Tareq.
Tareq.
Tareq, the Bangla guy my parents always whisper about. Shady. Trouble. Dirty-mouthed. Stay away from him. The one Taslima doesn’t like. Why didn’t I get it that time by her car? The way he eyed me.
Tareq, leaning into the car, grinning. Tareq, looking like a grizzled tiger, as he always does: thick-pawed, shaggy hair, a gold-hued face. “Hey, Naeem.”
“Hey.” I can barely make the word crawl out of my throat.
“He’s going to help you out, man. Knows what to do.”
For a brief second, I wish I could tell my little brother. Hey, Zahir, man, I’m on the inside of an undercover plot—can you believe it? Just like one in our books! “Cool,” I say.
“Very cool,” Tareq agrees.
I keep looking at him for a signal. For him to burst out laughing at the joke. The coincidence. How many times was I at some party where he was in a corner of the room, boasting, talking bull? Or I saw him leaned up against his car outside our high school, a pretty girl combing her hair in the passenger seat.
He acts like this is the most normal thing in the world. “You ready?”
“I guess.”
“All you got to do is set it up,” Taylor explains.
“Poke,” Tareq says with a grin.
“Poke?”
“You poke a little bait in the water. The hungry fish, he’s gonna take it. I promise. Pretty soon it’s on the line.” He adds to me: “Noro na, mach eibar kamracche.” Steady, the fish is now biting.
“You got it, buddy?” Taylor asks.
“Yes,” I say. I have the quivering sensation of being handed off into air. I’m leaving the secret cave of Taylor’s car and everything we’ve done together: basketball, doughnuts, café con leche. Suddenly I’m on a whole other level. This is real.
“Have fun, boys,” Sanchez laughs as we walk down an alley. He stops before a blue BMW.
“Whoa,” I say. “That’s sick.”
“Whoa is right.”
More questions nag at me. But he’s already inside, pulling off his T-shirt and grabbing a collared shirt, taking out the pins and cardboard. He runs a comb through his thick hair so it waves back around his ears, and checks his teeth in the visor mirror.
“What are you doing? Get in.”
Sheepish, I slip into the passenger seat. The car is clean, chemical-smelling. New rubber mats. I run my palm over the buttery leather seats, the gray piping.
“You don’t seem like the usual cut of guys we get,” he remarks. “Usually they’re stoners. Or lowlifes. Like me.”
“You’re not—”
“Quit it,” he interrupts. With his mashed-up T-shirt in his hand, he swivels out of the car, opens the trunk. For a moment every bad TV cop show I’ve watched with Abba flashes before me, and I’m sure he’s going to come back with an assault rifle. The trunk slams, making the car shudder. It’s just Tareq, though, smelling of cologne.
“So how’d you get into this? Weed? Theft?”
“Sort of.” I add, “Taylor told me I could get a job, maybe. Career-wise.”
“He said that?” Tareq’s eyes have a mocking shine. “He told you his name is Taylor?”
“Says he got it from his Italian side. He told me all about it.”
“That’s a good story.”
Now I’m angry. Tareq wasn’t there when me and Taylor shot hoops. Or talked. Taylor wouldn’t lie to me.
“Lemme see.”
“What?”
Impatient, he says, “The wire.”
I yank up my shirt and show him.
“Nice. No more than a pimple, huh?” He points. “Try not to bend or you’ll muffle the sound. Always face him when you’re talking.”
I stuff my shirt back into my waistband. “How long have you done this?” I venture as we back down the driveway.
“Don’t ask.”
“But—”
Suddenly the car lurches to a stop. He twists around. His eyes flare. “No questions about me. Got it?”
I nod, scared.
Then he laughs, the way I’ve seen before, easing us onto the street. His voice has softened. “Come on, Naeem, lighten up. This is dope. We’ll have fun. You’ll see.”
And we’re off in the Batmobile. A cool thrill cuts through my veins. My pulse quickens. This is it. Driving on a cloud of fumes, out and up the BQE ramp. The seat holds me like a cloud. I’m on a mission. On my way.
—
A stillness draws around us when we pull up to the street opposite Ibrahim’s apartment. Tareq settles back to gaze at the driveway, rubbing his temples. Nothing stirs. The street is glossy with heat. Even the drainpipes, the metal mailboxes on the houses, are tipped in honey light.
Tareq’s seat creaks as he turns to me. The sockets of his eyes are punch-tired. “Listen. If you do get him to come in the car, make sure he sits in the front.”
“Why?”
He smacks the dashboard. “Camera.”
“Wow.”
I still can’t believe this is really happening. A wire taped to my waist? A camera in the dashboard? Is he serious? The crazy thing is the person I most want to tell is Ibrahim. Instead I’m in an alternative universe, sitting next to Tareq, only it isn’t really Tareq. It’s some guy in a dry-cleaned shirt, cuffs folded just so.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why do you even need me?” I point to the dashboard. “You’ve got a camera. You can wear a wire.”
“He trusts you. What am I supposed to do, just walk up and knock on his door?”
“I guess not.” I stare out at the house. The blinds are drawn on the top floor. Looks like no one else is home. Maybe even Ibrahim isn’t there. “How long does it take?”
He shrugs. “Hard to tell.”
“What if—” I hesitate. “What if it’s nothing?”
“Then we’ll know.”
I consider this. “And how long do I have to be involved?”
He grins. “Sick of me already?”
“No—”
He punches me in the arm. “Just kidding, man. Seriously. You’re the conduit. The joint connecting us all. You’re the one who’ll keep Ibrahim’s guard down. Without you, an operation like this could take months and months. Waste of time, waste of resources. You are gold, man.”
So I am important. A crucial link.
He smacks the dashboard again. “Okay. Showtime.”
The thing about superheroes is it’s all about layers, shadows. All the bad guys—Two-Face, the Joker—they once were good. They wore skins of light. They walked on pavement like the rest of us. Then something knifed them, deep. You never know. That’s what Taylor’s shown me. How to find the dark pain slipping out from under the skin. Growing like serpents in unwashed hair.
Who was Ibrahim to me? A liar? A lone wolf? What did I know? Maybe I didn’t see the dark edge around his mouth, his eyes. Maybe we were moving too fast for me to notice. Underground all along.
My knees are shaking as I walk up the driveway. The wire feels thick against my waist, gives a little burn where the tape pinches. Tareq’s car remains parked. I see his hand in the rearview mirror, hanging. He flicks a cigarette butt to the ground.
“Ibrahim?”
I rap softly on the door at first. No one is out. The yards are still. Plastic bags are swept up stiff against the fence.
“Ibrahim!”
There’s a shuffling inside, then a pause. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me. Naeem.”
“I’m busy, man.”
“I wanna talk to you. Want you to meet someone.”
There’s a slide and clack of a dead bolt drawing back. Ibrahim’s narrow face peers through the crack.
“Who?”
“A friend.”
He withdraws into the corridor, leaving the door ajar. He’s wearing a pair of women’s slippers that flap against his heels. When we enter the small apartment, I notice several spiral notebooks left open on the table. Scribbles in tiny, meticu
lous lettering.
“You working?”
“I told you. I have stuff to do.”
“Awesome. Maybe I can help.”
He turns and scrutinizes me. My heart gallops into my mouth. It’s blown. He knows.
He says, “Serendipity. You know what that means?”
“Chance?”
“That’s right. Ser-en-di-pi-ty.” He draws the word out. “Connections. Chance. There are bigger chances out there. Bigger than getting through some three-credit class, you know?”
“That’s what I mean. I have some leads.”
“Yeah?”
“A guy. He knows how to do things. He can hook you up. Help you make your plans real.” Even as I say it I feel like my words make no sense. What if his plans are nothing? Just his usual schemes?
“Who?”
“I told you! This guy. Tareq. I know him. He’s cool.”
“Where is he?”
I gesture to the door. “Outside.”
He looks confused. He runs his hand through his hair. “Does he know about me?”
I stare at him, not understanding.
“I have ideas, you know. Not just one. People know.”
This is weird. For a brief second I’m reminded of Zahir and his fever dreams.
“You wanna come?” I try again.
He hesitates. I can see the decision working away inside him. Then he takes off the slippers and puts on his sneakers. As we leave the house, I feel as if I’m taking some kind of pale-skinned creature from water into land, air. His neck cranes. He half hobbles to the car, eager.
“Ibrahim!” Tareq grins. His teeth shine in the sunlight. “Heard so much about you, man.”
Ibrahim’s gaze narrows. “Like what?”
“Only good stuff.”
There’s a hunger in Ibrahim’s eyes as he takes in the car. The nice hubcaps, Tareq’s arm draped over the door, showing his watch with tiny diamonds studded around the face.
“This your car?” Ibrahim touches the hood.
“It is. I have another car, a Benz. But it’s in the shop.”
“That must cost a lot.”
“I have people who give me what I need.”
“The watch too?”
“Yes. A present.”
There’s a hesitation. Tareq taps his middle-finger ring on the half-open window. “Ride?”
Ibrahim’s head wobbles yes.
And then we’re in.
—
I watch it.
The whole mesmerizing show. A slow-motion reel of what Ibrahim did in Macy’s, with his posh accent and story about graduation. But better. Tareq, with his barrel chest, a gold chain buried in chest hair, is boastful, but not too much. Ibrahim’s fingers feather around the radio settings. The car’s got surround sound, a screen that slides down in the back, heated seats. Ibrahim checks it all out.
“You like nice things?” Tareq asks.
“Oh yeah.”
“I can see that about you. What model you partial to?”
“I had my eye on a 640i Gran Coupe.”
“They’re not bad. Good engine.”
“The Coupe’s a waste. Not that different.”
Tareq laughs. “Don’t get too caught up in that stuff. We gotta keep our eyes on the real road. Right?”
Ibrahim nods vigorously. “Right.”
We drive down Hillside Avenue, passing redbrick apartment buildings, a park of yellowed grass. The day gleams. I sink back in the soft seats, listen. It’s beautiful, what Tareq does. He never says jihad right out. Not even Islam. But I can hear the thin whisper of line reeling in. How cars are good but we have to remember who we are. What matters. How we brothers have to stick together. Keep on the path. I couldn’t have dreamed up a better ruse. Ibrahim getting dished to him just the way he did to the Macy’s salesman! To me! I want to laugh.
We talk and talk, stopping only to buy ourselves cold fruit shakes from a Mexican cart. The ice and seeds crunch cold against our teeth. Tareq fussily blots a spill on the upholstery with paper napkins, like a grandmother. He’s smooth, but hovering too, a cousin, an uncle, concerned. What’s that little scratch on your face, Ibrahim? You want me to get some ointment? You know, you remind me of my little cousin Amir.
As we’re off again, Tareq cocks a smile. “There are people I know, Ibrahim, who would be very interested in a guy like you. You’re smart, you’re quick, I can see that. We could work something out.”
Ibrahim’s head bobs a few times, as if on a spring. “I have ideas.” His pale neck looks so skinny, I want to put my hand there, cover him.
Tareq tosses over his shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Naeem?”
“Yeah, sure.” My voice is thick in my throat. “Ibrahim, he always—”
“He’s a leader,” Tareq interrupts. “That’s obvious. Not like this joker back here.” He jabs a thumb at me. Ibrahim laughs.
I hunch down, smoldering, and catch Tareq’s eyes in the rearview mirror, signaling Play along.
At the end of the day, we have a meal in Little Guyana on Liberty Avenue, where they serve curry chicken and thick rotis that drape over our fingers, leave grease spots on our paper plates. When we get in the car again, groggy and full, I start to get a little sick. Like with Taylor, driving lulls. The streets unfold. Buildings shimmer, fall back behind. Once in a while the skyline of Manhattan staggers up on the horizon. In this car we’re different. I’m not that kid you see running down the block, knapsack bouncing on his back, terrified he’s going to miss his train. I’m better than him. It’s like a drug, this driving.
Anything’s possible.
Through the long late-August and early-September weeks, we’re wading deep into our work on Ibrahim.
Summer doesn’t want to end; the heat’s a clenched fist that won’t release. Zahir is marching off to fifth grade, a big year, when he has to test for the middle schools. Abba and Amma have agreed he should try for the competitive ones, out of the neighborhood. I finished my English class. Got a B–. Not bad for someone who couldn’t scrape by before.
My parents’ store continues to do better. There was a big rush around the start of school—one afternoon mothers and kids were jostling into each other in the narrow aisle. We sold out of pencils and pocket folders. Amma has decided to stock notebooks and pen cases. The girls like these, she says, showing me the ones with shiny purple flowers.
And I am always moving, always in the cushioned ride of Tareq’s car. When I shut my eyes, I see the city rolling smoothly beneath me. The neighborhoods, the boroughs, a quilted dream. This is better than Zahir’s comic books, better than any ruse Ibrahim and I could make up. It’s easy, being with Tareq. I get used to the heavy curve of his shoulders, the way he handles a stick shift. He’s in charge, tough, and I like that. We drive, we talk. I confess to him how I’ve never been good at anything, really. Never made it to the finish line. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Feels good to get stuff done.”
After a couple of weeks, I stop wearing the wire. No need. We have the dashboard cam.
Every other day, we go to see Ibrahim. Even without the wire, Tareq tells me I’m still the link, what keeps him softening to us. “Can’t do it without you, man.” In the meantime Tareq brings gifts: samosas, plump with potatoes and peas; a cotton jacket; a new backpack. Ibrahim’s working a few shifts at the gas station. Somehow they took him back. But that seems to worsen his state. He meets us after his shift, changes in the backseat, clawing off his greasy clothes. It pains me to see him so famished for a new life, a new skin.
Cultivation. A slow unspooling.
Tareq gently presses Ibrahim’s take on Islam. At first Ibrahim is evasive. He goes on a few sites, yes. His eyes flash to me, as if for approval. “You too, Naeem?”
“Yeah. Sometimes.” The lie sits in my throat.
“Those guys are wild! They have ideas.”
“Yeah.”
“See what I mean? Forget about school. This is boss.”
I don’t answ
er. I never say a word about my new math class, or doing well. I don’t want to set him off. Besides, it’s the same as the old days—a flash of boasting, then a withdrawal. No new schemes, but Ibrahim admits there’s some guy in England he’s been emailing with. “Do you ever think about leaving?” Tareq asks.
“Yes,” Ibrahim replies. “But there’s work I can do here, right?”
I see the slight movement in Tareq. “That’s why I’m here, bhayia.” He smiles. Brother.
The hook is in.
—
By mid-October we’re in rich waters. Tareq explains he has connections. A friend who has stuff. Ibrahim’s left eye twitches. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. He looks a little scared, but excited too. Tareq keeps at it. Slow pressure, moving us further, into darker patches, seeing if Ibrahim follows. At first hesitant, Ibrahim turns to me. “What do you think?” he asks worriedly.
“It’s cool.”
“You in?”
I pause, then remember: It’s like acting. Just do it. “Sure.”
He looks assured, as if he needs us to make the talk real. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but after in the car, with Ibrahim gone, Tareq even compliments me. “That was beautiful. You’re my closer, man.”
“Yeah.” I’m smiling too hard, my cheek muscles stiff.
“Seriously. You’ve got staying power. You’re good at this.”
But the next day, the more we drive, the queasier I get in the backseat. Tareq’s patter has started up again, a little more urgent. When do we stop? When does Tareq pull the car to the curb and we three can lean against the car doors, our sides split with laughter? Call the whole thing a joke? But no, we’re on Queens Boulevard. Tareq is talking about targets. I don’t even remember how we got to this.
“You serious?” Ibrahim asks.
“Just hypothetical,” Tareq assures him. To my relief, he drops it.
A few days later, though, he starts up again. A nudge forward, quiet, to see if Ibrahim is following. Aaste dar taano, jal beshi nareeyo na. Row gently. Don’t stir the water.
“If you were to do something big, where would it be? New York?” Tareq asks.
“Gotta be. Center of everything,” Ibrahim answers.
Are they talking about what I think they’re talking about?
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