All the Young Warriors Read online

  Mustafa said, "How is he in trouble? He disappeared. That's not a crime."

  Bleeker stood. "I don't think I should tell you anything about the charges until you tell me where he is. Fair trade, right?"

  "In trouble with you?"

  Killer. Killer. Killer. A killer with a killer for a father. A family of killers.

  "Let's say…let's…" Sigh. "I need to talk to him. Him and his friend. We need to go find him. So if you go ahead and tell me—"

  "I can't." Mustafa stood, too. About five inches taller than Bleeker.

  "You just said, though. Don't get in our way, here. It's bad enough already. I don't need a, a, a fucking incident here, arresting you for whatever the word is…impeding?"

  "I know. That's not what I meant. But tell me about this trouble first."

  Bleeker didn't think he could take the guy without cheating. Right in the balls. Or right in the throat. That would come after he doubled over. "Non-negotiable."

  Those eyes. Getting serious. Was Bleeker staring at the killer or the dad?

  Finally Mustafa closed his eyes for a moment, shook his head. "It's okay. It's not like you could…it's okay."

  "Tell me where I can find him."

  "You can't find him."

  "Why? You hide him somewhere? This is only getting worse for you, man."

  Mustafa squeezed his fingers into a fist. Unfolded them. Angry dents where the edges had nearly broken the skin. Tough hands. Mustafa sat down again.

  "He's in Somalia. Fighting in a war."

  Bleeker felt empty. His whole reason for going on the last twenty-four hours, sure to find these dumbass Sammies with their gangsta gat, bang bang, killing cops like it was some music video. And now the gangsta daddy, Jesus. Fuck.

  He reached for his Mr. Pibb, took a sip. Hand shook. Spilled some on his beard. Mustafa was up again, helping Bleeker find his seat. Bleeker slapped him away.

  "I'm fine. I'm fine, goddamn it."

  Splats of Mr. Pibb on the legal pad. He set it dead center.

  Mustafa said, "I'm sorry. I hate what he has done."

  Bleeker closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Then said, "Your boy killed my girlfriend, my baby, and one of my friends."

  Mustafa winced. He knelt beside Bleeker, inches apart. Both in their own worlds. Until the goddamned gangsta killah raised his head and said, "No, man, not Adem. He didn't do it."

  Bleeker's world went strobe light. Red. Wanted to kill the motherfucker.

  And then it got real bad.

  *

  Scratches on Mustafa's neck. Bandages not long enough to cover them. Mustafa had said that Adem hadn't killed the man's woman and child. Of course he hadn't.

  Bleeker erupted, grabbed Mustafa around the neck like he was going to choke him. Pushed him to the ground. The back of his head popped the floor hard enough to make a welt. But Mustafa had plenty of experience with street fighting. He pulled the detective's hands off his throat, which is how he got the scratches, as some other cops came in to pull Bleeker off, drag him across the room. They helped Mustafa to his feet. Asked what happened.

  Like it wasn't already obvious. Lucky they didn't suspend Bleeker right then. Mustafa's blood under his fingernails. Another cop got a paper towel and some peroxide for Mustafa. Not serious wounds, but plenty of sting to them.

  Of course, right? You don't tell a man his one ray of hope is a dead end. Mustafa tried to explain, even after that. He wanted Bleeker to understand. It was the friend. Someone named "Jibriil." Mustafa said it over and over. Another couple of cops led Bleeker from the room, stowed him in the Captain's office to cool down.

  *

  His colleagues started the apologies, hoping to avoid a lawsuit, obviously. They didn't care for the interloper no more than Bleeker had. But this guy saying his son was in Somalia, they needed him. Asked if they could talk to him in the morning, put him up in a hotel. They'd already searched Adem's apartment, couldn't find his computer. Couldn't find his backpack. Spaces in the small bookshelf in his bedroom, but none of the remaining books were provocative. Mostly texts for school. PS3 in the front room, rented games spread on the floor. The roommate had been questioned, released, and was headed home to Minneapolis for the weekend.

  The captain came in, ignored Bleeker, sat behind his desk. Still looking down, he said, "He's not pressing charges. Said he understands, you know, because of what happened."

  Bleeker nodded.

  The captain let out a sigh. "This isn't going to work, you on this, if it's connected."

  "Let's not…not yet."

  "What am I supposed to do, then? You're lucky. You need to take some time off."

  "And do what, spend time with Trish?"

  The captain stood, finally looked over. Eyebrows scrunched. "Go apologize to the guy, all right?"

  Mustafa was sitting at a table out in the main area, elbows on the table, leaning forward. He supposed he should make the sort of an apology that had been "legaled" to death, covering all asses. He looked up at Mustafa, said, "You should watch your mouth."

  Mustafa slouched again. Laughed. "Aw, fuck this." He got up. The other detective told him they'd paid for a room, told him there was a small Somali restaurant downtown above the ethnic grocery store. Mustafa said he wanted some ribs instead.

  Bleeker said, "No, really. Check it out. Good goat."

  Mustafa gave him a curt nod. "Tomorrow? When I'm back here? You stay away from me."

  "Sleep tight, asshole."

  *

  Instead of driving home, Bleeker drove by the budget hotel where they'd set up Mustafa. He didn't know why. Kept thinking maybe he should talk to the guy again without all the other cops around. But then it would turn into another fight, wouldn't it? Bleeker felt punchy. Banged the roof of his car. No matter how many times he hit the roof or the steering wheel, he still felt full of it, whatever it was.

  Only a handful of cars in the lot, one of them the hotel van. Bleeker guessed the yellow import with the big spoiler and the shiny rims belonged to Mustafa. Bahdoon. Whatever. After he'd left, Bleeker looked him up on the internet. Some brushes with cops all over the cities, kind of a minor celebrity among the hip hop crowd, but then he disappeared. As of about eight, nine years back, no more articles, no more arrest reports. None of it. So maybe he'd gone legit. Or maybe he'd become even more like Capone, insulated himself even better. The Somali gangs were small and scattered, but growing in strength. They had their hands in drugs, sex trafficking, guns, all that. And they were vicious.

  Bleeker didn't want to go home. To either one of them—the place he still sometimes shared with Trish until they figured this all out, or the apartment out in a small farm town about eight miles west of NPR. It was cheap, it was nearly empty, and it was full of empty rum bottles. So he parked in the parking lot of the Goodwill store next to the hotel and waited. For what, he wasn't sure. Just a hunch.

  Sundown, barely four o'clock. He kept waiting. Listening to talk radio descend into noise. Politics gave way to conspiracy gave way to sports. And then, out of the corner of his eye, Bleeker saw Mustafa pushing through the hotel doors and walking over to, yep, the yellow car. Got in. Drove out of the parking lot. Once he had made a left at the light, Bleeker followed.

  The snow was starting to blow harder. Tough wind. Lots of people heading home from work, slow going. A few cars separated Bleeker from Mustafa. But it was a small town. Maybe twelve thousand, but it never felt like it. So many people knew each other, so easy to get around, it was surprising to realize that a town this small could even hold that many people. And in this weather, most of them were staying home.

  Followed him downtown, which was pretty much a four-block stretch of buildings built in the thirties, only half of them still in use for businesses, some with apartments on the second and third floors. There was a sign on top of one building, old letters held up by a steel grid, announcing HOTEL NEW PHEASANT RUN, but as long as Bleeker had lived here there'd been no such place.

  They
passed the store owned by the Somalis, the ones who kept the room upstairs as a restaurant, lucky to have more than one cover a night. After all, the Somalis could make everything on their menu at home, and the Minnesotans didn't want to take to the snow when there was a good ol' hot dish waiting for them. Mustafa took a left at a light. Bleeker followed. Only one car between them now. The gang leader pulled into a parking lot behind a block of businesses. Bleeker kept going forward and pulled into the drive of the utility company where he could see through the shrubs, their bare branches clogged with snow. He could still make out the yellow import parking outside a bar. Well, mostly a bar. It was a pretty popular hole called Chuck Wagon. Also a damned fine place for patty melts and fried walleye. But not for ribs. Didn't the guy say he wanted some ribs?

  Mustafa climbed out, snugged on a wool cap, and trudged through two inches of snow to the back door, went inside.

  Dinner. Bleeker was hungry too. Why not go in, join him, share a beer and burgers, see if he could talk more about the kid running off to Somalia? It had been big news lately, a bunch of Somali men in their late teens and early twenties from the Twin Cities disappearing, then turning up in Africa fighting for this terrorist army made up of young Muslims trying to impose Sharia Law on the country. This after years of civil war amongst the various tribes still coming to terms with being clumped together as countrymen. Mogadishu, already in ruins, was worse now as these boys with rocket launchers and machine guns did unholy things to anyone who didn't practice Islam like they did. All the horror stories Bleeker had heard from the Somalis in town, so much worse than what he had experienced in Iraq as a Ranger for the first Gulf War. And, shit, that had been brutal enough.

  But he stayed in the car. Turned the motor off. He didn't mind the cold. Sometimes he felt more at home when the numbers dipped below zero. A year in the desert was all it took to make him appreciate this frozen hellscape so much more. He'd had enough hot-bloodedness. The cold wind kept him even. And Cindy's death had raised his core temperature to a boil that, if he wasn't careful, might lose him his job.

  Fuck the job. But he needed it right now. Needed it to get the goddamned…to get…you know…just…shit. He picked up his pistol. Knew it was loaded. Checked the clip anyway, something to do. When this Bahdoon guy was finished eating, then, okay, then Bleeker would confront him. No buddy-buddy meal. Just a cop with a pistol in a wind-whipped parking lot telling him to come clean.

  He tucked his arms and waited. He was good at waiting.

  *

  Bleeker heard the yellow car chirp, saw the lights flicker when Mustafa unlocked it via remote.

  He had to hurry. He stepped out of the car. The wind so bad now, he didn't even have to close the door. Wind blew it shut for him. Tucked his gun behind his back and took the sidewalk. But before he could set foot on the lot proper, he saw them coming. Before Mustafa did, even. Three black guys, closing in from different directions.

  "Hey, you!" From near the restaurant. He'd been hiding in the shadows, stepped out once Mustafa was past him. Startled the man. The voice was Somali. Hood pulled low over the guy's eyes. Thick parka, hands in his pockets.

  Bleeker took a step back, ducked low behind a shrub.

  From the other side, a tall one, wearing all black, a wool watch cap like Mustafa's.

  The tall one: "Are you lost?"

  Hooded man still coming. Maybe not even men. Teenagers. Bleeker knew the tall guy, local troublemaker. Never arrested or anything, but always around when something was happening—fights, carjackings, loud parties. The first one, no idea. The third one, he didn't think Mustafa even saw him yet, hiding.

  He inched closer, keeping low, hiding behind a pick-up where he could hear them better.

  Mustafa said, "It's cool, y'all. I'm in from the Cities, looking for my son. You know him? Adem? From the college?"

  A town this small, where the natives know most of the people like family, the Somalis should be an even tighter group. Saying Adem and college. Should've gotten an instant response.

  Instead, the men kept coming. Mustafa backed up. Stupid, Bleeker thought. He should get in the car. Once in, he would have the advantage. Could talk to these guys with the heater running and the window cracked barely an inch.

  "Sure," the man in the parka said. "We can take you to him."

  No they couldn't. Bleeker saw it now. These weren't guys hanging around outside a downtown saloon for kicks. They had followed Mustafa, same as he had. Tracked him. Waited for him to emerge. So why hadn't they seen Bleeker first?

  "Just tell me where he is. I'll go to him. I'm his father."

  "We know." The tall one. "He sent us. We're here to help."

  Then the third one, creeping, gave himself away. Jacket rubbing against itself, that shiff, shiff. Bleeker pulled his gun out. He hoped it didn't come to him using it. No, couldn't do that. Hoped the sight of it would be enough to get rid of them. But first, he wanted to see if Mustafa could handle himself. Had to be something to his legend, right?

  If the man was carrying a piece, he sure wasn't acting like it. Kept his coat zipped up. Kept his hands in front of him. He took another step back. But that's what they wanted, right? He turned his head. Couldn't see far enough behind him. Turned his body.

  Come on, man. Fight, for fuck's sake. Bleeker wanted to shout from the sidelines. Cheer him on.

  Too late. The tall one was on Mustafa, pinning his arms back. Then the third guy was out of his hiding spot, rushing towards Mustafa with a thick wooden dowel, ready to strike.

  Thunked him right in the forehead. Mustafa let out a growl. He sagged but the tall one held him, kept him on his feet. The guy with the dowel thrust it into his stomach. Bleeker finally recognized him, another punk grief-magnet, but not a Somali. Light-skinned, moles scattered on his cheeks. Born and raised in NPR. Mustafa, gagging, blood and grease streaming from his mouth.

  The first guy was back, close to Mustafa's ear. Bleeker couldn't hear everything he said, but he caught the last part: "Leave it alone."

  Mustafa stopped coughing, tried swallowing the thick bile in his throat. Fought to get the words out: "Never. Aabahaa was!"

  Good move. Bleeker knew that one. Mustafa had told the guy "Fuck your father".

  A fist exploded on Mustafa's jaw. The tall one dropped Mustafa's arms, kicked him to the back of his car. Landed in a good four inches of snow. The dowel came down on his shoulder blades. A kick to his balls. Another to his arm. They shouted at him, called him Qanees and Eey. Enough. More than enough. He wasn't Batman after all. Bleeker stood and started towards the fight.

  He finally saw Mustafa reaching for something. Guess he was packing after all. Tried to pull all three layers of clothes above the grip. The attackers saw it first. The light-skinned attacker bent down, slapped Mustafa's hand away and ripped the 9mm from its holster.

  The others ooh-ed and ahh-ed. Guy dropped his dowel and held up the handgun like a trophy.

  And they still hadn't noticed Bleeker, only a dozen feet away now.

  Mustafa was shaking. The cold and the throb of swelling injuries rendered him mute. They were going to let him live. They were going to blackmail him with his own gun. They were going to own him. That was the plan.

  Bleeker said, "You boys got a problem with this guy?"

  The attackers stood still. Frozen. Even the one with Mustafa's gun. Yeah, that was Bleeker's reputation. He didn't take shit from the local Sammies, but he could be your best friend if you played fair with him.

  The tall one spoke. "Sorry, sir. There is a misunderstanding. He is drunk. We were helping him."

  "That right?"

  The others mumbled. Sure. Yessir, sir.

  Bleeker looked down at Mustafa, still curled up against his car. Bleeker winked at him.

  "He didn't look drunk when he went inside. He didn't look drunk when he came out. And he didn't look drunk when you grabbed him and beat him with that stick." Bleeker pointed at the dowel on the ground, then stepped over and picked it up.
Twirled it around lazily. Still coming closer and closer.

  The one with Mustafa's gun, what was his name again? Something easy. Leon, right. He was gaining confidence. Restless with the grip on Mustafa's piece. Jittery. "You didn't see it right. Believe us. Have we lied to you before?"

  "Barely said a word to me, that's the problem." Turned to the tall one. "Got Abdi Nadif over here. Dad's a good guy. Yeah, he really is. Thinks you're on the wrong track, though."

  Abdi Nadif hung his head. "I try my best."

  "Sorry to hear that. And then you," Nod to the light-skinned kid. "Leon. Raised by your aunt. Dad died when you were young. I know it's hard. But I thought you were doing well at the packing plant. Why are you here?"

  No answer.

  "Think you should give me that gun you're holding, maybe?"

  Held out his hand. Leon didn't move. No matter. Bleeker didn't either. There was his outstretched hand, collecting snowflakes. One second, two. And then Leon let out a breath, mumbled something like Shit, man, and stepped over, laid the gun in his palm.

  Bleeker turned his attention to the ringleader. "You, I don't know you."

  No need to wait for an answer. Like lightning, he struck the man in the nose, chest, and forearm with the dowel. Kid tried to rush him, grab Bleeker around the neck. Another whack to the fingers. Loud crack. Guy grabbed his fingers and dropped to his knees.

  Leon should've taken a hint. He launched towards Bleeker while his back was turned. Mustafa stuck out his leg, tripped him. Bleeker spun and knocked him upside the head.

  Which left Abdi Nadif. On the run. He was built for it. Rounded the corner of the block in less than ten seconds.

  Mustafa pushed himself up. Blood on the ground around him. Bleeker knelt beside the one in the parka, cuffed him, made sure to squeeze his probably broken fingers, then rifled through his pockets.

  Mustafa, now on his feet again, breathing heavily and holding a sleeve to his nose, said "You followed me?"