by Eric Meyer
* * *
He watched the American leave. He'd recognized Rafe Stoner, the man from whom his father had bought the carburetor. He thought about those huge pistols and wondered if he still carried them under his coat.
"You're Ahmed Durani?"
He looked up quickly. The desk sergeant was staring at him, and he went forward.
"Yes, Sir. I'm here about my father, Ghulam Durani."
The policeman gave him a furtive look. "Yes, the man who died in the fight."
"No, Sir, the man who was robbed and murdered yesterday, Ghulam Durani. The man who killed him is Sardar Khan."
The cop looked irritated. "It was no murder. I understand there was an argument, shots were fired, and sadly your father died. An accident, not a murder."
Ahmed began to sense he would not get any justice in this place. "What about the robbery?"
After a pause he replied, "We are investigating. When we discover the truth, we'll let you know. At present, we're very busy. We're executing a real murderer tomorrow morning."
The boy tried another tack. "Have you spoken to Sardar Khan?"
He scowled. "It is not possible. We had a report he went to join Massoud. When he returns, we will take a statement."
"Massoud? Who is he, where does he live?"
The man laughed. "Massoud is a...businessman." Ahmed nodded his understanding. In Afghanistan, everyone knew businessman was a euphemism for drug trafficker, "He operates out of the Torgan Valley, near Ghazni. It's a desolate, mountainous place, impossible for us to reach. As long as Sardar Khan is in there, there's no way we can get to talk to him."
"So what will you do about the murder of my father? What about Sardar Khan?"
The cop reddened. "You should mind your own business, kid. For your information, Massoud does not take kindly to interference, and he is a very powerful man. Six policemen from this station have already lost their lives looking into his affairs, and there is no doubt Massoud is behind it."
"So mean he is a criminal."
He sighed. "Yesterday, the Ministry of the Interior in Kabul put a reward of fifty thousand U.S. dollars on his head. I doubt any policeman from this station will take them up on the offer. It can't be done. Massoud is too strong."
Ahmed knew there'd be no justice for his father, not in this place. "I will find Sardar Khan myself. If I wish to hire someone to locate him and bring him back, who would you recommend?"
"You mean so that he can give us a statement?"
"Of course."
"Did you see the man who just left? His name is Rafe Stoner."
"I know Mr. Stoner. He's the machinery dealer. My father came here to do pay him for a spare part for our tractor."
"I see. Machinery is not his only business. Stoner does other work, the kind of thing you're describing, locating felons wanted by the government. Not that Sardar Khan is a wanted felon, you understand."
"Of course he is not. Is Mr. Stoner good at his work? I mean this other work."
A pause. "He is very good. Even so, I doubt even Stoner would be stupid enough to go up against Massoud's organization. Unless he wanted to commit suicide."
"I'll talk to him, thank you. What about my father's body?"
"The body is in the city morgue. Until the investigation is complete, we cannot release it. We will let you know. Now go, I have other, more important matters to attend to."
Ahmed thanked him and left the police station. The engine of the Fordson model F started immediately, and he drove the short distance to where he knew Stoner kept his office. It was locked, and outside he could see the yard surrounded by a wooden fence. The yard was piled with rusting machinery, everything from auto engines to gearboxes, winches, generators, and even what looked like a complete steam engine.
An old and lined man was watching him, a watchman. He only had one leg, which Ahmed assumed he'd lost on one of the tens of thousands of landmines still buried in the ground. There was no shortage of limbless victims in Afghanistan. The old man came toward him.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for Mr. Stoner. My name is Ahmed Durani. It was my father who came to see him yesterday to settle his account for a new carburetor for our tractor."
The man's face fell. "Ghulam Durani, yes, I remember. That was a sad tale. I believe you will find Mr. Stoner at his home. It is a small guesthouse called Ma Kelly's."
He gave him directions; Ahmed thanked him and climbed back onto the tractor. Ma Kelly's was only a short distance away, a faded four-story building built of stone. He parked the tractor and went inside. To his astonishment, there was no sign of neglect; the interior was unlike anything he'd seen before. The lobby was plush, with thick carpets and a polished mahogany bar. There was nobody around, so he walked through the door into the main room.
His mouth dropped open. It was even more sumptuous, glittering with brass fittings, polished woods. The wall displayed at least a score of paintings, but they were nothing like he'd ever seen before in his life. Of one thing he was certain, if an Imam or a Mullah saw them, he'd incite his followers to tear them off the walls and burn them. They depicted men and women; most of them naked, and in a variety of poses he doubted were even legal.
A woman, wearing a dress so low-cut he blushed red and looked away, approached him. She gave him a warm smile.
"Hi, I'm Ma Kelly. Are you a little young to be in here? Why don't you come back in a couple of years?”
"I don't understand. I'm looking for Mr. Stoner." He still couldn't look at her, not full on. Not in that place. Her breasts were, well, almost completely exposed. But he squinted out of the corner of his eye, and found it not unpleasant.
"Rafe? Oh right, he's in the bar at the back. I'll take you through."
She led him through to a smaller room, and he found himself succumbing to her heady perfume. He saw Stoner sprawled on a couch, using his left hand to drink from a glass dripping with condensation. His right hand wore a bloody bandage. The drink was clearly alcohol, and Ahmed had never sampled such a thing in his life. It was not the way of a good Muslim, although he knew many who did drink alcohol.
"Rafe, you have a visitor," the astonishing woman said.
He looked up and his eyes fastened on Ahmed. "What is it, kid?"
"Sir, my father came to you see you to pay for a new carburetor for our tractor."
"He did?"
"Ghulam Durani was my father."
His face fell. "I'm sorry about what happened to him. He never paid me, if that's what you're thinking. In view of his murder, I'll write off the debt."
"No, I will pay you, as soon as I have the money" Ahmed assured him, "It will take some time. The man who killed him took his money."
"That's tough. I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you, Sir."
Stoner waited, and when Ahmed didn't continue, he said, "Was there anything else? Right now I'm kinda busy."
Does drinking alcohol while reclining on a couch constitute being busy?
"I would like you to find Sardar Khan, the man who killed my father, and bring him back to Jalalabad. The police tell me he is with Massoud, in the Torgan Valley."
The American's eyes widened, then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Do you know what you're saying, go up against Massoud? He's well protected, and every one of his men learned their trade fighting for or against the Taliban. Any man who goes into the Torgan Valley is going to his death. It's a quick way of committing suicide."
"That's what the sergeant said at the police station."
"He was telling the truth. Forget it kid, and go home. Don't you have a couple of younger sisters? I recall Durani talking about them."
Ahmed nodded.
"In that case they need you now they've lost their father. You're all they have left. Go home and look after them."
"Not until I get justice for my father," he said doggedly, "Will you find this evil man, Sardar Khan, and bring him back to Jalalabad to face justice?"
Stoner glared. "Which part of suicide don't you understand, kid? Now get out of here!"
He took a long slug of his cold beer and closed his eyes in appreciation. When he opened them, the kid was still there. "I said beat it, kid."
"There's a reward."
"I don't want a reward. What is it, two hundred dollars? Five hundred? A thousand? Forget it."
"Fifty thousand dollars for Massoud. But you could bring in Khan at the same time. He should face justice."
Stoner's eyebrows rose, and he whistled. "Fifty thousand dollars! Jesus, that's a lot of money."
The woman was still standing nearby, and she intervened. "You don't need money, Rafe. You know what you told me. The last time you went up against these kinds of people, they almost killed you. Why don't you step back and enjoy what you have."
He eyed her fondly. "Ma, you're the best. Maybe you're right. I could spend my days here, drinking and helping run the place. And the nights…"
She smiled. "You could have a lot of fun. You and Anahita..."
"Yeah." He glanced at Ahmed. "Sorry kid. The answer is no. Try someone else."
Ahmed nodded and allowed the woman to usher him out of the building. He noticed their neighbor, Greg Blum, standing next to his tractor. Archer, his dog was sitting next to him. He called a greeting and when the dog saw Ahmed, he wagged his tail and bounded up to him. Ahmed stroked his fur as Greg approached.
"Ahmed, what the hell were you doing in a whorehouse?"
"Excuse me, Mr. Blum, what is a whorehouse? I thought this was a guesthouse. I came to see Mr. Stoner. I want him to bring back Sardar Khan, the man who murdered my father."
"Stoner? You don't want to get involved with him. Go home, Ahmed. When we heard about your father, Faria went and collected your two sisters to stay with her at our place, but they'll want to be with you. You should take them home and run your farm. You know you're head of the household."
"I'll go when the coward who murdered my father is brought back to face justice."
Greg sighed. "Where are you staying while you're in town?"
The boy shrugged, and didn't answer.
"I thought so. I guess you don't have any money."
"No, Sir."
"Okay, go to the Paradise Guest House. It's two streets from here. Most places don't like to take dogs, but the Paradise is okay. Give them my name and ask for a single room. Tell them I'll settle the bill. I'll be along later and meet you there."
"Thank you, Mr. Blum. So long, Archer."
Ahmed climbed aboard the Fordson model F, started the engine, and drove away.