Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

“I just never heard that about Catholics,” Rakkim said innocently. “All I heard was the thing with the choirboys.”

“We got rid of that problem a long time ago.”

Rakkim watched Sarah and Anthony Jr. skate over to the refreshment stand. Anthony Jr. bought her a cup of hot cider. Glanced over at Rakkim, then quickly back.

“That’s a fine-looking woman,” said Colarusso.

“Yeah.”

“You’re a lucky man.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Marie’s been puffed up like a partridge ever since Anthony Jr. got his papers. Every neighbor within a mile knows her boy’s going to be Fedayeen. She’s planning a big party next month, just before he leaves.” Colarusso cracked his knuckles, taking his time. “I’m supposed to tell you…I’m supposed to let you know, if you want to marry one of our daughters, just say the word.”

Rakkim stared at him. First Spider and now Colarusso.

“I know, I know, they’re homely as an old boot, but Mary Ellen is a fine cook and has the hips for pounding out babies. She doesn’t have to be your first wife. I figure Sarah’s already hanging drapes in that spot. You can put Mary Ellen third or fourth in line.”

“One wife is plenty.”

“Tell me about it. Well, at least I asked.”

Rakkim smiled. “You look relieved.”

Colarusso started to answer, then Sarah and Anthony Jr. skated up. Anthony Jr. didn’t make eye contact.

“Is it really true people used to swim here?”

“It’s true.”

Offshore oil rigs paralleled the coast, hundreds of them as far as Rakkim could see. Waves slapped the beach, the water foamy with black sludge. Huntington Beach was covered with balls of congealed petroleum, the sand clotted with gunk. “Did they have special soaps to wash off with afterward?”

“There didn’t used to be so much oil on the beach.” Sarah unwrapped another of the spiced-goat sandwiches they had bought at Bin Laden International. She took off the hot peppers, put them aside, and took a big bite. “They didn’t drill for oil here.”

“Why not?” Rakkim loved watching her eat. “Didn’t they need gasoline?”

“They didn’t care. They loved playing in the water more. They rode these boards…surfboards they were called. It was supposed to be fun. Tourists came from all over the world to swim and fish and spend money.”

Rakkim looked around. The boardwalk along the beach was noisy and crowded-retirees strolling with arms linked, mothers and babies. Sarah had insisted that they spread a blanket among the young people picnicking on the grassy bluff taking in the sunset. Rakkim was only thirty, but he felt too old to be here among the moderns and wild-eyed Catholics, all of them long-legged and tan, couples tangled together in the afternoon. Even the Zone was never like this. Not in daylight. Not out in the open.

It had been forty-one degrees and overcast when they’d left Seattle this morning. It was eighty-seven in Southern California. They had spent the day short-hopping from one small airport to another, finally landing at BLI an hour ago. The airport biometric scanners might have been off-line, but Rakkim had decided to puddle-jump their way south anyway. Colarusso had supplied fake IDs filched from the undercover unit, given Rakkim a list of airports with failed security procedures. A safe trip but tiring. They rented a car with their fake ID, programmed the GPS to take them to the beach with a minimum of traffic. Not much luck on that. When Sarah was ready, they were going to check into a motel. Tomorrow was soon enough to find Fatima Abdullah.

Rakkim hadn’t spent much time in this part of the country, but the drive from the airport had been a wake-up. The freeways were congested, but twelve lanes wide and smooth as glass, with computerized on-ramps and ozone detectors. Seattle had political power, but Southern California seemed to have the money. Part of it was the oil wealth, but, according to Sarah, demographics were the crucial element. While the rest of the nation was heavily Muslim, Southern California’s majority Latino population had remained Catholic. With their natural resources and hardscrabble work ethic, this part of the nation had flourished. You just had to look around to know things were different here. The buildings soared and the cars were better kept, many of them French and Japanese imports with fuel-cell technology and vector engines. There were still violent ghettos and decaying urban areas, but, unlike the capital, there was an excitement here, an eager rhythm, a sense that anything was possible. You just had to grab it.

Sarah had responded to the change at some deep emotional level, seeming to bloom in the heat. She had rolled up her trousers until they were above the knee, taken off her jacket. She dug her toes into the grass. “I’ve only been to L.A. for academic conferences. We hardly ever left the hotel and the convention center. Strictly formal attire.” She looked around. “I could live here forever.”

Rakkim smiled. “Colarusso once told me if I was Catholic on a Saturday night, I’d never want to be a Muslim again.”

“I’ve seen movies from the old days,” said Sarah. “There was a girl named Gidget. She and her friends practically lived at the beach. They were half-naked most of the time and nobody seemed to notice, which was strange, because she was a nun.”

“That doesn’t sound like any nun I ever saw.”

“Gidget could fly too. Like Superman. Or an angel, I’m not sure.” Sarah raised her shirt, bared her belly to the sky. “Ahhh. This must be what Paradise is like.” Rakkim’s gaze caressed the tight knot of her belly button. “Or hell.”

Sarah grabbed the hot peppers she had put aside, plopped them into her mouth. She kept her eyes on him as she chewed. Reached over and kissed him, drove her tongue deep into him. Her kiss burned, but he didn’t pull away.

Anthony Colarusso had a fine house in a Catholic neighborhood in the Madrona district. The lawns were neatly kept, the homes recently painted, the streets free from trash and dog shit. Darwin turned up the collar of his cashmere coat, his hands shoved into the pockets as he strolled along the sidewalk. Clean-shaven as a Baptist. He had parked a block away, made a slow circuit. A couple of kids raced past him on scooters, scrawny little brats in shorts and T-shirts, oblivious to the damp. A rheumy-eyed old man raking leaves in his front yard said hello to Darwin, asked him if he was looking for an address, offered that he had been living on this block for fifty-seven years. Darwin thanked him, but said he knew where he was going.

Darwin limped slightly, a twinge shooting up his spine with every step. Credit the accident last week. Accident. That wasn’t really the proper term for what had happened. He had been stabbed a couple of times by the werewolves, but the wounds were almost completely closed up. The real damage was to his pride. Rakkim must have gotten a good laugh watching Darwin’s car tumbling end over end that night. Rakkim and Sarah had gone underground, but someone had to know where they were. Darwin had remembered Rakkim and Colarusso walking around the Warriq crime scene the day after, the fat cop dogging Rakkim, passing on orders to the uniforms. One just had to look at the two of them to know it was more than a professional relationship. They were buddies.

It hadn’t taken Darwin long to find Colarusso’s home address. One of the Old One’s little helpers in the police department had overridden the privacy safeguards that protected department personnel. Leaves swirled around his knees as Darwin crossed the street. He walked up the flagstones to Colarusso’s front porch. Rang the bell. The opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony gonged inside. The epitome of prole chic.