Peppermint

Chapter 10 - Neurotica

***ALEX***

"Thought we'd be watching a movie right about now."

I grin at AK. "Nah, we'd have been done with the movie by now, and maybe gone down into the mall to find some lunch."

"Pizza?"

Khan shakes her head at us. "You boys are such Americans. If you want good food at Maguire, go to Savera. They make the best biryani you'll ever eat."

"Duly noted." And in my head, I leave a note to self: find out what biryani is, because I've never heard of it, but it sounds delicious. And like something Mom would never want to eat, especially if it's too spicy. Mom's got a low tolerance for spice. She won't even eat pepperoni pizza. Oh well. More for me and Gabe, historically, even if we'd pay a price for it later by wrecking our insides. Worth it, though. Pizza usually is. Okay, make that "always is."

"So who are you working for?" We hear Sanchez talking over an intercom as he and Moss sit across a table from Firdaus and Ahmad in the interrogation room. I hate to think of it that way, but is there any other way to describe it? I watch so many cop shows, and none of them really have a fluffier and/or more politically correct term for the interrogation room. Even when, technically, this isn't even an interrogation Sanchez is conducting. Firdaus and Ahmad may have been caught in a compromising position, but they're not under arrest or anything. Not officially. I hope.

"I, uh..." Ahmad taps his fingers on the tabletop. Didn't he ask earlier if he could have a cigarette? He looks like the kind of guy who overdoes it on the chemical stimulants enough as it is, but he also looks more like the kind of guy whose stimulant of choice would be a can or two of Red Bull every couple of hours. Or whatever it is that's IT types' drug of choice these days. I should ask Marco - he's majoring in computer science at Cypress College in San Jose. Though I'm pretty sure that, being Italian, he sticks with coffee over all others.

I'm only assuming Ahmad's into IT based on the wires he and Firdaus were carrying. The blue ones. They looked like old-fashioned internet wires, the kind that used to connect from our home modem directly to a desktop, back when Mom had only a desktop and we had no Wi-Fi. How I remember that, I'm not sure - I think Gabe and I were seven when Mom upgraded to Wi-Fi. She's always been a little behind the curve on technology. We still don't have Blu-Ray. Or Netflix, even. I still have to borrow Luca's Netflix login on all my devices.

"It's all right, man." Moss slides a cup of coffee across the table. "Take your time. We got plenty of it."

I'm not sure which one of our new friends wants the coffee more - Ahmad, or Firdaus. She eyeballs the cup, then him, and he glares at her while tentatively reaching for it himself, only to stop short and pull his hands back. "You can have it," he says. "It's decaf."

Firdaus closes her eyes, sticks her nose up, and primps her hair, looking like a snooty sophisticate. But she takes the coffee anyway. "Unlike you," she says, "I actually enjoy this stuff for its flavor. Though all other coffee is weaksauce compared to the stuff you can get in an Arab home."

"It's caramel-flavored too," Moss adds.

Ahmad grimaces at the thought, as do I, but Firdaus responds by taking a huge sip.

"Speaking of home..." Sanchez pauses, waiting for Firdaus to finish. She swirls the coffee around her mouth for a moment, then nods, keeping up that connoisseur look. (Or, if you want to get into the ways the French language works with gender, connoisseuse. Yes, that's a word. Google it if you don't believe me.) "Where do you guys call home?"

"You mean for now, or where did we come from?" asks Ahmad.

"The latter," says Sanchez.

"Is it Hell?" asks Moss.