Rakkim swung the goat head by one stubby horn as Tipps slowly approached. Tipps had the rapier out, but Rakkim just kept spinning the goat head round and round. Blood dripped off his fingers.
Grozzet lay curled on the sidewalk, blood gushing over the stumps of his teeth and sluicing through his beard.
“It’s hard to know what to do, isn’t it?” Rakkim said to Tipps. “Maybe I got lucky…or, maybe Grozzet wasn’t as good as everybody thought. I bet you’re a lot better.”
Tipps hesitated, then raised the rapier to his forehead in salute and backed away. When he got to the other side of the street, he started running.
Rakkim tossed the goat head back onto the bed of ice.
Harriet watched Tipps dodge between the stalls across the street, knocking people aside in his haste. “You can always tell a college man—they’re smart enough to know when they’re overmatched.” She patted her hair. “Ah, well, look around, Rakkim. There are thirty or forty people who watched your little show. Ten times that number will have heard all about it by lunch. How many do you think will decide they have to have a bodyguard? It’s a dangerous world, you proved that to them.” She watched Grozzet crawling away, touched her pearls. “I thought he would give you more trouble. He was very highly recommended.”
The crowd stirred, the shoppers started on their way, eager to get on with the day. To tell their friends. Just as Harriet said. A butcher called out the special of the day, chicken breasts, $3.99 a pound, and a huge laborer trudged past with a half side of beef on one shoulder. A truck horn blared at the end of the street, sending the people scurrying. The two Black Robes stayed where they were.
Rakkim washed his hands with a hose the fishmongers used, rubbing hard, the water so cold he felt numb. “This man I’m looking for, this assassin…people might not know him, but they wouldn’t be able to forget his work. I want you to ask around.”
“You make it sound like an order.”
“Consider it the cost of doing business.” Rakkim wiped his hands on his jeans.
Harriet stroked her throat. “You know I’m always happy to help you.” Grozzet had made it to the gutter before collapsing. She watched the blood streaming down the cobblestones, eddying around a curled lettuce leaf. “I don’t know if this qualifies as interesting dead, as you put it, but last Thursday a bounty hunter was found in a Ballard apartment with a chopstick shoved through his eye. Is that the kind of style your Fedayeen assassin might display?”
“No…” Rakkim cocked his head. “Were they working for you?”
“Of course not. You know I don’t deal with that element.”
“Who were they looking for?”
“Some runaway bride.” Harriet selected a ripe peach from her bag. “All very hush-hush, as usual, but I heard they were paying top dollar and they didn’t mind if the goods were a little damaged during retrieval.”
“Was there a retrieval?”
“No.” Harriet took a big bite out of the peach. Juice ran out the side of her mouth and she caught the dripping with a crooked finger. “But, as they say, tomorrow is another day.”
There was blood on Rakkim’s boots, but it would wash off too. He looked at Harriet. “Where in Ballard did they find the body?”
CHAPTER 24
After midafternoon prayers
Rakkim circled the apartment building where Harriet said the bodyguard had been found, looking for vehicles that looked as if they didn’t belong in the neighborhood. Harriet’s information was usually reliable, but that didn’t mean she was. Rakkim had no idea if there was a price on his head, but Harriet would, and though she might buy flowers for his funeral and weep real tears, business was business. Rakkim parked behind the building. Trash cans overflowed, flies floating around rotting food and soggy pizza boxes. A cool wind stirred the flies, but they returned. It was going to rain soon.
Ballard was an older, rundown section of the city, a blue-collar mix of Catholics and lapsed Muslims. The mosques themselves seemed sad and neglected, their outer walls cracked and dusty, and the call to prayer just completed had been a recording and not a good one at that, the muezzin’s voice weak and distorted. The people on the street were mostly burned-out moderns and give-a-shits, collars turned up against the damp.
The monorail zipped on the trestles over the main street, its gleaming cars heading toward downtown. The monorail system was the pride of the capital, a multibillion-dollar project initiated by President Kingsley in the first years of his administration, designed to show the world that the Muslim state was capable of grand technological projects. Twenty years later, while usually packed, the monorail remained clean, quiet, safe, cheap, and dependable. No graffiti. Not since a few taggers were executed its first year of operation. The monorail operated at a huge loss, but the exact cost to the city was a state secret. The buses were dirty and sluggish, the freeways decaying, but the monorail remained true to the president’s proud vision. It didn’t impress Rakkim. He had been in South American dictatorships where the streets flowed with raw sewage, but the movie theaters were digital palaces, free to everyone, with buttery leather seats and symphonic sound.
The bounty hunter’s body had been found in apartment 302. Rakkim took the stairs two at a time, keeping to the sides to minimize noise. He climbed to the fourth floor, walked the corridor to the opposite stairwell, listening. Television sounds from the apartments, commercials and laugh tracks and news bulletins. Always a breaking news bulletin.
Cooking smells in the hallway, a heady mix of onions and mint tea. Someone was roasting a chicken in 409, a child singing off-key—Rakkim imagined a man coming home from work soon, climbing the steps, clothes sticking to him, wondering if they were ever going to be able to afford a home of their own. He imagined the man walking down this very hall, the smell of dinner getting stronger, stopping outside the door to listen to the child singing. The man would straighten himself, smooth his clothes before he opened the door, the child launching himself or herself into his arms. His wife would ask how his day was, and the man would lie, say it was fine, just fine. He would kiss her, smell her sweat and the hint of perfume behind her ear, the small bottle he had bought for her birthday. Last night’s perfume still lingering. Rakkim stood outside the door, listening to the child sing, and the song was different now, and he had no idea how long he had been standing there. He took the steps to the third floor slowly, checking up and down the stairwell, shaken by his lapse, his momentary inattentiveness.
Different smells on the third floor. Someone was cooking cabbage, and it covered anything tasty that anyone else was making. Apartment 302 was down almost at the end of the hall, just past a boarded-up broom closet. As he passed 300, he heard a creaking behind the door. Rakkim stopped. He stayed where he was, watching the peephole, and saw the shadow under the door shift as someone moved back into the room. Rakkim moved on to 302, and there was another smell now. Worse than cabbage. The door was locked, but one of the hinges had been twisted, and Rakkim did what the last visitor had done. He gave it a push, and the bolt, which barely made contact with the frame, gave way. He stepped into the room. The windows were wide-open. It helped, but not much.
Sarah had been here. Her clothes were strewn around the floor, a sunflower-yellow dress she had worn to one of their assignations. A spring dress, though spring was over a month away. A sign of her confidence then. He took pleasure in the destruction in the room, furniture overturned, cabinets kicked in, the refrigerator pushed over. Good to see the wreckage, the rage of the search—it meant that they hadn’t found her. A search of the room would give him nothing, but he searched it anyway. She had left nothing of value behind, nothing that would point to where she had gone. More of Redbeard’s lessons.
Back in the hall, he closed the front door and started for the stairs. Another creak from 300. He knocked. No answer. Knocked again. “Open up or I’ll knock the door down.”
A muffled voice. “Who are you, the big bad wolf?”
Rakkim la
ughed. “Just open the door.”
The door opened slightly. An old man in a striped bathrobe peered through the gap between the door and the jamb allowed by the security chain. He had three days’ growth of gray stubble.
“The woman who lived next door was a friend of mine.”
“Lucky you.”
“She had to walk past your door to reach the stairs. I think you saw her every time she left. Every time she came back too. I don’t think you miss much.”
“I don’t want trouble, mister.”
“My name is Rakkim.”
“Hennesy.”
“Could you let me in, Mr. Hennesy? I don’t mean you any harm.”
“I heard that before.” Hennesy wiped his nose with the sleeve of his striped bathrobe. “Might as well come in, you’re going to do what you want to anyway.” He opened the door, the security chain falling onto the floor. “The other bastards didn’t bother introducing themselves, so I guess that makes you the polite one.”
Rakkim closed the door behind him. The carpet was worn in front of the door where the old man had been keeping his vigil on the hallway for a couple hundred years. The wall screen in front of the sofa had been torn down, the screen shattered.
Hennesy walked to a small table next to the window and sat. He folded his hands, waited until Rakkim had seated himself across from him. A cup of cold coffee on the table, cream curdled. A plate with toast remnants next to an open jar of boysenberry jam. “I told you I don’t know anything.”
Rakkim saw the shell of Hennesy’s right ear was evenly notched all around. The edges raw. Crusted over. Whoever had done it had stopped halfway around the left one. Grown bored, probably. “You should put some antibiotic ointment on that.”
Hennesy gingerly touched his ear. “My own fault for keeping a pair of pinking shears lying around. They were my wife’s…”
“They would have found something else to use. Something worse. People like that…they always reach for the first thing at hand.”
Hennesy screwed the lid on the jam, brushed crumbs onto the floor. “They said she was a wanted criminal. A runaway who killed a man trying to bring her home. I didn’t have anything to tell them. Don’t have anything to tell you either.”
“I don’t believe you, Mr. Hennesy.”
Hennesy sipped at the cold coffee. “I squint my eyes…I squint and I see death all around you, mister. Are you here to kill me? I’d just like to know.”
“I love her, Mr. Hennesy. The men who took pinking shears to you…what do you think they’ll do to Sarah if they find her?”
“That ain’t none of my business.”
Rakkim shook his head. “It may not be your business, but you took it on. That’s the kind of man you are. You’re not the only one who can see things about people.”
Hennesy toyed with an unopened bag of pistachio nuts on the table. “She gave me these. Told me her name was Rachel, but I knew better. She was a runaway. She just had that look. Fierce. My granddaughter left her husband a few years ago. Took her two kids and ran.” He sipped the coffee. “I can’t eat nuts…they play holy hell with my digestion, but I appreciated her kindness.”
Rakkim let him talk.
“I played dumb with the other ones. Told them my hearing was shot, but I got good ears.” Hennesy touched the ragged cartilage again. “I know the footsteps of everybody in this building. I can close my eyes and tell if they belong here. Sometimes I wish I didn’t hear so good.” His voice cracked. “I heard them come up the stairs a couple of nights ago…three of them. Two of them left a while later, but one stayed, hiding out in the hall. After that…” He shook his head. “After that, I heard things I’d like to forget.” He glared at Rakkim. “She killed that man, that bounty hunter, but he deserved it. I had my ear pressed against the wall and I heard every word.” His eyes shimmered. “That could have been my granddaughter, and I just stood there listening.”
“Was she hurt?”
“I heard her fighting back. I heard her, and I didn’t do a thing.”
“Was she injured, Mr. Hennesy?”
“I didn’t see any blood on her.” Hennesy looked at his hands. “I didn’t used to be such a coward. I was wounded at the Battle of Chicago. Supposed to be the turning point of the war, but don’t ask me. All I know is I played dead for two days on Illinois Avenue with a bullet in my guts. Peckerwoods walking all over, shooting the wounded. I was young then, it was easy to be brave. Now, I ain’t worth shit.”
Rakkim covered the man’s hand with his own. Hennesy’s skin was like wax paper. “How did you know she wasn’t hurt?”
“I saw her walk past my door. She was in a hurry too. Who could blame her?”
“Yes, but how could you see that there was no blood on her? Walking past your peephole…hurrying?”
Hennesy kept silent.
“Maybe this is your time to be brave. Maybe you’re getting a second chance.”
“I followed her,” Hennesy said at last. “I followed her when she left. I can be quiet when I want to. You get old, nobody notices you anyway.”
“Where did she go?”
“Monorail.” Hennesy said quickly, eager to get it out before he could second-guess himself. Redbeard always said the hardest bit of information to extract was the first piece. “She was traveling light. Walking like she was going somewhere too. Never looked behind her once. As if she didn’t care anymore or maybe she was afraid to look. I almost lost her in the crowd at the monorail station. I got into the next car just as the door closed. Always been lucky that way. I know how that sounds, but it’s the truth. There was one time—”
“What stop did she get off at?”
“Yeah, just the facts, right?”
Rakkim met his gaze. “Right.”
“That’s okay. I’m glad you’re not trying to bullshit me.” Hennesy pulled at his nose. “She got off at Orion Street, and I got off too. Edge of the Zone. Funny place to run to.”
“Where did she go in the Zone?” Rakkim already knew the answer, but he had to ask.
“Some nightclub. Bright lights and loud music…I used to be quite a dancer when I was young. Trying to remember the name. Blue Moon, that’s it. There used to be a song called that. My father sang it to my mother when I was a boy. Long time…what’s the matter with you?”
“Did you follow her inside?”
“She didn’t stay long. I saw her get into a cab and that was that.”
“Where did she catch the cab? In front of the club?”
“Down the block. Right in front of the arcade where they show those old movies. Star Wars was playing. I love that movie. You ever see that one?”
“What time was that?”
“About ten forty-five. You just keep asking questions, don’t you? Rat-a-tat-tat.”
“You’re sure about the time?”
“The next show of Star Wars was at eleven so I had time to get a hot dog. Like I said, I’ve always been lucky about little things.” Hennesy leaned over the table. “She was different when she came out of that club. After all that happened that night, she was steady before then. I followed her, I know. She looked like just another modern girl out for fun…but when she came out of that club, she looked like she was about to cry. Like the whole awful night finally caught up with her.” He peered at Rakkim. “You okay?”
“What kind of cab did she get into? Yellow cab? Saladin Transit?”
“No, it was one of those unlicensed rigs…gypsy cabs we used to call them. It was a maroon Ford, but I didn’t get a license plate or anything, so don’t bother asking.”
Rakkim stood up. “Thanks.”
“The ones who came knocking on my door after they found their buddy dead…” Hennesy stared straight ahead. “Those two bounty hunters, they sat me down, and this ugly one in a leather jacket picked up the pinking sheers and my teeth started chattering before they even touched me. They laughed. You heard that laugh, you’d never think anything was funny again. I told myself then,
I promised myself that I wasn’t going to tell them squat.”
“You kept Sarah’s secret, Mr. Hennesy. You don’t have anything to be ashamed of.”
“I listened to that girl being attacked and I didn’t do a thing.” Hennesy stared straight ahead. “I didn’t bang on the wall or pull the fire alarm. I just listened.”
“You didn’t give her up. You let them burn you, but you didn’t give her up.”
Hennesy fingered the bag of pistachio nuts. “When you find her…tell her I’m sorry.”
CHAPTER 25
After sunset prayers
“This seems a little out of my price range, Mr. Conklin,” said the handsome young police officer, looking around the living room of the condo. “I’m sure you’re a fine real estate agent and all, but you probably don’t know what a patrol officer brings home.”
“Nonsense, Officer Hanson,” said Darwin. “Where there’s a will…”
“Where there’s a will…what?”
“A way. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
Hanson scratched his sparse blond beard. “That’s a new one on me. Live and learn, I guess.”
Darwin nodded. “I couldn’t have said it better.”
Hanson paced off the empty living room with his big, shiny black shoes. Hitched up his belt, adjusting his sidearm. He had just finished his shift, his long face tired, but excited at the possibility of moving out of his parents’ basement. He ran a finger across the mantel of the gas fireplace, noted the small silver sconce on the wall that indicated the direction of Mecca.
“There’s a mosque within walking distance, and a grocery story two blocks over,” said Darwin. “Quiet neighborhood, recently remodeled kitchen. Nine hundred square feet. It’s not a mansion, but it should be plenty big enough for you…and those Catholic girls you indicated a preference for.”
Prayers for the Assassin Page 19