The dark wooden door at St. Michael’s Orphanage was large, with two rusted steel hoops for knockers. The streetlights were mostly out, but I could still make out the sign above the door, ST. MICHAEL’S ORPHANAGE, and below it, WHERE HOPE DREAMS. There was no bell, so I slapped one of the iron hoops. No answer. I threw a rock at the first-floor window. The window smashed; throwing rocks at Krazi Hari had paid off.
A window opened beside the one that had broken. The man who looked out was clearly a whitehead—life had been pulled out of him. He was a white man with a long yellow face and messed-up straw hair. Sure it was two in the morning, but a whitehead is a whitehead anytime. He had no clothes on his thin upper body. I thought he would look good nailed on a cross. “Boy,” he shouted through the open window, “stop throwing rocks.”
I called up, “Wolf sent me. Where tha priest?”
“I am the priest,” the man said. His voice was deep and slow. “I am Father Matthew.” He was English. I knew that from porn. He said, “I was expecting you. Wait there,” and the window shut.
A minute went by. Father Matthew opened the wooden doors. The entrance hall was lit with electric. The priest was long and bent. His chest and arms were still naked. He wore shorts, as if he was about to play soccer. I went inside and he shut the door behind me.
The priest put his long hands on my shoulders, looked down at me, and gripped tight. “Son, welcome,” he said. “I am Father Matthew, the priest of St. Michael’s.” I looked up at him in the entrance’s darkness; he was a shadow of a shadow. He continued speaking in a slow, deep voice. “I understand that you have had a most traumatic evening.”
I nodded and looked down at his large white feet. He wore leather sandals like the ones from the Maasai Market.
He said, “What is your name, son?” Though his voice was low and soft, it was not kind.
“Bingo,” I said.
“Your full name?” he asked.
“Bingo Mwolo,” I said to his big feet.
The priest said, “Bingo Mwolo, I sense a troubled soul. Pray, tell me what transpired tonight so that I may pray for you.” His fingers relaxed on my shoulders.
I kept my eyes down. I knew what to say. “I witness the Manabí kill Boss Jonni.”
“Is that so?” said the priest.
I nodded.
“Mr. Mwolo, tell me precisely what you saw.”
I told the priest that I had gone to Boss Jonni’s high-rise to bring him a present from Wolf. I told him that when I got there I found Boss Jonni shot. I told him about the three Manabí boys I’d seen outside the high-rise. I told him I was sick two times. I said, “Wolf want ta keep me safe because tha Manabí boyz is evil. Wolf sent me here because tha Manabí boys kill Boss Jonni.”
“Evil,” said Father Matthew. He reminded me of one of the vultures that flew over Krazi Hari’s dump. Then the priest said, “Bingo, I have another question for you. It is an important question.” His fingers tightened on my shoulders.
I nodded.
“Did you see a black briefcase in Boss Jonni’s apartment? Bingo, it is important.” The vulture’s voice got louder. “You see, the briefcase contains important medicines for many of the boys I care for.” The priest stared down at me God style. He showed me with his hands: “It is about this big.” His long naked arms looked like vulture wings.
I looked up at him Slo-George style and shook my head.
“Bingo, do you believe in right and wrong?”
I do not believe in wrong, but I nodded anyway.
The priest said louder, “Bingo, did you see that black briefcase?”
I shook my head. “No, Fatha. I neva see no briefcase.” I know how liars lie. I kept my eyes sunk in his eyes, two lagoons of tar.
The priest breathed two slow breaths. He continued to look at me, but my eyes did not move from his. Inside him I saw his darkness. I was scared of him, but not sure if I was scared of his right or his wrong.
The priest’s neck softened and he took his hands off me. “Bingo, son, you are safe here. Go in there and find somewhere to sleep.” He waved a wing at a door to his left, turned, and walked up the stone stairs. I did not give him the three bags of white; I’d forgotten about them, with all the talk of the briefcase. When his shadow had gone, I opened the door. It opened onto a large room lit by one electric bulb. The walls were brick, there were three windows, and there was a small door at the far end of the room. The floor was a carpet of gray—children asleep under gray blankets. A couple of them looked up at me; the dim light reflected in their eyes. Several shuffled back to sleep. One boy sat against the left wall, smoking.
I stepped over a few bodies, lay down in an empty space, and became part of the gray carpet.