All the Young Warriors

SIXTEEN

It was better to be cold and alone. By his third week back from Minneapolis, now suspended pending trial for… well, for whatever the hell happened in that basement, Bleeker should have been looking for an apartment, but he retreated to the ice shack instead. He brought along a toaster oven, a space heater, plenty of gas for the generator, and plenty of rum and pop. He set up the fishing line but set free everything he caught. He drank, slept, and dreamed. His dreams confused the massacre in Eden Prairie with the missions he'd had in Iraq. Gangsta thugs in street clothes kicking up the sand as they crossed the dunes, swords held high. Hell, that wasn't even Iraq. That was Lawrence of Arabia or some shit.

Another three weeks. When he had enough of the ice shack, he'd roll back into town, stop by and talk to his boss. Not much to talk about. Not when you've got an ex-Army Ranger showing up in a basement full of dead people, swearing he just happened on it, following up on a tip about the missing college student. Self defense. He had the wound to prove it. But there had to be someone else. Forensics told them that. "Just me," was all Bleeker had to say. "Got lucky."

So he floated, sneaking back home when Trish was gone. A cheap hotel when he wanted to sleep and shower. Driving, aimlessly, the whole time thinking he should've turned Mustafa in rather than letting him slip away through the door. He should've ratted out Rockstar and Al Jones. If it meant those two kids ended up dead, then fine. At least one of them shot Cindy. Let the universe work out the blame.

But he couldn't do it. The look on Mustafa's face, the weakness in his voice. The tough guy gang leader crumbling like stale bread. Bleeker kept his mouth shut. It was killing him. So he got drunk a lot. A whole lot. Got drunk and let the fish go and curled tightly in his sleeping bag, dreading the coming thaw when he'd have to face the world again. Some said it was due earlier this year. He hoped not. If so, he would stay until he felt the ice crack beneath him. Maybe even go down with the shack, all the way to the bottom of the lake.

Day after day of waiting for whatever it was that would make him stop waiting.

Like a knock on the ice shack's door.

Gun out. One in the chamber for weeks now. When they came for him, there would be a lot, but he'd get off a whole magazine first. Kill at least three or four. Make it hard for the survivors to get to him. Might even save one shot for himself to spite them.

Another knock. "Yo, Ray, man. Come on."

Mustafa's voice.

Not good enough. Bleeker sat up, aimed for the door. Breathing calm. Center mass. Focus.

A fist slamming the wall. "I know you're in there, alright? Don't fuck with me."

Bleeker cleared his throat. He hadn't spoken in days. "Door… door's open."

A click. The door swung open. Mustafa, in his parka and wool cap, stepped inside. His face, though-bags under his eyes. Unshaven. Didn't even blink at the gun leveled at him. In one hand, a bottle of pop. In the other, a jug of Bacardi.

"Thirsty?"

Bleeker's gun hand shook. He dropped it to his lap. "I thought you didn't drink."

"Not the rum. But I'm up for the Coke."

Bleeker pushed himself off the floor, kicked his sleeping bag to the side. Sweatpants and socks, a filthy undershirt. His uniform for a week now. He grabbed the two folding chairs, handed one to Mustafa.

"How'd you find me?"

"Your wife. Didn't want to tell me at first, but I guess you'd told her about me. Soon as I said my name, she wrote down the directions."

Yeah, he had told her. It was too late to reconcile, too late to keep living at home, so he went to her parents' house, sat her down in the kitchen and told her what happened. The only person he'd told the truth to. As much as she hated him, she had never betrayed his trust, something she'd take to her grave. Payback for Cindy.

Bleeker and Mustafa sat. Nothing to say for a long time. Five minutes. More.

Mustafa nodded at the line in the water. "Catching anything?"

"Plenty. I throw it all back."

"Didn't think you had it in you. Remember? 'I go after someone, I get them'?

Shrug. "People, not fish."

"You doing alright?" His voice rougher than usual.

Bleeker inhaled, let it go. "I sleep. When I'm awake, all I want to do is get back to sleep. I don't want to think. I don't want to do anything. Your son's life depends on me, and all I have to do is forget what I saw and move on. But I can't. It's not fair."

Mustafa picked up one of the plastic cups that littered the floor. Sniffed it. He poured some Coke. "Got ice?"

"You're welcome to chip yourself some off the lake."

"Never mind." Mustafa took a sip.

Bleeker stared at the rum Mustafa had handed him. Badly wanted to unscrew it, drink it straight from the bottle. Let the heat of it warm his breath, his lungs, his blood. But he couldn't do it. Instead, he tightened up, sniffed back tears.

Mustafa didn't say anything. Shifted in his chair.

Bleeker set the bottle on the floor. "How are you doing?"

"Better than you. I went home. I went to bed. I didn't get up for a week, wife yelling at me about my job. Sure enough, I got fired. So I've been praying. Crossing my fingers." Cleared his throat. "I owe you. For making me leave, you know."

Bleeker wanted to say "It was nothing" or something like that. Didn't want to open the flood gates. But they began to crack.

"Look, I know I made a promise to you, but when I see Cindy in my dreams, alive again except she's always in her uniform, it's like she's telling me to call down fire. I'm sorry, man, but I still might. I know how much you love Adem and all, but, goddamn it. It's not fair. War or no war, as long as they're alive, they're laughing in my face."

Mustafa nodded. Sniffed. Bleeker noticed the banger's eyes were a little moist. He rubbed them out with thumb and index finger. "You up for a ride? There's something I want to show you."

*

Bleeker drove, Mustafa riding shotgun with a laptop. The closest real town was twenty miles north, so they drove on with the talk radio bubbling low so that they couldn't make out the words, just the anger. The sky threatened snow. An inch or two a day for the last eight days, more on the way. Bleeker wouldn't have minded being buried in it. But a switch in his head wouldn't let him go that easily. No headshot, no pills, no drunken forays into the snow. If he was going to kill himself, it would be a long torturous fade, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He should've taken a shot at Mustafa back at the shack. A miss, of course. Wide right. But something to get the gangsta shooting back at him. End it like that. Because he already knew the script-the police were going to find a soft way to retire him off the force, and his few friends might come help him move out of the house, and he'd have enough of a pension to cover a studio apartment and several hours a day at the bar.

Day after day. Years. Maybe one day someone would find him, tell him Jibriil got his guts cut out and his corpse dragged through the streets of Mogadishu. He'd lift his Bacardi and Coke in salute and down it, then go right back to numb.

Once in town, Mustafa asked Bleeker to find a place with a good wireless signal. They pulled into a hotel parking lot. The signal wasn't strong enough. They tried another, closer to the front door. Better, but not enough for whatever it was Mustafa was trying to show him.

"Can't you just tell me?"

"You need to see it to understand."

Bleeker sighed, reversed out of the spot and got back on the road. "I'll buy you some coffee."

"Decaf."

"Shut up."

Bleeker took them to a bagel shop with free wi-fi. They got inside as the snow started falling. Bleeker bought them coffee, some rolls, and sat at a booth by the window while Mustafa tried to get the page up. The place was mostly empty, but Mustafa got a few hard looks from the other patrons, like they expected him to pull out a sawed-off and steal everyone's wallets. Right. Even in Mustafa's gang days, robbing a bagel shop would've been baby stuff. Not even on his radar screen.

It was taking a long time. Mustafa hadn't touched his coffee. Bleeker said, "What are you doing, looking at porn?"

"It takes time to download. But…wait…here it comes."

He turned the screen around. Bleeker pulled the computer closer. The language wasn't English, wasn't Arabic or Somali. Looked like some sort of news site.

"This is Dutch?"

"Yeah. Someone sent it to me yesterday. I've watched it a hundred times."

A video clip below a headline that Bleeker was able to figure out from one word: "Piraat".

Bleeker hit play.

Obviously from some sort of television broadcast. A woman newsreader. A picture over her shoulder of a freighter, "Piraat" across it. Bleeker picked up a few words that sounded like English, but it was all too fast for him. Then, they cut to the man on the scene, standing on a street with plenty of Somalis walking past on either side. They all looked pretty content, the town around them bustling, intact, not like what Bleeker had seen on TV about the capital. A word across the bottom of the screen.

"Bosaso."

"It's a big city on the Northern Coast. Lots of ships in and out. More like, you know, Duluth."

"Like Duluth?"

"Sunnier."

Bleeker looked back at the screen. Footage of happy Somali pirates, footage of a Dutch freighter, some of its relieved crewmen.

"So, the Dutch paid a ransom?"

"Watch."

"I don't…It's in Dutch."

"Okay, easy. Not the Dutch, but the owner of the ship. The corporation. But, you're missing it. Go back about ten seconds."

Bleeker pretended like he was going to do something with the touchpad. Shit, he could do e-mail, play Minesweeper, find some dirty pictures, but he didn't know how to roll back a video. Said, "How do you…Is that…Shit, Mustafa, I can't-"

Mustafa took it back, did something that took all of five seconds, then turned it back. "Hit play again. Watch this time, no questions."

He had to watch the man on the scene again, shirt-sleeves rolled up, extra button undone. Then the pirates, the ship, the crew. And then back to the man on the scene. And then…a familiar Somali face, young with a freshly shaved head, dressed up in an expensive suit, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, speaking in really good English: "We are pleased with the outcome, the safe return of the vessel to the rightful owners, and the good health of the crew. As always this-" And then the Dutch translation, which obscured the rest. So familiar.

"Show me that picture from your wallet again-"

Mustafa already had it out, holding it up to the screen. Adem. With hair, no glasses.

"Did he wear glasses? Contacts?"

Mustafa shook his head. "But it's him."

"That's a big problem, though. He's got glasses."

Mustafa pushed the photo closer. "You know how many times I asked myself that? I know my own son, damn it! It has to be. His voice, his eyes, his mouth, his nose. That's him."

"The fuck is he doing in Bosaso? What's that have to do with the war? Is he working for the Dutch?"

Mustafa took the computer back, started working on something else. "No, no, not that. I tried to find other stories about this, finally got one in English. He's calling himself Mr. Mohammed. What he does, he's an interpreter."

"Okay."

"But also like an agent. He can help with negotiations because he can speak English and Somali, all the different dialects. He's a smart kid, you know his grades. They tell him what they want, and he tries to get it for them like a businessman. No blood, no threats."

"He's been doing this the whole time?"

"He's suddenly shown up the past couple of weeks. This Dutch thing was his first, but he's moved on to a Canadian ship. He must be doing well. They're letting him negotiate on his own sometimes."

"This in the news?"

"Some, but not here. Americans don't realize how many ships are taken. Only when it's a cruise ship does it make the news."

"Jesus." Bleeker shook his head.

Mustafa turned the computer around again. This time it was a story in English through the BBC website. Another mention of Mr. Mohammed, translator for the pirates. He dressed in nice Western suits and held meetings in hotels. He always had bodyguards and a secretary with him.

"Why don't they arrest him?"

"No, man, they're not going to do that. In almost every case, the pirates release the ship once the ransom is paid. No harm to the hostages. So, you know, better to pay and keep the law out. Let the navy do their job once the boat's in the clear."

"You think he's being forced to do it?"

"I don't know what to think." Mustafa got louder. Antsy. "Just…look at him. He's okay. My son! He's alive!"

He pulled the computer back one more time. "I didn't know if he would be. Someone sent me a link to this. I mean, it's hard to tell, but…"

One more pass to Bleeker. YouTube. A mob scene. The camera was jittery. But a man was on his knees, someone next to him reciting from the Quran. Another put a blade to his neck. About to slice right through, enough of a cut to make blood run down, and then, more yelling. Someone from off camera. The man with the blade pulled the knife away and let his intended victim drop to the ground.

"And?"

"That was Adem. The one they cut. I swear."

In the booth ahead of them, a woman looked over her shoulder. Mustafa covered his mouth with his hand, breathing heavy through his nose. Blinking away tears.

"Okay, it's okay." Bleeker grabbed Mustafa's other wrist. "He's okay. That's good. They almost killed him, but stopped. That's a good thing. But doesn't this show he's still working for terrorists?"

Mustafa wiped his face. "I don't care. He's alright. We're all good if he's alright."

"No sign of Jibriil, then."

"If he's there, I haven't found him. Just like him to get shot down already." Mustafa raising a finger gun. "Pow, like he even lasted a week. My boy's still going strong, though."

"Do you mind?" The lady from the booth ahead. Voice sharp like a dog's teeth.

Bleeker said, "Sorry about that. It's okay."

"If you can't…control him, maybe you should leave."

Bleeker leaned back, close to her ear. "How about you shut the fuck up and eat your bagel? Guy's a little excited is all."

"Oh my god!" She was out of her seat in a flash. "My god! I'm going to find the manager."

Off she went, a loud "Excuse me, excuse me" to the people behind the counter.

Mustafa was staring out the window. Bleeker looked down at the story on the screen again. No mention of Jibriil, unless that bodyguard they talked about…it would take proof. Real honest to God proof that the murdering punk was dead.

The woman showed up at the table again, right behind a man who didn't look like the manager. More like a cook, beefy, in his fifties, thinking he was tougher than he really was. Arms folded. "You two are done. Get out."

Bleeker felt the blood flowing again. Oh yeah. Drop this guy with a shot to the kneecap. Bang his head on the tile until he's got no nose left.

He rose from the booth, got in the cook's face. The cook stepped back, loosened his arms. Held them at the ready. "We're going to call the police, but that doesn't mean I can't defend myself first."

Bleeker laughed, dug in his jacket pocket. Hoped it was still there, and it was, nearly frozen. He pulled out his shield. "Hey, look, I'm a cop, too. How about that? So what was it you were planning to do again?"

The cook backed off farther. "Hey, we're just saying, you understand. Our customers are trying to-"

"This bitch assaulted me. I can sell that story. Threatened me, too. Racial slurs against my friend here."

The woman gasped, then said, "I never, not at all. I would never say something like that."

Mustafa finally pushed out of the booth, closed his laptop and tucked it under his arm. "Ray, let's go."

"Didn't you hear the way she talked about you?"

"Let's go. Now. We need to roll." Mustafa reached into his jeans pocket, brought out some folded up cash. He flicked a couple of twenties from the center, tossed them on the table. "I'm buying that lady another bagel if she wants it. Come on Ray."

Bleeker waited another minute, eye to eye with the cook, who was withering. Good. He liked when they did that. Had forgotten how it felt. Until he remembered it was all his fault and the guy didn't deserve it. He dropped his gaze and caught up with Mustafa, who was already pushing his way through the door.

*

They didn't talk on the ride back to the shack. Mustafa switched from talk radio to FM and found some oldies. The Commodores. Followed by The Doors, so Mustafa turned it off. "I hate that organ. Like fingernails on a chalkboard."

Once out on the ice again, parked, sitting there in the car, Bleeker said, "I stood up for you."

"I didn't ask."

"Didn't have to."

"Man, you messed up. That was some sort of crazy you pulled. If you can't hold it together…shit, I don't know."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Never mind. You need to take care of yourself. Just thought you'd like to know Adem's alright, that's all."

He opened the door, set a foot on the ice, then, "Listen, you've been cool with me, and I respect that. Did me a solid back in the Cities. It's a shame to see you like this. Wish I could help. Say the word."

Bleeker held onto the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. Not a word.

"Stay up, Ray." Mustafa climbed out, closed the door. Bleeker flicked his eyes over. The little yellow car. Mustafa opened the trunk, put his laptop into a bag, then closed it. Dropped into the driver's seat, cranked up, and made a slow circle until he was headed towards the dock.

Engine noise faded. Snow building on the windshield, smearing across with the wipers. Bleeker didn't move. The coffee had left a bad taste in his mouth and Mustafa wouldn't let him smoke in the car. That whole thing with the cook and the woman. Wondered if they'd have spoken up if he'd been with a white guy. Or if he'd been dressed in more than sweatpants and a t-shirt under his jacket. The shit he used to take for granted. People weren't really like that, were they?

Didn't matter. He rubbed his aching jaw.

Mustafa played it cool. For Bleeker's sake more than his own, now he could see that. And coming all this way, only to take off quick like that?

Bleeker slammed the Buick into drive and spun around. Had to catch up. Dangerously fast, slipping all over. Mustafa couldn't have been more than a half-mile ahead, not yet off the ice. Bleeker gained on him. Flashed his headlights. Finally got his attention. The little yellow car's brakelights flamed on, and Bleeker had to swerve. Slid off to the side, then started a one-eighty. Got control and ended up in front of Mustafa, facing him.

Bleeker got out, walked over to Mustafa. The car window eased down a couple of inches. "What, you crazy, man?"

"What did you come here to ask me? I want to know."

Mustafa shook his head. Heat poured from the window. Snow melted as it hit the glass. "Aw, man, you don't worry yourself about that."

Bleeker pounded his palm on top of the car. "Tell me! You want to go over there and get him, don't you? That's what you're here for. You want me to help you."

"It's okay. Don't even think about it."

"That's it. I know it is. You want me to go with you and bring him back."

Mustafa opened his mouth. Closed it. Let out a breath. Bleeker brushed snow off his head. Not going anywhere until he got an answer.

A long wait, but Mustafa finally said, "Would you go if I asked?"

"To get Adem? Not Jibriil?"

Shrugged. "Don't even know where that boy is, man."

"But maybe Adem knows."

"Alright, so maybe he knows. As long as it doesn't fuck with getting Adem back home safely, you can ask whatever you want."

Bleeked nodded. Snow collecting all over him, but he felt warm. "And when he's back here? Are you going to hide him, or make him talk to the police?"

"Hey, he's going to tell them the truth. Even if that means we've got to fight in court, cut him a deal, whatever. He's got to own up. But I'm thinking we've got to recognize that Jibriil talked him into this shit with lies, and once he was over there, he was forced to do what they told him."

Sounded good. Sounded right. If Mustafa would stick with that, it was all good. "He's got to testify about Jibriil killing Cindy. If your boy fired one shot-"

"Don't push it. Don't even."

Okay. Okay. Thinking. "Just the two of us?"

"I still have family over there. Battle-hardened men. We'll have help."

He didn't need to hear any more. "I'm in."

Mustafa rolled the window down more. "For real? Look at you, can't even dress yourself."

"A bad month, that's all. Deal me in."

Mustafa looked out across the ice, hand dangling over the top of his steering wheel. The snow blew right in on him. He didn't flinch.

Then, "Let's get you back to the shack. Fuck those bagels, man. I want some McDonald's. Then we've got to book some tickets."

Bleeker said alright and went back to his car. He climbed in, started back towards the ice shack. More snow. Heavier and heavier. But so what? He finally felt like he was thawing out. Turned on the radio. Oldies. "Dancing in the Streets". Bleeker hated that song. Didn't matter. He tapped out the rhythm on the wheel and realized he hated ice fishing almost as much as anything in the world.