Gods and Fathers

by Lepore, James

“It’s worked out OK.”

  “It took a while.”

  “A false murder charge. More monsters to slay.”

  Matt did not reply. He removed his fingers from his eyes. He would let Jade question him. Whatever she wanted to ask. Whatever she wanted to say. However she wanted to say it. He had thought when they made love for the first time that he had reached a turning point, but he was wrong. This was it.

  “What did he do in the war, your father? Did you ever find out?”

  “After I killed my DI at Parris Island, I was pulled from training for three weeks. I was given permission to use the base library, where the Pacific Theater Archives are. He was awarded the Navy Cross on Iwo.”

  “For what?”

  “He rappelled down a mountainside with twenty grenades strapped on, then threw them into a series of caves where the Japanese were holding out, mowing people down with fifty-caliber machine guns. He was shot in the leg, then cut himself loose. He was swinging in the wind, an easy target. He landed on his shoulder on a ledge. I asked him once why he smoked cigarettes. He told me it helped the pain in his shoulder. So then I knew where it came from.”

  “Jesus. Did you tell your father what you did?”

  “No, but he knew. He knew me. You want to fight monsters, he said. That’s fine. Just don’t become one.”

  “What did he do? When he got home?”

  “He drove a dump truck for a company on Long Island for twenty-five years.”

  “And your mom?”

  “She drank too much. Probaby because my father was so silent, so remote. One night, when I was ten, she fell down some stairs and cracked her head and died. My father never remarried, never held anything against her, or against anybody, really. He knew life was hard.”

  “He told you that?”

  Matt smiled. “No,” he replied. “He would never say anything like that. Life is hard. But I could tell from looking at him that he believed it was, that it had to be endured.”

  “A good father is all,” Jade said. “Everything else is air.”

  Matt shook his head, and was about to speak, to ask a question of his own, but Jade spoke first: “It’s a Chinese saying.”

  “And yours?” he said. “Your father?”

  “He was great. Antonio is named after him.”

  “Was?”

  “He died last year.”

  Matt said nothing.

  “My mother was the problem,” Jade said. “She couldn’t forgive my running away, my coming home pregnant. The loss of face.”

  “Is she alive?”

  “Yes. The Dragon Lady of Queens. She takes in sewing, drinks tea, and argues with the neighbors.”

  “Is she coming around?”

  “I think so, a little. Antonio and I are all she has.”

  Outside the rain was coming down a little harder, the tapping sound against the window was a little louder.

  “You should sleep,” Jade said.

  “No,” Matt replied. He reached across the table and took Jade’s hand, laying it flat and stroking the back of it. We’re married now, he thought with a shock, how did that happen?

  “Bed, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want me as much as I want you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Love?”

  “No. Surrender.”

  They held each other for a few long minutes as the clock on Jade’s night table ticked toward 2AM, the darkened room a welcome cocoon.

  “You never told me about Crow,” Jade said, her voice, though soft and whispering, pulling them back to the world. “What was he like?”

  “He’s weird,” Matt replied, thinking of Bill Crow’s twisted soul, as if he could see its terrible outline before him in the room’s shadows. “He’s…”

  “Is that your phone?” Jade said, her face nuzzling Matt’s neck. “Do you hear it?”

  “Yes,” Matt replied. “It’s in the dining room.”

  He swung out of bed, naked, and was back a few minutes later.

  “Clarke,” Matt said.

  “And?”

  “Wael al-Hakimi had one visitor in 1993 at Green Haven, a person named Mustafa al-Hakimi, who listed himself as his father. Then none for ten years, then two visits a year starting in 2003. These were by Mustafa al-Rahim, who also lists himself as his father.”

  “Mustafa…”

  Matt handed Jade his phone. On its screen was a picture of an Arab man in his mid-thirties in a beard.

  “Is that him?”

  “That’s him in 1993, the guy who came to the first and the last day of Wael’s trial.”

  “His son.”

  “Yes.”

  “So,” Jade said. “You have your answer.”

  “I do,” Matt said. “A son for a son.”

  “Matt…”

  “There’s something else,” Matt said. “Wael’s lawyer visits him regularly too. His name is Everett Stryker.”

  Chapter 42

  The Bronx/Queens,

  Friday, March 6, 2009,

  2PM

  “Mr. DeMarco?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Antonio Lee.”

  “Antonio?”

  “Yes.”

  “Welcome home. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m at my mother’s office. She’s not here. She was supposed to meet me at school…”

  “Did you go home?”

  “Yes. She wasn’t there.

  “Have you called her cell?”

  “Yes, nothing, voicemail.”

  “She told me she was meeting a client in Queens,” Matt said. “She probably got delayed.”

  “But she didn’t call me.”

  “Did you call her service?”

  “Her service?”

  “She has an answering service she sometimes uses.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll call them.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s nothing.”

  “Should I stay here?”

  “Go home, I’ll call you. Are you calling on your cell?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hold on, before you go, do me a favor. Is there a folder for a Charles Hall around your mom’s desk or office, or something in a Rolodex? Look around, I’ll hold.” Matt waited, picturing the tiny one-person office Jade had described to him that she rented on East Broadway, near Manhattan’s Chinatown. Low rent, she had said, that’s the big thing. It’s small, Matt thought, if something’s there, he’ll find it.

  And he did. “There’s a folder here,” Antonio said. “There’s a card here. Mechanical Pumps Corp., 2411 137th Street, Queens, Charles Hall, President.”

  “Is there a telephone number?” Matt asked.

  “Yes. 718-987-6654.”

  “Text it to me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Go home, Antonio. If your mother shows up, ask her to call me. I’ll call you later.”

  Matt looked around for Michael, spotting him near the restaurant’s foyer in a group that included Debra’s mother and cousins on Debra’s side. The post-burial luncheon, at one of Arthur Avenue’s famed Italian restaurants, was beginning to wind down. People were saying their goodbyes. Basil Hassan, whose face and demeanor, whenever Matt caught sight of him, were quiet and contemplative, was nearby. He saw Matt and came over.

  “Are you leaving, Matt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “Of course.”

  “I have put a call in to Ms. Lee.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Here, take this.” Debra’
s widowed husband handed Matt a business card. “Please call me. I would like to discuss Mustafa with you. And Haq.”

  “I hope you are who you say you are, Basil,” Matt replied. “For your sake.”

  “I may or may not be,” Hassan said. “Tell me, what is it you want, ultimately?”

  “I want the charges against Michael dropped, and I want a public apology.”

  “And how do you plan on accomplishing that?”

  “I’ve already set the wheels in motion.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve placed yourself in very grave danger, and your son as well.”

  “Michael has been in grave danger, as you put it, from the moment Yasmine was killed and he was framed for the murder.”

  “You may have made it worse by interfering.”

  “He’s my son. What would you have done?”

  “The same. Yes, without question.”

  Matt looked at Basil’s card, then put it in his suit coat pocket. “I’ll call you.”

  “Dad, I think I know this building.”

  “You do? How?”

  Matt and Michael were sitting in Matt’s car, which was parked on 137th Street, across from number 2411. There was no Mechanical Pumps, Inc. sign to be seen, but the building was clearly industrial, the type containing a machine shop and small warehouse that can be found scattered throughout the back end of Queens, hard by the twenty-four/seven grit and noise from the major highways that in the fifties and sixties turned old ethnic neighborhoods into isolated islands of shocked despair. Sagging tenements, empty or near empty, straddled number 2411. The street was busy, with traffic flowing continuously and cars parked on both sides as far as the eye could see.

  On the ride from the Bronx, Matt had called Jade’s answering service and learned that they had not heard from her since the day before. On 154th Street they had passed the subway entrance for the line Jade would have taken from Manhattan. There had been nothing on the radio about a breakdown on this or any other line in the system. Matt had also called both Jade’s cell, which had gone to voicemail, and Charles Hall’s number, which had produced a “not in service” recorded answer.

  “There’s an alley around back,” Michael said. “The back entrance of Lucky’s is there. Adnan and Ali and I hung out in an office in this building. I’m pretty sure it’s this building. Let’s drive around back.”

  Matt swung the car onto 137th Street, turned left and then, as Michael pointed out a sign that read, PWE-9098, left again. The day was bright and sunny, but now, as he edged his SUV cautiously down the narrow street, an alley really, around dumpsters and piles of rusted chain-link fence and other debris long forgotten by the sanitation department, they were in shade, the sun obliterated by the tenements looming on both sides. An occasional spindly tree reached for the sky. “Stop,” Michael said as they approached one of these. “Pull over.”

  “That’s Lucky’s on the right,” Michael said, pointing to a sheet-metal door covered by a grate. “And that’s the warehouse,” he continued, nodding toward a rusting rolling door set above a suet- and grime-blackened concrete loading platform. “The office is upstairs.”

  “Why hang out there?” Matt asked.

  “Adnan and Ali said they knew the owner. It was quiet and safe. We smoked grass and listened to music.”

  “Was it an active business?”

  “No, it was dead in there. We cleaned up the office a bit, but the rest of the place was a mess. The thing is, Dad, there’s an underground walkway that leads to Lucky’s basement. We would park in the alley here, get high, then use the tunnel to go to Lucky’s to have a few drinks.”

  “Is that how you got in?” Matt asked, pointing to a worn out but solid looking door to the right of the corrugated steel dock door.

  “Yes. They had a key.”

  “Let’s try.”

  “Okay.”

  As Matt was about to exit the car, his cell phone rang. He pulled the phone from his jacket pocket and looked at the screen: Private Caller. “It’s not her,” he said, realizing for the first time just how worried he was.

  “Hello?”

  “Listen carefully,” a male voice said. “You will not hear this message again. I have Miss Lee. She is safe at the moment. I want to make an exchange.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Mustafa al-Hakimi.”

  “What kind of exchange?”

  “I want my son released from prison.”

  “The one who killed his sister.”

  Silence.

  “Are you listening, Mr. DeMarco?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Put Wael on a plane to Damascus. When he arrives, I will tell you where Miss Lee is and you can collect her.”

  The rush of adrenalin Matt suddenly felt was not new to him. He had experienced it in street fights when he was a boy, in the ring in the Marines, in the moment just before he cracked Johnny Taylor’s neck in half, in the courtroom when he felt that an adversary or a judge had insulted him. All his life he had felt this hammering in his brain and never once had he resisted it. But now he had to. Jade could die. He looked at his free hand clutching the steering wheel, a death grip he would one day apply to Mustafa al-Hakimi. But not today. Today he would control himself, shake the pounding from his head. He had no choice.

  “And Mr. DeMarco,” Mustafa continued, “do not doubt me. If you do not do as I ask, your woman will die, but first she will suffer. I have young men with me who are sexually active. Do you understand?”

  “I’ll need some time,” Matt said.

  “Yes, I understand. I will give you twenty-four hours. I will call you tomorrow at this time. If Wael is not on his way to Syria, your Miss Lee will die and I will disappear.”

  “Who was that?” Michael asked after Matt clicked off.

  “Mustafa.”

  “Mustafa?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he want?”

  “I’m dropping you off at Jade’s apartment. Don’t let him call the police.”

  “Dad…”

  Matt’s phone, still in his hand, rang again. He clicked the green receive button and put it to his ear.

  “DeMarco?” his caller said.

  “Yes.”

  “Bill Crow.”

  “Crow?”

  “We’re ready to deal.”

  “Ready to deal?” Matt replied. “Okay, hold on, I want to turn on my tape recorder.”

  “You can’t stop being a wise guy, can you, DeMarco?” said Crow. “You must have a death wish.”

  “Okay, it’s on,” said Matt. “Let’s be clear. You get the charges dismissed against my son, I’ll give you Adnan Farah.”

  “Who you’ve kidnapped.”

  “You’re wrong there, but I can deliver him. Is that the deal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, I’ll meet you at Jon Healy’s office tomorrow morning. When the charges are dismissed, I’ll turn Farah over to you.”

  “No,” said Crow. “That’s not how it’s going to work.”

  “No? How, then?”

  “I need to talk to Farah, in person.”

  Matt, thinking this over, did not respond.

  “Take it or leave it,” Crow said.

  “Okay,” said Matt, “but I’ll need time to make arrangements.”

  “What kind of arrangements?”

  “The same kind you’d make if you were in my position.”

  “How much time?”

  “Twenty-four hours.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow morning. Have a good day.”

  Matt clicked off and began to pull away from the curb.

  “Who was that?” Michael asked.

  “Crow. He says he wants to make
the deal.”

  “What did Mustafa want?”

  “He also wants to make a deal.”

  “Mustafa? What’s going on, Dad?”

  “Does this street go through?” Matt asked.

  “No,” Michael said. “You have to make a K-turn. It’s wider at the end.” Matt inched his way along until he came to the garbage-strewn courtyard of an abandoned tenement building, where he started his three-point turn.

  “What’s going on, Dad?” Michael said again.

  “Mustafa has Jade. He wants to trade her for his son.”

  “He has Jade?”

  “Yes.”

  “His son? Dad…”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you going?” Michael asked. Matt had turned the car around and was heading out of the alley.

  “I think I know how to reach Mustafa.”

  “How?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  “What about Jack and Clarke? They’ll help.”

  “I don’t want them involved.”

  “Why not?”

  “I started this, I’ll finish it.”

  “You started it? How?”

  “I put Mustafa’s son in jail for life.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He killed his sister. She was dating a boy, so he stabbed her fifteen times.”

  “That was your job.”

  “I rubbed it in, Michael. I rubbed the kid’s face in it, and his father was watching. I even tried to get the death penalty, but Jon Healy wouldn’t go for it.”

  “His father?”

  “Yes, Mustafa.”

  “Mustafa?”

  “You’re repeating yourself. Yes, Mustafa. He had Yasmine killed just to frame you, to put my son in jail for life. I started this whole thing.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I was a tough guy, a Marine. Once a Marine… , you know the saying. I hated the kid, what he did. I rubbed it. But he was just a kid, ruled by his father, brainwashed by his fanatic father.”

  “Dad…”

  “Just babysit Antonio. Tell him I’m looking for his mom, that I think I know where she might be.”

  “Do you?”

  “Maybe. I’ll call you.”

  Chapter 43