"Poor baby," she said. "Let me help you with your shirt."
Another thing that Lucas liked about Weather, right from the start, was that when it came to sex, she knew what she wanted, and how to get it, and one thing she didn't want was excuses. So they rolled across the bed, talking and sometimes laughing, stroking this, pulling on that, and Weather wound up on top, straddling his hips, and said, like she might say to an overanxious horse, "Steady, boy," and "Whoa, slow down," and "Easy, there," and she rode up and down and up and down, chewing her lower lip, still wearing the shirt, but now rolled up above her breasts, moving like she wanted to, until she got to the orgasm part, and then she made a sound like a tiny steam whistle from a miniature paddle-wheel boat, urgently signaling a need for more firewood, Ooo, Ooo, Ooo, Ooooooo ...
Then, after a few moments of lying with her head on his chest, with some aftershocks, she said, "Okay, go ahead. Pay no attention if I look at my watch."
"You're in no shape to read a watch, even if you were wearing one," Lucas said, rolling her onto her back. "Brace yourself, Bridget ..."
When they were done, she asked, "You think it's a bad sign when you're funny when you're having sex?"
"Depends on what you're laughing at," Lucas said. "That wouldn't apply to myself, of course."
"I'm serious."
"I'm too screwed to be serious. So, why don't you shut up? Or, tell me something."
"What?" In the dark, turning toward him.
"Are you really not scared?"
"Background scared. But I'm not going to dodge. I'm going to do what I do."
"Not gonna fight it, not going to play us."
"No. I'm going to think about the twins, I'm going to take care of them, I'm going to put everything else out of my mind, and I'm going to let you guys take care of me."
CAPPY WAS asleep when he heard the knock on the door. He came awake in a rush, startled--nobody ever knocked for him, or even knew where he lived. It didn't sound like a cop's knock--or what he thought a cop's knock would sound like. He looked at the clock: after eleven.
Another knock.
He rolled out of bed, went to the door, left the chain on, opened it, and peeked out. Joe Mack was standing in the hallway with a sack.
"Got a sack for you," he said. More bourbon breath.
Cappy looked at him for a moment, then closed the door far enough to take off the chain, opened the door and backed up. Joe Mack stepped inside, looked like he might say something like, "Nice place," but the place was such a shithole that the comment would have been absurd, so he swallowed it and instead said, "Here."
He thrust the bag at Cappy, and Cappy took it, felt the weight, knew what it was.
He took it out: a Taurus Judge.
"Where'd you get it?"
"Up here, they got anything you want in the way of guns, if you look around. This was stole from over in Minneapolis. So it's hot, but if the cops chase you down, you say you bought it from a guy on Hennepin Avenue, you know, for self-defense, because you live in such a dangerous place."
Cappy nodded, asked, "You want a smoke?"
Joe said, "Nah, I gotta run. Got stuff to do." He left, leaving behind a cloud of alcohol breath.
The boy had it bad, Cappy thought. He got back in bed with the gun, happy, turned the cylinder, popping out the shells, dropped them on the floor, slipped the gun under his pillow. He lay awake for a few minutes, listening to the zzzzz of the electric clock, then drifted away, the hard lump under his head, relaxed and comfortable as a woolly sheep.
4
JOE MACK LEANED close to Lyle Mack and muttered, "Will you look at the tits on the--"
"Shut up, for Christ's sake. And stop fuckin' staring at them," Lyle Mack said. "You'll freak them out."
"They're freakin' me out." And Joe Mack couldn't stop staring.
Joe and Lyle Mack were out of their comfort zone, wandering through the University of Minnesota's student union, baby blondes all over the place, sweaters and wool slacks, rosy cheeks. They were ... dewy, with tits. But it wasn't just that: it was that there were so many of them.
Joe Mack had never done dewy. Ever. Or, as far as he could remember, ever been on a college campus.
LIKE TROLLS in a sorority house, the Macks traipsed through the first floor and down to the basement food court, where they found Barakat sitting in a corner, nursing a cappuccino. He was wearing a white dress shirt, buttoned to the top, and a scowl, and he shivered occasionally, though his forehead was shiny with sweat. An Arctic-level parka was sitting on a bench seat beside him.
Lyle Mack pulled up a chair and leaned forward and said, "This wasn't necessary."
Barakat leaned toward him and pitched his voice down, and snarled at them. "I'm going to tell you a one-minute story. My father, my family, is Christian, in Lebanon. This means nothing to you Americans, but to us, it meant that we had to struggle in a sea of Palestinians and Syrians who hate us. We had to defend ourselves."
Lyle Mack said, "Yeah, yeah ..."
Barakat wagged a finger at him. "Listen: I know about your silly fucking motorcycle gangs. Your Seed. Sometimes you kill one person, or two persons, these Outlaws. When I was five years old, in Lebanon, there was fighting in Beirut. Our people took a company of Hezbollah, from the basement of a department store. They gave up, or we would have burned them to death with gasoline from a tank truck, so they gave up. Huh? You understand? They surrendered. They thought, a few days in a prison camp until a cease-fire. So we, the Christians, took them out three at a time, shot them in the heads, threw them in a hole. Sixteen men. I sat on my roof eating Armenian apricots and watched. My father, my uncles, my cousins. It was like directing traffic: stand over here, stand over there, bang-bang-bang. You know what I did? I ate the apricots and laughed.
"We are here in the United States now, and start businesses. This and that. Some hard businesses. I have called my cousins, and I have told them that I have some business trouble, and that if I disappear, or if I am killed, you will kill the brothers Joe Mack and Lyle Mack from Cherries Bar. You got that? They understand business trouble; and they will do it. I told them, be safe, do it any way you can, but if you can, make it hard for them. One of my uncles, Timor, claims he once got the entire skin off a Hezbollah fighter before the man died, using nothing but a straight razor as a skinning knife. I don't know if I believe he succeeded, but I believe he tried to do it."
They sat staring for a minute, then Barakat said, "I deeply hope you believe me, because it is true. Because you stupidly killed this man in the hospital, I think that you might try to eliminate me as a witness against you. Do not do it. I promise you, there are worse things than prison."
Lyle Mack's eyes were popping out. He said, "You're telling us that somebody else knows about the job? Maybe a whole bunch of people?"
"No, no. They don't know why they will kill you, only that they must," Barakat said, shaking a finger at them. "For the family."
"Ah, crap, Al, we weren't gonna hurt you," Lyle Mack said, leaning back in the booth, putting on his best Bible-salesman's smile. "I mean, you're in as deep as we are, so we don't have to worry about you talking. If the cops crack this, we'd all go inside for the rest of our lives."
"Yes. Well, I didn't take the chance." Barakat leaned forward again. "Now: I would not sell the merchandise here. In Minneapolis. The police will be looking for it everywhere, I am thinking."
"Let us worry about that," Lyle Mack said. "First of all, we've squirreled it away--"
"Squirreled? What is this?"
"We've hidden it. Really good. Second of all, we have clubs all over the country. We'll repackage the good stuff in a couple months, when the heat's died down. Move it along to three or four different places, tell them to take care when they push it out on the street. Nobody'll know where it came from. It's not a problem."
Barakat stared at them for a moment, then leaned back, his eyes dark, and asked, "Where's my payment?"
Lyle Mack tipped his head at Joe
Mack, who glanced around, then produced what looked like a brown-bag lunch and pushed it across the table. Barakat hefted it and said, "That's no kilo."
"It's a half," Lyle Mack said. "We've got nothing so far, except some shit we're afraid to move. Soon as we move it, you'll get the other half."
"The deal was--"
"The deal was that we'd hit the place, clean it out, start selling it two days later and pay you off," Lyle Mack said. "But I don't have thirty K sitting on a shelf, and this whole fucked-up guy, the guy who died, this has changed everything. Don't worry: we want to keep you happy. But it'll be a while. Maybe a couple months. No longer."
"Two months," Barakat said. "All right, two months." He stuffed the bag in his parka pocket, then said, "Here is something else for you to think about. Sometimes, you get hurt, you motorcycle people. And you do not want to go to the hospital, because then the police will know. I am one very good emergency room specialist. I can help you--and your friends, people you recommend--and nobody has to know about it. Think about that. I am of more value alive."
"You're really worried," Lyle Mack said.
"Of course I'm worried," Barakat said. "You killed this man out of stupidity. You could kill me out of stupidity. Or because you think you're being smart. I don't want your mistakes to kill me."
"Don't know if I'd care to get operated on by a guy with a fuckin' orangutan on his back," Joe Mack said.
Barakat's eyes flicked to Lyle Mack, then back to Joe Mack. "Orangutan?"
"Really big monkey," Joe Mack said.
Barakat shook his head: "What? Monkey?"
"Forget it," Lyle Mack said. "It's an old American joke." He stood up, jerked a thumb at Joe Mack, who pushed away from the table and stood.
"See you around, Doc," Joe Mack said. "Try to ... relax."
"Wait, wait," Barakat said. "What about the woman?"
"Just keep cool," Joe Mack said. "We're working on that."
"But what happened? I haven't heard anything," Barakat said.
"You did just fine. The deal wasn't quite right, and our man called it off," Lyle Mack lied. "We're thinking over some other possibilities. So stand by, and we'll get back to you."
"I don't want to have anything to do with it, anymore. You people . . ." He flicked a hand that said, You people are flies.
Lyle Mack jabbed a finger at him: "You might have to. She got a good look at Joe. If they pull his picture, she could bite us on the ass. We need her tracked; we'll get back to you on that."
"She's on the twin-separation team ..."
"You said that. We don't give a fuck," Lyle Mack said.
"That means that she'll be here every day for the next few days. One of the twins is having heart problems. The operation is taking longer than they thought. So ... you know where she'll be. Every morning she comes, at the same time. I can't help you much more than that."
"We'll get back to you," Lyle Mack repeated.
They sat staring at each other for a minute, then Joe Mack said, "You know, Al, if we don't get her, and she fingers me, and it's your fault . . . well, we won't worry so much about your fuckin' family, then. I'd be looking at thirty years."
"Worse things than jail," Barakat repeated.
"Something for you to remember, too," Joe Mack said. "I got a chain saw in my garage. You hang me up, I'll cut you in half, the long way, balls first."
More staring, then Barakat said, "If you need some specific thing, call me. On my cell, all the time. But don't call me from your bar, or from your houses."
"We got clean cells," Lyle Mack said.
Barakat slid out of the booth. "And don't call me Al," he said. He walked away.
ON THE WAY OUT of the student union, Joe Mack asked Lyle Mack, "You believe that thing, about skinning the guy alive?"
"Hey, they're fuckin' Arabs or something," Lyle Mack said. "Who knows what they'd get up to?"
"You know, he's a harder guy than I thought," Joe Mack said. "I don't think he was kiddin' about all that."
BARAKAT WALKED the bundle of cocaine out to his car, locked himself in, checked the ramp, then unrolled the sack and took out the Ziploc bag inside. Half a kilo: it looked right. And pure, crystalline white. Gorgeous. The Macks had said that it would be straight, unstepped-on; he'd believe it when he tried it.
And he'd try it now. A terrible risk: anyone could come along. Somebody could be walking down the ramp, quietly, see him in the car ... but he was going to do it anyway.
He took his briefcase off the passenger seat, opened it, took out a paperback book with a slick cover, closed the briefcase and put it on his lap. Looked around again. His hands were shaking as he shook a pile of coke onto the paperback. The pile was the size of the last joint on his little finger. He dipped his little finger into it and tasted it. Tasted fine.
Still a little worried. Coke was sometimes cut with strychnine to boost the rush--that's what he'd heard, anyway. What if they'd added a little extra? But it tasted fine ... and clean. Coke was cut with lactose, mannitol, lidocaine, dextrose, all kinds of other shit. He looked at the little pile, felt the cold sweat on his forehead.
Mentally flicked back to the Beirut story he'd told the Macks: all bullshit, an accumulation of legends he'd picked up from kids at school. But he was worried about the Macks.
He looked again at the pile of cocaine. Didn't matter if there was strychnine in it, he thought. He couldn't wait. He fished the cafeteria straw out of his pocket, made a last check, and snorted the stuff up.
One minute later, the world had changed.
First the rush, like electricity running through his nerves; then the power, the brightness, the focus.
Better than sex.
THAT NIGHT, Adnan Shaheen let himself into Barakat's house, called out, "Alain?" Shaheen was a short man with a fuzzy, bushy mustache, dark-complected, soft brown eyes. He was wearing a parka over a white, hip-length physician's coat. He was in his first year of residency in internal medicine. "Alain, are you there?"
Barakat's car was in the driveway Instead of an answer, Shaheen got a thump from the back bedroom. Like a body hitting the floor.
"Alain?" He went back, down the hall. "Alain?" Pushed open the bedroom door. Barakat was sitting on the floor, back to the bed, his head back, eyes closed, saliva running over his lips and down his chin. He was wearing a sleeveless undershirt, boxer shorts, and over-the-calf socks. His shoes were on the floor between his legs.
"Ah no," Shaheen said. He grasped the hair at the sides of his head, as though he were going to tear it out.
"Go away," said Barakat.
Shaheen ignored him, squatted on the rug next to the other man, switched to Arabic. "What is it? Cocaine? What have you taken?"
Barakat opened his eyes. "Maybe ... too much. Better now." He giggled. "Pretty bad an hour ago. That was very, very crazy. You know. My blood was ... on fire."
Shaheen stood up and turned on the bedside lamp, and Barakat shouted, "Off . . . turn it off!"
Shaheen turned the lamp off, but not before he saw the baggie of cocaine on the nightstand. A lot of cocaine. Too much.
"Where did you get this?" he asked. He poked a finger at the bag, but was careful not to touch it.
"Got some money."
"Not this much money," Shaheen said. "Three days ago, you borrowed two hundred dollars from me."
"Go away," Barakat said.
Shaheen looked at him for a long moment, then said, "If your father knew, he might disown you."
"So don't tell him," Barakat said. He waved his arms around, struggling to get up. His eyes were black as coal. "Gotta get something to eat."
"Sit on the bed. I'll get you something . . ."
Barakat shook his head, as if to clear it. Shaheen walked out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into the kitchen. Opened the refrigerator: empty, except for a bottle of olives. Checked the cupboards, where Barakat sometimes kept cereal. Nothing. There was no food in the house.
He went back to the bedroom, where
Barakat was staring down at his shoes. His sport coat was thrown over a chair, and Shaheen picked it up, took Barakat's wallet out of the breast pocket, opened it. Ten or fifteen dollars, a five and a wad of ones.
"You have no money for food, even," Shaheen said. "Where did you get this cocaine? What have you done?"
"Fuck you," Barakat said in English. He pushed himself up, went to the cocaine, picked up the bag, pushed it in the drawer of the nightstand. Then, "You know what I need? I need falafel. A lot of falafel. I need three kilos of falafel, right now. And coffee. Lots of coffee."
"You have to go to work . . ."
Barakat shook his head. "I'm on day shift for two weeks."
SHAHEEN AND BARAKAT had grown up together, Shaheen's family as servants of the Barakats; servants for generations. While Barakat was fouling out at one private school after another, Shaheen was thriving. He won a scholarship to the American University of Beirut, to study biology, the first of his family to finish high school, much less go to college. Barakat went off to Paris, wedged into the anything-goes foreign division of the Sorbonne, where he majored in women, wine, kief and cocaine.
Shaheen had spent a jobless year after graduation, his biology degree almost useless in a country that was falling apart. Then one day old man Barakat came to see him and they struck a deal.
Barakat was floundering in Paris. Five years, no degree in sight. Shaheen would go to Paris, move in with him, get him through school, get him through the medical exams, get him into a medical school in the U.S.
Get him through it, no matter how ...
And Shaheen would go with him.
A journey of seven years, but they'd done it. They struggled, cheated, fought with each other, and Barakat--who was smart enough, if lazy--managed to scrape through. Shaheen did very well. Not quite as well as he would have on his own, because he was studying for two, and if anyone had found out how they'd cheated on virtually every test they took, they'd both be out on their ears.
But now it was almost done. Once through their residencies, they'd go their separate ways--Shaheen back to Miami, he thought, Barakat back to Europe, or perhaps LA. Someplace warm, where he wouldn't have to work too hard.