No, not this bad. His jaw tightened. The pain behind his right molars ramped up. Not this bad.
The loser turned out to be the leader, it looked like. He got up, handed off the control to another one of his guys. A new game started, noisy and heavy. Made Bleeker's ears twinge.
The leader held his fist in one palm, looked them over like he'd probably seen some baddie in a movie look over the hero. Dumbass didn't remember that the hero always came out on top.
"Bahdoon. They fucked you up."
"Your guy? Roble? He gave it a shot. I'm still standing, but he's in jail."
A glance at Bleeker. "Big man, needed this cracker cop to help."
"He evened the odds. Made it two against three."
Bleeker noticed that the other bangers were deeply involved in the game, no one paying any attention to the conversation. Not even one guy backing up their leader.
He said, "So why don't you go back to playing with your toys and let us talk to whoever runs this little club of yours."
Mustafa went Shhhh. The iron-willed Black Ice Boy tried to look even meaner. Bleeker even expected some of that You dissin' me? bullshit. Then this Mustafa character, man oh man, went and ruined the play.
"Forget him. You know what it's like going from the farm to the city. He hasn't learned his manners."
Wanted to pull his pistol right there, arrest the whole room. The whole apartment. Even the mother, allowing this to go on so she could have a nice TV. Not like she ever got a chance to watch it. No father around to bring out the belt and discipline his sorry excuse for a son.
The Black Ice Boy stared down Bleeker, who gave it right back. On the tip of his tongue was Life's not like a movie.
The kid finally said, "How about we leave him here while you and I go talk to Teeth?"
Bleeker said, "Teeth?"
Mustafa said, "Sharp Teeth. He used to sharpen his canines until he went too far, hit a nerve. They pulled it. So now he's just Teeth."
"Ty!" The lieutenant called back at the kid. "You want to teach the Detective here—" To Bleeker, "What's your name?"
"Ray. The name I was born with, not some shit I made up."
Got a smile. "Probably cause you were Momma's little ray of sunshine." Then back to Ty. "Sit him down, let him play a while. Keep him company while we see Teeth."
"Alright, yeah."
Then the lieutenant held out his hand to Bleeker, who thought he wanted to shake. Then, "I'll need your piece. You can stay, but I'm not leaving you here strapped, you feel me?"
"Fuck you."
Mustafa didn't say anything. Hands in his jacket pockets.
"Not going to happen."
"Then Bahdoon here ain't going to see Teeth, and there's a good chance neither one of you will, uh, have a good night, if you know what I'm saying."
Bleeker took a step towards the kid. He wanted to make threats? But Mustafa held out his hand.
"Give it to me, then. I'll be right back."
Jesus, his jaw. Throbbing. He opened wide, closed. Opened wide again. This was supposed to help, but instead he felt the familiar clicking that he knew made it worse. Shit. He'd come this far, so why not trust Mustafa a little farther? He pulled out the piece, dropped the magazine, racked the slide and sent the chambered round flying. Caught it. Put the magazine and extra round in his pocket before setting the gun in Mustafa's palm. Mustafa slipped it into his waistband at his back.
"Good enough?"
Another curled lip, chin nod at Bleeker. "Ray's cool. Let him sit with y'all on the couch."
Fine. Bleeker held up surrender palms and stepped over wires and slid past gangbangers who didn't give way. The Black Ice Boys had cleared a space for him, dead center of the couch where the cushions met. He sat, sank deep. A couple of the guys sat by him, really squeezing him in. One handed him a control.
"Ever played one of these?"
He shook his head, looked towards the door as Mustafa and the lieutenant walked through and closed it behind them.
One of his guardians explained the buttons, thumbstick, triggers, and Bleeker nodded for all of it, didn't understand a word. He hoped the kids on the floor around his legs, leaning against the couch, wouldn't bump into him and feel his back-up revolver.
The game began and everyone laughed at how bad Bleeker was. Crashing, getting stuck, getting blown away by competitors. Always a big black thumb or finger reaching over to help him out. Steady, patient. Except the kid with the other controller, who at first was boastful of how bad he was beating Bleeker until the tide in the room turned and everyone wanted Bleeker to do better. They cheered him on, his opponent getting pissed, slapping Bleeker on the leg, telling him to get his ass straight. The play got more aggressive. Bleeker getting slapped around, squished between the bruisers, assaulted by the goddamned noise. No idea how long it was taking. A minute? Ten? Thirty?
When the game was over, he tried to hand the control off to another challenger. But it was placed gently back into his hands. "No, man. You up again."
About then he saw the woman he'd suspected had been here all along. Through the kitchen door, where Bleeker could see a nice stainless-steel fridge, couldn't have been too old. The son must've been a giving sort. The mother peeked around the corner at the action in the room, arms crossed. A long cigarette held between two fingers. She didn't look Somali. A bit plump, short, wearing sweatpants and a green t-shirt, the name of a church screened onto it, and beneath, "Spring Revival Days, 2006". Flip-flops. Big cheeks and a dull expression.
Bleeker started off the couch, had to rock himself up. His guards were up, hands on his shoulders gently pressing him back towards the couch. The music on the game looped, starting all over again. Waiting for someone to press Start.
"Excuse me, ma'am. I was wondering if I could talk to you while I'm waiting? Maybe you've got some coffee?"
Hands on his shoulders tighter now.
The woman didn't look at him. Stared at the TV instead, the cacophony of whatever the hell sort of hip-hop this was blaring from the stock speakers making Bleeker clench tighter.
The woman shook her head slightly. "None of my business." She disappeared back into the kitchen.
He was thrown back onto the couch. A controller thrown at him, almost striking him in the face before he made a grab, juggled it a sec. All the boys were standing now. One of them, in a plain white t-shirt that reached nearly to the middle of his thighs, said, "This time, you're going solo. Every time you die, you're gonna get bitch slapped, understand?"
"You little shitstain, you want to try it?" Itching for a fight now. Outnumbered, but by the time he'd put the weak ones out of commission with some simple Ranger moves, he could focus on the big boys. Might be fun.
Another one of them pulled out a gun from his jeans—nice one, too. Glock, 10MM. Powerful mojo. He turned it around in his hand, lifted and dropped it like a hammer. "Going to hurt, man. Better keep your eye on the road."
Bleeker had to get his revolver. Had to do something to distract them so he could make a grab. Hoped shooting the one kid in the shoulder might scare the rest into hitting the ground.
"Start the game, Five-oh."
He did his best to ignore them. What could he do that would get them all looking the other way?
"I said, start the game." One of those big hands reaching down, covering his, pressing his thumb down way too hard on the start button. Thought he heard something crack, hoped it was the plastic controller.
The countdown started onscreen—3, 2, 1, GO!
He drove. Slowly. Couldn't crash if he drove slowly. Inching along, taking his time at the first turn in the road. The Black Ice Boys erupted—laughs, jeers, "Motherfucker", "Aw no no no no".
"Come on, man, play it right."
Eyes on the screen. "I am playing it right. You didn't say I had to win. Just stay alive."
"We changing the rules. Drive faster."
"You can't do that." Eyes on the screen. Steady forward. Staying alive. "Rules are rule
s."
"Our place, our rules."
Bleeker kept his mouth shut. Eyes on the screen. Steady forward.
One of the bruisers called for the gun. "Hey, come slap this bitch."
"That's not what you said! You said not to die!"
"Man, fuck this." One of the guys grabbed the other controller. Paused it. All turned to Bleeker.
The one with the Glock tightened his grip, took a step and swung his arm, picking up speed and power.
Bleeker grabbed his wrist and held it steady like grabbing a tennis ball out of the air. Squeezed. Yanked that kid towards him. Face to face. Kid's face twisted in pain.
"Hey hey hey, I was just playin'! Let me go. Shit, let me go!"
"Drop the gun."
Kid dropped the gun onto the couch. Bleeker reached across and grabbed it before anyone made a move. Not yet, but he sensed it. All of them tensing their muscles. Ready to rush him.
He tightened his grip on the kid's wrist. "The gun loaded?"
A nod.
"One in the chamber?"
"Just, just, just, like three bullets, man. All I got left."
That's when the apartment door opened, and in walked Mustafa followed by a new guy who made all the tensed-up Black Ice Boys relax. Must have been Teeth. A bit tubby, fat-necked. Coffee brown skin, some big moles on his cheeks, one right above his top lip. Wearing a soft leather hat, seventies style. His eyes went wide when he saw Bleeker, gun in hand, holding onto one of his gangstas.
"Shiiiit, Bahdoon, the fuck is this?"
Mustafa, maybe a bit amused. "Ray, you tell me."
How was he going to play it? Would Mustafa back his move? And one of their mothers in the kitchen. Teeth's mom? Could the music on this goddamn game get any more annoying?
Bleeker dropped the magazine from the Glock, shoved both into the couch cushions, then let go of the kid's wrist. Gave him a shove back. He fell on his ass.
"All I was doing was playing the game, buddy. Their game, their rules."
He stood from the couch, walked past the bangers and stood behind Mustafa.
Teeth grinned, huffed. Bit of a laugh hidden in it. "You alright."
Bleeker looked away. The door. He wanted out that door.
Teeth and Mustafa shook hands, slapped backs. The gang leader said, "Truce until you figure this out, man. I hope your boy's okay."
"Me too."
"We'll deal with Roble. Don't you mind."
"For real, Teeth. Thanks. I mean it."
He turned to Bleeker, nodded at the door. No need to tell him twice. He walked out into the hall. The lieutenant from earlier was there, leaning against the doorjamb across the hall, talking to someone through the door, opened a crack and secured by a thin chain. Talking low. Soon as they saw Bleeker, the door closed. The banger gave him another sneer.
Mustafa was out a second behind him, closing Teeth's door, then giving Bleeker a push. "Walk fast. Don't look back."
Down to the far end, turned a corner. They skipped the elevator and headed towards the stairwell, Mustafa picking up pace, passing the detective while pulling out his cell phone. Texted with one hand. Shoved the phone back into his pocket.
Bleeker yelled at Mustafa's back. "What the hell was that all about?"
Still moving on. "Stupid, man. Goddamned stupid."
"They played rough. I did what you told me, but I wasn't going to get pistol whipped."
"You pull some Chuck Norris Texas Ranger on them, and now I'm not sure we're going to get out of the building alive."
"I was an Army Ranger."
"I know that. I get it. What I'm saying is that Teeth's a stone cold liar. He wants to collect on me. But he can't do it on his own. He doesn't touch the guns, no way he'd kill somebody directly. One of his boys will. And he's not going to be able to leash them now because of you."
"I swear, I did what you said to do."
Mustafa reached back beneath his jacket as they walked, pulled out Bleeker's pistol and handed it back to him, clumsily, wobbling it. Bleeker took hold. Pulled the magazine out of his pocket and slammed it home. Forget the Plus One round. He'd get the job done.
Bleeker said, "Did he even give you anything?"
"We need to talk to Al Jones. Not his real name, but he's going around recruiting gang kids for the holy war. Looking for real bad apples. Not sure how he found Jibriil, but somehow, they hooked up."
"They're going to warn him that we're looking for him."
"Last thing they want is to mess with extremists. Maybe the cops shine a flashlight looking for roaches, but the Feds shine a floodlight looking for rats."
Some doors along the hallway opened a crack, peeking. Others were wide open, people hanging out, glaring. Loud music, loud TV, none of it making sense. Bleeker heard some mumbling, like "Bahdoon thinks he's something, look at him," and "Come back here, the nerve, man," "Want me to take him? Get the prize?" Everywhere, the smell of smoke, and grease from fried food, and the spices he'd only ever smelled in Somali homes and stores back home.
No one came out and made a try for Mustafa. No one taunted the man to his face, always after they'd passed, low tones. Made Bleeker wonder how evil of a bastard this guy had been before his conversion. Like Saul of Tarsus, persecuting the Christians, then getting knocked on his ass with Jesus Love.
At the stairwell they started down, two steps at a time, Mustafa finally grabbing his own pistol. Bleeker hadn't realized he was strapped. Two floors. Three. Then they heard the noise above them. Scuffling, hurrying. Bleeker leaned over, looked up. Nothing.
"Let's go. No need to look."
Bleeker caught up. On the second floor, the hallway door banged open. Both men brought their guns up, ready to fire. Scared the hell out of some kids. Young teenagers, a boy and two girls. The girls, lip-glossed and eye-linered, and the boy in a parka too big for him.
The girls screamed. The boy's eyes went wide. Hands up. "No! I swear! I don't know nothing! Mr. Bahdoon, please, I didn't do anything!"
Mustafa let out a breath, eased up on the gun. "Go back home. Do not go outside."
He nodded, pushed the girls into the hallway. The door closed again, air-cushioning into place.
First floor. Stairwell to the outside was open, door off the hinges. Mustafa stopped on the second step. Bleeker was three behind him. Couldn't see why. Outside the door, a patch of light on a small patch of concrete.
Like Mustafa was frozen. It didn't make sense.
"They're coming fast, man. Let's go."
Mustafa glanced back over his shoulder. He nodded. But Bleeker could tell he did not want to go through that door. About to have his John Dillinger moment. Or what was the rapper who got shot? Nefarious F.A.T.? Like that sort of thing. Guts and glory.
Mustafa crept to the door, careful to keep to one side. He shoved his gun down his waistband. Bleeker's breath caught. He took aim dead center of the darkness beyond the door. What was this?
Mustafa called out, "Who's out there?"
Nothing.
Louder. "Who's out there?"
Some rustling. Some footsteps. A shadow on the concrete. Bleeker closed one eye. Two handed the gun like he was on the range. Center mass. The shadow grew, darkened. Then a man in the door.
A white man, jeans and a pea coat, wool hat. "Yeah, Bahdoon. I'm here."
Bleeker dropped his gun. Stupid. Was about to raise it up again, thinking, Right, I just assume the first white man I see wouldn't kill us?
Mustafa exhaled. Shoulders dropped. "Shit."
The white man looked at Bleeker, said, "It's cool. I know this guy. I heard he might be back here when he knows he shouldn't be."
Mustafa said, "All clear out there, Knuth?"
"Jimmy's holding down the squad. No one's doing anything."
Mustafa stood with his chin down. Eyes closed. "Okay."
"We'll get you back to your car. We checked. Some of their guys were keeping an eye on it, but we chased them off. You're good."
Bleeker, hands on h
ips. "I'm feeling left out over here."
Knuth reached his hand for a shake. "John Knuth, Sergeant, MPD. Let's say Mustafa and I have an understanding."
Mustafa's hands weren't so steady. He looked at Bleeker. "I'll tell you in the car. We have to go."
They stepped through the door into the darkness. Bleeker followed. Felt like a million eyes were on him. He couldn't see any one of them, but the hair on the back of his neck, on his ears, his arms, all let him know they were there. Watching. Aiming. Choosing.
The cop named Jimmy was a giant, filled up most of the front seat. Knuth asked for the banger's keys before Mustafa and Bleeker climbed into the back. Mustafa handed them over without thinking. Maybe Jimmy was going to take Bleeker back to the hotel or to grab a bite. He was starving. Something soft because his jaw was on fire. A burrito, maybe.
Mustafa didn't say a word. The squad took some corners, finally made it to the curb where Mustafa had left his car. The partner jumped out. Mustafa waited for him to open the door. But that wasn't happening.
He leaned back, spoke through the cage. "Sorry, man. Orders. I'm driving your car back to the station. Someone wants to have a talk with you guys."
Mustafa leaned forward, a tiger rushing the cage bars. "You piece of shit! It's not even funny. Let me out, Knuth. Now. This is bullshit."
Knuth shook his head. "What were you thinking tonight? Jesus, man."
"Let us out!"
"Don't worry about it. It's nothing."
He slammed the door as Mustafa shouted his name. Kept shouting.
Jimmy said, "Don't make me spray you."
Mustafa sat back, fell against the door. Knuth got into the yellow car, cranked up.
Bleeker tapped on the cage. "Hey, Jimmy, how about some drive-through? I'll buy you a couple of tacos."
"I'll think about it. Thanks."
Bleeker watched the street as they drove away, the clumps of kids trying to be bad. Trying. Some succeeding, but most doing what kids do—trying to grow up too fast. He'd never tell Mustafa, but he felt like shit. Would've broken some bones over a video game. Who the hell did he think he was?
All the Young Warriors Page 9
