My Kind of Town
No time to burp
>> Waikiki
The waiter was right, Matteo's did serve the best spaghetti Achmed al-Hazir had ever tasted -- and the Sicilian cook at the Infitada Inc. training camp in Iraq that Achmed visited to hone his skills with explosives had served an excellent spaghetti.
He ate slowly, savoring each bite as if it might be his last -- which it could -- as he considered both his immediate and long-term plans. One thing was certain. He was all alone, the only member of their Hawaii group who was not in custody after the failed flower bomb attack at Pearl Harbor.
With the passport that identified him as Ignacio Del Rosario and the dollars Muhammed and Infitada Inc. had provided for just such an emergency, Achmed could go anywhere in the world. Almost. Returning to Mindanao was not an option. The National Police would be looking for him.
The Middle East was also out. Although it was a place where Islamic law doubled as state law, that one visit was enough. Too hot, too dry, and ruled by tyrants more inhumane than even the Catholics of the Philippines.
Achmed took another bite of spaghetti. Perhaps he would go to Italy, find work in a restaurant, learn the secrets of good spaghetti.
But traveling anywhere would be a risk for days, maybe weeks. U.S. agents would also be looking for him.
Of course he could call this his Last Supper and visit the Federal Building tomorrow. It was the only other Hawaii target that Muhammed Resurreccion had discussed with him other than the Arizona Memorial. An explosion there would strike at the heart of American government.
Feeling the suicide bomb around his waist tighten as his belly filled with spaghetti, Achmed casually reached under his shirt, loosened the belt, checked to see that the "safety" was off. Somehow he doubted that Allah would welcome him as a martyr and send him 40 grape-bearing virgins if he died of an accidental garlic-scented burp.
Achmed waved to his waiter, asked him to bring a take-out container for the remainder of his meal.
Leaving Matteo's, Achmed was still too agitated to go to his room, and turned through the garage to go out for a stroll. Walking down the steep driveway from Kuhio Avenue, Achmed jumped out of the way as a white Lexus pulled in. Through the window he came eye to eye with his recent employer, the widow Mrs. Rayna Chang. Even with the windows rolled up, he heard her scream, saw her point to him.
Achmed started to run, clutching a doggie bag of the best spaghetti he'd ever tasted in one hand, reaching for his belt bomb safety with the other.
Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek.
His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin
with weekly summaries on Sunday.
He can be emailed at dchapman@midweek.com