The 56th Man

by J. Clayton Rogers

If he dropped the scimitar and reached for his rifle he would be dead. If he turned and ran he would be dead. Best, then, to go out in a blaze of glory. Raising the sword, he charged.

  "God is great!"

  A neat line of holes appeared across his chest and he fell forward with the suddenness of a snapped cable, the scimitar flying several feet beyond his outstretched hands.

  "A clerk!" Omar was screeching as he struggled up. "A clerk!"

  There was no time for farewells, and he didn't think much of his boyhood friend, in any event.

  "Give my regards to the virgins," he said.

  As he pressed the trigger, Ghaith was struck by the thought that both he and Omar were digesting bites from the same ball of lu'mat al-adi. Only half of the pastry would complete its intended biological passage.

  Ghaith walked over to the guard he had shot in the chest. Still alive, with blood-frosted air bubbles popping out of his exposed lungs. Whipping off the scarf, Ghaith immediately recognized the young man.

  "Why, Mohamed, what are you doing running with this crowd? You're a pederast, not a Mujahid. Or have they become the same thing?"

  The young man could not answer. Ghaith shot him between the eyes, shattering his thick spectacles.

  The two remaining prisoners had prudently fallen on their sides when they heard the gunfire. They remained still, ignorant of what was happening. Ghaith went over to the one at the end of the row, leaned over, and removed the hood. He stared into the frightened face for a moment, grunted, then stood and went over to the middle prisoner. He slipped off the hood and frowned.

  "I don't know you."

  "I..." the man gasped, choked by terror.

  "It doesn't matter." Ghaith stepped over to the first prisoner and found him still alive. The sword stroke had nearly sliced his head in half. Seeing no hope, he aimed the rifle at the man's head.

  "No!" the prisoner at the opposite end of the row cried out.

  "God be with you, Aziz Shahristani," Ghaith said, and fired.

  Four hours later, when both the rain and the police reappeared at Beach Court, Ari thought the store manager had betrayed him, either through fear of the authorities or some other, unknown motive. The downpour was a footnote penalty invoked by the gods.

  He was standing in the garage door, trying to create a draft to let smoke out of the house, when the cruiser pulled up to the curb. As soon as the doors swung open, Ari signaled to them to bring their car up the driveway to avoid getting wet.

  "Appreciate that," the officer on the passenger side said after lowering his window. He sniffed. "Something burning?"

  Ari immediately recognized him and the driver as the two who had deposited a small wreath against the mailbox post on his first day in the Riggins house. They were younger than his own forty years, but they weren't kids. Early to mid-thirties.

  Howie Nottoway had told him these were the first men on the scene after the Riggins massacre.

  "I had a mishap with my stove," Ari explained with an inward wince. The Chinese fishmonger might have put the fear of chefs everywhere in him, but he had had no choice but to use the Jenn-Air if he wanted his carp fresh. Even if he had owned a barbecue, cooking outside in this weather would have been impracticable. Everything seemed to go swimmingly after Ari pre-heated the grill element of the Jenn-Air and laid out his hard-won catch. Then the kitchen began to fill with smoke. Some of it was sucked down the stove's central vent, but not nearly enough to keep pace with the growing cloud. Only by opening every downstairs door and window, and ultimately the garage doors, could he clear away the air of smoke and fish smell.

  In the end, though, he had met with reasonable success. He unfolded the aluminum foil and pinched off a bite. Not the best he'd ever had, but his taste buds howled with delight. He had been intending to close all the doors and windows (ignoring any puddles that might have collected indoors) and brave the rain, taking the fish out to the gazebo. The best place to eat masgouf was at the riverside, no matter what the weather.

  Now it appeared the carp would grow cold before he got beyond that lone nibble. But this was an opportunity too good to miss. He had planned for it, in fact, when he told Fred to remove the wreath from the base of the mailbox. It's replacement was on the back seat of the prowl car, next to a pair of dark serge caps in vinyl rain protectors.

  "Please..." Ari made a gesture of welcome, encouraging the two men to get out of the car. They appeared reluctant.

  "Actually, Mr. Ciminon, we just wanted a quick word." The officer on the passenger side attempted a courteous smile. The result was like the sharp edge of a newly opened can.

  "Thank you."

  The officer gave him a quizzical look.

  "For pronouncing my name correctly. Your Detective Carrington seems to have...difficulty with it."

  "He's not my detective," the driver groused. His hands had remained on the steering wheel. In fact, the engine was still running, forcing them all to raise their voices to be heard.

  "Please..." Ari entreated. "I find it awkward to be speaking down to you like this. You must find it difficult, in that position..."

  The inference--that they were humbling themselves by remaining seated in the car--hit just the right note. The driver switched off the engine and they got out.

  "Nice box," said the one nearest Ari, grinning at the Scion, which looked punier than ever next to the souped-up cruiser.

  "It gets me to the ABC store and back," Ari shrugged.

  The officer who had commented on the xB chuckled. The driver, on the other hand, summoned up a deep scowl. Opposite personalities. Could Ari use this to his advantage? Or would it make his task more difficult?

  "Officer..." Ari leaned forward slightly, as though using the gravity of his body to draw out the policeman's name. Both officers were wearing rain slickers, their badge numbers and identity tags hidden underneath.

  "Mangioni," said the policeman standing closest to Ari. His dark hair was just long enough to have been disheveled when he removed his hat and tossed it in the back seat. He offered up another thin smile. Friendliness seemed to be a painful duty for him, but at least he was trying.

  "A fellow countryman?" Ari inquired.

  "Three generations removed," Mangioni answered dubiously, his eyes flicking off Ari's face, or more accurately Ari's complexion. Yes. Several generations and a million North African immigrants ago. Mangioni gave a little laugh. "My people never considered Sicily part of Italy."

  Ari nodded in amusement. "And my people returned the sentiment."

  "Jackson," the other policeman barked from the other side of the cruiser, apparently annoyed by the foreign convocation.

  "A very American name," Ari nodded sagely.

  "Hamburgers, pizza, French fries and doughnuts," Mangioni said, describing his partner by the food he ate--all of foreign origin and suitably altered to American tastes.

  "We just were wondering..." Jackson verbally nudged Mangioni, who nodded and dropped the painful smile.

  "Mr. Ciminon, about those flowers on the curb...do they bother you?"

  Even with the engine off, Mangioni had to raise his voice against the din of rain on the driveway a few feet away. His words were transformed into hollow echoes on the bare walls of the garage.

  "Not at all," Ari said. "I was surprised my groundskeeper removed them. They're intended as a memorial to the family that lived here before me?"

  "Yes."

  "You knew them well?"

  "Not very well..."

  "We didn't know them jack squat," Jackson said more succinctly, fumbling at the radio on his collar. The rain slicker made it difficult.

  "Then this is the policy of your local government? I mean, to place these memorials...?"

  "It's not standard departmental procedure," Mangioni said.

  "Then someone asked you to..." Ari gingerly prodded. "Or ordered you--"

  "Ha!" Jackson's exclamation rang out like a shot. He had unclipped his radio and was holding it to his ear.
r />   "We got the shooter?" Mangioni asked his partner.

  "Hell no. Bob says Big C is walking around offering a reward to anyone who admits offing three lowlifes."

  Three dead? Ari doubted the manager or clientele had, in a fit of civic rage, finished off the last robber. He was sure the chopstick in the young man's throat wasn't fatal. Most likely, in his haste, Ari had rapped him too hard on the side of the head with his knuckles.

  "Any luck?" Mangioni asked.

  Jackson shook his head and re-clipped his radio. "A million witnesses, and no one saw nothing. No security video, either."

  Dummy cameras, just as Ari had guessed--or rather, hoped. And the manager was keeping his word. A good thing, too. Police were always getting 'mixed up'. It came with the job. And the inclination.

  "Just our luck," Mangioni said. "Three stiffs and Big C gets a dose of hero worship."

  Jackson let his facial expression speak for itself. Was he disgusted with the three corpses, or Big C? Could Big C be Carrington?

  "The flowers..."

  Mangioni cocked a brow at his partner. "We do it as a favor."

  Jackson circled to the front of the prowl car and stared at the Scion as though it was a physical manifestation of Mangioni's answer.

  "This person must have had a very high opinion of the Riggins family," said Ari.

  "Big C is goofy on them."

  Mangioni's eyelids performed the equivalent of a stutter. "Jackson means yes," he said, as though Ari obviously needed help translating this difficult passage. "He spent a lot of his free hours with them, not that he had many of those."

  "Works hard?"

  "Carrington? Like a dog."

  Big C. Carrington. Ari nodded and smiled. "Commendable."

  "My ass," said Jackson.

  "For Christ's sake--"

  "Big C hung out around here because of the Massington fortune," Jackson said, reaching under his slicker. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and pointed it at Ari. "You don't mind, do you? You already got plenty of smoke around here."

  "Not at all," said Ari, taking out his Winstons--and smiling through his deflation. His primary theory had just gone up...well, in smoke. Massington must be Moria Riggins' maiden name. Ari did not think her inheritance had been enormous. This house was very nice, but millions would have bought better.

  Mangioni squinched his nose at his partner. "Aren't you due for a physical soon?"

  "Already had it. A little bloody phlegm. No cause for alarm." As Jackson lit up, he gave Ari a grin that wasn't really all that pleasant, though Ari sensed it was well-intentioned. He lit up one of his own and their smoke mingled. The unity of addiction. "We can't even smoke in the car."

  "Thank God," Mangioni said fervently.

  "All those hours sitting around, and no smoking? Can you fucking believe that?"

  Ari considered a comment on the fantasy of American freedom, then decided that would be the wrong toe to step on--especially when the one doing the stepping was a foreigner. He shrugged noncommittally.

  "Would you like to come inside?" he asked.

  "Actually..." Mangioni began. "Now we know you don't mind the flowers--"

  "You're curious about what happened."

  Jackson's bald observation clipped away much of the sham Ari had intended to employ. "Yes. Very much so. You understand..."

  "I understand you're a ghoul, like the rest of us. Don't go mealy, partner," Jackson responded to Mangioni's pained expression. "Ninety-percent of the force gets off on 'the dark side'. Let's go in. Mr. Ciminon wants the modus operandi. And don't quote chapter and verse to me. Mr. Ciminon isn't going to run to the newsies with any new details we might give him. He doesn't strike me as wanting too much attention. Am I right?"

  Ari nodded emphatically.

  Mangioni's only protest was a reduction of his already-thin smile. He was the public relations half of the team, the beaming face of the Force. Once the need for a cheerful front was eliminated, the wind went out of him. He doffed his slicker and began folding it neatly.

  "Good idea," said Jackson, removing his own rain gear and tossing it on the hood of the cruiser.

  As Ari led them inside, he asked about the Neighborhood Watch signs he had seen in the area, including the one at the turn-off to Beach Court.

  "Made up of concerned citizens," Mangioni explained. "They take turns patrolling the area and call us in if they spot anything suspicious. They're volunteers, and unarmed."

  "The concept has been recently introduced in my country," Ari said with a small smile. "Were there any calls from the Neighborhood Watch on the night of the killings?"

  "No."

  "It's mostly put-up," Jackson snorted. "For show. Hardly anyone wants to get off their lazy ass that late at night."

  Ari paused at the open door leading inside and made a small gesture, palm down. Jackson strode inside. Mangioni hesitated, then followed him through the small corridor leading to the kitchen. Jackson looked neither right nor left, but Ari thought Mangioni threw a glance at the back door. For the moment, though, Ari wanted to pursue the current topic.

  "You have a cat?" Jackson asked, noting the dishes decorated with paw prints on the kitchen floor.

  "I hope so.'' Ari had completely forgotten about Sphinx when he opened the house up to clear the smoke. "I bought him at the pet shop, for company."

  "You really don't have anyone else coming? No family? That's too bad. A cat is piss-poor company, you ask me," Jackson concluded with a sniff of disdain.

  "I have a cat," Mangioni reminded him.

  "Yeah. Sometimes I think you got furballs, too. Anyway, you've got a wife to scoop the poop for you."

  "I wanted to keep him inside," Ari sighed. "To get him acclimated to his new home. But when I opened the door to let in fresh air...the last I saw, he was running for the woods."

  "Too bad," said Mangioni solicitously.

  "Consider yourself lucky if it drowns in the river," said Jackson. "But it'll be back before you know it. You've been feeding it. Once a cat knows where the food is, you have to shoot it to get rid of it."

  "That's very reassuring," said Ari. He leaned down and pointed out the small window above the sink. "I was wondering...is Howie Nottoway over there a member of the local Neighborhood Watch?"

  Jackson glanced at Mangioni, who shrugged back at him. "Don't know. Could be."

  "Wasn't it Nottoway who called in to complain about those fireworks on the island?"

  "Oh yeah," Mangioni said slowly, but not reluctantly. "But that was a citizen complaint, not the Watch. I don't think...hell, it was almost two years ago."

  "He never called back?" Ari asked. "About those fireworks?"

  "I don't think so."

  Either Howie had grown accustomed to the Whistling Jupiters, or had decided the police would do nothing about them. Just as pertinent, if Howie was a member of the Neighborhood Watch, and was patrolling the area the night he called, he could very well have been up and about when the killers entered the Riggins house.

  "But you don't think it was Nottoway who made the anonymous call?"

  "You mean that night?" Jackson said. "Who knows? That call was made to Crimestoppers. It's a special 800 number. No recording, no tracing." He grinned at Mangioni. "Sort of like confession."

  "Hell no," Mangioni shot back. "The priest doesn't run off to the cops after hearing all the gory details."

  "Presumably the caller knew he would remain unknown?"

  "Everyone knows how Crimestoppers works," said Jackson.

  "And if the killer himself called, identified himself, and described the crime he had just committed...?"

  "I don't think that's ever happened," Jackson said slowly.

  "But if it did?"

  "Then I think the priest would go running to the police," Mangioni volunteered.

  "Right," his partner agreed. "But in this case no one from Crimestoppers told us anything about a phoned-in confession."

  "I only offered it as a theoretical
possibility," Ari shrugged apologetically.

  "What was it you were burning?" Jackson sniffed, looking at the aluminum foil bundle in which he had wrapped his dinner. "Fish?"

  "Carp," said Ari. "I'd be glad to share some with you."

  Both policemen shook their heads.

  "Too bony for me," said Jackson.

  "Too fishy for me," said Mangioni.

  And too much for me, thought Ari, who briefly considered keeping it warm in the oven before concluding that would dry it out. Better moist and cold than hot and dry.

  "If you want to eat, we can skip the walk-through." Jackson said this in a manner fully confident that Ari would prefer going hungry. It smacked too much of expectation, of premeditation. Was this another favor, like the flowers? Had Carrington asked (or ordered) them to put a scare into him, for the purpose of getting him to move out?

  "Walk-through," Ari said without hesitation.

  "We were on Forest Hill when the call came," Jackson began. "There was trouble at The Crossroads a few nights ago. A shoot-out, actually. You wouldn't expect that kind of thing at a cappuccino joint, but there it is. We made a few passes, keeping an eye out, but there wasn't much more than the usual caffeine freaks.

  "So we weren't far away from here around midnight."

  "What do you mean when you say 'the call'?"

  "Not much. Just an address and a report of a loud disturbance."

  "And when you arrived?"

  "Not a peep. We put a spot on the house--"

  "I'm sorry..." Ari smacked himself on the forehead as evidence of his stupidity.

  "We shined a spotlight on the house," Jackson amended with exaggerated courtesy.

  "It was dark, then? No lights on in the house?"

  Jackson took the question with poor grace, giving Ari a testy look. "I didn't think you'd want so much detail."

  "I'm sorry. I only--"

  "You ask like a cop."

  For an instant, Ari's ear mis-tuned the word as 'act'. But no, Jackson had said 'ask'. It came to the same thing.

  "I have a curiosity for detail," Ari confessed.

  "I don't remember what was on or off," said Jackson. "The yard was dark, that's all."

  "The upstairs bedroom lights were on," Mangioni said quietly.