Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) (15 page)

Jacob had already started pressing buttons on his phone before realizing Mustafa was still there. He grinned, reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a plain envelope, tri-folded. "Thanks for your help. Really, I hope you find what you're after."

Mustafa took the envelope between two fingers. "If you couldn't find Sufia for Adem, how can I trust you found Deeqa for me?"

"You'd be surprised what we know."

"And what you don't know."

The grin turned sad. "I've got to run."

Jacob was already at it on the phone when Mustafa shouted, "What do I do now?"

"I don't care."

Out the door.

*

M
ustafa waited for Teeth in a mostly empty underground parking garage where he knew the security cameras had been broken for months thanks to one of Heem's soldiers. Nice place to talk business or get some guys together so they could go fuck someone up together.

Three levels down, wedged between two cars that hadn't moved in at least two years. Flat tires and thick dust on the windows. He heard the Escalade as soon as it bounced over the first speed bump and the brakes squeaked. Mustafa waited, patiently, as the noises grew louder, then there were running lights on the wall before the smooth white yacht-looking truck sailed right by him before slowing at the corner, stopping dead. Mustafa stood, but he didn't come out from between the cars. He had armed himself with an ice-scraper he found in the floorboard of the abandoned Corolla beside him. He kept it at his side.

When he called Teeth for a ride, the man didn't seem too thrilled.

"The fuck you been? The Prince tried telling us you were out the picture. Tried to take back his crib. Shit, man, I ain't in this to have to deal with no punk like that."

"He almost had me."

"The fuck you been?"

"Just...come get me."

"The fuck is this about you working with the police? Again, son?"

Took another ten minutes of calming Teeth's ass down before he agreed on the pick-up.

They'd been sworn enemies back in the day, and even a few years ago when Mustafa needed help that only Teeth could give, it ended up with the Black Ice Boyz nearly taking out Mustafa and the cop that was helping him. But somehow, once Teeth really understood that Bahdoon was out of the game, they were able to talk some. Teeth had been thinking about getting out, too. Thinking about starting a hip-hop label, play it straight. But he never seemed ready to push that stone downhill.

Still, being rivals like that made them learn a lot about each other real quick, so when Mustafa needed some guys to help him pull off this coup and find Deeqa, he knew Teeth was going to be the first one he approached. Told him, "Let's be bad and do some good."

Teeth had smiled at that, showed off his infamous teeth, once sharp, but since worn away by grinding all night every night. He shook Mustafa's hand.

Now, Mustafa was thinking about how to hurt the man with a plastic ice-scraper.

The Escaldade's door opened and Teeth got out. He was alone. Slammed the door. Wasn't no ice-scraper in his hand. It was a Glock. He stepped behind the SUV, stopped. "S'up, my man?"

"How's it going to go?"

"Like this. You're going to tell me what this working with the cops shit is all about."

"Weren't no cops."

How much was he really going to tell Teeth? Sounded worse to say it was the CIA. Not
even
going to say anything about Adem.

Teeth spread his arms. "That's it?"

"They were following Poe. Had to do with Poe. Heem was gonna..." Shrug. "Man was going to do me in. Cops couldn't get him. They patched me up, asked me some shit. I had to dance."

"Dance for them? Dance around them?"

"Motherfucker, don't even—"

"You think I'm having fun? You think I like standing here wondering if I've got to shoot your ass or not?" Shouted. Bounced off the walls and slapped back three more times.

Mustafa eased his hand into his pocket. Teeth took a step closer to the nearest concrete column.

"Hold up. Got something to show you." Pulled out the hotel stationary Jacob had sealed in the envelope. He held it out to Teeth. "I'm being square with you on this. Take a look."

Teeth shook his head. "I don't believe this."

"Just...look, I ain't lying to you. I lie to my
wife
before I lie to you."

"None of my business, son."

Fuck it. Mustafa tossed the ice scraper to the ground and walked towards Teeth with the paper held out. "Shoot me or read it."

He stopped when the paper was inches from Teeth's face. The old gangbanger looked tired up close. Cheeks chubby, neck fat. His trademark all-black clothing, even the leather jacket all summer, made him smell stale from sweating. Kind of like Run-DMC all run down. He took the paper in his free hand, squinted. Looked back up at Mustafa. "What is this?"

"That's where she is. We can go get her."

"What, she waiting for us?"

"It's still going to be a fight, but the Prince don't know that we know. We move fast enough, this thing is over."

Teeth turned back to the paper, the note:
West Memphis, Arkansas
. "Just a city, man. How do you know—"

"You know it's true."

"Shit, man." He pulled his lip over his bottom teeth, then handed the paper back to Mustafa. He pinched two fingers on the bridge of his nose, rubbed in little circles. "And some cops told you this, just gave it to you, didn't ask nothing in return. And how'd they know this when we can't get it from the our own? Something fishy. You smelling like three-day old fish to me right now. You told me this was personal."

"It is."

"Who did you have to give up for this?"

Couldn't tell him. Sure as hell didn't want to. But he didn't have a choice. It was the only way he was getting out of this parking garage.

"Adem. Gave up Adem."

Whatever Teeth was about to say got stuck in his throat. When that boy's name came up, it always stopped the conversation. He was off-limits. Teeth wasn't stupid, not to make it this long leading a gang full of stupids, and he looked away, running it through his head. What was this nigga talking about, giving up his own son? He took a little walk through some of the empty parking spaces, Glock dangling. Mustafa let him go. The man was mumbling, laughing to himself, gluing the pieces together. Mustafa stepped over to the Escalade, climbed into the passenger seat, and waited. The air was still and hot in the truck. He waited. Teeth out there pacing some more. Coming to terms.

Took him nearly ten minutes. Some point halfway, Mustafa realized he wasn't going to die. Teeth was onboard. All he was doing out there now was putting on a show. He finally stopped pacing and walked back to the driver's door, opened up and climbed inside. Cranked the motor and got the A/C blowing nice and cool.

"Who you want going down South?"

"You, me, EGX, Dawit."

"Gotta bring Goat."

Mustafa nodded. "Wondering if he leaks to Heem."

"Seriously?"

"Just saying. But yeah, Goat. Let's go pick them all up. But first, we need to see somebody else."

Teeth put the truck into drive and drove up the spiral exit until they were out in the sunlight again. Mustafa told him where to go, and Teeth blew out a big breath, like,
Nuh uh.
But said, "Makes sense."

Radio off, sweet silence. Mustafa's nose itching to no end, but if he scratched up there, it would start pouring blood. He sniffed over and over.

Teeth asked, "What about Raphael? He's coming along?"

"No. He's dead." Turned his face to make sure Teeth knew what he meant.

He did. Nodded and said, "Well, shit."

"Yeah."

Another stoplight. Another long moment of silence.

––––––––

H
ide and seek, hide and seek, and Adem had daggers in his stomach. He remembered the other day, all the help he got running around the mall, friends of the Benefactor—the lingerie saleswoman, the shoe salesman—but now, it was like a double game. Hide
from
those people, even though there had to be plenty more working for the Benefactor that Adem didn't know about, and hide from police, from security guards, from whoever else was on his tail. He stopped off in a small hop to buy a hijab, a kashibo, bright red lipstick, and some eye make-up. Ridiculous. There was no way the saleswoman believed he was buying for his wife. She looked like someone's mother, naturally suspicious. He wouldn't let her out of his sight, either, thinking she might have recognized him, might try to call the police while he was still in the shop.

He started adding prices in his head and realized he didn't have enough money, so he asked if she had more of a certain size in the back. More colors. More anything. She couldn't get away fast enough. "Yessir, yessir, I'll see, I'll see." Retreating through a curtain to a back room that was barely large enough to hold a restroom, let alone extra inventory. He knew it. She knew it. Adem ran. Ashamed, trying to forget it moments after he'd done it, stolen food from the woman's mouth. Perhaps even cost her the job. So sorry, so sorry.

He found the nearest public restrooms, still several blocks from the Lutfi Tower. He thought for a moment about sneaking into the ladies' room so that his exit would appear more natural. But a quick look around, there, and there, security cameras. A man going into the ladies' room would set off alarms, whereas a woman leaving the men's room would cause some chuckling, eyerolls, and maybe one of the security guys would call her a slut. An ultra-modern city, with the most high-tech security in the world, still run by men whose ideas about women would never get past 500 A.D.

In the restroom, Adem wasn't alone. Two others pissing, and then a loud man on the phone in a stall, talking to his secretary, it sounded like. Asking for details on a call he had missed.

Adem took the end stall and piled the women's clothing on the toilet tank. He looked at his feet. The shoes. He had forgotten to get sandals. All he could do was move fast enough and hope no one would notice.

The loud man in the next stall laughed out loud and then said in Arabic, "You beautiful whore! If I was there now, I would kiss every inch of your ass, you know that?"

Adem unbuttoned his dress shirt. The collar would get in the way, so he was stuck with his undershirt, stuck to his skin with sweat, turning colder every moment he was out of the sun. The smell of the bathroom was more refreshing than he had imagined it would be, but strong on the chemicals to keep it that way. The fumes made him dizzy.

"Tonight, I shall bring you pearls, and you will bring me pleasure with your mouth."

Adem didn't know enough about women's sizes, so he had chosen a kashibo that was a bit too tight around his chest. Really? He wasn't a big man at all, and he somehow picked the smaller dress. He pulled it into place, even though it threatened to tear at the seams. At least he had chosen the length well, as it almost covered his shoes.

"I told you, don't mention her. That is my life, my family. It's none of your business! I cum on your tits, your face, and you want to ask me if my wife knows?"

How long did this idiot plan to stay in there shouting at this poor secretary? Adem needed the mirror to get the lipstick and eye-liner right. He tried to wrap the hijab, kept having to turn to keep his elbows from bashing into the walls. So simple when he'd watched his mother do it, before she stopped wearing one. Or Sufia, that short time they were together before things went so bad. There wasn't time to soak in nostalgia.

"Bitch, I take your ass if I want. I ruin you for other men. You don't demand
anything
from me."

Adem shuddered. Listening in, powerless, reminded him of what it had felt like before, nearly dying at the hands of those on his own side. He would always wear the scar on his throat. But then he'd become the character of Mr. Mohammed, and it changed him. He learned that power didn't have to come from sheer muscle. Confidence could make stronger men do his bidding. Intelligence. Manipulation. Just like himself, the men with the lower rank wants to be of higher rank, which means bowing to the ones who somehow made themselves more powerful.

But he'd been outplayed. He was dressing like a woman so he could hide. He was listening to a lousy example of a man assault a woman over the phone, and as much as he would've liked to have stopped it, Adem knew the woman on the other end was melting for this douchebag. All he could do was hide while the man shouted and grunted and stunk up the air—chemical citrus blending with whatever the hell this guy had eaten for dinner the night before, soured.

It wasn't worth the wait. He peeked through the space where the door connected, saw no one else, and headed directly for the mirror, lipstick in his hand shaking. He steadied it with his other, and then tried to run it over his lips. Too much pressure. It came off in clumps, felt disgusting, like chicken grease. He pressed his lips together the way he'd seen his mother do it. Another fart and grunt from behind him, the man in the stall. Adem's mouth looked like a clown's. He decided to ditch the eye make-up and go with what he had. Quickly moved for the exit.

"Hey, I see you." From the stall.

Adem froze. He turned his face, saw the eye peeking through the gap.

"Who do you think you are? Are you looking for someone?"

Couldn't answer. Adem cleared his throat.

"You're a man?" The son of a bitch stood, unlocked the stall door, pants still down. "Are you a man, dressed like that?"

Adem made for the door while the man behind him shouted, said he would call the police. The door opened before Adem could push it, another couple of men laughing, coming inside. They weren't looking ahead. Adem fell into the first one and tangled himself up, fell to the ground. They rolled onto the concrete, once, twice, trying to stop by shoving his hand out blindly and nearly breaking it on the ground.

The friend was yelling, "It's a man! A fucking man! A trannie! Stop him!"

Adem pushed off the ground—another stab of pain to his wrist—and tried to orient himself. The guy on the ground wasn't far behind. "You freak. You want to fight me or fuck me? What? What?"