Read Online A Dancer In the Dust by Thomas H. Cook - Free Book Online
Authors: Thomas H. Cook
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crossed over each other. Any idea what that might mean?”
“Not swords, crossed pangas,” I said. “Under its last ruler, a tyrant named Mafumi, they were the symbol of Lubanda. They were on the flag. It was Lubanda’s version of a swastika.”
“Where is this Mafumi character now?” Max asked.
“He’s dead,” I answered. “Lubanda has a new president now.”
“So why would somebody put this pin in Alaya’s mouth?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose it’s possible that Seso was killed by a Mafumi agent. They don’t just go away, the people close to a dictator.”
“Could the pin have belonged to Alaya?”
“It’s possible,” I said. “Under Mafumi everyone in the government had to wear a crossed-pangas pin. It was part of the uniform. And since Seso worked for the government, he would have had a pin.”
“What did he do for the government?” Regal asked.
“He worked in the archive,” I said. “Sorting through old records.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“He once worked for me,” I answered. “In Lubanda years ago.”
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
“We met in Rupala ten years ago. Nothing since.”
“So you have no idea why he was in New York?”
“Other than to give my friend whatever it was he had for him, no.”
“What was his connection to your friend?” Regal asked.
“I’m sure you asked him that,” I said.
“Yeah, but it’s always good to have another source, right?”
“We were all in Lubanda together. But until that call, Mr. Hammond hadn’t had any contact with Mr. Alaya for over twenty years.”
A waiter approached. Regal ordered a beer. I had a white wine.
“So,” Regal said as the waiter stepped away. “Here’s what I know about the case.”
There wasn’t much, and Regal went through it routinely and with surprisingly little attention to order, mentioning this or that as the mood struck him, sipping at his beer, pausing to tell a joke or make a comment on whatever came to mind. But disorganized though Regal’s narrative was, a few spare facts came through: A janitor had found Seso’s body in the alley behind the hotel where he lived. He’d obviously been murdered, but not before he’d been tortured. Regal had no idea where either the murder or the torture had occurred.
“The Africans have places where they do things,” he said. “Places where blood feud grievances can be settled, for example. Their own courts. So I’m guessing they have special places for hurting people.”
This might have as easily been urban myth as not, I thought, but it pointed to the fact that as far as Regal was concerned, Africans existed at a different place on the immigrant spectrum, their habits as unknowable as their motivations.
“They’re never really here, you know?” he added. “They’re always back there .”
“What else do you know about Seso?” I asked.
“Well, the autopsy showed that there were no drugs in his blood,” Regal answered. “And we couldn’t find any prior criminal activity.”
As to the reason Seso had been murdered, Regal hadn’t found it.
He shrugged. “It could be anything from screwing someone else’s woman to owing money.” He sat back and stared at me pointedly. “You met him in Africa, I take it.”
“In Lubanda,” I answered. “I’d gone there to make some improvements in an area around the village of Tumasi. Seso was assigned to me. He was my translator, but he also did whatever needed to be done. Cooking. Odd jobs.”
“It doesn’t look like he ever improved his lot,” Regal said. “Wrinkled pants. Ragged shirt. He could have been any of those traders you see around town.” He paused briefly before offering his final assessment of the case. “We almost never get to the bottom of any of these killings. You got family feuds and tribal feuds, all kinds of stuff we know nothing about. I hear the Somalis are the worst when it comes to tribal murders.”
“Seso
“Not swords, crossed pangas,” I said. “Under its last ruler, a tyrant named Mafumi, they were the symbol of Lubanda. They were on the flag. It was Lubanda’s version of a swastika.”
“Where is this Mafumi character now?” Max asked.
“He’s dead,” I answered. “Lubanda has a new president now.”
“So why would somebody put this pin in Alaya’s mouth?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose it’s possible that Seso was killed by a Mafumi agent. They don’t just go away, the people close to a dictator.”
“Could the pin have belonged to Alaya?”
“It’s possible,” I said. “Under Mafumi everyone in the government had to wear a crossed-pangas pin. It was part of the uniform. And since Seso worked for the government, he would have had a pin.”
“What did he do for the government?” Regal asked.
“He worked in the archive,” I said. “Sorting through old records.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“He once worked for me,” I answered. “In Lubanda years ago.”
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
“We met in Rupala ten years ago. Nothing since.”
“So you have no idea why he was in New York?”
“Other than to give my friend whatever it was he had for him, no.”
“What was his connection to your friend?” Regal asked.
“I’m sure you asked him that,” I said.
“Yeah, but it’s always good to have another source, right?”
“We were all in Lubanda together. But until that call, Mr. Hammond hadn’t had any contact with Mr. Alaya for over twenty years.”
A waiter approached. Regal ordered a beer. I had a white wine.
“So,” Regal said as the waiter stepped away. “Here’s what I know about the case.”
There wasn’t much, and Regal went through it routinely and with surprisingly little attention to order, mentioning this or that as the mood struck him, sipping at his beer, pausing to tell a joke or make a comment on whatever came to mind. But disorganized though Regal’s narrative was, a few spare facts came through: A janitor had found Seso’s body in the alley behind the hotel where he lived. He’d obviously been murdered, but not before he’d been tortured. Regal had no idea where either the murder or the torture had occurred.
“The Africans have places where they do things,” he said. “Places where blood feud grievances can be settled, for example. Their own courts. So I’m guessing they have special places for hurting people.”
This might have as easily been urban myth as not, I thought, but it pointed to the fact that as far as Regal was concerned, Africans existed at a different place on the immigrant spectrum, their habits as unknowable as their motivations.
“They’re never really here, you know?” he added. “They’re always back there .”
“What else do you know about Seso?” I asked.
“Well, the autopsy showed that there were no drugs in his blood,” Regal answered. “And we couldn’t find any prior criminal activity.”
As to the reason Seso had been murdered, Regal hadn’t found it.
He shrugged. “It could be anything from screwing someone else’s woman to owing money.” He sat back and stared at me pointedly. “You met him in Africa, I take it.”
“In Lubanda,” I answered. “I’d gone there to make some improvements in an area around the village of Tumasi. Seso was assigned to me. He was my translator, but he also did whatever needed to be done. Cooking. Odd jobs.”
“It doesn’t look like he ever improved his lot,” Regal said. “Wrinkled pants. Ragged shirt. He could have been any of those traders you see around town.” He paused briefly before offering his final assessment of the case. “We almost never get to the bottom of any of these killings. You got family feuds and tribal feuds, all kinds of stuff we know nothing about. I hear the Somalis are the worst when it comes to tribal murders.”
“Seso
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