Dead Bang (31 page)

Manny whispered into the mike, “I saw a sign that said, ‘In God we trust. All others pay cash.'”

He stood straight and put the telephone back to his face. “No, I didn't do that. … I told you three times. … You know what people here say? … People who don't even know you. … They say ‘Have a nice day.' … You call me, my uncle, and you say, ‘Did you blow yourself up?'”

Into the mike Manny squeaked, “How could I answer the telephone?”

Back to the telephone, Manny went on, “When I don't answer the telephone, that's when. … No, I didn't drive it!” He dropped the telephone on the floor and stepped on it. The crowd laughed. Hoots and whistles spiced the applause.

“Mahmud Salim,” said the emcee into the mike. Manny took a bow for a round of applause, walked off the stage, and whispered something to Mr. Unibrow, while he handed over the sheet.

Manny walked toward our table, his eyes fixed on Wendy and me. Now and again, he made a wave or shook a hand, but as he approached the table his glower gathered heat. Standing in front of us, he folded his hands.

Mr. Unibrow followed Manny. With nods and gestures, the sheet wadded under his arm, he gathered a beef trust of buff and cut young men and herded them to our table.

Manny glanced to his left and right, sighed, and said, “Three times I have spared your lives. Three times I have been labeled a fool. Now you make me kill you.”

“Can't tell the players without a program,” I said and took the photocopies of the bank statement Agent Azzara had faxed to me out of my pocket. I handed them around to Manny's entourage. The men looked at each other, at Manny, and then at the papers. Manny grabbed one, scowled at it, and all but levitated. He grabbed up the copies, saying something in Arabic, and the men filtered back to their seats.

Manny pulled up a seat. He looked around the club and then at me with astonished eyes. He said, “You have lost your mind.”

Mr. Unibrow took the remaining seat at our table. I said, “I was pretty sure you wouldn't foul your own nest.”

Manny shook the photocopies at me. “Do you have any idea—”

“Hey,” I said, “you're the one who stole a suitcase of money from his friends.”

Manny closed his eyes and wagged his head. “It was not so much money as you think, and I don't have to explain to you—”

“What's to explain?” I asked. “You betrayed your faith and your friends for money. Maybe there's a special ring in hell for a man who sells his soul for chicken feed.”

After a sigh, Manny looked at me with cow eyes and said, “But I have done many good things.”

“And what would that be?” asked Wendy. “Like telling a band of cutthroats that Karen had the money?”

“You listen,” said Manny, wagging a finger. “Karen took money and burned my face.”

“Karen doesn't have the money,” said Wendy. “You have it. And some of these zealot assholes—”

“These are good men, they have—”

“They have Karen,” said Wendy. “Because you stole the money and lied.”

“It is not a lie,” said Manny. “Karen has money. A lot of money. We found some in her bedroom, but not the rest.”

“We threw money all over,” I said. “The police have it.”

“No,” said Manny. “You think I don't know how much money—”

“Manny,” I said. “It doesn't matter. These good men are killing each other because you lied. Some kid tried to kill his own brother in my yard. One of the guys that came to Karen's house ended up strangled in the trunk of Khan's Lincoln.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” said Manny.

“You weren't too sorry to have your friend with the single eyebrow, here”—I pointed—“slaughter some dumb bastard and cremate him in the trunk of a car.”

“We are serious people,” said Manny. “Perhaps that is something you should think about.”

“We found you and the money,” said Wendy. “Maybe you should think about that.”

Mr. Unibrow said, “This man who is dead in the Lincoln? This man has a beard?”

“Yes,” said Wendy. “He also had a rope twisted tight around his neck with a tire iron. It's the man I cracked in the head with a chair.”

“Ahmad Saada,” said Mr. Unibrow. “You broke his jaw?”

I said, “Was probably me—”

“Allah be praised,” said Mr. Unibrow, falling back in his chair.

“—when I butt stroked him with the AKR.”

“He meant to kill us,” said Wendy.

“The Zionists murdered his sister's family in Gaza,” said Mr. Unibrow. “You know where is this man Khan, now?”

“Probably on his third day without sleep, peddling bullshit in his birthday suit, and handcuffed to a table,” I said.

“The American authorities have him?” asked Manny.

“That I am sorry to hear,” said Mr. Unibrow.

Manny let his head droop. “What do you want?”

“Karen,” said Wendy.

Not looking up, Manny said, “I don't have Karen.”

“But you know how to find her,” I said.

“How can I do that?” asked Manny, with a shrug, offering his open hands.

“Manny, I made a hundred copies of this bank statement.” I looked at my watch. “Over on McDougall, there's a couple of young men shopping for a video to rent. Unless I call them, they're going to put one of these statements on every windshield in the neighborhood.”

Manny snapped up his head. “You are lying.”

“Go ahead and believe that,” I said. “And while you're at it, try to believe the American authorities don't know who you are, where you are, or where the money is.”

“So, I have nothing to lose,” said Manny. “Maybe that's not good for you.”

“In my world, you have nothing to lose,” I said. “In your world, you have everything to gain.”

“If I can find Karen, what of this money?”

“Find her or not, you've got a heads up,” I said. “What time does the bank open?”

“The American authorities? If I find Karen?”

“The American authorities will come for you, sooner or later,” I said. “But as long as Karen is being held, you're on their short list of things to do.”

Manny spoke to Mr. Unibrow in Arabic. He resisted Manny's instructions but finally nodded, abandoned the sheet on the table, and left the club.

“This could take a few minutes,” said Manny.

I waved at a waitress. Manny and Wendy ordered tea. I had another Molson's. The waitress departed, and I said, “So tell me why you decided to blow up a one-horse TV station in a popsicle outpost like Grand Rapids.”

“When I was chasing Karen, and you were chasing me—”

“On Twenty-eighth Street?” I asked.

“Whatever street, I don't know. Anyway, just when the truck hit my van, the radio announcer said you were to be on
The Mark Behler Show.”

“So you were angry with me?”

Manny fashioned his face into a congenial smile. “Not at all,” he said. “It was just then that I realized that you would recognize my voice.”

“And I would tell the authorities, they would think you were dead and stop looking for you.”

“It seems not to have worked,” said Manny, his smile sagging and his shoulders going round as if his entire body had begun to deflate.

“Who got blown up?”

“Ricky,” said Manny.

“Ricky?” I said. “Doesn't sound Islamic.”

“American,” said Manny. “A troubled young man who sought shelter in Islam. He chose the name Mohammed, but don't they all?”

“And he just blew himself up?”

“He was told the button merely set a timer,” said Manny. “But in his heart, he wanted to be a martyr. He told me as much.”

“He said, ‘I want to explode myself?'”

“Ricky was a flop with the chicks,” said Manny, straight again in his chair, his wan smile fading to a sneer. “The martyr's reward of immediate entry to heaven and seventy-two virgins appealed to him. He told me. Now, his earthly troubles are over, and he has his reward.”

“He trusted you,” said Wendy.

“He surrendered his life to Allah,” said Manny. “Nothing happens but that it serves Allah.”

“How is it you serve Allah?” I asked. “You're a talented man.” I fanned the sheet on the table with the back of my hand. “You've gathered some business interests. Still, you're involved in these terrible—”

“And I am an electrical engineer,” said Manny. “Did you know that?”

“Nope,” I said.

“I had a good life growing up. Privileged, some would say. We had fine automobiles, travel, and many servants. I began my education in the U.S. at Georgia Tech. Suddenly, there was no money. I finished my degree in Riyadh, but even a Saudi firm will not hire me—because of too much study of the Koran and too little study of the logarithm tables.”

Our drinks arrived. Manny said, “There was no money for a master's degree. No money to start a business. No money for a good marriage. Did you think I should carry baggage like some hotel Pakistani? No! There was money for jihad. Lots of money. So here I am.”

“Why all this jihad?” asked Wendy, shaking down two packs of sugar to tear open for her tea.

Manny laughed. “I am not so sure it matters why. It matters that it is.”

“Recruit me,” I said.

“There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet,” said Manny.

“This can't be about religion,” said Wendy. “All faiths are welcome in the West.”

“So you say. But every Arab you see, you think, ‘Here is a terrorist.'
That is good! Every mosque, ‘There is a cabal of zealots.' Even better! It serves us well for you to think that way. I wish it were true.”

Manny poured his tea into a glass and swirled it to cool the contents. “Most are merely preoccupied with their lives, their businesses, and their families. They were mortified on the eleventh of September, and on the twelfth they were afraid to leave their homes.”

“I haven't heard a lot of condemnation from them,” I said.

“Silence leaves the options open. Family members still in the Middle East are safer. It is not good to step on the toes that are connected to the ass you may have to kiss next.”

“I find that hard to believe,” said Wendy.

“You believe in Khan,” said Manny. He tested the temperature of his tea on his upper lip and then took a sip. “In Kashmir, Khan burned Hindus as they slept in their beds.”

“I don't believe that either,” said Wendy.

“Good,” said Manny. “We need Americans to go on believing what they think they know.” He sipped his tea and savored the flavor as it slid over his palate. “We trust your popular media to feed you sound bites and leave aside occasional pesky facts.”

“What's the pesky fact about Khan?” I asked. “Even if I don't want to believe it.”

“Khan is what is next,” said Manny. “A new wave, independent and focused on many small, but spectacular, attacks. By your standards a ‘very sick puppy.' I had hoped he would not survive his encounters with you. You only beat him when you could have killed him.” Manny fell back in his chair and wagged his tea glass at me. “Oh, you shot the woman in the restaurant”—Manny let his eyes fall shut—”and who would know you walk your dog unarmed?” Manny shrugged. “I do the best I can.”

“So, all you want is the world for Islam?” I asked.

“Islam is our remaining treasure,” said Manny. “When the oil is gone, we will have only the Western decadence we purchased with the oil. Men will be dogs on the leashes of women.”

“You wouldn't want to have women as equals?” asked Wendy.

“Women should serve the word of Allah,” said Manny.

“But your comedy routine?” I asked.

“Ouna is a woman,” said Manny. “Don't you see?”

“Completely in the dark,” I said.

Manny waved a dismissive hand. “In the West, men have come to think as women.”

“But your routine is funny—well, funnier in Windsor than it would
be in Detroit. In Detroit, running around with a sheet on your head would have a limited future,” I said.

Manny pointed a finger. “There, see, that is funny. Funny is answering a conflict with a surprising truth. What number would you call if you wished to summon the police, the fire department, or an ambulance?” asked Manny.

“Nine-eleven,” said Wendy.

Manny showed his open palms. “Comedy!”

I had a surprising truth in mind for Manny, but Mr. Unibrow walked back into the club carrying a brown shopping bag and sat down at the table. “You know of Southfield?”

“North of Detroit,” I said.

“On Marshal Street, a house south of Twelve Mile Road, not too far, less than half way to Eleven Mile and on the west side of the street. A wooden house, not brick, with an attached garage. In the driveway, a white Ford Explorer with an Ontario plate. I don't have the address,” he said and gave me a scrap of paper bearing an Ontario license plate number.

“You will now call your young men and have them bring the copies here,” said Manny.

From the shopping bag Mr. Unibrow produced a Walther PPK pistol with a generic automotive oil filter—white with black lettering—threaded to the muzzle, and rested it on the table pointed at me.

“That's very naughty, here in Canada,” I said.

Manny piled the sheet on top of the pistol. “When we have copies you may leave,” said Manny.

“Fine,” I said, and looked at Wendy. “Why not go call 'em, hon?”

Wendy finished her tea and gathered up her purse and sweater. “I have to use the pay phone.”

“Wait,” said Manny. “Don't you have a cell phone?”

“In the car,” said Wendy. “I think yours is broken.”

Mr. Unibrow looked at Manny and shrugged. “I have used all the battery of mine.”