beside the gallery: GANGSTA RAP NOT WELCOME HERE. THESE ARE THE REAL HEROES .
He took to peering closely at the shot of Malcolm, probably taken toward the end of his life. The man had been caught looking exhausted to the core, as he leaned out over a lectern. A Young Turk stood beside him, his eyes wide as if spotting the assassin in the crowd.
Jack Liffey heard voices and a young man in sweats hurried out of a side room, leaving the door open to what looked like a classroom. A blackboard was covered with what was probably Swahili, and three young men pored over an ancient computer on a scarred desk. One of them wore the same tricolor cap as the receptionist.
“ Numba yanga haina malango ,” one read off the screen.
“Something about a house.”
“My house has no door. It a Swahili riddle, fool.”
“Huh?”
“It means an egg.”
Outside, a whole parade of fire trucks went wailing down the boulevard, one after another, not just the two you usually heard. Something pretty big was burning.
*
Maeve Liffey hefted a big plastic trash can that was nearly empty and set it under the high window where she could see the curtain was parted. Her heart thundered away so loud that she was afraid they could hear it from inside the house. She knew Mary Beth was watching from the trees, so she stifled an almost irresistible urge to flee as fast as possible.
The plastic can had a lot of disconcerting flex under her feet as she climbed onto it. She pressed her palms against the rough sun-warmed stucco to stabilize herself and inched upward until her head just cleared the sill.
A TV was glowing blue across the room. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the interior murk, and then she found she was looking across a dining table piled with dishes and cooking pots and ravaged pizza boxes that had probably been there for weeks. Beyond was a front room where half a dozen big men lounged on a sofa and pillows on the floor to watch the TV. One seemed passed out flat on his back on a reed mat, his mouth wide open to collect flies. There were more tattoos per square foot than anywhere she’d ever seen. Most of the guys wore armless T-shirts and jeans that didn’t look any too clean, but one of the bikers was bare-chested, and the man passed out was only wearing jockey shorts and had the hairiest shoulders she’d ever seen, like somebody had glued toupees all over him. The bikers all had beer cans, and they were watching one of those talk shows where people sit side by side to humiliate one another. She could hear the TV voices buzzing lightly against the glass.
A car passed on the street, and one guy on the sofa looked over at the front window and said something. He held up a hand and the man beside him high-fived him, so Maeve guessed whatever he’d said had been judged witty.
She was just wondering what exactly this was going to tell her about the disappearance of Amilcar Davis, beyond the fact that he was not chained up in the corner of their living room, when the trash can started to flex on one side. It was like a slow-motion nightmare. She willed the plastic to stop its inexorable sag and clawed at the stucco to take her weight off that side, but she went right on sinking slowly at an angle until all at once the can sproinged and she fell straight down onto it. She cried out in alarm, unable to stop herself, and found herself on her stomach, draped over the side of the toppled trash can, catching her weight on a smarting knee on the dirt.
Oh, please, please , she thought.
She heard the back door come open and then there was this inconceivable person looming over her, with a grin and a pointy beard and arms like trees that were covered with eagles and daggers and other things. A gigantic hand closed on her thin upper arm.
“Little girl, if you’re so all-fired het up about what’s inside here, maybe you best come on in.”
“Mary Beth, run!” Maeve shouted.
*
The Mwalimu himself came out to usher him into the
He took to peering closely at the shot of Malcolm, probably taken toward the end of his life. The man had been caught looking exhausted to the core, as he leaned out over a lectern. A Young Turk stood beside him, his eyes wide as if spotting the assassin in the crowd.
Jack Liffey heard voices and a young man in sweats hurried out of a side room, leaving the door open to what looked like a classroom. A blackboard was covered with what was probably Swahili, and three young men pored over an ancient computer on a scarred desk. One of them wore the same tricolor cap as the receptionist.
“ Numba yanga haina malango ,” one read off the screen.
“Something about a house.”
“My house has no door. It a Swahili riddle, fool.”
“Huh?”
“It means an egg.”
Outside, a whole parade of fire trucks went wailing down the boulevard, one after another, not just the two you usually heard. Something pretty big was burning.
*
Maeve Liffey hefted a big plastic trash can that was nearly empty and set it under the high window where she could see the curtain was parted. Her heart thundered away so loud that she was afraid they could hear it from inside the house. She knew Mary Beth was watching from the trees, so she stifled an almost irresistible urge to flee as fast as possible.
The plastic can had a lot of disconcerting flex under her feet as she climbed onto it. She pressed her palms against the rough sun-warmed stucco to stabilize herself and inched upward until her head just cleared the sill.
A TV was glowing blue across the room. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the interior murk, and then she found she was looking across a dining table piled with dishes and cooking pots and ravaged pizza boxes that had probably been there for weeks. Beyond was a front room where half a dozen big men lounged on a sofa and pillows on the floor to watch the TV. One seemed passed out flat on his back on a reed mat, his mouth wide open to collect flies. There were more tattoos per square foot than anywhere she’d ever seen. Most of the guys wore armless T-shirts and jeans that didn’t look any too clean, but one of the bikers was bare-chested, and the man passed out was only wearing jockey shorts and had the hairiest shoulders she’d ever seen, like somebody had glued toupees all over him. The bikers all had beer cans, and they were watching one of those talk shows where people sit side by side to humiliate one another. She could hear the TV voices buzzing lightly against the glass.
A car passed on the street, and one guy on the sofa looked over at the front window and said something. He held up a hand and the man beside him high-fived him, so Maeve guessed whatever he’d said had been judged witty.
She was just wondering what exactly this was going to tell her about the disappearance of Amilcar Davis, beyond the fact that he was not chained up in the corner of their living room, when the trash can started to flex on one side. It was like a slow-motion nightmare. She willed the plastic to stop its inexorable sag and clawed at the stucco to take her weight off that side, but she went right on sinking slowly at an angle until all at once the can sproinged and she fell straight down onto it. She cried out in alarm, unable to stop herself, and found herself on her stomach, draped over the side of the toppled trash can, catching her weight on a smarting knee on the dirt.
Oh, please, please , she thought.
She heard the back door come open and then there was this inconceivable person looming over her, with a grin and a pointy beard and arms like trees that were covered with eagles and daggers and other things. A gigantic hand closed on her thin upper arm.
“Little girl, if you’re so all-fired het up about what’s inside here, maybe you best come on in.”
“Mary Beth, run!” Maeve shouted.
*
The Mwalimu himself came out to usher him into the
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