Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

“What happened to you?” said Sarah. “Who took care of you?”

“A policeman took me home. I wanted to stay with Mother, but he said I had to get my things. It was very strange. Even now I wonder if I was dreaming.” Fancy tugged at her blouse, and the scar at the base of her throat seemed filled with blood in the candlelight. “There were men at the house when we got there. They were loading all of our things into a moving van. The doctor who had taken care of my father was there. I don’t know why, but he was there. The policeman let me put some clothes into a bag. The doctor seemed angry at him, but the policeman said he didn’t care. Then he took me to my uncle’s house. My uncle was a good Muslim. He was obligated to take me in, but I don’t think he really wanted to.” Fancy looked at Rakkim. “Talking about this is making me sad. I’d like some more money, please.”

Rakkim paid her, watched as she tucked the bills away.

“Did Cameron look like he was getting enough to eat?” asked Fancy.

“You don’t have anything from those days left?” said Sarah. “Not necessarily from your father. Maybe your mother kept a diary…or a calendar marking the days until he got home. His notebooks, his suitcases…something?”

Fancy shook her head. “The doctor had it taken all away. He emptied the house.” Fancy’s expression tightened. “Why are you really asking about my father? Don’t give me that story about a history assignment either. I didn’t believe that for a minute.”

“We think your father was murdered,” said Rakkim. “After what you told us about the car crash, I think your mother was probably murdered too.”

“Are you a cop?” said Fancy. “I haven’t had much luck with cops.”

“When my father would go away, he would always bring me back something from his trip,” said Sarah. “I treasured them-”

“Lucky you.” The candles were bouncing, shadows racing around Fancy. “He didn’t bring me anything.”

“Not even a postcard?” said Sarah.

“What do you think you’re going to do with all these questions, Miss History?” said Fancy. “You going to raise the dead? It doesn’t matter how they died. All that matters is that they’re dead and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it.”

“The doctor who treated your father, the one who emptied your house…did you ever see him again?” asked Rakkim.

“Listen to me. I don’t care-” Fancy stopped as Rakkim held up a hand.

“Someone’s outside.” Rakkim was already blowing out the candles.

Jack-six. Eight-five. Ten-queen. Seeing the dealer had a six up, the Wise Old One stood pat on all three of his $1,000 bets.

The Texas soybean magnate in first position stared at his cards as though trying to read Egyptian hieroglyphs. His wife, a big blonde, jiggled her drink, the ice cubes rattling as she pondered her play. After careful consideration, the soybean magnate took a hit on thirteen, drew a face card and busted. The big blonde, with fifteen-fifteen with the dealer showing a six-demanded a card too, got a nine, and busted.

Anna, the dealer, turned up her hole card, a ten. Sixteen. Forced to take another card, she drew a five. For twenty-one. She raised an eyebrow at the Old One sympathetically as she swept the table of bets.

“What rotten luck,” said the big blonde. She patted the Old One on the arm. “We’ll get her this time, pappy.”

The Old One fixed her with a cool stare. Touched by a Texan who called him pappy. A Texan with a diamond-crusted crucifix around her neck. A Texan who didn’t know how to play twenty-one, taking the card that should have busted the dealer. How many ways was that an abomination? The only way it could be more of an insult would be if the woman were having her menstrual period.

Jack-nine. Jack-eight. Ten-ten. The dealer showed a four. The Old one split his tens, was given a queen for the first ten and a king for the second. Perfect. He now had two twenties, a nineteen, and an eighteen.

The big blonde took a hit on her five-eight, drew a jack, and busted.

The soybean magnate took a hit on his six-seven, drew a deuce for fifteen, and took another hit. The dealer actually made him repeat the request. “Hit me, damnit, you deaf?” said the peckerwood.

Anna slid him a queen. Busted him. Turned over her hole card, a king, giving her fourteen. The next card was a seven, giving her twenty-one. Another sweep of the chips. Another slight smile for the Old One.

“Let’s go, honey,” said the soybean magnate. “This dealer’s got it in for us.”

Anna watched them leave. “I bet you hate to see them go.”

The Old One laughed, put a $1,000 chip on all six spots on the table, cutting off any future players. Most of the time he enjoyed company at the table, enjoyed the mix of people who wafted through the casino. Different faces. Different histories. Catholics and moderate Muslims from Los Angeles and Chicago and Seattle, peckerwoods from Chattanooga and Atlanta and New Orleans. Businessmen from Tokyo and Beijing and Paris and London and Brazil. A buzz of languages and desires. The Old One was fluent in most of the languages. Most of the desires too. Today though, he preferred to play alone.

Anna dealt him six hands, dealt herself a ten upcard.

The old one hit his seven-five. Hit his five-eight. Hit his six-five. Stuck his nine-jack. Stuck his ten-eight. Hit his nine-three.

Anna turned up a seven. She won two hands, paid him for his four winners. Her hands danced across the green felt, long and slim and perfectly manicured. Lovely hands. “You sure you don’t want me to call the Texans back?” she murmured.

“We’ll just have to carry on together,” said the Old One.

A cocktail waitress came round, brought him his usual single-malt with one cube of ice.

The Old One tossed a $25 chip onto her tray, toasted Anna, and took a sip. Savored the sensation. He limited himself to one drink a day out of deference to his kidneys and liver. The transplants took more and more out of him, and his bouncebacks from his weekly transfusions were briefer and less intense as the years passed. He let a few drops of single-malt rest on his tongue. In spite of all the science in the world, there was an upper limit to human existence. Allah himself, the all-knowing and merciful, had decreed that all men must die. How else were they to enter Paradise?

Anna dealt another round of cards.

The Old One made his choices almost instinctively. Silently scratching his cards on the felt when he wanted a hit, placing his chip atop his cards when he was standing pat. After so many years he knew the most mathematically beneficial plays. He couldn’t count cards with any certainty-the dealers used ten decks-but whether twenty-one was gambling or applied number theory was certainly debatable. Not that the Old One cared. The Holy Qur’an forbade gambling, but he was at peace with the game. At peace with his daily drink of alcohol. Even a pork chop crusted with garlic when the mood struck. Allah would excuse the occasional lapse. He smiled, thinking of what his first teacher would have said of such sophistry.

Anna smiled back at him, thinking his pleasure was directed at her. She paid off his blackjack, swept away the rest of his bets.

The Old One’s disciples adhered to all aspects of the Qur’an, but the Old One did not feel so compelled. Had not Allah, the all-knowing, granted him a brain and appetite and free will? The Old One followed the affirmations of the Book without fail. He had made his profession of faith, his shahada. He prayed five times a day. He abstained from food or drink during the daylight hours of the month of Ramadan. He gave away 10 percent of his wealth every year. He had made the hajj to Mecca, and Jerusalem.