“Full service,” he said quietly. “I take care of all needs.”
Jimmy glared at the man. Maybe because he knew her a long time and thought four straight nights here at the bar letting men wipe her chin was too much. Or maybe it was the guy’s beard. Once, a beard or even a moustache got you stomped. Zelda could vaguely remember a hooked nose earning a beating. Now, just a dirty look from a protective bartender.
She double blinked shorthand at Jimmy, who muttered and attended to a customer at the other end.
“And you know what my needs are.”
“I can sense them.”
Zelda finished her drink and let the guy buy her another. Jimmy poured it slowly, disapprovingly.
“I think you’re lonely.”
Grandma’s clit, give me a break.
“It’s been a while since you had someone.”
Yeah, nearly twenty-four hours.
“How’s my guessing so far?”
“Brilliant. Can you guess my name?”
“Does that matter?”
Zelda smiled playfully. “Are you saying this is just about sex?”
The Beard’s smile wavered slightly. “Doesn’t have to be.”
“I’m single. Obviously. So are you. Hopefully. Did I guess that right?”
He nodded, a little annoyed. “Otherwise…”
“Otherwise you’d get a summons and adultery is ugly. Apartment, job, mark on your name up and down the entire system.”
The Beard shifted uneasily.
“Because I’m here looking for love and romance and relationship and sharing and all the things Grandma wants us to have. Otherwise I’m just a slut.” Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Do you think I’m a slut?”
“No, I…”
“If you do, then I should be reported for wayward pointless sex not designed for reproduction or at least companionship. That’s not what you were after, is it?”
The Beard quickly tossed his Lifecard on the bar, agonizing as Jimmy ever so slowly rang up the charges.
“Good luck,” he called over his shoulder.
Zelda tapped the bar with her knuckles for a refill. Jimmy slid over a bowl of chips.
“I wasn’t letting you leave with that bearded piece of crap,” Jimmy growled. He was about six five, two hundred and fifty pounds and could probably stop a crusher truck with a punch.
“I don’t need a protector.”
“You need to stay out of my bar for a while.”
“But I’m a good customer. Without me, the way I draw men into running up big tabs, you’d close. Then I’d be stricken with guilt, unable to work, a drag on Grandma’s House. Both of us, Jimmy. Ruination. Shame. ”
Jimmy shook his head. “Maybe you should try a girl.”
“I have,” Zelda sighed. “I screw them up, too.”
4
Major Tomas Stilton was still half drenched from the long drive, the tropical rain pouring relentlessly into the open windows. If only he could scratch his face, but he wouldn’t give the scum the satisfaction of asking for help. Letting them slip their greasy fingers under the black hood seemed worse than enduring the itching.
Then again, blinded, he didn’t have to look at them. Touching was difficult enough. Smelling, sensing. He’d shuddered for an hour; they thought he was just cold, but Tomas was remembering how many Allahs he’d killed. At least fifty. Half during the withdrawal at Sicily. Those seven in the chalet near Nice when his Seals had rescued the last Vice President. Another dozen covering the first convoy of refugee children. A few he killed out of savage vengeance.
Two rough hands yanked him off the hard wooden chair.
One, two, three steps, door creaks open, and one, two over the threshold. Left, one, two, three, steps, feet trailing behind him. Why are you bothering? They’ll take you somewhere different next time. If there was a next time.
My beloved, I hope you know what you’re doing. Because I sure as hell don’t.
He was dropped like a bag of soiled laundry onto a more comfortable chair. Leather, his bulky body squirmed, confirming it. Someone laughed and cut his wrists free of the thick rope. They yanked off his hood. He wouldn’t squint in the sudden light. Same principle of not giving them any satisfaction.
Tomas kept his eyes fixed at the bare floor until he grew accustomed to his surroundings. Two young Allahs in flowing white robes flanked him, hands in their laps as if Stilton had stopped by for a beer. Another one, maybe thirty-five or so, sat gracefully on an identical black leather chair. He smiled warmly. This was the guy. Slight, almost frail. Arrogant in that cordial way they had.
“Mr. Stilton, welcome.”
Tomas nodded vaguely.
“Are you hungry?”
Tomas waved him off.
“I do not consider it weakness if you need nourishment. It is a long way from the Bronx.”
“Yes it is,” he finally said. “I’m fine.”
The Allah shrugged off Tomas’ stubbornness and exchanged amused glances with his colleagues. Tomas wondered if the guns were under their robes or they just had a couple rifles aimed at his head behind the white walls. A generator hummed. They were probably deep underground.
“I am Imam Abboud.” He tipped his head slightly.
“Imam?” Tomas held his concern in check. Hood off for thirty seconds and already they’d fucked with him. And you’re very and deeply surprised, why? “Where’s the Son?”
“The son?” Imam’s next look at his colleagues was decidedly less polite.
“Abdullah.”
“You will refer to him as His Most Worthy Successor.”
The war was so easy to understand sometimes, Tomas thought. He bowed from the shoulders. “I was told I would meet His Most Worthy Successor.”
Abboud sneered slightly. “He has ears.”
“As I have a tongue.”
The Imam acknowledged that with a gracious wave of the hand. “If you speak, I will listen.”
Tomas hesitated.
“Did you really think he would come?”
“No, I honestly didn’t,” Tomas admitted. “But Grandma did.” And I should’ve talked her out of this; no one ever would’ve known.
“As I said, he has ears.” The Imam touched his left ear lobe as if Tomas were very dull-witted.
