Prayers for the assassin

CHAPTER 9

Rakkim walked quickly from the Four Kings department store and stepped onto the Pike Street bus. From a seat at the back, he looked out through the rear window, saw no one following him. He kept watch for eight blocks anyway.

It was a habit, this herky-jerky street ballet, doubling back, cutting through abandoned buildings and open-air markets. He rarely spotted anyone trailing him, but often enough; Redbeard’s agents, he supposed, or undercover cops trolling for trouble. Truth be told, he preferred the oblique moves. His caution had saved his life more than once during his first years in the Fedayeen, saved his squad from ambush when he was in combat. The others thought him lucky, favored by Allah, and fought to stay close to him. Rakkim didn’t have the heart to tell them that luck was not a fire, warming those around it. Luck, like the favor of Allah, was a black hole. You either fell in or you didn’t.

After his conversation with Dr. Barrie at the university, Rakkim had driven to the Mecca Café, had a cup of coffee and some conversation with the waitress, and then drove back downtown. After parking the borrowed car, he took a side trip through the crowd at the public market before pushing through the revolving doors of the Four Kings. He had already decided to contact Spider.

He got off the bus at First Hill, joined a swarm of glum hospital workers starting their shift at the nearby veterans’ facility. He stayed with them for a block, listening to their complaints about the hospital administrators, before heading toward the Reservoir District, slogging through the puddles that dotted the sidewalk.

The Reservoir District was a blue-collar section of the city, mostly Catholics and lapsed Muslims, a mix of shabby houses and low-rent businesses. Bulky housewives in plastic coats hurried through the rain, while men gathered around burn barrels, arguing and passing around bottles in paper bags. Go to Mosque was spray-painted on the alley wall, Go to Fuck scrawled beside it in Magic Marker-a dangerous rejoinder, blasphemy could cost a tongue. An ancient Lexus perched on blocks in the front yard of one house, tires flat, rusting quietly in the drizzle. The sidewalks here were crumbling, the street signs stolen to confound the police or strangers.

The bananas under the awnings of the grocery shops were soft and brown, the apples wormy. A music store blared the latest atonal thrash, the bare-chested redhead behind the counter covered in mirror tattoos. Dog shit everywhere. No matter how poor they were, it seemed every Catholic family had at least one dog, a quiet show of defiance to the Muslim majority, who considered the dog an unclean animal. No devout Muslim would enter a home that had a dog inside-you might as well expect them to kiss a pig. Rakkim stepped onto the grass to avoid a steaming-fresh pile in the middle of the sidewalk and had to agree the Muslims were right.

Rain dripped down his collar as Rakkim stepped inside the three-chair barbershop, the outdated laser shears buzzing away. The mutt beside the door looked up at him, yipped once, then put its head back down. Shaking off the rain, he walked past the waiting customers and took a seat on the shoeshine throne at the rear of the shop. He grabbed a well-thumbed newsmagazine and put his boots up.

“Regular or deluxe?” sniffed Elroy. He had a cold. Elroy always had a cold.

“Why don’t you give them that special sealer treatment,” said Rakkim, glancing at a photo of the president congratulating troops home from the Quebec front. Someone had drawn horns on the president’s head. He turned the page. “The stuff with the mink oil.”

Elroy slowly unscrewed one of his tins of paste wax. He was about twelve, small and thin, a surly kid with unruly black hair and hooded eyes. His nose was small, of course, a real button. Rakkim heard that it had been an eagle beak before Spider had it fixed. Spider got all his kids’ noses fixed so they didn’t look anything like him. Too Semitic, too dangerous. Not that Rakkim had ever seen Spider. No one had, but that was the rumor.

Rakkim had used Spider’s expertise five or six times in the last few years, usually to check out the bona fides of people who wanted to emigrate, making sure they weren’t setting him up, or to help with escape routes. Once Spider had hacked the municipal computer system of Boise, Idaho, and learned the disposition of the police and border patrol, even came up with a count of their night-vision goggles, including model number and condition of the batteries. Boise had been a good exit point, a regular sieve until another travel agent, a sloppy greedhead, had gotten snapped trying to ease a party of seventeen along the Snake River. Seventeen. Idiot must have thought he was leading a wagon train. Donner party was more like it. They were all executed, men, women, and children. Rakkim had seen the live feed at the Blue Moon, not reacting. Boise was finished. You couldn’t get a snail darter through there undetected now.

It had been Mardi who had put him in contact with Spider. One of Spider’s older kids worked as a dishwasher at the Blue Moon, a myopic fifteen-year-old carrying a double academic load at the high school. Mardi let him sleep at the club when he wasn’t with his family. Rakkim had no idea how many kids Spider had. Mardi said they were seeded all over the city, hard workers one and all, smart too. When Rakkim wanted to deal with Spider, he went through Elroy instead of the dishwasher. Another oblique move.

“How’s business?” asked Rakkim.

“Too many cheapies.” Elroy dipped a rag into the black paste, slowly circling the can. His fingernails were bitten to nubs, rimmed with shoe polish. “The losers around here have no pride in their appearance. They’d wear wooden shoes if they thought they could get away with it.” He carefully worked the polish into Rakkim’s polymer-toed boots. “These head-bangers of yours are all right. Who’d you steal ’em from?”

“Some guy who would have probably given you a huge tip.” Rakkim turned the page of the magazine. There was a full-page ad for the Palestine Adventures outside San Francisco, happy families waving to the camera, the kids in plastic suicide-belts, hoisting AK-47s to the sky. “You ever been to Palestine Adventures?”

“Yeah, me and the grand mufti rode the crazy bus together,” said Elroy, starting on the other boot. “Great ride. I ate a pork chop and puked all over my explosive vest.”

Rakkim looked toward the front of the shop, but no one was paying them any attention. He sat back and let Elroy work, enjoying the slap of the shine rag, and the buzzing of the laser. A game show on the wall screen, no holographic converter. Not worth watching. Besides, the questions were too easy.

“You’re done,” said Elroy.

Rakkim stared at his boots. “Mecca Café,” he said quietly, reaching into his pocket for money. “They have two computers, but I don’t know which one I’m interested in, so ask Spider to hack them both. I want anything incoming and outgoing from last Friday, between eight A.M. and ten A.M.” He paid Elroy for the shine, tipped him fat.

Elroy sniffed. “Wow, now I can go to the college of my choice.”

Rakkim tossed him a ballpoint pen. “Is this yours?” He watched Elroy pin it to the collar of his T-shirt. “There’s two memory cores inside that.” He had pulled one from Sarah’s home computer and one from the office clunker before Dr. Barrie had showed up. “I’d like Spider to take a look at them.”

“All this rain we’ve had…you’re going to need another treatment in about a week.”

“I can’t wait a week.”

“Could get expensive.”

Rakkim stood up. “Whatever it costs.”

“Where’s Simmons?” asked Mardi.

“Mr. Simmons’s in the hospital with an infection of some kind. I don’t really know the details.” Darwin smiled at her, set his case down on the desk in her office. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to settle for me.”

“I’ve been buying my hooch from Simmons since I opened this joint. I trust him. You’re just a guy who walked in off the street.”

“We work for the same outfit. Same prices. Same high quality.” Darwin tapped the case. A tiny blood spot was on it. One of his private jokes. “Same samples case. See the monogram?” He winked at her. “Simmons told me to watch out for you. He said you drive a hard bargain.”

Mardi leaned against her desk, crossed her long legs. “I don’t like being fucked over.”

“I’m not here to fuck you over.” Darwin touched his necktie. A real rube gesture, the nervous suitor. She was a knockout. Catholic bitch with a spattering of freckles on her bare arms, and fine blond down on her upper lip. A real screamer, he was sure of it. He plucked a bottle from the case, laid out a couple of shot glasses on the desk. “We’re introducing a new, high-end product.”

Mardi eyed the shots he poured. He was generous. Not like Simmons, who barely wet the bottom of his samples. “Our customers aren’t particularly interested in quality.” She picked up her glass, held it up to the light. Appreciating the light caramel color. “They’re interested in a good time and being able to afford enough hooch to get the job done.”

Darwin clicked glasses with her. Filled his mouth, savoring the shot before letting it slide all warm and cozy down his throat. She had done the same thing. He smiled at her.

Mardi smiled back.

“I never tasted real Kentucky bourbon, but I’m told this is almost as good,” said Darwin.

Mardi licked her lips. “Not bad.”

“Simmons was right. You are a tough customer.”

“What’s a case of this hooch cost?”

“For you?” Darwin looked at the ceiling, calculating. “Seven hundred…no, make that six-fifty.”

Mardi shook her head. “I’d have to get twenty dollars a shot to make it pay.”

Darwin refilled her glass, saw the surprise in her glance. Pleasure too. “Think of it as a loss leader, a specialty item to bring people. All the clubs in the Zone offer the same watery beer and bathtub hooch. The Blue Moon would be a unique destination.” He clicked glasses with her, toasted her tits with his eyes. “Like your sign says, R U Having Fun Yet?”

Mardi sipped the shot.

Darwin watched her swallow, aroused at the way her throat worked. Hot and excited and utterly focused. If he could kill her right now, things would be perfect. Priorities, though. The Old One had made that clear. Time enough for killing later. Anticipation was supposed to be a boon to pleasure, but there was nothing like a quick kill. A sudden kill. God’s own lightning bolt.

“What are you thinking?”

Darwin smiled. “How much I love my work.”

Mardi pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

Darwin lit her up. “Where’s your partner?”

“He took the day off.”

“Too bad. Simmons says he’s quite a character.” The Old One said Rakkim was tough and full of tricks. A challenge, the old man had said, knowing that would set Darwin’s mouth watering. The photos sent to his phone showed a knotty, hard-eyed modern, more macho than stylish, a real danger ranger. Just the way Darwin liked them.

He had been lying in bed when the old man called, dream-stating with his happy memories. The old man had offered him the assignment, then wanted to get off the phone as soon as he could, but Darwin had kept him on the line, asking about his health and prize horses and all his lovely children. The old man stayed polite as always, smooth, but with just the faintest edge to his voice. No one but Darwin would have detected it.

Darwin watched smoke trickle from her nostrils. “I’m going to be in town for a few more days. I’d really like to meet him.” He laid his card on the desk. “Just give me a call. Not too often I get to shake hands with a Fedayeen.”

Mardi shrugged.

Darwin topped up her glass. “Don’t tell my boss I’m giving away the profit.”

“Are you trying to get me drunk, Darwin?”

“You look to me like a woman who can handle herself. Can I put you down for a case? Or do you need to talk to your partner first?”

Her eyes flashed. “Like I said, I don’t think I can make it pay.”

“Nonsense. Saint Patrick’s Day is just around the corner. It might not be a sanctioned holiday, but you know what they say.” Darwin clicked glasses with her. “On Saint Paddy’s Day the whole world is Catholic.”