“It’s me, Boss.” The lean lieutenant amped up the volume. “I HAVE NEWS. Yep, yep; good news, BJ.” Karim didn’t look up. He sat cross-legged on the floor looking into a small mirror, spitting on his finger, and stroking his eyebrows. Ajani shielded his eyes from the window’s glare and pressed his nose against the pane in an attempt to ascertain Karim’s mood. “Chihuahua!” He swore a salty phrase even his grandmother would have found disgusting, and then, trying to ease the pain by pinching his nostrils together, he carped, “Buoy dat windu is hut as a jalapeño,”while shoving open the door. The large room was hot and smelled of disinfectant. “What stinks? . . . Say, Boss, who busted up your chair?”
Without looking up, Karim gestured toward the back of the room. “Go lock the door, pull out the key, and grab that bag before somebody kipes it.”
“Huh? What bag?”
“That one,” he pointed.
“Yep. Yep. A present? For me? Ah, B. J., you shouldn’t have.” Hot and out of sorts, Karim wasn’t in a bantering mood.
“You’re right, and I didn’t.”
Ajani snatched the ransom bag left by Safeed, locked the door, trotted forward and—like a well-bred golden retriever—dropped the bag in Karim’s outstretched, sweaty palm.
“Good dog. That’s one,” sniped Karim.
“One what?”
“One of the two things I ordered you to do.”
“Oh, of course, the key; I tried. B. J., It’s stuck.”
“So am I. With you!” Ajani’s shoulders slumped as, one by one, Karim dumped gold coins out on the floor. One piece caught an edge, rolled to Ajani’s boot, and toppled over. The coin seemed to whisper, Take me. I’m yours. A nanosecond later the temptation expired.
Karim bit the coins one at a time before dropping them into the bag. “Twelve, thirteen.” He looked as pleased as Fyodor Dostoevsky after cleaning out the house. “Okefenokee. Now what was is it you wanted, Carolina Clyde?”
“Clyde was my pops. I’ve got used to being called Ajani. Why did you bite each coin?”
“Bitcoins are worth more,” Karim replied sarcastically. “I hope that isn’t why you knocked on the window,” he added as he stuffed the money bag in his pocket. Ajani rubbed his blistered nose. He knew Karim’s attention span was like a short fuse connected to three sticks of dynamite, and so he spoke fast.
“Mission accomplished boss. A hound couldn’t a sniffed out the woman any better than I did.”
“Right now your red nose reminds me more of Ronald McDonald’s than a hound dog. Boy, do I miss them Double Macks. So, where’s the woman and who is she shacked up with?”
“But BJ, don’t you want to know about the dumpsters?”
Karim eyed Ajani suspiciously. “Dumpsters?”
“Yes, the dumpsters. lots of them. So, here’s the deal: The alleys are long and straight, so it’s pretty hard to ambush anybody from a wall; but then I smelled something.”
“The woman. Right?”
“No, dumpsters. Like I said, Lots of them. Hiding places. All bullet-proof. Isn’t that brilliant?”
“Have you forgot what I sent you do? Get to it or get out. Where’s the woman and who’s she with?”
Yep, yep, I’m coming to that. Hold on now and don’t get your knickers in a twilly. I walked every street, every alley, and located every trash bin in town.” Holding up his tatted forearm, he added, “I even made notes with a Sharpie, identifying the loca . . .”
Karim drew his semi-automatic and set it on his lap. This time the chamber entertained a live round—not a round of applause.
Somewhat sobered by the graphic, Ajani continued. “I hugged the walls as I snuck through town, feeling uneasy and all exposed; it was like I was being watched.”
“Well, did you expect these Sunnis to all be blind, Dumb-Dumb? Get to the point.”
“Okay, boss. Yep. Yep. In an alley four blocks west of here, I saw two little brats chucking dirt at each other. I thought, ‘easy snatch and grab,’ but then a woman yelled at them and I froze. She was leaning out of a third-story window. I saw her, but she couldn’t see me because I dumpster-dove, like in the old days. Get it? Hearing her voice, the little chunks laid on their backs, looked up, and waved.”
“So?”
“Like I say, BINGO! I’m near positive the woman’s an American; the one I heard earlier. And I tell you, Boss, she’s a real looker. The two kids must be hers. She’ll be a real catch, that one. Yep. Yep. A spawner and two small fry with a short shelf-life, if you get my drift.”
Karim didn’t. “Shelf life? What I need is a chair.” He climbed from the floor. The hospital bed made a sickly scraping sound as Karim and Ajani dragged it to the middle of the room, flopped down on either end, and had an ugly contest. “Sounds like you hooked a big one, Ajani. When we bag her, you’ll be off probation.”
“You lost me, boss. What probation?”
“Never mind. Did you find the bald Sunni?” All of a sudden Karim sprang to his feet. “No, no, no, no.” He pressed his hands against his ears and stomped around like a tipsy gypsy. “Bald, right? Sunni, right? No, no, no, no.”
“What’s wrong, Boss. Got your trouser caught in your crotch?”
Doubling his fists and pounding an open palm, Karim shrieked, “He was here! The Sunni. I had him. I had him.”
“Safeed? Here?”
Karim pointed at the rear door. “No, idiot. There.”
“But Boss, if—I should say, when—we capture the American and her kids, maybe we won’t need the bald man; yep, yep, if you get my drift.”
“Oh, you think so? No, he hoodwinked me. I want him. I want him bad.”
“Okay, okay. Cool your jets. I’ll track him down. For sure he lives in a third story apartment. You can book on that. By the way, have you seen Shiner?”
“The movie?
“No, one of your men,” Boss.
“Oh yeah. No, he didn’t come back,” came the glum reply.
“Where’d he go?”
“To capture Safeed, the bald guy, with two others.”
“There were three of them?”
“Don’t get me off on that again. We wouldn’t want to double your probation now, would we, Probie?”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about, Boss.”
“Just think on it. You get off probation because all by your lonesome you found me a live soldier girl.” Karim slapped Ajani on the back. “Say, maybe we can pedal the two small-fry in Islamabad. Do you get my drift, boy?” The two friends snort-snorted over their good fortune. Then Karim got real serious. “I still want the bald Sunni.”
Entangled in Karim’s plot—hook, line and sinker—Ajani climbed to his feet. “I hear somebody grousing out in yard.” Without waiting for a dismissal, Ajani put on his lieutenant’s stare and exited the building for a whiff of reality and some fresh air. The ambient temperature in the courtyard—120 degrees Fahrenheit, 50 degrees Celsius—would within the hour drop to a pleasant 110 degrees Fahrenheit. “Hey buzzard food, what’s going on out here?”
On their knees in the dirt, three men sweltered and grunted below the mid-day sun. Ajani approached.
“Hey! Are you kissing Coco’s feet, playing marbles, or what?” Closing fast he cautioned, “Better not let Karim catch you praying. Get up.” As two of the men stood, Ajani brushed by and went to a knee. “Well, I’ll be a horny toad’s uncle. Yep. Yep.”
“Meester Ajani, why don’t you jist go off and croak yourself?” murmured Coco under his breath.
“What did you say, boy?”
“I say I got blood in my shoe. Pull it out quick and get me in the hospital.”
The jackknife had penetrated Coco’s boot and foot and anchored him to the ground. Ajani chuckled, “When I tell you to stay put, you really stay put.” The sarcasm was lost on Coco and his pals, one of whom left to retrieve a first aid kit from a jeep. Ajani wiggled and pulled the blade free, wiped it on Coco’s uniform, and then folded and slipped the knife in his own pocket.
Coco reached out his trembling hand and quailed, “That’s my knife, gimme it.”
“Coco-Coco-Puff-Puff. No, dude! Call it payment for surgical services. Maybe I’ll return it when you are a little older. Time you learned that Mumbly Peg is a special skill requiring adult supervision. In your case, that would be me. Count yourself lucky to know a pro and that’s so, Curly Cue.”
“How’s that so?”
“I just saved your life by pulling the knife out, didn’t I? When I was a kid in South Carolina, we played this game barefoot. Winner take all, if you get my drift. ‘Eeny, meeny, miney, moe–just be sure you miss my toe.’ Ajani failed to disclose that his right foot was missing whatever comes after ‘miney’. He flippantly added, “Next time, step lively, boy.”
Bandaged up, bruised, and missing a tooth, Coco hobbled under the overhang of the screened produce booth and took up wishing he were back home in a Kandahar jail eating three squares a day. Like the villagers, he was filling with misgivings at one end, while enthusiasm for how to deal with this gig leaked out, drop by drop, from the other end–metaphorically speaking.
Karim’s voice boomed like a Confederate cannon through the open door. “Ajani, get back in here.”
Ajani stepped lively. “Yep, yep, Boss, I’m coming, I’m coming. What’s up?” He returned to his end of the bed. The springs squeaked; Ajani squeaked.
Karim said, “My plan’s all melted into shape, little man. Let’s get this caper bagged and done. It’s too doggone hot in this desert to survive much longer. All Motel 6s are air conditioned, don’t you know, but are the men still with us?”
“Yep, yep, sure boss.” But Ajani knew better. “I think they want to know what’s going on and what’s coming off, if you get my drift.”
“For now, say nothing. Take Jabal, who don’t know when to shut up, and Seaman’s Cap, who has never spoke a word, and kidnap the woman and two youngsters. When you drag them in here, make sure they’re all screaming and crying so the whole town comes running to see what’s going on. Then I’ll—shall we say—put the fear of the Okefenokee in them. That ought to do it. When I’m done, I’ll shove her out the door, and you manhandle her while I noose her neck. What do you think?”
“Yep, yep, but couldn’t we just scare here to death instead of hang her out to dry?”
Karim made like he was either considering Ajani’s suggestion or counting down to blast off. Ajani sprang off the bed, exited the hospital, grabbed two men, headed down the alley, and—ignoring Coco’s complaining—left him standing alone on one foot in the shade by the produce coop.
Coco waited until Ajani disappeared from sight and then retrieved his sarcastic dialect and tweeted, “Hey, Meester Karim, where’s the loot you promised us?” Karim sprang from the bed, stomped to the window like a Brahma bull exhaling steam through his penny-sized nostrils, and peaked through the bugs. His temperature climbed one degree at a time as each of his armed ruffians rambled from the cracks and crevices outside and gathered next to Coco, facing the window.
“A posse.” Karim gulped. He felt a sudden chill. It was caused by more than the sweat evaporating from the back of his sorry neck. What he saw subdividing in the square drummed up memories of mob lynchings—both real and imagined—back home in Mississippi.
“Hang. Me?! Ajani, where have you gone to?”
Coco dropped the accent and called out again, this time louder. “HEY BOSS, YOU AREN’T PLANNING TO CUT US OUT OF OUR SHARE OF WHATEVER WE FIND HERE, ARE YOU? REMEMBER THE DEAL? EQUAL SHARES.”
The men chimed in. “EQUAL SHARES. EQUAL SHARES. EQUAL SHARES.”
Coco continued, “WHILE YOU’RE IN THERE COOLING YOUR JETS, WE’RE OUT HERE SMELLING THE EXHAUST. YOU AREN’T PLANNING TO KILL US ALL, AND MAKE OFF WITH THE BOUNTY, ARE YOU?”
Now the men were thrusting their rifles overhead and shouting, “GET IT ON. GET IT ON. GET IT ON.” Someone accidentally discharged his weapon, pinged a hole through the front window, and barely missed Karim’s shaggy head.
Coco got bolder and bolder. “HEY BOSS, WHY ARE WE DRINKING MOUTHWASH OUT HERE. WHERE’S THE BOOZE? I’LL TELL YOU WHERE IT IS. IT’S EITHER IN THERE WITH YOU, OR IT’S HID IN ALL THESE RUN-DOWN RESIDENTIALS. IT’S TIME WE BROKE DOWN DOORS AND . . . ?”
Karim bolted through the front door, charged off the stoop, drew his weapon, and fired three shots into the dirt. “Pfft Pfft Pfft.” All eyes fixed on the great Karim of Kandahar. Nobody made a sound. Nobody moved. Somewhat lightheaded and very cantankerous, Karim continued communicating the only way he knew how. “Okay, okay, you win. I’m here. Now hear this!” He pulled the money bag from his pocket as if it had been a rabbit from a magician’s hat. “Coco, I got something to give you, all of you. But Coco, you first.” Karim untied the bag. Coco hobbled forward. Karim sucker-punched him in the mouth. “Happy birthday, Coco Puff.”
“It isn’t my birthday,” Coco replied brusquely as he struggled to his feet.
The sound of cocking guns was audible to all. Rather than melting like poised, plastic toy soldiers over heat, the men closed ranks, pointed rifles, and edged slowly toward Karim. He was obviously shaken. He slowly swung his gun back and forth, retreated two steps, tripped, and fell backward on the stoop in front of HQ. His first thought was to start firing and—like John Wayne—go out in a blaze of glory and, shucks, who knows, maybe I’ll inherit a few virgins. Not satisfied with the odds, he reached for a second thought. Nothing came.
Coco started considering himself a lock for new commander–in-chief. He puffed out his chest ready to match brains, not teeth, and certainly not brawn. The men chanted and pumped their rifles into the noonday sky as if they were trying to aggravate heaven by poking holes in it. “Coco puff. Coco puff. Coco puff. Chew-chew, Coco puff.” The sweet and sour mood morphed into a loud chant that rocked the village. Even the vultures looked down.
All six and one-half feet of Karim twisted up from the ground like a rooted stinging nettle plant being recorded by time-lapse photography. The visual aid castigated Coco’s presumptions of power. He wavered. He capitulated. “You want that we should knock down doors and get what’s yours, right Boss?”
Holstering his weapon in an uncharacteristic display of whatever, Karim smeared the blood from Coco’s chin with the back of his hand and spoke meekly, like a Sunday school teacher: “Okefenokee, go for it.” He then backed inside, slammed the door, continued inventorying his stash, and pompously chuckled, “What a performance. What a performance. What a chief.” His ruse had worked, or so he thought.
Coco was greatly relieved that the brute hadn’t shot him, but he had completely misunderstood his orders. What he heard was, “Go fire it.” Why yes, of course, go fire it. Fire the village. Still standing on his good foot like a denuded flamingo, Coco flew into a frenzy, warbling and squawking orders to his homely chicks. The scruffy squad toddled to the west circumference of the hospital, lined up, and took turns funneling gasoline into empty liquor bottles from a five gallon can. Rag wicks were stuffed into the bottle-necks, lit on fire, and on Coco’s orders, Molotov cocktails catapulted end-over-end, erupting against shutters and spreading flames down the faces of shops and the mayor’s office. Dry timber exploded as the flames tongued, lapped, and swallowed—forcing shrieks from nearby residents who scurried from seclusion like ants fleeing the snout of a spiny anteater. But, contrary to Coco’s calculations, proximate villagers did’t run away. They rallied. Led by an old man, they armed themselves with buckets, pots, and pans filled with water and rushed into harm’s way to douse the blistering blaze. But where was Safeed?