CHAPTER 14

FRIDAY, APRIL 24, 1981

 

-1-

 

While Maddie Devlin prepared for Yeats’s horseman, Mabi paced the floor of his bedroom like a death row prisoner awaiting his last meal. His encounter with Silvy haunted him. Her words assailed him like the evil spirits that vexed Gideon. If Gideon’s hexing don’t make me a witch doctor, Mabi thought, and Hannah’s praying don’t make me a holy roller, being Falasha don’t make me Jew bait. Fear feasted on his innards like maggots on the dead. After all the years and all the training and all the chess games and all the missions and all the praying to Allah, after being sliced and diced–his manhood in al-Saffah’s hands and under al-Saffah’s knife–after turning page after page in that god damn book, after all this, was being Jew bait his fucking ajal? If al-Saffah found out who he was by blood, he, like every other fucking Jew, would be the enemy.

He knew what it meant to be a nigga in the Birmingham of the North and he knew what it meant to be a Trojan; but to be Jew bait? His head spun like the wheels of Brother Ambrose’s skates. What was Falasha? A word. A fucking word. Because of this word and for no other reason, al-Saffah would now hate him. Fuck! He pounded his thigh with his fist. I ain’t had me no soul transplant. An hour after Friday’s dawn, he barged in on Hannah.

“Falashas, Momma. Speak on it.”

“No forgiving for Bumper Sullivan or Chelsea.”

“I’m not asking forgiving.”

“Knowing the meaning of your name don’t raise the dead.”

On his way out the door, Mabi paused at the photograph of Jim Ed in his Marine dress uniform. Jim Ed’s deep brown eyes stared out at him and suddenly he was eight years old again and swaggering in Jim Ed’s shadow as his brother faced off against Gabe Tucker while the embers of Boston burning still glowed; eight years old again and feeling his brother’s manhood surging through him, eight years old again and dreaming of being the crown prince to Jim Ed’s king. He turned away from the judgment in those eyes and their unanswered question: Whose backyard I be burning?

Friday’s rush hour clogged the streets as Mabi inched his way toward Copley Square and the Boston Public Library. He felt anxious, eager, scared all at the same time, like he did fronting Billy Sunshine outside the candy store. He didn’t like them old feelings.

Copley Square was a desert paved in brick. The Hancock Tower rose above it like a bronze totem that trapped in its mirrored face all who ventured into the brick desert. People, like camel caravans, snaked across its glass surface. Mabi searched for himself in the reflection. On the far side of the square, opposite Trinity Church, the library shimmered in the heat’s convection currents. Four black wrought iron light fixtures crowned with seven spikes hung above the Dartmouth Street entrance, one on each corner of a hexagon and the seventh in the center. Fall on them, Mabi thought, and you meat on a fork. He wished they were hanging over the front door of the Trojans’ chill pad. Above the fixtures, names were carved into the façade, Dvrer, Plavtvs, Theorcitvs, Clavd, Povssin. He had never seen so many V’s. Plavtavs. Plavitivis. He hesitated on the steps. The spikes were now spears, comic book spears impaling so many Greeks, so many Trojans, the agony of death frozen on their faces. He searched the façade for a name he knew. Homer. The comic book dude. At the top of the first block to the right of the entrance. Seeing that almost made him feel welcome.

“I want to study up on Falashas,” Mabi told the lobby attendant, Prudence according to her name tag, which also identified her as a Friend of the Library volunteer.

Prudence closed her book, An Illustrated History of Paul Revere Silver and Pewter, bookmarking her page with her thumb. Her eyes brimmed with skepticism. “Falashas?”

“Them’s a black tribe in Africa.”

“A school project?” Prudence raised her head so that she appeared to be looking down her nose at Mabi even though she was sitting and he was standing.

“You pointing me in the right direction or no?”

“Listen carefully for I shall not repeat myself. For reference, follow the hallway to my right, past the souvenir desk, which is closed, through the open court yard, to the lobby of the new wing; then, go up the staircase to the second floor, not the mezzanine, mind you, but the second floor, and a reference librarian will help you.”

Mabi wanted to haul Prudence to the roof and drop her on the spikes. Her and the rest of Wonder Bread white-assed Boston, white-assed America. He passed through a pair of swinging doors into a courtyard with an open roof. Sunlight streamed in, reflecting off walkways of crushed stone, illuminating potted plants and miniature trees. A fountain with a waterfall sprayed mist. Wooden chairs lined the walls, stone benches the walkways. Fuckin’ Mayor Charlie don’t clean garbage from black gutters, don’t plow snow off black streets, don’t trim weeds ’round black graves, but eagles for this shit he’s got. Mabi grabbed a handful of stones and hurled them at a cherub spouting water. In the new wing, the lobby rose like the inside of a hollow pyramid. The arrow directing patrons to the reference librarian pointed straight up. He circled the perimeter, then climbed the stairs, ninety-five steps from the lobby to the second floor, almost twice as many as from the basement of the Trojans’ crib to the rooftop. Two of them tenements standing on each other’s shoulders would fit inside this place with room for most of another.

“I’m here to read up on Falashas,” he announced at the reference desk. “Them’s a black tribe in Africa.”

The reference librarian, an Asian-American wearing a shapeless, colorless smock, smiled at him. She had straight black hair and no visible curves. “Books published before 1975 are listed in those volumes against the wall. Books published after 1975 are catalogued on microfilm. The readers are against the windows behind me. Everything’s alphabetical.”

Volume 20, Fah-Fam. He doubted Fam meant the same as in the hood. Two pages of Fal entries, but none under Falasha. Maybe I not reading it right, he thought. He wished Silvy were with him. He closed, then reopened the book. Still, two pages of entries beginning with Fal, but none for Falashas. After twenty minutes, a microfilm reader became available. He twisted around to the reference librarian. “How’s this work?”

“Shhh! Read the instructions.”

Mabi played with the switches until he found one that lit up the screen. Min. He turned the wheel and letters scrolled by in front of him, Min, Mil, Mih, blurring as they went faster. He slowed down at Est, then scrolled back. Fac, Fag, Fai, Fal. “You got three books on Falashas,” he shouted. “Bring me what you got.”

“We have an open stack system.” With a rubber tipped finger, she pointed to the catalog numbers. “Go to the DS shelves to your left inside the wall. The books are arranged in order. DS135 is between DS134 and DS136. The numbers are on the spines.”

No wonder brothers and sisters not using this place. He found the DS shelves, books about Jews, hundreds and hundreds of books about Jews; but the numbers went from DS135.E70 to DS135.E80, no E75’s.

“No books with them numbers,” he told the reference librarian.

“If you want to borrow them, submit a reserve request and we’ll notify you by mail in four to eight weeks. If you want to read them here, there are duplicate copies in the research library in the old wing. Upstairs opposite the main entrance. Do you have a library card?”

Mabi flashed his driver’s license. “That good enough ID for you?”

She copied the information from his license on to a form. “Here’s a temporary card. Your permanent card should arrive in four to eight weeks.”

Mabi retraced his path to the front entrance, shoved his temporary library card under Prudence’s nose, then followed the signs to the research library. He resented going to white places to find his past, search for his future. Falasha books should be with black books, not Jew books. Black books should be in black libraries where blacks would be welcomed instead of treated like gangbangers who can’t read past “See Spot run.” He felt his heritage being bleached out by whites squeezing it dry.

“I here to look up Falashas,” he told the librarian, a white woman whose velvety lips were designed for one thing. Between the legs of white pussy was one place he figured he’d always be welcome.

She gestured toward the card catalogue. He found the drawer labeled Fah-Fal. Eleven entries. Some in English. Others in a bunch of other languages. “All eleven.” He stood so his arm touched hers while she jotted numbers down on scrap paper. He felt her muscles move against his. He regretted not fucking Devlin. Next time. The librarian wrote down a twelfth number.

“Take this to the kiosk in the Abbey Room across the hall.” She stepped back and looked him in the eye. Her eyes were steel gray, like cement, like Jim Ed’s empty coffin. He didn’t believe in the evil eye, but he felt himself weakening as her look battered the fortress he had built around himself. He felt as exposed as the time al-Saffah sliced him and diced him. She blinked and he felt pain between his legs as if her eyelids guillotined what al-Saffah had missed.

“What about stuff too new for books?”

“We have The New York Times Index. Under Falashas you’ll find the dates and page numbers. The papers are in the microfilm room.”

He took refuge in the microfilm room. The twelfth number was a phone number, a challenge he would never accept. Black pussy castrated their men. He’d be damned if he’d let this white pussy do the same. Pages of The New York Times passed before him until he reached the front page of the edition he wanted, a Sunday paper. He had the jitters of a person about to meet his grandparents for the first time and was afraid they wouldn’t like him.

He dawdled over the articles, reading each closely. In the Pantanal region of Brazil, poachers imperiled wild life, jaguars, capybaras, otters and alligators. Why did people care more about that shit than blacks in Boston? He lingered at the lingerie ads, beautiful women, all white, modeling frilly bras and slinky slips, their tits jutting out as if their bodies were for sale rather than the underwear. News stories passed before him like scenery outside a car window: authors disputing over what really happened leading up to Pearl Harbor, Turks asking for increased aid from Western Europe, Polish dairy workers threatening strikes, archeological discoveries under the streets of Sofia, a scientist finding a fossil of the world’s oldest bird, one hundred forty million years old. He wished his past were as long. The articles wearied him, and he realized he was avoiding doing what he had come to the library to do. He didn’t give a fuck about military unrest in Spain or labor problems in Singapore or who would be the next ruler of Tunisia.

He scrolled to the next page and a headline yanked his eyes out of his head: “Torture Reported of Ethiopian Jews.” His heart skipped a beat at the first line of the story: “Falashas, as the black Jews of Ethiopia are called . . .” He put his head inside the hood of the microfilm machine to read the small print in the dim light. The Ethiopian government, the article said, was arresting Falashas and torturing them, closing their schools, denying them exit visas to Israel, and barring them from decent farm land. He felt queasy at the description of the torture suffered by the Falashas, tied hand and foot to long poles, suspended upside down, beaten with clubs; flesh sliced open, the wounds becoming infested with worms; broken bones which were never set. ODing Brother Ambrose was God’s mercy compared to this shit. The more he read, the more he understood what Gideon and Hannah feared, why they covered up their past, his past, and why they never told him or Jim Ed what their name meant. He wondered how much of this shit was still happening.

He filled out a request for a copy of the article and paid the fee.

While he waited, a library volunteer delivered a book to him, one of the three in English. He sat on a bench in the court yard. It was a quiet morning and there were no other readers. The sound of the water calmed him. He leafed through the book, too scared to read it. Sentences about the slaughter of children caught his eye. A youth named Yonatan, the youngest son of Azariah Gette, escaped the slaughter of village students because the security police mistook him for a teacher. After the massacre, the government returned the children’s clothes, shredded by bullet holes. The security police demanded bribes of $50.00 per bullet hole before releasing a child’s corpse to its parents for burial. One child, four children; bullets, a bomb; Ethiopia, Alabama. And in Boston outside Mayor Charlie’s city hall a black man attacked with the American Flag. Mabi read until, again, he wished he had never learned how to read.

In the middle of the book, photographs. Faces, black faces, faces with the same noses and lips and hair he saw every day on Blue Hill Avenue; but they were the faces of Falashas from Ethiopia. A caption: “School children in the Falasha village of Wallaca.” Wallaca. He thought his eyes were tricking him, making him see things that weren’t. He rubbed them, closed them, opened them; but the words did not change. The village of Wallaca. Before or after the massacre? he wondered. He counted the children. Twenty-nine. Twenty-nine pairs of eyes looked sadly at the camera, wishing they could climb inside the magic box and go wherever the picture went. One boy, a gap between his front teeth and a mouth shaped like an egg lying sideways, reminded him of Badger. Is Silvy Falasha? He rubbed his fingertips across their cheeks as if he could comfort them across time and space. If this picture be old enough, he thought, maybe Gideon and Hannah be in it; but if it be too new, these kids may all be massacred. He held the book to his chest as if his heartbeat could transmit life to nameless children from another world, another time, nameless children who lived his past, nameless children who never would have been massacred if Wallaca was part of the Trojans’ turf. He wished he could wish them all back to life.

 

-2-

 

By sunrise Friday morning, Maddie had prepared and mailed photocopies of her statement to Rabbi ben Reuben, Moskovitzky, Duncan, Harriman, and Trish, two copies to each, one mailed from her neighborhood post office, the other from the post office in the first floor lobby of the Federal Court-house; then, with her mind at ease knowing neither Mabi’s fate nor hers depended on whether the horseman stopped or passed her by, she walked to Pemberton Square where the Single Justice Session of the Supreme Judicial Court convened daily at 10:00 a.m. on the fourteenth floor of the New Court-house. Maddie didn’t care for the New Court-house. Nor did she care for appellate court-rooms. They lacked jury boxes.

In the court-room, a court officer interrupted his reading about the launch of the first space shuttle to peek at her from behind a page of the morning paper. Bonturo tried to cover up his shock at her appearance by playing tic-tac-toe at the counsel table. A young reporter from the press pool dozed on a back bench, his eyes closed. Maddie wished he had a camera so she could flaunt her new hairless style to the world.

“I heard you were going to Washington,” Bonturo said with a hitch in his voice.

“Bald is beautiful. You should try it.” She arranged her files on the table designated for appellant’s counsel, positioning the papers so the lectern and microphone blocked Bonturo’s view. Paranoia was one of the more endearing qualities of trial attorneys.

The royal blue curtain behind the bench parted and Justice Alexandra Pallas, the second woman appointed to the Supreme Judicial Court, ascended the bench. A month shy of fifty, she was still attractive, her eyes icy blue with a hint of the softness that would be brought out by candlelight. During oral argument, her smile disarmed attorneys. Neither her gender nor her beauty preoccupied her. A black robe is not high fashion, she replied to a television reporter who asked if she thought she was too glamorous for the Supreme Judicial Court.

“Is an interlocutory matter like this ripe for appeal?” Justice Pallas asked.

“Judge Gomita certified a question of law to this court,” the clerk replied.

“I will hear you, Ms. Devlin.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Maddie rested her arms lightly on the lectern but stood erect so she would not appear to be leaning. “Judge Gomita denied bail because he thought there was a high probability Mr. Levy would flee before trial. He arrived at this conclusion . . .”

“Do you disagree with the proposition the likelihood of flight is a sufficient legal basis to deny bail?”

“No, and that’s why I request you remand this matter to Judge Gomita so I may present additional evidence to prove Mr. Levy will not flee.”

“What type of evidence?”

“Evidence which establishes Mr. Levy’s innocence and the guilt of someone else.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Maddie saw motion, but she did not look in Bonturo’s direction. She did not want to break eye contact with Justice Pallas. She needed to sustain it. Eye contact transformed the hearing from an audience to a dialogue.

“Do you know who murdered Charles F. Sullivan, III?”

“I believe I do.”

“You harbor some doubt?”

“A scintilla’s worth.”

“Shouldn’t you present your evidence to the police or the district attorney?”

“I have made it available to Detective George Harriman of the Boston Police Department.” Maddie adjusted the gooseneck microphone. “The Torah desecrated in the Chelsea synagogue was desecrated with Charles Sullivan’s blood. The rampage in Chelsea was perpetrated by the Trojans, one of Boston’s street gangs. I have personally received death threats from two people at the top of their leadership structure.”

Justice Pallas poured herself a glass of water and Maddie felt the inside of her mouth go dry. “You are asking me to take a lot on faith.”

“I am not asking you to bail Mr. Levy. I am only requesting a remand so I can present my evidence to Judge Gomita. Avram Levy is a very devout Jew, Your Honor, and is studying to become a rabbi. He is also a member of the synagogue in Chelsea and regularly attends services there. It is inconceivable he, either acting alone or with the aid of a street gang, would murder Charles Sullivan and use Charles’s blood to perpetrate such a heinous anti-Semitic act, especially one directed at his own congregation whose members will testify he is well liked and well respected. Mr. Levy does not have the criminal pathology necessary to commit such a crime. The persons who utilized Charles Sullivan’s blood to desecrate the Torah must be the same persons who killed him. It is the only conclusion that makes sense. This is the essence of the evidence I wish to present under oath on remand. Mr. Bonturo will, of course, have an opportunity to cross-examine.”

“I have some trouble with a blanket accusation directed against a large group even if you characterize that group as a street gang.”

“I have identified the individual who, in my opinion, killed Charles Sullivan to Detective Harriman, but I prefer not doing so at this hearing because the press is present.”

Justice Pallas swiveled her chair sideways, leaned back, and looked up at the ceiling. “What do you have to say, Mr. Bonturo?”

Bonturo rose and began speaking before he reached the lectern. “Thank you, Judge. Everything Ms. Devlin said sounds plausible on the surface, but she has not presented one scintilla of independent evidence to corroborate any of her statements. If she is concerned about the press, I request you close this hearing and require her to present her evidence here and now.”

“I do not countenance banning the public from my court-room, Mr. Bonturo.”

“It will take some time for the police to corroborate these allegations,” Bonturo said. “Mr. Levy must be retained in custody until the investigation is complete.”

Justice Pallas stood and paced behind the bench. “I’m not being asked to release Mr. Levy. I’m being asked to remand this matter to the Superior Court for further hearing. Please focus your argument accordingly.”

Bonturo’s hand accidentally bumped the microphone and a hollow sound echoed throughout the court-room. “Sorry, Judge. The presentation of evidence on remand may prejudice future proceedings in this case, deprive Mr. Levy of a fair trial, and fabricate an issue to obtain a reversal of his conviction on appeal.”

Justice Pallas leaned on the back of her chair and peered down at Bonturo. “I find it comforting the prosecution is so solicitous of the legal rights of the defendant. You may avoid those problems, Mr. Bonturo, by assenting to Mr. Levy’s release on bail?” Justice Pallas rapped her gavel twice.

“But, Judge . . .”

“This matter is remanded to Judge Gomita for further proceedings.” She was off the bench before Bonturo could register his objection.

“Attorney Devlin.” The reporter leaned over the railing separating public seating from the enclosure reserved for attorneys. “What’s your evidence?”

“Come to the bail hearing,” Maddie replied. “If you’re lucky, it may be this afternoon.”

“I want next Monday,” Bonturo said. “The police need time to investigate your allegations.”

“An innocent man shouldn’t be kept in prison one extra second.” Maddie had not expected it to be so easy to finesse Bonturo into a confrontation in front of a reporter.

“If your evidence is made public,” Bonturo said, “he’ll be freed at the expense of arresting and convicting the real killer. You’ve got to consider the public interest.”

“Believe me,” Maddie said, “not even Maddie Devlin could find a loophole in the case against the real killer.” She smiled at the reporter. “What did you say your name was?”

“Scott Dunleavy.”

“I’ll be watching for your by-line.”

 

*

 

Judge Gomita scheduled the remand hearing for the following Tuesday afternoon at 2:00 which mollified Bonturo because it meant the district attorney’s office would have time to conduct its investigation. The police wanted to sequester Maddie in a hotel where it would be easier to maintain tight security, but she refused. Death had passed her by and would not return, not for a while at least, because she had important work still unfinished. This was how her da must have felt on Guadalcanal. Nevertheless, she allowed C. J. Ant to be appointed associate counsel to handle routine court appearances prior to the remand hearing.

Saturday morning’s Boston Globe would carry Scott Dunleavy’s by-line on the front page in a story so exclusive the Globe managed to keep it from the broadcast media, but not from the Herald-American which quoted Rabbi ben Reuben praising Maddie as the Ruth of Boston’s Jewish community.

Outside, the heat refused to abate.

 

-3-

 

Boston’s heavy traffic, especially its double-parked delivery vans, jaywalking suits and skirts racing from one important meeting to the next, cabbies who usurped all lanes of traffic, and busses that lumbered in and out of traffic from stop to stop, slowed Mabi’s rush to share his discovery with Silvy. He might as well have been on the Central Artery or Storrow Drive inbound at 5:00 p.m. On Blue Hill Avenue, a bus driver not intimidated by his horn, cut him off, then stopped in the middle of the street to pick up and discharge passengers. His car’s air conditioner sucked in exhaust fumes, bringing tears to his eyes as had the photo of the children of Wallaca now hidden inside his shirt. Their somber faces, the sadness of their eyes, their stolen childhood, the premature finality of their ajal, burned against his skin like a slaver’s hot branding iron. They were dead but he was alive because Hannah and Gideon had escaped and the parents of these children had not. He knew why he lived and Billy Sunshine died, why he lived and Luke Shaw died, why he lived and Mayor Charlie’s kid did not; but he didn’t understand the luck, the fate, the accident of circumstance, that spared him but not the children of Wallaca. So he could become a blood-bought soldier in the army of Allah? Fuck that.

At the corner, the traffic light turned red. There had to be more to it than blind fate. The bus driver shifted into neutral and gunned the engine. Mabi’s car filled with fumes. He cried, but his tears did not wash away the sting. He felt close to the twenty-nine children of Wallaca, closer than to Badger or Spider or any of the Trojans, closer than to Silvy. He wished Jim Ed were there to share the moment. Fucking tiger. They were his bloods, Jim Ed’s bloods, not street bloods, but true bloods, blood of his blood, blood of Jim Ed’s blood, bonded to him by more than skin color or neighborhood or any fucking book. He pulled over to the curb. The more he cried, the more his eyes stung. He was them, they were him, his past, his present and, now, his future.

 

-4-

 

Mabi found Silvy in a park down the street from the day-care center taking a late lunch break. The back slats of the park bench where she sat were split and splintered. Someone had knocked off the cement arms; chunks of cement bouldered the ground. Broken glass, green and brown and clear, mostly wine or beer bottles, sparkled in the sunlight. Years earlier during election season, Mayor Charlie had had the benches repaired. The wooden slats had been painted deep green and the grounds cleaned up. New grass had been planted, as well as flowers, shrubs; but the city never repaired the vandalism of kids in the ’hood trying to prove they were tough enough to be Trojans. Whose backyard I be burning?

“Silvy? Something to show you.” She chewed her sandwich like he wasn’t there. He slipped the photograph out from his shirt. It had puckered from his sweat. “The kid on the far right, he look like Badger. Maybe you Falasha.”

“My people are from Alabama.” She ignored the photograph.

“Those kids are from a village called Wallaca.”

She folded the wax paper from her sandwich and put it in her lunch bag. She peeled an orange, collecting the rind on a napkin.

“I’m asking for help, Silvy. You making me beg for it?”

“I once said I’d give Leroy Wallaca every ounce of help I had; but Mabi, well I wouldn’t spare him a drop of water in the middle of the Sahara Desert.” She sat erect and in her bearing he saw a queen every bit as regal as the Falasha queen Yehudit he had read about in the library that morning.

“Changing from Mabi to Leroy ain’t like switching on-off.”

“What comes easy goes easier.”

“Why you turning white on me, bitch?”

“Turning white? Some things don’t have colors. Right and wrong for one. Good and evil for another. Go. Do whatever you think be written in that fucking book. I’ll keep my future to myself, thank you.”

Mabi’s shoulders sagged as he returned to his car. He no longer knew what to believe. He understood now the truth of ajal. You’re born, you live, you die, life goes on. Life goes on. It didn’t for the children of Wallaca, but who gave a rusty fuck? Sure as shit no one in Boston or anywhere else in the fucking universe other than the village of Wallaca except maybe himself, maybe Hannah and Gideon, maybe Jim Ed if he had lived. He felt as spaced out as if he had shot up pure grade. He hoped when he crashed he’d land in a righteous place.

 

-5-

 

Later that afternoon, clearheaded and clear-eyed, Mabi landed at al-Saffah’s.

“Welcome, my son,” al-Saffah greeted him. “You look in mourning. Perhaps my hookah will cheer you. I have a fresh tin of Sobranie Black and Gold.”

“You ever hear of a black tribe called Falashas?”

Al-Saffah’s eyes narrowed to a squint. “Who told you about the Falashas?”

“Trojans used to be Zuluz. We into African tribes. Study up on them.”

“A pitiful tribe. Blacks masquerading as Jews.”

“Suppose a Falasha comes saying he’s a true believer in Allah, you treat him same as me?”

Al-Saffah bowed his head as if he were praying Allah would reveal the right answer. “No. I wouldn’t. Let me ask you a question. Would you permit a Caucasian to join the Trojans if he said he was black but for the color of his skin?” Al-Saffah paused to let Mabi ponder the question. “There are preconditions which must exist for true belief to be present. If we don’t insist on them, we’d be misled by every charlatan who mouthed the words we wanted to hear.”

Preconditions. Mabi hadn’t considered preconditions. He had just believed. Just acted out of faith. Silvy believed in Jesus. He believed in Allah. He thought she was wrong. She thought he was. She had faith. What did he have? If everything in the universe had its unique ajal, did Allah?

Al-Saffah rested his fingers on Mabi’s forearm. “A Jew, whether raised a Jew or not, could never embrace the purity of Islam just as a Caucasian, even if raised by blacks, could never be black. A human raised by wolves does not a wolf become. It’s the Tarzan myth, one of the oldest in the world; but it overlooks one elemental truth: you are what you are, not what you say you are.”

Mabi leaned against the Koran bookstand. “If I said I was Falasha, would that put me on the wrong side of your jihad?”

“Your true name would not have been revealed to be Mabi if you were Falasha. No. If you were Falasha, you would be struck down as an infidel who corrupted the religion of Abraham to undermine, to halt, to eradicate the purification process we have begun.”

Mabi felt trapped between faith and whatever its opposite was. It was a feeling he didn’t have words for. Either he believed in that book or he didn’t. Either he believed he had been chosen or believed he hadn’t. Chosen. Everybody wanted to be chosen. Trick was who’s doing the choosing.

Al-Saffah set up the chess board. “Let us put aside childish talk of Falashas and share the hookah over a game of chess.”

Mabi thought of the eight centuries of history embodied in the chess set, eight fucking centuries. Once, it seemed an eternity compared to his past, but now it seemed a split second compared to the thousands of years of Falasha history. If I am what I am, he thought, how can I be different from what I was this morning? If everything be written in some fucking book, this must have been. And if it wasn’t, this book must be as bogue as Gideon’s comic book.

Unable to concentrate, he lost in fewer than thirty moves. Declining al-Saffah’s offer of a rematch, he drove home where he locked the door and disconnected the phone. He had thinking to do, hard thinking, much too much for his liking.

 

-6-

 

Late Friday afternoon as the evening rush hour clogged the tunnels leading to and from Boston’s Logan Airport, Maddie paced back and forth in front of the doors through which passengers exited after clearing customs. George Harriman’s plane circled thousands of feet above her. Before departing Shannon, he had arranged for two detectives in plain clothes to shadow her wherever she went. At the airport, in addition to the detectives a policewoman in uniform wandered through the crowd. Two hours late, Harriman’s plane landed and, after another hour, he cleared customs.

“Maddie. Maddie.” He dropped his suitcase. “Your hair.”

“I had a close shave.”

“Ah, my rose in the rood of time.” They hugged like father and daughter. On the drive back to police headquarters, he reviewed the file.

“We have more than enough for a search warrant,” she said. “Get me a stenographer. I’ll dictate the application.”

Rush hour had ended, the only consolation for the plane’s late arrival, and the tunnel backed up to the toll booths rather than the airport access road. As they inched along, Maddie relaxed, her hand in Uncle George’s. At District 1, they drafted affidavits with exhibits and applications for search warrants for Mabi’s apartment, the Trojans’ headquarters, Blackbird’s, Silvy Thomas’s home, and the home of Gideon and Hannah Wallaca. Several hours later, the stenographer had finished typing them.

“Who’s the emergency judge?” Maddie asked.

“We should wait ’til morning,” Harriman said. “At this hour, you’d have to be twice as persuasive.”

“Suppose Mabi disappears?”

“He’s in his apartment, which is under surveillance. If he takes one step outside, he’ll be arrested.”

“Don’t wait. Arrest him now. You don’t need a warrant to search his apartment if it’s incident to a lawful arrest.”

“This case is much too big for a warrantless search.” Harriman leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.

“Long day,” Maddie said.

“I owe you an apology, Maddie, for all the shit I gave you for defending the Jew.”

“His name is Avram Levy.”

“For defending Avram Levy.”

“Why? Because he’s innocent?”

“No. Because you did the right thing.”

“Don’t make me into something I’m not.”

 

-7-

 

While Maddie dozed, Harriman, on a hunch, checked the duty roster to see which black police officers were on duty, when their shifts started, where they were assigned. There were only a handful and it took him less than twenty minutes. One of them, he figured, was on the Trojans’ payroll. Several he eliminated because they would not go on duty until after the morning edition of the Herald-American hit the newsstands. He had fed the newspaper information and they promised front-page coverage in return for the scoop. Others he eliminated because they were stationed in districts other than District 1. That left three possibilities: Amelia Wine whose shift started at 4 a.m., Joe Ladeira whose shift ended at 8 a.m., and Dick Remillard who always seemed to be on duty. Harriman made sure each of them learned about the applications for the search warrants. He wished he knew for certain which one of them was Mabi’s spy. If Irish eyes weren’t smiling, it would be none of the above.

Saturday’s headline in the Herald-American asked, DID THE TROJANS FRAME AVRAM LEVY? It seems more than a coincidence, the paper editorialized, that Mabi, leader of the notorious black street gang known as the Trojans, played chess with Bumper Sullivan within hours of his murder. How many of Mabi’s fingerprints would have been found on Avram Levy’s skull-cap if the police had properly tested it that night instead of assuming Mr. Levy’s guilt?

“Didn’t they call for his execution?” Maddie asked.

“That’s what I love about that rag,” Harriman said.