"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Adem bowed his head to the holy man.
"No, no. It is I who am sorry. You did the right thing. Blessings on you, son."
Another embrace, Adem staining the man's robes with the blood.
The murmuring of the crowd raised in volume as they dispersed. They said things like, "Awful. Just awful" and "It's bad enough to take his hand, but to humiliate him like that…" and "Imagine if that had been someone's neck."
As the clerics took their leave, Adem turned to the men working with the convicted. The blood had flowed more, with a pool of it now on the table, spilling over into the dirt. Jibriil stood back, arms crossed. Adem walked over, stood at his side.
"What's wrong?"
Jibriil shrugged. "Maybe the heat. Maybe he's a hemophiliac. I don't know. But they can't stop him bleeding."
The men shouted, frantically waved at soldiers who were standing around like Adem and Jibriil. Finally, a truck rushed down the road towards them, parted the remaining crowd and screeched to a stop. The attendants grabbed a cot from the back, laid it on the ground, then forced the man out of the chair. He refused to lie down. He held his stump as the men fought to control the bleeding, making a bigger mess. They finally got him to stumble towards the back of the truck. Helped him into the bed. He started out by sitting up, but then slipped out of sight as if he'd fainted. The truck sped off, kicked up dirt clouds. Left Adem and Jibriil staring at the blood-covered chair and table, both of which had been knocked over, turning the dirt dark.
Jibriil clapped Adem on the shoulder. "Still, all in all it was a good job. You did what you needed to do."
"Is he going to die?"
A grin. "Some things are out of our hands. All we can do is—"
"Yeah, I know. God's plan, God's will, all that."
"Hey, it got us this far."
Adem wiped his hands on his pants. What had he done? How did he know this guy didn't have AIDS or Hep or worse? Like Ebola, all those crazy jungle bugs. Wiped some more. Seeping into his pores now. "Water. I need to wash the blood off."
"Okay, yeah. That's good. Let's do that."
They headed off. Adem wasn't certain, but it seemed as if the soldiers weren't laughing at him quite as much. At least today.
Jibriil said, "Good news. Thanks to that, you're coming along with me tomorrow."
"What's tomorrow? Where are we going?"
A smile. "You'll see. Try to get some time in on the gun today."
The gun. His AK. Struggled to keep the bullets from spraying like a crazy fountain at the water parks in the Dells. Jibriil telling him he needed it. Shit, he was heading into combat.
"What's it like?"
Jibriil stopped, glanced around. Then, "I can't tell you. Everyone feels it differently. I should have been afraid. Like, shit my pants afraid, right? But I wasn't. Not at all. It felt like the thing I was best in the world at."
Adem didn't say anything more as they made their way to a spigot on the side of what used to be a school. Until this week, he would have guessed the thing Jibriil was best at was singing. But he was sure singing wouldn't have gotten him so bloody.
EIGHT
Bleeker waited for Mustafa in the parking lot of the Super 8 in Golden Valley where he had checked in earlier that afternoon. It had been several days since the beating in NPR. Mustafa had done as Bleeker asked—went to the police, pressed charges on the assailants, and told the chief what he knew about his son and Jibriil, almost certainly in Somalia. Then headed home.
Bleeker climbed into the tiny yellow Mitsubishi with two cups of coffee from the Burger King next door. "Might be a bit cold by now. Didn't know when you'd get here."
Mustafa waved him off. "I don't drink coffee."
"More for me, then."
They started out. No drink holders in the Mitsubishi. They'd been removed to put in more electronics—Slick lights, speakers, switch for the nitrous. Bleeker kept shifting the full coffee in his left hand, drank the other with his right. Steam on the windows. Finally, Bleeker said, "Fuck" and winced and elbowed the window button. Rolled it down and tossed out the full cup. Mustafa said nothing, turned onto 394.
Bleeker didn't like the silence. "Where're we headed tonight?"
"I checked Roble out. He was with this gang, small gang, only about ten of them. Call themselves The Black Ice Boyz. Over in Little Mogadishu."
"Only ten?"
"Somali gangs are like that. Mostly small, more for fun than profit. These guys haven't stepped up yet, but I think they're trying."
"Like you did."
Sharp breath. "Don't."
"Look, it's fine if it helps—"
But Mustafa held up his hand, fingers straight and stiff like he wanted to slap the prairie detective. He calmed down, rested his hand on the wheel. "These boys are not like me, no. You're right about that. My gang, if they saw me with you tonight, they would kill me. Out in this car—everybody knows my car—white man alongside. They'd think I was a threat. You don't know how careful I have to be everyday. How…isolating it all is. No such thing as just leaving. You end up becoming some sort of test, see if they can take you out."
Another sip of coffee. "Sorry."
"Tonight, no Clint Eastwood, please. No smart-ass remarks. They won't be scared of you like the Somalis in your town."
"Fuck, scared? They respect me, son. I worked long and hard to get their respect."
"I saw what I saw. You haven't worked hard enough yet."
"Says you."
"Okay, whatever. You mind some music?"
"Is it that rap shit?"
Mustafa let out a breath. Wasn't sure if he had the balls to say it or not, Bleeker could see it on his face. But then he did. "It's that rap shit your daughter is listening to when she's sucking a brother's dick."
There it was. Taking the piss. Testing him.
Bleeker said, "Be a shame to get blood all over these leather seats."
Mustafa laughed at that one. Couldn't hold it in. Bleeker stared out the window, didn't want him to see the smirk. Then Mustafa sniffed, got control, and said, "Yeah, I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean anything. You know, I don't even know your daughter. I was out of line."
"I don't have a daughter. I don't have any kids. Cindy's would've been my first."
Quiet. Two miles, then three.
Mustafa said, "How was the funeral?"
Bleeker hmphed. "It was sad. It was a funeral. The fuck you think it was?"
"I watched something on TV about New Orleans. They had happy funerals. Like, a celebration. Music and dancing."
"Lutherans don't dance."
"I didn't mean…I mean…"
"Forget it."
"I thought, sometimes, funerals can help heal wounds. Talking about the good times."
"It was a closed casket. The embalmer couldn't make her face look presentable. And now the ground's frozen, so she has to be kept in a fucking cooler until the ground thaws up in Stillwater. Get it? She's like a side of beef. So's my kid. I've got nothing to celebrate and that's why I didn't want to talk about it. Happy now? Do you enjoy hearing how bad my life sucks because your son wanted to go fight for Allah?"
Red-faced. Voice creeping louder until it broke. Balled up a fist. Finally pounded the dash so hard it cracked.
"Fine. wanted to sell this car anyway. Like, I want a Suburban, something like that. Trick the wheels out, put in big ass JL subwoofers. That'll be some sweet shit, man."
He took a Downtown exit and slowed down, ignored Bleeker, who was huffing and puffing.
Mustafa said, "Pay for my dash?"
Bleeker turned to him, jaw clenched. Teeth grinding. Bleeker winced, put his palm to his ear. "Yeah, fine."
Only a few more miles.
*
They skirted the U of M campus ended up on a busy street in Cedar-Riverside outside an African café, some rough-looking bars, and coffee houses. An "alternative" vibe, but there was something off-the-tracks about it.
Mustafa park
ed on the curb, turned off the car. "This place is like home. Back in the day, we liked it here. Did what we wanted, got left alone. Taunt the police, scare the college students heading to the clubs."
Bleeker reached to open his door. The dome light clicked on.
"No, wait. Not yet."
Bleeker closed his door again. "What, you see them?"
"No."
"Know where they are?"
"I don't."
"Then…what?"
Mustafa kept staring out the window, peeked in the rearview mirror, at the people on the sidewalk. Much of the remains from the storm earlier in the week had settled or been dozered away. Piles of snow on the curbs, shiny slicks of ice on the walkway. Not a thick crowd, but enough. Of course they would be out. They couldn't keep up a reputation by staying inside all winter. Mustafa picked up his cell phone from the console, flipped it open, and began texting.
Bleeker snapped his fingers a couple of times. "You awake over there?"
"Calm down. This is how we will find them."
"We're not doing anything."
"Yes we are. Soon, someone will come talk to me. They might even pull a gun on me. Keep an eye out."
"Jesus, man. What?" Bleeker's hand already searching for his pistol.
"They know my car. Most of my own gang still wants to kill me. The others, more or less. They all know I'm out, and that makes me a very valuable target. Anytime I wanted to roll on them, they're going down. Killing me is one of the biggest prizes. A betting pool for who gets me first. Over five thousand, I've been told."
"So you're going to sit and let them shoot you?"
Mustafa smiled. "No one has killed me, though. Almost ten years, and no one has tried. They know the car, know where I live, but so far nothing. I think most of the men out here who know me think it's all a joke. That one day I'll come back to them. Or they think I'll go after all the other gangs and leave my own to do as they please."
"Do you?"
He turned to Bleeker. "I am not a criminal. What I used to be doesn't matter anymore. I chose this…bullshit, right, so that Adem wouldn't turn out like me."
"Yeah, how's that working out? Little fuck's not exactly a model citizen."
Bleeker could tell Mustafa wanted to grab his shirt at the throat and twist. He wanted to spill the hot coffee on Bleeker's privates. But the man had some restraint. That was good. More than Bleeker had. All it took in NPR for Bleeker to nearly strangle Mustafa was him mentioning the mere possibility that Adem was innocent.
Mustafa said, "You dare say that when you cheat on your wife? Fuck a fellow cop? Leave the woman you vowed to love over some hot new pussy?"
"Hey!"
"No, you 'hey'! I'm supposed to just take it? But you, so holy and clean in the eyes of God. Fuck you."
"I never killed anyone, Mohammed."
"That is not my name. You call me by my name or this is over now."
"I said I never killed anyone." Said it smug and slow, too.
"What is my name?"
The car windows had steamed up on Bleeker's side. He pretended Mustafa had said nothing at all, sitting there as if he was chief of police, chauffeured by a black man. There, that's diversity. That'll show the crackers out west.
Mustafa shook his head. He cranked the car.
"Wait. Fine. Bahdoon We're all friends here. I'm sorry for, whatever, taking the guy's name in vain."
"Nobody calls me Bahdoon anymore, I told you that. What is my name?"
Bleeker said "Fuck" and got out of the car. He lit a cigarette. Paced. Guy trying to teach him some touchy-feely civics lesson. Of course he knew the bastard's name. Mustafa. Mustafa. Sounded like some sort of Arab bread. But this guy thought he was some big shot down here? The fact that no one had approached them yet had Bleeker second-guessing how "wanted" the asshole was. Could be the price on his head had been canceled. He was just another worthless stockman at Target, no power to hurt anyone he used to run with.
And who else did he have helping him out?
Bleeker tossed his half-finished cigarette butt into the road and climbed back into the car. Shivering.
"Mustafa Your name is Mustafa."
Mustafa nodded. "Thank you."
"Welcome."
Someone tapped on Mustafa's window. It was a hard tap, metal on glass. Gun barrel. Mustafa said to Bleeker, "Time to work."
*
The kid with the gun, maybe sixteen, got into the back seat and played at being a badass by poking the gun behind Mustafa's ear, talking about his "traitor nigga ass", and asking Bleeker for his wife's number. "You can watch if you want, old man."
Old. Sure. To this kid they were both ancient. Easy to think old meant weak. Exactly what Mustafa was counting on.
The kid told them to drive. He had skinny wrists and the gun was pretty small—a big one would be too heavy for him. His bulky parka with a fur-trimmed hood hid how thin he was, but Bleeker could tell from the wrists, the cheeks, the voice
"Where to?"
"You go until I tell you to turn."
Mustafa took a hard right at the next corner.
The gun jammed against his ear again, scratching his scalp. "The fuck? I didn't say turn."
"You didn't not say it."
"I told you—"
"To drive until you said turn. So I was driving and felt like turning."
"Don't make me fuck you up."
Mustafa glanced in the rearview. It was obvious this kid wasn't going to shoot either of them.
"Get back on the road, right? Someone wants to know what you're doing out here tonight, peeping at us from your car. That ain't shit."
"Just give me the address. I know the roads better than you."
More pressure from the gun. "Smart nigga? How about you do what I say, huh?"
Bleeker's hand closed over the gun, yanked it clear of Mustafa's head. Gave the piece a little twist, and it was all Bleeker's. Turned it around on the kid.
He asked, "What's your name?"
"Shit, you ain't going to kill me, I know it. I didn't do nothing. Just playing, that's all."
"I've got to call you something."
"Call me a lawyer, man. I didn't do nothing. I've got witnesses."
He pressed himself far back in the seat, leaning left, eyes on the gun. His feet were working all over the floorboard.
Mustafa said, "His name's Tyrus. American born Somali. His mom's French, though. His older brother would be a good banger if he wasn't so high half the time. In jail right now, isn't he, Ty?"
Tyrus was wide-eyed. "How you know…yeah, Michael locked up for selling weed. Not even a lot of it. It's bullshit, man. You don't know me. I'm not saying anything."
Bleeker rolled his eyes, turned forward in his seat and set the gun in his lap. Some kind of snub-nose .38. Had to be a Taurus or Rossi. These kids usually didn't do revolvers. He had one like it on his ankle, a five-shot he'd bought for his wife to carry in her purse, but she never did so he took it back, wore it just in case.
Mustafa said, "Is that Mike's gun?"
"What part of 'I ain't talking' did you not understand?"
Bleeker, a bit too loud, said, "We're not arresting you, idiot. But we don't want you playing with this toy and hurting somebody. Where are we going?"
After another half-minute of whining, Tyrus gave up the address. An apartment about five minutes from where they were. Mustafa said, "I could've guessed that."
Mustafa got them headed in the right direction and floored it. Turned on the stereo—more to drown out Tyrus's bluster than anything else. Cranked electric guitars and funky beat. Thick base, wild lead, singer like he was preaching the gospel of rock and roll. A black rock band from the eighties.
Bleeker turned to Mustafa, brow creased. "Living Colour?"
Mustafa grinned. "Old school."
In the back, Tyrus covered his ears and shouted. "Sort of bullshit is this?"
Bleeker gave it a nod. "I can live with that."
NINE
He didn't make it. The thief. Adem took his hand and no one could stop the bleeding in time so he didn't make it. All over some bread.
What did they do to Adem? They blessed him for doing the will of God. They told him he had served well. And they sent him on a raid to an Ethiopian border town—his first time out in the field.
A caravan of trucks, driving all night. The soldiers sleeping as if the bumps and swaying were nothing—Abdi Erasto, Madoowbe, Garaad, others Adem didn't know. Even Jibriil, drooling on himself. Adem was crazy from lack of sleep, always drifting into microdreams that the next bump would rip him from. Not fair. His skin itched, his nose itched, his chest felt caved in, as if someone had run over him with a tank.
"Fear," Jibriil had told him earlier. "It's like an empty bowl. Once you fill up the bowl, by coming home alive, there's less and less of it each time. Until there's always a full bowl ready and waiting for you."
Adem didn't get it. But that was because he couldn't pay attention. The last time he had more than an hour of sleep, right before they started off, he kept thinking about the hand. How fake it looked once it was off. How it was all not what he expected. The hand. That was the worst. He didn't want to have to see his own hand lying on the ground like that, a grisly mannequin, all to make Allah feel like justice had been done.
He looked around the truck and wondered if any of these guys had the same thoughts when they first joined the rebels, or if living here through all of the wars had burned into their souls the need for such a harsh law from a demanding god. Would it ever burn into him?
When Adem was back at school, he felt that every day meant more work at "fitting in", like a puzzle piece that didn't quite snap into place. He had to file off the rough edges, the bad angles, make everything smaller—his heritage, his language, his dreams. The first few days of college, he thought there were no boundaries. He could study history, politics, sociology, science. He had wanted to be an advisor to legislators, governors, senators. But as the semesters ground on, he wondered if he'd be lucky to make manager at a chain store. Good in his classes, knew the material, could have great discussions with professors. Outside of the classroom, it was as if he was invisible.
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