Outside the airport, it was night. Nairobi’s night has a special smell—of diesel, dirt, sweat, and death. A warm breeze blew. I smiled at the smell of life. A taxi pulled up and we got in. I learned that it would not be Fate that decided the Thaatima’s destiny but Mrs. Steele. She dialed the number the Thaatima had written on the small white card. “Hi, is this Agent Kai Rasmussen, Chicago customs?” she asked. “I am sorry to disturb you. This is Colette Steele. I understand that you are the agent who so efficiently handles our imports for the Steele galleries in Chicago. I just wanted to let you know of a problem coming your way.” She looked at me as she spoke. “My attorney, Scott Goerlmann, is flying into Chicago from Nairobi. You will need to search his briefcase at customs.” Her eyes fell to her stained feet. “You see, Agent Rasmussen, Mr. Goerlmann sadly has a terrible drug problem, and I am hoping that your intervention will help him.” She listened for a few more seconds and hung up. She looked at me and smiled. “Bingo, never forget: your feet may be quick, but my hands are quicker.”
I looked at her, confused.
“Bingo, those five little white bags magically dropped into Mr. Goerlmann’s briefcase.”
Mrs. Steele—what a hustler! I said to her, “And Mr. Goerlmann in jail can neva charge you’z seven hundred and fifty dollars an hour.”
Her eyebrows rose. “You think that’s why I called customs—to save seven hundred and fifty dollars an hour? Bingo, I assure you, what one lawyer does not charge me, another one will.” Mrs. Steele looked at me and shook her head; her hair was loose and wild. “No, Bingo.” Her face was straight. “Sometimes you have to do what you have to do. Bingo, no one touches my son.”
Mrs. Steele and me both looked ahead in silence as the taxi drove. I was thinking about how Ma Steele was my kind of hustler. Night traffic moved fast. I turned to Mrs. Steele. “For real, what about the Hunsa paintin’s? I know they worth millions and Americans buy them like crazy. I know you’z lyin’ when you say they rubbish.”
She shook her head. “Bingo, I came to Kenya for a son. I got what I came for.”
“But Hunsa a genius.”
She looked at me. “The paintings are where they are meant to be, and I am where I am meant to be.” She kissed my head and put her arm around me. I pushed into her and felt good.
We reached the city and drove past Uhuru Park, where I used to come every day with the St. Michael’s children. I looked up at Mrs. Steele. “But you have the Hunsa paintin’ I give you. It worth millions—just tha one picture make tha deal worth it.”
She laughed, “Oh, Bingo, give it a break! Just having you beside me is worth it. Yes, it’s a good deal.” You see how Ma Steele turns things around? We passed a club called the D’Avinci—I had run white to the doorman a hundred times. We were close to the Livingstone.
When the taxi stopped at a red light, I said, “Mrs. Steele, I also mus’ do what I have to do.” I ran from the taxi before she could stop me.
I knew how long it would take Gihilihili to teach Scarface about paradise. I would get to Taifa Road long before the chief of police arrived to talk with Wolf.