TOMMY HAD JUST WON A BIG HAND AT POKER. KING HIGH SPADE flush on the turn, beating a guy with trips and another guy with pocket aces. They had chased him all the way, calling and raising, taking him for a mook. His first win yet, and it had been a princely hand. Those Iraqi police boys had been taking him for a ride all week; they were sharp players too, knew their odds, knew how to count cards. He couldn’t quite figure out how they knew so much about Texas hold ’em. Apparently it was globalization.
Now, waiting in line for the postgame winners’ dinner treat, he replayed each bet, savoring his fellows’ reactions. The flushed face on the crop bearded Abu-Abu, his beady eyes flashing disbelief. The aces spilling from his hand…priceless.
They had been forced to congratulate him of course, to own up at last that he, in fact, was the main man, the alpha dog, the captain of the ship. He didn’t quite know where this new tradition had come up from, of treating everyone to dinner, but they all insisted it was the rule, even his own squad mates. They brought up numerous vague instances that he did not recall, all the while chivvying him toward the kibbeh stand.
In the end, flush with victory, he didn’t really care. Everything was perfect, other than Ancelloti, who was inexplicably still out foraging. The kibbeh vendor was excellent, the best food he had found on the streets. It wasn’t that spicy like some of the kebabs, didn’t make him sick with the runs. Waiting with his mates in line, acknowledging the respectful nods of the locals, a few called-out greetings from known regulars, he felt a wash of contentment come over him. This was the life, yessir, nothing like cold Michigan winters, freezing-ass lake winds hitting you at 100 miles per hour.
This weather was balmy. Yes it was. Hellish hot sometimes, to be sure, but hot was a lot better than cold, wasn’t it? And this assignment was the best of all time. He had Hoffy to thank for that. Nothing but playing games and loafing all day. And once he’d made friends with the Iraqi police boys, well, the card games had started, and that was just fine with him.
There were plenty of things he didn’t understand about this city, like why it had a goddamn huge river running through it or why they had those big ass swords crossed over the big highway. Didn’t they know that swords didn’t mean shit in a gunfight? He’d have torn down the swords and put up M64s up there. Giant crossed semiautos, that would scare the shit out of the camels. Still, it beat the shit out of running a junkyard in a dead beat town packed in snow, watching old people shuffling around drinking cheap whiskey and moaning about the car industry. Hell yeah, the car industry had moved. They’d moved all the way to fucken China, probably cos it wasn’t so fricking cold all the time over there.
Tommy neared the kibbeh stand, just as the vendor started a new batch. He always watched him closely. This guy was an artist. Tommy almost knew the recipe by heart, it was so easy. He wanted to take this guy to Chicago and set him up in front of the Sears Tower. No way anyone would eat hot dogs if they had this guy out there.
The vendor was getting into his groove now, and more than one regular stood around, watching appreciatively. He started on the stuffing by cooking finely chopped onions in oil until they were soft and filmy. Then some ground beef, until it browned, and then draining it out, he mixed it together and mashed it into a fine paste, with a little bit of salt and pepper. With deft twitches he portioned out little balls of the stuff, pushing an almond, a couple of raisins, and a little bit of herb mix into the middle. This was the stuffing, good enough to eat on its own. It took him a few seconds to make each one, and within a minute, he had filled a bowl full.
The actual kibbeh came next. He had ground rice, premixed with ground beef. Many vendors used a wheat mixture for the shell, but Tommy knew the inside scoop; rice was the best. Rice was the secret. The vendor made bulk quantities of this at home and brought ice cream boxes of the stuff to his cart every morning, gently thawing throughout the day. This, he had once explained, was also a secret. The one day old mash of rice and ground beef was a lot better than fresh.
Now, he mixed in salt, pepper, and a bit of lime juice into the mash, remixing the stuff with a fine wooden spoon. He took out egg-shaped scoops and used his thumb to hollow out the center into a kind of meat donut. The stuffing balls went in there, and two quick pinches on either side completed the kibbeh, beautiful ovals with a single pointy end.
Into the fire, the whole three dozen of them, and they hopped in the oil, developing that beautiful crunchy outer shell. The vendor had his pita breads lined up; the kibbeh went in there, nestled in some lettuce and tomatoes and other irrelevant stuff, and the dash of tahini and lime juice, and harissa if you wanted it. It was like an edible plate. You had to give it to these guys. They were smart. No point wasting time on crockery.
Tommy liked the blood red harissa, even though it burned through his mouth every time. It was just something so alien. It attracted him with an almost superstitious dread. The vendor recognized him and waved. Tommy beamed. He liked being recognized.
Ahh the first bite. The heat of the kibbeh, the coolness of the garlic yogurt. He slapped down the money on the counter and saw for the first time the light red glow beneath the cart. Something cringed inside him. IED IED IED. He began to gibber in fright, dropping the food, turning, leaping, all in his mind, unfortunately. Kibbeh lodged in his gullet, choking.
He began to claw at his throat. Something slammed into his stomach—a big hairy Iraqi police fist, some kind of frontal Heimlich maneuver, and bits of kibbeh flew out; “IED! IED,” he shouted at the top of his lungs and saw the panic on his friends around him. And then, with unfair finality, the horizon expanded with concussive fire.
Ancelloti heard that familiar dull thump of improvised ordinance. It woke him up from his drug-addled nap. It was a common enough noise that he did not immediately react. In fact, his first concern was the splitting headache and the rapidly growing bump on his skull.
A bump caused by sudden impact between his forehead and the hummer axle. Recovering from moments of confusion, he realized that he had somehow fallen asleep under the parked vehicle. He remembered. Tommy had sent him to forage, and he’d just started aimlessly wandering around, living rough. He was about to roll out, when he heard another thump of explosion, this time much closer.
The tinkle of glass hitting the pavement told him that it was almost certainly the apartment building directly overhead. Curious, since that was their temporary bivouac, arranged by the fat rascal Behruse to be precise. His suspicions were further roused as he heard sandaled feet slapping up the pavement and then several pairs of hairy ankles appeared. He lay silent, as a group of men appeared to be jimmying open his car.
There was a lot of back slapping and general jubilation. The hairy ankles exchanged rapid fire Arabic, some of which Ancelloti understood, primarily the phrases “death to Americans” and “to hell with infidels and Jews.” The words filled him with dread. His hashish-clogged brain struggled to process. The exhaust roared all of a sudden, and he barely missed cracking his head again on the chassis. The hummer lurched forward with a clash of mangled gears, coating him with a mist of motor oil and dust. The hairy ankles all piled in, and the hummer roared off down the street. No one looked back.
Ancelloti got to his feet. Around him, the neighborhood had suddenly realized they had been bombed and were going through the usual reactions: disbelief, anger, exhibitionist wailing. Ancelloti staggered a few steps toward the scene, enough to verify the remnants of Tommy and his squaddies. He found a dog tag, absently pocketed it. Down the street, the stolen hummer accelerated and then took a corner, whooping. Wearily, Ancelloti began to follow.