THIRTEEN
"You don't know how lucky you are," Ropp told Ghaith, as though letting him in on a secret. "Those SF's up ahead are in a swish Land Cruiser. A Land Cruiser! Some kid comes along and throws a rock, that coffin'll roll over."
"Don't dump on the civilian," Tuckerson shouted over the roar of the Bradley Fighting Vehicle. He leaned over to Ghaith. "The Land Cruiser's MDT up-armored. It can take a pair of M67's and no one inside gets hurt.”
“Grenades!” Ropp laughed harshly. The man seated next to him on the bench overheard and began to jump up. When he realized Ropp had shouted the word in a normal conversation he punched him in the shoulder.
“Like I was saying,” Ropp continued, rumpling the blouse of his DCU as he rubbed his sore arm, “even an up-armored Land Cruiser doesn't stand much chance. And these Humvees behind us aren't much better, with their hillbilly armor. But a Brad, you gotta love it.”
“Ali Babba knocked out an M-1 across the river last week,” Tuckerson said. “And the turret alone of an Abrams outweighs a Bradley by--”
“Thanks for reminding us,” Ropp said, commandeering the remaining five men in back for his scorn.
“Point is, nobody's safe, no matter what. Everyone gets donked when their time comes.”
Ghaith nodded understandingly. He didn't smile. He didn't want to look like a village idiot.
Every so often they could hear grunts from the turret as Staff Sergeant Henley leaned forward to raise a power line with a long wooden pole. Several soldiers had been electrocuted before the BC's learned not to lift the lines out of the way with bare hands.
“Anyone know where we're going?” the man next to Ropp shouted.
This broke the squad up. Like they were supposed to know where they were going. Who was he kidding? This was the U.S. Army!
“Weren’t you listening to the Top?” said Ropp. “Al Qods Street…the Mahdi Army…”
“That’s it? We don’t know nothing else?”
The squad broke up again. This guy was serious. He really wanted answers!
“There were some Q36 hits last night that your battalion commander wants investigated,” said Ghaith.
The laughing stopped instantly. The men stared at Ghaith.
“How do you now that?” Ropp demanded.
"Your captain told me," Ghaith said, judging this was the time to smile.
"You and not us?" Ropp said skeptically.
Ghaith was telling the truth, but felt obliged not to give the reason: that Captain Rodriguez had called him over while he was conferring with two of his platoon commanders in order to get Ghaith away from 'those goons', as the captain put it. Then he had turned his back on the interpreter and spoken as if Ghaith was not there. As if he was not convinced Ghaith could speak English.
"TF-1 was supposed to check out the grid yesterday," Rodriguez had told the two lieutenants, showing them a printout. "They got detoured, so now the colonel wants us to go in."
"The tubes will be long gone, sir," said one lieutenant doubtfully.
"You never know. They start hitting the FOB again and we haven't looked..."
"Yes, Sir."
“Crap, that’s Sadr City, sir,” said the other lieutenant.
"Yeah. I hate these Mahdi assholes who fire into a crowded city blind. They don't give a shit who they hit. And I can't lay the fist of God on them."
"Well, we could--"
"Flatten a city block? What would 60 Minutes make of that? And the real reason we're going out isn't the Q36 grid. I've got 5,000 in greenbacks, and 50,000 dinars for anyone who doesn’t think the dollar’s almighty, all for the hearts and minds and pockets of those shopkeepers we put out of business last week."
"You mean those buildings--"
"But those were high-value targets," the other lieutenant protested.
"Tell it to Dan Rather." Rodriguez's face went grimmer still. "And watch us end up flattening another mom and pop while we're paying for these. I hate this MOUT crap. Give me one of the provinces, where I can cut loose with the counterfire. If we could fire up Baghdad with white phosphorus, we’d see some improvement." He looked at Ghaith, obviously wondering how much he had understood.
Some, but not everything. The U.S. Army's love affair with acronyms put a haze over everyday operations. No doubt a bloody, godawful mess sounded better when it was referred to as a BGM. But to Ghaith's thinking, the intensive use of acronyms was, in addition to being deceptive, hugely counterproductive. He had no idea what MOUT meant. It might be important, but how would he know unless someone spelled it out for him?
"I was with the captain when he laid out the mission to his platoon leaders," Ghaith told Ropp and the others as the Bradley slowed for another of the power lines that drooped across the street.
"Hey, your English is all right." Tuckerson nodded his approval. "We've had some real goofballs, but you're A-OK, Haji."
The other squad members chimed in, also nodding. Ghaith thought they looked like a bunch of village idiots. But there was a charming sensibility to their reaction. English-speakers stranded in a linguistic desert, the interpreter offered the cup of communication with the locals. A good translator was worth his weight in gold. Ghaith wondered if he would live long enough to spend any of the $500 the invading army had paid him to sign up.
The Bradley stopped. The driver asked...actually begged...for permission to open his hatch. Seated up next to the engine, which added its own cruel heat to the steady blast of the sun, the driver suffered more than anyone else in the vehicle. Ghaith had learned it was usually a new man assigned to the position. A hot introduction to the cradle of civilization. Ghaith also suffered from the heat. The balaclava was unbearable.
The ramp dropped and the squad debouched. They spread out while infantry from Humvees and Bradleys further down the column dragged themselves up the street to join them. In their impenetrable wraparounds, they looked like bug-eyed aliens. Sunglasses were good at hiding fear, Ghaith noted, but somehow emphasized boredom.
Captain Rodriguez removed his CVC helmet and replaced it with his K-pot. He pulled himself out of the turret and negotiated his way down the armored slope of the Bradley, past the numerous kits slung so thickly on its flank that the captain had complained about it looking like a gypsy wagon.
A group of Iraqi men ran up and immediately swamped the captain with unintelligible complaints. He removed his shades and glanced over at Ghaith, who went to his side. The men fell silent, as spooked by his mask as the Americans, but quickly recovered. There were five of them, and they all spoke at once. Ghaith held up his right hand, fingertips touching, and moved his hand up and down while bending his head. A request for patience.
"Tell them I'm here to compensate them for the incidental damage to their stores that we caused last week," said Rodriguez
The 'incidental' part lifted the message into a mildly abstract realm that could be time-consuming and futile, and was sure to raise plenty of shouts.
"We're here to give you money," he told the shopkeepers in Arabic.
The noise level went up anyway. The captain had attended a seven-week immersion course in Arabic, but only a little bit had stuck. He shot Ghaith a wary look.
"They must first produce the IOU's I gave them during our last…uh…visit…before I can compensate them."
There was no need for Ghaith to translate. They all understood 'IOU'. Five chits from the captain's receipt book immediately appeared.
Further up the line a group of men and children gathered around the woman translator sent down from battalion. She and some other soldiers were handing out candy. But when the captain took out a waterproof pouch and unzipped it, a new crowd magically appeared, pushing forward.
"We need a hovering angel," the staff sergeant called down from the Bradley turret. He wanted someone on a rooftop for a better view of the street. This was a nice fat target for a suicide bomber.
"We shouldn't be here long," Rodriguez answered.
Ghaith was looking at the fifth shopkeeper. Abdul Ibrahim bin Omar al-Ahmad. Another one from the mass release of prisoners before the war. Convicted, more or less, of stabbing a man in a fight over a jar of spicy walnut spread. Had he really turned shopkeeper? Ghaith edged around the captain and approached the former prisoner. He would risk a few informal words. He had never met the man in person.
"Al-salamu ‘alaykum, Abu Khalil."
Abdul Ibrahim turned his eager gaze away from Rodriguez and stared at the interpreter.
"Did you really run a shop here, or did you tear that IOU out of the owner's hand? I hope you didn't kill him to get it."
The other four men stopped shouting and turned to look. Rodriguez was startled. He had never seen the locals go quiet when there was money around. The only voices raised now came from the growing crowd of children that bubbled around the captain, as though he was the main course in a boiling pot. He signaled to Staff Sergeant Henley, who disappeared in the turret and reemerged with handfuls of jawbreakers. The kids shifted away from Rodriguez as the candy rained down from the Bradley.
"Ho-ho-ho!" Henley bellowed. A look of concern crossed the captain's face. Could Santa's signature tune be misinterpreted?
"Hey, Abu Khalil," Ghaith continued, his dental work outlined by the balaclava’s mouth slit. It was a sign of privilege, those fine teeth.
Former privilege. A privilege that was not only out of date, but dangerous. Like an antique car without brakes.
"Are you going to let these shopkeepers keep their money after we've gone?" Ghaith gave Abdul Ibrahim a belated hug, and whispered into his ear. "You wouldn't cut their throats for a few measly dinars, would you?"
Rodriguez had taken out his flash roll and was trying to shove the compensation money on the shopkeepers, who seemed suddenly reluctant to accept it. A young boy jumped up, trying to snatch a bill out of the captain's hand.
"Hurry it up, whatever it is you're doing," he said fretfully to Ghaith, who had not let go of Abdul Ibrahim.
"If I hear that anything has happened to these brothers," Ghaith was whispering, "I'll track you down, cut off your manhood, and let the camels suck on your balls."
Abdul Ibrahim had begun to shake so violently that he had no strength to break away.
"The Godless One..."
Ghaith was not aware that he had a moniker. Perhaps Abdul Ibrahim was mistaking him for one of the prison guards who had tortured him. But he had a nickname now. And he smiled. It did not sit badly with him. Not at all.
On Riverside Drive Ari stopped and asked a jogger where the Fan was. He was told he had only to drive up to Huguenot Road, turn left, cross the bridge, and keep going straight, past Windsor Farms and Carytown. While speaking, the jogger gave the Scion a narrow, jaundiced eye.
"Hey, aren't you the one who's been speeding through here--"
"Thank you," said Ari, and sped off.
The Shamrock turned out to be only four doors down from Ali's Mediterranean Market. There was a handwritten sign in the window that announced, "Yes We Have Halal." Halal meat and poultry had a reputation for quality that was usually well-deserved, and Ari was disappointed to find the shop closed. It didn't matter. While it would have been pleasant to pass some time browsing Ali's aisles, he did not want to miss happy hour.
Inside the Shamrock a waitress invited him to take any unoccupied seat he liked. Ari found this congenial and was immediately at ease. He slid onto a barstool and ordered tea. The bartender began wielding bottles of vodka, tequila, gin, rum and triple sec. Ari assumed he was fixing a drink for the man at the opposite end of the bar. First come first serve. When the bartender stood a tall glass in front of him, it took a certain amount of self-control to keep from gaping.
"What is this?"
"Long Island Tea. Isn't that what you wanted? Oh, here’s the lemon slice."
Ari stared at the highball glass. "I'm still not used to drinking alcohol in public."
The bartender gave him a double-take, then tried to make light of the inference that Ari only drank in private, like all good alcoholics:
"I wouldn't have thought you drank at all."
It was intended to be a friendly observation and Ari took it in that spirit.
"I like a good whisky, just like my master."
This was nonsense to the bartender. But he was used to non sequitors and shrugged it off. "You want something different?"
"That's all right." Ari handed over his credit card.
"There's a buffet against the wall there. There's...uh...some meatballs. I think there might be pork in them."
"Dreadful. Is it free?"
"Happy hour," said the bartender.
Wonderful. It must be one of the bonuses of being a super power.
Ari lifted the glass. Wafting it under his nose for a sniff might be gauche--this wasn't wine, after all. So he took a sip.
Sour. But not bad. Quite strong, though.
He eased back and ran his eyes over the booths, half of which were occupied. He went to the buffet and plopped a half dozen meatballs and some cheese cubes onto a Styrofoam plate, returned to the bar and began eating them with his fingers. The meat sauce was a bit messy. The bartender seemed relieved when he began using a toothpick.
Italian! What were Sandra and her idiotic crew thinking? There isn't a man on the street who doesn't see me for what I am. And oddly enough, all those men on the street are wrong. Maybe Sicilian wasn't a bad choice, after all. A dangerous Mafioso...
The two vampish employees of Moria's Notions had said Moria and Tina went to Andy’s or the Shamrock on Tuesday and Friday evenings. Did Tina keep up the habit? Or had the death of her business partner--and presumably friend--put her out of sorts for after-hours socializing?
Ari had a fifty-fifty chance of finding out that night. In fact, he admitted to himself, the odds were far longer than that. If Tina just happened to skip this Friday, or if Friday was the day she went to Andy’s, or if she varied her routine, the odds grew longer by far. But Ari was familiar with luck in all forms, and knew the good could strike with the same ineffable certainty as the bad at any moment. Even then, it was open to interpretation. His presence at the Chinese grocery had been bad luck for Ari, very bad luck for the would-be robbers, and splendid luck indeed for the store manager.
Good luck struck for Ari twenty-five minutes after he entered the Shamrock. Bad luck struck for Tina Press at precisely the same moment, when Ari saw her walk languidly through the tavern door, nod knowingly at the waitress, and settle in at the booth nearest the entrance. She did not see him, well-hidden in the shadow of the overhead glass rack in a bar that was already dimly lit. He watched.
Unfortunately, if he went to the buffet she could not fail to spot him. The Long Island Tea had stirred up his appetite. He had to satisfy himself with pretzels from an oval dish near the speed rail.
"You want another?" the bartender asked when he had emptied his glass.
An immense glow filled Ari’s limbs, as though he had stepped into a Jacuzzi. He had a long night ahead. "Do you have something...?"
“Unleaded?”
“I’m not sure…”
"How about Ginger ale?"
"Is that a Fanta?"
"Now I'm the one not sure..."
"A soda?"
"Well yeah."
"Then I'll have that."
It was a lot to pay for a soft drink, but the seat with the view came with it.
By his second Canada Dry he had seen enough. First a man, then a woman, then a couple came and sat with Tina, conversing with her and sharing a few laughs before departing. In between the hellos and good-byes some discreet commerce took place behind propped menus. Ari realized what he had in mind might prove more difficult than he had anticipated. The bar owner must be taking a cut from these transactions, which were not so furtive as to be invisible. Every fifteen minutes or so, the bartender handed the waitress a drink for Tina's table. She did not take advantage of the free buffet.
Ari took up his glass and sauntered over to the buffet. Tina might be satisfied with her liquid diet, but he was famished, even after six meatballs. He filled up a plate, then slid into the front booth, across from Tina.
"Hey," she said in a sultry voice before even looking at him.
"Good evening," Ari said, stabbing a meatball with his toothpick.
Her head shot up. She frowned and glanced over at the bartender, who stopped plying his dishtowel across the counter and leaned his forearms on the newly-cleaned wood. He was tall but thin. Either someone Ari had not seen provided the muscle around here, or he had some other means of establishing order.
"Problem, Tina?"
She turned back to Ari and worked on focusing her eyes. Her glass was small, like a miniature champagne flute. Ari had watched the shuttle service between the bar and booth and knew she had had three of whatever it was she was drinking. It was obvious she depended upon the good will of the Shamrock staff to function.
"I know you..." she said.
"We met briefly yesterday morning, in front of your shop."
"Oh yeah...the French Twist."
"I'm sorry?"
"When you ran off in the rain, you yelled something in French. Something about being late for an appointment."
"Yes," Ari sighed. An appointment with a gunfight.
"Yeah..." She attempted a snarl, which misfired into a sad leer. Ari realized she was going to try to chase him off with attitude. The clock on the wall said 6:43. He could take his time.
"You're that wetback that bought Moria's house." Her face went gloomy with doubt. "I mean...you're that mick...no, wait...I'm sorry. Give me a minute.
No one had ever apologized to Ari for misapplying a racial epithet to him. He found the experience amusing, but did not smile.
"Spade...? Well, you look like half a spade." Tina rifled through her lexicon of the dark side, which seemed as paltry as the rest of her vocabulary. "Frog...guinea...spic! That's it! Spic! Or wait..."
It was amazing what a little lipstick could do. When Ari had seen her at the shop, she had been wearing a bright red gloss that animated her small face. But that irate liveliness now rested in a nest of red-smeared paper napkins at her elbow. She had been dabbing at her lips as she drank, removing her personality bit by bit, until she was stone.
"I believe the phrase you are looking for is 'Italian of Arab descent'," Ari said.
"Don't tell me the Pope's gone PC."
"I have no idea." Ari finished his ginger ale.
A young couple who looked like clones of the Mackenzies entered the bar, hesitated uncertainly on seeing Tina sharing the booth with a stranger, and left. With her back to the door, Tina could not see them, but the bartender was obviously put out.
"You're still snooping around about the Riggins murders?" Tina said angrily.
"I'm quite curious--"
"Weren't you told to forget it?"
Not exactly. Carrington had done his best to make Ari uncomfortable. But for all the blunt hints, he had never come right out and told Ari to give up his personal investigation, or else.
"I only have a few questions--"
Tina smiled as the waitress came up to their table. "Marybelle..." Tina said with relief, as though she had just taken a shot from an oxygen mask.
"Ah," said Ari, scooting his empty glass to the edge. "Could I have another one of these?"
"Sir," said Marybelle, ignoring the glass. "This is a family restaurant. We don't want any trouble."
"Certainly. Neither do I."
"Then I'm going to have to ask you to stop disturbing this lady."
Tina flicked her brow and Marybelle became more emphatic.
"In fact, sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"And if I don't leave, and insist on continuing my lovely conversation with this lovely lady, will you call the police?"
"Yes, sir."
"But you don't really want to do that, do you?" Ari said. "They would be astonished to find out Tina has been dispensing non-prescription medication out of her little pharmacy here. That's an interesting handbag, by the way. Gucci?"
He had raised the discussion beyond discussion. Words now bordered on the meaningless, unless they could be backed by a viable threat.
Tina leaned forward, smirking. "Listen, Mr. What-the-Fuck, you'd better get your ass out of here. Marybelle is a black belt. She'll crack your spine for the marrow."
"Your language is unsightly," said Ari. He meant it.
"Sir," Marybelle persisted, taking a stance. Ari noticed she had excellent balance. She was wearing cropped jeans and a tied off blouse that exposed her finely toned ribs. He was impressed when she flexed her abdominal muscles.
"From what I've seen in American movies, I believe this is the moment I ask if you want to step outside."
"With pleasure, sir."
"You have, I believe, served in the armed forces?"
"Hooah, sir."
"It shows." Ari's hand shot out. He had Marybelle by the wrist. She gave a small shout of anger at being surprised. She moved forward to attack but this only helped Ari plant her hand on the table. He slid his thumb under her middle finger, using the rest of his hand to hold her down. As she raised her other arm to strike, Ari lifted up on her trapped finger. She gave a small bark of pain.
"Please desist," Ari said pleasantly, adding a little more pressure when it seemed she wasn't listening.
Tina watched bug-eyed. The bartender had circled around with the first weapon that came into his hand: an ash tray. Ari warned him off by drawing another shout from Marybelle.
The bartender noticed customers staring at him. He smiled and began wiping out the ash tray with the edge of his small apron.
Ari kept his voice low. "Marybelle, listen carefully. Do you hear me? I have never broken a woman’s arm before. I'm sure it would upset my digestion. Proper digestion is critical to good health, don't you agree?"
Marybelle was sweating, her nausea gathering. Ari hoped she would see reason quickly, or else her digestion would end up in his lap.
"Okay," she grimaced.
Ari let go. She stepped back, massaging her hand. Ari decided not to add insult to injury by insisting on a refill.
"Who are you?" Tina asked breathlessly as soon as Marybelle slunk away.
"You've heard of the Genovese family?"
"My God..." Tina pressed her spine against the bench. "What are you, some kind of hitman? Am I trespassing on someone's territory? You want a piece of the action?"
Ari briefly considered the offer. He was, after all, strapped for cash. But he decided this was not the best way to acquire it.
"I want nothing to do with your operation here," said Ari. "I am only a concerned citizen..." Ari paused. He wasn't exactly a citizen of this country. Not even a welcome guest, it seemed. "A concerned citizen of the world. Whoever killed that family is still on the loose. Bringing them to justice would benefit everyone."
"Not the killer," said Tina.
Singular...
"Did Jerry Riggins own a gun?"
"How the fuck should I--" Tina was not looking at him, but at the wall paneling. But she sensed his dissatisfaction with her. Even before he presented himself, as he watched from the barstool, he had seen her progressively wilt with each minute. It wasn't just the alcohol. She did not like the drug trade. Had she inherited it from Moria?
Shadows formed harsh pools under her eyes. She shook her head. "I don't know. But I think..."
"Yes?" Ari prodded.
"Moria said something about getting one. I was surprised. That wasn't like her."
"Was she afraid of someone?"
"Since you saw the business you must know the business," she scolded, as though to say he wasn't a very good spy.
"You're saying that the trade in little cellophane envelopes is dangerous?"
Tina brushed away several layers of alcohol haze, leaving behind about a dozen.
"I know what you're thinking, that this is what got Moria killed. But it isn't."
This settled one of Ari's questions very nicely. "How do you know?"
"Because I would have been told so."
"By Carrington?"
Tina had enough of her wits about her to shrug. "Anyway, everyone liked her. This...was nothing. Like giving a drink to a friend."
"Yes, I always make my friends pay for their drinks." Ari finished off his last meatball. Suddenly, a glass appeared in front of him.
"On the house."
"Why, thank you, Marybelle," said Ari, smiling up at the waitress. "That is most gracious of you."
Marybelle nodded and walked away. Tina tossed a skeptical glance at her protectress, then at the ginger ale.
"How long had you and Moria been entertaining your friends this way?"
"Not long."
Having encountered a wide swath of relativism since his arrival, Ari aimed for a more precise timescale. "'Not long' means what? Months? Years?"
"A few..."
"Years?"
She didn't answer.