"Shit! No, no, no, I'm going home! I didn't do anything!" Crying, too. Kicking at the hands. Kicking. He was sliding.
One shot. Pistol. Wayne screamed, reached for his foot. It was shredded, bleeding. More hands. Wayne slid from the truck, banged his head against the frame on the way down to the street.
Adem launched for the driver's side. Tried the key again. Nothing but clicking. Soldiers now grabbed for his arm. Adem brought the rifle around in his right hand, turned it. Squeezed the trigger.
Loud like lots of little bombs. Ringing ears. Spent jackets burned his face as they were ejected. Someone outside grabbed the barrel and gave it a hard tug. Adem let it go, too disoriented to stop them.
And he was next, thrown to the ground. He saw legs and dust and the shape of a man who might have been Wayne, middle of the street, surrounded by soldiers. Screams.
A boot at his face. Cracked Adem's nose. Another shot followed it. Then another. More boots, all over his body. Balls, back, knees, chest, fingers. One kick after another. Cries of "Rat!" and "Deserter!" and "Traitor!" and "American Bastard!"
Adem couldn't answer. His lip had been split, mouth full of blood he kept spitting. He shook badly. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to be sent home or allowed to die.
Two soldiers grabbed Adem under his armpits, pulled him to his knees. Everything was pain. Waves of it. He tried to think about Lake Superior, the waves rolling in. But they turned to storm waves, angry and dark. He felt one crash against him. Opened his eyes. Still in Somalia. A solider had thrown water on his face, now reached down and rubbed the dirt and blood away. It was the one Adem had grabbed by the shirt. Looked at his filthy hand and gave it a shake. Mud and water flung back onto Adem's face. The soldiers holding him dragged him to the circle of soldiers, let him through. Someone was going on and on, reading from the Quran. Loud and on edge. Wayne was on his knees, being held in place. Several younger soldiers stood behind him. They faced a boy with a handheld video camera.
Adem was too weak to put up a fight. More waves of shocking pain. One eye swollen shut. A hand slapped his cheek. "Stay awake. Watch what happens because of you."
The boy reading from the Quran kept on. Another solider pulled a knife from his belt, wiped it on his pants. He took over from the one holding Wayne. Grabbed him by the hair and forced him to his stomach. Wayne fought and kicked. Shouting for help. A soldier stepped forward, grabbed his legs. The boy with the knife knelt on Wayne's shoulder blades.
Adem tried to turn away. He knew what was next. He was slapped again, then his face pushed until he had no choice but to look. Tried to close his good eye. His minder forced it open with two fingers.
By then, Wayne's shouting had stopped. They'd already started on him, sliced right through his throat. Geysers of blood when he hit the arteries. Wayne's face like a Halloween mask. The boy with the knife kept sawing. The knife tore through gristle, hit bone. More sawing as the boy sliced around the entire neck. He stepped back. Another solider grabbed Wayne's head two-handed, lifted it easy, like a melon. Blood dripped from the neck. Oozed from the body, the hard ground soaking it up.
They brought the head to Adem, who was gagging, trying not to throw up. They held Wayne's head in front of his face. "This is what you did. And Allah will have your head next. You're next."
Wayne's face. It was like Wayne was saying it. Eyes closed, lips tight, but Wayne's voice: "Look at what you did."
"No, God, no, I want to go home. I just want to go home."
A hard blow to the back of his skull. The two men holding him let him go. He flopped to the ground face first. Still heard the reading of the Quran, like background noise. Another voice on top of it: "This is what happens to traitors and deserters. Adem came telling us he was a brother, one of us. He spoke with the Devil's tongue. All lies. This is what happens to liars!"
He was on his way to oblivion and sweet dreams of home as someone grabbed his hair and lifted his face. Lake Superior. He'd gone there one or two summers, once with the high school chorus. He could stare at the Lake forever. Something magical about it. Too cold to swim in, full of stories of lost lives, lost ships. But maybe the most peaceful place Adem had ever been.
His own voice echoed in his head: You won't feel a thing. Not one thing.
TWELVE
"Short leash."
That was the phrase the police captain had used several times after hearing their story. Which was much better than what he'd started with, aimed squarely at Mustafa: "Prison. Finally get to throw your ass in prison."
Bleeker took most of the blame. He'd come too far to let Mustafa take the fall. Said he had bullied Mustafa into taking him along, a sad guy who'd lost his woman, his child, and his sense of right and wrong.
"Really, I shouldn't have. I should've come to you guys for assistance, instead, but, well…" and a shy shrug to finish it out.
Another half-hour of battering from the captain and one of the Gang Task Force officers who couldn't stand the sight of Mustafa. Burning a hole through him, crossing his arms. Pretty typical posturing. Maybe if they'd ease up on the hate and realize what a true convert they had in Mustafa, he might help them really make a dent in the gangs around here. At least, Bleeker thought the guy was a convert. Saved his ass once already when it would've been easier to let the wolves have him.
Bleeker held them off. He was used to talking his way back to shore. Told them they'd learned nothing from Teeth. Nothing. Bleeker mimed washing his hands.
He knew Mustafa was ready to tell them, too. It was Bleeker who stepped on his words, pushed ahead with, "Guy was playing big shot with us. I think he liked having Bahdoon come calling on him. Showed how important he was."
So it came down to "You tried, you didn't get what you needed, so that's it." The captain slouched deep in his office chair, elbow on the armrest, palm holding up his chin. Made it hard to understand him. "I'm really sorry, Detective. Terrible what happened, my God, really terrible. Wish I could bend the rules for you, but, well, rules are rules to keep us safe, you know."
"It's hard, a guy like me, sitting on the sidelines."
"Oh yeah, absolutely. Geez, I hear you. We'll keep you updated, of course. I'm hoping Mr. Bahdoon is wrong about the boys ending up in Somalia. I thought that had stopped some time ago, but we'll look into it. Anything we can do, we will."
Bleeker stood and reached across the desk. The captain took his time creaking out of the chair, like he had bad knees already and hadn't hit fifty. Shook the man's hand. He gave Mustafa, still seated, a We're not done look. It wasn't going to be pretty.
But then Bleeker clamped a hand on Mustafa's shoulder. Said, "I think I owe my friend here breakfast before I head home. Even though we came up blank, he did a good job of getting us in and out safely, no drama."
The captain, all smiles. The gang cop rolled his eyes and left the room without another word.
"Sure, sure. Really redeemed himself, I tell you."
Like Mustafa wasn't even in the room.
Outside, Mustafa pulled his cap over his ears. Told Bleeker, "I'm not hungry."
Bleeker could read his face. Enough of hanging with this cracker cop. Gonna fuck it up for me.
"Neither am I. But I will be after five cups of coffee. Come on."
Couple of minutes, Mustafa looking left, right, tapping his foot. Then, "Fine. I know a place."
*
They ended up right back in Seward, closer to the University, at Pizza Luce. Beer for Bleeker, water for Mustafa, a baked potato pizza instead of breakfast. Going to close the place, it looked like. Al Jones would have to wait another day. But it wasn't so bad. Bleeker had downshifted out of his take-charge attitude, at least after the first beer, which he drained in under a minute. Ordered another.
As Mustafa sipped, Bleeker said, "Not a drinker, then. Religious?"
He nodded. "I'm trying. It's hard sometimes here, so much to distract you."
"That's got to be better than being over there."
"M
ost of the Somalis in Minneapolis now, yes, they still follow Islam. It's part of who they are. But so many things they would never dream of doing in the homeland, here it is nothing. Women have so many more options. So much more worldly shit." A smile. "Guess my language could use some work, but like I said, it's hard. You heard about Somali cabbies here? They won't pick you up if you're carrying alcohol."
"You kidding?"
"It was a big deal. They flat out refused."
"Because of their religion?"
Mustafa grinned. "What I think? It's to fuck with white people."
They both laughed. The pizza arrived. They each grabbed three slices. The booze had Bleeker starving, but it had eased his jaw pain. Chewing through these slices, though, it would be right back, worse than ever.
Mustafa downed half a slice in a bite, then asked, "Please, don't take this the wrong way—"
"Well now there's no other way I can take it."
"—No, wait, I'm just asking, how did you become the expert on Somalis in New Pheasant Run? Seems to me you don't know as much as I would expect."
"Or hope?"
Shrug. "Was it something you wanted? Or did it somehow…happen?"
Bleeker kicked out one of the empty chairs at their table, propped his boot on the edge of it. "I was in Iraq for the first war. Army Rangers."
"That's a long way from Somalia."
"But not from Muslims. Lots of day-to-day dealing with them, learning the body language, how they argued, how they expressed themselves, you know? What the rules were. I had to break a hell of a lot of them to learn, though." A long swig of beer, like he had to consider what he said next. "It's not like I accept it or believe any of their bullshit. Sorry, your bullshit, I guess."
"Forget it."
"We were killers, not regular infantry. Biggest disappointment was sitting around waiting to do stuff, doing patrols where some guy stole another guy's goat."
"A goat?" Mustafa pushed air through his teeth. "That's pretty serious, a goat."
"Now you're messing with me."
"Really, a goat is currency. It's milk and cheese and all that. Yeah, it's like stealing a car."
"Maybe not a car, but I get it now." Bleeker took a couple of bites. "How about you? Were you there? In the middle of the Somali war?"
"Not this one."
"But you were there for something?"
Mustafa shook his head. "We left before I was five. Moved all over. I was in Kenya for seven, eight years. Then we moved to Minneapolis. That's the way it was with a lot of us. Move before the boys turn five."
"What's that about?"
"Because when you're five, you're old enough to hold a gun, and they come for you. They want you young."
Nothing else to say. Around them, a handful of quiet hipster conversations as the college kids waited out the wait staff, having not decided exactly who to take back to their dorm rooms yet. A good life, if they could get back without getting mugged.
Mustafa pointed at the students. "I wish Adem was at one of those tables, even if it meant being dreadlocked or wearing nerd glasses. I would have given him a hard time about it, but I would've been proud too. So much better than going back to the homeland."
Bleeker nodded, said, "So I get back from Iraq, I rotate through a couple of jobs. Sugar beet plant. Farm co-op. But I liked watching shows like NYPD Blue, Law & Order. I liked that, what those guys were doing. It was romantic. So I took a chance, rose through the ranks. See, at least having a little Muslim experience helped at first, and then I stumbled through Somali customs the same as I did the Iraqis. I'm not the smartest at it, I know. But I'm willing. It's easier for me than the other detectives. That's all."
"Fate, then."
"More like an accident. I wish I had a better story for you, I do. But that's all there is." He felt the eyes of the wait staff, the cooks, some already pouring themselves beers, waiting patiently to head off to whatever late-night bars would have them after 3AM. "I'm sure you've got a better one. Bad ass gangsta turned honorable citizen."
"This again?"
Bleeker looked at the empty beer glass in his hand. Odds were it wasn't getting a refill. "You don't seem like an asshole or anything. But you're one of these hip-hop guys. Carrying a Glock. Putting caps in asses. Three dead by your hand, that's the rumor."
Mustafa pointed to Bleeker's propped foot. "Cowboy boots in the snow? You one of those cowboys? Pick-up truck and big hat? Redneck?"
"What happened to you?"
"I guess I grew up. Here I was, married with a little boy, playing gangstas. Drugs, and I didn't even do that shit. Then, like, why should I give a shit if some guy from another gang comes on my turf? Just wants to go buy some shoes, eat some pizza. Why should I care, go off and shoot his ass? Watched how easy it would be for Adem and that idiot Jibriil to get sucked in like I had. I don't want him to become like I was. And then…they started dealing with women. Trafficking, for sex. Good Somali women, girls. I mean…" Shook his head. Closed his eyes.
"Could have turned yourself in. Done your time."
Mustafa grinned, a sad one. "Having his father in jail would've been as glamorous to the boy as if I was still banging. In jail, I would've ruled, man. Instead, I got a job. Being working class, that's worse than death."
Bleeker grinned too. Waved his hand towards the server, who rolled her eyes on the way over. Bleeker asked for the check, then called her back, told her to split it. Owed Mustafa breakfast, sure, right.
Waiting to get their cards back, Bleeker asked, "So tomorrow night? Al Jones?"
Mustafa sighed. "You heard the captain. I can't afford to."
"Then I'll go find him on my own. I'm still a pretty good detective even if I'm not on my home field."
"Listen, Jones will already have been tipped off. We're not getting to him by knocking on the door. It's going to take some negotiation."
"And I can't do that."
"You have to know people, and how to smooth things over. It's about respect."
They got their receipts, signed their names, and pocketed their cards. On the way out, Bleeker zipped up his jacket, got in front of Mustafa and stopped him.
"I'm not going home to sit and think about my dead girlfriend. I won't do it. Especially in the same house as the wife I cheated on. Call me heartless or a coward or whatever. I want someone to tell me why this kid shot her. Someone who really knows."
Mustafa kept his eyes on the ground. "It won't make you feel any better."
"Don't care."
Students from another table brushed past them in the doorway, out into the snow, paired up, ready to ride out the rest of the night, sleep until noon, drink coffee together and then pretend it never happened.
Mustafa said, "Yeah, Adem should've been here, arm around the pretty thin brown-haired girl with the green-framed glasses and hoop earrings. Talking about movies, you know. Music." He cleared his throat, sniffed. "I think I know how to get to Al Jones."
Bleeker opened the door, held it for Mustafa. "Tomorrow night, then?"
"Your car this time."
Outside, Bleeker called a cab. He shook hands with Mustafa, who headed for his car, parked a block away. Bleeker wondered what it was like—like someone had a bead on you every step, every day. He flinched a little, waiting for the shot, waiting for Mustafa to fall dead in the street. It never came. Maybe it would happen somewhere down the line. But that night, he got in his yellow car and drove away.
THIRTEEN
The heat didn't make sense. The lake he stood on was frozen. He looked down at mittens, a thick parka. Ears were covered. Breath billowing out in thick clouds. But he was hot. Sweating. Looked around for a source. Not a soul. Not a heater. Not a fire. Above, the sun was barely there, obscured by fast-moving clouds.
Adem couldn't take it. He clawed at the zipper on his parka, not dealing well with his mittens. Since when did he wear mittens? Maybe as a kid, but it had been a long time. The fingers inside felt like one big flipper. He struggled w
ith the zipper, felt as if some invisible hand was fighting back. Over there, almost to the horizon, was something man-shaped. His father, had to be. Big man. He ran across the ice, farther and farther until he couldn't see shore. Kept yanking at the zipper until it caught near the bottom, open enough so that he could free his arms, push it down his legs and step out. A sweater underneath. He pulled that off too. Then his undershirt. Bare-skinned in the cold. But it wasn't cold at all. Tried to get his mittens off but they wouldn't come loose. Again, the invisible hand fought him. His dad was still as far away as before.
He sat down on the ice. Laid down. His chest and face against the slick, cloudy surface. Should be painful. Glorious shivering pain. But there was nothing. Only the dull throb of his head, growing worse every moment. The sweat. The heat. He wanted to scream. Instead he closed his eyes.
And opened them again in bed, staring at a mosquito net, a curtain beyond that, open enough to show him a long room full of curtained off beds. He thought he caught sight of a bare concrete wall past the foot of his bed.
And it was hot. No ice.
Sitting at his bedside was a woman, watching him as if she was expecting him to wake up. A familiar face. The eyes. The lips, almost like Mona Lisa's smile. The girl who poured his camel's milk.
"You're back with us?"
In English. Flawless, with a British accent. Was he still in Africa?
The throbbing was coming from all over. Aches like he was still being punched. Raised his left hand to his head. Three fingers were wrapped together in tape. The other hand, his pinkie and fourth finger bound together. Felt his head. Bandages around his temple, across his nose. A broken nose. Damn. He creaked his neck until he could see the rest of himself. Lifted the sheet. Bandages everywhere, bruises spilling out from the edges.
"Can you hear me, Adem?"
He nodded at her. Tried to talk, but his mouth was dry. "Um…water?"
She held up a glass with a straw. He sipped, and his body took over, craving more and more. He hit bottom and kept on sucking, the woman having to pry the straw from his teeth.
All the Young Warriors Page 11
