The 56th Man

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "Remarkable. They stole a sledge hammer, but not your expensive machine here?"

  Howie shrugged. There was no explaining the criminal mind.

  "When did this happen?"

  "Last…over a year ago. Listen--"

  "Of course." Ari turned away.

  "Watch out for the flagpole base."

  "I'm sorry?" Ari asked, a little surprised that Howie had jumped forward to escort him.

  "I put up a flag a couple years ago. There was a stink about it."

  "Was it an Iraqi flag?"

  "Hell no! American, red, white and blue." Howie threw his arms out, as though shoving away any suggestion that it could be anything else. "But there was a HOA ordinance against flying any type of flag.”

  “’HOA’? You mentioned that before.”

  “Homeowners’ association. This one was set up in the mid-Seventies, long before I ever got here. They’re supposed to make sure people treat their property responsibly, but this is crossing the line.” He gave the base a kick. “It was a good, solid flagpole, too. Twenty feet high, white enamel on aluminum."

  "But I've seen flags--"

  "In other neighborhoods. Not this one. They say it detracts from the aesthetic value of the homes. Idiots. And there I am trying to protect them from the bad guys. Here..."

  The base was formidable, a concrete slab with a metal slot in the middle for the pole. Ari couldn't imagine being so blind as to trip over it--unless one were actually blind.

  "Won't be easy getting that sucker out.," Howie said, exhausted by the very idea of removing it. The man seemed to be preoccupied with destroying his own creations. Flags, woodpiles...what next? Would he be tearing down his shed because it was too vulnerable to break-ins? Howie continued: "Have to do it one day, though. Someone breaks a toe on it, I get sued. That's one thing you'll learn. Everyone here spends half their day suing someone about something."

  One good thing about bombs and bullets: they take a tiny fraction of the time of a lawsuit.

  “Did Jerry Riggins ever have any problems with this homeowners’ association?”

  “He wanted to build a pier at one time. They wouldn’t let him. The association said this isn’t a harbor community. He made a little bit of a fuss, but not much.”

  “Does the association have anything to say about the loud parties at the Mackenzies?”

  “I wish it would! No, only if they left their trash laying everywhere the day after. But they always find a way to clean up their mess pretty quickly. If you keep your property clean, and keep your hedges clipped, and don’t tack on any additions to your house or put up flagpoles, the charter doesn’t much care what you do. Worthless.”

  A girl of about nine was strolling down Beach Court Lane, peering into the woods adjoining the river and calling out: "Marmaduke! Mar-ma-duuuke...!"

  "Hello, Diane," Howie said, adding a curt wave. "He's run off again?"

  "Hi, Mr. Nottoway." She was wearing a pink and green rumba dress, her bare legs flouncing the ruffled layers at her knees. Ari offered a minimal, neutral nod which she saw no need to respond to. Nor did Howie feel pressed to make introductions.

  "I wouldn't worry too much about him," Howie told Diane. "He knows his way around."

  "But he keeps going back to--"

  "I'm sure he's in the woods hunting squirrels."

  Diane appeared aware that her words had been rudely censored and instantly set off at a brisk clip. It looked to Ari like a well-practiced reaction to boorish adults.

  "Marmaduke!"

  Instead of hastening Ari's departure, Howie's intention now seemed to be to keep him at his side, at least until Diane was well away. But it was too late. Ari did not need to ask the girl for details about her missing pet. He now knew approximately where Sphinx had spent the last nine months...and that it was on the loose again. He did not know much about cats, except that they were marvelously unfaithful.

  "Pets," Howie shook his head. "We have a dog. Not much for home defense. A pug something-or-other. But he'll wake the dead if a stranger comes in the house."

  Ari got the impression that not many strangers entered Howie's home. Not many other people, either.

  "I have geese," he said seriously.

  "I..." Howie's confusion was distracted when he saw Ari staring at the flagpole base. "Don't get the wrong idea."

  "Hmmm?"

  "Just because they made me take down my flag doesn't mean I don't believe in my country anymore."

  "I can see you're a good citizen," Ari said.

  "This is still the best of the best. We got freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom to you-name-it. It's an honest country. That word they use now...transparent. We're transparent. I wouldn't want to live anywhere else. This is the best goddamn country in the world."

  Ari gave his neighbor a straight, honest look. "I understand, Mr. Nottoway--"

  "Howie," Nottoway cringed eagerly, as though being on a first-name basis was proof enough of his country's worth.

  "Yes. Howie. Thank you. However, I must tell you that I...visited a land with one of the most repressive regimes imaginable, and do you know what the people there told me when I asked what they thought of their country?"

  "What?"

  "Exactly what you just told me now," said Ari.

  At Lowe's, Ari placed a sledge hammer and bag of zip ties in his cart. He then approached a clerk and asked which tool would serve best to cut into an air duct—and experienced his first real sense of cultural dislocation since his arrival in this country. Everything up to now could be equated with something in his homeland. His ignorance of how to purchase and prepare basic food had been just as profound before, when a servant or his wife cooked his meals, or when he could pick up something familiar ready-made at a kiosk. Even Howie’s HOA had a parallel, though his own community association had had much harsher penalties and methods of enforcement. As for the shoot-out in the grocery store…well, violence was everywhere. But when the Lowe’s clerk casually asked him if his house was old and used tin in its HVAC ductwork, or if it was relatively new and used galvanized steel, or if he had polyurethane foam panels, or fiberglass duct boards, and would he be cutting near a flex, or zone dampers, or the stack head, or the stack boot…Ari felt the same sinking in his gut that affected a million other would-be do-it-yourselfers every day.

  “It would help if I knew what you intended to do,” the clerk continued helpfully. Ari’s obvious bemusement prompted him to add, “You might want to call in a contractor.”

  “Actually, it’s a very minor problem,” Ari said. “My son dropped something into the duct and I want to get it out.”

  “Oh wow, he lifted the floor register?”

  “Actually, it was near the ceiling.”

  “What, he climbed a ladder?”

  “The little devil is quite nimble.”

  “If it’s small I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “It’s actually fairly large,” Ari thought quickly. “A toy truck.”

  “Double wow! A Tonka? Remind me never to have kids!” The young clerk spotted a coworker and called him over, repeating what he had just heard. The coworker, older, scrutinized Ari through his thick glasses.

  “How old is your boy?”

  “Five.”

  “Mmmm…big enough to cause trouble.” The older man paused. “You really want to go to all that bother? I mean, we could sell you a pair of snips, but some of that old tin is hard to cut—if it is tin, that is. Either way, you’d have to cut a hole first. Malco makes a good cutter. You attach it to your power drill. Kinda pricey.”

  “I’ve seen people use a jigsaw,” the young clerk offered.

  The older clerk laughed with horror. “A jigsaw on sheet metal duct? Up and down like that?” He rubbed his chin. “You might try an angle grinder. Or a Robosaw with a bit for metal. Bottom line, though, is do you know where this truck ended up? Is it caught at an angle? Or on a damper? Did it go down to the basement? You weren’t there when it ha
ppened? You didn’t hear it land?”

  Ari shook his head in mortification.

  “Get a professional. They got these things now, motorized brushes with video cameras.”

  “Rotobrush,” said the young clerk.

  “That’s it.”

  Seeing Ari’s reluctance, the older clerk said, “You might just want to swing a hook down the register and see if you can catch it. Attach a little magnet and it might work itself over to the toy. You might get lucky.”

  “I see…”

  “Run your air and see if your hear a rattle, first.”

  Ari added fifty feet of vinyl rope, a refrigerator post-it magnet and bungee cord hooks to his basket.

  There were no ash trays to be had.

  He was annoyed that his handlers could see his credit card purchases, but comforted by the confusion those purchases were sure to cause. Still, he would need cash, and soon, if for no other reason than that many ethnic stores did not accept plastic. His taste buds were crying out for proper food.

  By noon he was at the Wal-Mart across the parking lot from the hardware store. He spent about ten hopeless minutes in the Food Center before surrendering to his inadequacy as a cook and going off in search of an ash tray. He was in the Home Décor department when a woman came up behind him and gave him a painful bump on the Achilles tendon with the undercarriage of her shopping cart. He turned, frowning. The petite blonde he had met briefly at the Foxfire Gallery made a dramatic show of contrition.

  "Aw gee, sorry sir!"

  "I believe the appropriate response in America is, 'sorry my ass'," Ari fumed, reaching down and rubbing his ankle.

  "Don't make it so obvious," the woman said. "I didn't hit you that hard."

  Ari grunted.

  "We need to sit down and talk, anyway," the woman said. "There's a McDonald's in the back. It's lunch time. I'm starving."

  Ari glanced in her cart and noted a large bag of Fritos.

  "What do I call you?" he asked as he limped behind.

  "Sandra," she said over her shoulder.

  "'Agent' Sandra?"

  "'Deputy', and shut up."

  "Pleased to meet you, Deputy Sandra Shut Up."

  She gave him an arch look. "Don't mistake this for the beginning of one of those love-hate romances you see in the movies."

  "Of course not. My wife would never approve."

  Sandra was parking her cart next to the rail that divided the restaurant from the store. She paused, frowning. "They didn't tell us..."

  "I assumed you knew all about me."

  "Not as much as we'd like to."

  "'We'?"

  "United States Marshals Service," Sandra whispered so low Ari almost missed her answer. "So we should expect her to arrive to join the fun? And your family, too?"

  "The house you gave me could hold several families."

  "A regular fuck hutch."

  "My family will not be arriving," said Ari, allowing his disapproval to show through. "They were sent somewhere else."

  "Well that's good, because we only made arrangements for you."

  Ari was sorry she chose this tone. From the laugh lines around her eyes he imagined she was normally a cheerful woman, full of sparkling energy. Her unhappiness with her assignment was disturbing. She chewed on her gum as though she were gnawing through skin. How much did she know about him? Could she be trusted? Could he really put his life in her hands?

  Sandra bit off her next words when a noisy family piled onto a table next to the rail. A real feeding frenzy, with both kids and parents throwing off sandwich wrappers and squashing food in their faces before they had properly opened their mouths. Ari held a brief image of an American brigade commander mocking a group of starving children churning their way through a refuse heap.

  Ari stepped aside from the opening in the railing to allow Sandra through.

  "You're not going to make me walk ten feet behind you? I'd like to see you try."

  There were several people ahead in line. While Sandra fidgeted, Ari tried to make sense of the glowing overhead menu. So much of it was Mac-this and Mac-that. All except the tea, which was crystal clear: iced.

  Sandra shot ahead to the counter, gave her order, and paid. She glanced at Ari. He gave way to the people behind him.

  "I want to think about it a bit," he told her.

  "Not kosher enough for you?"

  "I think the word you want is 'Halal'. But I'm not a strict observer."

  Sandra collected her burger, fries and drink and they went to a corner table. Ari found the plastic seats amusingly uncomfortable, almost like the bucket seat of an Asad Babil battle tank.

  "What's that?" he inquired politely as she parted the wrapper in neat triangles around her sandwich. The formality contrasted bleakly with the wad of gum that she propped on the end of her tray.

  "Big Mac. Top of the line heart-stopper. You should try it."

  "There's no need to be unpleasant, Miss Sandra."

  "Miss Sandra!" A fragment of bun shot out across the table as she snorted.

  "How else should I address you if I want to be courteous?"

  "Drop the courtesy," she said simply. "And give me one good reason why I shouldn't be unpleasant."

  Ari leaned back in his chair as much as he could and rested one hand on the edge of the table. Sandra nodded at his ring finger.

  "Where's the wedding band?"

  "I believe it's in a box somewhere in the Green Zone, along with some other personal effects of mine."

  "Uh-huh. Very convenient."

  "How is that?"

  "Guy like you, the great Abdul of Arabia. Bet the girls can't get enough of your shish kabob."

  "Sandra...you asked me to meet you. If it's your intent to insult me--"

  "Oh, chill out. A skuzzy Iraqi cop can't be hurt by a few words."

  "I see..." Ari watched her snarl down her sandwich for a moment, then stood and got back into line. He placed his order and paid with his credit card. By the time he returned to the table, Sandra was three-fourths of the way through her sandwich, fries and Coke, which she consumed in compulsively even proportions. Ari took a sip of his coffee, found it adequate, and opened his sandwich box.

  "Hey!" Sandra practically shouted as Ari lifted it to his mouth. He paused.

  "Yes?"

  "That’s a sausage biscuit!"

  "That's what I purchased."

  "But it's pork!"

  Ari smiled. "I'm gratified by your concern for my soul." He took a large bite. “This year’s Ramadan has begun. I shouldn’t be eating at all. Not in daylight.”

  "Jesus, aren't you Muslim?" Sandra asked, her eyes wide.

  Ari dabbed his lips with a paper napkin. "Sandra, would you be so kind as to say the following: I declare that there is no God but only One Allah, and I declare that Mohammad is the prophet of Allah (Peace be upon Him)."

  "Why?"

  "Indulge me. I believe that's why you're here, isn't it? Your superiors want you to humor me. Am I correct?"

  "Not my superiors." She absent-mindedly bit down on a fry and murmured, "Their superiors."

  "Well?"

  "I declare that there is no God but only One Allah, and I declare that Mohammad is the prophet of Allah.”

  “Peace be upon Him.”

  “Yeah, and that. There. Happy?"

  "Very much so," he said. "You are now a Muslim."

  "Bullshit."

  "I'm perfectly serious. You’ve just spoken the Shahadatain, the Islamic declaration of faith. As soon as it passed your lips, you became one of the Faithful.”

  "That's ridiculous." Sandra turned beet red. No one enjoyed being caught in a cultural bear trap.

  Ari stared at her for a moment, then took another bite out his sausage biscuit.

  "I've heard of lapsed Catholics..." Sandra's animosity seemed to have deflated, at least for the moment. "They used to burn them at the stake."

  "Every religion has its heretics." Ari observed. "The degree of heresy is jud
ged by the strength of the faith of those around them. From what I can gather, heresy in America is almost nonexistent."

  "We have faith," Sandra said testily.

  "Enough to burn unbelievers alive?"

  "Of course not."

  "Then you have no faith."

  "We have faith in democracy."

  Ari stared at Sandra's three-fourths-eaten carton of fries. He had finished his biscuit but was still hungry.

  "Your boss..." Ari paused. "Your boss's boss..."

  "Homeland Security," Sandra muttered. "But getting back to faith..."

  "Democracy, your secular religion, which is completely at odds with freedom, also your religion. You combine socialism and communism the same way."

  "We have faith in both--freedom and democracy I mean."

  Ari smiled. "If I pressed you, I believe you would amend that to 'freedom of opportunity'. Which conflicts with your third religion: equality. You're a college graduate?"

  "UVA."

  "A good school, I'm sure. And your degree practically guarantees you a better income than those who haven't had the same opportunity. Which in a capitalistic society puts you in a higher social ranking."

  "Forget I asked," Sandra said listlessly, losing interest.

  "Of course. Now that you're one of the Faithful, you wouldn't be interested in a discourse on Western political philosophy. But as a good Muslim, you should be outraged that America is trying to impose its system of warring values on top of another system of warring values."

  "I hope I'm humoring you adequately," said Sandra, plucking her wad of gum off her tray and popping it back into her mouth.

  “Why Italian?” Ari asked abruptly.

  “It’s a good Mediterranean smorgasbord. “As soon as we saw your photograph, we realized you could play anything from Mexican to Mesopotamian. Sort of like Anthony Quinn. Sicily’s a good halfway mark. And since you’re fluent in Italian…”

  “I see.” Ari decided against ordering French fries and sipped at his coffee. "You're here in response to my email?"

  "I don't know about email. I just know that you made some demand about a file. It was passed along to my boss--completely out of Department of Justice channels."

  "Are you the one who chose the Riggins house for me?"