by Joy Copeland
Through slits in the crates, they had a view to the open door. The distant street lamp provided eerie backlighting for the doorway’s shadowed figures. In an awkward crouch, Maynard pressed low to the ground, maintaining his view while protecting his precious binder. He chewed at his shirt and trembled. Zoie also had landed in an awkward position. Her otherwise healthy haunches screamed pain. She dare not move as terror trumped pain. She was about to find out who was behind everything. But what good would that knowing be if she ended up dead?
Chapter 43
Maynard Finds His Mane
Backlit by the moon, two slender men, one slightly taller than the other, stood in the doorway of the Mahali outbuilding. The shorter of the two switched on the fluorescents. With a flicker and a crackle, the overhead lights responded in harsh brightness.
“This place gets messier with each shipment,” the taller of the two said, disgusted. “Asad, can’t you get your crew to clean up after themselves?”
Asad, the shorter and older of the two, groaned. With his foot he pushed a Styrofoam ice chest out of his path.
“So you left those messages as I told you?” Tarik was curt. “And you used the voice-distortion device?”
Asad responded begrudgingly in his thick Somalian accent. “Sure, my brother, I did all that. This woman is not answering. Everything goes to voice mail.”
“Then I hope she listens and heeds our warning. And, of course, you made these calls with burner phones?”
“Yeah, sure,” Asad said, bristling. He didn’t enjoy being interrogated by the arrogant younger man. But he had to endure. There was little work for someone in his circumstance—certainly none as lucrative as the khat business. He preferred this to spending his nights babysitting cars in a downtown garage or his days circling the busy city in someone else’s cab. For now this was better, even if it meant submitting to Tarik’s badgering. He had a much younger wife, one small child, and another on the way.
Asad had signed on to work the khat operation, a business he knew well. But lately Tarik had asked him to do other things—things not connected to the smuggling operation. The cocky boy and his mother had other illegal business dealings. He had been expected to follow their orders without explanation, as if he were some child. He found himself being dragged deeper into the muck. For these crimes his punishment, if he were caught, would be more severe. Rather than a slap on the wrist or deportation, he could face life behind bars in a US prison.
Tarik brushed the khat debris from the plank table and into a small flat box. “Then, Asad—my trusted associate—tell me something: the Taylor woman is not answering, but do you at least know where she is? Remember…I also asked you to keep tabs on her.”
“I know you wanted me to keep track of her. In truth, I have not had time to find her,” Asad replied.
Tarik frowned and shook his head. Then he said with a sigh, “How did I know you would not follow through?”
Tarik’s English was perfect. He spoke English as if it were his first language. He’d come to the United States from Ethiopia at age three. When his mother received her papers to come to the United States, she refused to leave him behind with relatives in Addis Abba, as other mothers before her had done. There was no shame in leaving children behind to wait until the family was established, but his mother would not hear of it. She’d already lost her husband and refused to be separated from her child.
Tarik wished that Asad, the husband of his cousin Mihret, spoke Amharic like the rest of the family. So close were their peoples in the motherland, yet the distance between their tongues was the width of an ocean. English, the language of business, was now their common tongue. Asad’s not knowing Amharic was more than a little disadvantage when it came to dealing with their customers. He’d made little effort to learn his wife’s tongue. Why, even Jahi spoke some Amharic. Still, the Somali had proven trustworthy, even if he was slow to follow through. It would not have been Tarik’s choice to use Asad, but his mother insisted. “Better to keep our dealings in the family,” she had said.
Asad did have positives. He knew the khat operation from back in Somalia. In DC he had learned quickly to deal with their airport contacts and the distribution model for the Ethiopian establishments along Georgia Avenue, U Street, and Eighteenth Street. He knew the customers in the DC cabbie community. With DC having the largest concentration of Ethiopians in the United States, their business was set to grow. Plus, he was the link to the fledgling Somalian community in DC, a population not on par number-wise with Ethiopians but likely to grow fast. Asad knew only superficially about the family’s other ventures. And Tarik and his mother had determined early on that it was best to keep it that way—to keep their businesses compartmentalized.
Tarik knew that if he relied solely on Asad, he would indeed be blindsided. A khat user, Asad was often “indisposed.” The leaves should have made his cousin more alert and more of a risk taker. Perhaps because Asad had been chewing the stuff for so long, he needed to chew greater quantities for longer periods to achieve the desired boost. So Tarik used other eyes sometimes to tell him what he needed to know.
“I know the Taylor woman was at the Foundation’s office earlier today. Downtown they’re in a knot over that pig Gaddis.” Tarik rolled his eyes and then stared at Asad to gauge his reaction. “The Taylor woman knows about the fire. That should keep her quiet.”
“Yes, the fire was good thinking on your part, Tarik. And this time nobody had to die.”
“Asad! Asad, my brother, you are too sensitive. We do what we need to do, not for the fun of it. This is business. If necessary, I have other means to ensure the Taylor woman’s silence…means that will be even more effective.”
“What do you intend?”
“I will let you know if we have to take that route.” Tarik went over to where Zoie’s laptop was found. He didn’t seem to notice that the laptop had been unearthed from the pile and was now sitting very prominently in the middle of the desk. “I know where her daughter is. Anyway, enough about this woman. She is the least of our problems. We have another serious situation.”
“What now?” Asad said, his attention piqued for bad news.
“I just received a text from Frankfurt. Our shipment has been intercepted.”
“I was supposed to pick the shipment up from our contact at Dulles later this morning. Before you called me here, I was going to pick up one of our guys at the twenty-four-hour joint near the airport.
“Asad, be careful. You don’t know who’s watching those places. Anyway, we still have the shipment coming in from Amsterdam this evening. But that means we’ll have no fresh product for today’s distribution. We will have a lot of disappointed customers.”
Somewhat bewildered by the news, Asad quickly calculated the effect of this setback. No khat for distribution meant no money for him. Plus, no fresh khat for his own consumption. Khat sharpened his wits and eased his fatigue, though the brown juice often stained his clothes. A day without the potent khat would not be the end of the world. But it was a nasty sandstorm.
“Do you realize that this is the first time in the thirty months of this operation that we have had a glitch like this?” Tarik asked.
“Our contacts in jeopardy in Frankfurt are thinking this is more than what you call a ‘glitch.’”
“True. True. Sad. We’ll have to cauterize that arm of the operation. But don’t worry,” Tarik said with an air of authority. “We are insolated triple times over. They don’t know where the stuff actually comes from or where it winds up. Ahh!” He sighed as if the weight of the world were on him. “So many palms to grease. It’s a wonder we make any profit from this operation. In fact, we will make nothing today. As we go forward, the price for our product must go up to be in line with our risk.”
“Tarik, the price has always fluctuated.”
“No, this will be different. For the next shipment, there will be a big increase.”
Asad scratched his head. He decided not to commen
t, though he couldn’t contain a groan.
“Customers are satisfied with the product, right? Its freshness?” Tarik continued.
“Well, yes.” Asad didn’t know what price the khat market would bear. Even for him there was a cutoff price, though he had become dependent on the stuff to stay alert, even as a boy in Mogadishu. Tarik had organized the operation, which expedited the product from the growing fields in Ethiopia’s Haare Province to the DC area. No longer was DC dependent on New York and Philadelphia for its supply. Coming straight to DC meant the product was fresher. Now most of the Ethiopian establishments in the area relied on Tarik’s operation. The fresher the product, the more potent; thus, it was more valuable.
“We have always had the freshest product. And for that our customers should be willing to pay more.”
“Have you told Sister Te about Frankfurt?”
“Let me worry about my mother. Look, I want you to get your boys and go to New York.”
“New York?”
“Yes, New York. Buy the product from our competitors. Bring back what you can to sell here later today.”
“But the stuff will not be fresh. You just said we sell the quality stuff.”
Tarik put his hands to his temples as if to contain his brain and calm his temper. He spoke slowly. “I know what I said, but I also don’t want our customers seeking alternate suppliers when we don’t come through.”
“Okay.” Asad dreaded the long drive up to New York and back in the dark, even if he could sleep part of the time. “I need money for the purchase.”
“Wait just a minute. I’ll get you some cash.”
“And the woman?”
“You are relieved of that assignment. I’ll take care of the problem.”
From her squatted position behind the crates, Zoie couldn’t see either man’s face, but she knew from the first words that came out of the younger man’s mouth that one was Tarik. As for the one called Asad, he was an unknown. His thick accent made it difficult to follow his end of the conversation. She was able to decipher enough to know it was trouble indeed. Each time they referred to her as the “Taylor woman,” she cringed. And when Tarik mentioned that he knew where to find Nikki, it was all she could do to stifle a gasp.
They were worried about where to find Zoie, but, lo and behold, she was right under their noses. If they had considered her to be a danger before, what threat level was she now?
Her haunches burned as she maintained her squat without shifting her position. Her muscles were locking under the stress. Maynard was contorted low to the floor. She could feel his quivering leg pressed up against her thigh. He’d been quiet as a mouse, but then he started to whimper. His first whimper was barely audible, but the next was louder.
“What was that?” Tarik asked.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“Listen, do you hear it? It sounds like a dog.”
As if Tarik’s words were a cue, Maynard sprang from his hiding place, knocking down crates around him in the process. With his binder pressed to his chest, he bolted for the door, taking a route that put the long plank table between him and the two men. At the door he fumbled to release the locks with his free hand. But it was not enough.
“What the fuck!” shouted Tarik in shock.
They were after him. Maynard turned and sprang like a jackrabbit from the floor to the tabletop.
“How in the hell did he get in here?” Tarik demanded.
“I don’t know!” answered Asad.
Maynard ran down the tabletop to its opposite end. Stunned, the two men watched in amazement as Maynard performed his weird ritual dance accompanied by hoots and caws. In all the commotion, Zoie shrank farther behind the fallen crates. Luckily she hadn’t been exposed. The jumble of fallen crates gave her more cover and a larger peephole through which to witness the happenings.
“Get him! Get him!” Tarik shouted to Asad, who stood paralyzed by the surprise. The two went into action to restrain the intruder.
Sure footed, Maynard jettisoned back and forth on the eighteen-foot-long table, dodging his pursuers, who scrambled like a comedy team around the table’s edge. A number of times, Tarik and Asad tried to fake him out. Maynard read their fakes and escaped their flailing attempts to grab his legs. At one point his weight at the table’s end caused the thing to tilt and almost capsize. But like a tightrope walker, he maintained his balance.
“Asad, get the broom!” shouted Tarik.
Asad picked up a nearby broom. With its straw end, he tried to swat Maynard like a fly. When that tactic didn’t work, he gripped the broom’s handle like a bat and delivered a powerful blow to Maynard’s shins. The swift move caused damage to Maynard’s legs. Still clutching his binder, Maynard howled in pain. He could no longer jump or stand erect. He keeled over like a stiff statue, falling to the floor. His two assaulters squashed Maynard’s struggling on the ground. But still he howled. After several tugs Tarik ripped the binder from Maynard’s grip and tossed it on the table. Asad pounded Maynard with the broom handle while Tarik sat on the man’s legs to ensure he could not rise.
From her hiding place, Zoie tried to watch, though stricken with horror. She couldn’t see everything, but she heard Maynard’s screams and then moans. She saw Asad’s arms rise and fall with each strike of the broom. She held her breath and closed her eyes. It was vile. Closed eyes didn’t prevent the sounds of Maynard’s beating from reaching her ears. Part of her wanted to help Maynard, but she knew she’d be no match for the two. For so many years, she’d fantasized about being Wonder Woman—but she wasn’t. Getting herself caught would do neither of them any good.
Asad stopped his pounding and wiped his brow. “Who is this guy?”
Tarik was standing again and looking down at his captive. “He was here a few weeks ago. He’s the kook we made chew the leaves. Remember how freaked he got? Looks as if he came back for his book.”
“You mean that stupid binder with the strange language?”
“Yeah, that.” Tarik wiped his mouth and motioned to the binder that had landed precariously on the table’s edge. “But what I want to know is, how did he get in here? And who has he told about this place? And who left the door open?”
“Not me,” Asad said. “I am always careful.”
The moaning stopped. Zoie wondered whether that was a good or bad sign. Was Maynard still alive? For a minute she considered that it would be better if he were dead. If alive, he might easily break under interrogation and give her away. She quickly erased any wish for his death from her thoughts. It was wrong to wish anyone dead, even to protect herself.
“What do we do with him?” Asad asked.
Her ears, now acclimated to Asad’s accent, she fully understood the question. But what she didn’t know was whether the “him” was a live person or a dead one.
“Let me think. Let me think. Just what we needed, another glitch.”
“You still want me to go to New York?”
“Yes, damn it! But first you have to help me get rid of him!”
Eyes closed, Zoie prayed. Please, God, I’m sorry for what I was thinking. I really don’t want him to be dead. It had been a long time since she’d prayed. She’d almost forgotten how. She prayed for Maynard. She prayed for Nikki. She prayed for her grandmother. She asked to be delivered safely from her predicament. Then she heard the groan of a person in pain.
“He’s coming around,” Asad said. “Have you decided what to do with him?”
“This is too dangerous. We need a permanent fix. We can’t have him continuing to show up here to snoop around.”
“I understand,” said Asad.
“But it’s got to look like an accident.” Tarik looked down at Maynard. “Hey, fellow. Why didn’t you stay away when we let you go last time? You kook!”
“How’s it going to look like an accident?” Asad asked. “Look at him. Clearly he has been beaten.”
“Yes, you did quite a job on him.”
Asad smirked.<
br />
“Not to worry. Homeless folks get roughed up all the time. Tie him up,” Tarik ordered.
Asad stood over Maynard for a moment, pondering the damage his broom-handle strikes had inflicted on the man. He sighed and then retrieved a roll of heavy twine from a utility bin beneath the table and bound Maynard’s hands and feet as Tarik had bid. In the meantime Tarik searched for something in the almost-empty refrigerator.
“I thought we had more heroin? Did we use it all on Gaddis?”
Through the crates Zoie couldn’t see everything, but she’d certainly heard Tarik’s confession. She pressed her fingers to her mouth. So that is how they did it. They overdosed Ray.
“Aha! I found it,” Tarik said, coming forth from the refrigerator with a small vial. “Whose idea was it to put this in the freezer?”
Asad did not answer.
“We used two vials of this concoction on Gaddis,” said Tarik. “But I think one vial should do the trick. Asad, you get going to New York. Get Wasie and Mulu to dump the body. They can leave him in some doorway downtown. Sprinkle him with liquor for effect. No one will miss him. His death won’t even make the evening news.”
Tarik filled a syringe with the contents of the vial and injected Maynard with the extremely cold solution.
Looking on at the execution, Asad swallowed hard. He’d seen much worse in Mogadishu—beheadings and the like. Escaping the violence was one of the reasons he’d left his homeland. But here he was facing violence again. “Okay, so I’ll pick up the same two guys who were going to go out to Dulles, and then I will head to New York. I need money.”
Tarik went to the corner of the room and pulled aside a large paper shredder, which hid a floor safe. He opened the safe and removed a wad of bills and then locked it. “Five thousand should be enough,” he said. “It should handle buying the product and gas. You are only buying one day’s worth of product. Beyond tomorrow the leaves will be just garbage, only good for tea, not worth the money.”