Rocco turned to greet his boss and his nemesis.
The prime minister sat on the corner of Rocco’s desk. He always did that. It was his pretense of humility, lowering his height so that he would not appear to be looking down on you. Rocco was six feet tall but seemed like a midget in comparison to the PM, who was six-six. The PM was the tallest man in his cabinet, and Rocco the shortest male. Every man in the cabinet had to be tall and slender. Even the media had commented on this, derisively referring to cabinet as “Rugby Central.” The PM’s unelected aide took the comfortable corner chair.
“Prime Minister,” Rocco said.
“Good to see you at it early in the morning, chap,” the PM said. “How goes the battle?”
“Well,” Rocco said.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” the PM said.
“Sir?”
“Don’t underestimate me, Rock. I make time for the sports pages. I hear that you ran a marathon the other day. The Buttersby Marathon.”
“Yes, sir. I was aiming to break three hours and fifteen minutes, but came in twenty-nine seconds too slow.”
“Exactly how long is a marathon?” the PM asked.
Rocco wondered if Wellington was pulling his leg. He chose to play it straight.
“It’s 42.2 kilometres, sir—or 26 miles, 385 yards, if you prefer imperial.”
“That must have taken training. Good on you, Rock. Fit as a fiddle. Rock, sit down.”
Wellington waited for Rocco to sink into the chair behind the desk, and then looked look down into his eyes. “So. How’s it going with the boats?”
Before the Family Party took power, about seventy-five ships had been landing, unauthorized, in Freedom State each year. That represented about five thousand Illegals annually. Rocco’s department was tasked with cutting down the number of ships dropping refugees on the shores of Freedom State. Rocco hadn’t made a dent in those numbers, although lately he had heard that the Coast Guard had redirected a few ships back to Zantoroland. Oddly, those orders had not come from Rocco’s office, but he wasn’t about to flag that for the prime minister.
“Rocco?” the PM said.
“It has been a struggle to reduce those numbers. We are working on it.”
“Soldier on, Rocco,” the PM said.
Rocco knew exactly what was up. Reminding him of his failure to intercept the refugee boats was intended to soften him up for a request. Or an order. The PM liked to frame his orders as if they were requests.
The PM cleared his throat. “You heard about this cock-up involving the prostitute from AfricTown.”
“Geoffrey called me about it while I was running the marathon, and I saw the story in the Telegram.”
“So did we. And we were none too pleased to see you quoted in that article,” Geoffrey said.
Rocco ignored Geoffrey and addressed the prime minister. “I didn’t give the reporter anything. I don’t have anything to give.”
“Do you have any details about the dead girl?” Wellington asked.
“Not a thing. My department’s Deportation Squad was not involved.”
The PM reached down and touched Rocco’s arm. “Are you quite sure?”
“Shall I have my people double-check?”
“Not just now,” Geoffrey said.
“She came from AfricTown,” Wellington said.
“So I heard,” Rocco said.
“We already have one reporter stirring the pot. But she’s a lightweight, and I want this story to die.” The PM stood and cleared his throat. “Rock, I need to ask something of you.”
“Here to help, sir.”
Geoffrey stood up to come closer to the PM. Rocco knew the little prick was scheming to get him fired.
“How about going to AfricTown?” Wellington said. “Tonight. Have a good time. Watch a show. Go to the Bombay Booty. Would you like that?”
“Why?”
“We’ve set it up for you. Go see the show. If you meet a girl named Darlene, say, around midnight, you can ask about the girl who went missing. Who she was. What happened to her. That would be very interesting to us, if you happened to find that out.”
“Sir?” Rocco said. “I’m not convinced this is a—”
Wellington clapped Rocco on the shoulder. “Settled. So, are you already planning your next marathon? Running for hours must take concentration. Good stuff. Stay fit, stay focused. Geoffrey?” The executive assistant stood to attention and followed his master out the door.
Rocco rubbed his temples. “Good dog, Whoa-Boy,” he muttered. The PM was setting him up. But for what, exactly? Maybe Rocco could turn this to his advantage. The PM had something to hide.
The bathroom door opened. Nearly gave him a heart attack. He’d totally forgotten: the kid from the Clarkson Academy.
“About that interview,” John said. “I have just a few questions and—”
“No time now.” Rocco put up his hand. “On your way out, make an appointment with June.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy turned to leave.
“Wait. What have you been doing all this time?”
“Sir. I heard people come into your office. I didn’t want to interrupt your business.”
The kid was savvy. Rocco, too, had learned how to read each situation, back when he was starting his sales business.
Rocco sent the kid off, and changed into his running gear. Beside the window in his bathroom, a door opened to a set of stairs—an old-style fire escape—leading to an alley behind the building. It was one of Rocco’s favourite features of the office. He slipped out the back and headed in the direction of Ruddings Park. His quads ached as if someone had pounded them with a cricket bat, but he needed a run. His morning had already been shot to smithereens, and he had to clear his head. He was going to have to outmanoeuvre the PM and his lackey. Fine. He had always enjoyed a competitive challenge.
AT THREE THAT AFTERNOON, JUNE, HIS ASSISTANT, PUT A call through to Rocco’s office. The caller had a smooth, suave voice, richly accented—possibly from Zantoroland.
“Sir,” said the caller, “just a call to inform you of the modalities of this evening’s visit.”
Rocco was given an ID number to use at the Bombay Booty, and he was told that his driver would have a password to enter AfricTown without complications from the thugs who patrolled AfricTown Road, stopping cars and demanding tolls that they cooked up on the spot depending on the make of the car and the look of the driver.
A year before the election that brought the Family Party to power, Geoffrey Moore had driven to AfricTown one night on his own, without going through proper channels. He had not even informed Lula DiStefano. He might have a Harvard degree, but he was still as stupid as a mama’s boy. On an isolated stretch of AfricTown Road, three men had wandered out of the bushes and onto the road and blocked Geoffrey’s car. When he refused to pay a toll, they smashed his headlights, side-view mirrors and back window. He was ordered out of the car and made to remove his shirt, pants and shoes. When Geoffrey swore at them, he was ordered to take off his socks and underwear. Only then was he allowed to turn around and drive back to Clarkson.
Geoffrey was so enraged that after he returned home he hired a film crew to hide on AfricTown Road and record similar thuggery. Clips from these encounters had formed the centrepiece of the Family Party’s election campaign. In the ads, young masked black men were seen thumping cars with baseball bats and dragging men onto the road. Do you believe in law and order? Vote against illegals in Freedom State. Vote for the Family Party.
As Rocco prepared to leave his office, June put her hand on his arm.
“Not a word, June.”
“You’re venturing into my backyard, so I have a word of advice.” She looked at him with calm confidence. No judgment.
Rocco could see that she wanted to help him. He was lucky to have her. “Shoot.”
“Bring your runners.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re a marathoner, so bring your running s
hoes in case you have to leave quickly.”
Rocco met a driver in an anonymous car outside his office at seven that night. Rocco had come prepared for trouble. He wore a comfortable shirt, a blazer he could ditch, loose pants with running shorts instead of underwear and—as June had suggested—running shoes. If the driver didn’t show, or if Rocco had to get out early, he could always run home.
They proceeded to AfricTown. The driver gave a code number when the roadside thugs stopped the car, and magically, the thugs let them through. The car drove south on AfricTown Road, passing an endless row of shipping containers converted into windowless homes for entire families. Children wandered across the road, unsupervised. People lugged pails of water to and from water taps. A man banged nails through a corrugated tin roof. Teenagers relieved themselves openly on the side of the road. A woman fried fish on a barbecue grill by the roadside, while customers waited in line.
The car dropped Rocco in a lot outside the Pit, the dining and entertainment hall next to the Bombay Booty, both of which were owned by Lula DiStefano. Lula was said to take a piece of every dollar that changed hands in AfricTown. Rocco arranged to meet the driver at the same place for a lift home.
Rocco got one of the best seats in the house, with a clear view of the stage and, beside it, a sunken wrestling ring. He ordered a salad with grilled chicken. He allowed himself one small potato. No butter or sour cream. He had sparkling mineral water instead of wine. Lula’s selection of single-malt whisky was probably terrific, but when you had the likes of Geoffrey Moore plotting your downfall, you had to stay alert. The night’s performance featured a Jackson Five look-alike group. They were good. With their afros and colourful clothes, they danced as if their lives depended on it. The lead singer—a kid who looked about eight—belted out “I Want You Back.” He wore a purple porkpie hat and vest and looked just like Michael Jackson the night he performed on The Ed Sullivan Show. The Jackson Five had appeared on the show the year after Rocco was born, but he had seen clips of it. Rocco wondered if the impersonators were from AfricTown. He had heard that Lula DiStefano encouraged local talent.
Next came a jazz quartet. Also very sharp. After that, a burlesque show. And then, the infamous wrestling match. Two muscular black men, naked except for tight-fitting, leopard-spotted shorts, approached each other on the edge of a giant snakepit. In the pit were rattlesnakes. If you didn’t believe it, you could walk over to the edge before the show began to see them writhing and hear them rattling. You could place bets on one or the other wrestler, who fought in the ring around the pit, trying to throw each other in. That was the object of the match. Men stood at the pit’s edge, ready to throw a ring buoy to the losing wrestler. And ready to haul him out in a nanosecond and yank off any snakes that had curled around his legs or torso. Man, what a show. The crowd turned electric when the wrestling began.
The wrestlers crouched like sumos, reaching for each other, slapping away intruding hands. Then their heads slid into place on each other’s bodies like cars parking. Their arms locked, their knees bent, and then they were pushing, grunting. Suddenly, one man grabbed the other man’s head, tripped him at the ankles and flung him into the snakepit. The winner raised his arms as the loser was fished from the pit, and dozens of clients applauded wildly. Rocco could feel his meal turning in his stomach.
He had an ugly feeling about this evening. The PM was not paying for a night out to reward the immigration minister for a job well done. He wished that he could finish with his obligatory visit to the Bombay Booty. But he had hours to wait for his appointment. Rocco spent it watching more wrestling, standing between matches to peer down into the snakepit, and brooding about his job as “Minister of Nothing” until it was finally time to go.
Rocco walked out of the Pit and down a long hallway. When he arrived in the Bombay Booty, he paid a visit to the men’s room. Marble floors and granite countertops. Gleaming taps and faucets. On the counters, platters held soaps, razors, shaving cream, deodorant, even sealed toothbrushes, toothpaste, mouthwash bottles and condoms. Patrolling inside was a black man in tight-fitting jeans and a T-shirt. He wore white sneakers with white socks and had clean hand towels draped across his arm. He opened the toilet door for Rocco, turned on his water tap, even pumped soap into his cupped hands. Jazz played from speakers in the bathroom, and there were photos of naked men and women—all black, all gorgeous—on the walls. There was a name under each. Harry. Josiah. William. Miriam. Delilah. Marvena. Doris. Darlene. Yvette. Rocco took a second look at Yvette. The girl who had disappeared and ended up dead in Zantoroland. She looked young. Shy smile. Deep cleavage.
The attendant offered a towel, and Rocco took it and dried his hands.
Nodding at the photo of Yvette, the man said, “You can have anything from the menu except that dish.”
“Why not that one?” Rocco answered.
“Sold out,” the man said.
Rocco headed out of the bathroom. He had heard that you could swing either way in this joint. If you were coming to “fuck,” you wanted a woman. If you were coming to “buck,” you desired a man. Well-heeled white women from Clarkson also showed up to fuck or buck in AfricTown. Yes, sir, Lula DiStefano was an equal-opportunity huckster.
Rocco approached a desk and provided a sheet of paper with the identification number he’d been given. A young black woman with a low-cut dress gave him a big smile, said her name was Emma and asked if he could just give her the briefest moment to check something. Sure, he said.
When she returned, she said that his date was in the building and would be able to see him soon.
After a short wait, he followed Emma up two flights of stairs. “I hope you are okay with stairs,” she said. He told her he was a long-distance runner, and she replied, “Oh, we do like marathon men.”
She opened a door and waved him inside a room. “You are welcome to remove your clothes if you wish. Or you can leave them on for now. There’s a shower. And there is a king bed, which you are welcome to rest in. Darlene will be with you in about twenty minutes. You’ll find reading material by the bedside. Have a lovely time.” She left and closed the door behind her.
Rocco checked out the room, which was as luxurious a bedroom as he had ever seen. It had a walk-in closet with many coat hangers, shelves above, and oddly, a large box—it looked like a garment box for moving house—on the floor. He hung up his clothes, leaving his wallet in his pants, and closed the closet door. He took a shower in the marble stall and brushed his teeth at the sink. Rather than climbing into bed naked, he put on a large, soft bathrobe and sat in a chair, forgoing the soft-porn magazine for Sports Illustrated and the Economist.
Eventually, he heard a knock and saw the door open gradually.
“May I come in?”
An attractive young black woman, perhaps twenty years old and wearing a tight shirt and hot pants, entered the room.
“Hello,” she said. “My name is Darlene. I understand we are to call you Bob.”
“Yes, Bob will be fine,” Rocco said. “Good to meet you, Darlene.”
“Aren’t you the polite one?” she said. “I like a man with manners. Emma said you were a marathon man. Say it ain’t so, Bob.”
Rocco grinned. He felt a stirring in his loins as she stood over him and placed her hands on his knees.
“Could I persuade you to remove that robe?” she said. She stood up and patted the bed. “And come join me here?”
He stood and walked to the bed. He did not remove the bathrobe, which betrayed his erection.
“I see that Marathon Man responds well to commands,” Darlene said.
Rocco thought he heard a cough coming from elsewhere in the room. “What is that?” he said.
“What?”
“That sound?”
“Sometimes sounds come from other rooms, Bob. But let me assure you that we are alone here, and that’s just the way I want it.”
Rocco excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he came out, he said, “Ho
w about if we just talk?”
A pained look crossed the woman’s face. It was clear to Rocco that he was no longer a perfect client. Now, he was weird. Only a fool came to talk instead of doing what any self-respecting heterosexual male would do with a beautiful woman in a brothel.
She straightened her shirt, got off the bed and sank heavily into a chair. “Champagne?”
“Hunh?” Rocco said. He hadn’t noticed any champagne.
She pointed to a small fridge by the wall. Rocco jumped to his feet, opened it, and removed the champagne and a can of soda water.
“Let me pour you a glass.” He uncorked it and poured it into a long, fluted glass.
“Aren’t you having champagne, Bob?”
He pulled opened the can of soda water and poured it into a glass. “I’m in training, so I can’t.”
“Training.” She snorted. “So did you win your last marathon?”
“Win? I just run for fun.”
“I’ve been hearing about another marathoner. Keita someone . . . but calls himself Roger Bannister. Man cleaned up at the Buttersby Marathon.”
“I was at that race too.”
“You give him a run for his money?”
“No.”
“How far you finish behind him? One hundred metres, maybe? Or two hundred?”
“I finished an hour behind him.”
“An hour! What’d you do? Stop for beer and have a nap?”
“I’ll have you know lots of runners finished behind me.”
“If someone put me in a race like that, I’d take the subway. Yes siree. Run a hundred metres, take the damn subway to the last block of the race, get off and run the last hundred metres. Why run if you have a perfectly good subway? But if y’all are going to run, you need to use both legs. You can’t be losing by a whole damn hour. That ain’t no race. It’s a whupping.”
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