The Turn Series Box Set

by Andrew Clawson

  They went into Nixon’s office. “Have a seat.” Nixon opened the blinds to let sunlight stream in, myriad colors sparkling as the window turned into a prism. “From the beginning, please.”

  “Dispatch received a call last night about a bar fight. I responded with other several officers, and we found two men fighting outside the bar. One man escaped, while the other was apprehended. This is the man in our cell.”

  Nixon peered over his coffee mug, blowing steam off the top. “Do you know what caused the bar fight?”

  “Two drunk men arguing over a spilled beer.”

  A man gets drunk, picks a fight, and ends up in the police station claiming he has a secret to share. “Who brought up the Kimble Safaris incident?”

  “A few hours after his arrest, the suspect asked to speak with an officer. I went to his cell, and he told me he knows about the attack and murders at Kimble Safaris, and he is willing to talk.”

  “Sounds like he’s afraid of something or someone.” Nixon’s window blinds fluttered as the air conditioner came to life. “Did he give you any details about the attack?”

  “No, sir. I decided it was best for you to know first.”

  “Good.” Nixon stood from his chair. “Please, take me to him.”

  They walked to a holding cell, a tiny room with bars for a door and cement blocks for walls. The prisoner, lying on a scuffed metal bench, had dust caked on his pants and shirt and a deep purple bruise around one eye, an eye now trained on Nixon.

  “Morning,” Nixon said, glancing at the file in his hands. “Christopher, I am Chief Ereng. It appears you had a rough night.” The man said nothing, sliding his feet onto the floor and pushing himself upright on the bench. Nixon did a double-take. He only has one arm.

  Christopher watched Nixon continue to stare at him. Eventually the officer beside him coughed. “Chief Ereng, can I get you anything?”

  Nixon blinked. “No. No, I am fine.” He cleared his throat and spoke to the prisoner. “Christopher, I am going to come in now. Do I need to use these?” Nixon rattled the handcuffs on his belt. Christopher shook his head. “That is good.”

  The cell lock clicked open, and Nixon joined the prisoner, sitting beside him on the metal bench while his young officer waited outside, leaning against the wall. Christopher stared at his feet, giving Nixon a look at the back of his head.

  Christopher’s hair had been singed almost completely off.

  “What happened last night?” Nixon asked.

  “Bar fight. Got into a tussle is all.”

  “This officer tells me you have a story to share.” Christopher nodded. “Is it about Kimble Safaris?” The prisoner nodded again. “Tell me.”

  “I know who did it.”

  “That is impossible. All the men who attacked Kimble Safaris are dead.”

  “Not all of them,” he said. “I was there.”

  Nixon leaned his head back. “You were part of the group?” His eyes fell to the stump arm. “I find that hard to believe.”

  Christopher’s gaze narrowed. “I can handle myself. I went, but I escaped.”

  “You were just in a bar fight,” Nixon said. “Not a big crime. Why admit to attempted murder?”

  “I was only the driver. I know there are other charges that will keep me locked up. If I tell you who is behind the attack, can we make a deal so I do not stay in prison?”

  “What you say will need to be important,” Nixon said. “Tell me about this attack.”

  Christopher claimed he had only driven the men out there, four in total, and had thought it was only to scare Reed away from their poaching operations. Once the men had actually started shooting, he was scared half to death. After he realized the other intruders were dead, Christopher had taken off.

  Nixon let him talk through it all. After Christopher had finished, Nixon stood and began pacing the room. “Why did they attack the compound?”

  Christopher shrugged. “The boss told us to do it. He is afraid Reed will stop him from getting more ivory.”

  “Who is your boss?”

  “Juma Cheyo.”

  “Tell me about him.” Christopher described him as ambitious, with little compunction about pulling a trigger to get ahead. A typical story, Nixon thought to himself, the darker version of pulling yourself up by the bootstraps. Another self-made man willing to clear the road with bullets. At least until Christopher mentioned a woman named Leda. “Stop. Juma Cheyo has killed all those men for a girl?”

  “Could be,” Christopher said. He then explained how Leda had been with the other gang’s leader until Juma had gunned him down. “I know she is important to him. Other man said so. Leda is at the headquarters most days.”

  Nixon filed that away. “What else does Juma do to make money?” A man holding a clipboard walked past outside the cell. Nixon glanced up, failed to recognize him. The officer standing at the door looked at the man until he passed. Nixon resumed. “Supporting the men in an operation this size costs money. He must have other sources of revenue. Drugs, weapons, car theft.”

  Christopher scratched his head, yawning widely. “There are drugs, break-ins. Anything that can be sold. But I heard of another way to make money.” He leaned closer to Nixon, lowering his voice. “Juma talks about going after a big prize in town. He calls it his golden ticket.”

  Nixon’s undercover source had once mentioned a possible move on the gold mine. With the warehouse attack and the assault on Kimble Safaris, Nixon hadn’t had time to follow up on it. And, in truth, it was all speculation. “Did you hear him say this?”

  Christopher nodded. “It has already started. They went to the gold mine to make an offer.”

  An offer likely given at the end of a gun. “What happened?”

  “The men who controlled the union did not have a good night,” Christopher said. “You must believe me on this, because you cannot ask them. No one can ask them anything again.” He yawned once more, reaching his one-and-a-half arms overhead. “Do you have coffee and food?”

  “We will get coffee and a better place to talk.” Nixon stood as his officer opened the cell door. “I will be back shortly. It is possible we may work out a deal for you.” He stopped in the hall, lifting one long finger. “If you deliver Juma Cheyo.”

  Christopher offered what passed for a grin. “I am a survivor. You will have Juma Cheyo.”

  The cell door clicked shut, leaving Christopher behind the bars as Nixon walked away. “This man is important,” he said to the officer walking beside him. “We know Juma is behind the warehouse killings. Now we know he ordered the attack on Reed’s camp and likely killed men at the gold mine. If Christopher testifies to all of this, it will put Juma Cheyo in jail forever.”

  “It is not often a man will testify in court against his boss,” the officer said.

  Nixon fell silent as they passed the clipboard-carrying man, now headed in the opposite direction. Nixon spoke again once he’d moved around the corner.

  “Even if we are forced to strike a deal with Christopher, it will net a much larger fish. It is a price worth paying to get Juma Cheyo off the streets.”

  “If Christopher testifies against his boss, it could be hard for him to find work on the streets.”

  “Or the man who replaces Cheyo might give him a raise.” Nixon shook his head. “I know this only slows the problem, but we do what we can to clean the streets.”

  The officer frowned. “Do you believe Christopher?”

  “I do not doubt he went to Kimble Safaris. I suspect he did not go as a driver, but that is not as important. If he is willing to talk about who sent him there and what happened at the gold mine, we can use that to arrest Juma Cheyo. If that happens, I will offer Christopher immunity for his testimony.”

  The officer’s frown disappeared. “That will be a good day for our city.”

  “Yes it will.” Nixon stopped outside his office. “Have coffee and some food sent to an interview room. Then we will bring him down for a formal statement.
”

  The officer headed off, leaving Nixon alone for the first time that morning. Settling into his desk chair, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He’d started his day with the real prospect of charging one of the city’s worst thugs, charges that would actually hold up. It all depended on Christopher’s instinct for self-preservation. Skeptical though he might be, this seemed real, a chance for the good guys to win one.

  Nixon picked up the phone. The district attorney needed to put a prosecutor on standby, ready to come to the station if Christopher’s statement proved as fruitful as Nixon hoped. “Good morning,” he said when a receptionist picked up. “This is Chief Ereng. I need to speak with the D.A. Yes, this is urgent. There is a prisoner who—”

  A deafening blast cut him off. Glass shattered and flew across the room. Nixon dropped to the floor and covered his head, a heartbeat passing in silence before a shrieking alarm pierced the air. Water rained down through a painfully bright strobe light flashing on the wall.

  Then the screaming started. Nixon jumped to his feet and raced toward the noise, running headlong into a wall of smoke and dust. Heat radiated from beyond the smoke, pushing against anyone who tried to move ahead. Dazed forms emerged from the cloud, some in uniform, others in torn and dirty clothes, everyone trying to escape.

  “Get outside,” Nixon shouted. Where had the explosion come from? As he pushed through the crowded hall, the heat grew nearly unbearable near the holding cells. Flames licked at the walls, though the deluge of water from above seemed to be bringing it under control.

  The epicenter seemed to be around the holding cells, where black scorch marks climbed the concrete walls; one of the doors stood askew, the metal bars twisted and torn. The broken cell door was the one he’d locked just minutes ago. With grimy foam sticking to his pants, he blinked through the indoor rain shower. His damn ears wouldn’t stop ringing. His witness had been in here. And now he lay strewn on the floor, his body ripped to shreds.

  As he stood blinking in the rainfall, Nixon’s hearing came back in full force. Another blast boomed, a deep rumble coming from outside the building. A moment later, the screaming started again.

  Chapter 18

  Outside of Mwanza

  A thin ray of sunlight fell across the floor in Juma’s office. Hot, still air did little to stir the dust motes floating in the light. Leda sat on the edge of his desk, hands crossed in her lap. She watched him, hardly moving. Waiting. “Are you certain about this?” she asked.

  Juma watched the way her hair fluttered in the slight breeze when he flicked on the desk fan. “Yes, I am.” He lifted his feet from the desk and sat up, reaching to touch her. “Come here.” She smiled and slid off, accepting his hand. “I have never been more certain of anything.”

  “You will leave this all behind?”

  “If it means we are together, then yes.”

  Her lips touched his cheek. “Thank you.” She stepped back, lifting an eyebrow. “What must you do before we leave?”

  “I need the rhino horn. Without it, we will not have money to live.” There was another part of his plan, though he couldn’t share it with her. “Wafa Khaled is coming to Mwanza. Once our business is finished, we leave. Just you and me. Who takes control of my business will be decided by the men.” Likely by talking first, and shooting later. But that was not his problem.

  “Please do not take too long,” she said. “The day we leave here together cannot come soon enough.”

  “A few days at most,” he said. The phone in his pocket buzzed. “This is business,” he told her, and Leda left the room. He waited until her footsteps faded down the hall, then lifted the phone to his ear. “Is he dead?”

  “He will not be talking to the police.” A man spoke on the other end. “The police station is in an uproar. I snuck past the front desk when a phone rang, stole a clipboard from his desk. Then I found Christopher locked inside. I rolled a grenade under the bars and it was done.”

  “How did you get out of the station?”

  “I walked out helping the injured. No one stopped me.”

  “His death was necessary. Christopher did not strike me as a man to talk with the police. I am surprised he would sell me out.”

  “We were lucky the officer you pay heard of his offer to talk.”

  “I pay him to watch for my interests,” Juma said. “Come back here. Wafa Khaled arrives soon and everything must be in order.” He hung up and then called down for Manny, who soon appeared at his door. “Come in,” Juma said. “Wafa Khaled arrives today. Are you ready to hunt elephants and rhino?”

  “We are,” Manny said. “Paul and I know where to find them. Tomorrow before dawn we will go out, and the horns will be back here ready to ship by afternoon.”

  “Good man,” Juma said. “Between you and Paul, my gold mine interests and the animal hunts are under control. You will go far, Manny. Even if some day I am not here.” He stood and Manny joined him. “Though let us hope that is not for a long time.” Juma slapped Manny’s back. “Make sure all is ready. I do not know – hold on.” His pocket had started vibrating. Wafa was calling. “I must take this.”

  Manny left, closing the door behind him. “Good afternoon,” Juma said.

  “I arrive in thirty minutes.”

  The line went dead. Men like Wafa did not have time to waste, and right now Juma didn’t either. Not if he was to keep his promise to Leda. He headed downstairs, barking at a trio of men he trusted. “You three, go outside and check the area. Make sure the roads are clear.” Another walk-through of his building revealed all to be in order, and a short while later his three men returned, assuring him all was well. With that, he stepped outside to stand with one of the sentries, his eyes constantly flitting about the street. A van appeared barely five minutes later.

  It coasted to a halt outside Juma’s headquarters. The vehicle had a ragtag paint job, one green front quarter panel in stark contrast with the rest of the body, which was colored a dingy gray. Dust covered everything, from the oversized tires to the blackout windows. But before the engine cut off, Juma noted the smooth purring of a well-oiled machine, not the wheezing cough you’d expect from what looked like a jalopy. Apparently Wafa didn’t go for the trappings – just performance.

  One of the side doors slid open to reveal three solid men who jumped out and circled the van, casting their eyes over everything and everyone without a word. Once they’d completed their circuit, one of them spoke into his cell phone, murmuring in a language Juma didn’t recognize. A moment later, a second similarly distressed van appeared, and behind that a box truck. The second van parked just behind the first one and a short, wiry man stepped out from the passenger side. His bald head gleamed in the sunlight. A trim gray beard covered his cheeks and chin. When he stepped away from the van, Juma noted a slight hitch in his step.

  Wafa spoke first. “Juma Cheyo.” A statement, not a question.

  “Yes,” Juma said. “Welcome to Mwanza.”

  Wafa grunted before taking Juma’s outstretched hand. A single shake, and Wafa’s hand went behind his back. “All is well?”

  “It is. Please, join me inside.”

  Wafa turned and conversed with his driver, the smallest of the three standing around their boss. “This is Omar,” Wafa said, turning back to face Juma. “He will confirm the area is secure. You and I have business to discuss, and I would like a drink.” Without waiting for a response, he walked briskly into Juma’s building with two men trailing in his wake.

  Juma led them to a room he’d prepared for the visit, hoping to put Wafa at ease. Large enough for four seated men and a handful of others to stand, it had a window overlooking the back alley, and Wafa immediately twisted the blinds open. “I will stand,” Wafa said when Juma offered him a chair. “The long trip did not agree with my leg.”

  “I have cold beer and liquor here.”

  “I prefer tea,” Wafa said, nodding toward his men. “Show them to the kitchen. While we wait, there is a matter
I wish to discuss.”

  Juma sent them on their way, then took a seat. “Does this matter involve the rhino horn?”

  “No, though we will talk of that.” One of his men appeared carrying a metal tray bearing a teapot, two cups with saucers, and plates of food. The set rattled when he placed it in front of his boss before leaving. “Do you object to my men watching the door?”

  “Not at all. I assure you we are safe here. This is my turf.”

  “A comfort.” Pouring a cup, Wafa looked across the table. “Tea?”

  He’d never had tea in his life. “Yes.”

  Sugar cubes went into the brew, and Wafa passed over a steaming cup complete with a lemon slice on the saucer. Wafa drank slowly from his own cup before settling back in his chair. “The matter involves our earlier ivory shipment. Or, to be precise, the lack of it.”

  “I am sorry,” Juma said. The hot tea turned sour on his tongue. “Our next delivery will more than make up for it.”

  “That is a start. You understand, I make promises to my business partners. They make promises to others, so it goes down the line.” Wafa snapped his fingers, and one guard stuck his head through the door. “Sir.”

  “Tell Omar I will need to speak with him shortly.” Once the guard disappeared, Wafa selected a pastry from the tray, bit into it and chewed silently. “Would you care for one?”

  “No, thank you.” Juma set his cup down. The tea tasted like dishwater.

  “There are responsibilities in what I do.” Wafa refilled his own tea. “The people I work with count on these deliveries. They are to be on time and completed in full. I failed to deliver one shipment, so I had to purchase the ivory from another source, and pay a premium for the tusks.”

  “So you need to get that money back.”

  “Correct,” Wafa said. “And luckily, in you I have a new business partner to help achieve that.”

  Juma offered a smile he didn’t feel. “Together we will make each other rich.”

  “But when I fail to deliver as I promised, there are consequences. Fortunately for both of us, I found tusks to replace what you didn’t provide to me.”