“You make a great straight man.”
“In more ways than one. Where we going?”
“The Empire?”
“Sounds good. And it’s on my way.”
As they turned to leave, Jack leaned over the hanger-on. “You’re welcome.”
The guy looked over at the still forms of the three rats, then gave a silent nod.
4
At Tenth and 22nd, the Empire Diner was a long way from the Empire State Building. Then again, maybe not. A chromed miniature of the skyscraper graced the outer corner of the flat roof.
Preston’s getup didn’t raise a single eyebrow. But then, this was Chelsea.
They took a booth by the window. Tenth Avenue traffic passed in relative silence beyond the glass as they both ordered beers—Jack a Bass, Pres a Beck’s Light.
He raised a painted eyebrow at Jack. “Usually I order something frothy with fruit and an umbrella.”
Jack deadpanned. “Frothy and fruity? You?”
“I’m a walking contradiction.”
Jack would have liked the meat loaf and mashed potatoes but they didn’t start serving that until five P.M. He settled for an Empire bleu cheese steakburger. Preston ordered something called “New York Meets Hong Kong” which turned out to be stir-fried vegetables over rice with sautéed tofu.
“You a vegetarian?”
“Nothing ethical or anything like that. I’ve no aversion to gobbling meat.”
Jack felt obliged to do an eye roll. Pres seemed to be searching for Jack’s buttons. Jack wondered if he had any. He didn’t care how people got their jollies, but he did find the constant stream of innuendo wearing. In fact, he was pretty sure Pres would make innuendo out of the word “innuendo” if given the opportunity.
“Okay, seriously.” He ran his hands down the front of his kimono. “Veggies help preserve my slim, girlish figure.”
“Which is why those guys thought you were such easy prey.”
“Exactly.”
“You gotta admit, you kind of goaded them into it.”
This time he raised both eyebrows. “Kind of?”
“Okay, deliberately and with malice aforethought. Why?”
“Because they had ‘gay basher’ written all over them. I figured they should get bashed by a gay before they tried bashing one. Now they’ll think twice.”
“Oh, more than twice, I’d say.”
“Thanks for not helping out.”
That stung. “Hey, listen—”
Preston’s expression flashed concern and his hand darted across the table to cover Jack’s hand—but only for a second.
“No sarcasm intended, Jack. I mean it: Thanks for letting the faggot handle it on his own.”
Jack shrugged. “I’ve seen you practice with those sticks. I knew who’d be walking away and who wouldn’t. But why pink?”
A sly smile. “Why not? It fits my persona. Just another prop in my performance.”
“The play?”
He laughed. “No! My life! All life is a performance.”
“Yours, maybe.”
“Oh. You think yours isn’t?”
Jack tightened inside. “What do you know of my life?”
“Nothing. That’s why I asked you to lunch.”
“I don’t get it.”
He pointed around the diner. “Look at the costumes on the performers. The twinks with the perfect haircuts and well-trimmed mustaches and too-neat clothes; the leather daddies in their biker jackets, too-tight jeans, and engineer boots; the Goths with their black clothes and their kohl and their piercings; the bears with their sleeveless flannel and exposed hirsuteness.”
“Don’t forget the weird guy in the kabuki makeup.”
“Him too!”
“You gonna leave that on all day?”
“Might. I like Japanese theater—a precursor to modern drag, you know, with males playing female parts. Now, about these people—”
“You do that makeup yourself?”
“Interrupt me once more and I will scratch your eyes out. But no, I live with the makeup artist. Desiderio is a genius, by the way. Back to these people here—they’re all fringeys, all flying their particular freak flag so they can recognize each other.”
“Fringeys, huh? Is there a manual on this?”
“Absolutely. Preston Loeb’s Field Guide to Fringey Flora and Fauna. But you must have lost yours.”
“What?”
Pres leaned forward. “Look. Like most gays I have excellent gaydar. You don’t cause the slightest blip, by the way. Not like that basher, Troy.”
Jack laughed. “What? Troy isn’t gay!”
“Please, Jack, he who yells ‘faggot’ the loudest is typically a flamer himself. I’m telling you, if that boy was any further in the closet he could see Narnia. But, in addition to gaydar, I also have excellent fringe-dar, and it howls every time I see you.”
Jack wasn’t exactly following.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It means you’re one of us.” He made a sweeping gesture across the room. “You’re a fringey. Trouble is, you hide your freak flag.”
“I never knew I had one.”
“Oh, but you do. You’ve got the biggest, hairiest freak flag of them all. I just wish I knew what it looked like. But you’ve buried it. You’ve buried it so deep even you don’t know what it looks like.”
“Maybe I don’t really have one.”
Pres was shaking his head. “Oh, no. You do. You’re the fringeyest guy in this room, Jack, but only two people know it—me and you.”
“Make that one: you.”
“You’re in denial.”
“No, I—”
“That’s your performance, Jack. You play the norm when you’re anything but.” His eyes lit. “Hey! I see a movie franchise. The Invisible Fringey! The Fringey Walks Among Us! The Fringey Strikes Back!…”
Jack leaned back and let Pres riff on movie titles while he pondered the whole question.
Freak? Fringe dweller? Me? Nah!
Then again, he’d killed two people in the past year. He guessed that would tend to put someone on the fringe of society. But he didn’t think Pres was talking about that.
What was he talking about, then?
5
When Kadir returned home from the Al-Kifah center, he was surprised to find Hadya sitting on his couch, listening to a tape. She had a yellow pad on her lap and was taking notes.
He wanted to shout his joy to Allah but restrained himself. He did not want to reveal how he was gloating inside. He had known she would submit. No one but a lifelong infidel could resist the mighty imam’s teachings.
She quickly pulled off the headphones and lay her pad aside.
“How are you, brother?” she said in Arabic. “How was your day?”
“It has been good, but I must ask you to continue your listening to the imam in the bedroom so that I may rest.”
“You’re not feeling well?”
“No-no, I’m fine. It’s just that I won’t be home tonight and need to nap now so that I’ll be fresh later.”
Her brow furrowed with concern. “Why won’t you be home?”
“That is not your concern.”
“Another errand for Sheikh Omar?”
Something about the way she said “errand” irked him—as if he was some sort of errand boy. He was on an errand for no one tonight. Sheikh Omar knew of the plan, but the plan was Kadir’s. Well, his and the man from Qatar’s.
“Hadya, you are a guest here. It is not your place to question my comings and goings.”
She lowered her head in acknowledgment. “May I ask you a question on another matter, then?”
“Of course. A question about the imam’s teachings?”
“No. At the bakery today they were talking about the brutal murder of one of Sheikh Omar’s enemies.”
Kadir’s insides tightened. “Yes. A terrible thing.”
“People think Sheikh Omar is responsible.”
/> “Lies!” he shouted.
Hadya flinched back. “But they say he issued a fatwa—”
“That is true, but this is all a plot by the FBI to discredit him in the eyes of the faithful! Why do you vex me with this nonsense?”
“Because…”
“Because why?”
“Because although his body was discovered on Thursday, they say he was murdered sometime between Tuesday night and Wednesday morning.”
A wave of cold swept over Kadir. He had a feeling where this was going.
“So?”
“Wednesday morning you came home with blood on your pants. Please tell me that didn’t come from the murdered man.”
Kadir resisted a sudden urge to throttle her. Keeping his voice low, he said, “How could you think such a thing of me?”
She shrugged. “I do not think. I am asking. You are devoted to Sheikh Omar, who declared that Mister Shalabi was no longer a Muslim. You came home after the time of his death with pants that were bloody but not torn. I can’t help but have questions.”
Kadir bottled his scream of rage. He had to put a stop to this line of thinking here and now.
He grabbed his Qur’an from the shelf and held it before him. Closing his eyes he said, “I swear by Allah that I did not in any way harm Mustafa Shalabi. Nor do I know the identity of whoever did him harm.” He opened his eyes and stared at her. “Now do you believe?”
She looked genuinely contrite. “Of course. I know your righteousness. You would never swear a false oath in the name of Allah. I am sorry I thought…” She shook her head. “It’s just…” She seemed to run out of words.
Time to act the big brother.
“I forgive you. You are new to this strange land. It is all overwhelming. I was overwhelmed too at first, but I came to see that I was here for a holy purpose.” He pointed to the tape player. “Go back to the tape. Continue your education in jihad, your enlightenment as to our true purpose here.”
She looked away and reached for the player. “Yes … my education.” She rose. “I will leave you to your nap and listen in the bedroom.”
When the door closed behind her, he held up his Qur’an and gave silent thanks to God that his sister was listening to the wisdom of the imam. He also prayed that tomorrow’s endeavor would have a successful end.
TUESDAY
1
For some reason, Jack had thought it would be a good while before the Mikulskis called, but his phone rang just two days after their scenic ride. He was pretty sure it wasn’t Abe or Cristin, so that left the brothers.
“Jack.” Black’s voice. “Word’s out: the auction goes down two A.M. tomorrow.”
Jack glanced at his clock radio. “That’s like fourteen hours. Where?”
“Amityville.”
“Sheesh. A new horror.”
“Yeah. Worse than any fucking poltergeist. I’m parked on Atlantic Avenue near Fourth, with a clean view of that refugee center we talked about. Been watching for about three hours now. We’re gonna need an extra body, so if you still want in, drive on over here and relieve me.”
Jack wasn’t sure what he wanted. He wanted the sale of children stopped, for sure, but kind of wished the Mikulskis could handle it on their own. Despite all his string cutting, he felt bonded to the two murderous brothers. On the other hand, he’d made an offer on the apartment yesterday and the real estate agent had just called back: The landlord was okay with a no-credit-record tenant if he put down extra security. Jack was scheduled to meet with her in an hour.
Priorities, priorities … the apartment could wait. Those kids couldn’t.
“I’m still in. What should I bring?”
“You’ll want your heat along because we don’t know where this’ll take us. No worry about food—couple of places with takeout here, but you might want a bottle to pee in.”
“I don’t know Brooklyn that well.”
“Fastest route is the Manhattan Bridge onto Flatbush Avenue, make a right onto Atlantic. Look for the Mark Seven on your right. I’ll give you my spot.”
“I’m on my way.”
2
“You are sure you can drive?” Mr. Drexler said as the Mercedes pulled into a Hertz lot on Coney Island Avenue in Flatbush.
Reggie sat in the backseat. The robed Arab, al-Thani, had the wheel, while the man in white commanded the front passenger spot.
Reggie flexed his knees. “Good as ever.”
Not true. They were stiff and they hurt all the time, but he didn’t want to be left out of this operation.
First off, he had a personal stake. The setup was a trap for the two guys who had broken up the biggest deal of his life. If he’d been able to wholesale those girls as planned, he’d have been pretty much set for life. Well, maybe not his whole life, but he was pushing forty and his cut would have covered a damn good fucking part of the time he had left.
But even worse, his suppliers—the people who’d delivered the girls to him—never got their cut. Well, in a way they did—a big cut of the zero Reggie collected. As a result, he couldn’t go back to his old contacts because his name was shit with them. That made the second reason all important.
He wanted—no, he needed—to prove himself useful to these people, this organization. Whoever they were, they had money, they had connections, they had power. He’d heard about groups like this, but he’d always written them off as crackpot bullshit. But he had a growing feeling that these guys were the real deal. He knew that because they didn’t refer to themselves by some bullshit name like the Illuminati or the New World Order or anything like that. He’d heard them mention “the Order,” but never anything more specific. When your organization was so powerful that you didn’t have to mention its name, that was saying something.
He smiled at that: Not saying spoke loads louder than saying.
So he needed to be an important part of this sting. He could drive—his knees were plenty good enough for that, especially since he’d be driving automatic transmission all the way.
“But you walk with a limp,” the long-robed al-Thani said.
“I kept up with you in Sea Gate, didn’t I?”
“Not quite.”
“All right, I’ll admit I ain’t as quick as I used to be. But who is? The thing is, you know I’m game. I proved that last week. And I can do this route standing on my head.”
“Sitting in the driver’s seat will be quite enough,” Mr. Drexler said.
The guy in the white suit seemed to be the head honcho here. Al-Thani answered to him, and to a third guy Reggie had never seen, referred to sometimes as “Roman” or “Trayadoor” or something like that.
Mr. Drexler added, “I hope that the possibility of being reunited with your old acquaintance Lonnie has not caused you to overstate your abilities.”
“Not even a tiny bit, Mister D. I’m good to go. I swear.”
No lie there. No chance in hell that Lonnie would show up at this shindig. Reggie had led these two on about Lonnie being involved in the heist, and how Reggie could finger Lonnie and Lonnie could finger the two guys who’d killed everybody in sight and taken off with the girls and the money. That line of bullshit had worked to give him some value to their “Order.” But after tonight, after they’d got their hands on the two shooters, Reggie would lose that value. And so he had to find other ways to make himself useful.
Mr. Drexler looked at al-Thani. “I still prefer Szeto.”
Szeto, always fucking Szeto.
Al-Thani’s lips twisted. “Let’s think about that. Szeto is not a citizen, does not have a valid license, and has never driven the route. This man is American by birth, has a legitimate license, and he’s experienced with this sort of thing. By all criteria, he’s the better choice.”
Reggie had yet to meet an Arab he liked, but he could have kissed this one—given him a little tongue, even.
“Very well,” Mr. Drexler said, turning to Reggie. “A young Palestinian named Kadir—you’ve ridden with him bef
ore—will be along for the trip.”
Reggie remembered him from the time Mr. Drexler had tried to capture Lonnie. What a royal fuckup that turned out to be. Kadir didn’t say much, which was fine with Reggie.
Al-Thani said, “All right. Go inside. Arrange a one-way rental to Arlington, Virginia. Pick up Kadir at the refugee center, and head south. He’ll have the name and address of who you are to meet. Your contact will turn the truck over to you and you will drive it to the address Kadir will give you. He will have maps for both ends so there will be no confusion. Any questions?”
Oh, yeah. Reggie had plenty. He wanted to ask why the big charade? Why not just put out the word that another multimillion-dollar deal was going down and wait for these assholes to show up?
Instead he said, “How do we contact you?”
Al-Thani handed him a slip of paper. “I will keep my mobile phone with me at all times. That is my number. Memorize it.”
Reggie studied it. A 212 area code. He committed the other seven digits to memory and handed it back.
“I ought to have one of those phones too. We always carried one when we made a run.”
“If you were transporting real cargo, I would agree. But exits and rest stops are plentiful along your route. Each has a gas station of some sort. You will have no trouble contacting us should the need arise.”
Reggie nodded. He got the message: If anything went wrong, al-Thani didn’t want anyone—cop or hijacker—finding a phone that had been used to call his number.
Like Reggie gave a shit. He’d rather have a phone along. But this wasn’t his operation and he didn’t want to make waves of any sort. Not even ripples. He’d be a good soldier and do just as he was told in the hope that maybe they’d let him join up.
Because right now his future was a black hole and this bunch was his only hope.
3
Atlantic Avenue sported two lanes each way and wide, busy sidewalks. Jack arrived around two. When he showed up, Black pulled out of his space and let him take it. Then he double-parked and eased himself into the Corvair’s passenger seat where he pointed out the place Jack was to watch.