"What's it like?"
Jibriil stopped, glanced around. Then, "I can't tell you. Everyone feels it differently. I should have been afraid. Like, shit my pants afraid, right? But I wasn't. Not at all. It felt like the thing I was best in the world at."
Adem didn't say anything more as they made their way to a spigot on the side of what used to be a school. Until this week, he would have guessed the thing Jibriil was best at was singing. But he was sure singing wouldn't have gotten him so bloody.
EIGHT
Bleeker waited for Mustafa in the parking lot of the Super 8 in Golden Valley where he had checked in earlier that afternoon. It had been several days since the beating in NPR. Mustafa had done as Bleeker asked-went to the police, pressed charges on the assailants, and told the chief what he knew about his son and Jibriil, almost certainly in Somalia. Then headed home.
Bleeker climbed into the tiny yellow Mitsubishi with two cups of coffee from the Burger King next door. "Might be a bit cold by now. Didn't know when you'd get here."
Mustafa waved him off. "I don't drink coffee."
"More for me, then."
They started out. No drink holders in the Mitsubishi. They'd been removed to put in more electronics-Slick lights, speakers, switch for the nitrous. Bleeker kept shifting the full coffee in his left hand, drank the other with his right. Steam on the windows. Finally, Bleeker said, "Fuck" and winced and elbowed the window button. Rolled it down and tossed out the full cup. Mustafa said nothing, turned onto 394.
Bleeker didn't like the silence. "Where're we headed tonight?"
"I checked Roble out. He was with this gang, small gang, only about ten of them. Call themselves The Black Ice Boyz. Over in Little Mogadishu."
"Only ten?"
"Somali gangs are like that. Mostly small, more for fun than profit. These guys haven't stepped up yet, but I think they're trying."
"Like you did."
Sharp breath. "Don't."
"Look, it's fine if it helps-"
But Mustafa held up his hand, fingers straight and stiff like he wanted to slap the prairie detective. He calmed down, rested his hand on the wheel. "These boys are not like me, no. You're right about that. My gang, if they saw me with you tonight, they would kill me. Out in this car-everybody knows my car-white man alongside. They'd think I was a threat. You don't know how careful I have to be everyday. How… isolating it all is. No such thing as just leaving. You end up becoming some sort of test, see if they can take you out."
Another sip of coffee. "Sorry."
"Tonight, no Clint Eastwood, please. No smart-ass remarks. They won't be scared of you like the Somalis in your town."
"Fuck, scared? They respect me, son. I worked long and hard to get their respect."
"I saw what I saw. You haven't worked hard enough yet."
"Says you."
"Okay, whatever. You mind some music?"
"Is it that rap shit?"
Mustafa let out a breath. Wasn't sure if he had the balls to say it or not, Bleeker could see it on his face. But then he did. "It's that rap shit your daughter is listening to when she's sucking a brother's dick."
There it was. Taking the piss. Testing him.
Bleeker said, "Be a shame to get blood all over these leather seats."
Mustafa laughed at that one. Couldn't hold it in. Bleeker stared out the window, didn't want him to see the smirk. Then Mustafa sniffed, got control, and said, "Yeah, I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean anything. You know, I don't even know your daughter. I was out of line."
"I don't have a daughter. I don't have any kids. Cindy's would've been my first."
Quiet. Two miles, then three.
Mustafa said, "How was the funeral?"
Bleeker hmphed. "It was sad. It was a funeral. The fuck you think it was?"
"I watched something on TV about New Orleans. They had happy funerals. Like, a celebration. Music and dancing."
"Lutherans don't dance."
"I didn't mean…I mean…"
"Forget it."
"I thought, sometimes, funerals can help heal wounds. Talking about the good times."
"It was a closed casket. The embalmer couldn't make her face look presentable. And now the ground's frozen, so she has to be kept in a fucking cooler until the ground thaws up in Stillwater. Get it? She's like a side of beef. So's my kid. I've got nothing to celebrate and that's why I didn't want to talk about it. Happy now? Do you enjoy hearing how bad my life sucks because your son wanted to go fight for Allah?"
Red-faced. Voice creeping louder until it broke. Balled up a fist. Finally pounded the dash so hard it cracked.
"Fine. wanted to sell this car anyway. Like, I want a Suburban, something like that. Trick the wheels out, put in big ass JL subwoofers. That'll be some sweet shit, man."
He took a Downtown exit and slowed down, ignored Bleeker, who was huffing and puffing.
Mustafa said, "Pay for my dash?"
Bleeker turned to him, jaw clenched. Teeth grinding. Bleeker winced, put his palm to his ear. "Yeah, fine."
Only a few more miles.
*
They skirted the U of M campus ended up on a busy street in Cedar-Riverside outside an African cafe, some rough-looking bars, and coffee houses. An "alternative" vibe, but there was something off-the-tracks about it.
Mustafa parked on the curb, turned off the car. "This place is like home. Back in the day, we liked it here. Did what we wanted, got left alone. Taunt the police, scare the college students heading to the clubs."
Bleeker reached to open his door. The dome light clicked on.
"No, wait. Not yet."
Bleeker closed his door again. "What, you see them?"
"No."
"Know where they are?"
"I don't."
"Then…what?"
Mustafa kept staring out the window, peeked in the rearview mirror, at the people on the sidewalk. Much of the remains from the storm earlier in the week had settled or been dozered away. Piles of snow on the curbs, shiny slicks of ice on the walkway. Not a thick crowd, but enough. Of course they would be out. They couldn't keep up a reputation by staying inside all winter. Mustafa picked up his cell phone from the console, flipped it open, and began texting.
Bleeker snapped his fingers a couple of times. "You awake over there?"
"Calm down. This is how we will find them."
"We're not doing anything."
"Yes we are. Soon, someone will come talk to me. They might even pull a gun on me. Keep an eye out."
"Jesus, man. What?" Bleeker's hand already searching for his pistol.
"They know my car. Most of my own gang still wants to kill me. The others, more or less. They all know I'm out, and that makes me a very valuable target. Anytime I wanted to roll on them, they're going down. Killing me is one of the biggest prizes. A betting pool for who gets me first. Over five thousand, I've been told."
"So you're going to sit and let them shoot you?"
Mustafa smiled. "No one has killed me, though. Almost ten years, and no one has tried. They know the car, know where I live, but so far nothing. I think most of the men out here who know me think it's all a joke. That one day I'll come back to them. Or they think I'll go after all the other gangs and leave my own to do as they please."
"Do you?"
He turned to Bleeker. "I am not a criminal. What I used to be doesn't matter anymore. I chose this…bullshit, right, so that Adem wouldn't turn out like me."
"Yeah, how's that working out? Little fuck's not exactly a model citizen."
Bleeker could tell Mustafa wanted to grab his shirt at the throat and twist. He wanted to spill the hot coffee on Bleeker's privates. But the man had some restraint. That was good. More than Bleeker had. All it took in NPR for Bleeker to nearly strangle Mustafa was him mentioning the mere possibility that Adem was innocent.