Elmore Leonard - Djibouti

Harry brushed past him, the PPK in his hand, the one he had used on the first officer in Idris's garage, Idris remembering how surprised he was when Harry shot the young man, but not surprised now by his behavior. He followed Harry to the staircase expecting him to call out, see who was here.

"Datuk, where the devil are you?" Not loud. Harry still with some control. He looked up the staircase now to tell Datuk, "You left the fucking door open. Is everything," Harry said, "as it should be?"

Idris motioned to him and Harry followed along the hall to the kitchen. Idris stopped in the doorway. Harry looked in past him to see Qasim-with absolute certainty their five-million-dollar reward-lying dead on the floor, the four Somalis lying about, and their twenty-five-million-dollar chance of a lifetime nowhere, gone.

"I'm not going to scold you," Harry said to Idris, "for leaving the house."

"You left too," Idris said.

"Yes, but the main thing is Jama's loose. It's no one's fault but the Somalis, the buggers were just not up to it." Harry said, "I suppose I could call the embassy, see if they'll take Qasim as is. They could stuff him, glue his eyes open and photograph him."

Idris said, "You want to carry him down the street?"

"We'll call the embassy, have him picked up. That fucking Qasim…At least, thank Allah, we still have Jama."

"Where?" Idris said, "I don't see him."

"You don't suppose," Harry said, "he's still here. Let's take a look," and started up the stairway with his pistol.

Idris called, "Harry," loud enough to stop him. "What are you doing? The man killed five people. He's gone."

Harry turned on the stairs. "Yes, you're right."

Idris could see he was still buzzed, not sure of what he was doing. "There are al Qaeda around here," Idris said, "who can help him."

Harry came down one step at a time saying, "Have you ever looked at Qasim and wondered if he's homosexual?"

Yes, Harry was still buzzed.

"It's always a woman," Idris said, "tells me some man is gay. But Qasim is al Qaeda."

"They're fellows with fellows," Harry said, "nearly all the time, aren't they? The only girls they see are whores."

"Some quite lovely," Idris said. "But why would you think this one is gay?"

"Certain mannerisms, the way he touches his hair. The way he looks at other men. Coming from Eyl," Harry said, "talking to him in the car, I would feel his breath on me in the dark. This was the time he consented to tell me Jama's real name. I could feel he wanted to."

"But he didn't. Listen to me," Idris said, "we should leave here, get off the street, people watching us, and go to my apartment. We can rest, decide what to do."

"About what?" Harry said.

Idris told him not to think anymore. THIS TIME-IT WAS THE next afternoon-they turned the corner in the African section and found themselves behind a crowd of people watching police coming out of the house with body bags, two policemen to a sagging bag, one at each end. Police cars, a medical truck, the National Police on the scene. Five bags came out of the house.

Xavier counted four guards, two Qaedas and the Twins, eight in the house. If Harry still hadn't returned, that would be seven. Xavier didn't want Idris to be in one of the bags, so he believed Idris had left. Four guards and one Qaeda. Which one in the bag?

Qasim.

Because Xavier saw Jama thinking up this breakout. He wouldn't be shot escaping, he was the man in this deal, working it. Xavier imagined somebody much later on shooting him. It would be unexpected, Jama with a look of surprise on his face.

Dara was talking to a police officer, the two of them speaking French, both laughing now at something she said. Dara put her hand on his arm, thanking him, and came through the crowd to Xavier, the people in the street turning to look at her.

"Five bodies, but not the Twins. That leaves the four Somali guards and one other. Who is it?"

"Qasim."

"I was pretty sure too," Dara said. "The cops know who he is. Shot through the head, four of them, one through the heart. One shot each. The cops think with a pistol. At suppertime. The guard brings in the spaghetti and is overpowered."

"He was paid off," Xavier said. "Where's Jama get a gun? You notice his behavior, we talkin to him?"

"Cool," Dara said. "Confident."

"Made sure we understood he wouldn't be hangin around. Statin it as a fact. I wondered, why's he doin that, the man tippin us off."

"Showing off," Dara said.

"That's all right, he told us he's walkin out and he did. You notice anything else? I believe he's been livin as a homasexual at this time. Years of runnin with the Qaeda boys. Close to Qasim while they're blowin up things. Workin right under him till they alone. Then Jama's on top."

"I don't know," Dara said. "I bet I can get him to come on to me."

"Listen to you. He gets lucky, remembers girls and goes straight?"

"Why do you think he's gay?"

"Just somethin about him."

"He's not at all effeminate."

"No, a man comes out actin girlish over here he can get stoned. I mean get rocks thrown at him. But you've seen Arabs walkin along holdin hands, haven't you? They in a man's world, the women at home lookin out the window. It's like in prison," Xavier said, "you don't have to be in love to get a blow job."

Dara watched a medical truck back up to where the body bags were laid out.

"Why did he shoot everybody?"

"They know him. Can point him out."

"The cop didn't ask if I knew any of them."

"You tell him you know the man that got away?"

"Every word-one of Judy Garland's biggest hits."

"You tell him you know the guy they want or not?" She hesitated and Xavier said, "You messin with police business now."

"Maybe somebody else shot them."

"If I know," Xavier said, "you know. Jama shot his Qaeda boss and four Somalis, the boys just makin a buck. You want to see if you can turn him up. Hopin it keeps goin. It does, you got material for a feature. I told you that before."

"I see myself sitting in a studio exec's office," Dara said. "He's got my screenplay in front of him. Or it might be a treatment."

"What are you callin it?"

"Djibouti. They'll want to change it to something else, tell you foreign words don't sell as features."

"Like Casablanca," Xavier said. "They don't like Djibouti, go indie. Get financin from some rich guy loves you or the story. Billy Wynn. He's on his two-million-dollar boat thinkin of this same movie as we speak. Starrin himself."

"Helene said he's finally in love with her-killing herself acting like a little sailor. I hope she gets him."

"The man loves movies. Take his money and make him the producer."

"You know what I keep thinking," Dara said. "I write a screenplay and show it to a studio exec and he says, 'I had a great time reading this one. It's a howl. It's out there and has legs. But where are the backstories to show motivations?' He'll say something like 'It lacks verisimilitude.'"

"Tell him you don't know what that means and walk out. Get independent financin and a girl like Naomi Watts to play the documentary filmmaker turnin to features."

"You think I look like her?"

"Naomi can look like you. Naomi never overplays her parts. You see her in Happy Time? She makes you keep watchin her."

"She's in her underwear half the picture."

"Naomi could dress like a nun, you still be watchin her." Xavier said, "In that picture, the boy that made her take off her clothes? He's homasexual. Else he'd of jumped her. Can you see another star playin that role? One that liked bein in her underwear? She'd make 'em change the ending. Not Naomi," Xavier said. "Put her name above the title, Djibouti. You know what it means, Djibouti?"

"I have no idea."

"It means 'my casserole.' No one knows why. Comes from the Afar language. I read someplace Djibouti is 'splendidly seedy…Gallic elegance turned shabby.' Look at this building, you see it."