"Why?" Amir pleaded, his hands pinned behind his back and his body pressed against the stainless steel plating of the fast-food grill. "Why are you doing this to me? I do not even know you!"
"I know you. I know who you are. More important, I know what you are."
"Please do not hurt me, sir. Please!" Amir cried, but it was no use. Thunderbolts of pain radiated up his arms and through his shoulder blades. "Is it my skin color? I am not from Iraq, if that is what you are thinking. Or Iran, or Saudi Arabia. I am from New Delhi."
"I don't care about that," Tucker said, pulling the man's arms even tighter.
"Then please stop. Please. I have a wife. I have three daughters. A newborn son."
"Uh-huh. And when was the last time you saw any of them?"
"I saw them-I saw them-why do you ask me this question?"
"Just wonderin'." Tucker was a big man, not tall, but thick, and rippling with muscles, muscles born of hard work, physical labor, not pushing weights around in some fancy-ass gym. He shoved Amir forward, pressing his bare chest against the edge of the cooking stove. Amir screamed, trying to push himself away. "Be careful! Please! I have not yet turned off the equipment."
"I noticed. I'm cookin' a little somethin' up for you."
"But why? I am nothing. I do not even run this place! I am just the assistant manager." His face was stricken, desperate. "Please-my wallet is in my back pocket. I do not have much, but whatever I have, it is yours."
Tucker tightened his grip on both of the man's arms, bending them almost to the breaking point. After all those years living off the streets, moving from one hardscrabble job to the next, Tucker knew what he was and what he wasn't. He might have many failings. But he was not a thief. The very suggestion made his blood boil. He wrapped a rubber cord around Amir's wrists, then secured him to the grill. "You got pictures of your little girls in that wallet?"
Amir hesitated. "Well…no. There is not so much room."
"Pretty much written them off, haven't you?"
"That is not true. I love my little darlings. I-"
"You got a new piece of ass, some slutty teenager who's workin' as your fry cook and will spread her legs for the cost of a quarter pounder."
"That is not true!" Amir squirmed, trying to keep his stomach off the super-heated stainless steel.
"Is. She's makin' it with Wilfred, too. The janitor. You know. The one with more acne than face."
"I-I do not believe it."
"And for that you gave up your family. Your wife. Your three girls."
"Listen to me, my man. There are things you do not know. Financial matters. My wife is better off-"
"And what about Anna, Khouri, and Indira? Are they better off?"
"Please. I do not know why you are asking me all these questions. I do not know…what business it is of yours. But I take care of my girls. I visit whenever I can-and I give them whatever-"
"When was the last time you made your child support payments?"
"My-" Amir stopped short. "Is that what this is about? Are you from the DHS? I know I am a little behind-"
"More than a little."
"But it is so hard, trying to make a living in this country, working sixty hours a week at a Burger Bliss. I barely clear twenty thousand American. I have told them that. I filed a report. Talk to your bosses."
Tucker gave the knot a twist, sending another searing bolt of pain coursing through the man's body. "Do I act like I'm from DHS?"
"Then-why are you here? Why did you knock me out? Why did you rip off my shirt? Why me?"
"Why here? Because I had to catch you at your place of work, alone, after everyone else left the joint." Tucker's expression flattened, and then he added. "And why you? Because you are Keter."
"Keter? I do not know this word Keter."
"Doesn't matter. I do."
They both heard the abrupt ring of the oven timer. "Ah," Tucker said. "The appetizer's ready."
He put on a pair of oven mitts, opened the door, and withdrew what at first appeared to be a long fireplace poker with a protective handle at one end. It was so hot smoke emanated from the end piece.
Amir took a closer look and realized that it was not a poker. It was a branding iron. At the far end of the metallic prong, glowing at him like a fiery monogram, was the letter K.
Amir stepped away from the pulsating heat, cowering, begging for mercy. "Please," he said. "Do not do this to me. Please!"
"Friend, this is just the beginnin'." Tucker brought the iron nearer; though still inches away, Amir could feel it cooking his skin. "No! Please, no!"
Tucker pressed the brand into the man's solar plexus.
Amir screamed. With a howl that might've been heard for miles-if anyone was awake within miles-he cried out as the searing metal burned into his flesh. His knees buckled, he lost all control of his body, he wet himself. The skin on his chest began to blister and water rushed from the surrounding tissues in an ineffectual effort to cool the piercing wound. He went into shock, looked as if he might have a stroke…which would make the rest of the plan far more complicated.
He untied Amir's bonds-there was no risk that he was going anywhere on his own-and walked him over to the deep fat fryer, still burning at full boil, still bubbling with the super-heated oil that had flash-fried thousands of frozen potatoes that day. Tonight, the recipe would be somewhat different.
"No," Amir said, crying, barely able to muster a whisper. "Please. No."
"You are part of the Sefirot," Tucker intoned. "The time for the termination of your predestined number has arrived."
"Number," Amir whispered, the aching in his chest still making it difficult to think, much less resist. "I tell you-I have done nothing wrong. This is…this is madness!"
"It ain't madness that's doomed you," Tucker said, as he lowered the man's face toward the bubbling cauldron. "It's math."
With a decisive thrust, careful to keep his gloved hands out of it, Tucker pushed Amir's face into the churning pool of boiling oil.
Had he been able, the man would surely have screamed. But the intense three-hundred-fifty-degree heat melted his mouth, his lips, the skin on his face, even his tongue, long before any such response was possible.