Cryptocurrency is Deek’s last chance to succeed in life, and he will not stop, no matter what.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11

“This world is a prison for the believer and a paradise for the unbeliever.” — Prophet Muḥammad ﷺ (Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī)

Li Huangfeng

Deek made calls to various crypto asset management firms in Los Angeles and San Francisco. One, “Blockchain Asset Management!” in San Francisco – BAM! for short – showed immediate interest and enthusiasm, connecting Deek to a manager named Li Huangfeng, who asked for screenshots of Deek’s wallets, showing his balances.

Hearing the Chinese name, Deek smiled and let his shoulders relax. The Chinese were giant players in the crypto world. Deek knew it was silly to stereotype that way, yet he felt irrationally safe in Huangfeng’s hands.

Also, he liked Huangfeng’s direct approach. He sent screenshots showing a crypto portfolio worth $50 million, and told Huangfeng that there was more in other wallets. Without hesitation, Huangfeng booked Deek a first class plane ticket to San Francisco, and promised to have a driver waiting to pick him up. Deek loved the respect and pampering that Huangfeng was giving him.

Parallel Worlds

On the third day since checking into the hotel, he went to the airport wearing one of his new tailored suits. It was dark gray, made of a microfiber that was durable yet as soft as silk. With it, he wore red leather shoes and a crimson red dress shirt open at the neck, with no tie, and with a three day growth of rough beard, all because what the hell, he could wear whatever he wanted and look how he wanted. He was the man here, he was the star of the moment.

With him he had a leather satchel he’d purchased at the hotel shop, a handful of Marco Polo envelopes, a notepad and pen, and a sandwich from the hotel kitchen, to eat on the plane.

The sandwich turned out to be unnecessary. He’d never flown first class before, and it was a trip. The seat was wide and comfortable. As soon as he sat, the attendant brought him a glass of apple nectar. In the air, he was given a hot towel to clean his hands, and then a hearty lunch consisting of an albacore tuna sandwich with cream cheese and sprouts.

Instead of making him happy, however, the experience left him feeling sad. Only a few rows behind him, people were making do with peanuts and diet Pepsi. It was as if there were two parallel worlds. In one, people with money were treated with kindness and respect, without regard to their character. In the other, people who were just as worthy, and maybe more so, were given scraps.

Pre-Apocalyptic Scene

The driver who picked him up at the San Francisco airport introduced herself as November. She was a small, lean African-American woman with long braided hair and a hard-edged face. Her voice was clipped and professional. In spite of her small stature, she carried an air of extreme competence. Deek knew he would be safe with her, and that she was not someone he should mess with.

He hadn’t been to downtown San Francisco for a few years, and it seemed worse for wear. There were more homeless people, panhandlers and shuttered storefronts. Tourists wandered through this pre-apocalyptic scene looking confused, as if they had signed up for a grand cruise and found themselves on a rusting fishing boat.

Sitting in the large, climate-controlled towncar, peering through tinted windows at the passing streets, Deek saw a thin young woman with two children – one of them a baby – and a dog, sitting on the filthy sidewalk. All looked ragged and hungry, and as beaten down as sheets of tin. On a piece of cardboard, the woman had scrawled, “Tried everything.”

The message touched Deek. He knew exactly the feeling. He’d been there, hopeless and out of ideas. If not for Rania supporting him, he might have been in the same position as this woman.

“Stop the car, please,” he said.

“Affirmative, copy that.” Without hesitation, November stopped the car, even as traffic began honking and backing up behind them.

“Give me a minute.” Deek exited the car and approached the woman. In spite of it being a summer day, the street was shaded by the tall buildings on either side, and a cold wind whipped down the steel and glass gully. The sidewalk smelled of urine. He stood looking at the woman for a moment. Her clothing and person, and those of the children, were clean. But they were all fencepost-thin, and the woman’s eyes looked as tired as if she’d been rowing against the current on the Mississippi River for a hundred years, seeing grand yachts churn past, none of them caring to throw her a line.

Fifty story skyscrapers, corporations worth billions, and families living on the street. So much for the greatest nation on earth. Thinking this, Deek realized that he was criticizing himself in a way. He was rich now. For him to make money, someone else had lost it. He was the one percent. He was part of the leech class.

“Take a picture,” the woman said bitterly. “It’ll last longer.”

The Idea of a Feeling

Deek took out his wallet and removed all the cash he had left from the $5,000 he’d transferred to his bank account. It was about $2,200. He gave the entire sum to the homeless woman. She gasped, her mouth wide but eyes narrowed in suspicion, and said, “What do you want?”

“Nothing. Take it.” When she made no move to take the money, Deek took a blue handkerchief from his pocket. It was superfine cotton, made in Germany. He wrapped the money in it, then set it on the sidewalk before her.

He hustled back to the car. As they pulled away, he saw that the woman had taken the money and was getting up with her kids, off to buy food perhaps.

“Most of my protectees don’t do things like that,” November said, and her voice was softer than it had been previously.

Deek made no reply. It felt good, giving away that money, but again, the emotion was dulled, like the idea of a feeling rather than the real thing. Now he found himself remembering what Zaid had said about donating money to help the people of Gaza. He also thought about his friend Marco, living in a broken down SRO, and his sister and her family, who always struggled financially. He took out his phone and began to tap out a message to Marco, then paused. He took a deep breath, and deleted the text. All in due time.

I Could Just Wait

At Market and Seventh, a man ran into traffic. He wore ragged jeans, with no shoes or shirt, and a canvas bag on a strap around one shoulder. His red hair was long and partially matted. November hit the brakes, but was unable to prevent giving the man a gentle tap with the front bumper. Enraged, the man screamed, drew a bicycle u-lock from his bag and smashed it into the towncar’s front hood, denting it.

“Ya Allah!” Deek exclaimed. He gripped the seat, wondering what he should do, if anything. Yet November sat calmly, not even honking the horn. Once again the man yelled something unintelligible and struck the car.

“You’re not going to do anything?” Deek demanded, wondering if this was a cowardly question. After all, he was twice the driver’s size.

“Negative. I mean, I could,” November admitted. “He’s probably homeless and mentally ill. But yes, I could neutralize him in two seconds and hold him for law enforcement. If they incarcerate him, which is not certain, he’ll likely be beaten by other inmates, and by the time he gets out he’ll have lost his meager stash of possessions, wherever they are. Meanwhile, you’ll be late for your meeting. Or I could wait for him to get distracted by the next thing and wander off.”

“Oh. Okay.” Deek relaxed, and within a few seconds, as November predicted, the homeless man continued on his way, as did November and Deek.

“You’re a good person,” Deek commented.

“I’m following your example, brother.”

This made Deek smile. “Do you talk to all your clients this way?”

“Negative. Most of my protectees are rich, calloused VIPs with zero empathy. I hear their conversations. They don’t even know that the poor exist, and if they do they blame them for their own plight. You’re different. I mean, you must be rich too, or you wouldn’t be meeting with my boss, but you have a soft heart, and I mean that as a compliment. Don’t lose that quality.”

This touched Deek, yet made him feel sad at the same time for reasons he could not articulate. “Thank you,” he said.

Chinese Food

Fifteen minutes later, he found himself sitting at a huge marble table in a conference room on the fortieth floor of a San Francisco skyscraper, with stunning views of the undulating urban hills of San Francisco. He could see the Golden Gate bridge in the distance, and the steel blue Pacific stretching away like a promise and a warning of things to come. The room was chilly, with a faint scent of lime cleaner.

Across from him sat Li Huangfeng, who was younger than Deek expected, along with a broad-shouldered, 60ish African-American man in a cream seersucker suit. The man looked as smooth and hard as black marble. He introduced himself as Henry Turner, founder and CEO of BAM!.

“I wanted to reassure you,” Turner said, “that Li is one of my best and brightest. You are in good hands with him. Whatever you need, give the word and BAM! We’ll make it happen. If you need cash in exchange for crypto, we can supply as much as a million dollars right now, for a fee of two percent.”

Turner went on to explain all the services his company offered, and ended with. When he concluded, he shook Deek’s hand with an iron grip and departed.

“Alright!” Li said cheerfully. “You hungry? How about if we order Chinese food, and get to work? I know absolutely the best Chinese restaurant in town.”

Deek massaged his hand. Turner had practically crushed it. “Sure,” he muttered. “Chinese sounds great.”

They got to work. The food – sauteed garlic green beans, crispy tofu, lemon pepper fish and bean dumplings – was indeed delicious.

Milestone Investments

Li Huangfeng did several things for Deek, and probably earned himself a small fortune in commissions in the process.

First, he offered Deek any one of a variety of “seasoned” offshore corporations based in the Turks and the Caicos, a Caribbean island that Deek had not heard of but apparently was a popular offshore banking haven. Some of these corporations already owned considerable assets. Deek chose a corporation called Milestone Investments that owned fifteen Victorian-style homes in San Francisco, some of which contained multiple apartments, and which collectively earned $170,000 per month in rent.

For this, Deek paid twenty two million dollars, which was a massive investment and a fifth of his net worth, but it guaranteed that no matter what might happen with the cryptocurrency market, he would own real-world, income-earning assets, inshaAllah. The houses were handled by a real estate management firm. Deek didn’t have to do anything at all.

After this deal was made, Deek wandered to the window. He could see water in three directions, and the paved arteries of this great city, rising and falling with the terrain. From here one could gain no glimpse of the misery on the street. He remembered November saying that most of the executives she drove didn’t know the poor existed.

Was that what it meant to be rich? To reside within an illusion, thinking it was real? To surround yourself with luxury, believing yourself a resident of Paradise, when in fact you were destined for Hell? To imagine you would live forever, while slowly dying inside and out?

Deek had just spent twenty two million dollars as if he were buying a couple of movie tickets. How many lives could he save with that much money? He shook his head, not knowing the answers to these questions, and returned to the table to get back to work.

He was given a credit card and debit card, both in the name of Milestone Investments, as well as online access to the corporate account. Beyond the $22 million purchase price, he deposited another $10 million worth of crypto into the account, then swapped the crypto for Euros.

Next, Li helped him set up a trust fund that would automatically send $30,000 per month to Rania’s bank account, $7,000 per month to Sanaya’s account, and $3K to Amira’s account, which would increase to $7K once she turned 18. He could have sent the girls much more, of course, but he didn’t believe they were mentally and emotionally prepared for great wealth.

Halliburton Zero

He smiled, imagining the girls’ reactions. At the same time, he felt his soul quiver with doubt. What if the girls got carried away? What if they used the money to party or spend recklessly? He swallowed hard, then brought his attention back to Li.

Next, not wanting to wait until the first of next month, he logged into his new offshore account and initiated an immediate transfer of $100,000 to Rania’s bank account.

Lastly, he accepted BAM!’s offer to convert $1 million worth of crypto into cash on the spot, and actually convinced Turner to increase it to $1.5.

Four hours after they had begun, they were finished. On impulse, Deek hugged Huangfeng, who exclaimed, “Oh – okay!” Turner came in and extended his hand for a shake, but Deek – fearing the man might actually break his bones this time – said, “BAM!” and gave Turner a fistbump.

When he walked out, he carried a Halliburton Zero briefcase with a million and a half dollars in fifty and hundred dollar bills. It was heavy in his hand, and he felt like everyone he passed in the hallways and the elevator was looking at him.

He had a long day ahead of him. By the time the day was done, he intended to give away the entire million and a half.

Deek wasn’t about to fly back to Fresno carrying a million and a half dollars in a briefcase. He considered renting a car, but November insisted that she was at his exclusive disposal and would drive him all the way back to Fresno.

Monroe “November” Evans

Traffic was heavy on the 580 out of the Bay Area, but once they hit the long, empty stretch of Interstate 5, November said, “I could play music or an audiobook, or we could converse.”

“Tell me then,” Deek replied. “Is November your real name?”

“Real name’s Monroe Evans.”

She glanced at him in the rear view mirror and their eyes met. He noticed for the first time that her eyes were not black, but a lovely golden brown, like morning sun shining on a redwood tree. On top of that, she was fit, beautiful and smart. A man could fall for a woman like that. But, Deek reminded himself, he already had a wife that he loved. He averted his gaze and watched the orange groves slipping by outside the window.

“So? Where did November come from? You don’t seem particularly cold-hearted.”

The driver laughed. “You’d be surprised. It was a bone cold November in Japan six years ago. Gets so cold you wonder if your blood is flowing. Shivering in your bunk with all your clothes on, fantasizing about Hawaii. I was a Marine Corps executive protection specialist. Not an obvious choice for someone of my stature, but I was a Division One championship wrestler and Jiujitsu black belt, as well as an excellent marksman. We protected generals, politicians and even Japanese VIPs.”

Even as the woman spoke, Deek noticed, her eyes never stopped moving. Rear view mirror, side mirrors, back to the road. Check the time. A glance at Deek.

“One day,” November went on, “we’re guarding a high-level summit. The summit comes under attack by a dozen North Korean agents. Let me tell you, those North Koreans are death cultists. Long story short, I ran out of ammo, dropped into hand-to-hand, broke one attacker’s neck, and when the other stabbed me I took the knife out and cut his throat. Later, one of my mates said, ‘I don’t know what’s scarier, November in Japan, or you.’ Guys started calling me November, and it stuck.”

Honor is Huge

Deek grunted. “You remind me of someone.”

“Someone bad, I suppose.”

“On the contrary. The best man I know. A hero.” He wanted to add, He saved my life last week, but Zaid had told him not to talk about what happened, and he knew that was wise.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Affirmative.” Deek caught Evans’ gaze in the rear-view mirror and grinned.

“What about you?” Monroe “November” Evans asked. What’s your story?”

Deek told her his whole story, then added, “That hero I told you about? He thinks I should return to my family.”

“I get it,” November said. “It’s not easy. She betrayed you in spirit, if not deed. And she demeaned you. You’re an Arab. Honor is huge in your culture. Such things are not easily forgiven.”

“Yes! Thank you.” How strange that this African-American soldier understood him better than anyone else.

Forgive and Be Forgiven

“But I’ve also read a bit about your religion. I’m interested in world religions – after all I’ve seen I feel like there has to be something greater than the muck and barbarity of this world – so correct me if I’m wrong, but Islam emphasizes forgiveness, does it not? Forgive others and be forgiven by God. That kind of thing.”

Deek nodded but only said, “Yeah. You’re right.”

“I’ll tell you something else. I’m from South Carolina. My grandmother was active in the women’s rights movement back when a thing like that could get a Southern black woman killed. She used to say, ‘Lift as you climb.’”

Deek glanced at November’s profile in the mirror. “What does that mean?”

“It means that as you progress in life, as you climb the ladder, you bring your people with you. You don’t leave them behind. You lift them up along with you.”

Deek grunted. “I was always going to do that.” He fell silent, and November let him be. She connected her phone to the car’s speakers and the car filled with the sound of. Bob Marley crooning, “Could you be loved…”

To Deek’s right, a shallow mountain range separated the Central Valley from the coast. To his left, vast orange groves carpeted the low hills. Beyond them, the land fell into the fertility of the valley. The orange farms went on for mile after mile, representing tremendous wealth, but wealth of a different kind – the kind that proceeded directly from Allah.

As soon as this thought formulated in Deek’s brain he realized it was silly, for all treasure was a trust and a test from Allah, whether an orange, a crypto token that existed only as the figment of a computer’s binary imagination, or a child who never stopped loving you.

He let his mind drift, thinking about the ways he could have been a better brother to Lubna, a better friend to Marco, and a better husband and father. His eyelids grew heavy, and soon he found himself in a land where time, distance and the limitations of human perception had no meaning.

***

[Part 13 will be published next week inshaAllah]

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See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

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