Murder in Belleville

Sunday

MUSTAFA HAMID WIPED AT the spittle on his chin. But there was none. He must have closed his eyes. They burned, and his nose felt dry, his mouth parched. Thoughts blurred, and he felt so weak. So tired.

He slit the envelope. It took a long time, the white paper ripping and fighting him. And there it was, simple and irrevocable. The long thread back. The summons to his roots.

He’d be damned if he’d give in. The old fight blazed in him again. Human rights had to be fought for, otherwise we’re all animals!

Everything he’d spent his life working for—thirty years of it—would go down the pissoir.

He stared at the messenger, whom he didn’t know.

“No deal,” he said, shaking his head.