A shrug. "A court. Then punishment." He stood. "Let me go see what I can find out. I'll be back."
He went the same way the soldiers had marched the fat man earlier, disappeared around the corner of another tent.
Adem drank the rest of his water, thought about calling the serving girl over again, but remembered Jibriil's expression and decided against it. "So, how often does something like that happen, anyway? I'd think it would only take one to-"
He stopped himself, seeing that all of his fellow soldiers were glaring at their rug, not eating, and sure as hell not interested in hearing anymore from the American.
Adem nodded. Killed time waiting for Jibriil by thinking of all the time the two had snowball fights in the streets outside their apartment building on snow days in Minneapolis. How if he tried really hard, he could feel the icy cannonballs explode against his skin, this time a blessing instead of a curse.
*
A while later, Jibriil reappeared. Adem had already gone back to his corner, this time only with one other boy, a real hardliner. Didn't say a word the whole time. Singing under his breath, praises to Allah, a bit of Wu-Tang, all that. Adem tried a couple of times-"Where are you from?" and "How long have you been here?"-but received clipped answers he couldn't even understand. So he gave up and reclined against the building while his partner squatted on the ground.
Adem stepped out to meet Jibriil in the middle of the street. "Where have you been? What was that all about?"
Jibriil looked around as if he hadn't heard. "Just you and Garaad here?"
"I don't know where everyone went. No one talks to me. This is…this isn't what I expected."
"I know, man, calm down. Easy." Jibriil patted a hand on Adem's shoulder. "It takes time. You've been spoiled. We both have."
"Yeah, but you're a natural. Look at you, already seen combat, they treat you like a hero."
Jibriil shook his head. "I do what I'm asked to do. That's all. It's not about me."
They stepped back to the corner, Jibriil and Garaad nodding at each other. Adem remembered that Garaad had been one of the soldiers who went along on Jibriil's mission the night before. They didn't speak either. Jibriil lifted the loose part of his scarf and wiped his forehead. Adem had thought of asking for one of the jungle hats he'd seen a few men wearing. His own scarf was beginning to stink.
Jibriil stared down the street, not so much at anything. "I think I can help you, but you've got to trust me."
"Sure, okay. What do I do?" Adem was thinking he could be back-up on another secret mission. Or that Jibriil might teach him the right words to say, the right posture.
"So, the fat son of a bitch at lunch today?"
"What happened to him?"
"Nothing yet. He's to be tried in the morning for thievery. Everyone gets a trial."
Adem thought back to the girl who had been stoned, the man who had raped her. She should've gotten lashes instead. He'd read enough to realize that, but the court had decided she was as much to blame. How could they do that? They weren't following Sharia law. They were rewriting it.
"He's obviously guilty."
"Oh yeah. But there must still be a trial. It has to be, you know, tight like that."
Adem flinched at far-off gunfire, but not much. Already desensitized, and that bothered him more than it should have. "What's going to happen to him?"
Jibriil, still staring. "They're going to chop off one of his hands. Most likely his best one."
Exactly. Adem got it then. He had to ask anyway. "How is that supposed to help me?"
Still staring far off into the distorted air, shimmering above the road. "You will be the one with the blade."
Garaad laughed. Adem turned to him. The soldier, bright-eyed and pointing at him, laughed louder.
Adem smiled. Thought to himself, It's just a hand. Then flexed his fingers.
SIX
Bleeker thought Mustafa could sure take an ass-kicking. He had that going for him. Wasn't very gracious, though. Once Bleeker had helped him into a bed at the cramped ER, Mustafa said, "You were there the whole time?"
"I had your back."
"Then why didn't you call for help earlier, like before they hit me?"
"You're welcome. It was nothing, really, me saving you from a hell of a lot worse."
"I'm saying, if you had an idea-"
"I didn't." Bleeker sat on the stool beside the bed, too low, brought him eye level with Mustafa. "Not about that. You could've known those guys. Damned if that was my business. The only reason I was on you was because I didn't want you tracking mud all over my city trying to play detective."
That got Mustafa grinning. Reminded him he was hurting, too, from the look on his face. But not so bad that a few bandages and painkillers wouldn't get him back to rights in a couple days.
The doctor came by, felt around. No broken bones ("Let's x-ray it to be sure"), no sprains. Some lacerations, one on his head that needed a handful of stitches. Otherwise, decent bill of health.
Bleeker checked out the others waiting for service. A fully covered Somali woman in a chair, a whimpering baby bouncing on her knee. Most of her family leaning against walls or pacing. A middle-aged guy, shaggy, holding his bloodied towel-wrapped hand in his lap, a policeman hovering nearby. The cop tipped his hat at Bleeker but didn't say a word. Awkward. But what could anyone say to a guy whose pregnant girlfriend had been gunned down barely three days ago? Mostly they did the stoic, Minnesotan-style repression, ask him about the weather, if he planned any more ice-fishing trips, and when the funeral was.
Mustafa said, "Thank you."
Bleeker turned back to him. "No problem."
"I made mistakes out there. They could've killed me."
"Would be a first for them. Worst that would've happened, I think, is that you'd been spending a few nights here instead of walking out with me."
"Are you going to wait outside my hotel room door all night?"
Bleeker stood from the stool. His knees made popping noises. His back hurt worse than it had before his days in Iraq. Another glance at the cop in the waiting area. Sure, they could sympathize. They could rouse the anger over a fellow officer shot down, want some revenge. But Bleeker didn't think they really understood. Not the big picture, which would make some sort of wicked sense when he finally saw it.
But this guy, Mustafa Bahdoon, might get it.
He said, "You know what happened. Your son and another guy shot two cops. One of those cops was my girl. She was carrying my baby. I'm getting old, and here I had a chance to start over, nice and fresh. Cindy made me feel…different. Like I had taken too many wrong turns but didn't know I was lost until she-"
A tech showed up to take Mustafa for x-rays. Tired eyes, early thirties but already getting a preview of her forties. To her it was just a job. A dead end. She wore Jack-o-lantern scrubs even though it was January. Bleeker told her to give him a few more minutes. Soon as she left, he forgot where he'd left off, this shining image of Cindy's face in his mind. No words.
Mustafa said, "I swear to you, if Adem had some place in killing her, I will wash my hands of him. Whatever the courts say, I will abide. I swear. He is a good kid. A smart kid."
Bleeker gripped the bed rail with both hands. "But…let's say he really was involved. Let's say I'm there in front of him, and he's confessed and I have my gun."
Mustafa forced himself up on his elbows, straining, to give Bleeker the most hateful and serious look the man could muster. "I would kill you before you know what happened. That, I can promise you. Whether you saved my ass or not."
Bleeker smiled. Not that it was funny. He believed Mustafa was a stone cold killer who got real lucky when he quit the streets to work at a department store. But they were past that. Had Cindy shot an unarmed Adem, Bleeker wouldn't have hesitated to take out Mustafa had he come after his own justice.