“Didn’t I tell you snitches get stitches around here?” she said as she slipped past Luci in the narrow doorway without making eye contact. Once inside, she took a seat, arms folded tightly, at a two-person table in the far corner, next to the rear exit.
Luci rolled her eyes at the comment.
This isn’t exactly the inner city, Julia.
She took a slow sip of her coffee and remained in the doorway for a moment. Then she walked back to Julia’s table.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Honestly, are you trying to ruin my reputation or something?”
“Looks like you already got that covered if you’re hanging out down there. I asked if you were hungry. I’m starving,” Luci said, examining the menu.
“No.”
Luci slowly ran her index finger down the numbered items on the menu, stopping her bright red nail whenever an item caught her eye.
“It all sounds good to me right now.”
“Do I have to sit here all day watching you decide what to eat? I have a life, you know.”
“Nope,” answered Luci as she slid the menu to the end of the table and held up four fingers to the owner behind the counter in the kitchen.
“Number four?” he confirmed.
Luci nodded.
“So, what’s new? How’s everything going?” she asked.
“Everything’s fine. Can I go now?”
Luci cocked her head to the side and smiled.
“Seriously? You can talk that way to me if you want, Julia. But I don’t think I’ve ever been anything but courteous to you. If I’m wrong, I apologize. A girl deserves to be treated with respect, right?”
Julia averted her gaze for a moment before unfolding her arms and pressing her palms against the seat cushion at her sides.
“No, you haven’t. Don’t take it personally. I’ve been bitchy to everyone lately.”
“How come?”
“No idea.”
“How are things at home?”
“Home is fine. School sucks. Typical teenager stuff. Nothing to worry about and nothing I care to talk about. Again, don’t take it personally.”
Luci took the last sip of her coffee and smiled as an elderly waitress immediately appeared and refilled her cup.
“Okay. And I’m only going to say it once so don’t freak out on me, but you’re seventeen, soon to be eighteen. If you end up in the wrong place at the wrong time again, don’t expect any leniency.”
“From who? You?”
“Cops, prosecutors, the people in black robes—the system has little empathy and I don’t have any favors left to cash in. I’ll always be here for you if you need me, but you’re basically an adult now. Act accordingly.”
The waitress reappeared and gently placed Luci’s sandwich and fries on the table in front of her. Julia reached across the table and snatched one of the fries.
“School’s almost out—any summer plans? You’ll be a senior when you go back. How cool is that? Have you given any thought to what you might do after graduation? College, maybe?”
“I waited this long to get out of school—going right back in is the last thing on my mind. Besides, I can’t afford to even apply most places, and in case you haven’t noticed, my family doesn’t have the money to send me to BU.”
Luci took a bite of her sandwich and held a napkin over her mouth as she chewed. Over Julia’s shoulder, she saw a cruiser slowly drive by but didn’t pick up the driver or car number. She sipped from a plastic water bottle before replying, punctuating her words with a more serious tone.
“Neither could my family. But I knew that at an early age, so I worked my ass off and got a scholarship. That’s probably not an option for you right now, but there are other ways to make things happen.”
“Like what?”
“Go to community college and work your ass off. Get good grades and keep applying for scholarships. Get a job and start saving money. I’ll help you where I can, but these are decisions only you can make. It won’t be easy. Hell, even with a full ride I still had to work to cover my bills. Life was anything but easy during those four years.”
Julia stole another fry and craned her neck to survey the empty diner.
“It’s just us,” Luci said reassuringly.
“You’re so beautiful, everything you do is glamorous. The way you’re eating that nasty-ass sandwich is glamorous.”
They both laughed and Julia took another nervous look around the diner as Luci continued.
“You know, when I was in college, guys asked me out all the time but I always said no. Had to.”
“Why?”
“Partly because I was always busy either studying or working. But mostly, I was embarrassed and didn’t want anyone to know that while they were out having fun, I was usually mopping floors and cleaning other people’s toilets.”
Julia put both palms on the table and leaned forward.
“You cleaned toilets? You? Not buying it—not with those nails. Besides, I’d rather be homeless than scrub other people’s toilets.”
Luci extended her arms, spread her fingers, and smiled at her hands.
“You’re right about that. I didn’t have these nails back then.”
Julia sat back, folded her arms again, and cocked her head to one side.
“So what’s your excuse now? How come you don’t have tons of boyfriends?”
“How do you know I don’t?”
“It’s a small town. I’d know.”
“Then I guess you already have your answer,” Luci said with a smile.
Her cell phone vibrated loudly on the table next to her plate. She picked it up and checked the message.
SENDER: Sergeant Cromwell
MESSAGE: Return to station to take walk-in stolen property report
She waved at the waitress and mimicked signing the palm of her hand with an invisible pen. The waitress promptly placed the bill face down on the table as Luci wrapped up her conversation with Julia.
“We both have to go. But listen, Julia. Life has dealt you some bad cards, but that doesn’t mean you have to fold your hand. Just play the cards you’ve been dealt as best you can.”
Luci reached into her front pockets, produced a small box and a plain white envelope, and set both of them on the table. She tapped her hand first on the box and then on the envelope.
“This is for you and this is for your grandmother.”
“What’s is it?”
“Just a little gift from me to you, and some money so your grandmother can pay the phone bill and get the service reconnected. It’s been out for a month. I’m not spying on you. I cosigned for the account, so they send me notices as well. Now get out of here—I have a reputation to protect too, you know.”
Julia nodded, stuffed both items into her pockets, and started walking toward the front door. Halfway across the diner, she glanced out the window, noticed a cruiser parked across the street, and froze. She strained her eyes but could not clearly see the driver.
Creep alert.
She sighed deeply, turned around, and quickly left the diner through the rear exit.
Luci watched her leave, then flipped her check over. It said the amount due was zero. She put ten dollars on the table anyway and walked toward the kitchen to thank the owner.
Sergeant Cromwell watched from his cruiser across the street. He checked the time on his watch and made a mental note before putting the car in drive and heading toward the projects.
Twenty-six
When Julia arrived home, her grandmother was in the kitchen cooking enough rice, beans, and chicken to feed an army. She kissed her gently on the cheek and set the envelope on the counter.
“Te lo manda Luci, Abuela.” Luci sent you this.
She climbed the stairs to the second-floor bathroom and locked the door behind her. Then she pulled the small box from her pocket and opened it, finding a handwritten note and a tiny black pouch.
Julia,
You n
eed the space to become your own person so I won’t be checking in on you as much. If you need me, I will always be here for you. Until then, I’ve asked this little guy to watch over you. —Luci
Julia opened the drawstring on the pouch, held it upside down, and shook it gently until a silver necklace with a guardian angel charm slid into the palm of her hand. She grasped the clasp with two fingers, dangled the gift in front of her eyes, and smiled. Then came the tears.
Thank you, Luci.
Twenty-seven
Ghassan muted the television in the corner of the small dining room while shaking his head and muttering something under his breath in Arabic. Balancing the red tray in front of him, he wobbled his large, seventy-two-year-old frame over to the booth in front of the window. The tray pitched back and forth as he walked, but miraculously the drinks did not spill.
After placing the tray on the table and wiping his sweaty forehead with a dirty handkerchief, he squeezed himself into the booth across from Officer John McDonough.
“How long have I lived here, John?” he asked in good but heavily accented English.
McDonough grabbed his chicken shawarma and drink from the tray.
“A long time. As long as I can remember.”
“That’s right! A long time, right? Since long before this violence became so commonplace,” he said, pointing angrily at the television.
McDonough finished chewing and took a long, slow sip of fruit punch.
“What happened now?” he asked.
“Same shit. Yesterday I was sweeping in front of the restaurant and a car full of teenagers drove by me chanting “USA! USA! USA!” I’ve been an American citizen longer than they been alive. But they are just stupid kids. Their parents worry me more.”
Ghassan pulled the remote control out of his apron and clicked off the TV. “How many people live in this town? Four thousand? Five thousand?”
“About that.”
“When Aaeesha—Jesus bless her soul—and I came here from Beirut, it was half that. We came to get away from wars and live in peace. Live free or die, right? And I opened this place—the great Baba Ghassan’s! Best shawarma in all New Hampshire.”
McDonough smiled and nodded as he continued to chew.
“But over last few years, people have started treating me different. They stop talking when I enter stores and constantly ask me what I think about terrorists and Islam and all kinds of stupid shit that has nothing to do with me. When I tell them I’ve been a Christian my whole life, I can see in their eyes that they don’t believe me. None of them know anyone who was ever killed by terrorists, but I lost many friends and family to these pigs in my life. And it kills me that I have to answer for them.”
Ghassan paused, turned his head toward the kitchen, and shouted loudly and unexpectedly.
“Yasir! Yasir! Come out here!”
McDonough, startled, dropped his thick plastic cup, spilling his remaining fruit punch onto the dark wooden table. When the puddle reached the edge, blood-red droplets fell in slow motion before bursting one at a time against the white tiled floor. He sat frozen, eyes fixed on the spill, until the sound of Ghassan’s voice brought him back to the present.
“And bring a towel!”
“Shit, I’m sorry, Ghassan,” he said, trying to shake off the fog.
“No problem. I need to keep this kid busy anyway.”
The kitchen door swung open, and a thin male in his early twenties entered the dining room, wearing a Yankees cap cocked to one side. The cord from his headphones ran underneath his t-shirt to the iPhone in his front pocket. A small piece of paper towel dangled from one hand as the other danced to the hip-hop playing loudly in his ears.
Ghassan shouted louder this time.
“I said bring a towel, not a tissue! A towel, Yasir! How can you clean this mess with that?” he said, pointing at the spill with both hands.
Yasir nodded, spun around to the beat of the music, and kicked open the swinging door to the kitchen.
“And stop kicking my door!”
McDonough oscillated his gaze between the kitchen and Ghassan but said nothing.
“Don’t be deceived by appearances, John. He is even dumber than he looks.”
Yasir quickly reappeared with two white kitchen towels, headphones now wrapped around his neck. He spread the first towel out over the table, let the second drop to the floor, and used his foot to wipe up the mess. McDonough stared at the table as a small red spot appeared in center of the towel and quickly spread. He redirected his attention out the window to his cruiser in the parking lot.
“This is Yasir, my cousin’s grandchild. He is staying with me for a while.”
“Good to meet you,” said McDonough with a nod.
“Whassup?” answered Yasir with a raise of his chin.
Ghassan stifled the urge to burst out angrily again and spoke instead in a slow, deliberate tone.
“Whassup? Is that how a man speaks to another man? Can you not see he is an authority figure? Not to mention older than you, a Marine Corps veteran, and soon to be blessed by God with a son of his own. Yasir, if you want to be taken seriously in this country, you have to be a serious man.”
“Sorry, Ammu. It’s nice to meet you, sir,” Yasir said with a smile as he extended his hand to McDonough.
“Same here.”
Ghassan waited for Yasir to finish cleaning the mess and return to the kitchen before speaking.
“He is dumb as a bag of falafel, but I try not to be too hard on him because he’s been through a lot. His father moved their family—all Christians—from Lebanon to Syria for a job just before the fighting started. Almost a year ago, Yasir went to the capital to do errands for his father. By the time he returned, the whole neighborhood was blown to shit by explosions and fighting. Most of his family was dead and his two little sisters, whom he practically raised, had been taken as prisoners. So he walked over fifty miles to the Lebanese border. He’s stupid, but it’s not his fault. He just needs direction and a purpose, anything besides the hip-hop that now tortures me day and night.”
They were both chuckling at that last phrase as the radio on McDonough’s belt came to life.
“Station to Officer McDonough.”
“McDonough,” he answered.
“Can you please swing by the cemetery and speak to the caretakers about some headstones that were vandalized?”
“Roger, en route.”
He sprung to his feet and reached for his wallet.
“Go, it’s on me, John. Headstones? Jesus, help us. Is nothing sacred these days?” said Ghassan as he wiggled his way out of the booth.
McDonough peeled a ten-dollar bill from his money clip, slapped it on the table, and spoke over his shoulder on the way out the door.
“Thanks, Ghassan. Have a good one.”
As the officer reached for the cruiser’s door handle, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window and froze again. The front of his heavily starched white uniform shirt was splattered with dark red stains. He breathed deeply through his nose and reassured himself as he slowly opened the door and slid behind the wheel.
Deep breath and exhale. Deep breath and exhale. It’s not blood. It’s not blood. It’s not blood.
McDonough put the cruiser in drive and pulled away from the diner while adjusting the rear-view mirror. As he turned left onto Main Street and headed toward the cemetery, he caught a brief glimpse of Ghassan and Yasir standing expressionless, side by side, staring at him out the front window of Baba Ghassan’s.
It’s not blood, John. It’s. Not. Blood. And this is not Fallujah.
Twenty-eight
Andy O’Rourke was at the tail end of his story when Mark and Luci quietly entered the Witch Hunt. He stood on the raised hearth of the fireplace, surrounded by a sea of eager townspeople who hung on his every word in complete silence. Early in his presentation there had been one distraction, the grumbling of an old ice machine in the corner of the bar, but after seeing a few anno
ying glances, Lee Carter, the bar owner, silenced it by stepping on its cord with one foot and kicking the electrical socket with the other.
A waitress waved to Luci from the far end of the bar.
“Follow me,” Luci told Mark.
Mark obeyed the instruction and stayed close behind Luci as they weaved their way in and out of the silent multitude of men and women standing shoulder to shoulder. The waitress pointed to a small table in the corner of the bar. Luci mouthed thank you. Then she held up two fingers with one hand and brought the thumb of her other hand up to her lips, indicating that she wanted two beers. The waitress acknowledged the order with a wink and a nod.
Mark sat with his back to the wall and scanned the room. He leaned across the table and whispered to Luci, “Is it always like this here?”
“Only when he’s on stage.”
Andy moved slowly from one end of the fieldstone hearth to the other as he played to the room, his words charming the crowd. Luci and Mark did not notice the waitress as she quietly set two beers on the table without taking her eyes off the show. Andy’s voice intensified as he built to the climax. He paused methodically after each line to let his words float through the air and melt into the crowd.
“The naked man lay flat on his back, covered by a wooden plank that left only his head exposed … the crowd heckled and shamed him as their demands for a confession grew louder and louder … town officials stacked the largest stones and boulders they could find on top of the wooden plank … his face turned red as a tomato and you could hear his bones start to crack … witnesses say his eyes looked like they were going to pop right out of their sockets … his tongue was squeezed right out of his mouth and oozed down the side of his face … the sheriff used his cane to tuck it back in … and just as it seemed that the old man was about to release his final breath and cross over to the afterlife, he mustered every ounce of his remaining energy and tried to speak … the interrogator silenced the jeering townspeople and knelt next to the accused … he put his ear against the dying man’s mouth and strained to hear what he could only imagine would be a full confession … an admission that he had indeed willingly entered into an evil pact with the Prince of Darkness himself … he struggled for oxygen … then he opened his mouth and offered only two simple words for his executioners … ‘More weight!’ ”
Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel Page 8