by Layton Green
Grey stood up straight and looked down on him. “That’s not going to happen.”
The leader swung the bottle at Grey’s head. Grey saw his body shift as soon as he raised the bottle, and as the leader’s head reared back at the apex of the swing, Grey’s left hand shot up like a snake and struck him in the throat, using the web of his hand between thumb and forefinger.
Grey only hit him at half-strength, but the boy dropped the bottle and clawed at his throat. Grey grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him. He lifted his forehead with his right hand, causing him to move his hands away from his throat and reach for the top of his head. Grey slid his left arm around the unprotected neck, the blade of his forearm exerting pressure on the Adam’s apple. He reinforced the choke by clasping his hands together, and then kicked the back of the leader’s knees to lower him. Grey dragged him backwards, tightening his hold like a python and cutting off oxygen, keeping him tilted backwards and off-balance to prevent him from resisting.
The Green Bomber gagged and struggled. Grey spoke into his ear. “Quit moving or I’ll crush your windpipe.”
He stopped flailing. It happened so fast the other three had just now begun to move towards Grey. The leader held his palm out, and Grey released his hold enough to allow him to speak. “You know what to say,” Grey said.
“Stay back,” he croaked.
The others shifted in confusion. Grey backed towards the exit with the leader, eyes scouring the room. He hoped they didn’t rush him; he didn’t want to have to hurt them. Just before he reached the door, a man in a black suit walked into the room from the hallway, flanked by two men in white suits.
The men in white suits had their hands poised under their suit jackets. They acted like bodyguards, although they weren’t as large as the first man.
Grey was about to shove his captive and run when the man in the black suit started shouting at the Green Bombers in Shona. The man was tall and extraordinarily thick, his skin imbued with a rich, ebony luster. The youths backed down at once, and slinked to their seats at the other end of the room.
The two bodyguards flanked the entrance to the hallway while the man in the black suit walked towards Grey. Grey didn’t relinquish his hold on the leader.
The man said, “You may let him go. He will not be causing you any more trouble.” He glared at the boy, snapped something in Shona, and then returned to English. “How dare you practice your filthy politics in my establishment. I am a businessman. I serve whoever brings money. And I assure you this man will bring me more business than you and your playmates ever will.”
His heavy, almost guttural English ruled him out as a native Zimbabwean. He sounded West African to Grey. His lack of contractions didn’t seem stilted; certain African speakers have a curious way of making formal English sound natural.
Grey wanted to take these boys to a dojo and teach them some manners, and take care of the man in the black suit’s education in the street outside. But he had an investigation to conduct. He shoved the boy forward, and the man cuffed him across the face, sending him sprawling. The music had died and the other Green Bombers sulked at their table, watching the scene with wary indolence. The stripper stood with hands on hips, her nakedness now an absurdity.
The black-suited man waved one hand above his head, and the rhythmic thumping resumed. He offered his hand to Grey. “I am Lucky,” he boomed. “I imagine you did not know Lucky was an African name, did you, Mr.-”
“Grey.”
Lucky flashed a presidential smile. His jaw jutted out like a bodybuilder’s, and his neck muscles bulged against his collar when he spoke. His clipped hair squared off his scalp, broad and full facial features adding to the blocky effect. Grey could picture him standing on the front of a tank with an oversized cigar, leading a rebel army into a capital city.
“Please accept my apologies,” Lucky said. “Your business is quite welcome here. It is a shame these boys are allowed to run around this country like rebellious curs.” He motioned towards the hallway. “I like to welcome new customers personally. Join me for a Scotch in my office. I guarantee you will find it more pleasing.”
Grey sensed the offer was more of a command, although he didn’t think Lucky meant him any immediate harm. He believed Lucky was telling the truth: he served money, not a political agenda.
Lucky led him through the dim hallway, past six closed doorways on the sides of the hallway, and through a curtain at the far end. Another corridor branched off to the right, just before the curtain.
African jazz caressed the sprawling room behind the curtain. A collection of plush leather couches and chairs formed the center, and a stocked bar ran along the wall to Grey’s left. A roulette wheel sat unoccupied on the wall opposite the bar. Two men, one white and one black, engaged in light banter at the bar.
A stunning Zimbabwean girl behind the bar perked up when they entered the room. Lucky held up two fingers, and her gazelle-like limbs flurried into action. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Grey doubted his opinion of Lucky could drop any further.
Lucky led Grey to a pair of overstuffed armchairs in the middle of the room, and the two bodyguards claimed chairs a few feet behind Lucky. The bartender brought over tumblers of Scotch, and Lucky reached into his suit and pulled out two cigars. Grey declined.
Lucky lit his cigar, and Grey remembered his first assessment of Lucky and chuckled to himself. He then took a quick glance around. No windows, no security cameras, no doors other than the curtained opening.
“As you can see,” Lucky said, “there is more to my club than meets the eye. The outer room is reserved for my more… pedestrian clientele.”
“It appears so.”
“You are a man of few words, Mr. Grey. I find that the mark of a cautious man. I am curious: how did you discover my club?”
“Through an acquaintance.”
“Oh? Might I ask who that would be?”
“William Addison.”
“Mr. Addison is a good customer. He has exquisite taste in both women and Scotch. I noticed his absence last night—he always manages to join us on Wednesday nights. I wonder what might have kept him.” He raised his glass. “Perhaps you will be his newest partner in crime?”
Grey met his toast and sized Lucky up: the man was quite a specimen. “You never know.”
“So you are an acquaintance of Mr. Addison?”
“I work at the American Embassy.”
“My best customers! Now that foreign journalists are not welcome in Zimbabwe, I would be roasting maize on the street without diplomats!” He roared and slapped his knee, his laughter sending a rising wave of muscle rippling across his suit.
Lucky regained his composure. “Shall we expect Mr. Addison tonight? I would be pleased if you would accompany him. You will find my club much more entertaining after the sun sets. We reserve our choicer wares for the evening.”
“If not tonight, then sometime soon.”
Lucky flicked his eyes towards the striking bartender and spread his hands. “I understand, my friend. We all have our obligations.”
Grey had been wrong; Lucky just dropped even further.
“Indeed we do.”
Lucky raised his empty glass and signaled for two more drinks. Grey held his hand out. “I have to return to the Embassy. I’m actually here looking for William. I haven’t seen him for a couple of days.”
“Is that so? Have you checked with his woman?”
“She doesn’t know where he is either.”
Lucky puffed on his cigar. “Mr. Addison enjoys his recreational pursuits as much as any man I know. Perhaps he is amusing himself somewhere else.”
“Do you know the other clubs he frequents?”
“I cannot help you there, and I can tell you he rarely visits here during the day.”
“I figured as much. I thought I might get… lucky.”
It took Lucky a moment before he reacted to the double entendre, slow laughter ending in another body-shaking
convulsion. He calmed and wiped his eyes. “I believe I might enjoy more of your company, Mr. Grey. Do stop by again. I am afraid I cannot help you with Mr. Addison, however. I am sure he will turn up.”
Grey stood to leave. “He mentioned a name the last time I saw him. A Shona name. Maybe you’ve heard it before.”
“The name?”
“N’anga.”
The light chatter at the bar behind Grey ceased. He glimpsed the bodyguards: their eyes had widened and they were shuffling their feet. Lucky kept his outward composure, but his voice turned grim. “Where did you hear that name?”
Grey managed a look of surprised confusion, and he didn’t have to feign it entirely. This was a rough crowd, and he was surprised the mention of a name elicited that kind of response. “Addison mentioned it last Friday. He said he was going to meet this N’anga person on Saturday night. I was in a rush at the time, and didn’t ask him about it. You know him?”
“You should forget you heard that name.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
Lucky laughed once again, this time in a short, ugly staccato. “You seem like a capable man; you handled yourself well with the boys in the other room. But listen well, my new friend.” He took a long puff off his cigar, and didn’t speak until the smoke had dissipated. “There are some things in Africa better left alone.”
9
Grey offered a disarming smile, as if the whole conversation were a private joke, but Lucky didn’t change his expression. He sensed Lucky wasn’t going to reveal anything more, and that now wasn’t the time to press him. Grey thanked him for his hospitality and left.
He walked back to the Embassy and killed a few hours catching up on his monthly quota of fraudulent visa claims, and then stepped outside at eight to meet Nya. She pulled away as soon as Grey jumped in.
Darkness had fallen, and they traveled in silence, heading north on Second and soon arriving at an upscale neighborhood just north of the Avenues.
“Belgravia,” Grey said. “The Ambassador’s neighborhood.”
“Other foreign dignitaries besides your own live here.”
He cocked his head. “Maybe I’m not as egocentric as you think I am.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“You know,” he said, “this might be less painful if you at least gave me the benefit of the doubt.”
“I’ve tried that before, and the results are always the same. Zim is a stopover for you. A sideshow.”
“You got the first part right,” he said. “My whole life’s been a stopover. But I prefer to judge someone after I know them, no matter how strong the stereotype.”
She started to say something, then cut herself off.
He said, “Are you going to tell me who we’re going to see?”
Nya stopped on a street defined by a claustrophobic tunnel of out-of-bloom jacarandas, their dark and gnarled branches entombing the entire street. She stared out her window at a somber three-story brick townhouse. “The man we’re about to meet should be able to help us, if he chooses.”
“Who is he and why wouldn’t he help us?”
“His name is Dr. Olatunji Fangwa. He’s the Nigerian Cultural Attaché.” She turned, and Grey detected a flicker of unease in her eyes.
“What aren’t you telling me about him?”
“It’s nothing, I’ve only met him once. He has a way about him.” She opened her door. “Come. I’ll conduct the interview.”
He gave her a long look before he got out of the car that said, I’ll play along for now.
Nya rang the doorbell. Moments later a boy dressed in an embroidered green tunic opened the door. He was an older boy, close in age to the youths Grey had encountered earlier, but polar opposite in mannerism. He clasped his hands in front of him and stood with a straight-backed, servile bearing. He had the svelte elegance and pallor of youth, yet there was something disconcerting about him. His eyes, although intelligent, seemed absent. He was looking right at Grey, but Grey had the odd feeling the boy’s mind lived somewhere else.
“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Nya said, taking out her identification. “I’m Nya Mashumba with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. This is Dominic Grey from the U.S. Embassy. We’d like to ask Dr. Fangwa a few questions, if he’s available.”
The boy’s voice was wooden, and he was still staring straight ahead. “Is there a problem?”
“Nothing of the sort. We’re looking into a matter the Doctor might be able to assist with. I called earlier.”
“I shall see if he’s available.”
He turned and climbed a set of stairs, with a measured gait far too stiff for his age. He reappeared at the bottom a few minutes later. “He will see you.”
They followed the boy up the constricted stairwell to the third story, down a short hallway and into the second door on the right. Grey noticed two other doors on this level, and three more on the second. All closed.
The doorway led into a sitting room with white walls and a dark parquet wooden floor. Framed photographs of what Grey assumed to be Nigeria hung on the walls, along with a few pieces of tribal craftsmanship. Except for three high-backed chairs in the center, there was nothing else in the room.
In the chair facing them sat a living skeleton. Dr. Fangwa’s obsidian skin stretched across his face and over his angular forehead as if he were in a perpetual wind tunnel. Knife-edged cheekbones jutted outward, defining his face and slicing downward so sharply that they connected with the narrow thrust of his jaw, leaving two gaping holes where his cheeks should have been. As he rose to greet them, pointed limbs jabbed into the snow-white linen suit that hung off his body, straining the thin material in an awkward manner.
But there was nothing awkward about his movements. When he walked towards them, Grey had the impression he was in the presence of the most precise man he’d ever encountered. The man moved with the lapidary exactness of a stalking cat. Each step, each swing of the arm, was perfectly placed—an unsettling mix of fluidity and robotic abnormality. As he moved, each thumb rubbed against the fore and index finger of its respective hand, keeping a slow prestidigital rhythm, as if walking alone wasn’t movement enough to satisfy him.
He extended his hand as his narrow lips curled, revealing gleaming white teeth that outshone the linen. Mahogany pupils eyed Grey out of recessed sockets a few inches above Grey’s own.
Grey tried not to jerk back as the Doctor’s clammy hand slid into his. Nya took his hand next, and he held onto it much longer than he had Grey’s. “Nya Mashumba. We’ve met before.” His smooth, urbane voice pronounced the syllables with equal accuracy, and his tongue made a barely audible click-clack sound at the end of the sentence.
Grey couldn’t tell if Dr. Fangwa’s knowledge of her name surprised her. “At the Mbeki reception, I believe,” she said. “Thank you for meeting with us. Forgive the late hour.”
He folded his hands in front of him, and his fingers stopped twitching. “I was merely finishing up my… activities… for the evening.” He grinned. “How can I assist you?”
“I’ll be blunt. A man has disappeared, someone associated with the American Embassy. We’re trying to locate him.”
“His name?”
“William Addison.”
He contemplated the name as if he couldn’t place it. “Would you care to sit?”
“No thank you,” Nya said. “I’m afraid we can’t stay long.”
“Pity,” he murmured, and then clapped his hands twice in rapid succession. The same boy returned to the room and stood obsequiously in front of Doctor Fangwa, head bowed and hands clasped. Grey frowned. He didn’t like people who got off on controlling others.
“Bring tea,” Fangwa ordered. “For three.”
“Yes, Doctor,” the boy said, his voice as vacant as his gaze, and then walked away.
“We really can’t—” Nya began.
“Tsk. It’s my duty to offer.” He returned to his seat and waved at the two chairs across from
him. “Indulge me.”
Nya took a seat. Grey sat facing the Doctor. So far the whole encounter felt stilted, as if Doctor Fangwa had prearranged what was going to happen.
The boy re-entered and brought around a tray with three cups of tea. After everyone took a cup he retreated again. Nya brought her tea to her lap, stirring but not tasting.
“Better,” Doctor Fangwa said, pleased. “I prefer a civilized setting.” He cradled his cup with spindly fingers. He said to Nya, “I don’t know William Addison, but I assume there’s some reason you think I might?”
“We don’t suspect you know anything about Addison. But we do think you might be able to help us with the meaning of a word. A word we heard while interrogating a witness.”
“The word?”
“N’anga.”
Doctor Fangwa took a long sip of his tea without changing his expression. He set the tea down and his fingers resumed their odd movements. “That is a Shona word. I assume you know the meaning of this word yourself.”
“Of course I know the Shona meaning. It means “one who summons.’” She leaned forward. “We need to know what this word means to Juju.”
“Juju,” he repeated. The word left his lips as would a lover’s name—he tasted it, caressed it, as it issued forth.
The question hung in the air. The Doctor stared into space for a long moment, as if he’d left the conversation entirely. Finally he turned to Nya. “You should try the tea. It’s quite good.”
Nya’s eyes crept to her tea. She picked it up and took the lightest of sips. Grey feigned the same; he let the liquid trickle back into the cup without imbibing. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but Nya was clearly put off by this man. As was he. If this was a cultural attaché, then Grey was the Dalai Lama.
“Tell me,” Doctor Fangwa intoned, “why you suspect I might know the significance of this word.”
“William Addison was last seen at a Yoruba religious ceremony,” Nya said. “A Juju ceremony. His girlfriend was with him, and she said the worshippers referred to the priest as N’anga. I don’t understand why.“