He found another cab and headed for the Coast.
SEVEN
"She's not here."
It was the one thing Mustafa had not wanted to hear. It would make all of this much harder. He nodded at the foot soldier standing in the doorway. He had only opened it face-wide at first, and then didn't open it farther when he realized who was standing there. Must be one of Heem's boys, still loyal to him, still leaking info. And cash, too.
They were down in Powderhorn, near the park. He had Ali with him again, the only one of the Prince's guys who played straight with him, told him all he knew about the girls. Rafael was driving this time, keeping an eye on the street while the other two went door-knocking. One of the houses where they stashed the girls. Heem had a good system—blend in to the neighborhood, hire an older Somali woman to cook, clean, and take care of the girls, keep a soldier posted, and never let the clients come here. When the girls left, they were taken in one car to whatever apartment or party they were scheduled for, but always picked up in a different ride to go home. The drive back was never a straight line, just to make sure no one was following. While at home, the girls dressed like Americans—uncovered heads, jeans or shorts, tight tees, make-up and bling—but they could "Muslim up" on request. Not a lot of call for that, but it got a few guys off, right? The forbidden? That sort of thing. In the homeland, a girl would be stoned for doing it. Here, she got paid.
Not enough though.
So this soldier blocked the door all casual like, big grin, thinking the new boss was going to get the message and go away. Mustafa kept it cool, spread the fingers on his right hand wide—the man had some thick rings on those fingers—and pressed the tips against the soldier's chest. Gently, but with enough force for him to get the picture right quick. He stepped back and let Mustafa past, shirt rubbing shirt. Ali was right behind him. The kid gave him a sneer. Under his breath, "Fuckin' punk."
Ali kept on. He knew better. So did the kid. Mustafa waited until the soldier closed the door to say, "But she's been here, right?"
Shrug. "You asking me for? They say watch the door, I watch the door. They say drive a bitch somewhere, I drive a bitch somewhere. I don't get to know 'em."
Ali grinned.
"What, you got something to say?"
"Just sayin', houseful of pussy, and you the only boy that ain't paying attention."
"I don't need they dirty-assed pussy. I get enough in the clubs for free. Ain't seen you out in a while. Massa got you on a short leash?"
Ali turned to Mustafa. "Kids."
Ali of course barely into his twenties.
The wide-screen Vizio in the front room was paused on some sort of video game fight scene. The coffee table had been pushed against the couch. On the table, a can of Moutain Dew, a Droid phone, and a nine millimeter pistol. Cocky, leaving it around like a toy.
"What's this, anyway? Kinect?"
"Just like taking kung-fu classes." He made a couple chops and Wah sounds like from movies.
Mustafa scrunched his eyes. "Aren't you supposed to act it out? Like a mime?"
"It's virtual reality!"
Ali laughed, doubled over, laughed some more, said, "Got yourself some sort of Sesame Street imagination. Good for you."
The soldier looked like he wanted to grab that nine off the table, get the upper hand again. Funny, him thinking he ever had it. Best he could do was, "It's Twenty Twelve, bitch."
Mustafa cleared his throat before these two whipped theirs out and pissed all over each other. "If she's out, where'd she go? I want to pick her up."
"I don't remember." Flicking his eyes around on the floor, at the TV. Lying his ass off.
Mustafa was about to show him who the real Prince of this gang was when he saw the house mother at the end of the hall, clothes basket against her hip. Her face was a blank slate. Mustafa told Ali to get the boy wonder to teach him how to play that game, then walked down the hall to meet the woman.
She didn't move as he came near. He heard music and the voices of girls either singing along or talking all at once from several different rooms. When he was close enough, he could see her face, framed in a purple and pink hijab, was one of a strong grandmother, perhaps in her late fifties. She had seen the worst of what happened in the homeland, and something told him she wouldn't have taken this job unless she had dire need of the income. A widow, or a divorcee. There was shame in her expression, but under wrinkled defiance.
Mustafa said in the mother tongue, "You know me?"
She nodded.
"You know I'm the one who pays you now. No matter what the Prince has told you."
"He says you are a bad man. You will hurt the girls, that they will go to jail because of you."
He shook his head. The noise from the bedrooms had stopped. He imagined young Somali teens with their ears against the doors. "What do you think?"
The woman blew out a haughty breath, shivered a little. "You may be the Devil himself, and still you're more of a gentleman than Ibrahim. But the girls, you can't hurt the girls. I won't let you."
He wanted to smile, but he knew she wouldn't like that. Had to take her seriously, no matter how far off her moral compass was. So she was keeping the girls safe from Ibrahim and his thugs just so they could whore themselves all night? "Thank you, Grandmother. Say no more. I will let you do what you do best if you let me do what I do best."
She looked away. She did the best she could with what little dignity she had left. "Some of them, we never see again. He sends them away. Other states. Sells them off like Craigslist."
He thought, Why do you stay?
As if reading his mind: "Would you rather me, or one like that boy out there?"
"I'm looking for a particular girl. It is very important I find her." He pulled out the only photograph he had, a couple of years old, printed on cheap copy paper, a jpeg sent from his cousin Chi's cell phone. It showed a then fourteen-year-old Somali girl, surrounded by other village girls, smiling over her shoulder at the camera. There wasn't much of her to see because of the hijab, but what you could see was unforgettable. Large brown eyes, a stubbier nose than many Somalis had, and that smile. Those teeth. A little bit of overbite, but it made her charming. He could see traces of her father in that face. "Her name is Deeqa."
The old woman refused to look. She turned her back, hefted the laundry basket, and kept on past him. He followed her to the basement stairs.
"Please look. Do you know her?"
"What do you have in mind for her? What state will you send her to?"
"I'll pay you double."
She paused, her back to him. Then she shook her head and continued her painful-looking tromp down the stairs.
It dawned on him that he was thinking like Mustafa instead of Bahdoon. He shouldn't give a shit what this woman thinks. He took the stairs quickly, caught up, took the basket from her and heaved it against the wall, clothes falling all over, bright silks blinding.
Mustafa got in her face. "Who do you think you're dealing with?"
She didn't back down. "He knows. He knows. He knows everything. He took her away."
"When?"
"Days ago. Four, maybe five. You're making me forget. How dare you—"
"No one here knows where she went? Don't they text?"
So angry she was nearly spitting on him. "I will not let you ask them anything! I won't! If he finds out they told you, oh, what he will do to them."
"Not on my watch."
She laughed, and he thought of a dog barking. "Your watch is already over. I don't know what this is you're doing now."
He needed to send her a message. A hard one. A slap across her face that she'd feel down to her soul. The sort of thing she would remember the next time she spoke to Heem. They stood toe to toe, her waiting for it and him wanting to do it. Instead, he blinked first.
Mustafa stepped across the room to where the basket had landed upside down near the water softener tank. He picked it up. He knelt and reached for the clothes nea
rby, hijabs and sexy underwear. Washcloths smeared with make-up, or maybe blood. What was he doing? Helping? Would she really see this as help? He stood, looked around at the other clothes spread all over the basement floor. Dust and cobwebs.
The woman leaned against one of the wooden support beams and would not lift her head. Mustafa set the basket down, stood, and walked past her. Up the stairs, out of the house, Ali following, and down to the Escalade, windows up, thumping bass.
Mustafa climbed into the back, right in the middle, feet on both sides of the hump. Hands on his knees. So things just got a lot fucking harder.
Rafael spun down the volume. "No luck?"
Mustafa shook his head.
"On to the next one?"
Mustafa shook his head. "Just...home."
As Rafael pulled away from the curb, Mustafa panicked. "Wait!"
Hard kick on the brakes. Tires squealed.
Mustafa had thought for a second that he was talking about his own home, the apartment he shared with his wife and son. It's where he most wanted to be, but he would never want the new crew to know where it was. But it clicked back into place that the only place they thought of as home for the big man was the one he'd taken from Prince Ibrahim. The gaudy, dark, waste-of-good-money joint.
"Yeah, home's good."
EIGHT
Before the sun had set, Adem had ditched the Yemeni clothing in favor of a soft gray suit and white shirt. He had shaved his head once more. Another internet café, a list of pleas from pirates begging for Mr. Mohammed's help. So many. Praying, it sounded like. There was one in particular that stood out to him. It appeared several times. It wasn't as hyperbolic as the others. It calmly repeated the contact number, the situation, the amount they would pay him. But the last one, just days ago, added: We know how to find her, too. What choice did he have? So he made the call.
And now he stood in the wheelhouse of an Indonesian freighter that had been taken months ago by a band of Somalis. The crew was skinny, battered, itching themselves constantly due to lice and dried-out skin, while the pirates gathered around Adem, wide-eyed and respectful. They all wanted a photo with Mr. Mohammed. Their flashes lit the dark room. Then the hand-shaking. One asked about the story where Mr. Mohammed had struck down a leader of the Somali army of young warriors because that leader had betrayed the cause. The pirate said Mr. Mohammed had to kill him in order to show the others a way back to the righteous path. Adem didn't have the heart to tell the kid that the leader had been his best friend, and that he only chopped off Jibriil's gun-hand so he could escape with his life.
Adem had to choke down the smell. He had forgotten how few of them bathed. It was hotter now than when he had been here before, the difference between January and August. But he had to live up to their expectations. They were young, but they were hard. God only knew how many they'd killed in their seventeen, eighteen years. Some might have been soldiers once, most certainly. All of them expected to become rich and maybe even become a captain. Some wanted to wear suits everyday just like Mr. Mohammed. Who was he to tell them they didn't have a shot at it?
"My assistant," he told the captain, a quiet but powerful man the crew called Gunfighter. "I have not been able to find her. You know who I mean?"
Gunfighter asked, "How can you be Mr. Mohammed if you don't know where to find the Lady? She's your Lady."
Lady. It's what they called Sufia to Adem's face. Behind his back, he had heard them call her Shar, or evil. Like a witch. He had asked on the boat ride over, and was told that to look upon her is to curse all of your unborn children, because you'd never be able to keep it up long enough to impregnate a woman ever again.
Adem said, "She's been taken from me. Ungodly men who want to use her for ungodly things. She's not like that. She is a warrior like me."
Gunfighter shook his head. "Assholes."
"Yeah."
Gunfighter got out of the captain's chair. He wore a short-sleeved button-up that you could find at any department store, this one checkered with blues and greens, along with camouflage pants rolled up to mid-shin. He looked like he should be playing soccer in the streets, or going to the same college Adem had just graduated from. He motioned for Adem to follow, then told the boy pirates to let them have some time alone.
They went outside onto the deck, the breeze instantly making Adem feel less sick. No need to worry about snipers with Gunfighter keeping the ship so far from anything. He had sent patrols out in inflatable engine-powered dinghies to keep smaller boats at bay. Gunfighter looked very pleased with himself. "It will be a shame to turn it back over. I could live like this."
"You kind of do, don't you?"
He brushed it off. "I mean without demands, without a crew of idiots, without hostages. You know. Just live off the sea."
"I need people in my life. I need to move around. I could never get used to the same view."
Gunfighter was looking at the stars. "Oh, I could. I could stare up and around and all over for all of my years."
"Have you heard anything about my assistant? If I could find her, we could start negotiating—"
"You killed your best friend and ran off to America."
Adem didn't say anything.
Gunfighter smiled and glanced over. "I know people who were there. They told me the truth, but the myth is more fun. I don't think I'll give you away. Not yet."
"That's not true anyway."
"It's more true than the other stories. I can smell a legend from a fraud, man, and you, you're a huge fraud. I don't need your help to get my ransom, and something tells me you don't really want to give it. It's, like, the carrot for the donkey? Is that right?"
Adem didn't say anything for a long time, maybe over a minute, and Gunfighter didn't seem to expect him to. If they had wanted, either could get rid of the other with a few words to the crew, but then what? Adem didn't want to lead these guys.
Then there was the schlick of an automatic pistol. Adem turned back to Gunfighter, now looking like his nickname with a Glock in hand. "Don't worry, though. I don't want a mutiny, not from you or from them. I would take your help, if there's actually some to give."
Adem slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers. Gunfighter didn't flinch. He was not someone with an itch to kill, that was good. He was patient. To get where he was and live for this long, someone higher up had either recognized the importance of having a mind like his in the wheelhouse, or either Gunfighter could go from cool to brutal in the blink of an eye.
"You want me to make a call?"
Gunfighter pretended like he was thinking about it. "One of their crew died from a gunshot wound. We tried to treat him, and he held on for several weeks, but he died. When they find out, they will send the military. We will all die, even their crew. It is about image. They would kill their own to avenge one they don't even care about to keep from looking weak."
He was right. Adem had to fight off the sickness in the pit of his stomach. Just like Gunfighter had said—time to show strength. "This is what you give me to work with? I don't make miracles."
"No, no, listen. No. If you could tell the company that I would give...oh...eleven of my crew. Lieutenants, even, for the life of their one, and would cut our ransom down to four hundred thousand American, I believe they will take it. Then we can go on from here."
"I thought you didn't want a mutiny."
"My men will never have to know that I was the one who turned them in. I'll give them the shooter, even. And his friends."
Adem nodded. "These kids would blame me."
"No, not exactly. You are protected. The legend helped with that. No one wants to take out Mr. Mohammed. They need you so they can believe they've got a saint. You know saints? Christians?"
"I've heard about them."
"You could lead the pirates to slaughter, and still they would pray for you to show them mercy before they die. It's win-win for you."
"Do you know where she is?"
Gunfighter aimed at stars,
didn't fire. He made silent "boom" sounds like a kid playing army. "I can find out."
"But not until I make my call first, right?"
"It would be an honor."
"All I can promise is a sit-down with them. They might still not agree."
He nodded. "That is enough, then. I am okay with that."
The captain slipped the gun into the back of his waistband, then reached out to shake Adem's hand. "Like Americans."
They shook. They started back towards the wheelhouse, Gunfighter saying he would get the sat phone. Adem took in a deep breath of clean air and hoped he'd have an unlimited supply of it soon.
NINE
Mustafa woke up alone in Heem's king-sized bed, with its headboard of intricately carved wood, a huge mirror in the middle. The royal purple satin sheets were sweated through again, Mustafa surprised to be alive. He kept expecting the Prince loyalists to bust in overnight and mow him down. But so far he'd been allowed to keep the throne. Weeks, now. It tore him up inside to know he was making money off those girls, off meth and crack, off guns, off bullying entire neighborhoods. All over one girl, because a favor is a favor.
He sat up and listened. No bass shuddering the walls. No shouts from the theater room, no soldiers playing Xbox on the big screen this morning. He had asked for time alone, just the bare minimum guards on duty overnight, and it seemed as if they had listened to him. He wiped the slick from his chest. Goosebumps in the air-conditioning, which he'd kicked down to sixty-three overnight, but still he was a sweaty mess.
Could be it was because of the dreams, the ones where he was back on the fringes of Mogadishu with Adem and the cop, Bleeker. In the middle of the sandstorm. The stink of a man who had been hung by his ankles from a tree, skinned alive. In real life, he and Adem had somehow survived, but not the cop. Bastard was willing to sacrifice himself to let them escape. Yet now when Mustafa slept and returned to the same time and place again and again, he was all fumble-fingers. Couldn't work the gun. Couldn't get hold of Adem. Couldn't fight off the soldiers as they grabbed him, beat him, drug him through the dirt against his will. That's when he woke up every time. Helpless as his son was dragged one direction and he the other.
Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) Page 6