by Sarah Black
“Everyone, even you, looks in a mirror occasionally and wonders what other people see. And the little insults do matter. Just because they’re subtle and quiet doesn’t mean they aren’t real. They’re one end of a long line, and it only takes a few little steps to move on down that line. You’re sensitive to it, and you notice, because that’s what you do. That’s why you’re so good at your work. You are the master of the subtle tell.”
“I need to figure out how to put that skill to use in the real world.”
“You aren’t happy writing?”
“I am. Just a little bored, to tell you the truth. Not that I’m wishing for war, understand, but doesn’t anyone need some conflict resolution?” John leaned his head back, closed his eyes. Gabriel reached for his thigh under the table, and John felt himself smiling. “This is what I’m going to remember on the day I die,” he said. “Right before I close my eyes, I’m going to remember this, the way your hand feels, the heat of your leg against mine, the smell of the skin on the back of your neck, like burnt sugar.” Gabriel looked surprised, and John smiled at him. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to describe it, the way your skin smells just there.” He ran his fingers around the back of Gabriel’s neck, just under the hairline. “If I can remember this, right before the end, I’ll die happy. Isn’t that the best we can hope for?”
He heard Gabriel catch his breath, then he leaned over and kissed John on the side of his mouth, a gentle touch, warm and sweet. “Let’s make that a long, long time from now, okay?”
John opened his eyes, reached up for Gabriel’s face, ran his fingers along the angle of his jaw. “Okay.”
Two iceberg salads slid across the table. Their waitress was back. “Want another martini?”
Gabriel shook his head. “No, one was fine, thanks. It was good.”
“You two look like reposado boys to me. A nice aged tequila, some lime juice, cane sugar….”
Gabriel looked at John. “We could get a cab home. It’s been a rough day.”
John nodded at the woman. “Thank you. No ice, okay?”
“Do I look like the sort of person who would put ice in decent tequila?”
John had to admit that she did not.
Chapter 3
KIM had the table covered with photographs when John came into the kitchen the next morning to make coffee. Kim had already put on a pot, so John poured himself a cup and joined him at the table. Kim had his hair pulled back in a ponytail, but there were shorter bits sticking up from the top in such a random fashion John was sure it was intentional. “Hey, kiddo. Did you get a haircut?”
Kim ran his hand back over the top of his head. “Yeah, I did. What do you think?”
“I think it looks just like you.”
Kim was studying John’s hair with his eyes narrowed. “Still sticking with Bud’s?”
“Maybe it’s time for a change.”
Kim’s eyes got big. “Finally! Uncle John, what you need is a makeover. I mean, it’s….” John stared at him until Kim stopped speaking. “I tell you what. I’m going to ease you into it, okay?”
John didn’t add, The way you eased me into the new couch? He was determined not to trigger another discussion.
“What are all these?” He picked up one of the photographs spread across the table. They were black-and-whites of young boys, ten to twelve if he had to guess, maybe younger. Kim had printed the photos with a silvery finish, so they looked both old and contemporary at the same time. The boys were dressed up like baby gang-bangers, bandanas, denim jackets with the sleeves torn out. He shuffled through the stack. In a couple of the photos, the boys were holding guns, playing with them like they were toys, pretend fighting. But they were most definitely not toy guns. In the last photo in the stack, the boys were posing for a group picture, bandanas up covering their mouths, arms crossed, guns pressed against their chests like old-fashioned banditos.
“What in the hell are these boys doing with guns?”
“See, that’s the response I was going for. I met with my thesis committee yesterday. These are for my MFA show. Uncle John, they looked at these and one of my profs talked about formal composition and lighting. Said when you were doing photojournalism, the standards were different. But not for your MFA show. For that, you were supposed to show mastery of the formal elements. Duh! The other advisor wondered if the subject matter would be considered too controversial, and would take away from the point of the show. Which is to show my development as an artist! Right? I mean, give me a break! Aren’t artists allowed to think? Aren’t we sort of required to think? Am I supposed to take pictures of babies holding guns and the extent of my participation is lighting and formal composition?”
“Who’s the third member of the committee?”
“Well, that would be Brian Walker. And since you and I just put him in prison, he will not be able to serve as an advisor.” Kim looked up at him and grinned sadly. “That shithead was the only person in the entire department who ever pushed me to stretch as an artist. And I really wanted him to push me more, but he got interested in something else. Got distracted from rigorous scholarship.”
“He put himself in prison, Kim. I won’t have you taking on any responsibility for that jerk or his behavior.” John studied the group. “So what you wanted to do with these…?”
“I want people to see what I’m seeing. That’s what I always planned to do with the camera, show people what I was seeing. At this point I have the formal elements down. I mean, that’s undergrad level work. And if artists aren’t showing people the controversy in our world, who is supposed to do that job? They want me to take the safe path and just get through it without a fuss, get the degree. Aren’t artists supposed to step off the safe path?”
“They look like little boys pretending to be gang members.”
“They aren’t pretending, Uncle John. These are the youngest members of Sureños 13. These baby wolves are the real deal, and they’ve been through their initiation, and they have their own guns and jobs to do. Mostly running drugs. They’re fast, and the cops don’t like to mess with the young ones. So much trouble when you arrest a ten-year-old on a felony drug charge, right? I mean, that’s why I wanted to do this photo series. So the rest of the world will feel as horrified, watching a bunch of ten-year-olds playing with their Sig Sauers, as I was.” He held up a hand. “And no, I don’t know a Sig Sauer from any other gun, but I spent a week with these little demons and all they talked about was guns. They were too shy to talk about girls.”
John reached out and touched his cheek. “It’s not a little dangerous, you roaming around with the baby gangbangers and their guns?”
Kim shook his head. “They think I’m from some badass Korean gang in San Francisco. I talked to one of the leaders, told him what I wanted to do, and he okayed me to go in. You wouldn’t believe it, Billy introduced me to him. He got copies of all the photos and approved. I guess that means he won’t have me rubbed out.” Kim was gathering up the photos, so he didn’t see the color leave John’s face. “I’m sure he’s going to come to my MFA show. That should be fun.”
John took a deep breath. “So, end result….”
“I’m going ahead with the MFA show, and if there is career-ruining controversy I will just deal with it.” He looked up at John. “They both sort of blame me, I think. Seems I caused Brian to crash and burn. He was popular, very charming and good-looking, and everybody liked him. It never looks good, no matter the circumstances, to be the last man standing. Everybody thinks I should have known he was about to go up in flames and stopped it.” He shrugged. “I’m not from here, and I don’t look like I belong here. Sad but true, Uncle John. It shouldn’t matter, but it does.”
John nodded. “War takes its toll on the victor, certainly, though it can be subtle. I wonder sometimes if America is still more tribal than we all realize. When is Abdullah coming?”
Kim smiled spontaneously, and John was a little startled at the change in his face. “Today
or tomorrow. I’m going to clean the house after school.”
“Should we make up one of the guest rooms?”
Kim blinked at him, his mouth half-open. “Ah, actually, Billy is going to stay in one of the guest rooms. If that’s okay. Me and Abdullah, we have some private things to discuss.”
“What kind of private things?”
“The private kind of private things.” John got a stern look. Kim’s hands were on his hips.
“And you need to be sleeping in the same room to discuss these private matters?” John didn’t know why he couldn’t just let it go. There was a brick wall in front of him named Kim. He’d banged his head lots of times in the past.
Now he got a smart-ass smirk. “I don’t think we’re going to be sleeping.”
“You want to tell me what happened between you two? And when?”
“No, I do not.” Then Kim spoiled his mature stand by continuing, “… and you can’t make me.”
“Do me a favor, kiddo. Next time you go out to take pics of the babies with their guns, let me know, okay? So I can come looking for you if you don’t come home.”
Kim swooped down on him and kissed the top of his head. “Yeah, okay. Actually not a bad idea. I didn’t want to ask Billy to come along as backup.”
“And how does Billy know some Latino Mafioso?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. But I bet there’s a story there.”
JOHN was deep into the letters of Robert E. Lee the next morning when his cell rang. He nearly let it ring, thinking about reporters, but he wasn’t sure where Kim and Billy were, and he did not like to leave the pair of them to problem solve on their own.
“Uncle John?”
“Abdullah? Where are you? I hear we’re about to have a visit. Do you need directions?”
“I need a lawyer. They won’t let me leave. I mean, the whole thing is bullshit, but I need something, help, I don’t know. I don’t know if they’re gonna charge me with something or what! It wasn’t my fault the table got broke. I tried to call my sister but she’s still in Germany and they wouldn’t let me call overseas.” He sounded brittle, like he was trying to stay calm, not cry, and the effort was costing him something.
“We’re on our way, son. Where are you? I’m leaving right now.”
Abdullah laughed, then he choked when it turned into a sob. “I’m in Winslow, Arizona.”
“Standing on a corner?”
“What? Well, that’s how it started.”
“Abdullah, is anyone there with you? Let me speak to them.”
Abdullah handed the phone over, and a man’s voice identified himself as Deputy Whitehorse.
“Deputy, is the sheriff available? This is John Mitchel.”
“He’s out in the field.”
“I’m on my way to you, to represent Dr. Omar al-Salim, Abdullah al-Salim’s father. His attorney will be coming with me. We’re driving from Albuquerque. I strongly urge you to keep him safe from harm until I get there.”
The deputy sighed. “Your boy didn’t do anything but look like an Arab and carry a cello into a coffee shop. That’s how it started, anyway. This entire mess has been the result of bone-headed fools, looking for trouble. I blame the economy. He’ll be in one piece when you get here.”
John stared at the phone. Okay! Deputy Whitehorse sounded like a man who was about ready to kick some butt. Could John get out of the house without Kim seeing him? He dialed Gabriel’s number and got the puppy of a law clerk on the phone. He was putting on a voice that sounded like Cambridge this morning. “This is John Mitchel. I need to speak to Mr. Sanchez. It’s urgent.”
“How urgent? He’s in a client meeting.”
“Put him on the phone, Grey. When someone says urgent in that tone of voice, what they mean is there’s an emergency but they want everyone to stay calm.”
Grey’s voice went down a couple of notches. “Yes, sir.”
Gabriel picked up a moment later. “Sanchez.”
“I’m on my way to get Abdullah. He called for help from a jail in Winslow, Arizona.”
“What, was he standing on a corner?”
“Such a fine sight to see. That’s what I said, but I don’t think he knew what I was talking about. Maybe no one listens to that song anymore.”
“You’ll need a lawyer. Just wait for me. I’ll be home in ten. We’ll probably need some cash.”
“Roger that. Take it out of my account.” John felt his spirits lift a bit. A road trip with Gabriel, heading in for a little rescue mission? It felt like the old days, when his work was life-or-death, and Gabriel was riding shotgun, backing his play.
Gabriel sighed. “Now is one of those times I wish I hadn’t sold the chopper. We can’t fly to Winslow in a balloon to get the boy.”
“We’ll have to drive like real people. I could have rented a chopper but someone put eight thousand dollars’ worth of furniture on my credit card.”
“John, it’s time to let that go.”
“Am I complaining too much about the new furniture?”
“Yes, you are. Gotta go. I’ll be home in ten.”
John wrote a careful note to Kim, and attached it to the message board with a little magnet that looked like a tangerine car with tiny aqua wheels. He didn’t suspect that Kim would be fooled for long. That kid was too smart for his own good. Gabriel and I have to take care of some business. We’ll be home soon, tomorrow at the latest. Abdullah will be with us. Do some grocery shopping, okay? We’re low on bread and chicken breasts, and we need salad stuff.
The interstate across New Mexico and into Arizona was fast and flat. Winslow was a little town on the border with Navajo and Hopi land, an aging railroad town the color of dust. They walked into the sheriff’s office less than four hours after Abdullah called for help. Deputy Whitehorse was standing next to a desk, talking on a phone, his brown and khaki uniform sharply pressed and spit-polished. He had long black hair bound behind his neck in a traditional bun John had seen before on Navajo men.
He studied them for a moment, then held out his hand. “General Mitchel?”
John nodded, shook his hand. “Retired. Please call me John. This is Gabriel Sanchez.”
“Ryan Whitehorse. The boy told me who you were. I was Marine Corps, myself. Many long years ago. I was in Iraq in 1990, ’91.”
He looked to be late thirties, early forties, though his still face could have been any age. Gabriel reached out, shook his hand. “We were both there the same time. I might have given you a ride in my chopper. I’m his lawyer. Can I speak to him?”
“Sure. He’s in the holding cell taking a nap.”
There was a single holding cell in the back of the station, with the door propped open by a chair and Abdullah sprawled out on the bunk, asleep. He looked a bit disreputable, dusty and unshaven, and the beard coming in was very thick and glossy black. There was a tray next to the bunk, and the paper plate had the remains of a burger and chips. The cup had held hot chocolate in the not so distant past, if John wasn’t mistaken. Hot chocolate? He and Gabriel exchanged looks.
“I’m gonna let him explain what happened,” Deputy Whitehorse said. “He’s free to go anytime. He came into town on the bus. The other boys involved have already been picked up by the tribal police, but they have lots of cousins and brothers wandering around with nothing to do, so I decided it was safer to keep him here until he got a ride.”
“Is he hurt?”
Gabriel was shaking Abdullah’s shoulder.
The deputy shook his head. “A table and a couple of chairs took the brunt of the injury, and there might be some blood on the cello case. As you might have guessed, alcohol was involved.”
Abdullah’s cello case was sitting in the corner. He was awake now and came into Gabriel’s arms.
“Uncle Gabriel! I’m so happy to see you. Uncle John!” John looked him over. No sign of illness or injury.
“So what happened? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I don’t know what happened
! I’d been playing for a couple of hours, and I went into this coffee shop to get a soda. I was thirsty. It’s hot, you know? So these guys started ragging on me, and one of them grabbed the cello. So I grabbed it, too, and we’re pulling it back and forth. That’s when the tables got knocked over and the cello rammed into this guy’s nose.”
John studied him. “What do you mean when you say you were playing?”
“On the street.”
“You came to Winslow on the bus? You were playing your cello on the street like a homeless person? Abdullah, what’s going on? Last I heard, you had a very well-paying job with the San Francisco Symphony. Were you playing for change? Does your father know what’s going on?”
He sat up on the side of the bunk, pushed the tray table away. “Kim didn’t tell you? About our little project?”
Chapter 4
WHAT irritated him the most, John thought, driving home, was the way he felt entirely surplus to needs. No, that wasn’t it. What irritated him the most was the way Kim had roped Abdullah into one of his projects and then didn’t tell anyone. Maybe that was it. No. What irritated him the most was that nobody told him what was going on. He was out of the loop. That’s what he didn’t like. And if that was the case, and he was being honest with himself, then he needed to just get over it. Just like with the furniture, he needed to get over it and move on.
Abdullah was talking to Kim, very quietly, on his cell from the back seat, but John could hear Kim yelling through the phone.
Abdullah interrupted him. “You’ve got a bike. With a little basket on the front. What, were you going to pedal it to Arizona to fetch me, and we’d tie the cello on the front? I needed somebody with a car! How was I supposed to know you hadn’t told anyone?”
“Abdullah? Let me speak to Kim.”
“Uh, sorry, sir. He’s hung up.” Abdullah dropped the cell phone onto the seat like it was a little serpent. Gabriel put a hand on John’s thigh. John wasn’t sure if it was warning or comfort, but either way, he was grateful for the touch. Gabriel gave his leg a squeeze and let go.
