Kelley left to get back to his job and I sat there for a minute or two thinking. I had no idea what to do, but I was going to do something. I didn’t blame Kelley; he was just being real and giving it to me straight. It meant that if this webcast was going to be stopped, I was going to have to do it. I thought for a while about just going to the police and telling them exactly what I had found out and being a good responsible and safe citizen.
I also thought about Walanda. Her whole life was one big shit sandwich and the cruelest and coldest things in this world had eaten her up. She asked-no, pleaded with me-to help her not have that happen to Shony. Shony had already been subjected to the scummiest of the earth and was about to go through a trauma that she would carry with her forever.
Fuck being a responsible citizen.
30
The next morning the lead story on all the news broadcasts was that with the anniversary of 9/11 coming up in the next couple days, the Department of Homeland Security had raised the warning level around the country to orange. They noted that “chatter” had led to “specific and credible” threats and that all Americans should be “cautious.” That and, oh yeah, no “need to change your daily plans” but be “vigilant.”
Like everyone else, I found that this type of announcement did little except make me feel creepy. Lately, there wasn’t much that could make me feel any creepier. I decided I was much better off listening to Elvis and put in Elvis in Concert, a tape of one of his last shows and poured myself a cup of coffee.
Just for the hell of it, I gave Clogger McGraw a call to see what he could tell me about the brothers Gabbibb. He described the electronic store in Staten Island as a dirty storefront with lots of odds and ends, closeouts, and brands he never heard of. When it came to Enad, Clogger was much more demonstrative in his descriptions.
“Dude, the dude’s way intense, man,” was the way the Clogman put it. Then the Clog went on to describe how patriotic and zealous Enad got when he talked about his home in Pakistan. That struck me as odd.
“You mean India, don’t you Clog?” I said.
“No way, dude’s way negative on India,” Clogger said.
I signed off and wondered what that was all about. It might have been that Clog smoked some inferior weed and got things wrong. Or maybe it meant someone was lying.
I decided to take a trip to the country. East Dunham was about as diametrically opposed to Staten Island as you could imagine. It was a ski resort town in the winter and a small artsy-fartsy community the rest of the year. The East Dunham grocery was also the exact opposite of Enad’s electronic store. It looked like it used to be a Trading Port, one of the small neighborhood grocery stores. Trading Ports come from the era before supermarkets had to be the size of 747 airplane hangars. It was neat and clean and cheerful and had everything you needed without the unnecessary bullshit that today’s megastores have.
Tunad looked very Americanized with his nametag and shirt and tie as he walked up and down the four aisles asking folks if they needed help. I asked him where the frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts were, and he gladly directed me to aisle two, with barely a trace of accent. I grabbed a box of Pop-Tarts for Al and headed back toward Tunad to see if I could engage him in some conversation.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said in my best consumer voice.
“How can I help you?” Tunad asked with a big smile.
“I love your store.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Did you own a grocery in Pakistan?” I asked. I knew it was forced and awkward, but I didn’t know what else to do.
“I’m from New Delhi, India, sir, not Pakistan,” Tunad said.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you a grocer in India?” I asked.
“I worked in importing, actually… spices,” he said.
“Ah… well, I love your store,” I said and went and cashed out my Pop-Tarts.
It seemed as though it was important for the brothers Gabbibb to pretend to be Indian. Why, I wasn’t sure, but I’d guess there were some complex political reasons. I got Al out of the car, gave him a couple of Pop-Tarts, and we strolled around East Dunham. Al was recovering nicely and I admired his recuperative powers. He was still sore, but he got around well.
There were coffee shops, New Age bookstores, a hemp store, and an organic butcher shop. It was a neat little place with lots of crunchy people walking around. I always wondered what these people did for a living because no one ever seemed like they were in a hurry to do anything, nor did they seem to ever get intense about anything, except maybe when yoga class was cancelled.
Al was thrilled to be smelling new smells and meeting new people. A fair number of the crunchies smiled at Al and stopped to pet him. A pair of forty-something New Age housewives loved him until he slobbered on their peasant blouses. They acted disgusted and abruptly left in a huff. I guess organics have their time and place.
We were swinging around the back of Tunad’s grocery, heading back to the car, when Al stopped short. He lifted his head in the air, looked around, and then put his nose to the pavement and started sniffing the ground as he went. He was on a scent, and I was waiting to come up on a dead raccoon or something.
A man was unloading a van near the double back doors of Tunad’s shop. Al was pulling hard on the leash and was getting difficult to control. I held him up and he struggled, not barking but making an intense whining sound. I watched the guy swing four of the boxes into a hand truck and disappear into the back doors. I let Al lead me over to the van.
There were a half-dozen boxes on the ground, and it looked like the driver would be back in a second to get them. Al sniffed all around them, stopped dead, and sat in front of the boxes, staring straight at them. I didn’t want to hang around and explain to the van driver what my dog was doing, but I had a good idea.
I pulled on Al to get him going, but before he would come he lifted his leg on the stack of boxes. I pulled him even harder and began running to get away from the back of the grocery and onto the main street again. I had to find a pay phone.
There was a pay phone just outside the hemp store. I dialed as fast as I could.
“This is Jamal.”
“What did Allah-King do when he smelled a bomb?” I said.
“Duffy?”
“C’mon man-what did he do?”
“Easy, man, take it easy.” Jamal was caught off guard. “Oh yeah, uh… the dogs were trained to sit and stare at whatever had the explosives.”
I hung up without saying goodbye.
31
I had to find Kelley. The Gabbibbs were lying about where they were from and one of them had explosives. I’m sure that being from Pakistan wasn’t a crime, but I thought the authorities might be interested in today’s combination of events.
By the time I got to AJ’s it was nine o’clock, the prime Foursome hour, and I was also in luck because Kelley was there. I didn’t say hello to anyone, I went right to Kelley.
“Kelley-you gotta hear this,” I said.
“What makes me think I’m not going to want to?” Kelley said.
“I found explosives in Gabbibb’s cousin’s grocery store, and his other cousin, the one who runs the electronics store in Staten Island, admitted that he’s not Indian-he’s Pakistani.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t you see? They’re covering up being Pakistani, one of them has explosives-they’ve got to be up to some sort of terrorist thing.”
Kelley just stared at me for a second. He didn’t blink and his mouth hung open a little bit.
“Let me get this straight. Dr. Gabbibb is masquerading as an Indian because he’s really Pakistani. He’s financing a porn site, and he’s planning a terrorist act with his two cousins, one of whom has explosives in his grocery store?” Kelley said.