A coyote lifted his muzzle and, silhouetted against the early dawn, braced against the wind to howl at the moon. Karim stood in the village square, ducked his head, and braced against a squadron of circling wasps. They all wanted a taste. He swore an oath at each who made his mark and completed his mission, and then in desperation Karim removed his soiled cap, slapped three yellow-jackets dead, and snapped, “Coco-Puff, what are you grinning at?”
“Just you, Meester Karim. You is funny, funny fella.” Karim pinched battered bodies from his cap, screwed it back on his head and, like a gunslinger in old Dodge City, strode toward his number two lieutenant. Coco leaped from jeep number three, instinctively drew in his elbows, balled his fists, raised his forearms, and slowly back-peddled. Flee or fight? He knew he couldn’t outrun a bullet.
“Hey, Meester. Karim, I theenk you ween. YOU WEEN.” He tried to smile. Karim stopped.
“Put ‘em up. You stepped out of bounds.”
Coco tried to masque his gnawing anxiety by stretching his arms and hands high overhead and then by he reaching down and touching his toes three times. As he straightened up he rocked his head from side to side and tried to shake the tension out of his hands—to no avail. Karim rushed forward, wound up, and threw a round-house punch. Coco side-stepped. The overweight giant spun around, lost his balance, and landed on his butt.
“Well, if that don’t beat all. Help me up, chocolate milk.”
“Okee, Okee, Meester Karim.” As Coco struggled to dead-lift his boss to his feet he warbled, “Hey Meester Karim, we two good match, yes?”
Karim snarled, brought up his dukes, stood flat-footed, and feinted with a left. “Hey-hey, you thought it was all over, didn’t you?” he chided. The tall brute swayed back and forth like a King Cobra. “Come on. Come on, I don’t bite. Much.” He jabbed again. Coco’s head snapped back; the lights flicked off; came back on; his head buzzed like a noisy fluorescent.
Jabal, a self-appointed ringside attendant, leaned forward and whispered, “Next time, Coco, don’t mano, mano, just concede the match. Hey man, you’re bleeding.”
“Duh.” His lip lacerated and his blood starting to boil, Coco tongued the inside of his mouth, isolated a floating incisor, spat it at Karim’s feet, and commenced yawing around the big man like a tugboat keeping its distance from a fly-infested garbage scow. He flipped open a well-balanced switchblade, then bounced, bobbed, and made wave-like motions with his hands and arms while jiving under his breath:
“Dis gig’s goad south,
Cuz you hurt yur homey.
You broked his face,
N’ ya don’t even know me.
Come awn, come awn,
Hip, hop, old frog
Me slice you up
N’ feed my dog.
Hey, dat no bad, not badatall.”
Karim huffed and puffed and feinted a punch. “What ain’t bad, Coco-puff?”
“You, Meester Karim. You no bad. I jest jiving in da grooves, jest trying to make yur manny moves. Shabung, shabung.” Much of Coco’s vocabulary was home-made.
“And here I thought you was out for blood.” Karim chuckled, feinted another jab, and without applause proclaimed himself heavyweight champion of the world. He was right about the heavyweight part. He threw both arms into the air, clenched his fists, bared his teeth, and rotated like a manikin dressed in a cheap Halloween costume standing in a K-Mart display window. Coco and Jabal glared daggers. Karim’s countenance softened when he stopped to admire himself in a side-view mirror.
“My, oh my. Do I look just like Groucho Marx or what?”
“What?” responded Coco and Jabal in the same breath.
“Never mind. I wish I’d nicked those old Groucho Marx glasses when I had the chance.” Karim manipulated his bushy eyebrows up and down, side to side, and then snarled like a leashed bulldog waiting for the postman to come up the walk. “Where in the ‘H’ is Ajani?”
Jabal mumbled between clenched teeth, “You answered your own question,” and then, fearing repercussions—or a concussion—signaled with his finger that Ajani was over at the makeshift cemetery across the road. Karim barked at Coco, “Fetch.” Lieutenant number two high-tailed it across the square, over the road, and pulled up next to the grave diggers and their stuporvisor, Ajani, who had slithered back from the alley and sat cross-legged with his head between his knees.
“I heard.”
Karim continued barking. “Jabal, you ain’t doing nothing. Get your butt in gear and find me a place to take a hot bath.” Jabal, a native of Farah, Afghanistan, bowed submissively and toddled bowlegged toward the hospital longing for the comfort of a military stockade and three squares a day. After pausing to stare at the license plate nailed over the door, he pounded the panel with a closed fist.
“Open up.” The door swung open. “Anybody home? I’m armed, don’t you know?” Five minutes later Jabal burped, wiped his whiskered face, and emerged from the hospital in time to see Coco and Ajani, caked with Pakistani dust, returning from the grave. The three men lined up side by side and stood facing Karim.
“Jabal, you report first. No, Ajani, you go first. Then, Coco, you go . . . “ Karim interrupted himself: “I forgot what I ordered. Jabal, what did you find me?”
Jabal took one step forward, saluted with his left hand, and said, “Yo, Boss, I found water, soap, and a tub big enough to fit your big feet, and nobody’s in the round house. It’s all yours.” Neither Karim nor his men were aware that the hospital staff had covered Alim with linen before fleeing through a metal rear door.
“Find me some grub better than that sticking to your whiskers. What is that, anyway?”
“It’s peanut butter, boss.”
“Stay put. Ajani, your turn.” Ajani stepped forward, leaned up, and whispered in Karim’s ear. He nodded approval. His South Carolina lieutenant slithered into a nearby alley and skulked out of sight.
“Coco, Ajani says you done well. From here on you’ll be in charge of the graveyard.” After ordering several men to unload the jeeps and carry his belongings into the hospital, Karim concluded with, “Coco, Jabal, drag Captain Catfish in there, find some clothesline, and tie him to a chair. Good ‘n tight, do you hear me boys? And don’t forget to loop the cord around his neck!”
Jabal and Coco nodded, hustled to the Humvee, and opened the door. Layered with grime and clad in Karim’s baggy orange jump suit, Captain Edmund Durant had lain bound and gagged for many hours, his tongue swollen between his clenched teeth. The only water proffered him during the torturous ride had been mercilessly dripped upon his pale face and cracked lips. The two thugs dragged him from the vehicle, jerked him upright, and let go. The comatose soldier crashed to ground, face down, on the gravel.
In Pashto, Coco’s tongue took on a surly air of superiority–a skunk’s self-defense mechanism. Jerking Durant’s wrists from behind his back and dislocating both shoulders, he ordered, “Git up squeezersuck! You bean nappin’ while I did all thee drivin’. Now say, ‘Thank you, Meester Coco.’”
No reply.
Jabal knelt, grabbed a clump of matted hair, and slapped the defenseless captive on the face. Hard. “That’s what you get for insubadmiration. Get up.” They dragged the comatose sacrificial lamb into the hospital. His lungs expanded and contracted, then nothing. The gag was removed. No anguished cry.
“Git up bollywagger,” commanded Coco.
Jabal declared, “Hey boss, this guy looks and smells like a dead catfish to me.” An over-sized stolen army boot brutally kicked the prisoner’s rib cage. No groan. No nothing.
Karim stood on the threshold eyeing the brutality. He signaled stop by drawing a finger across his throat, and then clarified the order: “That’s enough . . . for now.” He strode confidently into the bowels of H.Q. and slobbered,“At least for the time being all your body parts are still hooked together.” Karim closed the door behind him. “Coco, find some clothesline. Be quick about it.”
“But Meester Karim, Catfish is dade.”
Karim lumbered across the room, stooped, and felt for a carotid pulse. He straightened and stared at the crown of Coco’s pointy head, then reached out, gently lifted Coco’s chin, and stared into his eyes. After what to Coco seemed like forever, Ajani came puffing into the hospital. “Boss, we need to talk.”
“Go away. I’m interviewing Catfish’s replacement. Coco-puff says Catfish is dade,” he said mockingly.
“But boss, your best spy—that would be me—hit pay dirt. Confirmed twice. You’ll want to hear this.”
Leaving Coco quaking like an aspen, Karim exited the building, followed by Ajani. The door latched.
“What?”
“BJ, there is an American in the village. I heard her voice.”
“Her voice?”
“Yes. I can’t say for sure, but I’ll wager she’s a soldier. She spoke from high up, perhaps a rooftop, and said, ‘Safeed.’ Yep, yep, I am sure that is his name. Him, I saw. He looks like Pinocchio—you know, the wooden dude—long neck and bald as a bowling ball. I know where he lives, and get this, I heard the dame say, ‘Come sup with us, baby.’ or something stupid like that. Baldy spoke Pashto, and he sure looked Sunni, yep, yep. I could almost smell him.”
Inside Karim’s thick skull the wheels engaged—a poor marriage; they were few in number and in need of lubrication. “Okay now, Ajani, find where the woman lives and who lives with her, if anybody. Be quick! Don’t be seen! The sun is coming up.”