"Is there a drug problem in this neighborhood?"
"Still the city."
After a quick look around the bare garage, Carrington led the way back inside and paused in front of the living room fireplace.
"Was Jerry Riggins a happy man? You knew him well, I believe."
"He was the happiest," said Carrington, staring into the empty hearth.
"And his family?"
"Even happier."
"Why was Jerry sitting alone at midnight in this room when he was murdered?"
"Maybe he was watching Leno."
"There was no television in the diagram of this room."
"You mean what the papers put out?" Carrington barked, as though that in itself provided an explanation.
"Yes, your two policemen seem to think there were some inaccuracies."
"Mangioni and Jackson..." Carrington said, giving Ari a cagey look. "I hope they got as much out of you as you got out of them."
Carrington passed through the foyer without giving the small access door to the outdoor water control a glance. That would have provided an excellent hiding place for a gun--as Ari believed it once already had. That smell on his fingers...he was now convinced it was gun oil.
Carrington trudged downstairs and made a wide turn around the bare rec room. He checked out the water heater, listened to it hiss, then bossed around the washer and dryer. "At least you got electricity and hot water."
"Were the Rigginses happily married?"
Carrington's glance was all the more baleful under the harsh light of the utility room light bulb. "I said they were happy. That means they were happy with each other, too. And they loved their kids."
"But there seems to have been a fight between them the day of the murders."
"Where the fuck did you hear that?"
"And some loud banging."
"Where the fuck did you hear that?" Carrington repeated.
"It's common knowledge around here," Ari lied brazenly.
"Mr. Ciminon, try not to be a pain in the ass. If you did what I think you did at the Chinese market, you deserve a medal. But that'll only get you so far. We've got Medal of Honor winners serving life terms in prison."
Ari followed the detective upstairs, where he again paused in front of the fireplace, as if that was his base of operations.
"All these questions about a sledgehammer and if Jerry owned a gun..."
"I'm only trying to understand--"
"Who are you?" Carrington asked abruptly.
"Who you see," Ari answered simply.
They went to the second floor, Carrington straining at each step. In the studio, Carrington stared at Ari's primitive sleeping arrangements. "Okay, you're a gypsy. Maybe I better check with the real estate agency to make sure you belong here."
"Alas," said Ari.
"You don't sound happy to be in a swell house like this."
"With all this knocking in the wall?"
"Ha!" Carrington nudged the inflatable mattress with his foot. There were no unusual bumps or lumps. He gave the computer a cursory glance.
Like Mangioni and Jackson, like Ari himself, Carrington found it painful to enter the boys' bedrooms. He checked the closets and quickly left.
"Ah," he said when opened the hallway linen closet. "You've actually got something here." Carrington ruffled through the handful of towels and wash cloths. He went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet.
"Do you think a gun would fit in there?" Ari asked.
"Never know. You're not much into drugs yourself, are you Mr. Ciminon? Not even a bottle of aspirin. No mouthwash, either." He checked the cabinets beneath the sink.
They went into the master bedroom. Ari walked over to the window. "Could Mrs. Riggins have been staring out at the river before she was killed? Was she waiting for something?"
"She was asleep," said Carrington flatly, as though reading the words off a police report--just like Officer Jackson.
"And the noise at the back door didn't wake her..."
"What are you getting at?"
"Isn't it possible that the back door was smashed in earlier? Around five o'clock? That's when the Mackenzies heard a loud slamming over here. They heard a dispute--"
"That pair doesn't know their ass-joint from their elbow-hole."
"That's possible. But it would explain why no one woke up. The door was already broken."
"Right," Carrington fumed. "And then the killers waltzed around the house for seven hours before killing the family."
"Have you checked the phone records? They might have called for help if--"
"Okay, no gun." Carrington slammed the bedroom closet door shut. "At least, no gun in the house. I think I'm finished here."
"That's just as well," said Ari, glancing at his watch. "I have a date."
"Great. You get laid, maybe you'll stop acting so screwy. But I wouldn't bring a lady here. No lady I know likes an empty house." Carrington smirked. "Empty, except for the ghosts."
THIRTEEN
"You don't know how lucky you are," Ropp told Ghaith, as though letting him in on a secret. "Those SF's up ahead are in a swish Land Cruiser. A Land Cruiser! Some kid comes along and throws a rock, that coffin'll roll over."
"Don't dump on the civilian," Tuckerson shouted over the roar of the Bradley Fighting Vehicle. He leaned over to Ghaith. "The Land Cruiser's MDT up-armored. It can take a pair of M67's and no one inside gets hurt.”
“Grenades!” Ropp laughed harshly. The man seated next to him on the bench overheard and began to jump up. When he realized Ropp had shouted the word in a normal conversation he punched him in the shoulder.
“Like I was saying,” Ropp continued, rumpling the blouse of his DCU as he rubbed his sore arm, “even an up-armored Land Cruiser doesn't stand much chance. And these Humvees behind us aren't much better, with their hillbilly armor. But a Brad, you gotta love it.”
“Ali Babba knocked out an M-1 across the river last week,” Tuckerson said. “And the turret alone of an Abrams outweighs a Bradley by--”
“Thanks for reminding us,” Ropp said, commandeering the remaining five men in back for his scorn.
“Point is, nobody's safe, no matter what. Everyone gets donked when their time comes.”
Ghaith nodded understandingly. He didn't smile. He didn't want to look like a village idiot.
Every so often they could hear grunts from the turret as Staff Sergeant Henley leaned forward to raise a power line with a long wooden pole. Several soldiers had been electrocuted before the BC's learned not to lift the lines out of the way with bare hands.
“Anyone know where we're going?” the man next to Ropp shouted.
This broke the squad up. Like they were supposed to know where they were going. Who was he kidding? This was the U.S. Army!
“Weren’t you listening to the Top?” said Ropp. “Al Qods Street…the Mahdi Army…”
“That’s it? We don’t know nothing else?”
The squad broke up again. This guy was serious. He really wanted answers!
“There were some Q36 hits last night that your battalion commander wants investigated,” said Ghaith.
The laughing stopped instantly. The men stared at Ghaith.
“How do you now that?” Ropp demanded.
"Your captain told me," Ghaith said, judging this was the time to smile.
"You and not us?" Ropp said skeptically.
Ghaith was telling the truth, but felt obliged not to give the reason: that Captain Rodriguez had called him over while he was conferring with two of his platoon commanders in order to get Ghaith away from 'those goons', as the captain put it. Then he had turned his back on the interpreter and spoken as if Ghaith was not there. As if he was not convinced Ghaith could speak English.
"TF-1 was supposed to check out the grid yesterday," Rodriguez had told the two lieutenants, showing them a printout. "They got detoured, so now the colonel wants us to go in."
"The tubes will be long gone, sir," said on
e lieutenant doubtfully.
"You never know. They start hitting the FOB again and we haven't looked..."
"Yes, Sir."
“Crap, that’s Sadr City, sir,” said the other lieutenant.
"Yeah. I hate these Mahdi assholes who fire into a crowded city blind. They don't give a shit who they hit. And I can't lay the fist of God on them."
"Well, we could--"
"Flatten a city block? What would 60 Minutes make of that? And the real reason we're going out isn't the Q36 grid. I've got 5,000 in greenbacks, and 50,000 dinars for anyone who doesn’t think the dollar’s almighty, all for the hearts and minds and pockets of those shopkeepers we put out of business last week."
"You mean those buildings--"
"But those were high-value targets," the other lieutenant protested.
"Tell it to Dan Rather." Rodriguez's face went grimmer still. "And watch us end up flattening another mom and pop while we're paying for these. I hate this MOUT crap. Give me one of the provinces, where I can cut loose with the counterfire. If we could fire up Baghdad with white phosphorus, we’d see some improvement." He looked at Ghaith, obviously wondering how much he had understood.
Some, but not everything. The U.S. Army's love affair with acronyms put a haze over everyday operations. No doubt a bloody, godawful mess sounded better when it was referred to as a BGM. But to Ghaith's thinking, the intensive use of acronyms was, in addition to being deceptive, hugely counterproductive. He had no idea what MOUT meant. It might be important, but how would he know unless someone spelled it out for him?
"I was with the captain when he laid out the mission to his platoon leaders," Ghaith told Ropp and the others as the Bradley slowed for another of the power lines that drooped across the street.
"Hey, your English is all right." Tuckerson nodded his approval. "We've had some real goofballs, but you're A-OK, Haji."
The other squad members chimed in, also nodding. Ghaith thought they looked like a bunch of village idiots. But there was a charming sensibility to their reaction. English-speakers stranded in a linguistic desert, the interpreter offered the cup of communication with the locals. A good translator was worth his weight in gold. Ghaith wondered if he would live long enough to spend any of the $500 the invading army had paid him to sign up.
The Bradley stopped. The driver asked...actually begged...for permission to open his hatch. Seated up next to the engine, which added its own cruel heat to the steady blast of the sun, the driver suffered more than anyone else in the vehicle. Ghaith had learned it was usually a new man assigned to the position. A hot introduction to the cradle of civilization. Ghaith also suffered from the heat. The balaclava was unbearable.
The ramp dropped and the squad debouched. They spread out while infantry from Humvees and Bradleys further down the column dragged themselves up the street to join them. In their impenetrable wraparounds, they looked like bug-eyed aliens. Sunglasses were good at hiding fear, Ghaith noted, but somehow emphasized boredom.
Captain Rodriguez removed his CVC helmet and replaced it with his K-pot. He pulled himself out of the turret and negotiated his way down the armored slope of the Bradley, past the numerous kits slung so thickly on its flank that the captain had complained about it looking like a gypsy wagon.
A group of Iraqi men ran up and immediately swamped the captain with unintelligible complaints. He removed his shades and glanced over at Ghaith, who went to his side. The men fell silent, as spooked by his mask as the Americans, but quickly recovered. There were five of them, and they all spoke at once. Ghaith held up his right hand, fingertips touching, and moved his hand up and down while bending his head. A request for patience.
"Tell them I'm here to compensate them for the incidental damage to their stores that we caused last week," said Rodriguez
The 'incidental' part lifted the message into a mildly abstract realm that could be time-consuming and futile, and was sure to raise plenty of shouts.
"We're here to give you money," he told the shopkeepers in Arabic.
The noise level went up anyway. The captain had attended a seven-week immersion course in Arabic, but only a little bit had stuck. He shot Ghaith a wary look.
"They must first produce the IOU's I gave them during our last…uh…visit…before I can compensate them."
There was no need for Ghaith to translate. They all understood 'IOU'. Five chits from the captain's receipt book immediately appeared.
Further up the line a group of men and children gathered around the woman translator sent down from battalion. She and some other soldiers were handing out candy. But when the captain took out a waterproof pouch and unzipped it, a new crowd magically appeared, pushing forward.
"We need a hovering angel," the staff sergeant called down from the Bradley turret. He wanted someone on a rooftop for a better view of the street. This was a nice fat target for a suicide bomber.
"We shouldn't be here long," Rodriguez answered.
Ghaith was looking at the fifth shopkeeper. Abdul Ibrahim bin Omar al-Ahmad. Another one from the mass release of prisoners before the war. Convicted, more or less, of stabbing a man in a fight over a jar of spicy walnut spread. Had he really turned shopkeeper? Ghaith edged around the captain and approached the former prisoner. He would risk a few informal words. He had never met the man in person.
"Al-salamu ‘alaykum, Abu Khalil."
Abdul Ibrahim turned his eager gaze away from Rodriguez and stared at the interpreter.
"Did you really run a shop here, or did you tear that IOU out of the owner's hand? I hope you didn't kill him to get it."
The other four men stopped shouting and turned to look. Rodriguez was startled. He had never seen the locals go quiet when there was money around. The only voices raised now came from the growing crowd of children that bubbled around the captain, as though he was the main course in a boiling pot. He signaled to Staff Sergeant Henley, who disappeared in the turret and reemerged with handfuls of jawbreakers. The kids shifted away from Rodriguez as the candy rained down from the Bradley.
"Ho-ho-ho!" Henley bellowed. A look of concern crossed the captain's face. Could Santa's signature tune be misinterpreted?
"Hey, Abu Khalil," Ghaith continued, his dental work outlined by the balaclava’s mouth slit. It was a sign of privilege, those fine teeth.
Former privilege. A privilege that was not only out of date, but dangerous. Like an antique car without brakes.
"Are you going to let these shopkeepers keep their money after we've gone?" Ghaith gave Abdul Ibrahim a belated hug, and whispered into his ear. "You wouldn't cut their throats for a few measly dinars, would you?"
Rodriguez had taken out his flash roll and was trying to shove the compensation money on the shopkeepers, who seemed suddenly reluctant to accept it. A young boy jumped up, trying to snatch a bill out of the captain's hand.
"Hurry it up, whatever it is you're doing," he said fretfully to Ghaith, who had not let go of Abdul Ibrahim.
"If I hear that anything has happened to these brothers," Ghaith was whispering, "I'll track you down, cut off your manhood, and let the camels suck on your balls."
Abdul Ibrahim had begun to shake so violently that he had no strength to break away.
"The Godless One..."
Ghaith was not aware that he had a moniker. Perhaps Abdul Ibrahim was mistaking him for one of the prison guards who had tortured him. But he had a nickname now. And he smiled. It did not sit badly with him. Not at all.
On Riverside Drive Ari stopped and asked a jogger where the Fan was. He was told he had only to drive up to Huguenot Road, turn left, cross the bridge, and keep going straight, past Windsor Farms and Carytown. While speaking, the jogger gave the Scion a narrow, jaundiced eye.
"Hey, aren't you the one who's been speeding through here--"
"Thank you," said Ari, and sped off.
The Shamrock turned out to be only four doors down from Ali's Mediterranean Market. There was a handwritten sign in the window that announc
ed, "Yes We Have Halal." Halal meat and poultry had a reputation for quality that was usually well-deserved, and Ari was disappointed to find the shop closed. It didn't matter. While it would have been pleasant to pass some time browsing Ali's aisles, he did not want to miss happy hour.
Inside the Shamrock a waitress invited him to take any unoccupied seat he liked. Ari found this congenial and was immediately at ease. He slid onto a barstool and ordered tea. The bartender began wielding bottles of vodka, tequila, gin, rum and triple sec. Ari assumed he was fixing a drink for the man at the opposite end of the bar. First come first serve. When the bartender stood a tall glass in front of him, it took a certain amount of self-control to keep from gaping.
"What is this?"
"Long Island Tea. Isn't that what you wanted? Oh, here’s the lemon slice."
Ari stared at the highball glass. "I'm still not used to drinking alcohol in public."
The bartender gave him a double-take, then tried to make light of the inference that Ari only drank in private, like all good alcoholics:
"I wouldn't have thought you drank at all."
It was intended to be a friendly observation and Ari took it in that spirit.
"I like a good whisky, just like my master."
This was nonsense to the bartender. But he was used to non sequitors and shrugged it off. "You want something different?"
"That's all right." Ari handed over his credit card.
"There's a buffet against the wall there. There's...uh...some meatballs. I think there might be pork in them."
"Dreadful. Is it free?"
"Happy hour," said the bartender.
Wonderful. It must be one of the bonuses of being a super power.
Ari lifted the glass. Wafting it under his nose for a sniff might be gauche--this wasn't wine, after all. So he took a sip.
Sour. But not bad. Quite strong, though.
He eased back and ran his eyes over the booths, half of which were occupied. He went to the buffet and plopped a half dozen meatballs and some cheese cubes onto a Styrofoam plate, returned to the bar and began eating them with his fingers. The meat sauce was a bit messy. The bartender seemed relieved when he began using a toothpick.
The 56th Man Page 18
