Bingo's Run (18 page)

Mrs. Steele kissed the top of my head. “The best,” she said.

At the far end of the room was a giant desk; each leg, wider than my head, was gold. The chair behind the desk was covered with white and black fur. The desk was crammed with ornaments, none from the Maasai Market. There were pieces of pottery, a small statue of a man in a triangle hat, and a black metal naked woman with big breasts. Mrs. Steele left me and walked over to the desk. She stared up at the painting above the skin-covered chair as if she wanted to climb inside it. It was a picture of a priest in a brown robe. Between his long, bony hands was a wooden cross. The priest, thin enough to live in Kibera, stared into the room with his hands pressed tight in prayer. He looked like a whitehead. Mrs. Steele said to the picture, “God.” But before God had time to answer the door blasted open.

A man in a silver suit strode in. “Welcome, Mrs. Steele,” he said. His voice was loud enough to scatter the flies off the fruit. I immediately knew who he was. Window light bounced off his bald head and off the silver cross on his suit lapel. His left trouser leg was cut short to show off his peg leg. “Please allow me to introduce myself,” he said. His mouth contained many large white teeth. “I am Dr. Samuel Gihilihili, acting head curator.” Gihilihili went on, “My assistant, Mr. Desono-Mgani, sends his deepest regrets. Lamentably, he was delayed in a car accident this morning.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Such is God's will.”

Mrs. Steele's stare moved down from the painting of the praying priest to Gihilihili. She put out her hand. “Colette Steele,” she said to him.

Everyone knew about Gihilihili. He was the one-legged chief of police. When I was a runner and the police stopped me, I pretended to be a scared little child or a retard and managed to get away. Other runners were not so lucky, and Gihilihili got them. Gihilihili liked boys—and Gihilihili's boys disappeared like dropped cigarette butts at the bus station. Even Wolf knew that
runners arrested by Gihilihili were lost, playthings for the chief of police. Gihilihili's boys ended up inside sacks dumped at Krazi Hari's feet. But I didn't know until then that Gihilihili was a doctor.

Mrs. Steele said, “Dr., your assistant has a wonderful office.”

Gihilihili smiled at Mrs. Steele. “God is bountiful,” he said. He took three quick steps toward her: Click, click, click. He, like Mrs. Steele, wore perfume to hide his true smell. Gihilihili took her hand and touched it with his lips. I almost moved to stop him, but, like the priest in the picture, I stood still.

“Enchanted,” Gihilihili said. He held Mrs. Steele's hand before he let it drop. Mrs. Steele smiled and let her eyes dance with his. I did not like this Mrs. Steele. Gihilihili clicked over behind the desk and sat on the skin-covered chair. He looked at me. “And who, Mrs. Steele, is this most handsome young man?”

Mrs. Steele said, “This is my new son, Bingo.”

Gihilihili said, “God be praised.” He stared at me as if I was food. “Bingo,” he repeated. My legs itched. He turned to Mrs. Steele. “Please, Mrs. Steele, take a seat.” He waved at a plain wooden chair on the opposite side of the desk. Mrs. Steele sat with her back straight. I stood. Gihilihili said, “In what way, Mrs. Steele, may I, God's humblest servant, assist you?”

Mrs. Steele looked at Gihilihili. “Father Matthew from St. Michael's Orphanage suggested that I come here to obtain an export license for some pictures I wish to bring to the United States.”

Gihilihili said, “And for what purpose is the export of these pictures?”

Mrs. Steele said, “They are gifts.”

“Gifts?” Peg Leg said back.

Mrs. Steele said, “Yes, gifts for people in my church back in Chicago.” She added, “The St. Martin's Lutheran Church in Rockwell Crossing.” I liked that—nice detail, good lie.

Gihilihili leaned back in the chair. He brought his hands together like the priest in the picture above. “God bless you for this kindness,” he said. He smiled and his mouth shone white. “Mrs. Steele,” he continued, “if the pictures are for gifts, you do not need an export license, certainly, if it is just for one or two pictures.”

Mrs. Steele coughed delicately. “Well, actually, Dr. Gihilihili, I have up to a hundred pieces.”

Gihilihili clapped his hands. “God be praised. So many friends, such great generosity.”

Mrs. Steele added, “I am very active in the church.”

Gihilihili stared at her breasts. “And what is the art you have in mind?”

I was waiting for this moment. I blurted out, “They just children's paintin's.” I was almost shouting. If Gihilihili found out that Hunsa's paintings were worth millions, he would find Hunsa and take everything, and I would be fly food.

Gihilihili looked at me. In an instant, his eyes filled with rage. But his words just said, “Bingo—is it?”

I nodded.

Gihilihili went on, “Bingo, now tell me, young man, were you born in America?” I knew Gihilihili was in Father Matthew's small yellow notebook, just as he knew I was not born in America. Gihilihili asked questions he knew the answers to.

Mrs. Steele was quick. She said, “Yes, the paintings are by local children—generally on religious themes.” I thought of Hunsa's giant bhunna in the painting I had given her.

Gihilihili nodded his bald head. “I feel as though I am in the presence of a true friend of the church. God bless you.” He stared silently into Mrs. Steele's breasts as if secrets were hidden there. He looked up, smiled, and said, “The license is five thousand U.S. dollars.”

I swallowed. Mrs. Steele said nothing. She opened her shiny black purse and placed five piles of hundred-dollar bills on the desk; each pile was bound with a rubber band. Gihilihili reached inside his jacket and took out a folded sheet of paper. He pushed it across the table to Mrs. Steele. She opened it. Three large words were written on it: “Export License. Gihilihili.” Being the police is good business—1,666 dollars per word. Mrs. Steele stood and pushed her hand toward Gihilihili. “It was a pleasure doing business with you,” she said.

“Paradise,” answered Gihilihili to her breasts.

As we left, I limped. It was not to mock Gihilihili's peg leg. I had the black metal figure of the naked woman stuffed down my trousers. I had taken it for Charity.

“Fook,” I shouted as Mrs. Steele walked into the toilet. I had just pushed down my trousers and taken out the statue. I pulled up my trousers fast.

“Bingo, will you always be a thief?” she asked.

Usually I say something like “I jus' find it,” or “It fell in my hand,” but when she came into the bathroom stall I was still holding the naked-woman statue. I stared at the floor and tried to look ashamed. In the future, I would need to remember that Mrs. Steele had quick eyes. “When you grow up with nothing,” I said, “sometimes ya wan' pretty things.”

“Shut up, Bingo,” Mrs. Steele said sharply. Her eyes blazed red anger. “Don't try that slum routine with me. Bingo, I get you. You took that piece off the curator's desk just to steal it—no other reason. You took it because you wanted it.” She breathed hard. She shouted, “What I want to know is, what sort of man will you be? Will you be the man who
takes
what he wants or are you going to be the man who
earns
it?” But I had stopped listening. I stared at the middle of her head.

When I was little, I often stole mango or guano juice from the
Nkubu market sellers; they were so slow, they almost gave it away. But even though she was not there, Mama somehow saw me. When I got home, Mama would ask, “Bingo, how was your day?” Mama did not even need me to admit it; somehow she knew that I had lipped the juice. I never stopped stealing from the market sellers, but Mama's knowing made the sweet taste sour.

“I'll give the statue back,” I said to Mrs. Steele. The inside of my mouth was acid dry.

Mrs. Steele's voice was quiet. “Bingo, that is not what I asked you. I don't care about the Valier miniature. I want to know what kind of man you will be. Will you always be a thief? Or will you be a man to be proud of—a man to make me proud?”

I looked up at her again—into her fire—and shrugged.

“I asked you a question, Bingo—thief or man?”

I mumbled loud enough for her to hear: “How 'bout you? You never jus' say who you are. You just a hustla who sell rubbish for a million dollar.”

Mrs. Steele moved like a cat. She slapped my face so hard I was almost knocked out. The statue fell, cracked on the stone floor, and broke in two. By the time I looked up, Mrs. Steele had gone. Anger gripped me. She did not want me; she wanted my Hunsa paintings. Mrs. Steele was no different from any other hustler; she just looked better. Her mask was makeup, lipstick, and money. She pretended just like everyone else.

We drove back to the Livingstone so slowly that we almost got run over by vendors pushing their barrows. I sat in the back next to Mrs. Steele, but our bodies did not touch and we did not speak. The only time this happens with Kenyans is when they are dead.

The Mercedes crept up the Livingstone drive, with me and Mrs. Steele looking out of opposite windows. Mrs. Steele sat up, smiled, and waved through the window at a tall man in a straw hat who stood outside the hotel. He was dressed like a tourist and was all white: white skin, white suit, white hat. Two patches of orange hair stuck out above his ears like pieces of orange peel. He waved back at Mrs. Steele, and when the hotel boy opened the car door Mrs. Steele ran to him. “Scott,” she shouted. Her voice was louder and happier than it had to be—she wanted to show me that she liked him more than me. I got out of the car on the other side by myself.

The man said, “Colette, how wonderful to see you.” When he took off his hat, except for the orange peel there was no other hair, and I could see right away that he was not one thing or the other. He was not bald and he was not haired. His voice was the same: he did not love Mrs. Steele and he did not hate her. He smiled, wet-lipped—not happy, not sad. He moved toward her, not slow, not fast. I recognized him. He was the Thaatima—not
this, not that. That is why the Thaatima is dangerous—you never know what he is.

I walked around the back of the Mercedes. The Thaatima looked toward me. His eyes were pale blue rocks. “So this is Bingo.” He pushed his hand toward me business style. His hand was big on mine. He shook my hand up and down—not strong, not weak. A smile, thin and closed, sliced his face. “Bingo, what a pleasure it is to meet you.” Not truth, not lie. I looked up into the empty sky of his eyes. I liked him. That is a power of the Thaatima—people like him. He said, “I am Scott Goerlmann, Mrs. Steele's attorney.”

“I'z Bingo,” I said. He let go of my hand. Conversation over.

Mrs. Steele said, “Scott, I just obtained the export license. Once we locate the artwork”—she looked down at me—“we can close this quickly and get back to the States.” The Thaatima brought his long hands over his face, like a rubbish actor at the bus station. His smile was as false as his surprise. “Mrs. Steele, you already have the export license? You are quite extraordinary.”

Mrs. Steele said, “What is more extraordinary is that you still invoice me at seven hundred and fifty dollars an hour.”

The Thaatima laughed—he enjoyed the play. “And we both know you can afford me,” he replied.

If the Thaatima charged $750 an hour, this five-minute chat cost almost $63—six hookers, white for a week, and bread for a year.

The café next to the hotel, the Excursion Café, had a tree in the middle of it. We walked in height order, the Thaatima, Mrs. Steele, then me. Around the tree were tables of tourists, business types, safari scam operators, shoppers, and locals. At one table sat two hookers I knew. The bright white Thaatima caught the hookers' gaze. They muttered and laughed like little girls promised
sweets. But they were stupid—the power of the Thaatima is that he does not need women.

Mrs. Steele told the Thaatima about Thomas Hunsa right away. She said that over time there would be a hundred pieces to be shipped. She said, “I think there is a niche for this kind of thing, very Afrique.” She kept glancing at me and smiling. I smiled back. The Thaatima listened; he was good at that. For $750 an hour, I'd listen, too.

Mrs. Steele said, “Oh, there is one more thing, Scott.” The Thaatima licked his lips wet. “Bingo got a local attorney to paper him a contract.” She looked down at me. “Show Scott the contract, Bingo.” It was the first thing she had said to me since she hit me. I looked at her coldly. I still had the copy of the contract in my pocket, and I handed it to the Thaatima.

A tall waitress in an orange skirt came up to the table. Mrs. Steele ordered two coffees (white), and I asked for a Fanta Orange. The Thaatima read the Kepha's contract. When he was done, he put it down on the table. His mouth opened, dead-fish style. He looked at me. “Kepha Kepha is your attorney?”

The Thaatima turned to Mrs. Steele. “Colette, you never told me that Bingo is represented by Kepha Kepha.”

Mrs. Steele looked back at him. The skin at the edges of her mouth crinkled. Her eyebrows tightened.

The Thaatima went on, “Kepha Kepha is a legend. She became famous arguing cases in Lagos for Nigerian political prisoners. Most of the time she worked for free—the prisoners' families brought her food or anything else they had. The government despised her, put her in jail, and eventually expelled her from Nigeria. But it is the way she writes her contracts that made her legendary.”

Mrs. Steele said, “Scott, have you read the contract? It's nonsense.”