Rest For The Wicked

Authors Note: This story contains references to racism/xenophobia and physical violence

How long have I been sitting here? Rayan wonders, rubbing a sweaty palm against the leg of his Levi’s. It must be over an hour, and still no sign of the detectives who'd led him in here. The cold, steel-backed chair he's sitting in has become almost painful. It takes a conscious effort to stop himself from squirming.

Interview room four is nothing like the television crime shows Mamá watches. It's tiny, barely larger than a walk-in closet, and there aren’t any windows. A long rectangular table - two sides of which are flush with the room’s plain white walls – and three chairs are the room’s only furnishings. Together, they take up more than half of the already cramped space.

At last, a detective enters the room. He’s a bit short and looks vaguely like a young Joe Pesci dressed in business casual clothing. A silver badge is clipped securely to his polished leather belt, which matches his brown tailored shoes.

"Mr. Ramirez,” he says, “I'm Detective Reed. Thank you for coming in. My apologies for the long wait. There were issues with the office printer, you understand."

"Uh, yeah, no problem," Rayan replies awkwardly. "Am I under arrest, Detective Reed?"

"Not at all. I only called you in to ask a few questions." He sits in one of the remaining chairs and sets a manilla folder Rayan hadn't noticed on the table before him. "How were your final exams?”

“Fine,” Rayan says, frowning. “What’s this about?”

“Do you know a Mr. Daniel Green?"

Rayan's chest tightens. "Yeah, I know him."

"Good," Reed says, opening the folder. "What can you tell me about him?"

"Nothing good. A dickhead, if you ask me."

"That's exactly what we're doing," Reed smiles warmly, "asking. Take your time."

"Where should I start?"

Reed shrugs. "Wherever you want, this isn't a quiz."

Taking a deep breath, Rayan rubs the back of his neck and lets it out slowly. "Well," he begins, "he bullied me through high school. Literally. The first time we met . . ."

#

Rayan paced around backstage, practicing his lines while waiting his turn to audition. "Gotta eat to live, gotta steal to eat. Don't forget!"

His self-admonition was only half-hearted because some of him wanted to mess this up. He didn't relish the idea of being in the play, but what Mamá wanted, Mamá usually got, and what she wanted now was for su hijo to get the leading role.

She'd been ecstatic when she found the sign-up sheet stuffed carelessly in his backpack. "This will be a great way to make new friends, Mijito. Wouldn't it be nice if you got to play Aladin?"

"No. I'm too old for plays now, Mamá," he'd replied, hoping she'd give up on the idea. She probably just wanted to alleviate her guilt after moving them to another district in the middle of the school year.

"Nonsense, Mijito, you're never too old for theater. You're going to try out, and you're going to get the lead role, Insha-Allah. Then everyone will see what a gifted young man you are."

So here he was, about to audition for a play he didn't want to be in, and never mind the poor reputation he'd get for it. Parents just didn't understand the social hierarchy in high school. It was hard enough being the new kid at the bottom. It wasn't fair.

A cold voice hissed from behind, breaking his concentration. "Hey, ain't you a beaner?"

Several auditionees, Rayan included, turned to see who’d spoken. A red-faced teenager with greasy black hair, jean shorts, and a black t-shirt stood smirking near the exit in the stage wing, thick arms crossed sternly over his broad chest.

Frowning, Rayan pointed to himself, "Are you talking to me?"

The boy nodded. "Yeah. Answer the damn question. Are you or ain't you a beaner?

The question was so ridiculous that his first inclination was to laugh, but judging by the other kids' worried glances, he guessed he should be nervous. Who was this guy?

"My family's Mexican, if that's what you mean."

"Yeah, a fucking beaner then, a tonk." The boy's beefy arms dropped to his sides, and his posture suddenly became more threatening. "What’re you doing back here, tonk?"

Rayan's incredulous stare swept across the room, but no one would meet his eye. They all seemed to know this kid and were afraid. Must be a bully, then. He met the teenager's cold stare with one of his own.

"I don't speak trash. Who the fuck are you?" 

Everyone in the room took a collective gasp, but Rayan barely had time to register it. Instead of answering, the boy dashed across the room with speed belying his larger frame and punched Rayan hard in the stomach, dropping him like a sack.

As he lay on the cold floor, doubled over and gasping, the boy leaned over him, a smug grin spreading slowly across his pockmarked face. "The name's Daniel. Welcome to Del Rio High, tonk."

#

"That's quite the story, Mr. Ramirez," Detective Reed says. His tone is affable and sympathetic, but Rayan doesn’t trust it. "Sounds like the kind of asshole who'd hurt someone bad, given the chance. Do you think he gets along with people who don't share your heritage?"

Rayan snorts. "No. I don't know, maybe. Other than his friends, you mean? The guy was a fucking psycho."

Reed purses his lips and nods almost imperceptibly. "There are thousands of Mexican families in Del Rio. Why do you think Daniel targeted you?"

"I'm not a psychologist," Rayan shrugs, "Maybe his dad knocked him around or something. I heard he’s crazy. I almost hope he did."

"Fair enough," Reed says, scratching a quick note in the manilla folder. "Did you have other run-ins with him?"

"You could say that.” Rayan chuckled humorlessly. “He fucked with me almost every day for the next two and a half years. Thought I was finally rid of him when he graduated the year before, but he kept looking for me outside school every week in my Senior year. Most of the time, I was lucky to get away with only a few bruises."

"And the other times?" Reed prompted.

#

In hindsight, Rayan should have known something terrible was coming. There'd been no sign of Daniel during the last few weeks and, thus, very little stress. With final exams less than two weeks away, Rayan was beginning to hope he might not see the asshole ever again.

When he began his walk home from school, the mid-May sun hung bright in a clear blue sky. The shimmering heat was intense, so he decided to take a longer route, which would take him through a natural trail in Darryl Evans Park. Perhaps there'd be a nice breeze, but if not, he could still enjoy walking beneath the shade of cedar trees.

Daniel must have seen where he was headed and decided to head him off, for just as Rayan cleared a bend in the trail, he saw Daniel leaning casually against the gray-green bark of a cedar tree, waiting. A motor oil waste container lay on the ground beside him.

"Hello, tonk," he chirped as though greeting an acquaintance at a work party. "Long time no see. Did you miss me?"

Cold sweat beaded on Rayan's forehead and covered his forearms, raising hairs and gooseflesh alike. Something about Daniel's demeanor was different this time. Whatever it was, Rayan wanted no part of it. He took a step back.

"Can't say I have. What do you want, man?"

Daniel’s reply had no clear meaning, but it nonetheless sent a chill up Rayan’s backside. "You been keeping secrets from me, tonk," he said in a soft, silky voice. "Three and a half years, and you never told me."

"What -" Rayan faltered, licked his lips, and tried again. "What secret?"

The man picked up the plastic container and took a step forward. "You never told me you was a terrorist, too."

Rayan took another hesitant step back, never taking his eyes off the older boy, who now seemed positively menacing. "I don't -"

"Saw you at Walmart with your mom," he said, taking another deliberate step. A cold fury burned in his eyes, filling Rayan with an almost overpowering urge to run. "Must have been your mom, anyway, seein' how well you two was getting along. Too old to be your girlfriend." He tapped the front of his forehead. "Wearing a fucking rag wrapped around her head, like she were afraid someone might see the gray underneath."

"That's a hijab," Rayan said, backing away. "But we're Muslims, not jihadists, you-"

"If there's one thing I hate," Daniel went on, his voice reaching a fever pitch, "more than a fence fairy, it's a fucking raghead." Then, as quick as his voice was raised, he was quiet again. Not calm, only quiet, like he was about to reveal some exciting news. "I'm leaving Del Rio, tonk, for good. Tomorrow. My bags are packed and ready to go, but I couldn't leave without saying goodbye." He hefted the oil container and grinned toothily. "Gonna give you something to remember me by, tonk."

Rayan tried to run then but tripped over a white-painted stone marking the trail. He fell to the ground with a surprised grunt, and Daniel was on him in a flash. The older boy’s heavier body straddled Rayan's chest, pinning him to the ground as he twisted the red plastic cap off the container.

"You fuckers like oil, don't ya? That's what my dad says. Getting rich off it while decent Americans pay more at the pump. Well, I brought some for ya, tonk. I brought a lot!" 

Laughing like a lunatic, Daniel slapped Rayan's hands out of the way and poured the warm, viscous liquid onto his face and hair. The scent of burnt oil filled his eyes with tears just before the liquid clogged his nostrils. He choked, coughed, and squirmed, but the stronger boy held him down easily. Oil coated every inch of skin on his face. He tasted something like stale black coffee as it leaked into his mouth, lost part of his hearing when it filled his ears, and felt his pupils burn where it splashed into his eyes.

He didn't know how long it lasted, but when he felt Daniel's weight come off, he rolled over weakly, heaving everything he'd ever eaten onto the dirt and leaves beneath him. The sound of fading laughter followed him into darkness.

#

"Christ, man, that's fucking sick," Reed says, shaking his head. "So, I take it that's why you killed him?"

Rayan's eyes widen to the size of baseballs. He pales, leaning as far away from Reed as the chair will allow. "What? No, of course I didn't!"

Reed nods as though he's expected this answer. He pulls a photograph from the folder, studies it briefly, then slides it to Rayan. It's a picture of Daniel's body lying haphazardly on its stomach in some tall grass next to the trail. Patches of a slick black substance shine on the boy's shirt collar and streak across his neck. The same substance is mixed with what can only be blood and strands of hair over a slight crater-like indentation on the back of his head.

"We searched a square mile around his body, Mr. Ramirez," Reed continues, "but never found the trail marker you tripped over in your story. I'd like to know what you did with it. Also, in our conversation, you made the mistake of referring to Mr. Green in the past tense. Why would you do that if you didn't already know he was dead?"

Unshod tears burn in the corners of Rayan’s eyes as he stares down at the photograph. After a long pause, he clears his throat and meets Reed's accusing eyes. "I think I'm going to need a lawyer, detective."