Bleeker kept rifling. "You're welcome." He found what he was looking for—a cell phone. Flicked the cover off to the side and started pressing buttons. "Can you get up, or do you need an ambulance?"
"I'm fine" He held on for dear life to the yellow Mitsubishi's spoiler, then his legs started to buckle. Bleeker hurried over, lifted beneath his arm until he was supporting him.
"I'm pretty sure these jackasses didn't have a reason to follow you. No reason at all. Unless someone told them to."
"Yeah, that was…um…same as I thought." Going to black out. Must've had a concussion. He took another look at the wooden dowel, something anyone could pick up for a dollar at a hardware store or Wal-Mart. Powerful weapon. The guy in the parka was still on his knees, face in the snow, muffling cries of pain.
Bleeker showed Mustafa the screen of the smart phone. A text message. He didn't know the sender—IslamFlex1—but figured it was sent from a temporary phone anyway unless these were idiots. Crossing his fingers. No, strike that. Even hurt to do it in his mind.
The text: Not home. Lving 4 NPR. U know peeps their?
"Wrong there," Bleeker said.
"I know. I can read, too."
"Everybody gets it wrong these days. Drives me nuts. Same with 'your'." He thumbed a button. "Next message, this one he sent."
Ys. Can do. Wht d U want us to do?
Thumbed again.
Hurt. Not more. Scare him quiet.
"Got the picture?"
Mustafa shook his head. Not a word.
Bleeker stepped over to the perp. "Want to tell me your name or should I find it in the phone?"
"Fuck you, fucking pig! I ain't saying shit."
Bleeker shrugged. Pressed a few more buttons. Definitely a nice phone, not a throwaway. This was one to be proud of. He said to Mustafa, "You got a phone on you?"
He nodded, pulled it out of his pocket.
"What's the number?"
Mustafa told him, and he dialed it with the attacker's phone. Asked Mustafa if a name was coming up.
"Yeah. Roble. It's Roble." Then, "You followed me? Really?"
Bleeker shrugged. "I had a feeling. Listen, how about we get someone to pick these two up and I'll take you to the ER."
Mustafa shook his head. "I'm fine. I'll be okay."
"No, we need something to hold against these idiots. Pictures, you in a neck brace, all that."
"You already tried that." Pointed to the bandage on his neck.
Bleeker sighed. "That? That was just a friendly 'Welcome'."
The wind whipped snow and blew it like baby tornadoes across the concrete. Bleeker thought Mustafa was still waiting for that elusive apology. Well, the best apology he was going to get was lying before him on the ground.
Bleeker pulled out his own cell phone, called it in. "Need a squad behind the Chuck Wagon downtown. You'll know us. Hurry it up, please."
After that, quiet all over except for the faint jukebox from the saloon, the grunting from the guy with the broken fingers, and Mustafa's whistling breath, finally blending with the rising siren. Blue lights. Bleeker led Mustafa to his car. "I thought you wanted ribs?"
Shook his head. "Why bother? We've got Scott Ja-mama's in the Cities."
Fucking city folks always had to one up them. "Never heard of it."
FIVE
Another girl screaming. Three days in country, and that was the sound that still got to Adem, an electric current through his body. Chills in the middle of this crazy heat. He'd hold his breath, pray for it to end.
The girl ran by the corner where he and Jibriil and two other boys sat, moving with a small strip of shade over the last half hour. Waiting for something to happen. Something to do. They'd moved the TV inside closer to the window, watched the news. The soldiers watched a lot of TV, a lot of football, even though they weren't supposed to like football. A lot of news. A lot of music.
Adem had learned to shoot the gun, barely. He'd learned to shoot the rocket launcher, and never wanted to again. That was it for "training". Nothing like what he'd seen on the internet—men in hoods on obstacle courses, one after the other, making themselves quicker, stronger, better. Not here. Too hot.
The girl covered her face. Cries trailing her. Adem thought Acid. Again. The first time, he'd seen the result—the young woman's cheek cracked, her eye gone white. The second, from afar, a man stepped from behind a car and threw it into a woman's face. Adem was in the truck, so it was a split second as they passed, then the scream, soon lost in engine noise.
This time, he just knew. The same scream. Three days, three women. Supposedly for adultery or some other sexual trespass. Sometimes for not covering themselves as fully as they should have. But honestly, the attackers were jilted boyfriends or unsuccessful suitors. If he couldn't have her, then no one else should want her.
One of the other soldiers said, "Shame."
Adem perked up. Here was a guy thinking like he was. You couldn't go around throwing acid on people, right? He was about to speak up when he realized the boy simply meant the girl herself. She was the one who should be ashamed. The soldier got up, went inside the building, and turned the volume up on the TV.
Jibriil must've known what Adem was thinking because he tapped Adem's boot with his own and shook his head. It had been like that the whole time, Jibriil instinctively getting how this world worked and helping Adem get through without making some fatal mistakes. So far this war was as boring as it was frightening. After training out in the desert, they came back to the Mogadishu streets to sit in the heat with guns waiting for…something. Adem didn't know what. People passed by, remarkably calm considering they lived in a war zone. Why were they still around? So many people had abandoned the city, so why did these survivors stay? Didn't they have anywhere to go at all?
Once or twice the gunfire sounded closer than usual and all of the soldiers—a mix of grizzled veterans in their twenties and young teens in football jerseys—had leapt up, heads low, rifles at the ready. But then nothing happened.
Still, Jibriil had made a name for himself already. Willing to do and say the craziest things. Any dare, any challenge. He took his shirt off and dared government snipers to take him out. Shouted at them: "God will protect me! Aim for my heart!"
While Adem looked on, he had tortured boys accused of treason or desertion before they were dragged off to be punished or killed. On the second day, he had been called out by an older man, either a cleric or commanding officer—so hard to tell—and sent away for most of the day. Adem had to sit still, make small talk, pretend to like the soccer on TV, and try to keep his fear bottled like pop, not let it shake him up. Seven hours later Jibriil returned with five others and three dead bodies, one being a government soldier. The body was handed off to the younger boys, who tied rope around the naked man's foot and drug him through the street, gathering a crowd running after. Jibriil had been covered in blood and dust, caking on his skin. When Adem asked what had happened, his friend had smiled, reclined in his bunk with his hands behind his head.
"I did what I was asked to do."
And that was that.
But Adem knew Jabriil had a restless night, same as he had. The stink and heat of the room where he slept, too small for the twenty soldiers who slept there, kept him half-aware, half-dreaming. At one point, he dreamt that Jibriil was talking to him, telling him they were headed for glorious deaths, glorious afterlives, and then Adem blinked awake. There was Jibriil standing above him. Eyes wide. Adem held his breath. Another long moment, a minute? More? The white of his eyes hideously bright. Jibriil turned, laid back on his bed. Adem held his body tight and waited for sunrise.
He tried to doze on the corner. But then the girl. Then the fear.
"I want to fight," one of the soldiers said. "When do we get to fight?"
Adem asked, "When was the last time?"
"Couple of days ago. That's the thing. Between battles, it's boring."
Sure. Boring. Five prayers a day. Scared of everyone b
ecause Adem didn't know the enemy from his own people—not that it mattered. They might kill him as easily as the opposition. So many things were forbidden by Sharia that Adem had to be careful not to offend by accident, even if the soldiers all seemed to look the other way when it came to football, the internet, TV, and American rap. Again, Jibriil was his guide. Funny, since Jibriil had been the one who ditched school after eleventh grade. Got a job. Got new friends. Turned out he was studying harder than Adem thought under this "Rockstar Muhammad". Strange nickname, since the Imam was in his fifties and no doubt hated rock and pop and hip-hop and all the other soul-destroying music his followers clung to.
Jibriil laughed. "Ready for action, Adem? Getting impatient?"
The others laughed too. Pantomimed Adem all wide-eyed, rushing into the firefight. Another one of the gang. Adem knew he hadn't made much of an impression, and Jibriil was doing all he could to bring his friend into the conversation, make him sound like a true warrior. But both of them understood words could only go so far.
Another said, "How about lunch?"
That got them stirring, talking, moving. "This corner can watch itself for a while."
*
They all sat on the ground outside around a rug, one of many, under a ragged tarp. They were on the edge of town, an HQ growing from rummage and junk found in the streets or burned-out buildings. But then there were the fine command tents, or the rooms in these buildings set up with modern media—cameras, internet on laptops, flat screens—run by generators. Where did the money for that come from? Or for the tanks, trucks, guns, rocket launchers, the food? Adem wanted to ask. He wasn't sure if it was forbidden. Jibriil never brought it up. Someone somewhere was supporting this threadbare army very well.
The temperature under the tarp wasn't much cooler than it had been in the shade on the corner, but Adem was already beginning to be able to tell the difference between one hundred twenty degrees and one hundred fifteen. For lunch, flatbread, some sort of stewed meat, and rice. Water, not cold but not bad. Mostly clean. Adem tucked in, a few bites of gamey meat, not able to place the taste under all the spice. Crazy spice. He'd gotten used to the bland cafeteria meals on campus. Coughed as he swallowed. The water didn't help put out the fire. Someone passed a glass of milk along to him.
"No, no, too hot for milk."
"It helps ease the tongue. For girls who can't take their spice."
More laughter at Adem's expense. He was starting to feel like the class clown, except he hadn't done anything other than act like his usual self. Even surrounded by other Somalis, he was the odd man out.
He sipped the milk. The odor made him pause, like smoke. Like char. And it was warm. He held the glass away. The milk dribbled down his chin, thin as water.
"Come on, drink your milk. Makes you grow strong! Like a man!"
The aftertaste was cheese and salt. Was this some sort of trick? More hazing? He pushed ahead, tired of being the butt of the joke. Another swig. Strong, warm, not like the milk back home. But the sting in his mouth faded. Kept drinking, even as he gagged. Downed the whole thing. Felt ill. Less laughter when he was done. Some "Well done" and "He's getting better".
Jibriil leaned over and said quietly, "Just so you know, that's camel milk."
Adem's esophagus reacted on its own, backing up as he tried to swallow, making it worse. He turned from the group, letting loose behind him. The burn of the spice came back. The warmth of the milk, the saltiness.
Cheers all around. Shouting. "Pussy American boy. Can't kill a man if you can't handle your milk."
Adem tightened every muscle in his body. Forced himself to swallow. Counted to ten. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then turned to the other soldiers again. He motioned for another glass of milk.
One of the other boys, who they called Madoowbe, called for one of the women who had served them and refilled their glasses. One came with a pitcher, her guntiino striped orange, purple, and red that was almost pink. She reached out to pour. A long-sleeved t-shirt under the dress. Adem wondered how they could stand the heat. He'd seen Minnesota kids in winter wear shorts, so maybe it was the same idea. Plus the scarf wrapped around her head, revealing only her face.
And what a face. Must've been about his age. She wore thin wire-rimmed glasses. When she looked at him after pouring a full glass of the camel milk, it wasn't the shy, submissive look he'd gotten from most Somali women here the past three days. There was something different. Electric.
Adem picked up the glass, waved it around like giving the toast at a wedding, and then gulped it all down in one slow pull, the boys pushing him on. One of the younger teenagers, Abdi Erasto, took a photo with his cell phone. When Adem finished and slammed the empty glass back onto the rug, they waited just long enough to applaud him. He smiled. Winked at the girl who had poured the milk. "Thank you."
Her face lit up, a grin. Cheeks lifting. She left the table. Adem felt queasy but glad to be on everyone's good sides. "The server, she was my inspiration."
Quiet. Not the response he expected. A look at Jibriil, whose mouth was an "O", head subtly shaking. Adem turned to his food. He'd lost his appetite, even though he was starving. And he suspected that the mystery meat in the stew was also camel. He sat there drinking water, trying to chase the burn down his throat again.
A shout from across the room. A soldier standing, pointing at another. A man around the same age as Adem, but a hundred or more pounds heavier. He froze when the shouting started.
Two other soldiers approached the fat soldier, these in elaborate uniforms, Eyes visible but the rest of their faces hidden from view by scarves, red and white diamonds, twisted and wrapped around their heads tightly. AK-47s in their hands. So now the target began pleading, his voice pitched high.
"I didn't mean it. It was an accident. I didn't know." He began pulling flatbread from his pockets and from under his shirt, dropping them on the nearest rug. "I swear, I didn't."
"Don't swear." The soldiers closed. "Come with us."
"Please, no, it was a misunderstanding. I—"
One soldier lifted the butt of his rifle and slammed it into the fat guy's back. He scrunched, his shoulders contracting, but he stayed on his feet.
Adem said aloud before he could think about it, "What did he do? What's going on?"
No one answered.
"For nothing? They're taking him away for nothing?"
Madoowbe said, "Shut up. Don't get involved."
Adem thought about arguing, getting in deeper, when Jibriil said, "He stole that food. You saw how fat he was. He was taking food, stockpiling it for later. I'll bet he's done it before but happened to get caught this time."
"Didn't we have plenty of food? Was it really a big deal?"
"Everyone gets his fair share. He could've asked for more, though. Instead, he stole it. From the mouths of his own brothers. Can you imagine?"
Somber mood around the table. The others obviously either knew the thief or felt bad for him regardless.
"But…" Adem waved an arm at all of the rugs around them, overflowing with food. "There's more than enough."
"That's not the point." Madoowbe was pissed. Held a triangle of bread like a blade, shook it towards Adem. "We are modest. We await our reward in heaven instead of seeking momentary pleasure on Earth. And we don't steal."
It took all of his strength to not bring up the women on the road, the food the soldiers took. Not to mention the very land they'd taken by force and were eating on right then. Instead, he stifled his American side. Took a deep breath. Said to Jibriil, "What's going to happen to him?"
A shrug. "A court. Then punishment." He stood. "Let me go see what I can find out. I'll be back."
He went the same way the soldiers had marched the fat man earlier, disappeared around the corner of another tent.
Adem drank the rest of his water, thought about calling the serving girl over again, but remembered Jibriil's expression and decided against it. "So, how often does something l
ike that happen, anyway? I'd think it would only take one to—"
He stopped himself, seeing that all of his fellow soldiers were glaring at their rug, not eating, and sure as hell not interested in hearing anymore from the American.
Adem nodded. Killed time waiting for Jibriil by thinking of all the time the two had snowball fights in the streets outside their apartment building on snow days in Minneapolis. How if he tried really hard, he could feel the icy cannonballs explode against his skin, this time a blessing instead of a curse.
*
A while later, Jibriil reappeared. Adem had already gone back to his corner, this time only with one other boy, a real hardliner. Didn't say a word the whole time. Singing under his breath, praises to Allah, a bit of Wu-Tang, all that. Adem tried a couple of times—"Where are you from?" and "How long have you been here?"—but received clipped answers he couldn't even understand. So he gave up and reclined against the building while his partner squatted on the ground.
Adem stepped out to meet Jibriil in the middle of the street. "Where have you been? What was that all about?"
Jibriil looked around as if he hadn't heard. "Just you and Garaad here?"
"I don't know where everyone went. No one talks to me. This is…this isn't what I expected."
"I know, man, calm down. Easy." Jibriil patted a hand on Adem's shoulder. "It takes time. You've been spoiled. We both have."
"Yeah, but you're a natural. Look at you, already seen combat, they treat you like a hero."
Jibriil shook his head. "I do what I'm asked to do. That's all. It's not about me."
They stepped back to the corner, Jibriil and Garaad nodding at each other. Adem remembered that Garaad had been one of the soldiers who went along on Jibriil's mission the night before. They didn't speak either. Jibriil lifted the loose part of his scarf and wiped his forehead. Adem had thought of asking for one of the jungle hats he'd seen a few men wearing. His own scarf was beginning to stink.
Jibriil stared down the street, not so much at anything. "I think I can help you, but you've got to trust me."
All the Young Warriors Page 5
