It had been Mardi who had put him in contact with Spider. One of Spider’s older kids worked as a dishwasher at the Blue Moon, a myopic fifteen-year-old carrying a double academic load at the high school. Mardi let him sleep at the club when he wasn’t with his family. Rakkim had no idea how many kids Spider had. Mardi said they were seeded all over the city, hard workers one and all, smart too. When Rakkim wanted to deal with Spider, he went through Elroy instead of the dishwasher. Another oblique move.
“How’s business?” asked Rakkim.
“Too many cheapies.” Elroy dipped a rag into the black paste, slowly circling the can. His fingernails were bitten to nubs, rimmed with shoe polish. “The losers around here have no pride in their appearance. They’d wear wooden shoes if they thought they could get away with it.” He carefully worked the polish into Rakkim’s polymer-toed boots. “These head-bangers of yours are all right. Who’d you steal ’em from?”
“Some guy who would have probably given you a huge tip.” Rakkim turned the page of the magazine. There was a full-page ad for the Palestine Adventures outside San Francisco, happy families waving to the camera, the kids in plastic suicide-belts, hoisting AK-47s to the sky. “You ever been to Palestine Adventures?”
“Yeah, me and the grand mufti rode the crazy bus together,” said Elroy, starting on the other boot. “Great ride. I ate a pork chop and puked all over my explosive vest.”
Rakkim looked toward the front of the shop, but no one was paying them any attention. He sat back and let Elroy work, enjoying the slap of the shine rag, and the buzzing of the laser. A game show on the wall screen, no holographic converter. Not worth watching. Besides, the questions were too easy.
“You’re done,” said Elroy.
Rakkim stared at his boots. “Mecca Café,” he said quietly, reaching into his pocket for money. “They have two computers, but I don’t know which one I’m interested in, so ask Spider to hack them both. I want anything incoming and outgoing from last Friday, between eight A.M. and ten A.M.” He paid Elroy for the shine, tipped him fat.
Elroy sniffed. “Wow, now I can go to the college of my choice.”
Rakkim tossed him a ballpoint pen. “Is this yours?” He watched Elroy pin it to the collar of his T-shirt. “There’s two memory cores inside that.” He had pulled one from Sarah’s home computer and one from the office clunker before Dr. Barrie had showed up. “I’d like Spider to take a look at them.”
“All this rain we’ve had…you’re going to need another treatment in about a week.”
“I can’t wait a week.”
“Could get expensive.”
Rakkim stood up. “Whatever it costs.”
“Where’s Simmons?” asked Mardi.
“Mr. Simmons’s in the hospital with an infection of some kind. I don’t really know the details.” Darwin smiled at her, set his case down on the desk in her office. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to settle for me.”
“I’ve been buying my hooch from Simmons since I opened this joint. I trust him. You’re just a guy who walked in off the street.”
“We work for the same outfit. Same prices. Same high quality.” Darwin tapped the case. A tiny blood spot was on it. One of his private jokes. “Same samples case. See the monogram?” He winked at her. “Simmons told me to watch out for you. He said you drive a hard bargain.”
Mardi leaned against her desk, crossed her long legs. “I don’t like being fucked over.”
“I’m not here to fuck you over.” Darwin touched his necktie. A real rube gesture, the nervous suitor. She was a knockout. Catholic bitch with a spattering of freckles on her bare arms, and fine blond down on her upper lip. A real screamer, he was sure of it. He plucked a bottle from the case, laid out a couple of shot glasses on the desk. “We’re introducing a new, high-end product.”
Mardi eyed the shots he poured. He was generous. Not like Simmons, who barely wet the bottom of his samples. “Our customers aren’t particularly interested in quality.” She picked up her glass, held it up to the light. Appreciating the light caramel color. “They’re interested in a good time and being able to afford enough hooch to get the job done.”
Darwin clicked glasses with her. Filled his mouth, savoring the shot before letting it slide all warm and cozy down his throat. She had done the same thing. He smiled at her.
Mardi smiled back.
“I never tasted real Kentucky bourbon, but I’m told this is almost as good,” said Darwin.
Mardi licked her lips. “Not bad.”
“Simmons was right. You are a tough customer.”
“What’s a case of this hooch cost?”
“For you?” Darwin looked at the ceiling, calculating. “Seven hundred…no, make that six-fifty.”
Mardi shook her head. “I’d have to get twenty dollars a shot to make it pay.”
Darwin refilled her glass, saw the surprise in her glance. Pleasure too. “Think of it as a loss leader, a specialty item to bring people. All the clubs in the Zone offer the same watery beer and bathtub hooch. The Blue Moon would be a unique destination.” He clicked glasses with her, toasted her tits with his eyes. “Like your sign says, R U Having Fun Yet?”
Mardi sipped the shot.
Darwin watched her swallow, aroused at the way her throat worked. Hot and excited and utterly focused. If he could kill her right now, things would be perfect. Priorities, though. The Old One had made that clear. Time enough for killing later. Anticipation was supposed to be a boon to pleasure, but there was nothing like a quick kill. A sudden kill. God’s own lightning bolt.
“What are you thinking?”
Darwin smiled. “How much I love my work.”
Mardi pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
Darwin lit her up. “Where’s your partner?”
“He took the day off.”
“Too bad. Simmons says he’s quite a character.” The Old One said Rakkim was tough and full of tricks. A challenge, the old man had said, knowing that would set Darwin’s mouth watering. The photos sent to his phone showed a knotty, hard-eyed modern, more macho than stylish, a real danger ranger. Just the way Darwin liked them.
He had been lying in bed when the old man called, dream-stating with his happy memories. The old man had offered him the assignment, then wanted to get off the phone as soon as he could, but Darwin had kept him on the line, asking about his health and prize horses and all his lovely children. The old man stayed polite as always, smooth, but with just the faintest edge to his voice. No one but Darwin would have detected it.
Darwin watched smoke trickle from her nostrils. “I’m going to be in town for a few more days. I’d really like to meet him.” He laid his card on the desk. “Just give me a call. Not too often I get to shake hands with a Fedayeen.”
Mardi shrugged.
Darwin topped up her glass. “Don’t tell my boss I’m giving away the profit.”
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Darwin?”
“You look to me like a woman who can handle herself. Can I put you down for a case? Or do you need to talk to your partner first?”
Her eyes flashed. “Like I said, I don’t think I can make it pay.”
“Nonsense. Saint Patrick’s Day is just around the corner. It might not be a sanctioned holiday, but you know what they say.” Darwin clicked glasses with her. “On Saint Paddy’s Day the whole world is Catholic.”
CHAPTER 10
After dawn prayers
It sounded like a hailstorm inside the Good Woman net café, twenty women bent over their keyboards click-clacking away, another half dozen standing around waiting their turn. All of them wore chadors, many of them black, but plenty of brighter colors on the younger women. Sarah had unhooked her veil for the freedom of an open face. Most of the time she ventured out dressed as a modern, or a Catholic, in jeans or slacks, her hair loose, with a touch of makeup. When she checked the net, she wore the chador. A fundamentalist café, where the site access was rigorously screened and even potential
ly inappropriate Web addresses were blocked, was the perfect place for coded contact.
The woman at the next computer, a girl of no more than seventeen, was humming a current pop song as she typed. A song about two teenagers attempting to ski their way to Canada who freeze to death in each other’s arms. If the girl’s father heard her singing the song, he would beat her until she couldn’t walk. Would search her room and see if she had altered her radio to receive obscene stations. The girl had loosened her sky blue chador, her blond hair spilling out. Like all the women in the café, she wore a clearly visible plastic card around her neck from her father or husband granting her permission to be outside the house. Sarah wore one too, a forgery she had bought in the Zone months ago. The permission card felt like a millstone.
Sarah waited for the site to boot up. The computers in the café didn’t allow photographs to be viewed, of course, but all the filters made them incredibly slow. Slogans and homilies were written across the walls in pink script: Obedient Children Are a Mother’s Gift to God; Many Children = Happy Heart, Honor Your Husband; A Stern Brother Is a Sword Against Sin.
She listened to the women chattering away, sensed their limitations, their proscribed life. They seemed happy, though, connected in a way that neither she nor any of her modern friends were. She said prayers daily, went to mosque at least on Friday, but faith was merely the trappings of her life, it wasn’t the spine and soul of her existence. She was a professional, a free-range academic, but her work didn’t give her the deep reservoir of serenity that she saw in the faces of the faithful, the certainty that all things were in the hands of Allah. Just the opposite. In these last few days she had found an odd comfort in the modesty of the chador and head scarf, a joy in the anonymity of the veil. It was embarrassing, and she would never admit it to anyone, even Rakkim, but sometimes she thought she paid too high a price for her intellectual rigor.
Welcome to The Devout Homemaker flashed on-screen in gold letters, startling her.
Sarah scanned the list of recent entries, looking for a question about the proper preparation of a holiday meal involving rabbit, sweet potatoes, and victory radishes. There were plenty of questions on similar topics but none mentioned victory radishes, a term that was twenty years out of date. She rechecked the list. The question, had it been found, would have contained a code that would tell her exactly another site where they could have a private conversation. Still no entry about victory radishes.
Sarah clicked on Post Question.
My mother, blessed be her memory, has a recipe that calls for victory radishes, but I am unable to locate them at my market. I would be most interested in anyone who could tell me where to find such vegetables, if that is what they are. I am most interested in honoring my mother’s memory by serving this dish to my esteemed father.
The door to the café opened as she hit Post, a ripple of anxiety whispering through the room. Sarah looked up, then quickly down, breathing hard now. She faced the computer, slowly lifted her veil into place. She watched the Black Robe pace the room, a short, stout man with small, round glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He would have been comical without the long, flexible cane in his hand, and his aura of power.
Whip. Whip. Whip. The Black Robe flicked the cane back and forth as he walked the aisles. The room was completely quiet now save for the sound of the cane. Whip. Whip.
Women tugged their chadors down, making sure their ankles and wrists were covered. The girl next to her quickly pulled up her head covering, tucked in her hair.
“Sister?” the Black Robe said softly.
An older woman glanced over at the Black Robe, her lower lip quivering.
The cane flicked an inch from her nose. “This site you are visiting is an insult to your husband.” The Black Robe’s voice was high and reedy, as though strained through his thick, black beard. “‘The Marriage Bed’…this is filth.”
“The advice is offered by the imam of Chicago,” whispered the woman.
The Black Robe struck the monitor. “The imam of Chicago countenances abominations.”
The woman slid onto the floor and kissed the hem of the Black Robe’s garment.
Sarah stared straight ahead as the Black Robe approached. Her stomach hurt from holding herself rigid. He stopped in back of the girl next to her.
The cane tapped the floor.
The girl folded her hands in her lap, shaking so hard that her chador seemed to shimmy.
The cane lifted a lock of her long, blond hair that had slipped out of her head covering. She attempted to tuck in the errant curl, but the Black Robe smacked her hand with the cane, made her cry out. “You flaunt your hair for the world to see,” he hissed. “Are you a Catholic whore or a devout Muslim woman?”
Weeping, the girl shoved her hair under the head wrap, a red welt across her hand.
The Black Robe must have felt Sarah’s angry eyes on him. He glared at her. “Allah, the all-powerful, despises an insolent woman.”
Sarah lowered her gaze. Grateful for the veil.
The Black Robe jerked the permission card off her neck, almost pulled her out of her seat. “Abu Michael Derrick,” he read, his eyes huge behind his glasses. “Your husband has been neglecting his duties. You are dressed modestly, veiled as befits a proper Muslim wife, yet your eyes betray your true nature. Do you disrespect the Prophet, blessed be his name, or only those who humbly seek to enforce his laws?”
Sarah bowed her head, furious with herself for her lapse in character. Frightened too. The Black Robes’ power over moderns was limited, but Sarah was dressed as a fundamentalist. He would be within his authority to drag her out of the café, to whip her in the street and bring her to her husband for further chastisement.
“What is your mosque?” demanded the Black Robe.
“Holy Martyrs of the Motherland,” Sarah said, eyes downcast.
“An honorable mosque. Imam Plesa is well schooled.” The Black Robe tapped the back of her chair with the cane. “Does your husband beat you?”
“When I need it,” said Sarah, acquiescent.
“A good answer, sister, but its merit depends on the strictness of your husband.” The Black Robe stood over her. Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah could see his grip tightening on the cane. The cane snaked out, lifted her left hand, drew it closer for him to examine without having to touch her flesh. She was grateful that she had removed all trace of the clear polish she usually wore. Grateful that she had remembered to slip on a wedding band. She had thought of Rakkim as she did so. “Your hands are soft. The hands of an idle, self-centered woman. A woman of many servants, or a woman who does not care about the state of her home.” He let her hand fall, disgusted. “Your husband indulges you. Have you manipulated him with your female wiles? Are you a beauty, sister?”
“If my husband finds me so, all glory goes to Allah, the merciful, who created us.”
“Another good answer.” The cane swished. “Are you an educated woman, sister?”
Sarah hesitated, unsure of how to respond. She felt the attention of the room focused on her. The other women thankful that the Black Robe had selected someone else.
“Answer!”
The cane slammed onto her shoulder, and she groaned, bit her lips shut. The sound was like her throes of passion with Rakkim, their cries as intertwined as their bodies. Her cheeks flamed at the memory.
“Have you gone to college? Have you drunk deep from that filthy water?”
“Yes…one year, until my husband forbade it. For which I am grateful.”
The Black Robe nodded. “There may be hope for him yet.” He cleared his throat. “I shall speak to your imam. He needs to discuss your behavior with your husband.”
“Thank you,” said Sarah, her head still bowed. Her shoulder ached from the cane.
The Black Robe tossed her permission card onto the floor.
Sarah made no move to retrieve it. Her eyes shimmered but she refused to cry. Through slitted lids, she watched the Black Robe
saunter down the aisle and out the door.
The whispers started as the door shut behind him. Some of the women giggled, more out of nervousness than gaiety. None of them looked at her, not even the girl beside her.
Sarah heard them clicking away at the keyboards again, but she didn’t move. She had known about the brutality of the Black Robes, the beatings and subordination of women, but that was academic knowledge. Her aching shoulder was a true education. Any thoughts she had about the pleasures of fundamentalism were gone. The price paid for such contentment was too high.
History was a messy and treacherous business, her favorite teacher had taught, but the truth was worth it. Sarah had been certain of the professor’s wisdom while sitting in the classroom, but questioning the truth of the Zionist attack had given her pause, made her wonder if she should continue. To rewrite history was to invite chaos, with all its attendant pain and suffering. This goggle-eyed Black Robe had ended her doubts. There were things worse than chaos. No matter the risk, she was going to continue her research. The truth, wherever it led.
CHAPTER 11
Before noon prayers
“Rakkim Epps,” he repeated to the security guard. “Professor Warriq isn’t expecting me. Tell her I’m here in regard to a mutual friend at the university.” He waited while the guard spoke on the phone, eyeing him. After another moment, the guard hung up, raised the gate, and Rakkim drove through.
It was Wednesday, five days since Sarah had disappeared, three days since Redbeard had called him in. He had spent yesterday going over Sarah’s phone records and electronic receipts for the last year, looking for some pattern that might indicate where she had gone. There was no one and no place she called frequently, but that didn’t surprise him—Sarah’s calls to him had always been made from disposable phones sold under the counter all over the Zone. The GPS system on her car had revealed in minute detail her driving habits, giving him a color-coded grid of her mileage, but Sarah had always taken cabs to their rendezvous for just that reason, and paid cash. He hoped that she might have been less cautious with her chits, but there were no restaurant billings that didn’t jibe with her recorded travel, no shopping sprees off the grid. To his shame, he even checked for hotel receipts, but nothing indicated she was seeing someone else. She was Redbeard’s niece, she didn’t make stupid mistakes. He checked anyway.
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