by Jess Walter
“Is it him?” Markham said. He grabbed the glasses from Remy. “Yeah. That’s him. That’s our friend. Let’s go.”
Markham tossed the magazine in the back. “Don’t forget your briefcase.” Remy grabbed the briefcase at his feet and he and Markham hopped out of the car and began run-walking down the alley.
“You want me to do the talking?” Markham asked.
“I think you’d better.”
Markham stepped up his pace. “Excuse me. Mahoud?”
Twenty steps away Mahoud turned and stepped away from an Audi convertible. He was thick and bald, vaguely Middle Eastern. He wore a tunic under a black windbreaker.
“Mahoud. I’m Mr. Markham and this is Mr. Remy.” Markham offered a badge, which he took, studied, and then handed back.
“How are you, Mahoud?” Markham said.
“I am not good, as you can imagine,” he said. “I have reported hours ago this vandalism upon my restaurant and all day I have waited for you to come.”
“Yeah,” Markham said. “They passed the report along to us. I’m sorry. There are a lot of cases like this, as you might guess. Some of them are pretty serious. We have to concentrate on the ones with violence. Families, children…that kind of thing…we’re up to our assholes in this stuff.”
“Families? Oh. Oh my God.” Mahoud looked at Remy, his eyes dark and inscrutable. “I had no idea there was violence. Well, look here. Do you want to see the letter? I have it. I was taking it to the police department now.” Mahoud opened the bag and showed them a note. In red block letters it read: “Go home, camel-fucker. We know where you live.” Paper-clipped to the note was a wrinkled pink triangle of skin.
“Is that a pig’s ear?” asked Markham.
“Some jerk’s idea of a big joke, yes?” Mahoud said. “Give a Muslim the ear of a pig.” He frowned bitterly at the two men. “I can’t even look at it, I get so mad. My son is in the American army. My son!” Mahoud’s eyes teared up.
Remy stared at the note. He felt sick. Those block letters, that G. Jesus…he knew that handwriting.
“Yeah.” Markham had pulled a notebook from his back pocket. “And I understand they threw a rock through your window?”
“Yes. This note and the ear of the swine were duct-taped to the rock. That window is going to cost me four hundred dollars. Four hundred dollars! And I can’t turn it over to my insurance.”
“Yeah, that’s tough.”
“I put up a sign today that said, ‘I am Pakistani not Arab!’ but do you know what I think? I think I should not have to do that. I think in this country I should not have to explain that I am not a terrorist. I think these things are not anyone’s business but my own.” He was worked up. He wiped his mouth.
“Yeah, that’s tough, Mahoud. I wish there was something I could do, but there are a lot of these harassment cases and…frankly, between you and me…it’s hard to get one to float to the top…over just a rock.” Markham put his notebook in his back pocket. “In fact, we have to concentrate on the ones where there has been actual violence. As you might expect. I know it’s not a lot of consolation.” Markham looked over at Remy. “After they hurt someone, we’ll come back.”
“This is outrageous,” Mahoud said. “I am a citizen of this country too.”
“No,” Markham said. “No, you’re right. I mean…all I can do is write up the report and put a good word in for you. And after that…shit, I’m sorry.” He turned to Remy. “Unless you have any other ideas, partner?”
Remy was still staring at the note, trying to figure out how…
Markham turned to leave, but hadn’t even taken a step when he turned back. “You know what, Mahoud. There is one thing. Maybe I could go in and plead your case to my superiors. See if I can’t get some special attention on this.”
“You could do that?”
“Yeah, maybe if you were…helpful to us in some other area of our investigation, we could take an extra look at this harassment you’re getting.” He looked at Remy. “What do you think, Brian? Do you think it could work?”
Remy just stared at him.
“Yeah,” Markham acted as if Remy had agreed with him. “You still got those pictures, right, Brian? Maybe Mahoud can help with our pictures.”
Remy looked down at the briefcase in his hand. He opened it. There were three sheets with six mug shots on each sheet, all of them Middle Eastern men. Remy handed them to Markham and wiped the sweat from his face.
“These are some undocumented aliens that we’re trying to find,” Markham said nonchalantly. “Some fellas we suspect of not being very good guests in this country. We’re…showing these pictures to restaurant owners, cab companies, you know…see if anyone remembers employing any of these guys. Maybe if you’ve seen one of them, Mahoud, we can try to get some attention to your situation here. Some peace of mind for your family.”
Mahoud looked from Markham to Remy and back again. “I don’t understand…”
Markham shrugged. “Just look at these. It’s probably nothing.”
Mahoud looked at the first sheet. “No,” he said. “No one.” Then he began looking at the second. He looked up, his face red. “This is my brother-in-law, Bishir. The younger brother of my sister-in-law.”
“What?” Markham looked up at Remy, then at Mahoud. “Really? Which one? This guy? This attractive fella here?”
But Mahoud didn’t show him which one. He looked from Markham to Remy and back again. “I told the other agents who came to my restaurant that I have not seen him in more than a year and my wife has told them the same thing. Four times we have told agents this. Why do you continue to ask if I know where Bishir is?”
“Do you?”
“Do I—”
Markham got serious. “Do you…know where Bishir is?”
“No! No. I have told you!”
Markham smiled. “Look, this is just a little mixup. That’s all. It’s no big deal. We had no idea they’d already shown you this, Mahoud, or we wouldn’t have wasted your time. It’s not like we’re trying to harass people.” He laughed, strained and high-pitched.
Mahoud took a small step back from the pictures. “Why did you contact me in this alley, instead of coming in the front of my restaurant? Did you not want anyone to see you come here?”
“…What?” Markham put his hands in his pockets. “Come on, Mahoud…don’t go all paranoid on us, now. I know you’re a good citizen.”
“Yes,” Mahoud said.
“And that you’d do anything you could to help your country.”
“Of course.”
“Well, look at it this way. Now you’ve got your chance.”
Mahoud covered his mouth. “Who are you?”
“Listen, there’s no reason to get upset. All you have to do is help us find Bishir,” Markham looked over at Remy, and then back. He said, in a voice so flat it was barely audible: “Then maybe we can protect your family.”
“My God. I don’t…” Mahoud’s voice skipped. “Please!” He took a step back. “Maybe in Miami…there were two brothers he…knew. Assan and…Kamal. The last I heard, one of them was in Miami.”
“Okay,” Markham said. “Okay.” He handed Mahoud the notebook. “Write the brothers’ names down. I won’t even mention that you gave it to me. Sound good, Mahoud?”
Mahoud scribbled a name on the pad without saying anything.
“I need you to look at one more picture,” Markham said. He reached his hand out to Remy, who looked down in the valise and saw another print that had escaped him, up against the side of the case. He pulled it out. It was the picture of March Selios with Bishir. Remy handed it to Markham, who flicked it in front of Mahoud’s face. “Remember her, Mahoud? Bishir’s girlfriend, March. Do you remember her?”
Mahoud studied the face. “Yes. I think so. About two years ago. Bishir had…a lot of girlfriends. They run together.”
“Do you know why they broke up?”
Mahoud looked uncomfortable. “I don’t listen to wi
ves’ chatter….”
“Do you know if he was still in touch with her?”
“No. I have no idea. Look, I have told you…Bishir has not contacted my family in more than a year. I am sorry.” He said this to Remy, who had to look away. “I cannot help you find him. Or her. I am sorry.”
Markham took the picture of March Selios back. “Okay. We’re going to check this out. I really appreciate your help. And you won’t mind if we contact you to help us out again, right Mahoud? I mean…if it means we can protect your family.”
“Who are you?” Mahoud asked again.
“Oh…one more question,” Markham said. “I couldn’t help noticing that you have a peculiar dish on your menu. Pecan encrusted sole. Is that a common Mediterranean dish?”
“We have a diverse menu. We also have Thai noodles and pizzas.”
“Sure.” Markham stared holes in the restaurant owner. “Diverse. Well, we’ll have to come in and try your food some time.”
Mahoud backed up and then turned and hurried away. Remy and Markham watched him go and then retreated to their car.
“Damn, you’re good,” Markham said, chuckling to himself. “When you turn on that silent thing…it’s really chilling. Mute cop, bad cop, huh?”
Remy opened the car door and sat down, trying to catch his breath, trying to remember…He felt sick. “Look, I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
Markham stared at him a moment longer. The alley was quiet, the hum of the city seeming to be blocks away. “Okay,” Markham said finally. “Next time I’ll throw the rock and you can do the talking.”
REMY STOOD on the curb outside his apartment and watched flakes come down from the sky, each one appearing lit from inside, each one like a cold secret. It occurred to him that maybe this snowfall was occurring in his eyes, and even as he quickly dismissed the idea, it seemed eerily plausible, that it could be snowing in his vitreous. He closed his eyes but the flakes were different, the familiar floating of tissue, up and down, flouting gravity; he opened his eyes and it was snowing down again. He felt for the stitches on his head, buried in his stubbled hair. He was about to go back inside when a stretch Town Car pulled up and double-parked in front of his building. The car sat there idling until finally the back passenger window lowered with a whir. Remy stepped closer, edging between two parked cars, to see The Boss’s oval face floating in the dark. Remy bent down to look inside and his eyes quickly adjusted. The Boss was wearing a tuxedo, and across from him sat the thick Police Boss, his own tuxedo tight around his neck as if it were a snake and he was a boar it was in the process of swallowing. He was telling some story but stopped grumbling when The Boss held up his hand. There were two other men in the car, one on each side, young guys with little round glasses, each holding a tape recorder.
“Hi, Brian,” The Boss said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here earlier.”
The window went up and Remy stepped back as the door opened.
The Boss climbed out of the car, followed by one of the young guys with the round glasses. “Let’s take a walk,” The Boss said, and pushed the door closed behind him. They moved down the sidewalk, shadowed by the stretch, which followed at their heels like an old dog, and the young guy, who walked a few steps behind them, holding out his microcassette recorder.
When Remy looked back at the young guy, The Boss looked over his shoulder at him, too, then he shrugged. “Ghostwriter,” The Boss said. The ghostwriter didn’t acknowledge the acknowledgment.
The Boss looked back at Remy. “So why don’t you tell me what this is all about, Brian?”
He hated when this happened. “I…called you?”
The Boss laughed. “Touché. Look…I’m sorry it took me so long to get back to you. The first time you called, I thought I should talk to the counsel’s office, to find out what…we could do for each other while I’m still technically on the public dime. But I’m here now. What’s on your mind?”
“I don’t know,” Remy looked at the ghostwriter again, who didn’t meet his eyes. Then he said to The Boss, “I’m not sure…this thing I’m supposed to be working on—”
“Wait.” The Boss grabbed Remy by the arm and raised his hand as if he didn’t want to hear the rest. He nodded at the ghostwriter, who turned off the tape recorder and drifted back a few steps. Then he said to Remy: “Go ahead.”
“It’s just…” Remy struggled. “I’m having a hard time keeping…track of things. And I may have…” Remy looked back over his shoulder at the ghostwriter, who had his hands in his pockets. Remy leaned in close to The Boss. “I may have done some…really bad things, sir.”
The Boss pointed his finger at Remy’s face. “Look, don’t you for a minute doubt yourself, Brian. I know for a fact you haven’t done anything that wasn’t necessary. In fact, I’ve heard”—he paused—“unofficially…very good things…from the top. Do you understand?” He mouthed a word that might have been Pentagon. “Your resourcefulness and commitment, Brian; you are striking a blow for…really taking some heroic…true leadership…showing that we won’t…I can’t begin to…”
Remy rubbed his temples.
“Wait a minute. I think I know what’s bothering you,” The Boss said.
“You do?”
“Sure. You feel like you’re alone.”
“Yes.”
“You think I don’t feel the same thing?” He waved his arm out at the city. “We took on their fear. And now they think they can do without us? Without us? They think anyone can just step in? After all I did for those frightened little fuckers?” He spat this last word, and then The Boss coughed. “No.” He glanced at Remy and seemed to realize that he’d shifted the discussion to himself. “They owe us, Brian. This thing we discovered that day…it has real value. It can make fortunes. Win elections. Wars. This thing…it could remake the world. And they owe us for that.”
The Boss looked around, at the quiet buildings. “Meantime, what does this all mean? That is what you’re asking, isn’t it?”
Remy wasn’t sure. “Maybe,” he said.
The Boss veered between parking meters to the limo, which came to a stop alongside him. The long car seemed to be a living thing, slithering, a long sleek black lizard guarding The Boss. He opened the car door and gestured to his ghost, who slid into the backseat in time to catch the end of an anecdote the police boss was relating about “…three Thai hookers and a bottle of rice wine.” The Boss listened for a moment, then walked back onto the sidewalk, until he was just a few feet from Remy.
“Look,” The Boss said quietly. “You need to have faith in what you’re doing. I’m going to give you two simple words to keep you going. Two words that will give you some sense of where this leads, of what will save you and me, what will save the entire country. And it ain’t plastics.”
Remy waited for the two words.
“Close your eyes,” The Boss said.
“What?”
“Close your fucking eyes, Brian.”
Remy hesitated, and then closed his eyes and when he did he saw a kind of captured reality: a black screen with snowflakes falling and streaking, like crawling beasts beneath a microscope lens. Paper falling against blooming darkness.
The Boss said the two words: “Private. Sector.”
For a moment, Remy stood with his eyes closed, waiting for something else. He heard a car door close, and when he opened his eyes the limo was pulling away slowly, brake lights blinking once from the corner, their red eyes taking him in one last time before the big car turned a corner and he was gone—
SITTING ALONE alongside a freeway, on the outskirts of a city, in the new FEMA Excursion, staring at a huge sign along the roadside. The Excursion was turned off. Cars were flying past him. He looked all around. There must have been a storm. The roadside was soaked, leaves pasted to the pavement. The sky was dark and seemed porous, like pumice, and Remy could still smell the rain. He looked all around his vehicle but didn’t recognize the stretch of freeway where he sat. He appeare
d to be in the suburbs of some town or city, a row of windbreak trees separating him from a development of homes and a mini-mall. He looked at his watch. Two o’clock. It was light outside. Two in the afternoon. He looked back at the sign, advertising one of the businesses in this mall. The top part was written in script letters: “Pure Interiors.” The bottom half of the sign was a reader board with movable block letters. It read: “God Bless America. New Furniture Arriving Every Day.”
In Remy’s lap was an open pint of Irish whiskey. His hands were shaking. He took a drink and looked back up at the sign: God Bless…New Furniture. He stared at the sign until the words threatened to make some sense, then started the Excursion and began driving. He passed two more exits that he didn’t recognize, and after a time it was no longer important where he was, and he just drove.
“DO YOU need to hear it again?” The man’s voice broke and then steadied, then quavered again. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.” He wore navy blue pants and a white T-shirt, his clothes dusted with flour, exposing thick, working arms and wrists. He was probably fifty, with a simple, good face, olive-skinned and framed by curly black hair, eyes rimmed with red and pearled with tears. Remy was sitting on a worn, slipcovered loveseat while the man stood above him in this small family room. They were surrounded by family pictures: young adults and children, senior pictures and vacations. Remy recognized March Selios in some of the pictures. The man in front of him, who appeared to be March’s father, held a telephone answering machine as if it were a holy relic.
Remy looked down at his notebook. He’d written the words: I just wanted you to know that. He’d underlined the words. After that he’d written,Twenty minutes before. And Saying Goodbye?
“I’m sorry,” Remy said. “Maybe play it just once more.”
March’s father nodded, braced himself, and shuddered as he hit the big black button on the answering machine. A young woman’s voice filled the room. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Pop.” In a room behind Remy a woman sobbed. “It’s March. You must be on your way to work already. Um…I guess…I just wanted to talk. I had kind of a…” On the machine, March Selios sighed. She sounded troubled. “Okay, well, that’s it. I just wanted you to know that I love you both and I…I just wanted you to know that. Well…bye for now.” A hint of sadness at the end, and then a mechanized voice: “Tuesday. Six fifty-eight A.M.”