City of Saints & Thieves

by Natalie C. Anderson

  The best.

  “Why are you helping me?” I had asked.

  He smiled. “I was young once, and wronged. I see myself in you. You’re smart. I trust your judgment. If you say he needs your vengeance, then I believe you. I expect a cut, of course, when you take his fortunes. If you want my help, that is.”

  I did.

  “Good.”

  One day there would be an opportunity for a thief like me, he told me.

  That day was supposed to be today.

  • • •

  Hours tick by, or days. I don’t know. I go through rounds of pacing, then screaming threats and obscenities at the walls and corners, and then silence, and then cycling through the whole routine again.

  • • •

  The master plan is simple. I made it; Omoko helped me refine it.

  First I steal the dirt on Mr. Greyhill and give it to Donatien, the reporter my mother knew. Donatien knows everything there is to know about blood gold. He’ll do a good job on the story, and he’s got connections to get it out there into the big papers. And for this story, unlike all the others, there will be proof.

  But dragging Mr. G’s name through the dirt isn’t the end of it. What the Goondas are interested in is the next step: money. Greyhill has his loot stashed somewhere; Omoko is sure of it. Offshore bank accounts, most likely. Boyboy thinks the treasure map is on the hard drive. We find the accounts, Boyboy hacks them, then everyone gets a cut and goes home happy.

  Except me. I’m not done yet.

  While the Goondas enjoy their spoils, I’ll be watching Mr. Greyhill. I want to see his world slowly crumble around him. I want to see his company fire him. I want to see his debts called in. I want the banks to take his home, his cars, all his Big Man toys. Maybe his wife will leave him. His kids will finally understand who he really is.

  But it still won’t be enough. He took everything from Kiki and me, and I want him to know who’s taking everything back. So when the time is right, I’ll step out of the shadows. I want to see the understanding dawn in his eyes. He needs to know it was me, Tiny Girl, who brought the Big Man down.

  And that’s when I’ll kill him.

  • • •

  I hear the torture chamber door unlock. I’ve been yelling at Michael to come let me out for a good long while, but all of a sudden I’m worried it’s not him behind the door.

  It’s actually sort of a weird relief to see his face. He’s carrying the laptop like a tray with food and more water on it. He looks like he got even less sleep than me, and he doesn’t have the gun anymore. Bold, Michael, I think. Or dumb. He places everything on the table and sits down in one of the chairs, waiting for me to take the other.

  “Aren’t you worried I’m going to beat you up and escape?”

  He doesn’t smile at my taunt. “I think you’ll want to hear me out first.”

  “Still trying to bargain?” I sit down opposite him. I’m starving, but I force myself to ignore the food, even though it’s making my mouth water and my stomach growl. It’s been a long time since the bun I got from Kiki. Chicken stew and a creamy mound of ugali steam on the plate. I keep my eyes on Michael. “I already told you it’s too late.”

  He folds his hands on the table. They look odd for some reason, and then I realize it’s because they’re so smooth. There are no scars or nicks on his knuckles like everyone else I know. My eyes, as if not attached to my brain, search out the crook of his arm, looking for the one mark that I know is there, but it’s hidden under his sleeve. I will not let myself think about that scar right now.

  “My dad didn’t kill your mom,” he says.

  I wait until I can manage to speak calmly. “I thought we’d cleared all that up.”

  “You’re making assumptions. Just because he threatened her doesn’t mean he killed her. Plus, I don’t think he would lie to me. Not about something like that.”

  I want to hit him. I want to hit him so hard his pretty little eyeballs cross.

  “You have to admit that you can’t be sure,” he continues. “Without a confession or seeing what actually happened, you’ll never really know.”

  I shove my chair back from the table so it screams against the concrete. I want to be as far away from Michael as I can. How could we have once been friends? Played and squabbled and cried when the other one got in trouble?

  He waits. He’s watching me so closely. I try to keep the little muscles in my face from giving me away. Of course I know that on the surface there is room for doubt. Of course I do. How many sleepless nights have I spent staring up at the stars, wishing for some sort of proof? It’s not just nightmares that keep me awake. Doubt itches like a scab. But as much as I doubt and wonder, I keep coming back to the same conclusion: I know he was capable. He wanted to do it. He said so himself. He had, like they say in detective shows, means, motive, and opportunity. He knew no one was going to stop him, and no one was going to punish him.

  Once Boyboy told me about this science theory. Somebody’s razor. It says that the simplest answer is almost always the right one. Something like that. Mr. G is a bad man. He said he would kill Mama, and then she gets murdered. Who else would it be? I shouldn’t need any more proof. I’m sure he did it.

  I am so very ninety-nine percent sure.

  But that one percent of me is who Michael is talking to now, and he knows it.

  I hate that one percent.

  “Look, here’s my offer, take it or leave it.”

  “Leave it.”

  “Would you just listen first? Ngai, you have always been so stubborn.”

  I cross my arms over my chest.

  Michael speaks slowly and carefully. “You want to find out who killed your mother.”

  “I know who killed my—”

  “Wait,” he says. “Hear me out. I want back what you took off Dad’s hard drive. What I propose is this: I help you find out who killed your mom, beyond a doubt. We get proof. We figure out why. I have access to places and people you don’t. I have money. People will do things for me, talk to me. We’ll find out who did it, if you promise to give me back what you took off his computer.”

  “First of all, who says I can even stop the data I stole from being released? I told you, it’s already out of my hands.”

  “Can you stop it?”

  For a long time I don’t answer. I don’t understand what Michael is playing at. Why not offer to buy me off? Why this? Why does he care about whether or not his father killed this person? Does he honestly think his dad wouldn’t lie to him? That his father has some sort of code of honor? “What if it turns out your dad did it after all?”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “Come on, Michael, it’s Oaxaca’s razor.”

  “What? You mean Occam’s razor?”

  “Whatever. Look, not that I’m agreeing to this—I’m not—but just for argument’s sake, what if we find out your dad killed her?”

  “Then you release the stuff. Do whatever you want with it.”

  I frown. It’s infuriating that I can’t read him. “You don’t mean that. If I go along with you, you’ll pull the rug out from under me. You’ll get rid of me. Why should I trust you?”

  Suddenly his eyes gleam. I can’t tell whether it’s hate or something else that shines from them, but there’s finally some emotion in his face. “You’ve gone cold, Tina. We were friends once.”

  I laugh. “Friends? You’ve locked me in a cell. Your dad killed my mother. You come from a family of high-class gangsters. What makes you think I’m cold, and not just smart?”

  He works his jaw, like he’s got a bone stuck in his throat. “If you’re smart, you know you want this. You want the truth, just like I do. That part of you hasn’t changed, Tina.”

  He stands up and opens the door to leave. When he looks back at me, his eyes have lost their glow
. He’s got his mask on again. “And there’s one more thing I can offer. That camera you saw in the tunnel? The one that would have recorded your mother’s murder? The footage is gone, but I know who has it. It may take a little time, but I can get it.”

  There it is. The bone. I catch my breath. “Who? Who has it?”

  “I’ll tell you once you agree to work with me. Think about it,” he says. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  TEN

  The concrete absorbs the noise of my feet as I pace the room.

  The video, the video. Everything in black and white. Is he serious? Can he really get it? How long will it take? Is he lying? The video. Proof. Who has it? Why? Where is it?

  The video, the video.

  • • •

  Ten steps to the door, eight steps to the cot, five steps to the table. Begin again.

  • • •

  I talk to myself:

  If he’s telling the truth, if he can get it, I will know for sure. I will see him kill her.

  Stick to the plan, Tiny Girl. You are so close.

  Am I? Seems to me I’m stuck in a pit.

  He did it. He killed her. He deserves to pay.

  Her killer deserves to pay. What if it isn’t him?

  It is him. You know what you saw.

  But what if . . .

  Shut up, one percent!

  But even as I fight myself, I know Michael’s right. Of course I want to know everything. What if I tell him no and give up the chance of seeing what I’ve been wondering about all these years?

  What would the count do?

  Could I play along with Michael without the Goondas knowing? Boyboy says it could take up to a week to decrypt Greyhill’s data. Bug Eye knows we might have to wait awhile. What if I could play both sides? For just a little while. No one has to know.

  A thought stops me in the middle of my stride. What if we didn’t even get all the data off Greyhill’s hard drive?

  That doesn’t matter. You broke in once, you can do it again.

  Yeah, broke in and got caught.

  Back and forth, I count off the room until maybe half an hour has gone by and still I can’t decide.

  You have a plan. It’s a good plan: dirt, money, blood. You have worked a long time getting it right.

  It won’t work if I don’t have the dirt.

  No, the data transmitted. You have the dirt. Boyboy’s decrypting it. In a few days, Omoko will start asking for his money. One way or another, you’re going to have to get it for him. He won’t care about Mama’s murderer. If it isn’t Mr. G, Omoko’s not going to smile and say no big deal, Tiny Girl. Never mind. It was only millions of shillings. But we’ll just forget about it.

  Yeah, I know.

  Michael is lying. There is no video.

  But . . . what if there is?

  • • •

  I’m so sure Mr. Greyhill did it. I’m so sure.

  I’m so ninety-nine percent sure.

  • • •

  Mama would have told me to pray. Maybe to Saint Ignatius, who helps us make decisions. But I don’t know his prayer. I only know one prayer—Catherine’s. I haven’t said another in five years.

  • • •

  Michael will be back any minute. I’m standing in front of a blank wall. I’ve been staring at it so long that little spots float in front of my eyes.

  What do I do?

  What is the rule?

  I try to push everything else aside and concentrate on what is really important: punishing Mama’s killer. Her real killer.

  Her real killer is Roland Greyhill.

  Unless he isn’t.

  Can I say no to Michael, knowing that there may be some final truth out there, and maybe I could have it? Would that video show me her murderer? Would it show me Mr. Greyhill pulling the trigger? Could I finally be sure? One hundred percent sure?

  I thought I was getting better at being patient. I’ve waited five years, making my plans, practicing my revenge, like Mr. Omoko told me to. I’ve put all the steps into place, like the count. Can I possibly ask myself to wait longer?

  I look around at my cell. Do I have any choice?

  What will Michael do to me if I say no? I don’t care so much about dying, but what about Kiki? What about making Mama’s killer pay? None of that is happening while I’m stuck down here.

  There is a rule for this moment, but I don’t want to acknowledge it. I don’t like this rule. It sticks in my throat. But it tells me in a low, persistent rumble, Too bad, Tiny Girl. You may not like the rules, but you still have to play by them.

  • • •

  Rule 10: If the stakes are high, play a long game.

  Play a long, patient game.

  • • •

  I learned that from watching Bug Eye.

  Bug Eye is different from the other Goondas. It’s what makes him Mr. Omoko’s right hand. I used to watch him because long after I’d figured out what motivated all the other guys, I still couldn’t put a finger on what made him tick. You have to know what Goondas want so you don’t become that thing. I’d figured out what Ketchup wanted my very first day. He got off on hurting people smaller and weaker than him. Simple. I never gave him the chance to hurt me again. But figuring out his brother was harder.

  Bug Eye is the chillest cat you’ll ever spy. He never looked at me like the other Goondas did. He has girls when he wants, but he never looks at any of them. Not really. Not like he wants them. He doesn’t get a hard-on for cash either, or cars or fat gold chains. It’s like he sees through all of it and understands exactly what it’s really worth.

  He doesn’t want money. He doesn’t want things. But it’s not that he doesn’t want. He wants. He wants in the same way I want my revenge. He’s hungry—starving to death—for it. And the it? What is it? I finally saw one day when Mr. Omoko came around.

  Omoko stopped to talk to his best lieutenant, and finished the conversation by reaching out and actually patting Bug Eye on the head like you would a favorite dog. No one saw but me; no one was supposed to. Mr. Omoko wouldn’t have undermined his second in command in front of the rest of us. He just wanted to make his point. He might as well have said, See? This is power. You are close to it, but do not think for a moment that you have it. What you have, I have given you, and I will smile as I take it away.

  Bug Eye didn’t flinch or slap his master’s hand away. That is why Bug Eye is different. I saw what Mr. Omoko overlooked, something familiar. The Goonda boss was looking for insubordination and didn’t find it, but he should have looked deeper. I saw it from far away, in the quick clench and release of Bug Eye’s hands, in the way he watched Mr. Omoko walk away and kept watching long after he was gone.

  What Bug Eye wants became obvious to me that day. He wants something of Omoko’s, and only Omoko’s will do. It will be best if it’s taken violently. Mr. Omoko wears his crown lightly, like he doesn’t really care, but Bug Eye will cherish it, hold it as carefully as the head of a newborn baby. While he waits, Bug Eye will act like a good dog: loyal, devoted.

  He trains Omoko’s troops to be bullies and thugs. He leads bloody raids through other gangs’ streets, expanding the Goonda empire. He sends the girls out to the corners and makes sure their earnings come back to him at the end of the night. He gives me names and addresses of homes and businesses to plunder. He dishes out punishment when we step out of line. If a Goonda starts getting ideas about who’s in charge, Bug Eye is the one who sets him straight: a chat usually does it, a reminder of other ankles chained to concrete blocks. Blocks dropped off the edges of piers.

  Sharks love Bug Eye.

  He does whatever Omoko tells him. He dirties his hands so the big boss doesn’t have to. He eats the scraps off the master’s table and never complains. He keeps his brother close. He knows family will have his back when th
e time comes.

  Bug Eye is patiently waiting for exactly the right moment to bite.

  • • •

  So I think about the count, and Bug Eye, and Mama, and what sort of revenge I need, and what I’m willing to do to get it. And when Michael comes back, I am ready.

  ELEVEN

  If we do this, I want out of the torture chamber,” I say. “That’s first.”

  Michael raises an eyebrow. “You’re the only girl I know who thinks she can call shots while locked up. And it’s not a torture chamber.”

  I raise an eyebrow back at him. “It’s not a five-star hotel room.”

  Michael opens his mouth, but I’m already speaking. “Second thing: How long will it take to get the video?”

  Michael avoids my eye. “I’m not sure. A couple of weeks?”

  “You have five days.”

  “Five! Why?”

  “You asked if I can keep the data from being released. I can, but only temporarily. People are waiting for it. People you don’t want to make wait. Five days is generous.”

  “Eight,” Michael grunts.

  “I can ask for a week. But no promises.”

  Michael takes a deep breath. “Okay, fine. But we work from here. You can’t go running off.”

  “In the torture chamber?”

  “Of course not. In the house.”

  I recoil. “Are you serious? With your dad there? Absolutely not.”

  “You’re crazy if you think I’m just letting you walk out of here,” Michael says. “You’re staying here. You’ll be my guest.”

  “Your ‘guest.’ Right. And how exactly are you going to explain me to your parents?”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Michael says. “I’ll work on it. They’re not back until tomorrow.”

  The idea of staying here, in Mr. G’s house, without killing him seems impossible. But I see Michael’s point. I wouldn’t trust me to leave and keep my word either. For a second I debate suggesting I just stay in the torture chamber.