Bingo's Run (28 page)

Percentages. I remembered that from my gambler father. As soon as people say percentages, everybody tries to calculate what the numbers mean. I looked around the room and did my own calculation fast: Mrs. Steele, false mother; Father Matthew, false God; Gihilihili, false police; the Thaatima, false law. Numbers are true; everything else is false. Numbers were my opening. While they thought percentages, I ran.

“Bingo!” Mrs. Steele screamed. It was as if wires shot out of her mouth and tripped me. I stumbled just one foot outside the cell. “Bingo, stop!” she shouted again. Her yell could set cement. I obeyed; I could not help it. “Bingo, come right back in here.” I went back in. Mrs. Steele's green eyes roared. “Stay right there!” she said.

Mrs. Steele looked at the priest. “Father Matthew, so what is Bingo supposed to have stolen from
you
?”

The priest was still. “Mrs. Steele. This is a matter that does not concern you.”

She took a step toward him. Her neck pounded, her lips were tight, her eyes wide. “Bingo is legally my son, and I want to know what he has supposedly stolen.”

The priest swallowed. “Bingo has taken a briefcase of mine.” He paused. “It contains the entirety of the St. Michael's HIV medication fund.”

Mrs. Steele's lips began to smile. “Is that so?” Hustlers know hustlers. She looked at me and raised her thin straight eyebrows. “Bingo?” she said.

“I neva did nothing wrong,” I said to her.

She said to the priest, “Did anyone see Bingo take this briefcase?”

His long black-cloaked body and his yellow face did not move. “Not as such,” he said to the air above her head.

“And if Bingo did in fact take the briefcase, where is that money now? He is leaving the country with just one small suitcase, and that has already been searched by the security gaurds. Surely it is God's teaching, or at least Kenyan law, that Bingo is innocent until proven guilty.” Mrs. Steele glanced at the Thaatima—no response—and turned to Peg Leg. “Wouldn't that be right, Chief Gihilihili?”

Gihilihili's smile fell. “Indeed, dear lady,” he said to her breasts. “To a degree.”

The priest's tar eyes dropped onto me. “Bingo, my child, all that we are interested in is the briefcase with the HIV medication fund. The moment we have located the briefcase, you will be cleared to leave Nairobi. You see, Bingo, I know that you were the last person to visit Uncle Jonni before his unexpected passing. It is also known that the briefcase was in his safekeeping, and thereafter it disappeared.”

Mrs. Steele looked at me. “Bingo?” she said again. “Tell him what he wants to know.”

I was about to deny everything, but the art of running is to spot the open alleyway. “Uncle Wolf has it,” I said to the floor. Palm wine drunk from the Skin of Revenge tastes sweet.

The priest's voice grew louder. “That is most strange. Uncle Wolf said that the briefcase was gone after Uncle Jonni”—he paused—“went away on holiday.”

I said, “Tha businessman case with tha monay is at Wolf's. It is there in tha high-rise, 19B. I knows where he hid it. Wolf not tell ya's, because Wolf kill Boss Jonni, not Manabí.” I stepped before Father Matthew and knelt at his feet the way Sadist Sister Margaret taught us to do before Jesus. “Fatha, Wolf sayz he's kill me if I'z tell ya.” The priest's shoes were brown. I kissed them. They tasted of polish and dirt.

I felt the priest's hand on my head. “Rise, child,” he said.

He looked at Gihilihili. “Samuel, might I please impose on you to talk with Uncle Wolf at the apartment? If you should find the briefcase there, might you please telephone me right away?”

Gihilihili looked pleased. “Anything for the children,” he said.

The Thaatima interrupted. “Mrs. Steele, we have to go.”

Father Matthew said to Mrs. Steele, “Chief Gihilihili's investigation should not take more than a few hours. Bingo will need to stay here until this matter is rectified. Is that not so, Chief Gahilihili?”

Gihilihili replied, “Assuredly.”

Mrs. Steele replied, “Then Bingo and I will wait at the Livingstone Hotel.” She turned to the Thaatima. “Scott, you go ahead on the flight. I obviously need to stay here until this is sorted out. And, Scott, before you go I need one quick favor.”

“Anything,” he said with relief. I do not think the lawyer liked Kenya or Kenyans.

“Can you give me the phone number for our customs contact in Chicago? I need to call him about the paintings. I looked at more of the artist's pieces and I totally made the wrong call.” She glanced down at me. Her eyes were soft, and I doubted my doubt of her. “Scott, I'll call Chicago customs and cancel the crate inspection.”

The Thaatima's smile was real; paintings or no paintings, he got paid.

Without being asked, Father Matthew offered Goerlmann a blue-topped ballpoint pen. The lawyer took it and wrote a number on a small card that he gave to Mrs. Steele.

Holding Cell 5 began to empty. The Thaatima rushed to his plane. Father Matthew left to pray. Mrs. Steele and me headed out of the airport, back to the Livingstone. Gihilihili told Guard No. 2 to leave, but he ordered Scarface to stay. Gihilihili wished to discuss the lost evidence with him—the missing bags of white. I suspected that Scarface was also about to discover the loss of paradise.

Outside the airport, it was night. Nairobi's night has a special smell—of diesel, dirt, sweat, and death. A warm breeze blew. I smiled at the smell of life. A taxi pulled up and we got in. I learned that it would not be Fate that decided the Thaatima's destiny but Mrs. Steele. She dialed the number the Thaatima had written on the small white card. “Hi, is this Agent Kai Rasmussen, Chicago customs?” she asked. “I am sorry to disturb you. This is Colette Steele. I understand that you are the agent who so efficiently handles our imports for the Steele galleries in Chicago. I just wanted to let you know of a problem coming your way.” She looked at me as she spoke. “My attorney, Scott Goerlmann, is flying into Chicago from Nairobi. You will need to search his briefcase at customs.” Her eyes fell to her stained feet. “You see, Agent Rasmussen, Mr. Goerlmann sadly has a terrible drug problem, and I am hoping that your intervention will help him.” She listened for a few more seconds and hung up. She looked at me and smiled. “Bingo, never forget: your feet may be quick, but my hands are quicker.”

I looked at her, confused.

“Bingo, those five little white bags magically dropped into Mr. Goerlmann's briefcase.”

Mrs. Steele—what a hustler! I said to her, “And Mr. Goerlmann in jail can neva charge you'z seven hundred and fifty dollars an hour.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You think that's why I called customs—to save seven hundred and fifty dollars an hour? Bingo, I assure you, what one lawyer does not charge me, another one will.” Mrs. Steele looked at me and shook her head; her hair was loose and wild. “No, Bingo.” Her face was straight. “Sometimes you have to do what you have to do. Bingo, no one touches my son.”

Mrs. Steele and me both looked ahead in silence as the taxi drove. I was thinking about how Ma Steele was my kind of hustler. Night traffic moved fast. I turned to Mrs. Steele. “For real, what about the Hunsa paintin's? I know they worth millions and Americans buy them like crazy. I know you'z lyin' when you say they rubbish.”

She shook her head. “Bingo, I came to Kenya for a son. I got what I came for.”

“But Hunsa a genius.”

She looked at me. “The paintings are where they are meant to be, and I am where I am meant to be.” She kissed my head and put her arm around me. I pushed into her and felt good.

We reached the city and drove past Uhuru Park, where I used to come every day with the St. Michael's children. I looked up at Mrs. Steele. “But you have the Hunsa paintin' I give you. It worth millions—just tha one picture make tha deal worth it.”

She laughed, “Oh, Bingo, give it a break! Just having you beside me is worth it. Yes, it's a good deal.” You see how Ma Steele turns things around? We passed a club called the D'Avinci—I had run white to the doorman a hundred times. We were close to the Livingstone.

When the taxi stopped at a red light, I said, “Mrs. Steele, I also mus' do what I have to do.” I ran from the taxi before she could stop me.

I knew how long it would take Gihilihili to teach Scarface about paradise. I would get to Taifa Road long before the chief of police arrived to talk with Wolf.

“Family,” Wolf cried as I walked into 19B. “Meejit! Like ol' times, maan—good to see ya's. Family, ya.” He smiled a tooth-gone smile. His eyes dropped to my hand. In it was Boss Jonni's briefcase, dust-covered from the elevator shaft.

“Come in, Meejit,” Wolf said. He shut the apartment door behind me. Drink Hut was not around. The air-con was on. Wolf wore shorts and a dark blue T-shirt with “Armani” written on the front. The white on the low glass table was now just the size of a fist. Trails extended from it like wild hair, and a razor stuck out, ready to serve those in need. Wolf's green metal gun was back where it belonged, steady in his hand.

“Wolf Sa, Boss, I come to give ya this,” I said. I held up the briefcase. “I'z ya runna, you'z Wolf, ma boss, ya.” I smiled false and looked at his bare feet. “Sa, I'z wan' to be you'z runna again.”

Wolf looked at me. He did not believe me but could not work it out. The numbers on his forearm, 14362, wriggled as the grip on his gun changed. “So, you'z not gone to America?” he said. “You'z wan' your job back. What ya doin' here?” He laughed. “Tha American beetch leeve ya here?”

“Ya, that beetch dump me.” I held up the briefcase for him. “Take it, sa, please Boss Sa,” I said. “When I see Boss Jonni was dead, ya, I'z saw this business case in tha bedroom and hid it.” I waited for him to understand. “But I bring tha case back and not keep it because you tha boss—always tha boss. I know tha punishment for a runna steelin'.”

Wolf turned toward the bedroom, “Dominique, come out here an' hear this. Tha meejit has a presen' for tha babi.” Without expression, naked and swollen, Drink Hut walked wide-legged from the bedroom. She stood beside Wolf, and her empty eyes stared at me.

“Check the monay in the case,” Wolf said to her, nodding toward the briefcase in my hand.

Drink Hut took the briefcase from me and sat on the sofa. The brass catches flicked open to show the field of green inside. Wolf watched. The gun stayed steady on me.

Drink Hut's eyes looked up to her master's. “Kill him,” she said.

“He a good runna. Meejit always run for me.”

She shook her head slowly. “What man trus' a man that point a gun at his woman.”

Wolf looked at me and his eyes widened.

I shook my head. “Na,” I said to him. “Ya no kill me.”

“Kill him,” Drink Hut pushed. The air-con clicked off. It was cold enough.

When Wolf's hand tightened, the numbers on his arm stood out. I saw into his eyes. There, in the cavern of his evil, sat Fam. Wolf was possessed by evil the way other men are possessed by white. I do not know if Wolf loved the evil inside him or hated it. Inside all men, self-hate and self-love balance on a beam. One light push this way makes Destiny No. 1 fall; that way, Destiny No. 2.

Wolf said, “So, Meejit, why I not kill ya?”

“Boss, only half the monay is there. I hid the res'.” All my life I split my money. Lifesaver!

Wolf went over to the briefcase and looked down at the green. He knew money as I did. I said, “In the briefcase was two hundred thousan' dollar. Only a hundred thousan' there now.”

Wolf looked at me and nodded. “You'z not as stupid as you look. Where the res'?”

“Hid it,” I said. “I bring it to you tomorra. I jus' need you'z to say I can be your runna like before, like always”—I looked at Drink Hut—“and say you not kill me.” The rest of the money was in the elevator shaft. Unless rats liked shopping, it was safe there.

“How I know you come back tomorrow?” Wolf said.

I grinned. “Wolf Sa. You'z everywhere. You'z tha boss, I'z ya runna. You can fin' me anywhere. Cors' I come back.”

He turned to Drink Hut. She did not react.

“You come back tonight,” Wolf said.

“Then I be your runna again?” I opened my eyes wide, like a child.

His nose widened, his hand relaxed, and he nodded.

“Yes, sa!” I said. “Jus' like ol' times. We'z family,” I said.

He waved the gun at the door, and I left 19B alive.

I waited outside the Taifa Road complex for less than ten minutes before three police cars came. Gihilihili got out of the last one.

Wolves were never meant to fly, and Wolf never even tried. He landed right in the Taifa Road construction hole. His body smashed the wooden planks he landed on. I stared down at Wolf, and I understood which of Senior Father's fears was false: the fear of the dog for the master's stick is false. Dogs are not afraid of wooden sticks; the dog only cowers at the stick the master beats
him with. The truth is that the master is the slave of the stick; without the stick, the master cannot hurt his dog. Without the stick, the master cannot rule. I looked down at Wolf—a broken man on broken sticks. Soon he would be food for dogs. This was Wolf without his drugs, money, and gun—just dog food. My mouth tasted bitter. I stared down at Wolf and spat on him.

My thinking was smashed by a loud crash. At first I thought Mboya had smashed her cook pots in mad thunder. But it was not that. The crash was Drink Hut landing in the construction hole. She, Wolf, and their baby would be a family forever, three stains safe under the tarmac.

Gihilihili left the high-rise a little later through the front door with Boss Jonni's briefcase in his hand. Wolf would never be able to tell him where the rest of the Boss Jonni money went. Do not come to Nairobi to look for it—that money is now well hidden on Never-Tell-You Street.