Blizzard Ball (21 page)

Fahti Panhwar attended the University of Minnesota and lived in an apartment above the Masjid Al-Rahman. The location was served by an express bus to the university and kept him in close proximity to other Pakistanis and members of the Muslim community. It was at the Masjid Al-Rahman where he met Jamal, the owner of the Cash and Dash, and was offered a job as a part-time clerk.

On his way to terminating Fahti, Zip stopped in at a nearby bar where he whetted a pent-up alcoholic addiction and fueled the fire of contempt. Stealth and patience were not Zip’s strong suits. He considered himself resourceful. As a convicted felon out on parole, he wasn’t about to carry a handgun. Didn’t need one. In prison he’d seen plenty of damage done with ordinary items such as sharpened soap bars, plastic cutlery, tin can lids, socks filled with potatoes, even dental floss. Any of these items would do the job on Fahti, but he felt something personal was in order, something with feeling, like his bare hands driven by prison-hardened muscles around Fahti’s neck.

Standing in the hallway leading to the apartments above the Masjid Al-Rahman, he tried to discern the names on the mailboxes. Either they were written in Farsi or the booze had pixilated and tilted his vision. There were only three possibilities. He scored on the first door he knocked on.

“Fahti?” The occupant’s hesitation was the only confirmation Zip needed. He grabbed Fahti’s neck, squeezed his windpipe, and pushed him into the apartment. He sniffed the air. “What have we here, a little hashish?”

Fahti’s eyes buldged, and Zip tossed him to the floor like a rag doll.

“Don’t move,” Zip commanded, and took a seat on the sofa. He picked up Fahti’s pipe, struck a Bic lighter to the bowl, and took a series of deep, rapid inhales.

“You people do have some good shit,” he coughed out in a tight voice.

“What is it you want?” Fahti held his arms open. “Take the hashish, it’s yours. Now go, please.”

“My mother, Mrs. Cooper to you, bought lottery tickets from you at the Cash and Dash. Little old lady, with a slight limp and a mole above her left eye.”

“I have many customers, but I might remember her,” Fahti said, seated on the floor where Zip had planted him.

“Ma brought you winning lottery tickets and you ripped her off. Held back the payout.”

“I did not do these things.” Fahti ever so cautiously moved to a kneeling position and sat back on his haunches. “We have many lottery customers and always pay out if they win. We like to make customers happy. Maybe it was someone else who checked Mrs. Cooper’s tickets for winners. I am a student and work only part time at this store.”

“Yeah, I know about you foreign students. Come here for the best education in the world, visit the tittie bars, and then go home and shout death to America, Allahu Akbar, and beat your women for showing a little ankle.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Cooper is mistaken. With all the different lotteries and numbers, sometimes it can be confusing.” Fahti rose to one knee as if proposing.

“Keep talking that way and I’ll stretch the pain I’m going to inflict upon you from here to Tuesday.”

“What is it you want?” Fahti pleaded.

“Who besides you was in on the ticket rip-off?”

“No one! The owner, Jamal, would kill me if he found out.”

“But now he’s dead, so I guess I am left to do him the favor.”

“Please, I am just a poor student. I will repay you.” Fahti’s eyes watered. “I pay you double.”

Zip let out a boisterous laugh. “You’re on the right track with a refund, but that ain’t the half of it, Pakky.” Zip’s expression hardened. “You fucked with my momma.”

Suddenly, Fahti exploded off the floor like a defensive lineman and caught Zip by surprise with a head butt to the face. Zip’s nose cracked in a bloody eruption. Zip stood, cupped his nose with one hand and swung wildly with the other, trying to locate Fahti through tearing eyes. Fahti frantically removed a kirpan ceremonial dagger hanging on the wall and stripped the knife from its leather and brass scabbard. The bone handle and curved blade measured thirteen inches. The kirpan symbolized protection of the defenseless and the power to cut to the truth. Fahti stepped behind Zip, grabbed a greasy clump of hair, and jerked his head back. “Allahu Akbar, motherfucker!” were the last words Zip heard.

This is bullshit,” Morty mumbled to himself as he entered the State Capitol. He caught a glimpse of his angry reflection in the glass case displaying flags carried by Minnesota soldiers in the Civil and Spanish American Wars. He quickly looked away and bounded up the rotunda’s granite staircase. Out of breath, he stood in the back of the Senate chamber. Sixty-seven senators were seated in a sloping semicircle the full width of the chamber and facing the Senate Majority Leader, who was presiding over a Lottery bitch session.

The election of the current governor and his appointment of Morty Frish as Lottery director had brought with it an opportunity to renew the public’s confidence in the Lottery. However, the recent botched Lottery drawing, hostage situation, convenience store suspicions, and unredeemed jackpot ticket had once again severely tested the state’s ability to run a beyond-reproach gambling business. The incompetence had negatively reflected on lawmakers, who were quick to offload the tumult onto Morty’s doorstep.

Morty’s attention bounced like a pinball as the senators took turns weighing in. Not only were they calling for the governor to fire Morty, but there was also a proposal to sell the state lottery business. Privatization would require an amendment voted on and approved by the public, but the idea seemed to be gaining some traction. An enterprising senator with a back-of-the-envelope calculation had projected that at a minimal annual contribution rate of $200 million, the Lottery was worth an estimated four billion dollars over the next fifty years, give or take. Sold at a favorable discount for upfront cash, the state would be flooded with money to fund programs, and also be out from underneath a problematic business.

A senator representing the Indian gaming constituency railed that privatization would be an encroachment designed to break their casino exclusivity and lead to the repeal of the tax-free operating treaty. Anti-gambling proponents also joined with the Indians to reject the concept for a different reason, but to the same end.

Morty felt the bulldog tug of the governor’s secretary at his sleeve. “The governor wants to see you, now!” she said, and steered him out of the senate chambers through the arched rotunda corridor and into the governor’s office.

The governor was seated at a hand-carved mahogany desk under a large painting of the missionary Father Hennepin preaching to bare-breasted Indian maidens at St. Anthony Falls. The governor took note of Morty and tapped a closed-circuit monitor feeding from the senate chamber. “We’re getting our bacon fried in there.”

“They’re overreacting. We’re not going to buckle to political grandstanding,” Morty said as he jingled the change in his pocket. He was hoping for an affirmation.

The governor shuffled paperwork, allowing for a long pregnant pause before shifting gears.

“Ever been to Albert Lea, Morty?”

“Been by it on the highway. South central, flat as a pancake, rich farmers growing sugar beets with more government safety nets than a circus act. What of it?”

“I grew up in that town. Not as flat as you think. There’s a ripple or two on the landscape. Some nice lakes. Grow mostly soybeans and corn now. As far as rich farmers, suppose there are a few.”

“Of course, I’m aware of your bootstrap self-made man story,” Morty said. “Your mother was a hairdresser and your dad was a meat inspector. All through high school you worked odd jobs and saved enough money to go the University of Minnesota—a man who struggled against the odds and yet succeeded.” Morty beat a drumroll on the governor’s desk. “The people’s candidate! Hurrah!”

“Sit down,” the governor ordered, not amused by Morty’s hype. “There’s a Mexican restaurant in Albert Lea. The restaurant and its owner are the soul of the town. Family business, open seven days a week.”

“So,” said Morty, “you got a hankering for a burrito?”

“The owner of that restaurant helped me dig myself out of a situation, one I thought I could never repay.”

“You been hitting the tequila, Gov? Cause you lost me at the taco stand.”

“When I was fourteen, I worked at a grain-handling facility near Albert Lea. There were a dozen storage elevators spread around the property, some with the capacity of 10,000 bushels. We worked shelled corn mostly, passing it from one elevator to another through dryers to keep it from molding. The corn was moved by an auger situated at the base of the elevator floor. Once the storage elevator was empty, my job was to go in and clean out the residual corn. One late afternoon, there was a mix-up while I was cleaning, and corn started raining down on me from sixty feet overhead. In an instant, I’m swimming in a sea of kernels. I was in trouble, but not panicked. I knew as the corn settled it would close-pack and bind, providing a firm purchase from which to extricate myself. But unfortunately, the auger kicked on below me, churning the kernels like greased ball bearings, and started to suck me down. The storage elevator was dark, save shafts of light filtering dust from split seams in the galvanized steel walls and an opening high above where a dangling chute sprayed corn. As I hollered out for help, my lungs filled with corn dust. The more I strained, the deeper into the corn I slid. My ribs ached from the constant pressure, the muscles in my legs cramped, my feet went numb. I’d all but given up when a side panel opened up overhead and a little mustached face peered into the dust cloud. He saw I was on the way down, to be strained and burned. Without hesitation, this skinny Mexican took a belly flop into the elevator and lay prone atop the corn—a human plank. I grabbed on to him like a drowning man, twisting my hands into his clothes until I worked myself into a position where I could grab on to a ridge on the side wall and scramble for the opening. However, the vacuum I created pulling out of the corn sucked the Mexican down headfirst toward the auger. I managed to get the attention of the yard boss, who stopped the operation. The Mexican worker got chewed up pretty bad, lost his right arm, clear up to his shoulder.”

“Great story,” Morty said. It was all he could do not to say, “Let’s call him Lefty, and we’ll figure a way to work it into your next campaign.”

“His name is Carlos Vargas. He came to see me. Told me an interesting account of how several of his friends had foolishly robbed the convenience store where the winning Lottery jackpot ticket originated. Thought they were stealing cash, but ended up with boxes filled with lottery tickets.”

“These must be the guys who cashed the lottery tickets at the truck stop and got flattened by the hog carrier.”

“Believe so. They stashed a pile of tickets with their cousin, Alita Torres. Carlos assured me she had nothing to do with the robbery, but things have gotten out of hand. She’s been threatened, and he’s concerned for her safety.”

“Did this Carlos say whether she had the winner?”

“Didn’t say. She’s willing to turn herself in.”

“So, if I understand you correctly,” Morty chided, “your savior has come to claim his marker. Wants immunity for a robbery and cold-blooded murder based on good will. Goddamn laughable. No offense.”

“What’s not funny is that thanks to you, I’m now being associated with this lottery havoc and getting trashed by the legislators.” The governor pointed in the direction of the senate chambers. “And they’re taking the heat from the public.”

“What about the BCA?” Morty asked. “This Agent Kirchner’s pretty active in trying to put the pieces together. You going to bring him in on it?”

“From what I understand this Kirchner couldn’t catch his tail. He had Ms. Torres in his grasp and she escaped. That said I want to keep a lid on this until I bring the AG’s office on board. Then I’ll notify Carlos and he’ll bring Ms. Torres in. I want this handled discreetly. No sirens, no hotshot detectives, no more fresh blood for the piranhas in the press.” The governor stood, signaling an end of the meeting.

As Morty took his leave from the governor, he repeated the name Alita Torres like a mantra. The exercise was quickly interrupted by the governor’s tenacious secretary, who handed Morty a note and informed him that his office had called.

As Morty glided up the Guthrie Theater’s insufferably long two-story escalator, he rechecked the message the governor’s secretary had handed him confirming the unlikely meeting location. As he looked around for the Russian, he was greeted by a curse from Macbeth shadowed on the walls of the theater’s lounge. As he read the verse, a foul taste formed in his mouth and his stomach knotted:

Eye of newt, and toe of frog,

Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,

Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,

Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,

For a charm of powerful trouble,

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

“Hey, over here!” Basarov raised a vodka and flagged Morty over to a window table. The Russian’s meticulously trimmed four-day growth of beard ovaled his mouth from nose to chin. He sat with his thighs spread apart as if the whole world swayed to his testicles.

“Craziest damn building I’ve ever seen.” Basarov pointed Morty to a chair and snagged the sleeve of a passing waitress to facilitate a refill for himself and a drink for Morty. “This theater’s a thirty-five-million dollar silo with a hard-on. Ha!” Basarov laughed.

The Guthrie Theater, perched on the bluff of the Mississippi River in the old milling district of Minneapolis, had been dubbed one of the seven wonders of modern engineering and architecture. Morty felt an instinctive urge to counter Basarov’s drive-by description of the industrial form clad in blue corrugated siding, but he acquiesced. Morty wasn’t a booster, and he had to admit the “bridge to nowhere,” a catwalk cantilevered outside the building,
was
strangely phallic.

“Didn’t know you were a theater patron,” Morty poked.