"He let you wander into her bedroom?"
"He was grabbing some stuff," said Kurtz. "I just stood in the doorway."
"Fiancés," said Arlene, using the tone that other people did when they said "Kids.Whaddyagonnado? " She nodded toward her computer screen where the names of WeddingBells-dot-com clients were stacked like cordwood.
"The question remains, why'd he invite me up?" said Kurtz, turning back to watch the traffic move through the cold October rain. "He asked me what I was doing there, but then he gave the answeras if he didn't really want to press me on it. Why would he do that? Why wasn't he pissedor at least suspiciouswhen he found me hanging around outside O'Toole's townhouse?"
"Good question," said Arlene.
He turned away from the window. "Do you know any Yemeni?"
Arlene stared at him. "Do you mean any Yemeni people?"
"No, I mean the language," said Kurtz.
Arlene smiled and stubbed out her cigarette. "I think Arabic is the language spoken in Yemen. Some of them speak Farsi, I think, but Arabic is the dominant language."
Kurtz rubbed his aching head. "Yeah. All right. Do you speak any Arabic that a Yemeni would understand?"
"Al-Ghasla ," said Arlene. "Thowb Al-Zfag, Al-Subhia ."
"You made that up," said Kurtz.
Arlene shook her head. "Three kinds of wedding dressesthe dress of the eve of the wedding, Al-Ghasla , the bridal gown, Thwob-Al-Zfag , and the gown of the day following the wedding, Al-Subhia . I just helped a client from Utica order all three from a Yemeni dressmaker in Manhattan."
"Well, I guess that'll do," said Kurtz. "I'll bring little Aysha here on Monday night and you two can discuss wedding dresses. She doesn't know she's a widow even before she's married."
Arlene stared at him until he explained about Baby Doc's phone call.
"That's really sad," said Arlene, lighting another Marlboro. "Do you really think that she can tell you anything about what Yasein Goba was doing? She's been in Canada."
Kurtz shrugged. "Maybe we won't even be able to understand each other, but if I don't meet her up in Niagara Falls tomorrow night, no one else is going to. Baby Doc's people have washed their hands of her. She's just going to get picked up by the cops sooner or later and shipped back to Yemen by the INS."
"So you pick her up tomorrow night and try to talk to her," said Arlene. "And can't. What then? Sign language?"
"Any ideas?"
"Yes," said Arlene. "I know some people through my church who take part in a sort of underground railroad helping illegal immigrants get into the States."
"Goba's already had that part arranged," said Kurtz.
Arlene shook her head. "No, I mean I'll get in touch with the guy who helps the immigrantsNickyat church tomorrow, he'll call one of the Yemeni people they use to translate, and they can help us talk to the girl."
"All right," said Kurtz. "Get your friend's translator here early Monday morning."
"Can't it wait until later?" asked Arlene. "This womanAysha? can sleep at my place Sunday and we can meet with the translator on Monday."
"Monday's Halloween," said Kurtz, as if that explained anything.
"So?"
He considered telling her about Toma Gonzaga's promise to murder him at midnight on Halloween if he hadn't solved the don's junkie-killer problem. He considered it for about five microseconds. "I have things to do on Halloween," he said.
"All right, early Monday morning," said Arlene. She came over to the window and joined him in looking out at the rain. It was getting dark in earnest now. "Some people just don't get a break, do they, Joe?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean this Aysha will wake up tomorrow morning thinking she'll be meeting her fiancé in a new country that night, that she'll be a wife and maybe a U.S. citizen, and that everything is working out for her. Instead, she'll hear that her fiancé is dead and that she's a stranger in a strange land."
"Yeah, well" said Kurtz.
"Are you going to tell her that you killed him? Goba?"
Kurtz looked at his secretary. Her eyes were dryshe wasn't going soppy on himbut her gaze was focused on something far away.
"I don't know," Kurtz said irritably. "What the
hell's wrong with you?"
"Just that life sucks sometimes," said Arlene. "I'm going home." She stubbed out her cigarette, turned off her computer, tugged her purse out of a drawer, pulled on her coat, and left the office.
Kurtz sat by the window a few minutes, watching the gray twilight and rain and almost wishing that he smoked. During his years in Attica, his non-habit had served him wellthe cigarettes he was allowed all went toward barter and bribes. But on days like this, he wondered if smoking would soothe his nervesor lessen his headache.
His cell phone rang.
"Kurtz? Where are you? What happened to our meeting?"
It was Angelina Farino Ferrara.
"I'm still traveling," said Kurtz.
"You lying sack of shit," said the don's daughter. "You're in your office, looking out the window."
Kurtz looked across Chippewa. There was the ubiquitous black Lincoln Town Car, parked on the other side of the wet street. Kurtz hadn't seen it arrive and park.