Chapter One

 

PATRIOTS WANTED

Reliable, patriotic men wanted for Special Service

Are you:

Tired of Terrorism?

Trustworthy?

Able to keep a secret?

Physically fit?

Without a criminal record?

Out of a job?

You will do valuable work for your country,

Earn good money,

And

Meet other men who respect you and your ideals.

Call 555-4938 for more info NOW!

 

          Carter saw the ad in the Fresno Times classified while munching a sweet roll and drinking his morning coffee. He read it over a couple of times, thinking about it, how well it described him. He was still thinking when the phone rang. It was Julius.

          “Yo. You up yet?”

          “Yeah. What do you want, Jule?”

          “You gonna watch the Raiders game today?”

          “I hadn’t thought about it.”

          “Well, I thought maybe I could come over and hang out. My TV’s broke.”

          “Yeah, I guess so. How ‘bout that twenty you owe me?”

          “Well, man, that’s in the plan for Monday, you dig? Horace is gonna pay me for the jam at Socrates tomorrow, I think, I mean, he’d better, or I’m gonna stop playin’ at his place.”

          “Right. Yeah, sure, come over. When’s the game?”

          “After the Giants and Chargers. One o’clock. I’ll bring some beer.”

          “See you then.”

          Carter hung up and poured himself some more coffee. He went into the bathroom and washed his face. He spent a few minutes staring at himself in the medicine cabinet mirror and went back to the telephone.

          “Hello,” said a friendly, masculine voice, “you have reached 555-4938. Please leave your name, address, and telephone number at the beep, and we will contact you within 72 hours. Thank you for your call.”

          “Ah... Carter Pearls, 2357 Olympic Drive, 555-9684. Ah... Thanks for taking my call.”

          He read over the ad again. Physically fit. He went into the living room and moved the coffee table away from the couch. Maybe he should work a little harder to keep in shape. After ten push-ups he stopped and stood on his knees for a few minutes, breathing hard. Shit, he thought, I can’t believe I’m so weak. Seven weeks now, almost eight, just sitting around the house. He should have been working out every day, on general principles, instead of just watching TV and sucking up coffee and beer. Not that driving a fucking fork lift was really much exercise, of course. But at least it gave him some discipline, getting up early, regular hours, that kind of thing.

          He put back the coffee table and turned on the TV. It was tuned to Fox. Orange Alert, he saw, while some stuff about a child molester in Bakersfield scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Man, he thought, these terrorists are really getting bad. He flashed around some other channels. Germans had reported some guys they busted in Hanover with pictures and maps of the Golden Gate Bridge and Portland docks. Maybe getting over to the West Coast, finally. First the Goddamn Russians, get rid of them, and now these fucking ‘Racky Terrorists. Whole friggin’ world wants to screw America, shit. All we want to do is help people get democracy, get freed up from all that totalitarian bullshit, and this is what we get. Everybody wants to be American, come over here, make some money, and when we get tired of all their welfare cheating and trying to undercut hard fought American wages, tighten up immigration a little bit, fucking sour grapes.

          He opened the icebox and popped the top on the last Bud Light. He was glad he’d stuck to light beer, even gladder he hadn’t given in to Julius and started smoking grass again. There was probably some kind of drug test for this job in the paper; all the government stuff was pretty strict these days. Even High School kids were getting it. Not that there was anything so bad about grass, but with narco-terrorism and all, it probably was better if everybody got a little straighter. Why should everybody’s money wind up in Colombia, anyway?

          Carter heard Julius’ car pulling into the driveway and walked to the window. The engine was still shuddering as he got out and kneed the door shut, a six-pack of Bud in each hand and a bag of potato chips in his teeth. He was humming some tune as he stepped lightly around the corner of the house, heading for the front steps. Carter couldn’t help swearing a little under his breath, watching Julius move. Over thirty now, two years older than Carter, and he jumped around like a teen-ager. He hadn’t seemed to have aged a bit since they had met in boot camp, still wearing his fatigue cap, no belly at all, in spite of all the beer he drank, pot he smoked, and fuckin’ junk food he ate every day. Well, black guys were like that, after all, physical, great bodies, ready to hit the jungle. There was no denying they dominated the sports world. Except for Baseball, still a lot of white guys there, and Mexicans, who were sort of white. And Julius probably still did his karate shit, although he never talked about it.

          Carter opened the front door and took one of the six-packs into the kitchen, stuffing it into the freezer to get it extra cold, then came back with a bowl for the chips. Julius had already pulled up another easy chair in front of the TV and popped the top of his beer, making himself right at home, like he did everywhere.

          “Where’s the fuckin’ remote, man? I don’t want to miss the kick-off.”

          Carter sat down heavily, took the remote out of his shirt pocket and switched off the news, which had now become some kind of farm shit, pictures of cows and tractors with a voice over. He pulled the paper off the table and threw it into the corner. He didn’t want to tell Julius about the ad, keep it to himself until he checked it out. Who knows exactly what it was all about? Keep a secret, it said, and Carter could do that; he’d always been good at that. You had to watch your associations, these days. I mean, Jule was OK, of course, but he still talked about being a Muslim, in spite of being in Desert Storm. He even had a copy of the Koran in his house, not the smartest thing to do, things being the way they were.

          It still pissed Carter off a little bit, how Julius had got sent over to Iraq, while he got stuck working in supply back in the States. Julius had laughed about it, said he never saw any real action, just drove around in Humvees and practiced putting his gas mask on and off all day, doing nothing, really. But now when they watched TV and all the action there Julius could say “Yeah, I remember that,” or stuff about the weather or how the uniform had changed. Sometimes when they were down at Socrates somebody would say “Hey Julius, weren’t you over there in ’92?” and Jule would nod his head, impressing everybody, all the girls looking at him and getting serious expressions.

          Hell, thought Carter, maybe now it’s my turn.

 

 

 

          Serena Hendricks was doing her Monday morning jog on the Golden Gate Bridge when she saw Yaro, the second time in a week. He was taking pictures again, leaning over as far as he could against the suicide barrier, a funny angle, she thought. She gave him a little wave as she went past, not wanting to break her rhythm, but not wanting to be impolite, either. She’d never really met the guy, who lived next door to her mother and the rest of the family in their apartment on Fifteenth Avenue, down the hill from the USF Hospital. They’d run into each other a few times in the hall, though, and he seemed nice enough. She’d seen him one other time, too, down at the Jungle Club, the night she’d done her audition singing with Tony Squire’s group. Not bad looking, actually. He’d been sitting at the front table with a bunch of foreign looking guys, Europeans, she thought, who’d spoken some weird language she didn’t recognize. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw him aiming at her now, snapping away.

          When she got back to her apartment she called her Mom.

          “Yes? Who is it?” Even after twenty years, the thick Lebanese accent slid out of the receiver like a lazy snake.

          “It’s me, Mom.” Serena was holding the phone against her shoulder, brushing her long, jet-black hair with both hands after her shower.

          There was a pause. “Oh. Hi honey.” Another pause, while she said something to someone else in the room. “How are you?”

          “I’m fine, Mom. Listen, I thought I’d come by and visit you this afternoon after class. You want me to bring you anything?”

          Another pause. “No, that’s OK – I mean, maybe today is not so good for that.” She sounded nervous.

          “Why not?”

          “Well, we’re kind of busy. Toufic is coming in today.”

          “So? I should come and say hello. He’s supposed to be my cousin, isn’t he?”

          “Yes. Your cousin. But the men are all waiting for him. They want to talk and smoke, you know. And play backgammon. Men things.”

          Serena threw her brush at the sofa in disgust. Men things. “While you serve them tea and hide in the kitchen, right? Mom, this is America. They shouldn’t act like that anymore. You know what Dad would have said.”

          “Your dad was not Lebanese. This is family now. They are here and you should show them respect.”

          “Yes, Mom, they’re here, in America. That means they should show you some respect. Look, I don’t care. Let them do their men things. We’ll take a walk or something, go to the park.”

          “No. It is not a good idea.” Serena heard her turn away from the phone, say something in Lebanese that she didn’t understand. Then she was back. “Honey, please do not make problems. Tomorrow you can come for dinner. Everything will be nice. Please.” She sounded really nervous.

          “Mom, is everything OK? Are you alright?”

          “Yes. Alright. But we must stop now. They are waiting for Toufic’s call.”

          Serena swore under her breath. “Shit.”

          “What did you say, honey?”

          “Nothing, Mom. OK, I’ll wait until tomorrow. I’ll call you in the morning, alright?”

          “Yes. That is good. I say goodbye now.”

          “Bye, Mom. I’m sorry if I upset you. Be well, please.”

          “Bye.”

          Serena put the phone back on the hook. If only her Dad were still alive, things would be so different. The accident had happened while she was in her last year of High School, and it had been just her and her Mom, alone for a while. When the relatives had started coming it had seemed good, at first, something to take away the sadness and give them both something to do, cooking, helping them with their English, look for a job. But they were all men. They never stopped talking in this language that Serena couldn’t understand, and smoking the big hookah, stuff she thought was grass or hash at first, but turned out to be just this really stinky tobacco. After they got the falafel business going, the smell of it mixing with the hookah, and the apartment, which had seemed so big when Serena was growing up, with her own bedroom and even a music room where she and her Dad had had so many good times together, now like a big kitchen and guys sleeping everywhere, she was so happy to get into college and move out. Her tiny apartment in Chinatown was like some kind of paradise, after that.

          She sat down at the piano and sang a few scales. It had taken four guys to wrestle the little spinet up the stairs, and almost a month’s rent to buy it, second hand, but it was worth it. It always changed her mood to play. She did a couple of tunes and then finished off with “My Funny Valentine,” like she always did, even though it made her sort of sad, sometimes. It had been her Dad’s favorite song.

          “Each day,” she sang, with a little catch in her voice, “is Val-en-tyyyyne’s ..... Day.”

          Then she grabbed her workout bag and headed down the hill to Portsmouth Square, for her Gung-fu class.

 

 

 

          That night Carter cruised over to Socrates, to catch some music, but also to pick up the twenty Julius owed him. His unemployment check wasn’t due for two more days, and he didn’t like being broke. Blackhawk Down was back in town, playing a cheep matinee at the local theater. He knew Julius would be sleeping in after a late night at the club. Supposed to be a cool flick, Blackhawk, lot of action, the kind he’d missed out on in his dumb shit stint in the army. Now things were really happening over there, just when he was too old to get in on it. He’d been good in basic. Tough, in shape, good shot with a rifle, fuckin’ gung ho as hell, but never got the chance to use it. Bad timing, that’s all. He started thinking about the ad again, while he was parking the car. He checked his face in the rear view mirror. It seemed like he was getting bags under his eyes, just dark spots, really, but it was noticeable, for sure. Probably he should go easy on the drinking tonight. The last thing he needed was being hung over, if he got interviewed.

          He saw a pair of good looking chicks going into Socrates as he locked the car. They glanced over at him, or over his way, at least, and he hurried to fall in behind them.

          “Jam Session tonight,” the sign on the door read. “Coming next week – The Tony Squire Quintet.”

          The place was only half full, no music yet, but Julius was already there. He was sitting at the table to one side of the stage with the Mexican bass player, Salvador something, who always wore a suit, even when everybody else had on jeans and a T-shirt. Looked sharp, though, no denying that. Probably helped with the girls, too. Horace, the owner, was washing glasses behind the bar, and nodded to Carter as he came in.

          Julius, glancing around from what seemed like a serious conversation, saw Carter at the door and waved him over.

          “Yo, my man,” said Carter, sidling up. He always tried to talk a little black, when he was down at the club, kind of get into the musician thing. He pulled out a chair, sitting down where he could check out the two girls he’d followed in, a couple of tables over.

          Julius gave him a high five. “Carter, you know Salvador here? Hottest bass player in Fresno. Sal, this is Carter. Old army buddy. Best shot with a rifle in the whole division.”

          Salvador nodded in Carter’s direction, not looking very impressed. Carter nodded back, waved over to Horace for a beer. Salvador looked off into space and took a drag on his cigarette. He was drinking coffee.

          “So,” said Carter, rubbing his knees with both hands, “who’s playing tonight?”

          “Steve Jones, maybe,” said Julius, “and Suky, of course.” Suky was a drummer.

          “Cool,” said Carter. He lit a cigarette with his Zippo, checking out the two girls. Doris, the waitress, was putting drinks in front of them, fru-fru things with little paper umbrellas sticking out. She moved in their direction next, balancing Carter’s beer on her tray.

          “Hi, Carter,” she said, kind o’ sulky-like, as she set down the beer. She was a little sweet on him, and it made Carter nervous. Good looking, all the waitresses at Socrates were good looking, Horace made sure of that, but too old. Thirty-five, maybe. Thirty, at least.

          “Thanks, Doris,” said Carter politely. Nice, you know, but not too encouraging. He took a sip, pushed the glass, toasting, like, towards the girls, who were turned in his direction. He knew he looked pretty cool, sitting at the musician’s table in his madras sport coat. Old, but coming back in fashion again. They both giggled and put their heads down.

          Salvador gave him a kind of look. He tapped the ash tray with his cigarette and turned to Julius.

          “So you say you know Rumi?”

          Julius nodded and crossed his arms, looking serious.

          “Sure, I know him. Powerful – really powerful.”

          “Rumi has changed my life,” said Salvador solemnly. He took in a breath, held it a second, let it out slowly. “Really changed my life. More than any non-musician ever has.”

          Julius nodded again. “Yeah. You definitely been developing a lot, last couple of months. You give Rumi credit for that?”

          “Absolutely,” said Salvador, holding his coffee cup steadily in one hand. “Everything I have learned from him, I try to practice. I cannot say that I have found a new religion.” He paused, smiled at Julius, and put down the cup without drinking. “But I have found a new source of strength.”

          Julius was still nodding. “Yeah. Rumi can do that for you. He definitely can.”

          Carter was feeling a little out of it, not really part of the conversation. Julius noticed and looked at him.

          “Sorry, man. You know who we’re talking about?”

          “No, not really. Is he that new trainer down at Gold’s?”

          Julius and Salvador looked at each other and burst out laughing. They laughed for a while, Salvador staring down at the table and shaking his head. Carter tried to keep from getting annoyed.

          Julius put his hand on Carter’s shoulder.

          “I’m sorry, man, fuck. But that was really funny. Rumi’s a poet, a Muslim poet.”

          “A Muslim poet?” said Carter, a little stupidly. Really great, he thought. I’m supposed to know some fucking Muslim poet? He stared at Salvador, then at Julius, getting serious now. “Jule, you should be cool with this Muslim shit, man. People can get the wrong idea, these days.”

          Salvador looked up at him, a smile on his face. “I don’t think you need to worry much about Rumi. He won’t be taking any flying lessons.”

          “Carter, Babe,” said Julius, “Rumi’s been dead a long time. He’s not working for Ben Lauden.”

          “That’s beside the point, Jule. The point is, Muslim shit is not happening now. It’s not cool. I been meaning to talk to you about it, as a friend. You should be a little careful with that shit, seriously.”

          Salvador was still smiling at him, dragging again on his cigarette. OK, thought Carter, be so fucking cool, you stupid ass. Fine for him, he was a Mexican. But Julius was black, and blacks were from Africa. Originally, at least. And people knew that. They could start thinking things. Julius was a friend, and Carter cared about his friends, even if they were black. I mean, shit, it was Orange Alert, now. Condition Orange. And that was serious, even in Fresno.

          Julius tried to stop smiling, not really making it. There was an awkward silence. Carter sat back and drank some of his beer. He didn’t want to cause trouble. And the girls were looking over now, sensing some kind of stuff going on. That was no good. Girls like to have fun, like the song said, not a bunch of heavy shit.