On the Ropes addm-1

by Tom Schreck

  A call to my increasingly busy information technologist furnished me with more background. Jerry researched the Alfinuu site and determined it was some sort of radical, anti-American deal based in Pakistan. The Bank of Canary was an offshore bank that Jerry explained would be a good place to launder money or to avoid taxes on money earned illegally.

  I thanked Jerry for his help. I had some information that felt like something, but I didn’t know what it was or what to do with it. I also had to find Shony and I didn’t have enough information to know where to start. I wanted to find out as much as I could about this India-Pakistan thing, and I wanted to find out from someone who lived it, not just read about it. I couldn’t very well ask Gabbibb, and though there were a few other Indian doctors and students at Crawford Medical Center, not only did I not know them, I didn’t exactly get a great vibe from them, either.

  Every now and then when I didn’t know what to do, I’d give Smitty a call. If he didn’t know the answer to something, he often knew how to find the answer. I called him late at night when I knew he’d be up and I got his usual cheerful greeting.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Man, I can see why you never made a fortune in the telemarketing business,” I said.

  “You know, just because your sorry ass got suspended doesn’t mean you can’t workout,” Smitty said.

  “Ahh geez, don’t you ever let up?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe if I didn’t throw a hook like a bitch.”

  “Yeah, that’s part of it,” Smitty said. “Look, what are you calling me for?”

  “This is goin’ to sound a little weird, Smitty.”

  “Comin’ from you-I doubt it.”

  “You know anyone from India?”

  “You’re getting weird on me, son.”

  “I told you-do you?”

  “What are you, with the census bureau all of sudden?”

  “Nah, I want to find out something about India and Pakistan and all that terrorism shit,” I said.

  Smitty was quiet for a moment.

  “You free Tuesday morning?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Meet me at the Y at seven.”

  “For what?”

  “Be there at seven.” Smitty hung up. I knew better than to ask a lot of questions. With Smitty it was simple-I’d see him Tuesday morning at the gym, about five minutes to seven.

  That Tuesday morning I met Smitty in front of the Y at five minutes to seven and got into his Ninety-Eight. Smitty always drove and it wasn’t something you asked about. I had my coffee and I got in his car and, like always, the two of us didn’t exchange “good mornings” or make a lot of small talk. I didn’t ask him where we were going or who we were going to speak to. We knew each other on a different level, and I knew that soon enough my questions would be answered.

  We drove for about half an hour, without talking and without the radio. Smitty was the only guy I ever felt comfortable being with for periods of time without speaking. Out past Schorie County and almost to Mariaville, Smitty turned down a dirt road and slowed the car until he pulled into a gravel parking lot in front of a prefab steel building. On the lawn in front of the building was a sign that said “Hatha Yoga.”

  With anyone else, this would’ve been ample fodder for a couple hours of ball busting. I knew better.

  “Before you go inside, take your shoes off,” Smitty said.

  I nodded.

  We went through the front door, and sitting on a plain carpet in a twenty-by-twenty room in front of us was a very dark and shiny-skinned man who looked like Gandhi, or at least like the guy who played Gandhi in the movie. Smitty stood with his hands folded and his head down until the man greeted him.

  “Horace, it is good to see you,” the Gandhi-guy said. For twenty years I knew the man only as “Smitty,” and now I think I knew why.

  “Good morning, Yogi,” Smitty said quietly. “This is the man we spoke of. This is Duffy.”

  For some reason I felt like genuflecting or curtsying but I didn’t do either.

  “Please sit,” the man said.

  Smitty and I sat cross-legged on the carpet with my new friend, Yogi.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I want to know about India and Pakistan.”

  “Mr. Duffy,” the Yogi remained amazingly still and expressionless. “India and Pakistan are vast lands. Could you be more specific?”

  “Do you know anything about a Pakistani organization called Alfinuu?”

  Yogi looked down and studied his hands. His expression did not change.

  “Alfinuu is a fundamentalist Islamic organization that has caused much unhappiness in both Pakistan and India. It is made up of rigid people who feel that those not like them do not deserve to live. They believe they are superior and need to dominate those who do not follow their beliefs.”

  “Are they a large organization?” I asked.

  “It is difficult to tell; they are not open in their dealings.”

  “What do they do?”

  “They take the Koran, which I respect as a holy book, and they use scripture to do unholy things. In parts of Pakistan, women are jailed for what is perceived as adultery, though adultery can be seen as any type of expression. If a woman is raped against her will, she is seen as an adulteress.”

  I noticed the Yogi hardly ever blinked and I had to look real carefully to see if he was breathing. Smitty had his eyes closed and was breathing very slowly as well.

  “How does Alfinuu support their efforts financially?” I asked.

  “Several ways. They take the women who they have labeled as adulteresses and, because the women are seen as unforgivable, they often force them into prostitution. They also take the children of these women and either sell them as prostitutes or slaves where they are abused or forced into pornography.”

  This was beginning to sound familiar.

  “Mr. Duffy, the Alfinuu is not India or Pakistan any more than the Ku Klux Klan is America. They are poisonous venom within Pakistan,” Yogi said.

  “I understand,” I said.

  “From culture to culture, people devalue others as a perverted way to overvalue themselves. It is the disease of the world.”

  “I agree, Yogi.”

  “Mr. Duffy, do you realize the way women are treated by the Alfinuu? If a man believes his spouse has been unresponsive to his needs, it is now commonplace for the man to douse the woman with acid so it disfigures the woman’s face. It is horrible.”

  “What is being done about it in Pakistan?”

  “The Alfinuu work underground and they have spread enough fear to intimidate.”

  “What’s their ultimate goal?”

  “To rule the world and have everyone think like them,” the Yogi wiped his hand across his forehead. “Mr. Duffy, I have people coming in that I must prepare for.”

  “Just one more question, please. Do you know the Indian doctor Gabbibb from the Crawford Medical Center?”

  “I know of him. He does not associate with others from India. He avoids anything involving the Indian culture. None of my associates know much about his life in India.” Yogi paused and scratched his ear. “There was an incident several years ago.”

  “An incident?”

  “An Indian woman approached him at his office to invite him to an Indian social event. He spat on the woman and physically pushed her through the door.”

  “Did anyone know why?”

  “He yelled that she was an unclean whore for wearing Western makeup and lipstick.”

  I thanked the Yogi and Smitty motioned to the door quietly. We left without saying a word as the Yogi closed his eyes and folded his hands again. Smitty and I drove to Crawford in silence. As we pulled in front of the gym, he spoke.

  “You find out what you wanted?” Smitty asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  Smitty was about to pull away and I couldn’t resist.

  “Horace?”

  Smitty ga
ve me his coldest, meanest stare and drove away.

  I needed to weasel some information out of some social workers, and you would think that would be tough because of the stringent regulations on confidentiality. Well, sometimes it was and sometimes it wasn’t. If you had a good friend in the field, you could kind of speak off the record or in code and get whatever info you wanted.

  For instance, I wanted to find out what happened to those three skanks that were in Walanda’s jail therapy group. I called Jane and she pretended to give me a hard time about it, but then I got her to give in. I gave her the ol’ “… suppose, hypothetically, of course, that there were three skanky women in your jail group. Suppose their names were Melissa, Stephanie, and Lori…”

  In just a few minutes, I knew Melissa got released a week ago, Stephanie would get out tomorrow, and Lori would get discharged in three days. All three were sent to the Eagle Heights clinic.

  Jane was all right.

  Now I had to find out if that new counselor with glasses, Katy, was. I wanted to pump her to see what she could tell me about the trio, but I was afraid that because she was new to the field and didn’t know me, she might be tight with the information.

  Young social workers like Katy overcompensated for their lack of experience by developing their vocabulary and playing the part. I’m guessing she went home crying once or twice a week feeling overwhelmed and incompetent. She probably grew up in a nice suburb and always wanted to help people, she just didn’t picture it would be these kind of people. The Katy’s of the profession usually last about a year or so before they find themselves a doctor or lawyer to marry. Then they’re pregnant and they just don’t have the time to work anymore despite how much they’re going to miss it.

  I didn’t want to risk not getting the info I wanted from Katy, so I didn’t bother playing on a friendship we didn’t have. Instead I called and spoke in a very official and bored tone and told her I was following up on some cases. I pretended to be filling out a post-aftercare continuing follow-up form and asked her a bunch of methodical questions.

  It worked.

  I found out Melissa started in treatment earlier in the week, that she was driven by her significant other, a large man with a shaved head who didn’t leave the car, and that she was placed on Bowerman’s case load. Apparently, according to Katy, Bowerman fancies herself an expert in women’s issues.

  I took my chances and asked if she had any contact with a client named Tyrone whose last name I just couldn’t remember but who Michelin wanted me to find out about. I explained that the file was way over in the chart room and I didn’t feel like getting it.

  She bought all of it and gave me the entire deal on Tyrone. I guess my man Tyrone had been thrown out of treatment a long time ago for inappropriate sexual advances on the female clients.

  Imagine that.

  27

  I took some time to process what I had just learned and started strategizing what to do about it. As I had guessed, my bald biker friend had something to do with the evil babes from jail, probably was the same guy who used to pick up Walanda, and almost assuredly was the guy that paid me and Al a visit at the Moody Blue. I wasn’t sure what I had, but I had a piece of thread to start pulling at. If Stephanie was due out tomorrow and headed for the Eagle Heights clinic, then I had a pretty good guess who might be taking her. I was guessing that if I hung out around the clinic long enough, I’d see a white pickup truck with a bald bastard behind the wheel who had something coming to him. As this ran through my mind, I glanced down at Al. He was uncomfortable and continued to struggle with his breathing.

  The county jail discharged prisoners at 12:01 a.m., which was one of the classic strokes of incredible bureaucratic idiocy. A very high percentage of the people who wound up in county jail got there because of drugs, drinking, or other nocturnal happenings. The jail was located at the bottom of South Hill in Crawford’s worst ghetto. The inmates only had to walk out the door and head a block up the hill to get their first hit of crack or heroin. There was even a scum subset of dealers who waited on that block at 12:02 every night. Some women would leave the county lockup and wait for the first john to cruise by. There would be a $10 or $15 transaction and then the usual sexual procedure. That payment got them a couple of bumpies, as they were sometimes called, and a briefly interrupted crack addiction was reignited.

  I had a couple of hours to kill before midnight and I was starving, so I headed over to AJ’s. Al was going to have to come in with me and AJ was probably going to give me shit for it, but I didn’t care. I parked right out in front, lifted Al off his seat, and carried him in the front door.

  “Hey,” TC said. “Meat deliveries in the back.”

  “Duffy-get the hell out of here with him. It’s against health laws,” AJ said.

  “He’s a seeing-eye dog,” I said.

  “For who?” Rocco said. “Midgets?”

  “Look, AJ, he’s hurtin’ and I can’t leave him alone. Give me a break this time, will ya?”

  AJ shook his head and muttered something and walked to the other end of the bar. He acted disgusted, but that was predictable and he didn’t put us out.

  “Hey Duff, he’s one of those basket hounds, isn’t he?” Jerry Number One asked.

  “That’s bassoon hound, jerkoff,” said Rocco. “They were originally bred to accompany the soldiers in the French and Indian War. The bassoonist called the men to battle.”

  “I think it’s bastard hound, because they drool so much,” TC said.

  “What the hell would drooling have to do with bastards?” Rocco said.

  “It pisses everyone off and so that’s what they called them,” TC said. “God damn bastard hounds.”

  “Fellas, he’s a basset hound,” I said. “They’re originally from France, and they’re bred to trail small game for hunting.” My Dogs For Dummies reading was paying off.

  “That too,” Rocco grumbled.

  Eventually they got around to asking me about the bumps and bruises Al and I had. I mentioned something about a fender bender and a bad day at the gym. That was enough for the Foursome because they were already on to their next discussion/argument-something about a choking dog spitting up a burglar’s fingers.

  I decided to talk with Kelley.

  “Hey-Kel.”

  “What’s going on, Duff. Tough sparring session?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “That’s not from the ring.” Kelley didn’t ask-he was making a statement.

  “Well…”

  “I don’t want to know, do I?”

  Before I could answer, Rocco interrupted us.

  “God damn bastard hound!”

  I spun around on my stool to see Al chomping through Rocco’s cheeseburger. He had ketchup on his nose.

  “Shoo, shoo!” Rocco yelled.

  “Rocco-he’s not a pigeon,” TC said. “What the hell are you telling him to shoo for?”

  Al finished the cheeseburger and was sampling Rocco’s fries.

  “Shoo, you bastard!” Rocco said.

  I grabbed Al and gingerly carried him away from the bar and to one of the tables. Everyone thought it was hysterical, that is, everyone but Rocco.

  “Sorry, Rock,” I said. “AJ-can you make Rocco another burger and get him a beer on me?”

  “Bastard hound,” Rocco muttered.

  “Certainly seems more fitting than bassoon hound now, doesn’t it, Rock?” Jerry Number Two said.

  Rudy came in sweating up a storm, sat on the other side of the Foursome, and ordered a Foster’s and a sidecar of Hennessy. Poor Rudy looked like he was getting fatter as he sat there. The back of his neck looked like a pack of hotdogs and the fabric on his clothes looked as stressed as he did.

  “Hey, Rude. What’s happening?” I asked.

  “Bullshit, Duff. Nothin’ but bullshit,” he said, taking a pull off the Hennessy and leaving just about a sip left in his rocks glass.

  “Gabbibb found cancer in two more of th
e park-beating victims.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Something weird is happening and I don’t know what. Either these guys are all eating something bad or the park is radioactive or something,” he said.

  “How could all of these guys have such bad luck?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s possible, just not very likely.”

  “Hey Rude-why would Gabbibb have money in an offshore account?” I said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He was on the computer before me and I saw that he was on the Bank of Canary website.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Duff.” He swallowed the rest of the Hennessy. “He might be doing something shady with that electronic business he does with his cousin.”

  “He was also on some Pakistani extremist site.”

  “Duffy, what the fuck are you doing?” He wiped sweat from his brow. “You think he’s some sort of money-laundering political extremist trying to take over Crawford, New York?”

  “I think he’s a shady asshole,” I said.

  “I think there’s a lot of shady assholes around, but that doesn’t mean they’re all doing it on a giant scale.”

  “Hey, how’s that shit going at work?”

  “They’ve called a meeting with the hospital board of directors to decide whether they rescind my privileges.”

  “I’m sorry, Rudy,” I said.

  “Yeah, me too, Duff,” he said.

  I finished off my third Schlitz and realized I’d better head out if I wanted to catch the 12:01 jail releases. I bid my farewells to the boys, scooped up Al, who winced a bit when I put pressure on his ribs, and walked to the Eldorado.

  I slid in a compilation eight-track I made years ago of some of Elvis’s stuff. Colonel Parker, Elvis’s manager and guru, was one of the stupidest music people ever. He had a tendency of burying some of Elvis’s greatest songs on albums that really sucked. “Burning Love,” for instance, was on an album with movie hits. I decided I would create my own compilations of my favorites and tell the Colonel to stick his marketing plan.