"I'm too screwed to be serious. So, why don't you shut up? Or, tell me something."

"What?" In the dark, turning toward him.

"Are you really not scared?"

"Background scared. But I'm not going to dodge. I'm going to do what I do."

"Not gonna fight it, not going to play us."

"No. I'm going to think about the twins, I'm going to take care of them, I'm going to put everything else out of my mind, and I'm going to let you guys take care of me."

[image]

CAPPY WAS asleep when he heard the knock on the door. He came awake in a rush, startled--n.o.body ever knocked for him, or even knew where he lived. It didn't sound like a cop's knock--or what he thought a cop's knock would sound like. He looked at the clock: after eleven.

Another knock.

He rolled out of bed, went to the door, left the chain on, opened it, and peeked out. Joe Mack was standing in the hallway with a sack.

"Got a sack for you," he said. More bourbon breath.

Cappy looked at him for a moment, then closed the door far enough to take off the chain, opened the door and backed up. Joe Mack stepped inside, looked like he might say something like, "Nice place," but the place was such a s.h.i.thole that the comment would have been absurd, so he swallowed it and instead said, "Here."

He thrust the bag at Cappy, and Cappy took it, felt the weight, knew what it was.

He took it out: a Taurus Judge.

"Where'd you get it?"

"Up here, they got anything you want in the way of guns, if you look around. This was stole from over in Minneapolis. So it's hot, but if the cops chase you down, you say you bought it from a guy on Hennepin Avenue, you know, for self-defense, because you live in such a dangerous place."

Cappy nodded, asked, "You want a smoke?"

Joe said, "Nah, I gotta run. Got stuff to do." He left, leaving behind a cloud of alcohol breath.

The boy had it bad, Cappy thought. He got back in bed with the gun, happy, turned the cylinder, popping out the sh.e.l.ls, dropped them on the floor, slipped the gun under his pillow. He lay awake for a few minutes, listening to the zzzzz of the electric clock, then drifted away, the hard lump under his head, relaxed and comfortable as a woolly sheep.

4.

JOE MACK LEANED close to Lyle Mack and muttered, "Will you look at the t.i.ts on the--"

"Shut up, for Christ's sake. And stop f.u.c.kin' staring at them," Lyle Mack said. "You'll freak them out."

"They're freakin' me me out." And Joe Mack couldn't stop staring. out." And Joe Mack couldn't stop staring.

Joe and Lyle Mack were out of their comfort zone, wandering through the University of Minnesota's student union, baby blondes all over the place, sweaters and wool slacks, rosy cheeks. They were ... dewy, with t.i.ts. But it wasn't just that: it was that there were so many many of them. of them.

Joe Mack had never done dewy. Ever. Or, as far as he could remember, ever been on a college campus.

LIKE TROLLS in a sorority house, the Macks traipsed through the first floor and down to the bas.e.m.e.nt food court, where they found Barakat sitting in a corner, nursing a cappuccino. He was wearing a white dress shirt, b.u.t.toned to the top, and a scowl, and he shivered occasionally, though his forehead was shiny with sweat. An Arctic-level parka was sitting on a bench seat beside him.

Lyle Mack pulled up a chair and leaned forward and said, "This wasn't necessary."

Barakat leaned toward him and pitched his voice down, and snarled at them. "I'm going to tell you a one-minute story. My father, my family, is Christian, in Lebanon. This means nothing to you Americans, but to us, it meant that we had to struggle in a sea of Palestinians and Syrians who hate us. We had to defend ourselves."

Lyle Mack said, "Yeah, yeah ..."

Barakat wagged a finger at him. "Listen: I know about your silly f.u.c.king motorcycle gangs. Your Seed. Sometimes you kill one person, or two persons, these Outlaws. When I was five years old, in Lebanon, there was fighting in Beirut. Our people took a company of Hezbollah, from the bas.e.m.e.nt of a department store. They gave up, or we would have burned them to death with gasoline from a tank truck, so they gave up. Huh? You understand? They surrendered. They thought, a few days in a prison camp until a cease-fire. So we, the Christians, took them out three at a time, shot them in the heads, threw them in a hole. Sixteen men. I sat on my roof eating Armenian apricots and watched. My father, my uncles, my cousins. It was like directing traffic: stand over here, stand over there, bang-bang-bang. You know what I did? I ate the apricots and laughed.

"We are here in the United States now, and start businesses. This and that. Some hard businesses. I have called my cousins, and I have told them that I have some business trouble, and that if I disappear, or if I am killed, you will kill the brothers Joe Mack and Lyle Mack from Cherries Bar. You got that? They understand business trouble; and they will do it. I told them, be safe, do it any way you can, but if you can, make it hard for them. One of my uncles, Timor, claims he once got the entire skin off a Hezbollah fighter before the man died, using nothing but a straight razor as a skinning knife. I don't know if I believe he succeeded, but I believe he tried to do it."

They sat staring for a minute, then Barakat said, "I deeply hope you believe me, because it is true. Because you stupidly killed this man in the hospital, I think that you might try to eliminate me as a witness against you. Do not do it. I promise you, there are worse things than prison."

Lyle Mack's eyes were popping out. He said, "You're telling us that somebody else knows about the job? Maybe a whole bunch of people?"

"No, no. They don't know why they will kill you, only that they must," Barakat said, shaking a finger at them. "For the family."

"Ah, c.r.a.p, Al, we weren't gonna hurt you," Lyle Mack said, leaning back in the booth, putting on his best Bible-salesman's smile. "I mean, you're in as deep as we are, so we don't have to worry about you talking. If the cops crack this, we'd all go inside for the rest of our lives."

"Yes. Well, I didn't take the chance." Barakat leaned forward again. "Now: I would not sell the merchandise here. In Minneapolis. The police will be looking for it everywhere, I am thinking."

"Let us worry about that," Lyle Mack said. "First of all, we've squirreled it away--"

"Squirreled? What is this?"

"We've hidden it. Really good. Second of all, we have clubs all over the country. We'll repackage the good stuff in a couple months, when the heat's died down. Move it along to three or four different places, tell them to take care when they push it out on the street. n.o.body'll know where it came from. It's not a problem."

Barakat stared at them for a moment, then leaned back, his eyes dark, and asked, "Where's my payment?"

Lyle Mack tipped his head at Joe Mack, who glanced around, then produced what looked like a brown-bag lunch and pushed it across the table. Barakat hefted it and said, "That's no kilo."

"It's a half," Lyle Mack said. "We've got nothing so far, except some s.h.i.t we're afraid to move. Soon as we move it, you'll get the other half."

"The deal was--"

"The deal was that we'd hit the place, clean it out, start selling it two days later and pay you off," Lyle Mack said. "But I don't have thirty K sitting on a shelf, and this whole f.u.c.ked-up guy, the guy who died, this has changed everything. Don't worry: we want to keep you happy. But it'll be a while. Maybe a couple months. No longer."

"Two months," Barakat said. "All right, two months." He stuffed the bag in his parka pocket, then said, "Here is something else for you to think about. Sometimes, you get hurt, you motorcycle people. And you do not want to go to the hospital, because then the police will know. I am one very good emergency room specialist. I can help you--and your friends, people you recommend--and n.o.body has to know about it. Think about that. I am of more value alive."

"You're really worried," Lyle Mack said.

"Of course I'm worried," Barakat said. "You killed this man out of stupidity. You could kill me out of stupidity. Or because you think you're being smart. I don't want your mistakes to kill me."

"Don't know if I'd care to get operated on by a guy with a f.u.c.kin' orangutan on his back," Joe Mack said.

Barakat's eyes flicked to Lyle Mack, then back to Joe Mack. "Orangutan?"

"Really big monkey," Joe Mack said.

Barakat shook his head: "What? Monkey?"

"Forget it," Lyle Mack said. "It's an old American joke." He stood up, jerked a thumb at Joe Mack, who pushed away from the table and stood.

"See you around, Doc," Joe Mack said. "Try to ... relax."

"Wait, wait," Barakat said. "What about the woman?"

"Just keep cool," Joe Mack said. "We're working on that."

"But what happened? I haven't heard anything," Barakat said.

"You did just fine. The deal wasn't quite right, and our man called it off," Lyle Mack lied. "We're thinking over some other possibilities. So stand by, and we'll get back to you."

"I don't want to have anything to do with it, anymore. You people . . ." He flicked a hand that said, You people are flies. You people are flies.

Lyle Mack jabbed a finger at him: "You might have to. She got a good look at Joe. If they pull his picture, she could bite us on the a.s.s. We need her tracked; we'll get back to you on that."

"She's on the twin-separation team ..."

"You said that. We don't give a f.u.c.k," Lyle Mack said.

"That means that she'll be here every day for the next few days. One of the twins is having heart problems. The operation is taking longer than they thought. So ... you know where she'll be. Every morning she comes, at the same time. I can't help you much more than that."

"We'll get back to you," Lyle Mack repeated.

They sat staring at each other for a minute, then Joe Mack said, "You know, Al, if we don't get her, and she fingers me, and it's your fault . . . well, we won't worry so much about your f.u.c.kin' family, then. I'd be looking at thirty years."

"Worse things than jail," Barakat repeated.

"Something for you to remember, too," Joe Mack said. "I got a chain saw in my garage. You hang me up, I'll cut you in half, the long way, b.a.l.l.s first."

More staring, then Barakat said, "If you need some specific thing, call me. On my cell, all the time. But don't call me from your bar, or from your houses."

"We got clean cells," Lyle Mack said.

Barakat slid out of the booth. "And don't call me Al," he said. He walked away.

ON THE WAY OUT of the student union, Joe Mack asked Lyle Mack, "You believe that thing, about skinning the guy alive?"

"Hey, they're f.u.c.kin' Arabs or something," Lyle Mack said. "Who knows what they'd get up to?"

"You know, he's a harder guy than I thought," Joe Mack said. "I don't think he was kiddin' about all that."

BARAKAT WALKED the bundle of cocaine out to his car, locked himself in, checked the ramp, then unrolled the sack and took out the Ziploc bag inside. Half a kilo: it looked right. And pure, crystalline white. Gorgeous. The Macks had said that it would be straight, unstepped-on; he'd believe it when he tried it.

And he'd try it now. A terrible risk: anyone could come along. Somebody could be walking down the ramp, quietly, see him in the car ... but he was going to do it anyway.

He took his briefcase off the pa.s.senger seat, opened it, took out a paperback book with a slick cover, closed the briefcase and put it on his lap. Looked around again. His hands were shaking as he shook a pile of c.o.ke onto the paperback. The pile was the size of the last joint on his little finger. He dipped his little finger into it and tasted it. Tasted fine.

Still a little worried. c.o.ke was sometimes cut with strychnine to boost the rush--that's what he'd heard, anyway. What if they'd added a little extra? But it tasted fine ... and clean. c.o.ke was cut with lactose, mannitol, lidocaine, dextrose, all kinds of other s.h.i.t. He looked at the little pile, felt the cold sweat on his forehead.

Mentally flicked back to the Beirut story he'd told the Macks: all bulls.h.i.t, an acc.u.mulation of legends he'd picked up from kids at school. But he was worried about the Macks.

He looked again at the pile of cocaine. Didn't matter if there was strychnine in it, he thought. He couldn't wait. He fished the cafeteria straw out of his pocket, made a last check, and snorted the stuff up.

One minute later, the world had changed.

First the rush, like electricity running through his nerves; then the power, the brightness, the focus.

Better than s.e.x.

THAT NIGHT, Adnan Shaheen let himself into Barakat's house, called out, "Alain?" Shaheen was a short man with a fuzzy, bushy mustache, dark-complected, soft brown eyes. He was wearing a parka over a white, hip-length physician's coat. He was in his first year of residency in internal medicine. "Alain, are you there?"

Barakat's car was in the driveway Instead of an answer, Shaheen got a thump from the back bedroom. Like a body hitting the floor.

"Alain?" He went back, down the hall. "Alain?" Pushed open the bedroom door. Barakat was sitting on the floor, back to the bed, his head back, eyes closed, saliva running over his lips and down his chin. He was wearing a sleeveless undershirt, boxer shorts, and over-the-calf socks. His shoes were on the floor between his legs.

"Ah no," Shaheen said. He grasped the hair at the sides of his head, as though he were going to tear it out.

"Go away," said Barakat.

Shaheen ignored him, squatted on the rug next to the other man, switched to Arabic. "What is it? Cocaine? What have you taken?"

Barakat opened his eyes. "Maybe ... too much. Better now." He giggled. "Pretty bad an hour ago. That was very, very crazy. You know. My blood was ... on fire."

Shaheen stood up and turned on the bedside lamp, and Barakat shouted, "Off . . . turn it off!"