see if they might tell me something.
I signed back on and headed to the browser window to click on the Xcracksterweb address instead of typing it all in again. The window displayed the history of where the most recent surfers had been. The first four or five addresses were the ones I just looked up. Right underneath those were some strange websites.
There were: www.inthefeetofthenight.com, www.toesrus.com, www.stinkyfeet.com, www.Xcracksterweb.com, www.boobworld.com, www.alfinuu.org, and www.bankofcanary.com.
The position of www.Xcracksterweb.com was such that it looked like someone else had been there before me. Mine was up just below my e-mail site and above Fightnews. com. Unless the computer did something out of order, that had to mean that someone in the library was on www.Xcracksterweb.com in addition to what looked like a bunch of foot-fetish sites.
“Deb, can I ask a question?” I asked while she hit the top of the moisturizer.
“Sure, Duff-that’s why I’m here,” she said.
“The history displayed on the Internet browser goes in chronological order, doesn’t it?”
“It should go according to the order in which sites were downloaded, though sometimes it doesn’t record every site,” she said.
“But it wouldn’t skip out of order, would it?”
“It shouldn’t.”
“Who was on this computer just before me?” I asked.
“You’re the first one to use it today,” she said, brushing her hair.
“Who would have used it last night?”
“There’s only one doctor who generally comes in after hours.”
“Who might that be?” I asked.
“Dr. Gabbibb.”
26
My head was spinning. I kept trying to tell myself that the fact that Gabbibb was on the computer looking at www.Xcracksterweb.com was a coincidence. All it proved, along with his penchant for sexy feet, was that Gabbibb was an even creepier wack-job than I originally guessed. Just because the guy’s idea of a turn-on involved toe punk, it didn’t mean he was a kidnapping rapist. Not necessarily anyway.
A call to my increasingly busy information technologist furnished me with more background. Jerry researched the Alfinuu site and determined it was some sort of radical, anti-American deal based in Pakistan. The Bank of Canary was an offshore bank that Jerry explained would be a good place to launder money or to avoid taxes on money earned illegally.
I thanked Jerry for his help. I had some information that felt like something, but I didn’t know what it was or what to do with it. I also had to find Shony and I didn’t have enough information to know where to start. I wanted to find out as much as I could about this India-Pakistan thing, and I wanted to find out from someone who lived it, not just read about it. I couldn’t very well ask Gabbibb, and though there were a few other Indian doctors and students at Crawford Medical Center, not only did I not know them, I didn’t exactly get a great vibe from them, either.
Every now and then when I didn’t know what to do, I’d give Smitty a call. If he didn’t know the answer to something, he often knew how to find the answer. I called him late at night when I knew he’d be up and I got his usual cheerful greeting.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Man, I can see why you never made a fortune in the telemarketing business,” I said.
“You know, just because your sorry ass got suspended doesn’t mean you can’t workout,” Smitty said.
“Ahh geez, don’t you ever let up?”
“No.”
“Maybe if I didn’t throw a hook like a bitch.”
“Yeah, that’s part of it,” Smitty said. “Look, what are you calling me for?”
“This is goin’ to sound a little weird, Smitty.”
“Comin’ from you-I doubt it.”
“You know anyone from India?”
“You’re getting weird on me, son.”
“I told you-do you?”
“What are you, with the census bureau all of sudden?”
“Nah, I want to find out something about India and Pakistan and all that terrorism shit,” I said.
Smitty was quiet for a moment.
“You free Tuesday morning?”
“Yeah.”
“Meet me at the Y at seven.”
“For what?”
“Be there at seven.” Smitty hung up. I knew better than to ask a lot of questions. With Smitty it was simple- I’d see him Tuesday morning at the gym, about five minutes to seven.
That Tuesday morning I met Smitty in front of the Y at five minutes to seven and got into his Ninety-Eight. Smitty always drove and it wasn’t something you asked about. I had my coffee and I got in his car and, like always, the two of us didn’t exchange “good mornings” or make a lot of small talk. I didn’t ask him where we were going or who we were going to speak to. We knew each other on a different level, and I knew that soon enough my questions would be answered.
We drove for about half an hour, without talking and without the radio. Smitty was the only guy I ever felt comfortable being with for periods of time without speaking. Out past Schorie County and almost to Mariaville, Smitty turned down a dirt road and slowed the car until he pulled into a gravel parking lot in front of a prefab steel building. On the lawn in front of the building was a sign that said “Hatha Yoga.”
With anyone else, this would’ve been ample fodder for a couple hours of ball busting. I knew better.
“Before you go inside, take your shoes off,” Smitty said.
I nodded.
We went through the front door, and sitting on a plain carpet in a twenty-by-twenty room in front of us was a very dark and shiny-skinned man who looked like Gandhi, or at least like the guy who played Gandhi in the movie. Smitty stood with his hands folded and his head down until the man greeted him.
“Horace, it is good to see you,” the Gandhi-guy said. For twenty years I knew the man only as “Smitty,” and now I think I knew why.
“Good morning, Yogi,” Smitty said quietly. “This is the man we spoke of. This is Duffy.”
For some reason I felt like genuflecting or curtsying but I didn’t do either.
“Please sit,” the man said.
Smitty and I sat cross-legged on the carpet with my new friend, Yogi.
“How can I help you?”
“I want to know about India and Pakistan.”
“Mr. Duffy,” the Yogi remained amazingly still and expressionless. “India and Pakistan are vast lands. Could you be more specific?”
“Do you know anything about a Pakistani organization called Alfinuu?”
Yogi looked down and studied his hands. His expression did not change.
“Alfinuu is a fundamentalist Islamic organization that has caused much unhappiness in both Pakistan and India. It is made up of rigid people who feel that those not like them do not deserve to live. They believe they are superior and need to dominate those who do not follow their beliefs.”
“Are they a large organization?” I asked.
“It is difficult to tell; they are not open in their dealings.”
“What do they do?”
