From the Memoirs of a Non-Enemy Combatant: A Novel (24 page)

“What’s the big idea?” he said. “You don’t pick up?”

“Who is this?”

“What’s the big idea?”

“Excuse me? I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“He told me you were testy, but this…”

“Okay. I’m hanging up now.”

“Meet me in the lobby.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The lobby, Tenderfoot.”

“Who is this?”

“You can call me Horseradish. No names on the phone. Get it? I’ll wait in the lobby for two minutes, and then I’m splitsies.”

“You’re in the hotel? Wait, how did you get this number?”

He hung up.

I apologized to Jeppa, excusing myself, and then took the elevator down to the lobby. It wasn’t hard to spot the man who had
just called. He still held his cell phone in hand. And he was wearing one of Ahmed’s suits, the double-breasted gray plaid I had made custom. It was much too big for him. When he saw me, he spread out his arms, as if expecting a hug.

“Who are you?” I said.

“I told you, call me Horseradish.” He turned a full circle. “What do you think?”

“I think that’s not your suit.”

“Come with me to my room. We talk there.”

“I’m not coming with you. I don’t even know who you are.”

“The suit. You know it. So you know I’m good people.”

“Yes, but it is not yours. It is my business partner’s suit. What have you done with him?”

“Keep your voice down. He give me the suit. I’m here to help you with your manufacturing difficulties. I’m Hajji,” he whispered. “You know me?”

“You’re here for this
now
? How did you find me?”

“I followed you.”

“You followed me?”

“What, is there an echo?”

“Why didn’t you just call? And where is Ahmed?”

“He left town on business. Come upstairs. I got a room just so we can talk.”

“I have a party to attend.”

“Then let’s talk at the party. But I got a room because I figured you wouldn’t want to introduce me to all your fancy friends just yet.”

“Okay, I see now. Let’s go.”

I followed Hajji. In the hallway we passed a man I knew but couldn’t place. He was coming out of a room with a young model.
There was lipstick smeared on his shirt collar. He was probably a friend of Philip’s. I nodded to him but he didn’t catch it.

Once in Hajji’s room I got to thinking about my auntie Baby, the moneylender of Cebu City, who met her end in a setting very similar to the one I found myself in now. No one ever knew how it went down exactly, but since there were no signs of a struggle or break‑in, police suspected that the murderer was an acquaintance, someone she had dealings with. Someone she knew.

I looked around, paranoid, trying to convince myself that nothing bad could happen to me in the Gansevoort. It was a fortress of luxury and hedonism at the gate of the meatpacking district. According to the celebrity blogs, Kate Moss had celebrated her birthday here just a few weeks earlier. I took solace in that piece of gossip. And Hajji and I had been seen in the lobby together. But then maybe my aunt had similar thoughts running through her mind, just before some son of a bitch came up behind her and put a bag over her head.

“You want a glass of water?” asked Hajji.

“No, I want to get back to my party. What are we here to discuss?”

“You get right to the point, Tenderfoot. I like that.”

“Do you even know my name?”

Hajji opened his jacket to the label I had sewn onto the inside breast pocket.

(B)OY
.

“You’re this guy,” he said. “I know all about you. Question is, Do you know about me?”

“Ahmed mentioned you, yes.”

“So you know my reputation. And you’re comfortable with this?”

“What are we even talking about?”

“Working together.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sit down. Relax.”

“I’m still wondering why you’re wearing that suit?”

“I told you already. Ahmed give it to me. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. I said, ‘Where did you get such a magnificent suit?’ The sheen. The pattern. The cut. I had to have one. ‘It’s truly magnificent,’ I said. He said, ‘You can’t get it anywhere. It’s one of a kind.’ I said, ‘Impossible!’ Then we wrestled for it. He took off the suit, of course, not to get it messed up in the stable.”

“The stable?”

“The stable where we go to talk. Anyway, once I had his arm pinned behind his back, he told me you were the one who made it. Custom.”

“Yes, but I still don’t see why you’re wearing it tonight.”

“He give it to me. I said I would take a percentage off the vig. He give me the suit. Happy now, Tenderfoot?”

I was wasting time. It was a feeling I got around people like Hajji, a melancholic fog that draped over me whenever I was in the company of someone below my level of intelligence. This feeling took the place of my paranoia.

“On second thought,” I said, “I’ll have a glass of water.”

He turned on a light over the sink and kept an eye on me through the mirror while he filled a glass. Hajji had deep pockmarks in his face. His hair was dyed a cheap black, and under the light I could see the violet base in the color.

He brought over the water.

“Thank you.” I sat on the edge of the bed and took a purple pill.

“That stuff will kill you,” he said.

“They’re prescription.”

“Me, I don’t take pills.”

“Surprising.”

“So, Ahmed tells me you have a manufacturing problem. I’m here to tell you it is a problem no more, my friend. I can have your clothes manufactured overseas in India. It can be done quickly. We send them dresses, they send us the samples, and back and forth until we’ve reached our agreement. Ami explained to me that you had problems about going overseas. That you want everything manufactured in New York. I don’t blame you. Everybody wants American. People pay big bucks for quality. It’s a simple matter of switching the labels once the garments make it past customs. We send the shipment to a factory in Brooklyn and have all the labels switched there. Wallah.”

“Bait and switch. That’s your plan, huh?” I put my water down on the nightstand and stood up, frustrated. “I’m sorry. This is what you followed me here for? We couldn’t discuss this over the phone? Listen, you have my number. Call me on Monday and we’ll talk.”

He took me in his hands and pushed me back down on the bed.

“Now you listen, Tenderfoot. I’m not here to waste my time. Ahmed said you needed to have clothes manufactured; now I’m offering you my services. I don’t offer this sort of deal to everybody. And with the kind of money he owes me, you’re lucky I don’t just take my share of your business. You think I don’t know who you are? I read!”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Not at all. I’m only trying to explain to you how it is. The
clothes we make together, people will wear, goddamnit. And, I must say, ever since I saw Ahmed wearing this suit, I’ve been envious of his new friend, the tailor. I think we should be in business. Someone who can make a suit like this…one of a kind. No question. It’s truly magnificent.”

I knew I had to get out of his room as quickly as possible, even if it meant telling Hajji whatever he wanted to hear. “Okay,” I said. “It sounds fine. You’re a friend of Ahmed’s. And I trust him. So let’s talk Monday. Call me and you can come by my studio.”

I stood up and was met with the same hostility. He pushed me back down on the bed.

“We’re not finished yet! This suit still needs to be taken in. And you are the one who’s gonna do it.”

“Now? Are you out of your mind? I have people waiting for me. They’re going to get suspicious if I’m gone too long.”

He stepped over to the bedside table and grabbed a plastic CVS bag, which he then threw at me. I looked inside. He was serious. He’d bought a needle and thread, a small travel kit. The receipt was still in the bag.

“I can’t do this now. I need a sewing machine. And where are the scissors? We’ll ruin it. Listen, make an appointment and come by my studio. I’ll have it done then.”

“I want this suit—” Just then, his phone went off. His ring tone was an Arabic pop song, exotic chants over a fast dance beat. He took the call and stuck out his finger, placing me on hold. He spoke a language I would later learn to recognize as Urdu.

I waited on the bed for a few seconds before realizing that this was my opportune moment to make for the door. Hajji was at the
desk fumbling with the hotel stationery. I got moving. He ended his call abruptly just as I was turning the door handle. Suddenly he was so preoccupied he didn’t seem to care that I was on my way out. I should say good-bye, I thought. Keep it friendly but quick. “Ciao,” I said. “See you next week sometime.”

“I’ll call you about the suit.”

“You know you can take it to any tailor. They’d do a better job. I can recommend one.”

“Only I want you to do it.”

“Okay, fine. No problemo.” I was dealing with a maniac. “Call me Monday and make an appointment. I’m busy, but it won’t be a problem.”

I ran out of there and took the stairs back up to the roof. I called Ahmed’s house from the top of the stairwell.

“Yuksel, it’s Boy. Is he there?”

“Eh?”

“I want you to take a message. You ready? Good. Tell Ahmed that I don’t like being followed. Tell him that I’ve just been blackmailed by his friend Hajji. The Indian gangster with purple hair. Tell him if I ever see this Hajji again, our business together is through! You hear me? Make sure he gets it. And Yuksel?”

“Sir?”

“Read it back to me.”

It took us several more tries before Yuksel was able to capture the spirit of the message. Then I returned to the party.

My special agent has informed me that Ahmed was taken into custody that same night at approximately 9:00
P.M.
, just as Vivienne and I were stepping into the Gansevoort for Philip’s Fleet
Week party. It’s strange to think about what happens simultaneously at the most insignificant times. Never for a moment did my mind wander outside of the industry bubble.

You see, it never did occur to me that a higher authority would come knocking on my door.

Yesterday, I witnessed a grooming incision. It is very hard for me to gather the right words for such an act of brutality, and so I must use their term. A grooming incision. A cut on the wrist by a dull razor.

Khush, which is what I heard him called in the prison yard once, was not a likable man by any means. He was unwell. How, you ask, could I tell this when he didn’t speak a word of English? Isn’t it true that we can detect illness much like the way we can sense an attraction? Khush reminded me of a rabid dog. He looked fine from afar, but once you got closer you caught the glisten in his eye and the foam around his jaw. This is the replacement I was administered when my first bathing partner, my friend Riad, decided to turn himself into a vegetable through a diet of air.

We were together on deck, Khush and me, waiting for the showers. I didn’t even look at him.

Once they became available, our numbers were called.

We moved swiftly in our shackles, entering our respective stalls. Khush to the left, me to the right. The metal grate slammed behind us and the guards locked the dead bolts. We turned around and moved forward, placing our hands through the opening of the shower door. Our shackles were removed. We undressed and handed our clothes to the guards through the slot. We were given
our small bar of soap and other amenities. Khush, like me, had also been deemed compliant, and so we were both given the option of the plastic razor. A very dull razor.

Cold water from the nozzle. Two minutes.

Looking down at my feet I watched the streams from both our showers converge into the single drain between the two stalls. I was able to see my bathing partner’s feet. The water pooled together before it went down the drain. This time I didn’t muster the will to lather myself with the bar of soap, or even shampoo my hair. Instead, like a child, I opened my eyes to the sun overhead and let the rays blind me. I remember doing this as a kid in the outdoor shower at my parents’ beach house on Samar. I’d rinse the salt off my little body and the sand out of my scalp under a trickle of water.

One learns to tell time without clocks in prison, automatically counting the seconds in one’s head. And so I knew when our two minutes were almost up. I looked down at my feet and my eyes were not yet adjusted to the light. They were subjected to that distortion of tone one gets after peering directly into the sun. Everything was tinged red. So, you see, I expected the puddle at my feet to be the color it was.

I suppose it should have been no surprise what happened. As I said, this Khush was not right in the head.

“
Medic! Medic!
” a guard yelled. The water was cut off. My sight began to return to normal. I had to squint in order to see that it was indeed blood at my feet. I stood back against the shower gate. I crept onto the balls of my feet, but there was no escaping it. The blood had seeped underneath and filled my stall entirely. Khush must have hit an artery, because once all the water had drained, the blood just kept coming.

“Let me out,” I said, but no one did.

I asked Spyro about the incident during our reservation this morning. We’ve been meeting more and more frequently now that he’s read my confession.

“It was a suicide,” I said.

“I haven’t heard about it. Let’s get back to Ahmed and your relationship with Hajji.”

“That can wait,” I said. “A man cut himself while we were in the shower. I want to know if he is alive or dead.”