The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (17 page)

Jamil smiled. “Neither man has ever been in this country. They see such things in American movies only.”

Morgan frowned.

“Perhaps such wickedness…is good to share with our new friend.” Jamil looked at his watch. “Only three hours…”

He raised the stick and pointed toward the wharf.

Morgan nodded, his lips sliding into a grin. “We will find a place close.” He pulled a crumpled wad of American money from a pocket. “What better but to give this garbage to vile whores.”

Suddenly immersed in laughter, the trio paid no attention to the harsh rattle of a diesel motor until its horn bellowed. Everyone but Morgan jumped.

“Move, cocksuckers,” a voice shouted from the window of the huge pickup truck. A hand extended, gripping a large-bore revolver, the decisive authority for the order. “Or I’ll blow your little brown dicks to Allah.”

Morgan motioned to the others with the tilt of his head.

“Time to go,” he said.

The opportunity to rescue them was the break he needed. Hopefully, they would repay the favor.

S
trapping his backpack over a shoulder, Morgan said, “Follow me,” and led them to the signboard. He pretended to study them carefully before pointing at one.

Hamid brought his eyes close to the small picture, looked at the woman’s breasts, and kissed the image.

“Close,” Morgan said to Jamil and hailed a taxi.

Eager to help any sailor part with money, the driver briskly jostled the cab around pedestrians and pulled close to the curb. Assuring the driver there would be a good tip if he got to the address quickly, they sped off.

The cabbie dropped them in front of a building designed to look like a western ranch, with a surrounding wooden porch and beam railings. In the middle of the circular driveway, the neon figure of a cowgirl revolved around an illuminated pole while a speaker at the top shrieked,
“Puss ‘n Boots wants ya’ll to come right on in!”

Morgan and Jamil looked at the jammed parking lot filled mostly with pickup trucks. Every man entering or leaving wore a cowboy hat.

“Barif,” Jamil said to him, a worried expression crossing his face, “is this a good—”

Hamid and Nidal were already near the door, shouting for the others to join them. Halting their entrance was a large threatening bouncer. Morgan paid the cover charges and they went in.

The music was deafening and the smoke was thick. On runways, women in various stages of undress were constantly appearing and disappearing from the dark ends of the platforms. Some would whirl around poles like erotic tornados. Others would pretend to mount the poles, moving up and down, faster and faster until their bodies contorted in counterfeit orgasms.

Eventually each woman would move to the edge of the stage and present her gartered leg to collect bills offered by probing fingers. For a large enough sum, she would slowly ripple her fingers across the wedged-shape strings covering her crotch, turn away, bend over, and deliver a smile from between her open legs.

Ushered to a table close to the stage, Morgan heard profane barbs indiscreetly sent their way. He squinted to find the exits as they sat down. Jamil rested his cane against the chair, took in the scene, and gave Morgan another worried look. With his backpack between his feet, Morgan sat and spread his money on the table.

A tank-topped waitress appeared. Hamid’s pupils dilated as he stared at her nipples poking through the sheer fabric. His jaw dropped when he looked at her tight hot pants.

“Four Cokes, please,” Morgan said.

She scowled.

“Beer!” Nidal and Hamid shouted together.

Morgan looked at Jamil and they smiled in unison.

“But two Cokes,” he said, holding up the same number of fingers.

Soon, a bucket filled with ice and six longneck beers arrived. By the time the two men were into the second bucket, they were drunk. Morgan kept a watchful eye on them, but before he could catch him, Hamid grabbed a dollar bill from the change and shoved his way toward the stage. A blond dancer saw him approach and thrust out her gartered thigh. When she saw that it was a dollar, she gave him the finger and strutted away. Hamid started to climb after her, but Morgan grabbed his belt and pulled him back.

The man with the revolver at the shipyard had sidled up to the table. Morgan had seen him sitting with friends when they arrived and had kept a wary eye on him.

“You dumb pricks. I thought I told you earlier to fuck off.”

The cowboy grabbed Jamil’s cup and took a big swig.

“Coke?” he said, finishing what was left, spitting the ice out of his mouth. “Figures you A-rab pukes would drink soda pop.” He stroked the face of one of Morgan’s twenty-dollar bills. “Listen, you faggot dipshits. In the U-S-A, we don’t insult
our ladies
with a dollar. We give them one of these babies.”

He snapped the bill close to Hamid’s face and ambled to the stage. Inserting it in the garter of the nearest dancer, she responded by stoking her fingers several times across her G-string. When he returned, he growled, “That’s how we do it here,
fuckers
.”

With a big-toothed grin, Hamid looped his arm over the cowboy’s shoulder, jostling the Stetson down his face. The Texan shot fire from his bloodshot eyes.

The last thing Morgan wanted was a bar fight. Motioning the others to stay seated, he rose slowly, waving to get a server’s attention. When she came over, he said, “Please get this man and his friends some beers and a table dance on me.” He handed her fifty dollars.

“No thanks, asshole,” said the cowboy. “I don’t take no fuckin’ charity from any fuckin’ A-rab cocksucking faggot, and I ain’t fuckin’ drinking your beer. Maybe you homos want to go outside to get a taste of what American firepower can do to your shriveled—”

Morgan whispered in Arabic to Jamil, “We need to leave now!”

Grabbing his backpack, Morgan pocketed an unopened bottle of beer from the bucket and pointed toward the nearest exit. They got to the parking lot before the cowboy stumbled out behind them and headed for his truck. Morgan knew the gun was likely to appear soon.

Laughing, Hamid lurched toward the cowboy. Morgan shouted for him to stop.

He didn’t.

“Go get him!” Morgan said to the others. “I’ll talk to this man.”

The pair raced to Hamid, dragging him behind a Hummer.

The cowboy fumbled for his key and the truck door opened. The man leaned inside. He was going for the gun.

“Hey!”

The man turned toward the sound, exposing his right flank. Morgan uncoiled his leg. Spinning horizontally, his shoe slammed into the cowboy’s side. Lost for breath, he dropped to the gravel and passed out.

In a muted yell, Morgan said, “Come here!”

The four men lifted the Texan into the truck’s front seat. Hamid wedged himself in on the passenger’s side to keep the unconscious man upright, while Jamil and Nidal climbed into the small backseat. Handing them his backpack, Morgan got into the driver’s seat, opened the bottle of beer, put it in the cup holder, and started the motor.

The Somali reached for beer.

“Laa!”
Morgan said, whacking away his hand.
No!

Morgan drove close to the wharf’s security entrance and let the three crewmen out. In a hushed voice he spoke to Jamil, who nodded and said, “I will see you shortly.”

With the truck parked deep in the lot, Morgan rummaged under the front seat finding the gun and a box of bullets. He placed them in the backpack, cracked a rear window for air, and got out. Morgan swung the cowboy’s legs in the driver’s well, sliding him into the seat.

Removing the microfiber towel from his pack, Morgan soaked it in the beer. He wiped down the steering wheel and door.

“Got you to work early, cowboy,” Morgan said to the unconscious man. “Sorry about this.”

He crammed the Stetson over the man’s brow, tossed the keys in his lap, and locked the door. By the time the man was sober, the freighter—hopefully, with Morgan aboard—would be gone.

Throwing the towel under a car, Morgan walked toward the dock’s entrance where he saw Jamil waiting outside the gate. He smiled, handing Morgan a security pass. As they went through, Morgan saw a camera and raised his arm to run his fingers through his hair, covering his face. A few hundred feet farther, they left the quay and boarded the ship.

Jamil introduced Morgan to the captain—a sweaty tanned man named Arwan whose nationality Morgan couldn’t immediately place. When he tried to shake the captain’s hand, Arwan barked, “Passport.”

Digging deep into the backpack, Morgan produced the requested document, watching Arwan’s face frown as he looked at it. At the time, the black-market Pakistani document was the best Tony could help him get.

“The stamps are wrong,” growled Arwan. “In Trinidad, your fucking ass goes to a place I send you, and you pay whatever the man asks. Don’t fucking come back without a good one!” When he cocked his head, the sweat dropped from his jaw to his collar. “Or the fucking sharks for you.”

The captain’s next orders were as unambiguous as the first.

“No free ride. You work ass off.”

He squeezed Morgan’s shoulder firmly.

“Jamil, show him where he sleeps. Then make him do your job also.”

The welcome was over.

Jamil took Morgan to the crew quarters, pointing to an upper birth. Morgan climbed up, shoving his backpack against the bulkhead. Distracting him with profuse thanks, Morgan reached in the unzipped bag and slipped the gun and bullets under the far corner of the mattress. He shimmied down, leaving the backpack in easy reach.

The engine rumble increased. The
Sagar
was shuddering to life.

They returned topside. The tugboats were nudging the cargo-heavy ship, encouraging her to turn. Morgan smiled. All that mattered was that the captain had agreed. Grasping Jamil’s shoulders, Morgan gave him a brotherly kiss.

During the first mate’s next announcement over the ship’s loudspeakers, no one saw Morgan reach in his pocket. Clasping the BMW keys, he placed his arm over the railing and released them to the fetid silt of the Houston Shipping Channel.

Late August 2003

“S
túpido,” the security guard mumbled, watching the heat rise off the rows of automobiles in the sprawling airport lot.

Cars might be left for only a few days, others would bake for weeks. He got to know them. Some would be only short acquaintances, while others, if they stayed longer, became friends. He often wondered what their owners were thinking when they left them in the Texas sun. The more expensive the vehicles, the less likely it seemed they protected them.

The black BMW with the Astros
sunshield was one of the exceptions. It had spent almost a month in the same spot. The car had been washed before it first arrived, but the driver wasted that money by leaving it outside for so long. With each rain, the guard had watched the handsome finish with the accumulating dust streak deeper. True, the cost of covered parking over the month would be more expensive, but the owner could afford a BMW. Still, why didn’t he take a limousine to the airport, or have somebody drive him?

As Labor Day weekend approached, the temperature swings between the day’s heat and the night’s relative cooling finally flattened one of the BMW’s front tires. The guard saw the car listing and got out of his vehicle. Squeezing between the BMW and a truck, he looked at the Illinois license plate covered with a plastic shield that blinded the gate camera to the raised numbers. He called in the tag to the office.

“Not recognized,” a woman responded over his radio.

“Ten-four. It’s not going anywhere. I’ll call you later with the VIN. Out.”

The backlog at the Illinois Department of Motor Vehicles in Springfield finally cleared on Tuesday. The plate belonged on a Jeep Laredo registered to a former Chicago police officer with an ancient DUI—all charges dropped. What was wrong was the vehicle identification didn’t match the plate.

Brosinski’s phone rang that afternoon, but his secretary told the caller he was gone for the day—the Sox were playing Boston at home. When the call came again the following morning, the voice was an unpleasant reminder from his past.

“Hey, Brosinski?”

“Yeah.”

“How the hell are you?” His precinct captain had hated him. The feeling was mutual.

“Fine.”
Asshole…

“How’s that secretary of yours?”

“Wears shorter skirts than yours,” Brosinski said, hoping the call interrupting an otherwise empty morning would end fast.

“How’s business?”

“Great,” he lied.

In reality it had been off since his only major client—Bonwitt—gave him the boot after receiving the GPS at her office. He tried to redeem himself by taking Bonwitt to Morgan’s apartment building. Face to face, the property manager reiterated—as he had over the phone—that the unit had a new tenant. The prior renter had abandoned the furniture and mailed a typed letter stating he had moved out, instructing the manager to keep the remaining deposit. No forwarding information was included. In front of the agent, Bonwitt told the private investigator to never contact her again and stormed to her Mercedes. For once she said nothing else.

“What the hell do you want, Oscar?”

“Ever heard of a Wesley Randall Morgan?”

“Don’t think so. Should I?” he added quickly. Brosinski’s brow grew wet.

“He’s some hotshot baby heart surgeon at Potts who hasn’t talked to anybody or been seen for months.”

“You’re boring me,” he lied again.

“His boss got worried, so last October he visited his local precinct, talked to one of the detectives.”

Brosinski faked indifference. “Who gives a shit?”

“The other day the airport security folks in Houston impounded his BMW. Turns out it sat in the parking lot over a month.”

“Why the fuck are you wasting my time telling me this?” Brosinski’s curiosity reached its zenith.

“You’re positive you don’t know this Dr. Morgan?”

“Don’t think so,” he repeated again.

“Interesting.” The bait had been cast and the fat fish had swallowed it. The captain continued, “Your license plate’s screwed onto the BMW’s rear.”

Fuck!
Brosinski suddenly realized he’d been set up.

In July the police had pulled him over for the missing front plate.
“A sum bitch stole it,”
he said at the time, after showing his badge. The officer laughed.
“Damn state hasn’t sent me one yet,”
he added quickly.

“Usual story,”
said the officer while writing the warning ticket.

As the PI had rifled through Morgan’s apartment, the transformed physician had slid under the Jeep and removed the plate.

“Fred, why don’t you drop by here…tomorrow…if it’s not too inconvenient,” said Oscar. “Let’s make it 0900 sharp…well before the game starts.”

Brosinski grunted.

“For old time’s sake,” said the captain and hung up.