28 Leslie

He was so engrossed in his story about Colonel Sanders, the parable about the man not making his first million until he turned sixty-five, that he didn't see the young Black man approach his table. Leslie had been explaining to his son-in-law Brian—second husband to his darling daughter Judy—that a man wasn't judged by his failures but rather how many times he tried. Whether it was starting your own business without two nickels to rub together or having the grit and determination of a Razorback offensive tackle. Leslie had just gotten to the gosh dang good part, the Colonel refusing to take no for an answer, when the young fella in a nice suit interrupted and said, "Leslie, me and you need to talk privately."

"Well, sir," Grimes said. "I don't mean any offense, but I don't know you from Adam's housecat and I'm having a family lunch with my son-in-law. I'm sure if you call my secretary, Rita, next—"

"I called Rita," the man said. "And truth be told, she's not worth shit."

"Excuse me, sir?"

And here it had been such a fine little lunch on the Lake Hamilton marina at Fisherman's Wharf with their old-time catfish and hush puppies, shrimp, and oysters from the Gulf. Reminded him of trips down to Panama City Beach with his family and high times on that Miracle Mile.

"Have you heard from your friend Jack Dumas lately?"

"I'm sorry," Grimes said, plucking a shrimp from his plate and dipping it into the cocktail sauce. "I don't know you or anyone named Jack Dumas."

"Big redneck with one arm and a mean disposition?" the man said. "Because he most surely knew your ass. He called you sixteen times last Thursday, Leslie, and again Friday morning."

"Well," Grimes said. "I get a great many calls from a great many people."

"How many of those folks end up dead, buck-ass nekkid, and hanging upside down from a cypress tree along the Mississippi River?"

Grimes dropped his shrimp and looked across the red-and-white-checked tablecloth at Brian. Good gosh almighty. What a rude man. And this restaurant had always been his little ace in the hole where he didn't have to contend with spider weavers like in Little Rock, wanting to kiss his ring and try and set up a business meeting. Here, he could pull up in his pleasure boat, tie up to the dock, and be as free as ole Huck Finn. A barefoot country boy to his core.

"Sir," Grimes said, dropping his strained smile and reaching into his jacket, "I appreciate your persistence. But this is a private lunch and a private conversation."

"I heard y'all talking," this man said. "But I'm not Colonel Sanders peddling those eleven herbs and spices in his fucking pressure cooker. I came to talk to you, Leslie. And only you. Man-to-man about a word you mostly certainly understand."

"Let me guess," Grimes said, chuckling. "Money?"

"How about the word geniza?" the man said. "It's a funny Hebrew word. Never heard of it until just a year or two ago. Means ‘library.' Or ‘hiding place.' I do have a fascinating as hell story to tell. What's your son-in-law's name?"

Leslie looked across the table at Brian, a big and sturdy—or perhaps portly, depending on your assessment—thirty-four-year-old with apple cheeks and wavy brown hair. He'd played tackle at the University of Arkansas but always made Leslie think of that fat little boy outside the Shoney's. All he needed was checkered pants and suspenders. "Brian."

"Howdy there, Brian," the man said. "I'm federal agent Carson Wells. How's that shrimp, big man?"

Brian looked to Grimes and shrugged, not sure about what to do. Which really had been Brian's entire problem from the start, unable to rise up and commit to the challenges and opportunities the Lord offered us every day. He'd rather spend his time betting on college football games or drinking dang pi?a coladas at the dog track in West Memphis than setting his goals.

"You're just gonna love this story, Brian," Wells said, sliding into an open chair beside his son-in-law. "Lots of danger and intrigue. Adventure! Excitement! It stretches all the way from ancient Afghanistan to modern Istanbul and then over to fabulous gay Paree. Oui. Oui. Hell, man. It's even got murder. Whole mess of them if you go back to Kabul and then those three unlucky bastards in Paris."

"That's enough," Grimes said, holding up his hand. "Give me a minute, Brian. This won't take long."

Brian shrugged and left the table without a hint of curiosity. No wonder Judy thought he was a little soft in the head. Carson Wells slid over into Brian's seat.

The hostess had them at Leslie's favorite table, in the center of the empty room decorated with nets, mounted fish, life preservers, and old diving helmets. The plate glass window offered a nice view of the marina and the speedboats crossing the glassy surface of the lake. Carson Wells plucked a hot shrimp off Brian's plate. "I'm sorry if I don't take you at your word," Grimes said, "but can you show me a badge or something?"

Wells reached into his jacket pocket and opened up an ID for Homeland Security.

"Homeland Security?" Leslie said. "I don't understand."

"I know you don't, Leslie," Wells said. "All this can be new and confusing as hell. Kind of like puberty when your dingdong first turns on and starts buzzing in your pocket. You sure want to pull on it but want to keep that control, too. Be cool about it. But this story makes a whole lot of sense if you just follow all the moving parts. See, I got access to the late Jack Dumas's phone records, and it appeared he called your ass a mess of times last week. As soon as I saw you and Dumas were working together, the whole picture show just came together. You being a man of faith, a student of history and the Bible. Not to mention the third richest motherfucker in the state of Arkansas."

"I don't know anyone named Jack Dumas."

"Yeah, you do," Wells said. "He worked for your friend Peter Collinson, or as he was sometimes known, Dean McKellar. The way I see it, Dumas has been in touch with you about this special cargo coming all the way on a slow boat from Haydarpa?a Port in Istanbul. Am I right? Or am I right, Leslie?"

Leslie had always been a good poker player, although he'd given up gambling years ago. He just leveled his gaze at the man Wells and placed his palm to the side of his face, keeping his breathing even and slow. Wells had set that hook deep and Leslie was doing his gosh darn best not to flop about. Without Dumas, what would he do now? Even Joanna was missing, according to the news, and he didn't dare to guess what had happened to that lovely but devious woman.

Grimes pushed the half-eaten shrimp plate away and crossed his arms over his chest.

"See, this whole story kicks off a long, long time ago," Wells said. "How long, you might ask? How about eight hundred years. Or you want to make it an even thousand, Leslie? A goddamn millennia."

"I don't care for that kind of talk."

"My apologies, Mr. Grimes," he said. "But we're talking history. And history isn't for those with a weak stomach. It's ugly and dirty. Unpleasant at times. Makes you study on things that you'd rather not think about."

Grimes looked out the window to see Brian at the edge of the dock, skipping stones out into the lake. He looked as unconcerned as a barefoot child. He'd never understand what Judy had seen in him.

"So there was this man, a Jewish man, in a place we never expected to find any Jews," Wells said. "A merchant on the great Silk Road who collected all kinds of things. Shipping records, personal records, poetry, even a nice copy of the Mishnah. In Hebrew, of course. That's a book of these Jewish oral traditions. Real old."

"I know what the Mishnah is."

"I knew you would, Leslie," Wells said. "Like I said, a man of God and history. I am so very, very impressed. Anyway, this man—who let's just call Yehuda ben Daniel, or Abu Nasser if you prefer his local name—kept all this stuff along with pieces of the actual Bible. We're talking the greatest hits. Jeremiah, Zechariah, and Proverbs. How my late momma sure loved that King Solomon and his words of wisdom. Abu Nasser sealed everything up in jars. Then some time later, for a reason we do not know or fully understand, he buried his collection in a cave outside Bamyan, a real nasty and rocky place in northern Afghanistan that's been overrun by warlords ever since. Now, we just call them the Taliban."

Grimes couldn't move. He was absolutely in shock, his hands gripping the edge of the table. Unable to breathe or nod, only able to continue listening to this man he'd never met tell him a tale he knew backward and forward.

"Are you following me so far?" Wells said. "Nod your head if that's a big yes."

How did this man know all this? Had Dumas told someone before he died? Had Joanna Grayson been arrested and told everything she knew? That would make the most sense. Maybe this man had threatened Joanna with prison and instead she got a little money and went on her way, people believing she'd disappeared when she was lying on a beach in the Bahamas.

Leslie Grimes nodded. He felt like a puppet with the master's hand deep up his backside.

"It's been so long, and the sands of time have covered up most of ancient Bamyan," Wells said. "Damn Genghis Khan destroyed the city in the eleventh century. The Taliban boys blew up those twin Buddhas in '01. What a damn shame. But I digress... one day about forty years ago, as the story has been told, a fucking goatherd was out tending to his flock, truly a nice biblical touch, and the man runs across what he believes is a wolf's den. Maybe the same damn wolf that's been picking off his goats at night? So this man does what any respectable goatherd would do, he pulls the rifle off his shoulder and wanders on in. Probably an Enfield, as I'm told so many of those were left behind by the British. He lights a torch, or maybe just a flashlight. I'd like to think it was a torch because it would heighten the drama; the flashlight's a little too modern for the story, don't you think? And while he's down in the depths of Hades, what do you think he discovers?"

"A jar."

"A jar," Wells said, clapping his hands together. "Ain't that something, Leslie? Just lying there, sticking up out of the dirt and rocks. This damn goatherd goes into a pitch-dark cave to defend his flock and makes the discovery of a lifetime. Ole Abu Nasser's personal hoard seeing the light of day after nearly a thousand years."

Grimes reached for his napkin and dabbed his forehead. His spindly white hair was receding so far back now that most of his scalp felt slick. Abu Nasser. Bamyan. The ancient codex and the entire geniza. How had this Carson Wells found all this out? How did he know about the secret books? The Mishnah? The fragments of Proverbs?

"You thought Jack Dumas was going to bring it all home for you," Wells said. "Didn't you?"

Leslie said nothing. He'd learned long ago that during a negotiation, if it was actually a negotiation, to stay quiet until the other side made their offer. Or in this case, demands.

"What do you want?"

"Can I ask a personal question?" Wells said. "Hope this doesn't come off tacky, or as the French say, gauche. But what exactly did you pay for all that shit to be shipped to Memphis?"

"Holy artifacts are not shit," Leslie said, privately admonishing himself for repeating Wells's profanity.

"Ten million?"

Leslie swallowed. He again dabbed his brow.

"Higher?" Wells said. "Twenty-five? Thirty?"

Leslie scanned the restaurant for the waitress and then made the motion for her to bring him the bill. When he turned back to Wells, the man was smiling and shaking his head.

"Must be more," he said. "Lots more. Did you pay more than fifty mil?"

"I need to get going," Leslie said, placing his hands on the armrests to stand.

"Ding, ding, ding," Wells said. "More than fifty mil. Whoa. That must be something. Can you tell me what you're gonna do with it? I read something about you starting up a big Museum of God in Little Rock. Surely you wouldn't pay all that money to just hang this stuff up in your bathroom."

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

"Game's over, Leslie," Wells said. "My job is to see to it that the geniza is shipped right on back to Afghanistan."

"Into a war zone and right into the arms of the Taliban?"

"Ever heard of the UNESCO Convention of 1970?" he said. "Some real fascinating reading. Lot of articles and subheads on international law. But to the point, it says one country can't steal culturally important shit from another country. You understand? No matter who sold it to you or how the paperwork was shuffled, you don't have the right to keep it. My main job here is to see it goes back. How much your ass gets prosecuted is up to you, Leslie."

Grimes's hand shook as he pulled out a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and laid it on the table, unable to wait around for the check anymore.

"Oh," Wells said. "And don't bother trying your Peter Collinson. He's got troubles of his own. Seems like this little switcheroo's gonna cost him more than a pound of flesh. There's a devil just arrived down in Mississippi to get his due, and it is my professional opinion and advice for you to walk on by this shit show."

"Some things in life are worth the risk," Leslie said. "What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes."

"Book of James."

"We all want to matter, Mr. Wells," Leslie said. "Not for decades, but millennia."

"Got you some of that Abu Nasser fever, do you?"

Leslie Grimes didn't dignify the question with a response, leaving the money on the table and walking straight out of the restaurant and onto the boat dock. Brian was seated in the captain's chair and typing on his phone. His back was to the great lake and the coppery sky over the pines. "Do you mind?" Leslie said, shooing him over. "I'll take us back to the house."