“What is it?” he asked in perfect Arabic, surprising Azhar. “I asked, what is it?”
“Are you thirsty, defiler of our law?”
The prisoner chuckled. “Yes, thank you. But I’ll pass on the water if you’re going to say asinine things like that.”
Azhar was shamed by the laugh, stillborn in his throat. He slid a straw under the hood, allowing the prisoner to suck the water from the bottle. He did so noisily, finishing in a minute.
“Thank you, Captain.”
Mustafa froze, bent over. “How do you know I’m a Captain?”
“It’s your ship. I don’t hear anyone else. I assume you’re in charge.”
He nodded, realizing the prisoner couldn’t see. “Yes.”
“Are we alone?”
“Why?” Mustafa grew suspicious. The Crusaders are all cunning wolves.
“Because I don’t want to insult anyone by not including them in the conversation.”
“There are two armed guards below deck.”
“If they’re armed, why keep them there?”
Mustafa bristled. “Because this is my ship and I don’t like guns on deck.” He moved away, worried. “We are not supposed to talk.”
“Because the guards might hear.”
“Yes.”
“I understand.” The prisoner tilted his head. “Do you have any food?”
Azhar swore at himself down and up the steps, returning with two tins dumped into a bowl and a chunk of bread.
“Sure you’re not depriving the guards of dinner?” The prisoner’s hood pulled in a smile.
“They’ve eaten enough.” Mustafa scooped beef onto a fork and squeezed it under the hood. It fell onto the man’s lap. “Sorry.”
“Maybe if you lifted the hood to just below my nose.” Mustafa hesitated, searching for the trick. “Once I’m done you can slide the hood back into place.”
The Captain lifted the hood. Not American African. He looked like one of our Indian brothers. Azhar tossed aside the food from the prisoner’s lap and fed him two spoons rapidly, barely giving the man time to chew. “How is it?”
“Terrible,” the prisoner replied good-naturedly. “You make this yourself?”
“No,” he said, embarrassed. He licked a piece of meat off his pinky and nearly gagged. “Wait here.”
“I’ve got no plans.”
Mustafa’s curses rose a little as he came back with another bowl, filled with Jalak’s lamb. He broke off chunks and speared them into the prisoner’s mouth.
“Better?”
The prisoner chewed ferociously. “A little.”
“Just a little?” he snapped. “My wife made this.”
“Delicious.”
Mustafa burst out laughing. “She has other virtues.”
“Glad to hear that.” The prisoner grinned.
Their laughter was drowned out by helicopters circling overhead, the crescent moon and stars dipping side to side. Mustafa yanked the hood below the prisoner’s chin and rushed back into the cabin, flipping off the automatic pilot. Just ahead, he saw a small ship anchored portside. A rowboat splashed into the water and was soon waiting beside them.
Mustafa dragged the prisoner to the side. Hands reached up and pulled the man into the boat, the helicopters continuing to circle like hawks. Azhar picked up the bowls, abruptly tossing them overboard. He wiped the spilled food with the bottom of his shoe, watching the boat hurry away.
What did you come here for, infidel?
5
The morning started off with Mickey chasing Greta with the precious original Mooshie Lopez baseball bat, smashing two lamps and bashing a hole in the living room wall with a fluid swing, righty and lefty. Screaming “the midget will die,” Mantle drove the HG into the closet, only for Greta to slip under the door and land on his head.
That’s when Puppy found himself with a new and very uneven hole over his desk before diving under the bed and pulling out the plug. Mickey sent the HG machine on a line drive into the bathroom, pulverizing the box so the pieces were embedded into the tiles.
Puppy wasn’t all that unhappy about the death of Greta, although the neighbors were, calling the super, Mr. Ivanov, who scolded Puppy for having drunken parties at seven-thirty in the morning and suggesting the need to find non-violent boyfriends or, if that was his longing, finding somewhere else to live. There were also a few threats about calling the Blue Shirts.
Breakfast, three sugar-scalded donuts and black coffee, calmed Mickey down a little. Actually, he was pretty serene, taking in the brief walk by saying little except he wanted a beer or rum and when could he have real coffee and the couch was killing his back and these fat clothes of Puppy’s were too big; he recommended a tailor on Madison Avenue.
They waited patiently in the bus queue on West 170th Street. Mick ogled a few girls, who responded with disgust. Somehow, in this mind of his, that constituted a challenge, so he did a little number he later explained as “the walk.” Stare, but gently, he cautioned, starting at the woman’s brow, ruminating on her eyes, traveling slowly down her face, resting on the mouth, accompanied by his tongue rolling around his lips, before dancing down her throat and resting on her breasts.
This part required subtlety which, to Mickey, meant eyes darting back and forth, back and forth, followed by a big grin suggesting the previous wet tongue and mouth would enjoy themselves greatly if given a few minutes in the cleavage zone. Then the walk stepped down the stomach, pausing on the vagina, Mantle’s tongue darting out like a hungry baby snake. The walk took a few steps onto the thighs, and then repeated the process upward.
The first girl, around twenty, not bad looking if you liked flashy red hair and green eyes, stared, astonished, until Mickey finished walking. He winked. She slapped him hard, followed by two women who punched him in the ribs while an elderly woman poked Mickey in the back with her umbrella.
“You can’t treat women like that,” Puppy scolded. “Ever.”
Mickey shrugged. At least they got to the front of the queue.
The bus doors opened. Puppy swiped the Lifecard twice, gesturing at his guest Mickey. The A18 driver nodded diffidently for them to continue down the aisle. Mick stared at the ‘bot in horror.
“You coming on or not?” The A18’s metal forehead creased.
“There’s a fucking monster on the bus.
