It was not a good morning. What he had intended to be a discrete foray in search of information was becoming a spectacle.
Ari's personal fishmonger emerged from the back room holding a fish swaddled in white paper. He rested it on his work counter and pressed back the wrapping. With a wide grin he looked up at Ari, watching from the other side of the counter.
"Zhēn měi," said Ari.
"Yes, beautiful!" the man laughed. But as he raised his knife a squabble broke out among his coworkers, who gathered around like surgeons disputing a risky procedure. Ari had suddenly acquired his own groupies. They were determined their idol's every whimsy should be catered to, and this meant treating the carp with the utmost respect and delicacy. Ari found the rapid-fire debate impossible to follow.
Ari's fishmonger threw up both hands, nearly slicing off the nose of the man standing next to him.
"The man wants masgouf! I know fish! Masgouf should be whole fish!"
The others backed off at this sign of ethnic food expertise. They looked at Ari almost apologetically, as though they had unintentionally violated a Commandment and were begging forgiveness. Ari's fishmonger dismissed their ignorance with a brisk shake of his upper body and proceeded to scale and gut the carp. Ari wanted to urge him to speed it up, but the man had abandoned his usual deftness for a slow, methodical approach. He wanted his prized customer to see what care he was taking on his behalf. When done, he tilted the carp Ari's way so that he could admire his artistry.
"Hăo jí le."
Ari's fishmonger carefully wrapped up the carp, then slipped through a gap between the displays to place the treasure in Ari's outstretched arms.
"You cook soon? Best fresh. No freeze."
"Fresh is best, always."
"You cook on wood. Use barbecue."
"I understand," said Ari, thinking of the woodless Jenn-Air in his kitchen. It would do almost as well, but he was not about to say this to his fishmonger, who looked ready to grab him by the lapels if Ari contradicted him.
"You can cut along back, make it flat, but best keep whole. You can put it..." The man paused.
"Rotisserie!" a coworker shouted.
"I know fish!" Ari's fishmonger shot back.
"But you don't know rotisseries!"
"No rotisserie! Grill!"
"I understand perfectly," Ari said, a little nervously.
"You can stuff it, too. And serve with rice!"
Ari answered with a nod as he tested the weight. Enough here for five people. His fishmonger must had sized him up as a very hungry man, indeed. Then his mind took a downturn.
Should I tell him how expensive this has become in my homeland? And how much more expensive, and dubious, it has gotten since a fatwa was pronounced against it?
The carp was a freshwater fish, and there had been so many corpses tossed in the river that the religious authorities were not only concerned for the health of their flock, but by the possibility of indirect cannibalism.
Satisfied that his instructions had been understood, Ari's fishmonger signaled his approval with a flurry of clapping. The other fish processors clumped behind the displays, their white-capped heads looking severed but pleased as they beamed ray-gun grins his way. Ari submitted to an irresistible urge to bow his head.
Wanting to avoid the two Arab women and their baleful looks, he carried his package to the last broad aisle, turned the corner, and nearly fell over them.
They were as startled as Ari and jumped back a little. He gave a small nod and was about to pass around them when one woman murmured, “Al-salamu ‘alaykum."
“Wa ‘alaykum as-salam.”
“You must try the Middle Eastern Bakery and Grocery."
Ari stopped and looked down at her.
"No," the other woman said. "Ali’s, in the Fan."
"The Fan?" Ari asked.
"In the city. Ask anyone here. They can tell you where it is."
The first woman was shaking her head. "Middle Eastern has more to choose from."
"But Ali’s is Halal."
“So is…” The first woman paused. “Crescent Groceries is Halal…”
“What about the Mediterranean Bakery at Regency…?”
As the women set to bickering over which shop was better, Ari wondered how he could extract himself from their clutches. Having been raised in a culture where women could be simply brushed aside, it would be no great offense to turn his back on these two. Yet treating women with contempt had never suited Ari's taste. There was no question that most of them were an inferior species, but neither were they donkeys. He could be brusque with them when the occasion demanded, but he had a much greater tolerance for female inanity than most men he knew.
Two things resigned him to hearing them out. It was obvious they knew where good food was to be had. Judging from the bundles they were hugging to their breasts, they had only come to the Chinese market for the fresh fish. They did their main grocery shopping in the Middle Eastern shops Ari had so far failed to locate.
The second reason for his forbearance was the way they used ‘ani’ instead of ‘ana’. The dialect was Baghdad Arabic. He had to be careful. He had already drawn too much attention to himself, and it was not yet noon. He allowed his posture to relax into a passive stance and sighed. His eyes wandered to the front of the store. A young man was staring up at some gaudy Chinese statuary on the shelves overhead, but Ari doubted he could be much interested in the brightly colored demons and dragons of the Orient. His left arm was pressed against his side, as though he was favoring something heavy under his camouflage jacket. He kept lowering his head and looking in the direction of the checkout line, then shifting his gaze from the top of the aisles to the broad window at the front. There were at least two others. Damn…did they think this was a branch of Al-Rajhi Bank?
He surveyed the wall against the ceiling. Security cameras. Tons of them, at least one every fifteen feet. They had to be dummies set up to deter honest citizens. The dishonest ones would not be impressed. The desperate ones would not be deterred.
"Alma'derah." Ari reached behind the two women. In what in the West would be considered exaggerated deference, they scooted several feet out of his way as he plucked some chopsticks off the shelf. "These might be useful."
They gave him puzzled look. Perhaps they had made the wrong assumption about him. Good, Ari thought. Let them be confused. But he knew they would not stay confused for long.
"You mustn't converse with strange men," Ari admonished, taking little satisfaction in their sudden wide-eyed horror. He only wanted them to retreat in embarrassment to the back of the store. He succeeded admirably.
Good. They were out of harm's way.
He walked slowly past some large cardboard boxes filled with canned goods in the middle of the aisle. Cradling his catch of the day in one arm, Ari used it to shield his free hand as he nimbly stripped the paper wrapping from the chopsticks. He stopped briefly when he reached the far wall and scanned the shelves. Miscellaneous foodstuffs gave way to statuary about midway up the aisle. He worked his way forward, nodding introspectively, a prudent shopper.
He paused again and glanced up at a dragon baring prominent teeth and a large forked tongue. It was both menacing and pitiful, as though it was being smothered beneath its protective sheet of semi-transparent plastic.
Turning, he found he now had a clear view of the checkout line and the main entrance. Next to the automatic doors stood another young man, not more than seventeen, perusing notices tacked on a bulletin board, as though he could read Mandarin or Cantonese or Xiang or Wu or any other Chinese dialect. He too was wearing a camouflage jacket, as was the young man waiting in line, scrutinizing the inscrutable titles of the DVD's piled in a wire basket near the counter. It was as if the store was being invaded by a commando unit, which was probably how the young men thought of the operation.
A small man was sidling along the vegetable display, his face gone to stone. Ari guessed it was the store manager or owne
r. He too had seen the impending predicament. He was trying to reach the front, which meant he did not carry a remote panic button in his pocket. The alarm must be in his office, on the underside of his desk. If he made a sudden dash the young men would be alerted and hell would break lose prematurely. Ari made a broad gesture, as though working out a cramp. It caught the manager's attention. Ari shook his head slightly. The manager stopped and held his breath.
The novice commandos were waiting for a signal, which would probably come when the man in line came to his turn. There was no need for this, except it gave them time to work up their nerve. If the man in line did not act, they could leave with no more harm done than to their shared ego. But Ari was not a great believer in waiting. One thing about the inevitable: it usually happened.
He slid one of the chopsticks into his jacket pocket and pressed the hand holding the other under the carp, the blunt end of the stick braced by his thumb. He glanced again at the manager, who still seemed to be holding his breath. Ari hoped he would not pass out from lack of oxygen--and that he would have sense enough to shout a warning when the time came. The front of the building was packed with customers.
Ari kept the manager in place with another shake of his head. He moved a little closer to the young man staring blankly at the ceramic demons overhead.
"They wouldn't go with my décor."
The young man gave a little jump. He was so focused on remaining unobtrusive that he hadn't noticed Ari's approach. A true third-rater. Ari almost pitied him.
"Huh?"
"Thesth wicked Chinese monthsters," Ari said with a lisp. "My color schtheme ith much more thubdued."
The young man looked quickly toward the checkout line. Ari noted a chest-high pile of bagged Jasmine rice a few feet away. The robber probably intended to use it for cover. Idiot. Then Ari thought again. That bottom row of bags would make an excellent firing step.
The young man gave another little jump as Ari edged closer.
"Hey!"
With a little luck this can be nipped in the bud, no shots fired.
A snippet of sloppy thinking that Ari quickly dismissed. You didn't go into something like this using half-measures. A pre-emptive strike was all or nothing. If you forgot that, if you tried to pull back after committing yourself, you got your ass shot off. Great nations had fallen under the weight of second thoughts.
"My apartment would thimply drown under all thith gold and red. It's very closth. Would you like to sthee it?"
"Gawd-damn, I heard all you people were fucking faggots," the young man complained, wanting to move away but forced to maintain his position. He threw a desperate glance at the checkout line.
What if that isn't a gun under his jacket? What if he's only trying to skip out with a few of those ludicrous giant bean pods in order to feed his ailing mother?
"Us people?" Ari inquired politely.
"You fucking Arabs. Everyone knows you take it up the ass. Get the fuck away from me! Get on, now. Get! I don't want to have to bust you."
Even if that is a gun bulge, what if the man in line chickens out? Let them slither away the wiser--the wisdom of inaction.
Out the side of his eye Ari saw the man in line move up to the second register. The man next to the door left off reading the incomprehensible bulletins and approached the first register. Ari hoped the manager had regained his breath. He didn't look. Instead, he balanced himself. Balance was everything. But what he did next went against his training. He warned his adversary.
"My young friend..."
"I said get the fuck away from me," the young man said, looking towards the front, licking lips that had gone horribly dry.
"If that is a gun you are carrying, and you try to use it here and now, I will kill you."
The young man froze, then slowly swiveled his head in Ari's direction. Seeing no weapon in Ari's hand, but only a plain white package that in no way resembled a gun, he grimaced with determination.
"Yeah?"
There was a shout up front. The young man reached under his jacket.
"Okay you motherfuckers!" someone yelled. "Open it up! Now!"
Ari found it convenient to let the young man draw his gun before dropping his fish and ramming the chopstick in his throat. He intentionally missed the carotid.
The young man screeched hoarsely and began to fall, but did not let go of his gun.
TEC-DC9, semi-automatic. Popular with criminals and high school mass-murderers. Better known as TEC-9, when it was fully automatic. Has this one been converted? Safety’s off. Thirty-six round magazine.
Ari grabbed the gun hand and snapped back the young man's fingers, crack-crack-crack so quick it was like a single stalk breaking. He caught the gun as it fell, kneeled on the bottom row of rice bags, took aim.
Fluidity of movement. Knit every move into a seamless whole. Never stop.
The store manager was yelling in what seemed to be several languages, all readily understood. Everyone dropped to the floor.
Hearing the yells of his companion, the man at the second register began to look up. A lotus flower blossomed in his forehead and he tumbled backward across the first register conveyor.
Ari tracked his next target. The man would have been dead already except the first young man had clutched at him and Ari had been forced to twist sideways and rap his knuckles against his forehead.
The store manager did not heed his own advice. He jumped in front of the third robber, who slammed him to the ground with his fist, then took aim. It was a pitifully stupid move. Ari was the one who had shot his partner. Perhaps he had not seen him behind the rice bags and thought it was the manager firing at them.
Ari squeezed off a round. The bullet entered below the third man's ear. His jaw lurched away from his face as he dropped on a large crate of Korean pears.
"Motherfucker!" the first man cried as he groped at the chopstick in his neck with his undamaged hand. "Motherfucker!"
Ari aimed the TEC-9 at his forehead. "I let you go once. If you use that filthy word one more time, I will kill you."
Except for his gasps of pain, the young man fell silent.
"Good."
Lowering the handgun, Ari held it barrel down at his side as he strode over to the checkout line. His first victim was still on the conveyor, which kept tugging at his arm, as though the dead man was still insisting on being checked out. A line of blood was splattered on the first register. Paid in full.
The head of his second victim was hidden by large Korean pears, their natural redishness enhanced by the messy headshot.
Only now did some of the customers begin to cry in subdued terror. The gunfight had not lasted long enough to work up a full head of horror.
One of the checkout girls was helping the manager to his feet. His wan smile was interrupted by a wince. He touched the side of his face. Then his eye fell on the pear crate.
"Ah..." He looked away. "So young."
"Yes," said Ari. "You're all right?"
The manager nodded, gulping. "Thank you--"
"You'll need an ambulance for the one behind the rice bags."
He nodded at all the chirping cell phones being opened by staff and customers. "Come soon."
"You did very well," Ari said. The manager nodded and tried to smile.
"Scared."
"I have to go." Ari tucked the gun under his jacket.
The manager's eyes widened in comprehension. "Police...?"
"I'd rather not."
"Yes, yes...police get all mixed up."
Ari smiled. "It's the same everywhere."
"Go!" The manager waved him toward the exit. "Thank you! Go! We take care no police!"
"Thank you," Ari said and walked out without looking back.
The rain had let up. He was halfway to his car when his fishmonger rushed out after him with the fresh carp.
"Here! You forgot!"
Ari took the package and again caught himself bowing his head. "Thank you."
"Thank y
ou!" the man clapped. As Ari got into the Scion, the fishmonger cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Don't forget, serve with rice!"
TEN
Ghaith remained still. But the first prisoner, having recently seen so many beheadings played out on Al Jazeera, had a vivid image of what was happening behind him. He moved.
"God is great!" the guard cried out. The blade flashed in the truck light.
The prisoner dropped sideways, too late and too little. The scimitar caught him under the ear, shattered and separated the jaw, shuddered between the eyes, and jammed in the brain, parting the hemispheres into quarters before the guard lost hold and the prisoner fell into a howling, squirming lump. The guard swore and reached down.
For an instant, Omar was frozen in place by the grisly sight. The policeman was distracted by the gurgled cries, which should not be coming from a head separated from its body, and glanced away to see what had gone wrong.
There was a loud snap as Ghaith's knuckles caught the policeman under the ear, cracking his jaw. He staggered, losing his grip on the M-16, which Ghaith yanked out of his hands and, in the same fluid movement, rammed the stock into Omar's face.
It took the men guarding the prisoner a fatal moment to realize what was happening. In a flash, Ghaith judged which one was reacting faster and fired a burst. The guard's kuffiah whiffled like a shredded melon and he fell backward. The second guard was aiming his Kalashnikov when the next burst caught him in the chest. He didn't fall, but the muzzle of the rifle drooped down, like a branch giving in the wind. That wasn't enough for Ghaith, who sent the man to the ground with another burst.
Briefly ignoring the man with the scimitar, Ghaith shot the policeman as he tried to role away. Omar was sitting up. Ghaith kicked him back to the ground, then pointed his gun at the last guard.
After some effort, he had freed the scimitar from the head of the prisoner. Perhaps he had delayed unslinging his own rifle on the assumption his companions could deal with Ghaith. Now, his eyes hidden in the shadow of his kuffiah, he finally looked up to find his assumption ill-founded.
"An army of one," Ghaith said.
The 56th Man Page 10
