The Apostate (25 page)

“I'm always at your service.”

Ray hesitated a moment. “I have to go through history in relation to Islam in America. And it seems to me that there's perhaps a third wave occurring.”

“I don't understand,” the imam said.

“Well, maybe third is the wrong word or number. Islam was founded by Mohammed, blessed be he, and the religion spread. There was a golden age. Then Islam, for the most part, fell into decline and The West developed much quicker.”

The imam interrupted. “The decline you speak of was in material things, but not with the purity of our faith.”

“True,” Ray quickly acknowledged. “I expressed myself poorly. But now Islam is still spreading around the world, and it seems to be adapting itself—with problems in some countries of course—with local laws.”

“That's certainly true of Islam in America,” the imam agreed.

Ray seized upon this statement. “That's my point, the one I want to address in my book. That Islam can accommodate change without sacrificing its religious core, and this is the wave of the future for Muslims everywhere. We, here in the U.S., are the shining example.”

“I see your direction,” the imam said without showing approval or dissent.

“But is it correct, or will it be considered apostasy by someone who recently converted, or seeks to just sell books?”

The imam smiled. “You're a sensitive soul, Ray. Abra is fortunate to have such a man as you as her husband.”

“Thank you,” Ray said, blushing despite himself. “But my point…?”

“Yes,” the imam said. “We can be an example to Muslims elsewhere. Certainly we seek peace and deplore violence. You speak of apostasy. As you know, to some fundamentalists we are apostates.”

The imam had a point, Ray recognized. The fiercely conservative Wahabists in Saudi Arabia might well consider the imam, living in Los Angeles as an apostate. A corollary to the famed adage, “One man's terrorist is another man's patriot” came to mind. One man's apostate is another man's moderate. This was a salient point he might use in his book. American Muslims might, in the aggregate, all be considered apostates to fundamentalists and supporters of Al Qaida and its splinter groups, the Taliban, and the Wahabists preaching their narrow and forbidding strictures. Were anything like the Taliban ever set loose in the U.S., sheer mayhem would occur, going well beyond the destruction and desecration of religious edifices and the degradation of women.

“But this is a theme I can explore?” Ray asked eagerly.

“Write from your conscience, my son.”

Ray smiled. He did have a conscience. It didn't always function well, but he thought he saw things clearly now.

“And is there anything new with Tariq's activities that might be useful for the book?” He was fishing and the imam, no fool, probably knew it.

“None that I know,” the imam said. “Tariq works hard and accomplishes much for the center. But you must speak to him for any details.”

“I will,” Ray lied. If the imam knew anything of interest he disguised it well

Despite steeling himself, Ray still felt some trepidation as he entered the so-called office or headquarters of Eldryn Hosker, who was the head of a fledgling group of black activists collectively known as
Friends of the Nation
or
Friends
for short. How many friends there were, both in Los Angeles and nationally, was unknown. Hosker, Ray did know, had served a twelve year sentence in prison for felony murder during an aborted bank robbery. He hadn't shot anyone but himself, but under the law he was just as guilty as the shooter. Since release, he had gathered other black ex-cons into a cohesive unit. Most of the men were ostensibly Muslim and black though Hosker maintained the organization was color-free. Hosker, who had converted in jail, certainly was both black and Muslim though he too hadn't adopted an Islamic name. Probably that was the only thing they had in common, Ray thought.

The headquarters was in a two-story building on the border of the Korean enclave near downtown Los Angeles. The small lawn was well-tended and the house's exterior seemed to have a fresh coat of paint.

A very large and unsmiling
friend
greeted Ray. He wasn't patted down, but Ray had the feeling the friend looked at him closely. “No gun, no wire, just a tape recorder,” Ray said, ready to hand the tape recorder over for inspection.

The man just nodded and led Ray inside to an office. Hosker, a man in his low to mid thirties, sat behind a desk. This was probably a living room converted into an office, Ray thought. Hosker rose and they shook hands. His grip was extremely strong, but Ray endured it figuring Hosker was just showing his strength. He was a muscular looking man with closely-cropped hair and intense black eyes. A thin scar was visible just under his left cheek. A youthful or prison knife fight, Ray wondered, trying not to stare at the wound's remnant.

“Hello, brother,” Hosker said. “Welcome to Friends.”

“Thank you, and thank you for seeing me.”

“We've followed what you've been doing, and we approve. Not all the way, but enough.”

“It's a tough road,” Ray said.

“So is our's,” Hosker said, not smiling. “Anyway, sit and we'll talk. I see you brought a tape recorder.”

“If you like, I'll make a copy of the tape, so you can match what you say with what I use in the book. I won't misquote you.”

“That would be a mistake,” Hosker said evenly.

Ray ignored the grim message. Show no fear, he told himself. Abra was probably counting the minutes until he returned.

“Hey, where are my manners?” Hosker asked himself. “How about a drink? What's your poison?”

“No, thanks.”

“Well, I'll have one.”

Hosker went to a small sidebar, and poured himself a shot glass of bourbon, which he downed without ice. “It gentles the nature,” he said, savoring the liquid in his throat. “I murder less people now.”

Ray smiled to show his appreciation of the gallows humor. He turned his tape recorder on. ”Let's start with what happened in prison. You went in as a Methodist, Baptist, or what?”

“I went in as a skinny-ass kid who didn't follow any religion, though the cops like to say guns are my religion. You know, that sort of crap.” Hosker paused for an instant, and then went on. “I guess my parents were Methodist. They're both gone. My father was gone before I was six, so my mother brought me and my sisters up. I'm the only boy. They're all married and living back east.”

“But you have a new family?”

Hosker nodded with pride. “Yes, I do, and a growing one.”

“Can you provide a number?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Okay. How did you happen to get converted to Islam?”

“Guys talked about it. I listened. Nobody put their arm on me. I wasn't forced.”

“Just an exchange of ideas?” Ray suggested.

Hosker gave a scornful laugh that seemed self-directed. “I didn't have any ideas. Not any good ones. I wasn't well educated. Hadn't even finished high school. But in prison, and since I've read a lot, I've become wiser.”

“What did any of the older guys, who were Muslims, say about the religion that attracted you?”

Hosker thought a moment. “I guess that it was pure in a way. I mean some of the guys bought into terrorism and all that shit because they hated the system. But not everyone. There was a lifer there who everyone looked up to. He kind of took me under his wing. He had a copy of the Qur'an. We used to go over parts of it. And he was honest, saying Islam wasn't perfect. But if you followed it, really followed it, then you could purify yourself.”

“Did you then feel purified?”

“In prison?” Hosker snorted. “Not a chance. But it did give me a good feeling. And good feelings are hard to come by in the joint, but then you wouldn't know anything about that.”

“Which is why I'm here, and learning.”

“Fair enough,” Hosker said, giving Ray a look of grudging approval. “What made you convert? I mean, a white man. You probably went to college. Smart. Good looking. A lot of things going for you.”

“That's what's so remarkable,” Ray said. “It was the purity that attracted me, too. We come from radically different backgrounds, and yet we had the same perception.”

Hosker nodded. “That's why all Muslims are brothers.”

Suddenly, a Hispanic looking girl ducked into the room, saw Hosker was busy, and said, “Sorry, Eldryn. I didn't know you have someone here. I'll be upstairs.”

“Be there soon, honey,” Hosker called after her, and turned back to Ray. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“That we came to the same destination from different paths.”

“Well said,” Hosker said. “Tell me, you see that dude Tariq?”

Ray was surprised. How did Hosker and Tariq know each other?

“Yes, I see him all the time at the Islamic Complex, where you ought to come some time.”

“I will. Just been busy.” Hosker hesitated a moment. “So you know Habib Al-Januzi, this rich Saudi dude. He's supposed to be a prince or something.”

“Uh, no,” Ray said. “How do you happen to know him?”

“Through Tariq. Habib likes his pleasures.”

“Women?”

Hosker nodded. “Women. Boys. Drugs. This guy is kind of prolific. But it works out for all of us. Tariq gets what he wants from Habib, Habib gets his jollies, and we do okay financially. “

“I see,” Ray said, trying to absorb this information without making it aware just how significant it could be. Just what did Tariq want from this Saudi prince in exchange for helping him to be dissolute?

“How about you?” Hosker said. “Interested in any pussy? On the house. Brother to brother. Black, white, brown, mixed. But your dick won't know the difference.”

“No, thanks,” Ray said. It was his mind that was bulging, not his penis.

“So you survived,” Abra said, embracing him at home as if he had just returned from a hazardous voyage in foreign seas.

“Aye, lass,” Ray said. “We fought the fierce pirates, the even fiercer winds, and then the monstrous sea serpent as long as a thousand women's tongues.”

“Very amusing,” she said, clearly not amused as she backed off. They both sat down in the living room. “And very ridiculous. I'm glad you're home, and that isn't something to make fun of.”

“I'm sorry,” he said, penitent. Abra had opened the door with her “survival” comment, but if he had learned anything so far in marriage it was when to let a matter go to avoid unnecessary friction. “What's for dinner?” he asked, to change the subject.

“First, tell me what happened. How did it go?”

“Fine. Hosker was very…verbal. Good copy. I got what I needed.”

“Good. Do you have to go back?”

“Only if I want to become a Friend.” Ray smiled to make sure Abra understood his sally.

Abra shook her head. “I think they gave you silly pills there.”

Ray laughed. Abra was cooling down, her concerns disappearing. “By the way, have you heard of a Habib Al-Januzi?

“Habib Al-Januzi?” she repeated. “Yes. We met briefly. He's a member of the Saudi royal family. What brings him up?”

“He's a Saudi prince, according to Hosker. Someone he met through Tariq.”

“Tariq?”

“Apparently.”

Abra shrugged. “Al-Januzi is a donor to the center. That would explain how Tariq knows him. I don't know the name of every donor, or what they donate, but Tariq would.”

“Could you check about Al-Januzi?” Ray asked. “Is he a really big donor?”

Abra gave him a petulant look. “Why don't you ask Tariq?”

“I thought you might.”

“Me! Why?”

Ray frowned. He had let himself be caught in a dilemma he should have foreseen. Of course it was up to him to question Tariq, but he was afraid any inquiry would make Tariq curtail or limit any of his sub rosa activities, assuming there were some. A question from Abra would seem more innocuous.

“I didn't want him to feel I was checking up on him,” he finally blurted.

Abra was unrelenting with her innate logic, which was sometimes helpful but just as often created a block in his own thoughts and plans. “Just ask him,” Abra said. “You two always seem to be playing some sort of chess game. I don't know why.”

Bite the bullet, Ray thought. He'd have more to say to Perkins if he did draw Tariq out somehow.

“Okay. I will.”

It was ironic to be interviewed in this fashion, Ray thought, as he met with Ashley Baker, a senior editor from Wellstone Press, to discuss his book. She selected a top restaurant and was obviously going to pick up the tab. They both had a glass of white wine with their meals. He had a veal dish while she poked at a chicken salad. The lady was an attractive but austere looking brunette probably in her early forties. She wore a well-tailored dark blue power suit, which fitted her polite but targeted comments and questions.

“We liked your outline and sample chapters and I'm sure you know what our major concern is,” Baker said.

Ray smiled. “I have a pretty good idea.”

The meeting brought up his own discussion with Omar Radon over the fairy tale book. He wasn't sure just how much Baker knew of his background, though the publisher was well aware from the detailed biography he had turned in that he had converted to Islam. The complex had even approved the expense of getting a professional photographer to give him a good photo to turn in. All he had were some inadequate head shots.

“Yes,” Baker went on. “We don't want you to go into hiding like Salman Rushdie.”

“Nor do I,” Ray said. “I'm in good graces with most American Muslims, and no one's taken a shot at me recently.”

“And hence the book,” Baker observed with a brief and ironic smile. “But we're dealing—and you know it better than me–with extraordinary sensitivities here.”