Free Fatal Conceit by Robert K. Tanenbaum

croaked.
    This time Al-Sistani snarled and the water torture was resumed. As Lucy felt herself start to lose consciousness, she suddenly felt the serene presence of St. Teresa again. “Tell him, child,” the saint said. “It’s okay, the important thing is that you survive. Tell him.”
    Lucy screamed as best she could through the water that filled her mouth and throat. The chair was placed back on all four feet. But this time the hood was not removed and she still had to fight to get any air.
    â€œWhat was that, little bird?” Al-Sistani asked. “Did I hear you try to speak?”
    Lucy coughed and nodded her head. The hood was removed and she sat for a moment panting.
    â€œAnd what was it you wanted to tell me, little bird?”
    Lucy looked up and into the evil man’s eyes. She smiled. “We came here to kill or capture you, you son of a bitch.”
    In the split second it takes to blink, doubt filled and left Al-Sistani’s eyes. He sneered. “Apparently you’re not very good at what you do. Instead, it’s your friends who are feeding the crows, and Bula here tells me your boyfriend is among the carrion.”
    Lucy tried to hide her reaction but knew by his smile that her grief was transparent. For a moment she wished that he’d drowned her. But then deep inside herself a voice urged her to live on so that if she got the chance, she could kill the man herself.
    â€œShall I slit her throat?” Raad asked his master.
    Al-Sistani appeared to think about it for a moment, then shook his head as he turned to leave. “No, not yet. She and the other one may be useful. But I promise, when the moment is right, you may wash your blade in their blood.”

4
    K ARP WAS LOST IN THOUGHT as he arrived at the Criminal Courts Building. So engrossed was he in looking down at the sidewalk that he nearly bowled over the small man in the dirty stocking cap with the pointy nose and Coke-bottle-bottom-lens glasses who’d stepped in front of him.
    â€œHey, what . . . piss shit . . . do I look like a . . . whoop oh boy . . . tackling dummy?” Dirty Warren Bennett exclaimed, as only a man with Tourette’s syndrome could.
    â€œOh, sorry, Warren, I wasn’t watching where I was going,” Karp said to his friend, who owned the newsstand in front of the massive gray edifice, which housed the city lockup known as the Tombs, the grand jury rooms, clerical departments, the courts, the judges’ chambers, Legal Aid Offices, and the offices of the district attorney of New York County.
    â€œWell, that’s . . . whoop whoop tits . . . obvious.” Dirty Warren laughed as he peered up at his much taller friend. Then he frowned. “Hey, Butch, you . . . whoop oh boy . . . okay?”
    Karp looked into the magnified pale blue eyes of his worried companion. No, he thought, I’m not. My baby girl and her fiancé are missing in action in a far-off country and there’s nothing I can do about it. But he said, “Yes, thanks for asking. You got the Times and the Post ?”
    â€œOf course,” Dirty Warren said. “When . . . fucking-A . . . don’t I? Are you sure you’re . . . whoop whoop . . . okay?”
    â€œYeah, just a little preoccupied.”
    â€œGood, good. Whoooooop. Hey, try this one out. In The Brothers Karamazov what is the verdict at Dmitri’s trial?”
    Karp frowned. “Why’d you pick that movie?”
    â€œHuh? I don’t know, I rented it . . . scratch my balls bitch . . . the other night from that classic video store on Bowery. It’s about . . .”
    â€œI know what it’s about,” Karp replied.
    â€œWell, my my somebody . . . tits and ass . . . got up on the wrong side of the bed,” Dirty Warren said slowly. “You sure