Dick remarked on how well Kamal speaks English, without the kind of accent so many immigrants struggle to shake.
Kamal burst out into that big, professional storekeeper’s laugh that serves him so well.
“The hat fools certain folks,” he said.
“I was born and raised in Bloomfield Hills and mastered in comparative languages at Ann Arbor.”
Kamal had worked summers in his “jid’s” store. Years later his grandfather, his jid, asked if he’d care to take over the mini-mart. Since then he’s been surrounded by dialects from around the world.
Kamal made a diplomatic show of welcoming Dick to his establishment and to the neighborhood of ungentrified row-houses.
“You don’t happen to own the BMW 3 Series I’ve seen parked out on the street, do you?” Kamal asked.
“Half of it,” Dick said.
A man came in for lottery tickets. A woman came in for her daily purchase of three Salem Golds at fifty cents apiece.
“I’m curious,” Dick said, “what made you think the 3 Series out there belongs to me?”
“I could tell by your accent,” Kamal said.
