"It's Ghali," Jamal said. "He's been arrested."
Kemel felt the heart dropping out of his body. Ghali? His eighteen-year-old son, the pride of his life… arrested? No, this could not be.
"For what? What happened?"
"He has been accused of stealing a camera from the wife of a visiting American businessman."
"Impossible! Ridiculous!"
"That is what I said," Jamal told him. "But there are witnesses. And he had the camera with him when they caught him."
"Oh, no." Kemel moaned. He closed his eyes to squeeze out the light. "Oh, no, this can't be true. Why would he do something like this?"
"I don't know, brother. Perhaps if you were home…"
Yes! Home! He had to go home immediately!
But he could not. Not yet.
"I will come as soon as I can. But I cannot leave right now."
"What business could be more important than this?" Jamal said with what sounded like scorn. Never in all his years had he spoken to Kemel like that. He would not use that tone if he knew the nature of Kemel's business here.
Kemel ached to tell his younger brother why he was in America but did not dare. Jamal and his whole family would be in jeopardy if it was discovered that Kemel had breathed so much as a word of it to him.
"Where is Ghali now?"
"It took me all night, but I managed to secure his release. I am keeping him at my house—I have taken responsibility for him."
Kemel calculated that the eight-hour time difference made it six a.m. in Riyadh. "Thank you, Jamal. I can never thank you enough."
"This is far from over, Kemel. I will do whatever I can, but Ghali may have to stand trial."
Kemel nodded, though there was no one to see. Yes, yes, he knew. Especially since a foreigner was involved. The Saudi authorities seldom passed up a chance to demonstrate the superiority of Islamic Law to westerners. Even if this American woman asked that no charges be brought, they might still proceed with trial and punishment.
And punishment would mean the loss of Ghali's right hand.
How could this happen? Ghali had always been wild and headstrong, yes, but never a thief. What could have possessed him? He wanted for nothing, yet he stole a camera! A camera! There were almost a dozen fine cameras lying about the house!
This made no sense.
He had to turn to a higher power for help. Tomorrow was Friday, the holy day. He was bound to say his noontime prayers in the mosque. Tomorrow Kemel would pray all day in the mosque for his errant son.
FRIDAY
1.
After a couple of rounds of answering-machine tag, Milkdud's last message had said to meet him at Canova—not Canova's, just Canova—on West Fifty-first at ten-thirty. So that was when Jack showed up. He rode the lemming crowd of parents and kids streaming toward the red neon Radio City sign dead ahead on the far side of Sixth Avenue. With Ruth's Chris behind him and Le Bernadin across the street, Jack found Canova.
He leaned his forehead against the front window and peered past the faux pilings lined up on the other side of the glass. Looked like one of those buffet places that had been multiplying like coat hangers through most of the nineties.
He stepped inside and looked for Milkdud.
Canova was a little more elaborate than most of its buffet kin. Usually they were strictly takeout—fill your containers at the buffet counter, weigh and pay, then be on your way. Canova offered two buffet areas, and seating.
The crowd was thin—still a while before the lunch mob hit—but Jack didn't spot Milkdud. And Milkdud was hard to miss.
He tapped the Korean guy wiping a nearby table.
"I was supposed to meet someone here—" he began.
"I don't know," the Korean said quickly, vigorously shaking his head. "I don't know."
"He's a black guy," Jack said. He pointed to his forehead. "And up here he's got—"
"Oh, yes." He pointed to the left, toward a sign with an arrow and the word SEATING. Jack wondered how he'd missed that. "Over there. He over there."
Jack stepped through the small brick arch and checked out the extra seating area. He saw the back of a tall thin black guy, short-cropped hair, facing the wall. Jack ducked back to the buffet area, bought a Pepsi, then dropped into the seat opposite Milkdud.
"Sushi for breakfast?" Jack said, checking out Milkdud's tray.
"Hey, Jack," Milkdud said, extending his hand across the postage-stamp table. "Got to preserve my slim boyish figure, man."
"For hacking, right?"
He shrugged. "A spare tire can keep me from where I want to go sometimes. Besides, this is brunch and you really can't call California rolls sushi."
They went back years. Jack kept running into this tall guy—Milkdud had worn dreadlocks then—at the revival houses around the city. They started talking, and finally got to the point of trust where they'd lend each other tapes and discs of cherished films. But if Jack had ever known the name the man's mother called him, he'd long since forgotten. He was Milkdud—or Dud—to the world. Long, lean, with milk-chocolate skin, a laid-back look, and an easy smile; but all people seemed to remember about the guy—even in the days when he had those huge dreadlocks—was the big, black Aaron Neville-class mole in the center of his forehead. Some class clown during his growing up must have compared it to a certain brand of chocolate-coated caramel, and the name had stuck.
"I stand corrected," Jack said. "So what are you up to these days?"
"Working in the Coconuts up the street."
"They're hiring MIT grads now?"
Milkdud shrugged. "I'm in the laser disc department. The hours are flexible, and the discounts help me keep up my collection."
Jack nodded. Flexible hours… that was something Milkdud needed for his real passion. Yeah, he was a movie freak, but old buildings were his first love.
"How many discs you got now?"
Another shrug. "Lost count. But I'm glad you called. Been meaning to get in touch with you about a recent purchase."
Jack straightened. "Something on my want list?"
Milkdud reached down and pulled a plastic Coconuts bag from under the table. He handed it across to Jack.
"Yes!" Jack said when he looked inside. He pulled out a laser disc of An Unmarried Woman. "How'd you find it?"
The 1978 Jill Clayburgh-Alan Bates drama was one of Gia's favorite films. Its charms eluded Jack—he'd never been particularly taken by any of Paul Mazursky's work—but he'd been trying for years to buy or tape a copy for Gia. He religiously checked the schedules of all the cable movie channels he subscribed to—TCM, AMC, TMC, Cinemax, Starz, Encore, and the rest—but they rarely listed it, or when they did, he always found out about it too late to set his recorder.
Milkdud said, "One of the used places down on Mac-Dougal. It's a good transfer but it's Hong Kong."
"I see that. Not dubbed, I hope."
"No—just Cantonese subtitles."
"Subtitles are no problem. Can I borrow it?"
"Yeah. As long as you want. Just don't forget where you got it."
"You like it?" Jack knew Milkdud as a Guinea gross-out maven. Heavy into Argento, Bava, and Fulci. Hard to believe he'd even sit through An Unmarried Woman, let alone want it in his collection.
"Nah. But it's so damn hard to find, I feel I should have a copy. Weird, huh?"
"Just the collecting disease."
Jack understood; he suffered himself. "Your timing is perfect, Dud." Now he had at least one Christmas gift for Gia she wouldn't be expecting. "I'll do a dub and get it back to you as soon as…" Jack hesitated, feeling bad about asking Milkdud for another favor after he'd found Gia's movie for him, but he had no choice. "And… I need your help."