The 56th Man (7 page)

A young man with dark curly hair came out
bearing a plate, which he sat before Carrington. "You wanted to see
me?"

"Hey, Antonio! I got one of your fellow
countrymen here."

Ari and Antonio exchanged glances while
Carrington inspected his hamburger. Finding it charred to his
satisfaction, he began squirting it with ketchup.

"What, no
ciaos
?" Carrington said after a moment, looking
up. "We don't get many Eye Ties around here. Thought you two would
appreciate meeting." He slid a fry into his mouth, but quickly spit
it back out. "Yeeow! Kinda hot there, Antonio."

"Our customers like them hot," Antonio
explained evenly.

"Well I'm a customer, and I don't like
sticking glowing hot pokers in my mouth."

"I'll tell the chef."

"Oh--no! Don't bother. I'll just sit back and
watch you guys intercourse with each other. Give them a few minutes
to cool down." Carrington leaned forward and smiled at Ari.
"Antonio here's one of those foreign exchange students."

Antonio gave a small cough. "Not exactly. I'm
a research fellow."

Carrington frowned, as though the description
sounded bizarre to his prominent ears. "I was trying to be polite.
Anyway, Antonio picks up extra change washing dishes here at night.
A real go-getter, eh Antonio? Or what is it your real name is?"

"Giosuè," Antonio sighed, holding out his
hand. As Ari took it, the two shared their opinion of the detective
with brief smirks.

There was another awkward pause.

"Well?" Carrington demanded. "Don't you
people want to talk about the old homestead or something?"

Giosuè threw a shrug.
"
Sono da Milano
."

Ari returned the shrug.
"
Siracusa
."

"Ah."

They fell silent.

"That's it?" said Carrington gruffly.

"We're from different parts of the country,"
Giosuè said. "Very far apart. We don't know each others' area."

"You got nothing in common?" Carrington
tossed down his paper napkin. "We had a whole damn civil war here
just so we'd all have something in common."

"We had a guy named Garibaldi..." A
slow grin drew itself across Giosuè’s face and he again turned to
Ari. "
Ho sentito Berlusconi ha alcuni amici
il vostro modo
."

Ari chuckled and shook his head in
protest. "
Vuoi dire Cirillo? E 'qui negli
Stati Uniti, con il resto dei delinquenti
."

"
Sì! Sì!
" Giosuè laughed.

"
Senza il Primo
Ministro ha una villa il tuo modo
?"

"
San Martino,
Arcore. Nizza proprietà.
"
Giosuè shook
his head and popped a
whew
from
between compressed lips.
"
Non tutti hanno uno che si è fatto
uomo per un giardiniere.
"

"
Sono tutti
ladri,
" Ari sighed. "
Vedi
Berlusconi e Bush
."

"
Nel letto
insieme
."

"
Domanda è, chi
è in cima
?"

"All right!" Carrington interrupted their
laughter. "So everything's hunky-dory in Italy and the Pope's still
a virgin."

Giosuè took his cue, nodded at Ari, and
retreated into the kitchen.

Carrington no longer seemed enamored with his
bacon cheeseburger. He glanced at his watch, grimaced, tapped his
thumbs on his plate. It seemed obvious that a pet theory had just
gone down in flames. But what? Why would it matter if Ari was
Italian or not? Unless he was trying to verify if he was in the
country legally. Yes...an illegal alien could be...evicted. And
perhaps Carrington had not believed he was Italian.

In any event, it looked as though
Carrington didn't like the idea of
anyone
living in the Riggins house. Did he think
to do so was a kind of sacrilege?

"Hope this'll do you," said the waitress as
she brought Ari a white porcelain cup filled with hot water. On the
side of the saucer lay an unopened tea bag.

"I suppose..." Ari picked up the bag and
looked at it uncertainly.

"They don't have tea bags in Sicily?"
Carrington asked, watching him.

"Of course." Ari noted the tab on the pack
and pulled. It came out of the envelope, along with a sachet of
tea, attached by a string to the tab between his fingers. He placed
the small sack in the cup and draped the string over the side, then
smiled up at the waitress. "Excellent."

She lifted her chin, lowered her chin, and
walked away.

Suddenly hungry again, Carrington wolfed a
bite out of his hamburger. He winked at Ari. "Don't know what
you're missing," he said, the words muffled as he chewed.

"You had something to talk to me about?" Ari
said, inspecting the steeping tea.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you
about."

"That means you want to talk to me about what
you want to talk about."

"Guess it does," Carrington snorted, thinking
over his words. "I wanted to talk about...like how the value of a
painting goes up when the artist dies, while the value of his house
goes down. You did buy that house down on Beach Court, didn't
you?"

"Do the police here keep track of property
transfers?"

"Not much. But some." Carrington stuffed
several fries in his mouth. They were no longer too hot for him,
Ari supposed. "You can see the difference, though. The guy who
invented the car, you don't get spooked every time you drive just
because he's dead. Same with the paintings. But a house,
now..."

"Especially under the circumstances..."

"Right on. Walking around, sleeping, taking a
dump...there you go, taking a dump on the same toilet that this guy
and his whole family used not a year ago...that would give me the
creeps."

"I don't believe in ghosts, Detective
Carrington." Ari removed the tea bag, placed it on the saucer, and
sipped at his drink. It was recognizably tea, at least.

"Hey, you never know." The detective winced
as though stung and reached under his jawline. He found some
ketchup on top of his shaving cut. He wiped it off with his hand,
then wiped his fingers halfheartedly on his napkin. "But even
leaving out the ghosts, just the idea of it, you know, kind of
takes the spice out of a new house."

Once again, he looked at his watch.

"If I'm keeping you from an appointment--"
Ari began.

"No. Cops are always looking at their
watches. There's not a whole lot else to do."

"Really?"

"That and eat doughnuts." He sounded
perfectly serious. "Did you know what had happened in that house
when you--"

"No."

"Well there you go. Tell the real estate
agent to shove the contract up his ass and vamoose."

"Vamoose..."

"Get the hell out of there."

"Circumstances...make that impossible."

"You need a lawyer? I know a few. I could
give you a hand on that."

"I'll bear it in mind." Ari fingered the
handle of his cup. "I don't suppose you could answer any questions
about the murders."

"Nothing that's not already in the papers."
Carrington frowned down at his plate, as if weighing which to
polish off first: the burger or the fries. "You wouldn't want to
know more, anyway. Believe me."

"I was wondering about the back door. Don't
you think crashing through like that would have made a tremendous
racket?"

Carrington grunted.

It was a neutral sound. It should have
conveyed nothing more than an acknowledgement of the question. Yet
there was profound disparagement in it, not only of Ari, but in
what he himself was doing. The detective was putting on an act, a
very broad act, and he was suddenly growing tired of his own
performance. His faced slackened, his chin drooped, the folds
around his eyes deepened. He glanced at his watch again.

"We thought about that," he answered wearily,
then forced down the last bite of his hamburger.

Ari waited. This was not a man to be pushed.
It would only make him stubborn.

Sensing Ari's gaze, he raised his head from
his plate. "I said we thought about that."

"Mr. Riggins was found seated in the living
room, correct? Was he wearing night clothes?"

"You mean pajamas? No. He..." Carrington
stopped, considering his words, then slid the last two fries into
his mouth.

"How were the others dressed? Were any of
them bound? Were there signs of intoxication? Were any of them
deaf? You see, the newspapers left quite a bit unexplained."

"Why are you so interested?"

"Wouldn't you be, if all of this had happened
under your roof?"

Carrington crooked his finger at Mabel, who
was chatting with the bartender. She came and took up his
plate.

"Separate checks?"

Carrington nodded sluggishly. The waitress
left to work up the bills.

"Detective--" Ari began.

"It wasn't 'your roof' at the time. Tell you
the truth, if I found myself living in a haunted mansion, I'd shrug
it off. But that's me. All wrapped up in my work. Speaking of
which..." He shot Ari in inquiring look.

As if you didn't already
know
, Ari thought.
"I work out of
home."

"There all day?"

Ari was surprised by the question. The
detective had already revealed too much with his careless lack of
subtlety. Now he was behaving as though Ari was blind, as if he
could not see the challenge. It was open contempt.

"Naturally, I go out sometimes."

"Like where?"

"Detective, my presence in your country is
perfectly legal."

"But you're not a citizen?"

"No."

"Going back home after you score your first
million?"

"Possibly." Ari pressed his hands on the edge
of the table and leaned forward--a gesture that begged for earnest
reason. "Detective Carrington, I believe you were acquainted with
the Riggins family."

"I already told you."

"They were your friends?"

Carrington looked at his watch.

"Did you participate in the investigation
into the murders?" Ari persisted, feeling he had no option but to
push the man.

"Yes."

"You were the primary investigator in the
case?"

Carrington couldn't dodge the answer.
"There's something about that in the papers."

"If you don't mind my saying, that seems a
little odd."

"In your country, don't you take care of your
own?" Carrington swiveled his glass back and forth, as though
trying to screw it into the table.

"You were that close to them?" Ari lowered
his eyes. "I apologize. I didn't understand."

"Don't apologize," Carrington sighed.
"Listen, I know you're curious about what happened. That house
you're in...I have good memories about it. Jerry...well, he was the
best. You can see why it...okay, it hurts, seeing someone else move
in."

"Especially a foreigner."

"I didn't say that. I mean, so we're at war
with the Arabs--"

"With terrorists," Ari corrected.

"Yeah. Iraq and all."

"And to be specific, I'm Italian, of Arab
descent."

"Sorry if I offended you."

Ari turned to the window and the dark street
outside. A few pedestrians drifted by, looking aimless, homeless.
He studied Carrington's sagging reflection in the glass. Was this
sudden contrition part of his act? Or had he simply eaten too
much?

The waitress returned with separate checks. A
low buzz interrupted Carrington as he was calculating the tip. He
scrounged beneath his stomach for his belt clip, a task made more
arduous by the narrow seat, and took out his phone. He read a text
message, frowned, then closed the cover with an angry flip of his
finger.

Ari studied his check and drew out his credit
card.

"You're going to use that for a cup of tea?"
Carrington groused. "That'll make Mabel's day."

"It's all I have."

"You mind?" Before Ari could answer, the
detective had scooped up the card. "What the hell's this? 'Bank of
Nova Scotia?'"

"It's accepted here. I've used it several
times."

"An Italian Arab in America with a Canadian
credit card." Carrington made a broad gesture, as though wrapping
the world in his arms, then handed the card back to Ari. "Put it
away. Mabel has a thrombosis whenever she has to run one of these
through. I'll cover it."

"Thank you."

"Per diem. Don't mention it."

Carrington put a ten and a five on the table
and they left.

SIX

"Watch this," Omar chuckled to the policeman
who had ordered Ghaith out of the white pickup truck and marched
him to the canal bank. He pointed the way with the muzzle of an
M-16, either stolen from or issued to him by the ever-helpful
American army.

Set on automatic. No regard for
marksmanship.

Omar nodded at one of the guards standing
over the three prisoners brought from the back of the Kia Bongo
truck. The prisoners were hooded, on their knees, their hands bound
at the back. The guard returned Omar's nod and yanked the hood off
the prisoner nearest him.

Ghaith stood silently while the bound man
blinked around him. He was terrified when he saw the three guards
from the mini-truck, their heads swathed in kuffiah scarves, but he
said nothing. Ghaith stonily admired his mute courage. The prisoner
was about thirty, a time when a man's strength ebbed in the stream
of family and responsibility, when he had something to lose. The
men standing guard over him were probably ten years younger, on
average, than their captive. Poor, clueless, dangerous.