Girls of Yellow

by Orest Stelmach

  The sheath let Ali know the Guard were unlikely to kill him, otherwise they wouldn’t be worried about what he might see. Still, none of the soldiers told him he was under arrest, explained why he was being handcuffed and deemed unworthy of walking the same streets he protected, or revealed where they were taking him. They pushed him forward nineteen steps and then another dozen around a corner where the air smelled of diesel. An engine idled nearby. When the smell became overpowering, they told Ali to stop. Two sets of hands grasped him by his upper arms and dragged him a few feet diagonally as though they wanted him to stand at a precise spot on the road.

  “Step up,” a gruff voice said.

  When Ali hesitated, the soldier wasted no time repeating himself.

  “Lift your leg like the dog you are,” he said.

  Ali did as commanded, realized he was climbing steps, and repeated the process until one of the men shoved him in the back. Ali tumbled into what he guessed was the back of a military transport truck. Soon he was sitting, guided onto a bench by one of the soldiers.

  How quickly fortunes changed in Eurabia, Ali thought.

  One minute he was above the law, interrogating a Knights Templar spy before the terrorist was impaled on a spike, and the next minute someone higher up was making him suffer. One moment he was applying the handcuffs, the next moment he was wearing them.

  Ali heard another soldier shuffle into the truck and felt the bench sag as two men sat down and flanked him. He heard and sensed at least two more—possibly three—soldiers take seats on the other side of the truck directly opposite him. Ali guessed that two benches lined the sides of the truck while the middle was a bare space for weapons and equipment.

  The transmission groaned, the engine rumbled, and the truck took off. Ali doubted that he was in real danger. The General wouldn’t make his daughter a widow and the Caliph’s guards were renowned for their integrity.

  Invisible arms hauled him to his feet. Ali heard boots stepping toward him, sensed the presence of the soldiers that had been seated opposite him …

  “Every dog needs training,” the gruff one said.

  Ali took a blow to the gut. It almost knocked the wind out of him. He reacted without thinking, raised his right knee, thrust his foot forward, and followed through.

  The sole of his foot connected with something hard.

  Whatever he hit gave way. A muted groan followed.

  Ali bent his knees and drove backward. He pictured the two soldiers holding him by his shoulders slamming into the wall behind them. He would kick each of them and hurl himself at the door hoping it gave way …

  Toward what end? Ali thought. Even if he managed to jar the door open, he risked falling onto the asphalt and getting run over by a car …

  Ali rammed the two soldiers who were holding him into the wall of the truck as planned. At the same time, he realized there was no escape, not with his hands cuffed and his eyes covered. By fighting back, all he would do was antagonize the men intent on giving him a beating. Someone had given them the order and Ali guessed he knew who. His only recourse was to let them do their job and take solace that his earlier conclusion had been correct.

  If they wanted to kill him, they wouldn’t be beating him.

  After bouncing off the wall, Ali stood straight and pressed his legs together to protect his testicles. They pummeled him, with fists, knees and elbows, he imagined. All of their shots were directed to soft tissue, none to the face where the damage would be visible. When Ali fell to the ground, they didn’t kick him. Instead, they hauled him back to his feet so they could deliver their blows with precision. The last thing Ali remembered before passing out was the taste of blood in his mouth and wondering whether that came from kidney or stomach damage, and how bad it would hurt when he took his next piss.

  • • •

  He woke up some time later. His insides burned and his core was so sore he wasn’t sure he could stand up. He detected the scent of bukhoor—bricks infused with musk and sandalwood, and soaked in oil. The incense was commonly used at weddings, to welcome guests to one’s home, and during relaxing times. Like everything else in Eurabia, this made perfect sense, Ali thought.

  What a lovely welcome, he thought. Such relaxing times.

  Ali saw coffered boxes made of Indian rosewood, realized he was lying prone on a familiar sofa, and that the rosewood was the substance from which the ceiling had been made. And he recognized that particular scent of bukhoor. It inspired privilege, confidence and guilt because the man who burned it controlled the Central Eurabian police departments and was his wife’s father.

  “You happy now, Dhimmi Lover?”

  The voice, however, didn’t belong to the General. It belonged to the man Ali suspected to have orchestrated the beatings, the boss whom he’d disobeyed on several recent occasions. Though exactly what Zaman was doing in his father-in-law’s house was beyond his understanding.

  Ali sat up. The ordeal took a full five seconds and he winced through every one of them.

  “Thanks for telling them not to hit me in the face,” Ali said.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but that’s not the first time, is it?” Zaman said. “Here’s what I do know. You’re out of control. Investigating a case you should have closed the same day it was given to you, tapping Arabiapol to look into other crimes that aren’t relevant to our city at all, and disobeying a direct order to come speak to me in my office. You’re finished, Ali.”

  “Who’s finished?” a third man said.

  Ali turned and saw the General moving slowly into the room. He didn’t walk or march so much as gradually shift his weight forward. The humungous stomach that hung over his belt preceded him whenever he entered a room by a few seconds. Ali knew that the General had prospered from impoverished origins and considered his midsection a source of pride, a constant reminder that his family’s shelves were not bare.

  The General stopped in his tracks and gave Zaman his desert-sun death-glare, the ever-present line of sweat glistening above his eyebrows. “How dare you speak to my son-in-law that way?”

  The creases in Zaman’s forehead deepened.

  “I’ve been looking forward to berating him for days,” the General said, “and you dare to steal my pleasure and my joy by using up my insults?”

  Zaman revealed the hint of a smile. “I’m afraid there’s no hope for me, General.”

  “Finally,” the General said. “Something all three of us can agree on.” He waved his hand for Zaman to leave.

  Zaman marched out of the room.

  Once he was gone, the General rolled his eyes. “What an asshole.”

  “I guess I had this coming,” Ali said.

  “You think?” the General said.

  Ali sighed.

  “Zaman called the chief of police to let him know that he needed to take disciplinary action against you for your latest insubordination. I got a call as a matter of courtesy. Naturally, because I’m a loving father, I interceded and had the Caliph guards bring you here to buy some time and see if I can save your career. And I had to get Zaman involved so that I could make him certain promises in exchange for him giving you another chance.”

  Ali groaned.

  “Yes,” the General said. “That’s the mess you’ve made and that’s the mess you’ve forced me to clean up.” He deposited himself into a lavishly upholstered chair. “Get us a glass of port, will you?”

  Ali walked over to a wall featuring three framed maps of the continent. One was from the fifteenth century when the Ottoman Empire ruled, the second was from the twentieth century after the fall of the Soviet Union and when the nations of Europe ruled, and the third was current, when Arabia ruled. Ali pressed his lips close to the invisible receiver built into the top of the frame that contained the map of the original Ottoman Empire.

  “Open Sesame,” he said.

  The painting swiveled upward and a small pantry rolled out of the wall. Bottles of scotch, cognac, and port wi
ne, and a collection of glasses filled a tray. Any Eurabian caught imbibing one of the liquids would have been punished with eighty lashes for his first transgression and the death penalty for his fourth.

  Ali pulled out the vintage port. He poured two glasses and handed one to the General. The General stuck his nose into the glass and inhaled. The he swirled the port, repeated the process, and drank. He sucked the liquid in through his teeth and made a disgusting slurping noise that almost killed Ali’s appetite for the nectar harvested in the country formerly known as Portugal.

  Ali took a quiet sip.

  “Philistine,” the General said. “You’re not drinking it properly, the way the old Europeans used to do back when they had a continent.”

  “Apparently I haven’t been doing much of anything properly lately.”

  “Humility in the face of the end of one’s career,” the General said. “I’ll drink to that.”

  He raised his glass and took in another mouthful. This time Ali didn’t hear the drinking noises that ensued. His heart was pounding too loudly in his ears. If his career was over, what would he do? Suddenly, Ali couldn’t bear the thought of a life without real police work. The concept of a completely joyless existence produced a vision of himself hanging from a tree.

  “Did Zaman tell you to close the dhimmi girl’s murder quickly?” the General said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And did you?”

  Ali looked at the floor.

  “What’s gotten into you, son?”

  Ali shrugged. “I just want to do my job. The way it’s supposed to be done.”

  “You want to be accountable? In Eurabia? That’s like saying you want to be whipped to death because you’re bored. What do you think of this port?”

  Ali took another sip. Despite his complete lack of appetite, he couldn’t help but savor the mouthful of fruit.

  “Tell me about your investigation of the church murders,” the General said. “Tell me everything, spare me no detail, and we’ll see if I can salvage my favorite son-in-law’s career.”

  The General’s words of comfort provided little solace. He had only one child, and she, by law, had only one husband.

  Ali gave him a full account of everything that had transpired from the moment he’d arrived at Matthias Church until the Caliph guards snatched him off the street a block away from the Persian School of Dressmaking.

  The General hoisted himself to his feet and refilled his glass while Ali told his story. He didn’t interrupt or ask questions. Even when he was tilting the bottle, Ali knew that the General was measuring every word he heard for truth and authenticity. Despite the risk of being branded a liar, Ali left out the beating he’d endured at the hands of the Caliph guards lest he appeared to be a spineless rat. And he didn’t reveal the identities of Chef Florence or Petra Noel. They were informants who deserved to be protected on sheer principle, or so he told himself. The truth was he liked them, too, and didn’t want any harm to come to either of them.

  The General, of course, zeroed in on them immediately.

  “The informant who told you where to find the Catholic priest and the Catholic priest himself. What are these men’s names?”

  Ali looked away from the General. When the General repeated his question, Ali remained mute.

  The General sighed. “I see. You want to be accountable and idealistic. Congratulations. This renders you radioactive in Eurabia. All human beings that touch you are destined to become social pariahs. You know this, yes? Your wife, your child, everyone close to you …”

  The General closed his eyes and took a breath. Then he drained the rest of his port with an extra-long version of his nauseatingly audible intake. When he had sucked every droplet from the crevices between his teeth, he licked his lips and cast his weary eyes at Ali.

  “You were never the smartest man, Ali,” the General said. “I wanted better for my daughter but she fell in love with you. She said you were sweet and devoted. Those are feminine terms for a simpleton. But I accepted you because I knew you’d be reliable. Reliable and predictable. But now … now you’re trying to be smart.”

  “Not smart,” Ali said under his breath. “Professional.”

  “What?” the General said, his voice rising. “What is it you say?”

  Ali sipped his wine.

  “Do you really think you can pull it off? Do you really think you’re capable of finding this killer? The killer that no one wants to acknowledge exists because he can’t exist because it’s not politically expedient? Are you even smart enough to follow my logic?”

  Ali shrugged. “Persistence is more important than brains. I’m smart enough to follow the clues.”

  “Are you now?” The General let out a snort. “Then let’s see how well you’ve followed them so far. Why do I need the identities of the priest and your informant?”

  Ali thought about the question in light of their discussion. “Because you’ve given out favors to keep me from losing my job. And you need some information that you can use to earn some favors back.”

  “Huh.” The General narrowed his eyes. “Maybe I’ve been underestimating you. Maybe you’re not the dumbest detective on the planet after all. Do you want to keep your job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you give me the names of the priest and the informant?”

  “No.”

  The General grunted. “I really have been underestimating you.”

  “Is there something else I can do to show my appreciation?” Ali said.

  “Funny you should say that.”

  The General grimaced and pushed himself to his feet. Ali immediately stood up, too.

  “How is my daughter?” the General said.

  “She adapts.”

  “And my granddaughter?”

  “She takes after her mother.”

  “Thank Allah for that. Go home to them. Await my call. There may be something you can do for me imminently. Something that will even the score and put you back in the good graces of your department.”

  The General reached out as though he was going to pat Ali on the shoulder, but at the last second lowered his aim and jabbed him in the stomach instead.

  Ali winced and doubled over.

  “Sore there, is it?” the General said.

  Ali straightened up. “A bit.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing I told them not to touch your face.”

  The General turned and left his office.

  CHAPTER 18

  After the minibus disappeared, Elise circled back, climbed atop her bicycle and raced to Darby’s dental offices. She had to wait only five minutes before a dental assistant called her name and escorted her to a bay in the back. A few patients in the waiting area muttered their disapproval that she’d been called in so quickly.

  Elise reclined in a dentist’s chair and was confused to see the assistant prepare a tray that contained drill bits and—to her dismay—a needle. The sound of intermittent cleaning and drilling from surrounding bays was interrupted by a patient’s yelp. Just what she needed to hear at that precise moment, Elise thought. She reached over and flipped a switch that dispensed water into the plastic cup beside her chair. Instead of rinsing, however, she drank the entire cup, unable to keep from glancing at the drill bits one more time when she was done.

  Darby marched into the room with more enthusiasm than Elise remembered and greeted her with a smile that consisted of teeth that were way too perfect. They exchanged pleasantries, and then Darby lowered her chair, attached a light to his head, and began to poke around in her mouth.

  “How is the pain?” he said in Arabic, with the assistant still in the room.

  Elise made up a reasonable answer. “It comes and goes, worse at night when I’m not as distracted by my work.”

  “Ah, yes. Sweet distraction.”

  After a quick exam, Darby turned off the light shining in her eyes and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  “Don’t you worry,” he sa
id. “We’ll take care of you. When we’re done with your root canal and you leave here in an hour, there’ll be no more pain. That I promise.”

  The dental assistant added a second needle to the tray and left the room.

  “Root canal?” Elise said in English, once they were alone.

  Darby’s lips parted in surprise. “You’re the one that said she wanted an extraction. I’m offering to save the tooth.”

  Elise feared he’d gone mad. She’d asked for an extraction of her sister, not her tooth. But then he chuckled and shrugged.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “Dental humor. We have the highest suicide rate of any profession. We need all the comic relief we can get.”

  Elise still had her eyes on the needle. “Don’t let my appearance fool you then. I’m laughing really hard on the inside. Is this really necessary? Couldn’t we’ve just met for a consultation?”

  “Afraid not. You came in complaining of pain. I made a diagnosis that calls for a root canal. That justified your return for a procedure today. I have to obsess over appearances, now more than ever. I think there might be a community infiltrator among my staff.”

  “A what?”

  “An infiltrator,” Darby said. “From the Caliph’s special branch. Whenever a dhimmi files taxes that show rising income, it’s a red flag. Not exactly what Eurabia is hoping for given the purpose of the dhimmi tax in the first place.”

  “What’s the infiltrator’s goal?”

  “Well, it’s not to improve productivity or form friendships, is it? ‘Believers, take not Christians and Jews as your friends, they are but friends and protectors of each other.’”

  Elise recognized the words. Like Darby’s previous quotations, they weren’t from the Bible.

  “How did you spot him?” she said.

  “Experience. The young fellow who offered to help with your X-ray vest yesterday? Recent hire. He’s a bit too solicitous, always there when I need help. You can’t trust a man who tries too hard. He’s always hiding his true motive.”