by Salar Abdoh
And if I could somehow get to the bottom of Asghar’s story and end up writing a feature article—one of those once-in-a-lifetime stories that makes a reporter’s career—then maybe I could reach my dream of becoming a war correspondent. It wasn’t impossible. And God knows, there were plenty of wars in the neighborhood for me to cover. I wouldn’t have to go far.
I set out for that teahouse, alone. On the way there, I called my boss and told him what I was up to and where I was going. “If you don’t hear from me in another three hours, call the police.” He didn’t have full faith in me and insisted he accompany me; I insisted he didn’t. Truth was, there was only one person in all of Tehran I would have wanted to tag along. And that was Hassan. Better known as Hassan Underpants. I just didn’t know if Hassan was in or out of jail nowadays. Hassan was nineteen, and his specialty was stealing cars and car stereos.
As for his name, they called him Underpants because one time his father had gotten into a fight in their neighborhood and had his pants pulled down by the other guy. I’d met the kid a couple of years back at the criminal court. They’d brought him in straight from juvenile detention to face the judge, and I happened to be there to cover another story. Somehow I managed to speak to him and we hit it off. He was smart, quick on his feet, and incorrigible. I got to liking him and ended up convincing the judge, whom I knew, to go easy on the boy. So Hassan felt he owed me. But more than that, he was simply an honorable thief. If he was your friend, he wouldn’t steer you wrong. We hooked up every once in a while and he always had some technical details to fill me in on for my crime stories.
Now I decided I needed him. I called, giving him the rundown without saying anything obvious about a possible murder.
A half hour later he zipped up alongside me on his motorcycle not far from the Imam Hossein Circle. “Get on, brother. I wish I could be a reporter like you.”
He had the body of a small wrestler and looked a good bit older than his nineteen years. I asked him if he had gotten in any trouble lately.
“Always. But as you can see, I’m on the outside, not the inside. So I must be doing something right. Now listen, the teahouse we’re going to is called Shokufeh. I know all about the place and I’m glad you called me to come with you. We’ll go in there, sit in a corner, order some tea and a qalyan. Leave the rest to me.”
I had to shout into his ear as he zigzagged on his bike in the crazy early-evening traffic. “Let me guess: you’re going to ask for Abi the Lisp and pretend you have car stereos to sell.”
“Who says pretend?” he shouted back.
“I don’t know about this. I mean, why would we be directly asking for him? There’s a lot of other people you could sell your stereos to.”
Hassan parked us next to a row of other bikes in front of the teahouse. “I did my homework, boss. Abi the Lisp does fence stereos, besides other things. We’re in luck.”
We ordered our tea and the qalyan from the tea man who gave us a once-over, smiled, and said they didn’t serve smoke to uptown pussies around here.
Hassan shot back, “Do you see any uptown pussies right now?”
“Hmm, I don’t think so,” the guy said, and ambled off.
I’d been to my share of rough teahouses. But this place was in a class of its own. The air was thick with smoke and it seemed like every other customer was recently out of jail or was heading back there. Every kind of tattoo you could think of was inked into those forearms and the walls of the place were crammed with pictures of wrestlers and famous tough guys of old.
We sat for another twenty minutes, smoking and drinking. When our tea man brought another round for us, Hassan made his move. “We’re looking for Abi the Lisp. They said this is his hangout.”
“They misinformed you, son.”
“Maybe they didn’t misinform me. Maybe someone can let him know we got a few things we want to get rid of.”
As Hassan was talking, I slipped several notes into the man’s hand. He counted the money. “You guys sit tight. I’ll be back.”
We ordered omelets and more tea. If something was going to happen it would be now. Soon the tea man came back giving us a look that meant he wasn’t convinced. “Never seen you two around here. How can I trust you? How do I know you’re not chasing after agha Abi?”
Hassan didn’t waste a moment. He took out his cell phone and showed several pictures of car stereos he had for sale. “Look, boss, they know us all over the Yaftabad District. We’re here to make a living.”
After seeing the pictures the man seemed more convinced, but not completely. “I’ll be back,” he said again, and disappeared behind a giant old fridge where we couldn’t see him. I expected him to return with more questions, or maybe the entire teahouse now figured we were cops and they were planning to do us in.
In the middle of these thoughts Hassan gave me a nudge while taking a drag off the qalyan. “Get yourself together. Here he comes again.”
The tea man stood examining us once more. He had the shrunken cheeks of a true opium addict and he didn’t seem any more forthcoming. “I made a few calls. No one knows where he is. Some say he’s been over in Pakistan for a while. Others say his new hangout is the Chaman teahouse over in the Mowlavi District. One thing’s for sure though: he’s not in the business of buying and selling stolen goods anymore. He’s gone straight.”
I was watching Hassan as he replied coolly, “Too bad. But since we’re here, can you hook us up with anyone else who might be in the business?”
Now the tea man smiled and immediately dialed a number on his own phone and handed it to Hassan. “Don’t forget my commission then!”
I nodded to the guy, telling him I’d guarantee his cut myself. Meanwhile, Hassan spoke quietly into the phone and I knew he was speaking to Abi the Lisp himself. After a couple of minutes he took down a number and whispered that he’d be in touch. He winked at the tea man and gave his phone back to him. “Peace!”
Five minutes later we were out on the street and Hassan Underpants could barely contain his excitement. “Did you see how I handled all that? Am I your Hassan or am I not? Did you see how I showed him pictures of the car stereos and asked him to find us anyone to take them off our hands?”
I nodded. But I was far from excited. Actually, I was getting pretty paranoid and kept glancing behind my back thinking we were being watched. Hassan must have noticed the panic in my face because he pulled me close. “Relax. What do you want to do now? Do you want us to go over to that other teahouse he mentioned in case we can find your man tonight?”
“I don’t know what I want to do, Hassan jaan. Let me think about it a couple of days. I owe you big. And I’d like to pay you for your trouble.”
“Come on, brother. What do you think I am? I mean, you can pay me for other stuff. But not tonight. Tonight I found a customer for all those stereos I’ve been sitting on.” He started his motorbike. “Can I take you somewhere?”
I told him no and he took off like the wind, satisfied with a good night’s work. He had no idea what I’d really gotten us into and at this point I could hardly tell him. I quickly grabbed a cab and headed home, all the while thinking about the description of Abi the Lisp that the tea man had given us when I’d asked him: almost six foot six of muscle, with that unmistakable lisp and a tattoo on his eyelid.
“On his eyelid?” I’d repeated to the tea man.
“That’s right. You can’t miss him. And when you do see him, tell him Sleepy Ghasem sends his greetings.”
Now my days turned into one long bout of watching that mugging video over and over again. I was frustrated and angry at myself for my indecision. There was a scenario here and it made sense: Abi the Lisp seemed to have hightailed it quickly south of the border to Pakistan as soon as the video of the mugging came out in the news. By the time he returned, his partner, Ali Big, had been hung months earlier and no one could care less about what happened the previous winter. No one but maybe Abi the Lisp himself, who now sought revenge for
the hanging of his friend. What I couldn’t figure out was how he would have found out it was Asghar who sold the video to the newspeople. But that was neither here nor there at this point. What was certain was the following: Asghar had disappeared and Abi the Lisp was back in town and he’d changed his hangout so that people wouldn’t be able to find him so easily.
I was stuck. On one hand I kept telling myself I was a newspaper reporter, not a detective. On the other hand, I knew if I let this story go I’d never forgive myself. I’d think about it for the rest of my days as the one scoop that might have catapulted me to a new place in my career. It got bad enough that I stopped answering most phone calls and could barely turn in any reports. The more I thought about it, the more I realized there were three choices in front of me: 1) call Hassan Underpants and tell him to set up that meeting with Abi the Lisp; 2) pretend none of this ever happened, call my girlfriend, tell her she was right, and take her away on a long holiday somewhere; 3) call the police and Asghar’s father and tell them everything I’d learned so far and let them deal with it.
There was one other factor: I couldn’t even be sure Abi the Lisp was the one who had murdered Asghar. In fact, I couldn’t even be sure that Asghar was dead, though my reporter’s intuition told me that he probably was.
Meanwhile, Hassan Underpants wouldn’t stop calling. I answered his calls because I didn’t want him thinking I’d changed my mind. And to give him credit, he was smart enough never to ask me too pointedly why I was so interested in Abi the Lisp. I knew that he knew Abi the Lisp had been implicated in the infamous mugging. But that was as far as we went. Hassan thought I was nosing for some story while he was simply hoping to sell his goods.
So I decided to consult a mentor, Mr. Boluri, an old hand who had done some of the best newspaper reporting since before the Islamic Revolution over three decades earlier. I met him in a sandwich shop on Komeyl Street one day and told him everything—I hadn’t even told the whole story to my boss at the paper. As soon as I was finished he grabbed my wrist from across the table, stared at me intensely, and spoke: “You’ve already done 80 percent of the legwork. If you let this one go, I suggest you look for another occupation altogether. You won’t be suited for this anymore.”
Boluri’s reply was like a shot of adrenaline through my body. I called Hassan and told him to meet me near the Chaman teahouse that night between eight and nine when it was sure to be at its most crowded.
We met at Mowlavi Circle. Chaman teahouse was at the end of a series of meandering alleys behind the Grand Bazaar. Junkies filled the dark, ancient passageways. Once we entered the teahouse we’d have to come back the same way. It was a cul-de-sac here; if I’d been worried before, now I was pretty much beside myself. Hassan parked his Honda alongside the usual motorbikes and nodded towards the teahouse.
I took a peek through the window inside the smoky place and remarked, “It’s the kind of place a man could get raped.”
As always, Hassan knew when I was feeling the heat. He smiled and made light of it. “If we do get raped, just relax your asshole and try to enjoy it at least. That’s what I always do.”
He grinned and we both burst out laughing. Though on my end it was mostly nervous laughter.
I asked, “Did you set up the meeting with Abi the Lisp?”
Hassan shook his head. “I almost did. Then I thought twice about it. Whatever it is you got us into, brother—and let me tell you, I’m willing to go with you all the way—I didn’t want to take the chance and give the man a heads-up. This is his new hangout. So if he’s here tonight, he’s here. If he’s not, then we’ll come back another night, and another night till we catch him. What’s important is nobody should be expecting us when we don’t really know what we’re walking into. This way, it’s us who have the element of surprise, not Abi the Lisp.”
“Hassan, did I ever tell you you’re the smartest nineteen-year-old I ever met?”
“Tell that to the judge next time I’m in trouble.” He smiled. “Come on, it’s time.”
The pungent smell of qalyan smoke hit us as soon as we entered. Behind the owner’s desk there was a red sign that said, Chaman teahouse, under Haj Morteza’s management. There was no space for us to sit. Men sat shoulder to shoulder drinking tea, smoking, playing backgammon, and wheeling and dealing in low whispers.
I turned to the busy tea man. “You have somewhere we can sit?”
“Apologies,” the thick voice said. “Give me a few minutes.”
Hassan came closer to the tea man and opened up the sack he was carrying. “Brother, I’m looking for Abi the Lisp.” He gestured to the goods inside the sack. “I got a few things I need to get off my hands.”
The tea man took a curious look at the car stereos and then pointed to Haj Morteza, the owner. “You’ll have to speak to the boss.”
To get to Haj Morteza we had to pass men who could have come right out of murder lineups and horror films. I felt weak-kneed and a bit desperate. If Hassan hadn’t been there, I would have tiptoed out and never looked back.
Haj Morteza was your classic tough guy, the kind with the fedora and a large prayer bead constantly churning in his right hand.
Hassan spoke in a respectful tone: “I have a few things to sell and they told me I could find Abi the Lisp here.”
Without getting up from behind his desk, Haj Morteza pointed to Hassan’s bag. “Let’s see what you got, son.” Hassan showed him. “No good. We don’t allow for small transactions in our place.”
“Haj Morteza, these are just samples,” Hassan said quickly. “There’s a lot more where this came from. And if the deal happens, your commission is a given.”
Haj Morteza glanced up and met my eyes, probably wondering what part of the equation I was. “The teahouse takes its 5 percent. It’s the rule here.”
“Upon my eyes, boss,” Hassan said in a tone of utter respect.
It was a good time to ask again, so I did: “Is Abi the Lisp even here, by any chance?”
Haj Morteza laughed. “Of course he’s here.” He pointed to a giant of a man sitting and talking with two others. “But I warn you guys, he doesn’t like being called Abi the Lisp anymore. I suggest you just call him by his first name. I’ll take you to him myself when he’s not so busy. Just wait awhile.”
Five minutes later, when Abi the Lisp’s visitors were gone, Haj Morteza led us to his table.
Abi the Lisp wasn’t big; he was huge. I’m a guy who’s bigger than average, and yet my wrists must have been half the size of his.
“They’re businessmen,” the teahouse owner offered. “They’re all yours.”
Hassan opened his bag. “We spoke before on the phone. Business is not so good in Yaftabad. Lot of roundups. We thought we’d come straight your way, agha Abi.”
The big guy took a glance at the goods and said, “Gentlemen, why are you still standing up? Let’s sit.” He definitely had a lisp, but who’d be man enough in that teahouse to admit they heard it?
We watched the owner walk off and tell one of the workers to bring three cups to our table. Then it was the usual rounds of underworld etiquette, offers of cigarettes and one man lighting up for the other—all the little things that made this world real and instantly flammable.
While Hassan and Abi talked, I stayed focused on the big man’s face. There was a moment when he was drinking his tea that he closed both eyes. I saw them: one eyelid was tattooed Good and the other Night.
Good night?
Was that the last thing he’d said to Asghar before killing him?
But had he even killed Asghar?
The two men settled quickly on a price that included the teahouse’s commission. Hassan then turned my way as if to get my okay too, and I nodded my head like the silent partner I’d become in all of this. The meeting was set for tomorrow night at ten, and in a minute I found myself finally shaking hands with the man who had come to occupy more and more of my thoughts.
Afterward, Hassan offered to give me a ri
de home. We barely spoke the entire way. It was some kind of an unspeakable victory for both of us. For Hassan, he suddenly had an in with a whole new crowd in a district he hadn’t been operating in, and he had the shadow of Abi the Lisp to protect him. It meant he would be going on to bigger and better things, and those bigger and better things would probably get him in jail faster than if he just stuck to car stereos. And who had brought him to this? Me. As for myself, I had my own “in.” But I still didn’t know where I stood and what I should do about it. It’s like when you chase a story and see and hear so much that you need to pull back at some stage, breathe deep, and get your head in order before you can write a word.
At home I put myself to sleep watching a Spanish-league soccer game. In the morning when I woke up I no longer had any doubt that Abi the Lisp was Asghar’s murderer. How did I know? My heart told me. I think it was the moment we’d gone to pay for our tea at Haj Morteza’s desk and Abi the Lisp called out to the teahouse owner that he’d cover our bill. It had been a gesture of friendship, of more profitable transactions to come between us, of showing good faith. But somehow the gesture had also crystallized something in my mind. Abi the Lisp was a man who called shots, who killed, who escaped to another country and came back and carried on as before. It wasn’t that no one could touch him. Police, after all, had caught and killed Ali Big, his partner. Which made me wonder why these two guys who had a hand in everything would want to do a simple mugging for so little money. And then I thought about it like this: they did it because the victim was there and they happened to be passing that way. They’d sat in a teahouse and decided today they were going on a fast mugging spree. Why? Because they could. Some men climbed mountains, other men went on a mugging rampage for a day. Because it was there. Because victims were plenty. And it was this bad luck of getting caught on camera that had stuck to Abi the Lisp’s craw. He’d felt foolish amongst his own kind. So when he came back from Pakistan or wherever he had been, he’d done the first thing he thought would set him standing tall again. He’d found out who the video source was—Asghar—and he’d buried him.
