Saving Kabul Corner

by N. H. Senzai

  “Come on,” said Laila, interrupting her depressed thoughts.

  The light flickered green, urging them across the street toward the café. Mariam called out as the girls entered, directing them to a table tucked away in a back corner. Wali slouched in his seat, enveloped in a black hoodie, his face pale. Ariana placed the file of clues next to him, her eyes downcast.

  “We just saw the store,” said Laila, her voice wavering. “It’s just awful.”

  Wali nodded, his jaw clenched. “Tofan Baba’s been trying to calm my father down, but he goes from being sad to really, really mad.” He glanced at Ariana with dull, tired eyes. “He still thinks your father and uncle had something to do with it.”

  “I know.” Ariana sighed. “He wants badal. And I don’t blame him. I’d want revenge too—to get back at whoever did this.”

  “Ari is right,” said Laila. “We have to figure out who’s behind all this.”

  “Well, let’s get to it,” said Wali, pushing back his hood, his tone resolute.

  While Laila opened her notepad, Ariana absentmindedly glanced toward the front door and spotted a group of men playing chess, partially hidden by a display of Thanksgiving coffee. Ariana blinked as an old memory flickered, like a movie projector whirring to life. She’d seen this exact scene before, earlier in the summer, when she’d come in to get coffee for her father and uncle. Men had been playing chess, and beside them, partially hidden by a similar display, had been Lucinda Wong, talking to a red-haired man. Ariana blinked. Red hair. The day at the fall festival, she’d seen Ronald Hammersmith with his ponytailed red hair and tried to remember where she’d seen him before. It was right here. She shook her head as if to clear it. “I know the ­connection between Ronald and Wong Plaza,” she blurted out, her heart ramming against her rib cage.

  “What?” asked Wali, sitting up, alert.

  “I saw Ronald and Lucinda talking to each other here, in the café, a week before your store opened.”

  “You did?” asked Wali.

  “So there is a connection between the two,” cried Mariam.

  “And Ronald’s assistant, Paige, made the horse meat flyers,” said Ariana.

  “And those flyers ended up all over Wong Plaza,” said Wali, opening the file of clues and dumping them out over the table.

  “But why? Why would he do it?” asked Laila, looking bewildered.

  “The answer must be in here somewhere,” said Wali.

  Mariam picked up Ronald’s campaign flyer, its bold headline promising to bring “Change with Conscience.” Beneath the slogan were phrases such as “environmental responsibility,” “sustainable urban renewal,” and “land management.” “Well, he sure is worried about the environment,” she said, stroking the recycled flyer. “He’s into real estate, right? Since it says he’s all about building green, sustainable neighborhoods.”

  Ariana’s eyes widened. “Wali, remember the day we were at Mrs. Wong’s?” Wali nodded. “The article on the front page of the Tri City Express was about the mayoral elections, how they were heating up. The woman running against Ronald talked about his recent land acquisitions and accused him of trying to lobby for rezoning Fremont neighborhoods. What if all these clues point to something bigger?”

  “Do you really think . . . ,” said Wali, his voice soft as he contemplated her words. “I mean, it kind of makes sense. He was here, talking to Mrs. Wong, the owner of a valuable piece of real estate in the middle of Fremont.”

  “Yup,” said Ariana, fidgeting in her chair. “Ronald meets with Mrs. Wong. Then all these strange things start happening at Wong Plaza!”

  “Nobody’s going to believe us if we tell them about all this,” exclaimed Mariam, waving her hands over the clues.

  “Mariam’s right,” said Laila, her cheeks pink with worry. “Ronald is rich, and he’s running for mayor. Nobody will believe he’d do something this awful to get his hands on a piece of property.”

  “They won’t believe us, not until we have direct proof that it’s him,” said Wali, crumpling the horse meat flyer in his fist.

  “Well, let’s find the proof,” said Ariana, feeling more hopeful than she had in a long time.

  THE FIRST THING ON the new to-do list was to go back and visit Mrs. Wong, since it was after Ronald met with her that all the trouble began. So, while Laila headed to Kabul Corner and Mariam went home to do some research on the Internet about Ronald, Ariana and Wali made the fifteen-minute trek to Mrs. Wong’s house.

  It was Martin who answered the door at Ariana’s insistent knock. “Hi.” He smiled widely. He was wearing the same Mickey Mouse T-shirt as last time and had a Rubik’s cube in his hand.

  Darn, thought Ariana. I forgot to bring him pistachios. “Hi, Martin,” she said. “Is your mom home?”

  “Yes,” he said, thankfully not remembering the nuts. “I’m not allowed to let you in. I’ll go get her.”

  The door shut, and Mrs. Wong opened it a few minutes later, looking disheveled, as if she hadn’t had time to shower

  “Hello, Mrs. Wong,” began Ariana. “We’re sorry to bother you again, but we’re working on a school project and wanted to interview you.”

  “A school project?” asked Mrs. Wong.

  “Yes,” said Wali. “It’s for social studies, a project on civics and government.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Wong, glancing at her watch. “I can talk to you for a few minutes, but it’ll have to be fast, since I need to get ready and leave for church in fifteen minutes.”

  “Sure, no problem,” said Ariana as she followed Wali inside.

  “How is your father doing, Wali?” asked Mrs. Wong.

  Wali grimaced. “He’s okay, considering what happened. He called the insurance company, and the adjustor is coming on Tuesday to give damage estimates.”

  “I talked to your father last night. He’s very upset, as am I,” said Mrs. Wong, dabbing her eyes with her sleeve.

  Ariana realized Mrs. Wong was hiding tears, and Ariana swallowed back anger. How could anyone torment a nice woman like Mrs. Wong? “It’s really awful how terrible things keep happening,” Ariana said in a soft voice.

  “I know.” Mrs. Wong sighed. “I just don’t know what to make of it. Ever since the summer ended, we’ve been plagued with such bad luck. Who would think a brand-new oven would short out?” Short out, my foot, thought Ariana. “But thank the Lord that the fire didn’t spread to the other stores.”

  “The fire department showed up right on time,” said Wali.

  Mrs. Wong nodded, and then brought the conversation back to why they were there. “So, how can I help you two today?”

  Ariana and Wali had decided not to tell her about their investigation or share their suspicions. They had worked out a cover story and were sticking to it.

  Wali cleared his throat. “As I mentioned, we’re working on a project for social studies and have chosen to study the election process—in particular, the mayoral race.”

  “Oh, that sounds interesting,” said Mrs. Wong, perking up.

  “Yes, it is,” Ariana said, cringing at the fib as she flipped open her notebook. “We’re researching all the candidates for mayor, including Ronald Hammersmith.”

  “We wanted to get your thoughts, since you know him,” Wali slipped in.

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Wong with a frown. “I don’t actually know him that well.”

  “But you were talking to him at the Daily Grind Café a few months ago,” Ariana prodded, looking down at the page, pretending to take notes.

  Mrs. Wong shrugged. “Well, we met because he wanted my support for his candidacy, so I gave him a small donation and endorsed him.”

  Ariana’s stomach sank. Is that it?

  “Why did you endorse him?” asked Wali.

  “I strongly believe in environmental protection and sustainable development,” said
Mrs. Wong, “which is a large part of his platform.”

  “Yes, that’s what we’ve found out about him too,” said Wali, pulling out Ronald’s campaign flyer. “These are printed on recycled paper.”

  Ariana thought back to what she’d read in the Tri City Express, and the words came tumbling out of her mouth. “Ronald has been buying up land for green development projects.”

  “It’s funny you say that,” said Mrs. Wong, ­folding her hands in her lap. “As our meeting was ending, Ronald surprised me by mentioning an interest in buying Wong Plaza.”

  Ariana stared at Mrs. Wong, momentarily dumbstruck. Buying Wong Plaza?

  Thankfully Wali wasn’t as tongue-tied. “Mr. ­Hammersmith wanted to buy Wong Plaza?”

  “Yes, but I told him I wasn’t interested in selling.”

  “Why not?” croaked Ariana, her tongue finally loosening.

  “Well, over the years many developers have wanted to buy the plaza, since it’s in such a central location, between industrial and residential neighborhoods. But the land has been in my family for three generations, and I have a personal connection to it.”

  “Oh,” said Ariana. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yes, but he was very persistent,” said Mrs. Wong, looking a little put off at the memory. “In fact, he came by here a few weeks after we’d met and tried to sweet-talk me into selling. But I politely declined since the property is my only source of income.”

  “Oh, wow,” murmured Ariana, sharing a triumphant look with Wali.

  Mrs. Wong glanced down at her watch. “Okay, guys. We need to wrap it up soon.”

  “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Wong,” said Wali.

  “Not a problem,” said Mrs. Wong as she stood up to see them out. “Although sometimes I wonder if I should just go ahead and sell, since it’s becoming tough to manage all these problems in my old age.”

  Ariana shared a worried glance with Wali, and she knew he was thinking the same thing. That’s exactly what Ronald wants. As they walked past the dining room, she spotted the corkboard and the line of ­master keys and recalled their first visit. The keys!

  She stumbled against Wali, who steadied her. “You okay?”

  She grinned. “Yup.” As soon as Mrs. Wong had shut the door behind them, she lowered her voice. “I know how they got in!”

  “Huh?” said Wali, a quizzical look on his face.

  “Last time we were here, I told you that the master keys to our stores had been switched around—as if someone had put them back in a hurry and hadn’t checked which was which. Ronald must have gotten copies of the keys somehow!”

  Wali let loose a loud whoop and gave Ariana a hug. Shocked, they clonked heads and jumped back from each other, red-faced.

  • • •

  The next thing on their to-do list had been Mariam’s idea—based on her favorite reality show, Take That. It was a pretty gutsy strategy, one that was going to take a lot of nerve to pull off. But if they succeeded, it would give them the evidence they badly needed. The plan was to be put in motion as soon as school ended the following Monday afternoon.

  In nervous anticipation, Ariana floated in a daze, from one class to another, and at one point Mr. Lambert asked if she was sick and needed to go see the nurse. She mumbled that she was okay, but turned beet red as everyone stared at her. Hidden behind her science textbook, she’d been reading a copy of the Tri City Express that Wali had handed her in homeroom that morning. The news about Pamir Market was just hitting the papers, and the front page revealed a picture of the burned-out shell of the store, followed by a brief article.

  Dressed in the most professional clothes they could find, Ariana and Wali arrived at Ronald’s flashy glass and chrome office promptly at three fifteen. They paused in the parking lot, staring up at the shiny sign for New Vistas Development Corporation. Mariam had convinced her older brother, Fadi, to drop them off. He and Mariam would return to pick the duo up at four thirty, which would give them ample time for their operation. As Wali adjusted his too-long sports jacket, Ariana tugged at the itchy, too-small woolen pants she’d borrowed from Mariam. The matching navy cotton tunic had actually given her a rash, and she wished she could tear it off and pull on her comforting sweats. But she gritted her teeth. If I have to suffer to gain the truth, I will. After pushing past the heavy glass doors, they stepped into the sleek lobby buzzing with activity, and approached a harried receptionist sitting at the front desk.

  “Remember,” whispered Wali. “We’re doing an article for the school newspaper on local elections and Ronald Hammersmith.”

  Ariana nodded, clutching her backpack while mentally reviewing the plan. A variety of emotions swirled through her mind. One minute she thought that the scheme was brilliant. The next she felt that it was the dumbest idea ever. But, she thought, and sighed, it’s the only option we have. There is no plan B.

  Wali approached the receptionist with confidence. “We’re here to see Mr. Hammersmith,” he said.

  “Take a seat,” said the receptionist, her gray eyes magnified behind large horn-rimmed glasses. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  The duo took a seat on the white couch adjacent to a long oil painting of hills blooming with bright golden poppies. At the other end of the sofa sat a bearded man in a frayed tweed coat, taking notes on his laptop. Ariana ran her hand along the buttery-soft leather, rubbing it with her thumb, taking deep calming breaths.

  Wali stole a glance at his binder. Inside he carried an official-looking letter from Patty, of all people. Wali and Ariana had cornered her at lunch and asked for her help. Ms. Popularity had batted her eyelashes at Wali and given Ariana a hostile look, but after hearing their story, her mouth had hung wide open. Sensing a hot story for The Owl, she’d agreed to do what she could to help. She’d snuck into the art studio, which served as The Owl’s office, and printed out a letter using the school’s stationery, pretending to be Coach Newsom, The Owl’s adviser. The letter confirmed that two students would be visiting Mr. Hammersmith to conduct an interview for the school newspaper, which had been arranged by Principal Chiu.

  “Terry Yurkovich, Tri City Express,” called out the receptionist.

  “That’s me,” said the man, picking up his leather attaché case and hurrying to a set of doors leading into the main building.

  A few minutes later the receptionist waved them over. “Do you have an appointment?” she asked, her tone brusque.

  “Yes. Our principal, Mrs. Chiu, made it a month ago,” said Wali.

  “Your names?” she asked.

  “Jose Rivera and Nooria Afridi,” said Wali, the names rolling off his tongue as if they were the truth. “We’re from The Owl, our school newspaper.”

  The receptionist looked on her computer. “I don’t see your names in here.”

  Ariana and Wali had been expecting this, so they kicked the plan into action.

  “How can that be?” said Wali loudly, looking stricken. He handed the receptionist Coach ­Newsom’s phony letter. “Our principal sent this, confirming our visit.”

  Wow, he’s as good an actor as Mariam, thought Ariana, impressed.

  “I understand, but you don’t have an appointment,” said the receptionist. “We can reschedule if you’d like.”

  “You don’t understand,” Wali practically cried. “We’re doing a huge article on the candidates, and our grade is depending on us meeting Mr. ­Hammersmith—”

  “We’re going to fail,” interrupted Ariana with a loud wail, and she crumpled to the floor. For good measure she started to moan, sniffing loudly.

  The receptionist’s eyes widened, and she looked uneasily around the lobby; everyone was staring at them, some shaking their heads in dismay.

  “Hold on,” said the woman, punching speed dial as Ariana started to sob loudly, holding a napkin she’d found crumpled in her pants pocket. “Can you
come out here?” she hissed into the mouthpiece. “We have a situation. . . .”

  A few moments later a willowy blond woman sailed through the side doors.

  Ariana stiffened, recognizing her from the fall festival. She resembled the woman that Melody, from Leaf Designs, had described.

  “Hey, guys,” she said brightly, her white teeth flashing a strained smile. “My name is Paige Jensen, and I’m Mr. Hammersmith’s assistant. What can I help you with today?”

  Ariana and Wali shared a quick look. Bingo!

  “Hi,” said Ariana, her face flushed, the words ­tumbling from her lips. “We’re here from our school newspaper, The Owl, to interview Mr. Hammersmith.”

  “Our principal, Mrs. Chiu, made our appointment weeks ago, since we’re covering local elections,” added Wali. “We’ve already interviewed Ana Cardoso, Mr. Hammersmith’s opponent.”

  “She was supernice,” added Ariana, warming up. “We talked to her for more than an hour.”

  Paige bit her lip, then spoke. “I’m afraid Mr. ­Hammersmith is caught up in a meeting right now, but I can give you a tour till he can meet up later.”

  Ariana and Wali eagerly agreed, so Paige guided them through the doors Terry Yurkovich had dis­appeared through earlier. They stood at the entrance to a large, open work space. “This is the nerve center of Ronald’s campaign,” said Paige. “All these people are hard at work, since the election is less than twenty-four hours away.”

  The cavernous room resembled a beehive, humming with activity. Tired and disheveled staffers sat at desks, while others huddled in groups, wrote on whiteboards, or grabbed hurried cups of coffee. Ariana spotted a burly young man standing at the watercooler and recognized his crew cut and bulging muscles instantly. He’d been with Ronald the day of the festival too. He didn’t seem to be doing much, just standing there, watching everyone.