The thing is, if I didn’t get all the data, I’ll need to get back into Mr. G’s office. What better way to get in than as a welcome guest? I shudder. Okay, welcome is a strong word, if I know Mrs. Greyhill, but still.
“Fine,” I say, “I’ll consider being your guest. But I need access to my business partner.”
“Why?”
“Because I do. He’s the one I have to talk to about holding back the dirt on your dad.”
“Is he a Goonda?”
“You got something against Goondas?”
“Well, I did just catch one of them robbing my house.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s not a Goonda. He’s a walking brain.”
“Okay, phone calls are fine.”
I shake my head. “I have to see him in person. Out there, in town.”
Michael scowls, but finally jerks his chin in agreement. “But I go with you.”
“We’ll see about that. And, Michael?” I pause to make sure he’s paying attention. “You better not be lying about being able to get this video.”
“I’m not. I wouldn’t lie about something like that. You know me.”
I ignore this last comment. “And you realize that it’s probably going to show your father murdering my mother, right? You’re gambling here as much as I am. Are you sure you’re ready for that kind of truth?”
Michael looks queasy but nods.
“Because when I know for sure your dad did it, I won’t hesitate. I’m going to make him pay.”
Michael looks at me like he’s suddenly seeing me for the first time.
Good. This is me.
He sticks his hand out. The pale crescent-moon scar on the inside of his arm shines against his skin. For a brief moment I balk, unable to lift my hand. I see myself at five, standing before him just like I am now, both our wounds fresh and bare. Who have I become? Michael has no idea how far I’ll go to make his father pay.
But there is no going back now. I take his hand and shake it.
• • •
When Michael finally leads me into the free world, it’s night again. It feels like I’ve been underground forever, but Michael tells me it’s only Saturday. Well, technically Sunday morning already. My Friday-night visit with Kiki seems like a distant dream. We don’t go back through the office. Instead Michael takes me farther down the tunnel and unlocks a door that leads outside. I have to resist shoving him out of the way when I taste my first breath of fresh air.
The door is hidden by a thick tumble of branches. I look up and see bougainvillea and jasmine vines climbing the wall the door is cut into. “We’re below the terrace balcony,” I say. Suddenly I realize exactly where we are. “We’ve come through the mokele-mbembe door.”
Michael looks uncomfortable. “Yeah. I finally figured out what was behind it. Not a dragon, it turns out. Dad gave me a key a couple of years ago in case there’s a break-in and we have to escape through the tunnel.”
He pushes past the vines and raises his hands so the patrolling guard sees it’s him and doesn’t shoot. The idea is to pretend that I’m some loose lady friend he’s been making out with in the bushes. Michael thinks the guards will all just pretend like they didn’t see anything and let him take me in the house. When he explained it, I thought it sounded like a dumb plan, until it occurred to me that Michael is one of the richest boys in Sangui City, and not bad looking in a boarding-school sort of way. Maybe this has happened before. Maybe it happens often enough to be normal.
I try not to think about getting down and dirty with Michael, and instead comb my memory for what Philippe, the old gardener, had said about the mokele-mbembe. As kids, Michael and I knew every inch of the Greyhills’ yard. There was no way a mysterious locked door half hidden in vines was getting past us. But when we asked Philippe what was inside, he explained that when he came from Congo many years ago he brought a mokele-mbembe with him in his pocket.
“What’s a mokele-mbembe?” we asked.
“Oh, just a great and terrible monster that lives in the swamps and rivers and waits for children in the shallows. I caught a baby and he became my pet.”
But the little lizard had grown into a great dragon, too big to keep in his cottage. Philippe had put him behind the door in a room with a pool to splash around in and strict instructions to eat intruders. When we asked if we could see him, Philippe simply said, “Are you sure? He thinks curious children are the most delicious of all.”
And then, as Michael takes my hand and leads me, grinning sheepishly, into the beam of the guard’s flashlight, the smell of the night garden dredges up more memories. Memories that had been so buried and lost that I can hardly believe how crisp and clear they are now. I suddenly remember other nights in our cottage down at the end of the yard when I would wake from nightmares and find my baby sister awake and fretting, my mother’s bed empty. I tamped down my fear by picking up Kiki, by rocking her back to sleep, by telling her she was being a silly baby to fuss.
Mama would always be there in the morning, and she would shush me when I asked her where she had been. “I’ve been nowhere,” she’d say. “You’re imagining things.” Eventually my night terrors stopped, and Kiki stayed asleep until dawn, and I forgot about Mama’s absences. Until now, when I see the mokele-mbembe door. Is that where she had gone? Through the door to meet up with Mr. G, night after night? The thought of her standing here where I am now, wanting to go in that door, makes me feel ill.
The guards let us pass as expected. Michael puts his arm around my shoulder and winks at them, and they grin, and it’s all I can do to not grab him and flip him onto his back in the dirt. Which I can do. Bug Eye taught me.
Michael walks me to a guest room, one of many. He stands in the doorway and watches while I examine my surroundings: heavy teak furniture, intricately cut in a classic Swahili style, wide windows dressed in silk to help hide the security bars. A huge bed covered in throw pillows and hung with a gauzy mosquito net. It looks like a maharaja’s palace. The knickknacks on the dresser alone would put Kiki through school for a year.
Finery or not, I want to go home to my roof so bad I can feel it in my teeth, but I ask, “When your parents get home, how are you going to explain me being here?”
“Let me worry about that.”
“You’re not going to rat me out to your dad, are you?”
“Why would I have taken you out of the basement if I was just going to hand you over?”
“You caught a thief. Bet he’d be proud of his little boy.”
Michael doesn’t rise to my needling. “If I did, would you give back the stuff you stole?”
“No.”
Michael sounds like he’s explaining something very simple to a child. “So why would I do that? If we’re going to figure this out together, you’re going to have to start trusting me.”
I don’t like his tone, but he’s got a point. I hold my hand out. “If we’re trusting each other, give me my phone back.”
“What? No way.”
“Hypocrite.” I smirk. “How am I supposed to make arrangements to have your dad’s data held without it?”
Michael eyes me. Finally he heaves a sigh and fishes in his pocket. “Fine.” He slaps it into my palm. “Nothing funny, all right? We have a deal.”
“I am never funny,” I say.
“Yeah, I’m getting that.”
I start to close the door to my room. “I’m going to make a call. In private. Nonnegotiable. I’ll come and find you in a few minutes. Don’t worry, I’m not calling in the cavalry.”
Michael looks like he wants to argue, but finally says, “My room is down the hall, third door on the right.”
“I know where your room is, Michael.”
Something passes over his face, but before I can decide what it is, he turns and walks away. I shut the door behind him, lock it, and stand th
ere for a second, trying to hear whether he’s creeping back to listen. That’s what I would do. I can’t hear anything, but I go to the attached bathroom, close the door, and start running water into the gleaming white sink just in case.
Boyboy picks up on the first ring. “Oh my God, Tina, is that you? Are you—”
There’s a scuffle and I hear, “Tiny? Where the hell you at?”
Mavi. Not whose voice I wanted to hear. “Hey, Ketchup,” I say quietly.
I can hear Ketchup swearing. “Finally.”
More shuffling, and then, “Yo, Tiny Girl, what’s up?” Bug Eye says. I’m on speaker. His words are easy, but his voice has that note to it. I hate that note. I can hear blood in it. “Spill, Tiny. You in lockdown or somethin’?”
I look around the bathroom. It’s all white marble and gold fixtures and fluffy towels like stacks of sea foam. “Sort of. I’m only talking to you, Bug Eye,” I say.
I hear Ketchup complaining, but then it’s just Bug Eye’s voice, close and clear in my ear. “All right. So where are you?”
I’m glad I’m not standing under Bug Eye’s gaze. Stronger people than me have broken down and wet their pants under those eyes. “I’m still inside.”
Bug Eye says nothing.
“But it’s okay,” I add quickly. “The son—Michael—he’s not going to turn me over. Not to the cops, and not to Mr. G’s guys.”
Silence.
“I haven’t said anything about you or anything else. You know I won’t.” Not a complete lie . . . “He had me locked up, but I played him. He let me out. He trusts me, sort of.”
“This is Greyhill’s kid, your little boyfriend from back in the day?”
“Um . . . yeah, my friend. I mean, it’s not like that anymore; he’s not—”
“Listen,” Bug Eye interrupts, “Boyboy isn’t sure we got everything off the hard drive.”
My stomach sinks. “I can get back in. He wants me to stay here and, you know, hang out for old times’ sake.”
There’s a long pause. “You still have the equipment you need?”
“He broke the USB thing, but I can get another one from Boyboy,” I say.
“Boyboy’s going to stay here with us until he figures out what we’ve got.”
Shonde. Boyboy made me promise I wouldn’t let him get sucked in this deep. He’s probably freaking out right now, having to stay at the warehouse with the Goondas alone. But I know the blame for screwing up the heist lies with me, in the Goondas’ eyes. I don’t have a lot of room to ask for favors. As long as Bug Eye is there, I tell myself, Ketchup will behave.
“Once Boyboy’s done, let him go home so he can get a new adapter for me,” I say, careful to keep my voice level so it doesn’t sound like I’m trying to boss Bug Eye around.
“Are you gonna have a problem getting back in the office if we need you to?” Bug Eye asks. “That Michael kid’s not going to be watching your ass?”
“I can do it. I won’t mess things up this time.”
There’s a pause where I can hear Bug Eye breathing. Gears are turning in his mind, working through everything, letting the plan reconfigure to his satisfaction. “Okay,” he finally says. “See that you don’t.”
TWELVE
After I get off the line with Bug Eye, I wait five minutes and then send Boyboy a text: 777. It’s our code for call now. I wait, tapping my foot. Michael’s going to start wondering where I am soon.
I get a text back: Paper covers rock.
“Come on, Boyboy, I need to talk to you,” I whisper. Paper covers rock is his code for Not safe/No can do. But given that he’s stuck at the warehouse with a bunch of thugs, I get it.
Boyboy: Scissors.
Good. He’ll meet in person (scissors = legs). That must mean that Bug Eye will let him walk. I want to talk to him alone.
Boyboy: Pick up four bananas from the corner shop.
This code is supposed to look kind of simple, like, if anyone sees it they’ll think maybe it means meet him at four o’clock at a particular shop. Really, I’m going to have to consult yesterday’s ferry schedule to find out exactly when to meet him. I already know where. It should be sometime tomorrow, and hopefully he’ll have good news by then. Maybe he’s just playing it safe, telling Bug Eye that he isn’t sure all the data transferred. I’m about to go to Michael’s room when I get one last text.
Boyboy: Glad ur okay.
I find Michael on the floor of his room, leaning against his bed, his laptop open in front of him. I close the door behind me and take in his room: the huge television; the gaming equipment; the posters of bands I’ve never heard of; photos of Michael on rugby teams.
I sit only as close to him as I have to in order to see what he’s looking at on his computer.
“So where is the video?”
He closes the lid. “You’re demanding, you know that?”
“Come on, Michael. At least tell me who has it.”
Michael studies me for a beat. His lashes would make any girl envious. I find an odd heat tickling the back of my neck. Seriously, Tina? You must have a touch of Stockholm syndrome to be noticing pretty boy’s eyes. I cross my arms over my chest. “So, who?”
Michael takes a deep breath. “David Mwika.”
My mouth falls open. “What? I thought he was dead! You know where he is?”
Mwika was Mr. Greyhill’s head of security, up until the night of my mother’s murder. After that night, gone. He gave his testimony to the police and hasn’t been seen since. Off the radar. Believe me, I’ve looked for him. Boyboy’s spent hours searching for some trace of him online. He vanished.
“Wait,” I say, frowning. “Mwika didn’t kill my mother. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve got the surveillance footage of him playing cards in the security booth all night. Look.” He opens his computer and starts to search.
“I’ve seen it,” I say, waving him off.
“You have? How?”
“It’s in her police file.”
“How do you have her police—”
I interrupt, “Why do you think Mwika has the footage?”
Michael’s gaze drops. “Because that’s what my dad said when I asked him about your mom’s murder. He said he didn’t do it, but that video showing who did is gone.”
My excitement crashes, bursts into flame, and dies.
I open and close my mouth, twice, before I can respond. “You’re an even bigger idiot than I thought you were!” I sputter, jumping to my feet. “Of course the murderer would say the proof that gets him off the hook is gone, and the one guy who mysteriously disappeared that night took it! How convenient!” I let out a quiet scream of frustration. “I was so stupid to listen to you. Mwika is dead! He’s shark shit! And that footage is gone. Your dad erased it.” I start for the door. “I can’t believe I agreed to this. I’m out of here.”
“Hey! Wait!” Michael says, getting to his feet too. “We made a deal!” He catches my arm.
“Deal’s off! You’re working with rotten intel.” I try to shake him off. “You said you could get the footage, but you lied!”
“Stop! I didn’t lie. You’re letting your blindness about my dad cloud your judgment!”
“Let me go!” I try wrenching my arm from his grasp again, but he’s too strong.
“Not until you listen to me!”
“I’m done listening to you,” I say. “Let me go or I’ll scream!”
“Tina!” Michael says. “Would you just calm down?”
I stop struggling but stay ready to bolt. “Why would Mwika even want the footage, unless it was to . . . I don’t know, blackmail your dad?”
“Maybe there’s something else on there he didn’t want anyone to see. Maybe Mwika was involved.”
“You said security didn’t know about the tunnel. Th
at means he wouldn’t have known about the camera.”
“They don’t know now, but Dad fired everyone after your mom’s murder. Before then, Mwika knew about it, and maybe he told the killer. Maybe he was the killer. Maybe that other footage of him playing cards was staged.”
I let my arm go loose. It’s true. Even if it wasn’t Mwika who killed her, he could have been involved somehow. If any of what Michael is saying is true, that is.
Michael slowly releases me. “It’s worth tracking him down, right?” he asks. “I’ve got money, and I have a feeling he needs it.”
“Why?”
“Because of where he is.”
“And where is that?”
Michael folds his arms over his chest. “Come on, Tina, how dumb do you think I am? I tell you now and you’re gone.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I think you’re pretty dumb. Do you really know where he is? Or did you get that info from Daddy too?”
“I know where he is,” Michael says. “Don’t worry. He’s just . . . hard to reach. But I’ll get in touch with him.” He walks back over to the bed and sits on it. “Come on, you made a deal. See it through.”
My brain tells me I’m an idiot if I listen to him. He could be totally lying. And if he’s not lying, his father’s almost certainly lied to him. Almost certainly. Stupid little one percent of doubt. It will not let my feet steer me out the door. What if Mwika really does have the video? What do I lose by staying until Michael can contact him?
Your head, if you don’t get Omoko his money on time.
Your pride.
I let out an enormous sigh. “Fine.”
Ridiculous. You’re ridiculous, Tiny Girl. If he were anyone other than Michael, you’d be gone. But as much as I hate to admit it, other than me, Michael seems to be the only person in the world who’s ever been interested in what really happened to Mama that night. Even before we made this deal, he asked his father about her murder. That took some stones. Maybe he’s blind to believe him, but at least Michael bothered to wonder.
I slowly sit back down on the carpet.
City of Saints & Thieves Page 7