The Moment Before

by Jason Makansi

  “How do you decide who is on the list?”

  “Oh, we have other data we correlate, which strongly suggests a probability of an individual being a smoker—income level, blue collar-type jobs, that sort of thing.”

  “Please don’t take this as ingratitude, sir, but this doesn’t sound like a very efficient way to increase profits.”

  “Well, we could work with the convenience store clerks. They could take pictures of their customers for us.”

  The sarcasm was lost on Father Moody. “Why? They already have the surveillance cameras. Buy the tape.” Moody wondered why they didn’t simply bribe store owners and set up cameras for the purpose. They would only need a few for a small test program.

  “Good point, Mr. Moody, but our members would be uncomfortable with that approach. Evidence of actual smoking is more direct. They could always say they were buying them for someone else. Besides, while it may seem inefficient, Mr. Moody, the dollars involved would pay an army of people like you to uncover this information, if this experimental program works out.”

  “Well, I don’t know nothing about that. But, it is work I’m good at. I observe and gather information. What others need it for is none of my business.”

  “We appreciate that attitude. Oh, and we have another trend on our side. I hope you can handle lots of travel, regionally, I mean.”

  “Sure, as long as expenses are reimbursed, but, may I ask why?”

  “Indoor smoking bans. You’ll be working in areas that have banned indoor smoking. It’ll be easier to identify smokers when they’re forced to go outside to light up.”

  Moody nodded.

  “One other question, Mr. Moody. Do you smoke?”

  “Like a fiend.”

  “Good.”

  After landing the position, Father Moody spent two years traveling the Midwest, attempting to collect evidence of individuals smoking so health insurers could raise their rates. The pay was so-so. Compensation was based on the success he had obtaining the evidence. He wasn’t crazy about the uncertainty of his income, but he realized the nature of work was changing. Once he figured out the databases the Association used were out of date and inaccurate, Moody tried to infiltrate groups of smokers, get their names and the evidence, and get paid for this data. His boss told him he appreciated the initiative, but it was more efficient to start with individuals who already had insurance. He apologized about the quality of the databases, but it’s what they had to work with.

  The program ended abruptly, just when Moody thought he might be able to trade up for a low-mileage Buick. It would be a shadow of his former automobiles, but would beat the hell out of the Taurus he was driving now.

  Then came the World Trade Center bombing. The first time he heard about it was on his car radio. Moody had a thought: If this was somehow connected to the Middle East and not some anarchist nut from Montana, his experience and network might be in great demand once again. As the news began to trickle out about the perpetrators, he expected the phone to ring, or perhaps a knock on the door from his former FBI handlers.

  Neither came.

  Weeks turned into months. The bombing was being viewed in official circles as an isolated event. Father Moody was astonished, more so when he discovered one of the bombers admitted to being part of the plot to murder Meir Kahane, the radical leader of militant Jews in America, who had since left for Israel. One of the terrorist’s demands was an end to US aid for Israel. How could this not be a bonanza of work for people like him? This would surely stir up the Jewish leadership and increase by an order of magnitude the number of people under suspicion in the United States.

  Eventually, he did get a call, but it wasn’t from his old crew. This was a new bunch working the drug trade. He worked that angle for a while, and laughed every time he read the phrase, ‘peace dividend’. It hadn’t take long for the government to replace the Cold War with the War on Drugs. He could live with that, but what he really needed was a War on Terrorists. That, he was sure, would get him back behind the wheel of a brand new Lincoln Town Car.

  17

  August, 2003

  Holly propped her chin up on the palm of her hand at the far end of the bar. If it weren’t for Smitty and Grover at the other end, she’d probably already be out of business. She wondered how much could she get from insurance if she torched the place. But she’d have to first take down her sign:

  Holly Chicago’s

  Always Illuminating

  It promised better things for visitors on an otherwise downtrodden Commercial Street, downtown Cairo, Illinois. She’d hoped the investment she’d made with the inheritance from her mother would promise better things for her, too. Now, the sign was probably worth more than the property.

  She heard a car pull up outside, but only because she didn’t have the money to fix the high-speed fan on the AC. She watched the guy get out of the car and enter her bar. She didn’t recognize him. Clean cut. White. And unlike her other patrons, he wore a suit and tie. Deliberately, she changed her pose and leaned against the wall, her right foot in a black ankle boot with a three-inch heel, resting on a stack of three cases of beer. The man didn’t notice. He went straight to the rest room.

  “How do ya suppose he found his way here?” Smitty asked, before slugging down the rest of his beer.

  “Probably lost,” Holly said as she slid another bottle toward him. Few white people made downtown Cairo a destination on a Friday night. Several of Cairo’s finest had already raced past her window with their rotating cherry tops blazing. If the guy wasn’t so damn anxious looking, he’d be worth looking at, she thought.

  “He looks Jewish,” Grover observed touching the bridge of his nose. “Has that nose thing going on.”

  “For chrissakes, you say something stupid like that about everyone who walks in here,” Holly said. “Besides, how many Jews do you know? It’s not like we’ve got a thriving synagogue in town.”

  The guy came out of the bathroom looking anxious and a bit concerned, Holly thought, as he made his way to a seat at the opposite end from Smitty and Grover. She ignored him for a few minutes, wiping down the bar and continuing to make small talk with her two resident derelicts.

  Finally, she walked over to him, eyeing his features as she moved closer. His plush dark hair, almost black, was parted on one side, well groomed. Only the tuft covering the upper part of his forehead had a curve to it, which he smoothed over with his palm. A nervous habit she thought. She liked the square cut of his chin, his olive-tinted skin, and his not-too-heavy beard. He looked up at her. His eyes were penetrating.

  “So, mister, what will you have?”

  “How about an amber beer. Have a recommendation from a local microbrew?”

  She looked at him with a long pause. This guy was either ignorant or insulting her. The nearest microbrew was probably Paducah, Kentucky.

  “We have Amber Bock.”

  “Never heard of it, but it’ll do. Thanks.”

  “How ’bout a frosted mug?” she asked. “That’s our claim to fame.”

  “Great.” His smile came and faded just as quick, as if someone was pulling strings on both sides of his mouth. It wasn’t unnatural. It was like a kid faking a smile, then not.

  The drive was a bore and so much longer than Stuart had imagined. He should have flown in somewhere besides St. Louis, but he wanted to get together with his old roommate, John Veranda, at some point during the trip. He hadn’t made time to see him in years, and for Stuart, nothing represented flyover country like John Boy. Besides, it was good to get out of the Beltway once in a while, even for a guy like him. Conducting an infrastructure evaluation was a good excuse to get away for a few days.

  He wasn’t prepared for how distressed Cairo appeared, despite what he’d researched before his trip. Whole city blocks were boarded up, like a war zone. It seemed like sirens and red and blue lights reflected off the facades every few minutes. African-American faces, mostly, loitering outside, catching some cool air as
dusk neared. As he’d navigated his way along the city’s main road, Holly Chicago’s neon marquee rose up like Las Vegas in the Nevada dessert. It was the first place in about twenty blocks that looked like he could enter without precipitating a Chevy Chase moment from the Vacation movie. That scene, he remembered, had been in East St. Louis. Another Illinois boomtown.

  The beer was weak, but it was frosty and quenched his thirst. The platinum blonde woman behind the bar lit up the inside like the sign lit up the outside. Everything was dark wood, a relic from decades ago, chipped, gashed, cracked, and worn, aging like a shipwreck rotting on a deserted beach.

  Stares from the two old men on the other end of the bar remained constant. Both were smoking. Apparently there wasn’t a law against that in Cairo. He still had to find lodging for the evening. At worst, he could drive back a few exits on the Interstate and turn in at one of the chain motels at the last interchange. He sure as hell didn’t want to stay around here.

  He hadn’t drained a glass of beer so quickly in years. He loosened his tie. He motioned to the woman for another. When she brought his second mug of beer, he asked her about a place to stay in the area.

  “Tell you what. I’ll give you a recommendation if you’ll tell me what brings you here, in a pressed shirt and tie no less, on an exceedingly uncomfortable summer evening.”

  Stuart squirmed.

  “I’m looking into the energy characteristics of the area. Government work. We’re always looking for new places for federal facilities, and the electricity, water supply, transportation all has to be evaluated. We call it an infrastructure evaluation. It’s routine.”

  Smitty and Grover listened in.

  “You’re with the Feds then,” Smitty said, gravelly and hoarse.

  Grover perked up. “Up the road there’s a famous prison, you probably heard of it. The Marion Penitentiary. They got all sorts of bad guys in there, even gangsters and spies, but it’s old. Still I remember when they built the place. There was plenty of new jobs. Guards and such. I’m of the opinion that this here’d be a good place to build a new one. Lock up those damn Tally-ban prisoners. Hell, makes sense to keep ’em here instead of in Cuba, dontcha think? At least some Americans would get jobs and get paid.”

  Astute comments, thought Stuart, even for a derelict. The guy should be working for Homeland Security.

  “We gotta get those bastards and lock ’em up,” Grover went on. “With experienced prison folk just up the road, Cairo is just the place.”

  Stuart had been glad to see the emotional reaction of the attacks on the Twin Towers galvanize the government into action so quickly. He remembered images of flags flying from front porches across the country in the days and weeks after the attack, and found it heartening to hear a regular Joe in the middle of the country still supporting the efforts of Homeland Security.

  “You think there’s a chance the Feds are going to build something around here?” the woman behind the bar asked.

  Stuart grew more uncomfortable. He didn’t want these locals to turn on him if he said the wrong thing. “I have no idea. I’m just the flunky in charge of infrastructure assessment. My report will probably sit on a shelf somewhere.”

  The woman looked at him intently, like she didn’t believe a word he said. She extended her hand. “By the way, I’m Holly, Holly Chicago.”

  “Like the sign says out front, I guess.” He took her hand. “Stuart Eisenstat.” He took another slug of his beer. “Speaking of, I told you why I’m here so now you owe me.” He smiled. “How about that hotel recommendation?”

  Holly knew he’d come back. The man’s only other choices were Sikeston or Cape Girardeau, not much better, although Cape at least had the university. But this guy didn’t look the type to hang out in college bars. So when he showed up the next evening, she was ready for him. She’d asked Smitty and Grover to make themselves scarce so they wouldn’t say anything that might insult the man and ruin any chance he’d cough up some information. Flunky that he was.

  She found Stuart to be cuter today than he was the evening before. Maybe he was less nervous about where he was. Anxious men were always less appealing.

  She, too, was in a better mood than she had been for weeks.

  “So, you lived to see another day in Cairo.”

  “I did, indeed.” Eisenstat did not elaborate.

  “And what is the prognosis for our fair town? Suitable for the government’s needs?”

  “Well, I guess it’s suitable for any facility. This town’s pretty desperate, but it still has promise, I think, considering it once was thriving.”

  “Yeah, around the time of the Civil War. Another Amber Bock? Or something from the owner’s special reserve?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll stick to beer. Otherwise, I’ll crash on your barstool.” Holly kept the conversation rolling while Stuart sucked down beer number one. She served him up a double cheeseburger and fries. She listened to him. Countered with more small talk. Made him comfortable. She’d even dressed for the occasion, revealing more cleavage than usual.

  Beer number two.

  “Where’d you get such beautiful hair and perfect skin?” Stuart asked through a mouthful of french fries.

  “Ah, this place is so damn dark and dingy, I’ve never had the money to redecorate. Can’t even spring to fix the AC. So, I guess I had no choice but to be the brightest thing in the place.”

  “Well, you are that, for sure.” They both laughed.

  “The skin I got from my father. My hair, yeah, I got that from my father, too. I’m a bottle blonde. My hair’s naturally dark as southern Illinois coal.”

  “No!” Stuart reacted with mock astonishment. “I do like to fuss with it—curlers, blow dryers, gels, the whole bit. Constantly brushing it has become more of a nervous habit now. Maybe I should have been a hair stylist instead of a bar owner.”

  Beer number three.

  “So, Holly Chicago? That’s not your real name.”

  “Real enough. I did some, ah, exotic dancing in my younger days. My real name wouldn’t cut it. Lots of folks come from Chicago around here, so I figured it fit.”

  “Exotic dancer?”

  “Stripper actually.” Stuart raised his eyebrows. “Don’t I look like I could be a stripper?” Holly sucked in her breath, placed her hands on her hips, as if offended.

  “No, no, no, not what I meant at all.”

  “I needed a quick way to make money. College wasn’t for me, and I couldn’t find a ‘real job’. Every couple of years you hit a wall, right? You reinvent yourself, you know.” Only, Holly thought, this guy probably didn’t know. He looked about as linear as a guy could look.

  “Where’d you dance?” he asked. “There’s a club up the street, called Near Misses.” She could see he looked puzzled. “Get it?”

  “No, not really.”

  She decided to play with his head. “Well, you’ll figure it out.”

  Holly went to wipe down the counter, even though no one had been in since the last time she wiped it down. Habit.

  “So, what’s your real name?”

  “Cheryl Halia Haddad.”

  “I know a family in DC with that name. Palestinian.”

  “Hmm . . .” she said.

  “So, are you Palestinian?”

  “No, not Palestinian.” She picked up a glass, held it up to the light, and then started buffing it.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What kind of name is it? Haddad.”

  “Oh, you know, as in ‘had dad’?” Now he looked really confused. “Hell, it’s a joke!” Holly explained. “My dad disappeared when I was young. So I ‘had a dad’. But it’s not like I’m bitter or anything. Can you tell?”

  Beer number four.

  “So, what’s your story anyway, Ms. Had Dad? Besides the strip … I mean, exotic dancing?”

  “Abridged? Okay. Born in Joliet, Illinois, a paradise compared to this shit hole. Mom, a Chicago policewoman; Dad, an immigrant who ended up driving a taxi. He was Syria
n.”

  “I’m Jewish,” Stuart said abruptly, “just so you know.”

  “I don’t care, just so you know,” Holly said. “Anyway, he disappeared when I was nine. I won’t bore you with all the detritus of my life. As I said, my mom was a cop and I think she was always worried about measuring up to her older brothers, also cops. She was a bit obsessive about her body, about being strong. You know, self-defense, self-sufficiency, all that stuff. Especially after my dad disappeared.”

  “That’s why you chose to be a dancer.”

  Holly shrugged. “Anyway, let’s just say I gradually made my way south, making wrong turns at every intersection. I saved up my money when I danced at Near Misses. It’s amazing how much money you can make. Then, I inherited a bit of money and bought into this paradise, had the sign made, and the rest is for a history book in the adult section of the Cairo Public Library.” Stuart finished his beer. “You sure you wouldn’t like something stronger? Scotch perhaps? Or the house special?” Holly propped her arms on the bar and leaned toward Stuart.

  Holly saw he couldn’t help but look down at her breasts nearly overflowing from her top. His gaze moved slowly back up to her eyes. “I’ll start with the scotch. I know I’ll pay for it later. I havn’t had hard liquor on top of so many beers in years.”

  Holly doubled up on his shot and placed it in front of him. She belted one back herself, for good measure. “Your turn,” she said.

  Now loose-lipped, Stuart talked about Long Island, where he grew up, and New York City, and how he’d attended a prominent eastern university, ‘an Ivy-league-like school’, as he described it. And then law school and straight into government bureaucracy, a stint in the private sector, and then back to government work. He never mentioned a wife and kids. Then he talked about DC and how everything had changed because of 9/11.

  “Did you happen to get down to our park in all of your thorough research?”

  “No, I didn’t know you had one.”

  “I could give you a guided tour. It’s quite lovely at night. I could close up early.”