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  I took my passport out of my pocket, gave it to Guard No. 3, and smiled. “Jambo. Go right ahead.” Guard No. 3 unzipped my case. He pushed in his hand, pulled it out, and opened his fist. In his palm were five bags of white.

  “Come on, ya,” I said to him. “I’z from Kibera. We’z brothas. You’z know you put tha white there.” I had nine cuts on my face; he had only one. But a cut is a cut. We both knew the feel of a blade.

  Suddenly, Guard No. 3 shouted “Aah!” and jumped back from my case. The five bags of white fell. The large black spider from my room crawled out of my case. The spider looked about, saw fear everywhere, dropped silk from the table, and ran across the white stone floor. Mad chaos! People jumped back as if the spider was king. Passengers also cried “Aah” in fear. But as the spider sped away a more fearful creature approached fast. “Click, click, click”—the sound of wood on stone. Peg Leg. I knew without looking. I gripped my stomach. Gihilihili came fast toward me. He boomed at Guard No. 3, “Private, what is going on here?”

  The guard gave Peg Leg my passport and said, “Chief Gihilihili, sir, I searched the boy’s bag. I found drugs; he’s a runner.” In a second, I understood everything. The caretaker had put the silver cross on my neck to mark me. Guard No. 3 was ready. Gihilihili had been waiting. It was a setup.

  Chapter 63.

  Reacquaintance

  My legs screamed, “Bingo, run!” I ran but in a second, white arms held me. They belonged to the Thaatima. His smell was like girl’s perfume. He tipped me onto the white stone floor and knelt on top of me. I fought to get away, but the Thaatima’s weight was too great. I looked into the pale blue of his wet eyes and knew fear. Senior Father used to tell me the story of Leviathan, a great fish that held the world on his fins. He told me that even Leviathan knows fear. Leviathan fears the tiniest of all fish, the three-spined stickleback. Once the stickleback hooks into Leviathan’s back, he never goes away; he always stays with the giant fish. The stickleback does not kill Leviathan but sucks the life from him drop by drop, forever. That was the Thaatima; he sucked life from you forever. I looked up into the Thaatima’s eyes and knew the fear of Leviathan for the three-spined stickleback.

  The Thaatima stood and Guard No. 3, Scarface, replaced him. He knelt where the lawyer had been and pinned me down. He was a good servant and his blue arms were strong. Mrs. Steele rushed forward and tried to pull the guard off me but the Thaatima dragged her away. “Leave them,” he said. Guard No. 2 came to help. He held my legs. I was stuck. It was fate, not destiny. Gihilihili clicked across and looked down at me. “Mr. Mwolo, is it not divine destiny that we are reacquainted?”

  Mrs. Steele’s hands covered her face. “Bingo” was all she said. I had seen that look before, a thousand times, in Kibera. It was the look of helpless prayer. People like caring for other people; Mrs. Steele wanted to care for me. But her want poured away like water down a drain. Like everyone else, she did not get it.

  Gihilihili’s grin was wide, like a snake. “Mr. Mwolo, when we last met did we not speak of paradise?”

  I nodded. I struggled but could not move the guards off me. Guard No. 3’s weight pressed the silver cross into my skin.

  Gihilihili went on, “Did we not say that paradise, Mr. Mwolo, hangs by the finest of threads? And today, Mr. Mwolo, I am saddened to tell you that, for you, paradise is lost.”

  Mrs. Steele moved forward. “Chief Gihilihili,” she began. The Thaatima stepped forward and held her back. It was too late for both of us. Gihilihili had me.

  Chapter 64.

  The Prayer

  Gihilihili ordered the guards, “Take him to the holding area.” Four blue arms held me tight, then pushed me into Holding Cell 5. The walls were light blue. The electric was bright. Here, too, were cracks in the concrete ceiling.

  The guards threw me to the floor, and the Thaatima’s gold pen, which was in my trouser pocket, dug into my leg.

  After the guards left, I lay on the floor and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. I half expected the spider to come out, but he did not. I thought about Kibera and my past world. I thought about America and the world I would not see. Prayer is something to do when there is nothing else to do, and so I prayed.

  The door opened.

  “Mr. Mwolo,” Gihilihili said. Guards Nos. 2 and 3 followed.

  I said, “Where Mrs. Steele?”

  Gihilihili laughed. “She has gone,” he said, “to America.” His suit was dark blue, with thin prison-bar white stripes; his tie was a pattern of green, yellow, and black, and his shirt was white. The silver cross on his lapel shone. Gihilihili stared down at me. “Do you sincerely believe that she would want you, Mr. Mwolo? She is a dealer. Her paintings go to America and you stay here.” He held up my passport. “Your destiny is mine,” he said. He looked up at the ceiling and waved his hand in the air. “Mr. Mwolo, now perhaps you understand how fleeting is the promise of paradise.” He waited for me to understand.

  A thought crawled into my head—I could not stop it: Mrs. Steele hustled me. I wanted to believe Mrs. Steele just as a bird believes in the beat of its wings. Gihilihili watched me as if he could see my thinking. The thought exploded, went wild, and thrashed everywhere: “She’s a hustla; she’s a hustla, she’s a hustla!” Now that Mrs. Steele knew where Hunsa lived, I was nothing. I had told Mrs. Steele about Mama’s death and she had hustled me on it: perfume, breasts, and a kiss. Mrs. Steele had made me feel that something dead inside me was breathing life; everyone needs a mother. I wanted the feelings of Mama the way a lonely tree wants water. I had broken the thirteenth commandment. Commandment No. 13: Run alone. I looked at Gihilihili’s bald-headed grin, smelled his man perfume, and knew terror.

  “But I neva done nothing wrong,” I said to Gihilihili. “I did’na run no white.”

  Gihilihili’s thin eyebrows lifted. “Now, is that right?” he asked. “That is not what I hear.” He turned to the guards behind him. “Search him,” he said.

  Scarface pushed me against the wall, harder than he needed to, and searched me. He found the Thaatima’s gold pen and handed it to his chief.

  Gihilihili slipped the pen into his jacket pocket and shook his head. “Mr. Mwolo, what shall be done with you? If the gates of paradise open on the balance of a man’s good deeds over evil, they shall surely be shut to you.” Gihilihili came toward me; he smelled strong of perfume. He whispered slowly in my ear, so I could feel his breath, “Bingo Mwolo, I shall erase you.” He cleared his throat. “That is, after I have cleansed you.”

  Like a trapped bird, my shoulders tightened. My eyes darted to the blue walls as if sky was there for me to fly to. But I did not fly. For wherever I ran in Holding Cell 5, there was nowhere else to go.

  Chapter 65.

  A Prayer’s Shadow

  The door clanked and God’s dark shadow, Father Matthew, entered the room. His black priest gown reached the floor. The gold cross that hung from his neck was the biggest I had ever seen. In his shadow shone brilliant white with large black polka dots. “Bingo!” Mrs. Steele cried, and ran to me. She pressed herself against me. I did not hold her. I did not want her false feeling alive inside me. The Thaatima entered third.

  Father Matthew spoke, and his voice was slow and deep. “Bingo, there you are. I am glad to see that you are alive and well.” The priest looked at Gihilihili, his special envoy to paradise. “Chief Gihilihili, have you managed to relocate my lost item? You will recall that in Matthew, Chapter 16, it says whatever is lost on earth is lost in heaven.”

  Now I understood why Father Matthew took so much on earth—so that he could shop forever in heaven.

  Gihilihili answered, “Your Holiness, my discussion with Mr. Mwolo has only just begun. Rest assured, Holy Father, my relocation of your lost goods will be heaven’s gain.”

  The Thaatima interrupted, “And, Samuel, did you find my gold pen that the boy took?”

  Peg Leg placed his hand over the bulge in his jacket pocket and said, “Mr. Goerlmann, my guards have
just searched the boy, but I regret that your pen was not retrieved.” Gihilihili glanced at me. I knew not to speak. The Thaatima had lost his pen, but I did not know what the priest was missing. Gihilihili added, “I assume, Mr. Goerlmann, that the pen is of sentimental value?”

  The Thaatima answered, “Yes, the pen is of great sentimental value.” The lawyer sighed and then looked at the woman who would replace it. “Mrs. Steele, we really have to go. Our flight is boarding.”

  Mrs. Steele’s face was ivory, her red lips pressed closed. “Scott, you seem to know Dr. Gihilihili quite well.” The Thaatima turned as red as her lipstick but it was Gihilihili who spoke. “Dear lady, we share the love of truth.” Mrs. Steele looked at Peg Leg and said, “Dr. Gihilihili, could you please tell me what it is that Bingo is accused of doing? He obviously does not have my attorney’s pen, and we urgently need to catch our flight.”

  I was confused. Mrs. Steele no longer needed to act; she knew where to find Hunsa and get the pictures. I had been arrested and would soon be in a sack at the feet of Krazi Hari. I was worth nothing.

  Gihilihili smiled at her. “Regrettably, Mrs. Steele, young Bingo has been caught smuggling drugs.”

  Mrs. Steele said back, “Is that so?”

  Gihilihili said, “Sadly, dear lady, it is.”

  “In that case, Chief Gihilihili, where are these drugs? Would you please show me the evidence?”

  Gihilihili turned to Guard No. 3. “Private, show the lady the drugs you seized.”

  Scarface pushed his hands into his pockets. His scar went red. He searched his pockets again. He shrugged his shoulders. “Sir, tha drugs must have been taken with all tha fighting.”

  Gihilihili’s glare at the guard did not suggest heaven’s promise. “Dear lady, the evidence appears to have been mislaid at present.” He cleared his throat. “Although I am certain we can find some.”

  Mrs. Steele said back, “Well, Chief Gihilihili, without any evidence against him, my son and I have a flight to catch.” She took my wrist. “Come, Bingo.”

  Father Matthew spoke, “Mrs. Steele, please wait. There is more.”

  “More?” said Mrs. Steele.

  The priest spoke. “Mrs. Steele, it has recently come to my attention that Bingo Mwolo is a thief—a common criminal. It is a tragic reflection of his traumatized upbringing, but, lamentably, I assure you that it is true. It is something we deal with at St. Michael’s, sadly, quite often. Bingo has not only the offense of drug trafficking to defend but, also, he has stolen a great deal of money from the church. Indeed, many children shall suffer should the funds he stole not be returned to me. It is therefore necessary that Chief Gihilihili rectify this crime prior to allowing Bingo to leave Kenyan soil.”

  Gihilihili interrupted the priest. “My service is only God’s will.”

  Father Matthew went on, “Mrs. Steele, suffice it to say, this is a serious matter. I assure you that I would not have interfered with your travel plans without just cause. It would be disastrous for you to discover that the St. Michael’s boy you adopted is villainous.” He paused to give Mrs. Steele time to think. “Mrs. Steele, you will recall, of course, our ‘no child left behind’ policy.”

  The rims of Mrs. Steele’s eyes were swelling. She shook her head.

  The priest coughed. “So many of our children at St. Michael’s have been exposed to the harshest of environments, and so there is need, from time to time, for us to intervene. Our greatest fear is that a loving parent will end up with an untamable child. Our policy at St. Michael’s is therefore that if, for some reason, your adoption fails through unforeseen villainy or a soiled soul, you are entitled to adopt another one of our desperately-in-need children—at no additional cost. If that should not be to your satisfaction, you are at liberty to request the full return of your funds minus our nominal fifteen-percent service fee.”

  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 turn
ed 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.

  Chapter 66.

  Back to the Livingstone Hotel

  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.”