"You think he's being forced to do it?"
"I don't know what to think." Mustafa got louder. Antsy. "Just…look at him. He's okay. My son! He's alive!"
He pulled the computer back one more time. "I didn't know if he would be. Someone sent me a link to this. I mean, it's hard to tell, but…"
One more pass to Bleeker. YouTube. A mob scene. The camera was jittery. But a man was on his knees, someone next to him reciting from the Quran. Another put a blade to his neck. About to slice right through, enough of a cut to make blood run down, and then, more yelling. Someone from off camera. The man with the blade pulled the knife away and let his intended victim drop to the ground.
"And?"
"That was Adem. The one they cut. I swear."
In the booth ahead of them, a woman looked over her shoulder. Mustafa covered his mouth with his hand, breathing heavy through his nose. Blinking away tears.
"Okay, it's okay." Bleeker grabbed Mustafa's other wrist. "He's okay. That's good. They almost killed him, but stopped. That's a good thing. But doesn't this show he's still working for terrorists?"
Mustafa wiped his face. "I don't care. He's alright. We're all good if he's alright."
"No sign of Jibriil, then."
"If he's there, I haven't found him. Just like him to get shot down already." Mustafa raising a finger gun. "Pow, like he even lasted a week. My boy's still going strong, though."
"Do you mind?" The lady from the booth ahead. Voice sharp like a dog's teeth.
Bleeker said, "Sorry about that. It's okay."
"If you can't…control him, maybe you should leave."
Bleeker leaned back, close to her ear. "How about you shut the fuck up and eat your bagel? Guy's a little excited is all."
"Oh my god!" She was out of her seat in a flash. "My god! I'm going to find the manager."
Off she went, a loud "Excuse me, excuse me" to the people behind the counter.
Mustafa was staring out the window. Bleeker looked down at the story on the screen again. No mention of Jibriil, unless that bodyguard they talked about…it would take proof. Real honest to God proof that the murdering punk was dead.
The woman showed up at the table again, right behind a man who didn't look like the manager. More like a cook, beefy, in his fifties, thinking he was tougher than he really was. Arms folded. "You two are done. Get out."
Bleeker felt the blood flowing again. Oh yeah. Drop this guy with a shot to the kneecap. Bang his head on the tile until he's got no nose left.
He rose from the booth, got in the cook's face. The cook stepped back, loosened his arms. Held them at the ready. "We're going to call the police, but that doesn't mean I can't defend myself first."
Bleeker laughed, dug in his jacket pocket. Hoped it was still there, and it was, nearly frozen. He pulled out his shield. "Hey, look, I'm a cop, too. How about that? So what was it you were planning to do again?"
The cook backed off farther. "Hey, we're just saying, you understand. Our customers are trying to-"
"This bitch assaulted me. I can sell that story. Threatened me, too. Racial slurs against my friend here."
The woman gasped, then said, "I never, not at all. I would never say something like that."
Mustafa finally pushed out of the booth, closed his laptop and tucked it under his arm. "Ray, let's go."
"Didn't you hear the way she talked about you?"
"Let's go. Now. We need to roll." Mustafa reached into his jeans pocket, brought out some folded up cash. He flicked a couple of twenties from the center, tossed them on the table. "I'm buying that lady another bagel if she wants it. Come on Ray."
Bleeker waited another minute, eye to eye with the cook, who was withering. Good. He liked when they did that. Had forgotten how it felt. Until he remembered it was all his fault and the guy didn't deserve it. He dropped his gaze and caught up with Mustafa, who was already pushing his way through the door.
*
They didn't talk on the ride back to the shack. Mustafa switched from talk radio to FM and found some oldies. The Commodores. Followed by The Doors, so Mustafa turned it off. "I hate that organ. Like fingernails on a chalkboard."
Once out on the ice again, parked, sitting there in the car, Bleeker said, "I stood up for you."
"I didn't ask."
"Didn't have to."
"Man, you messed up. That was some sort of crazy you pulled. If you can't hold it together…shit, I don't know."
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Never mind. You need to take care of yourself. Just thought you'd like to know Adem's alright, that's all."
He opened the door, set a foot on the ice, then, "Listen, you've been cool with me, and I respect that. Did me a solid back in the Cities. It's a shame to see you like this. Wish I could help. Say the word."
Bleeker held onto the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. Not a word.
"Stay up, Ray." Mustafa climbed out, closed the door. Bleeker flicked his eyes over. The little yellow car. Mustafa opened the trunk, put his laptop into a bag, then closed it. Dropped into the driver's seat, cranked up, and made a slow circle until he was headed towards the dock.
Engine noise faded. Snow building on the windshield, smearing across with the wipers. Bleeker didn't move. The coffee had left a bad taste in his mouth and Mustafa wouldn't let him smoke in the car. That whole thing with the cook and the woman. Wondered if they'd have spoken up if he'd been with a white guy. Or if he'd been dressed in more than sweatpants and a t-shirt under his jacket. The shit he used to take for granted. People weren't really like that, were they?
Didn't matter. He rubbed his aching jaw.
Mustafa played it cool. For Bleeker's sake more than his own, now he could see that. And coming all this way, only to take off quick like that?
Bleeker slammed the Buick into drive and spun around. Had to catch up. Dangerously fast, slipping all over. Mustafa couldn't have been more than a half-mile ahead, not yet off the ice. Bleeker gained on him. Flashed his headlights. Finally got his attention. The little yellow car's brakelights flamed on, and Bleeker had to swerve. Slid off to the side, then started a one-eighty. Got control and ended up in front of Mustafa, facing him.
Bleeker got out, walked over to Mustafa. The car window eased down a couple of inches. "What, you crazy, man?"
"What did you come here to ask me? I want to know."
Mustafa shook his head. Heat poured from the window. Snow melted as it hit the glass. "Aw, man, you don't worry yourself about that."
Bleeker pounded his palm on top of the car. "Tell me! You want to go over there and get him, don't you? That's what you're here for. You want me to help you."
"It's okay. Don't even think about it."
"That's it. I know it is. You want me to go with you and bring him back."
Mustafa opened his mouth. Closed it. Let out a breath. Bleeker brushed snow off his head. Not going anywhere until he got an answer.
A long wait, but Mustafa finally said, "Would you go if I asked?"
"To get Adem? Not Jibriil?"
Shrugged. "Don't even know where that boy is, man."
"But maybe Adem knows."
"Alright, so maybe he knows. As long as it doesn't fuck with getting Adem back home safely, you can ask whatever you want."
Bleeked nodded. Snow collecting all over him, but he felt warm. "And when he's back here? Are you going to hide him, or make him talk to the police?"
"Hey, he's going to tell them the truth. Even if that means we've got to fight in court, cut him a deal, whatever. He's got to own up. But I'm thinking we've got to recognize that Jibriil talked him into this shit with lies, and once he was over there, he was forced to do what they told him."