Chapter Seven

 

          Serena yawned, stretched, and opened her eyes. Bright sunlight was streaming through the bedroom window, glinting sharply off the full length mirror on the other side of the room; that must have been what woke her up. She blinked a few times, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings, a little disoriented. Then she remembered. A smile crept across her face, and she reached with her arm to the other side of the bed, rolling her naked body over under the sheet, but there was no one there. She felt a tiny twinge of disappointment, not enough, though, to spoil her mood. She lay there motionless for a moment, thinking about the night before, a delicious blend of anticipation, excitement, and pleasure, her head pushed against the pillow, the smell of Julius’ body like some kind of exotic incense in her nostrils.

          From outside she could faintly hear the sound of cars, a bird singing, an airplane passing by, high overhead. All her senses seemed sharpened, heightened, tuned to a higher frequency than normal, the most ordinary things a source of extraordinary pleasure. There was another sound outside, movement, breathing, an occasional momentary shout. She stood up from the bed and moved to the window. Julius was in the back yard, stripped to the waist, doing his Karate exercises. He was like a beautiful black animal, smooth, potent, powerful. Definitely potent.

          When she came out of the bathroom after her shower, the arms of Julius’ bathrobe dangling almost to her fingertips, she could smell the powerful aroma of bacon coming from the kitchen, the sound of it crackling like pine cones on an open fire. She stood in the kitchen doorway, smiling, watching Julius working at the stove in utter concentration, moving like a Benihana chef. From the stereo behind her came the strains of a Coltrane saxophone solo, Softly as in a Morning Sunrise.

          “Julius,” she said quietly, “you really are a sweetheart, aren’t you?”

          “Whoa!” shouted Julius, whirling around, a spatula in one hand. “You startled me, Baby.”

          She moved over and put her arms around his waist.

“Honey, you didn’t have to cook me bacon, really.”

          “Hey, it’s fun, you know. I’m digging the smell of it, actually. It reminds me of my Mom.”

          She gave him a kiss and sat down at the kitchen table.

          “I hope you don’t mind if I just watch you work.”

          “Hell, no,” he said, turning back to the stove. “I’ll make you pour your own coffee, though, if it’s OK. We’re entering what we master chefs call a critical phase right now.”

          She poured a cup for herself, added some cream.

          “You want some?”

          “In a minute. Here, get started on this.” He shoved a plate in front of her, French toast and bacon, then grabbed a bottle of maple syrup off of one of the shelves. “Don’t wait for me. Got a little assembly line going here.”

          After a minute he sat down with his own plate, rubbing his hands together.

          “I’ll take that coffee now,” he said, pouring on some syrup. “How is everything?”

          “Fantastic. I love French toast.”

          “Alright, except –” He paused, giving her a big wink. “We call it Freedom toast now, remember?”

          “Oh God,” said Serena, shaking her head. “What a lot of crap.” She looked up, smiling. “If you’ll pardon my freedom.”

          “Yeah. Crazy, isn’t it? I can’t believe how hysterical everybody is. It’s like they almost enjoy it.” He took a few bites, paused and gestured to her with his fork. “Like, I got this friend, Carter Pearls, I don’t think you’ve met him yet, he’s almost starting to scare me. Gotten real serious, all of a sudden. Keeps talking about Condition Orange. Came over here ‘couple of days ago, all dressed up like he was gettin’ married or selling real estate or something, gave me the fuckin’ third degree about being a Muslim and reading the Koran. Keeps saying ‘people can get the wrong idea,’ like he’s already got it. Says he’s worried about me. I’m worried about him.”

          Serena finished her plate, poured herself some more coffee.

          “The way I feel about it is,” she said, “of course, terrorism is awful, and nobody wants it to get like Russia, suicide bombers and all that, but I feel so manipulated. Bush acts like if you even care about all the other stuff that he’s doing, if you even pay any attention to it, reversing abortion legislation and things like that, that you’re some kind of traitor. It’s all too convenient. It’s almost like Ben Lauden is doing him a favor.”

          “Maybe he is. You know, those two families were tight as hell, Ben Lauden’s and Bush’s. Maybe they still are, for all we know. You want anything else?”

          “No, that was great. I always dreamed I’d fall for a man who’d cook me breakfast. First time it’s ever happened, though.”

          Julius leaned over the table, looking into her eyes.

          “If I have my way, Baby, it’ll be the last.”

          She gave him a kiss.

          “Gotta check you out some more, I think. How’s your beef stroganoff?”

          She got up and moved towards the bedroom.

          “I should get dressed and get moving, actually. Get to the hotel and pack. We’re going back to the city as soon as we check out.”

          “Baby,” pleaded Julius, “stay with me today. I’ll drive you back in time for the gig tonight.”

          “I have Friday classes. I missed three days already this week. I have to go back and get to school by three, sorry.”

          “Serena, this is too good to stop. We have to work something out.”

          “Who said anything about stopping? Julius, Tony’s going to offer you a job tomorrow. He already told the band and everybody’s for it. All he has to do is ask Andrey, that’s the guy who owns the Jungle, if he’ll come up with a little more scratch to expand the group. I think you’re going to be driving to the city anyway, for Saturday’s gig. If you keep being as sweet as you have been, you can stay at my place. Unless you’d rather commute.” She turned and walked off, leaving Julius sitting at the table, his mouth wide open.

          When she came back, dressed, he was still sitting there, whistling and rolling a joint. She came over and put a hand on his shoulder, a serious look on her face.

          “Honey, I have to talk to you about something.”

          “Baby, I am one happy saxophonist. You can talk about anything you like.”

          “It’s about the pot thing.”

          “Hey, don’t worry, I won’t stink up your pad, with cigarettes or pot. I know you don’t smoke.”

          “It’s not me.” She sat down across from him. “You can smoke whatever you like at my place, as long as you keep the window open. It’s Tony.”

          “Yeah. I got the feeling he doesn’t get high.”

          “He doesn’t, and nobody else in the band does, either, at least not around the club. It’s one of his rules.”

          “No shit?”

          “No shit. He’s against all drugs, kind of fanatical about it, except tobacco and alcohol, of course. You’re going to have to be cool, if you want to stay with the band.”

          Julius considered this for a moment, holding the joint in his hand. Finally he lit it, took a drag. He sat back in his chair, his arms crossed.

          “I can live with that, I guess. Just my luck to land a gig with Mr. Squeaky Clean. The fucker can play, though, and that’s what counts.” He paused. “It won’t be a problem, baby. I’ll be good –” He gave her a wicked smile. “If you will.”

          “Don’t you worry about that, sweetheart.” She took his hand and patted it gently. “Don’t you worry about that.”

 

 

 

          Carter was just finishing his morning workout, getting ready for his run to the shopping mall and back, when the phone rang. It was getting a little easier, working out. After just three days he was already beginning to feel in a lot better shape, wondering how he had let himself get so deteriorated. He was even smoking less, cutting down on the beer. He hadn’t been down to Socrates since meeting Brightman, except that one time, and was losing his obsession with Fresno secretaries, definitely a move in the right direction, mental health-wise. He’d passed on the gun idea. After all, he’d probably be issued one when he finally went into the field – he liked that idea, going into the field – something high tech and state of the art, most likely, and he could wait for that. Until then, instead of lying around the house and watching TV, he was cruising the Fresno area in the afternoons, looking for signs of suspicious Arab-type activity. He knew he was going to be in what Brightman had called the “higher, more elite group,” but it couldn’t hurt to get a taste of what the lower grades were doing, maybe improve communication. Lots of stuff was going on, that was for sure. He had seen Arab-type individuals doing all kinds of jobs, in all kinds of positions that could be used to obstruct and possibly cripple the infrastructure, if they were activated. There was even a Mr. Khan, absolutely for sure a real Arab, working at the airport. He’d kept a little notebook of his observations, and was sure Brightman would be impressed with his gung-ho attitude.

          He picked up the phone on the third ring.

          “Hello. Pearls here.”

          “Twister Four? This is Checker.”

          It was Brightman!

          “I read you five by five, Checker,” said Carter.

          There was a pause. Carter could hear some sort of machinery in the background.

          “Twister four, are you ready to move?”

          “Packed and ready. All systems go.”

          “Good. We have a possible target. You will do your evaluation period on-the-job. Do you have a pencil handy?”

          Carter fumbled around in the drawer a moment, got a pencil and paper.

          “Ready for transcription.”

          “Very well, Twist-“ He broke off for a second, The machinery sound was muffled, like he had his hand over the phone receiver. “Twister four. This is the assembly point for your team. Write it down.”

          Carter wrote down the address, somewhere on Fifteenth Avenue, in the City.

          “Do you have that?”

          “Roger.”

          “You will meet there at oh-nine hundred hours tomorrow. Park your car at least four blocks away with no line-of-sight visibility and walk. Clear?”

          “Clear.”

          “Bring whatever you will need for a three to four week surveillance and interdiction assignment.”

          “Ah- Like what, exactly?”

          “Like a toothbrush. You’ll be supplied with food and tobacco, blankets, and all necessary equipment. But bring clothes, maybe a book to read. Our work is not always exciting, like in the movies.”

          “Understood. Three to four weeks.”

          “Right. Any questions?”

          “No questions.”

          “Very good, Twister four. Over and out.”

          “Out,” said Carter. But the line was already dead.

 

 

 

          Rimone got back to the house around four in the afternoon, a little later than usual. Traffic had been heavier than normally, particularly coming back from Berkeley, where it seemed to get worse every month, especially getting on to the weekend. When he walked into the apartment, Ghassan and Botrass were playing backgammon next to the living room window. He walked over and took a look at the board. Botrass was ahead, but Ghassan had a good back game going, and might still win.

          “Allah Akbar,” he said, putting his hand over his heart. They both stopped and did the same.

          “All went well today?” said Botrass, in Lebanese.

          “All went well,” answered Rimone. He took off his shirt and walked to the bathroom to take a shower, while the other two interrupted their game to go down to the truck for the empty trays he had collected. Mirna was in the kitchen making early preparations for the evening meal.

          When he came out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, the three of them were gathered in the living room, waiting for him. Ghassan motioned to a chair. Rimone nodded, went to the kitchen for a coke, and then returned, sinking into the chair with a sigh.

          “Mirna has something to say,” said Ghassan. They all turned to face her.

          “I was talking with Amar last night,” she began, speaking in Lebanese. “He told me that the price of property in the Los Angeles area has been rising unexpectedly recently, to our benefit. He says that our investments there are now worth over four million dollars, even if they were to be liquidated quickly.”

          The three men smiled appreciatively.

          “That is good news,” said Botrass.

          “Yes, very good,” agreed Rimone, sipping his coke.

          “I think it may be time to quit,” said Mirna.

          Their smiles faded.

          “Time to quit, just when things are going so well?” said Botrass. “That seems illogical.”

          “If you will remember, Botrass, this was our original target figure. A million dollars apiece, and my father agreed.”

          “We said we would not quit before reaching our target,” objected Botrass. “We did not say that we would quit afterwards.”

          “What we did agree upon, exactly,” said Mirna calmly, “was that four million would be enough. That is perhaps open to some interpretation. I am saying now that enough is enough. And I have reasons for saying it.”

          “Then state those reasons, please.”

          “First, I would like to hear what Ghassan and Rimone have to say, simply to the suggestion.” She looked expectantly at Ghassan. “Ghassan?”

          “I would have no objection,” answered Ghassan. “I for one am tired of being a falafel salesman, of driving a truck, of pretending to be poor when I am rich. There is as much money to be made in real estate, I feel, as in Heroin, and with far less risk. I would be glad to make our move to Los Angeles, where we could live in style, and the sooner, the better.”

          “You were always a weak sister, Ghassan,” growled Botrass, “always whining about risk, when the system we have evolved has virtually eliminated it.”

          “Please, Botrass,” said Mirna. “Let us hear from Rimone.”

          Rimone put his coke on the table and lit a cigarette.

          “If everyone is ready to quit, I will not be difficult. But I must agree with Botrass. We have a very good system, and real estate is not without its risks, though of an entirely different nature. Also, it is a fantasy to think we could ever make as much money in real estate as in the heroin business, especially considering the aggressive process of expansion that our mysterious partner, Mr. X, as he calls himself, has accomplished over the last three years, a process that he shows no signs of discontinuing.”

          “It is a process,” interrupted Ghassan, “that makes more work for us every year. Soon we will be doing nothing but making falafel and driving, with no time even for backgammon.”

          “You are afraid of everything, Ghassan,” said Botrass scornfully, “even work. Do you think there is no work in the real estate business, that you will spend your days in LA doing nothing but playing backgammon and chasing women?”

          “Be quiet, both of you,” said Mirna, “and let Rimone finish.”

          “I have said what I need to say.”

          “And that is that he agrees with me,” said Botrass excitedly. “The vote is two to two, a tie. In light of that, it is only fair that we continue as we have been.”

          Mirna turned to him with a scowl on her face.

          “Perhaps, Botrass, you have been in this country a little bit too long, if you think that the imposition of democracy is the solution to every situation. Consider what great things it has done for our fellow Muslims in Iraq.”

She stopped to take a sip of tea. No one spoke.

“As I said,” Mirna went on, “I have reasons for calling this meeting. Rimone has stated the situation very well, actually. As usual, he is the smartest, and the strongest.” She paused. “And, I might add, the most considerate of others. Nothing goes on forever. There is an end to all things – it is only a matter of recognizing when it comes. There are two reasons why I feel that this may be the proper time. One is somewhat personal, but they are related.”

She paused again, delicately smoothing out her dress with both hands.

“First of all, Serena is becoming suspicious of the situation here. We all agreed that she should be kept ignorant of what is going on, for her protection and ours. I would hope that she remains this way, and will regard our eventual move to Los Angeles as simply the product of her grandfather’s beneficence. You have all been exemplary in your behavior towards her, and for this I thank you. You have given her no reason to think other than that you are, in fact, her relatives, her distant cousins from the East. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Toufic. She has become a beautiful woman, and quite acquainted with the attentions of men. Because of this, she finds it hard to believe that he is actually a relative, or if he is, that his behavior is at all proper.”

          “The fucking idiot!” burst out Botrass, striking the table with his hand. “I told him, he stares at her like a lovesick cow.”

          Mirna held up her hand in a gesture of restraint.

          “Toufic is not entirely to blame for this. He has spent little time with Serena, and did not know her, as you all did, when she was younger and much less developed. This is partly our fault, for discouraging her presence when he is here. We are, of course, quite exposed when cutting and packaging the shipments, and she would be somewhat alarmed, to say the least, to see her mild-mannered cousins guarding the house with kalashnikovs. We could, however, have arranged for more contact between them, for the creation of a more familial relationship, one that he would find more contradiction in violating. But that is, as they say here in America, ‘water under the bridge.’ This is upsetting for me, but not so much so that I would consider quitting the business, or even calling this meeting. But it is a factor.”

She stopped again for tea, while the men kept a respectful silence.

          “The second reason for my concern is of much deeper import but, as I said earlier, related to the first. Recently I received a letter from my father. He has begun to suspect Toufic of something far more serious than lusting after his granddaughter.”

The three men exchanged significant looks. Rimone leaned forward in his chair and stared intently at Mirna, waiting.

“He told me,” continued Mirna, "that he has no actual evidence to support such suspicions, or even a clear idea as to what they specifically imply, only his feelings. However, as you all know, my father is a very intuitive man. When I had the recklessness to fall in love with an American soldier, he was kind enough to rely on this intuition in taking Cyrus into his business, and to trust him to bring his daughter to this country, which he considers to be a very dangerous place. This intuition proved to be, as usual, accurate. Cyrus was astute, clever, and cautious in his initial efforts here. Our original customers are still among our best, and have never caused us problems. His arrangement with the mysterious Mr. X, while disquieting in certain respects, has, over the years, resulted in both great profits and a degree of security quite unknown in this business. The fact that he knows who we are, but we, and even my father, do not know his identity is, on the surface, disturbing. But this anonymity also protects us from any possible paranoia and rash action on his part. As long as we control the source of supply, there is no reason for him to violate this comfortable relationship. The fact that he never handles product, and we never handle money, makes it much easier for him to make arrangements with the police, approach new customers, and discipline threats to our security. Any such threats will be met with retaliation from an entirely unknown source, a source that cannot be neutralized in advance. After Cyrus’ death, the three of you were sent here by my father primarily for my protection, a protection that has, up to now, proven to be entirely unnecessary. Rimone’s brilliant idea for the falafel business has provided the final measure of security, covering our movements and deliveries in a cloak of clichéd immigrant behavior.

“But, while we do not know Mr. X, we do know Toufic.” She paused, letting this fact sink in. “Lately my father reports a subtle change in Toufic’s behavior, when he is in Beirut. He senses a kind of impudence, not in any overt way, but, as I say, my father is a very intuitive man. While he has no concrete facts to suggest anything, he has offered me speculation on certain possibilities. There is a chance that Toufic has made contact with Mr. X, or rather that Mr. X, for whatever reason, has contacted him. There is also a chance that Toufic has sought out another source of supply, despite his long association with my family. If this is true, agreements between him and Mr. X could quite reasonably include our elimination as rivals.”

Ghassan looked over at Rimone, who now was staring down at the floor, a look of deep concentration on his face.

“Rimone. Do you think this could be true?”

Rimone raised his head and looked at Ghassan.

“It might be.” He turned to Mirna. “But, as you said, we know Toufic. How could he dare such a thing? Your father would kill him.”

“Not,” said Mirna, “if he thought that we were simply apprehended by the police, and that Toufic, being out of the country, naturally escaped arrest.”

“But then,” said Rimone, “we could simply turn him in ourselves.”

“Would you do such a thing,” said Mirna, “if you did not have absolute proof of his complicity?”

“Perhaps he would not,” said Botrass, jumping to his feet, “but I would, that miserable son of a camel driver!”

“Yes,” said Mirna, turning to Botrass with a look of disdain. “You are probably hot-headed enough to strike out at anyone you even suspected of responsibility. But probably Toufic is aware of this, as is my father, which is why he has suggested something even more diabolical as a possibility.”

“And what,” asked Ghassan quietly, “is that?”

“That Toufic may choose to work directly with the police, on the condition of immunity. My father is well aware of this soul-corrupting aspect of American law. If he were not required to testify, but only supply information, his collusion would never be suspected, and he would be free to make another arrangement with Mr. X, with someone else actually making deliveries, and from the comfort and safety of Beirut."

Botrass, who had sat down after his former outburst, rose again.

“In the name of Allah, this is intolerable! When Toufic comes again, we will question him at length, and, if necessary, beat the truth out of him.”

“Sit down, Botrass,” said Mirna sternly, “and do not invoke Allah to support your stupidity. Someday, I am afraid, your foolish temper will get you killed.”

Rimone looked over at Botrass, his face expressionless. Botrass sat down.

“Even my father,” continued Mirna in an even tone, “who is the author of these suspicions, and who, as we all know, is perfectly capable of violent action, would not support such rash and possibly unjust behavior. If this were an option, he would, I assure you, already have exercised it, and far more effectively than you could ever dream to be. No. I think that this is, considering the report I have just received from Amar, a sign that our time here in San Francisco has come to an end. I have communicated with my father, and he is willing to trust my intuition in this matter. His fortunes do not rise and fall with the California tides, and he would, as he said, kill himself if he thought that his personal greed brought me to harm.”

“When did he tell you this?” interrupted Ghassan.

“Last night. I called him from the pay phone at the corner grocery, when I went out for tomatoes, immediately following my conversation with Amar. Consider this. If, on his next visit, we tell Toufic that we have decided to quit, it will remove any motive he might have for intrigue. If indeed he is somehow plotting against us at present, he and Mr. X can celebrate a painless solution to their problems, and he will be free to tell the police that he has changed his mind. There will be nothing that they can do about this, unless they have already made preparations for his betrayal on his very next delivery. In the unlikely event that this is true, I suggest that we be especially watchful in the coming weeks, and alert to possible preparations by the police.”

“And if we suspect such preparations,” said Rimone, “what course of action would you propose?”

“I have thought about this, and would like your opinion as to my solution.”

Rimone nodded, acknowledging this token of respect.

“Please.”

“There are only two sources of danger, as I see it. One is physical possession of the heroin, and the other is the testimony of our customers, should they need to bargain for their own freedom. The money trail, which normally is central to conviction in these cases, is effectively covered by Mr. X. If this whole scenario is not indeed simply a paranoid fantasy on our part, the last person that Toufic will implicate is Mr. X. As to our customers, the police would never endanger their operation by arresting or even approaching any of them during this period. There is too much chance of alerting us to their activity. If we have reason to believe that the police are actually on the verge of some concerted action, our customers can be alerted, and be prepared. As far as the heroin is concerned, we may be able to prevent it from reaching the house or, if it does, destroy it immediately before the police arrive. If Toufic is in collusion with the police, they will probably not move until he is clear of the premises. Even if they do, if there is no evidence, and if we have further prepared by removing all incriminating paraphernalia, scales, cutting agents, guns, and so forth, they will look ridiculous, and Toufic’s complicity will be all but proven. My father can then deal with him as he sees fit, we can move to Los Angeles, and Mr. X, whoever he is, can look for another source of supply for our customers, who will at least remain unharmed and, in fact, even grateful for our timely protection of their interests.”

Rimone was smiling, staring at Mirna with open admiration. Botrass started to speak, but Rimone silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand.

“Mirna,” he said, “you are truly your father’s daughter, there can be no doubt of that. I am flattered that you would even ask for my advice. But I will think about all of this, and if I can add anything to your words, I will try to do so. I would only say now that, if we are not forced into such radical action, but simply tell Toufic that we intend to stop, we will have by his reaction to this a good indication of the truth or falseness of these suspicions. For this reason, I think that, even if we had no intention of doing so, telling Toufic this is a good idea. And I would say to Botrass that he should realize that such a declaration in no way binds us to actually stopping. We are always free to change our minds, if we decide that Toufic is innocent and that we are in no danger. In such event, he may count on my possible support. But appearing to be united in this decision, even if we are in fact not, is the best possible pose.” He turned to Botrass. “Do you understand what I am saying, Botrass?”

Botrass nodded, somewhat reluctantly.

Mirna stood up. The men did as well, giving her slight bows of respect.

“Thank you, Rimone. You have spoken well. Botrass, if Toufic is indeed absolved of these accusations, I promise to reconsider my feelings about ending our affairs here. But if not, I will insist upon taking the safest course of action, for all our sakes, and my father will support me in this. I would like your assurance that you will not make difficulties or seek some other, possibly high risk alternative. May I have it?”

Botrass gave a bigger bow, looking contrite.

“Yes, you may have my assurance in that.”

“In that case, I will finish my preparations for dinner.”

As she moved towards the kitchen, the telephone rang, and she picked it up.

“Yes?” she said, switching back to English, “Oh, hi honey.”

There was a pause.

“Cooking.”

She held the receiver close to her ear and turned to face Botrass, Ghassan, and Rimone, who still had not moved, but remained standing, watching her.

“Oh, you know, smoking and playing backgammon.”

There was another pause, as she returned their stares, listening.

“Yes, honey. That’s right. Men things.”