F. Paul Wilson - By the Sword

That wasn't it. Or maybe it was. He wished he knew.

"I'll talk to you later."

Then he closed the door and the cab took off. Gia's puzzled face in the rear window felt like seppuku—without a second to deliver the coup de grâce.

It took Henry until two o'clock to track down what Dawn had requested. He finally returned with a box labeled with Arabic script.

"I suppose this would have been easy to find if I'd known where to look," he said, handing her the box, "but I didn't. I believe this is what you want."

Dawn tore it open and found a large blue silk scarf within. But not just any scarf. This one had a veil attached. She'd Googled Muslim clothing last night and came across this whack Muslima fashion site that featured something called a pak chadar . It had looked perfect. This morning Henry had gone in search of one.

She pulled it out and stepped into the powder room for a look. After draping it over her head and shoulders she checked herself in the mirror. Not bad. The color intensified the blue of her eyes. She pulled the top front lower to hide her blond hair, then draped the long end of the scarf over her opposite shoulder. Now for the final touch: the veil.

She stretched it across her nose and her lower face and fastened it on the other side.

Well, it was totally stupid looking but it did the job. The only things visible were her eyes. On the one-in-a-zillion chance Jerry saw her, he would so not recognize her. He'd think, there's a weird, blue-eyed, white-bread Muslim chick, but that would be it.

But what if he recognized her eyes? Simple fix: sunglasses.

She hurried back to her room where she slipped on the wraparound Ray-Bans provided for sunbathing on the roof.

Another inspection, this time in the bedroom mirror, and wow—totally unrecognizable.

Am I smart or am I smart?

Her glee slipped into sad wonder when she remembered facts from her comparative religions course—aced like most of her courses—in social studies. Hundreds of millions of women around the world were totally forced to dress like this. What was wrong with seeing a woman's face or hair? What sort of asshole came up with this bullshit? Could only be a guy, most likely one hung like a light switch. She didn't know why women put up with it. Oh, yeah. Because if they didn't they got stoned to death or something. Nice religion.

People said the world was getting totally crazy, but truth was, it had always been crazy—at least where women were concerned.

She ground her teeth. Mom had never talked feminism. She didn't have to—she'd lived it. Completely self-sufficient, without a man or even a family to lean on, she'd built a life for herself and Dawn through sheer guts and determination.

God, I miss her.

She shook off the melancholy and hurried back into the great room where Henry waited.

"Okay. What do you think?"

He nodded. "Even your own mother wouldn't recog—oh, I'm sorry."

"It's all right." She was getting out of here and nothing was going to bring her down. But Henry's expression turned grave. "Really, Henry, it's all right. You don't have to—"

"It's not that," he said. "I believe I'm having second thoughts."

"About what?"

"About letting you leave the apartment."

Dawn stiffened and thought her heart had stopped. No! He couldn't change his mind now. Not when she was so totally mad stoked about getting out.

"You can't be serious."

"The Master would be quite upset if he found out. I'll lose my job. Or worse."

Worse?

"He's so never going to find out. Not from me, at least. And you're not going to tell him. So… ?"

"There is Gilda."

"Today's her afternoon off. No way she can know."

"Still, I should check with the Master first."

No-no-no! That downer bastard would totally say no.

"But you can't find him. And anyway, no one's gonna know. Please, Henry, please. I'm dying here and we've got a perfect solution worked out. Come on, Henry. Please! "

The word hung between them, then Henry sighed and shrugged.

"But only for a little while—a very little while. I do not want Gilda to come home to an empty apartment. She will be very upset."

"Deal. Anything you say, just get me out of here." She wanted to be on the move before he changed his mind again. "Let's go."

He gestured to her legs. "That doesn't look very Muslimish."

She looked down at her bare legs and tight training shorts.

"Christ."

"He's not part of this equation."

Dawn had to laugh, and looked to see if Henry was smiling. But no. Deadpan as ever.

She rushed back to her room for something a little more modest.

Jack stood in a doorway of the Wyeth building near the western end of Spring Street, catty-corner from the Ear Inn's block, just a couple of hundred yards from where SoHo morphed into TriBeCa. He held a lit cigarette and pretended to be an exiled smoker—a ubiquitous fixture around the city—as he watched the entrance to the Ear.

Not the easiest place to find. It sat—quite literally—over the eastern end of the Holland Tunnel. The unlit neon sign jutting over the sidewalk was no help during the day. If you squinted you could see that the tubing said BAR and nothing else. A different story at night when it was lit: They'd blacked out the right half of the "B," enabling the sign to proclaim the place's name.

But in daylight you had to be standing before the front window to see the discreet EAR INN on the glass. Used to be a fisherman's hang back in the nineteenth century, right on the waterfront—not much west of the Ear back then but the Hudson River. Now the Hudson lay on the far side of the concrete lanes of the West Side Highway.

Midafternoon was a traditionally slow time for bars—the lunchers gone, the happy-hour crowd yet to arrive—and the Ear was no exception. Though only a couple of blocks from Hudson Street, this dead-end warehouse area, dominated by a huge UPS depot, was about as far in spirit from touristy as imaginable. No weary shoppers passing by and stopping in for a cold one. You had to know about the Ear and come looking for it.

At a few minutes to three a taxi pulled to a stop before the door and out stepped a slim Asian in a black suit, white shirt, striped tie, and fedora. Could have been Kurosawa's undertaker.

He stood looking at the Ear's front window, then turned back to the taxi and said something to the driver. Jack figured he was asking if this was really the place. Finally he forked over some cash and stepped toward the door. After a few seconds' hesitation, he pushed inside.

Jack waited a few more minutes to see if anyone followed him in, but the street remained clear. He crushed out his cigarette and headed for the Ear.

Inside he found the guy standing alone near the front end of the half-occupied bar, looking around with a confused expression. He stood out among this half hipster, half middle-manager crowd like a Hasid at a Taliban wedding.

Jack tapped him on the shoulder. He spun, a startled look in his face.

"You the fellow who lost something and wants it back?"

"Yes-yes. You are Repairman Jack?"

"Just Jack will do. Let's get a table."

As if on cue, a smiling, strawberry-blond waitress with an Irish accent appeared and asked if they wanted a table for two. Jack pointed to an empty one in the far corner of the front room with a good view of the entrance and easy access to the door to the kitchen.

She led them past the warped and scarred bar with its old-fashioned, four-legged, vinyl-topped stools. Two old-wood gables hung over the bottle racks on the wall, separated by a high shelf jammed with old empty bottles of all imaginable shapes and sizes. The front window said the place had been established in 1817. That might have been the last time those bottles had been dusted.