Mustafa, now on his feet again, breathing heavily and holding a sleeve to his nose, said "You followed me?"
Bleeker kept rifling. "You're welcome." He found what he was looking for-a cell phone. Flicked the cover off to the side and started pressing buttons. "Can you get up, or do you need an ambulance?"
"I'm fine" He held on for dear life to the yellow Mitsubishi's spoiler, then his legs started to buckle. Bleeker hurried over, lifted beneath his arm until he was supporting him.
"I'm pretty sure these jackasses didn't have a reason to follow you. No reason at all. Unless someone told them to."
"Yeah, that was…um…same as I thought." Going to black out. Must've had a concussion. He took another look at the wooden dowel, something anyone could pick up for a dollar at a hardware store or Wal-Mart. Powerful weapon. The guy in the parka was still on his knees, face in the snow, muffling cries of pain.
Bleeker showed Mustafa the screen of the smart phone. A text message. He didn't know the sender- IslamFlex1 -but figured it was sent from a temporary phone anyway unless these were idiots. Crossing his fingers. No, strike that. Even hurt to do it in his mind.
The text: Not home. Lving 4 NPR. U know peeps their?
"Wrong there," Bleeker said.
"I know. I can read, too."
"Everybody gets it wrong these days. Drives me nuts. Same with 'your'." He thumbed a button. "Next message, this one he sent."
Ys. Can do. Wht d U want us to do?
Thumbed again.
Hurt. Not more. Scare him quiet.
"Got the picture?"
Mustafa shook his head. Not a word.
Bleeker stepped over to the perp. "Want to tell me your name or should I find it in the phone?"
"Fuck you, fucking pig! I ain't saying shit."
Bleeker shrugged. Pressed a few more buttons. Definitely a nice phone, not a throwaway. This was one to be proud of. He said to Mustafa, "You got a phone on you?"
He nodded, pulled it out of his pocket.
"What's the number?"
Mustafa told him, and he dialed it with the attacker's phone. Asked Mustafa if a name was coming up.
"Yeah. Roble. It's Roble." Then, "You followed me? Really?"
Bleeker shrugged. "I had a feeling. Listen, how about we get someone to pick these two up and I'll take you to the ER."
Mustafa shook his head. "I'm fine. I'll be okay."
"No, we need something to hold against these idiots. Pictures, you in a neck brace, all that."
"You already tried that." Pointed to the bandage on his neck.
Bleeker sighed. "That? That was just a friendly 'Welcome'."
The wind whipped snow and blew it like baby tornadoes across the concrete. Bleeker thought Mustafa was still waiting for that elusive apology. Well, the best apology he was going to get was lying before him on the ground.
Bleeker pulled out his own cell phone, called it in. "Need a squad behind the Chuck Wagon downtown. You'll know us. Hurry it up, please."
After that, quiet all over except for the faint jukebox from the saloon, the grunting from the guy with the broken fingers, and Mustafa's whistling breath, finally blending with the rising siren. Blue lights. Bleeker led Mustafa to his car. "I thought you wanted ribs?"
Shook his head. "Why bother? We've got Scott Ja-mama's in the Cities."
Fucking city folks always had to one up them. "Never heard of it."
FIVE
Another girl screaming. Three days in country, and that was the sound that still got to Adem, an electric current through his body. Chills in the middle of this crazy heat. He'd hold his breath, pray for it to end.
The girl ran by the corner where he and Jibriil and two other boys sat, moving with a small strip of shade over the last half hour. Waiting for something to happen. Something to do. They'd moved the TV inside closer to the window, watched the news. The soldiers watched a lot of TV, a lot of football, even though they weren't supposed to like football. A lot of news. A lot of music.
Adem had learned to shoot the gun, barely. He'd learned to shoot the rocket launcher, and never wanted to again. That was it for "training". Nothing like what he'd seen on the internet-men in hoods on obstacle courses, one after the other, making themselves quicker, stronger, better. Not here. Too hot.
The girl covered her face. Cries trailing her. Adem thought Acid. Again. The first time, he'd seen the result-the young woman's cheek cracked, her eye gone white. The second, from afar, a man stepped from behind a car and threw it into a woman's face. Adem was in the truck, so it was a split second as they passed, then the scream, soon lost in engine noise.
This time, he just knew. The same scream. Three days, three women. Supposedly for adultery or some other sexual trespass. Sometimes for not covering themselves as fully as they should have. But honestly, the attackers were jilted boyfriends or unsuccessful suitors. If he couldn't have her, then no one else should want her.
One of the other soldiers said, "Shame."
Adem perked up. Here was a guy thinking like he was. You couldn't go around throwing acid on people, right? He was about to speak up when he realized the boy simply meant the girl herself. She was the one who should be ashamed. The soldier got up, went inside the building, and turned the volume up on the TV.
Jibriil must've known what Adem was thinking because he tapped Adem's boot with his own and shook his head. It had been like that the whole time, Jibriil instinctively getting how this world worked and helping Adem get through without making some fatal mistakes. So far this war was as boring as it was frightening. After training out in the desert, they came back to the Mogadishu streets to sit in the heat with guns waiting for…something. Adem didn't know what. People passed by, remarkably calm considering they lived in a war zone. Why were they still around? So many people had abandoned the city, so why did these survivors stay? Didn't they have anywhere to go at all?
Once or twice the gunfire sounded closer than usual and all of the soldiers-a mix of grizzled veterans in their twenties and young teens in football jerseys-had leapt up, heads low, rifles at the ready. But then nothing happened.
Still, Jibriil had made a name for himself already. Willing to do and say the craziest things. Any dare, any challenge. He took his shirt off and dared government snipers to take him out. Shouted at them: "God will protect me! Aim for my heart!"
While Adem looked on, he had tortured boys accused of treason or desertion before they were dragged off to be punished or killed. On the second day, he had been called out by an older man, either a cleric or commanding officer-so hard to tell-and sent away for most of the day. Adem had to sit still, make small talk, pretend to like the soccer on TV, and try to keep his fear bottled like pop, not let it shake him up. Seven hours later Jibriil returned with five others and three dead bodies, one being a government soldier. The body was handed off to the younger boys, who tied rope around the naked man's foot and drug him through the street, gathering a crowd running after. Jibriil had been covered in blood and dust, caking on his skin. When Adem asked what had happened, his friend had smiled, reclined in his bunk with his hands behind his head.
"I did what I was asked to do."
And that was that.
But Adem knew Jabriil had a restless night, same as he had. The stink and heat of the room where he slept, too small for the twenty soldiers who slept there, kept him half-aware, half-dreaming. At one point, he dreamt that Jibriil was talking to him, telling him they were headed for glorious deaths, glorious afterlives, and then Adem blinked awake. There was Jibriil standing above him. Eyes wide. Adem held his breath. Another long moment, a minute? More? The white of his eyes hideously bright. Jibriil turned, laid back on his bed. Adem held his body tight and waited for sunrise.