Man of the Hour

by Peter Blauner

  David fingered the ragged edge of the card, secretly touched not just by the boy’s concern, but by his efforts to spiff himself up.

  “Thank you, Kevin.” He shook the boy’s hand and decided not to mention that he already had lawyers.

  “Now do I still have to write that paper for you?” Kevin leaned against the edge of the desk, flashing his monogrammed gold smile, looking to take advantage of the moment.

  “Hell yeah,” said David. “You’re still in school, aren’t you? Besides, you’re gonna have to show them you can write if you want to get into CUNY.”

  He took a sample application out of a folder and gave it to Kevin, knowing he had to make at least a token effort to do the job he’d agreed to do.

  “Yeah, i-ight.” Kevin took the paper and pushed himself off the desk, accepting that he wasn’t going to get over this time.

  “Hey, Kevin, let me ask you something.” David gave Myron Newman’s card another look and then put it in his pocket. “You hear anything?”

  “’Bout what?”

  “You know.” David glanced out the door, checking for eavesdroppers. “About my case. About who really might have done the bombing.”

  “You didn’t do it?” Kevin seemed genuinely surprised, his voice cracking a little and his gangly arms swinging.

  “You thought I did?”

  “Well, I didn’t know. You were arrested before. I seen it in the paper.”

  “And you were going to help me anyway?” David wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or alarmed.

  “Hey, man. Half my family been locked up. It’s rough out there.” He studied the back of his hand, as if figuring out the moral algebra of growing up in a bad neighborhood. “Besides, you did that shit stealing cars when you were young and you grew up and got to be a teacher anyway. That’s all right, man.”

  David shook his head. If he’d known students would take it so well, he would’ve owned up to being arrested years ago.

  “Do me a favor, Kevin. Let me know if you hear anything.”

  The rest of the day didn’t go as well.

  “I will not serve this man.”

  Rosalyn, the cafeteria lady with the suave Clark Gable mustache, was glaring at him over a pot of soup and a vat of meatloaf mat looked like a little buffalo squatting in a muddy swamp.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked.

  “I have a seven-year-old grandchild,” she said. “And I won’t serve you. I don’t give a damn what they do to me neither. They can fire my ass, far as I’m concerned. But they can’t make me serve a man who’d do something like that to a child.”

  David reached across the counter and took the ladle to pour his own soup. The other teachers in line in front of him moved along, murmuring to one another, not acknowledging the awkwardness. Before—when he’d just been “the mad bomber”—people had a lurid interest in him, peeking out when they thought he wasn’t looking. Now there was only outright revulsion.

  He picked up his tray and took his ocean-sediment coffee and experimental-looking soup to an empty table in the green faculty lunchroom. Why would anyone join him? He’d been branded the worst man in the world. Given the choice, I’d stay away from me, he thought

  “Hey, how’s the Underground Man?” Donna Vitale suddenly appeared across the table, sitting down and focusing her good eye on the left side of his face. She had an extra plate of meatloaf on her tray.

  “Brooding and plotting. Larry send you over to make sure I’m not making another bomb or something?”

  “No, I just wanted to make sure you were getting enough to eat.” She slid the extra meatloaf across the table to him. “How’s it going anyway?”

  “Great. I’ve had two kids come to see me since eight-fifteen. And I caught one of them plagiarizing The Gulag Archipelago in his essay.”

  She laughed and her wild eye glimmered. “Well, that’s original, at least.”

  “Not really. It was Yuri Ehrlich. He’s from Moscow. They may do it all the time over there. The sad thing is, he’s a bright kid. He just has this weird compulsion to get over on people.”

  “So what’d he say when you called him on it?”

  David tried his coffee, but it was gritty and cold. “He said, ‘Oh, who cares what you say? You are terrorist and child molester. No one will believe you.’”

  “Well, what did you expect?”

  “I don’t know.” He put down his cup, surprised but not really displeased by her sharpness. “I guess I just wanted to make contact again.”

  He didn’t dare tell her his ulterior motive for talking to them.

  “Perhaps it’s a little too soon to expect them to come flooding in to see me,” he said.

  “Yeah. Perhaps. Give me a break. They think you’re a wife-beater who tried to blast them to Far Rockaway. Maybe they have a little problem with that.”

  She was like a faceful of cold rain and he laughed, refreshed by her directness.

  “So what am I supposed to do?” he said. “How can I win them back?”

  “A little bit at a time.” She looked in her handbag and took out a lipstick. “Just be around. Be yourself. You lost them when you let the cameras into your classroom, if you don’t mind my saying so. That’s when they started not to trust you. You’ve got to come back down to earth. Hang out a little. Eventually they’ll get the idea you’re not the Terror Teacher and start talking to you again.”

  “Think so?”

  “Well, either that or we could put bars on your office and make you part of the Sideshow by the Seashore.”

  She tied her straw-colored hair back into a ponytail. She wasn’t conventionally beautiful, but there was a strong character to her face that made her more attractive every time he saw her.

  He looked down at the slice of meatloaf, not sure if he wanted to try it or not. “I didn’t do it, you know.”

  “What?”

  “The things they’re talking about. I don’t know anything about bombs and I would never, ever hit my wife or my child. I’d cut my own hand off first.”

  He glanced around the lunchroom, aware the other teachers were watching them and then looking away.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  She said it casually, as she closed her handbag. As if it was obvious. As if his world didn’t depend on it.

  “You know?”

  “Yeah, sure. I know.”

  She smiled and the sides of her face creased up nicely. She was used to smiling. Not like Renee. In fact, she might be the anti-Renee. Whatever life had done to try to knock her down, she’d gotten back up again. He tried the meatloaf and found it only semi-indigestible.

  “So.” She stood up. “You want to have dinner?”

  “You putting me on?”

  “I figured you could use the company. Yes? No? Am I pushing too hard?”

  “No, you’re pushing about right.”

  “How’s tomorrow night, my place?” she said.

  “Fine. You’re sure you don’t mind having an accused terrorist over?”

  “You bring the wine, I’ll bring the rocket launcher.”

  He wanted to reach over and kiss one of her hands. Thank you, you wonderful woman. I was drowning, I was fucking drowning. She started to go back to the table where she’d been sitting.

  “Hey, Donna.”

  She paused, hands on hips. “Sounds like a fifties song,” she said. “What is it?”

  “You haven’t heard anything, have you? About what happened to the bus?”

  She screwed up her mouth and half-closed her good eye. “Don’t you think I might have gotten around to mentioning that before?”

  “Yeah, of course.” He pawed the air uselessly. “You’re right.”

  “Hang in there, David.” She looked back, making sure he was still in one piece. “And try not to get arrested before tomorrow night. I’d hate to buy a lot of food and have it all go to waste.”

  47

  WITH THE IMAM turning down their request for funds, Nasser worked
a double shift the next day to try to make up the difference. As he finished up at eight o’clock and walked back into the American Way Car Service on Flatbush Avenue, he saw Bilal, the plump Pakistani dispatcher, talking to a big-shouldered blond man with a large, round head and a mustache.

  “Ah, here he is.” Bilal pointed at Nasser with his cigar. “I told you he’d be back soon.”

  The blond man turned and fixed Nasser with a direct, appraising stare.

  “What’s going on?” Nasser backed up a step toward the door.

  “This man wishes to speak to you.” Bilal put the cigar in his mouth and went behind the counter to take radio calls.

  “How you doin’, Nasser?” The blond man stepped forward and took a billfold out of his front jeans pocket. “I’m Chris Calloway, with the Joint Task Force.”

  All the saliva in Nasser’s mouth spontaneously evaporated.

  Galloway showed him his detective’s shield. “I’m just asking some questions about the bus bombing a couple of weeks ago.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  Nasser was suddenly aware of everyone in the dingy little storefront looking at him. The black lady on the couch reading The Crying of Lot 49. The ragamuffins in bomber jackets playing pinball in the corner. Bilal behind the counter.

  “It’ll only take a couple of minutes,” said Calloway, who had a nose that looked like it had been broken and reset several times. “Mind if we go somewhere?”

  “I am in a hurry,” said Nasser, pursing and unpursing his lips. He looked over at Bilal and realized he’d spoken too quickly. “But I’ll answer anything you want to say. This was terrible, what happened.”

  “Okay, we don’t need to make a soap opera out of it.” Calloway smiled and put away the billfold. “We’re just going through the whole list of former and current students from your school, making sure we don’t miss anyone.”

  “Yes, I understand.” Nasser heard his voice go high and wondered if the others noticed.

  “First of all, have you been around the school lately?”

  “No, I, ah, didn’t make the graduation.” He laughed and looked down at the floor. “I was not very good at the school. I am thinking maybe to go back sometime.”

  “So you haven’t been there for how long?”

  “About four years ago. That’s when I stop going.”

  “So were you there the other day? For any reason?”

  “Oh no.” Had someone seen him? Perhaps he should have mentioned his meeting with Mr. Fitzgerald.

  A beeper went off, and almost everyone in the place looked down at their waistbands.

  “It’s mine,” said Calloway, gritting his teeth as he pressed a button and checked the number. “Fuck ’em, I’ll have to call him back. Anyway. Where was I?”

  “You ask about school,” Nasser reminded him, trying to appear relaxed and eager to help. “But I haven’t been there.”

  “So what have you been up to instead?”

  “Oh, you know. Not very much. I drive my cab. I see my family. Pay my rent.” He decided not to mention going to the mosque, lest that raise any suspicion.

  “You involved in politics at all?”

  “No. I don’t know what you mean.”

  Was this detective playing with him? Nasser couldn’t tell. One minute, Calloway seemed blunt and obvious, the next he was sharp and unreadable.

  “I mean, do you belong to any political groups? There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “No, I’m not involved.”

  “You sure about that? You have any friends who are involved?”

  “No, I don’t get involved with the politics. I am happy where I am. I love America.” Just saying the words made Nasser’s gums hurt.

  “Where you from anyway?”

  “Ah. I am Jordanian.” His eyes started to slide over to Bilal, hoping he wouldn’t protest. “My family is from Amman.”

  “You’re not Palestinian?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  Calloway was looking at him more carefully. His mustache tight against his teeth and his eyes gliding over Nasser’s face, suggesting the physical distance between the two of them could be closed very quickly. No, he wasn’t playing. He knew something.

  He touched various parts of his windbreaker, as if making sure he still had his gun and handcuffs with him. “Anyway, about the bombing,” he said. “You have a sister, don’t you?”

  “Um, yes.” Nasser tensed up, not expecting this angle. “My sister is very nice.”

  “Yeah, I know. One of the other detectives on the case interviewed her already.”

  “I thought it was the teacher who did this,” Nasser spoke up, trying to divert him. “Mr. Fitzgerald.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what they say on the news. But we’re still checking it out.”

  He’s torturing me. He knows something. Mr. Fitzgerald must have told the agents about me, so they wouldn’t suspect him anymore. Nasser licked his lips, trying not to panic. What if he knocked this man down and tried to grab his gun? Would he make it out the door alive?

  “So do you or your sister know anyone who could have done this? Are there any friends of hers you don’t like?”

  “No, her friends are all right. I think.”

  The beeper went off again. “Oh, for crying out loud, will you let me do my fucking job?” Calloway rolled his eyes in aggravation. He didn’t even bother checking the number this time. “I’m going to have to get back to you and follow up,” he said to Nasser. “Understand?”

  “Okay.” Nasser clenched and unclenched his fists.

  Perhaps he would get out of this after all.

  “But just one more thing,” said Calloway. “Where were you when the bomb went off anyway?”

  “I wasn’t at the school. I told you. I don’t go there anymore.”

  “I know. But I asked, where were you?”

  Had someone remembered seeing him? Nasser felt a gag reflex seize the top of his throat. He was trapped. If he said he’d been working, Calloway could simply turn around and ask Bilal, who kept a careful log book.

  “I was with my sister,” he said.

  Oh merciful God, what have I done? The words had simply jumped out of him without permission, and he realized he’d made his worst mistake yet. He was through, for sure. The other detective had interviewed Elizabeth, but Nasser had never had a chance to find out everything that she’d said to him. They’d had the fight in the school parking lot before he could get the whole story. Now he was flailing around in the dark, with no idea if she’d given him an alibi or not.

  “You were with your sister,” Calloway repeated skeptically, reaching around to his back.

  He was about to pull something out. A gun? Handcuffs? Nasser glanced toward the door and calculated that in three long strides he could make it to the street, but he’d probably have a bullet in his back. Allahu akbar. If he got through this conversation a free man, it would truly mean God had a special plan for him.

  “Well, I’m going to have to check that out,” said Calloway.

  To Nasser’s astonishment, the detective straightened up a little and brought his hand back empty, as if he’d just been touching the small of his back. God be praised! He wasn’t going to be arrested.

  “So if I go back to the detective’s notes and talk to your sister, your story is going to hold up?” Calloway asked.

  “Absolutely,” said Nasser, knowing somehow he’d have to get Elizabeth to talk to him again. “I’m as sure of it as God’s eternal grace and forgiveness.”

  “Whatever,” said the detective, handing him a card with his phone number.

  48

  WITH NO MONEY to hire a private investigator, David moved on to Step Two of his general resolves, trying to question people around the neighborhood about anything suspicious they might have seen on the day of the bombing.

  During his free periods in the middle of the next day, he went out onto Surf Avenue and talked to the Russian owne
r of a mattress store, a Yemenese guy selling Lotto tickets out of a bodega, kids from the O’Dwyer Gardens housing project, and the fierce, ambitious little men with their stalls full of bric-a-brac, broken radios, and second-hand polyester clothes by the subway entrance.

  Naturally, none of them had seen anything.

  At one o’clock, he took a break and bought lunch at the hot dog stand across the street, by the Boardwalk ramp. The guy behind the counter had a shaved head about the size of a shopping bag, big, hairy shoulders bulging out of a muscle shirt, and florid red-and-green tattoos flowing over almost every inch of his visible body, even spilling across his neck, face, and scalp.

  “How’s it going?” said David, ordering two dogs and a Coke.

  He thought of how good a beer would taste right now. With panic and depression threatening to engulf him every minute, he needed something to keep the black dogs at bay.

  “Can’t complain.” The tattooed man drew a soda from the tap and handed it over. “Well, I could, but who would care? Nobody wants a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound whiner.”

  “I know what you mean.” David took a sip and wiped his brow. He found himself sweating all the time these days.

  The man turned his back to get the hot dogs; eagle’s wings stretched down the backs of his arms.

  “Hey, can I ask you something?” David said.

  “Sure thing. My regular advice will cost you nothing. Advice requiring some thought will run you a buck and a half.”

  “Fair enough.” David took the dogs in their little paper gondolas and squeezed mustard on them. “Were you working the day the bomb went off?”

  “Yeah.” The guy leaned forward on his meaty arms, and David saw he had a dragon’s face tattooed on the top of his head. “Are you the guy?”

  “Well, they say I’m the guy.”

  “Hey.” The tattooed man offered his hand, with a blue snake on the palm. “One freak to another. We gotta stick together.”

  “I’m innocent,” said David, shaking the hand. “Really. I am.”

  “I am too. But somebody keeps drawing these damn scary pictures on me.”

  David laughed, for the first time in months it felt like. “Where’d you get those anyway?”