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Tammer, I said, what are you doing on the street?

Hustling like my forefathers, he said, and he and his friend laughed.

Come into the car, I said.

They did and slammed the doors, and by the weight of things, by the imperceptible curve of the seats under their bodies and the look of their cheekbones, I was reminded that famine is no laughing matter. No city masquerade, no costume, smile, or acrobatic act can appease the vacuity of hunger.

Let’s eat, I said.

And they both started to giggle and give each other high-fives.

I took them to a fast food joint. I paid for all the hamburgers they could eat, for the buckets of soda they filled all the way to the rim, and for the extra-large French fries they both insisted upon.

I was still trying to figure out what kind of insect Tammer’s friend was supposed to be. When I asked him, he just said: A bug. And when I asked what his name was, Tammer said, This is Skippy the Bug! and they both found it funny. They ate like hungry puppies.

How is your mother? I asked Tammer.

He nodded, and then shook his head because his mouth was full. And then he managed to say, Not okay.

Working? I asked.

No, not working.

Fredao?

Gone, Tammer said. The boys looked at each other and laughed. Got rid of him.

How did you get rid of him?

We bit him, Skippy the Bug said. And they both laughed again.

So where is your mother?

Recovering in the hospital, he said. Fredao beat her. Then Tammer paused and said, He won’t beat her anymore.

Fucking bastard.

We all stayed quiet for a while. The two bent their heads towards the buns in their hands and ate.

You heard about the killing of the French journalist? I asked.

French fries, Skippy the Bug said, and they giggled.

Then they asked me if I could buy them milkshakes and more food, because they were still hungry.

Are you still living in your mother’s place? I asked Tammer, as we went back to the counter.

No, he said.

Where do you sleep?

That place I took you last time, he said. Under the bridge.

We do barbecue, Skippy said. And they laughed and gave each other high-fives all over again.

I asked Tammer if he had seen Otto since that night.

Yeah, he said. He showed up one night but he left.

How long did he stay?

Not long. He needed stuff, Tammer said.

What kind of stuff?

Booze, the kid said, and laughed.

When we left the restaurant, I handed Tammer a few dollars.

He quickly took the money and showed it to his friend. They started to laugh and scream, and Skippy put his arm around Tammer’s shoulders. Without saying goodbye, they staggered down the sidewalk, crossed the street, and started running through the street blocks, the buildings, and the traffic lights.

ZEE

I PICKED UP Zee that night. He was quieter than usual. He had a bag and he kept fixing his collar and tucking his hand inside his jacket and shifting.

Where to, boss? I said, sounding like a low-ranking gangster.

The industrial district, he said.

I drove up Highway 41 and all the way to the periphery of the city. Soon the industrial complexes started to show their long chimneys, and the fumes pouring out of their furnaces filled the sky with circular shapes and evasive patterns. On both sides of the highway were old workers’ houses the same shades of grey as the factories behind them. All the walls were drenched in that pale, toxic colour of cement and dust.

Take this exit, Zee said.

I went down the ramp and drove along a row of houses. On the narrow road we encountered a truck loaded with what looked like a mountain of sand. The truck driver drove straight towards us without any hesitation or plan to accommodate our passage. Giving way, I veered right and up onto the shoulder, and dust rose from both sides and covered my car and my windows. I turned on the wipers, and they drew two arches in the shape of peacock tails, or two Andalusian fans, and I fancied myself in Moorish Spain walking through bow-shaped palaces and fountains and the smell of orange blossoms. .

We passed a series of warehouses, encountering one grocery store that was open but had a doleful, vacant look, and an old metal sign with the fading letters of a soft-drink brand that no longer existed.

Zee told me to stop. He stepped out and stood at the corner. Then he called to me, saying, Come here, Fly. Get some fresh air.

I got out.

Stand here beside me, Zee said. So I stood next to him and we waited until a kid came around the corner and walked towards us. The kid’s steps looked crooked; there was a one-sided, leaning dance to his marching. His hat looked one or two sizes too big, pragmatically casting a shadow on his eyes. The kid stood in front of Zee and I saw him slip something into the dealer’s hand.

Zee started jawing at the kid, saying, Late again. I am not the one who should be waiting for your coming. Is it all here?

The kid nodded.

At the end of the street, I saw another kid on a bicycle standing in the middle of the road watching us. Zee saw him too.

Who’s that?

My brother.

You come alone. And you be here on time. Zee turned and went back to the car and I followed.

Now what? I said.

Fountain Street, number 45, is all Zee said to me. And for the next half-hour he kept quiet and was pensive.

Did I pay you yet? he asked, as we were about to arrive at our destination.

No, not yet.

I was expecting him to say something else but he didn’t, and I didn’t pursue the conversation. In my oval mirror he had the look of those melancholic killers, or people about to be killed.

The address turned out to be a record store. From the outside, it looked neglected. The record sleeve hanging in the window had turned yellow under the pounding of the midday sun, the changing seasons behind the glass, and the settlement of dust. In the background, a faded, forgotten red curtain, like a trio of backup singers, was barely noticeable. The artists on the record covers looked permanently young and ever-smiling. Who knows, I thought, eternity could well be found in the permanent display of eternity.

I am staying, Zee said. You go in and hand over the bag.

I hesitated. I looked at the bag but I didn’t touch it.

What, are you scared? Zee said.

What’s in it?

What’s in it. Who the fuck do you think you are, mule, to ask me that? You just open the door and go inside and do what I tell you.

My job is to drive you around, I said, not to deliver bags.

What did you say?

I repeated what I had said, but this time I looked him straight in the mirror.

Why do you think I pay you, motherfucker?

Well, I said, I assumed either you can’t drive, or that maybe, deep inside your heart, you are an environmentalist who supports the use of public transport.

One funny, big-mouth motherfucker you are.

And in my mirror I saw his upper body extending on one side and his hand reaching to his waist. Then I heard the cranking of metal.

Don’t make me waste you, Fly. Think of it as a promotion, he said. New responsibilities for you. Advancement in the company: the company of me. Now don’t let me go in that store and drive back home sorry I killed a fly. My girlfriend wouldn’t like it. So what will it be, Fly man. This or that?

I grabbed the bag, got out, and walked towards the store.

The store was closed but I could see people inside. I banged on the window and a man approached. With my imaginary whip, I made the sign of the letter Z in the manner of Zorro, and the man unlocked the door and let me in.