by Jen Finelli
“Were you in the fire, miss?”
“Yes—no—I—” Asia's eyes fixed on the man standing at the back of the crowd, staring at her with his arms crossed over a chest bulging out of his form-fitting black t-shirt. “I mean, I went in,” Asia said.
“Anyone else in there?”
“I don't think so—you should talk to that guy.” She pointed, but the man disappeared around the corner.
Was that one of the angry men from the other day, or was she just profiling...
“What man, miss?”
Asia looked around for the younger guy, the one in the red durag, but he, too, had disappeared.
Asia drew a deep breath. An uneasiness settled in the base of her chest, and she had the vague sensation that something had now forever, forever changed.
Day Three
A knock on the front door drew Asia to the window after her mother. A pale, high-cheeked man in a suit waited for them with his hands folded.
“Hello?” Asia's mother asked, poking her long nose through the cracked door, ever suspicious.
Asia smiled. The man coughed.
“Yes, I'm looking for Asia Fareedi. I have a subpoena to serve for the court?”
Asia's mother looked back at her. Asia shrugged, eyes wide.
“For what?” Her mother always looked hawklike, accusatory, when she asked questions of strangers, and sometimes it embarrassed Asia, but today it comforted her. “Is she a witness about that fire?”
“No?” The suit-man appeared confused. “Didn't a police officer already come by?”
“No.”
“Oh.” The suit-man shifted weight with an uncomfortable grimace. “Uh, well, ma'am, she's under investigation for arson, isn't she?”
“You have it backwards,” Mother snapped, her long nose now raised like a sentinel's proud flag. “She saved a man from that fire.”
“Well he—the owner of the store is—pressing charges? Why didn't the police come by? I think talking about a hate crime, maybe possible terrorism, here.”
Asia's throat closed. Something buzzed in her ears. Charges? She saved his life! Dozens of the people saw it! What the—why—
Asia didn't really hear as her mother snapped something at the confused suit-man. She didn't really see her mother snatch the court papers and slam the door. She did, however, feel her mother's arms around her as they sat on the couch together...as hot tears began to roll down her cheeks.
Day Five
Asia stood outside the shell of the burnt-out store with her hands in her pockets. She'd wanted to talk to the store owner. She imagined shouting at him until she turned blue, or standing in sweet, injured silence, her eyes boring through him until he explained himself, or pouring out her soul until understanding broke forth—but here there was nothing. Just crumpled paper can-wrappers filtering to ash in the wind.
“The charges won't stick.”
A hoodied figure stepped up into Asia's peripheral vision, his face obscured. He sounded about four years older than herself, and stood about a head taller and her width wider, but his soft, rumbling voice was kind, and small.
“I believe that. It's just sad-looking here,” Asia said, still staring straight ahead. “Like autumn leaves in a black and white film.”
A gentle laugh floated from the hoodie. Asia turned to get a better look. A college kid, maybe, with Caribbean features and bronze skin under a soft smile.
“What do you know about all this?” Asia asked.
The hoodied guy looked around, and then stared back at the burnt-out shell of the store, lowering his voice further. “No one's going to testify to you saving his life, mama. They won't risk ratting out the arsonists.”
“So how would the charges disappear? Who are you?”
“I got an in with the 5-0. They know this neighborhood's jacked. I'll make sure the accusation sits in the prosecutor's office til it dies.”
The guy rocked on his heels, lifting his face to the sky. “You wanna walk downtown and grab coffee? This place ain't the safest for talking, and we're alone without a chaperone.”
Asia smiled—and then instantly frowned at her own lack of fear. He was right, she should be scared, standing here alone with a stranger at a probable crime scene with eyes peering from every silent window around them. Why was it so quiet? She looked up at him and nodded, and he turned and she followed. The wind hummed, and his footsteps clunked, almost metallic and her flats plat-plat-platted.
Metallic footsteps?
“Who are you?” she asked again.
He grinned over his shoulder at her like there was some great secret between them, a surprise just for her.
“I'm Carl,” he said.
“And you already know my name.” She didn't bother to hide the hint of annoyance in her voice as she trotted to keep up with his stride.
“I don't.” Carl gazed up into the grey sky as they rounded the corner, and the downtown bustle began around them with all the even-toned coats and tree-lights and bright store windows of gentrified city. “Didn't look it up. You're the girl who saved a guy from a fire set by the 109s. That's all you needed me to know, so that's all I know for now.” He looked back at her as he leaned on a glass door, holding it open. She looked up at the name of the coffee shop, and approved: The Angry Lady. “This okay, chica?”
Asia looked at her watch, and then back down the road behind her. The smell of vanilla arabica coffee wafted towards her.
“Yes,” Asia said.
And again, she had that distinct feeling that everything had changed.
Day Eight
Asia tightened her grip on the Kerenni bag, bending her body against the wind as the rain stung her face and she strained to keep her hijab on her head. This was the fourth day she'd be meeting Carl after school for coffee, and today, she believed, he would finally tell her what she knew already.
Carl was a superhero. The superhero, in fact, who showed up in the papers as “Mysterious Robot-Man saves Plane From Crashing” all around the neighboring county. Theoretically he was waiting to say it until he knew he could trust her, but he'd dropped so many hints Asia knew that whole bit was just him walking himself through a formality. She did that to herself, sometimes.
Like when she decided to start wearing the hijab, after that terrorist attack, when the world went insane, when her Christian cousins in Pakistan became tangled a web of tightening Shariah while her Muslim family in the States whispered frightened rumors of deportation. Explaining why she wore it to her mother—who'd just decided to stop wearing it—was more of a formality than anything else, but Asia made herself walk through it like a good daughter because she wanted to be a good daughter. Carl and Asia had other things in common, too, like a frustration with teachers who wouldn't clarify assignments, a love for basketball (“#Linsanity!”), and a hatred for those weird patterns on walls that made you dizzy if you stared at them too long.
Asia waved as she leaned against the coffee shop door, shaking out her sopping bag and breathing dragon fog into the cold air. Carl was sitting in the far corner of the shop. She almost giggled seeing him again, remembering their last exchange...
Carl didn't smile as Asia sat down. He nodded towards her purse. “Did you see the message on the community Facebook?”
“There's a community Facebook?” Asia swiveled as she drew her phone.
“Yeah, it's where everyone posts like local news and events,” he said. “No, look, I have it loaded already.”
He held his phone out to her and handed her an earbud, looking around over his shoulder as if to make sure no one was watching.
“This is your fault, little witch!” someone screamed in the earbud. “You should've let me alone! Look what you've done, you stupid terrorist!”
Asia couldn't parse the images. Fuzzy camerawork showed the racist store owner with a black eye, his arms tied behind his back as he screamed through the screen. A woman and two children cowered behind him.
“You should've left me alon
e!” he screamed.
Asia tilted her head, confused, her heart pounding hundreds of beats per minute as her mouth dried. What? What?
Two men in hoods, with guns, stood behind the half-naked family as another pair doused them in kerosene. “To the sand-n***** who messed with the fire on Tuesday,” said a garbled voice. “You are responsible for this.”
The voice continued, with instructions, and a threat, but it faded in Asia's ears like white noise. She could only hear the store clerk cursing her for saving his life. His family, he screamed...his family was all he cared about.
Carl scrolled down under the video so she could see the comments. “Fake,” “oh yeah, I know these guys, they do indie films,” “oh man this is so racist,” “no you idiot, it's a parody, check Snopes, the local news even said it's fake...” The video had gone viral nationwide. Yet because the local news network reported it as a hate hoax, only people in their neighborhood knew to fear.
It was kind of perfect.
Carl leaned back, folding his hands across his chest. “Looks like the 109s calling you out, mama.”
“But why? Why would they want me?” Asia gasped, her whisper hoarse and wet.
“You messed with their execution. You think the whole neighborhood stood there watching just for fun? They were makin' an example, about what happens when people don't pay up.” Carl thrust his finger through the air towards Asia's face. “You screwed that up.”
“And now his family's in danger, too?” Asia watched, eyes wide in horror as a masked figure slugged the wife in the face. The father's anger struck a painful tension on something inside her chest: she, too, would rather have died, than see her family suffer. She scanned the description under the video for the instructions the location of the meeting with the 109s, and stood to stuff her books back into her still-moist handbag.
“You're not gonna let the police handle it?” Carl asked, looking up without shifting.
Asia laughed, nervously. “The 109s won't negotiate with the police without me. You can call the police, tonight at 9, if you like, and tell them I'm on my way over there.” She reached forward and shook his hand. “Thanks for just—just being here these past few days. It's been crazy.”
He held her hand for a second, and stood. He looked around the shop...and leaned forward to whisper in her ear.
“If you go, they will kill you,” he hissed. “You ever been set on fire before?”
She stepped back with a scowl. “What kind of question is that? Of course not! But I can't let this family suffer for me.”
He stepped around her, blocking her exit. Another couple in the corner of the almost-empty shop looked up now. “You can't take responsibility for what someone else does,” he said.
“No, but I can take responsibility for what I do.” She side-stepped him, glaring up into his face. “What's gotten into you? You'd do the same. I know who you are.”
“I'm not going to save you,” he said.
“I'm not asking you to.” The tremor left her voice as suddenly as it'd appeared; she balled up her small fists. “I'm asking you to get out of my way.”
He relaxed, and smiled, like she'd just taken a load off his mind. She watched him for a second, curiously, as she passed him: he opened his mouth, and took a deep breath, and with a low voice brimming over with a quiet excitement, he said,
“I knew you'd say that. I just had to be sure.”
She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. He motioned her to follow him outside, and she did.
*
Carl drove her to the outskirts of town—far enough out that she began to doubt herself, and took her cellphone out of her pocket with 911 on speed dial. He drove around in circles for a bit, staring out his rearview mirror. They passed an empty stretch of highway, surrounded only by low shrubs, and sparse trees, and then they wove through a small, almost-abandoned strip mall where the only active business seemed to be a storage company. Rows and rows of storage units and warehouse spaces stretched around them.
Asia knew then that she'd screwed up. This, this was a good place to torture someone and hide a body. She angled her phone down by her jeans, and her finger stroked the call button...
“You shouldn't go with strangers to places like this,” Carl said. “You're right to have your phone out.”
Asia stiffened. Something had changed while she looked away—where before his soft, big eyes had watched the road, now glowed two blue squares. Okay, he was Robot-man, right? El Hombre Roboto. Not a serial killer, or a supervillain, or...?
“Tell me, mama, if I were gonna kill you,” he said. “When would you know?”
“Ex—excuse me?” Asia snapped.
“When should you have sent that call?”
She didn't answer. Should she send it now? Why was he asking her this? Was he toying with her?
“As soon as we left town,” he answered for her. “Now what should you do?”
She wasn't going to let him scare her. She had her finger on the phone. He didn't have a gun.
“I should grab your wheel and swerve the car driver's side first into that tree,” she said. “Then I get out and call the police.”
He thought about that for a second. He seemed to approve.
“You'd be injured so badly on impact that I'd likely have to help stop the bleeding before they got here,” she added, imagining it. She cringed. Poor man, she didn't want anyone wrapped around a steering wheel.
He stared at her through the cold blue squares. She saw now, a metal wire embedded in his skin, tracking from his eyes through his hair to the back of his head. “If I were you,” he said. “I don't think I'd come back to save my killer.”
“There are worse things than dying,” she said.
“Worse than rape?” He lowered his voice, as if ashamed of the word.
“Worse things than that, even,” she said. “Like living knowing you could've saved a life, and didn't.”
Carl shook his head. His voice became something between gentle, and afraid. “I'd never ask a victim to save her attacker's life. Is this guilt you have? Guilt for everyone who hurts you? Do you think you deserve to be mistreated?” He parked, and turned to watch her answer.
“It's not guilt, it's compassion,” she said, setting her jaw and staring him square in the face. She wasn't going to let him man-splain her a lesson in safety. She knew the dangers of being a woman. She lived this every day. This was her choice, and she let her silence burn that onto his mind.
Finally, when she was ready, she broke the quiet: “Why are you asking me these things?”
He nodded towards the silver-gray warehouse door in front of them. “If I let you in there...” he paused, breathing hard suddenly, his hand on his forehead as if he couldn't believe what was coming next. “Girl, if I let you in there, you can't have some crazy masochist guilt thing. We already know you're serious about saving dirtbags. I need to know why.”
“Because when I was a dirtbag, someone else saved me,” she said without missing a beat. “That's what loving your enemy means.”
Carl stared ahead of him for a few seconds. Then at last, with another deep breath, he clicked the remote on his car ceiling to open the warehouse door.
Andy
A soft breeze blew over the rooftop of the Daily Review, the city's largest print news outlet; its neon sign flickered and sparked like the sequins on a stripper's garb. The Daily Review had long ago begun to unclothe itself for the 109s—hard times for print plus two thousand employees with families added up to some tough money decisions for the company's president. The deal? The 109s got final say on all the news printed; the old, wheezing press got a cut of the drug money and drifted into a coma, staving off death pains with a steady morphine drip of cash.
Now the roof swarmed with armed guards, and pacing between them, circling his four hostages, snarled the 109s' lieutenant.
Andy held an old cigarette between his lips. He had to force himself not to bite down on it. He didn't like working with
the newspaper people.
Bishop had insisted, though. “It's time to show this city who's in charge,” the boss had said. “Say 5-0 rush the building. Next day, bam! Front page, Daily Review prints a scathing 'exposé' of police brutality.” He'd said exposé in a high, effeminate voice, and then laughed. “Obituaries for all the innocent reporters shot in the raid, etcetera. We got a little rumor to share about the Sheriff and his pothead secretary anyhow. You know they're both gay? Wonder what they get up to, working late hours at the office together...”
“Probably just work, Bishop. You know the Sheriff.”
“Oh, sure. But your average reader's got a stupid imagination. There's no integrity a little prejudice can't destroy.”
And if the police didn't bust in? “Even easier. Everyone will know their protectors can't protect.”
Andy paced over to the news chopper and kicked its tread. His men didn't look up—they were busy mounting a machine gun on the camera pod. His ladies already had rocket launchers on each corner of the building roof to take care of any unfriendly aircraft. They were a small squad, small enough to fly off once the deed was done, and no one downstairs knew anything to tell the police: tonight, only employees who weren't in on the deal worked. Savvy reporters all—or so they thought, the silly human shields. The whole “indie film crew” cover never failed.
On paper this should work. If the police did happen to check on the “fake” threat, they'd only prove once and for all that the Daily Review was clean and the Sheriff incompetent: Bishop made sure they kept the news building drug-free. “If you control what people think of you, you control your market. The Daily Review, Andy, they're our mouth. You don't put your money where your mouth is when your money's dirty.”
Andy took a long drag. He wondered how his mom was holding up after her diagnosis. He checked his watch. Nine PM. Time to light up the night.