Judas Laughed: The 56th Man, #11

By J. Clayton Rogers

As a doula hired to provide guidance and support to pregnant women, Amani Abdelhamid's foremost concern is for the well-being of mothers and their much-anticipated newborns.  One of her appointments goes terribly awry when she arrives to find the mother-to-be, Najat Tagouri, bleeding to death in her bedroom.  To make matters worse, her husband is lying on the floor, also dying.  Within a matter of minutes, Amani's life takes a terrible turn when the police find what appears to be the murder weapon in her hand.  Charged with three counts of homicide (including the fetus), her future looks very bleak.

No one who knows the doula accepts her guilt.  This includes Nahibab Sadiq, who operates a posh shelter for women out of her Richmond mansion.  Several of her guests (and one employee) have Amani as their doula.  At their urging, Nahibab hires Ari Ciminon (the 56th Man) to prove Amani's innocence.

Ari immediately becomes entangled with lawyers, social workers, bail bondsmen, an Arabic voice performer who mimics Mel Blanc, a novice PI, a grouchy imam, Latino and Hispanic immigrant laborers and Lubna Obaid—a death doula.

But Ari is on the clock.  His injured wife Rana is due to arrive at Portsmouth Naval Hospital within days, if not hours.  Riven by guilt because of a sexual indiscretion, he is desperate to make amends.  His long-anticipated reconciliation is threatened when he is caught up in a turf war between a cantina owner and a powerful drug cartel.  Yet there is more at stake.  A dark cloud hovers over Ari's future.  Even his cat suspects the reunion with Rana might cost Ari his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Clayton Rogers
• Release date: Aug 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9798223217008

J. Clayton Rogers

I am the author of more than ten novels. I was born and raised in Virginia, where I currently reside. I was First-Place Winner of the Hollins Literary Festival a number of years ago. Among the judges were Thomas (Little Big Man) Berger and R.M.W. Dillard, poet and husband of the writer Annie Dillard.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Amani Abdelhamid dreaded her visits to Najat Tagouri.  There was not a twitch or turn in Najat's abdomen that did not trigger fear more appropriate to the plague than pregnancy.  Yes, it was her first baby.  Some apprehension was only to be expected.  Her morning sickness had subsided soon after the first trimester, but the sore breasts, vaginal discharge and vague, generalized pain put Najat into a perpetual funk.  Amani tried to reassure her that all those extra trips to the toilet were nothing but normal.  In fact, there was growing evidence that they could be beneficial to the fetus.  And the occasional vomiting eliminated potential toxins that could cause birth defects or lower IQ's.  Really, it was not as if Najat was breaking new ground in the grand scheme of procreation.  The Neal Armstrong experience was reserved for the new human.  'That's one small step for you, but a whole new universe for me.  What have I gotten myself into?'

It was a doula's job to assist, not perform the actual delivery.  Amani was neither obstetrician nor midwife.  There were certain borders she dared not even approach, let alone cross.  Up to 2005 midwifery had been illegal in Virginia, and was still viewed with suspicion by the medical establishment.  The skeptical husband of one of her clients had accused Amani of being little more than a New Age witchdoctor.  This comment had come as a surprise.  Common sense dictated that, from conception to the final product, the birthing process was more congenial if the father put on at least a show of sympathetic participation, no matter how much he'd rather be out bowling with his chums.  Amani did her best to draw in all principal parties to the happy event, but no matter how often women assured her that their husbands were willing participants—more than willing, in fact—the truth too often proved otherwise.  To varying degrees, the wives were deluded.  And the husbands of her Muslim customers would much prefer to be off drinking tea with their buddies and...well, bowling.  Or playing football on an improvised pitch set up on one of Richmond's abandoned lots or underused baseball fields.  Or simply working overtime at their jobs.  And truly, few women, Muslim or otherwise, wanted husbands who clasped their hands in delight every moment of their pregnancy, who squealed whenever a fetus did a goal kick in the womb.  Even Amani had to admit that the very few men who had joined their wives at prenatal yoga sessions seemed a little...odd.  Her own father (she was told) had been sitting across from his mistress at Al-Areesha in downtown Baghdad the night she was born.

She was fourteen when he was killed while setting up a propane tank lashed to a rocket aimed at the Green Zone—not far, in fact, from the Al-Areesha Restaurant where he had schmoozed his girlfriend.  He had been an inveterate smoker, and Amani sometimes wondered if he had lit up while strapping the rocket to the propane.  If so, this boded ill for her genetic inheritance, brain-wise.  These days, she often did online IQ tests to prove to herself that she was above average.  Yet she sometimes wondered if her lack of emotion at her father's death might not be an indication of mental impairment.  She believed sentiment could be a window on intelligence.

She was lucky the little Amani fetus had not been starved of nutrition.  While her family received the usual DPR (Daily Personal Ration) that was part of the Oil for Food Program, the Saddam Regime had been tightfisted on the chick peas, lentils, shortening, sugar, flour, rice and tea that was due the average household.  Fortunately, her miscreant father had been a part-owner of the very restaurant near which he had died.  She did not remember him as being particularly nationalist.  He was more preoccupied with the football scores coming out of Basra International Stadium.  Maybe he was pissed off at the Americans for killing so many of his patrons, sending the Al-Areesha to rack and ruin.  But a rocket attached to a propane tank...?

Still, he had provided plenty of food for Amani's mother, brothers and sisters.  It might come as leftovers from the restaurant, but it arrived at their house as amazing roasted chicken, catfish and red rice.  Protein many Iraqis could only dream of.  Amani's little brain was well-nourished.  Too bad it was not as well-loved.  Not that she saw her childhood as particularly deprived, if you dismissed the occasional war and, later, roadside bomb.  Her now-late father had never raised a hand to his children and was perfectly respectful towards his wife—as well he should be, since she was his bookkeeper.  In reflective moments, Amani realized the only thing unusual about him was the way he had died.  She had never quite shaken the feeling that there was something heroic about it, even if it did not amount to anything more than epic stupidity.

He had also left his family enough money to leave the country, an option that looked more and more desirable in the chaos following the invasion.  Two of Amani's brothers were kidnapped.  Her mother paid the ransom, of course, but the widow of a prominent Sunni entrepreneur would always be a target for the gangs operating under the nose of the Coalition.  Several of her father's former customers had slipped under the American radar and reclaimed their old posts at the Ministry of Interior, which had not been dissolved after the war.  Recalling Amani's father and his superb Djal bil bahar il-asfar with outsized affection, they managed to obtain Special Immigration Visas from the Americans for the widow and her family.  Amani could only imagine the bureaucratic jugglery involved.  For one, these visas were only available to those who had acted as translators or otherwise assisted the Americans and whose lives were now worth little more than mud.  Perhaps someone had tweaked the story of his demise.  Her father had blown up a terrorist who was trying to disturb the sleep of soldiers sleeping snugly in the Green Zone.  That the terrorist he slew was himself could be safely ignored.  But the real miracle was the fact that SIV's were limited to 50 a year.  Amani's mother had suggested Allah decided they were better off in CONUS than impoverished by assembly line abduction, to be eventually killed off when they could no longer meet the ransom demands.  Several years later, on her death bed, her mother admitted that some skullduggery had been involved.  A deputy mission director with USAID had fallen in love with an Iraqi woman and wanted to bring her back as his wife once his tour was over.  The woman was convinced to withhold her consent until the deputy director helped speed the Abdelhamid family past the Chief of Mission, the USCIS petition, the visa applications, the interviews and the squinty eyes of various officials suffering (in Amani's mother's estimation) from syphilis of the brain.  In the meantime, another of Amani's brothers was kidnapped.  He was returned very much the worse for wear after the ransom was paid, so no one in the family was in the mood to ask what means were used to persuade the USAID deputy's beloved to delay acceptance of his marriage proposal.

There was something about Najat Tagouri's husband, Yahia, that reminded Amani of her father.  Part owner of a glass installation and repair shop, he made a good living replacing cracked windshields and insulated house windows breached by the insidious atmosphere that gave life but fogged double-panes.  Najat had assured Amani that he was a full participant in the doula philosophy.  This seemed to be true.  He sometimes made time from his job to sit down with the women in the living room as Amani addressed Najat's concerns and went over the latest lab results from her obstetrician.  Every so often he emitted grunts of impatience, to be expected from any prospective father.  Like most of the men Amani encountered, he was unwilling to join prenatal yoga sessions—which she had always felt was odd, considering some of the positions resembled the sujud, the Islamic prostration before God.  Did they consider it blasphemy to bow not in prayer, but to enhance the health of a mother and baby?  Otherwise, Yahia behaved better than some men she could name.  His pouting was limited, his condescension to the doula provider muted.  There were no indicators of abuse—beyond what Amani had seen in her own father.  He was a 'let's get on with it' type of man, with an air of benign indifference.

Except...there was that time he had raised his fist threateningly, when Amani insisted Najat needed a cell phone of her own....

It could only be hoped that his first love was work, because Amani thought it obvious that Najat, plump Najat, plain-faced Najat, hypochondriac Najat, was not the primary mover in his life.  Catering to antique notions, Amani made furtive hints on how she could improve her appearance and behavior.  This was not only to increase her attractiveness to Yahia, but to make her slightly less...repulsive.  Because even Amani, so open-minded, so tolerant of divergence from Middle Eastern folkways yet so open to Western habits, found Najat a bit hard to swallow.  Watching Najat grunting and rolling around on her Manduka Yoga Mat, Amani had to suppress a desire to kick her.  Cut out the Kentucky Fried Chicken!  If you want to stop shitting grease, put a brake on your fast-food diet!  And indeed, Amani made gentle, corrective observations.  Yahia was no help in this direction, often bringing home buckets of Xtra-Crispy that Najat could not help but to absorb into her mass.

The bottom line, though, was that a pregnant woman's issues with the body in her body had much to do with the body that had put it there.  Something was wrong between Najat and Yahia.  Something Amani could not quite pinpoint.  Was Yahia Amani's father all over again?  A good provider and all-round neglector?  Did he yawn and droop when she approached him with affection?  Or was it the less than scintillating Najat who swooned with indifference?

Then there were the rumors floating about the Arab community about someone so sinister that, in some minds, he amounted to a two-legged, venomous lizard.  He was a spy, a blackmailer, a killer or all of the above.  Fellow Arabs were his targets.  He had the obscene ability to intrude on their lives unseen and unsuspected.  Najat had a superstitious streak a mile wide, something Amani did not know about until it was too late, when she noticed Najat had begun wearing a taʿwiz, an amulet bearing verses from the Koran to ward off evil.

You told me yourself about this man.

It's only gossip! Amani had covered her eyes.  I was trying to entertain you!  To make you laugh at some of the silly things being said...to take your mind off your pain.

What if he comes and steals my baby! Najat practically wailed.  What if he demands a ransom?  What if Yahia refuses to...

Certainly, she had not been about to suggest that her husband would be so cheap.  He, too, would want his newborn returned safe and sound to his mother's breast.  (A male heir was taken for granted.)  But of course, Najat knew her husband better than Amani did.

Amani liked to joke that she was a born doula.  Najat had not caught the pun.  Nor, for that matter, had Yahia.

Her heart sank a little when she saw Yahia's van in the small driveway.  'Joe & Ned's Glass Specialists' was stenciled neatly on the side.  She had yet to learn if Yahia was Joe or Ned.  More and more Arab names were being proudly bannered on Richmond businesses, and not just corner halal shops.  But Yahia's partner, Jihad Fataki, had been born in the States.  He was a high school teen on 9/11, and never got over the trauma he had been subjected to by his classmates.  He could not accept that Americans would want their glass fixed by 'Jihad & Yahia.'  Which made sense, 'Jihad' being a somewhat loaded word for the locals.  Holy warriors tended to break glass, not mend it.  Yahia was not inclined to talk about his business to Amani, but she got the impression 'Joe & Ned' did not bother him in the least, so long as the cash rolled in.  But by chance she learned that Yahia had stopped his infrequent visits to the mosque after facing criticism.  Was he ashamed of his name?  It was a hell of a lot more palatable than 'Jihad'.  But the Arabic cachet was notable.  Was he so greedy that he would cast his heritage aside for a greenback?

Amani was not one to withhold judgements from her interior tête-à-têtes, but they remained unspoken, for the most part.  Who was she to tell a man how to operate his business?  She had a number of non-Muslim clients, herself, and made sure to subdue her beliefs in their presence.  Even those eager to display their liberal credentials received muted responses, especially when they asked (gently, in all kindness) why she wore the hijab.  Didn't she think it smacked a teeny-weeny bit of male domination?  This might be true, from their point of view.  But she did not share their point of view.  If there was one Western idea that she had absorbed (up to a point) it was that much depended upon where one stood.  And yet...not everything was relative.

It was uncommon for Yahia to show up for one of her pre-scheduled one o'clock weekday appointments with Najat.  Threesomes were reserved for the weekend, when the glass shop was closed.  Since doting upon his pregnant wife was not his forte, it was almost unthinkable for him to strike out for home during work hours.  Had Najat pleaded with him to attend today's session?  That was unlikely.  While she sometimes murmured her appreciation of her husband's interest, shyness and prudery combined in her expression whenever the female anatomy was discussed in his presence.  Not at all unusual and not one of the road signs indicating a lack of affection.  Having no family members in Richmond, it was only normal for Najat to choose Amani as a confidante in matters beyond her pregnancy.  Amani learned all about Yahia's defects.  He violated all sorts of Islamic hygienic rules and regs, did not shave his pubic or arm hair (true, doing so caused him to break out in a rash), used a Colgate toothbrush instead of a miswak before Prayer, limited himself to toilet paper instead of washing his posterior with water, as dictated by the Qaḍāʾ al-Ḥājah, talked loudly to his wife and wolfed potato chips while on the toilet (ugh!), and his burping was only exceeded by his 'reverse burping' (as Najat put it).  These and many other complaints fell upon Amani's ears like twisted nails.  Yahia came across as a disgusting camel, while sluggish Najat was a veritable saint of womanly patience.  Amani found her litany of woes vaguely repulsive.  Najat might not have family in the area, but she could have gathered around her a coterie of sympathetic Muslim women had she been more attendant to her natal religion.  But she had no friends at the mosque.  So far as Amani could determine, she had no friends at all.  Her sourness repelled anyone who tried to draw close to her.  So that now, in her hour of need, she had no choice but to draw the doula into her dreary orbit.

Why was Yahia here?  As she got out of her car, Amani decided that, whatever the reason, his presence would stifle all of Najat's bleating about him.  He might clump around the house (after a brief pause for a show of sympathy towards his wife), but Amani would hear nothing more about his soiled underwear.

As she walked up the driveway, she heard music coming from the Joe & Ned van.

Desde hace tiempo ya nada es igual

No eres la misma y me tratas mal....

Amani had a few Hispanic clients, whom she treated gingerly.  Her fees were minimal.  Unable to afford health care, they mistook her for a cut-rate midwife—her protests notwithstanding.  In the end, she was lucky that their deliveries had so far been problem-free.  They had showered her with little gifts from The Dollar Store.  More lucratively, their husbands had performed free contracting services on her small house off Glenside.  Any plumbing issues could be solved with a simple phone call.  Gratis.  The IRS glowered upon barter economics and she had to tread carefully.

Amani had heard quite lot of Spanish rock and pop in those proletarian apartments.  She knew what she was hearing.  Why was Maxima playing on Yahia's van radio?  Had he suddenly gone Latino?  This would undoubtedly provide one more arrow in Najat's quiver of complaints.  As she nudged past the van on the narrow driveway she looked inside.  No driver, no passenger.  Then why was the key still in the ignition, on accessory mode?  Yahia protected his property as fiercely as a piranha guarded a two-legged meal that had fallen out of a canoe.  There were few muggings or murders in this neighborhood, but theft was so common that the city placed solar-powered message boards that flashed at every intersection: Lock It Or Lose It!  Yahia was not a man who needed reminding on that score.

She was tempted to open the door and remove the key from the ignition.  Such a precaution might be appreciated.  Or it might be seen as a criticism of male irresponsibility.  She decided it would be best to give Yahia a friendly reminder once she was inside.  He would still probably see it as an insult.  So be it.  Far better her being fired for stepping out of line than Najat suffering his re-directed wrath if the van was stolen.

She rang the doorbell and began toeing down the heels of her Sanitas clogs for easy removal once she was inside.  She paused on hearing...what was that?  A shout?  A scream?  She turned to survey the neighborhood.  Quaint, smallish houses from the World War II era partitioned into roughly 7,000 square-foot lots only marginally limited to maximize profit.  It was a popular area, with home-seekers clamoring for entry.  It might be a toy town, but the houses were cute, desirable and expensive.  Owning one was a sign of secure fiscal responsibility.  Proof that Yahia was an efficient businessman.

Amani spotted several children racing across a front yard.  There was an abrupt burst of squealing when one of them fell to the tickling fingers of her playmates.  An interesting twist on torture, to her way of thinking.  She rang the bell again.  There was nothing unusual about the delay.  It sometimes took three attempts and a stiff knock to rouse Najat from her soaps.  Perhaps a pair of brass knuckles would help.

A squeal?  Or a scream?

Amani pressed her ear to the door while making futile shushing gestures at the children three doors down.  They did not see her, of course.  She was a speck on their horizon.  Not even that, in fact.  An adult might have taken note of her hijab, but kids had a knack for focusing on the moment.  A wonderful concentration that verged on self-hypnosis.

She heard it again, muffled by the door but distinct.  She thought of taking out her phone and calling for help.  But then she imagined Yahia's reaction at the sight of uniformed policemen storming through his door.  While he possessed plenty of theatrical ferocity and the burly strength to enforce it, Amani did not think him a violent man.  He seemed aware of the damage his fists could inflict.  There was no evidence that he had ever struck Najat.  Amani thought of him as a time bomb with a...well, not quite a conscience, but an awareness of consequences.

She began to test the doorknob and was surprised to find the latch loose from the door strike.  Leaving the door ajar as egregious as the keys in the van.  What was Yahia thinking?  Had he heard the scream, too, and rushed in without thought to securing his van or house?

She pushed the door open.  There was no sign of Yahia's shoes.  This was not unheard of.  The man ate Ruffles while sitting on the toilet, after all.  That he was not completely faithful to the Muslim custom of removing footwear when entering a house was not surprising.  Amani, sensing something amiss, arched her feet back into the clogs.  She was already thinking she might need to make a quick escape.

Another scream, clear and cutting.  You could rarely identify someone from their scream, a comprehensive cry that merged all vocal language in a stressed call for mercy where none existed.  But you could usually tell their sex.  What Amani heard could only be coming from Najat.  The only time Yahia had screamed was when he emerged from the womb, if then.  After that, he took charge.

The scream had come from the rear of the house.  The bedroom.  There was no such thing as a neighborhood entirely free of crime.  And after twice being shouted at by men on the street who took offense at her hijab, Amani had considered carrying pepper spray in her tote.  But a canister of Sabre spilling out of her doula bag along with her dilation measurement board, sacral massage ball, essential oils, information pamphlets, rebozo and numerous other helpful items for prospective mothers might taint the atmosphere of well-being she was hoping to establish with her clients.

She had never thought pepper spray might come in handy inside a client's house.

But what was going on down the hallway?  Najat was sobbing.  Why?  Why was Yahia so silent?  Was he trying to help her?  Harm her?  Had some pent-up frustration with life found its way to his fists?  It would be much better to call...much better to call....

"Ya Hayyu Ya Qayyum Bi-Raḥmatika Astagith!"

'O Alive and everlasting One, I beseech You by Your mercy!'

A du'a for someone in distress.  Outside of an occasional salat, it was the first Arabic Amani had heard Najat speak since their meetings had begun.  She moved silently up the short hallway and cautiously peered around the bedroom door.

Najat was in bed, on her back, gaping at the ceiling as if it was about to crash down on her.  Her eyes were swollen with tears and her face was drenched with sweat that ran through her dark hair and soaked the pillow under her head.  She was wearing a plain cotton caftan, the plus-size fabric drawn up on her swollen belly into a rumpled ridgeline half-tucked under her chin.  Her plump, bared thighs were spread apart, exposing her shaved pubis.  The sheet beneath her buttocks was soaked in blood.

"Ya Hayyu Ya Qayyum Bi-Raḥmatika—  Najat caught movement out the side of her eye and turned her head to Amani.  Oh!  Oh!"

I'm here, I'm here, said Amani, racing to the bed.  Seeing her withdraw her phone from her bag, Najat shook her head violently.

No!  No!

You are suffering a miscarriage, Najat.  I am calling for an ambulance.

A late miscarriage, Amani thought as she pressed her speed-dial.  Very late....

The 911 dispatcher came on.

What is your emergency?

Amani quickly gave the address.  Najat Tagouri is the woman who lives here.  She is having a miscarriage and hemorrhaging severely.

Good, said the dispatcher.  Good? Amani thought.  Can you tell me your name, ma'am?

Amani Abdelhamid.

Are you a neighbor?

I am her doula.

I'm sorry...Amani...her what?

I assist...  Amani hesitated, looking for a quick form of shorthand that anyone would understand.  'Doula' was not a part of everyday lexicography.

No! Najat screamed.  She shifted.  Blood that had pooled on the sheet glistened on her buttocks.  No!

Amani? said the dispatcher.

I'm still here.

Why is Najat screaming like that?

I told you, she is suffering from a miscarriage.

It sounds like—

I'm her midwife, Amani cut her off.

You're an RN?

I need to stop the bleeding.

Ma'am, the paramedics will be there shortly.  If you can wait—

I have to go.

Please stay there—

I mean I have to stop the bleeding.

Try to stay calm.  I need you to stay on the line until the ambulance and police arrive.

Police? Amani said, then stopped herself.  She thought she was calm, but an instant's reflection told her she had raised her voice several notches.  She took a deep breath.

Police! Najat shrieked.  Was it a protest or a cry for help?

Amani? came the dispatcher's voice.

Yes, I will keep my phone open.  I'll put it on the bedstand.  You can listen.

I don't think that's advisable, Amani.  It sounds to me like you need EMT's on the scene.  You're in the bedroom?  Maybe you should go to the front door to make sure it's open.

To Amani, the dispatcher sounded as if she was speaking from a space station, with no conception of what was happening on the planet below her.  Strictly a script-player.

I will not let her bleed to death! she half-shouted, then lay the phone on the bedstand.

Amani... came the dispatcher's voice over the tiny speaker.  Amani...?

Amani... Najat gasped.  Don't...no...

Amani took Najat's hand and squeezed hard, all the while looking down at the woman's torso.  Why so much blood?  She was twenty weeks into her pregnancy.  Could it be a missed miscarriage?  Had the baby died days ago, over a week ago?  Even longer?  How was that possible?  Najat had had her last ultrasound two weeks ago.  The doctor would have seen an empty pregnancy sac.  He would have immediately told his patient of any early embryonic demise.  What the old midwives in Iraq had called a 'blighted ovum'.  And Najat had given the doctor the name of her doula.  Amani would have been informed of any catastrophe.

But the shortness of breath, the sweating, the dilated pupils...even without the blood this was a first-class disaster.

Be calm.  I have to stop the bleeding.  I will go into the bathroom—

Amani stopped when Najat turned to her and she saw the blackened eye, made more gruesome by the sweat and swelling.  She drew in her breath.  Yahia.  The bastard!

And he was still in the house.

It was a dangerous presence impossible to dismiss.  But it was also impossible to dismiss Najat's weakening condition.  The ambulance might arrive in five minutes.  Or ten.  Or fifteen.  Any time lost might prove lethal.

I'll be right back, she told Najat with a final press of her fingers through hers.  Najat tried to hold on, but Amani broke free and raced for the bathroom.

No... Najat gasped faintly.

Gathering towels and wash clothes off the bathroom rack, Amani rushed back into the bedroom.

"Ya Hayyu Ya Qayyum Bi-Raḥmatika... Najat weakly murmured—then screamed as Amani took hold of her right leg and drew it sideways.  What are you doing!"

Your legs...  Amani performed a butterfly stroke in the air.  You must part them.  I have to reach the bleeding.  Can you part them for me?

No...don't!

Amani began to shift to the other side of the bed in order to reach Najat's left leg.  She stopped when she saw a knee bent upwards beyond the bedside.  Yahia!  On the floor!  Ready to spring up and attack her!

It was Yahia, certainly.  But when she leaned forward she saw he was in no shape to attack.  Lying on his back, he viewed Amani through half-slit eyes.  Then the bent leg slid down and Yahia emitted a low, burbling sigh.  He was wearing his usual rumpled trousers and a thin cotton shirt.  His hands were closed around a syringe jutting up from his abdomen.  Like a tiny bouquet on a corpse.

Amani...stop...  Najat managed to lift herself on an elbow.

Be quiet! Amani snapped.  Then she took hold of her fear and frustration.  Please, Najat, stay calm.  There's been an accident.  Help is coming—

Accident! Najat wailed.  What accident?

Suddenly, Amani was being confronted by two dying people.  What was in the syringe?  Was it lethal?  And how much blood had Najat lost?

The answer to the second question was obvious: far too much.  She leaned back over the mattress and drew Najat's left leg outwards.

Amani...

Amani had to climb halfway up on the mattress to reach Najat's vagina.  Wincing in anticipation, she pressed one of the bathroom towels into her crotch.  She was alarmed when there was no scream of pain.

Najat, stay with me, she hissed, gruffly shoving another towel in place.  Najat's eyes were fluttering.  Amani pushed herself up completely on the mattress and straddled one of the legs.  She slapped Najat.  Stay with me...

No response.

When she pushed herself backward off the bed her foot landed on Yahia's leg.  She jerked sideways to shift away and her elbows landed in Najat's pool of blood.

"Allah yakhthek!"

She rolled onto her buttocks, scooting forward until her feet found the floor.  Dropping down to her knees, she worked at Yahia's hands.  He must still be alive...his grip was so tight he seemed to be fighting her.  Biting her lip, she wrenched the hands away from the man's abdomen.  She caught the syringe barrel as it toppled off his stomach.

Yahia!  Yahia!

Yahia seemed to be watching her through his narrowed lids, but Amani thought he could not see her.  She was racing to the other side of the bed when two men burst into the room.  They stopped, stared at the syringe barrel in her hand and the blood on her clothes, then at Najat.  They could not yet see Yahia.

You want to put that down, Ma'am? said one of the men.

Who are you? asked Amani blindly, shaking with fear as the men rested their hands on holstered guns.

Partner? said one of the men.  Slightly pudgy, he wore a scowl that seemed to have been fermenting for a very long time.

Yeah, said the other man, shorter, leaner, on the fidgety side.

The men drew their guns.

You...you are policemen?

That's what the uniforms say, said the scowler.  We're Officers Jackson and Mangioni.  Put that needle down.

Amani looked down at the syringe she had pulled out from between Yahia's closed hands.  It was like a horrible alien device that had planted itself in her hand.  And there was no needle.  It had broken off at the hub, was still in Yahia.

Better do it now, said the fidgety cop.

Where...?

On the bed will be fine, so long as you step away from it afterward.

Yes, she said, placing the syringe on the bedspread.  She began to move to the head of the bed.

No, not that way, barked the pudgy cop.

But I have to stop the bleeding.

Are you her doctor?

I am her doula.

Does that mean 'doctor' in Cantonese?

'Arabic', said the fidgety cop, edging past Amani.

It is from the Greek.  It means—

Reaching the opposite side of the bedroom, the fidgety cop produced a faint whistle.  It was not a chirp of surprise, but an alert long-honed between the two men.  The pudgy cop gave a grunt that ended an octave higher than it had begun.  Then he narrowed his eyes on Amani.

Not to worry.  The EMT's are right behind us.  If you can pull back to the side, some...and keep your hands where I can see them.

Police?  Why police?  We need an ambulance!

They heard noise out front.

And here it is, said Jackson.  He raised his voice.  In here!

Two EMT's crowded through the hall into the bedroom.  They stopped when they saw the drawn guns.

Just a little formality, Jackson told them.  There's another...stiff?

Think so, said Mangioni staring at the section of floor hidden by the bed.

'Stiff'? cried Amani sharply.  You are saying Yahia is dead?  But Najat...she was just—

We're not doctors, Ma'am.  Let's move out of here and let these good folks get down to business.  But first...

Bracelets? asked Mangioni, coming up next to Amani and drawing out his handcuffs.

Just a little formality, Ma'am, until we can straighten out what's happening here, said Jackson, nodding at Mangioni.

Can you put your hands behind your back? said Mangioni.

Swallowing hard, Amani obeyed.  Mangioni nudged her past the EMT's, one of whom was on the phone, alerting her dispatcher to the need for a second ambulance.

Handcuffed, horrified, unable to believe what was happening, Amani was escorted to the front of the house.  She looked out the window.  She could see the driveway.  All she could see were a patrol car and ambulance.

It's gone! she gasped.

What's gone? asked Jackson.

Yahia's van!  It was parked out front!  The radio was on!

The driveway was empty when we arrived, said Jackson flatly.  That your car parked on the street?

CHAPTER TWO

Ari was sorry he had returned Elmore Lawson's Bersa to him when someone subjected his front door to a single, loud knock.  It was like the powerful blow of a hydraulic hammer.  But if the authorities were on his doorstep, there was no need for forced entry.  The Feds had the key to his house.

Up to that moment he had been sitting quietly at his kitchen table, watching Sphinx cheerfully chow down the ground lamb that had been destined to top his belated breakfast.  But his usual healthy appetite had abandoned him.  For some reason, the thought of manakeesh stirred a longing for an abrupt and easy death.  Even the black tea in his mug was inadequate to his nausea.

At the sound of the solo knock Sphinx jumped several inches straight in the air and raced for the nearest cat-bunker.  Since joining her under the living room couch was impractical, Ari thought of squeezing into the kitchen cupboard.  But that would have entailed standing barefoot in the kitty litter box.  Besides, he was the famous Ari Ciminon, aka Ghaith Ibrahim, fearless in the face of enemy hordes, unafraid of death and destruction.  Sadly, though, he had a debilitating vulnerability to Jack Daniels.  This explained why, when the knock came, he dissolved into a gelatinous, cowardly mass.  Even if he had a gun, he would have been unwilling to use it out of fear of the noise.

Which was why he put aside his qualms and worked his way to the front of the house...just to prevent another house-shaking earthquake.  He flung the door open and squinted up into the late-morning sun.

You are alive.  That is well.  An enormous shadow shifted slightly in Ari's blurred vision.  It is true, is it not?  You are alive?

Singh? Ari muttered.

Mmm...  A gigantic bat flew across Ari's face.  It took Ari a moment to realize it was the colossal Sikh's hand.  Be not offended when I say your breath smells like a leaking fuel tanker.

"Sat Sri Akaal, said Ari.  I was not expecting company.  My cat is unprepared."

I have no fear of black cats.  Sikhs do not believe in empty superstitions.

The cat is yellow.

All the better.

I could dip her in black paint...  Ari pressed his hand to his head.  My near nakedness must bespeak my inadequacy to the moment...

Very well, I will wait outside until the sun rises in your brain.

Sirdar Singh was speaking in Ari's vernacular.  Or perhaps Ari's midnight brain was providing an inaccurate translation.  Appalled by his own rudeness, he stood aside.

No...please...enter...

Sirdar Singh's broad, dark face betrayed dubious pleasure as he ducked inside the door and stood in Ari's foyer.  He sniffed.  "You are having lamb curry?  For breakfast?  The giant glanced at his watch.  Ah...lunch.  I am interrupting your meal?"

Ari was not about to admit that he had fed his precious minced lamb to his cat.

Not at all.  I was finished—  He stopped when the floorboards trembled under Singh's feet.  His house had not been built to accommodate humans the size of semis.  Would the Sikh end up taking a shortcut to the basement?  Ari, a large man himself, had to crane his head a bit to meet Singh's eyes.  "You are not wearing your dastar..."

Yes, I am shaming myself.  But I am here incognito, at the behest of Shrimati Sadiq.

Going incognito was an impossibility for someone of Sirdar Singh's height, breadth and menacing countenance.  And his 8XL-Plus three-piece only accentuated his size.  He looked like a highway poster of a successful Wall Street investor.

Please admire these.  He held out his arms.  Solid gold cufflinks.  Are they not natty?

Ari squinted at his wrists and the Khanda-shaped cufflinks.

They are, indeed.  Solid gold...?  Ari glanced up and saw a small Star of India pinned to his lapel.  You also have a gold replica of the Maha Vir Chakra that you won on the battlefield.  I thought your faith forbade fondness for worldly riches.

Not when in disguise for a good cause.

What cause is that?

I have no idea.

Ah...Nahibab Sadiq paid you to come here.  Perfectly righteous.

Singh swelled up like a poked bull.  Not feeling much like a matador at the moment, Ari backed away from his dialectic.

Certainly, whatever is good for Nahibab is good for the world.  And I am sure you needed no bonus to make this trip across the James River.  Your morals are as pure as your paycheck.

Amusing as ever, Singh shrugged massively and dismissed his scowl.

I am not fit to be seen by her ladyship, Ari said.

That much is obvious.  I will wait while you scour yourself.

Ari began to protest, then stopped.  A good scouring was exactly what he needed right now.

Your employer can wait in my living room—

You think she is here? asked Singh, startled.  Sitting impatiently in the car?

Then she is waiting for me at home?  She is ashamed to be seen in this middle-class refuse?  But she came for my party.

This is your refuge.  Singh's smile seemed as broad as his shoulders.  She thinks it would be...awkward if she was seen here when not invited.

She thinks me a villain!

"I do not know what she thinks.  Personally, I think you are a villain, but a very useful one.  But we know how deceptive appearances are.  She is on probation, while you are free as a lark."

Not quite.

She believes a meeting at her mansion will be less injudicious than here, Singh elaborated.

There was very little ideology involved in Ari's daily outlook.  The reality was that a pair of shady characters holding a tête-à-tête at a mansion drew less attention (if not curiosity and suspicion) than if they met in a shed.  The first two might be plotting to juggle the stock market.  The second might be planning to overthrow the government.  The perceived threat of either depended on one's income and paymaster.  Ari fully understood Singh's viewpoint, which indirectly exposed Nahibab Sadiq's high status in the capitalistic hierarchy, in spite of her conviction for trafficking stolen art.  Proof lay in her continued residence at her estate on the posh fringe of Windsor Farms, as well as her ability to pay the salary of the likes of Sirdar Singh.

Very well, I will drive out to her stately residence in...an hour, say?

I have been asked to drive you myself.  You are a man of many detours.

Having come to the conclusion that Nahibab Sadiq was the most charming creature in Richmond, Ari nodded acquiescence.  He would enjoy seeing her again.  Besides, he might arrive at lunchtime.  His appetite was stirring, and Nahibab was renowned for her fabulous meals.  His nausea was fading.  He was now capable of holding down a good-sized serving of well-prepared cassoulet. 

Please be seated in the one chair capable of holding you, said Ari, nodding at his living room sofa.  If you grow bored, you can toy with my cat...if she will come to you.

I adore cats, Singh beamed.  They make excellent field rations.

Ari's face twitched.  Singh had served in the Indian Army.  So far as he knew, or hoped, cats were not on the galley menu.

You josh me on a swizzle stick.  You and your inclinations are vegetarians, unless I have been taught rubbish.

Singh boomed a laugh.  But Ari grew concerned when the man sat (all but flattening his sofa) and began cooing, Here, kitty, kitty, kitty...

CHAPTER THREE

Summer it still was, but Summer did not prevail.  There was an autumnal chill in the air, but Nahibab Sadiq was still holding court poolside.  Among the few swimmers was a woman performing clockwork laps without letup.  Her technique was so fluid her flip-turns were scarcely noticeable.  At the far end of the pool an older woman wallowed serenely through the shallows, carefully keeping her distance from the Olympian torpedo.  Ari mistook her for one of Nahibab's sheltered women, until she stood in the shallow end, exposing a wetsuit that squeezed her like a lemon press.  This was Karida, the mother of one of Nahibab's deadliest bodyguards, Abou el-Zahraa Yilmaz, who could lay out two armed guards in a flash—Ari had seen her do it, and was not sure either man had lived to complain about being decked by a woman...and a small woman, at that.  The water must be a bit chilly for Karida, unless her scowl was intended for Ari.  This would be understandable, seeing as he had once directed a comment at her so rude she had nearly choked to death.

Her daughter was seated on a cement bench about twenty feet left-rear of her employer.  Ever on the alert, Ari's presence made Yilmaz twice as edgy as usual.  He might have been summoned here by Nahibab, but that did not make him any less unwelcome in her eyes.  Sure, he seemed amicable enough at the moment, but as many others had learned, trouble trailed after Ari like an overfond bloodhound.

"Your hair is