Anthony Smith - All the Young Warriors

But he stayed in the car. Turned the motor off. He didn't mind the cold. Sometimes he felt more at home when the numbers dipped below zero. A year in the desert was all it took to make him appreciate this frozen hellscape so much more. He'd had enough hot-bloodedness. The cold wind kept him even. And Cindy's death had raised his core temperature to a boil that, if he wasn't careful, might lose him his job.

Fuck the job. But he needed it right now. Needed it to get the goddamned…to get…you know…just…shit. He picked up his pistol. Knew it was loaded. Checked the clip anyway, something to do. When this Bahdoon guy was finished eating, then, okay, then Bleeker would confront him. No buddy-buddy meal. Just a cop with a pistol in a wind-whipped parking lot telling him to come clean.

He tucked his arms and waited. He was good at waiting.

*

Bleeker heard the yellow car chirp, saw the lights flicker when Mustafa unlocked it via remote.

He had to hurry. He stepped out of the car. The wind so bad now, he didn't even have to close the door. Wind blew it shut for him. Tucked his gun behind his back and took the sidewalk. But before he could set foot on the lot proper, he saw them coming. Before Mustafa did, even. Three black guys, closing in from different directions.

"Hey, you!" From near the restaurant. He'd been hiding in the shadows, stepped out once Mustafa was past him. Startled the man. The voice was Somali. Hood pulled low over the guy's eyes. Thick parka, hands in his pockets.

Bleeker took a step back, ducked low behind a shrub.

From the other side, a tall one, wearing all black, a wool watch cap like Mustafa's.

The tall one: "Are you lost?"

Hooded man still coming. Maybe not even men. Teenagers. Bleeker knew the tall guy, local troublemaker. Never arrested or anything, but always around when something was happening-fights, carjackings, loud parties. The first one, no idea. The third one, he didn't think Mustafa even saw him yet, hiding.

He inched closer, keeping low, hiding behind a pick-up where he could hear them better.

Mustafa said, "It's cool, y'all. I'm in from the Cities, looking for my son. You know him? Adem? From the college?"

A town this small, where the natives know most of the people like family, the Somalis should be an even tighter group. Saying Adem and college. Should've gotten an instant response.

Instead, the men kept coming. Mustafa backed up. Stupid, Bleeker thought. He should get in the car. Once in, he would have the advantage. Could talk to these guys with the heater running and the window cracked barely an inch.

"Sure," the man in the parka said. "We can take you to him."

No they couldn't. Bleeker saw it now. These weren't guys hanging around outside a downtown saloon for kicks. They had followed Mustafa, same as he had. Tracked him. Waited for him to emerge. So why hadn't they seen Bleeker first?

"Just tell me where he is. I'll go to him. I'm his father."

"We know." The tall one. "He sent us. We're here to help."

Then the third one, creeping, gave himself away. Jacket rubbing against itself, that shiff, shiff. Bleeker pulled his gun out. He hoped it didn't come to him using it. No, couldn't do that. Hoped the sight of it would be enough to get rid of them. But first, he wanted to see if Mustafa could handle himself. Had to be something to his legend, right?

If the man was carrying a piece, he sure wasn't acting like it. Kept his coat zipped up. Kept his hands in front of him. He took another step back. But that's what they wanted, right? He turned his head. Couldn't see far enough behind him. Turned his body.

Come on, man. Fight, for fuck's sake. Bleeker wanted to shout from the sidelines. Cheer him on.

Too late. The tall one was on Mustafa, pinning his arms back. Then the third guy was out of his hiding spot, rushing towards Mustafa with a thick wooden dowel, ready to strike.

Thunked him right in the forehead. Mustafa let out a growl. He sagged but the tall one held him, kept him on his feet. The guy with the dowel thrust it into his stomach. Bleeker finally recognized him, another punk grief-magnet, but not a Somali. Light-skinned, moles scattered on his cheeks. Born and raised in NPR. Mustafa, gagging, blood and grease streaming from his mouth.

The first guy was back, close to Mustafa's ear. Bleeker couldn't hear everything he said, but he caught the last part: "Leave it alone."

Mustafa stopped coughing, tried swallowing the thick bile in his throat. Fought to get the words out: "Never. Aabahaa was! "

Good move. Bleeker knew that one. Mustafa had told the guy "Fuck your father".

A fist exploded on Mustafa's jaw. The tall one dropped Mustafa's arms, kicked him to the back of his car. Landed in a good four inches of snow. The dowel came down on his shoulder blades. A kick to his balls. Another to his arm. They shouted at him, called him Qanees and Eey. Enough. More than enough. He wasn't Batman after all. Bleeker stood and started towards the fight.

He finally saw Mustafa reaching for something. Guess he was packing after all. Tried to pull all three layers of clothes above the grip. The attackers saw it first. The light-skinned attacker bent down, slapped Mustafa's hand away and ripped the 9mm from its holster.

The others ooh-ed and ahh-ed. Guy dropped his dowel and held up the handgun like a trophy.

And they still hadn't noticed Bleeker, only a dozen feet away now.

Mustafa was shaking. The cold and the throb of swelling injuries rendered him mute. They were going to let him live. They were going to blackmail him with his own gun. They were going to own him. That was the plan.

Bleeker said, "You boys got a problem with this guy?"

The attackers stood still. Frozen. Even the one with Mustafa's gun. Yeah, that was Bleeker's reputation. He didn't take shit from the local Sammies, but he could be your best friend if you played fair with him.

The tall one spoke. "Sorry, sir. There is a misunderstanding. He is drunk. We were helping him."

"That right?"

The others mumbled. Sure. Yessir, sir.

Bleeker looked down at Mustafa, still curled up against his car. Bleeker winked at him.

"He didn't look drunk when he went inside. He didn't look drunk when he came out. And he didn't look drunk when you grabbed him and beat him with that stick." Bleeker pointed at the dowel on the ground, then stepped over and picked it up. Twirled it around lazily. Still coming closer and closer.

The one with Mustafa's gun, what was his name again? Something easy. Leon, right. He was gaining confidence. Restless with the grip on Mustafa's piece. Jittery. "You didn't see it right. Believe us. Have we lied to you before?"

"Barely said a word to me, that's the problem." Turned to the tall one. "Got Abdi Nadif over here. Dad's a good guy. Yeah, he really is. Thinks you're on the wrong track, though."

Abdi Nadif hung his head. "I try my best."

"Sorry to hear that. And then you," Nod to the light-skinned kid. "Leon. Raised by your aunt. Dad died when you were young. I know it's hard. But I thought you were doing well at the packing plant. Why are you here?"

No answer.

"Think you should give me that gun you're holding, maybe?"

Held out his hand. Leon didn't move. No matter. Bleeker didn't either. There was his outstretched hand, collecting snowflakes. One second, two. And then Leon let out a breath, mumbled something like Shit, man, and stepped over, laid the gun in his palm.

Bleeker turned his attention to the ringleader. "You, I don't know you."

No need to wait for an answer. Like lightning, he struck the man in the nose, chest, and forearm with the dowel. Kid tried to rush him, grab Bleeker around the neck. Another whack to the fingers. Loud crack. Guy grabbed his fingers and dropped to his knees.