by Eric Meyer
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Stoner's head throbbed, like a club hammer inside his head was beating at his brains. He couldn't remember much about the night before, only that he'd drunk more than was good for him. He'd spent the night with Anahita, and as far as he knew, it'd been a night to remember. At least he hoped so.
He'd gone to keep the arrangement with Durani, who was anxious to settle his bill and go home. He still hadn't turned up, and he was wishing he'd stayed in bed, although he had other business to attend to. It was essential to ensure the cops filed the paperwork for his apprehending Sirobi. Otherwise, they may get fancy ideas about taking a bigger cut of the money, or even taking all of it.
He walked to the police station to help clear his head and noticed an old tractor parked outside, a battleship gray Fordson model F. He hadn't seen one like it outside of a museum; although he knew that some of the Afghan farmers were so broke they had to keep ancient machinery running indefinitely. Something like the superb vintage American cars they drove in Cuba. The iconic Pontiacs, Chevrolets, and Cadillacs the Cubans had become so expert at keeping on the road. Relations between the two countries were starting to thaw, so maybe they'd start to import something more modern. Then again, maybe they'd decide they were better off with the old fifties classics.
He walked inside and saw an Afghan kid sitting on a bench.
Probably bailing out his brother who got into a fight last night.
The desk sergeant saw him and beckoned him forward.
"Mr. Stoner, the Commander will see you now. Please, come through."
He lifted the flap on the counter, and the American walked through and entered the office. Commander Ishaq Tarzi was sitting behind his desk reading a report. He nodded a greeting.
"Mr. Stoner, welcome. You heard about the murder yesterday?"
"Nope. It wasn't me. I was in Ma Kelly's washing the dust out of my throat."
He gave him a thin smile. "I'm sure you were, but we already know who did it. A man named Sardar Khan killed Ghulam Durani. It was some kind of an argument."
Damn, I’m not going to get Durani’s money now.
"In that case why not string him up with Sirobi? It'll save on the hangman's fees."
The cop shook his head. "It won't happen. He left town, and besides, he's too well connected. His cousin is a Senior Imam in Mehtar Lam."
"Why am I not surprised?"
The cop gave him an annoyed glance. "It's not as simple as you may think. If I executed him, I could lose my job." He put the file into the drawer of his desk. There was finality to his action, as if to say the matter was ended.
He looked up. "Let's get down to business. You did well bringing that bastard Sirobi in. I take it you've come about your reward?" Stoner nodded, "I assure you I will fill out the paperwork later today, and you will receive payment from Kabul in due course."
"As long as due course isn't sometime next year. You know this job was authorized by the Minister of Finance."
Commander Tarzi chuckled. "I know. The Afghan police force always pays its debts."
They don't even pay the salaries of their own officers most of the time.
"That's good to know," he replied, "What's going to happen to Sirobi? You still going ahead with the execution?"
"Yes, it's fixed for tomorrow morning. I've decided to hang him in public in the Central Square. I expect a big crowd, people expect him to die very slowly."
He stared at the cop. "You paid off the hangman?"
He grinned. "The man is a former policeman. When I offered him a small gratuity, he said he would be more than pleased to extend the death. He said he could make it last for twenty minutes." He grinned, "I told him I would double the fee if he was successful. It will be a lesson to these criminals who think they can get away with murdering public servants. When they see how long it takes him to die, they'll hesitate before pulling the trigger next time."
Stoner nodded. "Yeah, I guess that'll give 'em something to think about."
Something about the Police Commander's sadism made his stomach feel even worse. He decided to head back to Ma Kelly's for a drink, the hair of the dog, something to wash away the taste of this man's taste for brutality. He thanked Tarzi and left. The kid was still waiting in the lobby, and the tractor was still parked outside.
I wonder if they’re connected. Probably not, he's young to drive a tractor.
He quickened his pace. He could already taste that first cold beer, ice cold with damp condensation trickling down the outside of the glass.