wobbled. The friendly stranger moved again to catch him.
“Let me help you out,” he offered.
Rasik accepted and walked gingerly with him to the exit. The bartender continued to watch.
“Are you sure you can make it back home?” the friendly stranger pressed him.
Rasik smiled and answered, “Slowly,” with a chuckle. He was suddenly embarrassed that he had had so much to drink. “I just need to get home and lie down.”
The two men shared a laugh as the man opened the door wide for him.
“Thank you for the drinks and your kind ear,” Rasik told him.
The man placed a kind hand across his back. “Don’t mention it, my friend. Anytime.”
As Rasik made his way outside and back into the streets of Deira, the friendly man returned to his barstool and secretly signaled to a companion across the room who casually stood and walked out behind the drunken construction worker.
“I feel sorry for the man,” the stranger commented to the bartender. “He seems to have had a rough couple of weeks.”
The bartender frowned and was unconcerned. “We all have our rough weeks,” he said as he filled another drink order at the bar. There had been plenty of immigrant men with bad days at work who had chosen to drink too much. And their drinking had paid the bartender’s rent.
*****
As Rasik headed gingerly down the street toward his small apartment building in the night, the second man from the bar easily spotted him meandering down the sidewalk. The Indian laborer had not gotten very far in his drunkenness. The second man from the bar then signaled to three more men to follow. They had been waiting outside for their instruction for close to an hour. The second man then returned to the bar and was done with it.
“Okay, you two watch the streets,” the lead voice of the three men commanded. He was in his thirties and dressed in a heavy, dark jacket to hide his weapon. The two younger men in their twenties wore plain clothes to blend in with the normal pedestrians. They then separated into three different directions. One walked left, the other walked right, and the leader followed behind Rasik.
After ten o’clock, there were still people, cars and taxis out on the streets of Deira, but not as many as there had been an hour or so earlier and fast decisions and actions could now go undetected. So the man followed the slow-moving and wobbly laborer up the sidewalk, while watching for his cues of his young cohorts, with one in front and behind him. When it appeared there were no onlookers, the man wasted no time in running up and jamming his six-inch hunting knife several times into Rasik’s back.
“Unnhh!” Rasik squealed. The pain was excruciating and sudden, even with numbness from the alcohol.
The man quickly stuffed Rasik’s mouth with a rag to keep him from screaming too loudly, while cutting open his pockets to take his belongings. The assault and robbery all took less than twenty seconds before the man ran off into the night.
Rasik crumbled to the ground and squirmed, bleeding on the sidewalk. By the time five minutes had passed and the first person found him there in a pool of fresh blood, the three assailants were long gone.
As the Indian laborer slowly slipped into the afterworld, he thought of his wife back home in India and mumbled his last words in Hindu, “Sunita … I’m sorry.”
Chapter 12
From the earlier gathering with Mohd Ahmed Nasir, there were a few men of a certain character who were invited to remain behind for one-on-one discussions. Saleem, the rugged Pakistani, was one of them. He was told to wait and be patient, while Mohd conducted conversations with several men before him in a private room. In fact, Saleem was called in last.
“He wants to see you now,” he was told by Mohd’s personal bodyguard. Bakar, a thick-mustachioed Algerian, was one of the biggest men inside the room; Saleem was sure that he would be a handful in any form of combat.
Saleem stood from where he sat
“Let me help you out,” he offered.
Rasik accepted and walked gingerly with him to the exit. The bartender continued to watch.
“Are you sure you can make it back home?” the friendly stranger pressed him.
Rasik smiled and answered, “Slowly,” with a chuckle. He was suddenly embarrassed that he had had so much to drink. “I just need to get home and lie down.”
The two men shared a laugh as the man opened the door wide for him.
“Thank you for the drinks and your kind ear,” Rasik told him.
The man placed a kind hand across his back. “Don’t mention it, my friend. Anytime.”
As Rasik made his way outside and back into the streets of Deira, the friendly man returned to his barstool and secretly signaled to a companion across the room who casually stood and walked out behind the drunken construction worker.
“I feel sorry for the man,” the stranger commented to the bartender. “He seems to have had a rough couple of weeks.”
The bartender frowned and was unconcerned. “We all have our rough weeks,” he said as he filled another drink order at the bar. There had been plenty of immigrant men with bad days at work who had chosen to drink too much. And their drinking had paid the bartender’s rent.
*****
As Rasik headed gingerly down the street toward his small apartment building in the night, the second man from the bar easily spotted him meandering down the sidewalk. The Indian laborer had not gotten very far in his drunkenness. The second man from the bar then signaled to three more men to follow. They had been waiting outside for their instruction for close to an hour. The second man then returned to the bar and was done with it.
“Okay, you two watch the streets,” the lead voice of the three men commanded. He was in his thirties and dressed in a heavy, dark jacket to hide his weapon. The two younger men in their twenties wore plain clothes to blend in with the normal pedestrians. They then separated into three different directions. One walked left, the other walked right, and the leader followed behind Rasik.
After ten o’clock, there were still people, cars and taxis out on the streets of Deira, but not as many as there had been an hour or so earlier and fast decisions and actions could now go undetected. So the man followed the slow-moving and wobbly laborer up the sidewalk, while watching for his cues of his young cohorts, with one in front and behind him. When it appeared there were no onlookers, the man wasted no time in running up and jamming his six-inch hunting knife several times into Rasik’s back.
“Unnhh!” Rasik squealed. The pain was excruciating and sudden, even with numbness from the alcohol.
The man quickly stuffed Rasik’s mouth with a rag to keep him from screaming too loudly, while cutting open his pockets to take his belongings. The assault and robbery all took less than twenty seconds before the man ran off into the night.
Rasik crumbled to the ground and squirmed, bleeding on the sidewalk. By the time five minutes had passed and the first person found him there in a pool of fresh blood, the three assailants were long gone.
As the Indian laborer slowly slipped into the afterworld, he thought of his wife back home in India and mumbled his last words in Hindu, “Sunita … I’m sorry.”
Chapter 12
From the earlier gathering with Mohd Ahmed Nasir, there were a few men of a certain character who were invited to remain behind for one-on-one discussions. Saleem, the rugged Pakistani, was one of them. He was told to wait and be patient, while Mohd conducted conversations with several men before him in a private room. In fact, Saleem was called in last.
“He wants to see you now,” he was told by Mohd’s personal bodyguard. Bakar, a thick-mustachioed Algerian, was one of the biggest men inside the room; Saleem was sure that he would be a handful in any form of combat.
Saleem stood from where he sat
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