"Seriously, what do we do?"
Mustafa kept on walking. "Ring the doorbell."
"You have no idea."
Mustafa stopped, turned. Middle of the street. "Got something better?"
"I'm not walking in on a bunch of gangbangers and terrorists if you've got no plan."
"Do you have one? I can't call for back-up. How about you?"
"This is crazy."
"Nobody is going to do anything." Mustafa reached over, gave Bleeker a couple of pats on the arm. "Keep cool."
Up the walkway, which had been plowed, shoveled and salted, only a sheen of frost and clumps of wet snow on the concrete. Bleeker wondered if he should have his shield ready, but then decided against it. He was going to shove his hands deep into his jacket pockets and not say a word unless someone asked him a question.
Mustafa rang the doorbell.
Moments later, a tall Somali woman opened the door. Hard to tell her age with skin that smooth, but Bleeker guessed around forty. The elaborately patterned yellow and violet hijab covered her head and neck, framed a face that immediately recognized Bleeker as police. The rest of her was clothed like an American. Slacks and a loose silk blouse. Maybe flaunting her freedom in front of Rockstar, or maybe he was the type that turned a blind eye.
She said, "I'm sorry officers, is there a problem?"
Mustafa said, "You have a lot of cars out here."
"I'm sure we can move some if they're in the way."
"What's going on here tonight?"
She knew they knew. Something about the tight lips, the posture. "A private party. For our…church."
Mustafa nodded. "May we come in?"
She backed away from the door. "Please remove your shoes, coats, and hats. Don't drip on the hardwood."
They stepped inside the foyer, tiled, that opened into a sitting room, obviously not used all that much. They had taken great care with the decor-much to remind the visitor of the family's Somali heritage, art and pottery, alongside a contemporary American leather couch and glass and wood tables, very pricey. Dim table lamps barely lit the room, throwing amber light and creating fuzzy shadows. The lady of the house took their coats, hung them in the entryway closet. A man came from the hallway at the back corner of the room, gray slacks and a blue button-down shirt, your typical middle-class manager ensemble. Clean-shaven, rich brown skin. Obviously the husband, and probably ten years older than his wife.
He said, "Late arrivals?"
Mustafa didn't wait for the wife to warn him. He stepped out of his shoes-slip ons. Smart. Bleeker was still untying his boots. Reached out for the husband's hand. "Mr. Hassan? Nice to meet you. I'm Mustafa Bahdoon."
Hassan's cheeks sank, eyes widened. If the wife hadn't recognized him, the husband sure did. "Bahdoon. You are here to see…here for…?"
"Please, tell me what's going on tonight."
He glanced at his wife. Smirched his mouth. Bleeker checked her out. Talking with her eyes. Looking down at the floor. The basement. They were all in the basement.
"It's nothing." Hassan spoke low. "A sermon, my son's friends. He's a good boy."
"Sermon?"
Hassan motioned. "I'll show you. Downstairs. Please don't interrupt, though. I'm sure the Imam will talk to you after."
"I'm not really interested in him."
They stepped out of Bleeker's sight. He yanked off the boot, dropped it. It bounced off the tile onto the hardwood, the gorgeous rug laid out in the room. Melted snow splattered and Hassan's wife let out a sharp breath.
"Sorry." He stumbled, pushed himself up with a hand on the wall, and followed the men.
They had gone through the kitchen, still talking softly, and turned at the stairs to the basement. Bleeker saw trays of crumbs. Spices in the air, more than one, swirling and combining and releasing. Made him hungry. He'd need a Smashburger later.
He caught up with the men on the carpeted stairs. They'd ceased talking. Below, a voice in Arabic, louder than conversation, not quite shouting, then another loud voice right behind the first, in heavily accented English. "When Jay Z tells us it is a hard knock life, we accept it to be so. We accept whatever we are told. We think the government hands us our rules. The government judges whether it's hard knock or not! Does that make any sense to you?" Then more Arabic.
Mustafa and Hassan stood at the bottom of the stairs, watched. Bleeker made it down, looked out at the very American den with the large flatscreen TV, entertainment center, sectional sofa, La-z-Boy recliner. Nearly every square foot of floor space covered with young men in hip hop jeans, T-shirts and polos, their shoes lined-up in a utility room to the left. Riveted. Before them, a man sitting crosslegged on top of a big wooden box set in front of the TV. He looked old but vital. Salt and pepper beard. Chubby. A white robe, white prayer hat, very dark skin. He was the one speaking Arabic.
Where there had once been a bar, Bleeker supposed, was now what looked like a place to pray. Several rugs on the floor. A woven wallhanging, more Arabic. The flag of Somalia beside it, a creamy blue with a single white star in the center.
Too busy noticing all that to notice the bottom step. He missed it, flung out his arms, grabbed Mustafa and Hassan before falling on his face, slammed his feet hard onto the floor. Plenty of bangers turning to look, creased brows, angry eyes. The Imam stopped mid-sentence. The translator stood. Somali guy in a fine business suit, fine silk tie, spread collar shirt. Balled his fists. Like he was going to beat the shit out of whoever dared interfere. Then he saw Mustafa.
Fists loosened into fingers again.
Mustafa wrapped an arm around Bleeker's waist, pushed him towards the utility room while Hassan apologized, begged them to "Please continue. Please. Don't mind us."
But there was nothing else to come. The Imam began speaking again-in English this time-blessing the boys and telling them there would be time to talk again later. A rumble in the room, disappointed Aw, man all over the room. This is bullshit, scared of the police same as any bitch and Shit, Bahdoon just shut him down, man. That's cold.
In the washroom, Mustafa shoved Bleeker against the washer, turned him around and grabbed him two-handed at his collar. Boiling eyes, red veined.
"Let go."
"How the hell can you be an expert on us? You step on us like dog shit!"
"I said let go."
Mustafa let go. The gangbangers had to come in to retrieve their shoes on their way up the stairs, getting a glimpse of their hero. Like an idol, the way these guys looked at him. More reverence than they showed Rockstar Muhammad, even.
Bleeker said, "I missed a step. Anyone could've."
Hissing. "Anyone would've been more careful. Like handling a beehive."
"I'm sorry, okay?"
Hands on his hips. A step left, one right. Head down. What was the deal?
Hassan waited at the door. Bleeker was about to leave, wash his hands of the whole damned mess, when the thick black man in the suit shoved Hussan and Bleeker out of the way, headed right for Mustafa. Mustafa shouted and smacked the man on the side of his head, over and over. Didn't phase him. Punched Mustafa in the face, sent him reeling into the wall, knocking over detergent, fabric softener, and a bag full of lint. Mustafa went down. The translator picked him up like a rag doll. Grains of detergent in Mustafa's hair, stuck to his face. The translator held him up, arm over his shoulder, and drug him from the room. With his free hand the translator gave Bleeker a hard shove that knocked the wind out of him.
Bleeker, wheezing on his hands and knees, got the picture. That translator was the "Al Jones" they'd been looking for.
He heard the big man's voice booming. "The Big Bad Bahdoon thinks he can interrupt our teacher? Thinks he can tromp his traitor ass all around, drag this infidel along with him?"