Transgressions

by Ed McBain

  A: Yes. Now I recall that was the date.

  Q: Because the detectives spoke to you that morning, isn’t that so? In your aunt’s apartment? Gulalai Nazir, right? Your aunt? You spoke to the detectives at six that morning, didn’t you?

  A: I don’t remember the exact time, but yes, I spoke to them.

  Q: And told them a Jew had killed your cousin, isn’t that so?

  A: Yes. Because of the blue star.

  Q: Oh, is that why?

  A: Yes.

  Q: And you spoke to Detective Genero and Parker, did you not, after a third Muslim cab driver was killed? This would have been on Monday, May fifth, at around three in the afternoon, when you spoke to them. And at that time you said, correct me if I’m wrong, you said, “Just find the fucking Jew who shot my cousin in the head,” is that correct?

  A: Yes, I said that. And I’ve already explained how I knew he was shot in the head. I was there when the imam washed him. I saw the bullet wound . . .

  Q: Did you know any of these other cab drivers?

  A: No.

  Q: Khalid Aslam . . .

  A: No.

  Q: Ali Al-Barak?

  A: No.

  Q: Or the one who was killed last night, Abbas Miandad, did you know any of these drivers?

  A: I told you no.

  Q: So the only one you knew was your cousin, Salim Nazir.

  A: Of course I knew my cousin.

  Q: And you also knew he was shot in the head.

  A: Yes. I told you . . .

  Q: Like all the other drivers.

  A: I don’t know how the other drivers were killed. I didn’t see the other drivers.

  Q: But you saw your cousin while he was being washed, is that correct?

  A: That is correct.

  Q: Would you remember the name of the imam who washed him?

  A: No, I’m sorry.

  Q: Would it have been Ahmed Nur Kabir?

  A: It could have. I had never seen him before.

  Q: If I told you his name was Ahmed Nur Kabir, and that the name of the mosque where your cousin’s body was prepared for burial is Masjid Al-Barbrak, would you accept that?

  A: If you say that’s where . . .

  Q: Yes, I say so.

  A: Then, of course, I would accept it.

  Q: Would it surprise you to learn that the detectives here—Detectives Carella and Meyer—spoke to the imam at Masjid Al-Barbrak?

  A: I would have no way of knowing whether or not they . . .

  Q: Will you accept my word that they spoke to him?

  A: I would accept it.

  Q: They spoke to him and he told them he was alone when he washed your cousin’s body, alone when he wrapped the body in its shrouds. There was no one in the room with him. He was alone, Mr. Kiraz.

  A: I don’t accept that. I was with him.

  Q: He says you were waiting outside with your aunt. He says he was alone with the corpse.

  A: He’s mistaken.

  Q: If he was, in fact, alone with your cousin’s body . . . ?

  A: I told you he’s mistaken.

  Q: You think he’s lying?

  A: I don’t know what. . .

  Q: You think a holy man would lie?

  A: Holy man! Please!

  Q: If he was alone with the body, how do you explain seeing a bullet wound at the back of your cousin’s head?

  Q: Mr. Kiraz?

  Q: Mr. Kiraz, how did you know your cousin was shot in the head? None of the newspaper or television reports . . .

  Q: Mr. Kiraz? Would you answer my question, please?

  Q: Mr. Kiraz?

  A: Any man would have done the same thing.

  Q: What would any man . . . ?

  A: She is not one of his whores! She is my wife!

  I knew, of course, that Salim was seeing a lot of women. That’s okay, he was young, he was good-looking, the Koran says a man can take as many as four wives, so long as he can support them emotionally and financially. Salim wasn’t even married, so there’s nothing wrong with dating a lot of girls, four, five, a dozen, who cares? This is America, Salim was American, we’re all Americans, right? You watch television, the bachelor has to choose from fifteen girls, isn’t that so? This is America. So there was nothing wrong with Salim dating all these girls.

  But not my wife.

  Not Badria.

  I don’t know when it started with her. I don’t know when it started between them. I know one night I called the supermarket where she works. This was around ten o’clock one night, I was at the pharmacy. I manage a pharmacy, you know. People ask me all sorts of questions about what they should do for various ailments. I’m not a pharmacist, but they ask me questions. I know a lot of doctors. Also, I read a lot. I have time during the day, I don’t start work till four in the afternoon. So I read a lot. I wanted to be a teacher, you know.

  They told me she had gone home early.

  I said, Gone home? Why?

  I was alarmed.

  Was Badria sick?

  The person I spoke to said my wife had a headache. So she went home.

  I didn’t know what to think.

  I immediately called the house. There was no answer. Now I became really worried. Was she seriously ill? Why wasn’t she answering the phone? Had she fainted? So I went home, too. I’m the manager, I can go home if I like. This is America. A manager can go home if he likes. I told my assistant I thought my wife might be sick.

  I was just approaching my building when I saw them. This was now close to eleven o’clock that night. It was dark, I didn’t recognize them at first. I thought it was just a young couple. Another young couple. Only that. Coming up the street together. Arm in arm. Heads close. She turned to kiss him. Lifted her head to his. Offered him her lips. It was Badria. My wife. Kissing Salim. My cousin.

  Well, they knew each other, of course. They had met at parties, they had met at family gatherings, this was my cousin! “Beware of getting into houses and meeting women,” the Prophet said. “But what about the husband’s brother?” someone asked, and the Prophet replied, “The husband’s brother is like death.” He often talked in riddles, the Prophet, it’s all such bullshit. The Prophet believed that the influence of an evil eye is fact. Fact, mind you. The evil eye. The Prophet believed that he himself had once been put under a spell by a Jew and his daughters. The Prophet believed that the fever associated with plague was due to the intense heat of Hell. The Prophet once said, “Filling the belly of a person with pus is better than stuffing his brain with poetry.” Can you believe that? I read poetry! I read a lot. The Prophet believed that if you had a bad dream, you should spit three times on your left side. That’s what Jews do when they want to take the curse off something, you know, they spit on their fingers, ptui, ptui, ptui. I’ve seen elderly Jews doing that on the street. It’s the same thing, am I right? It’s all bullshit, all of it. Jesus turning water into wine, Jesus raising the dead! I mean, come on! Raising the dead? Moses parting the Red Sea? I’d love to see that one!

  It all goes back to the time of the dinosaurs, when men huddled in caves in fear of thunder and lightning. It all goes back to Godfearing men arguing violently about which son of Abraham was the true descendant of the one true God, and whether or not Jesus was, in fact, the Messiah. As if a one true God, if there is a God at all, doesn’t know who the hell he himself is! All of them killing each other! Well, it’s no different today, is it? It’s all about killing each other in the name of God, isn’t it?

  In the White House, we’ve got a born-again Christian who doesn’t even realize he’s fighting a holy war. An angry dry-drunk, as they say, full of hate, thirsting for white wine, and killing Arabs wherever he can find them. And in the sand out there, on their baggy-pantsed knees, we’ve got a zillion Muslim fanatics, full of hate, bowing to Mecca and vowing to drive the infidel from the Holy Land. Killing each other. All of them killing each other in the name of a one true God.

  In my homeland, in my village, the tribal elders w
ould have appointed a council to rape my wife as punishment for her transgression. And then the villagers would have stoned her to death.

  But this is America.

  I’m an American.

  I knew I had to kill Salim, yes, that is what an American male would do, protect his wife, protect the sanctity of his home, kill the intruder. But I also knew I had to get away with it, as they say, I had to kill the violator and still be free to enjoy the pleasures of my wife, my position, I’m the manager of a pharmacy!

  I bought the spray paint, two cans, at a hardware store near the pharmacy. I thought that was a good idea, the Star of David. Such symbolism! The six points of the star symbolizing God’s rule over the universe in all six directions, north, south, east, west, up and down. Such bullshit! I didn’t kill Salim until the second night, to make it seem as if he wasn’t the true target, this was merely hate, these were hate crimes. I should have left it at three. Three would have been convincing enough, weren’t you convinced after three? Especially with the bombings that followed? Weren’t you convinced? But I had to go for four. Insurance. The Navajos think four is a sacred number, you know. Again, it has to do with religion, with the four directions. They’re all related, these religions. Jews, Christians, Muslims, they’re all related. And they’re all the same bullshit.

  Salim shouldn’t have gone after my wife.

  He had enough whores already.

  My wife is not a whore.

  I did the right thing.

  I did the American thing.

  They came out through the back door of the station house—a Catholic who hadn’t been to church since he was twelve, and a Jew who put up a tree each and every Christmas—and walked to where they’d parked their cars early this morning. It was a lovely bright afternoon. They both turned their faces up to the sun and lingered a moment. They seemed almost reluctant to go home. It was often that way after they cracked a tough one. They wanted to savor it a bit.

  “I’ve got a question,” Meyer said.

  “Mm?”

  “Do you think I’m too sensitive?”

  “No. You’re not sensitive at all.”

  “You mean that?”

  “I mean it.”

  “You’ll make me cry.”

  “I just changed my mind.”

  Meyer burst out laughing.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said. “I’m sure glad this didn’t turn out to be what it looked like at first. I’m glad it wasn’t hate.”

  “Maybe it was,” Carella said.

  They got into their separate cars and drove toward the open gate in the cyclone fence, one car behind the other. Carella honked “Shave-and-a-hair-cut,” and Meyer honked back “Two-bits!” As Carella made his turn, he waved so long. Meyer tooted the horn again.

  Both men were smiling.

  STEPHEN KING

  _________

  There are certain things that are almost always mentioned when the name Stephen King comes up. How many books he’s sold. What he’s doing in and for literature today. One thing almost never mentioned—and not generally perceived—is that he single-handedly made popular fiction grow up. While there were many good bestselling writers before him, King, more than anybody since John D. MacDonald, brought reality to genre novels with his minutely detailed examinations of life and the people of mythical towns in New England that seem to exist due to his amazing talent for making them real in every detail. Of course, combined with the elements of supernatural terror, novels such as It, The Stand, Insomnia, and Bag of Bones have propelled him to the top of the bestseller lists time after time. He’s often remarked that Salem’s Lot was “Peyton Place Meets Dracula.” And so it was. The rich characterization, the careful and caring social eye, the interplay of story line and character development announced that writers could take worn themes such as vampirism or ghosts and make them fresh again. Before King, many popular writers found their efforts to make their books serious blue-penciled by their editors. Stuff like that gets in the way of the story, they were told. Well, it’s stuff like that that has made King so popular, and helped free the popular name from the shackles of simple genre writing. He is a master of masters. Recently he has been completing his magnum opus fantasy series The Dark Tower, with book six, Song of Susannah, published, and the last book, The Dark Tower, just out.

  THE THINGS THEY

  LEFT BEHIND

  Stephen King

  The things I want to tell you about—the ones they left behind—showed up in my apartment in August of 2002. I’m sure of that, because I found most of them not long after I helped Paula Robeson with her air conditioner. Memory always needs a marker, and that’s mine. She was a children’s book illustrator, good-looking (hell fine-looking), husband in import-export. A man has a way of remembering occasions when he’s actually able to help a good-looking lady in distress (even one who keeps assuring you she’s “very married”); such occasions are all too few. These days the would-be knight errant usually just makes matters worse.

  She was in the lobby, looking frustrated, when I came down for an afternoon walk. I said Hi, howya doin’, the way you do to other folks who share your building, and she asked me in an exasperated tone that stopped just short of querulousness why the super had to be on vacation now. I pointed out that even cowgirls get the blues and even supers go on vacation; that August, furthermore, was an extremely logical month to take time off. August in New York (and in Paris, mon ami) finds psychoanalysts, trendy artists, and building superintendents mighty thin on the ground.

  She didn’t smile. I’m not sure she even got the Tom Robbins reference (obliqueness is the curse of the reading class). She said it might be true about August being a good month to take off and go to the Cape or Fire Island, but her damned apartment was just about burning up and the damned air conditioner wouldn’t so much as burp. I asked her if she’d like me to take a look, and I remember the glance she gave me—those cool, assessing gray eyes. I remember thinking that eyes like that probably saw quite a lot. And I remember smiling at what she asked me: Are you safe? It reminded me of that movie, not Lolita (thinking about Lolita, sometimes at two in the morning, came later) but the one where Laurence Olivier does the impromptu dental work on Dustin Hoffman, asking him over and over again, Is it safe?

  I’m safe, I said. Haven’t attacked a woman in over a year. I used to attack two or three a week, but the meetings are helping.

  A giddy thing to say, but I was in a fairly giddy mood. A summer mood. She gave me another look, and then she smiled. Put out her hand. Paula Robeson, she said. It was the left hand she put out—not normal, but the one with the plain gold band on it. I think that was probably on purpose, don’t you? But it was later that she told me about her husband being in import-export. On the day when it was my turn to ask her for help.

  In the elevator, I told her not to expect too much. Now, if she’d wanted a man to find out the underlying causes of the New York City Draft Riots, or to supply a few amusing anecdotes about the creation of the smallpox vaccine, or even to dig up quotes on the sociological ramifications of the TV remote control (the most important invention of the last fifty years, in my ’umble opinion), I was the guy.

  Research is your game, Mr. Staley? she asked as we went up in the slow and clattery elevator.

  I admitted that it was, although I didn’t add that I was still quite new to it. Nor did I ask her to call me Scott—that would have spooked her all over again. And I certainly didn’t tell her that I was trying to forget all I’d once known about rural insurance. That I was, in fact, trying to forget quite a lot of things, including about two dozen faces.

  You see, I may be trying to forget, but I still remember quite a lot. I think we all do, when we put our minds to it (and sometimes, rather more nastily, when we don’t). I even remember something one of those South American novelists said—you know, the ones they call the Magical Realists? Not the guy’s name, that’s not important, but this quote: As infants, our first victory
comes in grasping some bit of the world, usually our mothers’ fingers. Later we discover that the world, and the things of the world, are grasping us, and have been, all along. Borges? Yes, it might have been Borges. Or it might have been Remarquez. That I don’t remember. I just know I got her air conditioner running, and when cool air started blowing out of the convector, it lit up her whole face. I also know it’s true, that thing about how perception switches around and we come to realize that the things we thought we were holding are actually holding us. Keeping us prisoner, perhaps—Thoreau certainly thought so—but also holding us in place. That’s the trade-off. And no matter what Thoreau might have thought, I believe the trade is mostly a fair one. Or I did then; now, I’m not so sure.

  And I know these things happened in late August of 2002, not quite a year after a piece of the sky fell down and everything changed for all of us.

  On an afternoon about a week after Sir Scott Staley donned his Good Samaritan armor and successfully battled the fearsome air conditioner, I took my afternoon walk to the Staples on Eighty-third Street to get a box of Zip discs and a ream of paper. I owed a fellow forty pages of background on the development of the Polaroid camera (which is more interesting a story as you might think). When I got back to my apartment, there was a pair of sunglasses with red frames and very distinctive lenses on the little table in the foyer where I keep bills that need to be paid, claim checks, overdue-book notices, and things of that nature. I recognized the glasses at once, and all the strength went out of me. I didn’t fall, but I dropped my packages on the floor and leaned against the side of the door, trying to catch my breath and staring at those sunglasses. If there had been nothing to lean against, I believe I would have swooned like a miss in a Victorian novel—one of those where the lustful vampire appears at the stroke of midnight.

  Two related but distinct emotional waves struck me. The first was that sense of horrified shame you feel when you know you’re about to be caught in some act you will never be able to explain. The memory that comes to mind in this regard is of a thing that happened to me—or almost happened—when I was sixteen.