The imam said nothing.

“Aw, come on, Stevie, you remember me. I’ll bet you a Twinkie you do.”

“How did you find me?” hissed the imam.

“See! I told you you knew who I was! You owe me a Twinkie! Now to make absolutely sure you’re not just pulling my leg, what’s my name?”

“I said how did you find me?”

“Saw your picture in the newspapers. All you contestants have been in every newspaper and magazine. I recognized you because you got a face that someone like me won’t ever forget as long as I live.”

“I’m not going to tell you again,” said the imam. “Get the hell out of here before I have you thrown out. You leave quietly and I’ll forget about the whole thing.”

The stranger stood for a moment looking at the imam, smiling. He had a weird look in his eyes. “Ain’t that sweet? You’ll forget about the whole thing. I’m sure you will, big guy. The problem is…I ain’t. Not in a million years. Now listen to me, Mr. fuckin’ Cleveland Steve from bullshit Chicago, for the last time, tell me my fuckin’ name. After all I went through, I don’t want you ever forgettin’ my name. Not until the day you die, you hear? Come on, say my name.”

“I said get the hell out of here now,” hissed the imam, “or I’ll have you at the bottom of the Hudson River before midnight.”

“You better stop scaring me, Stevie Beastie, or I might do something you’ll regret.” The stranger smiled. Then said, “I ain’t goin’ nowhere until you say my name.”

Retta Mae slowly inched herself as far away from Rasheed Jamal on the small couch as she could get.

The imam stared furiously at the disfigured face in front of him.

“Thought I was dead, didn’t you, asshole?” said the disfigured face. “Thought I was a dead fish, didn’t you? You know how long I’ve been waitin’ for this moment? Know how many nights I put myself to sleep dreamin’ of this moment? Huh, do you?”

Retta Mae studied the furious imam and the angry stranger and wondered whether she should do anything.

She decided not to.

The imam pushed forward on the couch. He looked up at the man and said, “Look, you little kike—”

“Easy, Cleveland Steve,” whispered the man. “I’m holding a Glock 9 under this coat of mine. I’ve got a good grip on it with my finger on the trigger, okay? So don’t make no sudden moves, okay? So here’s what’s goin’ to happen. I’m gonna give you one more chance to get this right and prove to me you know who I am. Okay? But I can tell you this. Little Kike just ain’t gonna cut it, Cleveland Stevie. I want you to speak my name out loud. Okay? So one more time. Who am I?”