Jason Elam - Monday Night Jihad

Despite the sacredness of the process, Hakeem found his mind wandering to the time when Meg had removed that same stretch of body hair. They were on their honeymoon, and Meg had mentioned her aversion to back hair. He remembered her exact words: “Ewww, Sal, it’s like mating with a monkey.” He had jokingly challenged her. “Well, why don’t you do something about it?”

Meg, never one to run away from a challenge, had disappeared into the bathroom. Hakeem expected her to come back with a razor and some sort of scented rubbing oil, but his romantic dreams were shattered when Meg returned carrying some heavy strips of paper, an applicator stick, and a big tub of goop.

For the next hour, the air surrounding their rustic, thatch-roofed cottage on the Kona shores was filled with the sounds of hair being ripped from Hakeem’s body, his cries of pain, and their subsequent shrieks of laughter. In later months, they had both come to the firm conclusion that that balmy June night was when Alessandra had come into existence.

Hakeem realized his mind was drifting again and quickly grabbed the straight blade he was going to use to remove the stubble the electric razor left behind. Allah, forgive me for my weakness, he prayed as he brought the razor across his forearm-partially for penance and partially to regain focus. As the blood dripped into the sink, he stared at himself in the mirror. Toughen up! Does a dead man reminisce about the past? No! He realizes that what’s past is past, and he anticipates the rewards of the future.

After stemming the flow of blood with a towel, he lathered up his head and put the razor to its proper use. He removed any traces of hair from his head and face except for his eyebrows. The whiteness of his recently shaved head would be hidden under a hat, and the paleness of his face where his beard had been would be covered with makeup. But a man with penciled-on eyebrows was still enough of an oddity to receive second and third glances. Again, Allah, I trust you will forgive my small impurity for the sake of your greater plan.

When he was finished shaving the rest of his body, Hakeem put on a button-down white shirt and loose white cotton pants. Then he laid out his prayer rug, knelt facing east, and pressed his forehead to the ground. He remained in that position for several minutes, trying to will himself to go through the formulaic prayer that would complete the purification process. Finally, giving up, he stretched himself out flat on the rug-his arms reaching over his head and his face pressed into the fabric.

Allah the benevolent, the merciful, forgive my lack of words. I… I just don’t have the energy. You know the heart of your servant. Please listen to my heart and not my words. Please listen to my heart and not my words. Please listen to my heart…

Hakeem repeated that phrase over and over until finally sleep overtook him.

Friday, January 30

Federal Bureau of Investigation, Los Angeles Field Office

Los Angeles, California

The break room was popular again. Small clusters of agents talked and laughed around the twelve tables that until recently had been empty most of the time.

The change had come two days after Mustang team had set up at the L.A. FBI office. Riley decided he had finally had enough of the nasty Costco bulk coffee. So, under the guise of showing deep appreciation for the hospitality of the bureau staff, Riley had purchased a Bunn Infusion Coffee Brewer Twin and seventy-five pounds of Costa Rican Tarrazu beans. After installation, the industrial coffeemaker had begun cranking out the delicious brew into 1.5-gallon ThermoFresh servers, two at a time, elevating Riley’s status around the office to just short of demigod.

Two of the tables were not as full as the others. At one sat Skeeter Dawkins. People around the bureau had learned quickly that he was a man with a mission and that he was best left to himself. At the table next to Skeeter sat Riley and Khadi. Each had a mug of coffee, and they were sharing an oversize blueberry muffin-tearing off a bite at a time.

“I spoke with Meg Ricci last night-gave her my contact info,” Riley said. “I know I probably shouldn’t have, but she’s having a really hard go of it. I have no idea how she’s going to handle it when word finally leaks out of Sal’s involvement in all this.”

“Do you think he ever really loved her?” Khadi asked.

“In Italy, he tried to convince me that she was nothing more than a pawn in his little game. But I remember the way they were when they were together. They just… I don’t know how to put it… You know how there are couples that you see and you think, I’ll give them two years ? And then there are others you can tell are going to be together their whole lives?”

Khadi nodded, using her thumb and index finger to place a portion of the muffin top in her mouth.

“These two seemed made for each other. What did I miss? How could I have been so incredibly stupid?”

“You weren’t stupid, Riley. I think there are some men and women who so successfully partition their lives that they actually become two different people. At home a guy might be the loving family man-all-star husband, coach of his kids’ Little League teams… the works. Yet when he slips into his other environment-the drug house, the hourly rate motel room, the secret rendezvous, whatever-the alter ego takes over.”

“Sort of like a Jekyll and Hyde thing,” Riley quipped.

Khadi smiled. “Yeah, I guess. But I think whichever world they happen to be in at any given time, the people who are around them can’t imagine them in any other.”

Riley took a sip of coffee, then stared at the rainbow of floating oils. Suddenly a big hand wrapped itself around his cup and pulled it away. Riley looked up and saw that the same thing had happened to Khadi’s mug. “Skeeter!” he called. But the man was already halfway to the counter to refresh their coffee.

Riley gave an exasperated grunt, and Khadi touched his arm. “You know why he’s doing this, don’t you?” she said. “He feels guilty for what happened in Barletta.”

“What? Why should he feel guilty? I ordered him away.”

“Nevertheless, he still feels that he should have been with you. He thinks if he had, none of that would have ever happened to you.”

“Well, I need to go straighten that out with him,” Riley said as he started to rise. But Khadi’s grip tightened on his arm, keeping him in his seat.

“Let him be, Riley. He’s got to work it out his way. Besides, having Skeeter as a shadow is not the worst thing in the world for you.”

Skeeter reappeared with the two steaming mugs. Riley mumbled his thanks, but Khadi grabbed the man’s hairy wrist, looked him in the eye, and said, “Thank you, Skeeter.”

Skeeter looked quickly at Riley, then back to Khadi. “Yes, ma’am,” he said and returned to his table.

Riley sighed deeply-a little too deeply for his still-struggling lungs-and sent himself into a coughing fit. The coughing wasn’t as bad as it had been, but it was strong enough to make the occupants of two or three tables turn around. He tried to stifle the fit with a long draw on his mug, with moderate success.

“Khadi, can I ask you a personal question?”

She responded with a noncommittal nod of her head and a shrug of her shoulders.

“Okay, and please understand where I’m coming from on this. What… how do you feel when you hear Muslims defending what was done at Platte River?”

Khadi remained silent.

“I’m sorry,” Riley jumped in. “I should have learned my lesson last time.”

“No, no, no,” Khadi reassured him. “I’m trying to think of a good answer. Truthfully, I’ve never really analyzed it before. I think my initial response is anger. But then that turns into a profound sadness. These people are taking my religion and giving it a black eye around the world. My people and my beliefs are despised and rejected based on the actions of a minority of fools and zealots. I mean, think about how you feel when you hear of some radical Christian guy blowing up an abortion clinic or a bunch of wackos picketing the funeral of a guy who died of AIDS with signs that say ‘God hates gays.’ No matter what your feelings are about abortion or homosexuality, you still find yourself thinking, I really wish they weren’t playing on my team. Does that make sense?”