All the Young Warriors

SIX

Bleeker thought Mustafa could sure take an ass-kicking. He had that going for him. Wasn't very gracious, though. Once Bleeker had helped him into a bed at the cramped ER, Mustafa said, "You were there the whole time?"

"I had your back."

"Then why didn't you call for help earlier, like before they hit me?"

"You're welcome. It was nothing, really, me saving you from a hell of a lot worse."

"I'm saying, if you had an idea-"

"I didn't." Bleeker sat on the stool beside the bed, too low, brought him eye level with Mustafa. "Not about that. You could've known those guys. Damned if that was my business. The only reason I was on you was because I didn't want you tracking mud all over my city trying to play detective."

That got Mustafa grinning. Reminded him he was hurting, too, from the look on his face. But not so bad that a few bandages and painkillers wouldn't get him back to rights in a couple days.

The doctor came by, felt around. No broken bones ("Let's x-ray it to be sure"), no sprains. Some lacerations, one on his head that needed a handful of stitches. Otherwise, decent bill of health.

Bleeker checked out the others waiting for service. A fully covered Somali woman in a chair, a whimpering baby bouncing on her knee. Most of her family leaning against walls or pacing. A middle-aged guy, shaggy, holding his bloodied towel-wrapped hand in his lap, a policeman hovering nearby. The cop tipped his hat at Bleeker but didn't say a word. Awkward. But what could anyone say to a guy whose pregnant girlfriend had been gunned down barely three days ago? Mostly they did the stoic, Minnesotan-style repression, ask him about the weather, if he planned any more ice-fishing trips, and when the funeral was.

Mustafa said, "Thank you."

Bleeker turned back to him. "No problem."

"I made mistakes out there. They could've killed me."

"Would be a first for them. Worst that would've happened, I think, is that you'd been spending a few nights here instead of walking out with me."

"Are you going to wait outside my hotel room door all night?"

Bleeker stood from the stool. His knees made popping noises. His back hurt worse than it had before his days in Iraq. Another glance at the cop in the waiting area. Sure, they could sympathize. They could rouse the anger over a fellow officer shot down, want some revenge. But Bleeker didn't think they really understood. Not the big picture, which would make some sort of wicked sense when he finally saw it.

But this guy, Mustafa Bahdoon, might get it.

He said, "You know what happened. Your son and another guy shot two cops. One of those cops was my girl. She was carrying my baby. I'm getting old, and here I had a chance to start over, nice and fresh. Cindy made me feel…different. Like I had taken too many wrong turns but didn't know I was lost until she-"

A tech showed up to take Mustafa for x-rays. Tired eyes, early thirties but already getting a preview of her forties. To her it was just a job. A dead end. She wore Jack-o-lantern scrubs even though it was January. Bleeker told her to give him a few more minutes. Soon as she left, he forgot where he'd left off, this shining image of Cindy's face in his mind. No words.

Mustafa said, "I swear to you, if Adem had some place in killing her, I will wash my hands of him. Whatever the courts say, I will abide. I swear. He is a good kid. A smart kid."

Bleeker gripped the bed rail with both hands. "But…let's say he really was involved. Let's say I'm there in front of him, and he's confessed and I have my gun."

Mustafa forced himself up on his elbows, straining, to give Bleeker the most hateful and serious look the man could muster. "I would kill you before you know what happened. That, I can promise you. Whether you saved my ass or not."

Bleeker smiled. Not that it was funny. He believed Mustafa was a stone cold killer who got real lucky when he quit the streets to work at a department store. But they were past that. Had Cindy shot an unarmed Adem, Bleeker wouldn't have hesitated to take out Mustafa had he come after his own justice.

Family, right? Fuck justice.

Bleeker said, "Tell me about his friend, the one you think did it."

The lines crinkled around Mustafa's eyes, lips tightened. "Always a wannabe. The shame of it? He could've gone on American Idol. He sings so well. But that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to be a thug. The crazies prey on boys like Jibriil. Not only do they make the boys killers, but they make them feel righteous about it."

The Jack-o-latern tech came back. Hands on her hips. "I can't wait any longer. My shift's going to end."

She helped Mustafa off the bed and into a wheelchair.

"This is police business." Bleeker stepped in front of the wheelchair. "You can stay a few minutes after, can't you?"

She wrapped her fingers tighter around the handles of the wheelchair. The plastic squeaked. "It's not going to take that long. Grab a magazine for a bit. Geez."

Bleeker ignored her, knelt in front of the chair. "There's not much we can do, you think?"

Mustafa shrugged. "We can try."

"So tomorrow, you press charges on the guys who jumped you. Then tell our people the boys went off to fight in Africa. All that. I'll take some leave, which they want me to do anyway, and meet you in the cities after Cindy's funeral."

Mustafa looked away, slid his fingers together across his lap. "Then what?"

"Then we try to find them. Make sure this Jibriil character gets what's coming to him."

Shook his head. "If they're really there on the ground, fighting this war, then that's worse than anything Hell could serve up for them, let alone us."