“Finally, we can breathe without inhaling their filth,” Ahmed said, nudging one of the boys with a stick.
Mustafa grabbed the stick and flung it away. “Is this all of them?”
Ahmed scowled and showed Azhar the matching list. Mustafa bounded up the steps and into the alcove. He knocked on the ceiling.
“Clary, come, we must leave.” He repeated this twice, banging on the ceiling before risking a foot in his face and slipping aside the little door. He panicked and raced down the hall, opening doors, asking the remaining fearful children where Clary was.
He looked at his watch. Twenty-five minutes before the ship had to leave. He hurried down the staircase on the other side of the building, pausing at the sounds from the basement. Singing.
She was scooping up garbage with her bare hands, the rotten apple dropping from her mouth like a surprised dog.
“We must go,” he said.
Clary backed away. He grabbed her arm and she kicked his shin. Azhar caught her taloned hand inches from his cheek. “You are going to America.”
Her eyes widened suspiciously, searching for the trick. Finally she nodded warily. Mustafa tucked Clary under his arm and up the steps, dumping her in the lobby like a sack.
“This one, too,” he gestured for Clary to be manacled.
Ahmed stepped forward. “The whore isn’t on the list.”
Mustafa twisted her scarred cheek from side to side. “Is she worth anything? Who would touch her? Ugly. And nasty.” He poked Clary with the stick; her glare turned feral. “I will take her off your hands and, if there is a problem at the other end.” He shrugged, allowing them to consider how he’d dispose of the body. “Now give me the keys in case I must unshackle the infidels for a beating.”
Ahmed and his friends smiled, pleased. They helped Mustafa chain the kids inside the truck and he drove off on two tires, squealing onto the road. Children started crying in a symphony of fear.
“No tengas miedo, chiquitos,” Clary said softly. “Vamos a America.”
Slowly they quieted. Someone laughed cautiously, the whole truck, including Azhar, joining in. He suddenly stopped the van, their dread returning, but when Mustafa unlocked the chains, they burst back into happy chatter, rubbing their wrists and hugging each other.
Azhar flung the manacles into the bushes on the side of the road. The children cheered.
• • • •
MOOSHIE COULDN’T WATCH Kenuda’s dreamy stare through the glass anymore without losing her place and forgetting the lyrics. She asked for ten and the musicians stretched, laying down their guitars and sax.
Kenuda shouted “Bravo” as she came out of the recording booth. “Sensational. I heard it all, thanks to this gracious young man.” He acknowledged the sleepy-eyed sound engineer.
“Just laying down tracks.” Mooshie sipped green tea and honey, sprawled on the couch in her dressing room.
Elias pulled up a chair and whispered, “Are the musicians to your approval?”
“Absolutely first-rate. Thank you again.”
He clutched his heart as if it would break. “The Dara Dreams album will be a huge hit.”
“It’s called Hills Over Hell now. Thanks again, Elias. For someone like me starting out to get this kind of break…”
Kenuda pressed his finger to her lips; she flinched. “I believe in you, Dara. Those covers are brilliant,” he referred to the Barton 3 Wallow with Me, Dylan’s Just Like a Woman, John Griebel’s Father Time and the Sunshine Cloud’s I Love You Immensely cuts.
“Dara doesn’t do covers. Dara brings her own unique quality.” She paused shrewdly. “What’d you think of the Mooshie Lopez songs?”
He frowned. “Let’s only use a couple until you’ve established yourself. It’s an image issue.”
Mooshie shook her head. “I got to take chances and stand out.”
“Aren’t there any other singers from that era?”
“None.” She bristled. “Let’s put those four songs on the back end, but push out Bursting at the Seams as a single. Then offer up Barton 3, Dylan, Griebel, Sunshine Cloud and Mooshie as a package to the radsynds.”
Kenuda hesitated. “How about we use the song but list no credit?”
Mooshie darkened. “Out of shame?”
“She was a traitor, Dara. Her songs were banned.”
Lopez spit into the cup, surprised but not. “Banned?”
“I took care of restoring them because I know how important that music is to you. I honestly don’t understand why credits should be an issue…”
“Because artists shouldn’t be screwed. She wrote the fucking songs, she deserves the credit. Look, if there’s going to be a debate every time I want to record a song…”
“I never said that. I’m probably over-thinking.” Kenuda’s mind whirred so quickly his hair fluttered, resentment at Cheng’s patronizing threats buried beneath Dara’s beautiful eyes.
“Please.” She pouted; he finally relented with a weary sigh. “Thank you.”
“I’m very fond of you, Dara.” The Commissioner squeezed her shoulder.
“How can you not be?” Mooshie carefully shook loose as the engineer announced the break was over. “Let’s get back to work. guys. We’re adding another Mooshie Lopez song.”
Kenuda winced slightly. “Try to keep them at a minimum Friday night. You’re singing at the Stanton.”
“Where’s that?”
His eyebrows knitted. “You haven’t heard of the Stanton? It’s on the Grand Concourse. It’s a fabulous new club.”
“Prestigious?”
“Very. The usual open doors, which means Grandma might show.”
“Grandma.”
Elias cupped her trembling chin. “If you’re not ready for that, we can reschedule.”
“Oh no. I’m ready for her.”
• • • •
THE DISTASTE OF the scowling large men for the orphans could fill a mosque during Ramallah. Azhar kept them by the bow, put the pilot on automatic and handed the food out to the children. They lined up patiently, holding out their plastic bowls, then sat quietly at the rear of the large, sturdy ship, afraid to talk, make eye contact, or comment even silently on the vegetables swimming in a greasy red sauce that had long ago overwhelmed the rice.
Except for Clary, who tapped Azhar on the shoulder and pointed at the open, unending sea.
“Three hours, maybe.” He held up three
