Silence on the other end. Finally Jack said, "How's Alicia doing? She okay?"
"A little shaken up. I guess I would be too. Funny thing is, she's the last one I'd expect to do something like that—I mean, take on someone herself… beat them with a fire extinguisher. She always seems so laid back and in control."
Get her talking about her family sometime, Jack thought, but said nothing. He considered Julio's a secular confessional. Whatever was said there, stayed there.
But he'd sensed the pressure building inside Alicia. Sitting across from her in Julio's had been like chatting with a lump of C-4. She'd had disgruntled post office employee written all over her. But maybe this incident had been a good thing. Maybe she'd released enough steam so he could talk her out of torching her father's old house.
"Yeah," he said as noncommittally as he could. "I was thinking of stopping down there and having a word with her."
"Is this about that 'personal matter' she wanted to discuss with you?"
"Could be," he teased. He knew Gia was dying to know what her Dr. Clayton could want with Repairman Jack, but would never ask.
"Sure," Gia said. "Come on down. I mean, there's a police detective here right now, taking her statement. But I'm sure when he's through—"
"That's okay," Jack said quickly. "Maybe some other time."
She laughed. "I thought you'd say that."
Jack had to smile. "Very funny. Catch you later."
He hung up and walked back to the corner of Thirty-eighth for another look at the Clayton house and its cozy neighbors.
Nope. A fire here would definitely not be a good thing.
8.
Kemel Muhallal rose from his evening prayers, carefully rolled up his prayer rug, and returned it to the closet. As he moved toward the front of the living room, his gaze was drawn to the catalog lying facedown on the coffee table. He averted his eyes. Not now. Not so soon after prayer.
Kemel stepped to the front window and stretched as he looked down on West Seventy-seventh Street, five stories below. It was always good to shed those restrictive Western clothes and get into a comfortable thobe. He shifted the narrow shoulders of his lean frame within the flowing white floor-length garment as he watched the traffic crawl along the street. Everything in this city seemed always to be in high gear—the way its people walked and talked, the frantic pace of its business, the headlong rush of its daily life… and yet its traffic progressed by inches.
He turned away from the window, and immediately his eyes, his shameless, rebellious eyes, fixed on the catalog. They drew him forward. He felt as if he were on a wire, being reeled toward the coffee table. Slowly, he lowered himself to the sofa and stared at the glossy back cover. It was addressed to this apartment, but not to him. As the landlord had explained, the previous tenant had left a forwarding address for first-class mail only. The rest of it continued to be delivered here.
"You don't want it," the man had told him, "just chuck it out."
Of course. How simple. But in order to "chuck it out," Kemel first had to sift through it, to make sure nothing was intended for him. So many catalogs in the course of a week. Did Americans buy everything by mail? Often he would flip through them, marvel at the variety of merchandise available via a simple phone call, then drop them in the trash.
Except this one. This catalog entranced him. He could not bring himself to "chuck it out" with the rest. He was weak, he knew, and he hated himself for that weakness. He cursed his hand for reaching out and flipping it over. He cursed his eyes for staring at the cover.
Victoria's Secret.
"Forgive my sin," he whispered as he opened it.
He felt a warm tingle in his groin as the now-familiar images swam before him. Such perfect female flesh, and so much of it exposed. He'd been told that America was a devil country, decadent beyond redemption, and surely this proved it.
Back home in Saudi Arabia there were no theaters or clubs. How could there be? Public entertainment is a sin. But this city especially abounded in public places of entertainment, much of it sex drenched. Pornography seemed to be for sale everywhere. The sidewalks were dotted with dens where one could buy pictures and films of people of any mix of genders having sex and engaging in nameless perversions. No act was off-limits. But those places were easy to avoid. They openly advertised their wares, and one did not cross their thresholds without knowing what lurked within.
But the magazines for sale on the newsstands and in the convenience stores were little better. Wholesome-looking publications offered cookie recipes along with twenty ways to a better sex life. And in the back racks lurked covers strewn with naked women in provocative poses, promising greater exposure within. But those too were easily avoided. One simply kept moving.
But this… this Victoria's Secret… it came free, delivered to one's door by the U.S. government.
Surely this was a nation on the brink of doom.
Gazing at the pages, Kemel had to wonder: Is this the way all American women dress under their street clothes? Is this the way their husbands see them?
He thought of his own wife, his Nahela, imagining her wearing such skimpy, frilly things under her abaaya … in his mind's eye he saw her lifting the hem of the billowing black cloak… and beneath she was clad only in these…
He glanced again at the catalog. Unfortunately, Nahela would not look as enticing as these women. She had been sixteen when they married, he eighteen. Now, after eight children—five glorious sons—and twenty years of sitting around the hareem and eating imported chocolates, she had grown large and saggy.
How he'd love to take Victoria's Secret with him when he returned… make it his secret. But did he dare try to smuggle it past customs?
His homeland, as custodian of Mecca and Medina, had a sacred duty to scrutinize and filter all items crossing its borders. And it took that duty seriously. It had to. The whole Moslem world was watching. Perhaps a member of the royal family, if he was discreet, might be able to slip aurat photos past the guards, but anyone else—never.
The list of aurat—forbidden items—included pork and alcohol, of course, but any depiction of a bare female arm or leg, or even a woman's hair, was forbidden as well. Which meant that Saudi customs officers confiscated virtually every Western magazine at the airports; for even magazines that might be devoted to cooking or housekeeping would carry advertisements that exhibited too much bare flesh. Kemel knew this Victoria's Secret would be considered outright pornography.
He jumped at the sound of the doorknob rattling. He heard a key in the lock. That could only be Nazer. Panic engulfed him for an instant. No one—most of all Khalid Nazer—must see this catalog. Victoria's Secret must remain just that—a secret.
He jammed it under the sofa and made a quick, frantic survey of the room as he hurried to the door. Was everything in order? He double-checked to assure himself that no trace of Victoria's Secret was visible.
The door opened, but the safety chain caught it.
"One moment," Kemel said, leaping to the door.
And a curse on Nazer for not having the courtesy to knock. Yes, Iswid Nahr, the organization that employed them, owned this apartment, but Kemel had been living here for months. Just because Nazer had a key didn't mean he should enter without knocking.
He pushed the door closed—wishing he could catch Nazer's fingers—and released the chain. Then he put on a pleasant face.