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

FRIDAY

1.

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.”