She says, “That’s a stupid way to look at things. We’re all made of star stuff. All the little things that make you you. They came from out there.” She points out the window. Into the dark.
Kieron grunts. “Got some shithead stars out there then.”
“C’mon, you’re smarter than that.”
“No, I used to be smarter than that. Then I got dumb for a long time.”
“Maybe you should work on getting undumb.”
He grunts again. “Yeah, maybe.” Looks at her. “What keeps you coming back here, anyway? Been over a year now. Is it my charming personality?” Kieron winks.
Sarah shakes her head. “Mostly it’s the free booze.”
***
Aaron wakes Kieron and Sarah up three hours later. The two naked and wrapped under blankets. Not sweaty or hot and heavy. Just tired, the both of em.
Aaron keeps a hand on the doorframe. “Guys, I wanna build something.”
Sarah squints against the light from the hall. “What do you want to build?”
Kieron says, “C’mere, bud.” Rubs sleep from the crunchy corners of his eyes. He’s still a little drunk. So there’s no hangover annoyance—yet.
The boy climbs into the bed. He sits between the two naked adult bodies. Not knowing it. Says, “I wanna build a spaceship.”
Kieron says, “We can do that. Sure. We can do that.”
Aaron looks at Sarah. “Maybe we can find Mommy. Do you wanna help us find Mommy?”
Sarah says nothing.
Kieron turns Aaron’s head around. “Give us a couple minutes, bud.”
***
Kieron thinks: Okay. I’m gonna save some money and get a house. I’m gonna save some money and move and maybe Sarah will come with us and then maybe Aaron will stop this weird bullshit about a “Mommy” and we can all live in peace.
Or I could get a bunch of money and buy a fuckton of smack and die.
That itch. Still. Forever. Never goes away.
Sarah hands Kieron part of the spaceship cockpit. This LEGO monster that Aaron’s constructing. She grins. Says, “According to Aaron, the Intergalactic Explorer is supposed to sit three.”
Three.
All of em sitting there.
Sarah acts like she already forgot about the “Mommy” thing.
Or maybe she’s thinking she could be a Mommy, after all.
Kieron digs through the pieces scattered on the floor.
He needs to find another seat. There’s only two.
He thinks: She’s gonna get hurt.
5.
Kieron wakes up and Sarah’s gone. There’s nothing particularly alarming about that. Plenty of shit to take care of in her own life.
She’ll be back before his shift. She knows the drill.
The day starts like every other:
Stumble out of the bedroom.
Regret alcohol intake.
Find orange juice.
Make sure Aaron ain’t freaking right the fuck out.
Stare at bills.
***
Kieron sits at the table in the kitchen and looks over the bills. Electric needs to be paid ASAP. It’s two weeks late already. Ditto gas. Credit card. Doctors’ bills—three of the fuckin things.
Plus the cost of the shrink bitch the city makes Aaron see.
Why does Aaron need a shrink, anyway?
He’s got LEGOs.
***
Kieron rubs his face.
It’s six in the evening and the Russian thugs are back.
Kieron watches em. Serves em. They talk in hushed tones and he wonders if maybe something went either wrong or right. Hard to tell. Could go either way.
Maybe see how they tip.
Good: Big tip.
Bad: Small tip.
Sure.
He listens without looking like he’s listening.
Bartenders are always listening.
The thugs talk about a score. Little thing. Petty thievery. Few grand from an old lady in jewels. Rich kinda broad. She won’t even know they’re there. In and out. How? This old lady, no shit, leaves a spare key under her welcome mat. When? Three days from now. When she’s gone uptown fuckin around at some day-spa. Where? Round the corner. Blue colored shitshack. Second floor. Man, it’s just a twenty-minute hike. Then to the bar. Easy to lose anyone following cuz all the streets are funky down here. Then come in and act like you’ve been drinking the whole time.
Kieron listens and thinks: Yeah, might work.
Kieron listens and thinks: Couple thousand dollars might solve a buncha problems.
Kieron listens and thinks: Why wait?
Just, y’know, thinking it.
6.
NYPD Officer Saim Dajani stares at the shrink. His big ambition is to make it to Detective. Hasn’t decided the department. Robbery. Homicide. Special Victims.
But he’s sitting in this goddamn office cuz, what...? Cuz he put some asshole down. That’s all.
And the shrink wants to make sure Saim won’t put more bullets in someone else. Since he’s done it once before. Brass wants to make sure he ain’t just trigger happy.
This is mandatory after a shooting. Any shooting.
Boring shit.
The shrink looks over Saim’s paperwork. The files the NYPD keeps on him. Plus his reports. She says: “What did you see when you entered the alley?”
She’s talking about this second shooting of Saim’s in as many years. Some low-level pusher Saim and his beat partner, Joe Leonard, were supposed to be looking for on the Lower East Side. Wanted on assault and possession and intent to sell weed. Marquis Roberts. Black guy. Early thirties. Just about six feet. Throws in a fake Jamaican accent since he thinks it’s funny and maybe spooks the white customers.
Saim and Joe see the guy. Radio it in. They keep their distance. Then Roberts is moving. They follow. Stay on the radio to keep the 7th Precinct aware. No, they don’t have him in custody. Yes, they are pursuing.
Roberts makes em somehow. Takes off running. Saim and Joe chase him. Corner him in an alley off Broome. And this asshole, instead of putting his hands up, acts tough. Like he’s got some card to play. But doesn’t.
Roberts pulls a little .38 piece of shit revolver with electrical tape on the grip so it can be torn off and his prints won’t show—least that’s what this idiot thinks. That’s how dumb he is. Like he saw that scene with Pacino in The Godfather and figured it’d still work nowadays.
Saim and Joe hug the walls at the mouth of the alley. Hold their Glock 19s out. They don’t show their bodies. Don’t give this cornered fuck anything to shoot at.
The whole time they’re saying: Put it down. Telling this asshole: Drop the gun. Put your hands on your head. This doesn’t have to go south.
Both cops are wearing vests. Cuz fuck you, who wants to get a bullet in em? All the same, they ain’t gonna let Roberts go. So they keep talking at him but he’s not buying it. Starts walking up the alley toward em. Waving the .38 around cuz yeah he’s gangsta and fuck the po-leese and whatever.
Man, what world these guys are living in?
Saim and Joe watch Roberts. Step by step. In a heartbeat they’re worried some kid might get shot passing by if the guy decides to open up.
So Saim put three in the guy’s chest.
Saim tells the shrink: “I saw the perp looking for a way out of the alley. Then he threatened us. He approached myself and Officer Leonard with a weapon drawn. We told him to drop it. When I believed he was a danger, not just to myself and Officer Leonard, but the public at large, I fired. Three times. Into his chest.”
“And you did this because you believed he’d harm an innocent bystander.”
“Yes.”
“Not because you wanted to use your weapon?”
; “No.” Saim shoots her a harsh look. “What’re you implying?”
“We are concerned that you’re too willing to open fire on a suspect.”
Saim catches that. She said We. Fuck. We meaning the brass and the bosses up the line.
He says, “You’re making me sound like a crazed gunman. That is categorically untrue. I’ve been involved in two shootings—including this one—in two years. That’s hardly the record of a gun nut. You’ve read my jacket. I’m cleaner than the pope’s asshole. Beyond that, I’ve had seven other arrests. None of which involved pulling the trigger.
“So why are you on my dick?”
She shuffles her papers. “Sexual undertones of that statement notwithstanding—”
He says, “Holy shit, is it cuz I’m brown? Yeah, you’ve got an Arab cop who you think likes to use his gun too much.”
“No, of course not. That’s absurd.”
“Yeah. It’s totally fuckin absurd.”
***
Saim walks into the 7th Precinct locker room and tosses off his jacket.
Joe says, “They shrink your head too?”
He’s a tall, slim Kentuckian with brown hair and blue eyes. Built like he’s played baseball all his life. Lanky but powerful.
“Yeah,” Saim says. “But it was weird.”
“Cuz you got a lotta kills.”
Saim shrugs. “I guess.” Strips. He’s got the body of a boxer. Muscled and thick. He just wants to get the hell out of his duty clothes. He reaches for a pair of jeans and slides em on. “I think it’s since I’m Arab, man. I’ve only pulled and used my gun two damn times. In two years. That’s all.”
“Yeah, well, maybe they think you worship the wrong god.”
“Except I don’t. I ain’t Muslim.”
Joe kisses the cross hanging on his neck. “Meesta devil A-rab.”
Saim laughs. “Fuck you.”
“Or...” Joe frowns.
“What? Just say it.”
Joe arches his eyebrows. “Maybe they figure you gays are supposed to be all meek and quiet and feminine. Not, uh, shooting people.”
Saim shakes his head. “Then they’re gonna be pretty pissed.”
7.
Saim gets sent home.
That is the only good thing about the day.
Shoot the bad guy. Talk to the shrink. Get off early. And, hey, take tomorrow too.
Four in the afternoon now. Got some time to himself.
He walks into his apartment. A one bedroom on the second floor of a multi-family house in Rego Park, Queens. Close enough to the city he doesn’t need to get worked up about the commute. Landlord gives him a break on rent cuz the guy enjoys the idea of having a cop around.
Like that means anything.
Plus they’re both Middle Eastern. That helps.
Saim heads to the bedroom. Hangs up his hat. Coat. Vest. Belt. Gun. Gets down to his boxer-briefs and pulls on a loose shirt.
He grabs a beer from the fridge. Yuengling—which is an inoffensive American alternative to Coors or Bud that’s still tasty without breaking the bank.
Saim sits on his lumpy couch and ignites another vice: a cigarette. He keeps the cancer count low, though. Maybe four or five a day. Not too much.
He turns on the TV. Something to look at. And he’s curious about how the shooting’s gonna get played on local news. But he keeps it muted. Goes over to his stereo—which ain’t really much of a stereo at all. Just an mp3 player docked and cradled by speakers that cost better than they sound.
He’s feeling Bluesy and boozy. Usually that way after a fucked up day. Dumb to pretend it doesn’t affect him. He knows that much about his own brain.
Gary Clark Jr. is good. After that he figures he’ll move around the Blues food chain. Guitar Shorty. North Mississippi All-Stars. Stevie Ray Vaughn. Buddy Guy. Albert King. Lightnin Hopkins. Muddy Waters—what a dirty old bastard he was.
Man, they were all kinda filthy.
Saim takes a drink. Wonders briefly to himself, Does that make me a race traitor?
No Arabs on the list.
No. But you got black dudes on the list and they got skin sorta like yours.
Thing that makes you a race traitor is you bailed on your family and your religion as soon as you could. Your mom and dad were horrified when you turned your back on Islam.
Motherfuckers in the old country like Afghanistan can’t even listen to music. Like at all. No fun whatsoever.
“That shit sucks,” Saim says to nobody. “I’ll take music.”
Probably why Metal’s so big over there now in the underground. All that repressed anger... Big chunk of the world always facing different masters... Different countries trying to lay claim... Middle Easterners got a right to be pissed...
How many empires have wanted to own that oil-rich land?
Saim thinks: Dig the Blues. Have a couple beers. Go to bed. Do your shit. Don’t worry about the rest.
You wanna be emotional, you listen to some whiny teenager crap. That’s why the little fucks’re always bumming out and shooting each other. Sad sacks feeling bad for themselves. Don’t know how to cope with being bullied. Like nobody else in the universe knows what it’s like to be bullied.
Ain’t even faced the real world yet.
Saim grimaces. “Limp little faggots.”
Then he immediately regrets it.
His brain goes: Isn’t that what your dad called you when you ditched Islam and came out and joined New York’s finest? A “faggot” who wasn’t capable of being a real man?
Saim polishes off his beer. Frowns. Grabs a half-empty bottle of J&B Scotch from the counter. Pours himself a little.
His brain says: And isn’t that part of the reason you joined the force anyway? Prove to your old man and yourself that being gay doesn’t mean shit when it comes to masculinity?
Saim stares at the amber liquid. “It doesn’t.”
Going through the NYPD academy was so much fun as an Arab after 9/11.
An hour passes. More than a beer passes.
He sees the local news throw up a little banner about his shooting. The bottom of the screen says: COPS BRING DOWN NOTORIOUS DRUG DEALER.
He smiles. Thinks, Yeah, that was me. You’re welcome.
He looks around his apartment. Little but too big for him. All the empty space.
Maybe I need a cat.
Amount of attention you’d pay it, the thing’d be dead in a month.
Maybe I need a partner.
They’d be dead in a month too.
***
Saim crawls into bed.
Twelve beers in but not meaning to drink that much.
No, not meaning to.
Just gets that way after fuckin killing someone.
8.
Kieron and Aaron Palmer sit on the living room floor. Both in pajamas. Still putting together that spaceship a day later. Aaron’s got big plans. A lotta intricate parts.
LEGOs everywhere. Action figures stranded on random patches of the carpet. The place looks like a small version of a NASA assembly plant.
Kieron puts together part of the fuselage. He’s pretty sure it’s where the landing doors are gonna go. Behind the passenger seating which is behind the cockpit.
Goes like this: Cockpit, passenger seating, landing doors, cargo hold, engineering, engines.
Aaron’s blueprints are complex.
Only thing the boy can’t decide is if they’re gonna transport civilians or soldiers.
Kieron suggests maybe they do a Han Solo mercenary thing. Fly whoever can pay and maybe smuggle some cool stuff hidden from the eyes of the evil Empire.
Aaron considers the idea. Finally decides. Says, “No. We’ve got to be good guys.” Never takes his eyes off the engine manifold he’s building.
Kieron says, “Han Solo was a good guy.”
“No he wasn’t. He turned into a good guy. That’s different.”
“How’s it different?”
Aaron shrugs.
***
Kieron gets dressed.
Aaron’s still in the living room. Building. Cartoon Network’s on but the kid’s not watching. He’s too involved in his project.
Kieron looks at himself in the mirror. Not as pretty as he used to be. Starting to look old. Like he was always afraid of. Bits of grey on the sides of his head. Couple days’ worth of stubble. Bags under his eyes.
Thirty-five. Still doesn’t have his shit together.
He looks at the clock. Five-thirty.
Shift starts at six. Might as well get down early. Maybe pick up some extra tips.
Maybe tell the other bartender, Lizzy, he’s gonna need her to cover him for a while tomorrow on account of he needs to run a couple errands.
Gotta take Aaron to the shrink.
That useless bitch.
***
Kieron wants to punch the shit outta whoever picked the music on the jukebox. One of these morons here for a quick drink before they go settle somewhere more to their liking. Pop garbage.
None of these pukes are regulars.
But Lizzy’s looking good. She usually does. The right figure. Cleavage. He’d take his chances with her except he’s got a nice thing going with Sarah. Don’t wanna jeopardize it. Plus, Lizzy’s blonde. He’s not so fond of blondes. There’s also the fact that Lizzy’s boyfriend looks like he was genetically engineered to hurt people in ways Kieron can only think of as alarmingly pornographic.
So, yeah. No.
Kieron says to Lizzy: “Can you cover for me tomorrow if I’m late?”
Lizzy eyeballs him. “Sure. What’s the problem?” She puts a hand on her hip.
“Aaron’s got a date with the shrink.”
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