by Joy Copeland
“Regina!” said Zoie, an edge to her voice. “Mr. Khalfani and I need to talk business.”
“Oh, goodness! Did I interrupt? My bad.” Still blushing, Regina backed away and, in doing so, almost collided with the watercooler. Regina turned and moved down the hall, her hips swaying in what Zoie was sure was the most sensuous walk the young woman could muster. Regina peeked back and gave the two a little wave. Incredulous, Zoie waited until Regina was out of sight to resume the conversation.
Zoie spoke first. “Jahi, sorry about that.”
“There you go again. You have no control over that woman.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll stop apologizing for anything or anybody. But I do have a question,” Zoie said. “Do you always have that effect on women?”
Jahi blushed. This time he was the one at a loss for words. But then he spoke. His voice was low and sexy, and his eyes gazed unflinchingly into Zoie’s. “Obviously, not all women.”
The cell phone attached to Zoie’s hip played its familiar baroque fugue, a tune out of date with the pop downloads many people were using. Zoie was glad for the interruption.
Zoie identified her caller: Tina. She was probably returning last night’s distress call about Elliot. It took her only a second to look at her phone, but that second was all it took for Jahi to disappear. She caught a glimpse of him turning the corner that led to the Foundation’s other wing, the wing where Ray’s office was located.
Twenty minutes later Regina stopped by Zoie’s office. Zoie was trying to put the latest scene with Jahi behind her. She needed to concentrate on the stack of papers in front of her.
“Need anything?” Regina asked. “I’m headed to lunch. I could bring you back something.”
“No. I’ll step out after my meeting.”
“Okay.”
“Regina, what was that all about out there?”
“What?” said the young woman, feigning innocence.
“That thing with you and Jahi Khalfani.”
“Oh, that.” Regina was glowing. “He’s hot—that’s all. Reminds me of Eric Benet. You know, like Halle Berry’s ex, only taller with more muscle.”
“Girl, you’re ridiculous,” Zoie responded, rolling her eyes.
“Don’t tell me he doesn’t do anything for you?”
“Is he still around?” Zoie said, shifting the conversation. “We didn’t finish our business.”
“Nope. Picked up his check from Marge and took off.”
“What check?”
“Ray authorized an advance on the Shelter’s grant,” Regina explained. “I guess they were running low on funds.”
“Does that happen often? I mean grantees getting advances?” Zoie asked with a raised brow.
“Not really. They know they have to wait until later in the month. It’s not like the Shelter’s getting anything additional. They’re just getting their money sooner.”
Zoie thought about what Regina said. Certainly it was compassionate to give an early allocation to the Shelter if it needed the money to maintain smooth operations. After all, the Board had approved its funds. The rest was administrative red tape. But anything that smacked of special treatment, for whatever reason, bothered her. It exposed the Foundation to possible complaints. Though the chances that a grantee would complain—in essence, “bite the hand that feeds it”—were slim. She was sure that if other grantees knew that it was possible to request funds sooner, there would be a run on the place. It was prudent to stick to the published-awards schedule to avoid any criticism. To avoid possible lawsuits.
“Regina, when you get back from lunch, I need you to make an appointment for me.”
“Shoot.”
“I’ll give you the details when you get back, but I need a tour of Mahali Salaam.”
“You’re going to Jahi Khalfani’s place?” Regina asked with excited interest.
“Ray wants me to see it. Apparently I missed the tour a few weeks back with the other Board members.”
“Uh huh,” Regina said, her tone both solemn and disbelieving. “I wish I could go.”
CHAPTER 10
The Mouth of the Metro Cave
Propped against the entrance wall of the Metro station, Maynard dropped his head almost between his knees. Hunched, he was like an animal waiting for its prey. His eyes and skullcap were the only visible parts of his head.
Maynard, however, wasn’t planning to pounce on anyone or anything. In truth, he was exhausted. As usual he had slept the previous night with one eye opened. Doing so had given him little rest. There had been the voices. One voice in particular yelled obscenities in his head, each expletive like the blast of an air horn.
In the shadow of the massive government building, Maynard found some respite from the afternoon sun. At one point he’d considered riding the dragon’s tongue, the escalator, which went deep into the dark Metro cave. Underground it was always twenty degrees cooler. But the cave could be treacherous—at least that’s what his voices warned. Escape from the heat might not be worth the danger. And then there was the issue of his cart, always within easy reach. Those meticulously tied green garbage bags were the neatest thing about him. When Simon was around, he guarded the cart. Nothing was ever missing. Simon was probably the only one Maynard could trust, but in the last few days, Simon hadn’t been around. Better stated, Simon had disappeared again. Going to “who knows where” or the “ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies” place. Wherever that was. That place would suck you up and spit you back out. That place would spit Simon back out, but there was no telling when.
Foot traffic entering the Metro cave was light. With his coffee can close by, Maynard watched beleaguered Metro riders descend into the cave via the dragon’s tongue. Few riders offered donations. Money-wise, it was going to be a so-so day. He let his eyes narrow. His need for sleep was defeating his attempt to stay alert. With arms resting on his knees, he drifted into semi-consciousness.
Whether it was Coach’s voice in his head shouting, Wake up, nummy! that alerted him or his slit-eyed peripheral vision that spotted the hand creeping toward his bag, his reaction was the same. He sprang to his haunches, falling forward on his hands, against the gritty pavement, looking like an attack dog.
“Stop!” Maynard screamed, his voice sounding more like a foghorn than a human voice. “Stop, you fucker!”
Two kids. Junior hoodlums. The worst kind. The one behind him reached for the coffee can. The other one lifted a green bag from the cart while his feet did the “Ali shuffle.” The kid had the top bag, the one with Maynard’s binder.
Get him, nummy! Coach bellowed. Get the little fuck!
Rising to his feet, Maynard sprang for the kid with his bag. He grabbed the kid’s baggy pants and held on to his leg. In the struggle to free himself, the kid lost his shoe. That was Maynard’s opening. Maynard buried his teeth into the kid’s stinky sock.
“Aghhhh! Get off me, muthafucka! Aghhhhh!” The kid dropped the bag. Hopping on one leg, the kid fought to stay erect. “Vick! Help me!”
With a violent tug, Maynard pulled the kid down, the boy’s butt landing hard on the pavement. In a flash the second kid was on Maynard’s back.
Teeth still engaged, Maynard reached behind and sank his claw-like fingernails into his aggressor’s neck. With a jerk he threw the aggressor off. Maynard was a mad dog on the attack. He growled as his teeth clamped down again on the boy’s foot.
“Aghhhhhhhh!”
A small crowd had gathered but kept its distance.
“Vick, get this muthafucka off me! This nigga’s killing me!”
Scrambling for his freedom, the kid managed to remove Maynard’s skullcap. Free from the sweaty cap, Maynard’s matted hair rose like a giant rat’s nest. The boy bent forward, grabbed Maynard’s hair with both hands, wedged his free foot against Maynard’s shoulder for leverage, and pulled. Maynard’s scalp burned. Further angered, he tightened his jaw.
“Agghhhhhh! My foot. Help! Somebody help me!”
As sure as he could recognize the sound of coins hitting his coffee can, Maynard recognized the click of a switchblade. There was an “ooooooooh!” from the gathering.
Get the other bastard, nummy! said Coach, cheering inside his head.
Maynard released his mouth’s grip on the first kid, turned, and rammed head first into the second kid’s midsection, knocking the boy backward, to the pavement. On his knees Maynard grabbed the hand that held the blade. He bent the boy’s wrist back until the hand released it.
“Aghhhh!”
Nice work, nummy. Now get his balls, the voice instructed. The voice laughed. It was a screeching laugh, like a parrot being strangled.
Obeying the new command, Maynard put an elbow in the boy’s stomach, pulled his legs apart, buried his head in the boy’s smelly crotch, and bit down.
“Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!” the kid screamed.
“Grrrrrrr,” said Maynard, his growl muffled.
Back arched, the boy flopped like a fish on a boat deck. “Get off me! Muthafucking pervert! Get him off me! Awwwwwwww!”
“Hey, you! Let him go! I said to let him go!” The new instructions weren’t coming from Coach, an angel, or even God. The voice had Coach’s commanding tone. “Let him go, I said!”
Maynard felt a hand tugging at his collar and a large stick pressed against his face. Quick to follow orders, Maynard released his mouth’s lock on the boy’s crotch fabric. “Don’t hit me. Don’t hit me,” said Maynard, begging, throwing his hands in the air. He stopped begging long enough to spit lint.
Tears rolled down the boy’s face. “That muthafucka damaged my nuts,” the boy cried, holding his crotch.
“Child abuse! Child abuse!” said his one-shoe friend, cheering from the sideline.
Stone faced, eyes down, Maynard sat back on his heels, his hands still in the air. He was trembling and sweating. From the corner of his eye, he spotted his bag. It was about ten feet away.
The victim of Maynard’s crotch attack dragged himself on his elbows along the pavement, distancing himself from his attacker. The victim of the foot attack removed his sock and inspected the bite marks. “Look at that!” he said. “He’s got fangs.” With one bare foot, he limped toward Maynard. While the policeman fumbled with his radio, the kid used his good foot to give Maynard a swift kick in the ribs.
Maynard groaned and reached for the kid’s foot. This time the boy was too fast.
“Kid, stay over there,” the policeman ordered.
“Little jackass! Cockroach! Rat poop!” Maynard yelled at the kid.
You tell them, nummy! Coach said, continuing his private instructions.
“Keep quiet!” ordered the policeman, his voice decibels louder than the one giving orders in Maynard’s head.
Keep quiet, nummy. Don’t say anything. It was Coach again, speaking this time with a loud whisper that pierced Maynard’s brain like a train whistle. Maynard grabbed his ears to smother it.
“Hands down!” the officer ordered. He forced Maynard’s hands away from his ears. “Behind your back! Behind your back, I said!”
Maynard complied.
With precision the policeman bent down and fitted Maynard with plastic cuffs.
“I didn’t do anything,” Maynard said.
“Liar! Officer, that fool attacked us,” the young kicker announced.
“Hold on. I’ll get your story in a minute.” The officer pressed a button on his shoulder-mounted radio and spoke in code. The crackled reply was so much static. The only thing that was clear was that backup was on the way.
“Okay, what happened here?” the officer asked, directing his question not to the kid most anxious to talk but to the one still moaning on the ground and holding his crotch.
“That crazy muthafucka attacked me. He’s a pervert,” moaned the boy on the ground, his tears mixing with dust and sweat.
“Yeah, he attacked us. He jumped us. He’s crazy!” said the other boy, his statement accompanied by hopping and wild arm gestures.
“Not!” Maynard bellowed, his eyes blazing. He grunted.
Nummy, they’re not going to listen to you. They’re going to put you away again.
“You calm down,” the officer said, pressing his baton into Maynard’s shoulder, as if the pressure of the baton could hold him in place. Maynard flinched.
Nummy, you don’t listen. Quiet! Bide your time. Later you’ll get them. Later you can pee on them.
“But I got to talk. Those little bastards tried to steal my bag,” Maynard said, talking out loud to his personal coach, wanting everyone to hear.
The audience that had gathered had all but dispersed. About twenty feet away, a straggler witness, a man with a mid-fifties paunch and a newspaper, lingered in the building’s archway.
“Hey, you! Did you see anything?” the officer called to him.
“It looked as if the kid pulled a knife on him,” the witness replied, pointing to the kid on the ground.
“Is that right, kid?”
“Naw. No way. That fucker attacked us.”
“Sir, may I get a statement from you?”
The man raised his hand and shook his head, signaling that the answer was no. Then he walked away.
Without changing his position, the officer’s eyes scanned the pavement. If there had been a knife, it was missing.
“Look at my foot,” said the victim of the foot attack, pointing to the red teeth marks. “He’s a damn werewolf. I could get rabies.”
“You have to come down to the station and press charges,” the officer said.
The standing boy looked at the pavement and did a kind of shuffle. The eyes of the boy on the ground widened.
“The car will be here in a minute. I’ll take you and your friend to the station to fill out the papers.”
The boy cut an eye to his friend, who still seemed in too much pain to stand.
“Naw. We don’t wanna press charges. He’s a crazy fuck, but we don’t wanna press no charges. Right, Vick?”
Vick shook his head in agreement.
Quickly the kid pulled on his sock and then his shoe.
“Don’t be in such a hurry, boys. Both of you should get some medical attention.”
“Naw,” answered one of the boys.
The officer turned to the boy on the ground. “Hey, kid. What about you? You want to see a doctor?”
“Umm, no,” the kid answered. He murmured something under his breath, still loud enough for all to hear: “He messed with my balls. God, I hope they still work.”
“Groin injuries can be serious. Let a doctor look at it,” the officer said.
“Should never have messed with my things,” Maynard barked. Then he laughed, a laugh so wicked it caused both kids to flinch.
Lights flashing, a patrol car pulled up. Two officers were inside. A tall thin officer came around from the driver’s side. He approached Maynard, who was still handcuffed and kneeling. The second officer emerged from the passenger’s side. Arms folded, he leaned against the car.
“Looks as if you got it under control, Bob,” said the tall officer.
“These two decided to not press charges. Is that right, boys?” said the first officer on the scene. He looked each kid in the eye.
Each said, “Yeah, that’s right.”
The kid on the ground struggled to his feet. He staggered a few steps, his hand cupping his crotch.
“We can drive you boys home. Talk to your parents. Maybe they’ll want to file charges on your behalf.”
“Ahh, no,” they said in unison.
Maynard growled.
“You pipe down,” the first officer told Maynard, pressing the baton against his shoulder again. “I want to take this one in. No telling what he’ll do out here.”
The kid who was hopping went over to his friend to help him walk. “We gotta go.”
“If you’re not pressing charges, we don’t need you. Hey, you with the crotch injury!”
The boy stopped moving.
“Tell your mom to take you to a doctor.”
The boy nodded as his friend hurried him along.
Maynard watched the two disappear into the Metro cave.
You got him good. Hee hee hee, said a voice in Maynard’s head.
Maynard laughed his wicked laugh again. He wasn’t laughing at the officer’s jokes. He had another scenario going on in his head. This scenario involved his young attackers and what would happen to them down in the Metro cave.
“Let’s go, buddy!”
Two of the officers pulled Maynard to his feet. They pushed him up against the car. The third officer frisked him and made the pronouncement “He’s clean.”
“My gut tells me those punks instigated this,” the tall officer said.
“Probably. But now what?”
“Let’s not take chances. He’s agitated. All we need is for him to attack some tourist.”
“You off your meds?” one of the officers asked Maynard as the side of his face lay against the hot metal of the car’s roof. Maynard’s only response was to turn away.
“Let’s take him in.”
“My things,” Maynard pleaded.
“Quiet down,” instructed the officer.
The beat cop retrieved the green bag from the pavement and then pushed Maynard’s cart over to the curb. With gloved hands he transferred the three garbage bags and the folded cart into the police vehicle’s trunk.
“We should leave that crap,” his colleague said. “It’s probably infested with something.”
“It’s probably all he’s got. Where’s your compassion?” the tall officer said.
“Waiting for Christmas,” the officer answered sarcastically.
“What are you going to charge him with?”
“Loitering, disturbing the peace…I’ll think of something.”
CHAPTER 11
Mahali Salaam Means Safe Place