"You kidding?"
"It was a big deal. They flat out refused."
"Because of their religion?"
Mustafa grinned. "What I think? It's to fuck with white people."
They both laughed. The pizza arrived. They each grabbed three slices. The booze had Bleeker starving, but it had eased his jaw pain. Chewing through these slices, though, it would be right back, worse than ever.
Mustafa downed half a slice in a bite, then asked, "Please, don't take this the wrong way-"
"Well now there's no other way I can take it."
"-No, wait, I'm just asking, how did you become the expert on Somalis in New Pheasant Run? Seems to me you don't know as much as I would expect."
"Or hope?"
Shrug. "Was it something you wanted? Or did it somehow… happen?"
Bleeker kicked out one of the empty chairs at their table, propped his boot on the edge of it. "I was in Iraq for the first war. Army Rangers."
"That's a long way from Somalia."
"But not from Muslims. Lots of day-to-day dealing with them, learning the body language, how they argued, how they expressed themselves, you know? What the rules were. I had to break a hell of a lot of them to learn, though." A long swig of beer, like he had to consider what he said next. "It's not like I accept it or believe any of their bullshit. Sorry, your bullshit, I guess."
"Forget it."
"We were killers, not regular infantry. Biggest disappointment was sitting around waiting to do stuff, doing patrols where some guy stole another guy's goat."
"A goat?" Mustafa pushed air through his teeth. "That's pretty serious, a goat."
"Now you're messing with me."
"Really, a goat is currency. It's milk and cheese and all that. Yeah, it's like stealing a car."
"Maybe not a car, but I get it now." Bleeker took a couple of bites. "How about you? Were you there? In the middle of the Somali war?"
"Not this one."
"But you were there for something?"
Mustafa shook his head. "We left before I was five. Moved all over. I was in Kenya for seven, eight years. Then we moved to Minneapolis. That's the way it was with a lot of us. Move before the boys turn five."
"What's that about?"
"Because when you're five, you're old enough to hold a gun, and they come for you. They want you young."
Nothing else to say. Around them, a handful of quiet hipster conversations as the college kids waited out the wait staff, having not decided exactly who to take back to their dorm rooms yet. A good life, if they could get back without getting mugged.
Mustafa pointed at the students. "I wish Adem was at one of those tables, even if it meant being dreadlocked or wearing nerd glasses. I would have given him a hard time about it, but I would've been proud too. So much better than going back to the homeland."
Bleeker nodded, said, "So I get back from Iraq, I rotate through a couple of jobs. Sugar beet plant. Farm co-op. But I liked watching shows like NYPD Blue, Law amp; Order. I liked that, what those guys were doing. It was romantic. So I took a chance, rose through the ranks. See, at least having a little Muslim experience helped at first, and then I stumbled through Somali customs the same as I did the Iraqis. I'm not the smartest at it, I know. But I'm willing. It's easier for me than the other detectives. That's all."
"Fate, then."
"More like an accident. I wish I had a better story for you, I do. But that's all there is." He felt the eyes of the wait staff, the cooks, some already pouring themselves beers, waiting patiently to head off to whatever late-night bars would have them after 3AM. "I'm sure you've got a better one. Bad ass gangsta turned honorable citizen."
"This again?"
Bleeker looked at the empty beer glass in his hand. Odds were it wasn't getting a refill. "You don't seem like an asshole or anything. But you're one of these hip-hop guys. Carrying a Glock. Putting caps in asses. Three dead by your hand, that's the rumor."
Mustafa pointed to Bleeker's propped foot. "Cowboy boots in the snow? You one of those cowboys? Pick-up truck and big hat? Redneck?"
"What happened to you?"
"I guess I grew up. Here I was, married with a little boy, playing gangstas. Drugs, and I didn't even do that shit. Then, like, why should I give a shit if some guy from another gang comes on my turf? Just wants to go buy some shoes, eat some pizza. Why should I care, go off and shoot his ass? Watched how easy it would be for Adem and that idiot Jibriil to get sucked in like I had. I don't want him to become like I was. And then…they started dealing with women. Trafficking, for sex. Good Somali women, girls. I mean…" Shook his head. Closed his eyes.
"Could have turned yourself in. Done your time."
Mustafa grinned, a sad one. "Having his father in jail would've been as glamorous to the boy as if I was still banging. In jail, I would've ruled, man. Instead, I got a job. Being working class, that's worse than death."
Bleeker grinned too. Waved his hand towards the server, who rolled her eyes on the way over. Bleeker asked for the check, then called her back, told her to split it. Owed Mustafa breakfast, sure, right.
Waiting to get their cards back, Bleeker asked, "So tomorrow night? Al Jones?"
Mustafa sighed. "You heard the captain. I can't afford to."
"Then I'll go find him on my own. I'm still a pretty good detective even if I'm not on my home field."
"Listen, Jones will already have been tipped off. We're not getting to him by knocking on the door. It's going to take some negotiation."
"And I can't do that."
"You have to know people, and how to smooth things over. It's about respect."
They got their receipts, signed their names, and pocketed their cards. On the way out, Bleeker zipped up his jacket, got in front of Mustafa and stopped him.
"I'm not going home to sit and think about my dead girlfriend. I won't do it. Especially in the same house as the wife I cheated on. Call me heartless or a coward or whatever. I want someone to tell me why this kid shot her. Someone who really knows."
Mustafa kept his eyes on the ground. "It won't make you feel any better."
"Don't care."
Students from another table brushed past them in the doorway, out into the snow, paired up, ready to ride out the rest of the night, sleep until noon, drink coffee together and then pretend it never happened.
Mustafa said, "Yeah, Adem should've been here, arm around the pretty thin brown-haired girl with the green-framed glasses and hoop earrings. Talking about movies, you know. Music." He cleared his throat, sniffed. "I think I know how to get to Al Jones."
Bleeker opened the door, held it for Mustafa. "Tomorrow night, then?"
"Your car this time."
Outside, Bleeker called a cab. He shook hands with Mustafa, who headed for his car, parked a block away. Bleeker wondered what it was like-like someone had a bead on you every step, every day. He flinched a little, waiting for the shot, waiting for Mustafa to fall dead in the street. It never came. Maybe it would happen somewhere down the line. But that night, he got in his yellow car and drove away.
THIRTEEN
The heat didn't make sense. The lake he stood on was frozen. He looked down at mittens, a thick parka. Ears were covered. Breath billowing out in thick clouds. But he was hot. Sweating. Looked around for a source. Not a soul. Not a heater. Not a fire. Above, the sun was barely there, obscured by fast-moving clouds.
Adem couldn't take it. He clawed at the zipper on his parka, not dealing well with his mittens. Since when did he wear mittens? Maybe as a kid, but it had been a long time. The fingers inside felt like one big flipper. He struggled with the zipper, felt as if some invisible hand was fighting back. Over there, almost to the horizon, was something man-shaped. His father, had to be. Big man. He ran across the ice, farther and farther until he couldn't see shore. Kept yanking at the zipper until it caught near the bottom, open enough so that he could free his arms, push it down his legs and step out. A sweater underneath. He pulled that off too. Then his undershirt. Bare-skinned in the cold. But it wasn't cold at all. Tried to get his mittens off but they wouldn't come loose. Again, the invisible hand fought him. His dad was still as far away as before.