Prayers for the assassin

CHAPTER 41

“Ain’t nobody going to answer their door, mister,” said the kid as Rakkim pressed the call buttons. He was maybe ten, with feral eyes and dirty blond hair, skinny as rope. Sleeping in his clothes hadn’t helped them. “Half them buttons don’t work anyway.”

Rakkim glanced around while Sarah rooted in her purse. They were on the landing of an apartment building, last known address of Fatima Abdullah, according to the information Colarusso had retrieved. A lousy neighborhood in Long Beach, Catholics mostly. Overturned garbage cans and stripped cars on the streets. If Fatima was still hooking, midmorning was the best time to catch her home. They had spent the last three days at the motel in Huntington Beach, taking it slow, pretending they were just two people in love and not wanting it to end. It was as close to a honeymoon as they might get.

Sarah handed the kid a $10 bill. “We’re looking for Fatima Abdullah. Sometimes she calls herself Francine Archer. Or Felicity Anderson.”

It was too soon to pay the kid. Too soon and too little.

The kid tucked the money into his sneaker. Carefully stubbed out the cigarette, wrapped it in a piece of gum wrapper. Ready to run. “Never heard of her.”

“What’s your name?” said Rakkim.

“Cameron.” The kid held out his hand. “That’s another ten dollars.”

Rakkim knocked the hand aside. “I’ll give you a hundred for useful information.” He keyed up the most recent photograph of Safar Abdullah’s daughter on his cell. Taken from a five-year-old mug shot, it was the best that Colarusso’s contact in personnel had been able to come up with.

Cameron gaped at the image, finally nodded. “Give me the money.” He hesitated. “Make me a copy too.”

Rakkim handed him five twenties. The cell spit out a print and he handed that over too.

Cameron handled the photo as if it were a snowflake. “She was beautiful. She…she don’t look like this now.”

“What apartment is she in?” Rakkim asked.

“She don’t live here anymore. Her name ain’t Francine or Felicity or Fatima, either. It’s Fancy. Fancy Andrews.”

“She’s not in any trouble,” said Sarah. “We just want to talk to her about her father.”

“She ain’t got no father. Ain’t got no family at all.”

“I’m Sarah, by the way.” She shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cameron.”

The kid looked at Rakkim. “What about you, mister? Is it a pleasure for you, too?”

“Where did Fancy move?” asked Sarah. “She wouldn’t have left without telling you.”

“I used to run errands for her sometimes.” Cameron’s eyes shifted between Sarah and Rakkim, settled on Sarah. “She gets migraines…and the muscleheads used to bother her. I tried to let her know when they were coming, but…”

“The muscleheads didn’t bother you?” said Rakkim.

“I’m too fast.” Cameron’s face fell. “And I ain’t got nothing they want.”

“It was good she had you as a friend,” said Rakkim.

“If I was bigger, I wouldn’t have let them bother her,” said Cameron, eyes flashing. “She said it was no big deal. Said she just hated to give it away for free. Like that was supposed to make me feel better.”

Sarah put her hand on his shoulder, but he jerked away. “We need to find her.”

“Get out of here, mister,” said Cameron. “Now.”

Rakkim walked down to the sidewalk. He had already seen the muscleheads.

“Go on, mister. I don’t give a shit about you, but I don’t want them to get her.”

“Rakkim?” said Sarah.

Three of the muscleheads loped toward him now, but one held back, taking his time. That would be the leader. The eager ones were big boys in their early twenties, clean-shaven and well-fed, but the leader was taut as a bowstring. They wore baggy silk pantaloons and tank tops that flaunted their biceps, combat boots buffed to a high shine, and army K-bar knives strapped to their belts. Their heads were shaved except for a floppy topknot. Ghetto esprit. The biggest one had a crudely drawn Virgin of Guadalupe tattooed on the side of his neck. They spread out around him. Too close. They should have given themselves more room.

The leader walked up, smiled at Sarah, and doffed a nonexistent hat. “Did you good Muslim folk take the wrong exit off the freeway?”

“They’re just leaving, Zeke,” said Cameron.

Zeke put a forefinger to his lips, shushed him. “Children should be seen and not heard. Haven’t you learned nothing?” Zeke adjusted his nuts as he grinned at Sarah. “You folks probably forgot to pay the toll on your way in. Ignorance of the law, though…” He looked at Rakkim, pointed at the Ford parked at the curb. “That your car, Mohammad?”

“You like it?” Rakkim said brightly.

Zeke wiggled his fingers. “Keys. Wallet. You can walk. The bitch stays.”

“Can I stay too?” said Rakkim. “You seem like a fun guy.”

Zeke didn’t like that answer. It didn’t fit his experience, but before he could caution his mates, the other three muscleheads drew their K-bars, blades catching the light. Zeke took a truncheon out of his pocket, one of the three-pounders exclusive to police riot squads. Instant coma. Must be quite a story to how it ended up with him.

“Uh-uh,” said Rakkim. “I’m in trouble now.”

Zeke lightly tapped the truncheon into the palm of his hand. He started to warn the others, but it was too late.

The three muscleheads rushed Rakkim. It was better to stagger a group attack so as not to get in each other’s way, but they had spent too long picking off easy prey.

Rakkim grabbed the knife hand of the one on his left, twisted hard. Drove the edge of his left hand full force into the windpipe of another one. Side-kicked the third’s knee out as the man lunged at him. Without looking, Rakkim dodged the truncheon whizzing past his head. Zeke was backpedaling, but the miss had thrown him slightly off-balance, and Rakkim easily stepped into him, slammed the heel of his right hand into his nose, sent him sprawling. Within three seconds they were scattered across the sidewalk.

The one with the tattoo of the Virgin sat upright, cradling his broken wrist and cursing. The second man howled in pain, his leg bent at a wrong angle. The third was stretched out, arms and legs flailing as he gasped for breath. His windpipe was crushed, face bright red as his larynx swelled shut. Soon his face would be purple. Then black. Zeke was already on his feet, moving nimbly, ignoring the blood that gushed from his broken nose and onto his shirt. He picked up the truncheon from where it had fallen.

“Rakkim?” Sarah sounded stunned. “That man…that man can’t breathe.”

Rakkim was aware of Cameron coming down the steps and standing behind him.

Zeke spit blood, watched as the man’s spasms slowly subsided. “You know, Mohammad, we was just joking with you.”

Rakkim held out his hand. “I hope there’s no hard feelings.”

Zeke gripped the truncheon, but didn’t take the offer.

The musclehead with the broken wrist used his good hand to help up the one with the ruined knee. They walked as though they were in a three-legged race, moaning with every step. They gave Rakkim plenty of room.

“Why don’t you stick around?” said Zeke. “I got some more friends I’d like you to meet. We’ll be coming back as soon as we organize a proper funeral for Benny.”

Rakkim watched them go. Benny was quiet now, fingernails clawing at the pavement.

“Who are you, mister?” asked Cameron.

“You can’t stay here,” said Rakkim.

“I got a million hiding places. I’m not afraid.”

“Do you have any idea where Fancy moved to?” said Sarah.

Rakkim glanced over at her. She had beaten him to it.

The kid stared at the dead musclehead. “Benny held me once when they made Fancy pay the toll. He held me by the hair and made me watch.” He looked up at Rakkim. “I’d like to learn how you broke his throat. Could you teach me?”

“We haven’t got that kind of time.”

“Sure…I understand.” Cameron turned to Sarah. “Last June, Fancy came by and brought me to her new place. She said it was for my birthday, but my birthday is sometime in May.” He looked over at Rakkim. “I don’t know exactly where she lives. It was night and she was driving all over the place picking up stuff. Said it was her girlfriend’s car. Her girlfriend was nice. She gave me a pair of shoes one of her kids had outgrown.”

“Give us a landmark,” said Rakkim.

“You ever hear of Disneyland?”

“Old amusement park, right?” said Rakkim.

“Probably the most important theme park in history,” said Sarah. “There was a whole Disney empire. Films, television, cartoons, you name it.”

“I couldn’t find Fancy’s apartment again if you paid me,” said Cameron, “but you could see Disneyland from her back window. What’s left of it, anyway. There’s a mountain…”

“Space Mountain?” said Sarah.

“I don’t know…it had snow on it. Not real snow, of course-”

“The Matterhorn,” said Sarah. “Space Mountain was an inside ride. I always get them confused.”

“Whatever you say,” said Cameron. “That’s all I know. Her apartment was on the second floor and I could see the snow.”

Rakkim handed him another couple hundred dollars. “After we leave, you’re going to be tempted to go through Benny’s pockets. Resist that temptation. You’ll tell yourself that if you don’t take his money or his cell, somebody else will. Don’t do it. Let somebody else steal from the dead. Not you.”

The kid stared at him.

“When we find Fancy, do you want us to give her a message from you?” asked Sarah.

“Yeah.” The kid blinked, looked away. “Tell her to come get me. Tell her to stand on the steps of Saint Xavier at noon, and I’ll see her. Tell her I’ll be watching for her every day.”