Midas

22

They got a table at Art’s Deco Diner, a casual place in the middle of town, decorated in black and white and chrome. It was on Main Street, tucked between the 1950s-style movie theater that usually showed artsy foreign films, and an equally old-fashioned five-and-dime. Art had owned the restaurant for years, periodically changing its identity so it didn’t become as stuck in the past as his neighbors on either side. At various times he’d had a small art gallery, a Zen temple, a resting room for pets, and a video arcade at the front of the restaurant; for the past year he’d converted the space into a bookstore with a short rack of magazines and international newspapers. Art was in his early fifties and knew his way around a kitchen. Anytime anyone mentioned to him that he was a terrific chef, he always said the same thing: “Cook. Not chef. I’m a cook. Big difference.”

Bruno Pecozzi didn’t care about the difference. He loved the food at the Deco Diner, and to prove it, after everyone had given their orders to the waiter, Bruno ordered two complete pork chop lunches, including two orders of mashed potatoes, two mixed green salads, and two orders of spinach. While they were waiting for the food to arrive, he began to regale them with stories about life on the movie set. Justin couldn’t help notice that while he talked, one of Connie Martin’s hands was firmly planted on Bruno’s thigh.

Midway through the lunch, the front door opened and three of Justin’s police officers sauntered in-Mike Haversham, Gary Jenkins, and Reggie Bokkenheuser. As they headed for their booth, they all saw Justin, hesitated, unsure exactly what the social protocol called for, then continued on. As they passed by, Gary and Mike mumbled, “Hey, Chief,” and gave a half wave, but didn’t slow down. Reggie stopped to say hello, realized that Mike and Gary had left her behind, so she flushed red and started to hurry to join them. But Justin reached her, touched her wrist, so she slowed again, then stopped, taking a step back so she could face the table. Justin introduced her around. He saw the surprise on her face when he told her the older man at the table was his father, and she showed no reaction when he gave her Bruno’s name, except for her eyes, which couldn’t help but scan his bulk and widen a bit in awe. She smiled at Connie Martin and said that she was a big fan. Connie smiled graciously in return, then Reggie moved on to join her coworkers.

“Cops are definitely gettin’ better-lookin’,” Bruno said.

Justin shrugged off the comment, but he could see the way his father and Bruno were looking at him. Bruno’s gaze shifted from Justin over to Reggie, then back to Justin. He didn’t say another word about it, just nodded as if he’d confirmed something in his own mind.

The lunch went on, Justin’s father a bit amazed at Bruno’s stories, Roger Mallone finally regaining some color in his face, and then the phone at the bar rang and, as part of the background, he heard Art answer the phone, say, louder than normal, “What?! Jesus Christ!” Justin turned around, saw Art hurriedly slam the phone down, go to the television that hung in the corner of the bar, and use the remote control to click it on. Art switched to CNN and Justin saw several customers get up and rush to stand in front of the TV. He heard the solemn tone of the commentator, then without saying anything, he too stood and moved to the bar. He found himself standing next to Reggie, and he realized the entire restaurant had surged forward. They were all circling the television, and there was total silence except for the newscaster’s voice, saying, “Again, this just breaking story coming to us from outside Washington, D.C. Edwin McElvy is standing by outside the McDonald’s in Silver Spring, Maryland, the site of what is apparently the latest suicide terrorist bombing here on American soil. Edwin?”

The scene on the television shifted to an African American reporter standing across the street from a McDonald’s. In the background, firemen were working fervently to put out the flames that enveloped the boxlike structure. The building was basically a shell, with smoke clouding whatever was left standing. The odd thing was that the golden arches in front of the building-the ultimate corporate symbol-had been untouched. The smoke seemed to give them a divine glow as they loomed above and behind the newscaster.

“Thank you, Al. Another tragic bombing has occurred, the third on American soil in the past several weeks, this time shattering this quiet D.C. suburb and striking at perhaps the ultimate symbol of American culture. The bomber, who was killed in the explosion, apparently strolled into the fast-food restaurant at approximately one-thirty this afternoon, a little over half an hour ago. According to one of the two survivors, a young woman who worked behind the counter, a Middle Eastern-looking man came in, walked up to a customer, a woman in her forties, who was there with two young children, and said something to her. The witness, a young woman named Dinitia Ogilvie, did not hear what was said, but she reports that the woman began to scream uncontrollably. Mere moments later, the bomb went off. Approximately fifteen customers were killed, along with the entire McDonald’s staff, with the exception of Ms. Ogilvie.”

“Edwin, excuse me for interrupting.” This was from the first newscaster, Al something, back in the studio. “Were there any survivors other than Ms. Ogilvie?”

“One little girl survived, Al. I don’t have any of the details, or any identification. The only information I’ve got is that she seemed to be around eight or nine years old and she was hurt quite badly. She’s been taken to St. Joseph’s Hospital in Washington where the medics were not sanguine about her chances, but, of course, right now the whole world is hoping and praying for her and we’ll keep everyone apprised of her condition. It’s somewhat of a miracle she’s made it this far.”

“Thank you. Is there any information at all about the bomber himself or about the reason for this particular target?”

“Right now, Al, we don’t know anything about the bomber. The FBI has not been able to even enter the building so far. As you can see, firemen are still battling to put out the blaze. So anything I reported would be merely conjecture or rumor, and that’s not what the situation calls for.”

“No, that’s absolutely right. Thank you, Edwin McElvy. A very good job under very difficult and traumatic circumstances. We’ll be back to you as events develop.”

The newscaster began a rehash of recent events-the explosions at Harper’s and La Cucina-and Justin turned away. He was overcome by something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Rage. He could feel the blood rushing to his head and he looked down to find his hands clenched. The customers at Art’s had broken their silence now but Justin couldn’t understand anything they were saying. It was a cacophony of noise and, as he started to sway at the bar, he felt the rush of conversation turn into something physical and stifling and he realized he had to get out of there fast. He was going to burst and he knew what could happen, what he was capable of, when things burst inside of him. So he began pushing his way through the crowd. Head down, he made a path for the front door, vaguely aware that his father was watching him curiously, that Bruno saw what was happening, that someone was in his way but then Bruno was there and the guy was gone, lifted out of Justin’s path, then Justin was outside, on Main Street, in the cold. He’d left his jacket inside the restaurant but he was sweating as he stood on the street. His breath was coming hard and quick. He forced himself to slow it down. He remembered what Deena had taught him during her yoga lessons: breathe deeply, breathe through the nose, let the breath go all the way through, feel it in your face and your neck, your chest, all the way down and out. .

He was feeling better. The world was coming back into focus. The red and yellow lights that were flashing behind his eyes had gone away. And then he felt someone come out from behind him, step out from the restaurant to join him on the street. He turned. It was Reggie. She’d left her coat behind, too, and as she stepped to be beside him, her arms went wrapped around her torso and she shivered. They stood together, saying nothing, until she spoke quietly and gently.

“You all right?”

He liked the way she said it. Not condescending, not even too curious about what had set him off. Just concerned and letting him know that’s the way she felt, no judgment involved.

He nodded. “Better,” he said.

“It just got to you, huh? I mean, another explosion.”

This time he shook his head and she looked surprised. “So what?” she asked.

“It was the target. The people who got killed there.” He swallowed deeply. Took another slow yoga breath.

“What target?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “You mean specific people?” This time, when he gave a quick, curt nod, she said, “But they don’t know who was in the place. They don’t know the identity of the victims yet.”

“I do,” Justin said.

“How can-”

“Where was I yesterday?” he asked. And when her eyes just narrowed, he said, “Silver Spring.”

“You’re talking about the pilot’s family.”

“Yeah.”

“But just ’cause you were there, that doesn’t mean-”

“Yes it does.”

She kept quiet, stared at him intently as if trying to figure out which one he was: smart or crazy.

“The little girl I talked to. She said she and her sister wanted to go to McDonald’s but their mother was too afraid to take them out. I told her she’d get to go soon, that she should help her mother get over her fear.” He exhaled an icy breath. “I guess she felt a little safer after I left. Or else she didn’t care anymore.”

“Jay, you don’t really know it was them.”

“A little nine-year-old girl. Hannah. They said the guy, the bomber, went up to a woman with two kids. The one that’s still alive, barely, they said she was eight or nine. A mother and two kids, same age, it’s not a coincidence. I went and talked to them and now they’re dead. Or might as well be.”

“Why?” she breathed. “Why would they kill a mother and two little girls?”

“I don’t know,” he said. And shaking his head, he said it again. “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out. I’m going to find out why and I’m going to find out who.”

She kept quiet now, which was the right thing to do. They stood out there together, maybe ten more minutes, until Bruno came out, alone.

“You want me to take your dad and that other guy to the airport?” he asked Justin.

Justin nodded.

“You gonna need me for anything after that?”

“No. Thank you.”

“I don’t like this shit either, Jay. So if you need my particular skill sets, whenever that might be, I’m offerin’.”

Justin raised his eyes wearily, an acceptance of Bruno’s offer. Then Bruno went inside, returned a few moments later with Jonathan Westwood, Roger Mallone, and Connie Martin. The actress looked concerned. Mallone looked frightened. Justin’s father was impassive. He said nothing to his son, but he did reach out and gently squeeze his arm.

“Bruno,” Justin said. “Check with the pilot. Make sure no one, and I mean no one, had any physical contact with the plane. If anyone did, make sure it’s checked out before it takes off.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Jonathan said. “It’s my usual pilot. He couldn’t be more trustworthy.”

“But these aren’t the usual circumstances,” Justin told him. To Bruno he said, “Check out every little detail.”

“If you need anything, let me know,” his father told him.

“Hopefully, you’ve given me enough. But I will. Thank you.”

“Jay,” his father said, then stopped. His lips were pursed as if the words were stuck inside.

“Go ahead and say whatever you want to say.”

“The thing is, I don’t think I have anything to say. I feel like I should give you some advice, but I doubt there’s anything I could tell you that you don’t already know.”

“I guess we’ll see soon enough,” Justin said.

Jonathan nodded crisply and Bruno led his group down Main Street to where his SUV was parked. Justin couldn’t help himself; he held his breath when the engine started up. As the car pulled onto the road, he relaxed.

“The big guy. Bruno,” Reggie said. “What are his particular skill sets?”

“Pretty much what you think they are.”

“Must be nice to have so many people who want to help you out.”

“I guess it is.”

“You need any more help?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I’m gonna need all the help I can get.”