Short-Order Cop: The 56th Man, #12

By J. Clayton Rogers

Recovering from a seizure, Ari Ciminon (The 56th Man) is enlisted by the Richmond Police Department while still in his hospital bed. In less than two months, four Arabs have been murdered in Greater Richmond. There are no clues, no motives and no apparent connections between the victims. When the families seem reluctant to help find the killer, Detective Yvonne Neumann hires Ari as a special 'cultural consultant'. It does not take him long to suspect one of the victims was not who he seemed to be; and that he might not be dead.
There are plenty of roadblocks, cover-ups, ambushes, red herrings, killers and dolts to deal with, culminating in an assembly of assault teams outside a huge warehouse on Richmond's Southside. Leading the way is Ari, who has come to the conclusion that they are dealing with a gang of human-organ traffickers. However, the complete answer turns out to be far more peculiar. Human bodies, yes. But what's up with those pufferfishes…?

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Clayton Rogers
• Release date: Aug 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223014034

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

We never keep a lot of cash in the house, said Ellen Shifflet.  There's no need.  We always use debit or credit cards.  And we have EZ Passes for both of our cars, so we don't even have change.  Real money is so messy.

Then what do you think they were after?  Detective Randy Danardo spoke gently, as though nudging the woman with a pillow.  It had been two days since Ellen Shifflet's husband had been found bludgeoned to death by someone using a blunt roundish object with a sharp point—specifically, a heavy brass statuette of a peacock with an emerald eye.  The sharp point had been the peacock's head.  With a desperate giggle, Ellen had explained to the first responders that the writing at the center of the peacock was Arabic for 'peace be upon you'.  The statuette had been found on the carpet, which was sponging up the victim's blood near the office safe.  The current theory was that Ellen's husband had been forced to open the safe before succumbing to the bird.

Ellen had found her husband's body when she arrived home with her dog after a trip to Paws-to-Swim.  Bootie, still damp from her paddling in the canine pool (she had no qualms about diving off the board) was a Puerto Rican refugee from the Amigos de los Animales Animal Shelter in Loiza.  She had a split personality.  Part Lab, she could be friendly to a fault.  Part Rottweiler pit bull, she lunged for blood in the gutters.  Before her adoption, she had prowled some rough neighborhoods.  The instant Ellen entered the house Bootie darted off for the den-office.  Which was where Ellen found her once she had hung up her coat and checked her message machine.  Happily licking off the blood from the dead man's head, she had growled covetously when Ellen approached.

Ellen Shifflet relayed this testimony to Detective Danardo in a tone of pity and horror.  Bootie had supped on human blood.  Therefore, she was not long for this world.  Under the circumstances, Bootie's behavior was understandable.  But even if the city did not demand she be put down, Mrs. Shifflet would not tolerate her presence.  Every time Bootie licked her, she would recall that moment.

Two days on, in Interrogation Room #3 at 200 West Grace Street, Ellen Shifflet was much calmer.  The Xanax had kicked in.  The details she provided had a soft chemical edge.  With her permission, her words were recorded.  Detective Danardo smudged a summary across his mini notepad.

Ellen Shifflet had arrived home at around 4:30.  She was surprised to find her husband's Sportage in the driveway.  He usually got home from work between 5:30 and 6:00, giving Ellen time to prepare dinner.  He would call her if he was late, a fairly rare occurrence.  Once or twice a week he would come home early.  In which case, he would alert her that he would be bringing carry-out for dinner, usually from Pho's.  Ellen had received no such call on the day in question.

Why do you think he didn't call you?

I should have heard from him by 4:00.  I'm an oven and stovetop cook.  No instant microwave in our house.

Meaning you want time to prepare.  So...

I need some advance notice, yes.  He knows that.  He always lets me know of any changes.  Like if he needed to oversee any last-minute repairs on the fairway.

But not this time.

I don't know why. Unless...

Unless...?

Someone...forced him...

You were at the dog swimming pool until...?

I left a little after four.  I usually leave earlier, but I had to stop and apologize to Maggie Norton for laughing at her dog when he flopped off the diving board.  Actually, everyone laughed.  But I sort of screeched.  You couldn't help it, seeing a dachshund waddle around like that.  Their legs are too short, and...it was funny.  It wouldn't have been funny if they didn't have a lifeguard...

Plenty of witnesses, then...

I just had to apologize—

I can see that.  About the safe...all we found were some trust papers and dust bunnies.

Dust bunnies?  I suppose.  We couldn't be giving out the combination to the Maid Brigade.  My parents...actually, my mother...set up a trust for us...a very detailed trust, nearly fifty pages.  Lawyers are only interested in originals...no Xerox copies for them.  What you found is the original...please be careful with it.

Of course.  When was the last time you looked into the safe?

I guess it's been a while.  I would have cleaned out any dust bunnies.  Goodness, how did they get in there in the first place?

So if your husband put any money inside it recently, you wouldn't have known.

Of course I would!  He would have told me!  We're very open and honest with each other.  Boring, if you think about it...

It's just that there seems to have been something else inside the safe.  The dust on the shelf seemed to have been disturbed.

I don't like all this talk about dust.  I'm very neat.

Then there was nothing else inside?  No other papers?  No jewelry?

Neither of us are into jewelry.  See this?

Your wedding band?  Very distinctive.  Very nice.

"And not a trace of gold, which is haram.  Ellen tilted her hand, admiring and displaying the ring at the same time.  Who would have thought ceramic could be so beautiful?  See the inscription?"

Um...that's Arabic?

"Personal inscriptions aren't allowed.  This is the Shahada...the Muslim profession of faith."

Danardo consulted his notes.  Your husband's wedding ring is silver.

"Silver is halal.  Muhammed himself wore an aqiq set with silver.  Ellen hesitated, blushed and shrugged.  Peace and blessings be upon Him."

That's...a-k-e-e-k...? Danardo asked, pausing his pencil.

A-q-i-q.

Thanks...  Danardo tried crossing his legs, bumped his knee against the table top, and planted both feet on the floor.  That was more manly, anyway.  I hope you don't mind...but are you...?

Converted?  Why would that have anything to do with my husband's murder?

It's just that—

Don't be provincial, detective.  And believe me, I know what I'm talking about.  I'm as provincial as they come.  I worked on a tobacco farm when I was a kid.  See my fingers?  I've never been able to remove the stain from my skin, after so many years...

I haven't noticed any—

Then you should send in someone more observant.

Xanax must be wearing off, Danardo noted without recording this thought in his notepad.

Your hands are fine, said Danardo.  I usually stick to the weather and my favorite chili recipes.  In fact, the only person I talk to about religion is my wife, when I kiss her good-by on Sunday morning.

Don't tell me...you attend services on Saturday?

No.  I belong to the Church of Sleeping Whenever I Get the Chance.  Please don't be offended, Mrs. Shifflet.  I'm only trying to get a line on your husband's acquaintances.

He had no enemies.  None who would want him dead.

I'm thinking more in the line of someone who might be aware of the contents of his safe.

The only thing of value was the original of the trust, and the only ones who would be interested in that would be family members.

His?  Yours?  Both?

Mine.

Is there some dispute about its contents?

My brothers and sisters think my share is disproportionate.  The trust includes my parents' last will and testament.  My father died years ago.  My mother is in a nursing home.  I have power of attorney.

Which is why you are in possession of the original...

Yes.

Forgive me...I wouldn't think there'd be much to squabble about.  A tobacco farm where you worked as a child, in violation of numerous labor laws—

Laws that didn't apply to family-run concerns.

Then you grew up on the farm...

When Pa said get out in the field, we went.  I didn't mind all the topping and suckering.  Not until I was 12 or so.  Then a Powhatan County social worker dropped by and made Pa mad and nervous.  It was then I started realizing how hot and thirsty working in the field could get.

Your brothers and sisters felt the same way?

Pretty much.  Pa could see we wouldn't be sticking around much longer.  Mary Louise had already taken off for the big city.

New York?  The Big Apple was always the first metropolis Danardo thought of when big cities were mentioned.  Ellen was correct in thinking him somewhat provincial.  The West Coast never occurred to him.  Wasn't it about to sink into the ocean?  You never thought of New York as dropping off into the Atlantic.

Richmond is about as big as Mary Louise could handle.

She lives in Richmond?

Only an hour drive from Tobaccoville.

The others still live on the farm?

The farm's long gone.  My mother sold it after Pa passed.  And before you ask or check my family's financial wherewithal, my folks were money poor but land rich.  Two hundred acres on the exact spot where Powhatan wanted to build its municipal building and public works facility.  Ma found out and sold off the farm to some real estate vampire before they could declare eminent domain.  He knew more than Ma and—

'He' meaning a...developer?

His lawyers knew the ropes.  The taxpayers paid up.  It didn't bother Ma that the vampire made a bundle.  She made out well enough.  Real well.

So there's something for your brothers and sisters to squabble over, after all.

When Ma passes, we'll all be...lavishly endowed.

It was as if she had snatched Danardo's thoughts out of the air.  He had just been thinking that, money or no, the widow was already lavishly endowed.

When I say that, I mean all five of us will have an equal share.  My siblings think I plan to cheat them.

Because of the power of attorney.

Right.  But I fully intend to meet my responsibilities fairly.  They should count their luck.  Jerry Falwell died last year.

I don't understand... said Danardo.  "The Jerry Falwell?  The pastor—"

Ma made him the primary beneficiary.  Not his church, and not his academy.  Just him.  Ma didn't have a mean streak to speak of.  She just believed God came before kin.  Ma was declared mentally incapacitated by the time the pastor died.  She was—is—in no shape to shift churches or leave everything to the Billy Graham Foundation.  So everything defaults to us.  The children.  Since you're a follower of the Tabernacle of a Good Night's Sleep, you probably agree that things worked out for the best.

I took sides with my kids when Falwell went after the Teletubbies, the detective admitted.  So your mother was a Baptist?  And the rest of you...?

Back to the forbidden topic, Ellen sighed.

As you know too well, your husband's murder was exceptionally brutal.  We have very little to go on so far as clues go.  That means we have to learn more about...what's the word I'm looking for...?  He turned to Detective Susan Myers, who was present to witness any attempt Danardo might make to peek under Ellen's skirt.  She was staring at the wall.  A glance told Danardo she was somewhere else.  Probably the Marvel Universe.  Abruptly realizing she was being addressed, she gave a start.

I think that leaves us with looking into the environment, Myers said.

Well, she had been listening, after all.

Good.  We need to learn more about you and your husband's environment.  For example, if the division of the inheritance is equal on all sides, why are your brothers and sisters upset?  Would you attribute their behavior to...

Greed?  Of course they're greedy.  We all are.  Wouldn't you like a raise?

Danardo cast a quick cautionary glance at Susan.  Don't answer the obvious.

They wouldn't mind leaving me destitute, that's a fact, Ellen continued.  They'd rip my share out of my hand if I was standing on a street corner with it.  And knock me down while at it.  But there's also the problem with...

Mr. Shifflet?

Are you saying that on purpose to annoy me?

Mr. Jassar, I meant to say.

We kept our last names, just like we kept our religion.  I'm a Shifflet born and bred, and will stay so 'til I die.  The same for Hassan...  Ellen paused, startled by despair.

He was a Muslim?

He wasn't fierce about it, or he wouldn't have touched me with a ten-foot pole.  But he would be upset to know he still isn't in the ground.  They need to be buried within 24 hours...three days at the most.  Now we're at...

We've passed the limit, I know.  Forensics is holding onto the body until we find the killer.  I realize that's distressing...

Not so much.  Hassan and I agreed to disagree.  We'd never have gotten married otherwise.  He'd be royally pissed at still being in the morgue...but I want you to nail the bastard who did this.  So...

Thank you for that, said Danardo.  Now, as it stands, we'll have to approach your brothers and sisters and ask them some questions.

Be my guest, but it's a waste of time.  We all learned how to wring a chicken's neck for dinner, but no matter how much they hated Hassan, they'd never do this.  Chicken blood is one thing, but...

They hated him?

Actually, it was me they hated...for marrying him.

And this is part of the squabble?

Mmm... Ellen muttered.

How did you meet your husband?  Tobaccoville is sort of out of the way for someone from...

Hassan is...was from Lebanon.  You must have already looked that up.  I met him almost fifteen years ago.  He had come over to work with the sod farmers at Meadowdale as a CAEP exchange student.  It was right next door to us.

Meadowdale... said Danardo, holding his pencil expectantly over his notepad.

They sell turf to golf courses.  It's a good business.  So good they were planning to snap up our farm...before the county stepped in.  I guess what's good for tobacco is good for grass.

Interesting, said Danardo, who knew wood from iron.  And...cape...?

C-A-E-P, Mrs. Shifflet spelled out.  That's short for Communicating for Agriculture Education Programs.  Thank God for acronyms.  Hassan wanted to learn turf management.  Seeding, pest control, bunker maintenance...I'm sure you get the idea.  His goal was to become foreman of the grounds crew at Riyadh Golf Club in Saudi Arabia.  It might not sound ambitious but it's a big deal.  Very lucrative.  When he first told me I had no idea it was a dream castle.  She paused.

Must take a lot of water to keep up a golf course in the desert, said Danardo, working on the theory that sometimes you had to act like a moron to keep a conversation moving.

That sounds logical, said Ellen, sounding like a head of iceberg lettuce.  I met Hassan at Burt's Sheetz on Anderson Highway.  They have a little restaurant tucked on the side.

Sort of a food hutch, said Danardo.

All right, they don't have waiters.  But it was shiny new at the time.  The name...well, you can imagine what we made of it in the sticks.  Outhouse humor...

Who would want to eat at a place named Sheetz? Danardo grinned, committing an unforced error.

Don't mock it!  We might make fun of the name, but to us it was like the Ritz.

I didn't mean—

That's where I ran into Hassan.  It was his first week at Meadowdale and he was looking for something besides the corn meal mush they served at their canteen.  He was staring and staring at the menu, holding up the line.  I was the only one in the line, and I was wondering what this...shady character was ruminating about.  It's pretty simple: biscuits, burgers, turkey melts.  And fries, of course.  I faced him about the delay.  Inherited it from the family.  We hoot and holler at the Columbia Columbus Day Parade.  One float of Pocahontas saving John Smith and a six-man marching band, but they went back and forth a dozen times.  Keen fun.  And there were fireworks along the old George Washington canal.

You don't embarrass easily, said Danardo.

You learn to shout loud when there's not much to shout about.

So you met at Sheetz, said Danardo, thinking that no matter where you went, people had a knack for meeting.  Even people from the opposite ends of the Earth.

That's right.  I told Hassan—I should've guessed his name from the look of him—that if he didn't know what he wanted he should get out of the way and let anyone who knew what they wanted place their order.

Pretty bold, said Danardo.

"Not really.  He looked harmless enough, not like a terrorist or anything.  Just a fish out of water.  He gave me a friendly smile and stepped aside.  While I was waiting for my melt to melt he asked if he could ask me a question.  I said sure.  So he asked if anything on the menu was halal.  I asked him if that meant he was a vegetarian.  And that's when my education in world culture started.  His, too..."

You two hit it off...

Is that a tone in your voice? Ellen demanded.

Uh...

"Maybe I'm overly touchy on the subject.  I took a lot of mouth from that first meeting.  A hick town like Tobaccoville, word spreads fast.  What was I doing sitting down to lunch with a darky?  That's the polite way of the word they used.  And it wasn't much of a lunch...not for Hassan.  After talking with the girl at the counter, he ended up with fries and hash browns.  Gas stations around Tobaccoville aren't big on halal, which I learned is sort of like kosher for Muslims.  And in the end, it turned out Hassan wasn't a fanatic about dietary restrictions.  He would have starved to death in Powhatan if he hadn't given in here and there."

You began dating?

"You are nosey, aren't you?"

We can't eliminate the possibility of a racial element in his murder.

You mean...like a jealous boyfriend?  You're kidding.  This was all years ago.  I was twenty.  And yes, I had a boyfriend who dumped me when he heard, but that didn't break my heart.  Not his, either.  He found himself a cheerleader—poo!  But that was the limit, outside some hoots and catcalls.  Folks were already used to the idea of mixing.  Heidi Dunlap had married Boo Berry a few years earlier.  He's as dark as dark can be, but he was a star player for the Powhatan Knights.  Got a football scholarship and all.  You don't mess with football heroes.  Not long after, Dizzy Montross hitched up with a black farm hand who was a full head shorter than her.  We all thought it was just...funny.  So it wasn't the neighbors who gave me grief.

Family?

You bet.  You'd have thought I'd spent the night at the Moonlight Motel with Hassan instead of sharing a fried-slop special.  Everyone went upside down.  Ma said she was glad Pa had died before seeing my shame.  Which I thought was pretty harsh, seeing as there were a lot of woodpile stories in our family history.  You know what I'm saying?

Danardo nodded, suppressing a grin.

"This all happened soon after the property sale.  She had gotten a lawyer and he pushed her to set up a trust.  My brothers and sisters just wanted to bank the money.  They had all sorts of big ideas.  First thing: every one of them wanted an SUV.  None of them wanted a trust.  There was a big squall when the idea of having a bank as the trustee was brought up.  Bankers were crooks.  That was a given.  But if not a bank, one of us would have to be the trustee, and none of us trusted the other worth a lick.  Ma looked at all the greedy eyes around her and decided I was the least...avaricious.  I like that word.  Sounds like a mix between avocado and delicious."

They hated you for that? said Danardo.

Can't you just imagine?  Benny...my older brother...wanted to use me as a tattoo on the old curing barn.  I'd look good up there next to the old Gulf logo.  But Ma plugged her ears and went through with it.

And soon after that, you met Hassan?

"Mmm-hmm.  And soon after that, Ma had her stroke.  Everyone blamed me for it, of course.  But there it was, in black and white.  So to speak.  I was the trustee, and Ma was past caring.  The only thing to do was bring in more lawyers to contest it.  And since all lawyers are crooks..."

Like bankers.

"To their way of thinking, if they won in court, there wouldn't be anything left after all the fees.  They were still tempted to fight it out, especially after I upped and married Hassan.  If they didn't have faith in me or the legal system, they sure as hell couldn't trust an Arab.  He might crash a jetliner into the curing sheds!"

Danardo drew a smiley face in his notebook, his shorthand for someone with a sense of humor.  A minute later, he was drawing a sad face.

We never had children.  I had a couple of miscarriages.  I think I might have gotten some kind of nicotine poisoning from when I was a kid, harvesting all those tobacco leaves.  Hassan thought I should join one of the class action suits against the tobacco industry, but...

That would've meant working with half the bar association, Danardo nodded grimly.  With the other half working against you.

We didn't think there was a rush.  I still have a few years...

I'm very sorry, Mrs. Shifflet...Ms. Shifflet.  Um...I hate to bring this up, but...have you withdrawn money from the trust?  You and your husband lived in a very nice house...

Ma was declared incompetent but according to the terms of the trust and the will I can't end the trust until she passes on.  I'm allowed to make distributions to all the beneficiaries for living expenses.  I send out checks to my brothers and sisters every month.  Same amount that I give myself.  It keeps them off my back for the time being.  Then there's the cost of Ma's care.  There's no social welfare net for someone with money and I'm not about to make a full disbursement and throw her into a Medicaid mill.  It costs, but she's my ma so I don't begrudge it.  She would've disowned me if she hadn't had the stroke, but she did her best to help when we were kids.  In fact, I think she's the one who called down Social Services on Pa for keeping us as slaves.  It's because of her that I finished high school.

All right, said Danardo, thinking this was all beginning to sound almost medieval—or at least severely ante-bellum.  Antagonism between races, arcane dogma, child slavery.  Thank god they had forensic accountants who could sort all this out and give him an intelligible summary.  At least on the financial aspects.  Race and child slavery could not be shucked off so easily.  Either category could supply motive for what most concerned him: murder.  Because, not entirely consciously, he had already dismissed money as the reason for Hassan's death.  Primarily because the blue-jacketed original trust had remained undisturbed in Hassan's safe.  Anyone wanting to disrupt the Shifflet finances would have taken it.  But they couldn't show up with it in court without betraying their guilt.

He let Ellen go on for several minutes.  Sometimes she seemed to be trying to incriminate her siblings, but even she could not see the logic of it.  He wanted her to explain why she and Hassan were living the good life without further prompting.  And it was a good life, by Danardo's lights.  The house had a market value of almost half a million, and Ellen took her dog to swimming lessons.  That was a far cry from running around barefooted in a tobacco field with a pair of secateurs.

It all came down to Hassan.  After high school, Ellen revealed a fierce impulse for self-improvement.  She graduated from Virginia Commonwealth University and gotten a job as, almost predictably, a social worker.  Her salary would have gotten her a decent apartment at the Vue at Westchester Commons, though at the cost of severe dietary restrictions—such as borderline starvation.

Hassan Jassar never achieved the heights of golf course maintenance.  Though fully qualified to create a bunker in the desert, his application to the Riyadh Golf Course was vaporized by Saudi tribal connections.  But he made out well enough, returning to Richmond to become manager at the Ruffio Club in Henrico.  His salary of $72,000 was miniscule compared to what he would have earned in Saudi Arabia, but substantial financial assistance from his father removed any hue of blue from his collar.

A preliminary background check indicated Bahaa Jassar was a big wheel in the Lebanese construction industry.  In a country all but flattened by Syria, Israel, Iran and the Lebanese themselves, anyone with a concrete mixer could make a bundle.  Danardo concluded that Pa Jassar owned several fleets of in-transit mixers.  He also seemed to have a lock on highway rebars, crushed stone and other construction materials.  The inner workings of the Jassar family were unknown on short notice, but it seemed a mystery as to why the father would be so generous to a son who had married an infidel.  The detective's thumbnail theory, based on a rumor going around the State Department, was that Jassar was working on a steel contract with Reynolds Metals, headquartered in Richmond.  His son, as manager of the Ruffio grounds crew, might be able to arrange free solo or match rounds for key players in the negotiations—although, as an occasional golfer, Danardo knew singles were frowned upon.  You made that ace in the hole?  Prove it.  Where are your witnesses?  All right, then—lessons from the club's pro, free White Claw in the ice chest, and if Bahaa Jassar was really serious, a gift TrackMan for every participant.

This was a lot to evolve from a single conversation with a State Department lackey, but to Danardo it reeked of potential motive.  If he was right, and Hassan was a bit player in the scheme, a contract might have been signed and sealed on the eighteenth hole, with a somewhat conspicuous horde of corporate lawyers trampling the green.  If so, the final product of all the parleying might have sat in Hassan's safe until it could be transferred to his father.

All right, a few holes, here, and not of the tin cup variety.  Secure eSigning had become a staple.  Danardo himself had used DocuSign when selling his late father's house, located hundreds of miles away.  Cinching a contract between Richmond and Lebanon must be snap.  Whatever legal documents might have been in Hassan's safe would have amounted to paper copies of a legal transaction.  But they might contain critical details that a competitor would kill to eyeball.  Steel was still big business in the U.S., China notwithstanding.

The investigation snowballed in his mind.  Ms. Shifflet's ex-beaus, Powerball negotiators, Hassan's maids and gardener, Hassan's Arab acquaintances, a half-dozen of whom resided in the Tri-City area...and that other thing....

Hassan was the third Arab to be murdered in little over a month...if you discounted that other guy.  Danardo had already fielded inquiries from other jurisdictions.  Did he see any similarities?  Any of those famous M.O.'s?  Well...yeah.

All victims were male.

All had been bludgeoned to death after being tortured to varying degrees.

All had been alone at home at the time of demise.

All seemed to have been robbed, but...

None of the spouses could identify the article of theft.

There was that one mysterious exception, of course.  What was going on with Basel Karara?  Why did the Chief put up a roadblock with the truth so close to hand?  But his was not to reason why.

Otherwise, the victims seemed to have been agitated before their deaths, although their significant others insisted they were always agitated.  They were high-stakes businessmen.  Even Hassan.  It looked as if changing holes, moving tee markers, raking bunkers and shooting the occasional groundhog could turn someone into a nervous wreck.

No fingerprints, no hair follicles, no footprints, no security camera images.  The killers had known what they were doing.

There were also M.O.'s at the police end.

Lack of resources.

Jittery cooperation between the city and counties.

And Danardo had learned they had no one on hand who could approach the Arab community without raising hackles.  Translators, yes.  Schmoozers?  Nada.  The only one in Richmond Danardo knew of was...what was his name?  And where the hell was he right now?

After Ellen was escorted home, he stopped Lieutenant Spires in the hall.

Isn't there a what's-her-name who works with what's-his-name when you have to deal with foreigners?

Specifically...?

Well...we've got to be careful.  When even Colin Powell gets whacked for using the wrong word—

You need someone to work with the Chinese?

No...Arabs.  That's the politically right word?  I mean, they're not called 'arabesque' or something like that, are they?

Uh...no...  Spires eyed his colleague warily.  Did you double down on your stupid pills this morning?

I've watched the news.  We're at war with Arabs.  But that could be war-talk.  Like Nips and Krauts and Ivans.

Russia was our ally back then, said Spires.  Most of the time, at least.

So who's to say the news outlets aren't using 'Arab' the same way?  Should we call them 'Arabian'?

You're working the Hassan Jassar case, aren't you?

Yep.

So if you get stumped, just say 'Lebanese'.

I'm not stupid, just paranoid.  I got reamed for calling some dealer from Toronto a Canuck.

Wasn't that a week after you referred to an African-American as 'colored'?

Yeah.  In writing.

On the ICR! Spires laughed.

I was just channeling my father, who's a really polite guy.  Danardo took a deep, respectful breath.  So who's this female officer who works with Lebanese-Arabs?

You don't want to know her.  Check with the Feds.  They must have plenty of translators.

Which would mean working with their handlers.  Don't you agree we want to keep this local?

All right...Yvonne Neumann.  She's a ton of bricks.  I mean...literally.

That doesn't sound very PC.

You don't want to know her CHS, either.  Actually, he's not really a Confidential Human Source.  More like an auxiliary In Your Face Asshole.  A nosey buttinsky as shady as his skin-tone.

I won't quote you, said Danardo.  Spires was speaking a language he understood.  The underground version of honesty, if not truth.

You don't trust him?

The grapevine has it he's an Iraqi.

But—

Officially, he's an Italian.  Hey, a Sicilian!  It gets better and better...

Danardo clamped down on his grin.  His family hailed from Naples.  With a few variations in spelling, his name was spread on marquees across Virginia.  Restaurants, dentist offices, even the General Assembly.  'The Honorable Danardo' was something to relish, although Randy Danardo's bloodline was far removed from that of the assemblyman's.  Something to do with municipal divisions in the fatherland, the difference between posh Chiaia and shitty Scampia.  It might take another generation or two to merge upwards...or fall the other way.

I don't think I have much choice, Danardo sighed.

Then watch your back, said Spires, giving Danardo a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.  I think the raghead is a real menace to the Commonwealth of Virginia.  And Neumann?  Handing her a badge was like arming a porcupine with a Glock.

CHAPTER TWO

How much do you drink, Mr. Ciminon?

Only what is adequate to the moment.

He means he drinks a lot, said U.S. Deputy Marshal Karen Sylvester, frowning from the visitor's chair near the bottom of Ari's hospital bed.

The intern had been taught to smile frequently.  It was alleged to help patient recovery.  She thought it was bullshit.  Besides, smiling revealed an unsightly yellow incisor damaged in a fall.  Before whitening, the dentist would have to perform a root canal to remove dead tissue, a procedure she could not yet afford.  Compromising between medical opinion and self-esteem, she screwed up the ends of her mouth.  Ari thought she looked like a reluctant, if obedient, torturer.

Karen thought Ari looked like a reluctant, and highly disobedient, patient.  His dark hands were spread deceptively across the white bedsheet, a show of passive innocence.  But Karen knew they could transform into giant snapping turtles, very fast turtles.  Really, the man should be strapped down.  He had already shuffled off several times to see his wife on the third floor.  Ari would never stay put until he was six feet under, where he would be of no use to the United States government, Karen Sylvester or his wife.  She might have mentally added the obvious: a dead Ari would not have been of much use to himself.  Sometimes it seemed as though Ari made death an optional proposition, instead of something that could be profitably delayed.  Her wrist brushed the handcuffs clipped under her shirt as she studied the bedrail.  Hmmm....

What do you drink?  Beer?  Wine?  Whiskey?

Yes, said Ari.

Right... the intern scribbled theatrically on her clipboard, then flipped her notes over and studied the sheet underneath.  Well...your liver function test shows a GGT of 41, which isn't bad.  Your CDT is 1.6 percent, which is high but acceptable.  Your PEth biomarker doesn't reveal anything outrageous.

I was perfectly sober when I arrived here, said Ari.  I was coming to meet Rana, my excellent wife, who is residing in one of your sterile less-than-luxury suites.  It would not do to have alcohol on my breath.

And since you've been here three days, you haven't had any alcohol since your admission, said the intern.  I'm talking about something chronic.

Oh, he's something chronic, all right, said Karen.

Well...

What are you saying? Karen demanded.

There's no real indication here of alcohol abuse.

Do you have the right patient chart there?

I have an explanation, said Ari.  I am the perfect combustible...I mean, I am fuel-efficient.  Jim Bean dares not tarry in my bloodstream.

'Jim Beam', you idiot, said Karen.

Nor he, Ari nodded.

Listen to how he talks! Karen tried to reason with the intern.  There has to be something wrong!

Is English his second language?

Oh, not at all, said Ari.  English is far down the line, after Farsi, Mandarin, Ebonic—

You're multilingual?

Ask me to say something in French.  Go on!  My pronunciation is impeccable, with substantive male and female perfection!

Ooh la la, said the intern, giving Karen a glance of commiseration.  I'm glad he's yours and not mine.  What we're trying to determine here is what triggered your massive arterial nosebleed.  I come down that stairwell every day.  They're still trying to remove that bloodstain you left.

Karen and her partner, Fred Donzetti, had driven Ari to the Naval Medical Center in Portsmouth as part of an arrangement to unite Rana and Ari after years of separation.  Rana could not survive without 24/7 care after being grievously injured during the 2003 aerial assault on Baghdad.  Ari's continued support against the Iraqi insurgency depended on their reunion.  Having dressed up for the occasion, Karen had doused herself with an overabundance of perfume.  Though now blind, Rana would be able to smell the result of her effort.  But the olfactory flood had triggered a severe sneezing fit in Ari.  Karen was certain she had killed him when he collapsed inside the hospital.  She and Fred already suspected he had suffered brain trauma during an encounter (they assumed) with one of his many foes.  Certainly, he was having a stroke.

His MRI was delayed until the day before.  This was a military hospital, after all, and servicemen and servicewomen had priority over civilians, especially foreign civilians, no matter how much the U.S. Marshal doted on one particular informant.

He smokes five packs of cigarettes a day, Karen said to the intern.

Not helpful, the intern shook her head.

Not five.  If you'll recall, I've cut back dramatically.  Ari paused.  However, if you'll show me the way to your smoking arena with the phallic chimney—

"Has he always behaved this way?' the intern asked Karen, deciding it was best to act as though Ari wasn't present.  Patient be damned.

He took a turn for the worse a couple of years ago.

I fell off a steam turbine, Ari explained, though in fact the injuries under discussion were incurred during a fight with an assassin at Manchester Docks.

I thought it was an elevator shaft, Karen shot back.

Then it must have been the elevator to the turbine.

You should've gotten an MRI long before.

He's hard to pin down, Karen sighed.

I thought the phrase was 'nail down', said Ari.

You're right, that'd be better.  A ten-inch spike.  Karen turned back to the intern.  How long before we get the MRI results?

One to two days or one to two weeks, depending on the system.

The system?

Medicare can take a while.

But this is a military hospital and Mr. Ciminon is what you might call a ward of the state.  And an important one, at that.

Considering he's taking up precious resources and there's a shortage of beds, the radiologist will probably be up here in short order.

Reveille! Ari announced, lifting his hands and balling his eyes with his fists.  "Ahhhh-hhaaaaaa!  I'm completely refreshed!"  He began to lift off his covers.

Whoa! the intern and Karen exclaimed in unison.

Right, the intern continued unsmilingly.  Your release depends on the diagnosis.

You mean if my head has gone sour, I will be poured down the sink.

Don't jump to conclusions.  It looks like you've survived well enough, so maybe the damage—if there was any damage—has already healed.

But his brain's been rewired! Karen protested.  When I first met him he sounded like Anthony Hopkins.

You mean...like Hannibal the Cannibal? the intern asked, somewhat alarmed.

No!  Like the butler in Remains of the Day!  Karen paused.  Well, Hannibal was pretty articulate.  But now Ari sounds like...I don't know.  Ernest?  Nick Offerman?  Huckleberry Hound?

He doesn't sound so bad that a few English courses wouldn't fix, the intern said in perfect Americanese.

I beg your pardon? said Ari.

Karen cast a baleful eye on both of them.

In fact, I am quite content to remain in this hostile, a mere fifty steps from my beloved.

Hostel, Karen reflexively corrected.  And don't exaggerate.

"I am talking of long steps.  Ari leaned back, propping his hands behind his head.  I feel the perfect cog in your magnificent machine."

Maybe I've been around him too long, said Karen.  "But even meeting him for the first time...don't you think he sounds...weird?"

It's really up to the doctor to talk about this to...are you a family member?

Karen doubled over.

All right...do you have power of attorney?

I have permission to shoot him if he steps out of line.  No, really.  If I was allowed to bring my gun on base—

Ah, Karen, your virility never fails to astonish me, Ari sighed.

I was joking.  She looked at the intern.  Humor never translates well across cultures.

Not at this moment, it seems, said the intern dismissively.  I'll see if I can page Dr. Baylor to come up here.  But if he doesn't have the results, there's not much he can say.

Just...theoretically.  Brain damage can cause personality changes, right?

Since this was something the deputy could just as easily check on the internet, the intern shrugged and nodded.  There are some common symptoms, like a flat affect.

Am I allowed toenail clippers in this establishment? asked Ari with an indifferent glance at his fingers.

And sometimes they have inappropriate responses to common situations.  Sudden anger and frustration.  Laughing and crying at odd moments—

Damn, no toenail clippers!