Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel by Randall H Miller

spilling his remaining fruit punch onto the dark wooden table. When the puddle reached the edge, blood-red droplets fell in slow motion before bursting one at a time against the white tiled floor. He sat frozen, eyes fixed on the spill, until the sound of Ghassan’s voice brought him back to the present.  
    “And bring a towel!”
    “Shit, I’m sorry, Ghassan,” he said, trying to shake off the fog.
    “No problem. I need to keep this kid busy anyway.”
    The kitchen door swung open, and a thin male in his early twenties entered the dining room, wearing a Yankees cap cocked to one side. The cord from his headphones ran underneath his t-shirt to the iPhone in his front pocket. A small piece of paper towel dangled from one hand as the other danced to the hip-hop playing loudly in his ears.
    Ghassan shouted louder this time.
    “I said bring a towel, not a tissue! A towel, Yasir! How can you clean this mess with that?” he said, pointing at the spill with both hands.
    Yasir nodded, spun around to the beat of the music, and kicked open the swinging door to the kitchen.
    “And stop kicking my door!”
    McDonough oscillated his gaze between the kitchen and Ghassan but said nothing.
    “Don’t be deceived by appearances, John. He is even dumber than he looks.”
    Yasir quickly reappeared with two white kitchen towels, headphones now wrapped around his neck. He spread the first towel out over the table, let the second drop to the floor, and used his foot to wipe up the mess. McDonough stared at the table as a small red spot appeared in center of the towel and quickly spread. He redirected his attention out the window to his cruiser in the parking lot.
    “This is Yasir, my cousin’s grandchild. He is staying with me for a while.”
    “Good to meet you,” said McDonough with a nod.
    “Whassup?” answered Yasir with a raise of his chin.
    Ghassan stifled the urge to burst out angrily again and spoke instead in a slow, deliberate tone.
    “Whassup? Is that how a man speaks to another man? Can you not see he is an authority figure? Not to mention older than you, a Marine Corps veteran, and soon to be blessed by God with a son of his own. Yasir, if you want to be taken seriously in this country, you have to be a serious man.”
    “Sorry, Ammu. It’s nice to meet you, sir,” Yasir said with a smile as he extended his hand to McDonough.
    “Same here.”
    Ghassan waited for Yasir to finish cleaning the mess and return to the kitchen before speaking.
    “He is dumb as a bag of falafel, but I try not to be too hard on him because he’s been through a lot. His father moved their family—all Christians—from Lebanon to Syria for a job just before the fighting started. Almost a year ago, Yasir went to the capital to do errands for his father. By the time he returned, the whole neighborhood was blown to shit by explosions and fighting. Most of his family was dead and his two little sisters, whom he practically raised, had been taken as prisoners. So he walked over fifty miles to the Lebanese border. He’s stupid, but it’s not his fault. He just needs direction and a purpose, anything besides the hip-hop that now tortures me day and night.”
    They were both chuckling at that last phrase as the radio on McDonough’s belt came to life.
    “Station to Officer McDonough.”
    “McDonough,” he answered.
    “Can you please swing by the cemetery and speak to the caretakers about some headstones that were vandalized?”
    “Roger, en route.”
    He sprung to his feet and reached for his wallet.
    “Go, it’s on me, John. Headstones? Jesus, help us. Is nothing sacred these days?” said Ghassan as he wiggled his way out of the booth.
    McDonough peeled a ten-dollar bill from his money clip, slapped it on the table, and spoke over his shoulder on the way out the door.
    “Thanks, Ghassan. Have a good one.”
    As the officer reached for the cruiser’s door handle, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window and froze again.