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 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16

“When money speaks, the truth is silent.” — Yoruba proverb

A Fast Drive

The next few minutes passed in a daze. Deek’s breathing was shallow and rapid, and his skin felt clammy. Hot blood ran down the side of his face. Somehow, Marco loaded him into the passenger seat and single-handedly lifted Shujaa and dumped him in the back. His musky Yemeni cologne permeated the car’s interior. Who puts on cologne to attack someone?

History repeated itself as Deek found himself once again injured and being driven somewhere. His shirt was wet against his skin. His entire face hurt. The night was dark and suffocating, and the lights from the streetlights made him wince. He groaned and pressed a hand to his eye. Reaching for the seat lever, he reclined the seat until, with a jolt, it struck Shujaa’s legs.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Marco said. “You need the seat elevated to slow the bleeding from your head.”

But Deek could not raise the seat again, as he didn’t have the energy to sit up.

Marco – sitting on shattered glass and not caring – drove fast, making Deek rock from side to side. At one point he stopped, and Deek – feeling hazy and on the edge of blacking out – saw his friend step out of the car and pitch the gun into an inky black canal.

Shujaa recovered consciousness and began to moan, “Baba’s sendin’ me back to Yemen ‘cause o’ you, he’s sending me back. Ain’t nothin’ for me there, I’ll die there. He says I’m a loser and a failure, he don’ want me around. An’ is all your fault ‘cause you took my car. Why you got this stupid saxophone on top o’me, get it off.” He went on like that.

Sometime later – Deek couldn’t say how long – pulled up in front of Fresno Community Regional Medical Center. As strong hands helped him out of the car and onto a mobile gurney, he could smell the burning rubber of the car tires. Marco had turned that Porsche into a rocket.

Bleach and Lime

“What happened to you, sir?” a woman’s Indian-accented voice asked.

“Glass in my eye.”

“Let us see. Move your hand.”

Inside, the hospital was chilly and loud, with people calling out, machines beeping, and doors opening and closing with a hiss. The corridors smelled of bleach and lime.

The gurney moved quickly, then rose in an elevator. An injection flooded into his arm. The pain faded, and as he sank into warm quicksand, he thought of Rania’s dark eyes and gentle hands. He needed her to toss him a line and pull him out. He needed her to save him.

Desperately Alone

Deek Saghir woke up slowly, like a post-apocalyptic sun rising over a devastated world, yet shining onto a few green shoots springing up from the wasteland. His throat was dry, and his head was light, but he felt little pain. He opened his gummy eyes, then realized that he could only see out of his right eye. Reaching up a hand, he found his left eye bandaged, along with his left eyebrow and temple.

He was in a hospital room. Dim lighting, air whispering through a vent. A clear night sky outside the window, broken up by the silhouettes of two palm trees.

The delicately clear state of mind he had enjoyed for the last several days was gone. Deek’s chest was as full of emotion as a sea cave is full of water when the high tide rushes in. He felt desperately alone. He would have given his left hand at that moment for a hug from his wife.

What was this chaos that his life had become? Alone all the time, violence at every turn, thoughts of poverty and loss haunting him? Driving a wedge between himself and everyone he loved by throwing around piles of cash, as if money were a substitute for genuine caring and love. A substitute for actually being there. What was that saying, that ninety percent of success was just showing up? And wasn’t that true for family as well, that ninety percent of being a father—a good, genuine, loving father—was just showing up?

And he was not showing up. He had abandoned his daughters. How could he have done that? How had he not missed Sanaya’s quick wit, making fun of her university professors, sharing with him clips of old baseball games on YouTube—she’d played little league as a kid and been obsessed with the sport ever since—and telling him funny stories of the crazy things she witnessed at his job at the convenience store?

Or his dear Amira, always teasing him, losing to him at chess but never quitting, teaching him Spanish phrases and street slang that she learned from her Chicana friends at school, and always letting him know how much she loved him?

What was wrong with him? Tears came to his eyes. He moaned and rolled onto his right side, grabbing handfuls of his hair. The Namer’s potion had healed his terrible wounds after that first attack and cleared his mind, allowing him to fly in the sunlight above the clouds. But at what price? Yes, Deek was an emotional man, but by separating him from his emotion, the potion had divorced him from his own heart. Just as his family had been split asunder, he was like a great tree cut in half by a chainsaw.

Healed Wounds

Startled by the sound of a snore on his left, Deek rolled onto his side to see with his right eye. Marco slept in a chair against the wall, his arms hanging limp, and the back of his head resting on the wall.

“Marco.” Deek’s voice came out low and hoarse, and he tried again, wiping his tears with the sleeve of the light blanket that was draped over him. “Señor Marco Feliciano Colón Tirado.”

Marco woke with a start, wiping non-existent drool from his chin. “You scared me, I thought I was back in Catholic school. How do you feel?”

“Where am I?”

“Fresno Regional. They operated on your eye. It’s…” Marco checked his phone. “Four in the morning.”

“Am I blind?”

“No, they say you’ll be okay.”

“Can I get some water?”

“Do you mind if I turn the light on?”

“Turn it on, man. Please turn it on.” Maybe banishing the external darkness would lighten his heart as well.

Marco filled a cup of water from a pitcher on the counter against the wall. It was cool and delicious, and Deek downed it all in one glass, then met Marco’s eyes.

“Ay Dios!” his friend exclaimed.

“What?”

“I saw you after those thugs attacked you. You were all beat up, dude. Black eye, split lip, blood coming out of your mouth, and blood pouring down the side of your face. Now look!”

“What?” he was getting annoyed. How was he supposed to know what he looked like?

“Your face is mostly healed. Just very light bruises. I mean, I can’t see the bullet wound, but the rest of your face looks good.”

You Saved Me

Deek knew right away what had transpired. The Namer’s potion had used up the last of its strength healing his physical wounds, and had burned itself out in the process. That was why he was so emotional. His usual loving, desperate, bitter, envious, proud heart was reasserting itself.

Rather than feeling pleased that his wounds were healing quickly, he felt his pulse spike as guilt washed over him. Who was he to be worthy of such gifts? He was a wreck and a shame.

For just a moment, he considered going back to the Namer and asking for another dose. But no, he could not live his life in an artificially imposed state of rarefied clarity. He had to exist here, on the ground, in the real world. He had to learn to express love, be a good husband and a good friend, and to power it all with his heart, rather than a drug. This was his task: to wrestle with his own bitter soul and win the battle unaided.

He realized as well that Marco did not know that Shujaa was the one who had attacked him. Marco thought the thugs had done it. He must not have seen the first part of the fight. And – Deek remembered – Marco had saved his life. He remembered it as clearly as if it were a vision rising before his eyes: Marco swinging that trumpet like Jackie Robinson at bat, then grabbing the gun and scaring the thugs away.

He dropped the empty glass on the bed between his legs, reached for his brilliant and talented friend, and pulled him into a tight embrace.

“Oh! Qué pasa?”

“You saved me.” His voice was raw with emotion. He pushed Marco away to look him in the eye. “You could have been killed. What’s the matter with you?”

Marco blushed. “You’d have done the same for me.”

“Yes.” Deek sat back. “I would. Oh! Your poor trumpet! I’m so sorry, man. You have to let me pay for -” he froze. “Marco, where’s my car?”

“In the hospital parking garage.”

“With the window busted out?”

“I haven’t exactly had time to get it repaired.”

Deek groaned in dismay. “You remember the backpack I tried to give you at the restaurant?”

Marco laughed. “How could I not? It’s not every day you see that much -” Now it was Marco’s turn to pause. His eyes widened. “Don’t tell me it’s in the car?”

“Under the passenger seat. And there’s a second backpack with an equal amount under the spare tire. If it’s still there.”

“Ay Dios! I’ll be right back.”

Psychic Bond

“Wait! I need my phone. Where’s my phone?” Had it been lost in the fight? His crypto wallets – and secret phrases – lived on that phone. Losing them would be disastrous. His stomach tightened at the thought.

“It’s here with the rest of your stuff.” Marco opened a cabinet and handed over a large plastic bag. Then he dashed out of the room like an Iranian spy with Saddam Hussein’s secret police on his tail.

Deek pawed through his bloodstained clothes, found his pants, and took his phone from the pocket. The screen was cracked, but the phone turned on and worked normally. Alhamdulillah. His shoulders sagged in relief.

Notifications popped up, showing several voicemails and messages from Rania. She had begun calling yesterday afternoon, only a few minutes after the attack had occurred. This didn’t surprise Deek. He and Rania had always shared a psychic bond. He knew how that sounded, which was why he never told anyone. But Rania always knew when he was in trouble, distressed, or hurt. In fact, now that he thought about it, he realized that rather than a two-way mental bond, it was Rania with the gift. She also knew when Sanaya or Amira were in distress. She was the one with the psychic boost.

“Habibi,” the first voicemail went. Hearing her voice brought Deek actual physical pain, like a heavy weight on his chest. Tears came to his eyes. “I know something is wrong. Call me right away, or I won’t be able to sleep.”

There were other voice messages along the same vein, each more panicked than the last.

Rather than call her at this hour, Deek wrote a text: “As-salamu alaykum honey. You’re right, I was in trouble. I got attacked on the street. But all is well. Just a few cuts and bruises. I’ll check in with you tomorrow inshaAllah.”

He checked his crypto wallets. The bull run was still plowing forward. His net worth was up another ten percent. He swapped some of the meme coins for stablecoins and utility coins, and shut it down. Sleepiness was washing over him like a river overflowing its banks, but he fought it, slapping his right cheek.

Dew On A Flower

Marco returned wearing two backpacks. “I’ve been peeking around corners, worried I’d run into Rania.”

Deek laughed. “She doesn’t work here. She’s at Kaiser, across town. Now listen. Your trumpet is ruined because of me. I want you to take $20K out of the backpack. No arguments! Get yourself the best trumpet money can buy.”

Marco pursed his lips, considering, then did as Deek had told him. He fanned the money beside his face. “I could get a custom Monette with this much money. A horn with a voice like liquid metal. Darkness wrapped in velvet, then dew on a flower.”

Deek’s smile stretched from cheek to cheek. “Beautiful. And don’t forget what I said.”

“You want to hear me recite the Quran.”

Deek nodded slowly. “You said it.”

“I might have a surprise for you on that front.”

Deek tried to say, What do you mean? But the words came out slurred. His eyelids were falling and he could not stop them, any more than a deep-sea diver can lift the sea off his own shoulders.

The Best People

a forest where people lived in slender white towers hidden among the trees…

He slept fitfully, waking up often either to drink water or urinate. Dreams came like a grave robber’s hammer, smashing a path into the hidden tomb of his heart, blow by blow: Rania had disappeared, but was said to have been sighted in a forest where people lived in slender white towers hidden among the trees. Deek sped through the forest in the Porsche, but could not find his wife… He was in London. He was supposed to meet Sanaya and Amira for lunch, but he was lost, and every turn took him deeper into a gray slum where the buildings shifted and changed shape…

Somewhere in the middle, he prayed Fajr, then went back to sleep. The next time he woke, bright sunlight was streaming in through the window. The palm trees were brown and green against a blue sky.

There was no sign of Marco, but a short Filipina nurse with tired eyes and a wide nose was checking his pulse. When she saw he was awake, she smiled and left the room without a word.

A tall, dark-skinned doctor wearing black scrubs and a white coat entered the room. Her blue hijab marked her as a Muslim, and her glasses were thick enough that if you were lost in the woods you could use them to focus the sun and start a fire. Deek thought she looked Pakistani, and his guess was proven correct when she spoke in a British-Pakistani lilt.

“I’m Dr. Ali. Let’s see how you’re doing.”

“What’s my prognosis?” Deek didn’t want to look like a one-eyed pirate for the rest of his life, with people pointing at him.

“Excellent. You will have to wear that patch for three days, then a clear eye shield for a bit.” She pointed to her own temple. “We sutured the laceration.”

He breathed a smile of relief. “Alhamdulillah. Thank you so much. Are you Pakistani?”

She gave a half-shrug. “Yes, British Pakistani. Why?”

“The best people in the world.”

“Pardon?”

“You Pakistanis.” He was filled suddenly with effusive affection toward this doctor. He was as fond of her as if she were his own sister. It was not a romantic attraction. He was simply grateful.

“I never met a Pakistani,” he went on, “who wasn’t honest and intelligent. In every smile, in every deed, they bear the Ummah’s hope in word and creed.” This was something he’d heard at a poetry recital at Masjid Madinah, and had stuck in his head.

She pulled her head back and grinned in amazement. “Why Mr. Saghir! Who is that by?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Well. Your wife must love hearing such poetry.” She pointed to Deek’s wedding ring. “Speaking of which. Your friend wouldn’t give us your family’s contact info, and we could not open your phone. Do you want us to call your wife?”

“Not just yet. I don’t want her to see me like this.”

She tut-tutted. “You should know better. Husbands and wives see each other in every condition. Up or down, happy or sad. But now that you mention it…” She reached out and grasped Deek’s chin, turning his head one way and the other. “There’s hardly anything to see. You look tired, but aside from that, the speed of your recovery beggars belief. Only once before have I witnessed this kind of thing. I’m going to take this bandage off.” She peeled the bandage from the side of his head, then took a pair of glasses from her coat pocket and leaned in, studying the bullet wound.

B Flat

“This is… I don’t know what to say. The wound is completely scabbed over. You don’t even need a bandage anymore.” She tossed the bandage in the biohazard bin. “I must ask. How did you get this wound?”

Again, he felt that flash of guilt and irritation. So what if his wounds were healing quickly? It wasn’t his fault. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

“It appears to be a gunshot wound, but because it’s superficial, I can’t be sure. If it is, I am obligated to report it to the police.”

Police involvement was the last thing Deek wanted. He had not committed a crime, but he didn’t want to open a can of worms as the police investigated the gangsters, Shujaa, Bandar, and who knew what else

“A gunshot wound? My goodness! I remember being beaten with fists. And someone swung a trumpet as well.” Putting his college drama class skills to good use, for once.

“So it’s not a gunshot wound?”

“There was definitely a trumpet.”

To his surprise, Dr. Ali laughed. “As you wish, Mr. Saghir. I’m not a bobby. We’ll call it a trumpet wound. I’d say about a B flat. Because, you know, you be flat on your back.”

This terrible joke coming from a doctor with a British Pakistani accent sent Deek into a fit of giggles. It took him fully ten seconds to shut it down.

A Strange Question

The doctor’s face grew serious. “May I ask a strange question?”

“Sure. What?”

“Have you consumed any sort of holistic medicine? A liquid? Maybe… A dark blue liquid?”

She was describing the Namer’s potion. He studied her face, but her expression was unreadable. The people in the Namer’s neighborhood all knew her, but Deek had the distinct feeling that talking about her to strangers would be wrong.

He changed the subject. “Can you tell me about the young man who was brought in with me? Shujaa?”

“Is that his name? We have him as a John Doe. He was severely concussed and lost a lot of blood. He is in an induced coma. Do you have contact information for him?”

Again, Deek was not sure of the right thing. Shujaa had been moaning that his father wanted to send him back to Yemen. But it was not Deek’s place to interfere. He gave the doctor Shujaa’s full name and Bandar’s name, which she wrote down.

This would be the moment to reveal the fact that Shujaa was the one who attacked him. The police would be called, and Shujaa – if he recovered – would go to jail. But Deek said nothing. He pitied the foolish young man. Shujaa had suffered enough.

“Do you mind,” Dr. Ali said, “if we revisit the previous topic?”

“Which was?”

She glanced around, then spoke in a whisper. “The Namer. I would like to meet her.”

There. She’d said it. There was no doubt now what she was after. “I’ll pass on the request. That’s all I can do.”

The doctor shrugged. “Well, you can be discharged at any time, Mr. Saghir. Come back in three days to swap your eye patch for a clear shield. Do pass on my request.” She turned and left.

As impressed as Dr. Ali had been by Deek’s poetry recitation, she had been even more amazed and disturbed by his rapid recovery. He wondered what she wanted with the Namer. To learn from her? Or something more sinister? He snorted at the foolishness of his own thoughts.

Servants of Al-Ghani

Rising stiffly from the bed, he changed back into his dirty, bloodstained suit, which smelled like a street gutter, then realized he did not have the car key.

He texted Marco: “Do you have the car?”

As he was washing his face and pouring a cup of water, the reply came: “I took it to get detailed and have the window repaired. They’ll call you when it’s ready. You need a ride? I could borrow a car.”

“No, it’s fine.” He would take a rideshare.

He had intended to see Rania last night, after dropping off Marco, but he needed rest. A dark tide was creeping in at the edges of his mind. The Prophet Musa, peace be upon him, had crossed the sea, and now the water was crashing back in on itself, and Deek stood in the center like an idiot.

Who did he think he was, running around with a ton of money, thinking that everyone he loved and cared about would genuflect before him in gratitude? When in reality they were all servants of Al-Malik, Ar-Razzaq, Al-Ghani. Allah was the King and Master of all. He was The Provider from Whom all sustenance was derived, and He was The Most Rich, whose wealth never diminished, even if He were to grant the wishes of every human and jinn who had ever lived. Deek himself was no one, nothing. He was a supplicant, a beggar.

As Deek walked out of the hospital, exhausted and carrying almost half a million dollars in cash, he realized he was out of ideas. He did not know what his life meant, what the money represented, or what he should do beyond the next meal, or the next desperate sleep.

* * *

[Part 18 will be published next week inshaAllah]

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

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.

Related:

Trust Fund And A Yellow Lamborghini: A Short Story

If Not You, Then Who?