fall back on the lies that were his natural line of defense. Darius brought out the picture of the girl. There were few heroin users in Teheran that Farhad did not number among his friends, and enemies. “Ever see her before?”
The suitcase maker scarcely glanced at the snapshot. He shook his head as he picked up his mallet.
“Look again.”
“I never—”
Darius stamped on his foot.
“Monday,” Farhad moaned. “This time of day.”
“Where?”
“In the Shah’s Mosque, here at the bazaar. You crushed my—”
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know.”
Darius tapped his foot beside the suitcase maker’s. I swear it.
“But you talked?”
Farhad made a gasping sound that Darius took for a yes.
“What about?”
“What do you think?”
Farhad’s thin smile irked Darius, who ground his heel into the suitcase maker’s toes. “How much did you sell her?”
“ She was the one with the goods.” Moisture was running from Farhad’s eyes. “Her price couldn’t be beat.”
“Your lucky day.”
“I told her to get lost.”
“Why?”
“She wouldn’t say where she’d got my name, or how she knew I was in the market for good stuff.” Perched on one leg Farhad caressed his wounded toes.
“Everyone knows your name.”
“She was moving kilos.” Farhad looked sadly around the tiny stall. “Grams are my speed now.”
“Who did you send her to?”
“That kind of weight, I don’t know anybody who could handle it.”
Darius lifted his heel.
“… It’s the truth.”
“Any idea why she was desperate for quick cash?”
“What does anyone want with serious money these days? It’s not cheap to find a place in Beverly Hills.”
From the top shelf Darius brought down a grip fabricated from small cans that formerly had contained baby French green peas. “How much?”
“Seventy thousand rials,” Farhad said. “Planning a trip, too?”
Darius moistened his thumb as he counted out the bills. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Darius drove back to his place on Baharestan Square. Exhausted, he was nevertheless too keyed up for sleep, and continued into the suburbs. The electric was off at the apartment complex in Shemiran, the black surface of the courtyard like a subterranean sea. He sat on the bench where the body was found, looking up at the buildings. Why had the girl been left here? Why not in a park, or vacant lot, or any of a thousand bombed-out ruins downtown where she would have remained undiscovered for weeks? Had she been killed upstairs, he asked himself, and her body gotten rid of at the first opportunity? Or was it more than convenience that linked the mutilated Arab girl to Saltanatabad Avenues déclassé elite.
He slunk down until the back of his head rested against the top slat, and he was looking into a window covered by a yellow curtain. Shoe leather scraped the tiles with the hiss a blade makes on a barber’s strop. A flash of khaki and then the barrel of an Uzi caught his eye. He reached for ID, but quickly showed his empty hand. The assumption being formulated by the man with the rifle was not necessarily that he was going for his wallet.
Red-rimmed eyes and drawn cheeks insinuated themselves as a mirror image of his own. Bijan’s day had been longer even than his.
“Trying it on for size?”
“What?” Darius asked him.
“I saw you sitting here like the dead girl. For a moment I thought you might be dead, too.”
“Who would harm me? I have no enemies.”
“Neither did she.”
“Is that a fact?”
“A theory of mine,” the Komitehman said. “Another is that it would be better for you to concentrate on the burglary at the relatives of Ayatollah Golabi.”
“There was no burglary.”
“You have the soul of a prophet. Your calling is to reveal the truth.” Bijan sat next to him with the Uzi between his knees. “But in Islam all truths were revealed long ago. Muhammad was the last prophet, and he is dead more than a thousand years.”
“New
The suitcase maker scarcely glanced at the snapshot. He shook his head as he picked up his mallet.
“Look again.”
“I never—”
Darius stamped on his foot.
“Monday,” Farhad moaned. “This time of day.”
“Where?”
“In the Shah’s Mosque, here at the bazaar. You crushed my—”
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know.”
Darius tapped his foot beside the suitcase maker’s. I swear it.
“But you talked?”
Farhad made a gasping sound that Darius took for a yes.
“What about?”
“What do you think?”
Farhad’s thin smile irked Darius, who ground his heel into the suitcase maker’s toes. “How much did you sell her?”
“ She was the one with the goods.” Moisture was running from Farhad’s eyes. “Her price couldn’t be beat.”
“Your lucky day.”
“I told her to get lost.”
“Why?”
“She wouldn’t say where she’d got my name, or how she knew I was in the market for good stuff.” Perched on one leg Farhad caressed his wounded toes.
“Everyone knows your name.”
“She was moving kilos.” Farhad looked sadly around the tiny stall. “Grams are my speed now.”
“Who did you send her to?”
“That kind of weight, I don’t know anybody who could handle it.”
Darius lifted his heel.
“… It’s the truth.”
“Any idea why she was desperate for quick cash?”
“What does anyone want with serious money these days? It’s not cheap to find a place in Beverly Hills.”
From the top shelf Darius brought down a grip fabricated from small cans that formerly had contained baby French green peas. “How much?”
“Seventy thousand rials,” Farhad said. “Planning a trip, too?”
Darius moistened his thumb as he counted out the bills. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Darius drove back to his place on Baharestan Square. Exhausted, he was nevertheless too keyed up for sleep, and continued into the suburbs. The electric was off at the apartment complex in Shemiran, the black surface of the courtyard like a subterranean sea. He sat on the bench where the body was found, looking up at the buildings. Why had the girl been left here? Why not in a park, or vacant lot, or any of a thousand bombed-out ruins downtown where she would have remained undiscovered for weeks? Had she been killed upstairs, he asked himself, and her body gotten rid of at the first opportunity? Or was it more than convenience that linked the mutilated Arab girl to Saltanatabad Avenues déclassé elite.
He slunk down until the back of his head rested against the top slat, and he was looking into a window covered by a yellow curtain. Shoe leather scraped the tiles with the hiss a blade makes on a barber’s strop. A flash of khaki and then the barrel of an Uzi caught his eye. He reached for ID, but quickly showed his empty hand. The assumption being formulated by the man with the rifle was not necessarily that he was going for his wallet.
Red-rimmed eyes and drawn cheeks insinuated themselves as a mirror image of his own. Bijan’s day had been longer even than his.
“Trying it on for size?”
“What?” Darius asked him.
“I saw you sitting here like the dead girl. For a moment I thought you might be dead, too.”
“Who would harm me? I have no enemies.”
“Neither did she.”
“Is that a fact?”
“A theory of mine,” the Komitehman said. “Another is that it would be better for you to concentrate on the burglary at the relatives of Ayatollah Golabi.”
“There was no burglary.”
“You have the soul of a prophet. Your calling is to reveal the truth.” Bijan sat next to him with the Uzi between his knees. “But in Islam all truths were revealed long ago. Muhammad was the last prophet, and he is dead more than a thousand years.”
“New
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