“Heavy. The bed was covered in clothes, expensive. In the bathroom too.”

“The underwear caper.”

“And more.”

“This here a tea party?” It was John Hill. He shoved Ghazi hard against the sink. Tea party was not available to them.

“Yes,” Ghazi said agreeably, straightening.

“No,” Aziz said, hedging.

“No dishes, you grab that mop, see?”

“Yes,” Aziz said.

“This floor is a roach toilet.”

“Yes.”

“I pay you good money to work. To talk, I pay with this.” He kicked Aziz in a shin and walked away.

“He could have cut off your ears,” Ghazi observed, as they saw John Hill busy scolding a waitress.

“Or foot.”

“Or your finger.”

“Or my nose.”

“There is always your dick.”

They were laughing. But they could not talk of Rafik until they were waiting for the bus home at midnight. They were alone in the cold, composed of aches and insults.

“This is how it is,” Aziz said, lying on his back on the bus-stop bench.

“A little different from home,” Ghazi said, lying with his head next to Aziz’s on the same bench. “No. Better than home.”

“Worse. And better.”

“Remember Tariq?” Ghazi spoke of a bully.

“He kicked.”

“Always the kick.”

Aziz nodded, remembering.

“They have their ways, these ones.”

The air was like a freezer. Rafik had declined to get them tonight. Business, he said. Heather had the flu. She did look sick. But Rafik, naturally he was lying.

On the bench, they moved closer. Ghazi needed a winter coat. He was wearing three sweaters and a knit hat. “My friend, this is good,” he said. “Aziz, you and I, here. We are here! We have made it to this place!” Ghazi was off the bench and throwing his hat to the stars. “Soon I will marry John Hill’s daughter!”

Aziz had to laugh.

“I will have John Hill’s grandchild!”

Ghazi was standing on the bench, making steps and curtsies.

“I will take him to the park in a fur coat the color of summer clouds! My son, the grandchild of John Hill, will be a general in the American army! Meanwhile,” Ghazi said in mock melodrama, “Conniving Rafik . . . will be . . . in jail!”

“Ghazi. He saved us.” Aziz could not let go of Rafik’s rescuing him from the Egyptian and so much more. Ghazi too. And the Three. Ghazi sat down on the bench. Aziz was still lying down.

“I will not be the one who sends him,” Aziz whispered.

“Nor will I, my friend, nor will I. He will send himself.”

Loyalty lodged hard in Aziz. Going to the storage, which he had hoped Ghazi would forget, would be a mistake. Seeing—he did not want to see. He had done enough getting the hash out of Brooks Street.

The acrid of bus bellied up to them.

Chapter 13

13