The older man paused, then explained that Semtex was used by various groups around the world. The most famous case, he said in his flat voice, happened in 1988, when a small amount was used to blow up a Pan Am plane over Lockerbie, Scotland. This model, he said, was developed by Hamas. Malik saw two of the other students nodding in approval. Then the man was finished. He folded the vest, laid it back in the briefcase, closed the top. He paused, and said: “Allahu akbar.” And walked to the door.
Standing in this doorway on Eighth Avenue, staring at the snow, Malik wonders where that man is right now. And the four others who were his audience that night. He knows where Aref is. Tomorrow, all of them, except Aref, will remember that night. No matter where they are. The South Bronx or Somalia. They will see Malik’s face in the papers or on the TV, and know him. And pray for him. And praise him. For rubbing the magic lamp.
7:20 p.m. Beverly Starr. Washington Street, Manhattan.
They are making good time. The driver took the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel, then West Street, where she saw snow falling through the emptiness of the place where the twin towers once stood. Then side streets. The driver explaining in the rhythms of old Brooklyn: Figget Fourteen’ Street. Cobblestones there, in this weather we’d slide right inta a furniture store… Then here, with the High Line rising to the left. Straight out of Gotham. Bob Kane would have loved it. Jerry Robinson would’ve drawn it. The wind blowing snow from the west.
The car stops on the corner of 14th Street. She looks across the street and sees the whirls and curves and minarets of Aladdin’s Lamp. She blinks. Records it. Then laughs out loud. Who says comic books make things up? She sees the palace as part Aubrey Beardsley, part Prince Valiant on a trip to the Orient, part Cecil B. DeMille. She hears Tony Curtis of the Bronx saying his famous line from some fifties desert flick: Yonda lies da castle of my fodda, da Caliph. If he ever said it.
— I’ll call you when I’m ready, Harry.
— Take ya time, the driver says. I’m goin’ to a diner an’ eat.
Beverly Starr gets out of the car, her back to the High Line. Sees a crowd of about twenty people standing below a platform that must have once been a loading dock. Flashbulbs. Snow-muffled shouts. Stairs, a railing, the platform, then the doors. A black man in an Arabian Nights costume checking invites. Then to her right sees four homeless men in long overcoats and caps. Standing under an overhang from the days when they actually packed meat around here. Way past them in the snow, a guy in a wheelchair. Not moving. Beverly thinks: You can’t make some things up.
She walks cautiously across the glistening cobblestones to the crowd, moves around the edge, starts up the stairs, hears shouts. Hey, lady, lady, look this way. Hey, lady. Smile. Lady, say “bellybutton.” She hears the last word and smiles. Then crosses the platform to the door. Hearing: Hey, lady, what’s your name? The black bouncer smiles at her, and starts to say something, maybe an apology for his silly costume, when one of the double doors opens and a man in a gray suit steps out, smiling.
— Beverly! he says. Beverly Starr. How good of you to come.
Stan Seifert. The advertising guy who asked her to do the painting and invited her here.
He takes her elbow and leads her inside, saying: Your painting is just awesome.
She thinks: Please don’t say “like.”
7:28 p.m. Bobby Fonseca. Aladdin’s Lamp.
He walks four feet into the loud, thumping room, the others behind him, and he wants to turn around. It’s music for shouting, not talking. Tonight, of all nights, is for talking. For us, anyway. Or singing. He looks up the stairs, sees a dark painting on an easel, people pulling coats off suits and dresses, a tall guy smiling in welcome. That must be the benefit. Maybe they’ll let us in. Gotta be quieter than this.
— I’ll go up and check it out, he says to Helen Loomis, who looks pained and lost. She nods. The others are squeezing a path to the bar, all except Barney Weiss. No cameras allowed inside. He’ll take some shots outside, he said, while they find out the deal.
Fonseca goes up the stairs. A white bouncer in an Arabic costume stops him at the top. Built like a safe. Fonseca takes his press card from his jacket pocket, attached to the cheap chain around his neck.
— Press, he says.
— No press yet, the bouncer says. Fonseca thinks he looks like a guy from one of those ultimate-fighting shows.
— We’ll let yiz know, the bouncer says. They got stuff to do first in there. Hit the bar, we’ll find you.
Fonseca turns to go back. He leaves the press card dangling.
8:05 p.m. Sandra Gordon. Her apartment, Manhattan.
She undresses in the bedroom. The lights are out but the drapes are open to the falling snow and the room is filled with a luminous blackness. She sees herself in the mirror. Thinks: My kind of blackness. The same blackness that drew so many white men to me. Including Myles. The blackness of night and all its secret promises. Or so they think. Blackness can be banal too, baby. Ask a black woman.
In the living room, the telephone rings. She pulls on a robe and goes out into the large chilly space. On the fifth ring, the answering machine takes over. Then she hears her friend Janice. Fired five months ago. Self-medicating ever since. Booze and pills. They were supposed to have lunch that day but Sandra called her to cancel, got the machine, left a message. Her voice is clear.
— Hi, Sandra, it’s me. Janice. I just got your message. I was suicidal in the morning, went to the shrink, and she prescribed some goddamned pill. I slept for ten hours. I’m okay, I hope. But hey, there’s some kind of gig in the Meatpacking District. I’m inside now. For the homeless. Lots of dancing and some hot guys. I got an extra ticket, you want to come here. Call me on the cell and I’ll bring the ticket outside to the smoking shed.
She clicks off. Sandra stares at the phone. Thinking: Thank God I didn’t pick it up.
Thank God I can be here alone, while the snow falls silently and sleep comes quick.
8:10 p.m. Ali Watson. Muhlenberg Branch of New York Public Library.
Malachy Devlin pulls up in front of the library. The lights are turned off. Ali opens the door, turns to Malachy.
— She said she’d wait in the Chelsea, right?
— Yeah. I’ll stay here, watch your back.
Ali closes the door and starts across the street in the falling snow. He pauses in the center lane while an empty bus goes by, heading east. A taxi follows the bus. Then he hurries to the entrance. He brushes the snow off his shoulders and slams his hat against his thigh. He goes in.
Against the wall on the left, an old man sits on a banquette with a large black dog at his feet. The dog looks up, but doesn’t growl. At the desk, a fifty-ish black man leans on the counter, reading a newspaper. To Ali’s left, beside a fireplace, is a middle-aged white woman, her large handbag on her lap. Ali goes to her, peeling off his gloves.