He wandered among stalls of corrugated steel and sun-bleached canvas, navigated around the beggars, dodged the occasional moped, stopping at the stalls of the artisans, thinking he might find a gift for his boss, who had a birthday coming up. Folk art was always a safe bet.
In the stall of a juju man he found a stunning crucifix—the cross carved out of ebony, polished to a high gleam. But the corpus was real ivory, so he let it go.
He moved on, taking in the bright colors and rough textures, shrill sounds and pungent smells of the seventh largest metropolis in the world. Second largest, on what was, but a few generations ago, referred to as the Dark Continent.
The aroma of charcoal-grilled meat, peanuts, and hot chilies drew Daniel to a smoky green tent across from the voodoo shop, sandwiched between a stall brimming with colorful jewelry, hand-beaded in Nigeria, and one selling counterfeit Gucci and Louis Vuitton handbags, made in Southeast Asia, bribed through customs, and liberated off the back of some transport trailer.
An old man sat in the swirling smoke, skin dark as ebony and beard whiter than ivory, shifting wooden skewers of various cubed meats around on a rusty hibachi, calling out:
Hanging on the canvas wall, a menu of sorts:
PORK
CHICKEN
BEEF
GOAT
Beside the menu hung a line drawing of a snake coiled around a pole, cradling a large egg in its open mouth.
Daniel had been warned not to purchase any animals—dead or alive, cooked or raw—in the market. The meat of cats and carrion birds sometimes masqueraded as chicken, dogs and hyena as beef. The rumor of what passed for pork was too horrible to contemplate. Goat was the safest choice. Goat meat had a taste you could train your tongue to identify, and goats were plentiful, cheap to raise—probably not worth faking. Daniel always ordered goat. He held up two fingers.
“Eji obuko, e joo.”
The old man offered a gap-toothed smile and held out two skewers.
Daniel handed over some bank notes—the equivalent of about twenty-five American cents. He’d have been happy to pay five bucks, but that would’ve been an insult to the man’s pride, so he just paid the price listed on the menu.
“E se,” he said.
The old man held up a hand. “Ko to ope. Kara o le.”
Daniel dodged through the crowd, spotted a quiet alley behind a fruit stand, made his way there, and sat on an empty crate to eat. The
He wiped his fingers on the rough paper napkin as he stood, turned, and then he saw the boy, six feet away.
Saw the boy before he saw the gun.
The boy couldn’t have been more than thirteen. Skinny kid. Too skinny, wearing cutoff jean shorts, two sizes too big and held up with a rope belt, and a once-white T-shirt, threadbare and stained. A small gold cross on a thin chain around his neck. Complexion almost as dark as the
And then Daniel saw the gun. A snub-nosed revolver, pointing at his chest.
“Gimme your wallet.”
Daniel dropped the paper napkin, raised the index finger of his left hand, and slowly fished the wallet from his back pocket, nodding his head the whole time.
“No problem, I understand.” He kept his tone casual, his face placid. He finished chewing the last bite of lunch, swallowed. “Here’s my wallet.” He opened the wallet, showed its contents. “No plastic, but I’ve got two hundred Yankee dollars, and you’re welcome to it.”
“Hand it over.”
Daniel locked eyes with the boy. “Well, now that’s the problem. You can have the money, but only in exchange for the gun.”
“What?”
“I’m offering you the money, but I’m buying the gun. It’s a purchase.”
The kid stared at him, processing. “Then I just shoot you, take the wallet anyway. How you like that?”
Daniel held the kid’s stare. “I really wouldn’t like that at all. Have you done it before?”
“Plenty times.”
“No,” Daniel put compassion in his smile, “you haven’t,” he drew the bills from the wallet, “and you don’t want to start now.” He pointed at the cross hanging from the kid’s neck. “You really want my blood on your hands? Carry that with you for the rest of your life? Answer for that, when your time comes?” He slipped the empty wallet back into his pocket. “Give me the gun, and you can have the money.”
The kid bit his lower lip, shook his head. “I give you the gun, you shoot me, take your money back.”
“Fair enough.”
The boy thought for a few seconds, then flipped the cylinder open and dumped the bullets into his left hand and shoved them into his jeans. He held the gun out and said, “Same time.”
They executed the trade by simultaneous snatch, and the kid ran away. Daniel took the gun to the back of the alley. If he gave it to the police, it would be back on the streets before nightfall. He cocked the hammer, used a rock to break off the firing pin, smashed the hammer until it bent and wouldn’t snap back into place, and tossed the now useless weapon into a trashcan.
A voice behind him said, “You really are a sucker.”
Daniel knew that voice. He turned around. “How long were you watching?”
Father Conrad Winter pulled at his clerical collar, letting a little air in, and grinned. “Long enough.”
“Thanks for the help.”
“Any time.” The priest pulled at his collar again, wiped a handkerchief over his forehead, pushing back his damp blond hair. “Hot as a bitch out here, let’s find some shade.”
Conrad Winter snapped his fingers at a waiter, and the waiter put a two-hose hookah on the table, went away, and came back with a copper pot of sweet Turkish coffee.
Daniel didn’t want this meeting but Conrad’s position as head of the Office of World Outreach was of equal rank to Daniel’s boss, Father Nick. Refusing to meet was not an option. At least the cafe was cool, with open walls all around, massive ceiling fans turning above. He reached for the hookah, picked up one of the hoses, and puffed. The hookah burbled, and his mouth filled with the taste of coconut. He blew out the smoke.
“What brings you to Lagos, Father Conrad?”
“The case you’re working on.”
“I’ve got six open files, three more on deck. I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”
