m.
They watched TV, mostly in Portuguese.
But no number of pillows could drown out his fathers snoring.
You sound like a dying bear, Patrick Jr. said.
He took to social media, asking for help on a Free the Alloccos Facebook page.
He circulated a petition demanding the State Department assist in their release.
The NewarkStar-Ledgerdid a feature.
He even went on Geraldo Riveras show.
For a business hotel, there never seemed to be anyone doing any business.
It was also puzzling that Christmas music still drifted from hidden speakers throughout the facility.
Evenings were spent in the hotels lounge, bullshitting with a bartender named Joel while drinking club soda.
Patrick Jr. had thinned out by 20 pounds, and his clothes barely fit him.
What are you doing here?
Patrick Jr. told him.
The Iraqi expressed his sympathy but was unsurprised.
Its just how Angola works, he said.
Theyd been in contact since before he left for Angola.
Little did she know that he would wind up trapped halfway around the world.
Then it appeared on the local news.
Isnt that your boyfriend?
Ex-boyfriend, Rachel said, staring at the television mounted above the bar.
It was the same bar where Rachel and Patrick Jr. had met the previous spring.
Patrick Jr. was fired the next day.
A few months later, he texted Rachel out of the blue.
He was clean, he said.
Against her better judgment, Rachel went and had an instant connection.
Patrick Jr. didnt quite understand why Rachel stayed with him, especially as drugs crept back into his life.
Rachel was different from most girls hed dated.
She had gone to college.
She had her life together.
And she hoped he could do the same.
you’ve got the option to do better, shed tell him.
Patrick Jr. heard the message, but his addiction was stronger.
At times he had been shooting close to 50 bags a day.
He wont stop talking about social media, he told her.
Its driving me crazy.
But Rachel also detected warmth in Patrick Jr.s voice when he talked about his father.
After all, the two of them were spending more time together than they had in years.
Yeah, Patrick Jr. said.
It seems like we might actually be getting along.
Rachel became Patrick Jr.s emotional lifeline.
He went through the long days looking forward to their late nights on Tango.
When will you get home?
Patrick Jr. had no idea.
He said it felt like they were in some kind of strange sequel toGroundhog Day.
Were just waiting for something to happen, he said.
Chapter 12
It was a strangerelief to be formally charged.
They entered a wood-paneled conference room and sat at a horseshoe table.
At the other end was Riquinho, glaring, with an attorney.
Finally, they were at a hearing.
Theyd been in Angola for three weeks.
He entered, draped in a black robe.
We want to work something out where everybodys happy, the public prosecutor said in perfect English.
Sons of bitches, Riquinho muttered.
Riquinho accused the Alloccos of fleeing justice.
The Alloccos said theyd only done what the U.S. Embassy had suggested.
Riquinho said they were crooks, intent on defrauding him from the beginning.
The Alloccos said Riquinho had scared off Nas with his bad reputation and dodgy paperwork.
The session adjourned, and it seemed like a breakthrough.
The $300,000 was returned to Riquinho.
Of the remaining $100,000, he only had $25,000 left.
He wanted to explain this to Riquinho, but their every communication was fraught.
In another negotiation, Riquinho asked Patrick Sr. to compensate for the losses in ticket sales.
To return to the judgment, theyd have to get back in front of the public prosecutor.
But no return date had been set and it was unclear how to get a second appearance.
Riquinhos influence with the government was too strong.
The bigger problem, McMullen said later, was the nature of the government itself.
Its a patronage system, McMullen said.
All government offices are rewards for loyal party members.
McMullen was on his eighth foreign-service assignment, and he had never experienced anything quite like Angola.
In other countries, the U.S. Embassy staff have reliable counterparts for different issues trade, economics, etc.
There simply was no professional bureaucracy, and it is through bureaucracy that governments resolve conflicts.
It was an extremely opaque system, McMullen said.
Sometimes it wasnt even clear who to call at all.
Chapter 13
The daysdragged on.
Mornings became afternoons became nights became mornings.
The sun turned the port deep blue.
The city wavered in the heat.
The moon shone on the pool.
There was still no news from the embassy or any word about a second court date.
The barkeeps cleaned the glasses, listened to their new regulars troubles.
When the bartenders would ask when he was going home, hed answer: Never I live here now!
If travelers asked where the kid who always sat at the bar came from, hed say, Angola!
It always got a laugh.
But, in fact, Patrick Jr. had been here longer than anywhere else of late.
For months in New Jersey, hed been living on the streets, in shelters, and in tents.
Luanda was just another unknown place hed landed, and it was better than many of the others.
Here they were, by complete accident, on that fictional vacation.
Even if it was involuntary and indefinite.
And yet father and son were surprised to be enjoying their time together.
Their fear slid into boredom, and they learned to celebrate the small things.
They ordered room service and watched a lot of TV.
The Alloccos also started getting out of the hotel, exploring the neighborhood.
Kids on the street began to recognize them.
They got high fives and fist bumps while walking to thesupermercadoand found a stall that sold rotisserie chicken.
Patrick Jr. made friends with some of the local panhandlers, and he always gave them money.
One day, the Alloccos walked to the Church of Our Lady of Remedies, a 17th-century Catholic cathedral.
Patrick Jr. was crapped on by a bird, which he told his father he took as a sign.
What kind of sign?
The church was a colonial relic but beautiful, with a rose window and delicately painted nave.
They stood in silence at the gold altar.
Patrick Sr. thought:Junior and I havent been to church together in 15 years.
Patrick Jr. had started putting on weight again, and it felt great digging into a bowl of carbonara.
Patrick Sr. favored the salami picante 12 inch.
Ciao became an oasis.
I think this is among the best pizza Ive ever had, Patrick Sr. said.
The Alloccos roamed further.
They walked to the Marginal and strolled beneath the palms along the waterfront.
I can still smell the smoke from the cannons, he said.
Disney World was the last place theyd been on an actual vacation together, before now.
Chapter 14
The Martin Beck Theaterwas sold out for the Broadway revival ofAnnie.
It was 1997, and Patrick Sr. had gotten orchestra seats for his 8-year-old son.
Patrick Jr. told his father, mesmerized by the dogs wolfish coloring and blue eyes.
A week later, the phone rang: Nevada was theirs.
Patrick Jr. did an actual jump for joy.
A few years later, Patrick Sr. was married to Abby.
For a while, she seemed in control.
She came to school plays, joined for Patrick Jr.s first communion, got him a bunny for Easter.
Patrick Sr. knew that growing up with a troubled mother wasnt easy.
He tried to shield his son as best he could.
(Joellen says the snake thing happened at a different time of year.)
But by then she was already high.
Patrick Jr. was traumatized.
When hed have a nice normal dinner at his friends houses, he wondered why his family was different.
Even at his fathers home, Patrick Jr. felt neglected at times.
Patrick Sr.s work often made him absent.
When he wasnt traveling, he was always on the phone, preparing for a show.
Patrick Jr. could still smell the fire on it.
Patrick Sr. admits naivete about the reality of his ex-wifes addiction and his sons.
He had no idea that the first time Patrick Jr. got drunk was at his wedding to Abby.
By eighth grade, he was drinking at school and barely graduated from junior high.
When Patrick Sr. found out, he went from denial to counterproductive notions about problem solving the addiction.
He tried hippie techniques and tough love.
But their talks would escalate to catastrophic blowouts.
Patrick Jr.s time with his mother made things worse.
As a teenager, he says, hed smoke weed with Joellen and share pharmaceutical recommendations.
She encouraged his double-zero ear spacers and took him to get his eyebrow pierced.
She told him shed never judge him, and she didnt.
But there arose a perverse camaraderie, being in the trenches of drug life together.
When Patrick Jr. turned 18, he got her name tattooed across his chest.
Eventually, his mother disappeared more often, and his father got sole custody.
Once, the U.S.
Marshals showed up at Patrick Sr.s house, looking for her.
I havent seen her in months, Patrick Jr. told them.
At 17, he dropped out of high school.
He still isnt sure why his father let him in.
He sucked the dope into the syringe and heard the pop.
He thumbed his skin for a vein.
He swallowed some Xanax and took off all his clothes.
The warmth spread in a wave.
It was the last thing he remembered.
He tried the door, but it wouldnt open.
The loud, uneven rasping was just on the other side.
Patrick Sr. had been a volunteer paramedic for years and had brought people back from overdoses with Narcan.
For a second, Patrick Sr. could barely remember how to dial 911.
Patrick Jr. woke up the next morning in the hospital, chained to the gurney.
He was almost annoyed to be alive.
Every day was a ritual of misery.
His compulsion felt like a curse.
He was estranged from everyone he loved.
He was allowed in only to retrieve some clothes.
On the guest-room bed, there was still debris from the effort to revive him.
Patrick Jr. got his things and shuffled off into the night.
Maybe his dealer would be down at the Chicken Shack.
Maybe it would all be over soon.
It was the week before Thanksgiving, and this was not how Patrick Sr. had imagined the holidays.
Instead, his future was in jeopardy, his son a ghost.
This year, Patrick Sr. didnt even bother to get a tree.
Chapter 15
A giant inflatableSanta Claus presided over the festive scene in the center of Luandas Belas shopping mall.
They ate Reeses Pieces and watched Tom Cruise execute dramatic escapes.
It was almost February.
Erickson was a finance student who wore cornrows and drove the group around in a white minivan.
Joseph was always in designer ensembles that made his horn-rimmed glasses even more chic.
Osvaldos English was good and he knew quite a bit about the U.S.
He started coming to the hotel every day and would talk with the Alloccos for hours.
Osvaldo translated paperwork and answered questions about the courts and police.
The Alloccos story was often in the local papers.
It says you are devils and American thieves, Osvaldo read aloud, laughing.
It turned out Riquinho had been mounting his own media drive in Angola.
Back in the U.S., Patrick Sr.s public pressure campaign was catching on.
His Free the Alloccos Facebook page helped assemble a small army of online advocates.
Meanwhile, Patrick Jr. was enjoying the city.
In Luanda, he had his father, his pizza place, his local market, and his crew.
Strange to say, but at the moment the best version of his life was in Luanda.
He was excited to show Patrick Jr. around to his other friends.
Where did you find this guy?
Inside, Ericksons brothers and stepmother were getting ready for dinner.
They had a chow dog, blue tongue waggling.
When Ericksons father came in, he joked, Who is this white guy in my house?
Ericksons father was a journalist, well traveled, and he asked Patrick Jr. a lot of questions.
At one point, Erickson took out an iPad.
Patrick Jr. had never seen one.
This stunned the entire household: Impossible!
Instead, he played along with the whole familys disbelief.
Erickson was proud to show Patrick Jr. his country and culture.
Hed felt isolated and couldnt study, and there were unpleasant incidents.
But Patrick Jr. was different the first white person Erickson could call a friend.
One night, Patrick Jr. was hanging out at a soccer pitch near Ericksons home.
The temperature had dipped just enough to make for a pleasant tropical evening.
There were musicians nearby and smoky food carts grilling lamb over charcoal.
People were drinking and eating and there was a group of boys doing capoeira.
It was an enchanting sight.
Many of the people in the park had likely endured hardship, Patrick Jr. reflected.
He had no idea when he was going home, and in the moment, it didnt matter.
Sometimes life surprises you with unlikely moments of joy.
I couldnt turn away, he said, telling Rachel about it later.
It was just so beautiful.
Was the senator aware that his two fellow New Jerseyans remained stuck in Angola?
Yes, we are engaged with it, Menendez said.
These were extraordinary circumstances, he said, but they would redouble their efforts.
We are dealing with State every day, OBrien added, and talking directly with the embassy.
But the news, he admitted, was slim.
After running into Reed, Menendez decided to call Ambassador McMullen directly.
McMullen was candid with both officials about the stalemate.
When I briefed them, he later said, I didnt sugarcoat anything.
McMullen had realized that dos Santos was paying attention to the case personally.
This kind of visibility complicated things because the regimes patronage-based apparatus made it difficult to reach the presidents office.
He said that theyd simply reached the extent of their diplomatic clout.
We need to escalate this somehow, McMullen told OBrien.
Sometimes, ink on the right letterhead can get things moving.
OBrien got the go-ahead from the State Department and drafted a document.
Menendez offered his signature and said, Lets hope this works.
Hed been sober for a while, longer than any recent stretch.
But hed been trapped in this outlandish situation for so long he figured a drink was harmless.
The glass was cold.
The lager hit his throat, and the lights went dim for a nice long moment.
From the first sip to an empty glass was no more than a minute.
Shot of Jameson, Patrick Jr. said.
Booze hadnt been Patrick Jr.s inebriation of choice in a long time, but it came back easy.
Joel kept pouring, and Patrick Jr. kept drinking until he slid off the stool.
Same thing the next day.
And the day after.
Joel started calling Patrick Jr.s tall servings of beer and whiskey mothers milk.
The outings with his Angolan friends stretched into late nights at Luandas clubs.
Erickson couldnt believe how much energy Patrick Jr. had.
I know this whole thing is a shitty situation, he said.
Patrick Jr.s new schedule felt like trouble brewing, but at least they were having breakfast together every day.
That hadnt happened since Patrick Jr. was a boy.
And he was never great at following rules in the first place.
The embassys own staff were prohibited from going to the club for that reason.
At 5 a.m., Josar was rousted from bed to attend to the situation.
Patrick Sr. was summoned to the embassy as well.
Josar reminded him that hed recommended they keep a low profile.
You guys really know how to get into trouble, he said.
He couldnt tell what Osvaldos role was.
Erickson, he knew, was an innocent bystander.
Osvaldo would later explain that the incident began with an innocent night out.
Whatever happened, it would not help their cause.
Patrick Jr. was lucky not to get a new criminal charge from the Angolan police.
Take him back to the hotel, Josar told Patrick Sr. And dont do anything like this again.
Oddly, Osvaldo kept showing up at the Epic Sana, even after all that.
Patrick Jr. was annoyed and avoided him.
Nightlife wasover, but Patrick Jr. kept drinking.
There was nowhere to go but the bar.
The tedium was rarely broken.
One surprise, however, was the day the Alloccos realized the Super Bowl was on.
And the Giants were playing.
Their home team from the Meadowlands!
By then it was nearly 3 a.m. Patrick Sr. was riveted.
But Patrick Jr. was half a dozen drinks deep and nursing dark thoughts.
Watching the stadium crowd, Patrick Jr. was hit by homesickness.
Absurd.The Giants traveled nearly the whole field to pull ahead with 57 seconds left: a triumphant win.
But Patrick Jr. didnt care; he was already en route to a meltdown.
Fuck this whole fucking thing, he said.
Back in their hotel room, Patrick Jr. tore into his father.
I didnt need to get dragged to Angola to die!
I was doing a perfectly fine job of killing myself in New Jersey!
He flipped a table.
His father yelled at him to stop.
It was a familiar maelstrom, like when Patrick Jr. was a teenager in his room.
Patrick Jr. somehow did not shatter the glass bathroom wall when he hit it dead center with a chair.
Patrick Jr. yelled on his way out the door.
You got us into this fucked-up situation!
Patrick Jr. sat in the lobby, chain-smoking and stewing.
Upstairs, his father was furious at the drunken assault but also stung by his sons words.
He had a point: This was all a cockamamie scheme.
But hed really believed this gig would turn everything around.
And he had had no other options.
Its not like he wanted to be bankrupt.
Nor was it entirely his fault.
Patrick Sr. was in the hole partly because the promotion business was changing.
Patrick Sr. wasnt inept; he was being eaten alive from the top.
With few opportunities, small-time promoters were forced to take risks.
These days, one of the only ways to score a big payday was some cockamamie scheme.
So here they were.
The next morning, Patrick Jr. woke up with a hangover.
He was in pain and embarrassed.
His father was there, waiting.
I know this is stressful, Patrick Sr. said.
But the drinking is a problem.
You cant act out or trash the room.
His tone was measured, calm.
It was unlike the aftermath of previous substance-fueled skirmishes.
Usually, being scolded by his father would have only escalated the hostility.
But Patrick Jr was penitent.
Youre right, he said.
I need to get myself together.
I know youre working to get us home.
Almost without trying, their relationship changed.
I remember his motorcycle, he said.
And how my mother sat me on the back to ride around.
He realized there were a lot of things his son remembered that he never knew.
Until she puked on their shoes, he said.
Fuck you, bitch!
Patrick Sr. listened in shock.
How had he never heard any of this before?
These are things a parent is supposed to know.
I didnt understand before, Patrick Sr. said.
But now I do.
The mutual resentments melted away.
Patrick Jr. knew the feeling.
Hed watched his mother his whole life.
Patrick Sr. recalled the unpronounceable agony of a father trying to breathe life into his dying son.
The thought was like a lingering bruise.
You simply cannot imagine, he said.
Im sorry, Patrick Jr. said.
At that moment, they each knew the other better than anyone in the world.
Even Lourdes the bartender noticed, watching them bond a little more each day.
I see you two come together, he said.
His father no longer seemed irked about his career ambition.
Patrick Jr. said his perspective had changed in Angola.
He had spent so much time pitying himself and nursing grievances when in fact he was fortunate.
To Rachel, he proclaimed his renewed belief in the possibilities of life.
He told her that he was looking forward to settling down with her, having a family.
Things will be different, he said.
Patrick Jr. still doubted himself, burdened with regret.
Thats the trick, of course, to overcoming the past and oneself.
But thank God for Rachel: She believed in him and called him on his bullshit too.
Chapter 18
Patrick Sr. was nearlyout of money but had to go shopping.
Nearly two months of semi-captivity had drained their funds, and soon theyd have nowhere to go.
Patrick Jr. joked but Patrick Sr. knew that a few days wouldnt make a difference.
Feeding ourselves will become a challenge tomorrow, he wrote on social media.
It was now mid-February, and the Alloccos were no closer to freedom.
If anything, there were continuing setbacks.
A second court date had been scheduled and then canceled with no explanation.
Then the Alloccos Angolan attorneys had quit.
They gave a reason, but Patrick Sr. wondered if theyd been pressured.
Hed already paid them $20,000 of Riquinhos money.
With no legal remedy, no representation, and no money, desperation set in.
Both the Alloccos thoughts had turned again to escape.
Patrick Jr. arranged a furtive meeting for Manuel to lay out the plan with his father.
It would cost them $4,000 everything they had left.
It seemed dubious, if not dangerous.
What if it was a setup?
Or another reckless folly?
But there was little left to lose.
The next day, however, Manuel didnt show up for the drive or for work.
The loss of yet another possibility for escape, even one so remote, hit the Alloccos hard.
But nothing affected Patrick Sr. as much as a call one night about Nevada.
She died this morning, Abby said.
His wife had been crying and was worried about breaking the news.
I heard her during the night, she said, and when I woke up she was dead.
Patrick Sr. came completely undone.
He woke up Patrick Jr. and could barely get the words out.
He understood the chaotic emotional spiral but felt the need to intervene.
you oughta get it together, he told his father, roles reversed.
The pep talk jolted Patrick Sr. back into focus.
Starting tomorrow … Patrick Sr. posted.
We will begin taking matters and fate into our own hands.
Patrick Sr. was settling in for another evening ofMantracker.
Get your things fast, Josar said when Patrick Sr. opened the door.
Youre coming with us.
They were given ten minutes.
Still in a towel, Patrick Jr. got dressed and Patrick Sr. frantically packed.
The reception manager had tears in her eyes.
Looks like theyve finally come for you, she said.
The Alloccos couldnt quite believe it.
After months of stasis, here was the dramatic embassy rescue theyd been waiting for.
He pointed out that Angola was getting bad press as the situation dragged on.
It was cost-benefit analysis.
Shortly after McMullens call, the embassy heard from the public prosecutors office.
They wanted to see the Alloccos.
This was why the embassy pulled them from the hotel.
After six weeks of stonewalling, the Angolan court reconvened the following morning at nine on February 16.
The public prosecutor quickly ruled that the Alloccos could leave Angola and pay back Riquinho in installments.
Riquinho wasnt happy, but his influence had been eclipsed.
The Alloccos were free to leave.
David Josar thoughtthey were lucky it had only taken this long.
It was nice meeting you both, he told them.
But I hope to never see you again!
The embassy staff gave the Alloccos a new set of passports and delivered them to the airport yet again.
Incredibly, the immigration desk was manned by the very same officer theyd both met when entering the country.
He took their new passports and examined them slowly.
Patrick Jr. thought about how hed had to argue to get into the country from Lisbon on Christmas Eve.
If only hed known.
The officials in Lisbon had said the documents Riquinho provided were not proper visas.
Neither were those eventually supplied to Nas and his entourage.
Which was why he never showed up.
Nass manager was experienced and recognized flawed documents.
Those suspect documents set all the pieces in motion.
They were jittery, imagining that the diplomatic negotiations had somehow been undone or that Riquinho would show up.
You may go, he said.
Walking to the gate and boarding an actual plane felt like a dissociative dream.
It wasnt until they were over the Atlantic that they started to relax.
The daze had not worn off.
It was hard to believe any of this happened.
It was even harder to think about what would come next.
An hour out from New Jersey, panic set in.
Patrick Sr. was supposed to be saved by this gig; now he was further in debt.
Now where do I live?
I dont know what to tell you, Patrick Sr. said.
I dont have a penny to my name.
The conversation got heated.
I cant just go back to being homeless.
This is fucked up, Patrick Jr. said.
Im going back to nothing.
He had no money, no job, no place to live.
But he did have Rachel and the promises hed made to her.
Patrick Jr. knew Rachel was waiting for him at the airport.
Theyd reforged their connection, more honest and intimate than before.
But her expectations were high.
For starters, he was only kind of sober.
He didnt even have a drivers license.
Descending over New York Harbor, his heart was racing.
Patrick Jr. didnt know it yet, but he would indeed live up to his promises.
(He also sued Nas for $10 million and ran for Congress.
Neither effort succeeded.)
With time, they would recognize that Angola brought them together when nothing else could.
He sent the Alloccos their own Angolan flag for Christmas.)
In a way, they realized, Nas did them a favor.
In absentia, he turned out to be an unlikely but effective therapeutic facilitator.
One who succeeded where all the rehabs and family counselors had failed.
The plane touched the tarmac.
Calm returned to the Alloccos.
Whatever their fate would be, it was here.
No one has ever beenso happy to see Newark International Airport.
When the Alloccos arrived at the gate, a police escort was waiting.
Theyd be on TV that night, in the papers the next day.
And just like that, the two parted ways.
Hed only casually met some of them, mostly as just some guy Rachel was seeing the previous summer.
Hed been on the ground for just a few hours.
Everyone, this is Pat, Rachel said for introductions.
He just got home.
