At six-fifteen the bloodshot sun dipped below the crepuscular net of television antennae, power, and phone lines that criss-crossed the sky. Sully steeled himself and rapped on one of six square glass panes in Faoud Ouama's front door. The entrance to Faoud's apartment lay off a tiny alley running between the Sully manse and their neighbors, the Vitriolas. Four listing concrete steps led down to Faoud's tiny stoop.

Silence. Perhaps Faoud was praying. Sully felt a flush of shame, that he should interrupt a holy man at prayers. Then he realized that his own mission was at least as important, and that God smiled upon him.

He was about to rap again when the door opened suddenly revealing Faoud in all his Mideast intensity. The man wore a fluffy white shirt beneath a black leather vest. He stood five five with a proboscis suitable for an A-10 Warthog. He had olive skin, limpid, close-set black eyes, and a black whisk brush on his upper lip.

"Yes? Oh it is you, my friend. And how are you tonight?"

"Very good, Faoud. And you can call me Sully."

"Very well, Sully. And how are you tonight?"

"Very good, Faoud. I wonder if I could speak to you for a minute."

"Yes, certainly."

"Uh, could we go inside?"

Faoud looked around furtively; up, down, side to side. No one was watching. He stepped back and motioned Sully nervously into his domain.

"Quickly!"

The dark interior was redolent of sesame oil, gun oil, patchouli, and hash. Sully stood uncertainly waiting for his vision to adjust. The small living room was sparsely furnished with an old overstuffed sofa, a telephone company cable spool table, and a free-standing goose-neck lamp casting its spot on a map of Boston on the table.

On the wall Faoud had mounted the Saudi flag and a map of the Middle East that was not entirely accurate. An AK-47 leaned in the corner next to a small stack of banana clips. The map of Boston was held down at each corner by a red plastic brick labeled "C-4."

Faoud swept up the bricks and map. "Let me just make some room for you my friend. Would you like tea?"

"That would be nice."

"I shall put on a little music." Faoud studied his abbreviated collection, withdrew a CD and inserted it into a portable SONY boom box. The Rolling Stones softly sang "Street Fighting Man" while Faoud fussed in the kitchen. He returned with a tin platter containing a tea pot, two small ceramic mugs, and a selection of Pepperidge Farm cookies. He set the tray down on the table and sat on the sofa next to Sully.

"Now then, my friend, how can Faoud be of service to you?"

"Faoud, United Airlines has perpetrated a grotesque fraud and great injustice on the American people."

Faoud's single brow, which rambled from temple to temple, formed twin peaks. "What injustice?"

"You are familiar with the American composer George Gershwin?"

"Of course." Faoud cleared his throat and began to sing in a surprising baritone. "Bessss, you is my woman nowwww..."

"Wow," Sully said. "You can sing."

"Thank you. I was in Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade Harmony Cats when I lived in Lebanon. But where is the injustice?"

"Gershwin died before anyone had any idea that someday some sleazy commercial enterprise would get their meathooks into his greatest work and use it to hawk airline tickets. It's as if someone used the Prophet Mohammed to hawk used cars, you see what I mean?"

Anger, understanding, sympathy flashed across the tar pits of Faoud's eyes. "The arrogance of these American executives is astounding, is it not?"

"Would you, that is, do you have any experience extracting concessions from airlines?"

Faoud reached for a ceramic hookah by the side of the sofa and set it on the table He reached beneath the sofa and drew out a small wood box inlaid with mother of pearl. Opening the box, he withdrew an aluminum-foil wrapped nugget of stucco-colored Lebanese hash which he crumbled between thumb and forefinger into the hookah's brass bowl. He withdrew a wooden cooking match from a ceramic bowl and scraped it along his thumbnail, igniting same. He held the match over the bowl and inhaled until the hookah emitted a disturbing gurgling sound. Holding his breath, he offered the mouthpiece to Sully.

"Not now, thanks."

Faoud exhaled a stream of gray smoke. "As to your question, not me but my cousin Ali knows about such things. I suppose we could ask him. What do you have in mind?"

"Nothing dangerous. I just want United to understand the seriousness of their transgression."

Faoud gripped Sully's wrist with surprising strength. "I understand, my friend. Let's go visit Ali. I'm almost out of hash anyway. One minute while I phone."

Soon they were jouncing along in Sully's '88 Taurus headed toward the bad part of Cambridge, the pendulous peninsula that dipped south where the Charles bent.

"So your cousin's a hash dealer?" Sully said, trying to be polite.

"We call him Chemically-Dependent Ali."

C.D. Ali lived in a ramshackle triple decker next to a floundering church. Ali also lived in the basement. Faoud knocked on the door. Ali opened it and greeted his cousin with a bear hug and kisses on both cheeks. Ali was tall and thin with Buddy Holly glasses and a bushy black mustache.

"Come in, my friend, come in," he said, extending a hand. Sully entered the cramped apartment. A garment dummy occupied the center of the room wearing a khaki-colored vest with narrow pockets all the way around and in back. The room smelled of creosote.

"Are you a tailor?" Sully said.

Chemically-dependent Ali grinned like a split coconut. "Yes yes, my father was a tailor and his father before him. Now then my cousin Faoud says that you are having a problem with the airline."

While Faoud made tea in the tiny kitchen Ali listened intently, chin in hand, elbow on his formica-topped breakfast table.

"Yes yes I can see that you have a very serious problem," Ali said, accepting a small porcelain cup from his cousin. "But I think I see a way for you to get your point across. Are you averse to taking a short flight?"

"You want me to fly."

"Certainly. Right now you are just a grain of sand in the Vaseline to them. But if you buy a ticket, you become a customer. Then they have to listen to you."

"Ahhh," said Sully, grateful that he had such friends. "What if I bought some of their stock? Then they'd have to listen to me as a shareholder."

"I wouldn't do that, my friend," Ali said, looking Sully in the eye. "I have it on excellent authority that their stock is about to take a nosedive."

"Well aside from buying a ticket, what else?"

"You need a special pen," Ali said.

Sully eyed the kafiyehs and white cotton robes hanging from the coat rack. "Should I wear one of those?"

Faoud held his hands up, palms out. "Oh no no no! You only cause trouble wearing that. This is America. Wear what you usually wear. Once the flight is underway, write a note to the pilot regarding the abuse of Gershwin. He will immediately notify the home office. That's the law."

"What about the pen?" Sully asked.

Ali smiled and rose. "One minute," he said, heading for the back bedroom.

Sully craned his neck toward the smallish front window. "Holy shit!" he said. "I'm sorry. But a girl just passed wearing nothing but a tiny black bikini."

Faoud bolted for the door. He returned a minute later stymied. "She must have gone into one of these buildings. Was she hot?"

"Hot? She melted concrete!"

Ali returned with an elegant box that said Dunhill. "For you, my friend. To insure your success."

Sully opened the box and looked at the pen. He closed the box and slipped it into his jacket pocket. "Why do I need a special pen?"

"The ink is made with holy water from Ramala. It is certain to convince the pilot, and through him, the CEO."

"Ah," Sully said, handling the box reverently. "It's a magic pen."

"Exactly," Faoud said. "Wait until you are on the plane before you write the note. Do not use it for any lesser purpose."

Sully rose. "Got to get back. They're showing An American in Paris on A&E."

Ali kissed Sully on both cheeks. "God be with you, my friend. Allah akbar!"

Sully raised his fist in power salute. "Word." He looked at Fauoud. "You coming?"

"Ah, no, my cousin and I are going to catch up. I will see you when I see you."

Sully was relieved The solution had come to him in a blinding satori . By the time he reached Somerville he had come to a decision.