The 56th Man

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "You allow women to talk to you like that?"

  "You haven't been in America long, have you?"

  "So he never caused any problems?"

  "Not until the last night we came."

  "What happened?"

  "He came down here screaming and raving. He threatened to shoot us."

  "He owned a gun?"

  "Well yeah. We sold it to him. Well, to Moria. She said she felt the need for protection."

  "From what?"

  "She said from people like us." The young man laughed harshly.

  "What kind of gun?"

  "Thirty-eight. Identical to the one you took out of our kayak, red stock and all."

  "Ammunition?"

  "You can get that anywhere. Green Top. Southern Gun."

  “Did Moria buy anything from you that night, when her husband threatened you?

  “She calmed him down and packed him back to the house. She asked us to come back in a half hour or so, after he’d gone to bed.” The kayaker hesitated on top of a question, then jumped. "You tortured people?"

  Ari thought for a moment. "You would say I did. I would never have advanced in my profession if I wasn't willing to inflict a little pain."

  "Like kicking a man while he's down."

  "Nothing wrong with that. The British imposed artificial boundaries on our land."

  "Iraq?"

  "They imposed artificial boundaries on many lands. Once the borders were established and the Europeans left, it was up to the native government to defend them. The opposition was violent. The measures we took against it were equally violent."

  "But some of you guys enjoy inflicting pain," the young man said carefully.

  "Some, yes. As for myself, I only did what I had to do to maintain civil order. I didn't deal with the political prisoners very often."

  "But you beat them."

  "Of course." Ari doubted his prisoner could see his smile. "I didn't make a habit of it. What Americans don't seem to accept is that government is violence, by definition. The imposition of rule. You package it here in neat paraphrases, the same way you package your food, so that the original is unrecognizable. But there's little difference."

  "We have the rule of law."

  "And the law isn't a tyrant? But it has its uses. Even you, my friend, are no anarchist. You couldn't operate your little business in relative safety if everything was in chaos. But many of us see America as a land of delusions. Quite honestly, you don't seem to want to survive."

  Ari saw movement near the house. He watched for a moment, until he was sure, then raised a finger

  "Wait here."

  "Funny."

  Ari approached the front door carefully, making no sudden movements.

  "Sphinx?"

  A serpentine shadow eased along the porch, headed for the bushes.

  "Marmaduke?"

  The shadow returned, a pale, fluid form. Ari opened the door slowly and Sphinx edged closer.

  "You want to come inside? Of course you do. Please, enter..."

  Sphinx rolled out a rough, unfeminine meow and sat. Ari leaned down slowly. The cat raised up and darted into the bushes. Ari choked off a bellow of rage. Leaving the door open, he stormed to the gazebo and spoke loudly enough to be heard by both men.

  "I will be back in thirty minutes. If you begin to yell for help, the good people of this neighborhood will call the police. The police will find your product and gun. They will release you, put you in handcuffs, and take you away to jail. If that doesn't bother you, yell away."

  "You sure you'll be back?" Mark moaned from beside the kayak.

  "If you succeed in escaping, congratulations."

  Eight minutes later, Ari had reached the nearest James River Park entrance. The red Bronco with a boat rack on the roof was parked under a tree in the gravel parking lot. A sign at the entrance told visitors the park closed at dusk. It was 12:48 in the morning.

  Switching on his brights, he swerved around some trees and drove up fast on the Bronco's driver side, braking at the last instant. A pair of hands flew up to ward off the glare. Ari grabbed the Tec-9 off the passenger seat and jumped out. He ran to the Bronco door and flung it open.

  "Would you please douse your headlights? And there's no need for that gun. I won't fight you."

  The woman was perhaps fifty, well-preserved under a dark mantle of dignity. A subdued Afro highlighted her high cheeks and added strength to eyes that were otherwise quite gentle. Her chin betrayed a slight plumpness which Ari found strangely attractive.

  "Get out," he said.

  "I'm not dressed."

  "Get out," he repeated.

  She sighed, turned slowly in her seat, and gracefully descended. She was wearing blue fuzzy bunny slippers and her neck was hidden in a dark chandelle boa. She held her kimono robe closed with both hands.

  "Those lights..." she complained softly.

  Ari wanted her to lift her robe so he could check for weapons, but something in him balked. He might be godless, but he still held on to cultural discretion. Held on for dear life. He had only snatched the gum out of Sandra's mouth because she was so boldly insufferable. This woman radiated dignity, fluffed robe, slippers and all. He backed to the door of the xB, reached in, and dimmed the headlights. After a moment's consideration, he lowered the Tec-9 on the driver seat.

  "Please move over against that tree."

  The woman gathered up her robe and moved with regal ease. Her bunny slippers looked as though they were nibbling on the gravel. Ari leaned into the Bronco. Turning on the overhead light, he rummaged under the seats. He checked the glove compartment. He found a gun and held it up for her to see. She offered an indifferent shrug. Ari then searched the rear of the vehicle. In the cargo area there was a neat stack of towels and a change of clothing for the kayakers. Something could be stashed in the spare, but Ari did not think 'Mr. Big', aka 'Ms. Big', was the type to make things more difficult than was called for. No one had interfered with her trade, so there was no need to expend unnecessary effort to hide her product. He saw her looking away, probably towards the boat ramp. He did not feel inclined to harm her.

  "For two years you've been doing this and the police haven't bothered you," said Ari, circling the Bronco and facing her. She turned her languid eyes on him and smiled. Ari couldn't help himself--he smiled back.

  "You've been checking on me." She waggled her finger at him.

  "Is Carrington protecting you? Have you paid him off? Or did you threaten to expose Moria Riggins if he arrested you?"

  "You calling me a blackmailer?"

  Ari thought a moment. "I believe that's the right word."

  "You're not very nice."

  "Your...employees were out here on the river the night of the murders, weren't they?"

  "My boys? They wouldn't hurt a fly."

  "They carry a gun."

  "All right, if the fly was big enough and mean enough, they might hurt him." She made it sound like a threat. Then she frowned. "How do you know--"

  "You send them out on the open water in the middle of winter? They must be very dedicated. I admire that."

  "They're in very good shape," she said in a sultry voice that alerted Ari to something more extensive than mere business. It was not the first time he had noted the relationship between criminal behavior and unorthodox sexual arrangements. But this being America, perhaps a black and white, May-September threesome wasn't all that unusual.

  "Did they tell you what they saw?"

  "They tell me everything. But that doesn't mean I tell you anything."

  "The police would have been very interested in their evidence, don't you think? They knew...well, Carrington knew...there was a good chance what they saw could be critical. Has the detective interviewed you?"

  She was listening for her boys, wondering at the delay. They hadn’t even checked in on her cell phone.

  "Did you extend your favors to the Detective Sergeant?"

  "He doesn't use product."


  "So you do know him. But I was thinking of something else."

  "You mean did I offer him this?" She let the robe open and spread her arms, displaying the amorous amplitude beneath her sheer night gown as if it was a prized possession that had been damaged in transit. But she had no higher opinion of Carrington's physical attributes. "I'm fond of my boys, not white carcasses."

  "I see," said Ari, a little surprised by his own discomfort. "Then I assume they were serious when they said you will come after me when you found out what I have done to them."

  He expected she could be formidable, but he knew from experience there was no adequate stance to meet the attack of an outraged woman untrained in hand-to-hand combat. Up to this point, Ari had admired her cool refinement under pressure. It took him aback when she lunged without preliminary. But he was ready when she went for his eyes. He sidestepped and she skidded on the gravel. When she caught herself and whirled, she did something that took him completely by surprise. Instead of resuming her flailing, no-holds-barred approach, she squared off and threw a roundhouse, catching him neatly on the jaw. He staggered back. Sensing victory, she came at him almost head-down, intent on knocking him over. He dodged, grabbed her by the waist, and stuck out his leg. As she tripped and fell, Ari took on the onerous task of easing her descent, holding on as best he could when she went face-down. This touch of charity paid off when his hands caught on something strapped under her nightgown. Necessity being the destroyer of custom, he whipped up the hem of her robe.

  "Oh no you don't," the woman growled, mistaking his intention and struggling to buck him off. "That's reserved."

  Ari did not answer, but slipped his hands deftly under her gown. Realizing her error, the woman fought even harder when she felt his hands exploring her money belt. It was cinched with a Velcro strap that he easily pulled apart. The woman flattened herself on the ground, holding the pouch down with her weight. To his dismay, Ari began experiencing an erection. His task became all the more difficult as he tried to raise her off the pouch without pressing against the bared cheeks underneath him. It was only when she startled him with an involuntary burst of laughter that he saw the solution. He reached up higher and tickled the hot flesh of her armpits. She jumped and bucked even harder, giving Ari enough of a gap to slide the pouch out. He pulled away and stood with the money belt in his hand.

  "I'll pack your boys off when I get back to the house. I have to run an errand first. Also, they won't have their night vision goggles. So there will be a delay of perhaps an hour."

  The woman rolled over and sat up. The gravel made an uncomfortable seat and she began working her way to her feet. Ari leaned down to help and she almost managed to bite his hand.

  "Give me that back."

  Ari ignored the demand. "When you file your complaint with the detective sergeant, tell him I have solved his mystery for him."

  "What makes you think--"

  "I don't believe he's been taking a cut." He gave the belt a little shake. "He might even be pleased by your distress. You were blackmailing him, weren't you? He only agreed to keep the police away from you. As for any other trouble you might encounter, I believe the saying is, 'You're on your own'."

  "You don't know anything."

  "I know the Rigginses died years ago. The murder was a formality. Allah willed it. In the meantime, I want to thank you for the gun and this." He shook the belt again. "Believe me, I have been severely underfunded up to this point."

  No headlights appeared in his rearview mirror. He doubted Sandra and her peers were tracking him in real time. They probably only used the LoJack to keep a record of his comings and goings. But if someone noticed the xB making a mysterious foray to the park in the middle of the night, they might send someone out to check up on him.

  I was gazing at the moon, as Jerry Riggins was allegedly doing when he was killed.

  At an all-night gas and convenience store on Forest Hill Avenue he used his credit card to buy a small, overpriced bag of all-purpose flour, then drove home. The kayakers were still in the yard, though not quite where he had left them. The first one had rolled off the gazebo platform and managed to get several yards down the slope before fetching up against a bush, while Mark had wormed his way a short distance uphill. In another half hour or so one of them would have been gnawing at the zip ties binding the other. Ari crouched between them, a menacing ghost.

  "I have only one question left for the two of you, and then I'll let you go." Ari suddenly noticed the dew on the grass. He leapt up and ran over to his new jacket. It was damp. Teeth gritted, he draped it over the gazebo railing.

  "What's the question?" the first kayaker asked.

  "How many shots were fired?"

  They didn't answer.

  "That night. That very cold, bitter night when all normal men are at home with their wives, when the sound of a gunshot would carry clear and far. How many?"

  "One..." Mark sighed. “When we came back later. We figured that crazy bastard was shooting at us and we took off.”

  "Just as I thought." Ari cut the ties with the knife he had taken from the kayak. They sat up, massaging their wrists and ankles.

  "Be on your way. Your earth mother is waiting for you. The Kayak Express is no longer in operation. "

  "What did you do to her?"

  "She's only a little mussed. Don't make any threatening moves. In case you can't see, I'm aiming a gun at you."

  "Where's our goggles?"

  "You will leave without them."

  "Go blind?"

  "You know the way well. Go slowly. It's not far."

  "But--"

  "Don't argue, Mark," the first kayaker said, a grimace in his voice. "Let's get the hell out of here. I want to see how Mother's doing."

  'Mother'. Psychologists might make studying the arrangement an interesting source of entertainment on a dull afternoon. Ari thought Mother might very well snap the boys’ heads off for their incompetence. Well, that was one function of Motherhood.

  The young men dragged the kayak back into the water and paddled away, slowly. Their recriminations and complaints faded downriver.

  Ari gathered up his booty and hid it under the gazebo floor. The cash alone was an impressive haul, amounting to thousands. He went back up to the house, weary and strangely depressed. The front door was still open. There was no sign of Sphinx. He went inside and closed the door.

  Upstairs, he inserted a hanger inside his jacket and hung it from the shower curtain rail in the bathroom. He stripped down to his shorts. His head was aching, perhaps as a result of his busy day--with more than a touch of Long Island Tea thrown in. Stretching out on his mattress, he allowed the tension in his body to drain into the compressed air underneath him. He turned onto his side.

  As he drifted off, something furry and comforting inserted itself behind his bent knees.

  "Ah, Sphinx," he murmured. "I knew you couldn't resist an open door..."

  FIFTEEN

  Unlike the Americans, Ghaith was not burdened by twenty-five or more pounds of equipment. He was wearing a flak vest, but so were the two men he was chasing. He was on equal terms. He did not think being outnumbered was of consequence. On the other hand, being weaponless could pose a problem.

  He had to keep the fake IP's in sight. While he knew the general layout of Sadr City, he was not familiar with its nooks and byways. It would be easy for the two of them to lose themselves in an unexpected door or alley. Fortunately, the few pedestrians dodged out of the way. Most people did not want trouble. Even here. Especially here. The two would not be losing themselves in a crowd.

  It had been a long year of physical inactivity for Ghaith. The luxury of jogging ten or fifteen kilometers had been reduced to seven, then one, then none. If you ran now, it was to save your own skin--or to rob someone of theirs. Yet he gained ground quickly after only a few blocks. The men ahead of him were getting winded. They were in even worse shape. The poor had never had the luxury of working out. Under the old regime, unl
ess he belonged to the right crowd, a poor man risked arrest and torture for just showing his face. And if you were part of the right crowd, but still managed to get arrested, the torture was even worse.

  They threw desperate looks over their shoulders. Did they assume Ari was armed? Or could they see the Americans humping around the corner behind him? Ghaith did not pause to check. At this point, the infantrymen were as likely to shoot him as they were the bombers. Ghaith understood how difficult it could be to tell allies from foes.

  His breathing was a little ragged, but he was pleased to note he could still move easily. During the embargo nearly everyone had gone hungry, and many, far too many, had starved to death--mostly infants and the elderly. But Ghaith had thrived. He was twenty pounds heavier than the average Iraqi--nearly all of it muscle. The Minister of Interior had been so pleased with his work that he had given him an honorary membership at the Nadi al-Said. At least twice a week, and usually more often, he would work out at the exclusive club's gym. His wife would sip at a martini while watching their children in the pool. He did not take her often, though. “Mr. Deputy's” son was known for his penchant for pretty wives, and if he came to the club and saw Ghaith's wife, he was sure to satisfy temptation.

  Up ahead, one of the bombers said something to the other. They skidded to a halt and whirled, lowering their AK-47's. Ghaith jumped into a narrow alley to his right and flattened against the drab brown wall of the house on the corner. He could not see the Americans, nor could he hear them. But his view was blocked by the building on the other side of the alley. If the platoon commander and NCO's had any sense, and some of them did, they would understand the bombers might be luring them into another trap. They would be using hand signals to guide their men silently forward.

  But he couldn't count on it.

  The bombers would have no pity. He was working for the Americans. And he had told them only minutes earlier that he had fucked their god. They might just blow off his pecker and let him live with the consequences of his blasphemy. He looked up. The roof was low. If he could only find something to stand on--