“Take me with you,” Akinwole said.
He was zipped into a grey overcoat with a small blue canvas knapsack in his hand. No hat.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“I must leave here,” he said.
“Don’t you have a job? You can’t walk away.”
“I have not gone to work in two weeks,” he said. “I am at the end of my rope. Nothing is going my way.”
“You quit your job?”
“No. The market has been unkind to my business. They called it a career change opportunity.”
He shivered in the rain. It seemed wrong to leave him. My foot pushed on the gas. The engine howled to be set free.
“Got a passport?”
He nodded. Raindrops rolled off his cheeks.
“Yes. British. Got the US visa months ago on a wish.”
“Well, let’s go, I guess.”
He came around to the passenger side of the Firebird and opened the door. The little knapsack was tossed into the back seat with my plastic bags. He slumped down beside me.
He rubbed his face and said, “I have never been to America.”
“Fasten your seat belt,” I said.
My foot eased off the clutch in search of the action point. The Firebird lunged forward. Akinwole was thrown back. His eyes widened. His mouth opened. No sound came out. His fingers dug into the dash. The tires squealed across the slick pavement. A haze of rocks and dirt sprayed everywhere. The car spun around. My head bounced from side to side. I fought the wheel before the beast could climb over the curb and tear apart the motel office. A metal garbage can flew into the air, clanged through the parking lot, and crashed into the bus stop by the street. So much for the paint job.
“Don’t you know how to drive?” Akinwole shouted over the racket.
“No problem,” I said and steered the car into the road.
We fishtailed a bit more before the Firebird settled down. Second gear slipped smoothly into third and up into fourth, the clutch now more familiar. Soon, the engine stopped wailing. Akinwole released his grip on the dash to clip in his seat belt. He blew out a long breath like a steam train at a full stop.
All that restoration time at Myers Motors had paid off; the Firebird chewed up the highway with ease. Everything hummed and clicked with mechanical precision. We were on our way.
After an hour of silence, Akinwole said, “If you get tired, I can drive. In my country we all drive shift.”
“Okay,” I said. “For now, navigate.”
I handed him Shirley Rose’s envelope and tapped the return address.
“Our first stop is Detroit. There’s a map in the glove compartment. See if you can get us to this place. Assuming you get across the border.”
“The only thing my parents did right was put me up for adoption. When I was thirteen, I went to live with a family in England and acquired a British passport. America loves the Brits.”
I laughed. “Well, in case they say you’re on some African terrorist list, I’m going to say you’re a hitchhiker.”
“And when it turns out you are on some asshole list, I will say I was abducted.”
He studied the address on the letter.
“Why are we going here? Who is Shirley Rose Holbert from Detroit?”
“A friend of a friend. Don’t worry about it. I just need to drop something off. It won’t take long,” I said.
Ben and Barry’s cellphone started. A custom ring tone that barked like an angry dog. It took a moment to comprehend the sound until Akinwole pointed to the phone on the dash.
“How’s the car?” said Barry or Ben.
“Good,” I said. “Lively.”
“You’re keeping the RPMs down, right?”
“Yes, it’s all under control.”
“What’s the odometer reading now?”
I read it out.
“We’ll call you later to get the oil changed. And you don’t have that African fella with you, right?”
“Nope.”
“Good. When you get to the border, the car’s papers are in an envelope under your seat, like we told you before. People deliver cars across the border all the time, so you should have no problem. Don’t fuck this up.”
The line disconnected.
I looked at Akinwole, who was going through the glove compartment for the map.
“Seems those guys really can read the tracking device.”
“If I knew where they put it, I would remove it,” he said. “Something is not right about them.”
“Well, they don’t like you either, brother. They made a point of asking if I left you behind.”
“I am grateful you agreed to take me. I was ready to snap,” Akinwole said. “Though they sacked me, I was up every morning, dressed in my suit like I still had a job. I went to the food court by the College Park subway and sat there all day, reading newspapers people left behind.”
“Sounds insane,” I said.
“Yes, it was.”
He fell silent and watched the road unroll until his eyes drooped closed. His mouth hung open. Akinwole was out.
I tuned the radio to some classical music and let him sleep. My life looked better all the time.
SEVENTEEN
America
WHEN WE STARTED over the Ambassador Bridge, I nudged Akinwole from his slumber. The armed border guards tending to their heroic duty to protect the free world from terrorists, smugglers, and criminals wouldn’t tolerate anything less than our full attention. The Maple Leaf and the Stars and Stripes flapped together in the wind on the bridge’s railing to mark where the border stood. Akinwole rubbed his eyes and looked out over the Detroit River, slippery and grey.
“America,” he said.
This wet morning, there was almost no traffic. Drizzle chilled the air. We drove through a web of electronics and cameras that probed the car. We surrendered our papers to a customs officer who waved us into a well-lit covered parking area, where more closed-circuit cameras watched us walk into the main building. Inside, we took a number in a grey waiting room with yellow plastic chairs bolted to the floor. A couple of young skinheads in track suits sulked in a corner. A Chinese woman whispered with two old men in another. A portrait of the president beamed down on us. He looked happy to have us come to America.
When our number was called, a uniformed haircut behind bulletproof glass examined the car’s papers. He flipped through our passports. He looked us over.
“Wait here,” he said and stepped away from his post through a door.
“What is wrong?” Akinwole whispered.
“Why’s anything wrong?” I whispered back.
“First they flag us over. Then the man goes into a room. How can that be good?”
“They’re checking the car’s papers.”
Akinwole shook his head. “They’ve lost their way, these people. The gestapo has taken over.”
“Cool it,” I said, in hopes he’d stop.
“They suffer from grassy knollism and love military drama,” he said, “like those crazy people in Myanmar or North Korea, only without the funny uniforms and much more money.”
“Shut up,” I said. “These people take this seriously.”
I’d agreed to take him along because I’d felt sorry for his miserable state. Now it was plain that Akinwole could also be a real ornery character, liable to get us into deeper trouble than I was prepared for.
The Haircut returned. He passed back Akinwole’s passport under the glass.
“You’re good to go. Welcome to America, sir,” he said.
For a moment, Akinwole looked disappointed. He’d expected a fight. Instead, they’d tossed out the welcome mat. Now he couldn’t say I told you so. He slipped the passport into his pocket.
“America loves the Brits,” he said.
The Haircut pointed at me. “We need to talk to you. Come around the counter and follow me, please.”
Akinwole said, “If you are not out in an hour, I will find
you a lawyer.”
The Haircut led the way into a small, windowless room with white cinder-block walls. A metal table and chair were pushed up into a corner. Bright fluorescent tubes glowed overhead. The process was unfamiliar. I assumed this was how the business with cars and borders was conducted.
“Someone will be with you shortly,” he said.
I tried the door after he left. Locked.
In my pocket, the phone barked. Barry or Ben.
“What the fuck’s happening? You’ve been at the border for two hours. What’s going on?”
“Routine,” I said. “Checking the paperwork.”
“Are you out now?”
“No, I’m waiting to get the papers back.”
“Shit. Where’s the car?”
“Outside, in the customs parking lot.”
“Did they search it? Did they put the dope dogs in it? Did they wreck the upholstery?”
“No. I’m sure it’s routine.”
“So, you haven’t done anything? They haven’t done anything?”
“No.” Micromanaging meddlers. Their anxiety annoyed me. “It’s all fine. They’re just taking their time.”
“Listen, sonny. That’s an expensive and extremely rare car our boss is devoted to. So, don’t give us any shit. If this goes wrong because of some fuck-up that you’re responsible for …”
Two suits came into the room. One was an older guy with trim white hair and blue eyes. The other was Simon Trang.
“Got to go,” I said to Ben or Barry.
“Hello, Paul,” Trang said.
This wasn’t simple car business anymore.
Blue Eyes said, “This your man?”
Trang nodded. “I’ll take it from here.”
Blue Eyes started to say something else. Trang interrupted him with a wave of his hand.
“We’ll be fine. We’re business associates.”
Blue Eyes adjusted his pants. He rolled his head from side to side like a punch-drunk fighter.
“All right,” he said. “If he gives you any trouble, push the bell.” He nodded toward a red button by the door.
When we were alone, Trang perched on the table and pointed to the chair against the wall like he wanted me to sit.
I remained on my feet.
“We know what you’re doing,” he said.
“I’m not doing anything,” I said. “What’re you doing? What’s your jurisdiction?”
“I’m with the Integrated Cross-Border Enforcement Ops. A special task force. RCMP joint venture with the FBI. Top secret. Nobody knows us. We hunt bad guys who work both sides, so we work both sides,” he said. “We have a wide mandate.”
“I thought you were a simple detective with family money and aspirations,” I said.
“I want what everyone wants: cellphones, cars, and holidays. How I get there is none of your business,” he said. “Sometimes my worlds overlap. That’s how I know you work for that criminal Leon Porter. Someone I want very much.”
“You already told me that when you broke into my apartment.”
“Any idea where he’s at?”
“I don’t work for him,” I said. “It’s about the girl. Marla. She’s a singer.”
Trang sighed. “Let’s cut the crap. Since you’re on your way to meet Leon in his fancy car, we’re keeping tabs on you. You’re going to take us to him. With a little luck, when we find him, we’ll discover his car is loaded and we’ll finally bust him.”
“Loaded?” I said.
“Don’t be naive,” Trang said. “Leon’s a dope dealer. Any chance he gets to move something across a border, he’ll take it.”
“There’s dope in the car?”
In my desperation to get out of town, I’d ruled out the possibility. Marla wouldn’t have set me up. She’d surely never considered it. But Lover Man would. Of course, he would. The sound of metal doors clanged in my ears. Orange prison suits. Tin bowls of gruel. Lover Man and Eagle Creek laughing at the bar.
“Who cares?” Trang shrugged. “Why bother searching the car? When we bust him, there’ll be dope. We have that end covered. That’s a sure thing.”
“It would be better for my health to tell them what you’re up to,” I said. “There’s no upside for me to help you. These guys’ll kill me.”
Trang rolled his fingertips over his knuckles. His voice was so low it almost didn’t register over the gentle whir of the air conditioning.
“We’ll say we found meth in the car today. We’ll say you had maps of New York State with all the power stations highlighted in yellow marker. We’ll say we found weapons. We’ll say you stole the car. We’ll say you trained with Al Qaeda and ISIS. We’ll produce photos, witnesses, and DNA evidence. We’ll have you in so much shit you’ll be fighting for a hundred years before you see daylight. And in the meantime, you’ll be locked up and traded around by bikers for cigarettes. How’s that sound?”
It sounded bad.
“I could be helpful,” I said, uncertain of my footing.
“You have my gratitude. You won’t even know we’re there.”
Trang offered his hand, which I accepted, perhaps too quickly, while my breath slowed down and the urge to throw up passed. Trang wasn’t going to frame me for being Lover Man’s dope mule after all.
Emboldened, I said, “Like your gratitude for our introduction to Dr. Courtney?”
Trang said, “We did what had to be done. The deal’s important to us. We weren’t sure our business would be concluded in our best interests through an intermediary.”
“Family business? Or is it narc business?” I said.
Trang’s eyes widened ever so slightly like a tiger about to kill something. “What difference does that make to you?”
The longer I stayed in his orbit, the more dangerous he seemed. That sick anxiety in my gut was up again. I wanted air. I felt weak. He preyed on weakness. I wanted to run screaming. Instead, I didn’t let it leak. Didn’t let him know.
“I guess it makes no difference now.”
“I’m sorry about Mr. Hornsmith.” Trang scratched his nose with a manicured nail. “I trust our little secret stays that way.”
“You supplied the dope,” I said. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“No, we didn’t.”
He looked momentarily distracted. Though I couldn’t read him, I imagined briefly that he might feel guilty for his hand in it. But soon enough, he glossed over Hornsmith’s death back to his current agenda.
“We’re watching you. If you see us, don’t do anything stupid like tell him we’re there. And call me first if you need to be busted out of somewhere bad.”
Trang was back to business. Guessing correctly that I’d lost the first one, he passed me another of his cards. I accepted it only to get out of there. I had no intention of following up. It was hard to imagine how bad things would have to get to call Trang to bust me out of anywhere. And when things did eventually get that bad, I’d already forgotten about his card wedged in my wallet between a Canadian Tire bill and a fiver.
Akinwole waited by the locked car. His arms were wrapped around his chest to ward off the cold. His eyes darted about. On the lookout. Akinwole, the fugitive. Man on the run.
“I saw an unsettling sight.” He shuffled from one foot to the other to stay warm. “I saw that policeman who broke into your apartment. He came out of a doorway.”
“You saw Trang?”
“Yes. It was him.”
“Did he see you?”
“No, I stood behind a pillar,” Akinwole said. “I watched him get into a car and leave.”
“If it was him — which I doubt, because what would he be doing here? — it’s nothing. It’s a coincidence.”
Akinwole needed to be kept out of the whole Trang/Lover Man story. The shape of that threat was uncertain. The implications weren’t clear. Besides, I wasn’t up for Akinwole’s reprimands. The less he knew, the better.
“It was him. I never forget a face,” he said. “Besi
des, there are no coincidences. An invisible thread connects everything that happens. A membrane holds it all together. Everything has a reason.”
“Sometimes shit happens.”
“No,” he said, “nothing happens without a reason. Everything comes from somewhere. Events happen because they are connected. They happen because they need to happen.”
“To grow the ever-expanding universe?”
“Exactly.”
“Except that sometimes it’s a coincidence. There’s no reason.”
“You are an asshole, insensitive to the mysterious ways of the universe,” Akinwole said.
By now, we were back in traffic on the interstate into Detroit. I glared down the highway. His New Age, no-coincidences, all-connected crap made me edgy.
“Where do I turn?” I said.
“You turn to your heart,” Akinwole said. “Let your heart guide you.”
I pointed to the map on his lap. “Fuck my heart. Look at this.”
He moved his finger along a line and frowned.
“I am not sure where we are anymore,” he said. “Get off somewhere. We will ask a local.”
The Firebird roared through a tangle of colourful graffitisprayed overpasses and underpasses. Gas Man. Lurk Lurk. Dems Reft. Grass grew up through the pavement. Signs flashed by with names that meant nothing to us. There was almost no traffic. No one walked the streets. We passed a burnt-out fire station with a tree growing through its roof. A factory longer than two city blocks stood abandoned; its burnt timber frame sagged over its red brick foundations. There were boarded-up houses with overgrown lawns and signs nailed across their doors that read This Building Is Being Watched and For Sale.
After a couple of turns we found ourselves on a quiet street by a church with a huge faded yellow cross that read Great King Solomon in equally faded black and red letters. God’s work being done where it was most needed. Across the street stood a peeling white and green corner store with steel bars on the windows. A sign on its roof offered Liquor. All around were weeds and abandoned buildings. A couple of old black guys lounged on lawn chairs in the sun.
“Americans.” Akinwole pointed like we’d spotted our first elephants on safari.
I shut off the engine and rolled down the window. The old guys’ voices rose above the ping of hot metal under the hood.
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