Mustafa said, "You dare say that when you cheat on your wife? Fuck a fellow cop? Leave the woman you vowed to love over some hot new pussy?"
"Hey!"
"No, you 'hey'! I'm supposed to just take it? But you, so holy and clean in the eyes of God. Fuck you."
"I never killed anyone, Mohammed."
"That is not my name. You call me by my name or this is over now."
"I said I never killed anyone." Said it smug and slow, too.
"What is my name?"
The car windows had steamed up on Bleeker's side. He pretended Mustafa had said nothing at all, sitting there as if he was chief of police, chauffeured by a black man. There, that's diversity. That'll show the crackers out west.
Mustafa shook his head. He cranked the car.
"Wait. Fine. Bahdoon We're all friends here. I'm sorry for, whatever, taking the guy's name in vain."
"Nobody calls me Bahdoon anymore, I told you that. What is my name?"
Bleeker said "Fuck" and got out of the car. He lit a cigarette. Paced. Guy trying to teach him some touchy-feely civics lesson. Of course he knew the bastard's name. Mustafa. Mustafa. Sounded like some sort of Arab bread. But this guy thought he was some big shot down here? The fact that no one had approached them yet had Bleeker second-guessing how "wanted" the asshole was. Could be the price on his head had been canceled. He was just another worthless stockman at Target, no power to hurt anyone he used to run with.
And who else did he have helping him out?
Bleeker tossed his half-finished cigarette butt into the road and climbed back into the car. Shivering.
"Mustafa Your name is Mustafa."
Mustafa nodded. "Thank you."
"Welcome."
Someone tapped on Mustafa's window. It was a hard tap, metal on glass. Gun barrel. Mustafa said to Bleeker, "Time to work."
*
The kid with the gun, maybe sixteen, got into the back seat and played at being a badass by poking the gun behind Mustafa's ear, talking about his "traitor nigga ass", and asking Bleeker for his wife's number. "You can watch if you want, old man."
Old. Sure. To this kid they were both ancient. Easy to think old meant weak. Exactly what Mustafa was counting on.
The kid told them to drive. He had skinny wrists and the gun was pretty small-a big one would be too heavy for him. His bulky parka with a fur-trimmed hood hid how thin he was, but Bleeker could tell from the wrists, the cheeks, the voice
"Where to?"
"You go until I tell you to turn."
Mustafa took a hard right at the next corner.
The gun jammed against his ear again, scratching his scalp. "The fuck? I didn't say turn."
"You didn't not say it."
"I told you-"
"To drive until you said turn. So I was driving and felt like turning."
"Don't make me fuck you up."
Mustafa glanced in the rearview. It was obvious this kid wasn't going to shoot either of them.
"Get back on the road, right? Someone wants to know what you're doing out here tonight, peeping at us from your car. That ain't shit."
"Just give me the address. I know the roads better than you."
More pressure from the gun. "Smart nigga? How about you do what I say, huh?"
Bleeker's hand closed over the gun, yanked it clear of Mustafa's head. Gave the piece a little twist, and it was all Bleeker's. Turned it around on the kid.
He asked, "What's your name?"
"Shit, you ain't going to kill me, I know it. I didn't do nothing. Just playing, that's all."
"I've got to call you something."
"Call me a lawyer, man. I didn't do nothing. I've got witnesses."
He pressed himself far back in the seat, leaning left, eyes on the gun. His feet were working all over the floorboard.
Mustafa said, "His name's Tyrus. American born Somali. His mom's French, though. His older brother would be a good banger if he wasn't so high half the time. In jail right now, isn't he, Ty?"
Tyrus was wide-eyed. "How you know…yeah, Michael locked up for selling weed. Not even a lot of it. It's bullshit, man. You don't know me. I'm not saying anything."
Bleeker rolled his eyes, turned forward in his seat and set the gun in his lap. Some kind of snub-nose. 38. Had to be a Taurus or Rossi. These kids usually didn't do revolvers. He had one like it on his ankle, a five-shot he'd bought for his wife to carry in her purse, but she never did so he took it back, wore it just in case.
Mustafa said, "Is that Mike's gun?"
"What part of 'I ain't talking' did you not understand?"
Bleeker, a bit too loud, said, "We're not arresting you, idiot. But we don't want you playing with this toy and hurting somebody. Where are we going?"
After another half-minute of whining, Tyrus gave up the address. An apartment about five minutes from where they were. Mustafa said, "I could've guessed that."
Mustafa got them headed in the right direction and floored it. Turned on the stereo-more to drown out Tyrus's bluster than anything else. Cranked electric guitars and funky beat. Thick base, wild lead, singer like he was preaching the gospel of rock and roll. A black rock band from the eighties.
Bleeker turned to Mustafa, brow creased. "Living Colour?"
Mustafa grinned. "Old school."
In the back, Tyrus covered his ears and shouted. "Sort of bullshit is this?"
Bleeker gave it a nod. "I can live with that."
NINE
He didn't make it. The thief. Adem took his hand and no one could stop the bleeding in time so he didn't make it. All over some bread.
What did they do to Adem? They blessed him for doing the will of God. They told him he had served well. And they sent him on a raid to an Ethiopian border town-his first time out in the field.
A caravan of trucks, driving all night. The soldiers sleeping as if the bumps and swaying were nothing-Abdi Erasto, Madoowbe, Garaad, others Adem didn't know. Even Jibriil, drooling on himself. Adem was crazy from lack of sleep, always drifting into microdreams that the next bump would rip him from. Not fair. His skin itched, his nose itched, his chest felt caved in, as if someone had run over him with a tank.
"Fear," Jibriil had told him earlier. "It's like an empty bowl. Once you fill up the bowl, by coming home alive, there's less and less of it each time. Until there's always a full bowl ready and waiting for you."
Adem didn't get it. But that was because he couldn't pay attention. The last time he had more than an hour of sleep, right before they started off, he kept thinking about the hand. How fake it looked once it was off. How it was all not what he expected. The hand. That was the worst. He didn't want to have to see his own hand lying on the ground like that, a grisly mannequin, all to make Allah feel like justice had been done.
He looked around the truck and wondered if any of these guys had the same thoughts when they first joined the rebels, or if living here through all of the wars had burned into their souls the need for such a harsh law from a demanding god. Would it ever burn into him?
When Adem was back at school, he felt that every day meant more work at "fitting in", like a puzzle piece that didn't quite snap into place. He had to file off the rough edges, the bad angles, make everything smaller-his heritage, his language, his dreams. The first few days of college, he thought there were no boundaries. He could study history, politics, sociology, science. He had wanted to be an advisor to legislators, governors, senators. But as the semesters ground on, he wondered if he'd be lucky to make manager at a chain store. Good in his classes, knew the material, could have great discussions with professors. Outside of the classroom, it was as if he was invisible.
Jibriil had told him no one would overlook him here. Allah had a plan for everyone and once Adem hit the ground with a rifle in his hand, he'd find his purpose. Smart guys like him were valuable for strategic planning. It all made perfect sense.