Bingo's Run (15 page)

There were more quick knocks on the door. I ran across the room to open it and almost tripped over Slo-George asleep on the carpet. The clothes I had slept in were wet with sweat. “Ya?” I shouted through the door.

A voice chirped, “Jambo, sir. How are you dealing this morning?” It was the cleaner Charity.

“Good, ya,” I said. I was out of breath and did not want to open the door, but it did not matter; the door lock clicked, the door opened a crack, and Charity's face peered round. I could smell her cleaning fluids. Her pink lips grinned. “Good morning, sir. How is the art dealing going on this morning?” She looked at me with bright eyes. “You look hot, sir,” she said. “You must have been doing your turn-downs!”

I wanted to speak back cleverly, but she had somehow cleaned out my head. In the end I said, “How's tha cleanin'?”

Charity cocked her head. “Thank you for asking, sir. The cleaning last night was most excellent. I am finished for the night and will go home now.” She still had not come in; she looked at me through the wide door crack and smiled. As the silence grew, I
just stood there, my head empty. It was filled only with Charity's smile and the smell of cleaning fluid.

Charity shoved her hand into her dress pocket. Fast, she threw a pink shiny packet through the crack in the door. The door shut, and I reached down to pick it up. It was a packet of Walkers Prawn Cocktail crisps. I ran over and opened the door. Charity was already pushing her cart down the corridor. Her brown housekeeping dress did not hide her shape. Her behind was excellent, better than the sun and the moon put together. “Ta, ya!” I shouted at her behind.

She turned fast and threw another packet—light green, Walkers Cheese 'n Onion. “Those are for your friend on the floor,” she said. She looked at me and her eye beams hit me straight on. She laughed then, and added, “Sir, keep on going with your turn-downs,” and pushed her cart away, orange duster in hand.

I closed the door quietly, stepped over Slo-George, lay on the bed, and ate both packets of crisps. Slo-George would never know.

There were more knocks at the door. My lips were sharp from the salt. I licked them and waited a bit. More knocks. I smiled and went over to the door. “Ya?” I called, casual style. I wanted Charity to know I was not soft on her.

“Good morning, Bingo.” It was Mrs. Steele. Tak!

I opened the door just enough to put my head through. “Jambo, Mrs. Steele,” I said. “I'z sorry. I jus' wake up from a beautiful dream about America.”

“That sounds nice,” said Mrs. Steele. “I was wondering if you wanted to have breakfast with me downstairs.”

I said, “Jus' a few minutes. I'z be down.” She could hustle me as much as she wanted. I had the Khefa contract, and Hunsa was mine. I shut the door, ran to the bathroom, took off my clothes
from the night before, and ran water with full power into the trough. I washed quickly, dried, and pissed. The toilet had been cleaned out from the day before. Dry, I went into the bedroom, kicked Slo-George in the belly, and shouted, “Georgi, wake up.” He moaned awake. “Georgi, you'z mus do exact what I sayz,” I told him. “Exact!” I spoke quickly, but tried to slow it down. His eyes looked up at me. “Georgi, listen. Neva go out tha room, ya.” He did not grunt, but I saw that he heard. “You'z wait here till I'z get back.” I had an idea. I stepped over him and switched on the television. The program was called
Business Week Africa
. It was set in a different part of Africa than I was used to, because all the African businessmen looked like their parents were from China.

“Georgi, you get clean in tha small room over there.” I pointed to the bathroom. Then you watch TV till I'z get back. I'z bring ya food, ya.”

I put on clean clothes from the St. Michael's suitcase and ran downstairs. I had done it all in twenty minutes.

Mrs. Steele was already at breakfast. I walked into her perfume cloud. “Jambo, Mrs. Steele.” I grinned at her; I knew she was a hustler, but I was pleased to see her. Perhaps it was because I was a better hustler than her—and wanted to show her. Perhaps it was because she looked good. Perhaps it was because she came with a room at the Livingstone and free food. Perhaps it was because she was taking me to America. At that moment, it did not matter—I was happy.

“Jambo, Bingo,” Mrs. Steele said back. Mrs. Steele wore jeans, hooker heels, and a white shirt and bra. Her gold hair was tied back tight, and she wore less eye makeup and lipstick than she had the day before. She had on gold earings that were so heavy they stretched her ears. She looked less hooker. “You look nice, ya,” I said.

She laughed lightly. “Thank you, Bingo,” she said. She liked it when I said things like that.

Breakfast was like the Kibera market without the sellers, beggars, scammers, stink, noise, dirt, rot, and rats. All the food was set out, and people took what they wanted without paying.

Mrs. Steele drank coffee, I got crushed cane juice. I watched the hotel boy push cane sticks through the crusher and the brown sugar juice drip out. When I was little, I only drank cane juice at special times, like if Mama got paid or it was my birthday. The juice arrived and I got lost in the brown sweetness. Mrs. Steele said, “Bingo, tell me all about last night.” I almost choked on the sugar. I thought about the Khefa, Thomas Hunsa in the Warehouse, and Slo-George upstairs watching TV.

I said, “Last night, I eat and went to sleep. I'z so many dreams about America. So beautiful.”

Mrs. Steele's eyes were as light green as the melon on her plate. “Bingo, that sounds wonderful,” she replied. She raised her thin eyebrows. “Tell me more.”

I said, “Well, firs' I dream 'bout bein' an art deala.”

Her smile disappeared. “Go on, what else?” she said.

I said, “In America, I will get a truck—a Ford F-150, built tough.” It was from a TV advert.

She laughed and said, “Right, Bingo, built tough.” She sipped white coffee. “Now, what about school? Was that in your dream, too?”

“Ya, school,” I said. I put some excitement into my voice. “I love that!”

Mrs. Steele looked at me. After a bit, she said, “Bingo, if you really want to be an art dealer you will have to do well in school. Then you will have to go to college and learn history and art theory.”

This made me angry. “I'z already an art deala,” I said.

Mrs. Steele went red. “Oh, Bingo, I'm sorry. Of course you are. I was just thinking that in America it is good to go to college, especially if you want to be the best art dealer … and the richest.” We stopped talking and ate. Mrs. Steele's eyes were dark as she sipped her coffee. She said, “By the way, Bingo, I like that painting you gave me.”

I looked at her. “I know.” We drank in silence.

I said, “How's you an art deala? Did you do college?” I wanted to call her Colette, but it did not come out of my mouth; something blocked it.

Mrs. Steele's face went tight. “I did it slightly differently. When I was at art school in Los Angeles, I worked for Mr. Steele, as a part-time appraiser.” She looked down at her plate. “After he divorced his first wife, we got married and I ended up being his full-time appraiser.” She stabbed a piece of melon. “And then, after we divorced, I ended up with his two galleries in Chicago.”

“What's divorced?” I asked.

She chewed and swallowed. “Bingo, it's when married people split up. They visit lawyers and get a contract to divide up their possessions. It's called a divorce. I got the galleries, he got his twenty-three-year-old farmer.” As she spoke, her gold earrings shook. Divorce sounded like a good way to get money, but I heard in Mrs. Steele's voice that it was like a long run on a filthy hot day.

I changed the subject. “So, you'z study tha' history and art theory, then?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No, Bingo,” she said. “I learned everything going up through the business.”

“Like me,” I said.

Mrs. Steele sucked in her cheeks and laughed. “Yes, Bingo, like you.” She raised her eyebrows again. “Now aren't you a sharp one this morning.”

She was trying to put me off being an art dealer with all her talk. But I knew I could do it better than her. Being an art dealer and a drug dealer are the same thing; both sell something that is not. Mrs. Steele did not know that Charity had told me everything—how Mrs. Steele said the Masta's paintings were worth millions. Mrs. Steele could try to outhustle me, but she did not know that she was up against Bingo, the greatest runner in Kibera, Nairobi, and probably the world. Nairobi was my place, and I was an alleyway ahead of her. Mrs. Steele would never outhustle me.

Gently, Mrs. Steele restarted our chat. “Look, Bingo, we've got a busy few days ahead of us. Why don't you and I spend the day by the pool?”

I looked into Mrs. Steele's eyes. I thought, Mrs. Hustla, I'z watch you every second. But I said out loud, “Good, ya, tha pool.” If me and Mrs. Steele were by the pool, she could not get to Hunsa.

The hustler said, “Bingo, did St. Michael's pack you swimming trunks?”

“What's that?” I said.

We bought swimming trunks at the hotel shop. The best thing about the hotel shop was how you paid. Mrs. Steele chose trunks for me. They were bright red, with white flowers, and looked like shorts—child size 14/15. I grunted Slo-George style when she showed them to me, but I quite liked them. Mrs. Steele let me get a family-size box of fruit pastilles for Slo-George, though I did not tell her they were for him. She said to the bored cashier boy, “Charge it to my room.” Then she wrote her sign, a big “C” and a snake-shaped squiggle “S.” It was easier than shoplifting but not as much fun.

While I was with Mrs. Steele having breakfast, Slo-George entertained himself. The moment I opened the door to Room 349, I saw how. The carpet was wet. Water ran at full blast in the bathroom. I dashed in. There was an inch of water on the white stone floor, and Slo-George lay in the overspilling trough, his eyes shut. He wore a hotel bathrobe and grinned fook-brain style. “Georgi,” I yelled. I yanked his arm. “Stand up, you fook!” I turned off the trough taps. He stood up and water poured off him.

“Tak!” I screamed. “The contract!” I had left my clothes from the night before on the bathroom floor. They were soaked through. I pushed my hand into the trouser pocket and pulled out the soaking-wet, folded-up yellow contract. Tears cracked my eyes. “Tak!” I screamed. “Tak, tak, tak!” Slo-George stood there in the trough, soaked in the Livingstone gown. I screamed, “You'z a fooked-up half-brain retard!” More words poured out. “Ya dumb shithead! You'z always follow me about. You ruin my legal contrac'. Jus' fook off and disappear, you fook-head mental.”

I ran to the bedroom. The flood had not yet reached it. I laid
the wet contract on the bed. My hands shook as I started to unfold the long yellow sheet. The main part, typed by the Kepha, was fine. My signature and the signature of the Kepha were a little blurred. The Masta's name in red paint was perfectly clear. I said, “Thank you,” to the sun that blasted through the window. It was a miracle. I looked at the signatures again: Bingo Mwolo, Kepha Kepha, and Masta. “Thank you,” I said aloud again. Just then the spider ran out from under the bed. I jumped back, and it scampered away. I ran after it and tried to stamp it out, but it ran under the TV table. I knelt on the carpet and looked at it under the table. “I'z get you later,” I said. Two black eyes looked back. The contract was fine, I was still Hunsa's dealer; I let the spider live.

Water dripped onto my neck. Slo-George was standing next to me, staring down at me. I said to him, “Georgi, tha contract it's fine, ya.” I smiled. He still wore the soaked Livingstone Hotel bathrobe. In the background, the TV program about African business ended. Slo-George turned round and walked out of Room 349. My legs told me, “Bingo, go get the fat retard. He's your fren'!” But I did not move. Runners run alone. The less we carry, the faster we are. I see it all the time—other people must have someone: wife, friend, hooker, mother. Not me. People slow you down. I am Bingo the runner. I carry nothing. Commandment No. 11.

I stared at Slo-George's footprints on the wet carpet. I needed to go to America. Slo-George would stay in Kibera. He would be a good runner; no one ever thinks a retard can do anything bad. He would be safe. Anyway, he was gone. It was better this way. I looked back at the bed. The family-size box of fruit pastilles had gone, too; it was goodbye, Slo-George style.

Me and Mrs. Steele spent the day by the pool. No one had sex in it, which proves that not everything in porn is true. It also explained why I needed the swimming trunks. I did not get into the water; I just sat on the edge and wet my feet. Mrs. Steele swam up and down the pool. She was excellent in her black bikini. Her breasts floated.

The pool area was almost empty, and we had our own corner. The deal was that for every Bloody Mary Mrs. Steele ordered I got a Tusker. I cheated once. Mrs. Steele was halfway through her third Bloody Mary when she went to the bathroom. Right away, I took two gulps of her drink. She had no idea I did this, and when she came back she ordered a fourth Bloody Mary. I drained my Tusker and reminded her of the deal. We ate hamburgers. She took as much ketchup as me.

We had some things in common. Her family was not rich and, like me, her father was rubbish and left when she was small. “Ya mind?” I asked her. She thought and said, “Bingo, actually I did. I wanted a dad a bit like you want America. You've seen it on TV, but you've never been there.”

Mrs. Steele asked, “How about you, Bingo, did you mind growing up without a dad?”

I said, “I'z do not rememba much about him.” It was true, mostly. He was a gambler and a drinker. The only good he did was teach me numbers. I counted cards and beers for him. I did times tables when he doubled his bets, and I did taking-away when he gambled Senior Father's crop money. I remembered how many cowries Father owed this one or that one. The day Father left with Senior Mother's iron cook pot, he lost our last ox on a 7 of Clubs “double or nothing.” But I did not tell Mrs. Steele any of this. I stuck with the story I'd told her at my St. Michael's interview. I said, “I was sad when the gang boyz kill Fatha.” That is the problem with lying—you have to remember. That is why the best lie is truth. Mrs. Steele listened. Someone dived into the pool. I said to her, “But I rememba Mama. She was special, ya.” I do not know why I said that; my mouth sometimes speaks for itself.