Number 8 (29 page)

“What trouble?”

The man hesitates, looking at us.

Tony waves his hand as if swiping at a fly. “Don't worry about them—where they're going no one will hear.”

“Well, there's this smart ass upstairs counting cards. Goes by the name of Facetti. Vince Facetti. He's gotta be stopped. He's been winning for the last hour and a half. Has some kind of system. Seems he brought his whole family with him. They're standing behind him like a football team. Big guys.”

“Can't you deal with it?”

“Thing is, I recognize one of the guys. Remember that guy last year made trouble over the gun deal? Franco or Federico or something. Said we didn't pay him enough? Well, he's there tonight, eyeing me. I think this Vince Facetti is just a stooge for him. Because whenever I make a move to interrupt him, he's right at my elbow. ‘We're just getting what we're owed,' he says. ‘You shut up, and no one will get hurt.'”

Tony sighs. “Bad things come in threes.” He points at us. “One, two,” and he looks at the stocky man, “three.”

“I'm just the messenger, Mr. Sereno,” the man says nervously. “I just thought, like, you should be informed.”

“It's all right, Sam, you did the right thing.” Tony turns to Rocky. “This will only take a few minutes. You go and get the Mustang and park it around the back.”

Rocky cracks his knuckles. “Are you sure, boss? I remember that guy from last year, too. He's a nasty piece o' work. And if his gang is here with him, you might need a bit of extra muscle, if you know what I mean.”

Tony looks at him, considering. “All right. A show of force might be a good idea.” He bites his lip, glancing at the whiskey bottle. “What have I done to deserve this?” He pours another shot and swallows it.

“Will I put them back down in the cellar?”

“Yes, for now.”

“Okay, boss, you can count on me.” Rocky pulls up the rug and opens the trapdoor. “You heard what he said,” he grunts at us. “Down you go.”

Sam nods at Tony and leaves. But we don't move. I'm frozen to the floor. All I can hear is my heart pounding loudly in my ears. We're both looking at the door. Sam has left it slightly ajar and a thin margin of orangey light steals through the gap.

Tony is explaining something quietly to Rocky. “So you come upstairs with me, just to show yourself. Give it five minutes, mingle with them, let them feel the weight of you. And then, act like you're just popping out for a minute, you know, to take a leak or something. But you go and get the car like I told you.”

Badman has inched so close to me, his fingers are brushing
mine. I know what he wants to do. We're standing behind the table and we'd have to negotiate the corner and make it to the door in a fraction of a second. But I'm willing to follow him. My heart is pounding so hard I can't think. We keep our eyes focused on Tony.

“I want these kids gone in the next ten minutes,” he's saying. “I have a feeling we don't have time to waste.”

Suddenly Badman yanks my hand and he's past the table, a few feet from the door. My knee catches the corner and a knife of pain jabs through me. I try to let go of my hand but Badman pulls me forward. In just one beat I know that Badman could make it out the door if I let go. I try to loosen my hand, wring it away from him but Rocky swings around and plants himself between us.

With an arm each around our necks, he holds us in a headlock. It feels like a vice squeezing down. My throat is on fire. The weight of his arm is cutting off my air pipe. Out of the corner of my eye I see Badman's lips are turning blue. He can't make a sound.

“Are you ready, Mr. Sereno?” Sam reappears at the door. “I think you'd better come fast.”

“Let's go, Rocky,” Tony says sharply. “Throw them down there and come with me. You can give them what they deserve when you get back. You won't be long.”

Rocky picks us up by the necks like chickens about to be slaughtered. His thumb digs deep into my throat. I start to cough and the pain burns everything black behind my eyes.

I must have fainted because I remember being at the top of the stairs and now I'm at the bottom. It hurts to breathe. But something else hurts even more. I look at my arm and it's sticking out at a strange angle under my head. It reminds
me of the woman with the eye in her forehead, of the boat in the sky. It doesn't look right. And then a deep throbbing, like a drumbeat from far away, starts to work its way up my elbow. I gasp. It feels like my whole body is on fire.

“Ez, Ez! Are you all right?”

Badman is reaching over me. He moves my arm, his fingers gentle as a breeze, but the pain gashes me and I'm flying, falling into a long dark pit.

“Where you boys going?” asks the cab driver.

At least I think that's what he said. The plastic screen wrapping around the driver's seat separates him so well from the passengers that his voice is muffled. He has to lean across the other side of the car practically to see us through the gap.

“To the city,” I say.

“To the casino,” Asim chimes in at the same time.

I give Asim a look.

“Where you say?” asks the driver, twisting around.

“To the city, please, just south of the Central Business District. You can drop us just before the Brighton Bridge.”

Asim gives me a sharp nudge in the ribs. “Why aren't we going straight there? Don't we want to arrive as soon as we can?”

“Yes, but he'll get suspicious if we get dropped off at the casino. Kids aren't allowed there unaccompanied by an adult. And anyway, we don't want to be noticed. If we go in by foot, we can find some camouflage, choose our moment.”

“Okay. Will it take long to walk across the bridge?”

“No, only ten minutes.”

Asim hangs on to his seat belt. He's still pale, but his jaw looks set.

I study the screen in front of me. It's a thick transparent plastic, with deep scratches along the bottom. I remember Mom telling me it was introduced because cabbies wanted protection from violent passengers. Last year a cabbie was killed.

I wonder what it's like, driving inside this screen. Maybe you'd feel like you were in a bubble all on your own, with everything on the outside kept at a distance. That's how I've been feeling ever since I came to Homeland. I've been living inside this protected bubble, not wanting to hear or see what's going on in the real world. And now it's exploded in my face. But in a strange way I'm glad I've found my way out.

“I'm going to tell him to step on it,” I whisper to Asim. “I've always wanted to do that.”

“I am worried for your mental health, Jackson,” he says. “I think you have gone crazy.”

I shrug. Maybe it's true. I feel terrified or excited, I'm not sure which. But it's strangely electrifying. I've never felt so sure of anything in my whole life. Never like this—so sure I'm doing the right thing, that everything will be all right. How crazy is that, when we are on our way to confront a gang of killers? But this buzz of power is fantastic. It feels sparky and quick on top but deep down below, right in the center of my guts there is this calm kind of confidence, like an anchor on a ship.

“Could you step on it?” I say to the driver. “We're in a hurry. It's a matter of life and death.”

Asim rolls his eyes. “He can't hear you. And didn't you just tell me we should not make him suspicious?”

“You're right.” I look out the window, at the signs pointing to the freeway. We stop at a red light. It's only
after we've moved off again that I realize I've forgotten to wink.

“Why you boys not at school?” the driver shouts through the screen.

We look at each other.

“We're going to meet my mom,” I shout back. “She works in the city.”

“What is her work?”

“Um, she's a waitress, we're going to see her for lunch. She's been away.”

“It is early for lunch.”

“Yes, yes,” I agree, a bit desperately. “She gets hungry any old time, even in the middle of the night.”

Asim jabs me in the ribs. “Her break time is early because she does shift work.”

“Ah, yes,” says the driver. “I am doing shift work at the hospital in Kabul. In my first year of being doctor I start work at dawn. Now in Australia I still start at dawn, but I am driving cabs.”

Asim asks why can't he be a doctor here and is he on a protection visa, too? Asim leans forward, straining at his seat belt and they talk all the way along the freeway. Somehow they don't let the screen get in the way.

We go under a tunnel and when we come out we are in the city. Downtown. It's so much busier here, with people hurrying along the sidewalks, and the cars slowing right down to a crawl.

“Now would be a good time to use the phone,” Asim whispers to me. “Is it in your pocket?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we are almost there, right?” Asim starts chewing his thumbnail.

“Yes, but look at this traffic. We could get stuck here for half an hour. I don't want to ring emergency and the police get there first. Tony will hide … everything.”

Asim starts on his index finger.

“Timing is everything,” I say. “Trust me, it will be okay.”

Our cab is jammed in a long line of cars a block away from Brighton Bridge. Now I'm chewing my nails. Apart from time, I'm worried about money. I keep trying to sneak a look at the driver's meter. I don't think I have that much. Paper routes are not incredibly well paid. Not like casino dealers.

“We could jump out here,” I say to Asim. “It's not far to the bridge anyway.”

“What do you mean, without paying? No way! This man has been working since three A.M., he has a family to provide for—”

“No, no, that's not what I mean.” Asim's face has turned red. “It's just I don't know if I'll have enough, for sure if we sit here for another twenty minutes racking up the fare. Let's just pay and get out.”

When we tell the driver we want to get out, we apologize about leaving him in the traffic. I hand over all the money I have, but it is seven dollars fifty short. Typical.

“We are very sorry,” says Asim wringing his hands. He looks like he's just murdered someone. His thumb is practically bleeding. “If you give us your address, we can send it to you or—”

The driver takes off his seat belt and twists right around. His face is stern and he's not smiling. “In this world I believe we are here to help each other. I think you are good boys.” He looks hard at Asim. “Do not worry about this
small matter; it seems you have bigger troubles. You do need help?”

I see Asim take a breath. His eyes are moistening, his lips working.

“No, no,” I say quickly. “But thank you so much. Look here, we can hop out now at this red light. Thanks very much!”

Quickly, I open the door. As I'm climbing out, I see the driver hand something to Asim. We make our way to the curb.

We don't talk as we start across the bridge. We're practically running now and I can feel the phone jabbing against my leg. “We'll call at the tenth pylon,” I puff to Asim. “That's the last one. Nine to go.”

He nods, staring up ahead. The Blue Moon. The sun is glinting off the white tiles, dazzling our eyes. It's so bright it looks like a mirage, something that will be whisked away when you blink.

When we reach the end we lean for a moment against the rails. I get out the phone and turn it on. Nothing. I try again, digging my nail into the little cavity at the top. Still there's no signal. I look at Asim. “I, um, think the battery is low. Dead, in fact. I guess Mom forgot to recharge it.”

“Oh, Jackson, what'll we do now?”

I try to smile at him. I'm trying to give him some of my confidence. I'm thinking, this is a sign. A piece of luck. Maybe there's no battery because we're not meant to tell the police now. Just like I thought all along.

“We'll ring when we're inside. There'll be a pay phone or something. Trust me, it will be okay.”

“Oh, will you stop saying ‘trust me'? You sound like a Hollywood movie! This is
real!
”

I stare at Asim. This is the first time I've seen him angry.
At least with me. The stress is really getting to him. I wish he had a little bit of my power plant thing.

We start off again, trotting up the hill. We keep to the left weaving in and out of the trees planted sparsely along the concrete sidewalk. Asim stops at the edge of the car park. He's staring at the big neon sign that's shouting down the daylight.

“See those white steps?” I say. “We'll have to run up those full tilt. We'll be pretty exposed but I don't know the back way. Speed will be everything here because we can't hide.” We look at the mountain of steps and the big glass doors at the top. “There's no one around at the moment. And the car park is pretty empty. This is probably our best time.”

Asim gulps. He's still panting. “Do you know where to go when we get inside? Where the pay phones are? You've been here before, haven't you?”

I stop breathing. Somehow, I hadn't quite got to this bit in my plans. I'd sat in the car waiting for Mom lots of times, but I'd only been inside once. That was two years ago.

“Yeah, sure,” I tell Asim. “Follow me.”

We sprint between the cars and then before we get to the path that leads to the steps, I stop. I grab Asim, and we crouch down behind a red Ferrari. A man in a suit and a Stetson hat is coming out of the glass doors. We wait for him to stroll down the steps. He's so busy looking at the roll of bank notes in his hands, he probably wouldn't have seen us anyway.

“One, two, three, four, go!” I whisper and we hurl ourselves up the steps. We push open the big glass doors and come to a screaming halt.

“Which way?” whispers Asim.