between
these staff patrols, yes?”
“Could and did,” acknowledged Santa Anna,
sipping his juice.
“Have you ever witnessed a man being anally
violated?” there was genuine curiosity in the genie’s voice.
“Seen? No, but I’d hear it, at night.”
Santa Anna remembered, though he didn’t want to. There were a lot
of things he would prefer to forget about his time in prison. The
indignities, big and small. The isolation. The thing that called
itself Enfermo.
Raheem was asking him if he had a boyfriend
in prison. Bowie elbowed Jay and the later choked on his smoke.
“I didn’t ride with no man inside,” answered
Santa Anna. If anyone else had asked it, it would have been a
fight, but he knew the genie was merely inquisitive.
“You were no punk, yes? Not a prag ?”
“Definitely not,” Santa Anna smiled, imaging
the genie watching his television shows. He wondered if Fakhri
placed the bottle on the cushion in front of the TV or if Raheem
assumed human form to sit and watch.
“And what do you do if someone wishes to
violate you?”
“You gotta be ready to kill ‘em or die,” said
Santa Anna. “It’s that simple.”
“I see. There was a time, in the royal court
of Isfahan, when I myself was imprisoned and my neck threatened by
the Shamshir itself—”
“Shamshir?” asked Jay.
“You call it scimitar. These were the days of
Shah Abbas the First, the greatest ruler of the Safavid. A time of
merriment, joyous days,” a wistful look came over the genie’s face.
“I was a mere page in the court. And then prince Muhammed was
murdered by Behbud Beg in the hamman. Khoda rahm kone ,” Raheem asked god to have mercy.
“Hammam?” Bowie inquired.
“A steam bath,” explained Raheem. “And I was
initially considered a conspirator and imprisoned. But I digress.”
The genie looked to Gossitch. “Let us dispense with business so we
may resume these pleasantries, no?”
“Agreed,” said Gossitch.
“What do you have for me?”
Gossitch told him about the van parked in
back and its contents.
“Very good then,” Raheem snapped his fingers
and Fakhri pulled back a rug and stepped into the enclosed area. He
carried a briefcase which he laid down in front of Gossitch. The
attendant in the Oasis smoke shop t-shirt
stood behind him with two similar briefcases. Fakhri snapped the
locks open and lifted the top, revealing stacks of rubber banded
hundred dollar bills.
Bowie whistled.
“That’s beautiful,” said Jay.
“No, my friend,” Raheem admonished
pleasantly. “That is dirty money. What is beautiful are the things
one can procure through this.”
“True that,” agreed Santa Anna.
“Would you like to count it?” The genie asked
Gossitch.
Gossitch held his hands up. “Never a need for
that, Raheem.”
The genie smiled. “You flatter me with your
confidence in my person.”
“It’s a confidence born out by time,” noted
Gossitch.
“Undeniably the sands of time reveal all,”
agreed Raheem. “Those that can be trusted,” he looked from Gossitch
to Santa Anna, “and those that cannot. Yet, one would do well not
to let the sands of time get in your lunch, yes?” The genie let
loose a robust burst of laughter.
“You get funnier every time I see you,” said
Santa Anna.
“Raheem has been attending open mic comedy
nights,” interjected Fakhri.
“Really?” asked Santa Anna. “How’s that going
for ya?”
“I am working on my delivery,” admitted the
genie. “Would any of you happen to have any jokes?”
The men shook their heads.
“Fakhri, bring these to their vehicle,”
Raheem indicated the briefcases. Fakhri and the attendant
disappeared.
“These are some beautiful rugs, Rah,” said
Bowie. “My ma would love these.”
“This one upon which we sit is from Herat.”
Santa Anna wished Bowie hadn’t said anything. The genie was given
to long-winded expositions on seemingly everything. He now launched
into one, explaining the difference between Turkish and
these staff patrols, yes?”
“Could and did,” acknowledged Santa Anna,
sipping his juice.
“Have you ever witnessed a man being anally
violated?” there was genuine curiosity in the genie’s voice.
“Seen? No, but I’d hear it, at night.”
Santa Anna remembered, though he didn’t want to. There were a lot
of things he would prefer to forget about his time in prison. The
indignities, big and small. The isolation. The thing that called
itself Enfermo.
Raheem was asking him if he had a boyfriend
in prison. Bowie elbowed Jay and the later choked on his smoke.
“I didn’t ride with no man inside,” answered
Santa Anna. If anyone else had asked it, it would have been a
fight, but he knew the genie was merely inquisitive.
“You were no punk, yes? Not a prag ?”
“Definitely not,” Santa Anna smiled, imaging
the genie watching his television shows. He wondered if Fakhri
placed the bottle on the cushion in front of the TV or if Raheem
assumed human form to sit and watch.
“And what do you do if someone wishes to
violate you?”
“You gotta be ready to kill ‘em or die,” said
Santa Anna. “It’s that simple.”
“I see. There was a time, in the royal court
of Isfahan, when I myself was imprisoned and my neck threatened by
the Shamshir itself—”
“Shamshir?” asked Jay.
“You call it scimitar. These were the days of
Shah Abbas the First, the greatest ruler of the Safavid. A time of
merriment, joyous days,” a wistful look came over the genie’s face.
“I was a mere page in the court. And then prince Muhammed was
murdered by Behbud Beg in the hamman. Khoda rahm kone ,” Raheem asked god to have mercy.
“Hammam?” Bowie inquired.
“A steam bath,” explained Raheem. “And I was
initially considered a conspirator and imprisoned. But I digress.”
The genie looked to Gossitch. “Let us dispense with business so we
may resume these pleasantries, no?”
“Agreed,” said Gossitch.
“What do you have for me?”
Gossitch told him about the van parked in
back and its contents.
“Very good then,” Raheem snapped his fingers
and Fakhri pulled back a rug and stepped into the enclosed area. He
carried a briefcase which he laid down in front of Gossitch. The
attendant in the Oasis smoke shop t-shirt
stood behind him with two similar briefcases. Fakhri snapped the
locks open and lifted the top, revealing stacks of rubber banded
hundred dollar bills.
Bowie whistled.
“That’s beautiful,” said Jay.
“No, my friend,” Raheem admonished
pleasantly. “That is dirty money. What is beautiful are the things
one can procure through this.”
“True that,” agreed Santa Anna.
“Would you like to count it?” The genie asked
Gossitch.
Gossitch held his hands up. “Never a need for
that, Raheem.”
The genie smiled. “You flatter me with your
confidence in my person.”
“It’s a confidence born out by time,” noted
Gossitch.
“Undeniably the sands of time reveal all,”
agreed Raheem. “Those that can be trusted,” he looked from Gossitch
to Santa Anna, “and those that cannot. Yet, one would do well not
to let the sands of time get in your lunch, yes?” The genie let
loose a robust burst of laughter.
“You get funnier every time I see you,” said
Santa Anna.
“Raheem has been attending open mic comedy
nights,” interjected Fakhri.
“Really?” asked Santa Anna. “How’s that going
for ya?”
“I am working on my delivery,” admitted the
genie. “Would any of you happen to have any jokes?”
The men shook their heads.
“Fakhri, bring these to their vehicle,”
Raheem indicated the briefcases. Fakhri and the attendant
disappeared.
“These are some beautiful rugs, Rah,” said
Bowie. “My ma would love these.”
“This one upon which we sit is from Herat.”
Santa Anna wished Bowie hadn’t said anything. The genie was given
to long-winded expositions on seemingly everything. He now launched
into one, explaining the difference between Turkish and
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