“Whatever you want.”
“You’ll never do this to me, or the girls, again.”
He kissed the top of his wife’s blond head. He used to love Cindi so goddamn much that he’d never thought he could love anybody else. Loved her with all his heart, and all his soul. And now she was giving him a chance to do it all over again.
“Never, ever,” he said.
“Say it, and not have your fingers crossed,” Cindi said.
Longo grinned so hard, it made his face hurt. Putting his lips to her ear, he said, “On my mother’s grave, I’ll never be unfaithful to you, or my family, ever again.”
Cindi looked into his eyes. Searching for something, and finally finding it.
“Let’s get out of this toilet,” she said.
43
Gerry sat upright in the backseat of the rental, still hog-tied. He’d convinced Amin that he wasn’t going to scream, and Amin had removed the gag.
They had left Bart Calhoun’s house an hour ago. Amin had driven around Las Vegas, then gotten onto I-15 and headed west toward the California state line. A mile before the line, he’d pulled into the parking lot of an old- time casino called Whiskey Pete’s. He parked at the back of the lot, a hundred yards from the other cars. He’d not spoken a word since coming out of Bart Calhoun’s house. Gerry watched him get out of the car, and walk to the casino.
“Know what they call this place?”
“What,” Pash said, watching the casino.
“A sawdust joint.”
Pash adjusted the mirror so he could watch Gerry and Whiskey Pete’s entrance, at the same time. “Why’s that?”
“Back in the forties, every casino had sawdust on the floor, so they called them sawdust joints. Then a gangster named Bugsy Siegel came to town.”
Pash’s face came alive. “Didn’t Warren Beatty make a movie about him?”
“Yeah. Bugsy Siegal was also the Moe Green character in
“Moe Green. The mobster who got shot in the eye?”
Gerry nodded. It was working; Pash was acting human again. “Bugsy Siegel bought the Flamingo, and turned it into a swanky club. It was the first casino in town not to have sawdust on the floors, so they called it a carpet joint.”
Posh smiled. “A carpet joint. Very good.”
“Look. You like the movies. Ever watch any Westerns?”
“Oh, yes. John Wayne is my favorite.”
“In the Westerns, they always give a dying man a last request. How about giving me one, and tell me what the hell is going on.”
Pash’s lips snapped shut. Gerry leaned forward, and thrust his head between the front seats. “Look, Pash. I don’t want to die not knowing the score. Understand?”
Pash exhaled deeply, his eyes glued on Whiskey Pete’s entrance. “The score?”
“The truth, the skinny, the facts. Come on. You owe me.”
“You really want to know?”
“Yeah.”
Pash spent a moment gathering his thoughts. When he spoke, his voice was without emotion. “All right, my friend. Here is the score. You know of the events of 9/11.”
Gerry blinked. “Sure.”
“Well, there was a second group of terrorists, who were dedicated to destroying important buildings and structures throughout the United States. My brother was the leader of that group.”
Gerry felt like he’d been hit in the head with a brick. He fell back in his seat.
“It is true,” Pash said. “My brother and I are Pakistani. My brother was recruited in college, and trained at Osama bin Laden’s camp in southern Afghanistan. At night, bin Laden liked to show movies. Do you know what his favorite was?”
Gerry shook his head.
“
“Fuckers,” Gerry swore under his breath.
Pash took a bottled water off the seat, had a sip, and offered him the bottle. When it was declined, he screwed the top back on. “Amin came here in nineteen ninety-nine under a student visa and spent two years buying plastic explosives. Even though he was a foreigner, he found people willing to sell them to him. Ex-CIA, drug dealers, white supremacists. He amassed enough to fill a small van.
“He also helped the men in his group obtain explosives through the money he made card-counting in casinos. Those men were in Atlanta, Chicago, Los Angeles, and Philadelphia.
“The morning of 9/11, my brother drove into Washington, DC. He was in contact with his group through his cell phone.” Pash paused to stare at him. “Do you know anything about plastic explosives?”
Gerry felt himself shudder. “No.”
“They have to be detonated by another bomb. My brother had three hand grenades tied to his waist. He planned to drive down Pennsylvania Avenue, knock down the fence, and drive across the lawn to the White House. He had enough explosives to level the building and everything around it.”
Gerry thought back to that day. He remembered nothing about a truck in the capital, and said, “What stopped him?”
“A confluence of events,” Pash said. “The man in Los Angeles got stuck in traffic. He panicked and called Amin. My brother parked several blocks from the White House and tried to calm him down. Then he called the others in his group and heard panic in their voices. They were all young and very afraid.
“One by one, the men quit. On the radio, Amin heard that the towers had been hit. He got back onto Pennsylvania Avenue and saw that the police had cordoned off the street. He drove to Virginia and ditched the truck.”
Pash turned around in his seat. His eyes were wet and shiny. “Now I will tell you something else. I am not a terrorist. I’m an elementary school teacher. I came here two years ago, looking for my brother. I hadn’t heard from him, and was afraid he was sick. I didn’t know what he was doing.
“I tracked him down, and he told me the truth. Right then, I knew he was doomed. Either the police would kill him, or he would die in prison. His life was over. And so was mine.”
“You could have run to Canada, or Mexico,” Gerry said.
“Before 9/11, yes. Not now. The smugglers will turn us in. Even they hate us.”
“So you went on the lam with him.”
“Yes. We went on the lam.”
Pash stiffened. Gerry stared through the windshield. The midday sun had thrown a glare on the glass, and he saw Amin’s faint outline as he came out of Whiskey Pete’s.
“Now you know,” Pash whispered.
Gerry watched Amin approach the car. He had always seemed different, and now Gerry knew what it was. Amin was in league with the devil.
44
Amin got into the rental. Removing the .357 from beneath his sweatshirt, he placed it between the seats so the barrel was pointing at Gerry’s chest.
