Double Down by Gabra Zackman

either.”
    â€œTrue,” he replied. “But it’s like in math, how two negatives make a positive. Together we will turn this around.”
    â€œI was never very good at math,” she said. Looking up, she caught his eyes and was shocked by the commitment she saw in his gaze, the confidence, the honesty. It startled her to see a look like that, and it startled her more to realize how much she needed it. Not wanting him to know how much his confidence meant to her, she pulled away from him and began to cover their tracks. Mahmoud took a picture, and they left all as they had found it, going back out the side window.

8
    Tyka and Mahmoud were having a glass of wine at an after-hours place Tyka knew about; the owner would go to sleep, and those in the know would stay as late as they wanted and put what they owed in the cash box. Tyka had been taken to the intimate haunt years ago by an Italian lover; now she brought Mahmoud there to discuss what they’d found. It was a fairly small café, but big enough that they could have some space to talk without fear of being overheard. It was furnished with dark wood, simple tables and chairs, and hand-painted mosaic tiles. A group of young artists in a corner huddled over some paintings, and a couple of old men sat at the bar. Italian folk songs were playing from an old-school stereo above them.
    The two assassins were sharing a bottle of Chianti. Tyka shifted in her chair. She was uncomfortable for so many reasons; chief among them were her fears about how Gabriella was further implicated, as well as her own feelings of vulnerability around Mahmoud. She was juggling confusion, anger, and shame, and she didn’t know how to deal with it all other than to act businesslike, drink her wine, and chain-smoke.
    â€œSo what do you think is going on here, Mahmoud?” she asked, trying to keep them on task.
    â€œWell,” he said, leaning in, his dark eyes seeming to penetrate to her very core, “it seems Birdsong has been part of this somehow . . . but if he is BS, odd to refer to himself in the third person unless he’s a psychopath, right?”
    â€œBut BS is a psychopath. We know this. And for that matter, so is Birdsong. From everything I’ve heard, anyway.”
    â€œRight. But I get the feeling he’s not who we seek . . . just a part of the bigger picture.”
    â€œYes,” she said, inhaling a deep drag of her cigarette. “Me too. And how strange about the location he found, no?”
    â€œVery strange.” The coordinates turned out to be a neighborhood in Queens, New York. “I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
    There was a pause, the sounds of the music and the laughter mingling. Tyka and Mahmoud caught eyes. She wanted to keep this all business, to say something sharp and witty, to look away, but she could do none of it—she felt herself inexorably drawn to him, unable to break their connection.
    â€œI’m happy to be near you again,” he said gently. “I didn’t like how we left things back at my hotel.”
    â€œIt’s fine,” she said, finally dropping her gaze and looking away from him. “I understand this has been about momentary pleasure, nothing more. I just don’t like being so easily replaced. And I really didn’t like how your girlfriend spoke to me.”
    â€œShe’s not my girlfriend,” he said, “and we haven’t slept together since I’ve been with you. It did not even enter my mind—I was too distracted by you to think of anything else. . . . Anyway, I spent the whole time with her upset about what happened in Johannesburg. Tyka, you’re hardly replaceable—”
    â€œWhat happened in Johannesburg?” she asked, cutting him off.
    â€œAh,” he said, “of course, you wouldn’t have heard. Baba Samka struck again. He blew up my friend Amal’s safe