The 56th Man

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "This blasphemer! What he's saying!"

  Omar gave the cab of the pickup a cursory scowl. "Let him blaspheme," he barked before focusing again on the three prisoners.

  Idiot puzzled over this a moment, then nodded. "Yes. You keep talking like this. You're going to Hell."

  "Why Idiot, you're beginning to sound like a yid. A little less intelligent, maybe--"

  "You shut up!"

  Ghaith raised a hand at the windshield, pointing at Omar. "You see what good friends we are? 'Let him blaspheme.' You don't meet many like him. That's why I need to warn him. But how can I tell him to give me a good, slathering rim job right at that...you know, that delicate moment? It's not very romantic. And if even a blockhead like me can see that, what about Omar? Ah, I can see it now! Poor Omar! Going limp just when--"

  "God be praised!"

  Omar was waving towards the police truck. Idiot opened the passenger door.

  "Come!"

  The Scion was still where Ari had left it. He sighed, leaned against the door, and waited until Carrington pulled up in a dark Lexus that seemed completely out of tune with the man's personality and pay check. The little white car drew another smirk from the detective. Ari stiffened when Carrington waved for him to follow, palm up. Getting behind his wheel, he forced the image of the rude gesture out of his mind. Westerners were naturally tactless.

  They drove about ten blocks to a small all-night diner on Third Street. Inside, they found an empty booth near the front. A waitress in jeans and a white blouse brought them menus and asked them what they wanted to drink. Ari ordered tea. After a prolonged inward struggle, Carrington took a Coke. He watched with approval as the waitress walked to the back of the diner.

  "They don't have uniforms in a lot of these places, anymore," the detective observed. "Good thing, too. Nothing puts you off your oats more than varicose veins packed like sausage in support hose."

  Ari perused the menu.

  "See anything you like?" He glanced across at Ari's menu, as if he didn't have an identical one already in his hands. "Must have something veggie in there for you."

  "You seem to assume that I'm a Muslim. Also, that Muslims don't eat meat."

  "You aren't? They don't?'

  "Beef is perfectly acceptable, and it's well represented in this carte."

  Carrington raised his brow. "That's something. Your English is better than mine. Those missionaries really know how to cram it down your throat."

  Alerted, Ari barely paused as he turned a laminated page of his menu. "In fact, I ate before going to the gallery. I'm not at all hungry. The tea will be fine."

  "I hate to eat in front of someone who's just sitting." Carrington seemed genuinely put out by the prospect.

  The waitress came back with their drinks. While Carrington tore the wrapping off his straw, Ari stared at the cold glass in front him.

  "What is this?"

  "Why tea, sugar." Then the waitress smacked her head with her order pad. "Why, I forgot to ask if you wanted sweetened or unsweetened."

  "Do you perhaps have hot tea?"

  "What? You mean like in a cup?"

  "Exactly."

  "Aw, don't be so fussy," Carrington groused. "Drink up. You know what they say. When in Rome..." The detective barked a laugh. "Hey, you're from Rome!"

  "Sicily is far from Rome," Ari informed him.

  "Same country. Hey, I go to Texas, I expect iced tea there, too."

  Completely oblivious to the fact that he had just reversed his own logic--or not caring--Carrington gave the waitress his order. Something called a bacon cheeseburger. "And none of your 'medium rare'. I want my burger black all the way through. Use a flamethrower if you have to."

  Officiously noting all of this on her pad, the waitress asked, "And for your sides, sir?"

  "Fries."

  "You get two."

  "Then more fries."

  She ticked this off and, with more than a trace of reluctance, turned to Ari. "And you, sir?"

  "Nothing," he answered, closing his menu and handing it to her. "But I would greatly appreciate it if you would bring me some hot tea. And..." He gestured at the iced tea, palm down. "You may take this away."

  As she reached for the glass, Carrington touched her wrist. "Say Mabel, is Antonio working tonight?"

  "Sure, he's back there."

  "Can you get him to come out here?"

  She gave the detective a puzzled look, then shrugged. "Sure."

  She left, the ice in the tea rattling with swishy petulance.

  "You passed up free refills with that, my friend," Carrington shook his head, despairing of Ari's poor sense of economics. "By the way, don't mind Mabel. She's a local gal. Never been much for PC."

  "PC?"

  "Multigarbagalism."

  Ari did not inquire further, allowing himself to slide into a polite reticence. The way Carrington had charged into the art gallery and blundered into Ari's conversation with the petite blonde smacked of a perilous impatience. He looked to be in his early forties. Old enough to have learned the benefits of subtlety. Thwarted in any way, for any reason, he would back off to study his intended target, waiting for his next chance. That was how Ari sized him up, in any event. Men like Carrington always showed their hand too soon, piling up their self-created difficulties, but usually persevering. One look at him, and people would be inclined to get on his good side as soon as possible, if they couldn't avoid him altogether. Ari noted the gold wedding band and experienced a moment of sympathy for the Mrs.

  A young man with dark curly hair came out bearing a plate, which he sat before Carrington. "You wanted to see me?"

  "Hey, Antonio! I got one of your fellow countrymen here."

  Ari and Antonio exchanged glances while Carrington inspected his hamburger. Finding it charred to his satisfaction, he began squirting it with ketchup.

  "What, no ciaos?" Carrington said after a moment, looking up. "We don't get many Eye Ties around here. Thought you two would appreciate meeting." He slid a fry into his mouth, but quickly spit it back out. "Yeeow! Kinda hot there, Antonio."

  "Our customers like them hot," Antonio explained evenly.

  "Well I'm a customer, and I don't like sticking glowing hot pokers in my mouth."

  "I'll tell the chef."

  "Oh--no! Don't bother. I'll just sit back and watch you guys intercourse with each other. Give them a few minutes to cool down." Carrington leaned forward and smiled at Ari. "Antonio here's one of those foreign exchange students."

  Antonio gave a small cough. "Not exactly. I'm a research fellow."

  Carrington frowned, as though the description sounded bizarre to his prominent ears. "I was trying to be polite. Anyway, Antonio picks up extra change washing dishes here at night. A real go-getter, eh Antonio? Or what is it your real name is?"

  "Giosuè," Antonio sighed, holding out his hand. As Ari took it, the two shared their opinion of the detective with brief smirks.

  There was another awkward pause.

  "Well?" Carrington demanded. "Don't you people want to talk about the old homestead or something?"

  Giosuè threw a shrug. "Sono da Milano."

  Ari returned the shrug. "Siracusa."

  "Ah."

  They fell silent.

  "That's it?" said Carrington gruffly.

  "We're from different parts of the country," Giosuè said. "Very far apart. We don't know each others' area."

  "You got nothing in common?" Carrington tossed down his paper napkin. "We had a whole damn civil war here just so we'd all have something in common."

  "We had a guy named Garibaldi..." A slow grin drew itself across Giosuè’s face and he again turned to Ari. "Ho sentito Berlusconi ha alcuni amici il vostro modo."

  Ari chuckled and shook his head in protest. "Vuoi dire Cirillo? E 'qui negli Stati Uniti, con il resto dei delinquenti."

  "Sì! Sì! " Giosuè laughed.

  "Senza il Primo Ministro ha una villa il tuo modo?"

  "San Martino
, Arcore. Nizza proprietà." Giosuè shook his head and popped a whew from between compressed lips. "Non tutti hanno uno che si è fatto uomo per un giardiniere."

  "Sono tutti ladri, " Ari sighed. "Vedi Berlusconi e Bush."

  "Nel letto insieme."

  "Domanda è, chi è in cima?"

  "All right!" Carrington interrupted their laughter. "So everything's hunky-dory in Italy and the Pope's still a virgin."

  Giosuè took his cue, nodded at Ari, and retreated into the kitchen.

  Carrington no longer seemed enamored with his bacon cheeseburger. He glanced at his watch, grimaced, tapped his thumbs on his plate. It seemed obvious that a pet theory had just gone down in flames. But what? Why would it matter if Ari was Italian or not? Unless he was trying to verify if he was in the country legally. Yes...an illegal alien could be...evicted. And perhaps Carrington had not believed he was Italian.

  In any event, it looked as though Carrington didn't like the idea of anyone living in the Riggins house. Did he think to do so was a kind of sacrilege?

  "Hope this'll do you," said the waitress as she brought Ari a white porcelain cup filled with hot water. On the side of the saucer lay an unopened tea bag.

  "I suppose..." Ari picked up the bag and looked at it uncertainly.

  "They don't have tea bags in Sicily?" Carrington asked, watching him.

  "Of course." Ari noted the tab on the pack and pulled. It came out of the envelope, along with a sachet of tea, attached by a string to the tab between his fingers. He placed the small sack in the cup and draped the string over the side, then smiled up at the waitress. "Excellent."

  She lifted her chin, lowered her chin, and walked away.

  Suddenly hungry again, Carrington wolfed a bite out of his hamburger. He winked at Ari. "Don't know what you're missing," he said, the words muffled as he chewed.

  "You had something to talk to me about?" Ari said, inspecting the steeping tea.

  "That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

  "That means you want to talk to me about what you want to talk about."

  "Guess it does," Carrington snorted, thinking over his words. "I wanted to talk about...like how the value of a painting goes up when the artist dies, while the value of his house goes down. You did buy that house down on Beach Court, didn't you?"

  "Do the police here keep track of property transfers?"

  "Not much. But some." Carrington stuffed several fries in his mouth. They were no longer too hot for him, Ari supposed. "You can see the difference, though. The guy who invented the car, you don't get spooked every time you drive just because he's dead. Same with the paintings. But a house, now..."

  "Especially under the circumstances..."

  "Right on. Walking around, sleeping, taking a dump...there you go, taking a dump on the same toilet that this guy and his whole family used not a year ago...that would give me the creeps."

  "I don't believe in ghosts, Detective Carrington." Ari removed the tea bag, placed it on the saucer, and sipped at his drink. It was recognizably tea, at least.

  "Hey, you never know." The detective winced as though stung and reached under his jawline. He found some ketchup on top of his shaving cut. He wiped it off with his hand, then wiped his fingers halfheartedly on his napkin. "But even leaving out the ghosts, just the idea of it, you know, kind of takes the spice out of a new house."

  Once again, he looked at his watch.

  "If I'm keeping you from an appointment--" Ari began.

  "No. Cops are always looking at their watches. There's not a whole lot else to do."

  "Really?"

  "That and eat doughnuts." He sounded perfectly serious. "Did you know what had happened in that house when you--"

  "No."

  "Well there you go. Tell the real estate agent to shove the contract up his ass and vamoose."

  "Vamoose..."

  "Get the hell out of there."

  "Circumstances...make that impossible."

  "You need a lawyer? I know a few. I could give you a hand on that."

  "I'll bear it in mind." Ari fingered the handle of his cup. "I don't suppose you could answer any questions about the murders."

  "Nothing that's not already in the papers." Carrington frowned down at his plate, as if weighing which to polish off first: the burger or the fries. "You wouldn't want to know more, anyway. Believe me."

  "I was wondering about the back door. Don't you think crashing through like that would have made a tremendous racket?"

  Carrington grunted.

  It was a neutral sound. It should have conveyed nothing more than an acknowledgement of the question. Yet there was profound disparagement in it, not only of Ari, but in what he himself was doing. The detective was putting on an act, a very broad act, and he was suddenly growing tired of his own performance. His faced slackened, his chin drooped, the folds around his eyes deepened. He glanced at his watch again.

  "We thought about that," he answered wearily, then forced down the last bite of his hamburger.

  Ari waited. This was not a man to be pushed. It would only make him stubborn.

  Sensing Ari's gaze, he raised his head from his plate. "I said we thought about that."

  "Mr. Riggins was found seated in the living room, correct? Was he wearing night clothes?"

  "You mean pajamas? No. He..." Carrington stopped, considering his words, then slid the last two fries into his mouth.

  "How were the others dressed? Were any of them bound? Were there signs of intoxication? Were any of them deaf? You see, the newspapers left quite a bit unexplained."

  "Why are you so interested?"

  "Wouldn't you be, if all of this had happened under your roof?"

  Carrington crooked his finger at Mabel, who was chatting with the bartender. She came and took up his plate.

  "Separate checks?"

  Carrington nodded sluggishly. The waitress left to work up the bills.

  "Detective--" Ari began.

  "It wasn't 'your roof' at the time. Tell you the truth, if I found myself living in a haunted mansion, I'd shrug it off. But that's me. All wrapped up in my work. Speaking of which..." He shot Ari in inquiring look.

  As if you didn't already know, Ari thought. "I work out of home."

  "There all day?"

  Ari was surprised by the question. The detective had already revealed too much with his careless lack of subtlety. Now he was behaving as though Ari was blind, as if he could not see the challenge. It was open contempt.

  "Naturally, I go out sometimes."

  "Like where?"

  "Detective, my presence in your country is perfectly legal."

  "But you're not a citizen?"

  "No."

  "Going back home after you score your first million?"

  "Possibly." Ari pressed his hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward--a gesture that begged for earnest reason. "Detective Carrington, I believe you were acquainted with the Riggins family."

  "I already told you."

  "They were your friends?"

  Carrington looked at his watch.

  "Did you participate in the investigation into the murders?" Ari persisted, feeling he had no option but to push the man.

  "Yes."

  "You were the primary investigator in the case?"

  Carrington couldn't dodge the answer. "There's something about that in the papers."

  "If you don't mind my saying, that seems a little odd."

  "In your country, don't you take care of your own?" Carrington swiveled his glass back and forth, as though trying to screw it into the table.

  "You were that close to them?" Ari lowered his eyes. "I apologize. I didn't understand."

  "Don't apologize," Carrington sighed. "Listen, I know you're curious about what happened. That house you're in...I have good memories about it. Jerry...well, he was the best. You can see why it...okay, it hurts, seeing someone else move in."

  "Especially a foreigner."

  "I didn't say that. I mean
, so we're at war with the Arabs--"

  "With terrorists," Ari corrected.

  "Yeah. Iraq and all."

  "And to be specific, I'm Italian, of Arab descent."

  "Sorry if I offended you."

  Ari turned to the window and the dark street outside. A few pedestrians drifted by, looking aimless, homeless. He studied Carrington's sagging reflection in the glass. Was this sudden contrition part of his act? Or had he simply eaten too much?

  The waitress returned with separate checks. A low buzz interrupted Carrington as he was calculating the tip. He scrounged beneath his stomach for his belt clip, a task made more arduous by the narrow seat, and took out his phone. He read a text message, frowned, then closed the cover with an angry flip of his finger.

  Ari studied his check and drew out his credit card.

  "You're going to use that for a cup of tea?" Carrington groused. "That'll make Mabel's day."

  "It's all I have."

  "You mind?" Before Ari could answer, the detective had scooped up the card. "What the hell's this? 'Bank of Nova Scotia?'"

  "It's accepted here. I've used it several times."

  "An Italian Arab in America with a Canadian credit card." Carrington made a broad gesture, as though wrapping the world in his arms, then handed the card back to Ari. "Put it away. Mabel has a thrombosis whenever she has to run one of these through. I'll cover it."

  "Thank you."

  "Per diem. Don't mention it."

  Carrington put a ten and a five on the table and they left.

  SIX

  "Watch this," Omar chuckled to the policeman who had ordered Ghaith out of the white pickup truck and marched him to the canal bank. He pointed the way with the muzzle of an M-16, either stolen from or issued to him by the ever-helpful American army.

  Set on automatic. No regard for marksmanship.

  Omar nodded at one of the guards standing over the three prisoners brought from the back of the Kia Bongo truck. The prisoners were hooded, on their knees, their hands bound at the back. The guard returned Omar's nod and yanked the hood off the prisoner nearest him.

  Ghaith stood silently while the bound man blinked around him. He was terrified when he saw the three guards from the mini-truck, their heads swathed in kuffiah scarves, but he said nothing. Ghaith stonily admired his mute courage. The prisoner was about thirty, a time when a man's strength ebbed in the stream of family and responsibility, when he had something to lose. The men standing guard over him were probably ten years younger, on average, than their captive. Poor, clueless, dangerous.