A man in a silver suit strode in. “Welcome, Mrs. Steele,” he said. His voice was loud enough to scatter the flies off the fruit. I immediately knew who he was. Window light bounced off his bald head and off the silver cross on his suit lapel. His left trouser leg was cut short to show off his peg leg. “Please allow me to introduce myself,” he said. His mouth contained many large white teeth. “I am Dr. Samuel Gihilihili, acting head curator.” Gihilihili went on, “My assistant, Mr. Desono-Mgani, sends his deepest regrets. Lamentably, he was delayed in a car accident this morning.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Such is God’s will.”
Mrs. Steele’s stare moved down from the painting of the praying priest to Gihilihili. She put out her hand. “Colette Steele,” she said to him.
Everyone knew about Gihilihili. He was the one-legged chief of police. When I was a runner and the police stopped me, I pretended to be a scared little child or a retard and managed to get away. Other runners were not so lucky, and Gihilihili got them. Gihilihili liked boys—and Gihilihili’s boys disappeared like dropped cigarette butts at the bus station. Even Wolf knew that runners arrested by Gihilihili were lost, playthings for the chief of police. Gihilihili’s boys ended up inside sacks dumped at Krazi Hari’s feet. But I didn’t know until then that Gihilihili was a doctor.
Mrs. Steele said, “Dr., your assistant has a wonderful office.”
Gihilihili smiled at Mrs. Steele. “God is bountiful,” he said. He took three quick steps toward her: Click, click, click. He, like Mrs. Steele, wore perfume to hide his true smell. Gihilihili took her hand and touched it with his lips. I almost moved to stop him, but, like the priest in the picture, I stood still.
“Enchanted,” Gihilihili said. He held Mrs. Steele’s hand before he let it drop. Mrs. Steele smiled and let her eyes dance with his. I did not like this Mrs. Steele. Gihilihili clicked over behind the desk and sat on the skin-covered chair. He looked at me. “And who, Mrs. Steele, is this most handsome young man?”
Mrs. Steele said, “This is my new son, Bingo.”
Gihilihili said, “God be praised.” He stared at me as if I was food. “Bingo,” he repeated. My legs itched. He turned to Mrs. Steele. “Please, Mrs. Steele, take a seat.” He waved at a plain wooden chair on the opposite side of the desk. Mrs. Steele sat with her back straight. I stood. Gihilihili said, “In what way, Mrs. Steele, may I, God’s humblest servant, assist you?”
Mrs. Steele looked at Gihilihili. “Father Matthew from St. Michael’s Orphanage suggested that I come here to obtain an export license for some pictures I wish to bring to the United States.”
Gihilihili said, “And for what purpose is the export of these pictures?”
Mrs. Steele said, “They are gifts.”
“Gifts?” Peg Leg said back.
Mrs. Steele said, “Yes, gifts for people in my church back in Chicago.” She added, “The St. Martin’s Lutheran Church in Rockwell Crossing.” I liked that—nice detail, good lie.
Gihilihili leaned back in the chair. He brought his hands together like the priest in the picture above. “God bless you for this kindness,” he said. He smiled and his mouth shone white. “Mrs. Steele,” he continued, “if the pictures are for gifts, you do not need an export license, certainly, if it is just for one or two pictures.”
Mrs. Steele coughed delicately. “Well, actually, Dr. Gihilihili, I have up to a hundred pieces.”
Gihilihili clapped his hands. “God be praised. So many friends, such great generosity.”
Mrs. Steele added, “I am very active in the church.”
Gihilihili stared at her breasts. “And what is the art you have in mind?”
I was waiting for this moment. I blurted out, “They just children’s paintin’s.” I was almost shouting. If Gihilihili found out that Hunsa’s paintings were worth millions, he would find Hunsa and take everything, and I would be fly food.
Gihilihili looked at me. In an instant, his eyes filled with rage. But his words just said, “Bingo—is it?”
I nodded.
Gihilihili went on, “Bingo, now tell me, young man, were you born in America?” I knew Gihilihili was in Father Matthew’s small yellow notebook, just as he knew I was not born in America. Gihilihili asked questions he knew the answers to.
Mrs. Steele was quick. She said, “Yes, the paintings are by local children—generally on religious themes.” I thought of Hunsa’s giant bhunna in the painting I had given her.
Gihilihili nodded his bald head. “I feel as though I am in the presence of a true friend of the church. God bless you.” He stared silently into Mrs. Steele’s breasts as if secrets were hidden there. He looked up, smiled, and said, “The license is five thousand U.S. dollars.”
I swallowed. Mrs. Steele said nothing. She opened her shiny black purse and placed five piles of hundred-dollar bills on the desk; each pile was bound with a rubber band. Gihilihili reached inside his jacket and took out a folded sheet of paper. He pushed it across the table to Mrs. Steele. She opened it. Three large words were written on it: “Export License. Gihilihili.” Being the police is good business—1,666 dollars per word. Mrs. Steele stood and pushed her hand toward Gihilihili. “It was a pleasure doing business with you,” she said.
“Paradise,” answered Gihilihili to her breasts.
As we left, I limped. It was not to mock Gihilihili’s peg leg. I had the black metal figure of the naked woman stuffed down my trousers. I had taken it for Charity.