"You all right, sir?" she asked without effort.
He nodded even as he silently begged her to carry him home. She shot ahead.
How could he decay so quickly? It had not been three weeks since he last ran this course. But the answer was obvious. Too many Winstons, far too much JD and a general lassitude that robbed him of all energy.
Rana, he thought as he approached the Manchester Docks. Well, wasn’t that what one did as death drew near? Think of one’s beloved?
He dropped to his knees before a large pile of concrete rubble at the back of the Slave Trail parking lot. The world crumbled as his heart tried to escape the chaos of his body. Why had he pushed himself so hard? But wasn’t that his habit? To exceed tolerances? To shove limits aside? He would have to give more thought to this…if he lived five minutes more.
Without realizing it he had rolled over on his back. Five minutes later, still alive, he turned on his side and found himself facing an enormous congregation of cats.
"Sphinx?" he said, thinking his condition was multiplying his vision. Then he noticed a very wide spectrum of colors and sat up. The cats were staring back at him. They were sitting on the pile of concrete rubble.
"Please don’t report me…"
Ari jerked around. A woman wearing a loose blouse and a skirt that was the worse for wear was staring at him. She was holding onto the handle of a two-wheel shopping cart and in the cart was a bag of Purina cat food.
"The poor things don’t have anyone to take care of them but the city hates me and even arrested me once and I don’t know what to do but I keep feeding them anyway—"
Ari stopped her with a raised hand, palm down. He nodded at the broken concrete. "What is it? Why are they here?"
"It’s a cat colony."
Ari conjured up an image of the colonies the ancient Greeks had established in Persia.
"They’re feral," the woman continued in a raspy voice. "They were abandoned long ago, and now they’ve gone back to nature."
"I’ve been here before and have never seen them," he said.
"They’re around, but they all collect here when it’s feeding time." With that, the woman scooped out a handful of chow and tossed it towards the concrete. The cats scrambled eagerly forward.
"Do you think…would they…" Painfully, Ari pushed himself to his feet and staggered towards the frenzy. The cats stopped eating and watched him. Ari paused.
"The city says they breed, and that’s true, but I can’t afford to have all of them fixed."
"Fixed?" Ari asked. It sounded ominous.
"You know, neutered. They remove their little daddy- and mommy-makers."
Ari got the point. He was saddened, but he supposed it was necessary.
"You see those with bent ears? The vet does that once he fixes them and gives them rabies shots. But there are so many…"
Ari stroked his ear. "Do you think…?" He took another step towards the cats and they retreated a little more. Ari had seen plenty of strays in his day, but never a collective like this. He risked another step and the cats took flight, disappearing into the rubble like fish into coral.
"They’re feral," the woman repeated. "One or two let you get close, but the rest just whisk away. I have to trap them to take them to the litter prevention people. If you want one of them as a pet, get ready for trouble."
Wasn’t that the way of the world? Ari thought as he alternately jogged and walked home. The haves complacent but defensive, the have-nots watching from the fringe, waiting. Sphinx had not known how lucky he was. Ari suddenly understood the phrase ‘fat cat’.
Approaching his house, he saw two men coming up Beach Court Lane. One of them was his neighbor, Howie Nottoway. The other was a cleric; a white collar peeped up from his coat. The two smiled, but looked concerned. If Ari had looked woeful before, his jagged jog had turned him into a wreck.
"Ari, this is Pastor Grainger," said Howie. "From my church."
Grainger extended his hand and Ari took it. Firmness grasped firmness.
"How do you do, Pastor?" Ari chattered.
"You’d better get inside," the pastor said with a mellow note of solicitude. "It’s freezing out here, and you’re sweating."
Ari acknowledged the need to follow this advice and invited them to follow him inside.
"Thank you," Grainger nodded agreeably. "We were hoping to talk to you."
The interior of the house smelled of jasmine. After cleaning up Sphinx’s mess (and throwing out the kitty litter box and its contents in toto), he had started a scented candle to combat the smell and forgotten all about it. The result was a large yellow mass on the kitchen counter, where the candle had guttered.
He showed the visitors to the kitchen and the two chairs at the table, the only furniture downstairs. He told them he would be back in a moment, then staggered upstairs. After toweling himself off in the bathroom, he sat on the toilet seat and assembled his thoughts—or rather, reassembled his ability to assemble thoughts. He stood and looked in the mirror.
This would not do. It was rude to make guests wait, but ruder still to make them sit across from an unshaven, unwashed man verging on middle age. And who, to these virtuous white men, undoubtedly already looked a bit grimy by virtue of his skin tone.
Standing in the shower, running a razor over his face as the hot water sizzled on his skin, he wondered if Howie was enjoying this moment under his roof. Ever since Detective Carrington had forced him to break into Ari’s house in search for the cocaine stash, he had betrayed a steady level of uneasiness. Did Ari know what he had done? If so, did he understand why? They never discussed it, and Ari had no qualms about maintaining his uncertainty. Howie was the founder of the local Neighborhood Watch, and he had been dancing the B&E with his closest neighbor. Ari leveraged Howie’s sense of guilt into mild favors: the use of a tool here, a place on the Neighborhood Watch there, tolerance for the loud parties at the Mackenzies—which Ari invariably attended because they offered proximity to Tracy Mackenzie, a Middle Eastern man’s dream of an American sexpot. Morally speaking, Ari felt he owed Howie something in return for this unspoken blackmail. But that would not include joining the Methodist Church. Ari geared himself up to politely decline an offer of baptism.
Returning to the kitchen, he found Howie busily scraping the melted candle wax off his counter.
"That was kind of dangerous, you know, letting it burn down all the way like that."
"Please…" Ari began.
"No problem." Howie waved him off with a cringe. He was using a butter knife so as not to scratch the counter’s acrylic surface. Grainger looked on with bemusement, as if wondering if Howie was taking neighborly love a touch too far. But Ari was starting to think he might be able to finesse Howie’s guilt into work on the house. The lawn was already seen to: the federal authorities used a mock lawn service company to disguise some of their visits. Ari hoped he would be gone by next Spring, when Ted’s Lawn Service would return—although Deputy Fred Donzetti, who ran the bogus company, promised prompt snow removal in case Richmond suffered one of its rare blizzards.
Ari leaned against the refrigerator while Howie swept wax fragments into his palm and deposited them in the trash.
"I can’t come into this house without thinking of its previous occupants," said Pastor Grainger with an appropriate dosage of melancholia.
Ari and Howie relinquished comments for polite nods.
"They were members of my church, you know…Jerry and Moria. Well, not so much Jerry…but they were both excellent members of the community."
Ari thought this was a pretty sterile judgment on the Riggins family, but only nodded again.
"You like exercise, Mr. Ciminon?" Grainger asked suddenly, pleasantly.
"Ari, please. And please remove your coat. You must be very hot."
The pastor stood and removed his coat, revealing his clergy shirt and tab collar, and draped it over the back of the chair. He looked very fit. Ari sized him up as a cross between a bal
let dancer and a bantamweight.
"There," said Howie as he finished with the candle. With a slope of his hand, he directed Ari to a chair.
Ari returned the gesture. "No, please…"
"But it’s your house."
"All the more reason for you to be seated."
Observing the impasse, Grainger shrugged and reseated himself. Howie and Ari continued to stand.
"I try to stay in shape," said Ari, finally answering the pastor’s question. "It’s getting harder, I have to admit."
"You might consider joining our group. You know, for encouragement. We’ve merged with the Christ Church Jogging Club. We’ve also teamed up with the local harriers, for any of our members who prefer the long haul." A gleam came into his eye. "And you don’t have to be a Methodist to join. Many of our members come from other denominations. I think some of them aren’t even citizens of this country, although I’ve never inquired."
"I’ll bear that in mind." Ari frowned. "You mean, you go hawking?"
"Oh, no!" Grainger laughed. "’Harrier’ can also mean cross country running." The pastor thought a moment, and laughed again. Howie laughed, too, although Ari doubted he knew anything about harrier eagles, or harrier hounds—or, for that matter, cross country running.
Grainger seemed ready to speak, but was taking a moment to pack a delicate matter in soft words. "Howie told me that your furniture never arrived."
"It was lost in shipment," said Ari. "It’s of no importance."
"We have a crisis assistance ministry that could help," said Grainger. "We could have a few things trucked here, just to hold you over."
"I apologize that there are so few places to sit," said Ari, again trying to nudge Howie to the empty chair with his eyes. "In fact, there’s no need. I have learned to enjoy the echoes of an empty house."
There was a pause in the conversation. Ari braced himself to reject yet one more religion.
"We also have a mountain biking club," said Grainger. He gave a small cough. "Ari, we’re not here to dragoon you into the church…" He glanced at Howie, waiting.
"Right," said Howie, coming awake. "We were just wondering…I know you’re from Italy and all, but…"
"My church has an outreach program that serves inmates in the state prisons," said Grainger, a little impatiently. Howie was beating about the bush, the tree and the forest. "One of those services is to provide translators for those with poor English skills."
"No English at all," Howie interjected, as though commenting on lepers.
"We have several Spanish speakers in my church. And, up to a couple of weeks ago, one who spoke Arabic…"
Ari nodded and smiled. What was coming was obvious, but he did not want to commit himself.
"Okay," said Howie, shifting his stance. "I hope you don’t mind me bringing this up. But you told me one day that you were of Arab descent."
"Ah," said Ari.
"We were just wondering if you…well, like Mrs. Silva. She’s from Brazil, but she still speaks Spanish she learned from her parents."
Pastor Grainger gave a small cough.
"Oh, right. She still speaks Brazilian. So we were wondering if you knew any Arab, from when you were a child." Howie worked his mouth as if he had little hairs caught on his tongue.
"My ancestors arrived in Sicily about a thousand years ago," said Ari courteously.
"Oh. Then I guess that means…"
"I guess that means we’ve wasted your time," said Grainger with equal courtesy. "You see, there is this inmate at the Powhatan Correctional Center who comes from…well, the Middle East, so far as the authorities can tell. There is suspicion that he arrived in this country from Canada, but the immigration people up there are not being cooperative."
"I thought Canada and the United States were good friends," said Ari.
"Canada and the United States are the best of friends," agreed Grainger. "However, Canada and the Commonwealth of Virginia are a different matter."
"Yes?"
"The gun laws in this state are, I’m personally sad to say, very liberal. People from out of state can buy guns here by the bushel. Actually, many bushels. The mayor of New York has publicly complained about the number of guns used to commit crimes in his city. And he’s not the only one. Many of those guns also show up in Montreal."
"Ah," Ari repeated, thinking of Abu Jasim and the guns he was selling on Ari’s behalf.
"The state thinks Canada’s unwillingness to cooperate is something of a smack at Virginia for its laxity. In any event, they have been unable to get much information from them about the inmate. The previous translator was one of my parishioners. Mustafa Zewail. He was making slow progress with the prisoner…inmate…but he has suddenly stopped…"
"Stopped?"
"Coming to church. He hasn’t answered my calls. I went to his house, but no one answers." Grainger gave a helpless shrug. "Perhaps he’s gone back to Egypt, although it’s very dangerous for Christians there right now."
"He’s an architect, just like you!" Howie blurted.
Ari shot him a look. "Yes?"
"He works for those Brown and Stern people downtown." Howie pressed his brain against his chin. "I wonder if they’re working on that ball park, too—"
"I’ve contacted them," said Grainger. "He’s missed work for two weeks. I’m very surprised he left without telling anyone."
Howie’s silent disappointment seemed to hollow out the man; he sagged back against the countertop. Ari spent a moment balancing moral necessity and practical need. He could only count on Howie’s guilt being useful but for so long. Guilt had a way of, over time, becoming resentment, and Ari wanted no neighborly warpath leading to his front door.
"In fact, I have some Arab friends in Grammichele. I picked up quite a bit of their language. Enough, I think, to serve your purpose." This was, in a roundabout way, true. But the Arabs he was speaking of lived in Hamilton, Ontario and spoke Sicilianu.
Pastor Grainger brightened and Howie went supernova.
"Would you be available tomorrow, then?" asked the pastor. "I could pick you up around eight. You could drive yourself, of course, but you don’t know the way there."
Ari thought of the tracker in his car. "That would be fine," he said. "I look forward to it."
Another lie.
CHAPTER THREE
"Close the fucking door, man!"
The three prisoners were huddled behind the bars of the gatehouse with no protection against sharp bursts of frigid air whenever the main door was opened. Ari smiled agreeably and closed it behind him.
"Can we have your ID, please?" a guard said from the small office opposite the cell.
Ari raised a brow. For an instant he thought of his Special Republican Guard ID.
"You mean my passport?"
The guard's face contorted. He conferred with another guard. All of the foreigners they dealt with were illegal and did not carry that essential document. Ari tried to tell them that his passport was, in fact, back at his house. But the two guards seemed to have turned off their hearing for everything but each other. Once the highly arcane debate was concluded, the first guard turned back to the barred window. "That'll do, we guess. So long as we can understand it. Have you filled out your Visitor Application?"
Pastor Grainger, who had fallen into conversation with the three prisoners, suddenly saw what was up and rushed across the gatehouse.
"The application is unnecessary…I‘ll see to that. But you need to give them your driver‘s license. I'm sorry, I forgot to mention that before we left." He turned an anxious eye on his newest translator. "You did bring it, didn't you? I know I drove…"
But Ari was already removing two documents from his wallet. He handed them over and the guard at the window studied them closely.
"What is this?"
"An Italian driver's license and an IDP."
"What’s an IDP?"
"International Driving Permit," Ari answered. "Basically, it's a translation of my Italian
permit. Is there a problem with it?"
"I can vouch for him," Grainger said with a trace of desperation, which increased when the second guard took up a phone and punched a number.
"Just a little delay," said the first guard with courteous menace. "T's and I's have to be crossed and dotted."
Ari wanted to scratch his head on that one. Many times he had heard American troops stationed in Iraq refer to T&A, the meaning of which he discovered soon enough. But how would that apply in this case?
The second guard lowered the phone. "Finley is coming."
Seeing Grainger's consternation, Ari asked in a low voice, "Is there something wrong?"
"Deputy Warden Finley and I have had some disagreements," Grainger said, trying not to be overheard by the guards. "They have educational programs here for the inmates which he disapproves of."
"You mean..." Ari hunted for the proper word. "Indoctrination?"
"Well, we try to show them how to be good, productive citizens, of course. That's why we teach them various academic and vocational skills."
"Oh?" Ari said, amazed.
"Don't they have similar programs in Italy?"
"Quite honestly, I have no idea. I've never been involved with a prison system."
"That's good to hear," Grainger smiled. "Anyway, if Finley had his way, he'd lock these people up and throw away the key. I've actually heard him say all they're good for is mowing grass and cleaning toilets."
Ari ventured an appropriate response. "Horrible..."
"Isn't it?"
There was a buzz and the inner gatehouse door opened. A man with short blond hair and wearing wraparound sunglasses stepped inside. He wore only a dark blue sportsjacket against the cold. The walk across the prison courtyard had been short, but the cold had added a glow to his face.
"Reverend..." he said, taking Grainger's hand.
"Deputy Warden," the pastor responded briskly. "Let me introduce you to Mr. Ciminon."
"Ciminon? I saw the name on the visitor list. That doesn't sound like a Middle Eastern name." He shook Ari's hand.
"He picked up some Arabic in Sicily, where he grew up," Grainger explained.
The Godless One Page 6
